READY TO ROLL OUT
That awkward moment when even a brothel won’t have you.Characters will end their sojourn at the House of Dew early morning, helmed by Haltham (and his murderous goat, chomping on his prosthetic wooden hand for splinter nutrients). Courtesans and attendants will send the group away with parting gifts: a few sacs of grains, handfuls of spice, a small barrel of brew, several of water, thin blankets and four fat chickens.
 |
The decrepit farm stands an hour’s walk east of Sa-Hareth, bordering the forest at the foot of the mountain.
...and it has not wanted for company. Monstrously overgrown wolves prowl the region, with some of the pack settled inside the farm. The wolves are halfway between dead and living, instantly aggressive, sharper, faster, smarter and blue-eyed beyond natural expectation.
The wolves are drawn to heat and fire-bearers. They can be slain, or pushed back into the forest. If the brawl drags on, the wolves may receive reinforcements.
Distantly, characters can observe silhouettes of pale-eyed, humanoid creatures in the forest, covered in animal skins. They seem to speak to the wolves, though it is unclear if they soothe or set them to attack. |
 |
Once an elaborate woodsmen’s station, the 'farm' is a generous, sprawling outpost built, home to now-barren inner garden.
The farm spreads across kitchens, bathing rooms, hefty storage barns, a handful of isolated rest halls and broader communal areas. A study room has been crammed with accountancy tomes, papers and other books, many torn alongside glass shards on the floor. A shakily furnished barn was coarsely repurposed for banquets.
Set up, inspect, repurpose. There’s enough dust and mildew to go around, and several walls and roof stretches will need reinforcements.
“Ah,” characters say innocently, “Surely the cold will keep away vermin —” You have rats. Large, uncuddly, distinctly violent, prone to swarming once the sun’s downed. Enjoy that first night.
Haltham will provide some base construction supplies over a few deliveries, along with a personal gift: a herding dog, to watch over two fluffy sheep.
Flex those green thumbs: many moons ago, enchantments were set in place to warm the garden to a tolerable level that will allow the expedited harvest of an arctic patch. These spells will need to be activated and periodically recharged every few days by characters donating recoverable amounts of magic or physical stamina, by touching a nearby rune. But, hey: potatoes, turnips, kale, mmmmmmmmm, a balanced diet. |
 |
“Never open your doors at night,” Haltham says on parting. Lend him an ear — and, once the moon rises, hear the forest whispers. Some voices will beg rescue from the cold, others will tease and taunt, a few will imitate enemies or kin. Some will even disrupt dreams.
The voices will seek to lure characters out of their shelter. Those who heed will find themselves compelled to walk into the forest, entranced and ignorant of the cold that slowly envelops them. They will be vulnerable to the elements, tundra predators and the woodland creatures, growing increasingly feral.
Those who survive the night in the forest will wake to find themselves floating in a chilled, but strangely not-yet frozen lake in the morning. They can have faint recollections, as if they themselves lived any of the following events: a friend taking a dark path, the loss of a dear skill, years in a coffin, a close friend parted, a beloved reunion, a lost brother, a tender romance and rare bliss in poverty.
At the bottom of the lake, they may spot the still corpse of an undead that feels too heavy for anyone to lift. His arm has a tattooed red sleeve.
During the day, characters who visit the forest will find it eerily silent, with some trees showing signs of scratches and lingering rope. The lake can still be found, but entering it during daytime will not allow characters to experience foreign memories. |
 |
Karsa will reconfigure everyone’s quartz pieces to translate outside of the House of Dew and communicate in a private channel. Still nothing like individual inboxes at this time!
Up to player discretion if Karsa had the time and humour to change their usernames, or stranded them to their House of Dew identities a little longer.
Characters will also be able to access a secondary local fishermen’s network and listen in on their schedules, local gossip and daily weather updates.
Woodsmen, tradesmen and miners will be surprised to see anyone inhabiting the farm, with some men pulling away, calling the place cursed. |
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
groundrules) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
westwhere2021-05-10 08:56 pm
no subject
But no, that can't be right. Reality breaks in on Archeval suddenly, a frigid splash of cynicism even colder than the winter wind outside. Rynn is gone. He left nothing behind, and he's not coming back. The truth is painful, but crystal-clear--
As he finds his attention wrenched away by those few simple words, he turns with a vaguely surprised glance toward the young woman who's just spoken, rubbing a hand over his face as he tries to snap out of that brief trance. An unfamiliar face, this one; but if she's here she must be one of the refugees, probably come in just recently. One of the many rescues from the ship, perhaps. He'd been too busy slaying corpses and cutting chains to take note of every last one. This particular woman looks... just about as unbalanced as he feels, right at the moment.
"...did it call to you even in your sleep?" he guesses in a murmur, taking in the look of her, powers searching out the feel of her in the Force just by instinct. "I thought--... But-- No. It can't be who I thought it was."
Deep breaths. She snapped him out of this all unknowing, and for that he owes the stranger at least a little bit.
"Who do you hear?... Whoever it is, he can't-- can't be here. That's... who I keep hearing. People who can't possibly be out there right now."
Belatedly, at last, he steps inside the doorway to turn and reach for the knob. Don't open it at night, Haltham had warned them all. Apparently it's apt advice.
no subject
Like calls to like the voice calls out to Alina. Low and sultry, comforting and welcoming. Promising her a world where she might be accepted as she is, instead of whatever has been made of her now. All things she can barely take.
She sees it on his face, that he feels the same as her. She doesn't have to probe too deeply to guess at that.
"A man from home," she says, approaching slightly just to speak in a soft voice. "He's not here.
At least yet," she adds, a bit fearfully.
Her eyes drop to the floor as she settles on that thought a moment. After all, she's here. A second wave of entrants for whatever twisted games these are. Who else could come next? And how would they arrive? "Who do you hear?" She asks, looking back up and searching for some sort of distraction.
no subject
The door slams shut a little too hard, the latch clicks, and it's much softer suddenly but -- not gone.
Archeval's eyes flick to the woman again as he gives a little shrug.
"...The dead, among others," he says softly.
"Apt, I suppose. I imagine someone's else dead are exactly who is trying to lure us out right now. This whole region seems to breed restless spirits."
He looks her up and down for a second, finding his own rattled nerves still reflected aptly in the look on her face. For a second, he doesn't know what to say. Part of him still wants to open the door back up and plunge straight into the cold forest, in fruitless pursuit of his heart's desire, and -- somehow he thinks she might feel the same. Like calls to like, indeed.
"......standing here won't do us any good, I imagine. If you can't sleep either--..."
He hesitates one more time as he brushes past her, awkwardly glancing back. Unused to offering little kindnesses like this, particularly to a stranger. But. It's too quiet and too loud a night to want to spend it alone.
"Come with me. I'll... make tea or something."