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.
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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. |
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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. |
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“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. |
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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. |
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westwhere2021-05-10 08:56 pm
no subject
He does not hasten to correct her — straightens his back, to show the mending steel of his spine, the futility of a second blanket. A pity she does not look, following counsel: inside him burns the wretched ache of sophisticated poison, a worked core. It will salve and provide, or it will be corrected — no use in the swordsman's body for muscles that do not perform. ]
...most men do not converse with the dead.
[ And those who do wear the name of Wei Ying's profession, blasphemers and aberrations against the righteous path. He has met, over time, three skilled necromancers — killed the one with both hands, willing.
This woman does not carry the stench of a fourth. It lives, acrid like the trail of embers, in her brother. ]
They heed your brother?
no subject
She also doesn't know so much about 'heeding' him. Vanya crosses her arms over her chest, rubbing her arms a little as if to ward against the cold. Her tell-all book had revealed a lot abut all their lives, but it still feels odd o try and talk about it out loud.]
Sort of. He was getting better at it. I think he was... scared. It was pretty scary, for a kid, you know? He, um... Didn't cope with it well. But he's been getting better at it. Our, uh.... Our other brother was killed, when we were kids. I guess being able to talk to him helped somewhat, but maybe he could do something more with our lake guy, if we ever find him.
[She glances towards the lake, pensive. She likes having Five around and is grateful for it, but she'd feel even more comfortable if the others showed up too.]
no subject
And the story weaves itself: a boy, alone, scared, mishandling his ability. A young necromancer, deprived the physical presence of a brother he alone could communicate with. Helped somewhat, negotiating his fragments of care and comfort, wrenched from the claws of the dead.
This is not Wei Ying's story of abandon. Less so Sizhui's, particular in his heritage of sorcery, but drowned in the enthusiastic company of his peers. This — is the hermit's way, the wandering cultivator, plight of the practitioner buried in ignorance and seclusion. Abandoned to his ways and isolated from the communal path.
Still, the flinch of his spine, like flint ricocheting off the open road, or a cat stirred from slumber by passing foot. The revulsion of the speed with which Lan Wangji returns her belongings, ostensibly to heal her chills. ]
You left a child to fend for himself against the phantasm of your brother?
[ Woman, you are a monster, as is your family. ]
no subject
First of all, he never told us Ben was hanging around. Secondly, 'trial by fire' we our father's idea, not ours'. [She crosses her arms over her chest, half-hugging herself defensively.]
And there was nothing to fend himself from, Ben never would've hurt any of us. [Of that she was absolutely sure. Maybe smack Klaus around a few times but honestly, who wouldn't? Ben just living all their best lives.]