westwhere | out you go, shoo

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

These have been some of the best in Jiang Cheng's recent memories. There are downsides, of course. He worries of home, of what the Jiang sect will do without him. (And, apparently, the illustrious Hanguang-jun of all people.) He knows Jin Ling won't do well in his absence, but there is at least Jin Guangyao to care for him.

The thing he feels worst about, however, is that he doesn't feel worse about it all.

Having the physical distance from the cultivation world, from his role and obligations and all the politics contained therein, has left him feeling able to breathe for the first time since he can remember. Since he was a child. Their position is tenuous, the threats difficult to even properly identify, never mind mitigate, but there are no particular eyes on him to solve the problems they face. There are no expectations, no legacy to desperately uphold, no sect to lead.

There is only his own self, and he finally has time to sit and think.

The farm life could not be more simple. It also proves backbreaking, and Jiang Cheng can't help but think of Wei Wuxian and his horrible radishes, and the quiet little life he made for himself for a time. Did he, too, know this peace?

It feels harder and harder to fault him for choosing that escape, and Jiang Cheng feels perilously close to admitting to himself that his anger for the man came from the same place it always did. Jealousy. That Wei Wuxian always had what he wanted, did what he struggled to seemingly without effort, and was always everything Jiang Cheng wished he could be.

Lately, Jiang Cheng has busied himself with caring for the farm's dog, making sure it eats right and gets its exercise and gets its herding done without traumatizing the scant few animals they have to herd. He goes on runs with the dog, who he's taken to calling Zongzi, regularly, and today he's having trouble finding the beast.

"Zongzi!" he calls, walking along the perimeter of the farm, a scowl on his face. "Zongzi, where are you? Zongzi, come here!"

He stops to listen for an answer.

The answer comes like this: a cry, an octave higher than it should be, of an oddly familiar voice going, "Save me! Lan Zhan!"

Wei Wuxian, upon discovery, is in a tree, the snow upon it fallen from higher branches to the ground, the dog in question circling the base and leaping up to place concerned paws on the lower trunk, wuffing up at Wei Wuxian, who only cringes and holds tighter to the trunk. Snow has decorated his heavy cloak, and clumps of it fall from higher or from himself to thud softly to the snowy ground below. Zongzi only seems concerned when one smacks it on the nose, going back to four paws in the snow and shaking its head with a low whine.

Hearing Jiang Cheng, Zongzi turns, letting out two sharp barks as a call, before returning to safeguarding the human up a tree.

Wei Wuxian, not feeling safe, continues to stare wide eyed with horror down at the vicious beast now every so often leaping up and nipping at the air below him.

"Go away!"

out you go, shoo

hi im here to ruin everything

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