westwhere | the beauty, the beast, the burned

the beauty, the beast, the burned

BEAUTY & THE BURNED

Image source.

All but overnight, howling winter winds seal off main roads and curtail safe travel. The storms will recede within a month — and the Merchant negotiates for the party to bide that time at the sinister castle of the clan Netvor and its cursed heir.

ON THE ROAD

The party departs at night, in carriages led by obstinately silent coachmen, who urge discretion. Above all, they say, the woods must not know you head for the castle. Inside, you find dried fruit, candied meats, candle stubs and blankets. You are assigned your first ride, but may swap at resting points.

■ Crossing the misty, eerily quiet woods, your carriage is attacked by large, demonic wolve. Coachmen scream to run to the castle.

■ Evade the wolves in the woods, until you reach the strong, tall gates and fences that encircle the vast castle gardens. The gates bear skulls that carry daggers between their teeth. To let you in, they ask for shiny things, wine and secrets — but are also susceptible to charm.

■ If you arrive covered in blood, the gate skulls call you a ‘beauty’ and offer you a dagger that you may take or discard. If you arrive untarnished, they call you a ‘beast.’

Image source.

HOME, SWEET HOME

Tall, dark and looming, with narrow corridors and windows of stained glass — the castle of the noble Netvor clan is like a slow-beating, putrid heart that powers extensive gardens and forest lands.

The castle rests on thick mounds of snow, crossed by red rivulets that stain nearby ice sheets crimson — a reminder, your host Julien says, of a ‘Red Hunt’ that the Netvor clan carried out years prior, killing hundreds of animals until their blood mixed with dirt. In retaliation, a forest witch cursed the clan, transforming its heir into an unsightly beast and his servants into inanimate objects or fellow creatures.

” Once upon a time, there was a man. And that man had kin. And that kin was cruel. But the forest chooses its time and its champions. The land rebelled against them. Their people turned away. And only the beasts they so cleverly despoiled would still have them. The prince was spared because a glimmer of kindness he showed a stranger, to make amends. But the prince was alone. ”

You were largely given lodging at castle Netvor in exchange for entertaining Julien, the prince’s serene and startlingly handsome fiancé, who welcomes you with the main house rule: you must not see the prince.

Image source.

BEHIND YOU

The castle covets you : doors and windows often thud shut to lock you inside quarters, candles light up or dim on whim, and you sometimes hear the echo of voices in the corridors carrying the secrets of other speakers, long after they’ve departed.

If you are a ‘beauty,’ statues slowly turn their heads or move when you look away, and you see shadows running through mirrors. If you are ‘beastly,’ you hear clawing at your windows and doors at night, only to find fading scratch marks in the morning.

Some servants have been cursed into inanimate objects, with others transformed into bird-like, monstrous but harmless creatures that stay largely hidden.

House rules: do not open doors or windows at night. Be kind to the servants.

Image source.

THE SOUTHERN WING

Home to Julien and you, the southern wing is bright, airy, gilded and refreshed daily by sentient dusters and brooms.

■ Lavish sleeping quarters with en suite bathing quarters and generously supplied wardrobes. There are no furs or fur-lined clothes. Rule: do not enter Julien’s locked bedchamber. Julien himself heads to the northern wing each night.

■ Self-sustaining kitchens, where bowls, whisks and ladles perpetually prepare elaborate dishes and pastries. Visitors are often hijacked to test eccentric or boozy dishes.

■ A glistening ballroom with wall-length mirrors. Soft music erupts, compelling you to take a partner and dance feverishly to steps you somehow know or that a sentient cello can teach. Spinning by the mirrors, you see yourself reflected among faceless dancers whom you recognise from the portrait room. When you finish dancing, you spot ash footprints on the floor.

” The villagers don’t speak of what happened to the rest of clan Netvor. Handfuls of people. If they are among the cursed servants, they hide themselves. But I suspect they have long transcended to a different realm of possibilities. He does not speak of them to me. But he does not speak of any unkindness to me. He is… gentle, in his way. ”

■ The reading room: a wide seating area with an enormous fireplace where the remains of prized hunting prey were traditionally set to burn. Strange bones and expensive clothing scraps linger amid wood kindling.

■ The object-servants (largely dusters and teacups) urge you to help decorate the southern wing with flowers, candles and baubles for new year festivities — only for you to discover burned clothes in the castle’s nooks and crannies. What remains of the materials is high-quality, ornate.

Image source.

BEASTLY QUARTERS

The northern wing is dark, moulding, with torn wallpaper, broken furniture and soot strewn about — the signs of a failed arson attempt. The ravaged northern area leads to a tall tower that houses the prince’s chambers.

House rules: you cannot enter after sundown, and you must leave any room when you hear unknown footsteps behind you. Disobey, and you gradually lose consciousness as the footsteps come near you, and you hear only a rasped, bestial, Your blood need not spill here, before you wake with a booming migraine in the southern wing. Do this three times, and Julien insists you must leave the castle.

■ the portrait room: a gallery and library that displays brimming bookcases and the portraits of the family members of the Netvor clan. The faces have been removed: some by claws, canvas strips hanging. Some were burned off. In a handful of portraits, faces have simply disappeared through white erosion.

■ The prince’s sleeping quarters are in a locked tower chamber, preceded by a wide stairwell covered covered in thorny roses and hundreds of wilted petals. Slowly over the duration of your stay, you notice they wither and fade. Touch a rose and you hear hissing, as the flower briefly curls back into a blossom. Prick your fingers on a thorn, and briefly see names engraved the nearby brick wall. You recognise them from the room of portraits.

■ In a nest of rose vines, you find several notebooks — including one with the prince’s daily entries. On the day of your arrival, he scribbled, Can men learn compassion?

” You must have seen them, the roses. They are his burden. The root and timepiece of his curse. Until the last petal withers away, he must rebuild the forest and make amends for the carnage wrought by his family. If the curse believes… the balance has been met, he will be spared. If not… but we still have time. ”

■ Each day at sunset, the stairwell roses bloom golden, as thousands of petals rain down. If you are touched, and you are in the presence of someone you dislike, you feel encouraged to apologise or make amends. In the company of someone you enjoy, you express gratitude, admiration or joy. Those who are already in love may find themselves (finally?) confessing. Optionally, some characters feel overwhelmed by sudden, bitter sadness, tears trailing down their cheeks — and a feeling of captivity, as footsteps draw near.

Image source.

THE GARDENS

The snow-laden gardens spread wide and vast, containing archery and sword training grounds, a frosted fountain , a frozen lake for skating and several bridges for those who entertain snow fights.

■ If you are a ‘beauty,’ the blood-bound red dirt seems to stick to you as you pass by, staining you crimson. For ‘beasts,’ the dirt all but parts.

■ Each day, castle servants bring devote hours to plant trees in the forest, to cleanse river waters and seed flowers or plant trees.

” This was a hunting castle. It needn’t have been. The villages serve gladly. Panna is only the nearest one, but they have dozens at their bidding. But the Netvor loved their bloodshed well, and so… each season. Crushing, killing, decimating. Even taming, tainting the forest’s wolves to serve as their hounds. That’s why they come at our gates now. To beg scraps. Despicable. Forgive me. I have a soft heart and a weak stomach. For my sake, he no longer hunts in the wasteful way of his people. ”

■ The familiar demonic wolves prowl at night, howling maddeningly and sometimes breaching into the gardens. They appear desperate to attack the castle.

■ Glancing at the castle from the gardens, you might see a dark, nebulous figure in the distance at a tower balcony that doesn’t correspond to any room you’ve had access to.

Image source.

BE OUR GUEST

Each evening, you must dress in formalwear and dine in the great ballroom of the southern wing. The space is now poorly lit by candlelight, and you can barely glimpse your dining partners.

■ You are asked to never look behind you, even as you sometimes hear heavy steps and rattling nearby. Now and then, you think you can almost see a pair of golden eyes behind a dining companion.

■ The dishes and cutlery dance and perform throughout an elaborate, many-course service that all exclude venison. Diners feel compelled to trade anecdotes of their homelands and families. No one can leave for an hour.

■ At least once, you will receive a dish you associate with a close relation or family member.

■ Opt-in: Instead of dishes, you might (at most twice during your stay) receive an empty black plate. You must excuse yourself after dinner, lock yourself in your bedroom and keep vigil that night — careful not to let strangers in, no matter what they say or whose voice they imitate. If you open your door to strangers, a swathe of shadows overwhelms you with deep jealousy, loneliness or insecurity. Human company eases the feeling.

Image source.

LITTLE TOWN

The gentle snow of the first few days worsens, until a great blizzard blockades you in the castle for five days ( OOCly around 17-22 December) — at the end of which, a bashful kitchen ladle and a friendly pot beg you to head into Panna village for supplies. A cart and a stubborn donkey accompany you for the 90-minute trek through the woods.

■ The forests are largely silent, seemingly peopled by animals of prey (rabbits, deer). At times, you find bare human footprints that seem to lead no where, some carrying the red dirt of castle Netvor.

■ Deep claw marks litter most trees in the woodlands close to castle Netvor. To your luck, the large wolves are entirely absent during the day.

■ A few small abandoned hunters’ cabins are still standing, seemingly repurposed as (empty) wolf dens. You find young village children are leaving cooked food and old shawls there. If they see you, children shoo you away.

■ The village is small, warm, chirpy and welcoming — until residents hear you come from Netvor castle. Then, they gossip and urge their children to keep away from your witch blood.

” You must think the people of Panna disloyal, pulling away at the first sign of hardship. But the Netvor were so cruel to animals while they yet learned to torture men. They loved their prince, once. One day, if the witch’s curse lifts, they might love him again. But no one can care for a beast, let alone associate with one pursued by a witch, they say. They are wrong. ”

■ Villagers take you to a tavern to meet drunken hunter Viola, who may need a hand wrapping up a few brawls before taking you to bakers, brewers and lumberjacks. Sometimes, these sellers need your help to prepare the last of the supplies.

■ A nearby place of worship has left out incense for the dead, including incense for the wretched Netvor clan.

■ Viola insists you cannot stay past sunset and declines to accompany you back. Villagers say she was previously assisted the clan Netvor, but stopped after the Red Hunt.

QUESTIONS

NPC INBOX

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

( Snow, fresh and powdered over ice run black and deep. Winter is no frill here, no whim of exaggeration. It is as in Cloud Recesses, where the weather cuts and crafts what men may proceed with and the future of their days before them.

This once, Caitlyn and he are allowed to proceed as they wish. They follow not pathways, matted by steps — those stop by the edge of the forest, where the servants and the unseen prince do their work of rebirthing the woods with fresh stalks, or leaving feeding out for soft, stilled animals. Instead... footprints, bare and unmistakable, the shape recoiling and lessening in the cold as snow crisps.

He thinks, first, to question whether perhaps they err on the side of sinister suspicion, whether this may yet prove to be a hog or a large animal of prey with similar, confused step. But then, red blooms at the heart of the prints like spilled ink, like blossomed flowers.

And he shudders, knelt to inspect the coppery, metallic scent of the earth. )

Did we take full tally of our group? ( No. They never do. ) Perhaps one of our own has yet to reach the castle and wanders.

( A cruel fate, if true. )

No, I don't think so. [She never has. People come and go with alarming frequency, and while there may be some use in keeping track, it would be difficult work. For more reasons than one.

The dirt is dropped again, and she wipes her hands off as she straightens up.]

All the more reason to go after them if it is one of our people. [As she begins to walk deeper into the forest alongside the tracks, she pulls her rifle from its case on her back. There are wolves in these woods, and who knows what other dangers. The tale of hunters culling the wildlife with such fervor and cruelty that a curse was placed on their prince almost makes her think twice - the rifle is a hunter's weapon, after all. But while she knows Lan Wangji is skilled with his blade, she needs a gun to protect herself.]

( He remembers this: the length of the barrel, the biting tip of the weapon. Sound like scratching, like worlds ending. Wrath on the other end of it — the 'pistol' — completing their test to see how the 'bullets' performed.

This is no weapon of kindness, of compromise, of elegance. It slaughters neatly, without forewarning, without the courtesy of allowing an opponent the chance to practise skill and earn their next breath.

It cuts. It culls. It claims and crushes. He walks and does not trip the girl as she arms, though fleetingly considers it — only to finally tap the very end of her weapon with the sheathed hilt of his sword in passing. )

That is unnecessary. ( Worse, by the trickling thickness of his contempt — it is unwanted. )

[The barrel of the rifle dips as Lan Wangji taps it with his sheathed sword rather than risk any damage from too-hard contact between them. But as soon as he passes by, Caitlyn readjusts her grip, frowning resolutely. Lan Wangji may not care for the weapon, but it's hers, practically an extension of her body, both intimately familiar and profoundly reassuring. If there's danger in these woods - and there is - she won't go without it.

She walks along beside the tracks, scanning for any other telltale signs of who, or what, left them.

It's not long before she spots the marks in the trunk. Deep, and higher on the tree than she might expect from a wolf, but almost certainly lupine. She brushes her fingertips across the splintered bark, trying to get a sense for how long ago the claw marks were made, whether the wood of the tree has begun to scar yet or whether they're still fresh.]

Wolves.

( Wolves. He stills, prickles of goosebumps riding the stairwell of his backbone, one step and a dive and the humble next. He should have heeded, should have heard, should have interceded —

But then he turns in slow, paralysed increments and sees nothing past the tears of molten ice that drip and gather off the nearby branches, nothing past the matted mounds of long-driven snow.

Ah. Not nearby, then. No, and he approaches where Caitlyn lingers, equally rapt of what she has uncovered. He thinks, more fool he, to trace the mark with his fingertips, hesitating only at the last moment. No. They should not tou —

...she has already touched. )

These trees stretch too tall for wolves to climb. ( And lack the length and spread of branches that facilitates such voyages. ) Marks of... agitation?

( Surely, wolves lack the intelligence to scratch territories to chart the lay of the land. )

Perhaps. [A small bit of bark breaks off between her fingers, and she inspects it, turning it over to search for blood or... anything really. But there's nothing that tells her why the wolves made these marks.] I've seen wolves scratch to mark their territory, but almost always on the ground. [And almost always accompanied by scat or urine.]

[She drops the bit of bark before leveling a stern look at her companion.]

We should keep moving.

[And she does just that, continuing on after the tracks while keeping a keen eye out for more scratchings, or any other signs of lupine activity.]

Edited 2023-12-13 02:25 (UTC)

( And does she... command him, then? Truly, what is the knowledge that the women of his life possess, so intent to commandeer him? No matter.

She sets course first, and he concedes her the trajectory — but dallies a few heartbeats longer to trip Bichen's blade free of her sheathe and, pressing her cut against the tree, to slowly, tenderly skin the sliver of bark that carries the closest marks of claws. Their proof removed, he rolls it in a tight scroll and binds it with frayed rope, then slips it in his travel pouch, for keeping now and study later.

All the better that they should interrogate what evidence presents itself so readily before them. )

Wolves roamed on our arrival. Each night thereafter. Perhaps starved.

( A simple, innocuous conclusion. And yet, darker on his tongue, like charcoal: ) Or hunting.

( The difference lies only in this: they still do not know who is the prey. )

The wolves we saw when we arrived aren't like any I've seen in the forest back home. Wolves hunt because they need to, to survive. These wolves...

[The tracks stop abruptly, and Caitlyn stops abruptly with them. They simply... vanish, a trail leading to nowhere, with no indication of where the person who left them went. She scans the nearby trees, looking for any indication that their quarry climbed one, but she sees no telltale broken branches or scuffed bark, no displaced snow that would have shaken down from a branch. There's no blood splatter, either, no churned up snow or leavings that she would associate with a pack of wolves catching their prey.

Once again, she crouches down, looking for any indication, no matter of small, of what could have happened here.]

...were desperate.

( The tracks halt, prints dissolved in the midst of... no where. A no man's land of high, untarnished snow, and Lan Wangji fickle and adrift in the midst of this pale, eerie world, lost, if not entirely forgotten.

He calls Bichen tight in his grasp, the sword pulsing power through her fetters. Soothes himself. Then, driven less by cunning than the instinct to fend off the wind that whips and howls, carrying powdered snow in compact whirlwinds.

Down this pathway, then, through the ravine. Where the mouth of an opening peers. A... den. )

Keep your weapon close. ( ...the same one that Lan Wangji had begged dismissed moments prior. )

[Desperate may be a word for it, but while a desperate wolf might attack a human, the ones they saw on the road were different. Massive. Terrifying, in a way a wild animal never has been to her before.

She gets up and follows him down the ravine, her eyes still scanning in sharp little movements, looking for any disturbance of the snow or trees, her rifle braced against her shoulder. When Lan Wangji spots the den, Caitlyn holds back, raising the rifle. It makes sense for him to go in first; his sword was made for defending himself against things in proximity, while her rifle is useful only at range.

She doesn't say anything. She doesn't feel the need. He's a capable warrior, she knows. He'll know what to do. Instead of speaking, she breathes out, slow and steady, her breath pluming white in the air, as her finger finds the trigger.]

( He does not, it emerges, know what to do — nor possesses the natural, animal grace that would make the slip of his body down the mouth of the enclosure a natural, silent trickle. He betrays himself, first in the rustle of his silks, then in the incongruous, inevitable brakes of his body, when he attempts to catch the root of a downed tree or a nearby pillar and stay himself from slipping on ice that's oozed within. A door left too long open.

The house — the den — reeks of wet fur and stale air, of beastly squalor. He scrunches his nose, slants his gaze, but walks the site, careful when floors threaten to decay and break down.

He suspects they will encounter wolves — draws back, searching each way with his sword drawn, when all that remains to be discovered are... scraps of fang-tattered knits, covered in hair. Spreads of feeding. He kneels down. )

...roast pheasant. ( Wolves of fine taste. )

[Caitlyn is surprised by the lack of grace with which Lan Wangji descends into the den. But she follows, keeping the gun raised, even as her own feet find themselves sliding more than she would like. Still, she's at home here, much more comfortable with a slippery forest floor than a ballroom.

She doesn't allow herself to be bothered by the scent; if there are wolves in this den and she loses focus, if she can't shoot fast enough or straight enough, they could both be killed. But when it becomes apparent that they're alone - except for food that has no business whatsoever being in a wolf den - she lowers the rifle.]

Did someone leave it for the wolves? Or is someone else living here?

( He thinks, with some confidence — which he should know better than to devote — that the den is emptied, the creaking scratch of their steps the only sound to thunder across the hut's spread. And so, he does not rise, studying the scraps of food left for signs of bite, of fangs grazing the floors in the clumsy way of rushed animals hastening to catch their meal.

Absentmindedly: ) Believe left. Search the house.

( To assist, so that he might yet cling to his virtues as a gentleman, he sends alongside Caitlyn a few wisps of qi energies, compelled into the shape of communication butterflies that might urgently warn him, should her advance prove treacherous.

For his part, he searches this one room: first, investigating the meal. Then, the scraps of cloth. Finally, he calls out: )

Footsteps, booted. Small. ( Children. )

[Caitlyn nods, and moves deeper into the house, searching for any telltale signs of who has been here, and how long ago. From her search, cursory as it is, it seems as though the place has been abandoned for some time. There is a fine layer of dust that suggests on the windowsills that suggests its' been some time since anyone human has lived here, but disturbances enough to indicate that the wolves' stay has been more recent.

When he calls, she hurries back, crouching down to examine the footprints. She runs her finger across the imprint of a heel left by a child-sized boot, finding the muck still ever so slightly damp.]

These are recent. These children were here within the last day or so.

( Here, within the past day. Recent. His brow furrows in crisp, trembled lines, and he searches the room for evidence of their whereabouts, their likely purpose. No such fortune, no immediate answer. Unless. )

...perhaps they partook of the meal. Dined here.

( On... the floor. No. There is no deep, flattened print in the snow's surface, no denting to suggest a child sat. Not unless the snow far too conveniently rebuilt itself in mounds only here, settling. )

Or presented the food. To... ( No. And why? ) ...the wolves.

( Truly, the village must be experiencing far more heightened prosperity than Lan Wangji anticipated, if they can spare such gifts. )

Perhaps they feel indebted. Religion.

Or perhaps an offering, so the wolves won't hunt them?

[There are a lot of possibilities, including that the food wasn't for the wolves at all. But there are no other footprints - none that she can see, at least - and no indication of anyone being here other than wolves and children.

It fleetingly occurs to her to wonder whether the wolves are the children.

No, that doesn't make any sense.]

We should get back to the road. Before it gets dark. [They don't want to get caught here when the wolves come back, and it seems they've found all the clues there are to find.]

No harm will come to you.

( Absent-minded, trickling. As if that were the question that Caitlyn has never, in his memory, asked. She is a creature alone, spared the indignity of cowardice. He does her injustice.

All the same, he straightens, trying her face with a considering gaze, before starting to shift in line with her instruction. What is it with the women of his life, commanding his path? Wen Qing, Luo Qingyang, Jiang Yanli.

As he moves, the floors creak, another breath of wind whispering a warning against further delays. The village, then, with haste. )

You may need to govern our interactions in the village. ( A pause, then his finest attempt at diplomacy: ) I lack... the ease of manner that quickly befriends.

( Some might question whether he has any ease or manners. )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

the beauty, the beast, the burned

the woods...!

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject