westwhere | the beauty, the beast, the burned

the beauty, the beast, the burned

BEAUTY & THE BURNED

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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.’

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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

And was thrust forward. Energetically.

( Spoken with the sort of performative aridity that suggests this man has made a repeatedly award-winning academic career out of reducing the world to declarative sentences that altogether translate to, 'This is foolish,' 'You are foolish,' and, quite possibly, 'Much foolishness is afoot.'

Incidentally, his grip of the snow does not lessen. No, somehow the cursed thing seems even take its time slipping out of his hand. And so, clenching — )

Lying is forbidden. ( ...according to several hundreds of precepts Bucky has neither already learned, nor attempts to follow. )

Is it?

( bucky flicks a look at the snowball and how wangi's grip on it seems to be getting tighter and tighter. bucky's pretty damn sure that there's going to be some kind of retaliation.

and soon. he arches an eyebrow and rubs at his chin. )

How do you know I'm lying? Pretty presumptuous.

( ...must. He speak the words? He did speak the words. Prepares, body and bone and soul to speak them once over —

Before the ancient call of a man who raised a son, with thanks reminds him that he will never earn respect through peace at this junction, and so —

Well.

A hand is raised. A die is cast. Incidentally and most perfunctorily, with it, is a snowball. 'lo, behold, the speeding projectile —

While Lan Wanghi, who has not fended off archers and sword swings and catapults for naught takes this time to dash behind a mound, crouching. This is not play, which would surely be forbidden.

It is war. )

( okay, he'd know that there was going to be some payback, some retaliation and he'd been waiting for it. but when the snowball comes, he's not quick enough to dodge it entirely and it clips his shoulder.

his jacket dampens and he looks down, eyes wide, and watches wangji as he darts behind a mound.

so, that's what it's going to be, huh? they're going to do this? that's fine, he's ready.

he gets up and starts packing a snowball before he tucks himself behind a tree, listening for any movements. )

( At first, he remembers — a war, any war — the best course of action is patience. Draw out an enemy, subject him to attrition. Wait, and he will betray himself.

But the snow beneath his feet sounds squeaky, the one in his hand feels at once sticky and weight. The childish glee that compels him to move is nearly exorcised by adult responsibility. )

We are grown men. ( Says the grown man sat strategically shielded by the sculpture of a faun contemplating the godly shape of a lily flower. ) We may comport ourselves so.

( ...but he's not rising first to offer this olive branch. No, no. He is gathering more snow. )

( yeah, he's right. they're grown men and they're both hiding from snowballs. but, bucky's not about to yield first. absolutely not.

he crouches down and he balls up a few snowballs, leaving them at his feet. when he peeks out from behind his hiding spot, he lobs one of the snowballs over in the wangi's direction.

and then he's back behind the tree, reaching for another snowball in case of retaliation. )

You calling it quits already?

I am —

( Suffering. Cruelly. Unusually. Teeth gritting when the snow plops embarrassingly on his shoulder, as if he were the world's plainest and least ambitious mark. He looks down, where the snow has the audacity to stay put in the chilly air for a number of heartbeats, before descending dramatically down.

Then, he returns to his crouch, to the lines of snow before him, and he was never a child given to easy company or pleasant sports, but he learns quickly.

He makes one snowball, too softly built, disintegrating long before it may so much as graze its target. The second, too compact, hard and vicious when he throws it in Bucky's general direction. By the third, he has an even and perfecting hang of things, the fourth is a marked improvement, and the fifth seals the fact that, what one man lacks in strategy or experience, he can make up in sheer numbers and enthusiasm. )

Excusing your of laughter.

( he wouldn't have thought wangji as much of a snowball specialist but damn, he starts chucking them at bucky faster than bucky can really move.

he does manage to mitigate some of the damage so he's not getting pelted in the face, laughing to himself as he ducks behind the side of a building to try and get out of the way of the onslaught. )

Who's laughing? Me? I'm not laughing.

( much. )

You are —

( Far too skilled at evasion, the telltale sign of a man accustomed to martial pursuits. If only Lan Wangji were more experienced in the art of... snowballs, or faster on his feet, he wouldn't land himself in an impossibility to pursue, a time after, the easy snow that peels off the ground now entirely consumed.

He is left with ice and hard surfaces, and withdraws clumsily, stepping back, towards a tree for a... strategic pause. Certainly not a shameful retreat. )

You may capitulate. ( Says the man now weaponless. )

Capitulate?

( that's a big word there, friend. he makes a face and shakes his head. no, he's not gonna do that.

he moves further around the building, wodering if he can maybe get behind wangji to really sneak attack him. )

You're not going to throw me off with a big vocabulary.

( There is a moment when he expects Bucky, despite his initial stubbornness, will see the wisdom of an easy surrender and turn himself in for Lan Wangji's pleasure. When he can hope to put the snow down and resume the remainder of his day with some semblance of dignity.

Then, rustling. )

I hear you.

( Moving, crawling, sending Lan Wangji to clutch snow in hand. He hears, but cannot locate Bucky's whereabouts, because far too much snow and ice peel off or crash from other locations. )

You sure?

( he's been called a ghost before and while those days are behind him, he can still move pretty silently when he wants to.

the rustling is intentional since this is a snowball fight and not anything too serious.

he stops moving, staying still and waiting to see what wangji does. )

I could be anywhere.

( He hears... something, nebulous and close, and swivels twice only to find no man behind him, none in close proximity. Coming to kneel once more, he clutches snow and hand, and —

Does not throw it. Does not even make to lift the ball.

Instead, pulls out a piece of thin, drenched parchment that nearly glimmers in translucence before bursting into quiet flame, and fragmenting in six parts, each bound in a different direction, at distance.

If a threat should come, let it be seen. )

You are here, prowling. As animals do.

Yeah well, I've been called worse.

( he crouches down, fingers dragging through the snow. he waits, barely even breathing. )

You haven't walked away so it seems like...you want to have a little go round too.

( he slips a little closer, moving up behind wangji. )

( This is poor play, undeserving of their talents. They are undisciplined, foolish and wayward and — juvenile.

Were actual children, perhaps Lan Wangji's own son, to discover them — ...but then, the moment of private rational reckoning has long passed, and Bucky lingers close, betrayed less by sound than by the imperceptible tremors of his energies. Living things will ever tell.

At first, on instinct, Lan Wangji's hand goes to his sword. Then, remembering the game — he sinks down to grasp fresh snow, fingers red and stiff with their melted charge of earlier. By the time he turns around, Bucky has long advanced too close, and Lan Wangji does not aim a snowball at his face, as much as, shamelessly, at his... belly?

...truly, Wei Ying may never hear of this. )

( bucky's not sure how he'd been heard because he knows how quiet he'd been but just as he's about to strike, wangji turns around and throws a snowball.

he's probably lucky that it didn't hit his face because he'd left himself wide open. the snow smashes against his shirt and coat, making him a wet mess and he stares before he hurriedly tosses his snowball at wangji since he's still holding it.

and then he's off again, brushing past the other man and sliding to safety behind another thick three. )

( And then, he greets snow, somehow face-first.

...at the very least, Uncle cannot claim Lan Wangji has forgotten his manners. No, no. He welcomes this newcomer with all of his being. Cheeks and nose first.

It... sticks. Drips down. The awkwardness of the slipping weight is recorded before the cold, the punching quality of the impact. He exhales.

Then, calmly, as Bucky is no where to be seen —

He too retreats behind a fellow tree, only now remembering to collect the snow off his face.

...and not take any fresh ammo with him. )

( this is kind of ridiculous, isn't it? this snowball fight had turned into something semi serious. they had both landed blows and they were both wet and they were both hiding, still fighting it out.

bucky would laugh if he weren't trying to make sure he wasn't about to get snuck up on.

he breathes into his hands, trying to warm them and then turns his head, peeking out from behind the tree. )

You out there?

We are trading geography?

( Hissed, likely betraying himself, back yet kept to the tree's stretch. As in war, trading relative coordinates is a matter of courtesy, both to prevent harm unto civilians — that floating duster never did see snow coming — and to curtail the spread of their ongoing aggressions.

Yes. If they only stick to war etiquettes, while Lan Wangji attempts to take stock of his circumstances, gently falling to a knee and trying to shave fresh snow off frosted ice, warming it in hand -

...then he is still a man in a garden, trying to calmly make sense of a world where he is apparently fighting for dominion with snow bearings. )

Come out. Let us finish this.

( Two men, meeting at dawns. To duel. )

You challenging me to a duel?

( because that's sure as hell what it sounds like. and bucky's not first he likes that. he's not afraid of meeting someone head on but he has to wonder if wangi has a trick up his sleeve. )

How are we going to get a winner anyway?

( First blood. No.

Judgement by jury. Denied, as they regrettably — or fortunately for Lan Wangji's pride — they lack an audience.

Death — he really ought to not be the one volunteering their solutions.

And so, softly, perhaps little above a whisper — )

I do not know. ( A pause. ) It is you who knows the game.

( ...that's right, Bucky, you've taken on an actual man-child, ignorant of the snow tussle arts. )

You think I know this game that well?

( wangji's not going to know the last time he had a snowball fight. that's not his fault.

he laughs to himself, giving his head a shake because yeah, he doesn't know how they're going to declare a winner. )

I could just say that I won, you know. Would you abide by that?

( The next moment might as well span an eternity, condensed. He stills, far too much like every animal of prey who's just encountered the hunter only to realise he never he could die.

And it strikes him, mouth fearful: )

...would you lie to me? ( Surely not. Bucky taught him to fish. )

I lie.

( no doubt about that. he's lied, he's cheated, he's stolen, he's done some terrible things but in this instance — )

I'm not lying about this. No reason to lie about a snowball fight.

( ...and has Bucky lied to him? The world is best lived, he's learned, without the careless weight of undue expectations. No kindness may be born of it, when visions are not aligned.

It stings, all the same, prickles and turns something in him sour and sore. He hesitates, coming to a crouch to rescue the last of the powdered snow that can be peeled free of the grounds, before rounding it in another ball, and —

Waiting. ) How does the game end?

( This mere snowball fight. ) With one man yielding?

( A courteous finale. )

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