the beauty, the beast, the burned

[groundrules]

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

Comments

[inquired]

[ lightly, lofty: ]

Ah, but things are meant to be examined. [ and mysteries are meant to be understood. temenos waves his hand when he's addressed - he picks up on the lack of critique. ] I'll return things where I've found them once I've finished, so you need not worry.

[ and so, here temenos sits, checking the fabrics and cloths for evidence and matches, in different places. comparing them, to the portraits, and then writing in a small notebook whatever he's noted. it's then than he finally does turn his head to look at his companion - almost immediately, the dress and the way he carries himself feel a bit familiar. hikari-esque: it puts a smile on his face, placid, though there's a bit of a twinkle in his eyes. ]

Are you not curious about this place?

[downswing]

The dead wake, when they would wake. Sleep, when they must sleep.

( Some part of this is lesson, long and studiously learned, rolling off a tongue turned slack and heavy. He is his grandfather's nephew, second heir of a sect: it is expected of him. All manner of platitudes are.

And yet, for all his complacence, he flings a gaze long and searching at one of the lingering pieces of crushed velvet left in the young man's hand, red like the bloodshed they so often sing of here, like the slip of nothing that binds Wei Ying's hair —

And turns, in steps like falling silk, towards one of the distant portraits: a man, gaze uncharitable toward a sunset's horizon, must of his face scratch-marred. The red is not in his high collar or quilted dark coat, but the easy trim of his sleeves. A coincidence, if not for the rare, cool undertone of both colours. )

Reveal themselves at their leisure.

[inquired]

The truth rarely waits for anyone's leisure. Dead, or otherwise.

[ "also sects are stupid" - temenos, probably

there's sort of a wryness to his tone when he responds, glancing up from his work and his notes, mouth curled up at the corner. there's familiarity in that, too, in the recitation of something, because to temenos, it has the same heartbeat as scripture, the familiar sacred flame approved sort of recitation you'd expect from an adherent. so, it pleases him when he follows the young man to the portrait with his eyes. ]

... A keen eye, however, finds many of them, truths. [ he gets up and comes over to join him, writing down the portrait name in his notes, and hums a light note of praise. ] Bravo.

How interesting. I've matched a few now - it feels rather as if we've found ourselves not in a home, but in a mausoleum.

[downswing]

( An archer's eye. But then, he never cultivated the renown, and it shrouds him like patina, a poisoned colour. More association. More notes. Temenos flits from place to place like a collector assessing the worthiness of his latest, rarest finding.

Lan Wangji studiously follows, hand strapped firmly behind his back. Watch, wait, learn. Let others speak. Patience. )

What difference?

( No. No time for philosophy. For petty. paltry conversation. He walks the room and extends the slow, delicate tendrils of his qi energies to greet whatever of the dead might linger — only to find little noteworthy past the anticipated echoes and tremulations of a house so long lived that it might, soon, itself breathe. )

You have retrieved clothing from each person painted? ( And softer: ) Some cloth burned.

( And so, regrettably, the colours might no longer match what is depicted in the portraits. )

[inquired]

Well. I grew up in the church, so, quite frankly, there is very little of one. Old structures that hold the bones of long dead things, both of them.

[ temenos does not seem to mind that philosophy bit at all - in fact, it gets him to laugh, the noise soft, a little amused. it also immediately tells him a little something about his companion, though he keeps any of his observations to himself for now, instead just watching him, turning that sharp curiosity onto his companion as he seems to observe their surroundings.

as for the question.... ]

In as far as I can tell, yes - you're correct. It is difficult to ascertain certainty, though some are more readable than others. [ his gaze moves back to the torn portraits, from face to ruined face, as he brings his free hand back to rest on his chin, thoughtful. ]

What do you think - why keep such things?

[downswing]

Negligence.

( It's ripped of him readily, rasping and quick. Perhaps he speaks an unkindness, affords the castle too little regard — yet he has seen no signs here of meticulous care or strategy, and whatever descent into beastliness has taken hold seems to have absorbed the priorities of the grounds and their inhabitants completely.

The servants only ever provide what attendance is explicitly requested of them, artlessly. The castle itself, bathed in sorcery, does not answer every need. Perhaps no one had troubled themselves with cleansing because it was a lesser priority in the face of acclimating to fresh circumstances.

Now, he walks by each portrait, one by one by one, settling before neither, but tentatively digesting scraps of information. He cannot tell the faces or expressions that wait in the paintings, but a part of him suspects: arrogance, vanity, nobility, entitlement. Perhaps honour. Certainly, riches.

But then: ) ...why hunt for their sustenance, they so rich?

( Surely, to hear tales of the Red Hunt, it was done too often for sport, and too whimsically to ever imagine a castle might support itself on venison, when a nearby village grows tamed creatures of the household. )

[inquired]

That's one theory.

[ negligence - the quick response makes him make a thoughtful noise, listening. ] And yet, they were hidden away instead of tossed when they weren't disposed of entirely, or burnt to naught but ash. If it was negligence, then why are they spread about in so many places? I don't necessarily believe it to be malicious - rather... perhaps as if someone couldn't quite let go, for one reason or another.

[ for self punishment, for memory, for grief, for reminder. whatever it is - it's a bit odd.

as for the question - something in temenos' expression lights a bit, and he hums. ]

Do you think it was for sustenance?

[downswing]

If strategic, why left at all?

( A simple argument: why not burned or removed, why not plainly and permanently divided from the site of the so-called tragedy? He anticipates the answer will sour him, contort him. There is too much possibility for disaster, man-made. )

Sustenance. The... bodies that absent? ( To imagine them mauled and consumed sends a shudder up his spine, goosebumps riding his back. )

Only men cook. ( A pause, lead-heavy. ) ...perhaps beasts who were once men. But the castle is supplied.

( Now. Who is to say, in the early days of the curse? )

[inquired]

I wouldn't call it strategic, either. That implies that there's rhyme or reason to it - rather, imagine perhaps that it is more emotional.

[ and emotion is rarely ever rational. it's part of why temenos rarely shows it. as for the rest - lan wangji is right, there is much too much opportunity for disaster, but temenos certainly doesn't shy away from it. why would he. ]

The castle is supplied, yes, and people or beasts do need to eat. And while I doubt the man or beast we reside with at the moment does any cooking himself, I do find it quite interesting that there's been an aversion to venison since our arrival. After all, it is the most accessible meat for many - I've not seen much in the ways of domesticated animals out and about, either.

It's all quite interesting indeed.

[downswing]

( Interesting. No. No, that much seeds honest, deep-rooted aversion in him, sours him for an investigation he carries out — settling before the last portrait to inspect less the depiction than how long ago the soot materialized, based on its pressed print and shine — with token interest.

The question is not whether much was afoot here — but whether it remains so. )

A retaliatory curse was inflicted in wake of a vicious hunt. ( And why was this witch so passionate over the lives of the woodlands? Mere compassion? Or can it be she thought these territories her own? ) No further hunt permitted.

( And a great deal of exertion on behalf of the castle to rebuild the forest. Led by gain and the hope of the curse being lifted, but worked all the same. )

[inquired]

[ lan wangji's questions are many of temenos', too. why would a witch care? why the curse? why one this long lasting? capriciousness? cruelty? compassion? it's hard to say, with no sight of the witch herself. ]

Perhaps. [ with a little hum, thoughtful, he makes his way over to peer at the portrait lan wangji does, folding his hands behind his back. ] I've seen many a touch of magic, but the transformation of others is one that is often of a particulary dark art. It does not surprise me, in some sense, that the curse itself is... [ hmm. ] ...Creative.

I don't find myself much of a polite guest, in some regards. [ there's a little laugh, there. ] I find it difficult to sit in the midst of a mystery. Something of a bad habit, I suppose.

[downswing]

( Creative. Vicious, gripping, clawing, unyielding, decaying all in its wake. But perhaps also ingenuous, in the ways in which the craftsmanship of magic so often commands accolades.

He wishes himself a better man, a true scholar capable of appreciating the complexities and subtleties of disaster. Instead, hand bound behind his back, he walks the room again, as if a second, third, fourth study of the portraits that gaze and glare back with ominous delight will yield... some manner of revelation. )

By profession or inclination? ( Habits are either extension of the man or his circumstance, and this slip of nothing, fragile and child-like and thin, seems too strategic in his word choices for it to be an accident of an unwieldy nature.

He echoes Jin Guangyao, in some odd, heavens-forsaken way — and Lan Wangji shudders with it, careful and still. )

[inquired]

[ this comparison took me out at the knees

ah, that’s a good question. temenos glances over at his companion, just as observant as the person in the room as he has been of everything in this castle so far, and looks thoughtful before he smiles. there’s a touch of wryness in what he says, as ever. ]

A bit of both. [ after all, what better thing to do, than a job that matches your skills. ] I am the inquisitor of the Order of the Sacred Flame -I’ve many a duty, but in summation, I am someone who asks questions. [ a beat. ] Doubt, really, is what I do.

[ catchphrase drop ]

[downswing]

( Inquisitor. Then... an interrogator? A creative, questioning mind? Ah. ) A... philosopher?

( ...are philosophers not hermits and men withdrawn into quiet study? Do they not keep their own counsel, emerging from caves and mountains and willy forests only to spew politely academic nonsense, then wither away or disappear into the ethers?

Do philosophers prattle as much as this man does? )

You take disciples? ( Perhaps not. Too young. ) Or have a master?

( It is a fine and discourteous thing to stare as Lan Wangji does. All the same. At what age do inquisitors finalise their inquiries? )

[inquired]

[ not a bad observation. he hums. ]

A cleric. [ so, it's not entirely off base. the hermit scholar would be osvald: the normal cleric would not be temenos, either, but it's not that sweet lan wangji could know that. ] I spend much time memorizing the histories and scriptures of the church, and provide guidance to those in need. Philosophy comes with the territory, in some ways.

[ and...there's something funny about the phrasing, have a master. had, perhaps - but even now, that thought is too raw, and too fresh to consider for more than a moment. it rolls off his back like everything seems to, short of a soft huff of a laugh and a shake of his head. ]

...There are typically no disciples, no, though you could say that I lead a flock. The position itself serves the Pontiff - the head of the Church - and far less polite people than you have called him my 'master'.

[ a beat, and then, with a wry little smile, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes: ] But I take it that was not your intention?

[ even though you're staring. its ok he has a baby face. ]

[downswing]

( He listens; later, he will think, personal growth is the feat of a man who has evolved from considering it his right and due and obligation to interject with anger at every opportunity — ...and who can now absorb information plainly, evenly, patiently.

He has committed, it appears, some manner of subtle offence. He does not flinch. )

Within a clan, masters are teachers. Custodians. Caretakers. ( Beloved for their guidance, their resilience, their knowledge. Not owners, not conquerors — ) Not slavers.

( ...ah, but to live in a world where Lan Wangji and strategic discretion are fast and intimate friends, and not... this. )

[inquired]

[ if it helps - he's clearly not even a little offended, only teasing. though, the explanation comes, and he lets out a little noise in agreement. ]

I've been called a hound, here and there, by incessant crows who insist upon squawking. [ and therefore, a hound with a master. ] But, his Holiness was far more to your definition than to the latter - he was simply the head of the Church, its most reverent and important figure, supposedly chosen by the gods themselves, and he chose me for my position. Ergo, I carried out what he needed me to carry out.

[ "simply" the head of the church. this is something of a lie, because it fails to undertake the importance of this relationship, but it's obfuscated within the truth - that the pontiff was a teacher, a custodian, a caretaker. he was closest to the latter. an adopted father; the only home he knew.

but he'd rather die than admit those tender feelings and its far easier to fall to the more businesslike side - which is true, too. ] He was a good man.

[ and with that little comment aside, temenos is moving on from his own background, curiosity flaring once more. ]

A clan, though - is that where you hail from? I know of a few, though they tend to be in Ku more so than in the Crestlands.

[downswing]

A clan. ( And he nods assenting. And yet: ) It is unlikely we share provenance.

( As the whims of this world in reaping its visitors appear, on the most generous reading, diverse. But then, perhaps there's merit in it, that their skills and aptitude complement each other, in their variety. And now they count an alleged 'man of the church' among them. So be it.

Will the Netvor benefit from their presence? Unbidden, perhaps foolishly, he reaches out a hand to brush away the scattered flecks of oil paint from where the veneer has been chipped off the portrait of a woman, her jaw distorted by a growing white stain.

He pulls back. )

Images of men are removed either to dispel their influence — ( When they have fallen out of favour, perhaps, with a new ruling empire. ) Or... for grief. Are they not?

( But then, which is it? Anger or sorrow? )

[inquired]

[ alleged is correct. he'd probably appreciate the doubt - it is, after all, what he does.

the change in conversation is allowed without much fuss, though he makes note of it. a clan says a lot about a person, particularly if someone sticks to its laws, its actions. to bring up masters, he's likely had one - or perhaps had students. who knows of what sort, though there's at least something vaguely magical to it... they're passing observations made in the space between questions, bits filed away for later.

and to be frank, he's more interested in the mystery of it all, so. talking about personal stuff is not temenos's bag. he watches lan wangji touch the painting, and listens to his question, making a thoughtful noise after a moment of considering silence. ]

Hmmm. Yes, that's correct - and the only person who could tell us which was which likely would not. [ temenos moves to stand beside him, looking at the damages to the paintings themselves, examining the way the canvas might have been destroyed, one hand to his chin. ] With what we've gleaned about the family itself, perhaps it's an answer in shades of gray. Grief, after all, carries many an emotion. Fury, misery. Rooted in loss, or perhaps even in shame.

If the master of the house is the one who destroyed them, then that tells us something, at the very least.

[downswing]

The master, absent.

( Forlornly, perhaps, but lacking in malice. For all the numerous sins of his kin and kind, this prince of Netvor consented to award them his hospitality at a time of need. Was it perhaps pity that guided him? Some great, unfathomable reward that the Merchant stitched along like beads on string? Perhaps Lan Wangji assumes a generosity that pertains less to fact than to fiction.

He cannot answer his own mind, its questions. Then, he reaches in again, this time where portraits have been skinned, the canvas ripped, and the marks in the wake of this violence are — )

...an animal touch. ( He does not say, beastly. Should not. ) It is his work, or that of his people.

( Unless the wolves of the woods came together and conspired toward brutality against the portraits. He murmurs: )

Sorrow.