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

Don't make it a challenge, Anduin, he could absolutely win at dancing if he tried! He could be the best dancer.

Still... Wrathion takes another slow breath, tries to -- listen to the music. To... listen to his partner.

"I am certain there are dance competitions."

He's just being difficult. He knows what Anduin means, of course.

He wouldn't be Wrathion if he wasn't trying to be difficult, a trait that is as endearing as it is frustrating.

"You're probably right," Anduin admits lightly, shifting his grip lightly on his hip. "But it's just us, for the moment."

Just them. Just everything they've been through, everything that's been done and said, a mantle of betrayals and lies and promises. For once, things are simple. They can be simple, if only for a few hours. There will be more darkness and mystery to push their way through eventually, yes, and even now the ghosts linger in the peripheral but--

Let them have this.

He takes a steadying breath, fingers flexing around Anduin's hand.

Just them.

It isn't, he wants to protest, whatever is making making them dance may well be watching them. Whatever he sees in the mirrors --

But he can't look at anything but Anduin, so it may as well just be them.

Wrathion resists the urge to look at his feet again, allows himself to just... follow. Something harder than it should be, perhaps, but he is trying. He is trying, and... admittedly, he doesn't hate it.

"Not an opportunity we have often," he murmurs. Either being alone or dancing, for that matter.

A thought flickers through his mind, and Wrathion's eyes crinkle in amusement.

"Can you imagine Genn's face?"

He would turn purple. It would be delightful.

A soft, huffed laugh escapes Anduin's lips as he shook his head. "I can. And Shaw's lack of expression would say more than enough on its own."

But the two men only felt that way towards the black dragon because...well. They knew. Knew to at least some extent how bitterly wounded Anduin had been, and they sought to protect him. It was a hurt he was learning to let go of, however.

Particularly in moments like this, even in the midst of such horrors as they faced daily. They were moving forward, together. What more could he ask?

What more did he have the right to ask.

The soft huff of amusement is enough to spur Wrathion on, to make him desire to pull more laughter from the other man. Or, perhaps if not laughter, at least... at least to continue to hold his attention.

As long as he can.

"Perhaps," he murmurs, "when we return, I will make a surprise visit to Stormwind so I can invade one of your balls. Although I don't suppose you'd truly be permitted to dance with me there. It would cause quite the scene."

The High King of the Alliance, dancing with his advisor -- a black dragon. No doubt it would stir up memories.

Memories, fears, and suspicion, no doubt. But it's a nice fantasy, isn't it? The longer he's away, the easier it is to allow himself to simply allow things to be as they are. In these strange lands in-between, anything might be possible.

Anything feels possible. Not always for the better, admittedly.

"Perhaps. But I am the king, so I'm fairly certain I have the final word on who I'm allowed to dance with," he counters, with an impish twist of his lips that might well seem familiar.

Does he? Wrathion isn't so certain about that, but Anduin is notably stubborn. He smiles back, half distracted by trying to follow the steps of the dance, then... hesitates.

"Anduin, I..."

Titans, he doesn't want to be the adult. He doesn't want to do the sensible thing and talk. Yet equally, the uncertainty is slowly eating him alive. His pulse, already a little fast, quickens further from anxiety.

"Is that something you'd want?"

A cowardly way into the conversation, perhaps, but he cannot bring himself to be more direct just yet.

They haven't really discussed it at length, have they?

There's a tentative intake of breath, Anduin's brow pinching lightly. "I would want that," he says at last, because it's the truth. It's been sitting in a pit at the bottom of his chest for long enough.

"I've wanted that for a long time."

Wrathion lets out a small breath, nods in agreement.

"... I have too," he murmurs. "Not the... dancing, specifically, but..."

You know. The part where they're together. He's wanted that, for... quite some significant amount of time now. Longer than Anduin, no doubt, given...

Given everything.

Everything. There sure is a lot of it, isn't there?

There's a soft huff, a hum of agreement, before he leans closer. His forehead brushes against Wrathion's, as their feet carry them of their own accord, and the ghostly figures that may or may not be haunting this ballroom hardly even seem to matter in the moment.

Something else is happening here. Bridging a divide years in the making.

His hand squeezes a little tighter. "The dancing's not bad."

Wrathion feels his breath catch and hold as their foreheads touch, his fingers tighten hard around Anduin's.

"It isn't," he admits, "but I suspect I have the benefit of a patient tutor."

And, perhaps, the... tutor is more important than the dancing itself. Perhaps Wrathion would do anything at all, if Anduin Wrynn were the person who asked it of him.

"Not always the most patient," he replies wryly, all too aware of those instances where he hasn't been.

Many of them involving Wrathion, if he thinks on it.

He tries for a moment to think of what else to say, not at a loss by any means but struggling to put it all the way it ought to be said. Things that should be forgiven, buried and laid to rest. Things that needed to be unearthed, allowed to grow.

Anduin falters briefly under the weight of, drawing back just enough to meet Wrathion's gaze. "...Stay with me," is what come out, of all the things he could have said.

"I've no intention of leaving you of my own volition, Anduin."

He slows, gently detaches one hand from Anduin's side and fishes under the neckline of his clothing. The end of the thing chain he draws out appears to have a... circular pendant of some sort? It looks like a coin --

A coin with a lion's face on it.

"I have every intention of staying by your side," he murmurs. He's made that promise before. He'll make it again, easily.

Where had--

Of course. He'd been here before, he'd been told, and Wrathion had seemed frustrated at the beginning of Anduin's time here. Because it wasn't the beginning, only what he could remember, old hurts reopened and revisited.

The extent of which wasn't clear until this very moment.

Anduin's eyes widened slightly at the gleam of the coin in the light, that familiar heraldry glinting up at him, before he laughs. A soft, breathless thing.

"I take it this is a conversation we've had before, then."

"I think I was significantly more annoying the first time around," he admits. "Be glad you missed that."

Anduin has the benefit, now, of his own influence on Wrathion in the past. The gentling of his sharper edges, the taming of some of his insecurities.

Not... all of them, of course, but some of them.

He laughs again, shaking his head. Round and round in circles, it seems. But Wrathion does seem different now. Whatever's happened to him here, whatever they spoke of before now...

"I'm sorry it took me so long to catch up, then. It can't have been easy, keeping that all to yourself for all this time. For my sake." His brow furrows. "I'm not sure you would have troubled yourself, before."

It's like there's something there that wasn't there before.

"I didn't want to... pressure you," he admits. "I couldn't be sure..."

Well. Anduin seems the... same person, beyond the memories missing, but... he may not have felt the same. Things may have been... different.

Wrathion would have accepted that. If they had not rekindled what they had... it would have hurt, but he would have accepted it.

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the beauty, the beast, the burned

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