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

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( He thinks, fleetingly, to sharpen the weapon that circumstance and convenience hand him by way of Wen Kexing's misplaced interest. To persuade the knife, already warily bending away from the stove flame as if foreseeing the opportunity for melting, that great dangers await.

But then he turns towards Wen Kexing, knife carefully balanced in the cup of his hands, sooner than wielded, and he murmurs: )

You anticipate a spectacle of torture? ( With gladness? )

Find me torture that isn't a spectacle and I'll turn over a new leaf.

( Lofty, even as Wen Kexing is moving back towards the fire, his early evacuated stool. He takes his place in it easy again, the wine he abandoned poured eagerly into a cup. )

It's always dramatic, even if there are only two involved. You have to show you mean it. And thus, a performance.

( Said easily. He knows exactly the kind of person Lan Wangji thinks him to be, knows the kind of person he actually is. It's better to lean into it, more often than not. He tips the wine into his mouth, shoulders relaxed. )

You blanch, Master Lan, forgive me for thinking perhaps you do not have the heart for it.

The appetite. ( A different beast, more easily collared. A man's wants define his deeds less than does his duty. One does not learn the work of assassination cords for gladness.

The knife awaits, tremulous. Now stuck in a tirade of incredulity, because surely, surely Lan Wangji, a guest, will not dishonour the conditions of his hospitality so thoroughly — )

There are drawers in this kitchen. ( This, airily, as if remarking on the obvious, the plain. A remark without purpose. Except the knife quiets and stills. ) Some lock.

( With all cutlery stranded within. ) Tightly.

Ooh, imprisonment. Not all that flashy, but effective. Especially if you're prone to doing.

( He wonders if it is perhaps a part of whatever curse has befallen this house. They are all eager to move, to please, to distract. Wen Kexing props an elbow on the counter, watching idly as a dessert fork wobbles away from him. No more sweets for him, it would seem. He doesn't seem all that bothered, chin in the palm of his hand to watch. )

Probably dark, right? Crowded. Difficult to navigate if you don't have hands.

( He thinks this is playing a hand to excess, threatening with no purpose. Intimidating with glee.

But this last application of skill and cunning proves delightfully, sensibly crafty, and he sighs along with a tired, guttered nod that sends the knife to break into spasms and shivers and muttered, hostile declarations that guests aren't what they used to be, and the poker's a hermit, just look for him in the wine cellar, if he's not at his post.

Fleetingly, it occurs to him that, in a world spawned by Wen Kexing's concerns, this too may prove falsehood. He hesitates, then, searching Wen Kexing's gaze: )

Do we trust? ( Or are they heading to rusty, moulding death in the wicked cellar? )

Absolutely not.

( Trust is a fool's game. )

But. I'm sure fine Master Knife knows what might happen if he were to lead us astray. ( A grin behind the bottle, wolf-like, his gaze gone sly and almost cold despite his expression remaining friendly. ) I've always thought to try my hand at smithing.

( He slithers to his feet again. ) Leave him in the drawer for now. It might do him some good to think about his choices. ( To a jug, clattering. ) There's wine in the wine cellar, yes? Good. Lan Wangji, I'm coming too!

( Oh no. Oh no, no, no. Hastily, unthinkingly, nearly dropping the knife as he hastens to set it back down and in position — )

Unnecessary. Master Wen is — of essence. Here. ( With the ladle, who seems already incensed by the possibility of abandon, a maiden stranded lone at the temple altar to take her bows. Yes, master Wen can surely not shame these handsome tools and abandon them thusly. )

Have imposed already.

Aiya, and leave a mystery unsolved? You told me to find a higher purpose! Here's one right now.

( He is aware of Lan Wangji's reluctance and that clearly only strives him further forward, amused as he rounds the counter back to the drawer. He grins, cheery, down at the knife and then flicks the thing closed with a rattle, looking at Lan Wangji expectantly. Innocence sits his face poorly with the mischief clearly defined in his eyes. )

Come on, there's a poker to find.

( ...no. No, truly. Such assistance, the heavens are too kind. Too kind by far, most gracious. Lan Wangji, reduced to faint nods and the look of an animal harmed by the hand that had pledged to feed him gives timid chase down the downtrodden, burned corridors, the flaked of soot, the rain of matted ashes. )

I cannot pledge master Wen's safety.

( Surely this will... discourage a zeal that is so clearly, so painfully theatrical even his brother would shy from naming it natural. )

Brother would disapprove.

Well, that's precisely why I'm coming. I can't have the brother of my dearest friend venture off into realms unknown without a helping hand. You've already been through enough.

( He pats Lan Wangji on the shoulder once, twice, daring but not quite lingering. He knows enough to understand that this Master Lan does not have the same relationship with touch as his elder, but there's something maybe a little funny about employing it. Quick and easy, not really enough to upset but still somehow blurring the lines. )

Besides which, between Ah-Xu telling me I'm not half as bad as I like to believe and you imploring me to thing beyond myself, maybe I should try and do something useful. One can't dawdle in kitchens all day.

( He flinches, hackles raised and hairs on edge and the curve of his back recoiling from whispers of touch like a cat learning the way of caresses. There is a knowing of gestures, of the boundaries Wen Kexing breaks solely to rile him — yet his flesh cannot resist the natural inclination to dissolve, to peel away.

Foreign touch brings no gladness, no comfort. He steels himself, steadfast to ignore his sword only because he is the brother of a dearest friend. )

Touch unnecessary. ( And muttered: ) Raising the spirits of work staff suited master Wen.

( Please return to that. )

( A hand held up, palm open. He doesn't try to touch him again, something curious in his gaze but Wen Kexing files that away and shrugs a shoulder, easy. )

All right, but I'm coming to the cellar regardless. If anything I can find wine enough to appease my sore-pawed bear of a man, and at best we can figure out a mystery.

( Sliding out of the door, throwing a glance back Lan Wangji's way. )

I'm curious anyway, how did you find the bones? Were you trying to stoke a fire?

The dead... call, mutely. ( He makes little sense, he knows, words scattered and stitched together again, made something timidly whole. Instinct among cultivators. )

An energy. Of remains. Of their circumstances. ( Of the places that receive and host them, the fireplace stirred. He cannot articulate that which is mere feeling. ) They speak unheard.

( Perhaps no worse than Lan Wangji does, forever destined to be — misunderstood. )

That sounds unpleasant. I doubt you could easy find a place where death has not touched.

( A once over, thoughtful but gone just as quick. One might say he's morbid with that way of thinking but Wen Kexing prefers practical. Death is pervasive, no matter the cause. Ah, but that has him more curious. )

Or can you feel only the murdered?

( Still prevalent, but maybe marginally less so? )

( They walk in. It dawns on him, each step at its time, that progress is undaunted. This is to become his reality: Wen Kexing is coming along. He tries, valiantly, not to allow it to shatter his enthusiasm, crossing haphazardly into the unknown of the cellar, broad.

Fails, miserably. )

Of the dead, those wronged scream hardest.

( His gaze sweeps across the murky recesses of the new room, easy posture unchanged though the narrow of his eyes is new. There is a beat, watchful and waiting, but then it passes and his conversational tone drifts back through. )

And people like you are the one's tasked to listen? ( He wonders if it is hard. Wen Kexing is not Lan Wangji's biggest fan, but he tries to imagine being one of the few that the dead would speak to. There would be a certain burden to that.

Still, he hums tunelessly, sweeping towards a row of shelves to pick a dusty bottle from it. The label is dusty, he pulls a face, uses his sleeve to wipe it. )

Do you have to summon a spirit or could you simply tell if one were here with us right now?

If... a spirit is present, it may be — ( But words die a brittle death in his mouth, arid and slow. Contempt, in part, of the sect's own brutality. They are ugly things, made beautiful through the exercise of elegant artifice. Perhaps Wen Kexing is merely an honest animal. )

Coerced into honest answer.

( Is that torture, then? No righteous interrogation. Less or more than the dead he so reveres deserve?

...no matter. First, Lan Wangji walks the cellar, step slipping where puddles of flooding have formed. Ah. The poker, the poker... he starts to pat the walls for deposits, for storage. )

You think of... particular subjects?

I haven't killed anyone here, so no. ( Quickfire grin as he uncorks a bottle. ) Actually, I haven't killed anyone in a long time now. So you don't have to worry, Master Lan. You won't need to entertain any furious spirit's disagreement with me. Unless I'm being haunted.

( A beat, a swallow of wine. )

Am I? You would have said something before now, wouldn't you? Oh, or maybe that's why you dislike me so much. Is there a ghost in your ear like a flea, telling you how terrible I am?

( A ghost. External, peripheral, distant intervention. No fault, perhaps of Wen Kexing's own. He wilts under the omens of conceding such a simple, unlikely possibility.

No. A cutting glance, frost and steel. And he hisses back, in a pale imitation of Wen Kexing's reedy voice: )

I would not have left bones behind in the first place.

( If it must be transparent between them: the reason. Not foul play or malice, but Wen Kexing's own diabolical nature. )

( A bark of laughter, unrepentent. )

Is that what I sound like? Well. ( He brings the wine with him as he wanders the shelves, crouching down in a sea of robes to examine the lower rungs. If he's looking for the poker too he doesn't say, aura unruffled. He thinks about telling Lan Wangji that bones are much more useful than to be discarded, but.

Well, maybe he's learning to bite his own tongue. )

And are you haunted?

( Or maybe not. )

Master Lan surely threatens like a man known to the slide of a sword. We might not be so different.

( Well. At least one of them is set for toil, and he slips again, body ungraciously domesticated in twists, turns and contortions between towers of ill-mounted barrels and shelves. One, pointedly, pokes at his ribs.

Once. Again. He hisses and reaches into a small wall enclave where instruments appear to have been discarded, having his pick of forks and levers. No poker, yet. )

Would that please you? No difference between us. ( How very Su She of this man. )

Not really.

( He glances over at all that noise, biting his tongue against another raucous laugh. )

It's a miserable life.

( His, or Lan Wangji's, he's not confirming which. But the art of killing is definitely the way his thoughts turn, brushing dust from bottles, smearing his fingertips over the glass and then lifting a bottle up to peer beneath. Nothing but cobwebs. )

( Miserable. Yes, now, condensing all of his bodily mass into the a sheath's size of a tunnel. No, he is not bravely rasping out each breath, fishing and failing to grasp the tool just outside of reach, why do you ask — )

Free, in health and familial company.

( Not so pitiful, nor cruel, after all. Forgive him if he thinks they both hardly match up to standards of suffering. If anything, they rather have it well. )

Count blessings.

My blessings are counted regularly.

( He has those. His sister, his lover, his errant disciple. Wen Kexing is not so marred in his own bitterness that he would forget them. It is just sometimes harder to delve through the sheer amount of blood he has spilt. He wonders if Lan Wangji lays awake at night sometimes too, paralysed by it.

No.

Probably not. The protection of virtue. )

Are you all right there, Master Lan? You sound like you're fighting for your life.

( He is, in fact, in the woes and throes of that particular survival feat, relinquishing the last of his dignity in exchange for half-crouching-half-kneeling to slide into the hole and decisively not think about the implications.

His eyes roll, rapidly. He breathes in.

Then, he finally clutches a long, thick, rigid instrument, whose implications he is also decisively not considering — and starts pulling it out. )

You had your wine. No need to delay master Wen.

the beauty, the beast, the burned

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