bygones be bygones

[groundrules]

BYGONES BE BYGONES

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Welcome to the finale log event, stretching until 22 February. You can find a summary of recent events here. The finale log is broken in four sections:

■ Anurr’s attempt to enter Hatthevar by corrupting party members

■ The citadel’s increasing hauntings and abductions (largely CR-building scenarios)

■ Investigating a ghost ship, for final clues

■ The fall of undead creator Matthias

Thank you for being here & enjoy!

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WALLS, WAILING

The tide of war are turning: his scorpions and sand lurkers defeated by Emilia, Wrath and Benedict, the undead Brotherhood’s foremost general, Rathakku, pulls back his armies. A handful of monstrous creatures remain and will grudgingly serve the trio as their new masters.

Wind master Anurr, foe of the Brotherhood and its maker Matthias, continues assaulting the citadel with ceaseless blizzards. Those exposed to the storms may hear dark or saccharine voices that corrupt, threaten or woo them to open one of the four (north/west/south/east) gates of the citadel and allow Anurr’s forces inside.

■ Those prone to loneliness, despair or self-doubt are the most vulnerable to Anurr’s coercion and can easily turn aggressive, if anyone attempts to prevent them from their goal. A burning need to free the winds and a hatred of Hatthevar overwhelm you, while Matthias’ very name sets you off in a rage.

■ Those coerced are invulnerable to Anurr’s blizzards and the broader cold but highly susceptible to heat and flame. Their skin turns pale, limbs stiff and nearly gelid. They are slower but much stronger, and their touch can chill. They must be warmed — either by fire-side or trapped into heated rooms — to regain control of themselves. It may take up to 48 hours before they’re fully back to normal, waking up at night with a longing to walk into the wind.

■ The gates of Hatthevar remain guarded by enormous man-eating ghosts, but these sentinels have been worn down by war and are more easily overcome. Pass them and your companions and open the gates — and you will win Anurr a healthy advantage.

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A HAUNTED PLACE

Two of Matthias’ beacons have been conquered by Vanessa, Wrathion and Five, who retain them as long as they stay along. Inevitably, they are often hunted by spirits.

Not realizing why his summons have weakened, Matthias directs more and more energy towards the three beacons under his control. The turbulence agitates the spirits of Hatthevar, who become secretive, paranoid, prickly and increasingly riotous.

■ Some scatter quickly as they see you — others gang up, mutinously targeting ghost slavers or anyone who reminds them of those who wronged them when they were alive. Hauntings multiply, while ghost slavers take advantage of the riots to conquer parts of Hatthevar.

PART & WHOLE

Combative crowds, often led by ghost slavers, are especially drawn to characters who own any of Matthias’ limbs or organs. Promised rewards, they seek to abduct such owners or anyone unlucky enough to be mistaken for them, dragging them to decrepit, barely standing and abandoned Whispering Houses while they barter payment from Matthias.

■ Ghosts are fiercely attentive but also superstitious watchmen: spook them, organise a rescue party or sneak out.

■ Watching the walls, you see ink brush paintings of the silhouettes of men, their beady eyes sometimes shifting to look at you. At other times, their limbs seem to shift minutely, as they begin to run towards you, until shadow men burst out of the wall to detain you. They pull back, if you also stop moving.

■ Those who possess Matthias’ parts may find ghosts are unusually submissive to them. Their tokens will likely get seized, if they are captured.

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TROUBLED

Hatthevar succumbs to hauntings, friendly or foul. On any given day, you might experience:

■ THE BURIALS: Come morning, your shoes might be missing, buried in the nearest dirt patch — or you yourself might be entombed in the gardens, forced to dig yourself out before you suffocate. The crystalline sound of chiming bells can lead rescuers to you. Ghostly hands might try to hold onto you, if you are dragged out.

■ THE FACELESS: Lithe faceless dancers dart through the crowds of the ghostly bazaars, carrying demonic wooden masks that they place on the faces of stunned passers-by, fleeing thereafter. The victims now look like the demonic masks, while the masks have copied their likeness. If this happens to you, run after the faceless dancers, steal the mask and put it back on your face to recover your original appearance.

■ THE WATCH: Walking through the streets of Hatthevar, you find yourself visibly, unmistakably watched by an increasing number of people. First, they only steal glances; then, one or two point you out; small groups begin to whisper about you; finally, you notice whole crowds are standing eerily still, watching you covetously and seemingly struggling to keep themselves back from assaulting you.

MASTER GAO’S HUMBLE HOUSE

Least said, soonest enjoyed of Hatthevar’s new fashion of culinary delights. Amid a pick-up in crime, the street food vendors disperse, leaving behind a smattering of secluded establishments drenched in dizzying incense and patroned by… ethereal diners.

Master Gao’s family restaurant promises a once-in-a-lifetime experience, amid ghosts, ghouls and the monstrously dead. Take a seat at a private table, where you are treated to a pleasantly sweet, liquorice brew — then informed politely that you have been lethally poisoned and will die within two hours. Already, you feel your body feverish, overly stimulated, your thoughts given to wonder.

Focus, focus: the antidote, says the listless waitress, is in one of the numerous incoming dishes. A game to focus you on enjoying your meal. Even one bite will heal you.

THE MENU

Still on the fence? Reviewers say:

★★★★☆ Came for the bao buns, stayed for the screams of endless agony.
★★★★★ most places on lotus street went to the hell dogs, master’s gao stays lit, the demon bacon’s sizzle drizzle
★★☆☆☆ Two stars for the incredible heart of virgin sacrifice, cooked al dente. But this will be our last visit, after unprofessional staff treated us as if we were at our first cannibal rites.
★★★★☆ Hand-made blood pasta, rolled like grandma used to make.

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THE HEADLESS DANCER

Five and Wen Kexing share that word on the street is Matthias has favoured two hideaways. The most widely known one, where you are headed first, is the Headless Dancer: a ghost ship that appears on nights of the full moon in the misty lagoon near Hatthevar. Half-sunken and ragged, the Headless Dancer appears like a conglomerate of titans’ bones, carved and welded together. It is a proper sea vessel, atypical to sail through a lagoon.

Your objective is to search the ship for any sign of Matthias.

■ As the vessel passes, you hear a staggered, loud rattling: the chattering teeth of the skull heads that shape the ship’s hull. These hungry mouths reach to crush and gnaw you, if you fall in the waters close to the ship.

■ A pirate crew is hard at work to keep the vessel afloat. At first, the men appear normal, but their skeletal, corpse-like appearance is revealed when they come under moonlight.

■ Many crew members ignore you, chained to each other and the deck and condemned to perform their tasks while singing their ol’ song. Only the captain speaks liberally: cursing, whipping his men and carrying a bundle of chains as he makes his rounds. Hide — at times helped or betrayed by crew members — or risk getting chained down by the captain, your powers entirely muted until you are released.

■ Midway through your visit, the ship sails back into the fog, beneath a strange wave of clouds shaped like enormous fish and sea life . Spears and chains that resemble fish spines plunge down to pin the ship in place: they fly across the deck, at times skewering and stabbing crew members. Take cover or jump overboard.

■ After a few moments, the spear-chains latch onto the vessel’s sides, turning it over and submerging into the lagoon. Instead of sinking, the Headless Dancer breaks water, once again upright… in strange new sides (the ‘Other Side’) in the middle of an intensely violent storm of blood. The previously skeletal crew and captain are now fully human and are struggling desperately to keep the ship from sinking, despite furious winds and the vessel taking substantial amounts of water. You understand quickly this is an illusion or memory of some kind: there is no saving the ship. Spend the last few minutes before the Headless Dancer sinks trying to stay afloat and search the captain and main passengers’ cabin for clues. Within 20 minutes, you hear the mast of the Headless Dancer give way, while the rapidly flooding of the hull causes the ship to break in half. You fall unconscious, waking up battered but alive in the real-world shores of Hatthevar, the splinters of the Headless Dancer’s deck stuck beneath your nails.

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HE BLEEDS

Following our latest vote, the People have overwhelmingly chosen that undead creator Matthias will die.

Carrying out the plan is open to everyone, whether you did or didn’t get involved with the voting — jump in freely!

Matthias will be discovered in the second lair location uncovered by Five and Wen Kexing — the Whispering House of Hatthevar’s foremost wish maker, the Red Lady. He dwells on the first floor, which has been turned into an immense room decked in dark mirrors, whose windows have been entirely barricaded.

There are two types of mirrors: some show you exactly what you most wish to see, progressively captivating you while rapidly depleting your stamina and vitality, until you are reduced to dried husks and bones within the hour.

Looking into the second type of mirror, your character sees a person of tar that reaches out to touch them until their hand exits the glass. Upon contact, your character is overcome by a feeling of intense, spreading coldness, as if their insides are being infested by a rapidly propagating alien creature. They may feel its highly primitive, emotion-led thoughts: a jumble of jealousy, the wish to have a shape and manifest, hatred that your body is not malleable, fear, hunger. The creature takes your body over within the hour.

You can escape both types of mirrors if you cover them, do not look into them, or if someone breaks the thrall (by taking your attention away from the mirror or by physically removing you).

Matthias is often away from his hideaway, giving you valuable time to plot and tinker.

Killing him will involve:

■ Scouting the Whispering House. The Red Lady, a powerful sorceress, is unlikely to allow intruders to go where they please inside her home. But the ‘I’m just a poor wish maker, looking for the bathroom’ excuse is a time honoured classic!

■ Using Matthias’ severed limbs and organs to reduce his power: this can be done by destroying the parts. Fire will do the trick.

■ Setting down traps (tentacly or otherwise!) in Matthias’ quarters to detain him.

■ Creating an illusion or shapeshifting someone to look like Matthias’ daughter Cosette and distract him, when he returns.

■ Feeding Matthias a memory potion that will force him to remember his part in Cosette’s demise.

■ Killing him. Per RNG gods, Emilia gets the dubious honour of delivering the killing blow (most likely, with help from a special tool obtained from the Headless Dancer). Everyone else is still free to char, sting, entrap or force feed memories to Matthias!

Since several people might get involved, it’s probably logistically easier if you play out prep work or threads in groups of no more than 2-3 and assume other party members are around.

You can either NPC Matthias yourselves in your threads or ask for mod involvement.

Note: everyone who threads out any of the events of Matthias’ capture or demise can “inherit” some of his power over undeath once he is killed. Your character will then have to choose what they do with this power (keep, transfer or disperse it).

QUESTIONS

Comments

[weifinder]

( Steady he stands, his arm remaining firm under Lan Zhan's grasp, his stumble, his question. The quiet reply, following a whistle: go. Only the dead listen.

The slavers, fools they've chosen to be out of greed and fear, in some instances, quaver and sway. )

Ask Wei Wuxian if he will. I hear the Patriarch never did.

( And never will, not for what he learned, or the life that he led by the necessity of its purchase from violence. )

[downswing]

Wei Wuxian is a man of Yunmeng. ( Teasing, all play. ) I cannot learn his sword work.

( A wretched thing, they say, to pick up the learnings of another sect and taint the balance achieved by mastering a style of sword forms. Focus is only one. Slivered, divided, it takes away from what could be achieved through sheer single-mindedness, in one art.

His perfection of the strengths of Gusu Lan — balance, musicality, solidity — would only be at best superfluous and at worst detracting, if he were to glean the techniques of Lotus Pier.

He releases Wei Ying, if only to regain control of his foothold and center himself carefully. Ahead, the hounds of Wei Ying's hell, his spirit creatures, assail more cruelly, more blood-thirsting than Lan Wangji ever could.

They should not think these men spared for not meeting the Patriarch. His children will do. )

Will you keep one alive? ( It strikes him, for once, that this is a negotiation. That Wei Ying, who refuses him nothing out of habit may well decline this. ) To learn reasons.

[weifinder]

You wouldn't learn it anyway.

( Light, a twist of a smile. )

If you won't ask him, try asking Wei Ying. I heard he's a man of no clan.

( Lips twitch, something like a tease. Even married, he doesn't allow Gusu to claim him. Too much indigestion on both sides, he supposes.

Just as he listens, and he breathes out, and nods. )

If there's anything worthwhile they have to say. One.

( The flute, swung around and played with the sudden, sharp trills and thrumming notes of direction, leaving the wounded but not destroyed form of one slaver to be ringed and snarled at, sobbed at, but not over.

The last note holds, too bright in the bloodied air. He glances to his husband, inclining his head.

For you. )

[downswing]

( A gift, in the way of their union, blood-bound. He claims it at slow step, measured, careful and predatory in his approach — less to spare prey that has already been secured, more to coax the spirits that patrol this man away from their target.

They are not gentle, by their nature, not kindly, nor willing to share. This man, dangling and petrified and made small, is their creature in the way of mice webbed in by the whims of felines.

Lan Wangji takes the knee in a smooth crouch beside him, lifting his chin with the hilt of his sword — until their gazes meet, soullessness and winter, and the man knows, just as Lan Wangji knows, how this will end. Whom it will hurt.

They trade words, at length, a cadence like stones tumbling. Then, Lan Wangji breaks only to hiss behind himself: )

He fears you too well to speak at liberty.

[weifinder]

( He finds that amusing, considering what paints his husband's blues and whites into reds, drying brown, but he inclines his head and steps forward, hand coming to rest at the small of Lan Zhan's back. There is truth, regardless, and he doesn't mind. He trusts Lan Zhan to do as he deems... needed, but the concern flashing through him is why he leans in, presses his forehead to the back of Lan Zhan's head. )

I'll be in earshot.

( He withdraws then, far enough to grant them their privacy and monitor the anguish of the formerly enslaved, to encourage them toward peacefulness, to escape, to elsewhere. To guide much as they'll allow, for those too far gone or finally willing to cease being as they are.

An ear kept toward his husband and whatever plight flows from his time between himself, Bichen, and the one who believed enslavement of the dead was both profitable, and his right. )

[downswing]

( It is hungry work. Red and glistened. So much blood spattered and soiling his sleeves, gentle flaking like dead snake's skins off his silks. He has cut through so much of his conversation that Bichen appears a sister-shadow of herself, somehow signaling transgression. A strange thing: a sword that looks so beneath her own dignity, when she is thoroughly soiled.

The man spoke, to excess. The more was torn or sawed or wrenched from him — verbally, physically, promises, promises. Torture does not become Lan Wangji. Even his use of the assassination strings is sparing.

But, he learns, this slaver wears a thick silver ring for each hundredth slave sold, to remember them by. And he has adorned each of his fingers.

( Lan Wangji severs them first. )

He returns, a body as if a wreckage behind him, to Wei Ying with nothing to show for his trouble but a misted gaze, a slowed pace. )

Matthias gave them direction. ( They were, in other words, not betrayed. ) This is war.

[weifinder]

( A hand, raised to a shoulder with the smooth visibility and lack of hesitation that comes from trust and the lack of any desire to startle. )

We bathe.

( The war will stretch onward. Matthias, their goal. Anurr, the hound that howls and nips at their backs. )

Then we continue helping to track him down. With his end, so does much of this.

( The pause, and: )

Anurr will be another problem. For after.

[downswing]

( For once, a rare exception, he shies from Wei Ying's touch — nearly avoids it, but for parting lassitude, his manner thawed by conflict, changed. He is too overcome by filth, too buried in viscera and dipped in hate for Wei Ying to be exposed to his contagion. No more of him. He has done.

Anurr, now. A name like a whipping, stinging and raw. For years, he has hunted and haunted them, greedily chasing in their footsteps. Lan Wangji wishes him ended, culled, done — another malicious force to strip from a vulnerable world.

He stiffens, voice crackling, some part of it dark and entombed. )

Can we afford to delay?

[weifinder]

( His fingers flex, and he reaches out nonetheless, snagging at his husband's dripping wet sleeve. )

Yes. Time enough to bathe.

( A tug, insistent. )

Ratcatcher was driven back, and we're down to the two. Matthias must fall first, and those plans are in action now, for the morrow, and the morrow's morrow.

( Softer still: )

Please.

[downswing]

( To bathe. As if they are children or buried in filth, possessed of the time to seed indignation and watch it grow to stalk. As if Lan Wangji, wearing the lion's share of viscera and dregs, can afford to waste such time, when weaker men and a wind lord wait.

As if he can refuse Wei Ying anything, anything at all, grip light and juvenile and impatient. He pulls once, only to draw his sleeve taut, to tease in kind. Ratcatcher. Anurr. Tsk. )

And will we be here, after? The morrow, and the morrow's morrow? ( Lingered like a plague, to wait out the people they purport to save? He does not intend the cut of his voice, the weighted edge. ) Will we wait to assist?

( Or will they scuttle away, satisfied to have brokered their own departure, mindful of nothing and no one else? )

[weifinder]

( The smile on his lips is thin, tired, focused. )

The world turns on its own. Our path chosen to hasten ends we believe in, opposing injustices against those struggling to live sensibly. In this world, and the next.

( Here, and home. There's no word of death in that: not with reincarnation as it is, the cleansing of one lifetime of memories in the pursuit of the next one, merited or unmerited in its newness and breadth of experience. )

Time may wait for nothing, Lan Zhan, but we are men, and we will do as we can, as we must.

( Tugging again, lips curling up at the corners, eyes deepening to a darkness that swallows stars with pregnant promise of their explosive rebirth, lightyears from now. )

[downswing]

( Think of nothing but the hour, the moment. The righteousness of the cause. Is this what came before the fall?

There is a pride in Wei Ying, a steeling. He has found, now, another reason to martyr himself — Lan Wangji's own welfare — and takes the citadel alongside him. Here, then, is when Lan Wangji must earn his keep, hand soft but firm when he reaches for him, touch reverent. Like shackling down an animal too majestic to ever allow full capture. )

Am I so brittle? ( It can be worse than this. His brother did not raise a fool. ) So frail?

( That he must be ferried along, removed like a daughter who was despoiled himself, a bad scent? ) You would begrudge me, if I asked the same.

[weifinder]

( Another tug, a half smile. )

I'd also listen, because no one feels better for standing in flaking dry viscera.

( Spoken from his own experiences with the same, and from knowing: they are not young men, to rush to the forefronts of borrowed wars. )

Will the half shichen it takes be the crux? The turning point of everything?

[downswing]

( This, then, is marriage: to compromise, feeling at once shattered, bemused, at peace and misunderstood. And to wish, foolishly, to never be anywhere else.

Will half the shichen turn the tide of war? So often, that stake has lived in shorter moments, in heartbeats, in blinks. In the turn of a sword, in Meng Yao appearing to summon the last of the Sunshot Campaign, one swing drawn.

But it is Wei Ying who asks, and this man is his husband, and for all they are now like constellations that always cluster together even after fleeing periods of distance — sixteen years sprawled intrepid and long between them. He rushes, without bitterness, to sweep Wei Ying's hand into his own. )

Forgive me. I dishonour you with this appearance. ( It is his duty, after all, given that Wei Ying has neither cheek nor shame, to show his own face clean to the world and bear the brunt of its laughter, at times. ) We bathe.

[weifinder]

( Raising his brows, he gives Lan Zhan's hand a squeeze. They'll always understand each other in the sorts of hazy moments where heat and cold meld into perfect pristine visibility, before the movement of existence means the fog rolls back in, painting the rivers and lakes of their lives alien and difficult to see.

The trick, he thinks, the talent, is finding each other in spite of that. Of staying close, even when only one of them might see the path ahead, wide or narrow, warm or cold.

Trust, and faith, and days of blood and horror. What must follow, in the way of seasons and water from the mountains to the rivers to the sea, is joy. Quiet, warm, and simple joy.

A hope for the morrow, as he nods. )

You can't dishonour me. Especially not in a bath.

( .......................... or so he believes, for the moment, turning to lead them both away, and hoping that the pains down in Lan Zhan's marrow, a man who feels deeply, and processes slowly when it comes to off the battlefield. His heart aches, knowing he cannot resolve that. Knowing that fighting on to exhaustion here and now won't make him feel better, just as bathing doesn't mean they well. But not worse.

Not worse. )