he rode in, a king

[groundrules]

HONEY, WE’VE GOT VISITORS

Sa-Hareth-brand Cassandra tries to flag the future, gets left on read. True story — and then, the dead come. His offer neglected, a desperate Unhalad resorts to sieging the farmhouse in search for the mirror that was previously on the Imperious.

He’s in for disappointment, while the party prepare for... house guests over the early-morning 16 June to 17 June period.

Around 3:30am (16 June) of a storming night, those who are awake or sensitive to the supernatural may hear the winds and fleeing rats whisper that something comes. At 3:45am, Karsa’s wards around the farmhouse set off, briefly shrieking. Within minutes, Unhalad’s undead infiltrate the farmhouse, with one slight creature first entering down the kitchen chimney. A small faction of undead remain on the roof, while a swarming majority circle the farmhouse. Throughout the night, they attempt to break in through doors and windows, making slow progress. They are warier of the forest-facing back entrances. The attackers comprise droves of undead, some clearly only recently converted in haste. They are weaker for it.

Over time, the undead drip into the farmhouse. They lack the coordination for a concerted effort. Attempting to exit within the first three hours of the siege will prove disastrous, as too many undead wait outside. The undead will seek a mirror, being first and foremost drawn to Winnie, who carries a similar item on her person. Fox and Five will also be of interest. Fox can escape attention by discarding the shards. Any character that was bound to Anurr’s tree still bears the lingering marks of Anurr’s undeath is especially perceived as an enemy. Regulus enjoys the same treatment, given his extensive recent stay with the free people. The undead will savagely wreck the house in their hunt, striving to kill those in their path. They can be slain regularly. The older, "properly" summoned undead (identifiable because of their clear state of rotting) should be incinerated or severely amputated to avoid further resurrection. Because of the overwhelming number of undead, it is best to keep lean, mean and mobile within the house. Karsa joins the farmhouse around 6am. She’ll teleport in, but the density of undead outside will prevent her from teleporting out safely. Alongside three party volunteers, she reinforces some of the wards, decelerating the advance of the undead. Her group will also throw away any of Unhalad’s markings (salt and ash) out of the house and into the inner garden pond.

Come sunset (16 June) Unhalad himself will ride outside of the farmhouse, holding distant vigil over the hostilities with his retinue. On his arrival, unbound farmhouse animals will flee into the forest. Unhalad will be recognisable because of the immensity of raw power he emanates — a feeling of great and overwhelming despair and hunger. Options to evacuate the chaos include sneaking out, fighting the undead, calling on reinforcements from any local allies, or holding position until around 8am of 17 June, when Unhalad’s last-minute forces start to disintegrate because of the haste in which they were summoned. The minority of Unhalad’s forces that were summoned back alive with the appropriate diligence will not break down and will need to be banished. The free people will not intervene, unless they are called in.

If you’ve made it this far into Sa-Hareth’s worst hazing ritual, congratulations. A few more days of crud to go. Over the next few days before the 21-22 June departure, characters will have to make do with their shattered lodgings and dearth of supplies, or can seek sanctuary back in Sa-Hareth. Any money spent on accommodations will have to come out of the travel fund. You're on your own, kids. The animals can return from the forest, and the free people might spare some food and water, gifted to those who stood out during Anurr’s trials. The Anurr cultists of Sa-Hareth could also part with a few provisions for their good friends, Xie Lian and Xiao Xingchen. To opt out of the event, have characters out of the house on the night of the siege. It will be difficult to re-enter. The OOC plotting floor is yours!

FARMHOUSE LAYOUT

Comments

[downswing]

"The river keeps," he reminds, streams of dark hair strewn across his face, and his comb burned, Wei Ying's feral paraphernalia burned, their linens and their spare robes and Wei Ying's through cinders. He aches for the ashes that, layer on layer, sink his soul.

Below, Wei Ying stirs heavy, like the lazy shift of tectonic plates. Lan Wangji's body remembers before his mind wakes: how to intercede, to make of his hand a smooth, tempered crutch, how to keep his back load-bearing. To draw an arm under Wei Ying's and against his back, flimsy in purchase until he ascertains the grit and aspersions are dirt and chafed linens, and not the mending tissue of burn or wounding.

Under the blinking brazier light, Wei Ying seems hearty and strong and whole, more than the trembled collection of bones the Burial Mounds left of him, then death, despaired, after. A deaf, underwater groan bites its way out of Lan Wangji's lungs; he heaves, but lifts, and they settle in their slow, oh so slow pace.

"Steady." On proud feet. They will make their travel, as the boards creak, and ground wood whispers a mound in their wake. Snow, piling down. The cold inches. "He will have your gift gladder if you deliver it in one piece whole."

They raised a child for gratitude, infinitely and deliciously well pleased, no matter what is set in his tender hands. Come of Wei Ying's resurrected hands, Lan Sizhui would accept flowers as willingly as ashes.

[weifinder]

A soft bark of laughter, eyes closing before they open, taking a heartbeat longer than they should. "A Lan, through and through. Maybe if they were as rich in spiritual energy as yours, I'd take to them more swiftly."

Douse himself in the cold for a distilled purpose beyond perked nipples with contracting flesh and the alarmingly pervasive flow of healing energy into a body filled with aches and pains and memories of even more, remembered where the mind has consigned them to ancient history. It all catches up, in fits and starts, one day. Even for immortals, let alone the lower level cultivators in their mortality craven skins.

Hours before, decades ago, don't seek me will still find them turning toward each other, and Wei Wuxian leans into Lan Zhan's well practised manipulations to hold close, for a moment, side to side and arm draped and waist circled, to tighten his own arm, to make it a half-assed and deliberate sideways embrace. All for the butting of forms toward the empty rooftops, and the easy excuse of it makes it simple enough to do, and say nothing, just exhale unsteadily in gratitude for everything he still has, and dismiss the memories of grief that said he might not.

The snow flakes around their feet, melting on skin, but so much of them still is cloth, not warm enough to change their forms from tiny, heaven-bereft crystals to warming water and chilling force. "Together," as if he doesn't have a tangled relationship with that word, that concept, as if it was not a lesson learned that Lan Zhan calls into question each day with reminders and long merited mistrust, slow to shift. "He'd be gladder as a whole."

Two wrecked fathers, but not the ones they'd been in different ways, not for sixteen years and change, and not before the clearing of one name no longer damned both to the same darkness of opinion. Let darkness be for the time of day, or when stepping in shadows.

Step into the light Hanguang-jun casts, having brought Sizhui into a world of it, and their sun rises as they make plodding steps through new-fallen snow, the eventual blanketing of the landscape back to pristine stillness, as if bodies are not strewn across it, as if the soil will not reclaim them in parts, as if there is nothing that hurts that will not heal, and the sun will always come up, tomorrow.