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

[paperbutterflies]

I. At the farmhouse

Lans wake up early, but this is different entirely. The alarm goes off, and he doesn't hesitate. The wolves, the people, the undead, all have more than enough odd energy that he has been on edge, and now he is Ready to fight. At least there have been a few nights since the call of the lake has diminished, so there has been rest at night.

Sword in hand, guqin at his back, he is out and finding places to push the undead back. He is not happy about it, but he does not flinch at cutting down people who used to be human not very long ago. He knows the necessity of it, especially protecting people who seem to be a target.

After a brief leap to the roof and looking around, he thins his lips slightly.

"This will not be over anytime soon. We will need to pace ourselves."

II. Charge at Unhalad

Sizhui probably should not, but when he sees his father charging out the undead lord, he does not hesitate, leaping out after him. Even with his strong golden core, he is definitely feeling the drain by now, of hours upon hours of pushing back those who don't feel pain or exhaustion. But he doesn't make many mistakes, because he knows any such can be fatal - if not for him, for someone else. And that, he can't afford.

He realizes that outside the farmhouse, the sword will be less effective almost immediately - so he puts it away, for the moment, tucking it into a qiankun pouch, and takes out the guqin. Wave after wave of energy, to push back undead from himself, and from Hanguang-jun's back.

Eventually, though, it is almost too much. His fingers bleed, the notes that his instrument give barely recognizable.

There is only so much left until Unhalad is taken down, but there are still too many. Sizhui takes in a deep breath, gathering up the energy left to spare in his golden core, and gives a hard chord to push undead from the two who are trying to snip the problem at the core.

His instrument shatters, but at least for the moment, it achieves its goal.

Sizhui swallows down the iron taste in the back of his throat and fumbles to take his sword out again.

III. Aftermath

After the fighting dies down, Sizhui needs a long moment of just standing with his eyes nearly closed, circulating his spiritual energy through his meridians. He can't collapse - he needs to find Hanguang-jun. He needs to find Senior Wei, he had noted earlier through the crystals that... well, he might need help, too, whether or not he would admit that.

Eleven probably can use help, too...

IV. Wildcard

If you think of something else...

iii.

[downswing]

Five years, spent in preparation for this hour: since the day Sizhui grew from stalk to tree, swapped his bow length, started accepting assignments — first within Cloud Recesses, then sorties, and long voyages across the sects' spans thereafter. The day was set to come, the first vicious wounding, the one set to bathe a boy in his own life's reds and raise him up a man.

A triumph, for the fledgling cultivator. A long mourning for the waiting father, helpless before the heavens in this, for all the purity of his blood, his sword, his skill. Sizhui wears his exhaustion well, dignity prevention the erosion: back stooped, but never bent. Limbs haggard and listless, and in the dark of a room painted in burns, the lingering bones of it, it is only another splinter, a branch, a threadbare, flickered extension.

And his hands, oh, but Lan Wangji sinks to both knees without leave or decorum, without concern for soot and snags and the blood and innards he brings of the battle, swept on the floors. His palm, beneath Sizhui's, to study his fingers.

Five years prepared, and, voice cracked, he requires five more. "All wounds mend."

With web word of scarring or the hard, husk spread of armour latticed across amputation — if needs must.

[paperbutterflies]

Sizhui is aware enough of the man approaching him that he straightens slightly, and aware of himself enough to not try to smooth his robes - then his eyes widen in dismay as the man kneels before him, though none of it involves trying to draw his hands away.

This man's touch, he trusts, and ever will.

"Hanguang-jun... you need not - you need not kneel. I can yet raise my hands for examination."

... barely. (His voice rasps with exhaustion, but he keeps it calm as much as he can.)

"It - yes, Hanguang-jun. Much worse wounds have mended. These will just take a little bit of time."

[downswing]

Moments today, hours tomorrow, months of hard healing without the appropriate salves.

Siphoned, the dregs of Lan Wangji's qi — and was it worthwhile, to loan Jiang Wanyin the better strain of his core, the lion's share of strength? — trickle down in transfer, tickling familiar pathways warm, wished and whisked closer to Sizhui's meridians. May he feed, then, as he once did when he rested a child and river stone grazed at his ankles, took arms against his calved.

When a father's doting could be forgiven for vanity and dignity, more than the fear that haunts the sleepless house of his chest now, burdening its foundations. He will cripple, cave in, deplete himself. If he breathes now, and he does not temper, the next exhalation will leave him barren.

"You have it. A lifetime." Bide Lan Wangji only the hour to replenish himself, and then. "You played without moderation."

[paperbutterflies]

"Yes." Softly.

And, because he has already been gathering his own qi, he gently re-bounces it back - not rejecting or returning it unused, but circulating it and returning a fraction of Hanguang-jun's with a fraction of his own. Neither of them have much to spare, but this way the amplification can grant them both a little more. It's gentle, almost shy, but not hesitant, either.

He resists pouting. Barely.

"They did not come in moderated numbers."

Better damage that could heal than ...

Worse. For himself, or for others.

[downswing]

The loan, gently refuted. He smarts for it, set of his jaw a mean, desperate sketch of gritting teeth and silence. Later, when they do not bide their balance and the conviction to linger upright on stubbornness alone, he might persevere with points of paternal reckoning: take as you are given, gratefully.

Uncle would never condone the return of energies expensed. But he is not here, a looming shadow in wait, he does not linger past Lan Wangji's shoulder to see his son an assembly of war-torn detritus — so much less than he stood, barely days before.

He will revive himself, part over part and the whole to follow. There is a moment when the clawed grasp of Lan Wangji's hands coil, reverrent and soft but caging, around his son's. "What did you play?"

Each song Sizhui learned, Lan Wangji has mastered. Each carefully selected for efficiency, time, skill. Each to its purpose.

"How often?"

[paperbutterflies]

Hanguang-jun cares about him, Sizhui does not doubt, and aims for relief - and in the same way, Sizhui cares about him, and knows among this many, even he would have strained. It is not refuted, but inviting for more, back and forth so both are less depleted.

Sizhui nods slightly at the question.

"I saw you go after the horseman with the darkest energy, and as many surged to protect him, I tried to make sure to keep at least some of them away from you."

He gives a precise answer to the question asked. He did try for finesse - and qi preservation - at first, but there simply were too many, and in the end he resorted to bursts of energy to slow the flow of attackers at Hanguang-jun's back. And away from himself, as well, but that goes without saying.

[downswing]

The horseman — Unhalad. And though Bichen did not claim that kill for her tally, she tasted the rush of rust and metallic energy that shrouded him, broke through the vanguard of his defences. They partook of the slaughter that Archeval ended in a quick, loose arc of storm-hailed blows.

He feels, bursting in his chest, the swell of paternal pride, of vanity — of a wretched, faithless flattery. Every scrape and line and bloodied gape speaks of this boy's love for his father. I tried to make sure —

It should not be for children to sacrifice themselves thusly. For Lan Wangji to benefit at the cost of fingers he raises, reverent and warm, to brush the back of them against his forehead ribbon. Sizhui. Son. "Do you not ruin yourself for me."

He is hearty, whole, mended. Alive, and courtesy of status and preparation and the blood that warms his veins, experienced.

iii

[weifinder]

He arrives in the creaking of bones and scorched wood, departing only in breaths and gasps from Lan Zhan's side, their progress stilted in the return to searching out their son. One tired blink to the next, his soulmate has faded into the white; bleary eyes instead see other, tattered, bloodied whites, and the shorter height, the familiar curving of his cheek, speaks of Sizhui, his son found.

Wei Wuxian stands, exhausted but not lessened. He has escaped their fighting with minimal injury, better at defending himself with ghostly hands than most might anticipate. He carries death like a shroud that fades and airs itself away as he steadies in this stronghold of life, their dredges given meaning in the carved out remnants of the farmhouse buildings. He comes bearing purpose, in his steps placed deliberately, in the half smile that comes to his lips.

"Sizhui." The son he claims before Lan Zhan, and no one else. Injured, and his eyes scan, looking for where, trailing to hands and the dark blotches of every fingertip. He comes to a halt, there in arms reach, his hand slipping into his robes beneath the weight of his thinner cloak, seeking out, searching out a container, rounded wooden box, to pull free.

To offer, on his open palms, held out. One of the reasons he'd been in the citadel when the undead had surged over the farmhouse: salves for injuries, healing of this land, and not their own.

"You fought long and hard and well today. Lan Zhan tells me, and you know he wouldn't lie." A small smile, the concern that drives off some of his own exhaustion for the time being. "Sizhui... Let me see your hands?"

[paperbutterflies]

"Of course, Senior Wei."

Sizhui's voice is calm, just this side from his usual cheerful response because he's just exhausted, not because he's not joyed to see him, or happy with the praise. He holds out his hands without hesitation. They don't even hurt that much, his fingers are just a little numb.

"There were just too many." Then he blinks, a spark lighting up in his eyes, just a little.

"Senior Wei, are you well?"

He knows Hanguang-jun was Concerned, all things considered...

[weifinder]

He tugs out a small, clean pouch from inside his robes, where he'd shoved it ten years ago, or twenty four hours prior. More, to keep it close when he'd been caught in the overnight of the citadel, when he'd been arriving at the tail end of the siege, when he'd turned back to rally the spirits lingering to allow them vent and not high vengeance on all that lived, once or twice or however many times. The jar with its beeswax cloth tied in cap emerges, and he tiredly plucks at the string until it surrenders to his coaxings, and the cloth pulls free.

"Lucky coincidence, I'd just picked up the healing salves for everyone in the citadel the night before last," he says, balancing the small pot in his palm and dipping his fingers in. "I've been worse. Right now I'm tired more than anything else."

He looks up to Sizhui's face, smiling with that exhaustion visible under his eyes. Still, he's standing, he's uninjured, and as he carefully, and somewhat fumbling sees to each of Sizhui's fingers in turn, he applies the salve, strong scented and warming with application. It's been thralled, encouraging healing and cleaning of an injury, to fight infection... not a cure all, and not instant, but a beginning.

"How're you doing? Aside from your fingers," he adds, attending to the tip of the next.