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]

i. a dead man and his horse

[ He moves like lightning, spread and fractured — kinesis, a poison in his bloodstream. Amid chaos, the doors gave first, crackling and aged, with old groans scratching deathly silence. In their house, metal and blood and the wet of tears or trailed snow, and the screams of bodies, disjointed.

Stirred again, the dead live with sharp, loud impunity. Hours of siege pass, and they fall a second time, like metal shedding rust, with a dissonance of anguish: shrieks where they lack pain and ability to suffer. Stillness, where the heft of their flesh should invite thuds.

The sun bleeds by the time the death's man appears in the distance. Lan Wangji watches him slink close, born of his shadows, and stay himself out of harm's reach. Of the vanguard he slaughters to reach Unhalad, he remembers little — nothing, shame burning his cheeks, tender under the grease of carnage. There is an animal wetness to butchering, to parting flesh from bone in amputation, to catching the scent of fat burning in arson.

Ache breathes in him. Exhaustion exhales.

He does not look back. Cannot, steps dripped and snow creaking, and the rush of dead grass underfoot clawing at his boot. A day of this, and he is worn, but Bichen's tip kisses the ground, lending the red stains of some recent kills, or the five before that, and he cuts his path up the hill, to where Unhalad gazes, and he expects —

There is a day to die, each man must greet it. Here, the skies blight his eyes.

Habit and learning alert him, senses years honed answer before his mind. He registers the smoke of a shadow, the charged air of movement besides him —

And turns his sword in a snapped swing to point at his assailant, only to welcome a familiar face. Ah. A moment's violence, wasted. He draws Bichen to his side, yet unsheathed, and nods up, where the undead convoy waits alongside its king. ]

The creature leads them.

[ He knows this: his spirit recoils; the nausea and revulsion of his churning stomach confirm. There is death, and there is travesty, and Unhalad twines the two. ]



ii. wei wuxian: words

After, another deed done, fresh bead dropped down the string of their offences. Far above, the moon cataracts and twins itself, shallow-diffused, glimpsed indiscreetly through the gaping, many-toothed mouths that now crown their rooftop. Footsteps, earlier. Their lodgings, trampled.

Around, sulphur and acrimony and the ill-drenching scent of smoke and fire, and the great, shark-like cut of crisp winter air. Cleanliness mocks Lan Wangji, soot strewn on his hands, his feet. If there were yet dignity of the sect to support him, standing, it does not live in his body. He waits, depleted for Jiang Wanyin's gain, an idle and tempestuous and grudging donation — for Jiang Wanyin is sect leader, and so finds himself the chief cultivator's burden, and Wei Ying's eyes linger dark and wanting in his wake. Let Jiang Wanyin live another day for his reckoning. And another day more.

The battle executed, Lan Wangji finds Wei Ying as he expects him, adrift like lichen and his limbs laden. Sat like a king calling court over slashed floors stained by a pox of bone ash. Recovering, Lan Wangji supposes. Earlier, Wei Ying gave of himself: talismans, time, travel. An army, beckoned and called and enacting.

Again, and Yiling spreads shrivelled and crimson and gaunt in Lan Wangji's memory, haunts his next exhalation. Again, and Wei Ying's footing now on his floor seems fragile again, lessened of purpose, the dance of a man bereft of himself, remiss of his rooftop.

There is the frantic exhilaration of anticipation, the prickling and allergic sensation of blood rushing to fend against inimic intrusion, agitating skin. Lan Wangji feels unlike himself, an observer, when his hand calls on Bichen, sluggish but certain, and he steers the blade beneath Wei Ying's chin, drawing it high to glimpse Lan Wangji as he is: lost. Found. Drained. "Was there no other recourse?"

But this, again. Demonic cultivation, unfettered and raw, undirected and crude. Consuming.



( ooc: Happy to match prose/brackets or write a custom starter for you, if the generic open one doesn't do the trick! Let me know \o/ )

[bearshermark]

a. the fight

[Eleven's twin blades flash with fire as they sever limbs and take up the acrid smell of burned flesh that will follow him through much of the siege. He fights with a vicious ferocity that may surprise those that have only ever seen him at ease; contrasted to narrowed brows and bared teeth coupled with the dually deadly dance of his swords as they cut down any undead that makes it into the farmhouse.

Occasionally, it's lightning rather than fire, sparking along his blades, then sweeping outward in a spinning arc of electricity to give the emerging undead an altogether unpleasant shock and grant them some pause before continuing their advance.

Eleven skips back a few steps, giving himself a moment to breathe as dredges of tiredness begin to wear on him]

..Do you think we can hold them?


b. medical attention

Hours into battle, a call for medical attention found Eleven retreating from the front lines to apply his energy elsewhere. He only meant to heal the wounded then return to the fight, but had sorely underestimated how much work there was to do. They needed water- or snow- that then required heating. He retrieved the supply packs he and Wei Wuxian hadn't yet distributed to tear through them for bandages, cloth, ointments- and later, hardtack.

Wounds cleaned, disinfected, and unable afford the energy to seal all of them fully, Eleven spared only enough magic to heal them to the point where they were no longer debilitating. Bandaged with a recommendation to eat and rest a short while before returning to the fray if an individual fit enough to, and if the walls of the makeshift ward weren't currently under threat.

Working under a constant worry and pressure, he hardly felt the cold. There was a lot to organize, and not all that many hands. His spare moments were spent disposing of bloody water and cleaning, and switched off with Hendrik in shifts to rest and recover his energy.

Resigned to his position as medic, Eleven took to prodding information about the state of things from those that stopped in for one reason or another while he worked- either as patients, defenders, or new helping hands.

"How is it? Last I'd heard, we were gaining some ground.."


c. aftermath

[He's tired. Everyone is. But he's alive, and he can stand on his own two feet, so that's something. They'd won the battle, even if, in some respects, they'd also lost.

The farmhouse is barely recognizable.

Eleven has made cursory efforts to clean, but the damage is too extensive and the task so overwhelming that he doesn't get far. Instead, his feet carry him to what used to be the garden- a singular place of solace in a land otherwise set upon by undeath. But as with everything else, it's beyond repair. The crops are trampled and scorched beyond salvaging and for some reason it's the sight of them more than his comrade's grim, exhausted faces that drains the last of his energy.

He slumps to the ground and knows that if he had the energy to cry, he would be. The urge wells up in his chest, crawls up his throat and stings his eyes, but doesn't make it any further than a few shuddering breaths before it fades, dormant.

It's morning, though it feels like it shouldn't be. In a little while, there will pressing things they'll all need to worry about, but for now, Eleven draws his knees to his chest as the cold begins to make itself known again and drapes over them, staring listless and unfocused at the ruined earth and scattered debris beyond.]


d. wildcard!


[ooc: action/prose, present/past tense is fine! likewise, feel free to wildcard for anything during this event scenario that might not neatly fit into the above prompts and we'll work it out]

[royal_venant]

A) A Wandering Target - OPEN
The screeching, lurching undead burst into a cloud of dust and ash.

Standing on the other side of the dispersing particles was one irate wizard, wand pointing directly where the undead had been rushing him.

Reducto was a simple curse most witches and wizards knew by the time they left Hogwarts, though it wasn’t taught by any of the professors there, it was usually passed from the knowledgeable student to those willing to learn. Regulus had learned it from his cousin but had graciously passed it on to many a young student. It blew objects apart and reduced them to dust. And though the number of dark curses Regulus knew could fill a book, he found that simplicity worked best in the confines of the farmhouse corridors.

Usually, his expression was calm, unreadable. But now, exhausted, the façade was decimated, he couldn’t even bother to repair it, and he looked as incensed as he felt.

He’d lost track of how many of these monsters he’d kill this night (or was it day now, trapped in this farmhouse he’d lost all sense of time). But he was starting to get the feeling these monsters had a particular taste for him. On more than one occasion, it almost seemed to his eyes that they’d specifically chosen to go after him rather than another person.

This was the wrong kind of flattery.

He adjusted the shoulder strap of his bag across his chest, rolling his shoulders to work out the kinks in his neck and back. He patted the spot where Patricia, transfigured into a figurine, was tucked safely inside the bag. And without another look at the thing he’d just decimated, he turned with a great, disgruntled sigh to carry on wandering the corridors.


B) Open Network; un: fishious rumors
[ He sounds possitively indignant. ]

Is anyone else dealing with a disproportionate number of undead attacking them? Their approach feels targeted. And personal.

[ Is there a pattern here to the way the undead are acting? Help a poor wizard out here. ]


Fiendfyre with Lily
Through the quartz, Regulus had called for Lily’s help. He hadn’t said what, this was a weighty matter that needed to be discussed in person. He’d just said that it was urgent and her assistance was necessary.

Only Lily could help him with this. At least, that was his hope.

Exhaustion had him leaning against the corridor wall, a thankful moment of undead respite. It was tempting to just close his eyes and drift away. But, despite the yearning for a chance to sleep, Wei Wuxian had asked for help, and Regulus knew a way that could drive the undead army towards the forces Wei Wuxian was bringing.

His idea was dangerous bordering on madness.

In another life, the first chance to flee and Regulus would have been gone. Only, he didn’t know where he could go. The forest people might take him back, but that meant a hard life he was ill-suited for by disposition alone, never mind the lack of skill. And he might not fully trust a single person in this farmhouse, but they were the only people he knew.

He turned when he heard Lily arrive.

And the first words out of his mouth started this possible catastrophe.

“Do you remember the counter charm against fiendfyre?”


[OOC: Down for any random ideas others might have for Regulus before he unleashes fiendfyre on the army of undead. So hmu PM/Plurk and we can work something out.

Also, he's going to be out for the count after unleashing fiendfyre so his aftermath is sleeping.]

[soulsrob]

A: I'm a Damsel, I'm in Distress

[At first she hadn't thought too much about the odd feeling in the air, other than the general oddness that she could actually acknowledge it being there. The attack startles her awake and she dresses quickly, grabbing her parasol and poking her head out in bewilderment.] What in the world is-- Oh!

[The undead don't seem too interested in most of the others, seemingly willing to bypass them to get to her, which would be terrifying if she could feel terror. She yelps and quickly scrambles away down the hall, her eyes wide in fear and panic as she rounds a corner and grabs onto whoever she nearly barrels into when she does.]

I don't mean to alarm you, but those undead may or may not be looking for me, specifically.

B. Or not so Damsel

[Winnie really was content to just sit around and let herself be protected while she observed the goings-on. But sometimes things happened, things went a little wrong. Whoever's guarding her will suddenly find the thin blade of Winnie's hidden sword stabbed through the neck of an undead that managed to sneak up on them, pinning it to the ground]

I'm afraid I'm not sure about this next part, but this was easy! [She beams away as if in giddy delight that she's done this] Goodness, this is exciting though, isn't it?

C: The Aftermath

[She rests her hands on her hips, hair and clothing in slight disarray as she wanders about, examining the bodies and the damage done.]

You know, far be it for me to say I told you so, but... I did tell you so.

[neutrality is clearly not the right way!!]

Now what?

D. Wildcard!

[Your wildcard option. For anything else!]

[lancifolium]

1) Shouts in the night

Just as the rough edge of Petunia’s voice calling her a freak had softened to a dull subconscious scrape Lily began to doze off where she sat at the table in the kitchen, a mug of tea cooling before her. Nearly every night that wind had found a way to get under her skin, and when the rolling, distasteful narrative it provided changed so drastically the shift was enough to rouse her from that delicate nearly-sleeping state. ’ Something comes’ - the hiss of it on the wind made her skin crawl, and the unmistakable sound of the rats, scampering along the floorboards in the dark recesses of the house only further cemented the prickling sense of anxious dread that had begun to sweep over her.

After casting a wary glance around the kitchen, her drowsiness momentarily abated Lily began to collect her things, taking her larger bag and stuffing it into an improbably small zippered pouch that in better times served as a vessel for the typical cosmetic odds and ends of an eighteen-year-old girl. It was too quiet to be comfortable staying still any longer, and she was well on her way to heading to one of the storage barns, resolving to channel this sudden surge of concern into practice.

Until the wards broke with a shriek and Lily’s anxiety bloomed into fresh, roaring fear.

Not bothering to linger for a moment longer inside the kitchen she took off like a shot, wand in hand, slamming on doors as she ran by, shouting as loudly as she could that something was coming in the hopes that it would be enough to rouse as many of the others as possible.

1b) It’s not, not a buddy cop movie (For Regulus)

They had agreed to watch each other’s backs, and it was a promise that Lily intended to make good on. Their alliance had proven useful already, and while he certainly would not have been her first choice for it, any familiar face in a place as strange and hostile as this one was a good thing.

Which was why the moment things had begun to go south she had taken off through the house towards his room, hoping to make it to him and alert him before whatever danger headed their way did the work for her.

She found him already engaged with the undead, and while part of her wanted to be stunned to the point of inaction by the sight there was no time to dither.

From behind Regulus Lily sent a Leg-Locker Curse soaring past his shoulder, immobilizing the undead in front of him. Moving quickly to get beside him Lily’s wand sent out a jet of red light, as a well-aimed Severing Charm sliced through another of the undead.


2) Even in the fray, manners matter

“Bombarda!” Her voice was loud and followed by a flash of white light and the subsequent explosion, one of the undead taking the hit right in the face, its head exploding as it toppled to the ground, exposing the one behind it to the Severing Charm she had become so fond of that evening.

No matter how many of the things she’d taken down already Lily couldn’t help but wince. “Sorry!” Decapitation was so rude. She wasn’t sorry she’d taken the thing down, but she was sorry she had to be so heavy-handed and uncouth about it.

Spotting another from the group Lily changed course, fighting her way to where they stood, sending spells left and right, working hard to keep the undead back.

“Are you alright?”

2b) Support Network (un: any fin is possible, voice)

[ Managing to stay mobile has been a blessing, though it’s clear from the rushed, breathless tone to her voice that it hasn’t been an easy task at all.

Still, Lily wouldn’t be Lily if she wasn’t trying her best - even in the thick of battle - to help everyone else around her too. ]

Can anyone hear me? Do you need help?

[ She only had enough time for a quick message, darting into one of the ruined bedrooms to use the quartz before she was on the move once again, listening for a reply. ]


3) The Aftermath

When the adrenaline had drained away exhaustion was quick to replace it, leaving Lily slouched against one of the exterior walls of the farm. She looked like hell, blood drying at her temple and her clothes more torn and singed than they had been before everything had gone spectacularly to pieces for what had to have been over a day of utter bedlam.

While Regulus had given her more than ample reason to question him throughout this ordeal - Fiendfyre, of all things - she continued to keep watch over him, propping him up against the same wall keeping her on her feet. In a pinch, he could just join her possessions in the makeup bag hidden inside her shirt, tucked securely into the top of her jeans.

Lily still hadn’t loosened her grip on her wand - nor would she for a good while. The farm was in pieces and though she desperately needed to rest, there was still work to be done.

It could wait a moment, it would have to wait a moment At present Lily could do nothing but stay right where she was, arms crossed as she bent slightly, trying to compose herself and recover enough to press on through the mess around her.

4) Wildcard!

[ prose or brackets is fabulous with me. feel free to come at me with anything that doesn’t fall under the above. lily’s here to kick ass and help out (she’s got a bag that can fit a person and she’s down to transfigure things into weapons). hit up my comment in the event plotting post, or get at me on plurk or via pm if you want to suss anything out. ]

[jeoha]

Barricade || Open

He'd had this dream a hundred times, maybe more. In this house, at least a few dozen, sometimes multiple times a night. Undead breaking in through the windows, sliding down the chimney, falling over themselves in a constant onslaught through the endless night and into an endless day. Every night he relived it and every morning he tried to ease it from his mind, to push the paranoia away. But it never really faded.

Whatever man he had been before the plague, this was what he was now. A weapon tempered for a purpose that he could only half live here. A shadow of a King who's sole purpose was to stop a plague - solve a plague - he was now a world away from.

This world wasn't his. The undead were different, acted different, were begot differently. It had taken him a long time to accept this.

And then the siege began and every cautious rebuilding of Lee Chang's person around something other than a warrior dissolved instantly. He should have known. He should have prepared. Should have listened to his instinct and not called it paranoia.

He should have already made this place a deathtrap for undead.

Now he would have to make up for letting down his guard, and he would have to do it fast.

On the first night, Lee Chang might appear less of a man and more of a demon himself. Woken by the first alarm, wearing only half of his clothes that he'd managed to scramble together - his pants, and a leather cloak lined with fur - he wastes no breath to explain to those he came across, and instead launched himself past them to slide his burning sword through undead throats as quickly as he was able. His bodyguard Ylsa follows quickly behind him, just as eager to fend off the undead, for more than her paycheque. As long as Karsa is here, so she will remain too, and fight just as bitterly as any of those who call this place home.

While the undead breach the house in fits and starts, he will say to anyone close enough to hear him: "Take the head, nothing less will stop them fully."

He leaves many in his wake.

And then, to the barricades - any furniture that wasn't tied down will now be used as defense - shoved up against windows and doors to keep them out. Any people he finds in his brusque requisitioning of the house he will pass instruction to, especially if they don't know what they are doing. To the warriors, he will say brusquely:

"The windows and doors can be secured. We need to keep them from the roof, or entering the courtyard. Buy us time, and buy us space."

Second Day

No one has had much sleep, but to Lee Chang, this is what he expected. The cold too bitter for the sun to hold them back - if it even could, in this world. Lee Chang looks slightly fatigued, but brims with a strange, brutal energy. He's been through sieges of undead before. They aren't doing half as badly as they could be.

And he was ready to call for reinforcements.

In the meantime, any who look tired or lost he will attempt to help them rise to their feet.

"We haven't broken yet. And we will not. But there are still more to come, and we cannot waver."

[foxable]

Day One: 3:45 am | For Archeval

He wasn't sleeping. Or, he doesn't think he was sleeping. Okay maybe he dozed off a little, but he'd still been working, forever and always trying to learn more than what he already knew. It kept his mind and his hands busy, and this was usually how he managed to sleep anyway - work until he passed out over his papers, or Mingyu dragged him to bed. But Mingyu was with Lee Chang that night, so Fox was alone when the alarms sounded. He jolted upright with a start, scattering pages and knicknacks that he had been collecting to test. "What the fuck--"

He staggered upright, heading towards the window to look out and see what the hell was even going on in the first place.

The farmhouse was always creepy. Even if there weren't creepy voices on the wind, the house itself was old and derelict, floorboards creaking under his step. So he was used to being cautious. What he wasn't used to was getting to the window and seeing a hoard of undead outside it. He immediately scrambled backward, but not fast enough, the old glass shattering as one of the creatures threw themselves at it, lured by the faint trace of mirror that Fox carried in his cargo pant pockets.

The first undead skewered itself on the broken glass, groaning and reaching for Fox who'd fallen to the floor, icy fingers scraping at air.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Fox panted, terrified, deciding in that moment that no zombie movie had ever done them justice. "Fuck-- Mingyu! Where -- Fuck--"

The second undead had managed to pull itself up over the body of the first, using it as both anchor and foothold as it climbed in the window, falling onto the floor with absolutely no care for itself, the body a mere puppet for the force of will that lay behind it. It scrambled across the floor at Fox as fast as he could shuffle backwards, finally grabbing his ankle.

"Fuck!!" He yelled as he tried slamming his foot into its skull, but without enough force to dislodge it from him. A third undead was already spilling into the room as he fought vainly for his life, hands grabbing whatever they could find (an inkwell) and throwing it at his assailant (it did nothing, inkwells barely count as improvised weapons).

He was going to die. He was going to die, and he was going to die first like the worst fucking stereotype in any horror movie he'd ever heard of.

NETWORK: OPEN (But especially for Wei Wuxian)

[ He was winded and terrified but alive (thanks arch buddy), and his voice was only a little shaky when he said over the network: ]

Okay, I -- fuck. Fuck. Okay. Um, they definitely want the mirror. I - well I have a few pieces, and they're useless, but the zombies definitely fucking want them. I have, uh, a terrible idea, if anyone is up for something really dangerous.

[somebadnews]

i. day one - early

Five had been restless that night. That wasn't unusual by any means, but nothing felt settled since they returned from the lake. He'd been overtired and irritable. Making poor judgment calls and taking unnecessary risks in an effort to retain control over an increasingly unwieldy situation. Letting himself get distracted from finding the rest of his family and finishing the math that would get them home. Part of him thought he was getting sick at the worst possible moment, but he couldn't afford the time to sleep it off when there are more important things to focus on.

He needs to get out of here.

That's the last thought he has before a shrieking noise jerks his attention. He seems to sense the undead before he ever hears them enter, and there's a strange pull that has him grabbing the wall to center himself. He shakes it off and teleports to where he has a sword waiting, only to be greeted by an undead that had already breached the farmhouse. A jump later and he severs the head from its body and watches it collapse in a satisfying heap.

Five doesn't see the next until he's stuck by a rush of agony, but by the time he turns, the body is on the floor and he can't find a wound on himself. Three more undead clamor into the small confines of the room, and he deals with all of them in quick succession, filling up the floor with gore and severed limbs.

There's no room to panic. From the sounds coming from further out the door, they're coming in at all angles, and of course this would happen now. He calls out for his sister and then gets a glimpse of what's coming out of the window.

The pull gets stronger and a dozen heads turn towards him all as one. Shit.


ii. day one - sunset

The battle rages into chaos after hours of conflict. He never stays in one place for long, but by sunset he's exhausted and low on his reserves. His thirteen-year-old body doesn't have the stamina to keep going like this, and by now he knows there's definitely something wrong with him. It's like a poison, spreading an anguish that he hasn't felt since he was an actual child and realized the grave mistake he'd made the first time he time traveled. Whatever it is, the undead seem drawn to him, even as some of their number miraculously fall before he even has a chance to end their misery.

It's not the time to be having a breakdown. A fire burns and snow falls like ash in the orange haze, and all he can see are mangled bodies and the twisted ruined landscape of the apocalypse. Closing his eyes doesn't make it disappear, as the smell of rotting corpses and embers fill his senses.

And there's something else, radiating and oppressive. When he looks up again he only catches a glimpse of the blue flames of a figure riding in on a hellbeast, and then he's doubled over on the frozen ground far from the house, where he doesn't remember blindly jumping to escape. The landing is rough, and his heart drums in his ears as he grips at his chest to try and calm it down.

A cold hand reaches him, and he reacts without thought, launching himself after the attacker.


iii. wildcard

[ ooc: Five can be found virtually anywhere as he bounces around trying to figure out what the fuck and generally being more stressed than you've ever seen. It's a slow burn but he'll be less rational as time goes on, having absorbed the anguish of all those undead, even after the fighting breaks. Plotting post is here (or send me a plurk/PM) if you'd like to talk about something outside of these prompts. (Also note that I misspoke on that plotting comment, he can drain some of the weakest undead regardless of their allegiance, as you like!) ]

[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...

post-siege - for Eleven

[darkeststars]

He only fuzzily remembers being carried away -- the howls of the creatures that still mass around them, the frigid bite of the wind. Lucky that his trust is rewarded on this cold morning, that Lan Wangji is not a petty man and Archeval's acerbic behavior hasn't earned him a moment of disloyalty, because without two strong weary hands lifting him up he would be fodder for the corpses now. The scenery passes by in a blur as he bleeds slowly on Wangji's clothes and fights a battle still entirely within himself.

The warlord, the hollow thing he's called inside, it's not him and it can't have him. His name is Archeval and he still owns this body and he's not done-- He beats it back with memory and will, wrestles with Unhalad within the currents of the Force, he knows who he is and he will not be denied-- peace is a lie, goes the Code, and he remembers it because this creature is not him and can't have him-- peace is a lie, there is only passion, through passion I gain strength, and the Force shall free me--

He can hear himself think a little more properly again by the time he's deposited inside the farmhouse, stumbling to hands and knees and thinking at least to try to right himself into sitting, breathing hard. He can feel a pain in his side still, vaguely, far away, but pain was never of any consequence. There's blood dried cold down the front of his robes by now, and other substances that don't bear naming. The wound down the side of his torso still seeps fresh and wet at its center, but -- even if he had the presence of mind to reach up and knit it closed right now, he might not have the energy. Like everyone here, he was already near exhaustion to begin with, and it's taking all he has simply to hold onto himself.

He can hear footsteps hurrying in his direction, and more on instinct than conscious thought, green eyes turn up to take notice of his friend with a half-focused gaze.

As Eleven approaches he may feel something on the air around Archeval, a little darker than usual. A little unpleasant to the touch. But the fighting today has been long and brutal, demanding everything out of them; the Dark Lord's power is frequently uncomfortable to be around, sucking away the light where it passes. Perhaps it's only that. The lingering feel of the battlefield.

Perhaps.