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vestigelogs2020-10-26 11:08 pm
vestigemods) wrote in vestigelogs2020-10-26 11:08 pm
(event) WELCOME TO THE MASQUERADE
WELCOME TO THE MASQUERADE
OCTOBER 31ST
► THE ARRIVAL
- Whether you'd like to admit it or not, some part of you couldn't quite take your mind off of this so-called Masquerade Ball. That part may have been buried deep down under layers of introversion or party-pooping, but it was there. Something about it fascinated you, as if a choice not to attend would be one you couldn't help but feel you'd regret for months to come.
Or perhaps you weren't reluctant at all. Perhaps as soon as the flyers went up, a thrilled gleam flickered across your eyes, and you made tracks for Foodland to scrape together some kind of costume for the occasion. Learned to dance, maybe. Even asked your friend or your sweetheart or that passably-attractive stranger on the street to be your date for the evening. Hey, we're not here to judge.
For some, this is your first time visiting the tent in the brand new clearing. Others may have passed by it sometime since it the night it popped up nearly ten whole days ago, stealing a glance but never quite recognizing that the arrival of such a thing might be odd (or perhaps even ominous). Either way, the lifeless polyester husk has come to life on this night, the formerly drab-looking purple now rich and glowing through from inside. The tent flap sits unzipped, catchy dance-worthy music trickling out from inside. This might just be the best shindig since the @cock.licking.idiot's lake party. (Or it might be an absolute fucking disaster. You know how these things go.)
THE PARTY
- The tent flap unzips of its own accord at precisely six in the evening, and already the sounds of a sort of era-neutral dance beat trickle out of the dim. Assuming you have a costume, you'll be able to stroll right inside. If you've tried to cut corners by simply dressing nice, your feet will stick for a moment just before entry, but it seems to merely be a warning. An 'I know what you're trying to pull and I'm letting it slide just this once', but from who? It's impossible to say. If you've not dressed up at all, well, you'll find your feet stick fast just outside the entry flap, unable to move in any direction but backward. That's alright, really - you can run quick to fetch a costume if you'd like, any costume will do.
From the inside, the tent is even larger and more grand than it seemed, and is decorated with subtle but eerie Halloween decor. The lighting is dim but not nearly enough to strain your eyes, coming largely from the scattering of old-fashioned lanterns dangling from the ceiling on near-invisible chains. Touch the walls of the tent, at least in the main ballroom, and you'll feel a nearly unseen layer shift under your fingers, feeling entirely too much like a layer of sturdy cobwebs for many's comfort. The music itself comes from out-of-the-way black speakers in various corners of the ballroom, along both the floor and the ceilings. There's no 'deejay station' or any kind of stage. There is, however, a small tablet halfway up the wall next to the refreshments tables to allow you to queue up a song through a rather simple-to-use interface or even voice command. It even responds to vague requests, like "something less stuffy" or "gimme a slow jam".
Speaking of refreshments, there are plenty. Two tables large enough to seat at least eight are covered in plates and bowls of various snacks and finger-foods, from sweet to savory. The food is absolutely fresh, more so even than what you'd find at foodland - the veggie tray is crisp and well-stocked, and the chunks of various meats and cheeses taste almost artisanal. Next to the food sits a similar table with two large punch-bowl centerpieces - one bowl of 'Blood Punch' (like regular punch, but darker red), and one bowl of 'Kicky Blood Punch' (the same, but with alcohol in it). The punch is almost definitely the best refreshment on offering, the absolute perfect mix of tangy and sweet, complete with floating and submerged chunks of fresh pineapple. The plates and cups both are a sturdy transparent plastic, the one break from the otherwise uniformly festive gathering.
Near the refreshments are the only other furniture in the room (beyond the occasional bench along the wall), a handful of lightweight faux-cast-iron tables, each with a set of matching chairs. It's a place to sit while you catch your breath from all that dancing, or even just to kick back and mingle.
A couple of hallways shoot off from the ballroom, one at each side, and while they each lead to a bathroom, wandering past the bathroom may very well get you lost. The tent wasn't this large from the outside, was it? Unless you're looking for somewhere to be alone, you may want to consider heading back.
THE PANIC
-
This Masquerade Ball's been quite an occasion... Music, celebration, and plenty of good food and drink. But once the clock strikes nine, it all begins to unravel.
Not blatantly, of course. It may even take a few minutes for the partygoers to realize quite what's occurred. One lantern burns out, then two, then three, enough to dim the room even further but not plunge it into darkness altogether. The slow zip of the entry flap is nearly inaudible over the sounds of the music, but once it's zipped, it's stuck hard and fast and not even inhuman strength can budge it - nor can you slice a new exit through the wall of the tent. Even the music itself begins to distort, from clear to scratchy, or from quick to slow as if toggling the fast-forward key. By twenty minutes after nine, whichever half-mutilated tune it's playing degenerates to a single long screech, like feedback almost but much too raw. And then the speakers are silent... But by now, most of you have your own troubles to deal with.
Because fears have begin to manifest - not just any fears, but your deepest and darkest, the ones that terrify you and plague your dreams. Some, you'll recognize right away. Others may be the best available interpretation, foreign to you but for the visceral fear it elicits in your gut. Some go away in a few short minutes. Others will haunt you until the very instant midnight strikes.
It wouldn't be Halloween without a few good scares, now would it?
Once the clock strikes midnight, all remaining fears disappear back into shadows or obscure corners, or even through the newly-unzipped flap of the tent, never to return. Has it really only been three hours since that started? It feels like much longer, enough so that it's jarring to see by the moon that the night has just barely begun. By now, it's painfully obvious that attending the Masquerade was a shady idea at best - why didn't you see it before? You can't imagine how something so obvious slipped past you, but it did.
As soon as the last shaken partygoer steps out from inside, the tent collapses in a formless heap on the grass. There it lingers, a deflated shell of both the vibrant party and the den of terrors it was just minutes or hours ago. In fact, it's still there even as the last person leaves the clearing, but should you return for another glimpse even sixty short seconds later, you'll find that the tent (in all of its immensity) has disappeared altogether.
At this point, weary partygoers are free to drag their tired, potentially traumatized, and generally hungover asses back to wherever they call home. Into bed, most likely - if they can even fall asleep, after a nightmare like that.
► MOD NOTES
- This is a catch-all log for top-levels pertaining to October's Welcome To The Masquerade event. Go ahead and utilize vestigenet for any event-related network posts you'd like to make.
- All event information can be found in the Event Write-Ups tab of the October Bulletin, as well as the Masquerade FAQ.
- Please take care to label your top-levels or prompts with either which segment of the event it pertains to (the party or the nightmares) and/or what time it takes place (before 9 or after 9), so that folks looking for either fun party stuff or horror stuff can see at a glance where they might hop in.
- The network does still work during the fear portion of this event, and characters are able to post to it and/or contact others within or outside of the tent.
- Reiterating that it is possible for your character to resist the inclination to attend the Masquerade - it's more of a shove in the party-ward direction than any sort of compulsory thing.
- Any questions can be directed to this top-level or, for a quicker response, to Trace on discord/plurk.
no subject
The eyes that look back to him are not mortal eyes. They are ring in black, deep as blue as the sea, and in the presence of two children of St. Loe, the pressure of the ocean presses in at the edge of each of their breathes.
"My Lord Geralt - "
But whatever she says, doesn't get that far, because real or not, true or not, the pain of her heart made form, his touch certainly has weight.
Godfinn grabs her face, snapping it back, cold, dirt-stained fingers sunk into her cheeks and pushing her head back on her shoulders as he bears down, his great height enough to tip her backwards in a staggered step as he forces her to bend.
"ᴛᴇʟʟ ʜɪᴍ, tell ｈｉｍ I am ｒｅａｌ. I am as real as the day you let me 𝕕𝕚𝕖, §ï§†êr-mïñê! " His voice a wet, gargling snarl. "𝙏𝙀𝙇𝙇 𝙃𝙄𝙈!"
no subject
No.
He doesn't have a silver sword, and one can't normally just touch an apparition. This one looks unusually sturdy for an apparition, though, and there are always the signs.
That's a very strong grip on her, though, so he can't just do whatever he wants to do to this man. Which, at the moment, is wrench him away and beat him bloody. Instead, he reaches out one hand to grip the bastard's wrist, and if he can actually grip it, he will squeeze with every bit of strength he has.
no subject
"Ｓｏｒｒｙ ｉｓｎ＇ｔ ｇｏｏｄ ｅｎｏｕｇｈ， ｓｉｓｔｅｒ！" He has to give in between her pushing, her shoving, and the sudden grip of Geralt's arm.
So he does let her go, but not without his price as he backhands her. The smack of his knuckles against her face enough that for a woman who knows no violence, it's enough to send her stumbling back, holding her face with the crack of pain. That with her taken care of, he rounds on Geralt, the ugly sneer splitting his face, and with it, his skin so literally begin to crack. Like old earth, rot and damp, as it bleeds out, the scent of earth. The damp. A body left to fester, of death, death, death.
"Look at this 𝙥𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙛𝙪𝙡 𝙠𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩, I am a 𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘, Dog! This is ϝαɱιʅყ Ⴆυʂιɳҽʂʂ." His breaking apart, dying body, advances the same, with each step, he grows heavier, deeper, more and more like a dead thing.
no subject
His nose scrunches slightly as the smell of death and decay washes over him. But he doesn't flinch, because he's almost intimately familiar with the stench, and backs up a little to have enough time to take his stupid cape off and unsheathe his sword. There's no point answering the bastard, as far as he's concerned, so he swings without hesitation. Is there even a neck to cut off? He can't really see properly, but that's what he's aiming for.
no subject
But he has little care for her, only something to attack. To drive his wretched, hateful self at someone to make them suffer as he suffered. To get out of his way so he can finish his business with his sister.
Because it's not knives or swords he reaches with. No. Thick heavy dirt surges up around Geralt's feet. The manner of his death made weapon. Grabbing him and dragging him in.
At least until the sword hits him. The sound of his pain is a horrifying thing. A creature half-rotten and shrieking like a banshee.
no subject
So far, the shriek is a lot worse anyway, loud enough to feel like it's splitting his head in two. His face twists in pain, though it's barely visible, and he follows it up again with another strike.
At least steel still hurts it. That's good.
no subject
Stumbling, watching in reeling horror, Gilia shudders, trying to push back. Caught, so caught, between horror and fear. Fear not for herself, not in this second. But for this thing, this thing that is her brother - hurting someone. Anyone. Another person like he had hurt her family.
That it must come to something. It all must come to something. That the second she sees Geralt's pain she stumbles forward. A scream burning in her lungs.
But not of a woman's voice. No, she is no mild creature, not now. A veneer that must be held because when it splits from her lips:
"L̷͖͌͗͜ E̶̪͛̏ T̸͇̔͝ ̸̣̯̏̕ H̷́͜ I̸͍̋̚ M̷̝̍ ̴͖̈́̚G̶̪̥͘ Ò̸̻!"
The shudder of it so loud, it is like a wave crashes down, and it is the sea that thunders like a storm in the words. But more than that - she does what she thinks is impossible. Anything to make him let go of Geralt. The water is a knife, a spear, that she stumbles forward with her hands thrusting forward to spear into her brother's arm and force him to leg go as she pulls it back as suddenly, as harshly, like a fisherman's hook. Dragging her brother in a force that makes her shake.
no subject
This might be an opportunity, he thinks, and makes an attempt to try to free his legs from the mud's clutches. If it could even be called mud.
no subject
It will hold, and it will not give back in a whisper that presses against the wind. The sea never gives back what it takes.
But at least, the goal is there. Godfinn is well and truly distracted. The maggots that pour out of the holes she splits in his skin that are not like wounds. No. Alive things bleed. He is so long among the dead, that from him comes the decay of months.
"You bitch! You fucking whore! You would use our families power against ME?!"
no subject
What he can do, for now, is sign Igni and send a blast of flame the bastard's way.
no subject
He screams as he claws at himself in flames. The water that Gilia held him by turns to steam, broil off quickly. He stumbles, screaming and screaming and screaming and Gilia pushes away from him. Stumbling to reach for Geralt, as Godfinn collapses under the weight of himself. Falling onto his hands and knees, down into the ground he seemed to have crawled up from.
She just breathes heavily and fast, looking to Geralt with a lost expression. "Is it over?"
no subject
"For now."
Probably, but he'd rather not give false hopes.
no subject
She gets one more step, just one more, before the creature dense with earth and screaming pain surges out of the ground. A bog demon, a half-rotten thing and it snatches her by the back of her clothes and pulls. She falls with a scream, onto her hands and knees, desperately trying to fall forward before it latches onto an ankle and begins to drag her back and back into the earth.
no subject
Did the bastard just go into the ground to extinguish the flame?
When she falls forward, so does he, launching himself on purpose to try to reach her. There's honestly not much else he can do. The monster is too far away, and she's in between.