(event) WELCOME TO THE MASQUERADE

[vestigemods]

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.

Comments

Sigrun Eide - ota

[bearhole]

let's get the party started

[ Okay. A tent. It's much more colorful than any kind of quarantine tent Sigrun is more used to seeing, and when the opening unzips, she decides to check it out--

--only to be forced backwards when she tries to enter. Confused, and never one to give up after the first rebuttal, she tries once, twice, three times more, being pushed back every time. Finally, she sees someone else in a costume enter and realizes what must be done, so it's off! To Foodland!

She comes back wearing a mask and a colorful poncho, hoping whatever powers that are keeping her out of the tent will be satisfied that that is enough like a costume to allow her entry. Thankfully, they seem to be, so in she goes! She runs a perimeter of the tent, looking for anything that seems nefarious. It all seems pretty low key, though. Just snacks and music and lights. Sigrun lingers around the refreshments, pouring herself a cup of Kicky Blood Punch and lifting her bear mask to sip it. As the night goes on, she can be found tapping her toe to the music, despite not knowing any of the songs. A few more cups of Kicky Blood Punch and you might even be able to find her dancing! ]

this party broke BAD

[ Drunk though she may be from all that punch, Sigrun still is alert enough to notice when the lights dim and the tent flap zips itself closed. Dropping whatever she may have been holding, she rushes up to try to open it again-- nothing. She pulls her trusty knife out from her book and tries stabbing herself a hole. Ikke noe. Nada. Zilch. No go.

Getting desperate, she attacks the tent's fabric relentlessly, her knife not making even the slightest dent. Exasperated, she turns to try to get someone to help her. ] Hey, can you--?

[ She stops, struck dumb by what she sees. Or rather, what she doesn't see. The tent, which had been full of partygoers a second ago, appears completely empty and abandoned now. She is alone, trapped, and has no idea how she came to be that way. ]

Hello? Where'd everyone go? Hello!?!?

gilia | open

[seaboard]

with blind eyes you’ll surely find the way | arrival
It wasn't necessarily a costume to her, at least not directly. It was certainly however the finest cloth she had been able to find of the dozens there. The fine and beautiful velvet that was just sitting there! For the taking! No one else seemed to know what it was good for. That combined with the patterns of the dresses she had found in the other costume garments that she had tried until she found something that sat a little... better. Then pulled it apart and began to modify the pieces.

Until she had something quite pretty she thought. Much nicer for the winter months. a mask she thought was quite pretty once she added the feathers and those to anyone else: very tackle little sparkly sequins but Gilia hadn't gotten the memo and had a great time... sewing them on. She also didn't get the memo of glue.

With her hair for once, out and free - it makes her look quite different. It floats a brilliant halo of gold in the sparkling lights, as one of the many guests milling into the party.

"How beautiful it is! Do you not think?" She is eager, not used to it yet, the tricks this place could play. It feels fitting that as the cold grows deep into the earth, that there should be a party of some kind.

the song lures the soul through it's shape | party
Reserved as she is always - it all goes out the window when the music begins to play, and she realises that they are meant to dance. Dance, truly dance. As she has not, not for the weeks and weeks she has been here.

So, she does. Perhaps it is old but is certainly not some slow, meandering dance. No, she flings herself in skipping steps with her skirts pulled up in handfuls at her hips. Jumping, twisting, at times with her arms above her head, others swinging it back and forth in wide sweeps as she moves half-abandoned and half-wild. Her hand tangling itself in waves of curls and her breath rising and falling faster and faster.

When she stops, it is to drink deeply of the beverages, and it turns out - she is something of a giggling, laughing drunk, light on her face, and her magic sings with her. For a moment, in her exuberance, it can be heard. The rush of the tide that batters against the senses that is in each of her hastily drawn breaths. That wash of fresh salt air that should not be possible. How at times, it seems she looks like nothing at all human, some creature of coral and seaweed, fishing nets and glowing, shimmer eyes that hang in her body that beckons and repels all at once, for you did not need to be on the sea to know a lighthouse was always a warning and safe haven. Stay away to stay safe.

But then she smiles, laugh, and spins, and it is gone again.

into weather and wind you fade | nightmare
The horrors come - the creatures she does not know, and she begs. She begs not for hers. From whatever it is that has done this - not this.

Because she knows his voice before he speaks. She knows the sound of his footsteps since she was born. She knows when she turns, and she sees her elder brother, that she can have no other pain. No other nightmare than this one that she has had since the day that the bog took him.

Gilia is no small woman, even less so when her hair was out. But her brother cleared her by a good half foot. Six foot five, the image of his father with his brown hair and lazy, charming smile like all the world was to him marvellous. He was handsome as she remembered her brother being, not that moment, not that screaming terrifying moment as he died when fear had twisted him beyond all beauty. That had her waking up gasping every night, reaching with hands to save him as he does for her now. "Godfinn - Godfinn - " But he hushes her, her disbelief, her pain.

"m̴̖̖̦̞͔̂̏̿̀̉͑̀͒͜y̴̫̳̹͓̝̟̓͆̀̌̅͛̚͝͝ sister, my beautiful Şιˢt𝔢Ｒ." He cups her cheeks with both palms and tilts her head up to kiss her forehead. "S̵̳̋econd-C̶̗̍hild now. What a q𝓤𝕖𝕖𝔫 you 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎." He smooths his thumb against her cheek. "Pity you're a 𝓌𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒. A waste of your Ṯ̶͆itles. A waste of our 𝓯𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓵𝔂. St. Loe himself would roll in his watery grave to know 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖘𝖚𝖑𝖑𝖞 𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖓𝖆𝖒𝖊."

Jiang Cheng

[legbreakings]

top levels in the comments, ask cynicalharlequin for individual starters. will match prose or brackets.

Wen Ning | ota (cw: people burning alive)

[lookslikeacinnamonroll]

are we having fun yet?

[ Wen Ning has never been invited to any sort of party before, let alone a costume party. He isn't about to ruin this chance by trying to get in without a costume! So he arrives wearing something a little more reminiscent of his Qishan Wen days, if the Qishan Wen lived in Victorian era England. He keeps to the edges of the dance floor, drinking non alcoholic punch and bobbing his head to the best of the music. He might be convinced to dance, if anyone feels like asking him. But otherwise he's happy just to observe, and be a part of the crowd. ]

this isn't fun anymore...

When things go sour, it happens quickly. Wen Ning's does his best not to panic, but when it becomes clear that even his increased strength will not be enough to tear exit through the walls of the tent, he switches gears, instead committing himself to protecting others. When a firey shape erupts into being in the middle of the dancefloor, Wen Ning pulls whoever he can reach back away from it, telling them to get as far away from the flames as they can.

Only... That's not just a fire in the middle of the floor. There's the shape of a person inside it. She's so engulfed in flame, it's hard to make out any of her features. But her voice cuts through the roar of the inferno.

"A-Ning? A-Ning, are you there? Please, help me, I can't-- I- AIEEEYYYYAAAAAA!!!”

She screams in pain as she burns and it takes everything in Wen Ning's strength not to run to her. He couldn't save her then, and he knows he can't save her now, because she isn't here, just some ghost of her sent to torture him. Silent tears fall from his eyes, but he stays glued to the spot, unable to move either towards or away from the ghastly sight.

lan sizhui ♪ ota (cw: buried-ish stuff, murder)

[deferences]

when it's time to party, we will party hard;

[putting together a costume and decking himself out in some makeup with fake horns proved far easier than he would've thought. after having been drawn to the masquerade, despite his wariness, he figured what's the harm? because surely nothing too terrible can happen at a party, especially not when he's dressed as an adorable little faun slash forest child.

once inside, the first place he goes is toward the refreshments, plucking up meats, cheeses, and veggies that he initially wastes no time downing, but whenever he returns for more, he takes his time the second go-around. on top of that, sizhui even risks a cup or two of punch, questioning what makes one of them ‘kick’ more than usual. rather than risk it at the moment, he simply plucks a few pineapple chunks from the liquid, delighted by the sweet yet tart flavor that kinda makes his lips tingle. odd, he thinks, though doesn't contemplate it further.

instead, he might be found dancing despite not recognizing most of the music that plays. when he tires of that, however, the lan disciple collects more snacks and drinks, finds a table, and lets himself wind down a little, happily watching other people enjoy themselves.]



calm down, we don't want to panic at the disco;

[after nine strikes on the dot and lanterns begin flickering out, sizhui is immediately on alert, somewhat relieved he'd thought to bring along his qiankun pouch just in case something questionable decided to unfold throughout the night. he doesn't reach for it yet, too distracted by the distorted music that eventually becomes uncomfortable screeching, which in turn makes him cover his ears and wince his eyes shut.

when he reopens them, the sound has blessedly stopped. his hands lower from his head, one hovering near the bag at his side, the other twitching, silently longing for the familiar weight of his sword. (he knew he should've brought it, even if it'd been unnecessary. better to have it and not need it than need it and not—)]

‘Wen Yuan,’ [comes softly from behind him, sending a cold chill up his spine that spreads through his chest, turns his blood to ice in his veins. it's a voice he recognizes, but it sounds hoarse and unsettling.

lan sizhui has never deemed himself a coward, yet abruptly and all at once, he's terrified to turn around. he takes a steeling breath, exhales steadily, slowly turns to glance over his shoulder— and can't help the sudden yelp he lets out. there before him lay countless slaughtered people, broken, bloody bodies spread out, piled in heaps, some even clinging to loved ones during their last moments. most he doesn't recognize, although the few he does, he can't tear his eyes away; his uncles wen ning and jiang cheng, aunt yanli, his best friend, lan jingyi (who had even come with him to this party!), nie-xiong and both daozhangs he's started befriending. all of them: dead and-slash-or half-buried beneath dirt he was sure wasn't there before.

but a second voice comes from nearby, another that's definitely familiar and though he's loath to look, the boy does, both hands reaching to cup around his face in an attempt to muffle another cry. wei wuxian, draped over the fallen body of lan wangji, pointing directly at him with chenqing.] ‘A-Yuan, why?’

I... but I didn't— [he stops, casts his attention downward, eyes almost impossibly wide at the sight of a sword – his sword – in front of his feet, drenched in dark, almost black-colored blood.] No... no, that's not right! It isn't real, [is the pathetic attempt at reassurance. he takes a step backward then another, clutching his throat like he can't breathe. if it's an illusion, why can he sort of taste dirt? almost feel the blood on his hands?] This is not real, it can't be! [and it's not, but it sure as hell feels that way, which is why he doesn't fight the tears welling up, lets them spill freely down his cheeks, a mixture of sadness and outright fear.]


wildcard;

[ooc: or hit me with something of your own! :')]

Daemon Sadi | OTA

[singularwidower]

A Dance to Remember

Though the music is unfamiliar, Daemon doesn't particularly mind. He has seen the rise and fall of enough small cultures that as long as it has a beat, he can generally put together a few moves--though he does prefer paired dances. And so he keeps an eye out for willing partners.

Once such person seems likely, and he approaches with an amused smile and extends a hand. His long fingernails have been freshly lacquered black, and a smile lurks at the corner of his lips. "May I have this dance?"

Breaking Bad

Before the feedback fades, a hand lands gently on the center of Daemon's back. A familiar hand. A beloved hand whose touch he knows down to his marrow. His heart shatters in his chest. The owner of the hand is dead. He knows that. He knows that. And still he whirls to find her, to see her, and finds...nothing. Worse than nothing. His late wife's lingering psychic scent. The fading warmth of her hand. Heart thundering in his chest, he can't take more than a shaking breath. Pain pulses up through the cracks in his psyche. Everything that had been in the tent is now veiled in darkness and iced with cold.

And he breaks. He always knew he would. For a long suspended moment, he can only think, 'Of course, this again. I was always going to return here.'

But then he feels like he takes one step outside of his body and now? Now he is observing himself breaking along unfamiliar faultlines, the ones that do not even appear in his nightmares. Not because he does not know they exist, but because they represent a fear too sharp for him to do anything but avoid. He breaks mean and all he can do is watch.

This feral version of himself is impossibly without reason. He-himself-Daemon ghosts along behind he-himself-the-Monster, semi-transparent and chill with horror, as his costumed body hunts the other partigoers. His long fingernails look more like claws than they had before, the horns he thought were amusing now only make him look like one of the native denizens of his own Hell. He-himself-the-Monster's eyes fix upon his prey and advances with a slinking, cat-like, predatory stalk. All he-himself-Daemon can do is call out: "Run."

After the (Tent) Fall

Daemon stands outside under the stars and in the cold, staring at the empty clearing where the tent had just been bare moments ago. Arms folded across his chest, he stares, contemplative and blank, until movement catches his eye and he shifts to frown in concern at the other partigoer.

"I'm sorry," he says immediately. He lifts his hands to his head, graps the horns he's been wearing all night, and pulses power through to them to turn them to ash. Mission accomplished, he asks, "Are you alright?"

~Wildcard

Daemon's TIME HAS COME! He's dressed up as 'the devil,' by which I mean he is wearing the suit he arrived in (a very nice black one with a white silk shirt) and a red tie, and has afixed a pair of painted-red horns to his forhead (via a spell, so they're a bit physics-defying). He spends most of the first bit of the evening haunting the dance floor eyeing everyone to see if they wanna dance. He spends the second half hunting the dance floor instead. His body is gonna be trying to pounce while he himself is going to be a ghostie trying to prevent anyone from being pounced--without having any way to affect the physical world. Both of 'him' can be seen, though, and interacted with.

I default to prose, but I'll match brackets!

Lan Jingyi | MDZS | OTA

[gusumouthcannon]

Food and Bodyguarding

An overabundance of caution has left Jingyi somewhat hesitant to go to unfamiliar places 1) without Sizhui and/or let Sizhui go alone and 2) without some sort of good, solid weapon in addition to his sword that he can throw as a distraction. Like this stout tree branch covered with leaves that's nearly as tall as he is! Of course, it also matches his tree costume, which matches Sizhui's forest child costume.

Jingyi, though, for the first bit of the evening, is very much lulled into a false sense of security. He is staked out by the food table, grazing happily over all the finger foods. Anytime anyone else comes to pick up something, he smiles with his mouth full and point out some of his favorites. A couple of cheeses. Something of the fruit. And this extremely tasty little pastry that's sweet onion and goat cheese.

A Good Old-fashioned Haunt

An abject failure at trying to keep Sizhui safe, Jingyi has lost sight of him and acquired a ghost. It is much like the ghosts that had been floating around in September. Spectral, hovering slightly in the air and looking generally fairly benign for a ghost, even with the milky white eyes. Jingyi can almost feel it sapping his life away.

The problem is that it is Sizhui, floating there, head cocked politely, ghostly hands folded across his front. Even though Sizhui is here. Hopefully alive somewhere.

But what if he is not?!

So Jingyi stands, terrified, his knees locked and the branch covered with leaves pointed at the ghost to keep it from floating any nearer. His sword is forgotten where it's strapped to his back, his pupils all but pinprick of fear. Even if he knows exactly how to deal with something like this, knows what is expected of him even if it is Sizhui, he would need to be able to move; after a whole month of these things popping up when he least expected them, he really hasn't had enough time to recover. That it is Sizhui and he is also beset by guilt and failure and heartbreak? He cannot even call for help.

Wildcard

I match brackets or prose!

quintalian. ota.

[kinkprofessor]

the party.

[ He enjoys a party as much as the next person. Honestly, they usually begin as an excuse to network that end up in wild benders he barely remembers. This masquerade, however, is tame and he's doing his best to behave.

Who knows how long that will last, really, but the effort is there. Gold star, Quin, you aren't being as gross as you could be.

His costume is a deer with the black nose, white freckles, and dusting of brown on his face. He's already gotten into the Kicky Blood Punch, of course, and is happy to dance with anyone that might be available. ]

I'm better at more formal dancing, I admit, so you might have to show me how it's done.

[ He'll also mingle at the refreshment table when he goes for more snacks (and punch), offering something via tentacle to someone close to him. ]

They're sanitary, I promise.

[ When he's had enough that there's a slight spin to his head, he'll wander his way towards one of the chairs and- Oops, he didn't see someone already sitting there when he plopped down. Or did he? He'll never tell. Either way, he smiles in a friendly and convincingly sheepish manner about the """mishap.""" ]

I do love that autumn chill, but mostly because it makes getting close to someone and warm that much more enjoyable. Don't you think?

[ He's... not moving. Good luck. ]

the panic.

[ Hallucinating isn't actually a new phenomenon for him. He's always been a lot more reckless though when visions like this one come to haunt him. ]

Abithanth? [ he asks, in a voice both small and fond.

Before him stands another brunette man about the same height and build; they have the same eye shape, but Ab isn't wearing glasses. His hair is slicked back and shaved down on the sides. He's wearing a lab coat with Zenith's emblem embroidered on the chest pocket. It doesn't suit him at all.

His smile is genuine that makes it cut even deeper than it would otherwise. ]

𝓐𝓲, [ it's said with such affectionate as his smile grows. ] 𝓘 𝓭𝓲𝓭 𝓲𝓽. 𝓘 𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓮𝓭 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻𝔂𝓸𝓷𝓮. [ Ab bridges the distance between them, pressing his forehead to Quin's masked face. ] 𝓘𝓼𝓷'𝓽 𝓲𝓽 𝓰𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓽? 𝓦𝓮 𝓬𝓪𝓷 𝓰𝓸 𝓫𝓪𝓬𝓴 𝓱𝓸𝓶𝓮, 𝓫𝓮 𝓪 𝓯𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓵𝔂 𝓪𝓰𝓪𝓲𝓷.

[ This might not look horrific to someone on the outside, but Quintalina's shallow breath and uncharacteristically downcast gaze would say otherwise. ]

anything else.

(( ooc: if you want to plot anything specifically or have another idea, hit me up on discord (Rose#0503), plurk (soulblossom), or PM this journal! ))

Geralt of Rivia // OTA

[coolmotivestillevil]

A. Arrival

[ Someone is stopped dead right at the entrance.

No, Geralt has not gotten dressed for this occasion. Yes, he has seen the gaudy costumes in Foodland, and he's read the flyer, but he just figured ... Who was going to stop him?

The answer is, apparently, nothing. There's no barrier of any kind that he can feel, no active magic that his medallion reacts to, and he makes a sound of annoyance. What kind of horseshit is this?

Did you want to get in? Might need to tell him to move, or just squeeze by him. Whichever you want. He's blocking most of the opening. ]

B. Party

1

[ Once he'd accepted that he had to put on a gaudy costume to get in at all, he'd gone back to Foodland to find himself a Dracula costume. Except he only took the cape, and is otherwise wearing a simple black shirt and black pants. While whatever it was that stopped him before was clearly reluctant to let him in with that minimal effort, it did.

For the most part, he can be found skulking along the edges of the tent, only drifting away from it to inspect the food and drink and all the decorations. He will get steadily more and more annoyed as time passes and he finds nothing noteworthy. Approach at your own risk. ]

2

[ Eventually, he wanders away from the party to explore the hallways. While it doesn't take him long to realise that something is off about it, he's not too worried about finding his way back.

Feel free to try to stop him or bump into him if you've already managed to get yourself lost. Maybe you can work together to get back. ]

C. Panic - cw: gore, death

[ It takes more time than he would willingly admit to get back to the party from the hallways. It's just in time for everything to go to hell too, and he's on edge as soon as the music is distorted. The screech tears into him enough to hurt, and his brow pinches in protest, his head tilting to the side. ]

Fuck.

[ Of course something would go wrong. It always does.

He has half a mind to just leave, but the other half of him that feels responsible for his fellow prisoners is what ultimately makes him stay. His eyes scan the room, his ears listen for any approaching threats, but nothing happens.

Then he sees someone familiar. It wouldn't be strange if it hadn't been weeks since he'd seen the man, either. Jaskier, seemingly passed out under the bed, like he might have drank too much or been knocked out for flirting with the wrong person. Geralt's suspicious, though, as he approaches him slowly, and crouches down to shake him. When there's no response, he grabs one shoulder firmly and turns him over.

Then jerks back as if he's been burned. Something's wrong, because he should have noticed it earlier, should have smelled it. Jaskier's face and neck is half torn off by claws, looks like a griffin on first glance. It doesn't make sense, he's seen no traces of griffins anywhere, there's no way he wouldn't have noticed. This is exactly why the stupid bard should have stopped following him around. What kind of moron decides to accompany a witcher?

Just like that, the body is gone, and he shakes his head like it might shake the image out of his head.

It doesn't, and he puts his face in his hands as he takes several deep breaths. That wasn't real. Couldn't be. ]

Rhys // OTA

[theprezident]

A. Party

[ In the downtown between Shit Going Wrong, especially now that he's not helping Gilia preserve a storefull worth of food, there's a lot of time to kill. Which is why, when the flyers went up, he decided to try to craft something. He himself isn't wearing anything special, just a black shirt and black pants, but beside him at the refreshments table sits a handmade box that reaches to his hips with windows of plastic in it, and the word claw machine glued on above one of the windows. At the bottom of the box lies a pile of Halloween decorations: plastic pumpkins, spiders, spiderwebs, bats ...

It will probably make more sense if you decide to ask (spoilers: his metal hand is the claw), but at the moment he's busy sampling the cheeses. Or, more like, he's grabbing one and then squinting at it. ]

Are you going to ruin my evening if I try to eat you?

[ Maybe someone can reassure him that so far, at least, the food seems to be fine. ]

B. Nightmare

[ When the nightmares start, it doesn't take long before a shriek that might be familiar to a few people resonates through the tent. Maybe it's even coming from right next to you, in which case, sorry about your eardrums.

Anyway, the shriek is coming from Rhys. He's abandoned his 'costume' in favour of running from an apparition of Zer0 brandishing a sword. Not that he manages to run very far, because he reaches the dead end that is the closed entry flap, turns around and falls on his ass. ]

N-no, no, you're not-- I know you're not real.

[ He sure doesn't sound very convinced though, and doesn't look it either, the way he lifts his arms to cover his face as Zer0 approaches him with his blade raised. ]

If, if I believe you're fake hard enough, are you gonna disappear? Is that how this works? Please tell me that's how this works.

Naminé | OPEN

[lethechained]

A. || PARTY

[ For all that Naminé appreciates the music, dancing by herself appears to have been out of the question. She certainly looks well and truly settled, anyway, as she sits in one of the chairs against the wall, legs tucked together and a little bit to the side. Her folded hands rest on her lap, her expression peaceful in large part and curious in smaller portion as she patiently observes dancers and passersby alike.

The deep red tailcoat she has on over a white dress much frillier than the one she’s worn in the past might not make for the most obvious costume, but when one considers the tall rabbit ears atop her head, the image becomes a bit clearer. Why there was an outfit so reminiscent of that one fellow from Alice’s world Naminé truly can’t say, but if it qualified as appropriate attire for the party – it only felt right to indulge in a silly little homage to the corner of the universe that she came from. ]


B. || PANIC

[ The lights have only just dimmed when she sees him.

Even in the comparative dark, the figure shrouded in black sticks out in her vision, her eyes focusing on it with the urgent clarity that true, bone-deep fear can so easily grant. The silhouette is burned into her memory from a time long past, and chances are it forever will be. She doesn’t have to wonder which of them it is; she knows from the very first instant. ]

So this is where you’ve been hiding.

[ Marluxia says, voice disconcertingly level through the condescending tone. Naminé is on her feet before she realizes she’s standing, face a mask of frozen, wide-eyed shock. ]

Are you surprised to see me, Naminé?

[ If her distress wasn’t already obvious on her features, it should be clear from her gasped, ]

You’re—

[ But she hardly gets it out before the-- ]

Dead? [ -- that draws her up short, her skin pale as a sheet. ] Hardly.

[ Her leg hits the chair as she tries to back up. There’s nowhere to go, and yet she looks reluctant to take so much as a single step closer to the image of the man in the dark hooded coat who stands at what would, for most people, be a sizable distance. No matter how far away one is from the scene, Naminé’s frightened body language is difficult to mistake.

Intervention might prove necessary. ]


C. || HALLWAYS

[ Naminé’s feet are unsteady under her as she dashes down one of the hallways. Endurance has never been her strong suit, and neither has running; she’s struggling to keep it up, that much isn’t hard to tell, but she doesn’t dare stop. It seems like no matter how many corners she turns, he’s always right there behind her, strolling at such a casual pace and yet forever able to keep up in spite of it.

She doesn’t look back. She doesn’t need to in order to know that he’s at her heels – but she’s still unprepared when she all but skids around yet another bend in this seemingly endless passage only to be confronted with another person. The poor girl looks like a wild creature, as eager to escape as the beast her costume seeks to emulate, and if she crashes straight into the unfortunate soul she’s unknowingly put herself on a collision course with, then there’s hardly anything she can do about it at the moment. ]

D. || WILDCARD

[ Choose your own adventure. ]