[Plot Open] Seeing Red

[cult_classic]

Who: The Cult of Nyarlathotep and YOU????????? (Intended for a somewhat small group.)
What: Weird magic
When: It's complicated
Where: The cabins in the woods
Warning(s): Cult activity, religious ecstasy, ritual sacrifice, blood, unhealthy and probably uncomfortable opinions about madness. Your character will also die by going on this quest, but you will receive unique plot information. And who knows, maybe you can have like a ghost party or whatever.


-I don't need your roses, I like men on their knees.-

It's not long after Tarantulas and Valdis find Linette and her body is laid to rest that further investigation begins. The information forwarded to them about the cult is, of course, useful. But with the knowledge that a strange cult was performing monstrous rituals is deeply alarming.

Information is spread like wildfire, the paper running an article describing the grisly scene of Linette Brenning, a woman who went missing years ago, turning up at the bottom of the Fall's Promise well. The cult involvement and the ties it must surely have to the barrier and to the cursed book retrieved by River and Angel some months prior. The constables fan out across the island, investigating the cabins in the woods and the well in which Linette was found.

But even so, nothing of note turns up.

Until one day, an assortment of offworlders seemingly chosen at random receive a note in their mailboxes. It's written in a tight, curling hand that is unfamiliar.

Gather in the square tonight at midnight. More friends will be there. But bring a lantern anyway, and do not be late. Once midnight strikes, go to the cabins off the path in Lockwood Forest and speak the words upon the wall of the furthest. If you can be brave, you will see the unobstructed truth.

Perhaps not everyone who receives this letter attends, but if you wish to see more, you must be one of them. And so you go. You gather among friends, or perhaps strangers, but ultimately those like you. And from there you proceed into the woods, following first the trails, then the desire path leading to the sodden and rotting old cabins where Linette's locket was first found nearly a year ago. Per the letter's instructions, you go to the furthest cabin from the road, and you enter.


-Praying up to their god, seeing visions of me.-

After much clearing away of natures attempts at reclamation of the building, the words are visible on the wall, etched in a thick white paint that almost glows in the lantern light. Do you raise your voices in unison to speak the incantation, or is it left to just one brave soul? Regardless, the words are spoken:

We are the seekers of forbidden knowledge. We are the witnesses of the vile divine. We are the wanderers of the black dream desert, navigators of starless skies. We beseech you, O Chaos; we stand in your circle and ask in reverence to behold your revelations of bygone days. Grant us your unholy nightmare that we may see. Ia! Nyarlathotep! Eater of Souls! Let your truth be thusly seen!

And once the words are spoken, the world begins to change.

The sensation, for those who can recall, is not unlike wandering the collective dream of Pumpkin Hollow in years gone by, but this time you have arrived here by choice rather than by sleep. The cabin around you dissolves like sand, falling away in particles to reveal... something else.

You find yourselves back outside, still under the cover of night. Each of you is now garbed in a red robe and a black mask, and you are surrounded by others wearing similar garb. The world around you is nearly silent. You are standing just inside what is a manor house, elegantly decorated, somberly making your way into the depths of the house with the rest of the group. You are led into what is apparently some sort of meeting space with a large, round table with a tasteful assortment of charcuterie foods laid out. No one says a word as you enter, but some members of the group seem confident as they file into place around the table and take a seat. You should probably do the same.

Far off in the distance, you hear the clock strike 2AM. One of the members of the group, apparently the de facto leader, speaks as soon as the third chime silences. Based on the voice, you presume this person to likely be a woman.

"Bare now your true faces and forfeit your names to your brethren and to our Dark King."

And so they do. Each of them doffs their mask and lowers their hood, revealing their faces. All ages and all sorts, it seems. They go around the circle, speaking their names, starting with the woman in charge.

"Chloe Albright."

"Ingmar Strömberg."

"Nora Winterbottom."

"Christopher Larkin."

"Archie Brenning."

"Maude Brenning."

"Brahm Aberdeen.

"Richard Pirnach."

"Lucy Calloway."

Before you have time to take in these names, it is clear from the expectant glances that all of you are meant to introduce yourselves as well. But once this is done, the woman whose name is Chloe speaks once more.

"Thank you all for your offering of identity. And thank you, Christopher, for once again allowing us to take our meeting within your lovely home. And of course, we thank all of our intrepid new inductees for joining us tonight. We appreciate that the lateness of the hour will take some... adjustment. As we await the blessing of our Master in his hour of greatest strength, that we might perform our ritual to bear witness to the vile divine, let us take a simple meal together in fellowship. Both to know each other and to speak of more mundane business, as well as to educate our new siblings. Shall we, brothers and sisters?"

All at once, your true mission becomes clear. Speak to the members of this cult, learn more about their identities, rituals, and crimes, and bear witness to this so-called "vile divine", then return to your own time with the information you receive. It's unclear how you'll get back, at the moment... but surely it will make itself apparent when the time comes. Hopefully.


-Say I'm your favorite preacher.-

[The thrilling conclusion to the cult gathering will appear in the comments over the weekend! For now, focus on talking to the cult members, or to each other. Maybe you can even sneak away to look through the house!]

Comments

Dr. Siebren de Kuiper (Sigma) | Overwatch | OTA

[spaghettification]

It's funny. There's a world in which Siebren was a sort of abyssal cultist himself, but it's not this one. Still, the thematics are there. The mentions of the black dream desert and navigators of starless skies resonate with a man who stared into the deepest, blackest reached in a pinprick of space and lost something to it forever.

It's funny, right? That he ends up in the circle with the cultists, asked to offer his identity? He speaks the name "Sigma", because whatever this cult is, they might know the mad prisoner, Subject Sigma, rather than the doctor he was before being exposed to void the Iris eternity nothingness.

It is almost a comfort, being surrounded by people who worship something that feels adjacent, tangential, related to what he experienced and has never been able to relate. That's funny, too, right?

It's all so very funny, he feels like he's stifling laughter, bubbling mad laughter, with any word he speaks. Vile divine or not, there's a manic smile on his face through conversations and through dinner.

[theydrewfirstblood]

Hearing the name makes John feel better about the one he's given, and he recognizes the man's face when his mask comes off. Was it Merrymeet or the potluck thing? Or was it before?...

He edges his way over to the man as everyone starts to mingle, and he looks...

He's not sure about that smile. He knows it, he fears it...and he's the tiniest bit grateful for it.

When he reaches the man's side, he resists the urge to reach out and touch his arm to get his attention.

"Sigma?..."

[cult_classic]

There is a man who seems to catch Sigma's laughter, and laughs along. This man is pale, in every sense of the word--- his skin, his eyes, his hair, the hook-shaped scar beneath his eye. The only traces of dark pigment on him are the black tattoos he has, which peek out past the collar of his clothing and continue underneath. It's difficult to see, but the designs appear to be hooked and curling lines in elaborate patterns.

"Well, aren't you in good spirits?" His accent resembles the kind that might be heard in Scandinavian countries. "I can see in your eyes, you have what it takes to be here. Don't you?"

John Rambo | FIRST BLOOD/RAMBO Franchise | OTA

[theydrewfirstblood]

When he reads the paper, hears all the talk...when he gets the letter...

He's ready to disregard it--but he thinks of that poor woman, Linette. He thinks of Serranai and his promise to her, and his hand drifts to the bead that hangs around his neck.

He can just about see Edgar and Radar getting mixed up in this kind of stuff, they're just the type. Too brave and noble for their own damn good...

He doesn't have a lot of time--but he trusts the local postman if nothing else. So he sends out a few notes and he heads out.

Almost immediately, he wishes he hadn't.

The words sit like rotten food in his mouth. Vile divine, granting unholy nightmares--and when they meet the others, they want names?

He's ready to say nothing when he recognizes a couple. He thinks of the dream, so hazy and indistinct that it's lost to him now, and he wonders if he's seen these people before.

His hand drifts to his mask, he removes it...and takes a deep breath, because the name he gives isn't one he ever wanted to wear again.

"I'm Raven."

Covey Leader calling Raven...identify Baker Team...

He's been back to the war once. Maybe third time's the charm.

[not_a_traitor]

In the moment, John gets a faintly startled glance from Gaeta. He does his best to cover by glancing away just as swiftly.

But once the introductions are complete, and the conversation has turned to a genial milling-about of many small groups overlapping at once, he leans over to ask, in a murmur, "Raven?"

[cult_classic]

"Beautiful name you've got, friend."

The comment comes from someone sitting just to John's side. Nora, she'd said her name was - a young woman, red hair framing her face and sweeping past her shoulders, and a gaze that picks at him with sharp curiosity, like a crow inspecting something new it's found.

She's all smiles, though, but her smile softens as she lowers her voice, down to a gentle murmur.

"It's always hard, to be the new face on board, isn't it? Always the most stressful right from the jump. It'll get easier, though, I promise."

[mindflayed]

"Friends." The word laced with venom, and he mutters something else in a language with too many z's and th's. The letter gets crumpled up and tossed to Sir Radishly the Oddish who promptly eats it. But the more he thinks about it, the more curious he is. It's obviously a trap, it must be. But he keeps stewing on 'see the unobstructed truth' the truth of what?

Considering overconfidence is what got him killed in the first place to end up here, he really should be a little more tactical about this. But he's not. Nearly two centuries being the dominant lifeform around makes it hard to remember that might not always be the case. With no preparation other than what he has on him normally he arrives at the designated location. Though he does not show up with a lantern, because he has dark vision and has never used a lantern in his life.

The robe gets a pleased hum, the words Vile Divine get an intrigued clicking noise, but the situation he finds himself in with so many people in a strange place, darkened rooms and silence all around him, now that gets an almost sinister laugh of amusement. Oh this is excellent. Granted they're all sitting right now, but he dredges up memories of clandestine dinner meetings and knows at some point there'll be time to stand up and have smaller discussions. He's pretty sure the word is 'mingling' and then there will be plenty of chances to get one of these people alone in the darkness beyond this room.

He only has to bide his time. Or wait for a distraction.

[cult_classic]

A pale-faced, pale-haired, pale-eyed man appears to be staring rather aggressively at Imbros. It's not an angry stare, but more one of interest or perhaps a bit of awe. He doesn't say anything.

father mulcahy | M*A*S*H

[lovethyneighb_or]

my breath’s gone cold [approach]

Mulcahy is called upon. Not by the letter, but by his friends—so he goes.

It is dark. He brings his crook, hangs the light from its horn.

He doesn’t speak much on the way.

a kiss from the coal [introductions, mingling]

The moment the mask goes on, he understands.

Oh, he understands.

His hands go still. His steps go light. His head tilts slightly downwards, just so, and his breathing becomes nondescript. Mulcahy packs himself away, tidy and neat, and does his very best to hide in plain sight. To become an invisible man before their very eyes. If there is one thing that the last few years have given him, it is this: how to stop existing.

(Quietly, he hopes that whatever infernal influences encroach tonight will burn under his feet.)

When Mulcahy discards the mask, his eyes are creased just so, his mouth turned so slightly upwards. His expression is perfectly tempered and made-up, as if he hadn't taken it off at all.

"Hello. I am--" say something else, say something else, please come up with anything else-- "--4077." He clears his throat. "Ah. That is, Fauro Saven-Saven."

...

See? He's very good at this. He didn't even throw up.

a blanket of snow overhead [exploring the house]

But he doesn't say. Certainly not enough to make too much of an impression, he hopes.

He needs air. Oh Lord, does he need air. Number 4077 is waiting, waiting, waiting, until the right moment comes for him to slip away from the room and into the rest of the house.

...

And he keeps wandering on. More distance, he needs more distance. More distance...

In the house

[mindflayed]

"Should you be out here alone?" Says the shadows, a voice that sounds both rough and sharp at the same time. There's yellow eyes glowing in the darkness to go with the voice if Mulcahy looks that way on his quest for some more distance.

a blanket of snow overhead

[not_a_traitor]

Gaeta clocks the movement of Mulcahy's departure. He does his best -- for whatever that's worth -- not to be too obvious: he doesn't stare afer him, and forces himself to return to the conversation around him for a few extra moments.

When the next opportunity arises, he slips away as well to follow him.

"Sir?" he asks, low, once he's caught up to Mulcahy.

Kitty Callahan | OC | OTA

[thaumatophage]

a. hold my hand
It's a bad idea. She knows it's a bad idea, and she goes anyway. The words on the wall only reinforce that it's a bad idea. Bad decision, stupid...but she's come here and she's going to see it through. Is it partly because she resents being kept sheltered? Maybe. Is it partly out of curiosity? Yes. And that old saw comes back to her, curiosity killed the cat...

...and satisfaction brought it back, she thinks fiercely at it.

When asked for her name, she'd already scraped something together, a long time ago. She's not going to give her real name, because she knows how easily names can be used to control people. These guys don't look much like fae, but she's going to keep her real name close to the vest without lying. She introduces herself as 'Minou Trovinskaya', because, well, it's not technically a lie - minou is Beck's Cajun nickname for her, and so what if she borrowed Alec's last name anyway? She's basically his kid now, it entitles her to certain privileges of the office.

She's likely the youngest one at the table, too. She makes herself as innocuous as possible, smiling genially at the people who she definitely doesn't recognize and raising her eyebrows at the people she arrived with.

b. it's a long way down to the bottom of the river
When she gets an opportunity, Kitty slips away from the distressingly 'normal' party to look for...well, she doesn't know what to look for, but she's looking for something. Some kind of rite like what's going to happen here needs to have tools and equipment, right?? An instruction book? Anything??

She knocks over a stack of books by accident and holds very still. Hopefully nobody heard her.

c. it's a long way down, a long way down
[Wildcard! Plot with me on the PH discord or Chatvert, or just jump in!]

it's a long way down to the bottom of the river

[lightconductor]

Watson ("John Morstan") might have had the same idea, slipping away to investigate. He doesn't know her, but he's reasonably certain she belongs here as much as he does.

She's young. She's young enough that it bothers him that she's here.

"Miss Minou, I think it was?"

Cassandra de Rolo | Critical Role | OTA

[not_the_last]

The thing about cults --

Well, the thing about cults is that when you spend five years as the captive and guest, the tool and pawn and foster-daughter, of two people who consider a cult merely another tool? You don't find them frightening in quite the same way afterwards. Alarming in their existence, yes; indicative of someone here who has use for such a thing. But in themselves, no more to be feared than a pack of hunting dogs.

Though, like such a pack, to be reasonably wary of. Cassandra steps carefully along with the group, seats herself with all the grace and poise instilled in her by the family's old dancing-master, regards the others in the group with her head high. By no word or sign does she indicate anything but assurance in her right to be here.

When masks are lowered and names are spoken, she doesn't hesitate. The face she reveals is coolly proud, set in a faint and meaningless smile. "Anna Klossowski."

And as the meal begins, she turns to the man named as Christopher Larkin. "I'd like to add my thanks," she says, "for your graciousness in hosting us tonight."

[cult_classic]

Larkin nods his head as if to bow slightly, despite being seated. "It had been my pleasure, Miss Klossowski. Or is it Mrs.?"

Felix Gaeta | Battlestar Galactica | OTA

[not_a_traitor]

welcome to the second reel [approach]

He's kept to himself since Lieutenant Tayrey vanished. No vistors accepted; a politely apologetic note sent to the head librarian explaining he'll be absent for a while; no venturing out for food. (Tayrey mentioned she'd taken to stockpiling food in case of an emergency, when they first met. One more similarity that made them instantly comfortable around one another, as if they'd been friends for far longer than a couple months.)

He's not expecting anyone to send him a letter, and Gaeta certainly doesn't expect how it ignites something dormant in his head.

Unobstructed truth. He let himself get too complacent, hadn't he, accepting magic and goddesses and -- how does any of this work, really? How is it fair, that he can lose and lose and still keep losing everything that matters to him, even after he's dead? He wants answers, godsdammit. He wants to grab this entire island by the scruff of its neck and shake it until it tells him everything.

For the first time in several weeks, he starts to ask around. Make quiet appearances. John Jay got a letter, too, it turns out; Father Mulcahy didn't, but agrees to come along when they ask.

Together, they gather, and together, they go.



we're glad that you could make it [mingle]

He recognizes a few of the names -- Brenning, obviously, from all the news articles and gossip, Aberdeen and Calloway and Winterbottom from the general comings-and-goings of the library. Some of the other offworlders, including John and Mulcahy, give false names when asked.

Gaeta doesn't. Callsigns aren't for CIC officers. If you're calling a bird home, that bird needs to know exactly who it's talking to.

"Felix Gaeta," he says, low and steady, when his turn arrives.



we thought your fate was sealed, it's not what we expected [wildcard]

[You know where to find me to plot!]

[cult_classic]

Maude, one of the Brenning parents, eyes Felix with muted interest. She has no way of knowing that he's given his true name, of course, but after some of the other decidedly-false-names given... there's a feeling about it. And, in giving his true name, he's gotten a bit of credit in her book, as far as she's concerned.

"Glad you could make it tonight, Felix. Or do you prefer Mr. Gaeta?" She asks, only singling him out once other chatter has picked up around the table.

Drelasa Veloth | Morrowind OC | OTA

[misbegottendreamer]

Arrival

Perhaps her travels in Morrowind and her confrontation with the Sharmat's worshippers have made diving into matters like this second-nature. When she arrives at the cabin, waiting until she can approach alone, she does so without her mask- she knows that the face she wears is far more recognizable than the one she has been given formed of flesh and blood. The only people who would know her identity with that countenance showing are people she would trust to keep her deepest secrets. Even those who might have seen her aboard the Stag Beetle likely did not understand what they saw, in the utter chaos and confusion that unfolded that day.

The incantation turns her stomach, reminding her far too much of the Sharmat's prayer.

Here in his shrine, that they have forgotten.
Here do we toil, that we might remember.
By night we reclaim, what by day was stolen.
Far from ourselves, he grows ever near to us.
Our eyes once were blinded, now through him do we see.
And when the world shall listen, and when the world shall see, and when the world remembers, that world will cease to be.

The feeling of walking through a dream is at once unnerving and incredibly familiar to her, and she feels coldly at ease when the world settles again.


Introductions

When she's asked to unmask, she does so. Her "face" is an odd cluster of flute-like structures, not quite trunks and not quite tentacles. She could easily be mistaken for a mindflayer, or something tangentially Cthuloid.

As for an alias, well, she already has one- her name from the House of Ashes, an Ald Chimeri monniker that has clung to her heart for more than two hundred years.

"Dagoth Drelsea," she offers, confidently.

[spaghettification]

Siebren Sigma doesn't trust himself to speak directly to his kena Dagoth Drelsea, but he does hover (quite literally) in her vicinity, almost in her orbit a couple times during the night. Her appearance is not startling or off-putting to him, and her mind is something he'll pick, later.

Still there's a little game he plays during dinner--every time she's just about to empty her plate, another cluster of grapes or handful of candied nuts or wedge of cheese floats itself over. The blind woman has an endless dinner plate, courtesy of the smiling scholar.

[ss_buttcrack]

If Cass is going then so is he. She doesn't get to do dangerous investigating stuff without him. That said, the incantation read out from that wall fills him with more than a little trepidation. This is how horror movies always start, people! Come on!

But it's already too late to turn back, no matter how disturbed he is by the surroundings melting away to become something and... somewhere else. When he looks down at himself to discover the robes, he has to choke back a gag of disgust. Oh, frell. Not this.

He follows the others inside, but when it comes time to take his seat... he stays standing behind his chair. His fists are clenched so hard at his sides that he's beginning to tremble. It's not from fear. He's straining to hold himself back.

"Frelling cults..." he growls under his breath. "Wonder if their robes are fire-proof..."

[not_the_last]

A cold hand touches his: Cassandra, in the seat beside him, still looking straight ahead.

"Steady," she murmurs behind her mask, for his ears only.

Miles Upshur | Outlast | OTA

[upshore]

a. sick of the talk of the trick
"Oh, this is some Eyes Wide Shut shit in here," Miles mumbles to himself upon realizing he's cloaked and masked. "This suuuuucks." He is under no illusions that this is going to be anything as comparatively innocuous as a masked orgy.

When asked for his name, he breezily answers 'Kim Downriver', keeping the laughter at his own joke well to himself. He's committing the names and faces to memory, his fingers itching to take notes. But no satchel means no notebook which means no notes, so he has to fix what he can in his mind.

And, all things considered, so far this cult is way less creepy than the last cult he was involved with. Well, creepy in a different way, anyway. The second people start praising the Walrider he is Outtie 5000.

b. and oh i don't know why, oh i don't know why
Miles excuses himself to the restroom afterwards.

He decidedly does not go to the restroom.

Anything he can find out about this, any source, any scrap of paper, is going to be a boon. If confronted, he'll be apologetic and say he got lost - at least, if he doesn't get caught with his hand in the cookie jar, so to speak. He may even run into other people who've had the same idea.

c. the moment i wanna relax is when the shit kicks in
[Wildcard! If you want to plot, hit me up in the discord or on plurk at Chatvert, or just hop in!]

[mindflayed]

"Going anywhere interesting?" Imbros is floating a few inches off the ground, standing in a corner and observing the area psychically. So far he hasn't been able to corner any of the people he actually wants to and he's pretty annoyed about it. Why aren't any of their hosts sneaking themselves away for clandestine side meetings?

He's starting to think he might not get a snack after all.

Music Alwyn Szereban | OC | OTA

[battlebyballad]

Music has always been weak to promises of hidden stories and secret truths, and tonight is no different. She goes to the square as instructed, follows to the cabin, and commits the words to memory as best she can as she recites them. She focuses specifically on a few phrases, and that name. The vile divine. Black dream desert. Starless skies. O Chaos. Your revelations of bygone days. Your unholy nightmare. Eater of Souls. Nyarlathotep.

The robe and mask are a surprise, but a provided disguise is still a disguise. She won't trust the food for now, she thinks, but she sits confidently and waits for the next cue. When the time for introductions comes, she searches her memory for a kind name to see her through this safely.

"Nowhere, of the Eastern Stars." However many worlds away, friend, she hopes this doesn't cause you trouble.

[cult_classic]

"A unique name," remarks an older man, though not judgmentally. This man had called himself Brahm Aberdeen. He seems serious but not unkind. "How does one end up with a name like that? Is it a cultural name, or a chosen one?"

Agent Connecticut / CT | RvB | OTA

[liesdontfindyou]

CT could no more ignore such an invitation than she could stop drawing breath and keep living. At best, it's dangerous, at worst, it's actively a trap, but knowing this means nothing except that she's prepared.

(As prepared as she can be with so little information, anyway.)

The late hour means little to her. It's familiar, in a way; how many early hours has she spent awake searching for the truth in the last few years? More than she could count. She is wide awake, even alert, as she follows through the motions of their hosts and listens to the words, filing away names and details for later.

When it's her turn to introduce herself, she's had time to think, and she offers: "Constance Diaz," the name of a person who hasn't existed ever since she signed herself away to that program. A name no one here knows or will ever know holds enough grains of truth to fill an hour glass.

She's careful about how she spends her time. Enough time spent mingling with locals and otherworlders in turn. Be seen to be here, enough so that when she slips away to explore the house she can only be assumed to be talking to some other fellow.

Sneaking around without being noticed is her job. It's the only reason she lived as long as she did. Working with evidence left in physical form, papers and trinkets and tools, is a step away from the digital that she's used to, but she'll adapt. She's always adapted before.

[spaghettification]

During the mingle, 'Constance' catches his eye. Her tanner skin tone, her haircut, her name. He can't help but be reminded of his boefje, just a little bit. He floats her direction, offering a glass of wine companionably.

"Miss Diaz. Out of curiosity, hablas español?" It's not certain to be a secure means of communication, but it would be nice to have some way to speak above the heads of the locals. Latin, sadly, is completely out of the question.

The Ancient Fuelweaver | Don't Starve Together | OTA

[fuelmayor]

Trouble he will find you no matter where you go

He had considerable misgivings about the letter as soon as it arrived, but still the Fuelweaver came, intent on investigating the site of whatever ritual he was being invited to. On the few occasions when he's had time away from his work to search the island and hasn't been too busy fending off creatures of the night to scrutinise his surroundings, he's found nothing. The late hour is no obstacle to one who cannot sleep. No preparations he could make would meaningfully change anything, apart from drinking his fill of not-quite-Nightmare-Fuel before he leaves. He barely requires the lantern.

And no matter what I feed him he always seems to grow

The name Nyarlathotep is one that he's heard before, in passing, aboard the Serena Eterna. He doesn't recall what significance it held then, but it hardly matters when the epithet Eater of Souls is appended to it immediately afterwards. The dream desert, the starless skies, the nightmare through which they see. It all sounds far too much like something that belongs in Their domain. He will have no part of this. He turns to leave–

It's too late. The tiefling woman's activated the spell. It doesn't quite feel like any teleportation he's experienced in the past.

How I hate the way he makes me feel, and how I try to make him leave

The mask sits at an odd angle on his skull, but doesn't obstruct his vision. They've arrived at a human home. The Fuelweaver is willing to sit at the table, but even if he trusted the food he's incapable of consuming any of it.

A name. He has no hope of hiding his identity from the cultists; there isn't a single townsperson he could possibly be mistaken for, even among other offworlders and clad in a robe and mask, and some associate of theirs must have sent the letter to his address in the first place. Anonymity isn't what he's worried about. The name his family bestowed upon him is long since forfeit to another dark power, and if he were to give up to this devouring god the title he uses in its stead, what would he have left?

"Shade," he says. It's not an entirely untrue description. He's no longer on the Constant's chessboard, even if it wasn't Them who removed him from it. Mulcahy gives his number; Fuelweaver turns to look at his friend with a speed that betrays his shock even if the unmoving surface of his skull doesn't. Is he discarding an unwanted name? Please let that be the reason. He thought he was done with those wretched numerals, now that Number Two is dead for the last time and his Village less than ashes in the void.

how i hate the way he makes me feel

[lovethyneighb_or]

Slipping and giving out his number as a name is made all the worse by the Fuelweaver’s presence. Maybe that’s part of why he did. Maybe it felt too familiar.

As soon as they’re allowed to circulate, it’s the Fuelweaver he goes to first. They haven’t spoken much since they saw each other again, mostly owing to conflicting schedules, but this—here—

He stands there.

His expression is blank, but it’s a blankness that out of anyone here, Fuelweaver could read: some kind of careful repression. I’m sorry, or perhaps I panicked, or perhaps most of all, oh, fuck.

Dr Watson | OTA

[lightconductor]

Watson (or "John Morstan," as he named himself, the first name that occurred to him to borrow) mills around. He's admittedly a little hungry, but he is not touching the food. He remembers all too well what Cerrit told him about the last mysterious party.

So he tries to engage in conversation, his voice low so as to not be overheard regardless of who he is speaking with -- someone he knows, or a genuine cultist. There is an alertness to him, a sharpness to his glance, a strength in the way he grips his cane. He's ready to act, even if he doesn't know what that act needs to be. Really, undercover work never puts him at his best.

"Good party?" he murmurs in greeting.

[cult_classic]

"Always a good party when Larkin hosts. That man really knows how to put it together."

Richard Pirnach, as he'd introduced himself, looks up from starting to pick at the food. He doesn't have the keenest eye of anyone in this group, but his fresh arrival is looking awfully tense. A snicker rises to his face - something amused, decidedly at Watson's expense.

"Don't look so stiff! It's a grand night," He murmurs back, jovial, and perhaps a bit condescending. "I get the impression you're not much for parties, though, are you? It's alright, friend, there's no shame in it."

[skeletonkeay]

Gerry likes exactly no part of this.

He went, he followed the letter, because how could he not? Walking into obvious danger in search of information is his whole entire thing. Besides, this ragtag band could probably benefit from his experience in bullshit-wrangling. But he doesn't like any of it. Not the cabin, not the incantation (that thankfully someone else reads out --- shoutout to Music), not the robes or masks, and definitely not any of these people.

But he stays calm. He doesn't rattle. He plays the part.

Gerry watches his companions dole out their names, true and false. He watches the way that the cultists eyes light up when someone gives their real name. Holy shit. They know. They can tell. But it doesn't seem to feed them--- there's an obviousness when that sort of thing happens. They just seem to have some more trust in those who don't lie. The play here is clear.

"Gerard Keay," he says. "Hail the Crawling Chaos."

[not_a_traitor]

Interesting. Not just because he's pretty sure this man is one of the very few others in their group who shared their real name -- Gaeta's spotted him around, in the casual way of small towns, and knows he runs the bookshop. But also because the easy, confident way Gerry offers up that hail the Crawling Chaos makes him wonder, if maybe...

In a moment when the conversation turns elsewhere, Gaeta shifts closer to him.

"Mr. Keay, excuse me." Low. "Do you know what they're talking about already?"

The Cultists | OTA

[cult_classic]

When the inductees seem occupied with each other, sometimes the veteran members of the Cult of Nyarlathotep will exchange knowing glances or fervent whispers. At one point they get into a heated conversation over a handful of trinkets.

"He's already so danger-prone," Brahm remarks, sliding forward a pocket watch. "No one will really be surprised. It's a decent cover."

"My assistant will notice," Larkin remarks. "She fancies him. Agnes, however..."

Nora shakes her head. "I'd love the honor, but I have to rescind my bid. With how few doctors are left... It'll stand out."

"Hm. What about Gil?" Brahm looks to Lucy.

"I'm still using him to test out the Crystallizer," Lucy notes. "He's quite handy with it. Also I can't get it back from him. He keeps--- using it to find strange items to sell."

"Linette is still a candidate." Archie sits up straighter, squaring his shoulders proudly. His wife Maude places a locket on the table, seemingly in agreement. "Her magic is powerful. She's a sensitive soul, and she'll react well."

"Are you nuts?" Pirnach hunches closer to the table, hissing out his words. "Her connection to the Leeds family makes her a massive risk."

"It makes her an asset," Maude bites back. "The deal with---"

"Keep your voice down." The order comes as a sharp bark from Chloe, who takes the locket. "Maude is right. With ties to two of our members, and to a Leeds, and the correct disposition, plus her magical prowess... Linette is the right choice. And we'll have plenty of time to begin conditioning her to the Master's liking between the official commencement of the ritual and tonight. We'll bless the anchor, and start lining things up."

Ingmar grins broadly, neatly aligned teeth bared. "This will be fun."

Either they don't notice being heard, or they simply do not care. But the conversation breaks up, and they return to mingling.

CW: (emetiphobia) mild, non graphic reference to nausea

[theydrewfirstblood]

John is going to be sick.

He’s barely a yard away when he hears enough of the conversation to understand—and what little he can piece together forces him to breathe carefully so he doesn’t—

The feeling passes. He forces it to pass.

But he can’t quite stop himself from catching Nora’s eye a short while later…and wonder if the little gift she bestowed on him was more than just a friendly gesture.

If he touched a chord. A love of family…

He has to wonder if he’s wasting his time believing that logic was a cover for something more human.

Annabel Lee Whitlock | Nevermore | OTA

[witheredpeonies]

This is not the first time Annabel Lee has had to keep her calm and play her role to perfection, has had to shove down thoughts and emotions in favor of actions that please. She's good at it. Even if her heart is thrumming and she wants to break out in a run, this is not the time or place for an emotional outburst.

That's a good girl, the phantom voice of her father echoes in her head as she lifts a hand to her chest to introduce herself in a clarion voice. "Annabel Lee Whitlock, charmed I'm sure."

This is nothing more than another game of chess, and she is the white king this time.

So when others sneak off, when the conversation lulls, she is sure to approach the cultists and be the shiniest little distraction, all blonde curls and warm smiles. Later, later they can come together to discuss. The king will be safe on this end of the board, while the other pieces roam and seek to pin down the opposing side.

[cult_classic]

"Pleasure to meet you," Larkin says while chatting with her during the mingling period. "It's not often we get properly refined sorts in our midst. The Brennings and the Calloways are, ah. New money. As it were."

[Conclusion, OTA] Heart Eater, Mind Reader, Fear Feeder

[cult_classic]

After checking his pocket watch, Larkin rises from his seat. “My esteemed guests. Thank you all for joining us this evening. It is now time for the initiation ceremony. If you will kindly follow Ms. Albright, who will be leading the ritual in our leader’s absence, we will begin at the strike of three.”

The veteran cultists rise from their seats, taking their masks but not replacing them and donning their hoods. Leading the charge is Chloe Albright, who whispers harshly to Nora Winterbottom. “Is Ingmar still away?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“That idiot. Where the fuck did he go?”

And it is notable that Ingmar Strömberg is indeed absent, along with Maude Brenning.

Archie Brenning, however, is still quite present, and brings up the rear. Larkin is responsible for politely ensuring that all new recruits do indeed follow the group, and Archie is there to do so impolitely, if necessary.

Everyone is led down a hallway, before reaching a closed, heavy-looking door on which Chloe knocks. “Maude. It’s time.”

There is a soft shuffling sound before the door opens. Maude is standing against the wall beside the door.

On the other side of the door, there is a large, pentagonal room with a loft of sorts around the back half. The ceiling is high, impossibly high, how did they fit this room into this house? A jagged chandelier of bone, colossal and ornate, dangles proudly over an enormous stone apparatus in the shape of a hoop that nearly touches the ceiling. On the other side of it, a stone circle bearing carvings that already hold pools of drying blood. There is an altar on the other side covered in esoteric trinkets and a leather-bound book. Candles everywhere abruptly become lit.

Father Mulcahy and Felix Gaeta are already inside, for some reason. Maude Brenning is holding a gun. Once her burly husband has the door tightly shut up again, Chloe speaks.

“Please take your positions around the room. Some of you will need to be---”

Just as abruptly, the door is thrown open again, and Ingmar comes in with Imbros in tow, in whatever state the Illithid left him. “We are here! We made it--- I-I am not late, yes?”

“Shut up, Ingmar,” Chloe barks. “I don’t care. Just show everyone to their places.”

“Yes yes of course Ms. Albright right away---”

“Stop. Talking.” Chloe glares at him. “As I was saying--- please take positions around the room, including on the loft level. You will need to be evenly spaced, please. And no one is to leave this room until the ritual is complete.”

The cultists “help” their inductees arrange themselves around the room. Maude Brenning remains by the door, firearm at the ready, watching carefully.

Larkin’s large grandfather clock standing in the hall can be heard outside, chiming the hour of three. Let the ritual begin.

[ This is a mingle-esque post where people can react and interact as they please in branching threads with no specific turn order. I will leave a little time for chaos before the ritual results in death! Then you will be returned to your own time as a ghost. Each of you will wake up in the forest around the cabin after your ghost time concludes, and you do not have to submit a death certificate unless you want to for record keeping. Thanks for coming to my pizza party! ]

[witheredpeonies]

Annabel immediately goes from girl to angry ghost as they try to usher her to a position, a fog spreading along the floor of the room.

"Oh, no you don't!" Lunging for the nearest cultist, a storm of flower petals swirl around her like tiny blades of ice.