[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

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.?"

[not_the_last]

"Please, I think Anna will do, in present company." She smiles and returns the half-bow. "Unless there are other, ah ... formalities in effect?"

[cult_classic]

"Not terribly. Though many of my brethren still insist on addressing me as Mayor Larkin, as if the title holds any water in this podunk little island shithole," Larkin grumbles. "Only a few more years of smiling and nodding at Japhet fucking Leeds before the Master blesses us with his obliteration, eh?"

[not_the_last]

Cassandra keeps her hands folded perfectly still and sedate in her lap, and smiles, and nods.

"Scarcely any time at all, really."

[cult_classic]

Cassandra's barely concealed disdain goes unnoticed anyway. Larkin's too in his own head to notice.

"The man's a prick. I don't know if you've worked with him up close, but he's insufferable. Everyone thinks he's some goddamn gift to the masses but he's just another asshole who laid claim to some worthless rock to play at power," Larkin laments, taking another sip of wine. Suddenly the reason for his loose tongue becomes apparent: this idiot is drunk. He was probably pregaming the meeting. "Thinks his deal with Aster makes him the God King of Shit Island. 'Unlimited financial growth and loved by all. A territory for him to shape to his desires, at no cost until Jane births her last child.' You should have seen his face when he realized Jane gave herself to Aster to pop out one last brat despite her age. And when the demons make good on their pact with us, his face will be even more priceless."

[not_the_last]

He may be drunk, but she can't risk anyone else at the table seeing her unguarded reaction to all of this. Dahlia, oh gods, does she know? --

The part of Cassandra's mind that always stands back, assessing and calculating, has just clicked its Boots of Haste and is now running at double speed. She might or might not be expected to know all this already -- some ignorance is to be expected, as they're here in the guise of new members -- shock won't do but an impassive face or even an unchanging polite smile won't either, she'll need to respond in a way they'll expect, a way that'll please them -- how would a new cultist react to this kind of thing? --

Before he's quite finished speaking, she's let her eyes widen a little and her mouth open just a touch, as though to express a mild and slightly prurient excitement. "And will that be soon?"

[cult_classic]

"Few more years. We'll have to spend some time preparing our conduit," Larkin grumbles despairingly. "It will be well worth it, though."

[not_the_last]

"Oh yes." She smiles harder, weighs the risk against the possible benefit of fishing for a little more, decides to plunge ahead.

"If I might ask ... what are you going to do after?"

[cult_classic]

There's a pause wherein Larkin's expression morphs from taken aback to... keen. He leans on the table, smiling flirtatiously. "As in... after this, or?"

[not_the_last]

Oh. Oh dear, this is not a reaction she expected.

Split-second decision: she blinks, wide-eyed and guileless, as though she's completely missed the implication in his tone. "Oh -- I meant after the pact comes due, but is anything planned for after this?"

[cult_classic]

"Oh." Larkin is immediately embarrassed. He clears his throat and straightens back up. "Yes, well. The demons have their dealings and we have ours, and once both rituals resolve around the same time, it should create a concentration of dark energy so intense that we cut off the rest of the world and from the goddesses. In theory, this should render all of us immortal, and create a sort of... profane... playground of sorts. I'm not really sure."

[not_the_last]

In the silence of her mind, Cassandra says pleasantly, you utter imbecile.

(Not that he's wholly wrong about what's going to happen -- but that he's committing so thoroughly on such a vague promise, with no real idea what he might do with its fulfillment.)

"It sounds glorious," she says aloud, leaning forward a little, arranging her expression into something wide-eyed and dazzled and perhaps just a touch unpleasantly avid. "I look forward to whatever small part in it I might have."

[witheredpeonies]

Game recognizes game. Annabel Lee sees Cassandra wearing the same mask of poise and dignity and grace, and can't resist (not like moth to flame, more like one firefly drawn to dance with another) an approach.

"I was half-afraid the evening would be all the talk of stuffy scholars, with no proper company to talk to." The mask of her smile is soft and warm and pink and girly.

[not_the_last]

Oh, that's ... a different approach. One that Cassandra knows she herself could never quite pull off; her own mask is cool and pale and gracious and polite, a very different one that can certainly work with this one nonetheless.

"Oh, the stuffy scholars may have one or two interesting things to say before all's said and done." She smiles. "But company is always pleasant, Miss ... Whitlock, did you say? Or shall we be at first names directly?"

[witheredpeonies]

"I suppose that depends on if we're going to be friends directly. It's awfully stuffy to address one's friends by surname."

A gentle offer of allyship. Even if the demeanor is cotton candy and could melt away as easily, the underlying sentiment is sincere. Birds of a feather can flock together, their wings sheltering others from view, as they learn what they can on the social front.

[not_the_last]

"It is rather," she agrees, with a smile that's all bright pleasantry, and a nod that's a businesslike acceptance of the offer. "Shall we be Anna and Annabel, then?"

(It doesn't sound quite as similar as it might look in print; the first A in the name Cassandra has given is a long one, like the A in want.)

[witheredpeonies]

"I think we shall." The nod is returned before Annabel takes a moment to look out at the room. Just as fishermen see the spots where it's best to drop bait, she sees the eddies and currents around the long-standing cult members. Ingmar, all pale and erratic; Chloe, clearly the leader; the Brennings, tied to one another as clearly as to the group as a whole.

It's the last pair she lifts her chin at to subtly indicate them for Cassannadra. "Those two had--perhaps have, in this moment--a daughter named Linette. Married to Harriet Leeds."

She isn't sure when she is; this reminds her of that past-dream, but she isn't sure if Cassandra's twigged to timeline fuckery at play.

[not_the_last]

"Leeds," she echoes, in an undertone. "That name I do know. Not most of the others; I'm afraid I haven't been here very long."

A pause. "Though I believe I recognize our host from his portrait."

[witheredpeonies]

"Ah, allow me to point out a few others of notable names. Miss Winterbottom there must be a relative of Agnes, who ran the only medical clinic on the island before we all arrived. Calloway, same name as Gil Calloway, also known as the 'Shady Merchant'. There was an article on him in the Gazette, a few months back. It wasn't flattering. It was not, however, written by the Mr. Aberdeen on the newspaper's staff, Yorick."

Her voice is soft and the pointing gestures very subtle as she helps connect the dots for Cassanna.

[not_the_last]

She nods, listening. All she's missing, she thinks, is a fan to flutter distractingly, to conceal moving lips and the occasional gesture.

"And none of these people are here anymore. Nor this house?"

[witheredpeonies]

"This whole estate is something of a husk, in the present day. And the people--no, I can't recall seeing any of them still around. Either they're gone or they've completely gone to ground."

That makes two (three if we count Shen Qingqiu) people who'd be happier here with a fan in their hands.

[not_the_last]

"I wonder what they think we're doing here, so many strangers at once." She eyes the Brennings, then the Albright woman. "Do you suppose they've a group on the mainland, and think that's where we came from? Or do we look to them like people they know?"

[witheredpeonies]

"I think we look like we're curious and awkward, trying to sit at the adult table at a holiday for the first time. I also think they're confident in us not being a danger to their operation."

Which has its implications. Either their lips will be sealed, or...

[not_the_last]

She nods. "It does look that way."

It doesn't look good, it sounds like.