ph_logs | September Event - Waltz of the Harlequin

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September Event - Waltz of the Harlequin

**Plain text version here.

WALTZ OF THE HARLEQUIN

ACT ONE: MAKE AN ENTRANCE

{ CONTENT WARNINGS: None }

SCENE: Leeds Estate Ballroom, night. Music can be heard from a small string band in the corner. Enter PARTYGOERS, stage right.

The estate is beautifully decorated, as it always is, in vivid blues against dark wood. Flowers made from blue and golden silk adorn the walls and furniture. Candles burn in tasteful centerpieces on the round dining tables. Delicious-looking foods can be seen on the serving tables, ready to be claimed and devoured. A member of DAHLIA’S diligent staff tends an ornate bar near the door and dancers in fine clothes twirl on the dance floor to upbeat string music.

DAHLIA can be seen in the center of the room, wearing a golden gown embroidered with roses and surrounded by her ENTOURAGE, which consists of DAISY, LAIOS, RADAR, and JEFF. All of them wear the colors of House Leeds---- blue and gold. She welcomes the PARTYGOERS warmly.

DAHLIA, going for an appropriate greeting for the person she is speaking to--- a handshake, a hug, a kiss on the cheek.
Welcome. So glad you could make it. You look ravishing. Please help yourself to something to eat, and enjoy your night.

It is a beautiful night. Formal only in appearances, the energy of the Gala is casual and light, if not a bit decadent. All seems well.

ACT TWO: ALL IS REVEALED

{ CONTENT WARNINGS: rotten food, blood, forced body transformation, unreality. }

SCENE: Leeds Estate Ballroom, one hour later. The party is well underway. When the grandfather clock chimes, it sounds strange and distorted.

The sound immediately draws the attention of DAHLIA, who grows concerned. The sour chiming continues. In the center of the ballroom, a plume of sickly yellow smog bursts as if from a smoke bomb, flooding the room and causing PARTYGOERS to stagger and cough. When it fades, the environment has changed.

Enter MENDEL, from the smoke burst.

The decor in the space has changed drastically. Where once the space was deep, cool browns and shades of blue accented with gold, it is now filled with ruddy browns, jaundiced yellows, plummy purples, and searing reds. The bundles of silk flowers are replaced with bouquets of decaying fishing nets, bloody gauze, and rotten fruit which seems to bloom from splitting bruises. Tattered swags in mismatched patterns line the walls, and each PARTYGOER is now in a masquerade mask designed to fit with their outfit.

DAHLIA, lightly panicked.
What are you doing here?

MENDEL, laughing raucously.
Surprise! Oh, I do so hate to cut in, but I simply could not go another year without doing something special for my favorite niece.

He wraps his arms, which look like graying, exposed meat, around DAHLIA.

MENDEL
You see, everyone---- Darling Dahlia here has been lying to you. Her whole life, even! Can you believe it? You see, her father was never Japhet Leeds. The man couldn’t stand her! Jane Leeds was still her mother, oh yes, but her father---

DAHLIA attempts to cut in, but MENDEL grips her tighter, clamping a hand over her mouth as he presents her to the crowd. His claws dig into her arm and her cheek. He continues to snicker as he speaks, and DAHLIA struggles.

MENDEL
Her father is my own baby brother, Prince Aster of the Dark Feast! Isn’t that a funny prank? But I think the joke has overstayed its welcome. It’s time to show your little friends who you really are, isn’t it, princess?

In a swift motion, MENDEL pulls DAHLIA into a twirl, as if dancing, sending her spinning toward the crowd. When it ceases, DAHLIA stands before her gala, changed. Her complexion is blue now, and her hair, raven black. A pair of bat-like wings adorn her back, and a crown of antlers like that of a deer wreath her head.

MENDEL
Ah, no, that’s not quite what I was going for. Let me try again.

With a snap of MENDEL’S fingers, DAHLIA changes again, her body shifting against her will. Her well-kept black locks morph into wiry ashen hair which covers her body. Her face extends into that of a cow-like skull with sharp teeth. Her hands become clawed, and her feet become cloven hooves. Before the crowd now stands THE PINE DEVIL.

MENDEL
There’s our birthday girl!

THE PINE DEVIL (DAHLIA) attempts to lunge at MENDEL, but with another snap of his fingers, his streamers and swags lash out at her like vines and lash her tightly.

MENDEL
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some catching up to do with my darling niece. And you all have a party to enjoy! I leave you in the care of my talented assistants.

He starts to turn away, but then holds up a finger to shake and turns back. Oh, one more thing, I almost forgot. I’ve left all of you some party favors in those masks. Have fun!

MENDEL grabs a bound and helpless DAHLIA and disappears once more in another plume of smoke.

Enter BLANCHE and SEEMINGLY (GLEE MASK), opposite sides of the stage. The pair of them meet eyes, and pantomime tugging on an invisible rope in opposite directions, and suddenly the ballroom expands as if unrolled like a scroll, becoming a sprawling labyrinth of tiny ballrooms, winding corridors, and secret alcoves. The PARTYGOERS are separated from one another. At the same time, the magic in their masks activates, inflicting one of the following curses:

Leaky Bucket: deprives the party goer of their short-term memory. They know who they are, and why they're here insofar as understanding it's Dahlia's birthday gala, but all new information tends to leave their mind after a few minutes. (Think Dory from Finding Nemo.)

Amnesiac's Lament: deprives the individual of long-term memory. All new information is retained, but they have no idea who they are or why they're here. How distressing this is can be at the player's discretion. Perhaps they despair at the memory loss and are trying to find a way to escape the ball, perhaps they don't see anything wrong with their lack of context and are just trying to enjoy this weird party.

False Friend: the opposite of Zone of Truth, those with this affliction will be unable to tell the truth and can ONLY tell lies. Any fact from the most mundane to the most complex can only be lied about. Whether or not the person is cognizant of their new habit is the player's choice.

The World Revolving: those afflicted suffer frequent bouts of vertigo which makes the space feel as though it is spinning, sometimes very slowly, sometimes very quickly.

Dirge of Delusion: this particular curse will cause the mask-wearer to struggle to perceive reality correctly. Objects will appear as other objects, people as different people, rooms as some other place, or even the entire ball as somewhere entirely different. These disorienting visions will come and go at times.
Feeling Funny: the wearers of these masks will find that their emotions are completely out of control, sometimes bursting into fits of laughter, tears, or abrupt paranoia, before going completely numb for a while.
All PARTYGOERS will find their masks incapable of being removed. Those with infernal resistance from NEIL or the HOUSE OF CARDS will find their masks are less impactful, but the resistance is imperfect. However, ALICE DYER and SAMAMA KHALID will find that they have absolutely no effect from the masks at all, due to the BOON OF DIPLOMATIC IMMUNITY acquired by ALICE.

The party resumes.

ACT THREE: Dance with the Devil

{ CONTENT WARNINGS: rotten food being eaten, imprisonment, impending violence }

SCENE: a distorted Leeds Estate, time unknown. As the party devolves into chaos, a clandestine meeting is arranged to locate the host.

Somewhere in the distorted estate, ALICE locates JEAN. Once she gets the Golden Wolf Mask in their hands, JEAN will be able to remove their current mask to wear the new one, which has a unique effect---- the ability to see the path of MENDEL through its eyes.

JEAN and ALICE, along with anyone they are able to recruit for help, will find MENDEL and DAHLIA on the second floor, which has transformed into a large theater balcony overlooking the party. DAHLIA is caged, and MENDEL seems to be enjoying the view as he eats half-rotten tomatoes as if they are apples.

MENDEL’S assailants choose how to make their approach. When he is destroyed, the party will end.

GRAND FINALE

{ CONTENT WARNINGS: fire }

SCENE: Leeds Estate ballroom, late night. The stage has returned to its prior state, and we are left to the aftermath.

When MENDEL is at last destroyed, the ballroom is restored to its normal size and coloration, as if the events of the night never occurred. Masks fall away, and DAHLIA stands center stage, looking exactly as her friends and neighbors remember her. However, the memory of what has occurred here tonight cannot be wiped away, as evidenced from all the onlookers around her. Are their expressions concerned? Angry? Fearful? Hurt?

Does it matter?

DAHLIA, quietly.
Get out.

There is a moment of stillness and consideration, before she speaks again, louder.

DAHLIA, shouting.
GET. OUT.

As she speaks the second word, a massive burst of blue flame erupts behind her. Glass breaks. Tables topple. DAHLIA’s hair flutters in the force of the blast. She stands stiffly, unafraid as the hot, raging blue flames consume her ballroom, peeling the wallpaper and cracking the wood. She means to chase everyone out, even if it means bringing the room down upon herself.

When everyone is gone, the flames seem to retreat, as if sucked up into their original blast point. DAHLIA, spent, collapses to her knees in the burnt shell of her own birthday party, and sobs.

Blackout. Curtains fall.

After the event ends, Dahlia will be absent from town and her home only open to close CR until further notice. She will not be answering her sending stone or her phone calls.

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He measures out the tea leaves, adds them to the cup. Pours the hot water over them.

"When we were in the woods that one time. When, um." He swallows. "When you were Dolly. And you rescued me when I was getting chased by all those greenstriders. You said y-you weren't gonna eat me because I was gentle."

Radar watches the leaves rotate in a slow orbit around the cup, carried by the fading currents of the water.

"Did you mean that, or did you just not eat me 'cause I'm your assistant?"

That gives her pause, as she thinks back to her mental state that day. She shuffles the eggs in the pan a bit.

"...I did mean it, yeah," she says softly, gazing down at the solidifying eggs. "For most of my life, I didn't think too hard about... about eating. I hunted like anything else. Like an animal. I took the path of least resistance, jumping people who were vulnerable, leaving when I felt outmatched. Getting hurt or dying would put me in too many situations where I'd have to lie, and someone could draw parallels. I also didn't really think about... how much they might be suffering. The Dark Feast is all about, you know, taking that which isn't yours by force, power imbalances. So I think in a metaphysical way, the pain would feed me as well. I was more concerned with being efficient than ethics. I couldn't afford to care about that stuff."

She didn't mean to babble this much, but the allure of being understood is a cruel temptress. She dumps the eggs onto a plate, starting on the bacon.

"But the more I connected with people here, the more I started to resent what I am. I started hating that people who were kind and lovely and gentle and better than me were the ones who suffered the most, while the violent ones got away unscathed. The monsters like me. And I wanted to stick it to my father. So when I saw an opportunity to go against my nature... Plus I just. Like you. You're someone I care about, and I had an opportunity to help you."

As her story finishes, a heavy silence hangs over her, broken only by sizzling meat.

"I'm not a very good person," Dahlia murmurs. "But at least there's some solace in also being kind of a shitty monster, too. You, Radar, you're--- you are a great person. You deserve a life of peace. And I want to protect that peace. It means the world to me. It's the only good thing I've ever been able to do with that awful power."

Huge chunks of the gala are a blur, unsurprisingly, but Radar remembers a couple fragments. A monster who didn't want to be a monster anymore. A war so small -- and so large -- it could fit inside her heart.

He listens in silence as Dahlia explains. It's another war, he realizes. Isn't this how it always goes? Violence, death, the slow realization that you're just sick of it all, but by then you've got no way out. So you do the little things you can while you're still trapped in the gears, so you don't completely lose your mind -- or your soul.

But oh, the things she's stuck doing, over and over. Maybe forever.

Radar thinks he really is gonna cry.

The bacon sizzles. He's sure he knows the answer already. Still, he asks, smaller than he wants to: "Does it have to be people?"

"Yes." Her voice is barely above a breath, and she is drowning in shame. "I've tried everything else. Some larger game can tide me over, but--- then I start to get sick, and---"

He doesn't want it to be any different. Dahlia is Dolly is the Pine Devil, and Radar told Dolly he didn't blame her for eating people, because sometimes that's just what animals do. It shouldn't be different when he thinks of Dahlia doing the same thing. Especially if she doesn't want to be doing it at all. It's not her fault she got made like this.

So why does he feel so sick every time he thinks about it?

Maybe bacon really was a bad idea.

The weight of her shame crushes him, and if just hearing it makes him feel this awful he can't imagine how bad it's gotta be to haul it around like she's been doing for years. And -- and honestly if Radar makes a girl cry he's gonna feel lower than dirt. He breathes out, shaky.

"Hey, you, um." Gently, he starts to reach for the spatula she's holding, just like he reached out to touch Dolly's head. "You want me to finish the bacon? Your tea's done, you can -- you can sit if you want."

Swallowing roughly, Dahlia gives Radar a tight nod and hands over the spatula, backing away from the stove. She looks so small. Dahlia's never been tall, and she's about as dense as a matchstick in terms of her figure, but her personality and her poise always made her seem like a large presence in a room. But right now, it almost feels like she could fade away.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly. "For--- for everything. For hiding it. For getting you involved."

For being this vile thing that I am, this creature of violence and horror and blood, and asking you to try and love me. It's a thought she doesn't want. But it comes all the same.

Slinking off to the table, she takes a seat at the breakfast nook and pours them each a cup of tea. The action feels foreign and unearned, like even the smallest parts of normal life are no longer deserved. Aster's been preparing her to feel this way since she was small. "No one will ever love you once they know what you are. You must hide this part of you until your dying day, lest they all turn on you. You are a servant of the Dark Feast. You are not like them. Never forget."

His whole chest knots up so fast and so completely that he can't breathe. Radar's got no hope of holding back tears anymore; swiftly, he bends his head over the pan to hide his face.

For being what I am, and wanting you to love me. He knows it's not the same, when he hasn't done anything but be short and awkward and too soft for his own good, but what she's thinking rhymes with a heartbreak he's felt dozens of times. Not even just with girls, either. It's in how Uncle Ed only took him on one hunting trip because Radar sobbed when he saw the dead bird splayed out on the grass; how his mom had to sit him down so many times and tell him to stop getting attached to the runts of each litter; how even his favorite people tease him because he never quite manages to act like a real man should.

And here he is on the other side of it. He's worse than lower than dirt. How can she think it's her fault when Radar's the one who can't deal with it?

He shuffles the bacon around and scrubs futilely at his eyes with his free hand. As he starts lifting the strips that've crisped up out of the pan, he hears another voice in Dahlia's head. Not her own thoughts, but a memory.

Suddenly all that grief contracts into anger like a fist. Yeah, Aster's a demon, but who does he think he is saying that kind of stuff to his own daughter? Like she doesn't deserve anything because she's different? When he's the reason she's like this in the first place?!

"Where's your dad get off saying stuff like that to you?" he demands before he can stop himself. He spins around, gesticulates with the spatula. "Like, like all you're good for is killing people?"

Edited 2024-09-26 14:57 (UTC)

Oblivious to Radar's internal turmoil amid her own, Dahlia sits at the table, looking out the window, watching the last vestiges of September hemorrhage summer heat into the autumn chill. And without missing a beat, she speaks, distant and cold, her voice a murmur.

"Because that is all I'm good for. It's what I was made for. I was handcrafted, decades before my birth, to be the perfect servant of the Dark Feast. Sitting high atop my little hill, looking down on all the prey, hoarding their money through work that wasn't even mine, consuming everything they are while they're trapped in here with me. That's what I was made to do. I was made to take, to control, to eat. And eat, and eat, and eat. And I was put into a pen that would feed me forever."

"Yeah, but you don't wanna be like that!"

He starts to move toward the table, visibly remembers the bacon's still on the stove, backtracks just long enough to pull it off the burner, then returns to the breakfast nook.

"And you're not, you know? Not all the time." A little desperate. "You're smart, you're funny, you're, I could talk to you for a whole day straight and still not wanna stop. You really care about people, I seen it. You got all that in you too even if you got a monster also."

"Radar, what I want has nothing to do with it. I don't---"

Then there's a realization. The thing she told Laios last night about her fire. Scorched earth. It doesn't come from Aster.

It belongs to her.

Dahlia sits back in her chair. "I think... Actually, I think what I want might be starting to matter very much." Dahlia looks up at him. "I think I'm developing my own domain."

He's got no idea what she's talking about, but clearly it's important. Slowly, he sinks into the chair opposite her.

"What do you mean?"

"It's, um--- It's demon stuff, I..." Come on, Dahlia, quit vibrating and think. "Every demon has a domain. Some are broad or abstract, some are specific and concrete. The broader ones tend to go to royals, like my father, and get more tightly defined as they go down the ranks so that they can be, you know, sorted under the big ones. The Dark Feast is consumption, manipulation, extortion, but the fire that I have, it's... it's not any of those things. It's anger, it's vindication, it's--- The term that sprang to mind last night was 'scorched earth.' That's what I said to Laios."

Radar's forehead wrinkles. If Dahlia's thoughts before were ash scattering listlessly in a breeze, now they're one quickfire spark after another, popping so fast that he can't track them all. He leans his elbows on the table and focuses hard on what she's saying out loud.

"So -- so that means you're not Aster's after all." The last word swings up into half a question, unsure. "Or at least not all of you is."

"...I think it means there's a way out," Dahlia murmurs. "I don't know how this works yet. And I don't really know who it would be safe to ask. But if there's a way out, it has something to do with the fire magic."

"Yeah."

For the first time since last night, hope starts to lift Radar's expression. He even smiles a little -- a shadow of his usual dimpled grin, maybe, but better than nothing.

"Yeah, see? It doesn't matter what he was trying to make you for. You got other ways to -- to stick it to him and do what you want. Not just what he's wanted you to do the whole time."

"I guess we'll see," Dahlia says through nervous laughter. "I don't want to get my hopes too high just yet, but--- it's something."

She looks up at him almost sheepishly from her teacup. "After we eat, do you... wanna go lie down? I think I could use a nap. Maybe with someone close to me. I don't really want to be alone right now."

"Oh -- "

His heart flutters, and it's got nothing to do with fear or anger or sadness anymore. It's almost funny, in the middle of everything, feeling the exact same nerves that show up whenever a girl looks at him like that.

Why shouldn't they, though? Dahlia is still Dahlia.

Radar swallows. "Yeah," he says, and congratulates himself when he doesn't squeak. "Yeah, we can do that. Hang on, lemme -- "

He bolts to his feet to grab the plates of food, shuttling them over to the table. The task calms him enough that he thinks to ask, a little worriedly: "How long've you been up?"

"I didn't really sleep," Dahlia confesses, "but I've only been physically up for, I dunno, maybe an hour."

Radar winces. "Jeez, that's even less than I got."

Which isn't exactly a surprise, but still. He reclaims his seat and starts to assemble a few sandwiches for them.

"Not like I haven't got time," Dahlia muses. "I'm not leaving the house for a while. If I can ever leave it again. We'll see, I guess."

Once her plate is in front of her, it takes all her self control not to tear into it like an animal, she's so hungry. But she eats just as politely as ever, very practiced at forcing herself to pretend to be a person.

"Hey, no, don't say that," he protests. "You'll..."

And he trails off. Because honestly, Radar doesn't know if what he's about to say is true. It's like he half-asked Daisy a couple hours earlier: everybody's gonna hate her now, aren't they.

He watches her eat; sees the poise for what it really is. The helplessness cinches around his heart again. For once, Radar isn't very hungry, but he makes himself take a couple bites of his own sandwich anyway.

"I'll stay here a little longer," he says, low. "So I can run any errands you need. And -- so you got company."

Edited 2024-10-07 22:21 (UTC)

"...Is it too much to ask if you'll hold me for a while?" Dahlia asks quietly, more tentative than she's ever been.

Another spike of adrenaline catches Radar under the ribs. It freezes him in place for a couple seconds, speechless. If it weren't for how sad and lost Dahlia sounds, he'd be stuck there a lot longer, probably -- but, heart thundering all over again, he manages to shake his head.

"No. I mean, no, it ain't too much to ask, I-I can... yeah." A rush of warmth overtakes his nerves; helplessly, Radar smiles, just a little. "Yeah. I will."

"Good." A relieved smile takes over Dahlia's face, however small, and her shoulders relax. "...I meant it when you said you don't need to work today. Let's just... recover. Okay?"

It feels like he's barely done anything, for her to relax like that. And she doesn't want him to do anything else neither. Maybe it's just because Radar's tired and headachey and his ears're still ringing a little, but he can't make it make any sense at all. He doesn't mind, it's just...

Oh, he doesn't know. Maybe he'll understand once they've gotten some sleep.

"Sometimes working's how I recover, when it's bad," he admits. "But... okay. I'll try."

Which means he does his best not to keep fussing through the remainder of breakfast. He even resists washing all the dishes right then and there; just puts them to soak in the sink until later.

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September Event - Waltz of the Harlequin

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