September Event - Waltz of the Harlequin

[pumpkinhollow]

**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.

Comments

act two

[incomingchoppers]

Radar has followed the same curving wall for hours. Gravity tugs on him in lopsided directions, like he's walking along the inside of a sphere, but he never falls. The constant threat of it just swoops through his stomach over and over. The plunge will come, but he doesn't know when.

One wrong step. One slip. One... door?

Desperate for steady ground, he sprints toward it, yanks it open and stumbles through. As soon as it shuts behind him, the cacophony drops away in an all-consuming silence.

The three people sitting in front of Radar tense up. It's the same movement, but staggered, each one lagging half a second behind the other. They vibrate and stutter in and out of the same spot, translucent: a child, a chaplain, a friend he almost doesn't recognize.

"...Father?"

[lovethyneighb_or]

Francis leaps to his feet. Mulcahy leaps to his feet.4077 staggers to his feet.

He still can't see anything in this dark, but he'd know that voice anywhere. But Radar wouldn't have even existed--why has he left--he was never here--wait, he found him again, he did, there's an island--

He doesn't understand--

(And Saint Patrick picked a shamrock and held it up for all to see...)

"What?" he says, uselessly. "Radar? Yes? How are you... what? How? Are you... in m-my--my h--ten--room? ... My tent?"

[incomingchoppers]

The voices overlap and echo, offset, just like the figures do. Radar gives his head a short, sharp shake as he grimaces, like that'll snap everything into focus. House -- tent -- room --

Tent. Father Mulcahy swims to the fore, two bars on one side of his jacket and the cross of an army chaplain on the other.

"I just got here," he tries to explain. "Through the door." His attention slides to the palest of the figures, and he notices, with a dull shock, that the only color on him seems to be red. Just on his fingers, nowhere else... but as he watches, it creeps upward an inch closer to his knuckles.

He steps closer. Worriedly, "How long've you been sitting in here?"

Nobody else he's run into yet has just sat there, like it's not even worth trying to get out.

[lovethyneighb_or]

“For—”

The question is like a key to a lock. It’ll slide into any number of keyholes, but only one will turn. How long were you in there?

Only a few minutes. Twenty minutes. Since the blackout was called, Mulcahy thinks and almost says—

4077, eyes wide, voice like a dry reed, murmurs “I don’t know. There’s no windows here. I’m sure it must have been weeks, but they insist it hasn’t been. They… I think they’re lying to me.”

Unmoving, his gaze slides to the space behind where Radar must be. “… The door is open?”

[incomingchoppers]

Everything Vickie told him strikes the inside of his skull like shrapnel ricocheting. Spied on. Gaslit. Betrayed. Drugs. Torture. The red has crawled halfway up 4077's palms.

Somehow, Radar manages not to let his voice shake, at the expense of pretty much every other part of him trembling. "Yeah. C'mon, all of you. I-it hasn't been that long, I think it's only a couple hours."

Isn't it?

cw allusions to electroshock

[lovethyneighb_or]

“N-no—“

Another lie about long he’s been here—4077(Francis)(Mulcahy) stumbles back, a frantic rage sparking in him. No. No more. No more pretending he hasn’t already been here for weeks. No more holding him here for longer than they promised. No more tables, no more machines, no more

(I feel the burn, but I don’t feel the pain—)


A white-hot flash like power lines sparking. 4077 tries to […] as the world shudders. “Do you smell smoke?” Francis asks. Mulcahy says, “Where are you going at this hour in a blackout?”

[incomingchoppers]

"I'm not lying, I swear!" cries Radar. He takes another involuntary step closer, one hand half raised. "I promised I wouldn't anymore. I -- "

His hand snaps shut as the room convulses around them. Radar staggers. All he could hear when he first walked in was Mulcahy in triplicate; now, for a few seconds, he can't even hear that. The smoke clears from his head just in time to catch, -- hour in a blackout?

"There's no blackout," he tries, focusing on Mulcahy. "It's -- "

He can't lie, but he doesn't know what else to say.

"It's over, it's lifted."

[lovethyneighb_or]

“Oh. Already?” That’s the trust he has in him. Absolute. He stands, arms outstretched as he tries to find his way in the dark.

“I apologize for the confusion. My head has been… elsewhere. This must be important if you came to me first.” Otherwise he’d see the camp lights on. His hand finds Radar’s face (“ooh, sorry!”) then moves to his shoulder, and the firmness of his grip is (trusting)(assuring)(…).

(That pale apparition seems to be more of a haze than a person at the moment.)

“Where are we going?” Francis Mulcahy asks.

[incomingchoppers]

At least he doesn't knock the glasses off Radar's face. Boy, wouldn't that be something, if he couldn't see and couldn't hear anything beyond Mulcahy.

Okay. Okay. He doesn't know where they are or how to escape, but he's gonna have to figure it out. The Father's hand feels heavy as a two-hundred-pound litter on his shoulder; as much as he wants to cry I don't know, he can't.

He focuses on Francis. Jeez, he's so little. It'd be hard to imagine Mulcahy ever being that small if he weren't standing right there in front of him. "Somewhere safer," he says, as if Francis were one of the orphans bunking down at the 4077th for a couple days. "Stay close, okay? All of you."

Oh, he hopes 4077 can hear him.

He moves back toward the door, and pushes it open.

[lovethyneighb_or]

“Be careful. My parents are upset,” he warns. He shouldn’t have to explain why having a stranger in their house would make things worse, even if he trusts him more than he trusts them.

The next room over is still dark, except for a bright and stark light swinging in circles overhead, which would be less of an issue if the room weren’t full of misshapen fortresses of tables, tablecloths, tableware, books, and chairs, all stacked together in precarious fortresses that seem ready to fall over in a moment. Some parts are lashed together with braided cord, but not nearly enough. (Is that a piano hanging from the ceiling?)

The light throws spidery shadows from every structure, ebbing and undulating with every round it makes. The floor and walls are polished to a reflective sheen. Francis takes a step and nearly slips, catching himself on Radar. He groans, distinctly frustrated.

[incomingchoppers]

Oh, this isn't good. This isn't where the door was supposed to go.

Radar steadies Francis without even thinking about it. Swallowing hard, he takes in the hoarder's labyrinth, trying to piece together a route as each short arc of light illuminates a new spot. He listens futilely for any breath, any echo. Something that'll guide him better than his stupid eyes that haven't worked right since he got his first pair of glasses at age two.

Nothing.

Francis may be small, but he's just old enough to be that awkward size where it's a little tough to pick him up. (Especially when you don't even clear five and a half feet yourself.) That doesn't stop Radar: "C'mere," he says, softly, "I got you," and gets his arms secured tight around Francis so he can heft him onto his hip. "We're gonna walk slow and careful. Don't touch anything that's stacked up."

...Now he's just gotta follow his own advice. Slow and precarious as if he were walking through a minefield, Radar moves deeper into the room.

[lovethyneighb_or]

Francis hasn't been picked up by anyone but his oldest brother in a long time, and he (startles)(flinches) a little with the surprise of it. His hands bunch in Radar's shirt. Sorry if you get prodded by the tusks jutting out from his heavy iron mask as he smushes against you, Radar, but at least he's very light, even for a kid his age.

(There's something stabilizing in this, in being treated so gently. In being guided when he's scared. Francis has never been Mulcahy or 4077, but all of him remembers being a child.)

It goes smoothly for a while, as long as they're careful. Avoiding ropes that criss-cross pathways. Sidestepping protrusions of furniture. Then, humming into the bottom Radar's mind, is an indistinct sound like a crowded circus audience from a far distance. Something in the room moves; where only the tops of some towers are visible, they've begun to shift and creak as whatever it is in here with them starts to climb.

Francis, who is a good child and does not wriggle, grasps Radar tight. "Hide."

[incomingchoppers]

When his ears finally catch something beyond their own footsteps and breath, Radar's first reaction isn't relief. Instead, a prickle of fear washes over him, raising goosebumps everywhere it goes. He freezes for a split second.

Then Francis whispers that one word, and the wave turns to a tsunami.

Radar bites his tongue as hard as he dares and swings them behind the nearest stack, out of view. (He hopes, oh he hopes.) He lowers Francis down, but only so he can pull them both into a crouch. One arm stays tight around the kid's shoulders.

He holds his breath, head cocked, listening so hard it almost makes his ears hurt all over again.

[lovethyneighb_or]

Francis’ breath goes shallow. Though they crouch, one leg stays up, foot planted firmly to the floor like a runner preparing to sprint. He’s a little too practiced at this.

The shadow crests the stacks, spider-like in its too-many eerily long limbs stretching out from a body draped in dazzling fabric and sequins that makes it difficult to look at beneath the swinging light. It leaps, grabs a hold of the hanging piano, and swings like an acrobat onto the stack they’re hiding beneath, which creaks and buckles under the weight.

The light swings. It has no eyes.

Something seems to be shifting under its skin. The noise of a crowd hums louder. Some words surface louder than others: naughty… listen… listen to…

Francis thinks, Daddy is going to kill us.

[incomingchoppers]

No he's not, Radar almost says aloud, the urge to reassure so strong that it nearly overpowers their need to hide. He stops himself just in time. Squeezes Francis's shoulders, with all the fierceness he can't put into words, and presses a finger to his own lips: shhh.

No eyes means it'll hear even better than Radar can.

The stack lists, wobbling harder. Radar shuts his eyes, listens, listens, letting the noise paint a clearer path to the next safe spot. Is it better to run or to move slow? He doesn't know.

But he knows where to go, and, catching Francis's eye, points to another stack twenty feet ahead.

[lovethyneighb_or]

Francis, huddled and sheltered in against Radar, follows his hand and sees the way.

For better or worse, he's known how to sneak around his whole life, and has only gotten better at it. 4077 suddenly looks clearer than he has this whole time. (Maybe it was the shoulder squeeze?) But he takes off his shoes and gestures for Radar to do the same, and very carefully, stands.

He can't get caught, he thinks as he urges Radar ahead of him. There's some kind of grave clarity in the thought. I'll never forgive myself if they take him. The universe would lose a light. I don't want to think about what they'd turn him into.

The spider-acrobat creeps down; the stack groans, listing dangerously as it sniffs at the spot where they were, one crooked palm leaning down to brush over the floor.

[incomingchoppers]

The thoughts flicker across Radar's mind like a stone skipping over a pond. As soon as he hears them, his throat knots up so tight he wouldn't be able to speak anymore even if it were safe. Blinking hard, he grips his shoes to his chest like his teddy bear and tiptoes ahead.

He wills himself not to look back at the noise. He knows exactly what's happening. There's no point, right? The monster's on the hunt, the sniper is aiming his rifle, the shell will fall once it find its target. Sure, it might hit them if they're moving, but if they stop, then they'll definitely die.

They reach the next stack. Radar exhales, as quietly as he can. Okay? he mouths to 4077, even as he's already listening for where to go next.

[lovethyneighb_or]

Okay, 4077 mouths back. Even if he’s more distinct now than ever before, there’s still fuzz around the edges, a blurring when he moves. Like he’s even more of a memory than Francis is.

He keeps them moving, always keeping Radar ahead of him; if Radar hears that shimmering sound, has a better idea of where to go, he’ll follow. All that matters is that they stay ahead. He can hear it, the grotesque strain of its lithe limbs.

The hanging piano sways. Above, the spidery acrobat creeps.

Ahead, there’s a straight shot to the next door, except for the fact that there’s a wall of rope and hazards that by all means they could technically squeeze through, if it wouldn’t inevitably send furniture crashing down.

[incomingchoppers]

Oh no.

Radar holds his breath, eyes darting, trying to puzzle out where the ropes intersect and how much weight they might be holding. It's impossible. They're gonna get caught, they're gonna --

Something flickers at the very edge of sight. A soft glow, pink shading to green. He walked for so long before finding Mulcahy that he forgot where he was before, and now, when he lets his breath go, it almost sounds like the quietest gasp of a laugh.

Because there's a vine adorned with hundreds of tiny flowers that pushes between a crack in the wall.

He reaches toward it. The plant meets him halfway, like a greeting, before it winds -- careful, careful -- around the furniture for extra support. Enough that even if they knock something free as they scramble through the hazards, the vine will be there to catch it.

[lovethyneighb_or]

It’s Francis that clings to the edges of Radar’s jacket as he watches the vines and flowers bloom in equal parts abject terror and wonder. Though the mask and his memories filter his perception of his surroundings, the vines he sees clearly in all their wonder. That’s the world outside the house, he thinks, coming in to meet them. Come outside, where it’s brighter, he imagines it saying. I’ll help you.

Like the palm that grew over Jonah to shade his head. The word that comes to mind is miracle.

No time to waste this gift. Francis starts picking his way through, stepping and climbing as carefully as he can with all the disorienting shadows from the swinging light. Good thing they’re both short.

[incomingchoppers]

Radar follows close behind, glancing over his shoulder toward the monster as he ushers Francis along. The vine thickens, creaking slightly, and splits like a fractal into half a dozen more tendrils. Several wrap tighter around the furniture; one sneaks ahead near Francis's eye level, pointing the clearest way through the traps. Flowers open, and as the do, more pink-and-green light rises, counteracting the erratic sway of the overhead light. This way.

As Radar skirts his fingers over the ropes, they shift to green as well. Easier to untangle, easier to move aside, sometimes without him even having to touch them at all, like they're listening just as hard as the original vine. Still, he steps lightly. Almost through -- almost --

[lovethyneighb_or]

Beautiful. It's so beautiful.

Beautiful enough that Francis stops paying just enough attention and trips--a vine catches him, but the little yelp was just loud enough for the monster in the (bedroom-kitchen-corridor-house) turns violently in their direction,

and then suddenly a whole lot of things happen at once--where it shrieks and scrambles for them but the vines were there, too, and they pull loose the stacks behind them to topple over the thing and it punctures it, pops it like a balloon full of honey and dozens of little crawling things-that-are-not-clowns spill forth, waxy and misshapen (oh, that's why it sounded like a muffled audience, but it's not muffled anymore--)

"Go!" Francis shouts, shoving Radar ahead of him through the door, and follows close behind.

[incomingchoppers]

The shove, along with the explosion of noise after so much quiet, sends Radar reeling. He yelps and grabs hold of one of the vines as it winds around him and yanks him through the door. Behind them, the awful creatures skitter like aphids over the greenery, shrieking, high-pitched, biting at the vines and devouring the flowers. Every one of them feels like an insect's sting on Radar's own skin.

He lands in a web of moss and roots on the other side of the door. The plants rise to catch him, the fall as soft as tumbling into a feather bed. Radar scrambles to his feet and whirls around to pull Francis through: their hands don't quite meet, but the vines grab hold where Radar can't.

cw discussion of child abuse

[lovethyneighb_or]

He tumbles out into the greenery, and as soon as he does the door slams shut behind them, vines twisting and knotting over it to hold it shut as the monster slams into it from within, laughing and shrieking and possibly sobbing.

Francis springs to his feet. He stares at the door—locked door—and a wave of nauseous fear and worry rolls in him in a way he didn’t even feel in that room. There’s beating against that (locked) door, and he stares at it, wide-eyed. Wringing his hands, biting his lip.

(The kind of thing you don’t really remember except in your body.) (Locked door (4077 remembers that too)).

“Daddy,” he says shyly, so timidly, so pleasantly, “I’m sorry I—”

Another mighty thud and a shriek at the door, and Francis flinches silently, but doesn’t run.

[incomingchoppers]

Radar jumps about a foot. A couple nearby vines flail to match. He takes a deep breath to steady himself and fixes his eyes on Francis.

"C'mon," he says. Carefully, he touches a hand to Francis's shoulder; leans a little weight into it as if to pull him away from the door. "We gotta keep moving, okay? You don't gotta talk to him anymore, he doesn't have anything good to say."