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September Event - Guest Appearances

GUEST APPEARANCES

Ignition

September 20th is the Autumnal Equinox. Many places across the world of Concorde celebrate the first day of fall. While various nations and regions have their own cultural practices surrounding it, nature is god everywhere. And so the inception of Mother Autumn’s domain is universally recognized, even if the names change from place to place. But on a little island named Marrow, in a little town called Pumpkin Hollow, there is another reason to celebrate.

The birth of Dahlia Leeds is not so important an event that it supersedes Celestine herself, and neither Dahlia nor anyone in town is foolhardy enough to claim as much. In fact, after the events on this very same day last year, one might argue that perhaps her birth at least started out as a bad thing. But she is certainly the wealthiest person in town. It is through the combination of substantial wealth and a generous heart, two things that are very seldom found in the same place, that we end up with a soiree where the birthday girl would rather spoil everyone else on her day than herself.

The doors to Leeds Estate, which presides proudly over the town upon its throne at the crest of Founder’s Hill, are flung wide open. Large sums of Brass are paid to caterers, florists, and seamstresses to make sure this place is decorated to the nines. Some businesses labor all year, just to prepare for the handsome payoff they’ll get from this event alone. And you, dear neighbor, are invited. Not only are you invited, but you are dressed for the event in whatever your heart desires, completely at the birthday girl’s expense. Dahlia ensures no cost nor conflict stands in between anyone in town and a much-needed break. She is determined for this birthday of hers to be a good night.

Or else.

Incipience

{ The timeframe between ignition and the peak of burning, where a small, contained fire spreads and grows gradually into an established flame. All it takes is a spark. }

The whole town is abuzz as preparations for the gala begin. From the moment people begin to wake up for the day, the air throughout Pumpkin Hollow just feels electric with excitement. After August, people have been needing this lift in morale, and after how last year’s gala went… well, there’s a lot riding on this one. And Dahlia seems much more in control now.

Speaking of being in control, the whole lead-up process has been incredibly organized. You wake up to a delivery--- your outfit, perfectly tailored and completely paid for. Accessories are included. She truly thought of everything.

It’s noteworthy that Dahlia’s invitations this time included another name beneath her own. “Suzanne Marie Dyneax,” it said. Most people don’t know the name, but gossip gets around in a small town like this. It’s not hard to pick up on the fact that this probably refers to Susie, one of the teenagers that Dahlia recently moved into her home, whose own birthday was ruined by Seemingly’s attack. Gift baskets have been delivered to others whose days were in proximity to the disaster--- Zivia, Capochin, even CT. Wine, fruit, and sweets, along with a birthday card. Dahlia has said in the past, “my birthday is your birthday,” but never has that felt more true.

With businesses mostly closed for the celebration, you are left with the majority of the day to prepare in relative peace. For many of the women in Dahlia’s inner circle, there is even a pre-party group dressing room set up on the third floor of her home. Only those who received her special invitation (Susie, Noelle, Fever, Cassandra, Anya, Alice, Patty, Melanie, Basira, Elsie) are permitted to join, but any friends or partners are gladly invited to wait at the bottom of the stairs for the girls to make their grand entrance.

The food is laid out, flowers placed, dresses laced and buttoned. The clock strikes 6pm, and the fun begins.

FLASHOVER

{ The moment when a blaze reaches its maximum size and heat, and the radiant heat in the space is such that all combustible materials ignite at once, allowing the flame to steadily and freely burn for the rest of the night. }

By the time it reaches 6:15, the ballroom is already flooded with eager dancers and hungry dinner guests. After all, the whole town is invited, and everyone’s excited to see Dahlia’s beautiful new ballroom and take a load off.

The music is elegant, played by a rotating cast of musicians who join the party when their act is over. The food is extravagant--- Dahlia and two of her partners are some of the biggest foodies in town, so this is expected. There is talking and laughing and the swirling of ballgowns, and all is well.

But there is a guest you do not recognize in the corner of the ballroom. An older man with white hair, strong features, and a dour expression. You can see Dahlia eyeing him, then flitting over to him, then talking to him. Her expression shifts from anxious, to annoyed, to resigned, before at last she sighs heavily and leaves him to it. Whatever it is that’s going on, clearly it’s something Dahlia is willing to begrudgingly tolerate in order to get back to having fun.

The reason for the disturbance becomes clear in short order, but by the grace of Celestine (and perhaps Eligos), it isn’t a reality bending nightmare or an attack by some monstrous beings. It is simply more guests.

A lot more, in fact.

Those who were on the island in September of the previous year will recall the Visitor’s Center, which appeared briefly just past the beach and served as temporary living and meeting quarters for visitors from the homeworlds of current residents. It would seem that this is a repeat incident. For the night of the gala, one to two “plus ones” have been invited for the vast majority of offworld residents. Most of them are friends or family who are happy to see their guests--- but this is ultimately a working of Eligos, so naturally, this is not always the case.

At the very least, Eligos seems to have been generous with his own granddaughter. As she turns away from him, she very nearly runs into someone much shorter than her. A dark haired human man with dwarfism. He laughs at the accident, grinning up at her as she stares back at him, utterly baffled. Then, petticoats billowing out, Dahlia sinks to the floor and embraces him as tight as she can, head pressed to his chest with little regard for her carefully-styled hair. Even those across the room can hear her shout his name. ”Jonah!”

Within the hour, the ballroom is packed with nearly double the people originally expected, turning the party livelier than it’s ever been. Tearful reunions, laughter, dancing, mischief, romance, sparring, cruelty, and even proper, righteous violence. Truly, this Leeds Gala will be one for the books!

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[ OOC reminders: each apped-in player character is entitled to one or two guests from their homeworld. This can be former selves, family, friends, enemies, and they do not have to be from the character’s exact canonpoint. They can be from the past or the future. You may play them yourself, ask another member player to do it, or recruit a non-member player to do so with moderator approval. Non-member players are permitted to join the Discord server while they’re active in this event! Threads you write for your own guests are eligible for AC for the character they’re there with, and threads you write for someone else’s guest can be used on the AC of a character of your choice. Just make sure to mark them as guest threads. After the gala, guests will be allowed to move freely about town, stay the night on Saturday and go home Sunday, or leave right after the gala if preferred. And last but not least, characters played in the gala can be apped directly from this event, rather than going through the normal arrival process. Let a mod know if you have questions, and have fun! ]

Smoldering

{ The decay of a flame as available heat, oxygen, and burning material gradually diminish. Eventually, the flames will recede entirely into glowing embers, glittering like orange starlight amid the ashes of what once was. }

The party rages well into the night. It’s not typical for residents of Pumpkin Hollow to stay out this late, with everything around here that goes bump in the night, but eventually party-goers begin to find their way out. They move in small groups, huddled around lanterns, may they ever stay lit. Perhaps the surprising bit is that their guests can go with them. There are even reservations made for board overnight at the Oak & Iron, all under the name “E. Rex”.

But alas, these reservations are only booked for one night. And by the time the sun begins to set on the darker half of the year for the first time, an unfamiliar black boat is moored at Jack's Marina. One that the guests will recognize as the vessel on which they arrived. They must leave by the time it becomes dark.

Or must they? Perhaps for a select few, they will fail to feel the call which draws them home. It is unclear why. There are many that Mortanne would have allowed residency for, if she could. But for some reason, all but a small few feel the pull. Perhaps Eligos has simply abandoned them here. (Or maybe none at all end up marooned and everyone goes home? That all depends on you, dear reader.)

When the sky goes dark, the aptly named Heavy Heart shoves off, with only her crimson sails hanging suspended seemingly in midair in the moonlight. The black ship is otherwise consumed by the night. And soon, even those flashes of red vanish into the distance.

Moments recede into memories, like a dying fire settles gently into glowing embers at the bottom of a hearth. The festivities are over, and the guests are gone. Life in Pumpkin Hollow resumes as before. But maybe just a little warmer and brighter.

“My birthday is your birthday,” as Dahlia often says.

Happy birthday.

References to the appearance of Leeds Estate can be found here!

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The clock tick, tick, ticks over, and the only thing that's changed by now is that he hurts more than he did at the beginning. Hope springs eternal, as much as he tries to strangle it in the bed of his heart so that the fall to despair will be shorter--but as time begins to run out, even that small, stubborn spark is fading away. There's nothing left, and when he boards that ship, there'll be less than nothing. He's waiting for the world to end.

The party winds down; people flag, taper off. Number Two still parades him around the ballroom, and 4077's skin itches with the feeling of being watched. Everyone who knows him is waiting. He can tell, a whisper of a feeling like the very barest touch of blades against his skin.

His arm hurts.

Number Two beckons to follow him outside, so he follows.

"I've always liked this time of night," Number 2 says, as he pretends to gaze up nostalgically at the stars. "It's so quiet and peaceful. It's a good time of night for thinking."

If they were in a horror movie, this would be about the time when the music changes to something darker, and the violins begin to screech.

"Yes, I've been thinking about that man on the crutch. The one you're so fond of. Perhaps I'll name him 4078..."

Oh, he can hear it alright.

Number Two speaks, and for all his terror and apocalyptic thinking, 4077 feels something in him snap. Not greatly, not the way people hang on by a final thread, not like the explosive break of an instrument's string--like a bomb defusal, cutting wires. And Two had better be very, very careful about which ones he snips.

"S-sir. I don't think that's necessary."

"I don't recall asking you if it was," Number 2 answers with an ice-cold glare.

"But you seemed so fond of him that I thought I really must have him for myself. It shouldn't be hard." He chuckles. "It's not like he can run."

Snap. Tick, tick, tick. Wrong answer.

Suddenly he's in Two's face, staring straight forward. All this time his eyes had been as clouded glass, fragile and faint, but there's something corrosive in them now. An old, recognizable hatred, the same ancient power that every living thing in Creation has ever been made with. The same one that endowed Man with teeth.

"You will not," he growls, low. A warning. "You'll have me and no one else. You may have bound me in your web, but you have no hold on him, and I will do everything I can to keep it that way." He glowers. "I think you will find me very reckless."

There's a flash--a candlight flicker--of fear in Number 2's eyes when Mulcahy leans in. Then it's gone, and Number 2 is drawing himself up with an indignant grunt.

"You do not make the decisions around here; I do. Death has no hold on this place. You know that. And you know what happens if I'm hurt."

Even that small flash of fear, of fire, catches the invigorating fuse. No going back now.

"I do," he says, and those words are heavy, like the grave tolling of a bell. "And I've decided I don't care."

His strength has dwindled since he left the 4077th; the abuses in the Village left him atrophied, and even now he's reclaimed only a pitiful fraction of it. He eats only barely better than he did before, and exercise is... difficult, when the murder of Powell and all of Two's words about his monstrousness haunt him like voices in the wind.

But that comes second to sheer hatred. Regardless of his strength, Mulcahy cocks his arm back and swings.

Shit. How had 4077 found his backbone so soon? Why now? Number 2 is still contemplating this when the sudden cock of Mulcahy's arm telegraphs the impending punch with just enough time for him to get his hand out and catch the priest's fist in his. Mulcahy's arm is still wounded, so he gambled on him not having the strength. His lips spread wide across an ugly grin as he celebrates his success--perhaps prematurely, "Ha!"

Mulcahy moves just enough to attempt getting out of the way, but all it means is that the hand catches him directly on his wound, and with the shock, his rage explodes; he swings with his other arm, but Two catches that one just the same, both his limbs caught in his awful, meaty fists.

His threats against Felix still ring in his head. Mulcahy convulses in Two's grip, arching his body and attempting to rip his body away; but his strength is not nearly enough against a man well-fed, and his injuries throb. The effort is enraging. I won't, he thinks, bright and sharp like a flare. I won't listen, I won't let you; I won't!

If Two tries to say one more word, he isn't getting it. Mulcahy howls, shrill and savage, and lunges in to bite his hand.

Number 2 howls in rage, and then tries to snap some new order at Mulcahy like a dog. He doesn't hardly get any of it out before he's suddenly crying from the pain of teeth sinking in.

"OW!!"

Just like that, the ruse is over. And now real fear floods Number 2. The same primal fear he felt as Valdis in her hound form stalked him. The deal has been broken, and now he's out here all on his own, without even a demon to watch his back.

The moment his teeth sink in, he feels an enormous pressure relieve itself from his chest, like a red-hot iron he didn’t even know was there has been wrested from beside his heart. Father Mulcahy pulls himself from Two’s grasp and stumbles back. There’s a wetness on his face; he wipes at the corner of his mouth, and there is the smallest smudge of red.

He looks up. And very suddenly, he knows: it’s open season.

Edited 2025-10-29 20:33 (UTC)

Number 2 clutches his bleeding hand to his chest and stares in horror at Mulcahy with his mouth rimmed in red. He can almost feel his heart stutter to a stop when that look of realization on the Father's face pierces him.

No. No, no, no. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. No! That demon assured him it wouldn't! His eyes are wide and his breath comes shallow and harsh. He stands stiffly on his toes, looking for all the world like a rabbit that's been spotted out of the safety of his burrow by a very hungry fox.

Then he tries to run.

Something's changed.

Radar hears it right before it happens, like he heard the awful spike in the Father's thoughts that sent him running around the ballroom, tapping on as many shoulders as he could, hissing frantically, Father Mulcahy needs help! before booking it outside. Even if that curse hasn't broken yet, there's no way he's just gonna let Two drag Mulcahy off to somewhere else. Maybe what he couldn't do alone, a whole bunch of them can do together.

Except then, in his ears, a tiny ping! sounds like a snapping wire.

Radar yanks himself up short with a gasp. He's never heard anything quite like that before, but he knows, same as he just knows so much else --

"It broke," he whispers. Louder, "It broke! He can't hurt the Father anymore!"

He’s standing on his toes, Mulcahy notes absurdly.

And then he tries to run. Mulcahy doesn’t notice when he suddenly lunges for Two and seizes him by the collar a second later. He twists him around to hold him to his own face, both fists in his shirt; the movement is instinctual, automatic as a prey drive, as natural as gravity, ballet-like in its practice. Mulcahy’s strength is withered, but he was an athlete once. Something in his heart still recognizes Two as easy pickings.

For a stark moment, he holds him there, staring as his mind catches up.

“I’m trying to figure out,” he begins, lightly, patiently, “if you’re still due for absolution.”

He's spent most of the function in a morose fugue, convinced there's nothing to be done to save his friend. No move he can make that won't hurt him even more. Number Two wants them separated more than he wants to have all of his playthings returned to him. He would have Number 119 remain here as the one person who can tell the complete story of how unerringly Two crushes disobedience. His emissary.

Radar offers a glimmer of hope. He was wrong; there is still a chance to undo what Number Two has done, what he plans to do. The Fuelweaver must act on it.

He follows the young man outside as fast as his bones will carry him, and finds Mulcahy, furious and bloodied, gripping Two by the fabric of his clothes. Too close to know he wouldn't hit them both, whether he struck with magic or the force of his own body.

There's -- it's not a crowd, exactly, but it isn't subtle: several people scattered through the room all moving at the same time, making for the same place.

One white head and one dark one, in the group, emerge and immediately break in two directions. Cassandra goes left, silently; Percy goes right, ready to shout and draw attention.

The whisper comes an instant after she feels Mulcahy's rage, Kevin's fear. A smile lights up her face, but she doesn't move from where she leans against the wall, sipping her champagne.

I told you, Kevin.

Her voices comes softly in the minds of all those who are on Mulcahy's side.

You were never going to get out of here unscathed.

It's Radar that gives the cue. When that string snaps, she feels it too, in her way. But it's when her partner moves that she does. A leisurely pace by comparison, but with burning in her eyes, and mighty purpose.

The doors to the manor fly open at her touch, and it's like a backdraft. Flame enclosed suddenly fed a rush of oxygen. And she is, more than she has ever been, flame incarnate. A brighter blaze than even her self-inflicted arson is her temper, lit on the behalf of whatever woman has been suffering the abuses of the miserable cretin that dares to bleed pathetically on the cobblestone outside her home.

And then, Dahlia sees her.

Oh.

Dahlia doesn't question it. She simply allows Mulcahy, and all those who have come to Mulcahy's aid, to catch her flame. Especially the other women. One by one, each and every heart among them will burn with the Wrath of Woman Scorned. If needed, she will intervene, but she sees no reason why her gift will not be sufficient.

(But if anyone needs a knife, Dahlia has spares. She can be seen plucking at least six from her crinoline as she watches like an empress in a coliseum.)

It broke.

Her heart alight with her own fury, stoked and amplified by the flame Dahlia gives, leads her to stalk out into the night. She'd promised this man something, the day they met, and it gives her great pleasure to see this promise finally fulfilled. Step by fatal step, zeroing in on her target in Mulcahy's grip.

Sparks dance around her limbs, and the air is laced with the clean, chemical scent of ozone and the strange shifting of air pressure, growing heavier the closer one is to her. Not yet, attuned to it all like a hunting hound held back by a leash, straining the edges. One signal, and it all flares up. One indication, one word, and the storm finally catches up with him. Let him feel the weight of fear before anything else.

Did you really think you could win?

Edited 2025-11-11 00:35 (UTC)

Zeroed in on his prey as he is, Mulcahy hardly registers that there are other people coming into the garden until he hears and feels that burst of mighty fire. He looks behind. So many of his friends have come rushing out of the house, but what he sees most is her: Dahlia, a shape alone against the inferno.

A righteous fury floods his whole body. It feels, somehow, a little like how he felt with King.

His eyes fall to the Fuelweaver. One of his oldest friends still here, and the only one on this whole island who knows exactly who this man is, and what it was like to spend those long, long years beneath his thumb. He locks his gaze with the burning fire in the Fuelweaver's skull. Narrows his eyes, gestures with his head to Number Two. Get ready.

He turns back to Two.

"I've had my fill," he says. His voice is level. Placid, even. "I have no more business with you. But you have far, far more than just me to answer to."

Mulcahy lets go of his collar and shoves him away, backing up.

A slight inclination of the skull to convey to his friend that his message has been received. As Mulcahy moves to let go of Number Two, the Fuelweaver winds up to swing at the ground, and that shove sends their former captor directly into a rising fence of fossilised bone spikes.

He won't be taking even a single step towards whatever refuge he might seek elsewhere on the island; the bone cage offers barely enough space to turn around or throw a punch between its osseous bars. And yet they haven't left more than a scratch on Two. Running him through now, before any of the others can strike him, would be more than he deserves.

Number 2 whimpers in Mulcahy's grip, trembling in place. "A-Absolution! N-no, You--"

I told you, Kevin.

His face has gone ashen white even before Dahlia explodes out of her manor in a blaze of righteous flames. If the blood drains any more, he may faint. The air already tastes like pennies on his tongue, thick with the crackle of electricity.

"W-wait," he begs as he's pushed away. The barbs of bone are there to meet his back before he can fall. Once again, he finds himself trapped, but this time there's no one to help him.

"Mercy! Please! Aren't you a priest?! You can't let them do this to me!"

Even in a hurry, Zivia sometimes can't move that fast; it's late at night and her feet are starting to hurt from all the standing around chatting, and she's a little short of breath. But she makes it out of the building in Fever's wake, coming up on the gathering crowd in time to hear someone cry out for mercy.

It's only by his accent that she recognizes the voice at all; it sounds so different stripped of its confidence. She slows, but keeps moving, slipping through the crowd to emerge into the cleared space at its center.

She looks directly at Number 2, and doesn't say a word.

"You there!" He throws himself against the bars in her direction, hands pressed palm to palm as he beseeches her, "I-I've changed my mind. Let's make a deal. Please!"

He just doesn't intend to help.

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September Event - Guest Appearances

... when we come back home again. [end]

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minor silksong spoilers in the link lmao

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cw: electrocution

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[not here]