ph_logs | March/April Event - By Order of the King

─ A Proclamation ─

By order of His Infernal Majesty, Eligos Rex, Dominus Altum of the Regnum Infernalis, Lord of the Court of Treason, the Indomitable King of Hell

y order of King Eligos, let it be known throughout the Realm of Demonkind that all current denizens of the Isle of Marrow shall be detained and relocated to the Palace Infernal, where they shall be put to trial for their crimes against our people. His Majesty names these trespasses thus:

Deliberate Interference with the Unholy Rite of Succession
Conspiracy to Fraudulently Coronate a King of Their Choosing
Two Counts of Principicide, Murder of His Majesty's Sons
Conspiracy with the Dynasty of Holy Mothers
Conspiracy with the Dynasty of Red Butterflies
Conspiracy with the Dynasty of Elder Gods
Disruption of the Machinations of His Infernal Majesty

All parties residing on the Isle of Marrow have been preemptively found guilty of at least one of these charges, either directly or as an accessory. The guilty have been captured by His Majesty's Royal Guard, dragged from their beds by force, and brought to the Palace Infernal, beyond the safety of the Great Barrier that We graciously constructed to conceal them from the eyes of Death. Here, they will be given Trial, where they will either emerge absolved, or perish entirely in their guilt without our Barrier to restore them.

The Guilty Must Atone.

Details to follow.

The Dungeon

Those deemed to have the ability to supply His Majesty's Court with the desired resources have been placed in the palace's dungeons in groups, where they must decide amongst themselves whose blood will be used to pay the island's penance, and who will move on to a greater duty.

{Be aware that beyond lies inevitable pain, mutilation, and death. Proceed?}

The room is dark. Not too dark to see by, but dim. The appearance of a castle dungeon is visible, at least, by the low and menacing flicker of torch light, tall shadows catching on the surfaces of imposing stone block walls and the dirty and uneven slate floor.

You are not alone here. There is at least one other, if not more, and there is the strange sensation of being watched. Each room is laid out a bit differently, perhaps set up with some kind of bondage holding its residents in place or some strange, unbelievable apparatus that serves no other purpose than an elaborate and dangerous trap. However, each room does share one thing--- a parchment hung to the wall in reading distance, starting with the proclamation above, and followed by the details of your entrapment, along with the conditions of escape. And while those terms vary as well, the one thing they all have in common is that not everyone is meant to survive, even if the text itself doesn't make that immediately clear.

Designed to feed the Court of Betrayal, each trap is designed with a test of trust and loyalty involved. Whether it's testing how much you value a new friendship, which of your loved ones you are truly the most loyal to, or how selfish you really are when it comes down to it--- or if it's just meant to make you betray yourself and your own values. Some will end quietly, others gruesomely, but someone must die in order to move forward, with the understanding that the barrier isn't here to save you. You're in the realm of demons now. There is nothing to stop your soul from leaving you for good. Not even Mortanne can reach you here. And there is no option to take no action--- the consequences of this are that everyone dies, and the reward for proceeding is the opportunity to try and help everyone go home.

Those who survive will find that the way out opens for them, where they may encounter others in the same position. The halls outside your cell may hold any number of trials, whether they be demonic guards, traps, or winding corridors designed to make you lose your way. Or maybe your own way forward is suspiciously clear… There may even be creature comforts provided to reward you for the ill deed you did to get where you are. You may also discover along your journey a heavy stone door labeled "catacombs" that will not open for you. But will it open from the other side?

But no, that's preposterous. Only the dead can be found in catacombs. Right?

The Senate Room

Alongside those in conspiracy to delay or interrupt His Infernal Majesty's plans for today, those ignorant of the truth of their nature and how it guides their fate or who were deemed inadequate fodder for the Court of Betrayal's dungeons have been placed in His Majesty's Senate Room, where his Court and the heads of others meet to discuss matters of the realm. They must rely on each other for information if they wish to leave, testing their mettle at courtly shrewdness, their ability to trust one another, and their understanding of the self.

{Be aware that beyond lies a complex and tense game of information-gathering, with the potential for death upon failure, and the possibility of unexpected violence. Proceed?}

Dark cloth sacks removed from your faces all at once, you are seated in a polished, official-looking meeting space, gathered around an ornate table of oak and marble. Around you are others--- quite a few, in fact. And in front of you, an envelope, with something written in tight, looping font on the front.

We are nothing but our nature. We do only what we were made to do. In this way, we are no different. In this envelope lies your passage forward to duty and destiny, but to open it, you must be able to speak the name of your nature. Do so before you are able, and perish. You are in the infernal realm. The barrier is not here to protect you. Best of luck.

Looking around, you can see words floating over the heads of those around you. They are not particularly flattering words. A descriptor, assigned to that person, presumably intended to define their nature. Above your own head, you see nothing. The game becomes clear. Predictably, if you try to speak the words you can see, or anything too similar that might give it away too easily, your throat tightens and your words are stolen from you.

Game on.

The Catacombs

Those who die in the fiery embrace of the Infernal Realm will not be saved by the Barrier. Lady Winter cannot save them, so their souls will remain here and their bodies will rest in our crypts.

{Be aware that beyond lies dangerous traps, monsters, and the remains of the dead. Proceed?}

You died.

This wouldn't be the first time. After all, that's how you got into this situation to begin with. But this time, it was made very clear to you that it would be permanent. You're outside the barrier, and with nothing to catch your soul at the border of reality and sling it back at you the next morning, it should be lost to whatever afterlife might find you here.

Unless, of course, you're not outside the barrier.

Whatever the case may be, you can't stay here. You have no idea how long it's been, and there are people somewhere who think you're dead. Surrounded by the ancient, dusty corpses of long-dead demons, it's difficult to confirm you're not. Perhaps you're in just as much of a hurry to convince yourself.

Down here, you will need to conquer physical obstacles, solve puzzles, and get past monsters to escape the catacombs. There are a number of stone doors that only open from the crypt side out, leading back up to the dungeon halls where the living are trying to escape the castle. You can encounter other "dead," or reach the dungeon to find other survivors. Perhaps if you're particularly persistent, you can reach the end of the maze entirely…

The Ceremonial Hall

Marrow Isle residents who do not capture the interest of His Infernal Majesty what so ever or whose usefulness to the Court of Treason is expended will be granted to His Infernal Highness Prince Aster of the Dark Feast, to use as indentured servants for a time, that they might be given worth elsewhere. They are not the concern of His Majesty, and he will bear them no mind.

{Be aware that beyond lies the alteration of memory. Proceed?}

Welcome to your first day at your new job! As an employee of the Infernal Royal Family, you've been tasked with preparing the castle's ceremonial hall for a coronation. After a great deal of ado, the Rite of Succession is finally nearing its end, and King Eligos is finally preparing to turn over his kingdom to his heir--- his middle son, Prince Aster. Shame about Prince Mendel and Prince Efrain, dead as they are, but that's how succession goes in the infernal realm.

What do you mean, you don't remember taking this job? Of course you did! There's nowhere more illustrious to work, nor a better time to have this job. You're making history, after all! So what if you don't remember the details of the application or interview? You know that this is your job. You remember coming to work. You know that you are supposed to be here, and that you chose to be here, and that you aren't going to leave. That's what's important, isn't it?

The hall is constructed of black marble primarily, and covered in red decorations that haven't been taken down since Eligos was coronated several hundred years ago. They're quite dusty. You'll need to take them down and replace them with the blue and gold ones intended for Crown Prince Aster. You'll also need to polish the throne, scrub the floors, set up the dining tables, prepare the food, dust everything, prepare the place settings… there's so much to do, so you had better get to work!

You'll be supervised by a Noble of Aster's Court, Duchess Claunthe. She can't be everywhere at once, of course, but she can be very, very strict when she wants to be. Take care not to get caught slacking off, even if it's tempting. This is a lot of work, after all, and there's demons coming and going who have no qualms about swapping courtly secrets and gossip in front of the help. Whenever you can catch a moment away, your coworkers would love to hear this.

Yes, this is definitely your job. (It's not.) You absolutely, definitely signed up for this. (You didn't.) It'd be absolutely preposterous to think otherwise. (You know you don't belong here. Run.) After all, this job pays so well, which you really need right now, don't you? (It doesn't. Even if it did, you have universal basic income, for the Mothers' sake. Please listen to me. Get out, now!) Besides, even if you didn't take this job, and this was all some grand trick---- where would you even go?

Get back to work.

The Waiting Room

A room is to be prepared for our Most Esteemed Guest, Father Francis Mulcahy. She is not a prisoner, but an ally to the Court of Woman Scorned led by Prince Dahlia, bringer of deliverance to a new era of Demonkind. Ensure that she is comfortable, and make room for any who might attend her, and prepare a line of communication. The King wishes for an audience.

{Be aware that beyond lies a terrible duty, and one inevitable death. Proceed?}

A round room, at the end of everything. It's strange, that particular detail is so clear despite the fact that it's impossible to see beyond it. Black walls bedecked neon red curtains, despite the lack of windows. Not blood red like Nyarlathotep prefers, but the red of malice. It's unclear how you can tell the difference, but you can. Plush curved sofas encircle the room, with gaps for tables at regular intervals that have lamps, statues, and the like sitting on them. The one in the center has a candlestick phone that rings when the first guest arrives.

If you manage to make your way through the catacombs or the dungeon, whatever route you take, you can end up here as well. But at first, it's just the one. Once the door closes on the final guest, and Eligos is ready for his audience, it opens back up, now leading somewhere else.

It's time. We all know what happens now.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The person who walks through the door looks like a murdered ghost. Pale, white nightgown splattered and streaked with blood, eyes the same color as the evidence of what she's done. On her hands, on her face, the scent in her nose - she looks wild, mad, every classic portrait of a woman who's lost her mind and higher reason to descend into the feral instinct. Kill or be killed. The guilty must atone.

There is no phone ringing at the moment, but it might at any moment.

Her body aches. Her mind is distant. Concepts start feeling harder and harder to get through. Demons and humans and gods and whatever the hell discarded flesh turns into.

She looks up, and she sees-

"Francis."

This is not a room like the one before. Is it the end? Has she made it to the end? Her limbs burn and freeze and ache and he's gone, he's gone and it all is ruined inside her and around her, and she doesn't know what to do. Dark hair lies in a braid in her pocket, the most precious thing she can hold onto, and she cannot, cannot lose it, though her mind clouds and spins.

Her feet are stained, from where she had to walk through blood.

"Please tell me I don't have to kill you too."

Francis turns. She sees a white gown stained horrible with red wet, and her first though is not ghost, but surgeon.

Her heart drops, seems to hit the floor like a weight as she stands up to stare wide-eyed. She's never lost her numbness to the sight of blood or bodies, but Fever—Fever. Oh, Fever, oh, God. The room is dark, and cold, and feels so, so small.

She shakes her head, still staring; has a hundred questions she wants to ask before she can give a good answer, blind as she is to whatever catastrophe is outside that door, but she has to answer. There's one thing she can be sure of at least.

Quietly. "No. This is the end." Slowly. "There's nothing more beyond."

Not for Fever.

She braces herself on one of the tables, visibly faltering to hear it. Her mouth tries to work to speak, and nothing comes out.

Oh, she's killed before in abundance. Will still kill, when her enemies are before her, when death works as it should and she has to keep going. She understands, she understands. This isn't a new mountain she's forming. But the people she keeps facing down are friends, and every time the door shuts behind her, it's her or them, and where she might have hesitated, all she sees is Pyotr's dead face. So she fights, and she kills, and she kills those who fight for their own lives, ones who leave their own wounds on her with every blow. And every time, it feels so, so good.

If she could deaden her nerves and make it stop-

Her face contorts with anguish, and one choked inhale is all she manages, like a sob, before she manages to get herself to sit down on one of the sofas. For all the gore, she's utterly lost, and she doesn't know when she's going to fall apart.

"Fever," she breathes, rushing to her side, crouching down to the floor to get a better look at her as Francis' eyes rake over her form, the dress, the blood, the blood. It's almost certainly not all hers; she my as well be wearing a cadaver's sheet, and there are no blood patterns that indicate wounds that should bleed quite this much, not to mention what she said when she came in. But this first thing you always do in a crisis is triage.

"Fever." Soft in voice, soft in touch, as her fingertips brush the back of Fever's hand. "Are you wounded?"

Words. Words, words - she's not going to die. She made sure of that. She's not going to die in this place. But things do hurt, from the desperate and the dying and Gaeta, and taking stock leads to one result.

(He should have hurt her. He should have hurt her deep enough to scar, to keep. They all should have.)

"Injured," she manages, trying to keep the words steady. "Not wounded."

She's bruised and marked from the fights. Places where she'd been gripped and shaken, places that will turn deep purple from force, scratches that didn't go too deep in her arms. Pain will settle in when She fought and tore her way here, and her hand flinches away from Francis.

"You shouldn't." Not her too, she can't lose another one, can't watch this happen again- "Save yourself."

Don't waste time or kindness on her like this. Again and again, this place would see her slaughter. And again and again, she answers it, feeds it, peels the layers of falsehood off her bones, and all she can whisper is I tried. But this is what she is - abhorrence made manifest that fights to survive while it knows its nature.

Short sentences, dizzied statements. Francis herself has been in this state a thousand times. Again, she moves to press her fingertips against Fever’s hand, seeking to connect, to ground. This she cannot leave alone. Fever never abandoned her in all of Francis’ worst and most animal moments, and she will not repay the undeserved kindness with that cruelty.

“I don’t need to. You’ve crossed the finish line, Fever. There’s no more. Do you hear me? You finished; it’s done.”

She does not pull away again, but she knows, she knows. How many more are going to die before she can be stopped? What happens if it happens again? There is so much she could say, if she only had the words. Apologies to speak, names to remember, and what is it that Francis's own say, bless me Father for I have sinned, which is a beautiful thing to ask for if only it could be done. Not her. Not for what she's done, not for how she's gone against what she's been trying to do.

(Do you trust me, Fever had asked. The girl should have said no.)

She's trembling, from fear or exhaustion or the adrenaline shot through her veins or the pure will to shake herself to pieces as if that would undo anything that the parts did as a whole. Disconnected from her skin, while breathing deep hurts - that was Gaeta, wrenching her mind from the chambers. And Fever looks at her friend, and tries to speak again, but all that can come out is a hitched breath, before her eyes somehow still have tears to shed. She weeps, because she doesn't know what else to do.

It's done, Francis says, you've crossed the finish line. How she wishes she could believe that.

Like soldiers. She looks like the soldiers. Harrowed in ways unspeakable, and so she will not ask. Not everything can or ought to be talked through or reasoned through. Sometimes the best thing—the only thing you can do is just be there. Horrible shame it always was that the whole camp was too busy keeping things running to stay with them long.

Things are different here, though. (She hopes.)

"Fever." Gently, she works her hand beneath, pushes until their fingers are intertwined, but not yet holding each other. "Will you allow me close?"

Edited 2026-03-18 05:37 (UTC)

March/April Event - By Order of the King

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