March/April Event - By Order of the King

[pumpkinhollow]

─ 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

B

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.

Comments

[twohundreddead]

She's stolen from the Temple at night, in the thick of a rare, pleasant dream. It soured fast. Unconscious response to the corporeal world, turning one girl's hands into a man's by the same name. She screamed the entire way— shrill and crackling with the sleep-stuff she'd not been given the opportunity to swallow.

Is this real?

Does it matter? She was terrified all the same.

She wakes again to pain in the parietal area of her skull. Her hair and cheek are sticky. Her lips are cracked where she's bitten them unconsciously— a bad habit. Susie and Ralsei's voices are easy enough to recognize, even over the infant wail of alarm inside her brain. Ruby eyes glint a distance away. She sees them, and when she does Harrowhark's attention is riveted, her blood cold.

_"Kris...?"

cw: self-harm (accidental), hand trauma, impending beheading

[heartofadreemurr]

Kris presses their hands to the glass, leaning carefully over the controls. "Guys!"

As soon as their hands touch the glass, there is a whirring, mechanical sound that begins to buzz low from within the wall.

Panic. Immediately. Kris flounders completely. They're no hero. They weren't built for things like this. They're not brave like Susie or smart like Ralsei. They're not blessed with powerful magic like Harrowhark. They're not strong like Carolina or decisive like Hector or charismatic like Tenna or fundamentally good like any of those people They're just a scared, selfish kid and this is a horror movie. And Kris has seen enough horror movies to know where this is going.

"I-I don't know what to do, there's--- buttons, w-we're--- there's no barrier here. I---" They feel themself choking, panic in anticipation of loss.

Why me?

They scramble to the door, wrenching at the doorknob frantically. It refuses to give. Their vision blurs with terror. "Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck no no no come on..."

Why me? I can't do this. I can't help. I don't know what to do. I can't make this choice.

Back to the glass. There's a section between the control panel and the wall where there's no panel in the way of them walking right up to the clear pane, and with a hateful roar, Kris throws themself at it shoulder first in an attempt to break it. The glass resists and they glance off it, achieving little more than hurting themself.

Again. They ram it a second time. Another bloom of pain. The glass remains impassive.

Again. Kris feels their shoulder threaten to dislocate. The impact doesn't even leave a mark. They feel a migraine coming on.

"Come on! FUCK!" This time they just punch it, screaming at the glass as they do, and there is a crack--- but it's their knuckles. They recoil, crying out in pain. "FUCK!"

Inside the other room, some fresh cold steel slowly, slowly moves out of the slot in the wall, sharp and hungry, resting against the back of all three of their necks. It starts gentle, but it begins to press threateningly and there is little room to move. Time's short.

[thrashmachine]

Susie's struggling only intensifies with each blow Kris' body takes against the glass pane, sharp huffs of effort and terror escaping in panicked snorts as she writhes and twists, trying to find any way she could possibly get out of this. The metal cuts into her wrists, her bare arms, and even if she could break the chair, it'd surely just hang her in her binds.

"Kris!" She calls, desperate and panicked. Before she can try to say anything else, though, the pressure of cold steel makes her freeze. All of her efforts had her rock back against the wall; now, she's terrified of what adding any extra pressure to this thing might do.

Heart hammering in her chest, she sucks in a quick breath, and lets it out shakily, trying to recollect herself as best as she can.

"D— does anybody see any controls for this thing? Is that what the buttons are?"

[theonewhosuffers]

"Kris, stop!" Ralsei calls, horrified as his vision finally clears enough for him to understand what he's seeing. "Don't hurt yourself!"

Like Susie, he freezes at the touch of cold steel against the back of his neck, although his eyes dart back and forth between Susie and Harrow, trying to see if they're similarly threatened. "What did they say?" he asks Susie in an undertone. "Just now, did they say something about the barrier?"

[twohundreddead]

The word harrowing does the scene a pitiful amount of justice, and Harrowhark watches in the silent, riveted awe one beholds the end of the world. The blade kissing her spinal process is rendered moot in the wake of Kris' screaming. Not so moot, however, that it cannot potentially be used.

She leans delicately backward, blade's tip dipping into her flesh. A few drops of blood are all a good necromancer needs to power their aptitude. If she could just protect their physical form— clasp them in some kind of exoskeleton—

"There is no barrier," Harrow says rigidly. "That's what they said. The mechanism of our physical torture is theirs emotionally. A decision is meant to be made. Whether that's to kill us wholesale or spare one of three— two of three, I can't say. I don't know if they can, either."

She knows one thing for certain. It burns in her belly. She is not dying today.

[heartofadreemurr]

When Kris lifts their face from where they'd buried it in their hands as the others spoke, it's streaked with tears, mingling with blood from their own broken knuckles. "I'm sorry," they choke out through broken sobs. "I'm so sorry, I---I can't---"

Deep breath. Explain what's going on. Confess to the sin you are about to commit.

"...The--- the buttons say--- 'Emergency Stop - Choose One.' I-I can only---"

They can only stop one blade. They can only save one. Their face is soaked with anguish and guilt as a frown sets deep lines in their face. The gravity of the situation presses down with the weight of finality.

[thrashmachine]

Her heart hammers in her chest, to the point where she can practically feel it in her throat, suffocating her. Something like this always seemed so impossibly far away, like it could never happen— but the Barrier is gone. This is real deal. The final cut, down to the wire.

She doesn't want to believe it, but she tries to strain at her wrists again, to push away the bars at her legs, but she can barely move at all. No one's busting in to save them. This is really it.

What a cruel joke, that they're put in this situation, right after she decided she finally wanted to live.

The silence after their explanation hangs heavy, but she forces her voice through it, especially as the persistent push of the blade against the back of her neck grows more forceful. Locks of dark hair are already starting to scatter down onto the floor. There's not much time.

"Kris, you..." She trails of for a moment, letting out a shaky breath, before drawing one back in. Stay strong. It's worth it. "You gotta save Ralsei. You— you gotta. He never got to live life like this before. It's not fair that the demons... that they get to take that from him. So, you— you and Ralsei gotta get outta here, and... live extra hard for me, 'k?"

[theonewhosuffers]

"Oh..." Ralsei sighs, going limp against his restraints. "It's okay, Susie. Kris," he calls out, trying to make his voice as clear and certain as possible. "Kris, you know you have to save Susie. This is what I was made for, and it doesn't make any sense not to use that now. You and Susie can live on, and I --" He hiccups, despite his best efforts, biting his lip before he can muscle on, "I really don't mind," he says. "It's okay, as long as you and Susie are safe. As long you two keep living, I don't care what happens to me. Just get her out of here, okay?"

He feels a little sorry for Harrow right now. She and Kris care about each other too, but she doesn't have anybody to speak for her. Ralsei can't even turn to give her an apologetic look without taking his eyes off Kris. It's really pretty sad, when you think about it.

[twohundreddead]

Oh, for fuck's sake. If she could spare the aptitude, she'd conjure two skeletal hands and slap these two silly for their abysmal lack of self-preservation. She busies herself elsewhere. What bone particles she tries to form into shelling for Kris fizzes and pops and dies prematurely. Disintegrated, this mist travels no further than a few inches from her hands. Fuck. Fuck.

She won't leap to be exsanguinated like the others. She isn't a hero. She's a woman with responsibilities. A life worth objectively more than the two beside her, and with too much to lose. The blade protrudes. Harrowhark crushes her hyoid in an effort to avoid its prick, raises her voice despite this.

"Kris." A steely warning. "You have your duty, let me mine. I cannot die. Ten thousand years of history will rot with my corpse, and a planet’s worth of people will starve. Please, see reason! Think beyond us— to the people relying on us to stay alive—"

cw: body horror, beheading

[heartofadreemurr]

Their voices, their pleas, ricochet off each other inside Kris's skull. Begging for each other, for themselves. It's too much. Too much information, too much to consider, they can't even go with their gut because their gut says all of them. Three different loves, all on the chopping block, all uniquely and equally painful to lose.

I can't do this.

(It'll be alright. Just do what you think is right. Trust me.)

Why should I trust you?

(I'm trying to help, Kris.)

Then help. If it's so easy, then you do it.

(...What? Kris, wait----)

They do not listen to their Soul. Don't wait for it to inform them or guide them or move their hand. Instead, they thrust their own hand at their chest. Into it. Through their shirt, somehow, through flesh and bone and muscle until their fingers wrap like a cage around the pulsing red thing in their chest. Blood and glowing white light seep through the gap between Kris's hand and their torso, spilling in little drops into the stale dungeon air. Kris grunts, then whimpers, panting like an overheating dog as the world around them sways and spins and threatens to topple over.

They tug. Once, twice. The third time, their hand comes loose of their chest as Kris rasps out breaths so heavy they sound like animal grunts, hair draped over their eyes as they hold their sordid trophy aloft. A glowing red heart. Not an anatomically correct one, but a Valentine's heart, beating softly.

A voice comes from Kris's mouth. Not their own--- or rather, with their own, overlapping. It sounds like a recording of someone utterly unfamiliar, with Kris's quavering voice tucked underneath like a pitiful echo. Despite this, the look on their face is nothing short of determined.

"Just trust me."

The red heart, glowing brightly, frees itself from Kris's hand and drops onto the button corresponding with Susie's position. With a horrible shnnk, the other two blades slide abruptly forward, and a pair of heads unceremoniously hit the floor the same moment that Susie's restraints click open.

Then, there is only horrified silence.

[theonewhosuffers]

The chance to say some parting words -- something comforting, maybe, so Kris will know he really is okay with this -- passes Ralsei by, his mouth hanging open in mute awe as Kris pulls the Soul of their own chest. They're...are they supposed to be able to do that? It seems really dangerous! What happens if it gets lost? Can it find its way back?

Oh, and then he guesses it must make the choice for Kris or something, because he feels something really cold touch his neck, and then...

Well, he blinks, and when he opens his eyes again, Ralsei finds himself lying on top of a stone block that turns out to be a coffin, surrounded by bones. "Oh, excuse me!" He scrambles off as quickly as he can, brushing a material that he's just going to pretend is regular dust off his clothes. That done, he finally takes a moment to contemplate the peculiarity of his situation. He...doesn't feel dead. He doesn't feel dead at all.

"Is anyone else here?" he calls, casting a weak healing spell to light up the darkness for a few seconds. "Kris? Susie? Um...Harrow?"

[twohundreddead]

The abject horror of that cartoonist's heart, exposed and pulsing, stupefies her. She forgets the matter of her imminent death. She forgets the promise she made to live, the terms of her and Fever Dream's agreement dissolving like cremains scattered across a body of water. She forgets these things to make room for this; a soul outside the confines of the body is a vulnerable, yolk of a thing— and that Kris is in pain, and she can do nothing about it.

Then Harrowhark Nonagesimus dies.

And it's nothing like what she thought it would be— namely because she wakes back up again, and with a killer sore throat to boot. Her face hurts. This has nothing to do with the fact that she's died, and everything to do with landing nose-first on a cold stone slab, and we're not talking ice cream.

She's slow to wake, groaning as she lifts herself up on her elbows, and feeling pretty sick and tired of passing out and waking up in new, horrible places.

"Turn that light off."