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

[ownperson]

Iron fills her senses, smell and taste overtaken by it even before the pain ricochets around her skull like a free-flying bullet. Her head flies back, blood arcing through the air, and she doesn't get the chance to right herself before Carolina's on her again.

Instinct pulls at her dominant arm and finds only a burst of fresh agony, the unstable joint rebelling against the request to move so sharply. It lifts barely an inch then flops, uselessly, back at her side, forcing her to throw her non-dominant up to block and shove.

(She earned this. She earned this, she should just let Carolina whale on her until she's black and blue—)

Instead, she tries to drive a knee up into her ribs to give her reason to back off.

[cyansoldier]

The air leaves her lungs in a fat burst of noise, and her anger flips on its axis to ensure she feels everything. She's no longer beyond pain. Her skin bleeds and her knuckles scream in her fist, and when she lunges again it's at the expense of her maimed knee. (South's done something to her shoulder. The bad one. The one Carolina herself dislocated. Not there, murmurs some low and cautious voice. Somewhere else.)

She hits somewhere else— solar plexus first, then a blitz of knuckle to her cheek. A nerve— or maybe a tendon, something— in her hand flutters wrongly. She shakes it loose. Kicks. Feels sick. She hates this.

Carolina snarls to assist each blow. They hitch. She fights the mist that sheens her eyes involuntarily— hates hates hates this— and soon there are thick, frustrated, livid tears running down her face. The humiliation of that spurs her harder, and an attempt is made to knock South to the ground.

[ownperson]

How fucking odd to see Carolina cry for the first time now. Of course it's her fault. Of course it's her that pushes one of the most important people in her life to tears when they should've been being there for each other. She ruins everything she touches. Why does she even try, when she knows how it always fucking ends?

Fist to the abdomen, driving the air from her lungs and forcing her to double over, leaving her vulnerable to another strike that splits the skin of her cheek above the old scar tissue. A kick to the ribcage, bruises she knows she'll see in the morning (if she survives that long).

She can't get a hit in. Not with her arm the way it is. (Not feeling so much like she deserves this.) Carolina lunges once more, tries to body her to the ground, and only then does instinct kick in long enough to grab at her and use her own weight to keep them on their feet. Driving Carolina back into the wall, one-arm hold not enough to pin her but enough to put up a fight.

Somewhere behind them, feet scramble against stone.

[cyansoldier]

The panicked patter of kid's feet doesn't register to her. Carolina says something that could be, Fuck you— could be, Get off me, although she makes no real attempt to move away, only fighting to free herself— and failing— so that she might get in one more punch. Her back hits the wall. She throws up her knee, a furious bid for space. Her face is hot. Wet. She drives her teeth together and begs herself to stop fucking crying. South doesn't deserve seeing her like this. (No one does.) Seeing her in any way that isn't meticulously constructed and clapped in cyan armor.

Breathe. Breathe, for God's sake, breathe—

"I can't—" she shoves and bats; this isn't how a trained soldier fights, "—believe you."

[n0rthernlights]

"You knew— what the fuck you were— getting into!" South spits back in her face, driving the metaphorical knife deeper into herself with every word. (She told herself she wouldn't do this. She's not meant to lay hands on people, she's not—) "Don't act so fucking surprised!"

May as well seal the deal. May as well show her what she must have known would always happen in the end. She's just a monster Carolina had to cage for a while to stop everyone else getting hurt, and now she's loose. She draws back to throw a clumsy, powerful punch—

And then a small voice shouts: "STOP IT! STOP HURTING EACH OTHER!"

And for a split second there is contact. A brush of a smaller body against her side. Then nothing, except the kid's brightly coloured pyjamas and pale hair somehow between them where there's no space at all. Breathing hard, he looks up at them both with wet, terrified eyes.

[cyansoldier]

Carolina braces, but she doesn't flinch. Never. It isn't until a new shape comes into the scene— starkly smaller, brushing against her front, working himself into the mess— that Carolina considers stopping. She draws herself back, tries to compartmentalize— to condense whatever it is that tells her to shove him out of the way, to keep going.

She couldn't, even if she wanted to. He isn't there anymore. She can see him, but he's— he's like a ghost, or something. A projection, like Ep—

Carolina stops. Her shoulders heave— her knee is screaming. She jams the heels of her palms, hard, into her eye sockets and smears in either direction. Get that off. Hide it away. Her vision is a different kind of blurry when she drops them, fists still balled— still ready for action.

She doesn't know what to say. God, she has no idea. Her tongue gets to work making a poison, and she jams her finger in the free space above Theta's head.

"Get out of here before you get him killed."

[ownperson]

South stares down at the boy with her stomach churning anew with guilt, those wide, innocent eyes boring into her. (Is this how scared he was when she left him and North to their deaths? God, he's just a kid, he's just—)

How the hell is he— did North know he could do that? God, fuck, if he hadn't then— then—

She flexes her own fist, staring at it like an unfamiliar weapon that might blow up in her face, then wrenches herself back out of Carolina's space with a pitiful growl. Giving him room to move away, to become tangible again.

When she reaches for his hand, he fails to find solidity twice before he can finally grasp it.

(Everyone cares more about the kid than her— god, fuck, stop it, he's depending on you—)

"...l-let's go," she mutters, tugging gently at his hand to coax him with her. He resists, at first, glancing between the two adults like he wants to say something, looking lost, but— (please, kid, please don't make her be the bad guy again—) after a second, he relents. Follows after her.

She can't even bring herself to look at Carolina as she goes, back the way they came. There has to be a turning they didn't take, another way to go. Somewhere that will keep her out of Carolina's way. Keep her from where she's not wanted.

"S-South, are you—?"

"Sorry. Y-You shouldn't have had to see that."

"B-But— your arm—?"

She doesn't answer him. She just squeezes his hand and keeps walking.

[cyansoldier]

Carolina storms in the opposite direction, miserable in a way she didn't think was possible. It hollows her. Makes her shake and shutter, something insubstantial caught in wind. Her rampant heat— the thing that had driven her, protected her by way of excising her from her own body— has extinguished. Leftover adrenaline, grounds swimming at the bottom of a coffee cup, is what carries her forward. What do I do? Who do I look for? Who the fuck is dead, and how will she mourn anyone with no body to hug close? Why does this keep happening?

She swallows hard. Saliva piles down her throat. If this were a battlefield, what would she do? Check for survivors— find what's left of her people (is that it? Are we done? I'm done with you. I'm fucking done)— and get out.

Pokey's bandana is in her hand before she realizes she's reached for it, and she brings it to her nose and mouth to stifle what noise comes out. An ugly, wet noise— bellow of some legendary predator finally lying down to die.

She turns the corner and vanishes. She moves because she has to. She's six years old and standing on her tiptoes to iron her black dress. She shouldn't have told her anything. Shouldn't, and won't.

cw: self harm

[ownperson]

South keeps up the momentum for less than five minutes before she staggers into a wall and loses her grip on Theta's hand.

Dizzy, the sting of iron still in her senses. (Broken nose? She can't tell. Everything hurts.) Everything's spinning and everything's blurry and she can't— she can't do this. She can't do this. As if losing Dmitri wasn't bad enough she's going to make him a liar because she can't fucking do this. Not alone. She can't be alone, she can't— she can't—

The sobs overcome her before she can hope to stifle them, ugly and painful and soul-wrenching in their pitifulness. She slides to the floor, to her knees, weight sagging into the cold, impersonal stone as she loses all will to hold herself upright. No one there to hold her, this time. Dmitri's dead and Catherine fucking hates her. She's alone, again, and she'll go home to an empty house and a farm she can't manage and she will have no one to blame but herself. She ruins everything she touches. She ruins everything she even looks at. She—

THUD. She cracks her head against the stone. Once, twice, again— stupid, stupid, stupid. Disgusting and monstrous and worthless and— and—

Small hands grip her shoulders and South chokes on air.

The urge isn't gone, it's itching beneath her skin, but she stops. Bare centimetres from another strike against where the skin of her temple is already split, she stops. Theta's hands squeeze where they rest and she turns to look at him, full of shame (god, he shouldn't be seeing her like this, he shouldn't—) and still crying. Her face a mess of tears and diluted blood.

"I-I—" she stammers, only for her voice to die in her throat. She's not sure what she was going to say, anyway.

"I-It's okay," Theta says, quiet and nervous, a half-second before he wraps his arms around her neck. "I-I know it's hard to think when you're scared."

Never has he reminded her so much of Dmitri.

Something in her gives way. With her one good arm she clutches him close and cries. Natasha just... cries.