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

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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.

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"Ugh, fine."

The first napkin is finally sat aside, and a second is started on. These bizarre, fancy folds that they were asked for certainly don't take nearly as long as he's made them out to, but they still take longer than folding anything should, as far as he's concerned.

"Also, you gotta quit worrying so much. We got a lot of time left before we're even around the dinner slot. It's gonna be fine," he waves them off, rolling his eyes. "I don't even know if she's still in the building. She probably bailed until it's time to get started. Most managers I've ever had do that."

"I don't think she's like most managers you've had. She reminds me more of—" she almost drops a fork and mutters a as she catches it, quickly putting it back into place. "O-Of the kind of managers you see in real estate. They won't let anything slide. Honestly sometimes I'd be trying to sneak a break from working on my accounts and then I'd look up and she'd just be right thERE!"

That same fork goes right off the table and Ragatha's hair all goes on end as she jumps back.

From behind and above Jax, a voice like cold poison, ice in the veins. "I certainly hope we're not talking about anyone I know."

Leaning down, Claunthe places sharp-tipped fingers in latex-like gloves on Jax's narrow shoulders, and leans down to speak near his ear. "Jax, my darling, I do so appreciate your dedication to absolute perfection. But if you don't figure out a balance with efficiency, then you and I are going to have a problem. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Oh shit.

"Uh. ...Yyyeah. You got it, boss. I was... just about to catch a fifteen to get my energy back up anyhow?"

He's bullshitting. He knows he is. But he wants out of this situation as quickly as possible. And it's probably been a while since his last break anyways, right?

"You know, I do believe you've been taking your fifteen for the last forty-five minutes," she lilts. "Get back to work. And quit fucking around."

Claunthe stands upright, black lips curling into an oily smile. "Good work, girls. Keep it up."

"Thhhhhank you, ma'am, we're--- doing our best," Pomni says, watching her walk off before she shoots Jax a look. "See? I told you."

"Shut up!" Jax shoots back, but the second napkin is sat aside quickly, and a third one is picked up. He's making record pace, at this point. Does that make this a managerial success?

"Don't tell her to shut up, she was right! ...and so was I about the kind of manager she is, only worse," Ragatha says with a shudder, also suddenly going a little bit faster whilst still aiming for that same perfection. It's— sort of working. "...I don't like this."

"Me neither," Pomni murmurs. "I don't even know why I took this job. There's no way I needed money bad enough for this. When does this shift even end, anyway?"

"I've been looking for the scheduling board since we got in," Jax complains, keeping his voice low. "Haven't found it yet. I don't know why I'd pick up food service again, either. Sorta swore to myself after the Spudsy's adventure that I'd never do it again."

"Ugh, same." (Is that— a privileged thing, to think? She never had to do that kind of work before, after all, so— not the time.) "I know we're pretty broke right now but this is... this is something else. But— we did— take it."

Right?

"Honestly, I'd be okay with bailing, except... I don't really know how to get home from here," Pomni admits anxiously. In the heat of their discussion, she doesn't realize she's gotten too distracted to work. "I dunno, is it worth it to stick around if she's threatening people?"

"Might be time to let you guys in on this little baby, then."

And, with a careful sleight of hand, Jax produces a key-ring from his sleeve. It's ink-dark, with many of the keys in varying shades of gold, sapphire blues, ichor purples.

"If you can cover for me for maybe ten minutes, I bet I could see if we've got a decent way out," Jax offers. "They got us in somehow, so there's gotta be a way out, right? Even if it's some closed-off portal or something."

Ragatha almost jumps out of her stitching, reflexively hissing: "Where did you get that—" as if the answer isn't obvious. How he manages these things she'll really never know, but... well, maybe? If this works?

(It's a very large if.)

"It doesn't matter," Pomni interjects. "It's not safe here. I have a weird feeling about this place, and if Jax can get us out, then let's get out. C'mon, let's take over the napkins and hope Claunthe doesn't notice."

"Don't have too much fun with 'em," Jax jokes, and after a couple more moments of watching for anyone to be looking to closely at them, he stows the keys back into his sleeve, and wanders off, disappearing around the corner towards the opulent kitchen in the back.

Ragatha's mouth makes one of those nervous, squiggly lines, but she make herself take a breath and mutters, "Right, o-okay," and starts helping Pomni with the napkins. (She seems to know how to do them well, actually, even if it's a little harder with her hands like they are.)

Still, it is an effort not to keep looking nervously around. "Are you sure this is— going to work?"

"We just gotta hope." Despite the tension, Pomni watches Ragatha fold the napkins into that fancy shape quickly and deftly, and can't help but be impressed. She's clearly done these before. Maybe there'll be another time to ask. "The most important thing is that we work together and stay safe. And I don't know how safe we can be here. Maybe I'm just imagining it but it sounded like Claunthe was threatening to do a lot more than give Jax a stern talking-to."

How is it that he can work in this place for... as long as he feels like he has, and the hallways can be this labyrinthine still?

Other faces are scarce, and it's quiet, for the most part. The sort of quiet that, in the Circus, would be a prelude to some sort of disaster on the horizon. This isn't the Circus, though, and this is just another day at work. Another day at work that he can't remember any past shifts of, but another day nonetheless.

(What the fuck is going on here?)

No doors feel quite right, but at the back of the furthest hallway he's ventured, there's one that seems... heavier. Maybe a door to outside, to guard from the elements? That's what he's got to hope for.

No time to wait to find out. He's just got to figure out which key it is that'll do the trick...

The largest key on the ring fits the door perfectly, turning with a heavy thunk that sounds equal parts like freedom and a death sentence.

Claunthe took no pains to ensure she wasn't watched or followed by any other miscreant cartoon characters. It won't matter. They're no threat to her. Besides, if you're going to make an example out of someone, someone else has to be around to see, don't they?

Which gives her a dreadful idea.

"There's my key ring," Claunthe purrs, her tone sludgy and thick with cruelty. She reaches forward and yanks it free of Jax's hands, then snatches up Jax by the neck. "Trying to leave work early, are we? I'll have to write you up for that."

He'd only just pulled the door enough to dishevel it from it's setting when the keys are torn from his hands, and before he can scramble away, he's pulled off his feet, gloved hands desperately snapping to the wrist that holds him. They don't still need to breathe, do they? They shouldn't. He knows they shouldn't. Then why does it feel like she's actually choking him?

He starts to get the sinking, twisting sensation in his stomach that he's gotten in much, much further over his head than he expected to.

"Wh— it's— it's my first write up, right?" The words are squawked out a bit, and paw-feet scramble to try to make contact with the floor again. "Y-you're holding me a little tight there boss—"

The last words are practically little more than squeaks. He's starting to get lightheaded. Oh, he fucked up bad this time.

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March/April Event - By Order of the King

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