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ph_logs2026-03-15 12:38 pm
pumpkinhollow) wrote in ph_logs2026-03-15 12:38 pm
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March/April Event - By Order of the King
─ A Proclamation ─
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:
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. {Be aware that beyond lies inevitable pain, mutilation, and death. Proceed?}
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.
{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?}
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.{Be aware that beyond lies dangerous traps, monsters, and the remains of the dead. Proceed?}
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.{Be aware that beyond lies the alteration of memory. Proceed?}
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.{Be aware that beyond lies a terrible duty, and one inevitable death. Proceed?}
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, 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?
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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."
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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.)
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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?"
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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...
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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."
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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.
cw: body horror, TADC spoilers (ep 8)
She doesn't give him a choice, dragging him along with one hand and twirling her key ring on the forefinger of the other. If it's any consolation, she at least doesn't bother to lock the door back--- which means that Jax's sacrifice won't be entirely in vain.
Jax is hauled bodily by the huge, curvaceous, oil-bodied woman back into the main room. "Everyone! If I may have a moment of your attention please." As if he weighs little more than a stuffed toy, Claunthe hurls Jax to the ground, then grabs him by the ear. "One of your fellow staff members was caught slacking. Multiple times. Now I don't think I need to remind you just how important our work today is, but in case anyone needs a visual aid, I'd like to make sure everyone knows exactly what will happen if I catch you wasting paid time."
And then, for Jax, comes a feeling he's known once before. A pulling, slipping, tearing feeling, as Claunthe wrenches his ear backwards as hard as she can, and his fuzzy purple exterior pulls free of his slimy, delicate, gooey yellow center and rips his false visage right down the center, like torn clothing. He's exposed, more than naked, vulnerable and seen. And this time, the eyes that are on him are real.
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No.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.
He scrambles to try to catch the falling flesh and pull it back up himself, but the tear down his center prevents him from catching all of it. One hand pulls a fallen shoulder back in place, and when the other tries to bring the other side back to him, the other falls away. He can feel all those eyes on his fragile core, boring holes into him, and he tries to scoot away from them, but the held ear only makes his "pelt" tear further.
Tiny square pupils find Ragatha in the crowd, then Pomni, before all he can find it in himself to do is curl his head down to his chest, and pull his legs up over that, as if somehow his scrawny limbs might make him more able to save face.
(They don't. They never did. No amount of covering and hiding himself was ever going to save him from this fate.)
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The panic hits the moment Claunthe steps back into view with Jax in tow, the kind that freezes you in place, hand pausing mid-fold and gaze straight ahead. Wants to look to Pomni (as if that alone could tell her what to do, here) but can't seem to tear it away from Jax.
The same can't be said for Claunthe and his skin.
"Oh, my god—" bursts out of her before she can stop herself. What is she— how is she— even in all those endless seeming days of Caine putting them through the worst of the worst, turning them into objects and malleable shapes and other unthinkable things she never once saw Jax like this. Outer layer gone, everything recognisable about him hanging around his body except those pinprick, desperate eyes.
He looks away. The spell breaks. Ragatha's head whips to Pomni.
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That dreadful image she hasn't been able to get out of her head since she was shown it last. The horror of Jax's face and skin tearing away from him to leave behind... this. It's not even this sight in and of itself that terrifies her, it's the wanton cruelty of it. How could anyone rip away someone's personhood like that? His identity, his self-expression, his sense of safety, just torn apart and left dangling. The humiliation of it. The only word that comes to mind is tragic.
His nightmare featured her and others laughing. That doesn't happen. Instead, what Pomni feels in this moment is heartbreak.
"We gotta get him out of here. On three, let's make a break for the door they just came from, okay?"
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It's one of those rare moments where Ragatha is decidedly decisive about something. No matter what's happened between her and Jax over their time in the circus, no matter how badly he's hurt her (and she's hurt him), she could never leave him to— to this. (She's already failed him over and over again. Not this time. Not today.)
"Okay," she says, and nods. They can do this. They can do this. "One—"
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"—three!"
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Hand around Ragatha's wrist, Pomni runs for it, directly at Jax. The two of them scoop him up in their arms and fly down the hall where he'd come from, until all three of them are behind that heavy door that Jax left unlocked.
"...I think we're safe for now," Pomni murmurs. "Jax---- I-I'm so sorry. Are you--- are you hurt?"
cw for body horror!
He's not sure what part of the fucked up cartoon logic it is, but without his mouth, he can't say a thing. Getting pulled along has him unsteady on his feet, tattered pelt trailing behind him, and he takes one step, then two.
Shoulders shrink in on themselves, and black-square pupils don't meet either of theirs. He's not thinking. His head feels like it's full of static. He feels like he could be sick.
He tries to pull his skin back on, but fails to do so again. The glance behind him finds the two of them, before it quickly darts away again, and he pulls into himself further, desperation seeping into every urgent motion of trying to pull himself back together.
There's only a few more attempts made before failure seems inevitable. He sinks, slowly, to the floor, and hides his face, or what's left of it, behind his shoulders as best as he can. How pathetic.
body horror cw continues
It all happens so fast, and then it's... so quiet. It's never quiet, around Jax. Never. And yet he says nothing. The only sound that strange, unnatural friction of the skin that hangs loose around his body, brushing uselessly against the hard pit beneath as he tries again and again to literally pull himself back together, to no avail.
Ragatha's mouth all but disappears. Subconsciously, as she stares, a hand raises, trembling in the air, unable to reach even if she tried from such a distance. Snapping to her senses, it falls suddenly to her side, only for her shoulders to square, and her expression to steel, and, after a glance at Pomni, she steps up in front of him. Drops to a crouch.
"H-Here. Let— let me. I won't hurt you. I— promise."
Slowly, gently, like she's worried he'll bolt (and really, who could blame him?) she reaches for the two sides of the split to try and pull them back into place. She's had to tug her own fabric back together more than once, and maybe this is... worse, infinitely worse, something she can't at all be sure they can fix, but she's going to try. Maybe it will work differently if it's not him doing it.
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He doesn't know what he expected out of them. Laughter and ridicule, in this light, don't look right.
Maybe he was expecting that anyways. Maybe they'd see him at his core and find him lacking. It doesn't matter what he might have been trying to brace for; it never comes, and he's just as shocked for it.
The defensive hand lowers, and hesitantly, moving stiffly, he lowers his arms as well, making it easier for either side of that glaring tear to be picked up. When the hood is placed on his head, it fits on his eyes strangely, but he's able to blink— causing strange pulls in the short-furred material— but it's starting to affix back into place.
He watches, silent, attentive - but he never moves to stop what they're doing, even as each piece falls back into place. He could probably wrench himself away now, finish pulling it on the rest of the way, but he... doesn't.
(Why doesn't he? He's not even sure if he knows, himself.)
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