Player Plot: The Salvation of Geardagas, Part II

[faileas]

Event Log: February, The Salvation of Geardagas: Part II



CW: This plot has a general content warning for kidnapping, torture, experimentation, violence, drug use (incl. aphro), infection/disease and potential death. This is entirely opt-in.

Spirited Away, Part 2 i. Hypothesis One moment, you were free. The next, you wake up in a cold, dark room with eyes on you and the cloying smell of decay all around you. Characters who have been kidnapped are being kept in the lower floor of Alder's estate, which is a labyrinth of rooms and corridors. Without exception, the way out is always either locked or heavily guarded. All kidnapped characters have been infected with the Cwyld (sometimes by proximity to botanical materials, sometimes by being directly exposed to the violent Shades they already have imprisoned) and are being used to further the Evergreen Circle's research into the nature of the plague. The details of these tests is expanded on in the plotting post and, needless to say, their capturers have very little interest in their wellbeing. They're needlessly cruel, often pitting victims against each other and forcing them to infect newer arrivals as they turn up. Subjects are allowed a few hours of sleep at a time and a small meal- assuming that they're not being purposefully deprived of either- and are locked together in cramped cells. ii. Alternative Theory Some characters, however, escape this particular cruelty in favour of something else just as dehumanising. If a member of the inner circle has taken a liking to someone, they'll take them out of the pool of tests subjects and move them into their households. Servitude is ensured by a strong enchantment that scrambles memories and replaces them with the false knowledge that they've been working there all along. These brainwashed servants might also be forced to participate in the torture and testing of the others.

Initiation The night of the initiation party is here. If you've managed to ingratiate yourself with the cult- or at least a member of rank- you'll have already received an elegant envelope with an invitation and all the details. Or maybe you stole one or put together a convincing forgery. Alder's estate is handsome, with a small courtyard lit up with strings of lights and servants at the double doors to greet guests. Inside is just as grand. The hall and ballroom are impressive spaces with vaulted ceilings painted with elaborate star maps and broken up with marble columns that wouldn't look out of place in a palace. Drinks tables are lined up against the walls and there are several smaller drawing rooms off to the side, all of which are full of guests. Throughout the first hour or so, Alder himself flits from person to person, congratulating them and making smalltalk, but he seems different somehow. Excitable. Eager. Of course, there are other ways one might get in; while the front entrance is closely monitored, the side one leading through the kitchens isn’t. In the hustle and bustle, you might slip through unnoticed. i. Cavorting and Cruelty It isn't long before things take a turn. Alder takes to the head of the room and, with his signature voice amplifying enchantment, addresses his audience. He greets everyone and gives a fairly standard speech thanking guests and welcoming initiates to the Evergreen Circle proper- and then it happens. Servants begin to wheel in cages and tanks, all containing individuals infected with the Cwyld at various stages. Some look to have been drugged, others are wide awake, but the regulars seem delighted by their presence. They whisper and titter and applaud. Some of the more docile victims are even taken out to be showed off like animals at a fayre. "Tonight, let us enjoy the fruits of our labour! Witness the progress we've made and share our blessings among yourselves! Fear will only blind you to taking the next step. Indulge, open your minds and take the first step towards your salvation!" What he means by this quickly becomes apparent. While they're not discussing or mocking the imprisoned witches and monsters, the other guests are partaking of vice the party has to offer. The drinks flow freely and there's a manic energy in the air. Those with sharp senses might recognise that some of it has been artificially crafted by enchantments. Furthermore, if you're looking for missing loved ones, you'll no doubt spot them among the "test subjects" or servants. Good luck trying to snap the latter back to reality, though: their memories have been tightly sealed and it might take some work. One of the drawing rooms has been half curtained off and a woman at the door skittishly offers the curious an aphrodisiac-laden draught, though some might have accidentally had some already. Within, guests are draped over every surface in varying states of undress, though there are partitions up to allow for more privacy. What better way is there to spread the Cwyld and strengthen bonds than intimacy? ii. Midnight Show Things reach a fever pitch around midnight. Once more, Alder calls for everyone's attention. "There's one more thing. I know all of you are loyal, true believers- but everyone must be tested," he says, gesturing to several larger bodyguards, "and we have to protect ourselves. There are those who don't understand us and seek to undo our work. Therefore, we need to tie up loose ends." One by one, the least aggressive Cwyld-infected subjects are dragged from their cages and any remaining individuals are brought out, all restrained. One of the bodyguards is carrying a large ceremonial dagger, which he presses to the vampire at the front’s throat. "Rest assured, their deaths with not be in vain: we have learned much and they will make for the perfect offering to the beings who gave us the Cwyld's blessing!" The knife flashes, ready to cut already decaying flesh- - a blood-curdling scream echoes through the room and glass shatters as a Shade breaks free from its prison. It ploughs into the guests, howling with rage as it tears into anyone and everyone that stands in its way, and others soon follow. At some point during the chaos, Alder appears to realise that he’s been caught. He, along with his inner circle, set to work trying to cover up their actions, setting the basement floor alight and using magic to bring down supports to block doorways completely. If you want to gather evidence, it has to be now, else you can focus your efforts on a rescue mission or chasing the cult leader himself down.

[ ooc: More information about the event can be found on the plotting post along with comments for questions, and an IC vote concerning Alder's fate! ]

Comments

[silentsavant]

[After puncturing the air with a sound yelp from being kicked by a hooved leg, the wronged witch slams his boot into the faun's backside for a therapeutic rush of tit for tat. In the meantime, now that their subject has been secured, Soren transfers his hold from horn to leash, wrenches on it to send a physical message.]

You're in no position to struggle like this.

[petcromancer]

[Hector has to struggle to keep on his hooves as he's kicked from behind and tugged from the front. His fighting shuts down all at once.

Hector isn't brave, and he doesn't see the point in fighting a losing battle. At least, not until something happens that might change the tides for him.

He bows his head.]

Can't blame me for trying.

[He tries to make himself smaller and protect his more vulnerable areas from any further retaliation.]

[silentsavant]

[Hector's surrender saves him from any more grief as they make their way down the dingy corridor — at least on Soren's part. He just guides the faun along. The other two witches bat banter back and forth and chuckle at Hector's expense, prodding him with the staff like it's a shepherd's crook and treating him like an animal too stupid to comprehend their dehumanizing jokes.

Once they reach their destination, they lock and bar the door tight behind them. It's one of the chambers used to conduct their experiments, the air foul with lingering vapors from fluids bodily, chemical, botanical, and, of course, the signature, tangy trace of the Cwyld that is hard to escape from no matter where one roams beneath the estate. A panoply of instruments, weapons, vials, books, and other materials meant to aid in either the discipline of magic or the discipline of brutality line the walls and cupboards and rest upon the tops of surfaces. Soren shepherds him into the center and halts right there.

The tallest of the two witches seizes Hector's horns at the base and exerts a firm grip.

"Now, Dragon. Free the arm that has been given to the Cwyld."

Soren hesitates. He looks to the infected arm and back to the diviner, who lowers his eyebrows at the dragon.

"Well? What are you waiting for? You've already been contaminated by now. Remember what P- what... what Ike has in store for you. He told you not to be afraid. Remember?"

Soren heaves a sigh and wastes no more time balking, glancing up at the silver-haired faun with an unreadable expression forced into resolve as he unshackles the arm. The other witch closes in, unraveling the poorly-wrapped bandages to reveal the black streaking across angry flesh. He expels a shaky breath of awe and adjusts his gold spectacles, snatching the arm roughly to twist it in the dim light.

"Ah, what lovely patterns! Mark here, around the teeth marks—"

"Stay focused. Gather some blood samples before we begin," the witch instructs behind Hector.]

[petcromancer]

[Abuse is nothing new to Hector, and he withdraws into himself and just lets the cultists mock and prod. Acting out will only draw more punishment, so he has to wait and bear it for now.

His wounded arm is unshackled, which means his other arm is only tethered to his collar, which is...something, maybe. He's held by the horns and bent at an awkward angle, but he watches the dragon's approach, paying close attention to the tools he brings with him. Maybe if he can get hold of a scalpel or syringe or something, he'll be able to use it to get himself free. Maybe.]

Dragons are especially vulnerable to infection. [Hector murmurs, hoping it will make the dragon falter more. Anything to change the stakes in his favor.]

[silentsavant]

[Soren frowns at Hector before moving to the nearest table to fetch a scalpel.]

I wasn't born yesterday.

[As the dragon rotates, the incipience of his infection, difficult to see on black and in dim light, emerges into view along the base of his tail. It bleeds down into the sand-colored underside, runs down like streams advancing down a slope to the spiked tip below. He finds the scalpel quickly and returns with it.

"Hmm... Maybe you ought to hold him down while I collect the sample," muses the witch holding onto Hector's arm. He releases it to trade for the sharp instrument and swap places with the dragon, which grants Hector a sliver of an opportunity to use his arm.]

[petcromancer]

[Well, fuck. No talking his way out of this, and no helpful tools left within his grasp.

There's no way he's getting out of this, but he can't just roll over and let the cultists have their way without a fight. Hector's a bit of a bastard, and if annoying his captors is the best he can do, he'll fucking do it.

So as the dragon and the cultist do their switch, he jerks his hand back and makes a grab for the scalpel. His body thrashes, trying to force the others to free their hold on him.]

[silentsavant]

[A sharp scream cuts the air as Hector appropriates the scalpel from the witch, and from there a whirlwind of quick chaos unleashes. Hector's horns are released as the witch who held him dodges what looks like a glinting assault aiming straight for him, and Soren spins about with a thrash of his powerful tail to bowl the faun over, makes a grab for his wrist, and lunges for a pin.]

[petcromancer]

[Under other circumstances, Hector wouldn't mind being pinned by a dragon. But this is not the kind of pinning a faun fantasizes about, and he thrashes and bucks, continuing to fight even after his wrist is seized and squeezed hard enough to make him drop the scalpel.

He bleats out every curse he knows, not that it will help any more than his sad attempts at fighting will. His heart is pounding wildly, operating with a fight or flight instinct that is giving him more adrenaline that will just go to waste.]

[silentsavant]

[The faun has no hope against the dragon. Though much smaller than the specimen he is thinking of, his force surpasses reason. It's only a matter of time before the aristocrats take advantage of the cruel hold Soren exerts upon his injured arm to poke and prod and collect what they wanted from him. Keep him like that, they decide with a touch of amusement. Just how much, how long will he struggle? Will the Cwyld spread faster? Rip open his shirt so that they can see it better.

As ever, Soren complies with a rake of claws. The fabric shreds like paper. Their captors laugh.]

[petcromancer]

[Hector's thrashing turns to twitching, which fades to shivering as that rush of frightened energy runs out while the cultists poke and prod. His voice goes hoarse from his protests, and he finally goes quiet. His narrowed eyes keep glaring, but it's woefully inadequate as far as determined stands go.

Soren shreds his shirt --one Everett had bought him, how dare he-- and the claws leave a thin red line on his skin. The shivering intensifies. Hector tries to curl up and shield himself, but he's denied even that. Fucking cultists, fucking dragon.]

[silentsavant]

[Bored of his lack of fire, the taller cultist kneels to Hector's level, chuckling darkly to himself. "I quite like his tenacity..." He runs his gloved fingers through his scalp right around the base of his horns, as if admiring, as if in some sick facsimile of affection. "There's hardly a sense of reward in taming docile creatures, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh, I don't know." Footsteps click around the perimeter of the faun's fallen form. "That's your area of interest, not mine. Oh, Dragon?"]

...The name is Soren.

["Right! Well, seeing as your rump has been blessed by the Cwyld, it might behoof us to increase the chance of contraction? In other words, sit on him."

With a sigh to maintain his own patience, Soren adjusts his position atop Hector so that he sits atop the small of his back, tail draped over his backside while he strongarms him in place.

"Don't act so disinterested," chides the bespectacled man bossing Soren around behind Hector. The one knelt before Hector leans in a little further, the corners of his lips curled and his storm-gray eyes flashing with amusement. A tinge of magic arises from those fingers of his, the incipience of a spell.

"How would you like to become my pet?"

If there is any sympathy that Hector gets right now, it is Soren's silent agreement that this cultist is creeping him out. But he doesn't possess the necessary moral compass to do anything but obey his fellow members of the Circle.]

[petcromancer]

[Seated atop him, Soren may feel Hector's shudder at the cultist's proposition.]

There's not enough mind control in the world to make that happen, you sick fuck.

[Hector's a faun, so maybe it's even true. He's hard to charm, and the mere idea that what the cultists are doing to him is anything remotely like pet ownership offends Hector to his very core. He'd never treat a pet this way.]