DAY 048

[allthekeys]

|| Day 048: GENERAL As the hour of dawn approaches, it almost seems as though there is a delay, everything moving slower as the halls turn quiet; the creatures roaming the halls pause in trepidation, while the Shadows pull back into seething, uncertain masses in the corners of rooms. Guests find themselves growing drowsy and falling asleep wherever they may be in the lull where the clock should have sounded. In that sleep, there is an uncertain dream; a view of what is occurring elsewhere in the house, each and every one of the guests aware of it as one, observers bearing witness. In the Chapel, the Priest falls back to the altar; the throng of undead ringing him held barely at bay with the burning sword. A flicker of white flames runs a line around him just outside of its reach, causing them to recoil back; he raises the sword, eyes distant and empty, voice echoing throughout the halls. "And the light of a candle shall shine no more at all in thee; and the voice of the bridegroom and of the bride shall be heard no more at all in thee: for by thy sorceries were all nations deceived." As he recites, the flame ringing his feet turns to a pillar, a sheet of gleaming gold-white through which he is only barely visible, the flames around his sword flaring up to reach the ceiling of the Chapel; on the last word, he lowers the sword at the mass filling the Chapel. The flames explode out, the walking dead turned to ash at the slightest touch of it; the light and heat of it are near blinding even to the bodiless awareness of the guests. Those who hold some faith in a higher power or ties to a power of light will find it to be unpleasantly warm and strangely hollow-feeling, while those without either face a few seconds of agony, as if the flames seek to consume them as well as the walking dead. Then the flames clear, and the Chapel is empty save for the Priest; all signs of the earlier desecration have been consumed, and the only clue that there was even anything amiss is a layer of ash dusting the floor and pews. The sword in his hand still flickers lightly, and the dream fades as he grasps it close with the point skyward, reciting prayers in a language unknown to any of the guests. There is a surety that other dreams occurred, but no clear memory of them; all that remains is a sense of words whispered, as if passed between many voices overlapping in the litany, trailing in and out of audibility as it's being spoken. "...to all the fowls that fly in the midst of heaven, come and gather..... may eat the flesh of kings, and the flesh of captains, and the flesh of mighty men...of horses and them that ride upon them...of all men, both free and bond, small and....." They waken to the sound of the Chapel bell ringing the hour of dawn; the clock's chimes can be faintly heard, but are drowned out by the great bell. Morning has already arrived, the last of the darkness banished by the light of the rising sun. The lights still refuse to turn on, power is failing in bursts, and the fires still won't light, but at least the sun is shining and lighting the way through the houses once more. Victoria carries a fire poker with her, dragging it just behind her. She looks exhausted. The mess has been cleared away in the Chapel, the stones have been scrubbed so that not even stains remain. The only figure is a young man sitting in the front pew, his head bowed as though in prayer and his shoulders tense. Joseph seems uneasy this morning, as though he is trying to once again find his center. There is no sign of injury from the long night, though his hand are chafed and raw, as though he has recently spent some time scrubbing at them, so desperate to remove an unseen stain that he did not realize he had done himself injury. He will lift his head to smile at and acknowledge anyone who enters the church, but his mind seems far away, consumed by whatever has troubled him and he does not seem in any hurry to leave his quiet contemplation. The room around him is very quiet, with the sort of hushed reverence one might expect to find in a church. It seems simple enough to join him. The faint scent of incense lingers throughout all of the Houses, growing stronger in the Second House, and will overpower any other smell within the Chapel where the censer burns. Guests with some form of faith or ties to powers of light will find that no matter how thick it may seem, they can breathe easily and clearly, feeling refreshed and renewed for it; to others it ranges from mildly uncomfortable to downright choking for those that would curse or deride the idea of faith, while the blatantly nonhuman, dark-aligned, or magically gifted will find a sense of unease layered through it no matter what other effect it has. Those who felt the flames burning during the dream will find that they awaken with odd burn scars on the backs of their hands, as if a brand had been marked on them and left to heal over; a thin layer of ash coats them. The scars slowly fade over the course of the day, but will not fully vanish until nightfall. For those who only felt mild discomfort, they will find any wounds they may have had healed cleanly; dark, incense-scented ash forms a small mark on their foreheads that does not remove no matter how it may be scrubbed at. The Catacombs are oddly empty, save for piles of ash and a few scorched bones in each alcove that once held a corpse. The torch sconces along the halls are lit, and seem almost unnaturally bright. The barred gate deep in the tunnels is loosely closed; the darkness beyond is quiet, as if held at bay... or waiting. The woman from the Leaky Basement cries out in pain as she wakes into the day, and spends a good deal of morning curled into herself in agony. It slowly fades away, but something is clearly wrong. The doors to the Third, Fourth, and Fifth houses slowly creak open and refuse to close. All other doors and ways outside remain locked, but through windows the sky is clear, the sun warm, with the weather seemingly pleasant; there is a sense of peace across the houses, more than has fallen in some time. In the Third House, the piano is missing from its corner in the Sitting Room, and the wet bar has been cleared out entirely. Furthermore, much like the kitchens in the Fourth House, the Professional Kitchen is now empty. All of the riding tack has vanished from the Stable, and the Costumed Room no longer appears to have its extravagant canopied bed. The rats are scurrying throughout the Third House at a seemingly frantic pace. Following them will reveal that they are all headed in the direction of the Greenhouse. Once there, they will continue running until they vanish into the mist. Anyone who remains in this house for a significant length of time will begin to feel a vague sense of dread--as though, for some reason, they shouldn't stay. The feeling is rather inexplicable, as nothing in the house is visibly threatening. Still, something isn't right.