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The first chime of the clock resounds through the house, vibrating through the air like a promise.
Dawn. Dawn after a long night.
The house is suddenly full of fireflies, bright points of light dancing around the house-guests. They whisper, voices filling the halls.
The second chime of dawn sounds through the house.
In the Ballroom the fireflies begin to take the form of people, moving in a slow waltz around the floor. Lyhn sits near the front, cloak drawn tight around him to conceal his form. On his arm sits a white owl, its sharp eyes watching the scene with interest.
As one, the house-guests find themselves face to face with the smiling man, watching as he lifts a finger to his lips in a nearly universal request for silence.
The house-guests sleep as the third chime strikes the house. The owl lifts from his arm, gliding over the dancers to perch on one of the chairs.
Powerless to resist they are drawn down, deeper into the dream until they find themselves dancing – spinning lazily among the other figures to the sound of a song.
Estella appears in the door of the ballroom, walking as though in a trance – perhaps as if she still sleeps. Maybe she does, weaving dreamlike through the people around her towards her goal. The dancers are helpless to intervene, watching as the dark-haired girl makes her way across the floor to Lyhn.
He smiles as he steps down from his perch, lantern in his hand as he walks to meet her. The music is too loud to make out what they say, locked as they are in a hushed conversation drowned out by the orchestra playing. They speak for only a moment, expressions serious, and then Lyhn extends his hand.
The lantern is a bright spot of light in the dimly lit ballroom, their fingers lacing closed around it for no more than a second before it explodes in a blinding flash – for a moment rendering everything pure white.
When it fades, Phantasms surround the pair. One stands with a hand extended, resting on top of the lantern to push the flames back within it.
The silence is pervasive, even the orchestra stopped as the moment hangs.
Estella collapses, the Phantasms catching her before she can hit the floor and parting her from the lantern.
To the guests Lyhn might seem like he’s smiling, offering the Phantasm a shallow bow.
The dream ends as the clock chimes a fourth time.
One by one, as the last chimes sound, every fireplace in the house goes out. A chill settles over the house, deep cold that will not be denied. Cracks under the door and between the window frames admit icy breezes. The weather has turned, and winter is unrelenting. The temperature is bellow freezing, even inside the house, and the frost that spreads over the windows is lethal to the unwary.
In the Open Hallway the light snowfall from the start of the night has become a blizzard, blanketing the open area with mounds of snow. By midday, the snow will easily reach the waist of most average sized house-guests, discouraging passage between the two houses. In the early hours of the morning, before the new snow has covered them, are a single set of footprints leading out into the snow. The footprints are small, childlike, and bare despite the chill of the morning. As the footprints grow closer to the Chapel doors, they begin to fill with blood, the snow to either side flecked with it, stark against the pristine background. The tiny bloody footprints continue through the chapel, winding once around the alter before continuing to the hall.
An aborted start to the Priest’s Room is visible in the footprints before they make their way through the Rough Kitchen and into the courtyard outside, continuing on to the third house.
They vanish in the Professional Kitchen, gone between one step and the next.
In the Rose Garden, the candle has finally gone out, melted wax pooled around it and covered in snow. The white rose remains untouched by the cold that seems to have killed the other plants, though any who get close to it might notice that blood is dripping from its petals, staining the fresh snow beneath it.
As though in apology for the cold, each house-guest will awaken with a small canvas bags sitting at their feet. It seems as though the house has decided to give them a gift. Fastened to the top of the canvas bag is a note, written by someone they have left behind. The contents of the notes differ from person to person, and the handwriting is very clearly that of the letter writer. One thing remains unchanged throughout the house; the writer acts as though they have been gone for some time, regardless of the length of time they have spent in the house.
Once the sack is opened, the contents are remarkably similar. A bit of coal, a candle, a bit of a pine log, a sprig of holly, a vial of scented oil, a flask of pine tea and a lump of hard, dense fruit bread in a cloth sack, a small bag of candied dried fruit and sugared nuts, a small piece of resin, and two gold coins. At the very bottom of the bag is a small velvet case, the sort one might get from a jewellery store. Within it is a charm, differing from person to person, and sized to fit them perfectly. The gift giver seems to have come while they were sleeping, and no sign of them remains behind.
The Kitchens have all been restocked, and stand ready to fill the needs of any house-guest. A tea pot has joined the soup on the stove in the Blue Kitchen ready to offer a touch of warmth to any who enter. In the Rough Kitchen someone is making a mulled apple cider, the warm smell filling the area.
In the Pantry of the Rough Kitchen someone seems to have made only the most basic of preparations for a feast. The pungent smell hits visitors the second they open the door, that of blood and offal. Several large birds hang from the ceiling, over buckets to catch the slowly dripping red liquid. They have already been disembowelled, the insides put aside in containers. The fowl have been thoroughly mutilated, beyond what was surely necessary, and hang half plucked so that they will soon be ready to be cooked into dinner in the kitchen just outside.
The Professional Kitchen is a flurry of unseen activity, the birds plucked during the night are now being prepared, roasted with spices until their skin cracks and the kitchen is filled with the pleasant aroma of roasting meats. It seems as thought another feast is being prepared. Bowls of berries are being boiled down with sugar to make jam, the sweet smell of boiling sugar intoxicating the senses as the house guests pass. They may feel welcome to partake of the food, and it seems harmless enough to do so. Its unseen makers offer no protest.
In the Diamond Dining Room a new feast has been laid out. Unlike the one from two nights ago, the guests' clothing remains untouched and they are able to leave at any time -- they do, however, feel a compulsion to go and stay and mingle, at least until they have eaten a proper, hearty breakfast.
Small tables have been placed to line the edges of the room, providing food while keeping the centre dining table clear. The tables are set with an array of breakfast foods, from all manner or countries and cultures -- some unrecognisable to guests, some not. It is all warm, fresh and with a certain sweet and tempting smell wafting from it that just begs those investigating to indulge.
So long as one remains in the dining room they were never feel quite full, though they may feel as though they have overeaten once they depart. The food supply fortunately seems to not dwindle, always kept fresh and full by an unseen army of servants.
Every mirror in the house is covered with handprints, seemingly placed on the inside of the glass. Though it may be difficult to tell in the chill of the house, the mirrors seem oddly cold. The cold ignores all covering, biting into sensitive skin beneath clothing. For anyone who lingers long in the frame, they may find themselves staring at a darker outline forming around their reflection.
The Library has been vacated by Little Miss, though it is left in absolute chaos. Her mess is untouched, leaving the room covered in torn pages and scattered books, in spite of the fact that she is nowhere to be found. Her anger has left its scars on the room, and no attempts to clean it will yield any effort at all -- books slide lazily off of shelves, pages drift back into a disorder that will not be shaken.
The Wax Family has returned to their places in the Dining Room in the Second House, though anything more than a cursory glance will tell an observer that all is not well with the reunion. There is no lack of reluctance to the gathering, not a single one making eye contact or even looking toward one another -- save the Father, who stares hungrily at the Mother. Her own eyes are locked on the exit of the room, a distraught longing twisting her face but never moving her plastic smile.
The Son wields a steak knife, carving a message into the table. It is currently illegible, only reading to the 'I.' He looks intent and upset, focused wholly on his task and avoiding the gazes of his parents. His message, whatever it may be, is far more important. The Daughter sits next to him with her eyes closed, face caught in an anguished shudder like she might cry out, her hands resting possessively in her lap and clutching something tightly.
The Third House's vandals begin to vacate, albeit reluctantly. The twelve Children drag broken furniture pieces along with them, dropping torn pages and scribbling with crayons on the walls. They delay as long as possible in their exits before they dash ahead, ducking around a corner when no one can follow. They vanish as if they had never been there -- save for the broken crayon pieces crushed underfoot by something larger than a child.
The thirteenth Child makes his way out too, looking around himself when he realises he is alone. He passes through the halls quietly, before he forges through the cold and the snow to make his way through the long trek to the Shelter Bedroom-- where several children remain, even in the light of day. The children in that room seem only slightly wary before they welcome him into their fold. The Twins hold each other's hands as they play, and the little Mute Ghost Girl on the bed edges forward. Even the Crawling Boy creeps toward the edge of the bed he hides under, peeking his head out though he seems too frightened to emerge from his hiding place. It may be clear, however, that something has changed about the children.
Both of the twins have had their stitching removed, and they boast large grins now that they are apparently free to look and speak as they normally should. The mute child, though her wide, doe-like eyes are frightened, has regained some pink to her cheeks, still pale but with a certain livelihood that was absent before. Her dress is still covered by burns, but she does not seem bothered, peering out at the others in the room, more interested in their playtime than she is by the state she was left in by the night. The most dramatic change, however, is the boy under the bed: his bones have been mended, and his face seems to have been rearranged to face the proper direction. Now visible, he is clearly a young boy of Asian descent, with wide dark eyes and a mess of dark hair. He looks terrified, but the twins and the kitten sit near him as if to offer comfort.
They do not speak to any who enter, but any Children who happen by the room will feel the urge to join in on their games. They welcome those compelled to them with open arms.
Inexplicably, all of the blades in all three houses appear to have been recently used, perhaps while the house-guests slept, from butter knives to weapons carried by the visitors. Each appears to have been stabbed into a warm body of some kind, with varying amounts of fresh blood covering them, from a few droplets to complete coats.
The phone keeps ringing in the Satin Room, making it impossible to get a moment's rest within those wall s-- and perhaps even in the rooms nearest to it, for those with more sensitive hearing. The sound is absolutely incessant, until someone gives in and picks up the phone. Upon listening to the receiver, there is the briefest silence, before a young woman's voice, angry, starts to speak. She does not manage more than a single word before the line goes dead, leaving only a droning tone in the absence of a connection.
The second the phone is returned to its cradle it begins to ring again.
In the Day Room the bowl of cherries seems to exude a stronger smell than normal. Visually they do not appear out of the ordinary, other than a faint sour sting to the air around them, however eating them will show the difference clearly-- they have been replaced by poisonous berries, a sharp taste that will leave the unwary violently ill after only a couple. Too many and the stomach may need to be pumped -- or perhaps worse.
In the Greenhouse a flock of Ravens has appeared. They caw and chatter loudly, the din drowning out almost all other noise once someone enters. Nothing seems to startle them away from each other, the large group becoming more agitated and loud if anyone tries to disperse them. They perch in the trees along the path, beady eyes fixed on those who walk along it.
Beneath the birds, the trail is covered in blood. It looks as though something large was attacked, though there is no sign of a body. Anyone who touches the blood will find themselves covered in a strange warmth that has little to do with the congealing blood covering the dirt path. The blood trails away into the mist. Trying to follow will only result in becoming lost.
In the Basement the dirt floors have felt the effects of the weather as well. The cold wet of outdoors have seeped into the foundations of the house, turning the surfaces sludgy with mud. Because of the low temperatures it has frozen nearly solid, the muck frequently easier to walk on, though it remains slippery and slick.
Outside the Birdcage Room something is moving. It does not get close enough to be seen, but the sound of it never fades. Low groans, and the wind caused by flapping wings cutting through the air permeate the room. The shadow of something large passes time and time again, blocking the sunlight from the room. It makes it unnerving to remain long within the room.
In the Velvet Room the wax doll seems to be feeling the chill. He has managed to pull up the velvet that lines the floor of his display case, wrapping it around himself like a shawl. He shivers occasionally, watching the door as though expecting someone to come. Though the glass case appears to be soundproof, he does seem capable of communicating, even if he is limited only to gestures. To those who look upon him he seems less the grand doll he was meant to appear as and more a tired young man. There is no way to release him from the case, and he seems almost wistful when anyone tries.
In the Silk Bedroom the woman is also awake, though she seems to be faring better in the cold than her male counterpart. Her hands have been drawn back into her sleeve, and her head is bowed, as though caught in a moment of contemplation. She does not attempt to rise for any visitors, though she, too, seems to be waiting for someone specific. She will respond if anyone tries to get her attention, and seems rather sad, as though something has distracted her far from the place she currently resides.
The Wax Man has collapsed, exhausted by his nightly exertions and curled into the smallest ball he can manage. His shoulders shake on occasion in convulsive sobs, caught in a moment of exhausted misery. Written on the wall is a single, cryptic message, sketched in a mix of blood and yellow paint. It’s in the blood.
Lock seems to have found some respite after the night’s challenges, and can be found curled beneath the desk in the Study. He seems resistant to waking, barely stirring when anyone enters the room. The chair to the desk has been pushed against it in such a way that it is difficult to get to him, and will not move from its positions. The tattoo has not receded from his face and his left eye is still sewn shut.
The tattoos seem to be acting up this morning, as the house-guests start to move around they may find that they are starting to itch. For the high-level sensitive the itching sensation quickly progresses into something almost painful, hives forming around the dark ink marks on their skin.
In the Second House the door that leads Outside is swinging open and closing again, the intervals are timed in such a way that moving past it is impossible. The sound permeates the house, the slow creak of the door ended by the abrupt slam, though there is no one there to catch it and put it to rights.
The horses have returned to their stalls in the Stables. They act just like normal horses, though they are phantasmal in form. Only anyone of medium level sensitivity or above can touch them. The constant noise of the animals moving is rather distracting, and the horses seem quite aware of the house-guests, making further attempts to gain their attention.
One of the horses has been saddled and has been left standing outside its stall. The colt looks as though it has been ridden recently, though it seems rather adverse to the idea of being handled. It is as though he is waiting for someone specific, and will not accept any other rider. A strange symbol hangs from his saddle, though he will not let anyone get close enough to examine it.
By the doors stable lays a massive dog, immovably solid. It seems to be some sort of wolfhound, solid white and faintly luminescent in the morning light. He seems rather disinterested in those who pass it, watching the dirt path that vanishes into the mist as though waiting for someone to return. Any being of a non-human nature or currently inhabiting a non-human form will feel drawn to the creature, and those who linger near will find that the cold of the day fades somewhat so long as they are in his presence. He seems calm, willing to be petted and patted, but unwilling to follow anyone back into the house.
Near the larger dog plays a small terrier, clearly under the greater creature’s protection. Unlike the larger dog, this dog is clearly a ghost, though it does not seem at all bothered by its non-living state, playing and chasing its tail and otherwise acting as any small dog would.
A series of four notes have appeared in the house. Each is written on fabric, with tiny holes in them to let light through, in various patterns. There are rudimentary numbers written in the corner, one through four.
1. Left on the floor of the Straight Hallway, it says in neat but slightly shaky writing, "I don't understand how anything here works. None of it makes sense."
2. On the edge of the desk in the Study, a very prettily written note sits. "Sometimes we have to close our eyes to see."
3. Tacked to the wall in the Wallpapered Parlour is a note that might have been written by a child, if the handwriting is anything by which to judge. "They won't stop following me."
4. The last note rests on the couch of the Carved Parlour, just as soft and malleable as much of the furniture in the room. The handwriting is faint, like they were scared of wrecking the page. "I feel so violated here. Is nothing sacred any more?"
((ooc: If you'd like your character to find one of the notes, leave a comment on this post! You are more than welcome to team up and find notes in groups, as well.
Day 017 will last until January 4th))
Dawn. Dawn after a long night.
The house is suddenly full of fireflies, bright points of light dancing around the house-guests. They whisper, voices filling the halls.
The second chime of dawn sounds through the house.
In the Ballroom the fireflies begin to take the form of people, moving in a slow waltz around the floor. Lyhn sits near the front, cloak drawn tight around him to conceal his form. On his arm sits a white owl, its sharp eyes watching the scene with interest.
As one, the house-guests find themselves face to face with the smiling man, watching as he lifts a finger to his lips in a nearly universal request for silence.
The house-guests sleep as the third chime strikes the house. The owl lifts from his arm, gliding over the dancers to perch on one of the chairs.
Powerless to resist they are drawn down, deeper into the dream until they find themselves dancing – spinning lazily among the other figures to the sound of a song.
Estella appears in the door of the ballroom, walking as though in a trance – perhaps as if she still sleeps. Maybe she does, weaving dreamlike through the people around her towards her goal. The dancers are helpless to intervene, watching as the dark-haired girl makes her way across the floor to Lyhn.
He smiles as he steps down from his perch, lantern in his hand as he walks to meet her. The music is too loud to make out what they say, locked as they are in a hushed conversation drowned out by the orchestra playing. They speak for only a moment, expressions serious, and then Lyhn extends his hand.
The lantern is a bright spot of light in the dimly lit ballroom, their fingers lacing closed around it for no more than a second before it explodes in a blinding flash – for a moment rendering everything pure white.
When it fades, Phantasms surround the pair. One stands with a hand extended, resting on top of the lantern to push the flames back within it.
The silence is pervasive, even the orchestra stopped as the moment hangs.
Estella collapses, the Phantasms catching her before she can hit the floor and parting her from the lantern.
To the guests Lyhn might seem like he’s smiling, offering the Phantasm a shallow bow.
The dream ends as the clock chimes a fourth time.
One by one, as the last chimes sound, every fireplace in the house goes out. A chill settles over the house, deep cold that will not be denied. Cracks under the door and between the window frames admit icy breezes. The weather has turned, and winter is unrelenting. The temperature is bellow freezing, even inside the house, and the frost that spreads over the windows is lethal to the unwary.
In the Open Hallway the light snowfall from the start of the night has become a blizzard, blanketing the open area with mounds of snow. By midday, the snow will easily reach the waist of most average sized house-guests, discouraging passage between the two houses. In the early hours of the morning, before the new snow has covered them, are a single set of footprints leading out into the snow. The footprints are small, childlike, and bare despite the chill of the morning. As the footprints grow closer to the Chapel doors, they begin to fill with blood, the snow to either side flecked with it, stark against the pristine background. The tiny bloody footprints continue through the chapel, winding once around the alter before continuing to the hall.
An aborted start to the Priest’s Room is visible in the footprints before they make their way through the Rough Kitchen and into the courtyard outside, continuing on to the third house.
They vanish in the Professional Kitchen, gone between one step and the next.
In the Rose Garden, the candle has finally gone out, melted wax pooled around it and covered in snow. The white rose remains untouched by the cold that seems to have killed the other plants, though any who get close to it might notice that blood is dripping from its petals, staining the fresh snow beneath it.
As though in apology for the cold, each house-guest will awaken with a small canvas bags sitting at their feet. It seems as though the house has decided to give them a gift. Fastened to the top of the canvas bag is a note, written by someone they have left behind. The contents of the notes differ from person to person, and the handwriting is very clearly that of the letter writer. One thing remains unchanged throughout the house; the writer acts as though they have been gone for some time, regardless of the length of time they have spent in the house.
Once the sack is opened, the contents are remarkably similar. A bit of coal, a candle, a bit of a pine log, a sprig of holly, a vial of scented oil, a flask of pine tea and a lump of hard, dense fruit bread in a cloth sack, a small bag of candied dried fruit and sugared nuts, a small piece of resin, and two gold coins. At the very bottom of the bag is a small velvet case, the sort one might get from a jewellery store. Within it is a charm, differing from person to person, and sized to fit them perfectly. The gift giver seems to have come while they were sleeping, and no sign of them remains behind.
The Kitchens have all been restocked, and stand ready to fill the needs of any house-guest. A tea pot has joined the soup on the stove in the Blue Kitchen ready to offer a touch of warmth to any who enter. In the Rough Kitchen someone is making a mulled apple cider, the warm smell filling the area.
In the Pantry of the Rough Kitchen someone seems to have made only the most basic of preparations for a feast. The pungent smell hits visitors the second they open the door, that of blood and offal. Several large birds hang from the ceiling, over buckets to catch the slowly dripping red liquid. They have already been disembowelled, the insides put aside in containers. The fowl have been thoroughly mutilated, beyond what was surely necessary, and hang half plucked so that they will soon be ready to be cooked into dinner in the kitchen just outside.
The Professional Kitchen is a flurry of unseen activity, the birds plucked during the night are now being prepared, roasted with spices until their skin cracks and the kitchen is filled with the pleasant aroma of roasting meats. It seems as thought another feast is being prepared. Bowls of berries are being boiled down with sugar to make jam, the sweet smell of boiling sugar intoxicating the senses as the house guests pass. They may feel welcome to partake of the food, and it seems harmless enough to do so. Its unseen makers offer no protest.
In the Diamond Dining Room a new feast has been laid out. Unlike the one from two nights ago, the guests' clothing remains untouched and they are able to leave at any time -- they do, however, feel a compulsion to go and stay and mingle, at least until they have eaten a proper, hearty breakfast.
Small tables have been placed to line the edges of the room, providing food while keeping the centre dining table clear. The tables are set with an array of breakfast foods, from all manner or countries and cultures -- some unrecognisable to guests, some not. It is all warm, fresh and with a certain sweet and tempting smell wafting from it that just begs those investigating to indulge.
So long as one remains in the dining room they were never feel quite full, though they may feel as though they have overeaten once they depart. The food supply fortunately seems to not dwindle, always kept fresh and full by an unseen army of servants.
Every mirror in the house is covered with handprints, seemingly placed on the inside of the glass. Though it may be difficult to tell in the chill of the house, the mirrors seem oddly cold. The cold ignores all covering, biting into sensitive skin beneath clothing. For anyone who lingers long in the frame, they may find themselves staring at a darker outline forming around their reflection.
The Library has been vacated by Little Miss, though it is left in absolute chaos. Her mess is untouched, leaving the room covered in torn pages and scattered books, in spite of the fact that she is nowhere to be found. Her anger has left its scars on the room, and no attempts to clean it will yield any effort at all -- books slide lazily off of shelves, pages drift back into a disorder that will not be shaken.
The Wax Family has returned to their places in the Dining Room in the Second House, though anything more than a cursory glance will tell an observer that all is not well with the reunion. There is no lack of reluctance to the gathering, not a single one making eye contact or even looking toward one another -- save the Father, who stares hungrily at the Mother. Her own eyes are locked on the exit of the room, a distraught longing twisting her face but never moving her plastic smile.
The Son wields a steak knife, carving a message into the table. It is currently illegible, only reading to the 'I.' He looks intent and upset, focused wholly on his task and avoiding the gazes of his parents. His message, whatever it may be, is far more important. The Daughter sits next to him with her eyes closed, face caught in an anguished shudder like she might cry out, her hands resting possessively in her lap and clutching something tightly.
The Third House's vandals begin to vacate, albeit reluctantly. The twelve Children drag broken furniture pieces along with them, dropping torn pages and scribbling with crayons on the walls. They delay as long as possible in their exits before they dash ahead, ducking around a corner when no one can follow. They vanish as if they had never been there -- save for the broken crayon pieces crushed underfoot by something larger than a child.
The thirteenth Child makes his way out too, looking around himself when he realises he is alone. He passes through the halls quietly, before he forges through the cold and the snow to make his way through the long trek to the Shelter Bedroom-- where several children remain, even in the light of day. The children in that room seem only slightly wary before they welcome him into their fold. The Twins hold each other's hands as they play, and the little Mute Ghost Girl on the bed edges forward. Even the Crawling Boy creeps toward the edge of the bed he hides under, peeking his head out though he seems too frightened to emerge from his hiding place. It may be clear, however, that something has changed about the children.
Both of the twins have had their stitching removed, and they boast large grins now that they are apparently free to look and speak as they normally should. The mute child, though her wide, doe-like eyes are frightened, has regained some pink to her cheeks, still pale but with a certain livelihood that was absent before. Her dress is still covered by burns, but she does not seem bothered, peering out at the others in the room, more interested in their playtime than she is by the state she was left in by the night. The most dramatic change, however, is the boy under the bed: his bones have been mended, and his face seems to have been rearranged to face the proper direction. Now visible, he is clearly a young boy of Asian descent, with wide dark eyes and a mess of dark hair. He looks terrified, but the twins and the kitten sit near him as if to offer comfort.
They do not speak to any who enter, but any Children who happen by the room will feel the urge to join in on their games. They welcome those compelled to them with open arms.
Inexplicably, all of the blades in all three houses appear to have been recently used, perhaps while the house-guests slept, from butter knives to weapons carried by the visitors. Each appears to have been stabbed into a warm body of some kind, with varying amounts of fresh blood covering them, from a few droplets to complete coats.
The phone keeps ringing in the Satin Room, making it impossible to get a moment's rest within those wall s-- and perhaps even in the rooms nearest to it, for those with more sensitive hearing. The sound is absolutely incessant, until someone gives in and picks up the phone. Upon listening to the receiver, there is the briefest silence, before a young woman's voice, angry, starts to speak. She does not manage more than a single word before the line goes dead, leaving only a droning tone in the absence of a connection.
The second the phone is returned to its cradle it begins to ring again.
In the Day Room the bowl of cherries seems to exude a stronger smell than normal. Visually they do not appear out of the ordinary, other than a faint sour sting to the air around them, however eating them will show the difference clearly-- they have been replaced by poisonous berries, a sharp taste that will leave the unwary violently ill after only a couple. Too many and the stomach may need to be pumped -- or perhaps worse.
In the Greenhouse a flock of Ravens has appeared. They caw and chatter loudly, the din drowning out almost all other noise once someone enters. Nothing seems to startle them away from each other, the large group becoming more agitated and loud if anyone tries to disperse them. They perch in the trees along the path, beady eyes fixed on those who walk along it.
Beneath the birds, the trail is covered in blood. It looks as though something large was attacked, though there is no sign of a body. Anyone who touches the blood will find themselves covered in a strange warmth that has little to do with the congealing blood covering the dirt path. The blood trails away into the mist. Trying to follow will only result in becoming lost.
In the Basement the dirt floors have felt the effects of the weather as well. The cold wet of outdoors have seeped into the foundations of the house, turning the surfaces sludgy with mud. Because of the low temperatures it has frozen nearly solid, the muck frequently easier to walk on, though it remains slippery and slick.
Outside the Birdcage Room something is moving. It does not get close enough to be seen, but the sound of it never fades. Low groans, and the wind caused by flapping wings cutting through the air permeate the room. The shadow of something large passes time and time again, blocking the sunlight from the room. It makes it unnerving to remain long within the room.
In the Velvet Room the wax doll seems to be feeling the chill. He has managed to pull up the velvet that lines the floor of his display case, wrapping it around himself like a shawl. He shivers occasionally, watching the door as though expecting someone to come. Though the glass case appears to be soundproof, he does seem capable of communicating, even if he is limited only to gestures. To those who look upon him he seems less the grand doll he was meant to appear as and more a tired young man. There is no way to release him from the case, and he seems almost wistful when anyone tries.
In the Silk Bedroom the woman is also awake, though she seems to be faring better in the cold than her male counterpart. Her hands have been drawn back into her sleeve, and her head is bowed, as though caught in a moment of contemplation. She does not attempt to rise for any visitors, though she, too, seems to be waiting for someone specific. She will respond if anyone tries to get her attention, and seems rather sad, as though something has distracted her far from the place she currently resides.
The Wax Man has collapsed, exhausted by his nightly exertions and curled into the smallest ball he can manage. His shoulders shake on occasion in convulsive sobs, caught in a moment of exhausted misery. Written on the wall is a single, cryptic message, sketched in a mix of blood and yellow paint. It’s in the blood.
Lock seems to have found some respite after the night’s challenges, and can be found curled beneath the desk in the Study. He seems resistant to waking, barely stirring when anyone enters the room. The chair to the desk has been pushed against it in such a way that it is difficult to get to him, and will not move from its positions. The tattoo has not receded from his face and his left eye is still sewn shut.
The tattoos seem to be acting up this morning, as the house-guests start to move around they may find that they are starting to itch. For the high-level sensitive the itching sensation quickly progresses into something almost painful, hives forming around the dark ink marks on their skin.
In the Second House the door that leads Outside is swinging open and closing again, the intervals are timed in such a way that moving past it is impossible. The sound permeates the house, the slow creak of the door ended by the abrupt slam, though there is no one there to catch it and put it to rights.
The horses have returned to their stalls in the Stables. They act just like normal horses, though they are phantasmal in form. Only anyone of medium level sensitivity or above can touch them. The constant noise of the animals moving is rather distracting, and the horses seem quite aware of the house-guests, making further attempts to gain their attention.
One of the horses has been saddled and has been left standing outside its stall. The colt looks as though it has been ridden recently, though it seems rather adverse to the idea of being handled. It is as though he is waiting for someone specific, and will not accept any other rider. A strange symbol hangs from his saddle, though he will not let anyone get close enough to examine it.
By the doors stable lays a massive dog, immovably solid. It seems to be some sort of wolfhound, solid white and faintly luminescent in the morning light. He seems rather disinterested in those who pass it, watching the dirt path that vanishes into the mist as though waiting for someone to return. Any being of a non-human nature or currently inhabiting a non-human form will feel drawn to the creature, and those who linger near will find that the cold of the day fades somewhat so long as they are in his presence. He seems calm, willing to be petted and patted, but unwilling to follow anyone back into the house.
Near the larger dog plays a small terrier, clearly under the greater creature’s protection. Unlike the larger dog, this dog is clearly a ghost, though it does not seem at all bothered by its non-living state, playing and chasing its tail and otherwise acting as any small dog would.
A series of four notes have appeared in the house. Each is written on fabric, with tiny holes in them to let light through, in various patterns. There are rudimentary numbers written in the corner, one through four.
1. Left on the floor of the Straight Hallway, it says in neat but slightly shaky writing, "I don't understand how anything here works. None of it makes sense."
2. On the edge of the desk in the Study, a very prettily written note sits. "Sometimes we have to close our eyes to see."
3. Tacked to the wall in the Wallpapered Parlour is a note that might have been written by a child, if the handwriting is anything by which to judge. "They won't stop following me."
4. The last note rests on the couch of the Carved Parlour, just as soft and malleable as much of the furniture in the room. The handwriting is faint, like they were scared of wrecking the page. "I feel so violated here. Is nothing sacred any more?"
((ooc: If you'd like your character to find one of the notes, leave a comment on this post! You are more than welcome to team up and find notes in groups, as well.
Day 017 will last until January 4th))
