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Midnight update
Oct. 27th, 2012 05:24 amAs the clock chimes midnight the house falls quiet, nothing but the sound of the clock audible. Even the construction seems to stop momentarily, people's voices catching in their throats and movements reduced to nothing more than muted whispers of fabric. The clock itself, though, seems louder than is natural -- each strike increasing in volume. The guests feel frozen to the spot, an increasing sense of dread building in them with each strike.
At the tenth strike, the Phantasms enter the house. They move swiftly, footfalls silent as they find their victims and drag them away to their lair.
The experiments have begun.
At the eleventh strike, the house shifts.
The piano in the parlour starts to play of it's own accord, soft background music like you might find in a fancy restaurant. Anyone of the sensitive who linger near it may feel like there's someone sitting on the chair, although no-one is visible.
On every windowsill and shelf of the house some seasonal décor appears. Turnips have been carved out and tea-lights lit inside them, the soft flicker of the candles visible through the slightly unnerving smiling faces carved into them.
In the parlour of the First House the fire within the hearth goes out, leaving the room a touch colder than before. This room is no-longer safe.
The Rose Garden has had more offerings added to it; plates of food sit around it and candles flicker within turnip lanterns, a small basket of apples off to one side.
If any dares to take food from the garden they will find themselves quickly going cold, stomach turning and twisting until the food forces itself back up again.
Dib will find himself getting a slowly growing headache, until as the final strike of midnight hits The Shadow Man bursts out. He is as deadly as ever, and quick to turn on any guest who crosses his path. Once free he will walk through all of the houses on a careful patrol before vanishing once more, seemingly satisfied with what he has found. Anyone who is touched by the Shadow Man will die instantly, and the only way to avoid him is to enter a safe room where he cannot follow.
For the sensitive the whispering continues to harass, voices overlaying each other into a crowded mess that vies for attention and pleads -- too many to discern individual now, too heavy to achieve much other than adding background noise loud enough to match a busy city.
Within The Third House, however, something is happening.
The Diamond Dining Room has been redecorated in greys and blacks, grand seats at the heads of the large table shrouded in black fabric and the tablecloth exchanged for something to match. All the cutlery and crockery, too, has been exchanged for something dark, and the only flashes of colour are the flames of the candles and a small wreath of flowers at the centre. Each carefully laid place has a blank name card set in the middle of it -- after all, none of the invitees have names to be written down upon them. Helpfully, though, the blank cards are accompanied by photographs. Each photograph appears to have been taken while the guest was asleep, or at least that appears to be the case -- they are laid out, arms folded neatly into their lap and eyes closed. The photographer appears to have gone to pains to ensure the scene is tidy, clothes smooth and a single white lily in the guest's hand.
On a small table to one side of the room a miniature altar has been set up, ageing sepia photos of a family in black frames either side and incense adding a dull haze to the room. The altar has been draped in a deep burgundy fabric, a candle sat on it flickering beside a basket of apples and a straw man. A glass of mulled wine appears to have been set with the food, as well as a handful of particularly attractive dried leaves.
The room has a strange draw to it, sirening in any guests who stray near or into the third house -- but once they enter it is unwilling to let them leave. Turning and attempting to do so only results in a wall of Unnatural Servants, insistently leading guests back in despite their protests.
Crossing the threshold into the room itself has a strange effect. As if to ensure the atmosphere is not ruined each guest who steps in will find their clothing has changed to something more suitable -- either a magnificent but serious black evening dress or pure white suit. That, and all guests who enter will find they are now wearing a black veil.
Anything they kept in their pockets has vanished, although items of jewellery remain untouched.
On top of this there is another curious side-effect -- while the spell of silence breaks once midnight passes outside the dining room, within it the quiet still has hold.
Nobody who attends the supper will be able to speak a word, voices catching uselessly in their throats. Even the scrape of chairs and clink of glasses is muted to nothing, the only sound a faint background murmur of conversation – as if an unseen crowd is conversing in hushed whispers nearby. For the sensitive, at least, this is better than the noise they suffered outside of the dining room – even if the temperature feels alarmingly cold despite the roaring fire.
Guests will be seated at the long table -- by force, if they chose to object -- and once enough people are present, served by the Unnatural Servants themselves.
The atmosphere may be oppressive, and food may appear to vanish when served to the empty chairs at the heads of the table, but the food itself is good – if a little on the heavy side. Thick, cloying sauces accompany heavy winter soups, and racks of pork ribs are followed by slices of pumpkin pie. It makes the guests feel slow, weighed down and a little dizzy. The more they eat, the louder the unseen whispering crowd seems -- and they might even glimpse what was surely the shape of a woman slipping from the room, or a man walking behind them.
Each guest will find a small, thin strip of paper beside their place mat and a fountain pen. Although it is not the intended use, guests may wish to use this to write a note to whoever they end up sat next to.
The Dumb Supper is under way, and all guests who take part will be well fed for the night – and may even enjoy a party trick or too. After all, fortune telling is traditional.
[ ooc: Opt-in event! A group log will go up for anyone who wants to struggle voicelessly through the rather unsettling meal. For those who are not sure: a Dumb Supper is a memorial style meal to honour and remember those who have passed on. The heads of the table are shrouded and left unoccupied so they can join you if they wish. For characters who might recognise the ceremony: the slip of paper is intended for writing a message to passed on loved ones, which you burn at the end of the meal. ]
At the tenth strike, the Phantasms enter the house. They move swiftly, footfalls silent as they find their victims and drag them away to their lair.
The experiments have begun.
At the eleventh strike, the house shifts.
The piano in the parlour starts to play of it's own accord, soft background music like you might find in a fancy restaurant. Anyone of the sensitive who linger near it may feel like there's someone sitting on the chair, although no-one is visible.
On every windowsill and shelf of the house some seasonal décor appears. Turnips have been carved out and tea-lights lit inside them, the soft flicker of the candles visible through the slightly unnerving smiling faces carved into them.
In the parlour of the First House the fire within the hearth goes out, leaving the room a touch colder than before. This room is no-longer safe.
The Rose Garden has had more offerings added to it; plates of food sit around it and candles flicker within turnip lanterns, a small basket of apples off to one side.
If any dares to take food from the garden they will find themselves quickly going cold, stomach turning and twisting until the food forces itself back up again.
Dib will find himself getting a slowly growing headache, until as the final strike of midnight hits The Shadow Man bursts out. He is as deadly as ever, and quick to turn on any guest who crosses his path. Once free he will walk through all of the houses on a careful patrol before vanishing once more, seemingly satisfied with what he has found. Anyone who is touched by the Shadow Man will die instantly, and the only way to avoid him is to enter a safe room where he cannot follow.
For the sensitive the whispering continues to harass, voices overlaying each other into a crowded mess that vies for attention and pleads -- too many to discern individual now, too heavy to achieve much other than adding background noise loud enough to match a busy city.
Within The Third House, however, something is happening.
The Diamond Dining Room has been redecorated in greys and blacks, grand seats at the heads of the large table shrouded in black fabric and the tablecloth exchanged for something to match. All the cutlery and crockery, too, has been exchanged for something dark, and the only flashes of colour are the flames of the candles and a small wreath of flowers at the centre. Each carefully laid place has a blank name card set in the middle of it -- after all, none of the invitees have names to be written down upon them. Helpfully, though, the blank cards are accompanied by photographs. Each photograph appears to have been taken while the guest was asleep, or at least that appears to be the case -- they are laid out, arms folded neatly into their lap and eyes closed. The photographer appears to have gone to pains to ensure the scene is tidy, clothes smooth and a single white lily in the guest's hand.
On a small table to one side of the room a miniature altar has been set up, ageing sepia photos of a family in black frames either side and incense adding a dull haze to the room. The altar has been draped in a deep burgundy fabric, a candle sat on it flickering beside a basket of apples and a straw man. A glass of mulled wine appears to have been set with the food, as well as a handful of particularly attractive dried leaves.
The room has a strange draw to it, sirening in any guests who stray near or into the third house -- but once they enter it is unwilling to let them leave. Turning and attempting to do so only results in a wall of Unnatural Servants, insistently leading guests back in despite their protests.
Crossing the threshold into the room itself has a strange effect. As if to ensure the atmosphere is not ruined each guest who steps in will find their clothing has changed to something more suitable -- either a magnificent but serious black evening dress or pure white suit. That, and all guests who enter will find they are now wearing a black veil.
Anything they kept in their pockets has vanished, although items of jewellery remain untouched.
On top of this there is another curious side-effect -- while the spell of silence breaks once midnight passes outside the dining room, within it the quiet still has hold.
Nobody who attends the supper will be able to speak a word, voices catching uselessly in their throats. Even the scrape of chairs and clink of glasses is muted to nothing, the only sound a faint background murmur of conversation – as if an unseen crowd is conversing in hushed whispers nearby. For the sensitive, at least, this is better than the noise they suffered outside of the dining room – even if the temperature feels alarmingly cold despite the roaring fire.
Guests will be seated at the long table -- by force, if they chose to object -- and once enough people are present, served by the Unnatural Servants themselves.
The atmosphere may be oppressive, and food may appear to vanish when served to the empty chairs at the heads of the table, but the food itself is good – if a little on the heavy side. Thick, cloying sauces accompany heavy winter soups, and racks of pork ribs are followed by slices of pumpkin pie. It makes the guests feel slow, weighed down and a little dizzy. The more they eat, the louder the unseen whispering crowd seems -- and they might even glimpse what was surely the shape of a woman slipping from the room, or a man walking behind them.
Each guest will find a small, thin strip of paper beside their place mat and a fountain pen. Although it is not the intended use, guests may wish to use this to write a note to whoever they end up sat next to.
The Dumb Supper is under way, and all guests who take part will be well fed for the night – and may even enjoy a party trick or too. After all, fortune telling is traditional.
[ ooc: Opt-in event! A group log will go up for anyone who wants to struggle voicelessly through the rather unsettling meal. For those who are not sure: a Dumb Supper is a memorial style meal to honour and remember those who have passed on. The heads of the table are shrouded and left unoccupied so they can join you if they wish. For characters who might recognise the ceremony: the slip of paper is intended for writing a message to passed on loved ones, which you burn at the end of the meal. ]
