Welcome to Theia!

[theianmods]

Who: Your mysterious caretakers and you
When: September 1st
Where: The Town Square
What: The welcome wagon has arrived!
Warnings: Minor gore, death




It's a white envelope that finds its way under every door, through every nook and cranny a day or two after your arrival. With the peculiar, bloodstained fingerprints lovingly applied as though they were a signature scrawled into its thin paper body, it doggedly persists--it will find you--until you open it and read the letter written ever so meticulously in fine script. It's a cordial invitation to a party hosted in your honor in the town square today. You should hurry, hurry, hurry! You wouldn't want to be late and keep your generous hosts waiting... or so says that oddly compelling feeling pressing into the back of your head. You make your way to the square, the urgent tugging feeling growing stronger the closer you get, and when you turn the corner to get a glimpse of the festivities, you find it's... not quite what you had been expecting.

The square is small, and looks rather out of general use. The fountain in the center is dusty and crumbling, and if there was ever any water in it it's long gone now. Most of the cobbled stones are broken and loose in the road. There are two long tables stocked with refreshments along either side of the walkway to the fountain, and what appears to be a small stage of some sort right in front of it, holding a large, ornate chair and a third table. The most unsettling thing, however, is the rest of the décor.

The theme is death, or so it would appear. Beside the food table to your left sits a bespectacled man wearing a scarf, but was the scarf always red, or is it only stained so because his head is hanging onto his neck by a thread? Against his lap rests a beautifully crafted cello, which appears to be missing its G-string... Oh. There it is--it's still stuck in the gashed man's neck. The poor bastard has been garrotted with the strings of his cello! Talk about hoisted by your own petard. Where his head lolls against the table, you may notice that behind those glasses, his eyes are missing.

Near the fountain is a large, wrought-iron statue of an archer, where... well, he's made his first kill, apparently. The body of a young girl with long dark hair is speared neatly through the chest by the archer's arrow, her little feet a good half a yard off the ground, now sticky with her blood. If you step closer to peer into the fountain, you'll find another body, this one a man with short dark hair, his face twisted into a mask of desperation and his gloved hands around his own throat as though he were gasping for air. Oddly, his lower jaw appears to be missing. Did he drown? There is no water in the fountain...

In the ornate chair on the platform is the body of another man, this one with his head completely removed from his shoulders. Oh... there it is, in his lap, his hands carefully arranged in his wild black hair. Wait, it seems there are too many hands, though! A second body dangles from a large tree that looms over the square, the rope frayed and dirty where it is wrapped around another man's neck, a strangely peaceful smile on his face, blue though it is. His hands rest atop the first man's, as though making certain the severed head remains still.

On the table in front of the chair rests a chest, its lid wide open and a glittering bounty inside.



If you peer inside, you will see a collection of eggs! Scaly, cool to the touch, and about the size of a football, they come in several colors. There is a note pinned to the inside of the trunk's lid--


Do you take an egg, as the note suggests? Dare you? (Dare you not?)

That pressing feeling in the back of your head has left you now, now that you are here to be welcomed to the city, now that you are here in the presence of your caretakers, but it is difficult to take comfort in the relief from the compulsion when surrounded by so much destruction. Who has done this to the faithful sentinels of the city? Who has killed the Watcher, the Interloper, the Guardian, the Nightingale, and the Keeper? Why have they been left here, at your welcoming home party?

Before you can turn to ask your neighbor, before you can wonder any further, a sound breaks the silence--a terrible, wet crunching noise like a sheet of ice breaking under your feet. You turn over your shoulder to see that it isn't anything so simple as ice. In the middle of the square is one final body, a body that wasn't there but a moment ago. She is small, thin, with dark hair and eerily pale eyes wide in terror. You know this girl, she met you on the elevator, expressed pleasure that you had been found (had you been lost?), and welcomed you home. Where did she come from? It's as though she simply... fell out of the sky! The Dreamer now dreams forever.

As you turn to survey the carnage all around you, a pleasant chiming sound seems to fill the air. It would seem that your mirror has a message for you! Upon inspection, you will find a new icon on the main viewscreen.


If you touch the icon, it will take you to a new application. Welcome to the Task Board! Here you will find a multitude of errands you can run for... whoever is running the city, now. Boy, what a way to announce things are under new management!

Welcome back to Theia, wayward children. Please enjoy the refreshments--watch out for the Nightingale's eyes, they may have fallen into the punch--get reacquainted with your friends and neighbors, and do take good care of those eggs. Or else...

Comments

[stormwinds]

i. ʙᴏᴅɪᴇs;
[ Llane has only arrived. He has entered the house, unlocked his room--there is armor, there is swords--only to be met with a letter. The blood has worried him, but it doesn't smell like the barracks had--it doesn't smell like fel. There is no sulfur, though the feeling of swallowing a bucket full of stones persists, settling in his stomach. He'd pressed forward, still in his robes, still with his crown.

He does not like this.

Of course he does not like this--no one enjoys seeing bodies splayed like this, horrific in nature, repulsively elegant. There is murder and crime in Stormwind, of course, no city is without, but even in the Oldtown district, there is nothing quite like this. Llane is unsettled, unbalanced, but he doesn't hesitate: he strides quickly to the one with the arrow, concern in his eyes. She is dead, yes, obviously so, but no one should be put on display like this. ]

Someone hold her still. I'm going to try to pull the arrow from the wall, so we can better lay her to rest.


ii. ꜰᴏᴏᴅ;
[ It is chaos, at the very least for Llane--not the loud cacophony of battle, although that is almost more preferable. There, there is a singular goal in mind. There, Llane knows his strengths and weaknesses and plans accordingly. There are too many outside factors here, too many questions and not enough answers. He feels a headache coming on. Right in between his brows, blooming all the way to the base of his skull.

The urge for a nice glass of Dalaran red is palapable. Caraway Burnwine, or any Highland spirit. A flagon of mead, even.

The problem is he doesn't trust the table. He eyes it warily, distrust etched across bearded features. ]

Do they think in earnest we'll sup while this carnage is plainly in front of us?

[ And more accurately: do they think we're stupid enough to, if it's poisoned? ]


iii. ᴇɢɢ;
[ Eventually, Llane retires to a corner. He has no trusted the food, nor the drinks, but has refused to turn away from the bodies. To do so seems like some form of cowardice to Llane for some reason, and it appears his stubborn streak about certain things remains intact: he faces the bodies. A small amount of defiance, though for whom he isn't sure.

He's taken an egg, plucked it gently from its box, and is running a hand over the strange scales. His is the blue one, matching part of his robes, and he holds it up to the sky. It's no larger than a grapefruit. ]

Will it hatch, do you suppose?

(let the bodies hit the floor - )

[shalamayne]

[ Déjà vu is always the strangest thing and not only that but the vaguest too. Varian has been staring at this newcomer for a good few minutes in complete silence, not at all making a move to help the other man out just yet. It's like he knows them, but he doesn't. No, that doesn't make any sense but it's probably the closest explanation Varian could give if pressed. Everything about the man screams Stormwind, from the robes to the very specific headgear. He even looks familiar but if they've crossed paths Varian is struggling to remember which ones. Whatever it is, it is throwing him the hell off his game. This place is ridiculous in it's mysteries and it seemed like the inhabitants were doing their best to match that too.

When old man Khadgar is considered the normal one, there's a problem.]

Hmph. [ Varian had been intending to make a comment about how laying that one to rest wasn't going to make much difference in the scheme of things, but he really can't argue it. They don't know what's going on here and no matter how irked and annoyed he's feeling at being yanked out of his own world and trust into this one, taking it out on the dead isn't going to do anyone any favours and he walks on over to reach out and hold the corpse still for now. There are alarm bells starting to ring in his mind as he gets closer to Llane; that clothing is looking even more familiar still and whilst he knows he should be asking a few hundred questions right now, Varian can barely manage to form one.] Make it quick.

[stormwinds]

[ A prickly one, but no matter. Llane's gaze shifts, voice soft as he speaks, taking him in. Lions, blues. There's a decent chance he's from Stormwind, or at the very least somewhere near about. Strange, then, that huff, but who is he to tell people how to react to stress?

If this isn't stressful, Llane will eat Medivh's entire cloak. ]

Thank you. [ Even prickly pears deserve manners, and he grabs a hold of the arrow once her body is properly held, and yanks. It's out in one sharp movement, and he lets it clatter to the side. ]

Your armor. A warrior? [ He's already moving to help set the actual body down, though he doubts the other needs it. ]

[shalamayne]

For the most part.

[ Sometimes it's difficult to go running off to do all the warrior things that most warriors love to do (something to do with royal protocol and giving Genn Greymane an absolute heart attack in doing so). Llane doesn't get a "you're welcome" to his thanks, though Varian does allow the other to help him put the body down, taking the opportunity to cast another critical eye over the other's armour.

Everything about this is stressful and the only reason Varian hasn't run off to wreak destruction is down to the simple fact that the perpetrators haven't shown their faces yet. He'll just settle for his blood pressure slowly rising.]

Yourself? That isn't normal attire you're wearing.

[stormwinds]

It isn't, no. [ Llane has a fairly good summation of the other already: a warrior with nothing to prove, battle-scarred both literally and figuratively. He's seen those types, and there's two ways they can go. Black humour, like Lothar, or like this.

A man with so big a heart he could not save them all, and hardened it instead.

Or perhaps Llane is jumping to conclusions. It wouldn't be the first time, but at least he keeps said conclusions to himself.

Still. This is no reason to judge, nor is it the time, and Llane never judges unless absolutely necessary. he is a warrior, a soldier doing his duty. Llane respects people like that. ]

It wasn't a normal situation I was pulled out of, I'm afraid. [ all it takes is a quick glance around once the body is down, and motions with his head subtly to the next body. If the other continues to help, good, if not? he's headed over there anyway. ] I suspect that's the same of most.

You wear regalia from Stormwind. [ A question in the form of a statement. ] The Lion crest. And yet, I do not recognize you.

[shalamayne]

[ Llane's judgment wouldn't be too far off the mark at all. Varian can just about mark most of his life in major losses ranging from friends to his people; he can even write a veritable shopping list on the amount of times even he's been screwed over. The fight is a constant one, something that seemingly never ends and whilst Varian is all for a good battle he does often wonder just what kind of world his son will be ruling in, or when the next time peace rolls around just how long it will last.]

I suspect it's easier for them to pull people from busy times. Less chance to resist before it happens.

[ He's making a move to help with the next body (noting just how the other one nearby is missing an entire jaw). Varian is down with this for now, but when Llane talks of attire once again he pauses, turning to stare openly at Llane with some suspicion. He's been back on the throne for a long time. Varian could excuse that comment as someone who lived on the outskirts perhaps but with clothing like that and what looked like a crown.... Was it possible for someone from Stormwind to just not know?

Maybe he's from Gilneas? Then again, this guy doesn't strike Varian as the wolfish type. Best to just ask openly; tiptoeing around a problem isn't Varian's style.]

And just how is it you know Stormwind and it's regalia, yet not it's King?

[stormwinds]

[ Interesting is usually an apt descriptive word for situations like this. 'Interesting,' or 'intriguing,' or as Taria is fond to say, 'captivating.'

Somehow, interesting doesn't seem to cover it. The bodies are temporarily forgotten as Llane straightens, and while it's not just confusion in his gaze--he's wondering if the man is Touched--that's the vast majority of it.

Maybe that green fel magic has gotten to his head. He is a Stormwind soldier with an addled mind, perhaps even in the barracks when this whole situation unfolded. ]

I'm quite acquainted with the King of Stormwind, considering I am he.

bodies

[iisupergirlii]

[Kara stands from where she's been kneeling by the fallen girl, the one from the elevator, and runs over when she hears the man announce he's going to move the body]

Wait! You can't!

[she understands; she wants to bury them as well. No one should suffer like this, even if they are dead. But -]

We can't move evidence. This is a crime scene.

[stormwinds]

Yes, it is. [ It's not so much confusion as it is agreeing: yes, it's a crime scene, of course it is. The only sign that he finds it strange is the slight narrowing of his eyes, but his jaw is controlled, head high as fit for the king.

The other girl is pretty in a simple manner, enough that Llane has no doubt can be used to her advantage, much like his wife seems to do on a regular basis. Taria is not here, though, no--it is him, and her, and guests, and bodies.

Could be worse. They could stink of fel magic. He doesn't see a single mage to proper research, though Llane is fairly certain he saw a pointed hat somewhere among his fellow captives. ]

I should think it fairly obvious this is not done by normal means, however.

[iisupergirlii]

[Kara blinks.]

Ob-obviously not. [what... is she supposed to even say to that?]

[still, she strides closer, stands in front of the man. she pulls her phone out from the little pocket sewn on the shoulder of her super suit and waves it at him.]

At least let me... take pictures of it first. So that we know how they were, um... how they were left. In case there's clues in... this.

[stormwinds]

[ Llane's face goes from one of control to one of utter confusion at her words, her actions--it's all strange, mostly the small device in her pocket. He doesn't stop her, if only because he's curious. He doesn't like the bodies hanging around for any longer than absolutely necessary. It seems cruel. ]

By your leave.

[ Llane should be more huffy about someone undermining him, but he can't quite bring himself to care if it's for the greater good, which apparently it is. Even if the device looks strange. Dwarvish? No, too small. Gnomish.

If it's gnomish Llane desperately hopes it won't explode. ]

sup homie ( ii; food )

[failtography]

Huh?

( the decor is less than tasteful, a unpalatable contrast to the food laid out on the tables in what prompto assumes is meant to be some sort of inviting arrangement, but who can stomach anything in the presence of such a macabre display? there are corpses still twisted in their last throes of death and left there in an almost deliberate style, and the gunner's mind is racing with an endless stream of questions when a stranger's voice breaks through, quite suddenly, bringing his attention to the presence of a --

well, prompto'd be hard-pressed to describe this guy by anything else other than 'kingly' -- reasonably speaking it's more likely to be 'cosplayer', but the guy looks downright regal in his furs and crown, like he belongs in it.

unfortunate circumstances of their meeting aside, that's just really cool. ) Sorry, what was it that y'just said? I didn't get that...

[stormwinds]

The food. [ Llane's volume raises slightly, now that he realizes someone's actually listening to him. His gaze lingers on the food very briefly before he tears his eyes away and looks at the blonde. Strange accent, but normal enough in appearance. The spray of freckles reminds him of his daughter.

He smiles, then, softly. You have his attention. ]

It seems preposterous, does it not? To eat while this has happened.

[failtography]

Yeah. Don't know about you, but the aesthetic's really killing my appetite. ( almost on cue the gunner's stomach chooses that exact moment to turn sickeningly, when he spots the fibers of muscle that keep the cellist's head from falling cleanly away from his body. clapping a hand over his mouth thankfully keeps him from doing anything embarrassing in front of the stranger, but it's a good few seconds of deep breaths that help him continue with his train of thought. )

It... might be a test? To see if we'd really be okay with this. Like, maybe if we touched anything the whole area'd turn into a life or death game with a sadistic host and increasingly gory dares that we've gotta do or die. Either that, or someone just really wants to start the trick-or-treating early and it's all just props and special effects. U-unless it's, ah. Real. And they're all dead and we're in the vicinity of some showy, artsy murderers. Gods, none of them are entirely good scenarios --

[stormwinds]

[ He's unusually pale to begin with, but Llane is certain he's lost even more colour to his face. Perhaps he has not seen battle, not like this. Llane has never been in a situation where they have been arranged, not like this, but he's used to war and adept at hiding his true feelings. Even if that feeling is 'this is absolutely disgusting.'

Llane envies the other, if he's being honest with himself. The other seems smart, too, able to jump to conclusions quickly but reasonably. Llane offers a small smile, encouraging. ]

A test.

[ It seems fairly simple. ] A show of power, too, perhaps.

Well met, even if the circumstances are rather dire. You have a gift for puzzling things out, it seems.

[failtography]

( 'well met'? from the medieval gear to a greeting he's only ever heard in the fantasy genre, this guy's really committed to his LARPing, but prompto's not about to force him to break character; that's just rude. ) Er. Wow. ( a gift, the stranger says, and prompto can't help the way he stumbles over his thoughts, the inelegance spilling over into speech despite the way he tries to keep it together. ) Thanks, but -- nah, it's not... anything special like that? Just somethin' you pick up after watching way too many movies, I guess. Anyway, hi - I'm Prompto.

ii. Food

[heartguard]

[ Taking another healthy bite of the cake she grabbed moment ago, Dinah is chewing enthusiastically when the question is put forward. Bright orange eyes blink rapidly at the man and flit between his distrustful gaze and the food upon the table multiple times. She may be reaching for another cake as she swallows. ]

It's rude to decline. I don't think 'they' think much anymore either.

[ She takes another bite and gestures to the corpses with the cake in hand. ]

[stormwinds]

[ Oh. That's... that's the opposite of what Llane had ever thought. Allow him a moment--he blinks, taking in the sight. She doesn't seem to have a care in the world.

To be young again, he thinks, and while he doesn't smile, there's a glimmer of amusement in his voice. ]

I see you've already proved me wrong. Well met.

[ And, after a beat: ]

I suppose the important part now is if it actually tastes good. [ Fill him in, Dinah. And hopefully it's not poisoned. ]

[heartguard]

[ Dinah inclines her head, recognizing the greeting for what it is. Not everyone who calls Fellowship towns home speaks colloquially, after all. Or, well, what passes as colloquial in modern times, but that is, to some degree, a matter of perception between the various peoples, she supposes.

Swallowing, she nods once, twice and brightens. ]

I'd say better than good! Whoever baked these knew what they were doing.

[ Which almost makes it a shame should that person or persons happen to among the dead here. ]

This one's lightly frosted with vanilla and white instead of yellow with bits of fruit baked in, so it's soft, sort of fluffy, and sweet, but not overbearing. It complements itself perfectly.

[stormwinds]

[ Well, she's not dead yet. As grim as that thought is, he finds it rather pleasing: he's not sure what to do if another body falls to the floor. Not one so young and full of life.

People may not be his responsibility here, but he'll certainly continue to act like they are. Old habits die hard, and old habits groomed into you from being the sole heir of Stormwind are the worst to shake. ]

You sound like quite the food critique.

[ Very carefully, he takes one, too. He doesn't take a bite yet but instead examines it, gaze even, like scrutinizing a small piece of confectionary is the exact same thing as examining treaties from the Dwarves of Ironforge. ]

May I ask something? If it's not too untowards: you seem completely unphased by our supposed hosts strung up like this. Is this normal for you?

3

[champions_legend]

I...It might? M-maybe a dragon, but I ..I don't think they lay coloured eggs.

[As much as she'd like to think that talking to other people here and there, Fumiko's voice is still timid, still shaky. Though by now her natu's perched on her shoulder, seemingly taking a nap of all things.

The only person she'd ever seen with a crown was in historical-based movies about Kanto's past, or the rare time the Unovan Emperor made Kanto news. She's desperately curious to know if it's real, but it'd be rude to ask right away.]

[stormwinds]

A Dragon. [ There's a thought. A wild, entertaining, and incredibly dangerous thought, but a thought. Llane appreciates the girl, recognizing at once the timid, nervous tone to her voice. He drops his gaze from his egg to the girl, slowly, and offers what he hopes is a small, pleasant smile. Even if she has perhaps the strangest looking bird he's seen in his life. ]

If it's a dragon, we'd best bet it aids us, instead of burning us to a crisp. [ She looks so very young. This isn't a place for civilians like her, and his smile turns into a thin line. ]

Have you taken one?

[champions_legend]

Baby dragons can't breathe fire, and i-if you raise them right, they're loyal creatures.

[She has a dragon. Two, if you count the charizard, but it's not really a dragon.

She digs out her own egg at the question, holding the grapefruit sized thing up. It gleams red.] Do you think they're something else?

[stormwinds]

I'm unsure. My first thought-- [ he holds up his own. ] --gryphons. They vary too much for me to be correct.

Tell me. What do more do you know of dragons, dragon-seer?

[champions_legend]

Gryphons? W-what are those?

[Because that's the most pressing question.]