[Seasonal Event] Table for one, please

No good deed fucking goes unpunished, amiright? Who volunteers to do one last perimeter check? Who is the one that’s most at ease in total darkness? Who takes ages to lift the latches, to place her feet as soundlessly as possible in the snow, to creep and listen and potentially sacrifice herself? Who makes sure the Luxere and the ponies have plenty of hay to last the week - even going to far as to bring her own to help? This chick. And what does she get in return? A door ajar, dogs whining at its entrance, and the sight of Rory and Amalia riding off into LongNight, like it’s some fucking game to her, to all of them. Without so much as a note or a word. No goodbye, no thank you. Just gone. To do what? What could they possibly do better than her in this frigid weather, in this utter blackness? It’s as if she didn’t matter. Wessex spends like, 3 seconds feeling sad and sorry for herself before anger and resentment come roaring in a rush of wildfire. Her whole body tenses and the blades come out - but oh, there is nothing to turn them to. Just… dogs (which she’ll never harm - they’re better than people, these beasts) and Rory’s farm. The Luxere rumble uneasily and edge away from her, from the darkness (the nothingness, the unhuman smell) that she is. The thought to follow and drag them back to safety crosses her mind, but so does petulancy and pain. If they want to get themselves killed, then so be it. No skin off her back. She doesn’t need bread, and she can find plenty of ‘clothes’ elsewhere. No, she’s not going to chase after them like she needs them, like, like, like some kind of weird ass mother. Hell, with them gone, she can finally do what she wants with the Outlanders - without those pesky little bits of conscience buzzing in her ear. What would _____ think? Wessex is a lone wolf and friends are a liability. She’s always known that; it was foolish to think they might ever be more than acquaintances. Won’t make that mistake again. So, straightening her spine against the monsters and the darkness and the feelings of betrayal, Wessex turns on her heels and heads back to the door - to lock it and bar it against the trickery of LongNight. In her mind, the idiots are already dead. WESSEX come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts unsex me here

When is a door, not a door? When it's a'jar! yuck yuck yuck. Only that isn't the punchline. The punchline is what that naughty door has allowed in. The dogs whine, the luxere scurry. They have come mostly because of Rory, but Amalia and Jigano's influences have helped as well. But Wessex? She offered them hay a time or two, but what else? She did try and shoot at one of them, hitting one of her own instead. But still they know, and as the three gallop off into the night, so too does the herd begin to disband, their light growing faint. Inside, boards which had been coaxed into silence by moss begin to groan, and in the living room, a rocking chair moves back and forth. LONGNIGHT

This seems to be her year of reckoning. Some might call it karma, other simply bad luck or bad decisions… but to Wessex, it is simply Caido and the natural way of things. Some die. Some live. Some fight and win. Some fight and lose. Up until the end of Leafchange, she’s been all wins. Statistically, it’s time for some losses, but she’ll be damned if it’s her life again. The locks click, the bar comes down gently, and she presses her hands against the wood of the door. Anger still courses through her, but the flames have dimmed and she begins to cool down, ever so slightly. Her thoughts are with Rory and Amalia - until the hairs on the back of her neck stand straight on edge and the dogs whine fitfully, alternating between pacing back and forth in the middle of the living room and trying to cower behind her. The creak of the floorboards pulls her head around, but she stays frozen in position, all senses on the fucking highest alert they could ever possibly be right now. There is no one in the house but her and the dogs. She knows this. It is simply the house settling. And then the rocking chair begins to move, and Wessex has to admit that she is no longer alone. Her mind is not playing tricks on her. BUT. She has learned something from her recent demise, and it is no small lesson. Rather, it is something she seems to have forgotten since the Outlanders arrived, pushing her buttons and stomping all over her home. Patience. Planning. Silence and Stillness. She quellss even the false breaths she takes, eyes trained on the rocking chair and the area around it. The Ascended listens and she waits, remembering that she is superior. Whatever is in there with her will have to make the first move. WESSEX come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts unsex me here

Was Rory's house always so dusty? Suddenly it feels like nothing has lived here in ages. Indeed, footprints that seem to have no host interrupt the columns of dust. They creep. The chair moves. A shadow across the window and yet nothing which seems to have made it. Are they simply too fast? Or do they not possess bodies? It's so hard to know... The rocking stops. The air by Wessex' shoulder grows cold, the breath she does not need to breathe suddenly fogs from her lips. R A word in the dust. Nearly illegible. E Will you let it continue? LONGNIGHT

… And make the first move they do. Wessex steadies herself, even though she would rather turn and swipe at the invisible, shadow-flitting things. Her confidence lies in her ability to kill, to vanquish, to outrun and outlast. So what’s a girl to do when you can’t kill it, can’t make it go away, can’t run from it, and haven’t the foggiest if you could endure this (whatever this is for a week? At least her flight or fight response has been curtailed. It’s beginning to seem as if she were made for fucked up situations. Where anyone else would run, she can only make conscious decisions with an effectively neutered sympathetic nervous system. All that’s left is mind over matter. Mind over matter. She repeats the phrase in her head when footsteps begin to appear and the rocking chair stops moving. When the air around her grows cold (not that she can feel it), and she sees the faintest outline of letters on the floor. R. E…. Re - what? Return? Rescue? Resist? Religion? Rejected? Re… re… resurrection? No. This couldn’t be a message specifically for her. But she can’t think of any threatening words that start with RE, nor anyone’s names… so Wessex decides to stay as she is, and is subconsciously so very glad that she doesn’t have a heart pounding a hundred miles per hour in her chest. WESSEX come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts unsex me here

B o R N the writing becomes jagged, frenzied, childish. The curtains flail, cushions are thrown, and in the kitchen, the cabinets start banging wildly. A wave of voices suddenly curdles to the surface as the dust on the floor spins in a controlled tornado around the room. Within Wessex might catch flashes of teeth, of eye-less faces, of clumps of hair and discarded toes. "REBORN." They scream, they question, they accuse. "REBORN?????????" LONGNIGHT

R E B O R N Eh. Close enough. +1 to Wessex. Then the chaos begins, and the house seems to throw a temper tantrum. Childish, indeed; the tone of the words themselves seem to indicate that it is entirely unexpected, and that there is nothing the monster can do about it. And in this revelation, Wessex finds her boldness again, though she takes care to dampen it down so as not to become foolish. Her hunter’s senses hone in on the whirling spout of dust, trying to discern what might lie in the middle. She moves slowly and deliberately, first pressing herself against the wall, and then side-stepping along it until she can clear the door and the short distance to the living room. But how does it know? And why does it seem so surprised? Unless… unless… it is around before LongNight and only now has the power to wreak havoc. And if it’s around before, then… well, then, where is it? What is it? Why wait, why… New Gods, her mind runs a mile a minute in the absence of reflexive fear! As the eagle-eyed Ascended creeps closer, she is able to discern flashes of something. Of a mass, of an image she’s seen before? No, in her thirty-eight years, she’s never encountered one of the LongNight monsters. But somewhere… OH. OH. OH HOLY FUCKING SHIT. The Spire Demon. They remind her of the Spire Demon. How could she ever forget the eyeless face, the teeth, the feeling of being ripped apart? WESSEX come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts unsex me here

Silence. Deadly silence. Full dark, no movement. No one breathes, for there is no one around to breathe. No one in this room requires oxygen. The dust settles. The ringing clatter from the banged-cabinets ceases its echo and the hairs of Wessex' head settle back into place. Then, like a thousand broken violin strings in a torrent of wind, they come for her. Eyeless faces, teeth snapping, the lurch of torn fingernails and shattered minds. "REBORN???????????" The scream again, their voices a hairy unison of hate and loathing and curiosity. "ANSWER US." They demand at once, and, just as the whirlwind is about to strike at the ascended, their engorged tongues a breath away, they disappear. LONGNIGHT

It feels like the calm before the storm. It feels like it’s trying to trick her. It feels like… it almost feels like she’s won a contest she wasn’t aware of, shouldn’t be a part of. Somewhere deep inside, Wessex knows she’s a pawn in a bigger game, and yet she can’t bring herself to acknowledge it. So she’ll take this win, if that’s what it is, and she’ll run with it. Literally. She has questions that need to be answers, theories that need to be thought out, tales that need to be unspun. Maybe even… no, best not get ahead of ourselves. Keep the hubris in check, lest it be her fatal flaw, again. And then it comes for her, and she claps her hands against her ears as it overwhelms her with its discordant voice, its slavering jaws and teeth and misbegotten lumps of flesh. Her head bows against the onslaught but that streak of defiance, that streak that scarred her back and turned her blood to silver, that streak is too cold and wild and engrained for her to answer. Yes, she is reborn, but she won’t reveal - can’t reveal her secrets - anything to them. They’ll need more than a hissy fit to prompt her to talk. WESSEX come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts unsex me here

All of the glass in the house shatters as Wessex's head bows. The floorboards are pulled up and all of the nails holding the wooden panels in place form a needle-point oval around the ascended, their eroded and tetanus-filled tips pointed directly at her face. They will have their answers if they need to pull it from the coils of her brain themselves. They will arrange her thoughts like so many shredded pieces of paper, a love letter they are dying to read one last time even after a fit of pique renders it into a million pieces. The nails hover. The silent is palpable, the air cold, but none of them truly feel it. The front door bangs open and cold as a breeze wanders in. The last remaining few luxere look up, bellowing a question into the night. To stay? Or go? ".... how ." A single voice asks, the legion suddenly giving rise to one word. LONGNIGHT

Wessex is either the biggest idiot in Caido (aside from Bastien), or the bravest idiot, a combination of the two, or just… on some other plane of existence which isn’t firmly planted in reality. Who the actually plays chicken with the monsters? This lady. This lady with the bigass iron balls. And, like a man, she can… ah, get ahead of herself. But like a woman, she is sensible. The windows shatter and Wessex winces, closing her eyes against flying glass shards. Some nick her skin, drawing shiny fluid, but the pain is negligible. When she opens her eyes again, it is to a circle of nails pointed at her face, hovering in mid air like a pack of attack-dogs. “Ok!” she says urgently, putting her hands up in the universal sign of surrender. “Ok. You win.” Without revealing much, the Ascended begins. “The New Gods. That’s how.” She bites her lip and continues, ever so slowly, fully aware of how ludicrous this whole situation is. “Can you please... put the windows back together? I’ll answer all your questions.” Internally, she's bracing for impact and desperately hoping that the entity realizes that killing her won't get them any real answers. She'll be just another LongNight victim, and they'll never see what's coming come Flowerbirth. WESSEX come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts unsex me here

Silence. The nails waiver. Though Wessex cannot see them, she can feel their collective presence. A hum of consideration. They ponder. They decide. And then time flows in reverse, but only for that which is around them. Wessex will feel displaced, her body rooted and yet flung as the glad shards retract themselves, tracing dizzying spirals they'd just made to fit neatly back into the windows. In the kitchen the dishes were reassembled, even placed back in their places. The nicks on the ascended's skin would remain, but that was a small detail. She hadn't asked to be healed after all. "....." Their silence is palpable. They edge closer, and yet physically there is nothing at all to suggest this other than the fact you simply know. They hover around you, breathing breathless gasps down the back of your throat, picking at your hair and clothes with fingers that cannot touch cloth or move objects. They swarm. They hide. "Why you." LONGNIGHT

Waiting for the possibility of yet another imminent death seems to stretch on forever while the monster ponders. It is some sort of miracle, some testament as to why the New Gods resurrected her, perhaps - has anyone else ever been reborn? Has anyone ever stood and had a chat with the monsters? Ever done anything other than fight in vain and ultimately die? Maybe. Maybe not. If Wessex survives, she’ll have a lot of questions for someone who reads. Preferably someone who reads a lot. It seems they’ve made their decision; the world lurches as time, or something else, rewinds. Her head spins, she feels unbalance and puts her arms out against the wall to steady herself. Everything is repaired, except for her skin, but she wouldn’t have it any other way. Scars tell a story. In taking away her scars, the Gods started her timeline a new. These will be the first, and with any luck, they will tell a story no one’s ever heard before. They’re a bonus, not a detriment. The Ascended isn’t given any room to breathe, for as soon as she finds the room right again there is a heaviness in the air around her, seeming to fill her throat and comb through her hair. Searching, searching… finding… what? She looks cautiously around, but can’t see the slightest indication of anything corporeal. It’s all just… a feeling. A terrible feeling. Why you? Fuck, that’s something she’s been wondering since she popped out of the snow like a daisy. Sure, she can guess… if she were to do an honest self-assessment, she’s got some great qualities that would enhance a group trying to break through the barrier. But she’s got some shit ones too. And rather than try to lie to this thing that is so much more powerful than she is, Wessex can only shrug helplessly. Ugh. Helplessly. What a wretched feeling. “I honestly don’t know. I have no one left to pray for my return, am only newly Ascended. I am a killer… and not well liked.” One person, maybe, wished for her return. This was not done as a favor to a loyal servant. She pauses, a breath’s span. ”Maybe to show that their power is growing, to threaten the Old Gods. There’s no love lost between them.”   She has a feeling this - these?- thing(s) aren’t on the New Gods’ side. Or anyone’s side. In return for its service, it gets a week of gluttonous feeding. It works only for its own insatiable appetite. WESSEX come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts unsex me here

They swarm and hover together, soundless and invisible. Still, Wessex can feel their contempt and their lack of care at her words. Prayers? Killer? Hated? No. Those were not the qualities that would receive her this. But a threat? To the Old Gods? To Mort and Ludo? "we....want to be reborn.." Their voice is like soundwaves being pulled through static. Their words punctuated by clicks of many teeth and the puffy-breath of large mouths. "we...we..." Their tone ceases to be contemplative and calm, rising in pitch and ferocity as the stormclouds within the room threaten to begin to spin again. The windows rattle and the panes of glass within seem to be on the verge of shattering once again. The floor around Wessex is still in tatters, and pieces of the paneling jump and dance as if moved through vibration. "The reborn will ask.." The group suddenly cries, met with screams of agreement from within. "THE REBORN WILL ASK. THE REBORN WILL ASK. THE REBORN WILL ASK. LONGNIGHT