#pastevent

— THE BLOOD D R I P P E D AND P A I N T E D CALAMITY

Days and nights blending into one another. Magic has exploded throughout all areas as Witches test their new limits. Vampires roam with more freedom than they've had in decades, consuming all that they can. And with the threat of dark deals rising, and the peace that the Council was trying maintain dwindling, The Queen of the Forgotten called upon the remaining four for an emergency meeting: Axel Reyes, Belgr, Otsana Veyrahdi, and Calixte.

Secluded in the ruins of the Outerworld lies an old, gothic and victorian style home. A once destroyed estate, brought anew by the Queen of the Forgotten, just for the Council to meet. A neutral space where they can discuss present problems and implement future plans. Currently, there are several topics of discussion on the agenda: How do we keep the peace, during and after this blood storm? Does anyone know someone capable of this type of ritual, and if so, who? What are the potential repercussions of the storm? Were any resources destroyed and if so, how will they be replenished? And last, but not least, when should the next Election be, now that there are two less Council members?

The Council must fill the empty seats, even in the wake of such tragedy, to ensure that what the peace they stand for is upheld and maintained. It is clear now that it is a dangerous role to play within the State of Calamity, but you cannot lead the factions to unity in the absence of leaders who speak for them.

Mutterings echo throughout the state, growing louder with each passing day. An unknown, murderous, Admirer is now on the loose in Calamity, which means none of the Council member are safe. There is safety in numbers, however, what happens if those numbers keep falling, one by one?

Peace has been preached long before this treaty was established, but with the reputation that the State of Calamity and it's occupants have, it is unknown how much longer it'll last.

— THE HOUSE OF HAUNTS, WESTSIDE.

Keep hold of your mind, or pay the toll.

It comes late this season; the clang of a clock tower’s chime. Shrouded in the mist of the dark that plagues the West, a power rumbles beneath its veil. For some, it is a terrifying familiarity. For others, it is an unprecedented stir that rattles the bones of even the long, duly dead.

It marks the haunting season, where the dawn of fall hits its apex. Mortals have celebrated it in a thousand ways, from old Gods to new. Creatures have used it as a mask to hide behind — if only to tuck away their teeth, from the moonlight’s torch.

Khaos always comes, and he is always, right on time.

Rumours travel in whispers when a skeleton stands at a post to the entrance to the Kavali’s notorious wreckage. A figure of ivory, and black cloaks, eyeless, soulless and speaking in tongues — every version of the message, refers to the strange glow in the old, decrepit scare-manor nestled at the edge of the fairground.

It bleeds from the rotted mortar, in streaks of red and grey. Laughter echoes from the broken windows, and everyone begins to wonder if the Kavali’s are back, after all this time. If those who enter risk more than their lives, but their souls — their sanity.

But the skeleton keeper at the stony arch, offers out tokens; scraps of paper that give entry to The House of Haunts, with the promise that if one enters — and finds its heart.

It gets to keep what it’s protecting; a token that could change the course.

A game of wit and will. It is everything, and nothing all at once. Because it costs nil to walk on by and to never know the secrets of haunt season — yet the price to get through the door, is merely to not let Khaos rule your mind.

It’s a straight narrow path.

Just pick a door to start: Grey, Red or Purple.

— W H I S P E R S ECHOED T H R O U G H O U T THE STATE

In homes, and street corners. People were vanishing. One here, one there. Rumours of vampiric hungers climaxing, and mutterings of ritualistic theft from the witchfolk. It encouraged gazes in every direction, it provoked a need to look over one’s shoulder.

It wasn’t the kind of Admirer that loved unconditionally. Those who disappeared, never came back.

For some, it was another violent result of existence. For others, it presented a new fear. It was not just mortals, but those who knew death already; powerful, affluent creatures that were noticed. It made the papers. Rumours are as dangerous as the truth, and often, they’re much the same.

When the Council are disturbed, it breaches all rules of the unspoken game.

The Annual Gathering of Speakers had been delayed. No newsletter covered the reasoning and no source seemed to reveal an answer. Just an eerie silence, as beastly affairs of the State continued on. There was only so long that the Council could keep dangerous secrets quiet.

Those among the missing, were two Speakers.

If they called for a meeting, without the Faefolk and the Witch representatives, a new anarchy would be unleashed. They had worked too hard to let the peace fall through so soon. But silence is as telling as a scream. People hear it, no matter which direction.

Those whispers turned into speculation.

With the oncoming Celestial event; Solstitium Aeternitatis, it was important that the laws binding the State were upheld. It was a solstice that occured centuries apart; most Witches would use it to strengthen their rituals and their eternal blood rites. The dead would use it to traverse the State, without fearing the sunlight. With those missing only growing, the theory that someone planned to use it for their own gain begins to rise.

On one of the entrances to the Forgotten, there was a note: I admire what you’ve done.

The State, under the Queen’s order, begin to prepare for the worst.

On the night of the Eternity Solstice — when it reached its apex; a stranger conducts a sacrificial ritual, turning the skies into a raging storm that rains down blood. It washed the world in shades of crimson and enacted a virulent downpour. It disrupts most spells, and unsteadies the natural order. Blood runs through the streets, painting windows red, and staining the sea a deep scarlet.

The two speakers are dead; their blood scented amongst the storm; their sacrifice used to fuel the blood that rains down upon the the State. Ancient, powerful — an artist without a cause.

With the revelation that two of the Council have been murdered, eyes fall to the unknown ritual — and its well-practiced caster. It becomes clear that its effects aren’t just to slaughter; those within the State begin to experience the effects of a storm of blood, and how the solstice has only bolstered its power.

Witches magic — especially that of a sorcerer —is stronger. Crystals that they use to amplify their magic do not need to be used often, if at all.

Werewolves are stronger and faster during this full moon, and whilst the curse of transforming is more painful, it is easier to trigger.

The blood that rains down is tainting the waters of the Forgotten, mixing with the salt water and forming a poison that pollutes every living being and thing underneath the surface. The Queen has commanded an evacuation.

Blood accumulates at the entrance of Myre Grove, pouring into the cave and seeping into the nature. It kills every plant life it touches.

Vampires without ample control find themselves more blood crazed as the substance that they are most hungry for rains from the skies and floods the streets.

Demons find they do not need to consume as many souls as normal, and using their abilities costs them less. They can withstand utilizing their abilities for longer periods of time without depleation of energy.

The Commander of The Refuge has called for a lockdown in the name of safety, to protect his own from their now even more dangerous enemies. Some swear they still see a few humans in lab coats with guards accompanying them outside, gathering blood from the rain in hopes of a new discovery and potential scientific advance.

— A MIND F R A C T U R E D ; THE S A C R I F I C E OF SENSIBILITIES.

IN THE BEATING HEART:

The beating heart of the House of Haunts is spherical. Three entrances; arteries and aortas that pump the magic through the channels. Thump, thump, thump. Until the doors breach, and those warring with the magic pile into the central system.

The powerful heart sits upon a stone altar, centre of the expansive room. Not an organ of flesh, and blood. It is of metal, and wood.

The air smells like caramel — burnt corn beneath the stripes of red and white peeling down the wall. It feels familiar; they’re on Kavali soil, and remnants of history write stories across the lacquer.

Mementos of things past; a quiet, but audible fairground song vibrates the walls. A music box, and they’re trapped in the tin of it. Laughter — maniacal cuts through the sound. For some, the hairs on the back of their necks raise, for others, tension coils deep into the marrow.

Old faces know that voice.

And new ones are about to learn the meaning of senseless madness.

‘Welcome one and all to my House of Haunts.’

A ringmaster — rumoured to be the God of Games. Faceless, only ever known for the baritone in nightmarish entertainment. Calamity has always had a visit from the monster of madness; a circus that rolls through town, no matter the patronage.

‘I think someone has lost something precious — very careless of them to drop a coin with so much power. No matter. Here, in the heart of my game, I give it back to you. All it costs is one’s mind.’

It’s the toll.

There’s only one way out, and the coin; the metaphorical heart of the Haunt awaits a new owner. For those who recognise what the coin is, are either desperate to grab it, or to run from it. A demon token, charcoal-like, and potent.

Already, in its presence; bloodied, bruised, and weakened by the toll of defeating trying games in the rooms before. Creatures begin to know new sensations; effects that begin to torment, and tamper with their minds.

The longer they linger, the deeper the effects take root.

Those who triumphed in the games are the same ones who suffered all the fails. Whilst they are in the heart; they gain, and lose some power. Autumn, Annalise, Boone, Drew, and Laertes begin to hear voices, but none that guide them forth. Instead, they're of the minds of those around them. Listening in, but there is no end to the madness; to hearing others' thoughts; the door screams at them, to leave, to leave, to leave. They know what everyone is thinking, but it's often too much to bear. Aspen, Mireia, Josiah, Finlay and Petra knows fatigue like no other, thorns that have left poison in veins, have also gifted her the ability to know a lie, from a truth; nothing gets past them, no matter the trickery of the demons or the fae. Aikaterine, Pom, Greyson, and Najelon experience a flood of emotions from those around them, seeping into every crack in their minds until they are unable to separate themselves from the onslaught. Jasper, Calixte, Elian and Xavier can no longer hear anything around them -- trapping them in a silence so eery, some could grow mad. However, they can see something they've never been able to before: a type of energy rippling around everyone's bodies. An aura, which reveals the intention of each person they set their eyes upon. Raven, Cain, Corbin and Warden experience bone chilling cold, sliding through their veins until their whole body grows numb. Their movements slow -- as if trying to walk through snow.

Nothing is ever free — and nothing is ever taken from the Master of Khaos without payment. It’s a simple exchange, but with a ghost as old as Calamity is.

‘So hesitant — yet so determined. You can all share the toll if that is your choice, but there’s only one deal token. Who will make the sacrifice? Name your new coinkeeper; give over your mind, or leave my game.’

Silence. The click of a door unlocking echoes on the other side of the room. Freedom.

But upon the altar, nestled in silks is the horn-headed front of an ancient token. On the flip side, is a triangle; the symbol of the bladed teeth. In demonic hands, better left buried. In anyone else’s, they can trade in anything.

In a flash of flames, old parchment appears — fluttering to the ground above their heads. Scribbled in cursive is a list. Not ingridients of a recipe, but the price of a spell; the one that allows hands to pluck the coin from its cursed altar. To rip the heart from its house.

The Toll. A  S A C R I F I C E  OF THE MEMORY OF THE MIND.

The first act of war — the moment in one’s mind where a child finally knows violence.

A loved one’s final words. Ripped from memory, to never be known again.

An understanding of forgiveness. To forget what it looks like to alleviate regret.

When kindness took form; an act given to oneself, no longer remembered.

An alliance between species. Discontent growing in its wake.

The first place one felt safe. No longer able to understand what safety could bring.

A  P H Y S I C A L  DETRIMENT GIVEN WILLINGLY.

The removal of a fae’s tongue.

The pulling of vampire’s fangs.

The skinning of a Mer’s scales.

A single rib from a witches chest.

The transfiguration of a mortal life.

Horns of a demon.

The extraction of a werewolves venom.

A GOODBYE TO THE S A N I T Y ; A PRIZE NEVER C L A I M E D .

Walk away; the door is unlocked. Leave behind the deal token and allow monsters and mortals alike to fight and sacrifice of their own volition. Run. Before Khaos changes his mind.

Pay no cost — just know cowardice.

— A VIOLET V I O L E N C E ; WALK THE PATH OF THE P O W E R F U L .

ON THE PATH: Aspen Ratliff, Josiah Maxwell, Vidya Telluraves, Amadahy Chen, Christy Craven, Jasper Dalton, Thera Wendell, Autumn Beoulve, Greyson Zander, Pyo Jin Pom Lin, Elian Maxwell.

In a dying world, bluebells do not bloom. Wilting at the edges of a long, slender corridor — petals of memories decorate the creaky, wooden floors. Lavender assaults the senses, blindingly overbearing. It chokes those who breath, and burns the passages of those who do not. Beneath exploratory feet lays waste to the innards of blueberries, dropped loose from bushes hanging suspended above heads. It is as if someone has taken old seeds, and planted them in cursed soil; practicing a broken, rotted botany.

A greenhouse with no glass.

An eerie glow bleeds through the shadows of the walkway, every step provokes a squelch and a crunch — something similar to grapes pop, pop, popping under heavy boots. Even those with attuned senses struggle to see clearly through the rolling fog that clouds their senses with every foot deeper. The House of Haunts is only disturbing thus far, for its quiet.

Only the amethyst glow lingers from the turn in the distance, a sharp jagged right angle where no soul can see beyond. Not until they reach the end. In the thicker brush of more dying, skeletal overgrowth, the remnants of hyacinth desperately claw out of the cracks in the crumbling wood walls.

The acai fruits bulging from beneath a ivy-covered door look to be fresh, but they’re stained in uninviting black veins.

Upon investigation — hands that risk the poisonous plant cutting through their skin to access the door — the doorknob rattles when tried; locked. Above it, sits four, small dials. Vertical, equal space apart. They’re polished, gleaming in that violet shade. They turn, click, click, click — like an oven control.

Thorns begin to crack through the walls, bonedust like ash trembles from the lesions with every careless turn of the dials.

When reset, the sharp spikes cease moving; the corridor grows silent, again.

There must be a solution, and as more desperate, worried hands begin to rummage from foliage, like a left-to-die apothecary; it becomes more evident that the walls seem to have shreds of wallpaper still clinging onto life — a circus elephant, holding a mustard-stained ball on its nose is printed over and over in scraps of discarded decor. A dove flying overhead. Shapes scratched and carved in, peppered with old paint.

They match the shapes on the dials; it feels connected, but everytime the dials turn needelessly, the thorns crumble the ceiling above, sending autumnal leaves down in a flurry.

The first cut the thorn makes on an arm, the world begins to spin; daffodils, daisies and dandelions — bright, sun-stained plants dying as they fall. Blackened ash by the time they reach the ground.

As the festival comes to an end, last minute purchases are made in order to obtain as many tickets as people can get. Excitement and intrigue fills the air. What are the prizes? Something useful? Something dull? And what about the ticket that wrapped it's song around the bodies of people and tugged them in? What does that one do, if anything? A crowd gathers in the middle of the festival as a large bowl of tickets are placed at the center, on a table. One of the shop keepers is assigned to pull the tickets, one by one. He pulls three; shouting out the names of those that have won. Come forward and claim your prizes. First: A mystery box. With in it, medical supplies, healing supplies such as tinctures created by witches and vampire blood. One thousand Kochba. And lastly, a new technological device that allows contaminated water, or salt water, to be cleaned and become drinkable. Won by Lenus Asker. @wickedxhell Second: A metal bracelet, made by the local traveling blacksmith. It is enchanted with a spell that protects the mind of the person that is wearing it from compulsion and illusions. Won by Najelon. @curseaddendum Third: What appears to be an old coin. A token -- a deal token in which one deal with a Demon is given, without the requirement of a soul as a bargaining chip. Won by Cherry Miller. @witheredblccm With the tickets having been pulled, and the winners announced, everyone begins to disperse. It's growing dark, which means for some, it is unsafe to stay out much longer. However, as people begin to gather their belongings and walk away, a loud shrill echoes throughout the stalls of the festival. Someone appears. A woman in a shimmering dress -- purple, blues, and whites. Similar to the colors of the Merfolk Queen's tail. She's unrecognizable, as darkness shrouds her face. She pulls out a ticket of her own and calls out a name: Valerie. @macabrerosev Unbeknownst to everyone in the square, the Siren Song ticket gave a final gift. A conch shell, enchanted to lure the ability of Siren Song from one, singular Merfolk. That Merfolk would still be able to speak, however, they would no longer be able to use their Siren abilities to entrance people. Then, without another word, the woman was gone. Left behind, a note: I hope you all enjoyed your day of festivities. Try not to let the Siren's entice you too much, as they are not to be trusted.

In an effort to follow in the Queen of the Merfolk’s footsteps, The Haven has chosen to not only give a reminder that they are, in fact, neutral, but to offer a helping hand, of sorts. Osaerin’s Abyss — a market filled with goods and commodities for all forms of people — has been refurbishing its stores and has welcomed any who want to open their own stalls. A show of good faith; a reminder that there are areas of Calamity that want and promote peace. As an incentive to attend, each stall in Osaerin’s Abyss is giving out tickets to anyone who purchases something. These tickets will they enter a raffle where three will be chosen by the end of the night and whoever holds the tickets that are picked will win a prize. At the end of the street of stalls, one, seemingly normal stall stands. Within it, a bowl of tickets is sat upon a table. There is nothing physically different about this ticket. However, it calls to those in attendance; a siren song that travels the length of the Market. Choose me. Pick me. A constant echo of the possibilities that this ticket could provide. Some may see it as having a gentleness to it, like a welcoming embrace. Others might feel the dread radiating off of it— whispers of mystery and disruption. But who’s to say it’s anything bad at all?