⇨ END OF EVENT LOG

[ringleaders]

Who: Everyone participating in the Prince's challenge.
When: Day 178, Afternoon
Where: A Conjured Forest
What: The Carnival takes to the Hunt again, but this time, with the intention to win.
Warnings: Violence and death.

SACRIFICES↴ In a bid to definitively settle a victor and reclaim the captured carnival workers, the Ringmaster has challenged the Prince to another hunt. If the Prince wins this challenge, he can claim the Blue Rose the Carnival stole; if the Carnival wins, the Ringmaster will be allowed to claim one True Name in the Prince's possession. With the Manor reshaped as it is, there's no longer a courtyard to transform into a suitable hunting ground. Instead, the Prince's magic has turned one of the floating islands between the fortress and the Carnival into an overgrown forest. Being a fae contest, of course, each side's idea of victory is not as straightforward as it would appear, but for those participating in the hunt, there is only one objective that matters: to kill their prey in the time they're given. The captives who have been transformed into beasts will have little of their human sentience remaining, and will be set loose to wander the forest freely. Instinct will compel them to conceal themselves or attack hunters, depending on their individual disposition. Upon death, the beasts will remain in their bestial forms. IN HOT PURSUIT↴ To win this challenge, the hunters must bring all of the beasts down with weapons or innate strength within the time limit: an hour and one minute. No magic may be used to take any of the beasts down -- any use of supernatural or magical abilities to trap, track, or kill the creatures will result in a forfeit to the Prince, and this will be made explicitly clear to the hunters before the contest begins. Hunters are allowed to bring their own weapons and mounts, provided they are non-magical in nature (or their magical abilities are not being actively used). If they do not have their own, ordinary ones of any variety will be provided to them. To expedite the proceedings, rather than dragging the bodies back individually, each hunter will receive a token from the Prince: an enameled blue rose. To formally claim a kill, they must place the rose on the dead beast (ideally, in their mouth, though as long as it's touching it it will do) and activate the spell by reciting the following words: "I claim this life for thy Master's game." "A life surrendered to claim my prize." Using the rose in this way will cause its petals to instantly wilt and magically bring the dead beast, and any hunters touching it, back to the Prince. So, don't touch it if you want to stay in the forest for more hunting. A CAPTIVE AUDIENCE↴ The Prince and the Ringmaster will be waiting for the results of the hunt in a roughly-constructed marble amphitheatre on another floating bit of rock. Those whose stomachs are too weak to take up even just the appearance of hunting can stay at the Carnival or hang out in the amphitheater, with the caveat that any attempt to attack the Prince or use magic to aid the captured prey will instantly default the win to the Prince. Should they want something to do other than twiddle their thumbs, the non-fighting carnival workers can peer into the hand mirrors left on the seats, smaller versions of what the Prince is watching the hunt through. They will be unable to control what images are brought up in the mirror, and it essentially only shows whatever the Prince is looking at himself. There's no sound, but the images are in full color (all the better to see blood with). This is also the area that the hunters and prey will be brought to when the spell is activated (or when every creature has been hunted). So, expect for a pile of corpses to end up there. [ OOC: This log wraps up the end of the Heartstone Manor plot! It is up to hunters and prey to create their own toplevels and sort out who will be delivering the finishing blow (feel free to use the OOC post about this event to coordinate that), but OOCly, it's set that the Carnival will win the Prince's challenge. The hunt's conclusion will be posted as a separate comment for characters to respond to.]

Comments

[criticallyfucked]

Foster shakes his head back and forth--slowly, like swaying, then faster, until his breath suddenly hitches, and for one dangerous second it looks like he's going to throw up.

Thankfully, he doesn't, but his body attempted something--only while encased in stone, with no ability to expand or move, and now his entire inner tract is burning, wracked with something like an abdominal cramp, but all the way up into his throat, and breathing--breathing is a struggle, filling his throat and nose with something sour.

A thick string of drool stretches from his chin, and he rakes his face with his claws where he can touch it, then gives up, scraping his tongue against the top plate of what stands for teeth in his face now.

At the very least, it soon covers the acrid bile he's breathing with the taste of blood.

"The Prince?" Had they been talking about the Prince at all?

"I don't eat the food," he spits, by way of response.

[scientificist]

It...Herbert is pretty sure he gets it now, even with his head pounding like it is. Foster seems injured, it seems...yes, stone would put pressure on you like cement pushing in, no matter how this process functions. Melting without harmful temperature change. But the onion, it's part of this. The servants were so insistent, and he has memory gaps. Something to keep them docile. Useless. Powerful men often like to prove they're powerful.

"Poison," he says, "of course." He flips himself, groaning, but scrambles a bit forward on his knees. He's not unsettled by Foster oozing. He's going into medicine. "Do you have. Any idea? Whaaat was he using, what's in the food?!"

[criticallyfucked]

Foster shakes his head again, this time jerking it up--it's like he's trying to snap off the strand of spittle, but it only slings it up a bit, getting it on parts of his face that otherwise would have been fine. And he looks down on Herbert as on high, his eyes bright--but the amount of sleeping he's been doing, coupled with his poor condition and upright position, have really exacerbated the drool issue to disgusting proportions.

"No--no. I don't know. Magic. He's not in my head."

All that's in Foster's head is rot and disease and death--!

"Don't you think it's strange? That he called me useless, worthless, but still he's trying to keep me alive with onions?"

[scientificist]

"Magic," Herbert says, voice dripping with disgust. He looks down again, disappointed. Magic is how these people ignore science and avoid explanations. Maybe he'd be allowed his serum if everyone here wasn't so damnably averse to science.

"He obviously makes a habit of collecting useless resources! Youuuu'd probably be more useful deh-head--ahg, nf." Back to pressing his forehead into the floor. "It would ruin his collection." He snickers into his chest for a moment.

"I am a SCIENTIST," he adds abruptly, suddenly irritated, rolling his head to return to glaring at Foster, "what makes you special?! Why w-would you deserve a use while I'm left with onions?"

[criticallyfucked]

Foster is... not completely new to the idea that magic and science are separate, and that one must be superior, but... where he's from, that's a fringe conspiracy concept. 'The moon landing was faked' is doing stronger, these days.

It's so out there that he doesn't even have a response for it--he wouldn't even if he were functioning at what passes for 100% for him. And that's not a great starting point. What catches his attention is Herbert's last question--so woefully misguided that he is briefly confused by it.

Why does he... deserve a use?

"I don't deserve use. I require it--to be used, to be consumed in use and discarded at the culmination of its design!" He's so wild-eyed, so hungry for it, for sustenance, physical and more--that he appears ravenous now.

"You said it yourself! I have nothing." This is almost a normal, coherent conversation to him.

"You have an onion."

[scientificist]

"That was y-your onion," Herbert points out. It's tempting to press through his eyes, to push through and...and what, push through bone with his thumbs? There is an impulse to impossibly squeeze his own brain in his hands all the same, take ownership of it that way.

"It's gone now. If you don't deserve a--mng--a use then why do you expect one, yooou only get what you deserve?" He breaks off to giggle into the floor and then shuffles sideways in search of cooler rock. "An onion and no purpose!"