desperatefans | Entries tagged with nightingale

TREASURE

Part One:

*Please mirror the fourth item horizontally.

Part Two:

02.24.05.01.02
05.11.04.18.01
02.03.01.27.03
03.13.02.03.01
04.30.01.04.02
01.17.02.08.01
03.02.03.09.02
04.05.02.01.01
01.03.01.04.01
07.01.05.06.06

UPDATE:

In the gloom of the seemingly endless winter, a tower looms on the mansion grounds. It has a certain ominous cast to it -- or maybe that's just the lighting. Who can say? Upon discovering it at the behest of a mysterious map, fictional wanderers may feel an impulse to stop and wonder how they didn't notice this structure before. Suddenly, once you've seen it, it seems quite obvious.

Some of its stones are crumbled with age. Ivy encircles it, a few of its leaves dead or dormant with the persistent cold but otherwise hardy despite the aforementioned winter. It's poorly-lit inside, once said wanderers make their way in through the arched doorway at its base, but not so poorly that it's impossible to make one's slow and careful way up its steps. There is little dust; there haven't been enough humans this way to accumulate dust. The steps are, however, littered with the skeletons of dead leaves and the occasional bones of small animals. The walls are lined with sconces, as if anticipating torches, but any flames once lit here have long gone out.

The tower is tall, but not impossibly tall. A careful explorer won't have too much difficulty reaching its top, or finding what there is to find there.

As your character is exploring, when they find something, look out for the mod account to let you know what their discovery is!

TRAP

Teamwork makes the dreamwork– unless the dream is being controlled by someone else with nefarious purposes... Anyway. In another effort to promote working together, on a day and time predetermined by the mansion spirits¹, two people who either A) heartily dislike each other B) have an unresolved situation or C) have other issues will be suddenly trapped together in a closet in the cellar of the mansion².

Despite all efforts, they will not be able to leave this closet until they resolve whatever it is between them, say something nice about each other -- or you know, some other resolution determined by the mansion spirits³. Enjoy!

¹The typists.
²Not the same one as the first open post. A different one.
³The typists.

desperatemods

For those who thought that they had missed out on the happenings earlier this month, think again...

[[Body/consciousness swap, take two!!

You know the drill. Have fun!]]

desperatemods

It's been peaceful for quite a while. Suspiciously quiet. That just means that the spirits are now craving a little more drama. Something chaotic. While everyone slept... they've made some changes.

[[Body swap! Or -- consciousness swap, for most characters. Please use an icon of the character that your character is now inhabiting when tagging. We will absolutely need to play with time in this open post, especially if we want characters who are part of this first batch to interact with other swapped characters while unswapped.

For any characters that are part of this first batch of swaps, post a comment of your character waking up in their new body. If they are waking up with someone else, we can also assume that anyone else who tags in later is encountering them out in the public areas of the mansion.

Hopefully this all makes sense. Please make sure to PM the mods or the other character's typist with any additional questions. Have fun!]]

Current Music: New Perspective - Panic! at the Disco

timebethine

The ballroom is all vivid elegance, streamers of red and orange dressing the windows, bright boughs of hawthorn and sumac and bouquets of chrysanthemum decking the tables. The light from the chandeliers is warm, like flame, softening all of the room's hard edges.

Along one wall are tables laden with hand pies and goat cheese and onion pastries, summer-ripe berries and figs; a spread of cheeses and meats lies alongside hearty, dense rye toast and a table of chocolate bonbons. There are drinks, too, champagne and palinka and blackberry melomel jostling with chilled white moscato and brandy and bourbon. Everywhere, there is the hum of conversation and the ring of laughter.

At last, when it seems all the guests have arrived, Sagramore steps into the center of the room.

"First I'd thank the man without whom none of this would be possible, since neither Laertes nor I are organized enough to pull together a wedding party on our own. A man who absolutely threatened my life for being too slow to tell all of you I'd been married -- a dear friend whom I love with all my heart." He sweeps a graceful bow towards Claudius, eyes sparkling. Laertes grins and applauds wildly. "My thanks, dear heart.

"Secondly, my thanks to every one of you for being here with us. We-- I've been extraordinarily fortunate to have found so many friends so quickly, and to have your company for a moment of such joy.

"And above all my thanks to thee," as he turns and takes Laertes' hand. "For thy patience, thy kindness, thy great heart. For that thou hast been my company as often in sorrow as in pleasure -- because thou believest me to be better than I believe myself, and givest me reason to strive towards being the man thou seest in me. Thou hast known me so briefly and yet thou hast changed me already, thou hast shaped me by thine own hands into a better thing than I was before. I pledge thee my love and service, all honor, all duty. Thou art my husband, my helpmate, my co-conspirator, thou leadst me on new ventures and I can think of no better thing than to follow thee. My future is better now that it holds growing old with thee." He brings Laertes' hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles. "I thank thee for choosing me. I hope I will always make thee glad of thy choice. The corner of the hearth is ours."

Laertes smiles and clasps Sagramore's hand in both of his own. All his attention is bent on Sagramore; there might be no one else in the room as he answers those vows. "Before I came to this place, I knew not how to be happy," he says. "But thou camest into my life like a lightning strike, and remade me. Thou didst teach me to savor the simplest of pleasures--an egg on toast, or a tomato, or a hand holding mine. Thou hast made me brave enough to seek out new passions, new friends, and new crafts for their delight. I am a better man for knowing thee, and a happier man. All the joys I make and earn flow through thee, thou endless ocean of my delight. I swear to thee, I will love thee with the same ardent flame in our silver years, and in the twilight of our lives. I will be thy husband and helpmeet, and draw thee on to a thousand schemes. I choose thee," he says, and draws up Sagramore's hand to kiss in turn. "Though the stormy winds howl, thou art my hearth and my shelter. I will choose thee for the rest of my life, and never repent it."

There's a waltz playing on the record player. The dance has begun.

ravkanwitch

After a couple of minor obstacles yesterday, Nina had finally set up the café quite nicely for the talent show. Halfway through the set-up process, Nightingale had been whisked away by Claudius on some impromptu detective task. Nina almost despaired for a moment before she roped Enjolras into it instead. Between the two of them, they successfully set up a makeshift stage in the corner of the café. With Janet’s advice and assistance (the most stylish person Nina knows!), they decorated the area above and around the stage in a look that was both modern and retro; they hung a few Edison light bulbs from the ceiling above the stage, they placed a couple of cute tables and matching chairs that they found in the basement in a semi-circle around the stage, and they also hung a couple of retro signs on the walls behind the stage as a backdrop.

Nina also asked both Laertes and Tress if they'd be willing to provide some snacks for the talent show and they’ve provided more than enough. Laertes made little pastry shells, some filled with bacon, spinach, and gruyere and some with candied walnuts and brie. He also made a small set with pears and cherries with cinnamon, in case anyone was vegan. Tress made some nut muffins and hand held fruit pies. Sagramore had been entrusted with coffee duty, of course. And finally, right before the show, Nina ensured that all the windows were wide open and a fresh afternoon breeze was blowing in. Magnus had seemed uncertain about going indoors and Nina wanted to make sure that he felt more comfortable.

As the guests slowly file in, Nina is waiting in a stylish mid-length dark red dress (Corporalki colors). And now... it's showtime!

[[It's talent show time!! There's no pressure at all to post your character's performance right away; please respond at your leisure! PM the typist if you would like Nightingale to provide your act an actual introduction, otherwise you can leave a comment with your character's performance. Please coordinate timing of the acts in the chat if timing is important.

For all characters attending, they are encouraged to react to each performance as well (recommended: turn notifs on!) – and they are encouraged to thread in the reactions as well, however caveat: the thread limit is 6-8 comments total maximum before "the next act is starting". Hopefully this post will bring some great performances and some mingling in the interactions! Have fun!]]

desperatemods

As if having heard such statements as monthly and predictable and possibly a Fuck off from an unnamed individual, the spirits that control the mansion have decided that in the aftermath of the gateways of truth, there will also be a second calamity this month.

Whoever rises first will see that today's weather is gloomy and overcast. Fog rolls over the mansion grounds. They may also notice that in the forest in the distance the trees rustle and birds take flight, as if fleeing something. Those slightly later to rise may note an eerie noise coming from the direction of the forest as well, wordless but disturbing. Soon, the first of them break through the edge of the forest closest to the mansion.

Zombies. The undead. Small hordes of them slowly stumbling towards the mansion, skin rotting and peeling, eyes unseeing, clothing in tatters. Those with the ability to sense or control the dead whether physically or spiritually¹, however, may note that they are not able to control these beings, whatever they may be -- but the undead are still seeking something and they are still dangerous. There are many of them, coming from an unknown source. If anyone goes near, they will grasp and reach for them, to try and pull them down to the ground.

They will still attempt to walk or crawl across the ground if any limbs are cut off -- or even the lower half of their body -- but when pierced through the head, or if the head is disconnected from the body, they will vanish in a gust of dust.

¹Cultivation?

[[Zombie invasion!! Time to show off those weapon skills and fighting prowess. Please note that this is the main purpose of the post and that while small injuries and perhaps some emotional trauma will probably be sustained in the process, zombie bites will not turn anyone into zombies.]]

desperatemods

The truth will set you free
- the Bible, John 8:32

The truth will set you free. But not until it is finished with you.
- David Foster Wallace

The mansion has no plans to be finished with anyone at the present.

The month of Idas brings truth.

There's a door of truth somewhere in the mansion - maybe even multiple doors - and after an individual walks through it, they will be forced to speak the truth for a short period of time (perhaps 30-40 minutes). It's up to the discretion of the ~~typist~~ spell whether this gateway of truth will simply cause someone to speak the truth subtly, tell the truth when questioned, or if it will also cause loose lips and talkativeness as well¹.

¹As always, rule of funny.

[[Happy Truthsgiving! Please comment if your character has been affected by one of these gateways of truth - though it can happen partway through the thread as well. The time limitation is shorter so they can go back to normal and have subsequent fallout in the remainder of the thread after they've spilled the beans (if wanted).

Please include somewhere in your comment (subject line, typist note), much like a journal post, whether the comment is closed to specific characters only or open to all.]]

mothwingofriverclan

Mothwing leaves camp at sunrise, wanting to beat the greenleaf heat. Herbs are plentiful this time of year, and Mothwing wants to find a few to take back to camp to teach Frostpaw their scents. She’s glad that she’d found a new apprentice with a connection to StarClan so quickly after Willowshine’s death, if only so that her clanmates wouldn’t bug her. She still doubts that they really need StarClan; it had been Bristlefrost that saved them from the impostor and the Dark Forest, not a bunch of mouse-brained dead cats. Still, Frostpaw was learning her herbs well, which was what really mattered.

Heading for the lakeshore, Mothwing keeps an eye out for borage, and maybe some rosemary. Padding up to the edge, Mothwing takes a look at her reflection. She’s getting old. Her dappled golden fur isn’t as shiny as it once was, and her amber eyes are tired, but she notes with satisfaction that she’s still bigger and stronger than most of her clanmates.

There’s an odd flicker in the lake, and Mothwing instinctively swats at it with her paw--extra fish is always welcome, even in bountiful greenleaf--but it turns out to be a trick of the light. Disappointed, she looks up, and is startled to find herself at a completely different lake. It’s much smaller than her lake, and she can’t see the Gathering island anywhere. Besides, it smells completely different--is it leaf-fall suddenly? She backs up a few steps, the fur on her back raising defensively.

For a moment, she wants to laugh--is this her first ever vision from StarClan? They couldn’t have sent this to her seasons ago, when her position was in question? Then she notices the large twoleg dwelling looming over the lake, and she feels a stupid kind of relief. There are definitely no twoleg dens in StarClan’s hunting grounds, so this isn’t a vision. On the other paw... she has no idea where she is.

“Is any cat here?” she meows as loudly as she dares. Unbeknownst to her, anyone walking by would understand her words, whether they were a cat, a twoleg, or any other person.

quote_gentle_unquote

Susan misses them all terribly. Edmund, and his quiet, thoughtful ways; his keen eye toward justice. Peter, tall and commanding even when covered in dust from all his old books. Ah, but she misses Lucy the most. Lucy, whose brightness and gaiety and steadfast faith were effervescent to behold: Lucy dancing in the kitchen of the sensible flat Susan shared with a roommate, Lucy gasping over a clutch of narcissus struggling to grow in a park in the city, Lucy turning with a quick smile to point out something only she could possibly see as a novelty.

Sometimes, when Susan misses Lucy the most, she'll go to the library and read books about girls who strike out against what's expected or wanted of them to do what's right. Girls who face down the tyrant to save the village, not one single dollop of fear surfacing in the moment to hold them back. She puts them down when her hands start to shake, and picks them up again when the ache at the center of her grows too fierce to hold.

Susan thought she had been doing the right thing. Cautioning her brothers and her sister from getting caught up again in the childish fantasies they clung to so long ago (understandably, perhaps, but no less concerning) to get them through the horrors of the long, cold war. She'd refused to participate in this most recent turn. She'd had a date, or maybe it was just a dance with some friends, or maybe a night-class. Her world has been hollowed out since; she doesn't remember.

There are moments when Susan feels as if her life is superimposed upon itself. It's like she can remember herself growing older, and taller; courting wonder and beauty and being called "gentle" despite her persistent, unrelenting clutch on logic. Like there is a world out there where she is lionhearted; beloved; a force to be reckoned with and cherished for her status.

But that's hogwash; that's her own stubborn grasp toward those same childhood fantasies that killed her family. She is not that woman. She's harsh at times; desperate at others. She has her logic still, and her beauty, but when she wakes up from dreams where little Lucy is allowed to grow old, her beautiful grin etching lines permanently into her face, suitors coming from across foreign seas to vie for Susan's hand, she is only alone, and can spare no ounce of her remaining wherewithal toward gentleness. She wants to set her face forward and live; she wants to reach back to her brothers and her parents and darling, dear Lucy and follow them into the darkness.

At the deepest end of sorrow, when you have no tears left to cry, all that is left is a quietness. Time stretches thin and endlessly long. It has been months since Susan buried her entire family, and will be months still until she can breathe without feeling like an arrow has stabbed her through the chest. She has set her nylons and lipsticks aside for the time being, and replaced them with funereal black; her calling-card is empty and set aside while she wanders, aimless, through the barest of routines.

And yet, almost without realizing it, she has found herself opening doorways. To closets, to kitchens, to the bath-rooms of her friends, to the poorly-latched garden-sheds in all the great parks. She turns the knobs firmly, with conviction, and pulls the doors soundly open. She doesn't know what she's looking for; it's not as if she'll be able to open Miriam's bedroom door and find a strange new world where her family is waiting on the other side.

But she cannot stop herself.

Today, again with trembling hands, she sets down her book (about another silly, determined girl saving her village with a heart full of ideals and forthright conviction in her own choices) and goes to the library's washroom. Not heeding the far-off sound of some horn blowing outside, she opens the door firmly, and steps through briskly...

...into a well-lit hallway of an unfamiliar house.

[Those who run into her will find a young woman, barely twenty-two, who holds herself like she is at least twice that age. Her long black hair has been braided into a crown around her head; her plain mourning dress is the same color. Her face is washed out, wan from sorrow and too little time spent outside. Still, there is a steely look in her eye, a determined set to her mouth, and a truly fabulous pair of heeled boots on her feet.]

Current Mood: sad
Current Location: Holborn, surely

commanderstoneface

Vimes had been chasing someone, and now, somewhat confusingly, he's not. While he's certain that a moment ago his feet had been on the old wooden windowsill he'd just seen Willoughby Ornament clamber through, the soles of his boots are no longer in contact with anything but air. Air and what feels like cold stone on the backs of his heels, the back of his head, and his damn aching back.

He hadn't fallen, had he? No, there's no robed figure looming about, and if he'd taken a tumble off one of the Broad Street rooftops, an aching back'd be the least of his worries. No, no, something's--

Bingly-bingly beep!

"What's it now?" he snaps, shoving a hand into a pocket to retrieve a very annoying little box.

"Two pee em, meeting to address complaints issued by...er, one moment, Your Name Here, there's a bit of interference with the..." The imp's already-tinny voice fades into an incomprehensible mumbling, then lapses altogether. Vimes shakes the box and a few quiet eeps and squibbles follow, but no further speech.

"Right," Vimes says, unimpressed. The box goes back in his pocket. He gets to his feet, takes a deep breath, and knows something is Wrong. There's no stink in the air. No stink! So it's a kidnapping, is it?

Anyone passing by would see a rather surly-looking middle aged man in a strange assortment of old-fashioned armor pacing around the hall, muttering to himself, peering at corners and altogether looking like he's in the mood to share his own bad day with everyone who would approach.

futaille

Grantaire wakes up with a jolt, in a chair.

Somehow.

For the second time in just about as many minutes.

With a bone-deep certainty, though, he knows he shouldn't have.

He looks around, blinking. This is definitely not the Corinthe. This looks more like a small sitting room than anything. There's no billiards table, there's-- oh, well, there is a bar, but it's a smaller one. There's no-- There were definitely bodies, in the Corinthe. There were...

He looks down at himself. There are holes in his shirt. There's blood on his shirt¹. Alarmed, he pokes at his chest. No actual injury. It happened, it definitely...

There's not much that Grantaire believes in. Waking up at all wasn't exactly in his list of expectations. But whatever strange purgatory he never believed in but still somehow wound his way to...well, it would make sense that he wouldn-- that none of his friends would have arrived in the same spot, wouldn't it.

And if this purgatory was willing to provide, well... he stands up and walks over to the bar. He needs a drink.

¹ The blood is not all his. He is not aware of this.

az_fell

You might, if you were very polite about the manner in which you posited the idea, be forgiven for accusing the angel Aziraphale of being in a fussy mood of late. Not, of course, that anyone has been around him so consistently as to be in the position to make any accusations, of late. And not, of course, that he minds that. It's been lovely. So peaceful! Customers come into the bookshop¹. Aziraphale ushers them about with his very best bedside manner². They leave, and then he can settle in with a rare volume and a cup of tea. All the way he likes it.

Whether he has or has not been fussy, which he would prefer to leave up for debate, he is distracted. Not by anything in particular. Only by the lack of looming Apocalypse, most likely.

"Shelved by translator instead of author, really," Aziraphale is muttering to himself as he opens the door from the back of his shop, and that's the mildly regrettable story of how he walks through one doorway only to find himself in the foyer of an unfamiliar, slightly garish-looking mansion, holding a fairly rare, middlingly expensive illustrated and translated copy of The Book of Wisdom and Lies. Anyone in attendance will see what appears to be a neatly-groomed kindly homosexual man in a waistcoat. Some of those impressions are accurate.

"Oh," says Aziraphale, "bother."³

¹Sometimes. When the principality in question is in the correct mood.
²In this case, "best" means "most likely, despite utter plausible deniability and consummate solicitousness, to dissuade making a return visit or any purchases."
³This is what's known as a callback. The author is trying to remind you of something. For instance, two characters might be narrative foils; one is a demon, given to profanity, and the other an angel, disinclined to curse.⁴ Is it working?
⁴Except when it suits him, which is occasionally (more often than he would admit).

summerdude

Hotel Valhalla has over five hundred exits that lead to pretty much everywhere in the Nine Worlds, but especially to Boston, the center of all of Midgard.

Magnus knows about at least thirty of these exits. The recycling chute that drops you into the middle of Fenway Park isn't his favorite -- it can get pretty stinky in there, and he's had a few run-ins with some guards over the years -- but it is one of the most reliably expedient routes to Fadlan's Falafel. And sometimes, the tofu flank of Sæhrímnir just doesn't cut it for a hungry einherji with a particular craving.

But when he straightens up, wiping eggshell and the leather of someone's sling off his shoulder, he frowns. "This isn't Fenway," he says to Alex. "Did they change the door? Can they do that?"

Alex doesn't answer. When Magnus twists around, Alex isn't there. All he can see is an unfamiliar mansion, off in the distance and obscured by some trees.

Magnus frowns, looking around. He doesn't recognize anyone or anything, and the quality of light here doesn't clarify much, so he closes his eyes, trying to sense if there's a particular vibe in the area. Is this even Midgard? He's pretty sure he hasn't stumbled across some unknown reach of Vanaheim, and it doesn't feel like any of the other worlds...

Cautiously, he tugs the runestone from his neck, and then sighs in relief as it grows into his sword. "Jack?" he asks, holding the sword loosely in one hand and feeling him quiver in response. "Any idea where we are?"

Current Mood: cautious

desperatemods

WORK

Whatever mischief is at work in the mansion, it has decided to make things more interesting. There is a wooden chest in the middle of one of the rooms; size, material, color is different for everyone who comes upon it. It looks familiar. It’s the only thing in the room, sitting in the middle of the floor as if it has been waiting for them.

There’s a post-it note on the side that reads “all work and no play”

When they open it, they will find one (1) item from their home. A joke item, useless, tragic, or useful - all of these are options^*.

^*If this item is potentially game-breaking, please consult other typists first!

PLAY

In the middle of another room is a toy. It looks like… something from their childhood. A game, perhaps, or maybe a doll.

There’s a post-it note on it that reads “i want to play a game”

When they touch it, they will immediately deage for the span of one (1) day^*.

^*The length of one thread! This thread will run in an alternate time stream from any other thread that they are in at the moment, but they will remember this, though the memory may be blurry or distant if they are a small child.

SLEEP

And in the middle of the last room… is a table.

There are cards on the table, curious-looking cards with beautiful artwork on the back. They are face down and spread out. Next to them, is another post-it note. It reads: “you’ll float too :) pick a card”

When they touch one of the cards, they will immediately receive a short vision.^*

^*A Tarot and/or Oracle card will be drawn and a vision derived from that will be posted from the mod account! These are drawn in the moment specifically for your character, so it could be a fleeting vision that makes no sense - or it could potentially be super applicable. We shall see.

[[Another mod-directed open post! Your character can react to any number of situations in one comment (even all of them); please separate and title them in the comment. If you are a replying character, please put the situation you want to reply to (work, play, or sleep) either in the subject line of your comment or in a note on your first comment. Obviously, one of these scenarios is geared more towards interaction than the others, but all of them can be open to interaction. Have fun!]]

onthewillowsthere

He's a slight, pale fellow with hair so fine and blond it seems to surround his head like a halo, reasonably tall for his time (though who's to know that?) -- hmm, that seems familiar.

Damien is exploring the mansion. He has a feeling as if he's seen some of it before, an odd sense of deja vu at some of the rooms, but overall it's exciting to be in a new place. He doesn't remember how he got here, but Crowley said he was looking for a new beginning, and this does seem a good place for it. It's quiet -- he spent some time outside at first, and the gardens are peaceful and beautiful. He has no real goal aside from exploration, so he lingered there, admiring the flowers; he picked a spray of oleander and tucked it behind his ear.

He feels-- utterly free. He's sure most people know who they are, know their own names without having to ask, but there's something nice about being a blank slate. He discovers his face in one of the rooms upstairs, watching his expressions in the mirror for a long time. He finds one of the ever-providing chests of clothes and tries on tunics until he finds one he likes, deep blue with gold braid -- meant for a feast day, handsome on his coloring. His old self (whoever that was) might have eschewed vanity, but Damien has no qualms about admiring the fine material.

In the end he finds himself gravitating towards the kitchen, as if there were something there he was supposed to do, but he can be intercepted along any one of these points.

Current Mood: happy

peaklordshen

Leave your house, shizun. It's not good to get so little fresh air, shizun. We know you're sad, shizun, but you can't just waste away, shizun.

Ah, these meddling disciples! Yingying means well, but she doesn't get it. He's NOT sad. He's just waiting out the time-skip while his sweet little sheep Binghe blackens into the wildly powerful, absolutely irresistible stallion he's destined to be and then cuts a swath of destruction through the jianghu, leaving hundreds of ravished maidens and dismembered enemies in his—

He stops. That is NOT a xianxia-appropriate architectural style! Since when does Proud Immortal Demon Way have Tudor (Victorian? Sue him - it's been ages since he's seen any kind of Western building at all) style mansions in it?? Not to mention the vast swathes of carefully-trimmed grass, the hedges— this place looks more like the setting for one of the raunchy bodice-rippers his sister used to read than anything penned by Airplane-bro. He's going to have to give him a piece of his mind when he gets back to Cang Qiong.

"System," he mutters, "what the hell? Did I unlock a hidden side-story? Is this some kind of wildly anachronistic scenario-pusher?"

Silence. The system has been quieter ever since he broke his OOC lock, but it usually responds to a direct question.

He dashes over to the nearest body of water—a lake—and does a quick inventory of his face. Still Shen Qingqiu's thin brows, fine features, full sneering mouth. He still has his robes, too, and his fan, and his sword—so he hasn't transmigrated again. This is... something else.

He straightens up and looks around to see what other clues he might find.

recognizance

"What the fuck."

Look, weird and unsettling stuff happens to Murderbot on a regular basis, that's just what its life is like, and normally it wouldn't comment out loud. But there are levels of weird and unsettling, ranging from 'humans suddenly and without provocation treating you like a fellow sapient' to 'arguing tactics with the portable version of your own core consciousness', and on that scale... Okay, it's forgotten where it was going with this metaphor, or analogy, or whatever. But that's not the point.

The point is, everything was normal. Less than a second ago it was minding its own business, running searches in the background while refining its latest code for bypassing weapons scanners, rewatching ART's favorite episodes of Worldhoppers, and occasionally answering queries from various humans on the feed. Now it's standing in the middle of an open field (ugh) on an unknown planet (double ugh) and two-thirds of its inputs have... disappeared. It didn't drop them; they're just not there anymore. No feed, no cameras, no-- yeah, no comm either, it just checked.

It's the "without transition" part that shocks it to the point of, you know, vocalizing. There's been no performance drop, no involuntary shutdown, and according to its internal clock, no elapsed time whatsoever.

So, yeah, what the fuck?

(Meanwhile, from everyone else's perspective, a new person has materialized on the lawn: tall, powerfully built, age and gender hard to pin down, wearing casual clothes in dark colors, with short hair and a forbidding expression masking abject panic.)

Current Mood: stressed

sorrowandsorrow

Janet is really a pretty busy person who doesn't have a ton of time to be doing stupid things like getting lost in the Queenswood. There's a lot on her docket. They're rebuilding Castle Whitespire, is the main thing, and dwarves do not like to listen to her, which has been kind of pissing her off. She has great ideas and they want to make it the way it always was, spinning included. God, that infernal spinning. She's positive there's a magical way to install a Jacuzzi, or something like it, but Eliot is not backing her up. That's pissing her off, too.

Point is, where exactly is she? She scowls as she emerges from what she assumed was the familiar old Queenswood to a sight that is pretty distinctively not a dwarven construction site. It's... a house? Okay, weird. A big house, to be exact. The sun's in the wrong place in the sky. Irritation rising, Janet works a quick spell, her fingers a blur: it's nothing special, just a revealing charm, but it falls totally flat in a way that's extremely embarrassing for a Brakebills graduate and a Queen of Fillory. Hunch confirmed: she's not in Fillory anymore and she doesn't know shit about how to cast around the Circumstances wherever this is.

There's a bit of fear mixed in with her anger now, but she decides not to let that be too much of a thing. She squares her shoulders, tosses her hair back, and marches up toward the house. Mansion. Whatever. Here comes Queen Janet, lightly furious and dressed in kickass boots, breeches, and, luckily, one of her coolest leather tops. Twin black-metal staves are strapped to her back, and they have a couple of fun secrets if she needs to use them. Yeah, she's got this.

desperatemods

WORSHIP

The well-kept gardens behind the mansion are oddly quiet today. The crispness of fall in the air - but there are no birds chirping and the breeze is still. A small path leads east from the main area of the garden and it’s one that they’ve never seen before; it beckons to them. When followed, a ten minute walk (where the path may seem to appear and disappear - vanish and then be found again) leads them to an overgrown clearing.

In the middle of this clearing is a large stone sculpture - or fountain - or something else entirely. It isn’t clear. The stone has been worn down. There is lettering on one side that has been worn by weather and time, now reading: “OM A CA TRA V ST A NO IS EST”. It looks and feels like a place of worship, but there is no notable symbology that relates to any religion they may know.

If they touch the side of the stone object at some point during the thread, the sky will darken slightly - ominously! - and there will be a small shock of static, something that should not happen when one touches stone.

PREMONITION

While browsing the library, they come across a strange aesthetically appealing book with a beautiful reddish sheen to its leather. It appears hand-bound, perhaps religious in nature? However, if they attempt to read this book, the pages are initially blank - but it does not seem like a journal.

If they flip through it more, this book will reveal to them one thing they do not know about themselves. Only one sentence of text and then it becomes blank again.^*

^*Essentially, you are allowed one fourth wall break here! It can be something that happened already - just not from their point of view - or something that will happen in the future based on what point they are pulled from. It may not even make sense to them at this moment.

LOCKED

A door. Faded wood.

If they dare open it, a staircase opens up before them and slowly spirals down into the dark. If they venture down, the staircase will give a creak every few steps – as if to warn them. There is a flickering torch at the bottom of the staircase that someone must have lit.

They are standing in a circular foyer with rough-hewn stone walls. The way to the left is boarded up and dusty; it has not been traversed in a while. The way to the right seems clear, though the door gapes open and there is nothing visible beyond it - simply darkness.

If they step through this door to the right and feel along the wall to go further down the supposed hallway, they suddenly hear a quiet giggle. The torch sputters out. The door slams shut behind them. Their hand reaches the end of the “hallway” and touches the inner corner of a small room. They are trapped.

Yup. Locked in a closet. Classic. They can be locked in and someone finds them on the outside. Or they can be locked in together with another character! Discuss with the class.

[[This is a mod-written choose your own adventure open post similar to a format that I saw in another community! Have your character respond to one, two, or all three of these situations in a comment - then anyone else can choose to select one of them and start a thread with them based on it (in the subject line or in a small note at the bottom of the first response, the replying character can note what prompt they are responding to). It is steeped in the very vague ~backstory and lore of the mansion that is slowly coalescing. Have fun!]]

rememberettersberg

"Molly!"

The voice that echoes through the mansion's entrance hall is male, English, cultured, and pissed off as all hell.

"Molly, we'll be needing a room made ready. For the foreseeable future, we'll be hosting a guest." His tone dips on the final word, indicating that, were he a less polite sort of fellow, guest would not have been his descriptor of choice.

Thomas Nightingale has had a terrible day. He calls for Molly a final time, reflexive, spinning around in a slow circle as it dawns on him in quick succession that a) this is not the foyer he was expecting to walk into, and b) he's lost the very dangerous prisoner he'd been escorting. It appears that the day's terribleness has yet to abate.

He fumbles a mobile phone out of his suit pocket - he's a little rumpled but impeccably turned out, custom 1960s Savile Row tailoring from head to toe - and makes a sharp, impatient noise when it fails to switch on.

Hoisting a silver-topped mahogany cane that certainly doesn't appear to be a mobility aid, he squares his shoulders and strides forth.

"Is anyone there?"

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Desperate Fans: a literary roleplay!

June 2025

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desperatemods - [MARCH'S MOD OPEN POST]
desperatemods - [FEBRUARY'S MOD OPEN POST: SECOND BATCH]
desperatemods - [FEBRUARY'S MOD OPEN POST: FIRST BATCH]
timebethine - Dance Me to the Wedding Now
ravkanwitch - [Talent show open post!]
desperatemods - [NOVEMBER'S MOD OPEN POST: PART 2]
desperatemods - [NOVEMBER'S MOD OPEN POST: PART 1]
mothwingofriverclan - Introducing: Mothwing
quote_gentle_unquote - Introducing Susan Pevensie
commanderstoneface - Introducing His Grace, His Excellency, the Duke of Ankh; Commander Sir Samuel Vimes
futaille - Introducing Grantaire
az_fell - Introducing Aziraphale (An Angel, and part-time rare book dealer)
summerdude - Introducing Magnus Chase (That's Me! I'm... Somewhere!)
desperatemods - [October’s Choose Your Own Adventure open post]
onthewillowsthere - introducing Damien
peaklordshen - NEW USER: SHEN QINGQIU
recognizance - introducing secunit.
sorrowandsorrow - Introducing: Janet, Queen of Fillory
desperatemods - Choose Your Own Adventure (mild creepypasta) open post!
rememberettersberg - Introducing the Nightingale

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Desperate Fans

An old and new Adulting-friendly literary roleplay.

Entries tagged with nightingale

[MARCH'S MOD OPEN POST]

[FEBRUARY'S MOD OPEN POST: SECOND BATCH]

[FEBRUARY'S MOD OPEN POST: FIRST BATCH]

Dance Me to the Wedding Now

[Talent show open post!]

[NOVEMBER'S MOD OPEN POST: PART 2]

[NOVEMBER'S MOD OPEN POST: PART 1]

Introducing: Mothwing

Introducing Susan Pevensie

Introducing His Grace, His Excellency, the Duke of Ankh; Commander Sir Samuel Vimes

Introducing Grantaire

Introducing Aziraphale (An Angel, and part-time rare book dealer)

Introducing Magnus Chase (That's Me! I'm... Somewhere!)

[October’s Choose Your Own Adventure open post]

introducing Damien

NEW USER: SHEN QINGQIU

introducing secunit.

Introducing: Janet, Queen of Fillory

Choose Your Own Adventure (mild creepypasta) open post!

Introducing the Nightingale

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