• The Infractions Forum is available for public view. Please note that if you have been suspended you will need to open a private/incognito browser window to view it.

IC Changeling: The Lost - The Witch's Promise

HardKore Keltoid

RAW Cultist
Validated User
It's the first of October in Chicago, a cold, blustery wind and steady rain rattling the tarnished gold from the trees. The gutters are full with autumn leaves, and milling figures pull their coats a little tighter, hold their umbrellas a little higher.

A muscular ogress with rust-red teeth and sunburnt skin waits in the locker room of a local gym, her dress paying no mind to the season.

A slim woman with eyes like budding flowers stands rigidly in a noghtclub dressing room, diligently guarding a walk-in closet. She carries a rapier in her left hand, plain as day, and wears a flowing dress of chainmail swathing.

A pale figure dressed in a smart suit loiters against the wall of a decaying Englewood mansion, the notice on the door insists it's condemned. The man's flesh is tallow, his eyes are embers, curious passers-by pay him no mind.

A priest sits impatiently in an empty confessional, and even in the dim light, even through the screen, his eyes have the unmistakable sheen of amber, and his face is a wooden mask carved with deep wrinkles.

It's the first day of the reign of Queen Aradia, thirteenth of her name, and you're all late for a very important date.
 

Markov

The Fabulous King
Validated User
Antoine Renard liked The Black Rose the moment he stepped inside; the place had atmosphere, but was subdued enough not to beat him over the head with it. Following the instructions he'd been given lead to a dressing room and a familiar face. He grinned, giving a slight nod.

"Not too late for the party, I hope...though if you've had a change of heart, my timing won't matter anyway. Still willing to vouch for your favorite student?"

Pulling an unopened package of earplugs from his pocket, he lightly tossed them to the floral guardian for inspection.

"Brought my own. The idea of sticking things of unknown origin into my ears was, understandably, not very appealing."
 

Chaomancer

CotTS High Magician
Validated User
To Violet Angelo, the Black Rose is like a second home. Or perhaps a first home; she spends more time there than at her apartment, and most of the important things in her life seem to happen there these days. The secret path through to the commons is no mystery to her, eiither, so she's in her element when she slips into the dressing room a couple of doors down from her own, wearing a dress she hopes will be daring enough for the occasion. It's a deep blue, almost black, and seems to trail petals of darkness in her wake as she walks in, smiling at the guardian and Renard. Music trails in with her, a faint tune of joy and abandon.

"Hello to you both," she says happily, tilting her head to one side. "I didn't mean to interrupt anything."

Her eyes flick over Antoine, and she smiles wider. "Have you no one to speak for you, darling?"
 

Loki Dodges-Their-Claws

Hunter of the Damned
Forrest approached the manor house with some apprehension. Not that he was scared of an old house; there were real bogeymen in the world, he knew, but this wasn't one of them. He saw the odd man and approached him with deliberation, pausing a few yards away to allow them to size each other up. After a moment, he called upon his Mantle, and a faint cool breeze - coming from a different direction than what was blowing now - brought the scent of damp earth and the rustle of dead leaves. The other man nodded slightly and Forrest went up to the door: after a quick look around to make sure no one else was nearby, he whispered the password. With a faint click, the door opened a crack and he entered quickly, disappearing into the darkness within.

When he reached the Commons, he tried to be inconspicuous, keeping to the edge of the gathering - somehow he doubted that he'd be welcomed, given what he was.
 
Last edited:

ScottL

Member
RPGnet Member
Validated User
Autumn.

Secrets and shadows. Bright leaves and grey smoke. A time for Dying.



A jaunty tune marches down the street, off-key and jarring. The pale woman whistling grins carelessly, paying no mind to the glares she earns from passersby. Shoulders back, head high, she moves to her own rhythm, challenging the world with every step.

A truck roars by, belching oily black smoke in its wake. Eyes creasing to slits, she draws a deep breath, a soft, pleased sigh passing her lips.

A quick headshake returns her to the moment. The foulness is mortal enough, yes, but it harkens to other times... to Other places.

Grounding herself in the here and now, she strides across the concrete to the gymnasium ahead. A quick step over the threshold brings her into the Steelworks.

For a part of her, it is coming Home.


Despite the chill in the air and the crisp leaves dancing outside, the gym thrums with Summer. Exertion and effort, men and women pushing past their limits, drive and determination-

"Hey."

She turns. " 'Hey' yourself." Does she know this face? She might know this face. She might have seen him around. No one important enough to really notice, not a man who stands out. Mortal. Normal. Fit enough--good lines--and a certain consideration to his movements. He's had training, she thinks.

She could take him.

"Hey. I'm Ian." He quirks a wry smile. "You dress up to come to the gym?"

"Oh, this old thing?" She gestures along the dark red flow of her dress. And if he could see how it really looked, what would he think then? "I'm meeting friends. For a kind of get-together. Something we do every so now and then."

"Huh. And you meet at the gym?"

"Why not? It's a place."

"It's a place," he agrees. "You know, I feel like I've seen you around."

"You probably have. I work out here."

"No, I think it was out there. Somewhere." He waves to the huge window fronting on the street, indicating the whole world outside.

"Could be."

And maybe that's his 'coming onto you' smile, or maybe that's his 'shooting the breeze' pose, or maybe that's his 'who are you really?' gaze. But whatever it is, whoever he is, she doesn't have time for it. Not now.

So, "Hey, Ian. I've gotta go. It's been what's it been. Catch you around."

And if he starts to say something as she leaves, well, it's gone and away, and what does it matter anyway?

The Coronation awaits.


Locker rooms aren't known for their privacy, but the Lost have their ways. Secrets and shadows, and gazes turned away.

She shares a salute with the guard on duty, and a respectful nod. Finding a certain locker, she snaps an even sharper salute--as if to Summer itself--and proclaims, "It is sweet and honorable."

Blood singing in her veins, she follows the path to the Hedge Commons.
 

HardKore Keltoid

RAW Cultist
Validated User
Antoine Renard liked The Black Rose the moment he stepped inside; the place had atmosphere, but was subdued enough not to beat him over the head with it. Following the instructions he'd been given lead to a dressing room and a familiar face. He grinned, giving a slight nod.

"Not too late for the party, I hope...though if you've had a change of heart, my timing won't matter anyway. Still willing to vouch for your favorite student?"

Pulling an unopened package of earplugs from his pocket, he lightly tossed them to the floral guardian for inspection.

"Brought my own. The idea of sticking things of unknown origin into my ears was, understandably, not very appealing."
The Flower of Battle greets Renard with her usual thin smile, rolling the packaged earplugs in her palm and inspecting them. Giving the fox a dubious look, she opens them, scrutinizing both intently.

The Fairest almost seems disappointed to find an uncharacteristic lack of dirty tricks, tossing the earplugs back with a nod. "Not my best student, but certainly my favorite" she teases. "It would be better form if Violet were to vouch for you - I should stand guard until everyone arrives."

To Violet Angelo, the Black Rose is like a second home. Or perhaps a first home; she spends more time there than at her apartment, and most of the important things in her life seem to happen there these days. The secret path through to the commons is no mystery to her, eiither, so she's in her element when she slips into the dressing room a couple of doors down from her own, wearing a dress she hopes will be daring enough for the occasion. It's a deep blue, almost black, and seems to trail petals of darkness in her wake as she walks in, smiling at the guardian and Renard. Music trails in with her, a faint tune of joy and abandon.

"Hello to you both," she says happily, tilting her head to one side. "I didn't mean to interrupt anything."

Her eyes flick over Antoine, and she smiles wider. "Have you no one to speak for you, darling?"
When Violet enters, the floral woman's eye buds into a wink for a moment. "Oh, as always, your timing is as impeccable as your fashion sense. Escort this rake to the commons, would you? And don't let him use his considerable wiles on you." She steps aside with an over-theatrical flourish, her armor tinkling like silver bells as she moves.
Forrest approached the manor house with some apprehension. Not that he was scared of an old house; there were real bogeymen in the world, he knew, but this wasn't one of them. He saw the odd man and approached him with deliberation, pausing a few yards away to allow them to size each other up. After a moment, he called upon his Mantle, and a faint cool breeze - coming from a different direction than what was blowing now - brought the scent of damp earth and the rustle of dead leaves. The other man nodded slightly and Forrest went up to the door: after a quick look around to make sure no one else was nearby, he whispered the password. With a faint click, the door opened a crack and he entered quickly, disappearing into the darkness within.

When he reached the Commons, he tried to be inconspicuous, keeping to the edge of the gathering - somehow he doubted that he'd be welcomed, given what he was.
Jack Tallow's ember-eyes seem to flicker in the winds of Forrest's mantle, blinking in disbelief at the sight of a partially-turned briarwolf politely asking entry. When realization dawns, he nods firmly. "Don't let anybody say y'don't belong, this is our season." With those fear-banishing words, he claps the wolf's thorny shoulder and waves him through.

So, "Hey, Ian. I've gotta go. It's been what's it been. Catch you around."

And if he starts to say something as she leaves, well, it's gone and away, and what does it matter anyway?

The Coronation awaits.


Locker rooms aren't known for their privacy, but the Lost have their ways. Secrets and shadows, and gazes turned away.

She shares a salute with the guard on duty, and a respectful nod. Finding a certain locker, she snaps an even sharper salute--as if to Summer itself--and proclaims, "It is sweet and honorable."

Blood singing in her veins, she follows the path to the Hedge Commons.
No words, just a tangibly curious stare. Understandable, really. For a moment, it might've been the most transparent excuse ever, but there she was, still dresed to kill, still walking into a locker room.

Miss Scarlet flashes her rust-red teeth in a bulldog's approximation of a smile, returning the salute. "Was wonderin' when you'd show up, Gigi. Gonna make one'a those Drrrramatic entrances, where ya swing off the chandelier at the last minute an' everything? I got a little white glove 'round here somewhere..."

Is she suggesting you might just challenge the queen to a duel at her coronation? Well, it'd make an impression - in some holds you might even get away with it!

All ribbing aside, Scarlet makes the clasp in passing and sees you through. It's not so much "shadows and secrets and eyes turned away" as finding just the right blind spot and generally counting on people to be self-absorbed little fucks. They haven't let anyone down yet.

The Hedge Commons is a grand patchwork affair, displaying all seasons equally, with obviously dissonant results. The core of the place is an imposing castle with a curtain wall of brambles, hobgoblin gargoyles leering down from the battlements. From there, though? A tall crystal spire here, a patch of living, writhing, throbbing ivy there, and all around is a howling flurry of autumn leaves that smell of dust and crinkle like paper.

Inside, the place makes even less sense. The common room is a huge affair, suitable for ballroom dancing if all the furnishings were cleared away. Tables for two,m four, or six are scattered about in a loose circle, their plates and cups seeming to never go empty for long.

A pentacle is set into the floor, four points indicating doors on the room's far end. the fifth pointing toward a long stairway that disappears into darkness even in the goblin torchlight, but apparently leads to the balcony where three of the four monarchs overlook the gathering.

Foul Thomas the Half-Man, of Summer, a squat little gremlin with a scarred, wrinkled face, wide pointed ears, and most notably, his namesake - mechanical hedgespun replacements for his right eye, arm and leg. Dressed in the deep reds and bright oranges of his season, he's sporting some approximation of military regalia cut from dragon scales, and a crown of fading embers. That broad smile that just seems forced on his face.

King Krunk, of Spring, a golden Metalflesh once irreverently (but rather aptly) described as "C3P0's big brother". He's nigh-literally a living piece of art, most notable for an imperfect mask that makes it appear as if he has a mouthful of gold teeth - oh, and apparently wearing a white tiger-stripe suit with matching top-hat to formal occasions, likely made from an actual hedge-beast's hide.

Shivering Abigail, of Winter, is the most traditionally formal, naturally, with an immaculately fitted black suit that seems to drink in light, casting long shadows even in this bright room. It nicely highlights her linen-white skin, so pale that ice-blue veins show through on nearly every inch. Her arms are folded across her chest, and apart from occasional glances toward King Krunk, she seems every bit the living embodiment of the term "ice queen".

As is traditional, The Autumn Queen has yet to show herself, kept secluded until all arrivals are accounted for and the doors are barred securely.

Oh, and there are others, so many others. John the Bull, a broadback Mule Squire. Jack'A'Knaves, a boisterous, gambling Wizened and, if rumors are true, a member of the Sacred Band. Black Alice, a curiously blue-skinned Darkling with razor-tipped fingers, supposedly a candidate for Witch of the Bitter Wind. Cullen Wolfe, a hunterheart and Winter's Sun Banisher..

And more, oh so many more...
 
Last edited:

Markov

The Fabulous King
Validated User
"Given the two, I'd rather be the favorite anyway. I can always improve later, but I'd hate to be without your good graces." He flashes a roguish grin before nodding to Violet in response to her question.

"No interruption at all, I assure you; I've already taken up more of her time than I should. You're right, though...due to some difficulties and a myriad of issues, I've not found someone willing to carry my name into Court."

He waved a hand dismissively, as if the whole affair was a trivial annoyance. "If you'd be willing to do so, I'd be very grateful...and of course, the company would be welcome. No one wants to show up to a party alone, right?"
 

Loki Dodges-Their-Claws

Hunter of the Damned
Forrest wandered around the great room, dazzled at all the activity. After a time, he decided to stop trying to take the whole thing in and focus on something - food, for a start. A couple quick drinks and a bit of something probably hedge in origin and he felt a bit more grounded. He allowed his gaze to run across the gathering in search of nothing in particular...when his gaze settled on a fox-man, he stopped short. No, not him...not him, either - oh, that one! Lucky, lucky, lucky, that one had been.

Catching up another drink, the briarwolf headed toward Renard.

"Well, I'll be go to hell." was his greeting, a thin smile showing a flash of reddish fangs. "I'd wondered if you had made it all the way out, you sneaky bastard."
 

Chaomancer

CotTS High Magician
Validated User
"Certainly I'll speak for you, dear Antoine," Violet grins, shadowy dress shifting in the lights. "I'd be pleased to walk into court with you on my arm - gossip is such fun!"

Giving him a chance to plug his ears, she turns to the guardian of the gate and blows her a kiss. "I'll be careful with him, don't you worry! At least I'm getting an escort who might be my match, right?"

Once his ears are securely stuffed, she takes his arm and walks to the closet, leans in to kiss his cheek, and whispers the password to take them through the leap to the Court and make as grand an entrance as they can.
 

ScottL

Member
RPGnet Member
Validated User
Miss Scarlet flashes her rust-red teeth in a bulldog's approximation of a smile, returning the salute. "Was wonderin' when you'd show up, Gigi. Gonna make one'a those Drrrramatic entrances, where ya swing off the chandelier at the last minute an' everything? I got a little white glove 'round here somewhere..."

Is she suggesting you might just challenge the queen to a duel at her coronation? Well, it'd make an impression - in some holds you might even get away with it!
Gigi grins and winks broadly at the doorwarden. "Tempting! We'll see."


Oh, and there are others, so many others. John the Bull, a broadback Mule Squire. Jack'A'Knaves, a boisterous, gambling Wizened and, if rumors are true, a member of the Sacred Band. Black Alice, a curiously blue-skinned Darkling with razor-tipped fingers, supposedly a candidate for Witch of the Bitter Wind. Cullen Wolfe, a hunterheart and Winter's Sun Banisher.

And more, oh so many more...
Gigi spins, taking in the extravaganza, the hem of her crimson gown flaring out. Her pale flesh and black hair might seem suited for Winter, and her claws and teeth for Autumn, but the heady enthusiasm in her step is all Summer.

Familiar faces and new, and all of them people like her. Survivors.

She bows her head a moment then, remembering.

But such somber moments never last- especially when there's a gathering to impress!

A short while later, she hies herself over to the razor-fingered Darkling. "Black Alice," she nods with a small smile. "Season's Greetings."
 
Top Bottom