~ THE AIR IS GROWING HOT, AND THE SMOKE GROWS THICK, OUR TINY LITTLE SPARK IS GROWING UP QUICK. BEWARE THE GLOW OF A CITY IN FLAMES,
BECAUSE WHEN THE FIRE STRIKES, NOBODY GAINS. ~
As part of today’s teaser, we will be announcing the dates between which we will be running our next event. So, without further ado, our Anniversary Event will run between Monday, July 10th - Monday, July 24th (inclusive) with some flexibility. If roleplayers have any threads they wish to continue beyond this date, they are welcome to to do so. However, all threads dating before the event should be put on hold for the duration of the event.
Finally, we want to know which roleplayers wish to participate in this event. Please “+1″ this post if you will be around for the required time-period and wish to be involved. For roleplayers who have two characters, please make sure you “+1″ this post on either or both characters depending on which you’d like to have in the event. We ask that everyone please consider your time and availability carefully before committing to this event, seeing as it will be fast-paced and we will expect regular and rapid activity during this period.
ONE HAND ON THE MATCH,
THE OTHER IN THE FLAMES,
FIRE BRINGS ALL SORTS OF MONSTERS
OUT TO PLAY THEIR WICKED GAMES.
BEWARE THE CREATURE WHO
VENTURES EVER CLOSER
A BURNED BEAST MIGHT BITE,
BUT A MONSTER ONLY GROWS COLDER.
The lights over the kitchen table were old and dim after decades of use. The plates were cleared away and coffee was brewing on the stove-top. As a rule, the Argents never ruined a fine meal with talks of business. But Kate was never one for following the rules. She'd already tabled her plan, her proposal and was leaning over the back of one chair, tipping the legs back as she studied the man sitting opposite her.
"They'll all be there, dad. Who knows when we'll get another chance like this. You said we needed a proper foothold in New Orleans - Now's our chance."
Her father sat across from her calm, comfortable, and like always, took his sweet time to consider her words. He'd be running the pros and cons in his head. They both knew a power play like this would have repercussions, but were they worth the rewards?
They both knew they were.
"And what does your brother think of this plan, hm?" He asked eventually, and she should've known he would ask, should've known he'd be testing her, still.
She whirled around to face the stove at the mention of Chris; busying herself with the coffee pot and two faded Christmas mugs. Unlike Gerard, she'd long since taken to leaving Chris out of her machinations. She didn't have her father's patience - or maybe it was his delusion. Chris was a big boy now; he'd make his own choices and pay the consequences accordingly. It wasn't her problem.
"He doesn't know... You know he won't like it. The last thing I need is for him to tip them off in 'fair warning'." She sneered, upper lip curled in contempt as she turned back to the table and placed one mug in front of her father. "Just let me handle this." She practically pleaded. "Alone... You know I can!"
Gerard gaze finally shifted so he was looking straight at her, and finally, finally, she could see in his eyes that he felt the same. Chris was weak. He and the so-called hunter's guild had lost the city, they – she – could reclaim it. Would reclaim it.
"Then the job is yours, Kate." he said simply, with that smile that had always seemed to her equal parts pride and hunger. "And Kate? Bring me their heads."
BLISTERS BEGIN TO BUBBLE, AND THE RAFTERS HAVE
TURNED BLACK,
THE BLAZE BURNS FAR TOO HIGH FOR YOU TO NOW
TURN BACK,
THE STAGE HAS BEEN SET AND THE SEATS ARE
ALL FILLED,
IT'S THE SHOW OF A LIFETIME, FRIENDS, AND
THE ENDING? IT KILLS.
⚜ VN COUNTDOWN: DAY 4 ⚜
T H E T H I R D S A C R I F I C E by @theoverlooked
accompanied by this soundtrack ((x))
Triggers for: violence, death, gore
Friede took comfort in two things amongst the uncertainty of the world: her kindness and her God. In the face of her mother’s passing, she was kind. In the face of her father’s illness, she was kind. When she was alone in the world, she was kind. And God gifted her with a cause. The Old Ursuline Convent took her in in the winter of 1952; she’s been sixteen, days away from begging for her next meal. Cold, alone, unloved, but kind. She was still so kind. The Father saw in her the potential for change and welcomed her as the daughter his oaths forbade him to have. She was clothed in worn, but clean threads and fed a thin broth to chase away the sting of winters touch and loneliness’ embrace. God’s people had saved Friede; and in turn, she became one of God’s people. Or perhaps she always had been, if she were to be asked Friede would simply smile and say,
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m here now.’
And that was how she lived her new life. It wasn’t a great change really. She continued to be kind in the face of life’s trials, helping all those who came to her. It was only once she questioned the will of God, her strength failed her and bitterness rose like so much filth from the bayou itself. September 1965. Hurricane Betsy swept through eastern New Orleans, destroying much of Gentilly and obliterating St. Bernard Parish. She and her sisters had gathered supplies from the generous many and aided in healing those who the hospital could not see as they were pulled from the wreckage. She’d held a girl, Gretchen, in her arms as she passed into God’s care. She’d been eight years old. She’d known as she passed her father was dead, her mother and six month-old child were among those missing. No more than three hours after she’d cradled the dying girl, her mother was found, her child dead in her arms, and Friede took it upon herself to pass on the news. The mother had lost all to the malevolent winds.
Friede had no sleep that evening. She’d taken up residence in her Church, fallen before His alter and with a fever that bordered on vicious demanded answers. Why? She’d been nothing but kind, loved and worshiped, as a sister should. Why, oh Lord, had she seen such suffering? Been a spectre of death to a poor woman in her greatest hour of sorrow? Why… Why!?
The walls of the church provided no answer to her silent questions, only reverberated her sobbing back to her.
In the early hours, when dark still reigned, she rose disillusioned to her aching feet and turned from the alter. She felt lost, angry, grief-stricken. Not for her loses, never for those, but for the losses’ of others which she’d only been able to watch. She was but steps away from the door, from her life as it was, when she’d heard it.
Music.
Wonderful music. In later evenings she was frequently asked to explain the sounds that met her ears, yet she was unable to do so. Words failed to describe so beautiful a sound, so holy a melody. It was her Lord. Some called it exhaustion, others a product of shock, but in her heart Friede knew. The Lord had sent his angels to sing to her, to guide her back to his light. To assure her of his reasoning’s, his love. It did little to stem the tide of her grief but it gave her hope. Hope that not all was lost, the kindness of the world, of heaven, of her, would endure. And with those so too would her title as Sister.
The years past and Friede never again questioned her Lord. She knew anger, sadness, grief as she now knew she would. But with those came love and joy and kindness; the quality she was known for. The Convent remained her home. And she, close to each father as he watched his flock. Father Kieran was a friend in kind and she had been there for him as he mourned the loss of his nephew to madness. She guided the sisters too through the shock of their loss as well as the remaining students of the cloth. Her kindness to them never wavered; she remained ever steadfast. A woman of kindness, a woman of peace. As her name had been given to imply.
Years continued to pass and Friede, now eighty-one years of age, was a well-known face to New Orleans. She was beloved by patrons of the Church and a revered woman by those who followed the path of the Lord. Habit became something of a crutch in her old age. She began and ended each day the same, with a prayer of thanks and a look-in on her sisters. This was one such evening of habit. Friede wore her simple nightgown; the warm summer evening’s air warranted little more, and left her shoulder length, white hair loose fluttering behind her. The floor was warm against her bare feet as she padded down the corridor to her sister’s quarters. The door, as always was left ajar for her to peep inside. The lights were out and the even breaths of her sleeping kin drifted out to her aged, yet keen ears. She smiled and moved on.
The Church was always a welcome sight from the windows of the convent. It was a rising pillar of God to bring comfort to an aged soul. Friede always paused for a moment to gaze at it, wondering (only briefly) if the Lord would ever come to her again with his music. She wondered if she’d ever hear the wondrous voice and gentle piano that soothed her dreams, even now. It was prideful of her she knew, but she pitied the other sisters for not having heard that which she’d been blessed to. Friede gazed a moment longer, made the sign of the cross and sent a silent voice of thanks to God for all he did and would continue to do.
Then it came.
Friede stilled, her hand going to the crucifix at her bosom. Wide eyes yet to be dulled with age, looked out to the Church, it was faint, but she knew. The music was for her. She was being called. It had been over fifty years, yet each note was as piercing to her heart and soul as it had been back then. She repeated the sign of the cross and moved swifter than her frail form would suggest. Down the corridor, back past her sleeping sisters, out of the door and into the street. New Orleans was silent. Only the music sounded, only the music mattered. The Lord called to her, it was her joy to be at his side when he deigned to speak.
Friede reached the door and pushed it open, the worn wood smooth against her thin hands. She hurried inside, the door slowly swinging closed behind her. She paused, looking around the all-too familiar walls. The wide ceilings, the many pews the raised alter. She could almost see herself there all those years ago, prostrate with grief and questions. Moonlight bathed it now, the pale glow casting a shine against the pure white cloth of the table. It was beautiful. And still the music played. The wondrous voice, the gentle notes fell upon her ears and brought tears to her eyes. She took a shuddering breath and her gaze drifted as she took a few steps further in.
Then she saw her.
Friede knew she gazed upon a woman, how she knew was unclear, but her heart spoke true in the face of such holy wonder. The figure, the woman, was sheathed in black reflected by the moonlight. She was hooded and bent just so over the piano. Pale fingers peeked out the edges of the robes folds and pressed the keys of the church organ. Yet it was that holy music she heard, that beauteous voice; both too ethereal to come from a device made by mortal men. She walked closer, her eyes fixed on the vision before her. She needed to be closer, to see better the Lords incarnation made just for her.
Friede reached the altars base, facing the organ to its side. The figure played on, sang on, unmoved by her presence. She lowered herself to her knees and clasped her hands, the crucifix held between them.
“Dear Lord, you have come to me again. I-I am unworthy of your attention. I only wish to be close to you, aid you as I have done all my life.”
All eloquence had left her, all scriptures fallen forgotten to the recesses of her mind. In the face of the Lord Almighty, what did it matter? He knew her heart, her soul, and had sent his vision to her. It was a gift she did not deserve.
“I only wish I had never questioned you, I wish I had been stronger to those who needed me, I wish I had not sinned, I wish this place had-”
“Fret not, dear Friede.”
The voice was everywhere and nowhere. The music uninterrupted, the singing continued as the voice echoed over, light and reverberating. The Sister’s voice caught in her throat, she’d been spoken to! A miracle, a miracle of the Lord!
“I have no need of thine regrets. For thou ist mine. For now and evermore. And that is the highest honour. Prostrate thyself before mine presence. And know we are to be one.”
The words registered and Friede could have cried if she’d any voice behind a sob of joy. Wordlessly she obeyed the request, falling forward till her nose brushed again the worn carpet of the aisle. Low as she could fall, below the Lord and his will.
“D-Dear Lord, what do you need of me?”
There was no response.
Friede remained prostrate; her aged limbs ached at the position yet she remained. Eternity seemed to pass under the watch of the glorious music and her bones would not support her as they once did-
“Forgive me, Dear Father.” She murmured, raising herself so that the ache would abate, only for a moment, a moment more to see-
Her breath died in her throat.
The figure had turned.
Pale, delicate hands were folded primly in a lap. Bare, porcelain feet poked daintily from the bottom folds of the black cloak. For that was all there was. Hands, feet, and cloak.
The vision had no face.
There was only darkness.
The hood was an abyss Friede gazed into, and as all do, it gazed back. Friede saw. There was death in that darkness, unholy, tainted, an abomination. Something evil slithered into this house of worship in the guise of the Lord, luring with its music…
It had lured her.
The music changed, still playing on as the figure watched her, there were no eyes but it watched, it stared, it bored into her very being. Her mortal soul lay bare in the face of such darkness. The piano no longer soothing, it was menacing, the gentle notes akin to stalking footsteps, inevitability, end. The voice no longer the gentle preaching’s of an angel. Now the shrill cries of a wailing woman, cries of despair, cries of loss, cries of rot and end.
Yet the music was no different than it always was. The truth had simply reached her ears.
The figure rose.
Friede struggled to her feet, she needed to run, ‘Oh Lord, guide me!’ she pleaded.
Her pleas fell on deaf ears.
The figure breathed. It was a shuddering thing, a death rattle that worked into the lulls of death’s music. It, for no being such as this could be a she, took a step forward. In the wake of its step fire kindled. It spread at an unholy pace through the Church, covering pews, licking up walls, scorching stained-glass windows a sooty black. The moon’s light blocked out.
She felt the fire pulsing at her heels, a living thing at the beck and call of this beast, surrounding her. The flames of hell worked in this hall of worship, a gross travesty, a breach of terms, an unholy declaration.
“Fret not, Friede.”
The figure approached, the unholy flames encompassed all yet the black abyss walked through them unscathed, her gentle voice a roar above the shrieks, the stalking keys and cracking of fire-burst wood.
“’Tis only a flame quivering at misguided ash.”
The figure reached her. She was frozen, yet her mind prayed to God, Jesus, The Holy Ghost, The Virgin herself to save her from this emissary of Satan himself. Smoke rose, thick and cloying through the church, choking out the fire’s light, the word of God, Friede. It felt as though wire itself were wrapped around her withered neck.
No kindness in the abyss.
L-Lord…. Please….
“Distance thine mind.”
God… Almighty….
“I shall snuff out these ashes for good.”
The thud of a club.
The scrape of a knife.
A Virgin’s blood stained the Church of New Orleans.
A scream curdled the blood of a milk-man the next morning. He dropped his bottles, they smashed on the ground as he ran towards the source, into the Church. A nun lay on her knees, wailing to the heavens, the morning communion dropped in her anguish.
The wine mixed with blood.
The bread stained red.
The milk-mans gaze followed the river of red that had trickled down the aisle like some macabre trail to its source…
Sister Mary-Friede lay against the steps of the altar, her legs bent, both hands stained in her own blood, clutching an equally bloody crucifix. Her throat was slit to the point of decapitation. Her glassy eyes were wide and her mouth frozen agape in an expression of pure horror. Her head was turned; facing away from her body’s angled in what seemed like a slight defiance. It seemed to those unfortunate souls bearing witness that Sister Mary-Friede’s final act upon this plain was to gaze at the stool of the church organ, which sat innocent and empty in the morning sunlight.
~ Today marks the striking of the match, but will the kindling catch? Keep a weather eye, friends, or you risk getting burned... ~
Holy water cannot help you down,
A thousand armies couldn't keep me out.
The drowned souls of La Nouvelle Orléans have had a taste of vengeance, vitality, of life beyond the veil, and they are done waiting. They were promised a reaping, and what they weren't given, they come now to take.
I don't want your money,
I don't want your crown...
Leaving the scent of smoke in their wake, they haunt the streets in the eerie dark of the witching hour, hunting she who eludes them. The last of the crop to be sown before the Harvest. But the once-humid air of the Bayou blows dry and hot now, ripe for a cleansing blaze. One errant ember...
See I have to burn,
Your kingdom down.
After all, that which grows from a field of ashes, grows all the stronger...
~ Blisters begin to bubble, and the rafters have turned black, The blaze burns far too high for you to now turn back, The stage has been set and the seats are all filled, It’s the show of a lifetime, friends, and the ending? It kills. ~
We will be marking day one of our event countdown with the release of a third new character! Need a hint? She’s mean, she’s lean, she’s a supernatural-killing machine! Any guesses? Stay tuned - the bio will be released later tonight!
~ The kindling's caught, it begins to burn.
What next now waits it's turn? Friends,
turn your nose into the wind, perhaps
then you'll know if a blaze begins~
I was dead when I woke up this morning
An eerie sound sways its way through the Quarter, like the squeal of a rat or the drumming of bones. Its gruesome siren song calls to you, dancing on the haunted hollowed ground that will one day be your grave. The bone song whispers of tomorrows, tomorrows that will drown us all. (x)
THE SET IS MADE OF FALLEN BEAMS,
THE CURTAINS MADE OF SMOKE.
THE AUDIENCE SITS ON OF CHAIRS OF ASH,
ONE AND ALL ARE GHOSTS.
THE ORCHESTRA PLAYS THE INTRODUCTORY NOTES,
SYMPHONY OF A BLAZE,
THE TIME TO WATCH IS NOW, MY FRIENDS,
TRAGEDY AT CENTER STAGE.
I swear it’s true, the past isn’t dead
It could be the sounds of the orchestra, tuning their instruments to the croons of a ghost. It could be the wind whispering through the cracks in the window. No matter the source, there will be no standing ovation this time, no roar of the entranced crowd. The sounds of this chorus will haunt you for years, but there is no turning back now.
It’s alive, it is happening in the back of my head
~ A tiny flame dances, dreams of one day being fire, sashaying ever closer to the Quarter's waiting pyre. Stay sharp, friends, for soon you'll see, just how deadly this little dance can be. ~
In dusty boxes, and rust-hinged closets, these special object wait. They’ve been drifting through the ages, collecting the magic that hovers in the air all around us. The Vieux Carré is renown for their collection of these cursed magical items, though whether any have ever been found is nothing more than rumor. We happen to know that these lost relics are indeed scattered through the Quarter, waiting for someone unsuspecting, or perhaps an artisan of the craft, to pick them up and let them wreak their havoc. Be careful where you step, because you never know where your feet might land...
In honor of Vieux Noyés’ second season, we will soon be releasing our highly anticipated Lost Relics.
