bellelurette | WEEK THREE

WEEK THREE

28 Guests

You awaken smothered in wonderfully soft blankets. If you are lucky, there is a warm body next to you, but... those are becoming shorter and shorter in supply, aren't they?

It's Monday at Château Ambregris, and you have just arrived here. Whatever clothes you are wearing, whatever injuries you are sporting... They are once again accurate to how you were before this tale began. Whether this leaves you with any urgent matters to take care of or relieved of ailing you had contracted in the 'last' week, the gong of the numerous clocks chimes out indifferently to the hour. Gone is the urgent summons of the past two weeks, with no Witch to greet you.

Rise and shine, and face your 'first' day in your 'new' home! And though you may now think yourself quite familiar with it, maybe another look around wouldn't hurt?

TIME LOOP:

-Characters wake up with the clothes they had with them at their canon point, like in the intro log.
-The state of their bodies is exactly the same as it was on the intro log (for better or worse).
-Any items they accumulated last week are also reset (sorry you'll need to build up your weapon cache again), except items that were given out as event rewards. Please note that the item uses are not reset.

LOCATIONS UPDATED:
- library, gardens
- mud bath → aquarium
- menagerie → photography studio
- grotto → greenhouse

WEEKLY EFFECT

This week every character will have a spirit animal that follows them around like a familiar. The choice of animal is up to you (natural or supernatural), but it should represent them in some way. The animal is restricted in size to that of a large dog and is incorporeal, though it can interact with other spirit animals. As the animal is a representation of their heart and inner self, it might be better at expressing itself than it's owner.

Yes, this is basically daemons. This palace clearly needs more animals for emotional support!

(OOC: Murder proposals and counter proposals are open! )

MONDAY • TUESDAY • WEDNESDAY • THURSDAY

Locations Proposals PCS Curfew Witch Contact Main Nav

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

[ looks at event...he continues to suffer. ]

I'm not the kind who will laugh at such things. [ Does he even laugh? ] You needn't worry about any offence of my part. I would understand if you had hesitation upon seeing it even without the fear of snakes.

[ Since he does have history with the other dragon here...

Dan Heng will come closer and kneel for the dog. It isn't like he can actually touch the critter, but he will still hold his hand out. Don't trip on him Cain. ]

Are you connected to dogs or are they common where you're from?

[hamel appears nonetheless, jellyfish in tow]

Do you... want to take a picture with them?

[the clowns, she means.]

[ A drop of red hits the floor.

The surroundings are dark, rife with spider lilies that rise from the darkness. The pictures show Blade with a red sword.

Once drawn inside, Blade cuts mercilessly through a various people - some unaware, some aware, but unable to do anything. It doesn't matter the age. He keeps on slicing through anyone who appears. Maybe quite a number of those faces look familiar to anyone here. But, one of them is definitely Dan Heng.

This Blade turns towards the real Blade, covered in blood. ]

Death suits us both as an end. Nothing will change that.

[ It's a reminder. He's on a time limit.

That Blade is a weapon. A broken one without much discernment in where he might swing next.

He just didn't realize he cared...but, it doesn't matter anymore. He doesn't even want to struggle - it's hard enough justifying living. When he feels he doesn't deserve it. Even if he's been trying to, maybe, do something about it.

Yet, seeing this scene, he is certain of only one thing:

It's fine if he died right here, right now. So, he doesn't fight it. He will even slide down to the floor. ]

...I haven't forgotten...what end I desire.

[ WELCOME, COME IN absolutely doesn't spell a trap, right? The last time something happened, it was just the races. While he is on guard, he doesn't expect to be trapped within the confines of the dark room.

The pictures hanging on the wall depict an older looking Dan Heng with long pointy ears and horns upon his head. There are chains shackled to his wrists and ankles and large nails embedded into his hands. While his lips do not move, there's a cold voice that can be heard.

Someday, they will no longer be able to carry your burden.

The floor turns into a mirror-like surface. There's another Dan Heng that resembles the one everyone knows, but with the horns and ears as the other.

You are my reincarnation. A mirror image.

The reflection shifts and changes to a mirror-like tunnel reflecting several Dan Hengs.

Dan Heng himself, still standing in the room just crosses his arm as he glares at the images. His dragon beside him looks like it's ready to attack the images being displayed. ]

Well this isn't ominous at all.

[He steps into one of the rooms and the door locks behind him.

While many of the polaroids are playing out unfortunate moments in Brad's life- most of which will be familiar to Cain, if he so chooses to peek in- one of them is something that even Cain hasn't seen. And it's the one that Brad is staring at.

On a snowy path, Brad is pinned down with magic from a rather unassuming-looking man while a pair of twins are laughing and flinging spells at a group of retreating men and women. The man pinning Brad down with magic is also sending spells that way, but less frequently, as his primary focus is Brad. Every so often, one of the retreating people gets hit by a spell and crumbles away into pieces of stone.

Brad looks desperate and is trying to get free from the spell, but no matter how hard he tries he is still stuck.]

"Let 'em go! You're after me, right? So just let 'em go! They ain't hurtin' nobody, this was all my plan! You don't gotta do this!"

[ The twins continue their attack, practically hunting the dwindling remains of Brad's men, as they giggle and respond to Brad in a singsong voice:]

"No way! You tried to steal from the king, so broke the rules~"

"You crossed the line this time~"

"Thankfully our little informant helped us out, and now you won't be a problem anymore~"

[Brad's screaming falls on deaf ears as every one of his treasured friends died and turned to stone. And as he was dragged back to Central's prison, he could only think of one thing: who sold them out? Who betrayed his bandits?

Who did he have to kill to make this right?]

...Will you let those images distract you?

[ It's filled with them, isn't it?

Playing tricks on the mind is exactly what this place is all about thanks to Ish, unfortunately.

They should have all known it was a trap. ]

[ Well, this is apparently happening. And maybe at some point, he will step in. ]

...It's not him.

[ Not that saying so is going to make the images immediately go away, huh? ]

CONTENT WARNING: this prompt will inevitably feature discussion and depiction of war crimes, suicide, rape (CSA and otherwise), underage prostitution, and drug use. All of it will be hidden under dropdown menus and tagged appropriately.

[ Angelo should never have come here. Jumping when Ish gives the word is repulsive in itself, and that disgust alone should have been enough to make him stay as far away as possible. He could have remained at the villa and that would have been the end of this.

Instead, Angelo enters the dark room and feels every cell in his body turn to ice.

The polaroids would be repulsive to anybody, even if they were unfamiliar with the people depicted. The walls are lined with images of depravity. Soldiers forcing themselves on a woman. A man forcing himself on a boy. The same boy, older, with another man. And another. The same boy in a back alley, choking on pills. Another man. Repulsive dirty rooms, repulsive dirty bodies, repulsive stained sheets.

Devoured, chewed up, consumed, torn apart, defiled, defiled, defiled, defiled--

Angelo tastes bile in the back of his throat. Until he entered this room, he'd been a person. Broken and weak, but a person. Now he's nothing but a bloody stain, now he's meat, meat falling victim to meat, disgusting, disgusting, disgusting, disgusting---

Angelo needs to run. He needs to run, he needs to get out of here, he needs to burn it down, he needs to--- But the exit won't budge. Though there is nothing but air in front of him, Angelo cannot leave. He can only desperately attempt to fight his way out, and yet get nowhere. ]

N-no-- Captain! CAPTAIN!!

[ If his desperate screech for help attracted your attention, you'll find yourself face to face with the shaking muzzle of a pistol. Angelo's eyes are wild. ]

Don't look-- Don't-- Stay away!!

[ Alternatively you can approach Angelo's dark room later - how long has he been here? It must have been a few hours now. All the polaroids have been taken off the walls, and Angelo is clutching them to his chest as he sits in fetal position in a corner of the room, shaking like a leaf. ]

Filthy... filthy... filthy... Mama...

Edited 2025-03-26 19:21 (UTC)

[ Hickey enters the room, confident that he can handle whatever's waiting for him in the darkness. And as he comes to realize, he already has. Some of the polaroids contain images of a vast, desolate landscape. White sky and white rocks as far as the eye can see, lifeless. An empty howl of wind rushes over them.

But a few polaroids near the center of the wall display a different image. A scene plays out: Hickey, clad only in a thin pair of sailor's pants, is led through the lamplit fo'c'sle. A heavy drum beats slowly over the sound of the wind. His crewmates are packed solemnly around the edges of the deck, making space in the center for the punishment that's about to take place. A table is brought out, and Hickey is walked over to it, his hands tied down at the corners so that he's bent over its edge. Once he's secured, a lieutenant yanks down his trousers, exposing him to the crew. Behind him, the boatswain's mate combs blood out of the cat o' nines in his hand.

Captain Crozier announces to the crew: "For the crimes of insubordination, neglect of duty, disrespect, brutality, kidnapping, and dirtiness, Petty Officer Cornelius Hickey will be flogged thirty lashes—as a boy."

The first lash hits before Hickey is ready. He gasps, a glimmer of fear setting in as he realizes he's got twenty-nine more blows to endure. Another lash, and he forces himself to take slow, even breaths, doing what he can to work through the pain—

—and then it's Crozier's voice again, though from an earlier memory, his tone firm and exasperated as the whipping carries on: "You have therefore committed several acts against the articles: desertion, dereliction of duty, insubordination, brutality, disrespect... I really have my pick here, don't I?"

And Hickey's own voice, rising in challenge—"Disrespect to who, sir?"—as he's interrupted by another office: "Be silent, Mr. Hickey."

Crozier continues: "Twelve lashes for each of you, to be delivered before the ship's company by Mr. Johnson as soon as he's finished tying a new cat."

On the polaroid, Hickey groans, his muscles tensing, sweat beading on his forehead—

—he demands again: "Disrespect to who, sir?"

"To the girl!" Crozier barks. "And now to me."

"She directs it. You should be prosecuting her, not us who brought—"

"Twenty for him!"—

—the flogging continues, and Crozier looks on with malice as each strike hits its mark. Hickey whimpers through gritted teeth. Tears well, his breathing comes more quickly despite his efforts to control himself—

Hickey's voice raises defiantly, anger instead of pain overriding his control in the unseen conversation. "I mean I might've just ended this thing, sir! She's had it killed one lieutenant—"

"Thirty, then!"

"—a marine! Sir John! Whose name do you think was on that witch's tongue next—"

—The cat o' nines cracks. Hickey rests his cheek against the table, looking up at his captain with a pained smile. Crozier meets his eye without mercy. This will continue until he allows it to stop—

—Hickey's voice rings out in fury: "I just saved your life!"

There's a loud thud, a fist slamming onto a desk. The silence that follows is punctuated by the last of the lashes. Hickey's rear is a mess of bloody welts and slices, but finally, he's untied and hoisted to his feet.

Hickey stands, drenched in sweat, panting, eyes wet and face blank—

—and Crozier's voice echoes once more, a quiet rage heard clearly as the drum and the cat and the wind die out: "Lt. Little, tell Mr. Johnson that Mr. Hickey will be punished as a boy."

And then, it's only silence in the room. Hickey stands at attention with his arms folded behind his back, silent. The photographs of the white landscape loom, perhaps unimpressive to all but Hickey, though he remembers that wretched place so clearly. The cold seeps through him. ]

(( for the curious who don't mind spoilers, here's the NSFW and pretty brutal flogging scene, as well as the dialogue characters will hear over it. ))

[ After a moment, he inhales. His grin returns, though it's tighter than usual, and he spins on his heel to bang his fist on the door. ]

Enough of that, then. Let me out.

[ Composure, composure. Fear is a choice. But anyone close to him might notice that his hands are trembling. ]

But it sounds like him.

[It looks like him. Speaks like him. It has to be him.]

I was looking for the rainbow to find him. But I don't...I don't...t-this shouldn't be happening...

[Like many of the others here, Junior doesn't expect much from the photo studio. Ish had promised there would be no capybaras, but surely nothing particularly nefarious would be awaiting them, after last week's surprise. Perhaps the mood that the Witch of Ruin appeared to be in should have been an indicator that this wouldn't be a simple exercise in friendly photography.

At first, he's too confused by what he's seeing to feel negatively. It's not a fear he's been able to visualize for himself--truthfully, it wasn't one he'd had all that long to process, before arriving in this game of death. In many ways, he had been glad to push it as far from his mind as he could, focusing instead on his current circumstances.

Seeing himself, strapped down to a strange device like he's some kind of science experiment--some kind of horrible, cult-like operation. He starts to scream as the procedure begins. Something incomprehensible and unknown blasted into his brain. Even though it's just an image, Junior is sure he can feel that pain in real time.

Let me go! Make it stop! The men and women in suits just watch him passively, monitoring screens and murmuring updates to one another. They seem positive. All is going well. I don't want this--I can't take it!

In the studio, Junior shudders, hugging himself as he slides down to his knees. He breathes hard, as if he'd been screaming in real time and not just in a slideshow.]

Is this really all I'm meant for?

[ ayaka knows that she shouldn’t have stepped in. from the moment that welcome sign, she knew she should have walked the other direction.

but when the door closes behind her, the red light alone is enough to sink her heart into the pit of her stomach. the polaroids, then, are what make her completely freeze.

in multiple polaroids, there’s a small, unmoving figure in a red hood inside an elevator, her face shrouded by a red hood. despite the medium, the voice that comes from it is raspy and tired, but very obviously from a young girl.

"Can you…push the button?"

there’s a polaroid with an emaciated college aged woman, a smile full of pure love and pure madness on her face, placing a pair of glasses on the face of an even worse off young girl, the hood no longer covering her shoulders and revealing light blonde hair, and pointed ears.

"I'll give all of me to you. My knowledge, my past, my body, my life, and my future."

multiple polaroids that look not like actual pictures, but sketches, of the same girl. ]

Aaah…

[ she saw a polaroid with the remains of a certain couple that tore each other apart in their greed, another showing the headless remains of a young man who only wanted to comfort her, and another of what seemed to be thousands of bodies dressed in white, thrown haphazardly on the ground, with their heads separated away from their body.

there’s one thing in common with all of these— was the coppery scent of blood and the red, red, red that accompanies it. strong enough to overwhelm the senses, to make someone believe that they are surrounded by the dead, drowning in their blood.

and ayaka, paralyzed by fear, can only fall to her knees, her hands covering her eyes. she can’t move. she can’t speak. she can’t breathe. overwhelmed by everything, she can’t even gather the energy to scream as she curls up on the floor, her back against the wall as she sobs to herself. ]

Edited 2025-03-26 21:29 (UTC)

cut for length (mainly) and vague spoilers!

[ sabo is far from eager to step into a dark room under the direction of ish but he does it anyway. the items—their rewards for entertaining ish’s requests are of interest to him. oh, if sabo wasn’t so driven to have those items for no specific reason (honest). so, here is sabo in the darkroom and quickly finding out that he was right to drag his feet about the whole ordeal. will his reward be worth what he’s about to endure?

…probably not.

after the door slams shut behind him, and as the red-light sways back and forth, sabo’s other senses are filled with the screams for help. screams of anger. cries of desperation. some of the voices are known to him—voices that he has known intimately and knows who they belong to without much thought. as the red-light continues to sway back and forth, and the photos—he realizes—around him seem to blur and work together, sabo is brought to a place that he only knows from photos (ironically) and accounts from others.

he finds himself lost within the seen of a great battlefield where there are countless of people dying around him. then, again, he hears the voice of his brothers cry for help—help from him—before they are struck down then sabo has firmly decided that there won’t be a reward that’ll make everything that he’s experiencing worth it.

the battle of ■■■■■■■■. a great war that became a turning point in time—so many things changed after it. and despite of that, it was not a concern of his. the army had been poised to act but did not want to get themselves involved; they weren’t ready for involvement to that scale. there were “better” things that he was supposed to be doing… other people who he had deemed more important to help at that time. however, as the screams begin again, sabo immediately reaches out into the scene his expression dark. ]

You don’t think I’ve already dreamed of this countless of times? That I didn't torture myself for years?

[ there’s a fierceness and burning—seething—anger that laces his voice as he rips one of the photos off from the wall, breaking tearing a hole into the scene that plays out in front of him. the scene of a young man chained to the top of a tower with two large blades positioned over him (an execution) crushed in his hand. from the photo comes a sorrowful cry and the name of one of his brothers said in broken sobs.

where had he been? what had been so much more important than family?

… …

…

…wait.

… …what…?

…who had—? ]

I’m done questioning myself. [ blindly and filled with rage, sabo drops the previous scene that he had been holding in his hand and reaches through the darkness to grab something—another photo—from the darkness and wastes no time crushing it in his hand. the scene of the battlefield cracking from where he reached into the darkness and continues to deeply fracture and crumble as sabo crushes the photo in his fist. ] Even if I don't remember.

Even if I forget everything again—it won’t change anything.

[ the scene completely fractures around him and shatters into pieces and sabo is back, alone in the dark with the red-light swaying above him. his anger hasn't left him; his fists are clenched so tight that it looks like his leather gloves are threatening to rip. most of all, the expression he on his face is just short of being nothing but murderous. ]

The only thing that I can do is move forward as to prevent feeling like this ever again.

Edited 2025-03-26 20:36 (UTC)

[ The little while dog gives Chara and the goat a very dubious look, but refrains from growling. His body language is still anything but friendly, but at least the vibe check was passed. ]

They're the ones who set up the systems we're still suffering under hundreds of years later, so I'm not surprised.

You know a lot about history?

((references to child abuse, dismemberment, enslavement, torture, murder, discrimination, assault, starvation, dehydration.))

[Very nearly every picture here is a photograph of someone else: A blonde girl at various ages. Her eyes are sometimes blue, sometimes brown. She is always dying or in pain.

Whipped bloody by a severe older woman until her legs are striped with welts, while a coward sits outside the door unable to intervene and protect her. Cut to pieces by that same woman, a cruel smile on her face as she crows about putting such a filthy thing in its place.

Strangled by the cruel hands of a black-haired, green-eyed man whose appearance is unmistakably familiar, one in a thousand. Tortured in front of an audience. Drowned. Punished for someone else's mistakes.

Pulled with her family from a carriage at the border on the cusp of safety, shot like dogs on a dirt road.

The closeup of a letter: "Research progress is unsatisfactory, so I must put pressure on Doctor Richter. For now, cut off one of Herta's fingers and send it to the doctor. Further, after the Feast Day is over, I think it would be in our best interest to kill Mrs. Richter."

Perhaps it would be bearable if each photograph didn't come with its own realistic scream. "Miss!" howls each and every one. "Miss, please! Mistress Grace! Andrew!" It's the realistic noise that makes the despair and horror impossible to fight.

For each she tries to dispel, there are more. Things that have happened. Things that could. Every time she was too cowardly or weak to do anything. Every time she tried and failed. (Is it any wonder, then, that hidden beneath the sheets and sheets and sheets and sheets and sheets of photographs of the blonde girl is a snapshot of last Saturday?)

There is only one photograph that visibly features Andrew herself as the main subject at all. A very young girl with dark hair and emerald eyes sits on the floor of a cold stone cell. There's a stool flanking a bare cot that may have clean sheets, but the palette beneath is stained with years-old blood. It is dark and unlit. There is no food or water in the cell, nor will there be. There's nothing else. Echoing some distance away, the unfeeling voice of a violent man and the cries of his terrified daughter: "Laxatives. That is abominable. How dare she use my name to cause trouble for the Count's family. Lock her in the Room of Atonement."

"F-father! F-father, I was wrong! Please forgive me!"

The other frames are all empty. They are black, vacant squares. Nothingness. Lonely.

In the room in the palace, Andrew sinks to her knees, image upon image spread out around her like snowfall.] Herta... I don't know if I can make it through this without you...

[She blinks at Caroline, looking genuinely confused.]

Bond with what?

His rejection of the monster he created ended up extending further into a twisted progression of events.

Another look into that mindset, but not surprising given the summary. There was never any hope for change. Many like that are the same.

[ Blade sees that well enough; the changing of mind is merely a reflection of inevitability. ]

After Siffrin 'killed' him?

...He didn't seem all that different from the usual, other than the splash of momentary gold. Remember that too?

[ Blade looks towards the creatures as they're wrestling. ]

I'm not surprised.

[ ...he's going to see if Dan Heng is paying attention and reach out to try to poke him at his right side. ]

You won't find him here.

[ Blade says, without an ounce of uncertainty. ]

...This is reflection. An illusion.

If you want to find him, you will need to look past it. Move beyond.

Lili!

[ ayaka bursts into the room as she hears lili scream. the sight of the dagger being swung so violently makes her freeze, but she forces herself to push through. ]

Lili, stop!

Correct! There's no happy ending for either the monster or his creator in the end. Miss Shelley knew people so well already even when she just eighteen years old.

How long will you keep staring?

[ A pertinent question for sure.

It seems like he's going to start off well, here. But first is to grab his attention, so... ]

(references & allusions to hallucinations, child abuse, body horror, death, general fuckery)

[Once again, it’s curiosity that has Hamel going to check out whatever task Ish has set out for them. There’s no hints (besides a lack of capybara), so she’s not quite sure what to expect in the studio.

She’s not sure that hints would have prepared her for what she sees, anyways.

Hamel stands on stage, younger than she is now, staring out into the crowd. The girl trembles like a leaf and jellyfish float from the audience towards her, taunting her for being frozen in place and circling her. Her eyes dart between them and she covers her ears but she can’t block out the noise. She collapses onto her knees, screaming, and the next day it’s all over the news, gossip springing up overnight about the downfall of DisCity’s star dancer but Norman is grabbing her shoulders and telling her they can leave, they have the money, but their mother will—

Hamel dances in the middle of a lake while a wide array of puppets watch her, black ooze dripping from their joints and mouths. It writhes and moves on its own, crossing the water until it can climb onto Hamel, sinking into her flesh. Her expression looks pained but she doesn’t stop her dance—it’s a dance that can never stop, that’s been going for decades, an endless cycle of easing the pain of the puppets and taking the burden on herself, but the audience loves her, they adore her, they let her dance the way she does and understand her, even if it means that she will eventually become—

H̷̟̹̮̋̎̍a̸̧̹̙̎m̴̧̡̥̻̒̀͠ē̵̝̽̓͝l̴͊̕ stands on a stage once again, the lake no longer enough for her performance. Black mist leaves her mouth and she’s dripping with black ink, some forming tendrils that move about her body independently. Her limbs don't look natural anymore, body twisted and broken to become something more, yet her expression is serene. Cold, even. Her audience is entirely still, though lifeless might be a better word as their deaths fuel her dance, her movements frenzied and inelegant. All Sinners will eventually fall to the Mania that corrupts them, and one as dangerous as H̸͈̟̱͋̆͑̑a̵͉̗̗̿̅m̸̙̼̅̆͊̄ḙ̵̅̃̎l̸͉͓͂̋̎̕, one as powerful as H̴̱͓͈̫̎́͂͗͠a̷͓̜̞͈͉̝̬̿̚m̵̧̧̜͈̞̱͂̾̃̎̉̕͝͠e̷͍͕̬͙̎l̶̛͙͓̳̗͖͙̰͓̈̌͑̾̕ has less ti—]

Ah.

[The real Hamel watches these scenes unfold, expression soft and filled with pity for the fears on display for her. Seems she won’t be stuck here, at least.]

I wonder why show something like this, now…?

[she is… pretty unbothered…]

[Blade's confidence seems to move him, but still, when you hear the voice of someone you...]

[...]

[He fixes him with a serious gaze.]

How can you be so sure?

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 14 of 37

WEEK THREE

no subject

photography studio

cw: suicidal ideation

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

1/2; cw: flogging, corporal punishment, liberal abuse of the em dash

2/2

no subject

cw: child experimentation

cw for implied suicide, implied self-harm, implied child abuse, gore

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject