WEEK THREE

[lesmodsalouette]

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

Comments

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

[spotsalone]

[ 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. ))

2/2

[spotsalone]

[ 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. ]