Xanadu Weyr - Deep Forest
The wooded areas closer to Xanadu Weyr represent a compromise between man and mother nature, but to the north and west, no such arrangements have been made. The deep woods between the Weyr and the mountains are less traveled, the wider paths fit for man and beast less present. The noises of mankind are barely audible here, brief ghosts on the wind, and the quiet thrum of forest life presses in on all sides. The snapping of a twig, a bird's cry, the low cadence of insects; all of these things seem louder. Closer. The deeper one moves into the trees, the more it becomes obvious that one passes through nature only at her allowance.
The cover of trees is more severe in this area of the wood and only occasional shafts of sunlight lance down through the canopy, the sky visible in brief patches. A rough path has been blazed back towards the Weyr. It does not appear to be a heavily frequented path, but the few who have chosen to pass through this area appear to use it more than other avenues available. Only the very foolish or the very experienced would ever wander far from the path.
DISCLAIMER: 1) The Haunt should definitely be experienced and not just read about! If you have not done it yet, please go and experience it before you read this log. 2) This gets creepy AF y'all.
"I've never seen a haunt before," Avi insists as he tugs on Shiloh's hand while following the directions he had been given. Sure, the forest, alone, can be impossibly creepy, but he's excited and not quite ready to start jumping at shadows. Yes. It is as they come upon the structure that his steps slow, his teeth worrying at his lower lip as he inches a step, or two, closer to Shiloh. It's spooky, already, but in the sort of way that has your pulse racing and your breath quickening. "How bad could it possibly be…" Famous last words? Possibly.
Shiloh isn't entirely for this idea of visiting the haunt. Not out of fear for himself (he's pretty sure he'll be just fine) but perhaps for the artist at his side. Particularly after F'yr's friendly warning about the place and his own candidate class's experience, it probably took some convincing on the part of Avi to get the beastcrafter to agree to this. At least a little convincing. He probably had to say 'please' at least twice. But in the end, here they are, back in the woods and headed for the mysterious haunt, Shiloh wearing a expression that is somewhere between skeptical and suspicious. "I don't know," he admits. "F'yr said someone in his class fainted." Is that what he said? Maybe. Either way, they're soon upon the fabled haunted house and Shiloh is motioning toward the door. "After you." Mwahahaha?
Averil slants a glance at Shiloh at the suggestion that someone fainted, his lips pursing in a clear expression of disbelief. "Why? I mean, it's an entertainment…" Isn't it? He's pretty sure that it is. Still, there is that little lingering doubt that tickles at the back of his mind. Tickling enough that when Shiloh gestures to the door, inviting Avi to go in first, he hesitates just long enough to grab Shiloh's hand before pushing the door open. Stepping inside? That takes a few moments before he's squaring his shoulders and tilting his chin up before stepping across the threshold. Once inside, though, he comes to an immediate halt, his lips parting in an expression of wonder as he tries to take in everything at once. It's /just/ the first room and already his mind is racing. "How.. how long do you think this has been out here?"
Xanadu Weyr - The Haunt
This room was probably beautiful - once. Now it's a dilapidated skeleton of its former glory, the bones of something once-magnificent left to rot, where Lord and Lady Holders alike must have spent their time fussing among high society. Now the painstakingly mastercrafted marble floors are cracking beneath the stress of time, one small portion ripped away, as if somebody came back to dig up a long-buried secret. Trees rip through the ruin, stretch elongated branches towards boarded spans of wall where once, perhaps, there must have been windows. A candelabra hangs from the main source of light in this wasting decorum: a circular skylight, a spirograph etched in colorful glass that's caved and left a huge chunk of its repetitive, spiderweb pattern unfinished. Vines creep in to hang from the ceiling, permeating this gloom-dark tenement with the illusion of something not quite right, like an overgrown mausoleum, a memento mori of a time long-past. Faded paintings hang along the walls, the audacity of their once-important someones a mere highlight to derelict furnishings in the throes of decay. One such painting hangs above a nondescript fireplace, the frame gilded in gold and holding the likeness of a dragonrider, heroics caught in one singular pose, bravery immortalized and destined to be forgotten amid such corrosion. Upon the mantle sits an amalgamation of abandoned things: two candle holders, a tarnished, indecipherable trophy, and a piece of fine china, chipped but upright on a minute triangular stand. A heavy table sits to the right, the surface lacking vibrancy and luster, barren except for one +note and a single black paperweight holding it in place. An elaborate but no-less warped mirror sits opposite, the backdrop for a claw-footed stand that harbors three boxes - two locked, one lying half-opened - and one picture frame upon it.
Threading his fingers with Averil's, Shiloh doesn't hesitate to follow him into the house. The door closing behind might be ominous, but much like the artist, Shiloh is soon enough distracted with the room itself. "Not sure," he admits. He couldn't begin to guess, and he won't try. With Avi's hand in his, he wanders the space, checking out the little details and forgotten knickknacks, looking close but exceedingly careful not to touch. It's kinda dirty (not that dirt has ever dissuaded him before) and altogether creepy.
Averil exhales a shallow breath, more curious then scared at this point. Wandering the room, with his hand tightly held in Shiloh's, he misses the note entirely, his attention taken by leaning in to study the painting more closely. It is only after a moment that he blinks and tugs Shiloh's hand. "Look… there's a key."
Averil takes a small golden key from the painting's frame. It is surprisingly heavy. As though guided by a strange force, your gaze is inexorably drawn towards the knob of a door you didn't notice before. Has it always been there? It doesn't matter. It matches the key. Surely someone will use it to open the door and step inside.
The note would have probably been read if Shiloh had seen it. But before they can circle to the table, Averil is collecting the key. "I don't think…" But whatever he was going to say just kind of fades as they glance toward the door. A frown and he eyes the artist beside him before tipping his head toward the door. "Your choice." IS THIS THE POINT OF NO RETURN?? (Probably.)
Averil exhales a breath, his fingers tightening on Shiloh's hand as he glances from the beastcrafter to the key and finally to the door. Still, it takes him a few moments to decide, his teeth worrying at his lower lip before he lightly clears his throat and nods firmly. "I want to see it." He does. He's just not sure he's going to want to see it after he's already seen it. Still, he's stepping toward the door, carefully unlocking it before looking back at Shiloh. "You're going to stay right next to me the whole time?" It's not really a question since he has no intention of letting go Shiloh's hand. And, while it is most likely the point of no return, he pushing the door open all the same. "Together," he breaths. And yes, he's making that easier by squirming in under Shiloh's arm.
Xanadu Weyr - The Bedroom
Sorrow is a living, breathing entity in this room, a corporeal eldritch permeating the decay of long-abandoned furniture and the unsettling presence of nail-marks embedded deep in long, evocative drags against mauve walls. What little light filters in from boarded windows highlights the unsettling familiarity of mundane decor, sets the stage for motes of dust that coalesce in disjunct rays of patchy sunlight, deepens macabre shadows made all the more sinister for their caricature of broken normalcy. Moth-eaten curtains drape from on high; a bed sits concave in one corner, mattress and pillows tucked away in ruin beneath the ravages of a once-beautiful duvet. A grand mirror bridges the gap between two closed-off windows, wrought in heavy wood and carved by a mastercrafter with intricate, inlaid designs. Two dressers stretch from its massive expanse, the drawers rotted and hanging from their hinges. A chair sits with its back to the mirror, facing an antiquated baby carriage and the ominous wreckage of an abandoned trunk, left open to reveal the spoils of fraying clothing inside. Dark lettering lines the far wall of the room, an ominous epitaph written in flaking smears of too-dark pigment: Don't turn on the +light.
"Always," promises Shiloh. He hooks his arm around Avi's shoulders before pushing the door open and stepping into… "A bedroom?" It is probably the creepiest bedroom Shiloh has ever seen, but not really what he was expecting. Careful navigation of the space has him skirting the majority of the dilapidated furniture, though he pauses to consider the baby carriage for a moment or two. "Hm," is all he says on it, which really isn't saying anything. The mirror definitely gets a look; a bit of a squint as he leans in as though that might make it cleaner. It doesn't. But the epitaph on the wall has him arching an eyebrow and slanting a look at Averil. Don't turn on the light? Well, now he basically has to do it.
Immediately upon stepping into the room, Avi is pressing up more tightly against Shiloh's side, his breath escaping in a rush of air that is coupled with him curling his fingers around the beastcrafter's belt. It's better this way. This way, there is no chance of them getting seperated. For a few long moments he is just staring at the scratches on the walls, his eyes wide and his nostrils flairing as he slants a glance up to Shiloh's face. "I can barely see anything and it's creepy already." Course, that's about the time that he spots the light. "Light is always better, right?" Right? /RIGHT/?
Shiloh slants a look at Averil for that. "Okay…" I mean. The wall says not to do it but Avi said he wanted light so… RIP the candidates.
It warned you. IT. WARNED. YOU. A heavy snarl gutters to life just behind the lightswitch wall, the unholy howl of some beast woken from its slumber. Pounding starts, hard and thumping, the repeated SLAM-SLAM-SLAM of some massive creature throwing itself repeatedly against the wall. It would all be very terrifying except the pitching growl never quite ceases. Thunderous booms achieve a heavy rhythm. Perhaps the warning upon the wall was innocuous, a caution against firing an ancient generator to life. One can always turn it off, but there's no escaping the cursed knowledge it imparts: that there's a narrow hallway lurking behind the shadows, with crooked doorways going right and left off its short length.
Averil yelps the moment that snarl and boom fills the air. And, for a moment, just a moment, he is plastered entirely against Shiloh, twisting in an attempt to get behind him while tightening his hold on the beastcrafter's belt. Fortunately, the steadiness of the sound has him breathing, again, although it does nothing to stop the whites of his eyes from showing or the flair of his nostrils. "I'm okay!" It's a little /too/ shrill, but he's straightening all the same. He's good. He's /good/. "…Doors," is murmured in breathy tones.
Even Shiloh jumps a bit at the noise, though he's quick to settle. The clinging of Averil has him tensing just a bit, but eventually he comes to the conclusion that nothing is about to actually attack them. There's a pat-pat for the artist's shoulder, and a glance that almost but not quite says 'I told you so' before he's eyeing their options. "Right or left?" is wondered of the artist. He's the one that wanted to come here, so he gets to make the choices!
Averil brushes his tongue over his lips, his gaze flicking to the left and then the right. Oh, he sees that 'I told you so' look, but he can do this! "Left," he decides as he straightens his shoulders and eases out from behind Shiloh.
Xanadu Weyr - The Nursery
Do you feel it? Well before you step into this room where the floors exacerbate minacious wrongness with fire-scorched black, where barren stone yields no warmth to curb portentous malignance… do you feel it? It's that nauseating chill that runs the length of your spine, whispers of intuition telling you to runrunrun, fear that grips your lungs, seizes your ability to think. Do you feel it? Do you feel like you are being watched? How is every dark corner, every reaching shadow, every blank canvas so suspect in a room as barren as this, where no singular space might offer a place to hide? Rows of beds rot in rust and ruin, derelict and empty, void of every vestige that might allude to human habitation. It's missing even the paint that must have once coated stone walls, every mattress that must have housed tiny bodies, dilapidated remains of decaying framework left bare and vacuous. It's not right. None if it is right, and that wrongness finds relevance in what does remain: pillows… and +dolls, limbs ripped from sockets that bleed stuffing, blinking eyes gone lame amid a scattering of childhood joy left abandoned to a silent tomb.
Left it is. Right into… a nursery. Shiloh pauses on the threshold, a glance spared to Averil to see if he actually wants to continue on with this creepy af house tour. Assuming the answer is 'yes' (or, rather, assuming Averil isn't trying to haul them both back the way they came) Shiloh steps tentatively into the room, eyeing the floor with considerable suspicion. There's an eyeing of the beds, the pillows, the dolls, and then those dark corners that seem to peer out at him despite (probably) holding nothing. "Lovely." IS IT THO???
/Runrunrun!/ The urge to do so is strong in the artist as they step into The Nursery, a fact made clear by the whiteness of his eyes and the twitch of nostrils as he sucks in sharp, quick breaths. He's not running, though, he's determined to see this. WHY AVI, /WHY/? He has no idea why, really. Only that this is supposed to be fun. But really, though, Shiloh is right there and he knows he's safe. "This isn't so bad.. I mean, sad.. and kind of heartbreaking, but.." His words, though trail off as his gaze sweeps over the room and he edges closer to Shiloh.
"It's creepy," declares Shiloh, who might be a little bit… annoyed about it. Because it doesn't make sense and he likes things that have reason for being. This has no rhyme or reason. It's just weird. He also is not a big fan of that sensation of being watched, but he'll roll his shoulders and crack his neck and march on into the room with Avi clutching his side. Because Avi wants to be here. (Why Avi? Why??). And really, if he has to be here, he might as well play along. So he'll go ahead and check out the dolls because why not?
You barely lay a finger on the forbidden object when suddenly there is a vicious rumble. The floor beneath your feet splinters, cracks and gives out, dumping you into a long, slick, metallic chute. Gravity has you in its hold. There's only one way to go: down. And so you do…
…
…
…
…
Xanadu Weyr - The Basement
Thirty seconds. Thirty seconds of weightlessness, thirty seconds of a sensory deprivation so absolute that it can only be disorienting lands you here, where the very air in this room inspires rib-clawing claustrophobia. Wrongwrongwrong. Everything about this room is wrong, from the trio of rusted chandeliers that hang overhead, melted candle-stubs dripping wax onto the room below, to the table in the center that they frame. It's hard to tell if the grotesque caricature of a cadaver upon a slab wrought with once-beautiful filigree (whose modesty is preserved only by virtue of a dirtied, once-white cloth spanning its hips) is made more or less real by the flicker of low candlelight. There are no windows, no space that grants an illusion of escape, no singular cut of crumbling wall that alludes to hidden passages. One wall is dominated by the crawling spanse of a massive bookcase, ancient apothic bottles of all shapes, size, and color weighing down aging shelves, repetition broken only in the placement of random knick-knacks: a cracked bowl harboring the remnants of dirtied bandages, a +vase whose black is so absolute, staring at it makes you feel as if it might swallow you whole. Beside it sits an antediluvian hutch, whose cabinet doors house warped glass and too thick a layer of dust. Tucked further back on top of this is a picture frame — though the contents inside are impossible to see through an amalgamation of filth. On another wall sits a built-in cupboard the height of crumbling facade, whose protective glass on lattice doors has long since fallen from its framework. The shelves behind it sit empty, and both doors are locked. Perhaps more unsettling than the tables littered with bottles and old, rusted medical equipment is the single chair sitting in the room, too new to belong within eroding surroundings — and the metal stand opposite it, supporting a large container reminiscent of a lantern, whose grim purpose appears to be a glass container one might liken to an IV drip, if only a swath of browned, dry blood were not the backdrop to a dark, concealed shape within. A massive +tapestry, faded and moth-eaten, does little to alleviate the chill, frigid stillness of the room.
It should be noted, at this point, that they can likely hear Averil's SHRIEK all the way in Fort. It is loud, that sound, and all the more terrifying because he loses his hold on Shiloh's belt and is immediately screams LOUDER! Sure, they are sliding, not falling, but the animal brain is not yet registering that fact. And when they land? When they land, Avi is twisting to his knees, panic ridden in every inch of his body as he scrambles to his feet and all but hurls himself at Shiloh, doing everything he can to get as close as possible as quickly as possible and as thoroughly as possible. "This was a /bad/ idea," he gasps in breathy tones. "I take it back!" To late, kitten, way, way to late.
Having the floor give way beneath him is definitely not what Shiloh is expecting. A quick suck of breath is the only sound he makes (or the only sound he will *admit* to making! Averil's shriek definitely does a great job of covering any that Shiloh might have made) but soon enough they're sliding through the dark and landing… in more darkness. Coughing and trying to catch his breath is made far more difficult when Shiloh finds himself with a full-on panicked Averil pouncing into his arms, but he's quick to catch him up in a tight embrace. He hasn't even seen the room yet, his hands going for the artist's face to try and push hair away so he can meet his eyes. "We're fine. It's fine." IT'S PROBABLY NOT FINE. "We can leave." Just as soon as he figures out where the door is…
And that is when Shiloh decides to look around. He goes stiff at the sight of the probably not really dead body; the chair; the empty shelves; the rack; the instruments. The everything. Another sharp little breath and his expression tightens. "Hold on," he declares, tucking Averil's hand back into his belt before he starts slowly walking around the room. "Don't look if you don't want to." But Shiloh's going to be poking around to see if he can find a way out, and his first option is that tapestry…
'We can leave!' That goes a long way toward settling Averil, his chin dipping in a quick nod of understanding as he does his level best to catch his breath, stay as close as possible and not look at the room! Do NOT LOOK, AVI. It is the desire not to look that has him doing exactly that, a low whimper humming in his throat at the sight(s) that greet his eyes. "Who does things like this," he whispers in horrified tones. Faraneth only knows what he was expecting out of this whole affair. The reality, clearly far, far more then his imaginings. It's Shiloh's stiffening that has his own gaze going to the body, another low whimper sounding in the back of his throat. "It's not real, right?" RIGHT? Course, the moment he has his fingers on Shiloh's belt, he's clinging, scooting in until he's tucked up against the beastcrafter's back and trying not to look. Really, he is trying. Unfortunately, he keeps peeking around Shiloh's shoulder. He cannot not look, he just can't do it.
A chilling juxtaposition to the dark glory of the painting above, this threadbare tapestry is faded, but not so faded that one can't tell it used to be a vivid study of a dragon struck by Thread. Why anyone would wish to bear witness to the mycorrhizoid's leeching burrow into the great bronze's skin, its utter waste of fields and farms beyond, to mark the pained howl of its rider for all of eternity is unclear, but here it is nevertheless. Its corners ruffle gently, unbidden. It's as though, if one were to pull it to one side, one might find a secret passageway to a room beyond.
"No, it's not real." And Shiloh isn't going to even entertain the alternative. He's also doing his damnedest to ignore it and find a solution to this problem (that being escape). The tapestry gets a wince once he sees it for what it is, the grisly affair prompting a shiver and perhaps a flash of gratitude that this particular horror — Thread — is behind them. "Hmm…" comes as he reaches out very gently to touch the tapestry, pausing briefly to eye the floor beneath their feet and the ceiling (that is probably too shadowy to be seen) above their head, before pushing the fabric aside to see what's behind.
Xanadu Weyr - The Meatlocker
It's impossible to tell what color this suffocating space might have been, so drenched is it with flaking shades of bloodred. Massive spatters stain the walls, coat the tile under feet with palpable gore and a visceral knowledge to the utter brutality that preceded it. Racks hang from the ceiling, massive, rusted hooks curved to dangerous points in the gloom of one single light that does nothing to diminish shadows or curb the vibrancy of sanguine evidence. One wall harbors a basin that runs the length of it, interrupted only by a large shelf intended to house butchered meat in the aftermath. Rows are forced into separation by the division of black +tarps, tattered curtains that seem to shift and sway at intervals despite the absence of a breeze.
Not real, not real, NOT REAL. It becomes a silent mantra in Avi's head, each repetition accompanied with a shallow breath that cannot help but hold a whimper. He's trying really hard not to freak out. Really, really hard. Hard enough that he forces himself to look up as Shiloh moves the tapestry, his face immediately paling at the space beyond. "What… what../WHY/?" Why on Pern would anyone put that there? (Probably for the dead bodies, but still!) "Is that.. blood? That's not blood..Is it /blood/?" Okay, that was a little shrill! Fortunately, it's promptly followed with Averil pressing his face into Shiloh's back.
Shiloh is not really a stranger to meatlockers. His family raises herdbeasts. He grew up on a ranch. He went to the beastcraft hall. He probably knows how to carve up a carcass, even if it's been a long time since he's done it. But even Shiloh is looking a little blanched at the sight. But maybe that's because the place is in sore need of a thorough cleaning. A quick glance and he's issuing a curt, "Don't look," to Avi that is just a few seconds too late. Welp. OK then. Now he's gotta make a choice. Back to poking around the creepy room with the (please don't really be) dead body, or move through the no holds barred bloody mess of the meatlocker toward the tarps. Maybe he can be forgiven the few seconds of hesitation before he glances at Avi and states simply, "Don't look," before edging through the space toward the tarps. Whatever's back there can't be worse than this room… right?
Sometimes you do something expecting the very worst… and what you receive is the best. Well. 'Best' might be a matter of opinion, an illusion as much as terror, a hope one clings to in the most desperate of times, and in times like these, nothingness is precisely what one hopes to find. Behind the tarps lies a room little bigger than a closet, once-white walls dingy and darkened by the dark hulk of a smoker-oven in the corner. The gore of the room without makes the quaintness of the chalkboard within garish at best, small, childish stickers bearing cute bovine faces crusted over with age. Someone has written 'GO BACK' in a firm hand, a thin, surprisingly modern lanyard bearing a pair of keys hanging from its frame. Perhaps they will come in handy.
Averil stares up at Shiloh with wide eyes and a horrified expression. Don't look. TO LATE! And when they move? Well, suffice to say that moving cannot be the least bit easy with Avi plastered up against Shiloh's back. He's got a hold on the beastcrafter, though, one hand on his belt, the other firmly curled in the fabric of his shirt as they move past sharp swaying hooks and horrid walls coated in NOT BLOOD. It is the smaller room beyond that has him exhaling a relieved breath. At least until he spots the blackboard and exhales another faint little whimper. "Why.. Why is there a smoker in here," is asked belatedly. That is a BAD question is something that just would never occur to the tiny artist.
"It's a meat room. It's probably where they smoked the meat." A simple answer with some horrifying connotations if one were to assume that the butchering that (allegedly) happened in the previous room was not animal. Shiloh is going to happily believe that this is nothing more than an old cellar room where cute little animals came to die (and not people). IS ONE BETTER THAN THE OTHER?? Probably not. But hey. One horror at a time here. A squint at the wall, a squint at the key, and he hesitates but a moment before snatching it off the wall and doing as instructed. BACK they go! "Hang on," is probably a very silly thing to say when Avi is basically already wrapped around him as thoroughly as one person can be, but he says it regardless before they move again.
Xanadu Weyr - The Basement
The very air in this room inspires rib-clawing claustrophobia. Wrongwrongwrong. Everything about this room is wrong, from the trio of rusted chandeliers that hang overhead, melted candle-stubs dripping wax onto the room below, to the table in the center that they frame. It's hard to tell if the grotesque caricature of a cadaver upon a slab wrought with once-beautiful filigree (whose modesty is preserved only by virtue of a dirtied, once-white cloth spanning its hips) is made more or less real by the flicker of low candlelight. There are no windows, no space that grants an illusion of escape, no singular cut of crumbling wall that alludes to hidden passages. One wall is dominated by the crawling spanse of a massive bookcase, ancient apothic bottles of all shapes, size, and color weighing down aging shelves, repetition broken only in the placement of random knick-knacks: a cracked bowl harboring the remnants of dirtied bandages, a vase whose black is so absolute, staring at it makes you feel as if it might swallow you whole. Beside it sits an antediluvian hutch, whose cabinet doors house warped glass and too thick a layer of dust. Tucked further back on top of this is a picture frame — though the contents inside are impossible to see through an amalgamation of filth. On another wall sits a built-in cupboard the height of crumbling facade, whose protective glass on lattice doors has long since fallen from its framework. The shelves behind it sit empty, and both doors are locked. Perhaps more unsettling than the tables littered with bottles and old, rusted medical equipment is the single chair sitting in the room, too new to belong within eroding surroundings — and the metal stand opposite it, supporting a large container reminiscent of a lantern, whose grim purpose appears to be a glass container one might liken to an IV drip, if only a swath of browned, dry blood were not the backdrop to a dark, concealed shape within. A massive tapestry, faded and moth-eaten, does little to alleviate the chill, frigid stillness of the room.
"What meat?" Which is promptly with a very quiet, utterly horrified, "/Oh/." And then they are moving again, back through the meatlocker and into the basement with the (not) dead body. Fortunately, Avi is clinging for everything he is worth and absolutely keeping his face pressed into Shiloh's back. He's not looking! HE. IS. NOT. LOOKING. Except he does, the moment that they stop moving, he's pushing up on his toes and peeking at the room over Shiloh's shoulder. "I don't think I climb back up the way we fell," he whispers as he does his best not to glance at the body. Cause, really, meat/smoker/blood/human.. No, just no.
"I don't think so either," agrees Shiloh. "But I have this now." The key. He offers it up if Avi cares to look, though he's still urging him to, "look away," from anything in the room. Because really, it's all just kind of horrifying. A squint around the space has him edging around the room again, avoiding the (definitely not a) dead body in his exploration. He gives brief contemplation to the swath of dry-blood backdrop but opts not to touch it. Instead, he heads to the empty cupboard, careful to look before touching. As a precaution, he reaches back to snag Averil, hauling him close against him so that they won't be lose should something truly terrible unexpected happen.
Xanadu Weyr - The Gardens
Air. Fresh air. Night beckons you to a backyard garden no less eerie, no more safe than the domicile that lies in desolate ruin behind you. There is something foreboding about the lugubrious rise of a building so replete with decay, a silent spectator bearing witness to every horror you've only just escaped, beckoning you to come back, come back, come back and never leave. But there are lights here — a hundred glass lanterns filled with tea candles, a hundred reasons to never look back strung from trees that have overgrown the once-lush facade of a perfect garden. They bring a dim-but-brilliant glow to a wide spread of tables, like a thousand points of quiescent starlight, forming a canopy that illustrates infinity. The further away you come from the dilapidated detritus at your back, the easier it is to breathe — to take in more sights, more smells, more of your surroundings. There's a brilliance just beyond the reach of midnight sky, the forest kept at bay by virtue of one low fence that stands at attention in disrepair amid a sea of colors lighting up the trees seen from a distance. It's hard to say how they've done it, but they have, creating a backdrop of purples, and pinks; of teal and green and blue that lights up trunks and branches. Gold and orange and red stretch in a wide breadth on the outskirts, and inside of those walls: a feast. Chairs draped in cloth are tied around the middle with bows made from fabric, sitting the length of every table except for one, where trays weigh down its runner-cloth with an amalgamation of food. Bubblies, meatpies, mashed tubers, every fruit, and cake, and sandwich you can imagine sits nestled between large plates and utensils to one side, cups and giant beverage dispensers (filled with juice and something suspiciously alcoholic) on the other. A massive banner bears a message, strung between two poles overtop the feast: 'WE'RE SORRY.' And there, at the forefront of so many comestibles, a folded note: 'You badasses made it, you survived! That was your trick, now for your treat. Love, R'hyn and Risali.'
The moment that they step outside and into what is literally a wonderland, Averil sucks in a breath and immediately starts to laugh. And while it's a relieved sort of sound, there is a very REAL delight in it as well. "That was /amazing/!" Sure, Avi. It's AMAZING NOW. It was not so amazing a few moments ago. That, however, is forgotten as he grabs Shiloh's hand and all but bounces around to stand at his side. "We should do it again! Go the other way…" Cause that's a /great/ plan. Hey, everything is better when adrenalin is pumping and there are treats arrayed around them.
Finding a hidden door into the garden was… not what Shiloh was expecting. Then again, nothing about this venture was as he expected it to be (except perhaps the clinging of Averil). But while the beastcrafter might breathe a sigh of relief, Avi's exclamation has him shooting the artist a look. "Oh really?" Dry sarcasm at its best, folks. "Well. You're welcome to go on your own. Since it's so awesome." Mwahahaha. Maybe Shiloh's got a (not really) mean streak in there. He lets the artist pull him forward toward the food, but even with that banner proclaiming who is responsible, he hesitates before actually eating any of it. In the end, he opts for something distinctly alcoholic because WHY NOT?
Averil exhales a delighted laugh at Shiloh's response, his smile broad despite the fact that he firmly shakes his head at the thought of going through it alone. "Not a chance." No way. Still, he's reaching for a fairy cake with all the relief that comes from knowing they are NOT going to die today. "This is beautiful," he breaths as he takes a bite of the treat and turns in a circle to look at everything at once. "It's like fairyland." With the tiny cake in one hand, he steps over to wrap his arms around Shiloh, his adoration clear in his face. "Thank you for taking me, that was a lot of fun. Scary, but fun."