Active [On the Border of the See and Widersia, as Far South of Clockhaven as the River Goes] - The Phantasmagoria Opens

[Maxxob]

Decimus Valerius

Spoiler: Minions

Titles: [Human - Mundane], [Native], [Military Cadet E] - Widersia - Color #a13a3a
Language Keys: "..." - Common ; "[...]" - Terran

Mephisto IanThe170 Revi

Decimus gave the bouncer a long, appraising gaze, with an unchanged expression. The pair being accepted so easily, so eagerly into the bowels of sin could have brought up some questions of Beatrice’s true character. And, while the veteran soldier remained cautious as ever, he assumed there were enough eyes in Red Haven to have tracked the earlier trio, now pair, movements and actions.

The military man moved and kept himself rather comfortably in the establishment, the atmosphere of that den of damnation doing little to curb his steely resolve to get to the bottom of it. The familiar smell of tobacco reached his nostrils, making him take long drags of smoke of his own smoking pipe reflexively, the gray smoke leaving the left corner of his lips.

A thought, which he dared not utter, for it spoke of the highest treason, had been brewing into the very back of his mind and his stay in that place matured it more and more. Red Haven, and all its damned existence, was a result of the failed Widersian Democracy. How could a nation that was falling so easily to its base desires, allowing the rot to spread so openly, so unimpeded, hope to withstand against its bloodthirsty neighbors? Order had to be enforced, from the top to the base.

And, as he traversed through Black Goat, he let not its cheap calls and diversion rob his attention of the current task. His thoughts were only in finding out the puppeteer behind this sordid play and put an end to it.

The bizarre, eldritch and chimerical entrance of the wrong man brought a visible grimace in Decimus’ wisened face. Primal thoughts of violence, those born from when the eyes catch the sight of something the mind can’t readily comprehend, fight or flight instinct with only the first option thrumming with intensity were brought forth. The idea of a possible crime being committed by the veteran soldier, if violence was chosen as the first option, didn’t even cross his mind. Instead, it was the ineffectiveness shown back at the Ivory Keys which kept the cadet from drawing and firing then and there.

“Let’s approach that it, but keep your wits about you. Anything strange, run for the exit.” Strange? Weren’t things strange from the very moment he set foot in Red Haven? And seeing the surrounding crowd, bucking for the exit appeared to be nothing more than wishful thinking. Regardless, the job that needed to be done pressed the veteran soldier forward, pushing his way through the crowd.

 

[Revi]

Character: Lona Morgan
Titles: [Human - Mundane]
Language Keys: "..." – Common
Text Color: 00CED1
Mentions: Mephisto | Maxxob ​

---

Lona felt the weight of the city as they moved through Red Haven’s winding streets toward The Black Goat. The deeper they went, the more the air seemed to thicken, heavy with a sort of suffocating anticipation. She wasn’t blind to the eyes on them—hungry, empty stares following her and Decimus as they navigated through crowds that seemed to part for them without question, as though some unspoken force was clearing a path. The streets buzzed with life, but it was the wrong kind of life—artificial, fevered, stretched thin. Lights dripped their glow over the dark streets, staining the edges of her vision in lurid warm hues. She caught sight of darkened alleyways and shadowed corners where shapes seemed to move, always just out of focus. The lights couldn't banish the dark here—it only made the edges sharper.

"Feels like we’re walking into a trap," she muttered softly, mostly to herself, though she glanced at Decimus briefly.

Her voice wasn’t fearful, just wary—acknowledging what they both knew to be true.Her ordinarily quiet and careful steps fell in line with Decimus’ heavier, unyielding pace.
When they reached the bouncer at the doors of The Black Goat, Lona’s gaze lingered on his face just a moment too long. The grin. The skin. It wasn’t natural, wasn’t right. Her mouth pulled into a thin line, shoulders stiffening as she ducked her head and hurried past him, unwilling to speak, unwilling to meet his unblinking eyes again.

Inside was worse.

The smell hit her first—smoke, alcohol, and underneath it all, sweat—cloying and sickly sweet as if all the excess in the world had been bottled and spilt across the room. All of which seemed to mingle with the sharp sting of something darker and fouler that lived beneath it all. The music didn't just pulse—it thumped, a deep, predatory sound that seemed to nestle into her ribcage, making them feel too tight around her lungs and heart. Every sound and scent was too much—too alive, too raw. This place seemed to thrive on temptation and ruin, offering everything and promising nothing. Her gaze swept over the room. The shadows were thick here, and not all of them had faces. Shapes swam at the edges of her vision, lurking just beyond the pools of dim light, and the temptation to look, to see what watched her, gnawed at the edges of her resolve. She bit down on the feeling like a root she'd been told was poison: firm and unyielding. The trick to surviving in a place like this was simple: you kept walking. You didn't stop to talk. You didn't look too long.

It was almost comforting—this familiar dance of eyes forward, back straight, don't flinch—as if all those old instincts from her former life had decided to crawl out of the dark and wrap her shoulders like a heavy coat. She could hear them: the low voices, coaxing, beckoning. Hands brushing just at the edge of too close, fingers curling in the air just beside her elbow or the hem of her shirt. The words weren't new—soft and sticky-sweet, like overripe fruit. She'd heard them before, a lifetime ago.
"Stay awhile, beautiful. You don't have to leave."
Her jaw tightened, breath sharp in her throat. A flash of something old flickered in her mind—a long-lost memory of a place that had promised safety, joy, and belonging, only to swallow her whole. Laughter. Bourbon. A smile she thought meant love. Violence that had waited, patient, just beneath the surface. Lona shook her head, the memory dissipating like smoke.

Not here. Not now. Keep walking. Keep breathing.

The sudden silence hit her like a wall when the music cut off. Lona froze mid-step, her gaze jerking to the stage. The air shifted, folding in on itself like something was being summoned, something terrible that had always been there, waiting just outside their understanding. The first movement wasn't much—just shadows deepening, pooling—but then it began to take shape. It emerged like ink spilt into water, twisting and pooling into a form that almost resembled a man, if men could stretch and bend like reflections in cracked glass. His grin was endless, teeth like ivory daggers splitting through pale skin - joints bent the wrong way, limbs snapped back into place with wet pops. Its presence continued to press into every corner of the room. The crowd roared in delight as it began to laugh and dance.

This was their gauntlet.

The false bravado came rushing back, shaky but determined, like a torch clutched in the dark. She forced herself to stand straighter, shoulders squared as her gaze locked onto the thing on the stage. She wouldn't look away.

"This is him, isn't it?" Her voice was low, controlled, and just loud enough for Decimus to hear.

Lona's chest rose and fell, every breath drawn through her teeth as though she might choke on the smoke and tension pressing against her ribs. Her pulse thudded unevenly, loud in her ears—a beat at odds with the rolling thunder of the room, the crowd, and the thing on stage. The air buzzed, charged and alive, thick as molasses, and wrong.
Her hand slipped into her bag again, fingers curling around Crowley's bell's cold, metallic weight. The feel of it grounded her. It wasn't much—small, simple—but it was real. Real enough to hold onto when the world around her was blurring and twisting. She pulled it out, the bell catching a glint of light from the stage. She didn't think—couldn't afford to think. Instinct took over.

One beat.
Two.
And on the third, she rang it.
The clear note rang out, cutting through the air like a blade in her mind. Sharp, pure, and wholly out of place. It clashed with the beat of the music and the rhythm of the crowd, fracturing the dark harmony that had wrapped itself around her senses.

Dingg-diinnngg.

The sound thrummed against her ribs, vibrating through her chest louder than anything else in the room. Her heart seized as it struck.

Again. Her hand moved on its own, shaking but deliberate. She rang it a second time.

Dingg-diinnngg.

The note was fainter, lingering longer, like the echo of something dying—something being swept into silence. The music, the laughter, the roar of the crowd—all of it dulled at the edges like layers of cotton were being pressed against her ears. The room's assault began to fade. The pressure lightened, the unnatural rhythm faltering for just a moment.

One more. She rang it a third time, the beat following her heartbeat.

Dingg-diinnngg.

The dying peal rang longer, deeper, reverberating through her entire body. It felt final. Like a nail driven into wood, silencing everything—muting the chaos, smothering the smoke and sound until there was only the bell. Only her heartbeat, steadying beneath its tone. Lona's shoulders dropped, the weight pressing on her mind lessened, and she felt like herself for the first time since entering the Black Goat. Her pulse slowed, her thoughts clearing as though the fog in her head had been burned away. Her eyes flicked to the bell in her now still hand. She exhaled slowly, a shudder slipping free on the release. The room was still there, still dark and hungry, but now she could see it for what it was—without letting it swallow her whole.

"…Better."

She muttered the word, mostly to herself, and slipped the bell back into her pocket. Her fingers lingered against the cold metal for a moment longer as if thanking it for its small mercy. She had a choice to make, and she knew it. She'd promised to be of use, hadn't she? To see this through. Lona turned her head slightly toward Decimus again without breaking her focus on the stage, her voice soft but firm, edged with just a whisper of old steel.

"Whatever happens, I'm with you—"

Her dark eyes continued to watch the Wrong Man's impossible face, and the shadows seemed to deepen in response as if it knew. Or maybe.. it was just a trick of the light and her imagination.

 

[IanThe170]

Lialeth Vianno
​

Just as Lialeth was about to move, Crowley suddenly got her attention. The eerie silence was slowly disappearing with the noise of music suddenly being audible in the distance. Lialeth, whilst not making the full way there, did get closer, following Crowley to the window. It seems not only the silence, but grimness of the world was also slightly brightening. Although, she was slightly surprised by the fact that they finally learned where the girls were.

"Yes, somewhat. Certainly happened at a rather convenient time."

Lialeth could not help, but dislike that fact. If nothing else, she'd like to trust the bond between the girls and Crowley, so if nothing else they can confirm how the girls are. Regardless, the boldness of this was rather concerning. There was no way, whatever brought them here could feel that as well, if it's not it who is doing this to begin with.

"Yeah, we need to hurry, if we can." And as if blessed by the heavens in a hurry they were going indeed. "Oh, uhm, I hope I'm not too heavy for you."

Despite saying such, she would more than happily climb upon her steed. Whilst Crowley may have not been super fluffy, he was fluffy enough to grab hold of with one hand, whilst she could make use of her other hand to ruffle his head, perhaps even scratch behind the ears, given they wouldn't have too many twists and turns along the way. Good things truly do happen to people who do good.

Still, Lialeth ponered a bit on Decimus's robots moving towards the light. Wait, was this all simply poetic? Should they move towards the light or away? "Just- Just stop thinking Lialeth... I hope Decimus and Lona are at least having a better time right now." And so... Eventually Lialeth stopped thinking, instead choosing blind hope for now. They'll meet up with the girls, get out either through the light or mirror, get a Priest to un-curse them and all will be well.

 

[Mephisto]

​

---

Featuring:
| Revi | Maxxob |
As themselves

Countdown until the Night Parade: two days and two nights

Less than 60 hours remain
​

---

The Black Goat heaved with movement. The swirling vortex of activity between the parasitic music and dance drew those who peered into the darkness of the nightclub ever onward into what could only be described as madness. Lunatics took hold of the reins in the bleak midnight, driving the carriage ever onward. No matter where they looked or how much they desired certainty in the chaos, neither Decimus nor Lona could pinpoint a safe harbor. Men and women howled around them. Feet stomped in unison. Hands reached for the sky, pleading in a rolling sea of desperation and love. The toxic admiration they possessed for this thing on the stage cradled their hearts as a mother to her child.

They were enraptured by the momentum. Nothing could pull them from the warmth, the swaddling, suffocating embrace of a Patron who told them a great lie. He spoke it, he sang it, he offered it like an olive branch only for them to prick their fingers on dark thorns. By that point it was too late. Their souls were forsaken, forgotten into an endless column of suffering and torment. They bargained too greedily, asked for too much, and could not repay their debts. Their flesh moved, pinioned along limbs and faces. Not a one dropped the endless smile.

Not a one failed to embrace the music. Singing, laughing, dancing, howling until their heel-strikes chipped bone. Blowing, hurling, retching, jumping until their lungs burned and bled. And yet, the man on the stage did not stop. Though only a few moments had passed, they did so under the pretense of eternity. Mephisto, that was his name. Mephisto, that is who promised forever to countless people.

Only a few managed to find a way out of his deals. They were not here. These were the pulsating crowds of the slaves he collected, mere shadows of mortal souls permanently lost to the nothingness he embodied. Truly apathy, the lack of empathy, the lack of human attachment and passion. He desired only to break down flesh and bone. He drank blood and devoured both meat and marrow. Souls were what he taxed, what he repossessed upon failure to pay. He stood at many crossroads in many uncertain lives. He held contracts, penned his name countless times on innumerable parchments. Agreements for fame, fortune, freedom, all were honored to the fullest capacity his black heart could manage.

Squishing, splattering, the crowd churned before him. Perhaps Decimus could hear it. Perhaps Lona could understand it.

Their cheering and admiration was no longer palpable. Their faces, peeled back in grotesque smiles, were only in such a ghastly state thanks to various arrangements of patchwork stitches keeping their expressions painfully, agonizingly, frozen. Tears of joy became - if only for an instant - tears of abject sorrow. Some even intermingled with the wounds scarring near the eyes and bled down their cheeks in rolling streams of crimson. Their voices echoed beneath the din of the music. Mephisto heard them. He saw them. He looked at them in the eyes.

He laughed.

They begged. They begged and pleaded, bargained the souls they did not have anymore, and cried. Oh how they cried. Their miasma of suffering urged them towards the stage, something they could never climb. Their legs gave out. Their bodies followed. Their arms and hands flailed in futility. Ultimate pain for ultimate hubris. Mephisto snapped his jaws tight. Blood dripped from his lips as he continued to sing.

Something stopped him, if only for a brief instant. The crowd suddenly stood in bleak unison. Their previously pathetic display seemed to be immediately forgotten. Some still sobbed. The chiming of the bell did little to calm their shattered nerves, the fragments of consciousness trapped within prisons of pale flesh. Mephisto watched as the bells continued one after another. These were not the alarms of the clocktower, but rather the pleasant trills of a collar bell. A lost pet, searching for its lost masters, must have dropped it.

His dark eyes followed the hand clutching it like a pearl on a murderous night. His smile crackled as it widened.

"Why hello there~" he purred, standing at his full height and descending from the stage on a pair of uncannily-long legs.

These matched the proportions of his arms. Nothing about him seemed natural. Nothing in his frame screamed human, elf, or even Fae. His head - crowned by wide black antlers - tilted down as he observed the newcomers to the Goat. He smoothed his pinstripe suit with a few gestures. If they were listening closely, they would easily be able to catch the slow noise of him inhaling their scent.

They were sweet, they were youthful. Decimus possessed a leaner physique, his organs were embalmed in a coating of tobacco smoke. His blood would be earthy and dense. Lona was accustomed to the outdoors, and she would know his hungry gaze. He was amongst the most feared of the wandering spirits of the woods made manifest, a demon of the dark days of mankind's unsettling descent into witchcraft and black magic.

He was, without a doubt, a wendigo. He wore skin, he spoke with words, but he could not deceive her. The blood of a devil coursed through his veins.

"What have we here? A pair of new faces in town?"

He knew them. Of course he did. No one had to say a single word to him.

"Welcome to Red Haven! Have a drink on me. What are your names?"

​

---

Featuring:
| IanThe170 |
As herself

Countdown to the Night Parade: ???

Less than ??? remain

Crowley

Occupation: imaginary friend, soul guardian, and traveling companion to Alice and Lydia Morton

Height: 11" at the shoulder

Weight: 13 pounds

Languages: Common (spoken as "..."); Fae (spoken as "{...}")

Text Colors: #FDFD96
​

---

The jaguar carrying Lialeth moved as quickly and as smoothly as he could, making sure not to lose his friend along the way. He raced forward. As long as he felt her hands on his neck and behind his ear, everything was fine. Everything would turn out just fine. He panted as he rounded a corner. The streets were long, winding, almost as if they were moving through a dream. The pulsating noise behind them replaced the noise of his heartbeat in his sensitive ears. He couldn't visualize anything else except for that blinding adrenaline. He stopped at a crossroads.

There couldn't be a way back. Left, right, forward, they all felt the same. The light was just ahead, but any path they took could be the wrong one. He didn't think. He didn't have time. This could be their only chance. This was their only chance. He snarled and went, not heeding where he looked only where he felt. His legs carried them in a frenzy. His heart churned like a piston. The entirety of his body ran hot like an engine about to explode.

The music became louder. They were getting closer. The doors were open. He ran inside, his breathing shallow.

Crowley froze at the entrance to the bar. He dared not to say anything. He was afraid that if he did, they would disappear. There, at a table near the center stage, was Alice and Lydia Morton. They caught sight of Lialeth and Crowley, but stood up slowly. They seemed just as uneasy about the encounter as Crowley was. Alice, in particular, seemed uncharacteristically aloof. Her cheerful demeanor from the picture Lialeth was familiar with had faded into a protective and highly defensive persona she used as a shield. Lydia wielded a kitchen knife in her hand. Alice had a baseball bat, both of which were apparently scavenged from the bar itself.

They were in exactly what they were wearing on the crystal ball feed Mr. Limestone showed Lialeth and Decimus, though the desolate environment around them left them with limited options for hygiene. They were obviously very distraught and dirty.

"Who are you?!" Alice shouted at Lialeth. "Is... Is that really you, Crowley?"

"Yes it is! This is Lialeth, she's a friend!" Crowley changed back into his domesticated cat form, shrinking down with a sizzle. "Are you two okay?"

Lydia placed the knife on the table they were sitting at. "How'd you find us?"

Crowley sighed, unable to piece everything together in a concise way. He ended up looking at Lialeth with the very same question in his eyes and on his face. Despite everything that happened thus far, not even the enchanted cat could keep track.

"How did we find them?"

---

 

[Maxxob]

Decimus Valerius

Spoiler: Minions

Titles: [Human - Mundane], [Native], [Military Cadet E] - Widersia - Color #a13a3a
Language Keys: "..." - Common ; "[...]" - Terran

Mephisto IanThe170 Revi

The fact that a safe haven, or even an advantageous spot, couldn’t be found was accepted by Decimus rather quickly. And the euphoric menagerie around them? As much as the sight could have been alluring to some, the increasing zenith, which marched to its peak endlessly, created not a single thread of interest in the old soldier’s mind. Much on the contrary.

The losses of the past made enjoyment of any kind rather difficult. That, in addition to duty which molded and guided his every step forbid much. What was Decimus if not the uniform? If not his rank? Was there a person behind that battle-scarred, wisened shell? Did he even exist outside his obligations? Those were difficult questions to answer.

And maybe, by the scowl that had formed on his face, those facts must have crossed his mind. Coincidently, just in time to behold the pitiful, abhorrent display of the Black Goat shackled puppets. Even through it, his face remained unchanged. Maybe on his younger days, when his very essence was until untouched, there would be an urge. Urge to try and deliver each one of those present from their predicament. But time changed him and an idealist he was no more.

Instead, his attention was diverted to what, or who, actually mattered. The crowned wendigo was certainly quite the sight. And had been since first his presence had formally entered the space. But even in the situation they found themselves in, Decimus’ gaze remained steely, unwavering. Despite the odds.

“New indeed. I will return with quite the report about this place.” The elderly man said, his ashen eyes focusing on the pinstripes of the creature’s suit for a moment. “Thank you, but I don’t drink while on service.” A raised gloved hand, palm towards Mephisto, refused the generosity. “I’m Decimus Valerius. I take you are the owner of this establishment? What is your name?”