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Prose Addenda - Reaping What We Sow

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  • Le Petite Mort
    Le Petite Mort


    9 years ago
    Reaping What We Sow: Prose Addenda


    There is little prose written for this scenario, and a lot that merits description. The scenario runs fairly short, so I feel like some more description of areas, people, and dialogue can go a long way towards fleshing out this mission. This document will be comprised of prose I have written for several of the more laconic portions of the mission. I am going to write for the ‘Horror’ interpretation of the scenario. I am much more prone to a lighthearted tone when improvising dialogue, and I want to broaden my horizons with this macabre opportunity. I’m playing up the Galt = France thing a bit too, which is why my syntax and grammar can be strange at times.

    This was initially a word doc, but I couldn't figure out how to edit and re-upload it...so there's just this now. I figure you can CTRL+C/CTRL+V it into a word processor and print if you want a hard copy.

    Welcome to Rosehaven:
    After ten temperate days rowing up the Sellen River, a village comes into sight. A chaotic panoply of shops spills from the shore, splashing into a web of jetties on the river’s surface. The pungent aromas of fresh fish, spices, and dyes waft on the crisp autumnal winds, accompanied by cheery shouts of low prices from their proprietors.
    The rowers bring you to one of the few patches of dock not otherwise occupied by tradesmen. Their boss, Hugo, addresses you: “C’est Rosehaven, a calm cove amidst the storm of revolution.” He smiles proudly at his own turn of phrase, more words than you had heard from him in the entire journey. “Say bon jour for me to Madame Ivy. You will see her, I think, for she is owning La Flûte Blanche.” (If you want, you can have players roll Sense Motive to indicate that Hugo has a crush on Ivy. None of this is in the scenario, its just to add atmosphere.)

    Armeline’s “Harrowing Midnight Escape”
    “You are agents of the Society then, no? Do you know why I do not speak with the Decemvirate? Why my jottings do not travel downriver with Hugo any longer? Perhaps you have heard something, but not, I think, the story entire. If you had, you would not come to me in so callous a way, dragging up dark memories in your wake. Very well, I shall tell you.”
    “My imprisonment was my own fault as much as your organization’s; I was careless. I have always used book cyphers. Are you familiar with the concept? I could not resist the irony of using Citizen Goss’ own Manifesto. I was a fool to use a book that anyone investigating me would be sure to own. One of my messages, I think it was a report on the treatment of political prisoners, was intercepted, decoded, and I became the subject of my own report. I did manage to send word to Woodsedge before I was captured. I thought rescue was sure to come. Waited, I did, in that dank cell for weeks. The day of my execution drew close, and I knew that no agents were to come for me. Do you know what saved me?
    Mildew. Mildew was my salvation. The guards, they did not clean the walls regularly. The mold and mildews grew, and from them I extracted what I can. I used these, urea from my piss, iron from my blood, and the salt of my tears for to make an alchemical decoction to disguise myself as an off-duty guard. I told them, “Armeline has escaped!”, and I join the hunt for myself. I slipped away when once I was out of the outer walls.

    I drank my own urine to save my life. No one came. No one was even sent. I later find, no one even sent word from Woodsedge to request personnel. So fuck your Society, and fuck you. (sarcastically) Enjoy your stay in Rosehaven, Hugo will return from here a few days.”

    Mercylight (Pere Bertinard’s invocation)
    Good afternoon, my children. Let us all join hands for the commencement prayer, and then we may begin the festival. [Have the players join hands at this time.] We celebrate today another peaceful year in Rosehaven, and commemorate those lost in more turbulent times. We offer our gratitude to Shelyn, the Eternal Rose, Lady of Chrysanthemums, the Incorruptible. We are thankful for the bounty of our fields, and for the fish of the river. We are thankful that the tide of bloodshed has not come to our shores, and that we have such vigilant protectors as Mademoiselle Tivareau’ a feminine shout comes from the audience “Capitain Tivareau!” “Of course, Je désolé, Capitain Tivareau and the Druid Elm. We are thankful for the little ones we have been blessed with this year, Jean Galt and Adrienne Chanteur. We wish a peaceful rest for those we have lost this year, Guillaume de Moreau and little Martine DuBois. He gives a sympathetic glance to a couple in the audience, who clutch one another a little tighter at the mention of their child. This day of Mercylight is for repentance, and for forgiveness. Those we have wronged, we must seek out this day and make amends to them. Those who have wronged us, we should forgive whose regret is sincere, for there is little more beautiful than the act of forgiveness.
    We will now offer our humble tribute to the Eternal Maiden, by making art from the simple pumpkins and lighting them from within. Just as we are born from earth and will return to it, the gourd will pass from fruit to rot with the coming weeks, and just as we may, they can shine with the light of art and beauty while still they remain in this world. I will remind the you all (he looks pointedly at the children assembled in front) that the creation of all art is sacrosanct to our mistress Shelyn, and it is not only rude but sinful to insult the work of others, or wax too much the braggart of one’s own. I would also ask you all to welcome the travelers who have come to our village, that they might spread good words of our humble local custom of Mercylight. Amen.

    Bertinard puts a hollowed ram’s horn to his lips, and sounds several blasts from it to signal the commencement of Mercylight.

    Elm’s Corpse
    The path through the woods widens into a small clearing, just large enough to fit a small farmstead home. Vines of various ivies and morning-glories climb the walls up to the thatched roof, and leaves and dirt are strewn along the porch. A short walk from the front door is the corpse of its owner, its fetid stench and grotesque mutilation shattering the scene’s rustic charm.
    His body is facedown, bound into a spread-eagle by thick withering vines. They wrap around his wrists, ankles, and pulled his head up to face forward. Yet more ivy plunges into his eye sockets, caked in congealed blood and vitreous humour. His skin is covered in peri-mortem bites and burns, but none look to have been a mortal blow.
    The cause of death is apparent, however. Another set of herbaceous ropes lock his jaws open in an unending scream. His stomach and small intestines have been ripped out through his throat, and now lie on a bed of brown fungus, half-eaten by woodland scavengers.
     
  • Urhador
    Urhador


    9 years ago
    This is some great flavour text, I enjoyed it. Thank you!

    I probably should have read all the way through it though, before I read it out loud to my table with a 12 year old. That's on me, though.
     
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