Zettaijin wrote:
Well, better late than never! This no prize was starting to get a little cumbersome.
Until recently, I've been absent from these boards for over a decade IIRC. So all things considered, my reply was pretty quick! Better than that of the other greying Canucks on these boards, anyway!
"Is our love true?"
"It is not. His love was never yours."
Dressed in her finest attire, the young woman stood at the crossroads on a foggy night. One could barely see more than a few steps ahead yet she did not stray from her post. In the distance, a lithe figure in black approached.
She could only make out thin, vague outlines of a human form from her position, but her heart began racing as she took a deep breath and held her diary to her face as instructed.
The light sound of footsteps grew louder, drowning out her beating heart and forcing her to recite the lines in preparation for his eventual passage.
Her heart knew he was here and so she issued her plea...
"My apologies, sir... Do you believe in crossroad divination? I am in need of your advice... I wish to know... Is our love true?"
The girl was found the next day with her throat slashed open, a sharp razor in her hand following a self inflicted fatal wound. Her bloodied diary contained countless passages devoted to a man she claimed to love yet none of her closest acquaintances had knowledge of her having been involved with said individual.
Another suicide at the crossroads. Not the same as the last time, but the pattern remains the same.
All young women who bled to death on a lonely crossroad on a densely foggy night. All suicides.
Stories abound among the youths of crossroad divination - that a mysterious diviner walks the foggy nights and, if by chance, one happens to find the right crossroad may ask it about their fortune.
Attempts at capturing said oracle have proven futile although one young woman decided to avenge the loss of her older sister by devoting her life to finding this "love oracle" and discovering its secrets.
----
The original series of stories that influenced this hook were by celebrated Japanese horror manga artist, Junji Itô. Entitled 辻占美少年 (Tsujiura bishounen - the handsome young street fortune teller), it tells the story of a tormented young man returning to his old home town and finding it haunted by a malicious street fortune teller who takes the form of a handsome young man in black. While more benign street fortune tellers appeared on foggy nights in the past, these have apparently been entirely replaced by the aforementioned youth in black. Teen girls rush to him to find out if their love is true but inevitably receive a negative answer which sends them into profound despair and eventual suicide by way of slicing their own throat with a box cutter.
It's a dark and strange story that grows into a typically over the top Ito tale by the end with some curious twists and turns that are never truly explained.
"What is the meaning of this? You think me a fool? What temerity! You find me greatly offended at being offered such unpalatable refuse. My palate is too delicate, too refined for such mediocrity. But then I should expect no less from an insipid worm such as yourself. Go on now, and find me proper sustenance lest I find a more suitable patron."
"Dearest Agatha,
I hope this missive finds you well. As for myself, I am in much disarray following a visit to our mutual friend Dimitri's studio.
I fear time is of the essence, so you'll forgive my brevity. It had been some time since I saw any of his work on display and wondered what wondrous things he may have been immortalizing upon the canvas. As such, I paid dear Dimitri a visit with hopes of perhaps gaining further insight into his creative process.
What stood before me was a gaunt and emaciated man with sunken eyes and unkempt hair. He denied me entry into his studio, claiming the beauty inside was for his eyes only. Further interrogation yielded precious little information save that he had found a calling, a muse if you will, and he was determined to capture the essence of her beauty in paint.
His appearance was worrisome enough without the somewhat slurred speech. As he slowly turned his back to ascertain himself of something or another, I glimpsed inside his work space to see broken canvas upon broken canvas and unfinished paintings depicting a mysterious young woman with bewitching eyes.
I found myself drawn in by her gaze and inviting lips and even now feel my heart racing as I recall to you what I saw.
I believe Dimitri noticed and quickly pushed me back and closed the door, refusing to open. I could hear a voice inside berating him for not tending to his work but rushed home to inform you of the strange situation.
This said, I still cannot bring clearly remember the woman's features save her deep, dark gaze and red lips.
Let us not have secrets - I know you and Dimitri have been lovers and may continue to be so to this day. Perhaps you have no qualms with him sharing his heart with another, but then I feel it is best that you be informed.
As for myself, I will return to his studio with hopes of perhaps meeting his new muse.
Yours truly.
Marcus"
Official:"The painter, you mean? Ah, such an unfortunate fate for a young lad... 'was found dead, in his studio no less. Stabbed in the back, maybe the heart'too if'ya look at the work. 'heard stories he was shacked up in'd'ere with'a young lass, he was... Girl like'er was'seen running with'nother young lad."
Agatha:"Brown hair? Like this mayhaps? Young face - no hair?"
Official:"Hard ta say... no one recognized him, da's fah'sure."
Agatha:"The paintings..."
Official:"Destroyed. The lad made sure'o that, I s'pose. Although this one'ere is rather disturbing if I say so... Hideous thing, eh... lik'a a monster face growing on the girl's'head..."
-------------------
This is based on another series of Junji Itô tales called 富江 (Tomie) featuring a beautiful "muse" who enters the lives of various men and begins driving them insane with her constant demands and nearly insatiable lust for luxury.
She slowly destroys the men whose lives she invades by asking that they focus their entire existence on her.
Many Tomie stories revolve around a character being suspicious of Tomie and finding out her dark secret but almost always failing to fully stop her from destroying the man she is currently playing with.
Her earliest appearances had her as a teen girl involved in a romantic relationship with a teacher leading to her death at his hands and subsequent return as a vengeful and demanding spirit that seduces men into madness/death through obsession. The above post refers to a very specific and rather well known tale about an artist's attempt at capturing the full beauty of Tomie but never quite managing to do so with the latter shaming him into continuing his work.
Later, the origins of Tomie became a LOT weirder and I can't say much about them as I'd be spoiling these later stories. Also, a number of movies were made with Itô's tales as a basis but often taking several liberties with the source material or using it as a base for a (more or less) original chapter in the saga.
Safe to say, things go from 0 to 10 pretty quick at points as is often the case with Itô's work.
The party is snowed in, somewhere in Barovia. It is completely impossible to travel.
That is bad enough, but they have enough money to pay the inn bills, so they should be able to weather the season and be back on their way after thaw.
A merchant is also stuck in town, and unlike the adventurers he is very anxious to leave. He keeps sneaking into his well-guarded carriage to 'check the cargo'.
His guards are humourless and brutal. The villagers, already disinclined to trust outsiders, develop an ugly mood when the guards mutilate a young child for trying to sneak a peek inside, citing it as 'justice for thieves'.
Things take an even worse turn when a mixed pack of wolves and wargs, under the leadership of a pair of battle-scarred winter wolves, start targeting the village.
Every night, the wolves howl, panicking man and beast alike. People who venture outside town limits are seized and dragged off somewhere by the pack -- but not killed. Some of the adventurers can hear words among the howling: "Give back! You give back! And we! Give back!"
The pack is keeping its captives alive, because the winter wolves are still hoping to exchange them for the merchant's 'precious cargo': a winter wolf pup, only survivor of his litter, and destined for Ivana Boritsi's or Malocchio Aderre's kennels, depending on the outcome of an auction to be held in Port-a-Lucine this spring.
The rest of the litter has already been 'processed' by the guards; they are now a collection of furs, meats and organs, packed with snow and hidden on the carriage.
The longer the siege lasts, the more likely the merchant is to try something desperate - and stupid - to get out with his prize. He may hide the cheaper organs around the village homes and try to slip out when the scent of defrosting winter wolf flesh drives the parents into a killing rage.
Or he may try to hire the adventurers to kill the parents and bring him their hides, counting on them to trust a human over the desperate monster parents...
Then again, maybe the wargs will get fed up with the stalemate and decide to indulge in a little recreational bloodshed to relieve the boredom. If the prisoners are not to be killed, then can always pick off someone small or weak. And how would the already stressed Barovians react to that...?
Every year, I revisit my thread to bring it back to life for a short time.
Playing the Long Game
"I can'na say, sir. Madam opened the letter, she did, an' turned pale as her sheet when she look't'a it. She jus' said 'It is my turn' I think. I be a simple servant girl, sir, I dun'na aboot these things the Madam likes."
Every year, invitations are sent.
Every year, they meet.
Every year, they play.
Every year, the game changes.
Every year, They decide.
Every year, some win.
Every year, some lose.
Every year, some refuse.
Every year, some disappear.
Details pertaining to the location and time of the meeting will be included in the invitation, as well as one's actual expected role.
Stumbling upon a game by accident is perhaps the easiest way to be recruited. Beggars, ruffians, derelicts, curious street urchins, sundry people of the night looking for shelter are just as welcome as those whose coffers are overflowing with riches. Although it should be noted that these accidental participants are not as likely to be quite as willing as those who volunteered.
Even those who lack a permanent residence may find themselves invited yet again to join in the game - They have ways.
A single game is all that is required to forever be on the great list of potential participants. Potential as there is certainly no way to ascertain when one will be asked to join again. Perhaps in a year's time, maybe two... some may find themselves old and feeble by the time their turn comes again.
Refusal is unacceptable. They will ensure that you find your way to the game - even if they must dig out your bones or summon your soul.
Substitutions are acceptable. If the thought of a loved one's remains being exhumed are a cause for concern or if the participant is no longer of sound mind, it is possible for the living or otherwise able to offer themselves as a permanent substitute.
Secrecy is absolute. Discussing the game openly has... consequences. Perhaps if one is compelled to talk, They might be lenient.
Interference will not be tolerated. Attempts to meddle with the game or in any way disrupt it is cause for immediate action.
Results are final. Once the game ends, the results become immutable and cannot be overruled, overturned, or otherwise challenged.
---------------------
Many decades ago, a group of scholars and their wealthy intellectual patrons founded a somewhat secretive society devoted to engaging in a friendly yearly competition. Initially, all members could participate, but as their membership grew, this became impossible and so a lottery system was established to determine who would be excluded.
The game they played would change each year but generally took the form of some challenge meant to test the intellectual mettle of the participants.
Then, one year, things changed.
Interlopers came and under their influence the game changed.
A group of modrons were tainted by their time away from their home plane and found themselves obsessively collecting every manner of game, contest or challenge devised by the planes' various denizens. These rogue modrons would not be satisfied merely collecting the games for purposes of archiving - they wished to see them played out before their eyes.
Casualties were sometimes inevitable, but the modrons would not stop until every game in their records would be played.
How they found their way into the Demiplane is a mystery to all, but perhaps the Dark Powers were amused by these odd creatures "innocently" sending living being to their doom for the sake of some obsessive devotion.
The head of the modrons is a quinton and at his command are a septon, a duodrone, a pentadrone, and a quartet of quadrones.
They spend their time preparing for the next game including sending out invitations, which the Dark Powers ensure will reach their destination on time. And the quinton leader is quite open to enlisting outside help in ensuring as smooth a process as possible.
As for how and why more powerful participants couldn't simply wipe the group of modrons from existence, the quinton is a planar creature and brings with it an odd disturbance of individual capacities as a small "gift" from the Dark Powers. Indeed, even the strongest grow feeble and those with knowledge of magic seem to forget their incantations when confronting the quinton. Furthermore, the area where the game is held will be protected by various rituals arcane and otherwise to prevent tempering, cheating and interference. Modrons using magic? Well, they don't see it as magic.
With regards to the rules and roles, some games may require a participant to act in an indirect role that is benign and inconsequential. No doubt participants are relieved when they find themselves in such a role. The "reward" for successfully defeating an opponent or the game itself varies. Participants may find themselves in possession of gold or merely be congratulated for their skill. A loss may have unfortunate consequence, including death.
Any attempt to warm outsiders of the game will likely be intercepted by the quinton by way of a simple enchantment linked to all invitations. There are ways to subvert this through careful phrasing and innuendoes, but most are unaware of such loopholes. The punishment for disobeying this rule is instant termination.
In the vile tyranny of Invidia, a strange warrior has risen.
Ogres are not unknown there, not even ogres wearing armour. But this one walks as tall and straight as an ogre can, and keeps himself clean and tidy.
When the Ogre first appeared, it was to fight off the Dukkar's taxmen and the thugs accompanying them before they could raze a village.
To the amazed and suspicious townsfolk, the ogre just introduced himself as the Squire, and he vowed them that if they had need, he would return.
Since then, the Squire has struck several times, fighting Malocchio Aderre's evil, but also the evils of the Dukkar's mother and her various allies. Always he arrives when the need is greatest, and always he fights to save and protect the innocent.
His legend is slowly growing, and he has attracted a following: brave men and women who just needed someone, anyone, to remind them that their fate is their own to seize and the world theirs to improve. While the Squire's band is small, it is having an effect. The Dukkar has offered a high reward to whoever betrays these rebels, but oddly enough there don't seem to be any takers. (Not any takers who manage to survive their neighbours' wrath long enough to cash in, anyway.)
One time, one of the Squire's followers asked him why he does not style himself a Knight. To this, he humbly replied that he will not do so until his mentor gives him his spurs. He expects it will be a long time before this happens - if ever.
After all, the man who showed the Squire true chivalry, who taught him not by instruction but by example... is the Blessed Knight of Sithicus.
It's that time of the year again. I'm back to make sure my beloved thread goes back to its rightful place on the front page of this cursed forum.
The Shape of Trauma
It was funny, she thought, he had two faces now. And both were getting very red, no doubt he was embarrassed! Even in his old age, father could still wield a blade like no other... a hatchet is a blade is it not? Well, soldiers would certainly not use it as a weapon, but it cuts deeply into flesh and bone just as well call it a blade then!
Elze laughed to herself as she looked at the sorry site of her husband's lifeless body on the floor. Tears flowed from her eyes and her hands trembled as she gathered the gushing blood in a simple wooden bowl. Father was no doubt hungry. Better get the fire ready.
--------
Body after body laid on the cursed ground. Limbs hacked off and dispersed about the battlefield as if some grotesque jigsaw. The ones which fell and remained mostly whole would rise back from their apparent demise only now as puppets staggering about clumsily from invisible strings held by some unseen hand. Long gone were their training and skill, now all that remained were vague glimpses of martial proficiency wherein their arms flailed wildly and their limbs lacked the careful coordination that years of training once provided.
Anselm stood still for a moment as he realized the sheer futility of this battle. However much his comrades in arms tried, the opposition showed no sign of fatigue. A relentless horde of shambling, bloodied men barely able to stand yet moving ever forward with never ending waves of reinforcements.
His commanding officer shouted for the men not to retreat or face the wrath or their sovereign.
It happened in an instant. A bloated hand of a sickeningly blackish blue and purple hue reached out for his sword hand with uncanny strength. It was Konrad. He had shared many of his formative years with Konrad in training for this day. But now Konrad's eyes were dull and lifeless, almost rolling back into his skull looking as if he wished to run from his fate. Yet, Anselm stood. He stood as his former friend tried to claw at him with his dirty, bloodied fingers. His armor was riddled with holes and gashes and suffered from what appeared to be a broken jaw. He could see Konrad's missing teeth, the result of disciplinary action from their former quartermaster.
Then the barely coordinated Konrad fell. Or rather, a gauntlet clad hand had swiftly reached out and brought down his low-ranking friend and the soldier in question proceeded to hack away at Konrad's arms. How rude, Anselm thought. How odd as well. Whatever happened to Konrad?
Anselm laughed... and laughed...
Then he stopped... and he ran away into the waiting arms of the mists.
Into a life of fear and trauma.
------
Ulf was always a charming boy. Gifted with child-like, innocent eyes and a disarming grin, he'd swept his fair share of ladies off their feet and into more intimate situations. His ailing mother was no fool - she knew of her son's reputation. Women spoke of Ulf. But upon hearing of her son's exploits from the filthy mouth of her "friend" Ingrid, the matriarch's temper flared and she summoned her son to her side.
Ingrid was but a few years her junior - was her son's lust so powerful that he would engage in such acts with a woman old enough to be his mother?
Ulf saw no shame in his actions. No hands were forced and no hearts ever truly broken. Bruised? Perhaps. But in time they would heal. Ulf saw himself as offering a selfless service for the lonely hearts in that he really didn't care much for the affection or even the gifts these women showered upon him. Yes, he had a predilection for more "refined" women - the refinement that comes with age and experience... and years of neglect and dissatisfaction.
"My husband is a pig. He reeks of sweat and I shudder at the thought of his damp, hairy body laying on top of mine. He'll even grunt much like a porcine beast!"
"Ack, lad, you best not talk about such matters with me. You'd ruin the mood by talking of the louse? Such a lovely boy you are. Here, let me touch your hair..."
"His mistresses surely appreciate his appetites more than I. I worry he would devour me whole were he not so preoccupied with the ham or chicken leg he'd bring to bed with him."
Yes, Ulf heard many stories and he would smile sweetly while pretending to care. In truth, only Ingrid mattered but she had no interest in his youthful flesh... at least not in the same way as these other women. Hers were more cerebral pursuits. Awfully tedious, as he'd have to recount his various dalliances in very precise detail to Ingrid who in return would insult him, slap him, and even spit on him. Sometimes, sometimes she would be kind.
Those few moments of kindness made it all worthwhile.
But the one unattainable woman was the one he truly wanted to please... and if he had to leave the side of Ingrid for her to be proud, to be happy, then he would have to. And with no Ingrid, there really was no reason to maintain all those liaisons. As she had wanted, he would find a wife and bring children and thus ensure the continuation of their proud bloodline.
Elze was as good a candidate as any. Bland, servile and perhaps a bit dim, but if it would make her happy...
------------
He should have known better. Dementlieu isn't a place where one can simply walk into with the pomp and circumstances of an overly proud warrior king. The streets have eyes that watch in silence and the alleys have ears that listen covertly to every word. Minds, it is said, are like open books to the ones who rule from the shadows and the brutishness and hot-blooded ways of the "Prodigal Son" as he called himself were not welcome.
Such a handsome rogue he was, clearly owing to his father's boyish good looks and yet he inherited his grandfather's powerful frame. Were he born of better stock, he could have been more respected.
His eyes echoed a swirling madness that lay in his haze-filled thoughts. He was no stranger to the world of illicit contraband hailing from the far off reaches of the world. Sometimes, he even sampled some of the product but owing to his formidable constitution, the smokes and fumes emanating from ornate jars rarely had much sway on his moods. Well, that's what everyone thought. Or perhaps were told to think as contradicting this self-proclaimed "Prodigal Son" would often result in broken limbs and broken souls.
In the end, he was found by some lackeys. His face contorted into a fearsome grimace with teeth and fists firmly clenched even after death. Rigor mortis? Perhaps, but the men who followed him feared that he may have never had a soul and his body would, even in death, refuse to die unless it was on its own terms.
D'Honnaire's puppets may not have been as able bodied as he was, but given sufficient blades, even the hardest man may fall.
Years later, these men would fall in turn but no one remembered "The Prodigal Son" and his brief reign of terror.
-----------
"We found the woman, sir. She was laughing to herself while cradling an invisible baby. I'm not convinced she's of sound mind."
"Bah, bring'er in. Ah'll be the johdge o'that, laddy. Ollright, missy, waht'd'yer do? Wahd is yah war wit'him, eh? Yah know'im? Yah lahver mayhaps? He's a bit'o trouble tha'one."
"... My boy... my beautiful boy... what hav'ya done... oh... oh.... heh.... ha.... hahahahaha!"
"Look, ah don'wann'the hurt yah, I don't... We can do'this easy... or hard. It's yo choice... We be lookin' for tha man. The one wit'the scar runnin' down his face. Split'in haff they say. Hard'ta miss really. He hurta lot o'people yah know. You're a nice lassy. You don'need'im. Jus tell me where he's hiddin and you can go back'tah takin' care of yah little one there."
"... Father will be angry... or maybe hungry? It's the blue man again. What was his name? Kon...rad? Yessss... father loved Konrad. He talked about Konrad a lot, so he must've loved him a lot. I never met Konrad. Do you know Konrad? Father said Ulf looked like Konrad. Well, they all looked like Konrad to him."
"Aye... tha's'e-nuff lassy... yah talkin' crazy. Yah tongue don'know if it's comin' or goin'.... I hav'tha do this..."
"AAAAHHHHH!!!! *pants* Heh... heh hehe... Ulf likes it when I slap him... You want mommy to hurt you... hahahaha!"
"Laddy! Get me my toolbox..."
"Sir, I... right... very well... Piotr better be cleaning up the mess this time."
---------
"Konrad! Stop! He's bleeding to death!"
"You'd better stop, or you'll kill him!"
"He's got that bloody stare again! Come on, help me get him off before they come!"
"Owww! Hey, Bron, help us won't ya! We can't keep him down!"
Konrad was a healthy boy. They say he was born a fully grown man and threatened to rip his mother's womb in half. A boy of eight, he was already as big as the tall grass and hunting game like a man. Rumors say he was running with wolves and wrestling boars. No wonder then that all the ruffians bowed down to him, cowering as if he were some fabled warrior king from ancient tales borne of old magics and stinking of blood and dirt.
Konrad knew nothing but violence and said his fists were more than capable of breaking any language barrier. He earned himself a nickname - The Prodigal One. He changed it to The Prodigal Son.
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"Girl, vere is my supper?"
"It's not ready, father..."
"I love you... but you know the rules..."
"I do father..."
"Elze... my dear Elze... come, I tell you of Konrad the Blue Knight..."
------------
"Konrad? That's a bit... old-fashioned. I'd like our son to have a name fit for a prince! If my seed is to grow, it should be a beautiful flower admired by all not some shriveled up tree with bare branches."
"Konrad is fine, Ulf. Konrad... father told me so many tales of Konrad the Blue Knight. He never ran away. He always fought until the end - as if death itself couldn't fell him. Father will be proud, I'm sure."
"Anselm... your father worries me, love. You know, he twitches when the wind blows too cold. Perhaps I could arrange for..."
"Hush! Hav'ya no eyes in your head? Father is a proud soldier. He fought many great wars and he's still stout as a tree."
"Ummm..."
---------
A mad ghost brought to life a terrible chimera - a three headed monstrosity which is at once her father, her husband and her son.
Trauma and pain through the generations twisted her mind and made it impossible for her to find eternal rest. Now, she waits for him to be reborn from the seed of the three faced beast.
At once the brutish Prodigal Son, the charming libertine, and the broken soldier-father, he sows his seed as his flame inevitably dies but not before burning all he encounters. Lives are snuffed out mercilessly in his never ending quest to be reunited with his ever living mother/wife/daughter.
Women are found dead in childbirth, their newborn son seemingly too much for their bodies to bear and yet their dying screams were a mix of agony, ecstasy and madness. Those who survive will inevitably become insane.
With his martial prowess and nimble hands, Allric Beorhtelsson has defended his community from countless perils over the past decades. Be they merely wandering miscreants and cutthroats looking to prey on the meek locals or, more serious threats such as rampaging werebeasts driven mad by a hunger for flesh, Allric has never faltered in his role as the guardian.
Under his watch are some twenty or so halfling and gnomish families who have made their home in a somewhat remote corner of Tepest. All in all, this community is rather young with its first inhabitants being migrants of Darkonian descent - much like Allric himself.
As a youth, he felt his kin were too often underestimated and thought of as weak and in need of protection. He vowed to prove to the world that even the "short folks" were quite capable of confronting threats on their own and as such spent several years honing his skills as a sellsword and adventurer before choosing to "retire" so to speak and begin his new life as the protector of the aofrementioned small Darkonians halfling community in Tepest.
However, the years have taken their toll on him.
Try as he might, he simply cannot find anyone worthy of his mantle. This community, it would seem, simply is not producing the warriors that it needs. Hence he must persevere. But in order to do so, Allric has been secretly bolstering his prowess with magical means purchased from a reclusive mystic. With time, the price for these items has grown as has Allric's reliance upon them. The dangers brought by the mists seem to be growing ever more powerful - or perhaps it is merely Allric's once formidable skills slowly being eroded through the years.
The mystic Ichorus is a large, rotund individual who cannot stop talking even for a second, frequently interjecting and interrupting his interlocutors. He seems to have an endless stash of magical baubles, concoctions, and sundry items not to mention an uncanny way of finding just the right tool for the job.
Needless to say, Allric has little patience for the mystic's ramblings but endures them as he needs his wares to continue defending the community. Meanwhile, Ichorus seems all too content in complaining about his brothers - one a writer who is more interested in criticizing the work of others than producing meaningful art of his own while the other is a simple brute with a penchant for unprovoked aggression. Every visit leaves Allric increasingly wary of Ichorus' next demand and silently groans at the mere sight of the heavyset mystic and his ever present self-satisfied smirk.
Once upon a time, Ichorus was asking for very little: Pilfering a manuscript for his brother; garnering information about some local inquisitor; delivering some baubles... trifling tasks indeed. Now, he asks for all manners of payments: scaring off wandering adventurers; strong-arming locals who failed to pay him; even cutting off a finger from some supposed rival mystic. Odd but still somewhat agreeable. Allric is not a fool and sees this steady rise for what it is but is conflicted. Is his community doomed to die with him? Is the safety of the community worth what Ichorus is asking for?
----
Note: Ichorus and his brothers were first introduced on page 8 of this thread! Yes, my creations are now so numerous that they are interacting!
I felt the middle brother was the one who needed a hook as the eldest is engaged in a petty war of words with fellow "auteurs" and the youngest is "seeing" one of the Three Hags of Tepest.
It's a story as old as time. A vain woman refuses to accept the passage of time and seeks out mystical means of prolonging her youth.
The lengths to which some women will go to turn back time can be quite extreme - bathing in blood, human sacrifice, devouring infant flesh...
Josephine, as she is known these days, is no different. One day she set out to find the secrets of eternal youth. She scoured academic tomes - well she tried anyway. Truth be told, the poor woman was not barely able to read in her native tongue let alone the ancient arcane languages of sages and mystics. So she sought out the fabled wanderers of the mist with hopes of having something of value that could be traded in exchange for eternal youth. Sadly, she fell for the rumors and tall tales regarding the powers of these wandering folks and they laughed at her request. Jilted but not defeated, she sought advice from presumed alchemists and specialists of all matters otherworldly. It meant a few unpleasant nights by the side of her wealthy but oft drunk husband and the risk of being caught pilfering his coins, but she'd outlive him.
Perhaps the Dark Powers spied on her thoughts and spread a few bread crumbs to aid in her quest to find an answer to her burning query.
They led her to an ever changing entity capable of providing her with the means to achieve eternal youth.
Now, she was perhaps not a learned scholar, but she knew of these "dark pacts" and "deals with the devil." She knew there was a price to pay in the form of some terrible curse or twisted fate - her mother had not raised a fool. So she bluntly asked the entity for the various costs, to which the entity in its guise of a rotund child with an oddly small face laughed and praised her for her boldness.
"You know well, dear girl, of the dark ways. Bah, these things are all part of the protocol really. The transaction bears a heavy cost... blah blah blah... Listen, mine is the power of the endless cycle. I am the snake which devours its own tail. You will bear a child - your own self. As the child grows older, you will slowly become younger. It would behoove you to dispose of the child after it has reached a proper age."
"I would kill myself then?"
"In a sense, yes! Amusing, no? Quite a departure from what my peers offer."
"Indeed. But I find the price in blood to be rather trite..."
"Bah, what would YOU know, mortal?"
"Apparently enough to inquire about the suggested age... for my double's death. Also, let us be clear, I am aware that there is usually a price in blood in these matters. Old wives have told these tales to their daughters to deter them from seeking ones such as you. But I am not keen on shedding blood myself. Keeping my hands clean would be preferable."
"Such boldness! You, a mere mortal woman of no particular skill or power, come to a powerful, mysterious entity such as I to bargain? Ha ha ha ha! Very well, I have grown fond of your stubborn pride. I shall devour the child for you. You need not watch - merely deliver the child to my Earthly avatar and be on your way."
"Again, thank you for your generosity, however you failed to answer my initial question..."
"I may be endless but I am forgetful in my old age. yes, for the matter of the age, the girl will be... oh I don't know... perhaps once she reaches the age of motherhood herself? Let's make it a challenge, shall we! If she somehow bests you, I shall eagerly devour your bones and grant her the boon of eternal youth. Oh my, that would be... unoriginal now wouldn't it? Let us make it more curious... the double will live and enjoy her own boon of limitless youth. But one of you must bring into the world a sacrificial third. The rules remain unchanged - her growing age ensures your access to this fountain of youth."
"Needlessly convoluted and dare I say somewhat inane... but since I do not need to stain my hands... Now what if we both bear a son?"
"Try again, then. Your sons will be cursed with some manner of crippling affliction that will likely make them outcasts. I suggest you do not get too attached. There are two of you, one if bound to produce a daughter."
"Fair. Inane and complicated, but fair. And how shall we bring this offering to you?"
"I shall send an herald to summon you when I am ready."
"Now, what if my... our... umm this is confusing... this girl, what if she were to somehow be with child herself? The world is cruel... Or what if my double and myself both bring daughters into the world? Or if the child dies before reaching the age you request?"
"Ah yes, men are beasts and all that. Well now, there can only be two. The third is a sacrifice... a fourth would be... well, I haven't given that much thought to my admittedly elaborate scenario. But suffice to say there can only be two and I shall leave it at that. Oh, but remember that this child will one day gain the awareness of her status and much like your double will assume to be the real you. There, call it my twisting and turning."
"Ugh, this is messy... So, are you to father this double then?"
"Of course! Proper protocol must be followed. Allow me to change into a more suitable form... Any preferences? It need not be human either! I will refrain from judging as I really am beyond such silly mortal concepts as attractiveness and lust."
"This is unusual in ways I did not expect..."
And so, Josephine gave painful birth to a fully grown female double. The excruciating pain of this unearthly ordeal left her unconscious as the otherworldly entity weaved its magic and made it so neither woman knew who was the original, leaving them to plan out their newly acquired immortality.
Potential hooks:
As expected, it took only a few generations for things to go awry. Upon reaching a somewhat precocious "awakening" following a teenage pregnancy (as was brought up during the initial pact, no less!), the daughter of one of the two has escaped (with a bit of help from the entity who finds this turn of events amusing). A panicked, teenage mother is on the run from her mother/self and seeks help. Perhaps she does not share her older selves own desire for eternal life?
What of the sons? Surely one of them bore a son at some point. The "curse" states these will inevitably be outcasts, but how do they feel? And what is the nature of their affliction?
The entity is not so much malicious as a devious trickster in search of amusement in this dreary prison. The entity clearly has an uncanny amount of self-awareness but also despises being seen as boring or redundant. But what exactly is it? What happens if it is somehow banished?
It was fresh. Two days, three? She had been here not long ago, but the forest was large and Aliyah had no knowledge of it. All around her were trees and shrubs, all identical to the point that she felt disoriented.
She vomited. Her stomach turned and she couldn't stop the flow of the regurgitation creating a small puddle of pink and brown on the forest floor.
Wiping her mouth, a sharp pain shot through her ankle and calf like countless insect bites! Looking down she saw what appeared to be a hand covered in insects of all sorts reaching out from the ground itself and grasping her lower leg. Reflexively she tried to hit the bizarre apparition only to "sever" its fingers and seeing flying insects buzzing about her while others crawled away apparently forming another appendage.
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Aliyah has been hunting down a hag whom she suspects devoured her beloved nephew. The hag has found an unlikely ally in the form of a creature which feeds upon the remains of hastily devoured victims. While most hags would not waste perfectly good food, she is aware that she is being hunted and prefers flight to fight. As such, she frequently leaves behind parts of her meal and even tries to use them as a means to confuse Aliyah.
The hag is unsure what the creature in question is but understands that it, in its limited way, has awareness of this somewhat mutually beneficial relationship that it should foster.
Furthermore, the creature is growing. With every hapless person the hag devours, the swarm grows. Once able to generate hands it is now producing full arms... strong ones at that. And is it... gaining sentience?
(No prize to anyone who discovers the identity of the creature in question. Hint: it's very, VERY old school)
