LUNAR HARVEST

[thewatchers]

LUNAR HARVEST

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On the night of the 22nd, in the light of the hunter’s moon, a shining, bloody path cuts across the sky. The horn call shakes the sky and the procession sweeps across the grounds; the chorus of the hunters’ howling voices blending with the eager cries of their unnatural hounds.

For the length of one bloody night, the hunt descends. Will you join them? Will you attempt to save those swept up in its train and master your fears, or will you choose safety instead?


A. THE CALL
The urges start first. As the day fades into dusk, the call to throw away your restraint, to give into latent bloodlust, scratches at your mind - for those who are more susceptible. For those who aren’t, there’s the faint whispers of something coming regardless; a strange sense of foreboding.

And when the horn blasts with the rising moon, those urges turn from mere whispers into siren songs - enticing those most susceptible to come and ride with the Hunt.

B. THE HUNT
For those swept up in the hunt’s bloodlust, the road is easy to follow, the chase easier still. A personalized mount born from your unleashed, primal instincts - that answers to you alone - will serve as your steed for the hunt’s duration. You’ll need it to keep up as you follow the hunt’s trail across foreign, distant lands - because there’s plenty to destroy, and plenty of prey to chase. Creatures from Earth and the Outlands alike quail in fear and run before the hunt’s approach, and that alone marks them as quarry.

C. THE PURSUIT
For those who wish to save their friends, allies and acquaintances, dragging them away from the hunt, all is not lost. The path of the hunter respects those who are worthy, and though the Wild Hunt’s road is hard to follow for those who choose not to give into their inner beast, it’s not impossible.

Those who choose to pursue without becoming hunters themselves will find the road difficult at first - stepping foot on it fills them with the fear of the hunted prey, the urge to fly before the sounds of the hunt and the light of the moon. But once these things have been mastered, the road becomes wider, easier - and if you don’t have a way of catching up with the procession, then a special mount will be provided for you.

If you can catch up to those taken by the hunt and pull them off their mounts, holding them so they’re unable to follow, the spell will break. But as fae things so often do, this method comes with a catch - they’re hard to hold onto in some way, difficult to touch. Burning hot, freezingly cold, partially ethereal, and more - some may even shapeshift in their attempts to rid themselves of you. This supernatural effect extends even through any protective gear - it is, after all, ultimately a test of will.

And while the traditional method is through illusion and trickery, there's no accounting for how individuals will take such a thing. The transformations being made, and the injuries sustained from them, might turn out to be very, very real.

(The road is easily wide enough to accommodate cars, bikes, and other modern vehicles. The hunt is traditional in its choice of mounts, but it doesn’t bar more modern accommodations either.)

D. SPECIAL PREY
While it was long considered fool-hardy - one could instead attempt to stand their ground to fight, or to specifically challenge the Lord of the Hunt himself to a game of skill - he will only accept challenges that could in some way relate to the act of hunting. Once the gauntlet is thrown, he will prevent others from interfering, magically compelling his host from laying hands on his opponent, and ordering them to take down any one hoping to come to the challenger’s aid.

The Lord of the Hunt himself is a tall, imposing figure in gore-splattered and scorched dark armor and furs, his bearded face obscured by a mangled, antlered helmet, with a single red eye glowing from the shadows underneath. In his hand is a gnarled spear made entirely of wood that is constantly budding and shedding young leaves despite them being constantly slicked in blood and viscera. His steed is equally intimidating, an almost light-absorbing black stallion built like a draft horse, with wild mane that dissipates into smoke.

It seemed foolish to challenge such a being, however if successfully defeated - he might be forced to call off the Hunt. However, those who fail to overcome the Hunter will find a collar lashed around their throats, becoming another one of his hounds for the night.

E WILDCARD
For anything else that doesn’t fit in with any of the above prompts.

code bases by tricklet

Comments

Sherlock Holmes/"Arthur Bell" - OTA, will match format

[improbablenotimpossible]

A - Call

[This feeling, his horrible feeling - it's like something resembling a heart in size and how it beats replaced his dead one, pounding, pounding in his ears like drums, every nerve shivering and contracting. He had to go... he had to move, to run - why, why did he need to? He was pacing all over the campus, staring at the sky, sometimes he just spontaneously changes into the form of a large black dog, snarling and whining, pawing at the ground at the doors. His blood was singing, burning, quickening, when he sees someone, he starts and stop speaking, wild-eyed and distracted, his fangs seem a little brighter, his eyes sharper]

Do you... no? No you wouldn't, not like this. I need to... I have to go out, somewhere... just out... out. The moon is... bright, red... like blood isn't it? Like Virgin blood... not the blood of the chaste and young, like you think now, but blood that has never been offered before in sacrifice to the sacred... and profane.

B - The Hunt

[The Vampire, despite his clearly erratic behavior earlier had been able to hold off, driving a sleek black car that belong to the Academy, driving like a stuntman, managing to take out several spectral hounds and nightmare, but a spear right through the windshield put a quick end to it as he soon ends up in a ditch, scrawling out of the wreckage, bloodied and panting despite not needing to breathe, his eyes glowing red as he toddles over to the host like a lost child - his vision and mind blurring, craning his neck obediently as a collar latched around his throat as he changes once more into a hound, now seeking out the blood of those the masters seek]

E1 - Every rose has it's thorn
[If he hadn't been rescued, or if rescued and force to avoid the hunt, the results end up being the same, having to dive to avoid the trampling, and immediately, he realized his mistake, thorns digging into skin and catching onto his clothes, the heady scent made his head swim as he froze up involuntarily, realizing he can't move.

Rosa canina or the Wild, or Dog Rose... of all the bushes he could have fallen into, it had to be this one... He tries to call out, but even his tongue didn't want to move...]

E2 - wildcard

[Any ideas? Throw it here, or hit me up on RShini

a

[stavros]

[Kokoro steps back in the hallway, glancing out the window.]

Mr. Bell, you're ill. What's happened?

Re: a

[improbablenotimpossible]

Ah... it's -

[He turns to her, seeming to find it difficult to draw his eyes from the moon]

I can't get settled... it's calling, something is calling in the night, and it's getting closer...

[stavros]

Some manner of curse? I've felt some foreboding sense, but...

[improbablenotimpossible]

A curse? A curse... a curse is simpler to handle, to break. This is something in the bones, in the blood, in the flesh and the soul.

[Again his mind seem to drift, his voice soft and distant]

It's more primal.

[stavros]

Something old. It'd have to be, to affect so many...

[improbablenotimpossible]

Older than fire and words... older than humanity itself.

[Again he paces, up and down the length - giving an impression of a wolf in a too small cage]

It's... a hunter's call. Those who don't hear it... be the hart, the stag - fly - obscure yourself like a fox, even if you are pinned be the boar and fight, do not lay down.

I... I detest the hunters who chase and terrify game just for the fun of it.

[stavros]

What... in the world are you speaking of?

[improbablenotimpossible]

[He touches his forehead, eyelids fluttering, trying to steady himself]

A hunt is coming - a dangerous hunt. The horn is calling, to gather more to hunt with them.

[stavros]

A hunt... [Her eyes widen and she nods.] I'll do what I can. My thanks.

[And she bolts in the direction of... somewhere, to go find out what to do.]

B to E1 lbr

[hatesdeerstalkers]

[When Sherlock lost his struggle to the call of the Hunt, Moriarty felt it.

Of course he did - they were linked in a way that could never be severed, at least not by this - and though he also had bloodthirsty urges, what with the thrill of destruction - he also had the mind of a human who had lived for almost 200 years among the modern world, a mind that had suffered pain and death to the breaking point and then reformed itself into something new.

So, beyond a small sigh - and having a hand rub against his neck, where the phantom feeling of a collar lurked - his reaction was subdued, though undercut by the annoyance and irritability he'd been feeling all day.

Stepping onto the path, there was no urge to run, to escape, to flee - because the fear of the Hunt is rooted in the fear of Death itself, of being caught and killed horribly. And in the end - he no longer had that primal fear. Not when death was so often an old, old friend.

So, a little ahead of the hunt - though it was wild, it was easy to predict where it would go - he waits, looking for the form Sherlock has taken - and when they arrive, diving and leaping for the black hound without an inch of hesitation.]

Re: B to E1 lbr

[improbablenotimpossible]

[Even among the phantoms and fay hounds, he stood out, a head taller than the rest, the mix of mastiff with the hound - like the Baskerville's dog. A startled yelp escapes as he's suddenly tackled, a flash of white fangs and black nails lashes out. The snarls and growls cut off with a high-pitched whine as the chain leash tugs at the transformed Vampire, threatening to literally drag the both of them behind the host.]

[hatesdeerstalkers]

[Right, the damned leash - Though the dog struggles in his arms, biting and scratching and causing bright red blood to stream down, staining his clothing - he reaches up and tugs back at the chain, eyes flashing in sheer determination and wisdom gained by the centuries he's been alive with a Human's mind.]

This is one hound you'll not have, One-eyed God of the Hunt!

[improbablenotimpossible]

[The chain was tugged, for a few moments, they were dragged, but soon the chain goes slack, and something about the snarling vampire-turned-hound seems to writhe and and shift, as he grew intensely hot to the touch almost boiling.

The hound stopped trying to attack the man, but he was still twisting around, fur becoming scales, elongating, going sleek, until it was a large, lashing serpent that was in his arms, coils snapping closed and open trying to escape]

[hatesdeerstalkers]

[Heat -

Warm, but he was beyond pain, after all. Using all the strength he had - and considering this was at night, that was quite formidable - he held on, even as the hound turned into a snake and snapped at him.]

This - isn't enough to deter me - Holmes-!

[improbablenotimpossible]

[It's starting to grow hotter, then there's the scent of smoke... and cooking meat? The Serpent hisses, and seems to jerks and spasms even more from the feedback, the snake shrinking back into itself, before... hey Moriarty.

How much does an Ursus arctos arctos weigh?]

[hatesdeerstalkers]

[The burning - or the burns which have undoubtably sprung onto him - doesn't get a reaction.

But the pain from a sudden shift in weight - messing with his spine, even causing Moriarty himself to give a gasp of pain, his world dissolving into that bright light for just a moment before grounding himself again and holding on, fingers digging into the fur and the weight.]

[improbablenotimpossible]

[The bear roars, loud in sheer utter agony, the reddened eyes going green, before twisting, trying to bolt, the tugging of fur, dragging the man behind him - but there's a way he's running that seem less desperate, as the hoofbeats of the hunt fade.

Then suddenly the bear shrinks, and going from molten hot to frigid cold, fur becomes feathers, the snarling and roaring becoming confused, pained cawing and heckles - the newly formed Raven trying to take flight]

[hatesdeerstalkers]

[A raven - how ironic that this was the final form, but he barely had time to think of it, as he made a mad grab for the bird's form, heedless of the cold, fingers gripping onto the legs as he pushes the bird itself down to his chest, his hands wrapping around the wings to keep him from flying off.]

Holmes - that's enough! Come back already, you birdbrain!

E2, aftermath

[alreadyhuman]

[ As soon as he sees Sherlock - covered in scratches and blood and looking awful - he immediately runs towards him.

He's hurt. He's hurt. It's horrible, it makes him feel horrible -

He knows it's bad and he should just let Sherlock go to the infirmary instead. But everything feels so unreal that he needs to make sure he's still there.

He's not sure when he started crying. He's never had much reason to cry - he's been sad before, certainly, but this is an all-consuming thing, overwhelming, like a dam breaking.

But he is, and he can't do anything about it. So he clings to Sherlock and cries and can't seem to form any words or explanations about why he's doing it.

Today has been so much. ]

Re: E2, aftermath

[improbablenotimpossible]

[He did look like hell, the scratches and blood, the torn gap in his clothes near the right shoulder, overlaying what looks to be a nasty cut, and he was holding his head like a man would while nursing a nasty hangover from cheap swill, for a moment his red-tinged eyes widened at seeing Vivi, his breath catches - or least he made the motions of it.

Soon he had a child clinging to him, crying about as hard as he heard a child cry, it must have been terrifying for the boy, this wretched night, he thought. Slowly, Sherlock kneels, awkwardly, and with extreme delicateness in his movement, he embraces Vivi, somewhat self-conscious that he's cool to the touch - not warm as an embrace should be]

[alreadyhuman]

[ He doesn't care if Sherlock is warm or cold or anything else. He's there and real; that's more than enough for him.

He wishes he could heal. He wishes he could do more than destroy things, like some ugly, bad part of him says good for destruction and nothing else.

But he can't. Nothing can change that. Nothing can change the way he's made.

Eventually, he withdraws, but he seems reluctant to let go of him entirely. He rubs his eyes in a feeble attempt to make the tears stop.

Wordlessly, he tugs Sherlock in the direction of the infirmary instead. If he can't help him, he can at least make sure he goes somewhere that he can get help. ]

[improbablenotimpossible]

I'm glad to see that you're unharmed.

[He broke the silence with a soft, raspy voice, but even with Vivi is physically not hurt, he could tell he's been through a lot this night. Sherlock slowly rises as the embrace was broken, idly searching for a handkerchief, and not finding it - perhaps it fell out when he crashed, or maybe he just forgot to take it, he hadn't the foggiest idea...

Everything between the crash and Moriarty holding onto him was a blur, there's a sort of gloomy air that settled over him as he realized there's a period where he had no clear recollection of his actions. Soon he sees where Vivi was was leading him, a soft not quite smile appearing, appreciative]

...Thank you.

[alreadyhuman]

It's--

[ He rubs at his eyes again, faltering. He can't really say 'it's okay' when he doesn't feel like it.

He holds onto Sherlock's hand more tightly instead. The sentence is left unfinished.

When he realises Sherlock is looking for something, he digs in his various pockets to see if he can find anything that might help.

He produces a small packet of tissues and holds it up, questioningly. He's still kind of bloody, after all.]

[improbablenotimpossible]

[He kneels, even if it means delaying the trip, taking the tissues with his free hand. The man realize he probably did look like hell, but that's not important right now. He takes one of the tissues, dabbing at the tears]

There we go, should be easier to see things now... though I'm not in a presentable state, I'm afraid.

[The smile was wane, forced - trying to be assuring, though he suspects it would not be too effective]