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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.

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[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.]

[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!

[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]

[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-!

[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?]

[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.]

[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]

[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!

[The Detective twists his head around, wings flapping, slapping at the man's arms and face, beak snapping open and closed before pecking where he could, drawing blood. After several minutes, the movements grew sluggish as the last baying of the hounds trailed off in the distance... did it end or where they too far?

The bird ceased it's struggling, head against the man's chest, visibly panting despite his undead nature. Then, inch by inch he seem to fade into a fog worthy of london's streets, stretching and expanding. The man's eyes slowly opened, no longer black or red, but a pale, confused green]

Ngh...?

[...Where was he? Why is Moriarty hugging him? And why does everything Hurt?!]

Edited 2019-09-28 01:20 (UTC)

[This would most likely be a sight, if they weren't in the middle of nowhere at night.

As it is, Moriarty just makes a slight, pained groan - this isn't as bad as the bear, but dear god, it still actually hurts for once.]

Good - get off. Before the - pain sets in for you -

[Since he could feel himself healing from the burns, but - Since he'd just changed back, he most likely hadn't been able to feel that AND the pain of the spine having pressure applied on it, but when it did...

He'd really rather not have to push the man off of him, honestly.]

[He winces, teeth bared for a moment as the pain blossoms, as he quickly throws himself off, his hand instinctively flying to his throat, despite none of the pain was coming from there, as he tries to make sense of what just happened except...

he fell into Hunt]

[Oh thank god. As soon as he gets up, Moriarty sits up - wincing a little due to his back, but it soon fades to the dull, barely there throb he's used to.]

...Hm...It's been a while since I've felt that amount of pain - I'd almost forgotten how unpleasant it is.

[He looks over, blinking at the grasping, before giving a sigh.]

Did you enjoy yourself, at the least? It's a good thing the Lord of the Hunt didn't drag us behind him the entire time - regenerating skin is always an itchy business.

[He shudders, trying to ride out the pain, his fingers touching his mouth - seeming to be searching - perhaps for a lingering taste of blood, or flesh? Sherlock didn't know what extent he went to while in the mindset of a hunter.]

Personally? No - this kind of thing...

[Is why he fled his Sire the first chance he get, he did not want to be a puppet of someone else's will, especially to kill but - he can't deny a certain thing...]

Is what I am against, but I would be lying if I didn't say an aspect of me had enjoy the chase.

Ah. Yes, you would be the sort to detest giving into your darker nature.

[Again, he says it completely casually, placing a hand on his chin.]

I suppose it's what makes you, you - though it's a terrible thing, having gone through all of that and only enjoying it in the tiniest sense.

LUNAR HARVEST

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