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

[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]