𝔦 𝔰𝔢𝔫𝔰𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢'𝔰 𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔡
𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔣𝔢𝔢𝔩𝔰 𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔢 𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔡𝔶'𝔰 𝔞𝔱 𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔡

The snowfall subsides; a storm takes its place. Relentless sheets of rain batter the Fortress, dull drumming echoing through its weary halls. An occasional flash of lighting bathes the Selecteds' quarters in blinding white. Thunderous claps follow. The air is as heavy as the inky clouds overhead.

Indeed, a site of luxury has become a prison. Stinking death lurks in rooms once filled with laughter and mirth. Dread fills the Selected, who once thought only of romance—and for many, the new beginnings that came with it. Such hope feels futile now. What will become of this doomed event? 

But this litany of misfortune has yet to end: amidst the storm, the Fortress is on lockdown, for strange sounds emanate from ex-Count Rousseau's lab. At last, he's downed his half-form concoction. He claimed it would make him powerful. He claimed it would grant him the ability to drive out the convicts, protect the young Prince, and return the order to the throne. But mere hours after syringe met flesh, it's evident: something went horribly wrong. 

 Listen closely, and hear bones crack and pop. Hear ligaments stretch and tear and twist inward and fold outward. Hear the laughter—the shrill, maniacal laughter of the madman. Bleached claws warp from slender fingers. Curved fangs curl from whiskered lips. Once-human limbs extend into spindly feline forms. A monster is born.

The laughter turns into screams. Screams turn into growls. Growls turn into roars. The lab door bursts open. Guards assume a defensive position. Selected lock their quarters and cower under their covers. A monster is born. 

Hugleikr Rousseau seeks his revenge. 

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔟𝔢𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔪𝔶 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔯 𝔣𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔫𝔡
𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔞𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰 𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔡 𝔲𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔫

However, a cat-creature prowling the Fortress is but one of many concerns. 

Prince Arcadius has found that the Bloodletter is no longer in the dungeon, and Councilwoman Lillie appears to be missing. The Queen has neither dispatched a public notice nor corresponded with her children in weeks. The King, likewise, is out of commission. Laurentius, the soothsayer, has fallen deeply ill, his vision clouded by frequent migraines. Noa remains alone in prison in spite of the dangerously leaking ceilings. And Thyra's murderer is still among the ranks of the Selected.   

The storm rages on. The clouds are thick. Night and day are indistinguishable. To the superstitious, it's an ominous message from the spirits. To the worldly, it's a grim reminder that escape is not an option. Not yet. 

Rebel or loyalist, convict or model—it's time to take action. The lives of too many hang in the balance.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

 As we approach the final stretch, thank you so so so much for bearing with us through the hiatus! I look forward to seeing how your characters get out of this mess....if they can. >:)

From now on, all characters have EXPLICIT PERMISSION to murder/trap/etc. Hugleikr Rousseau & any other OC whose admin has been absent for 6 or more months. Now's the time to create chaos and follow through with hidden agendas. 

Try limiting responses to 1-2 whole replies (2000-4000 characters) so as to keep interactions concise and encourage more literate activity. 

Group chains are heavily encouraged! There's safety in numbers.