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Played by Offline Raeym. [PM] Posts: 51 — Threads: 9
Signos: 740
Night Court Soldier
Male [he/him/his] // 4 [Year 500 Winter] // 16.3 hh // Hth: 8 — Atk: 12 — Exp: 13 // Active Magic: Umbrakinesis // Bonded:
#1



THE ELYSIUM.
located in the night markets, a shopfront has been renovated - complementing the cobblestone streets.
a sign on the door reads: the elysium is OPEN

THE ELYSIUM is simple at its first sight – a rustic vision, with its cathedral ceiling that hangs wrought iron lanterns with flickering candlelight, hardened wax drip clinging to the corners like bone white stalactites. The floor is a smooth but uneven tile of pressed sandstone, cut to imprecise edges that are buffered by lines of grey-tan grout where they do not meet perfectly. The light that filters through the hammered glass windows is changeable by the weather, but the amber glow that hides in the nooks and crannies of the place give off a vibe of relaxation, of rest, a place to drink and lounge. And drink indeed – a cabinet stands heavy with an assortment of wine to the far left wall, as far as the wall will stretch. To the right, a section of cabinetry holds mead just past the stand of four polished tables, candlelit lanterns dancing their light across the veneer over old, darkened oak faces. There are crate stands that fill the room with the smell of fresh tea bags, tailed by heady tobacco and mint where cigars and cigarillos sit neatly in a row. The tavern is fresh, aromatic pleasure, and it is of no loss when the bartender, polishing a crystal glass behind a rough-hewn granite slab, grins and softly notions to the broad cabinet behind him stocked of wines, whiskeys, scotch, and meads. “Anything I can help y'with today?” his voice is warm, a full welcoming breath of hospitality and grace, and he wears his age well – a great, wide-shouldered man with a whiskered grin and copper eyes. You came for one thing, but you can't help but oblige his congeniality, so you ask for a taste of the amber bottle he still has placed on the ledge behind him. “Ah,” he forgot, he plays, grasping for the neck and plodding softly on the bar, “Gud choice, I'd say.” the amber laps into the curve of a half glass, a shot of sunlight that settles like honey. You take a shot and tell him you were invited here, to see what was beneath the cellar. For a small glimmer of a second the bartender's eyes scrape across the empty tavern, and sharply return to you. “'Fraid there's nothng to be seen there, love. Rocks n' dust, may.” his voice is as welcoming as before, but there is a terseness that rises from its former homey warmth – a slice of chill, a subtle threat of impatience. 

How could you forget? 

Your mind grasps at a pewter coin in your bag. It is light, silvery, softly hammered metal that chinks softly against the bar, and it stands out from the rest of your signos. On its face, an ornamental T is pressed. When flipped, a skull grins at your fortune. The warmth returns to the bartender's eyes and he accepts the tip with mirth, a longer glance spent to be certain that no customers lingered behind the crate towers of tea or tobacco, or loitered in the spaces between the glassware cabinets on the far wall. Once sated, the knotty door at his side clicked and creaked open, and he nods in its direction. “Down 'ere. Second barrel, t' the right.”

The cellar is in the same fashion as the tavern above. It smells sweet and humid, the smell of pungent wine and meade. Far down is a bookshelf with jars of dried leaves and jars of honey, beside it a table with some parchments that, when you squint, you can see hold recipes. But you aren't here to spy – no, you know the consequences. You have been told the rules, and you know that eyes rest on you from every corner, from every shadow. Just within the past couple weeks they reported two bodies found, days from each other, an ornamental symbol (shaped like something that should resemble a T if you knew to look) etched deep into their gullet. Soon as their founders had run and told the rest of Denocte, the search party returned to nothing but an empty prairie and a space that a body once laid in. Once rumors of the body had spread, you knew the nature of their deaths. The dead fools, while alive, had mentioned Tartaros in a drunken stupor, in some dim lit bar after gambling their wages away. Perhaps they thought themselves in well enough company, but you knew what to do in the situation that you overheard mention of the underground in a public space. You were to report it, if you didn't want to get your own hands dirty. Otherwise, you were free to deal with them as you pleased, but the responsibility what happened after rested on you. Either way, no traitors were left whole.

The second barrel to the right bore no oddities to the naked eye. It stood as resilient as the rest of the barrels, grand old oak casks that lay in rows down the length of the room to each wall but one. If you had entered the cellar without knowing its exact location, you may have been fit to ascertain, in the way the room was arranged, that there must be a way to enter from the outside instead. Its concealment meant a simple deterrent – who would want to search through all the heavy, some tightly-packed, wine barrels? Who would care to spend the time moving the monumental bookshelf, spilling its jars, to see if a tunnel rested behind it? But you know, because you are welcome. The bartender, if otherwise, may have fit to see you dead and stuffed into one of the barrels before finding the door as it is. So you skim your eyes around the second barrel to the right, pleased with its curious sort of anonymity amongst the rest of its identical fellows - save for a small, easy to miss notch in the southeast corner of the face. The wood looks splintered there, no hole or knob but a depression in the wood that you take care to grasp firmly and with a quick tug, the front comes grating open on hidden hinges. And there you are staring into the dim, candlelit tunnel, and you aspire to venture where outsiders deemed a myth.





TARTAROS.

The tunnel into the catacombs was once a crawlspace beneath the streets of the night markets. It is one of many that has long since been blocked and barricaded, hidden from the outside world. It was discovered when a draft was felt sifting through bricks whose mortar were curiously deteriorated in the cellar of the abandoned storefront come to be the Elysium. Dug out to accommodate leisurely traffic, it is now a broad tunnel lit dimly by flickering torchlight. Its length is a corridor that descends easily a good thirty feet into the ground, wide stairs cut into the old stone. At its bottom is an unevenly square room – one whose walls are decked with grand bookcases that are gradually fuller than the last you could remember them, stocked with volumes that range from the arcane to modern herbology reads, peppered with tattered spines that are hardly legible. To the east, a great door is locked against wrought iron hinges, the keyhole guarded by the likeness of a scowling lion gargoyle knob. It can be assumed that this room serves as no more than a breezeway, and perhaps a door into the owner's study. With little to be minded, you will notice that a corridor leads out of this room and into greater halls that ascertain more entertainment. 

THE LOBBY – as you navigate the halls through the catacombs, there are a few things that you may or may not become aware of as peculiar. For one, most of the resting places for the dead have been pilfered, and some emptied completely – but this is a note only for those who care to mind the dead. Secondly, some would anticipate the creeping stench of death or limestone, something dreadful and eerie that permeates the halls – but there is only a vague smell that would remind you of an old, dusty library, as well as the faint traces of exotic incense. This hall passes through a long way (almost uncomfortably long, if you fear the dead and the way the wind is eerily cold, filled with whispers and shifting currents) before opening into a room slightly larger than the last. This one splits off into three more passages, a passage for each greater notch on the compass. A couple of large, thickly cushioned chaises deck the eastern wall, one on each side of the doorway, a curved table sidled to accompany them. On the western wall, a vast divan sits beside the doorway, framed by two sidetables with pewter clawfeet and wide marble tops. In the center of the room rests a great curving lounge beneath a canopy of glimmering sheer curtains, at its heart a head flat enough to rest your drinks. A lamp stands at each corner, fire flickering in the bowls that light the room with such golden grandeur that it is easy to overlook the demure artwork pieced about the ceiling – grinning skulls, cracked bones, a menagerie of fossilized claw and bone, vertebrae and teeth. In the middle of a ceiling is a cracked, faded mural of what anyone who knew the catacombs well enough could tell was a compass and a grim image that subtly mapped the main rooms. To those who did not know it well, it is simply an etched mural of death and life in parody.

GRAND HALL – To the west, a passage winds down a narrow corridor. Along its path there are deviated passageways – pitch black and cavernous, their routes uncertain. If you follow torchlit path however you will arrive into the opening of the grand hall - in which stands the bone-laden pillars that hold the great domed roof, its murals cracked and revealed in places the brick laid beneath the cobblestone of the night market streets. The vast walls are shelved with more bodies, long decayed and veiled thickly by dust and crumbled rock. This room you will find can quite easily accommodate two pairs of battling foes, as well as comfortably seat groups of casual bidding spectators, and beyond them all an assortment of tables and shelves that present a many of seemingly priceless items. Here, if the exciting display of vulgarity in bloodshed does not appeal to you, you may find that for the right price you can acquire relics and artifacts thought to be things of myth – ancient heirlooms, forgotten antiquities, invaluable jewelries only spoken about in history books, things that were expected to have been lost in time and some perhaps buried with their owners. The grand hall stands true to its name and is easily the largest area of the catacombs accessible to the general guests. It is golden in the light of torches and lamps, pungent and lively as the night markets above. Peculiarly lively in fact – as it often seems there is more sound than there are occupants. Or at least, live occupants.

THE LOUNGE – If you return to the luxurious room, you can pass to the western passageway. This hallway leads through tombs with shining plaques, a forlorn hall that breaths with a dry, cool air. In here it is silent, unearthly so. But it soon opens up to a great room of just almost equal splendor to the room before it, with its comfortable lounges and flickering lamps, the ethereal way the sheer curtains bow from the ceiling like clouds of starlit lavender skies. A granite slab separates the bar from the rest of the room; behind it are shelved meads and wines you will not see at any bar in or outside Novus. These drinks are tainted, and often in ways that differ from their partners. Some instill bodily euphoria, some instilling a feeling of great intellectual relief, others twist the mind into fanciful visions, an awakened dreamstate. In the drawers beneath these line cigars and cigarillos that provide the aforementioned effects if one does not care to drink, some flavored with rich tobaccos and cool mint, others with a moderated balance of nectar from such toxicities as of moonflower and nightshade. Behind a locked black door of the cabinet are a few selections of wine that are not so elegantly consumed and meant to be bought outright – these are the sweetest of wines, bottles to be bought that taste of rich blackberry, tantalizing cherry, thick cabernet sauvignons for those who prefer the tart. These are bought by those with more cruel intentions – brewed with such ingredients that, while too discreet to the palette that they are untraceable by the tongue, act as varying degrees of poison. Some simply cause nausea, some a quick and deep sleep that can last a week or more, and some that mean a painful, grueling and slow death.

With rooms that offer pleasures such as these, it is easy to forget the pathway into the southern room. This passage leads even deeper, a slight decline of fifteen feet or so into the cool confines of earth that are lined with politicians, advisers, governors, lawmen. The breeze is changeable and almost sweet, tinged with the faint scent of cedar and sandalwood. At the bottom of this pathway, should you choose to wander so far into this hall, is a great, locked wrought iron gate that stretches brick to brick in the entirety of the arched doorway. Beyond this gate are the tombs of proclaimed royalty and those deemed worthy to be seated at their greatness in death. The room here is dark, lit only from the distant lamplight of the rooms beyond, and it is almost impossible to see anything but decayed bodies, bones, skulls, and the scuttle of rats. You can hear the distant trickle of water, as if a stream runs through somewhere in the distance, but there is nothing to be cared for here but mystery itself.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------


If you were fortunate enough to find a favor in the proprietor of the establishment enough to pass this gate, (or a great enough lock picker to break in) it is one thing to be both excited and concerned. The room at the other side of the gate is simply a room fitted with the decorated dead – but if you were to look closely enough, you would see that their decorations are gone. Where you would expect royalty to have been buried with their greatest possessions, they are left only dust. There are only three paths that lead away from here, and two of their passageways are pitch with the deepest shadows, no sign of lamplight in the distance. The third, one to the right wall, is a winding corridor of faceless brick and mortar. It curves in an elongated S before opening into anything, a bleak and dreary hall that is dimly lit by only one torch at the very end. The room it enters is a tomb of exhumed holes – no bodies, but empty shelves that are stagnant with dust and dry air – and devoid of any firelight except from the hall before and room beyond. Another tunnel breaks away from this dim room, but inside it is blackness swirling, and its path is uncertain. The room beyond it is a great hall only a bit larger than the lounge room, lit by lamps standing at each of the four corners and two between. In here the walls are walked with pillars that hold valuable possessions and above them the occasional glass-doored wine cabinets, amongst them the grinning teeth of greyed skulls. Curtains dip from the ceiling like they do in the winery, black and glimmering in the torch light, hanging from them dark gray cobwebs that cling to the high walls. At the end of the hall two gargoyles stand over the large doorway, scowling and fangs sharpened.

Between rooms there is a great, fat pillar decorated in bones and skulls, spined with bricks and more gargoyles that are posed in a way they appear to keep the ceiling from caving into the room. Few shelves are slated into this pillar, some that are marked with the names of kings and queens from a time many alive now have sorely forgotten. The room beyond this is guarded by two more gargoyles, fiercer and larger than those from the rooms before. They are maned in a wreath of thorns – their faces wolfish, their claws sharp against the marble. Bat wings spread against the mortar doorway. Their spines are pronounced against the ridges of their ribs – ravenous, famished. Their gaze is unwavering and eternal, black and gleaming.

TOMB OF THE FORGOTTEN KINGS - This room is so great and large that it holds two hulking mausoleums, one on the right and the other to the left. They are seated in against the walls, so that the room itself is spread great and wide – spacious and grand, marble stairs leading to each gate of the mausoleums. More black curtains, thinly matted with cobwebs at the corners, loom like dark clouds from the ceiling, shifting in the chilled breeze that strolls casually from a dark tunnel far beyond. At one corner is a large backed lounge with its own canopy, a marble table at its rest. To the other, a large cherry desk that yields to drawers and cabinets, extended from it along the wall to the right-side mausoleum a stretch of shelves that hold jars and jars of labeled, dried flowers and herbs, exotic insects, woods, and books on each subject. Incense burns at the altar before each mausoleum – sandalwood and cedar, and a hint of something too foreign to know. Something like cinnamon, something like black jasmine, something like smoldering amber. The smell of damp dungeon is lost here, the air is even and smooth. On the breeze is a faint scent of wintry woods, something that faintly reminds you of the Arma Mountains. It is limestone and pine, ever subtle on the breath that flows through the southernmost passage. The trickling of water you heard before now reveals its nature – two holes on each wall that frames the dark passage bleed streams of an underground spring from the passages beyond, fresh moontide that flows into two bowls and feeds the small moats at the foot of the mausoleums. The water is fresh, silvery, ethereal water that seems to glisten in its rush.

Here is where the darkest business is conducted with its proprietor, and the longer you stay the more you notice the way the breeze chills you deeper than flesh, the way it whispers as though the dead speak from the passages beyond. It is here where you learn if you are welcome or unwelcome, and what such entails is ambiguous in itself.

art


In the works. More to follow, as well as possibly updated images. Please see this page at the time for current details.




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Played by Offline Raeym. [PM] Posts: 51 — Threads: 9
Signos: 740
Night Court Soldier
Male [he/him/his] // 4 [Year 500 Winter] // 16.3 hh // Hth: 8 — Atk: 12 — Exp: 13 // Active Magic: Umbrakinesis // Bonded:
#2



THE LOBBY.

a place for luxury and relaxation - a haze falls over the space between realms, decadent and transposed in the celestial fares of heavenly hell; it is easy to forget how deep you have traveled here, easy to forget that you are among the dead. The room is seated with a comfortable amount of chaises and lounges, and at its center rests a grand lounge veiled in cascading sheer. The space is warmly intimate, and the perfect grounds to acquire an escort for your evening.


escorts employed with Tartaros can be paid for by a price of their choosing. Tartaros asks that they supply a small amount back to the establishment, which sets their base price - but this payment is simply for their company, a menial charge for a paltry engagement. Perhaps you care for them to join you on an evening out in the realm of splendor up above, arm candy for your night at the Scarab. If you desire more, you must pay more - but beware. These escorts are not playthings, and they come with a particular dignity. If you attempt to secure more than what you have paid, you will find yourself facing the consequences of such deeds. Those in Tartaros know that respect is king, and it would be a shame to lose such respect. 


THE CONTRACT.
in summary, reads: escorts employed under tartaros are expected to bring in a required weekly charge - their base pay is in admittance to the council in tartaros. however, any pay they receive above that base cost is their own. This being, escorts are allowed to charge whatever they please, so long as they bring in a consistent lot. escorts are permitted tartaros goods at a discount, and may be provided lodging if necessary. escorts may never mention their place of business outside of tartaros, and if pressed must express an otherwise establishment. escorts are at full liberty to discuss their boundaries and needs with respective clients and these boundaries are expected to be regarded well. (there is an ominous underscore here, and a hint toward a painful punishment.) If an escort is unable to bring in an expected weekly wage, the reasons being will be inspected and corrections applied. the length of contract may be discussed at the time of signing. 







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Played by Offline Raeym. [PM] Posts: 51 — Threads: 9
Signos: 740
Night Court Soldier
Male [he/him/his] // 4 [Year 500 Winter] // 16.3 hh // Hth: 8 — Atk: 12 — Exp: 13 // Active Magic: Umbrakinesis // Bonded:
#3



THE GRAND HALL.

the largest expanse of publicly navigated space in the catacombs - it is uncertain what it once was, but its use is clear now. the black market is a stretch of vendors who sell their wares on the outer walls of the room, providing goods you will not find above. These include poached animal furs, claws, and teeth, fine weaponry and armory, accessories and conversation pieces stolen or exhumed from the grave. At the farthest end are the goods provided by Tartaros itself - great, ancient weaponry refurbished in a master forge, shining armory mentioned only in lore, forgotten drobes that glimmer with captured starlight. In the center of all of this is a massive pair of rings. In these rings the stones are stained with blood and soot, and no amount of washing can lift the desecration from its face. Here is the Pit, wherein its bounds are grand battles without the restrictions of morals or nobility.  


fighters in the Pit do not have to be employed by Tartaros. All are welcome regardless of age, gender, or court, and it is a great spectacle of entertainment and the occasional gamble. There are no rules here regarding weapons, magic, or armor, and the manner in which one wins is simple: you stay standing, and the loser either surrenders or dies. There is no time limit, there are no breaks. You will find gamblers are most drawn in when there is no security present - no armor or dignity to be found. Only brawn, metal, and brutality. All fighters will receive a percentage of the bid wages, but those employed by Tartaros will be granted a higher percentage as well as benefits. 


THE CONTRACT.
in summary, reads: fighters employed by tartaros will be granted a 15% higher profit off of the admitted winnings than that of the average fighter. tartaros fighters will be expected to attend all scheduled fights with no exceptions other than the conditions of wartime. fighters will also be expected to attend regular training. losers will receive average profit from the winnings. consecutive losses will require inspection and corrections. any employed in tartaros will receive goods at a discounted price, and lodging if necessary. there is an age cap on eligible fighters. length of contract will be discussed at time of signing.

THE SYSTEM.
OOC system for fighting in tartaros will be determined.


THE BLACK MARKETS.
in which you may find the vendor carts of thieves, poachers, and graverobbers. here you can purchase noble heirlooms, taboo remedies, exotic pelts, weaponry and armory exhumed from the graves of nobles and warriors. on the far wall is the grand procession of tartaros goods - wide tables that flash with the sharpest, keenest weaponry, or weighted with the glimmer of superior armory forgotten by time. you may find exotic fabrics and accessories lost to the modern world, and their appeal is far greater than the threat of their curses.


WEAPON & ARMOR, OUTFITS, ACCESSORIES DESIGNS TO COME, CHECK BACK LATER.





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Played by Offline Raeym. [PM] Posts: 51 — Threads: 9
Signos: 740
Night Court Soldier
Male [he/him/his] // 4 [Year 500 Winter] // 16.3 hh // Hth: 8 — Atk: 12 — Exp: 13 // Active Magic: Umbrakinesis // Bonded:
#4



THE LOUNGE.

to the east of the lobby, if you would follow the corridor through, is the lounge. a second bar is here, as well as a luxurious space for seating furnished similarly to the lobby. gothic pieces array the dim lit space, and you will find yourself quite comfortable in the opiate ambiance that settles about the room. at the far wall is the span of cabinetry that holds a many liquor and wine - all of which tainted in one way or another. behind the bar are shelves of cigars or cigarillos of many natures, sistered by shelves of spiked teas. 


at the bar you will find imported hallucinogenic wines, home brewed mead, fresh teas, opiate cigars, a black cabinet of poisonous wines. The wines and meads are a marvel on their own, each invention is committed to the perfect ratio so as to provide its intended effects without the risk of death. poisoned wines are sold at an extremely high price, and kept in small quantity. one must be desperate to contemplate purchasing a bottle, and its effects are the sole responsibility of the buyer. nothing can be traced back to Tartaros, and tartaros will not aid in cleaning any messes that occur. 


THE ALCOHOL.
there is an assortment of wines and meads, but the most popular are:
Belladonna – the sweetest berry wine, a bittersweet aftertaste that provides a “bite”. Muscle relaxer. Fever reducer. Mild visual hallucinations, auditory hallucinations extremely rare.
Redeater – floral flavor and scent, distinct poppy seed aftertaste. Faint hints of lemon. Best Seller. The drinker's pain is numbed almost completely. Will induce pleasant, euphoric-charged hallucinations and an overall feeling of ecstasy.
Datura – sweet, thick, smooth; the Datura mead has a pleasant flavor that settles easy on the palate. Vision-inducing, auditory and visual hallucinations, it provides a feeling of deep, spiritual elation. Some drink it in devoted measures of worship or to tap into intimacy with the supernatural. The effects are not always so pleasing, and may at times lead to nightmare-ish visions that depend upon the user's intake and tolerance.
Valeria – a floral mead, flavored thickly of honey and nectar-sweet. It is relaxing, uplifting, anxiety reducing. One may feel weightless, worry-less.
Andromeda – brewed with cinammon and clove, the taste is almost smoky and warm, prickling to the tongue. It will stimulate its drinker into great heightened senses and an increased energy, a feeling of indomitable force and a damper on the nerves. It numbs pain to dull, fleeting stings. A favorite among fighters. (A higher content brew is provided at no charge to fighters of Tartaros.)
Wormwood – crisp, sharp, and hot to the tongue. You are numb to the sensation after the first two or three sips, and the flavor becomes warm and slightly floral, notes of vanilla and almond. A hard liquor that presents strong hallucinations as well as sharpened senses, dulling pain while your motor skills take the brunt. Sold in limited quantities.

THE SMOKES.
Hopswood – a thickly rich tobacco flavor with sweet and woodsy notes. Temporary cure for headaches, anxiety, relaxes the nerves and eases the mind. Red label.
Indigo – tobacco base with aromatic chocolate and spice, grounded with a trace of vanilla. Relaxes mind and body. Green label.
Derelict – tobacco base with a citrus tinge, minty back flavor. A mental stimulant, its effects are stronger if smoked in quick, short puffs. Orange label.
Effervescent – floral and sweet, herbal base with a flavor headed by vanilla, traces of hazelnut, and an unmistakable hint of datura petals. Long drags are best – the taste is smooth, thick, almost delicious enough to be a confection. Induces visions, distant vagaries, visual hallucinations overcome by a pleasant sense of euphoric calm. It is silver-leafed with a lilac label.
Royal – aromatic and fresh, berry-sweet, full flavored; a flavor packed with warm spice and black currant, notes of vanilla and blackberry tinge. It is green-leafed with a purple label.
More to come.

THE TEAS.
Datura, Valeria, and Redeater are provided in correlating flavors as well as softer effects. Andromeda is being worked on in tea form, though its effects are on a trial basis and seem to have a severely lesser impact than its mead form. Other homemade herbal teas are available, such as Chamomile, Lavender, Chai, Mint and Lemon Verbena. 

THE POISONS.  
each disguised as award winning wines, such as:
Black Belle – reportedly the sweetest wine. Best seller. If not healed within a day, the drinker may experience a fever leading into urinary retention, constipation, hallucinations, debilitating headaches, slurred speech, convulsions, stomach pains, and ultimately death. kept in a black bottle, maroon label with gold inlay.
Worms Brine – dry, mild tasting wine. The drinker may experience an onset of violent vomiting and a fever that may lead into a coma or death. kept in a peach colored bottle, mint-green label.
Rustacre – an almost dry wine with a bittersweet aftertaste, faint flavor of apricot. Drinking this wine results in heightened levels of anxiety and paranoia, leading into insomnia, low blood pressure and in some uncured cases, death. A favorite among those who intend on interrogation, as its victims are often prone to extreme honesty in their delusional state. Kept in a green bottle, red label.
Spindle – a bitter dry wine with a floral smell. The drinker may not experience symptoms within the following two days, save for mild hallucinations. Afterward they may experience a quick and violent onset of vomiting, intestinal burning, kidney damage or failure, and possible death. kept in a green bottle, yellow label.
Skelsworn – sweet and tart, almost sour like a green apple. The drinker may experience paralyzation before feeling what has been described as feeling as though “engulfed in flames” - followed by an onset of muscular convulsions, some so violent that in some cases, muscle has torn away from bone, its victims found in positions that should not be physically possible. Kept in a clear bottle, silver label.
Moonflora – distantly sweet, semi-dry wine. Floral notes. The most merciful of poisons, the drinker may experience only severe hallucinations and a small moment of euphoria, before falling headlong into a coma and, without immediate treatment, death. Kept in a clear bottle, lavender label.






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