Reducio

𝕯𝖊𝖘𝖎𝖌𝖓𝖊𝖉 as a place for elegant lingering, this open chamber invited pause rather than passage. Situated along a long, arched hallway, the space between a beverage alcove and a formal sitting area. This space featured wide openings to both the north and south, transitional thresholds that allowed for both motion and stillness. A fire crackled softly in a grand hearth built directly into the eastern wall, the flames casting flickering amber light across the polished wooden floor. This was a double-sided fireplace, its counterpart opened directly into the ballroom, and every now and then, a guest would emerge in a swirl of smoke and glamour. Most traffic arrived on the other side, their silhouette emerging in the flames. In that same direction, the music and laughter from the ball filtered in only faintly, as if the room itself had been enchanted to muffle distractions.

To the south, a small bar bustled quietly with activity, while to the north through archway IV, a more formal sitting area beckoned with plush chairs and a touch more privacy, offering passing guests a moment to exhale and sip something cool.

A low bookshelf lined the western wall, filled with handsome tomes that bore the look of inheritance rather than purchase. Richly bound and unlabelled in some cases, their presence suggested a curated private collection. Something academic, obscure, or perhaps dangerously arcane. A guest with a discerning eye might notice one or two titles long thought to be long lost, only to learn now that such things were nothing but rumor and speculation.

Beside the shelf, a small vase with an interesting patter shadowed by a comfortable chair that unlike much of this place, appeared to be well-used. This was a reading room, not a space for congregation and socialization but rather quiet contemplation.

Three statues stood silent in the space, their stone expressions somber and strangely familiar. Carved in different poses, all proud, some ready for battle and others seemingly regal. They all bore a family resemblance. Keen observers would note the unmistakable likeness they shared with the groom, their presence casting a faint, almost ancestral weight over the room.

Mini Game: Books

Admittedly this is more a lore dump opportunity. Users can search through this bookshelf and find a randomly assigned book that may give them some useful or interesting information. Some books are more useful than others.

Roll 1d8 to randomly determine the title. Rolling for a book requires 1 magical or mundane action. Reading excerpts from the book (I cannot write a whole book for you, sorry) requires 1 magical or mundane action.

1. Priestly Vestments of the Veil
2. Beneath the Veil: Hag-Lore & Hidden Seers
3. Gloaming Lexicon
4. Ouroboros & Mirror: Prophecies Lost to Reflection
5. Augury Cloister
6. The Athanatos Inheritance
7. Almanac of Weeping Herbs
8. The Daughters of the Veil

There is a charm on these books preventing them from being stolen. Once someone leaves the immediate grounds, the book would disappear and then reappear 1d4 hours later in this reading area.

Arrived from Ballroom

Thaddeus stepped cleanly from the hearth, the emerald flames receding behind him in a soft hiss of extinguished magic. Most of the other guests exited to the ballroom. He would not see the dysfunctional dynamic that was Gideon and Taylor, nor would he hear the terrible accusation of 'hag.' He adjusted the front of his cloak with a sharp flick of the wrist and turned toward the modest bar in the next room. He could at the very least find some enjoyment this evening.

In the next room, where the bar was with an elegant walnut cabinet inlaid with mother-of-pearl, stocked with old spirits and older habits. He could note that the service counter was cluttered with shallow vessels. Odd. That should have been clean by now he acknowledged. But that was not all, from his vantage point, Thaddeus saw a most unfortunate sight.

Sprawled at the foot of the bar was a house elf, small limbs tangled gracelessly, one bony hand still clinging to a half-empty bottle of firewhisky. Its eyes were closed, mouth slightly ajar, snoring faintly, if one could call that pitiful wheeze a snore.

Thaddeus stared at the scene for a long, cold moment. His expression did not shift.

He had not known any of his staff to be drunks, but neither was he surprised. Standards had slipped everywhere. Discipline was a dying art, and good help, truly good help, was becoming as rare as pure bloodlines and honest prophecy.

Moved to the Small Bar

Arrived from Ballroom

Aamon did not walk through the green flames like a normal person to leave the ball room and enter the reading space. No, Aamon tucked and rolled through them like he was escaping an explosion in a moving picture. It was deeply unnecessary and mildly theatrical, which meant it was exactly Aamon's style. He was still a bit sore from his near-death incident in the dungeons, but it did not stop him from hitting the floor on the other side in a half-sprawl, half-crumple that nearly took out a faceless NPC who had been stepping through at the same time.

“Sorry—” Aamon wheezed, not really meaning it. It was more an automated response, scripted from years of learning to say "please" and "thank you." Already staggering upright with the grace of a dizzy fawn on slick tile, Aamon braced himself on one of the statues for support. He wondered who these people where. They had names on copper plates, all Athanatoses (the possible plural for his family). None ladies, they were basically erased from history. The boy's head spun a bit, but Aamon managed to stay upright by sheer force of inherited stubbornness. He dusted off his robes with practiced flair, smoothing out the ceremonial fabric like the world hadn’t just spun ninety degrees and smacked him sideways.

His father was exactly where Aamon expected: at the bar, being brooding and handsome (for an old guy) and casually ruinous, as per usual. Aamon’s gaze lingered just long enough to note the heavy crystal in Thaddeus' hand. Thaddeus was not a drunkard, but he was often seen at affairs such as this with a disarming drink in hand.

Also, yes. Aamon saw through the archway a pair of house-elves dragging another absolutely trollied house-elf through the southern door like a sagging sack of potatoes. Aamon winced. This was why people should not drink. Well, this and the memory of S.N.O.G.-fest a few months prior.

“Campbell could stand to learn a thing or two,” Aamon muttered under his breath. Loud enough for no one in the shared room to hear, he was hurried for a reason, less witnesses. “Like restraint. Or dignity. Or maybe how to drink like you weren’t raised in a bin.” He was doing the world a favor today.

Aamon dusted a bit more soot off his sleeves before throwing his father a casual wave, one that hovered somewhere between affection and mild dread. “Hi, Dad,” he called across the room like they were discussing breakfast, not navigating decades of intergenerational power plays. Unlike his older brothers, he lacked the ambition necessary to be an heir. He was rich enough. Important enough. If anything, he could stand to have less eyes on him, not more. Aamon didn’t stop. Aamon had no interest in elbowing in on Thaddeus’ “me time,” which historically ended with either a new heirloom ring, a new half-sibling in a few months, or a surprise stepmother.

Nope. Not today.

Aamon headed north toward the sitting room. With any luck, there’d be less alcohol and fewer collapsing elves. And if he was really lucky, no one would follow him for at least five minutes.

Headed to the Sitting Area

Continued from the Ballroom

Hopefully @Howard White would comply and follow. If not, then the night would likely offer up some other fresh and unsavory diversion. The invitation had been barely more than a suggestion. But there was purpose to this detour, few could speak freely in the midst of a crowd.

He approached the bookshelf beneath the tall arched window that faced the garden path. Fading sunlight, partially hidden behind a brewing storm. Sunlight dappled the carpeted floor in pale, trembling patches, filtered through the leaded glass and drifting ivy. A shape moved outside drew Vladimir's attention, a limp house elf being hastily carried off by two of its kin. A fleck of moisture hit the pane just then, a prelude to rainfall.

"Well, that is no good," he murmured aloud, his tone as casual as if commenting on a patch of dying roses. He neither hurried nor intervened. The house had its rhythms. Its secrets. But nothing good came of the garden path.

His gloved fingers ghosted across the spines of the books with the reverence of a man touching a corpse’s jaw, delicate, clinical, perhaps a bit hesitant. But his actions were rarely without. Some of the titles had been hand-inked in languages long since forgotten, original and only copies in some cases. Others bore no title at all, only sigils pressed into fading leather. The scent of old parchment and long-dried ink thickened the air.

Mundane Action: Take a book

Vladimir selected a volume at random, or perhaps not at random at all. His hand lingered over three before choosing the fourth. It was unmarked, save for a crude emblem burned into its binding that had been worn away. That was the one. Tucking the book beneath one arm, Vlad moved wordlessly into the next room, the heels of his boots clicking against the polished stone like a metronome marking the decay of civility.

If Howard entered the reading room behind him, Vladimir would gesture to the shelf with a nod. An invitation. A choice. Let the man choose for himself, or choose nothing at all.

The sitting room lay just beyond, to the immediate north, a square chamber bathed in amber lamplight. The chairs, a pair of velveteen loveseats in a muted teal tone, they looked far too comfortable to trust. A round table stood in the corner, a deck of cards fanned in half-played arrangement, as if abandoned mid-game. Well, it was no game, that was a partially completed reading. Odd, but not his problem. A trio of chair tucked under the table, all unoccupied.

"The room is unique," Vladimir began before stepping inside and letting the silence fall over him like a blanket dipped in ice. "Utterly soundproof." He mouthed but no sound from him could be heard in the from where Howard stood, if he stood there at all.

Continue to the Sitting Room

@Solomon Lear

Howard's long legs had carried him swiftly back to the floo flames as he followed Vladimir to the reading area. He would look around to see a rather inviting area that seemed to connect a bar to some sort of lounge. It was quieter in here and less of a tax on Howard's senses. He would try again and took another deep inhale through his nose. Once more seeing if he could pick up on the scent of blood, but also to dial in on Vladimir's scent as well. He was defiantly the kind of man that he would like to see, well, smell coming.

Howard continued to follow Vladimir towards the lounge area. The way the fire cast its flickering light off of the walls of this building reminded him of Hogwarts. Ancient and full of power. He had seen the water out of the windows and picked up on the sea air. They had left London for the coast, but he had no idea where they were. Hopefully not too far from help if needed. Vladimir offered Howard a silent invitation to grab a book from the shelf. For what purpose he didn't even try to guess. The other man clearly wanted to tell and show him something and Howard was along for the ride.

Non-magic action: Take a book. Rolled a 5 for Augury Cloister

Howard's long, clawed index finger would pry away a book titled "Augury Cloister", but he just tucked it under his arm for now and watched Vladimir walk further down the hall towards the sitting area. He followed towards this unique room and when Vlad stepped through the threshold he could see why. Soundproof. A good place for a private conversation or perhaps to mute the screams...

Stats: STA - 17 | EVA - 21 | STR - 17 | WIS - 1 | ARC - 0 | ACC - 21
Abilities: Fangs, Claw & Bite | Martial Artist | Unsettling Aura | Blindvision | Keen Smell | Terrible Presence | Blood Resurrection

Leaving for the Sitting Room

Several passed through the study that day, treating it less like a chamber of knowledge and more like a corridor of necessity. It was a bottleneck between chaos and purpose, a place to collect one’s bearings, or books, before diving once more into the undercurrent of unfolding events.

Aamon, eyes wide and fingers clenched, cut north like a boy making rather than fleeing prophecy. His purpose was known only to himself, and perhaps not even fully there. He didn’t pause. He left.

Thaddeus, ever the stormy sentinel, turned south toward the bar. It was both the drink and the view, his chosen vantage to observe the failures of bloodline and name. If someone was going to embarrass the Athanatos family, he would rather see it coming.

And then there were the three: @Harlan Montgomery, @Vladimir Athanatos, and @Howard White: the gatherers. While others sought other place, this being a pathway to a destination they were drawn by the quiet gravity of the bookshelves. Each one reached out as though some unseen hand guided their fingers to fate.

Vladimir

He lingered only briefly, fingers trailing the spines of ancient tomes as if searching for a familiar heartbeat. A moment later, he withdrew a familiar battered volume: Daughters of the Veil.

Roll: 8

A curious selection. The book chronicled one of the earliest religious orders known to wizarding society, an all-female sect cloaked in ritual and mystery, who once whispered with the dead and danced barefoot across desecrated ash. It spoke of the thinness between worlds, and the women who walked its edge in veiled silence. It wasn’t the book he came for, but it was close. Close enough.

Howard
@Howard White was not a social creature but he came when invited. The dhampir stepped beside him, head tilting with subtle interest. His hand landed on a dust-covered volume bearing a cracked sigil. The Augury Cloister

Roll: 5

A fitting selection, given the cursed ground upon which they all stood. It detailed the transformation of the venue from a bloodstained temple to its current, sanitized venue of extravagance. The myths, the buried truths, the illusion of elegance built atop a place soaked in centuries of ritual and blood. It was a book that didn’t blink when describing sacrifices or weep when recounting names lost to tide and stone. It did not tell the whole story, some secrets were not written but were implied, but it was a start.

Both books were heavier than their bindings suggested. They both moved north to the quiet space adjacent, a place to talk. A place to read and learn.

Harlan
There was one other: @Harlan Montgomery, a Gryffindor. His hand didn’t hover or hesitate, he did not know what he was looking for or even what he wanted, but any tome there would surely slake some facet of curiosity.

Roll: 7

The book: The Almanac of Weeping Herbs. Bound in cracked bark leather and sealed with a clasp of tarnished silver, the almanac was neither rare nor benign. It was a gardener’s nightmare and a ritualist’s companion. It chronicled flora that responded to grief, that bloomed on burial soil, that whispered in windless rooms. Plants that bled when pruned. Leaves that curled in agony under sunlight but flourished under the light of the moon. Roots that tangled around the bones of the dead to protect them, or perhaps to feed.

Several entries bore warnings penned in spidery marginalia:

“Do not water with human tears. They remember.”

“The lungs of a basilisk can calm the Ferroweed… but it’ll cost you.”

“Weeping Angels will bloom only once, usually at funerals.”

Rituals involving these herbs were unflinchingly grim. Love spells turned to compulsion. Cures that required personal sacrifice. Curses that grew with the seasons. There were sections scorched with fire damage—clearly an attempt to erase or restrict knowledge, and just as clearly failed. This was an interesting one.

As Harlan would tuck the book beneath his arm and drift out of the room. The floor creaked in protest as if to ask, “Are you sure you want to take that with you?”

But it was already too late. The plants within had seen his face.

Double Post -

Had been waiting to see where Harland went with this book, but I do not want to forget them.

The Almanac of Weeping Herbs appeared as a thin, navy blue, hand-bound book. The book appeared to be threaded together crudely by a hand that was not used to book binding, the passages appeared to be made by different people over the coarse of many years. Different penmanship, different ink. Sometimes there was writing in the margins. It would seem that the various writers, or perhaps a single writer who devolved into madness, authored this book.

Mourner's Violet - "Last Flower of the Widow's Garden"

Small, near-silent, and night-blooming, the Mourner's Violet grows only near homes where someone has died, recently and unloved. Known to curl its petals inward during storms, it prefers moonlight and solitude. This flower is said to whisper in dreams.

Witch's Cradle - "Hung Bloom of the Gallows"

This herb hangs like a noose, blooming only in places where executions once occurred. It grows up fenceposts and gallows trees, thrives in ash and silence. Those who gather it without permission often dream of swinging.

Oleander (Nerium oleander)

The pink oleander is a liar. It thrives in manicured gardens, its petals luminous in the golden light, coaxing admiration with its cheerful guise. But each part of the plant holds poison: roots, stem, leaves, flower. A single blossom crushed and steeped may bring about the death of a grown man. Birds will not nest in it. Bees abandon its nectar.

This entry is annotated in curling script: "Do not be deceived by sweetness. I once was."

Bleeding Heart (Lamprocapnos spectabilis)

The Bleeding Heart, named for its pendulous pink flowers shaped like broken hearts, was once cultivated by mourning witches in the western isles. It thrives in shade. The weeping flowers bloom most violently after a loss.

Some believe the plant absorbs grief, blooming wider and darker the greater the sorrow near it. In battlefields left untended, it has been known to grow unnaturally tall.

Widow's Thistle (Cirsium Obsidianum)

Little is written about this rare thistle. It grows only where bones have been burned and buried. Its leaves are black-violet, its roots ghost-white. According to legend, a potion brewed from its root will let the drinker forget their wedding vows, but only if those vows were unspoken aloud.

It is said to bloom in the presence of widowhood, even when the spouse is not known to be dead.

Bloodmire Yew - "The Root That Hungers"

There is a tree in the Forbidden Forest in Scotland that will not die. The Bloodmire Yew was planted with a sharpened femur in place of a spade and fed not water, but ritual blood. It drinks in the dark. Its bark is veined with red that never fades, even in winter.

Each spring, it blooms once: red flowers with teeth. The villagers whisper it remembers every soul fed to its roots. Even in isolation, the tree dreams of flesh. The almanac warns: if a reader's hand bleeds upon the bark, their name will be known to the tree.

Mourning Bellflower (Campanula lamentia)

Commonly found in moonlit clearings following a death, the Mourning Bellflower is said to bloom only in the presence of unresolved grief. Its dusky violet petals, when dried, curl inward as if hiding a secret. When held in the palm, the petals release a faint saltwater dew that smells of old earth and forgotten lullabies.

Used sparingly in funerary rites, the sap of the Mourning Bellflower can be brewed into a thin tea said to bring fleeting glimpses of the deceased. These are not ghosts in the proper sense, but reflections - mirror shadows caught in the surface of the tea. For this reason, some consider it dangerous. The visions are not always kind.

Warning: Extended exposure to the dew may draw forth memories thought buried, or worse - those never lived. Readers are advised to breathe shallowly when turning this page.

Margin Note (scrawled in a spidery hand):
"Felt her fingers again today. Small. Soft. Not real. Can't be."

Widow's Smoke (Herba Fumosae)

Legends say that Widow's Smoke first grew from the ashes of a bride who died on her wedding day. Its long, silver-gray leaves curl like smoke even when dried. When ignited, the herb burns without flame and emits no scent, save to those who've lost a lover, they report a fragrance unique to their grief. Some smell violets. Others, sea-salt and brandy.

Wizards once used the plant to preserve emotion in crystal phials, as one would bottle wine. The best harvests are gathered from fog-wreathed coasts at dawn, when the tide is lowest and the mourning deepest.

Botanist's Note:
"Even in controlled growth, the herb refuses to thrive near joy."

Widow's Griefcap - "Where She Rots, They Bloom"

It does not grow in clusters, for it does not tolerate company. The Widow's Griefcap rises alone, but appears as a swarm. Thick roots connect these myconids. Pale as candlewax and crowned in crimson spots that seem to bleed when sliced. Its scent is nauseating: iron and rot, the breath of a fresh-dug grave.

Only one thing nourishes it: the decaying flesh of a hag.

The mushroom appears shortly after burial, within a seven-night cycle. The deeper the corruption of the buried witch, the richer the crimson seep from the Griefcap's cap. Consuming it leads to violent illness: retching, blood in the stool, hallucinations of drowning. Those who survive and said to never be right again, but were they truly right in the first place if they consumed the grief cap?

When found, it is advised to burn the mushroom whole at dusk. If it emits a scream or weeps bright red, a coven lies near. These mushrooms do not merely mark graves, they are invitations.

"One hag falls, and the others feel it in their marrow. This is how they call their sisters to mourn - or avenge."

Warning: never collect three. The third always brings something with it. Something old. Something hungry.

Bleeding Laurel (Laurus sanguinem)

This variant of the common laurel bears crimson-veined leaves, often mistaken for disease. In truth, it flourishes in graveyards. A favored herb among seers who interpret rot and soil, the Bleeding Laurel is prized for the way its veins darken in response to buried sorrow.

When dried and crushed, it may be used in inks that reveal the final written words of the dead, if smeared across an untouched page. The spell is not exact. The results may be metaphor or confession, fragment or scream.

Written over the text in a different ink. "In the laurel's red veins I read my brother's apology. He died two winters ago. We never spoke again."[/size]

Gliding rather than walking, it approached the hearth. There was no drama in the gesture, no grand flourish. Just the eerie stillness of a finger snap and the green flames of the Floo connection vanished into cold smoke.

Then a bow. Deep, unnatural. Joints moved like hinges, like marionette limbs pulled too far. The movement felt performed rather than lived. No smile, because there was no mouth. No visible fingers, only gloves. Were there digits under there or just the mere articulation of joints. No warmth came from the piano man, only the suggestion of something else.

And through the hearth came the trio.

Three women stepped from the ashes like spirits from a fever dream. Veela in appearance, if not entirely in truth. Radiant, ethereal, each one wrong in a slightly different way. One too symmetrical. One who did not blink. One whose eyes shimmered like still water just before something breaks the surface.



They saw Harlan. And the one in front, beautiful, cold, hollow, raised her hand. She bore strange, dark markings. The sort of markings that suggest a runic language that was long forgotten. She said a single word in a language that cracked like glass.

Harlan Montgomery

HP: 900 [-100] 800
Effect: Mind Controlled (3 rounds or until resisted)

Reducio

Stats:
stamina: 9 | evasion: 7 | strength: 1 | wisdom: 8 | arcane power: 5 | accuracy: 10
Abilities:
Advanced Casting
Effect:
Mind Controlled

Veela attacks Harlan
Attack 16 (+20 accuracy) Hit
Evasion 12 (+7 evasion)
Resist (DC 30) 5 (+8) Under the control of the Veela

The hex struck before the boy could react. No time for a shield. No time for protest. Just agony. His mind folded in on itself, collapsing like a string-cut puppet beneath the gaze of something ancient and merciless. This was control, searing and numbing all at once. His heart beat at their will. His breath at their whim. He would find his legs moving, his book suddenly abandoned. The periphery of his vision blurred, as if he was an onlooker in his own body. Not the pilot, but rather a passenger in his meat puppet of a body.

"Kill Thaddeus..."

The piano man tilted his head slightly, like a curious bird. Still silent. Still watching. Still featureless.

And the ballroom roared on, unaware.

Harlan is on the move towards the Small Bar where Thaddeus and Orion are sitting.

Note: Harlan, you are being mind-controlled. This is obviously a dramatic moment for your character, but I am big on autonomy. IF you become uncomfortable at ANY point OC, you can state such and I will cease the interaction. If you fail to post before moderation, I will not moderate further actions on behalf of your character and will assume you are walking into a wall like a terrible NPC in a video game.