This is one of the side-quests missions that were created for the short dangeon play during Shadowhunters LARP event. People, entering the dungeon, has their own special abilites and rules of the game they must follow for combats.
This dungeon "King Arawn’s Tower in the Unseelie Court" is narrative-based, but if completed successfully, the players gain the items and knowledge for the main LARP game. If the mission is unsuccessful, players can end their journey here - their characters can die.
During the quest upon reading the narrative, the players can talk to each other and interact as their characters to make the decision. It's not possible to make different choices. The team must act as one unified unit.
''Prerequisites:''
Portalist
4 people and no more in total
''Warning: ''your character may die on the quest. Quest is a one-time quest.
The actual time you spend on the game quest + travel there / back: is half an hour. Portal ability must be used 1 time before the quest.
[[Let's get started!]]
You stand at the edge of the Unseelie Court, where moonlight withers and shadows cling like cobwebs. Before you looms King Arawn’s tower, black stone veiled in whispers and dread. They say the thorn-choked cellars beneath it cradle riches the daylight has never touched… and horrors it dares not name.
Now, you are here. The tower rises like a curse from the earth, its base writhing with a thicket of jagged thorns, too thick to see any door, too cruel to offer a path. The thorns glisten as if wet, their tips darkened with something that might be venom… or blood.
There is no clear entrance. No welcome. Only one certainty: if you want to get inside, you’ll have to bleed for it.
You [[let a royal blood bearer of an Unseelie court forward]], if you have him in your party. If not, this option is unavailable.
You [[start clearing a path]] through the thorns to the tower walls.
You [[sit by the tower and wait]] for the Fae to pay attention to you and come after you themselves.
As if recognizing something ancient and dreadful, the twisted vines groan and slither aside, unraveling a narrow path to the tower’s door: wet with sap, sharp with the scent of iron and decay. They do not retreat in fear, but in reverence… or obedience.
You step forward. No resistance. No pain. Just the quiet shiver of thorns curling away from your presence.
Inside, the first floor is silent. Empty. Not a single guard in sight. But why would there be? The tower has no need for sentries, when it’s wrapped in a living barricade that answers only to blood.
You have two options: [[going downstairs]] and [[going upstairs]].
You stumble to the tower’s entrance, bleeding, breath ragged. The thorns may have parted, but they didn’t let you pass unscathed. Your wounds sting and burn, some shallow, others deep. (//even d6 dice stands for light wound, and odd stands for heavy injury//).
Inside, the first floor is as silent. No guards. No echoes. Only the cold stone and the thorns coiled outside like watchful serpents. The tower doesn’t need soldiers,its guardians are alive, and they bleed intruders dry.
You can leave now. The way back is open, for now. But know this: turning back means ending the quest. Whatever secrets or salvation lie deeper in the tower… you’ll never reach them.
Or you can also continue by [[going downstairs]] or [[going upstairs]]
Time drips by like a dying heartbeat. No one comes. No voices, no footsteps: only silence thick enough to strangle. But the Nephilim in your group… they’re slipping. Fast.
Then you smell it. Foul. Sweet. Wrong. A pale, oozing stain creeps across the ground, slick and glistening like curdled milk left to rot in the sun. It pulses faintly, as if alive, seeping toward your boots with grotesque purpose.
If there are shadowhunters in your party, they are reaching for the runes, desperate, whispering their sigils into the air, but they flicker uselessly, like breath against a storm. One by one, the Nephilim collapse, their bodies limp, their eyes rolling back into a fevered void.
Whatever this is, it’s not natural. And it’s already too late.
''The quest has failed. ''You have to go back.
//Upon returning, the Nephilim regain consciousness with weakness and headache for half an hour after 5 minutes.
//
You descend into the dungeon, where the air is thick with damp and silence. Shadows press in close, and the stone walls weep something dark.
Thorns writhe across every surface, clinging to pillars, snaking over the floor, twitching at the edge of your vision. They aren’t still. They shift. Inch closer. Breathe.
And then you see it.
A massive chest, tangled in a nest of thorns. Unlike the rest, these are bright red, raw, almost wet, glowing faintly in the gloom with a pulsing rhythm, as if the chest itself has a heartbeat. Something inside is alive. Or waiting.
You:
[[open the chest]], //choose who opens it//
leave the chest and decide on [[going upstairs]] instead.You ascend, step after step, up the spiraling stone staircase, each flight as empty and lifeless as the last. The air grows thinner, colder, as if the tower itself resents your presence.
//If there are any Shadowhunters among you, you feel weak, as if your strength is constantly being pumped out of you. //
Yet still, you encounter no one. Only when you reach the final span, the last narrow bridge before the summit, do you hear it. Voices. Whispering, murmuring, shifting like smoke behind the stone. You're no longer alone.
You:
[[stop to listen]]
[[take a peak]] on who's talking//The one who opens the chest, no matter what he opens it with, no matter who opens it, no matter how he opens it, no matter if it is royal blood or not, is doomed.
//
Poisonous thorns coil around their arm, slither across their body, and tighten around their throat, piercing flesh with needle-thin barbs. The venom works fast. Too fast. Within moments, they collapse, breath shallow, skin paling by the second.
//If you don’t find a way to heal them within twenty minutes, death will come, quiet and final.//
If there are shadowhunters in your party, they can reach for the familiar runes, but they fizzle out, lifeless. Useless. Shadowhunters’ magic holds no power here, not in the heart of the Unseelie Court.
And yet… the chest has opened. Its lid yawns like a mouth, thorn-wrapped and waiting. Inside, you spot a few useful objects.
//(game helper will provide you with a scroll Ritual of changing the true name and a Scroll of researching the blood of fae mixed with others) //
You can leave. The mission will be over, but at least you'll have more time to help your doomed friend.
Or you can continue to explore by [[going upstairs]].
You press yourself against the cold stone, breath shallow, ears straining.
A voice rises: young, sonorous, yet laced with steel. Confident. Calculated.
''M:'' King Arawn, the Cohort has everything ready to go on the offensive against Alicante.
Then comes the reply: deeper, smoother, a voice carved from centuries of control and shadow.
''A:'' Take your time, young Villaboros. There is no need for haste. The rot from Thule has not yet spread enough across the Unseelie Court to protect us from the Nephilim.
''M:'' We must act before the rot reaches Alicante.
''A:'' That is already the Cohort’s problem, Manuel Villaboros. Your Centurions and Zara should hold out longer.
A pause. Then a question, sharp as a blade.
''M: ''And yet, how did you manage to pick up the Morgenstern contagion from the other world?
''A: ''You remember Ash, Villaboros? He has the power to open interdimensional portals. Together with the black book I claimed from the dead maiden, that power could be channeled. The Nephilim will fall anyway.
A silence, then a quieter shift in tone.
''M: ''Then let’s talk about the promised protection…
But from here, the words dissolve into murmurs, low, indistinct. Secrets swallowed by the stone. You’ve heard too much already. And yet… not enough.
You can either continue by [[going downstairs]], abort your mission, or [[take a peak]] on the people who're talking.
//Note: if you choose to abort the mission, the quest ends here. //You steal a glance onto the floor above and freeze.
King Arawn sits draped in shadow on a throne of bone and twisted metal, his presence coiling through the air like a curse. Around him, fifteen Fae warriors stand in silent formation, unnaturally still, eyes gleaming like predator’s glass. Before the throne, a young, dusky-skinned hunter in Centurion armor waits with rigid posture: Manuel Villaboros.
Then everything erupts.
The Fae see you. Their reaction is instant, no words, no mercy. Arrows sing through the air like hissing serpents.
//If there are Nephilim in the party, they don't have time to dodge due to weakness in their bodies, immediately rolling into a thruster. //
The rest of you dive for cover. Barely.
You’re outnumbered. Outmatched. The only option is to flee to the portal, if you can reach it. But there’s a price. The wounded lie across the floor, bleeding, unmoving. You can only carry one.
The others… must be left behind. At the mercy of the Fae.
You don’t have time to look back. //Decide and run. //
''The quest ends here.''