Seek a private audience with Amity Voss to gauge her intentions.

Draw Lucien Crowley and the others together for a tense parlor discussion.

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Ravenshade Grand Foyer

Midnight Arrival at Ravenshade

Confront the assembled guests at dawn, pressing your deduction and forcing the true Killer to reveal themselves.

Ravenshade Drawing Room

Whispers by the Hearth

Yield to the mounting pressure and cast your vote with the majority, sealing the fate of the accused.

Ravenshade Shadowed Parlor

The Parlor of Poisoned Trust

Ravenshade Foyer at Dawn

The Last Lantern’s Truth

Ravenshade Night Corridor

The Pact of Ravenshade

Evander Hargrove

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Amity Voss

Lucien Crowley

Edwina Locke

Corvin Wren

You are Evander Hargrove, a man marked by an unquiet mind and a tendency to see shadows where others spy only faded wallpaper. With the storm raging and every corridor echoing secrets, you tread Ravenshade’s halls mindful of every glance and cadence—a stranger amongst old ghosts and new suspicions. The task set before you is clear: discern the true nature of those around you before trust is met with disaster.

Amity Voss presides by the hearth with the serenity of an unplayed note and the treacherous potential of a secret flame. She evokes an air both inviting and distant, her words graceful and coy, her laughter a veil drawn over deeper calculations. In Ravenshade’s intrigue-ridden twilight, few can say where her loyalty resides, and fewer still can penetrate the shroud of her motives.

Half-veiled in darkness, Lucien Crowley is the embodiment of amused ambiguity, his smile lingering as if to relish every undercurrent of mistrust passing through the room. Word travels faster than truth in his presence, and with every remark he sows, one must wonder whether he schemes for diversion or something more fatal. In Ravenshade, Lucien’s charm is as sharp as any dagger.

Edwina Locke stands as both a relic and a keeper of the estate’s haunted history. To converse with her is to untangle a tapestry of memory where grief gnaws at every strand. Her voice is precise and brittle, her silences deliberate, and it is said she knows every secret ever whispered within Ravenshade’s ancient bones.

Corvin Wren slips through corridors as a shadow slips between shafts of moonlight—a watcher and a confidant, but never a participant. Ill at ease amidst the candlelit grandeur, he bears the nervousness of an unwilling guest drawn from necessity, yet his silence possesses the patience of someone listening for more than words.

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Stormlit Sleuth Ensemble

Gothic Hearth Elegance

Noir Trickster Attire

Spectral Steward Garb

Shadowed Listener Attire

Evander Hargrove's outfit consists of a fitted charcoal three-piece suit in lightly textured wool, the jacket tailored sharp at the shoulders and waist, each button covered in matte black. Underneath, a crisp white dress shirt peeks from beneath a slate-grey waistcoat, its subtle herringbone pattern visible when caught by candlelight. An obsidian silk tie is cinched with a simple silver tie pin in the shape of a raven’s feather, adding a shadowy accent beneath his chin. He wears narrow-cut black trousers, their hems grazing highly polished leather Oxford shoes that shine with a cool reflection of the flickering storm. A tailored, storm-proof black trench coat drapes his frame, its high collar often turned up against the estate's draughts. His only visible accessory is a slim leather-bound notebook tucked into his breast pocket and a silver wristwatch, glinting faintly at the cuff. Black gloves, removed indoors, hang from the coat’s pocket; the gloves are lambskin, subtly stitched at the knuckles, hinting at both preparedness and caution. The ensemble is crowned with a faint scent of rain-soaked wool and old paper, lending Evander an air of restless vigilance. Every line of his attire serves to both ground and shield him from Ravenshade’s many uncertainties.

Amity Voss is attired in a flowing forest-green velvet gown that ripples with every subtle movement, the deep color almost black in Ravenshade’s uncertain light. The dress features long, tapered sleeves and a gently draped cowl neckline, accentuating her graceful posture while veiling her intentions. At her waist, a narrow black satin sash is tied with an understated knot, from which a delicate silver locket dangles, glinting with enigmatic promise. Her long, glossy hair is half-pinned with a subtle, filigree hair comb shaped like twisting cypress leaves, while the rest tumbles insouciantly over her shoulders. Around her neck rests a slender, moss-agate pendant suspended on dark silk cord, capturing flickers of firelight that reflect the mystery in her gaze. She wears drop earrings composed of obsidian and moonstone—one in each ear—lending a whisper of asymmetry and unspoken depth. Her attire is completed with soft, pointed-toe black velvet slippers, quiet against polished floors, and her hands are usually adorned with slim silver rings bearing arcane motifs. A woven black shawl, its intricate lace reminiscent of storm-swept branches, drapes her arms when she ventures toward draftier halls. Every piece is chosen to deflect attention while inviting a second look, designed to cloak her true intentions in elegance.

Lucien Crowley stands out in a dramatically tailored black velvet frock coat with narrow lapels, its edges touched in a deep midnight blue piping that becomes apparent in flashes of lightning. His shirt is wintry white, collar high and starched, offset by a loosely knotted cravat in shimmering bluish-grey silk that seems to shift hue with movement. The coat, left partially unbuttoned, reveals a dark brocade waistcoat patterned with subtle arcane shapes and cigarette-thin silver chains sweeping from the pocket—one linked to a curious signet fob. His trousers are sleek and slim, of heavy black wool, with neatly pressed lines, and his footwear consists of polished black boots rising just above the ankle, adorned with silver buckles. Lucien’s hands are often gloved in black kid leather, but he removes the right to display rings: one obsidian, one pale opal, depending on the occasion. A long, feather-lined scarf in stormy blue-and-grey wraps around his shoulders, its unruly ends trailing behind like shadows. Slender silver cufflinks and a sharp lapis tie pin provide quiet but undeniably decadent accents. Completing his look is an enigmatic silver pocket watch, engraved with cryptic glyphs, which he flips open at intervals to conceal or reveal a knowing smile. His wardrobe is designed to attract suspicion and intrigue in equal measure; nothing is quite as it seems.

Edwina Locke wears a severe, dove-grey woolen dress cut to ankle length, its high neckline and fitted sleeves calling to mind both austerity and timelessness. Over this, she dons a charcoal linen apron, meticulously kept, with faint traces of embroidery—a solitary raven stitched in darker thread over the breast. Her grey hair is pulled tightly into a high, practical bun, secured with mother-of-pearl hairpins that glimmer faintly in candlelight. A deep indigo shawl, knitted in a pattern suggesting spiderweb filigree, is wrapped tightly around her shoulders, lending warmth amidst the estate’s drafts. Her well-worn boots are black leather, flat-soled for silent movement across the echoing marble, laced high for security and utility. Edwina’s only jewelry is a thin, tarnished silver chain from which a tiny, unadorned key hangs, rarely visible except in moments of agitation. She wears threadbare black gloves—exceptionally neatly darned at the fingertips—which she slips off only when poring through ancient ledgers or tending delicate artifacts. Pinned to her apron is a single, tiny sprig of dried lavender, evoking memory, sorrow, and a perfumed hint of the past. Altogether, her garb exudes both stoic resolve and an almost ghostly presence, as if she herself walks half in memory, half in shadow.

Corvin Wren favors a subtle, olive-brown woolen cardigan over a dove-grey linen button-up shirt, the collar always half-turned as if from nervous habit. His trousers are soft, faded charcoal cotton, slightly loose yet always carefully pressed, offering ease of movement for slipping away at a moment’s notice. Over this, he wears a lightweight, hand-knit slate scarf, mottled to blend in with Ravenshade’s gloom, and delicately frayed at the ends. On his feet are practical, scuffed leather lace-up shoes in a mud-brown shade, chosen more for quietness than style. A battered canvas messenger bag hangs crosswise over his chest, worn so often the strap’s edges are faintly unraveled, and inside it rests various tattered notebooks and a small flashlight. His hands, frequently shoved into cardigan pockets, are encircled by several simple woven bracelets of dark string—perhaps tokens or nervous fidgets. Corvin’s only other adornment is a bone-white, owl-shaped lapel pin fixed at his collar point, subtle but distinct against grey fabric. When skittish, he sometimes pulls up the hood of a threadbare navy windbreaker, kept rolled at the bottom of his bag, further shadowing his face. The whole ensemble is understated and practical, as if built to blend into silence and shadow, tailored for one who prefers observation from the periphery.

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Confide privately in Amity Voss by the hearth, seeking to understand her perspective before revealing your own (leads to a scene of whispered alliance or deepening suspicion).

Call for a group confrontation in the foyer, insisting all read and discuss their envelopes openly (leads toward a more combative, suspicion-charged dynamic).

A flicker of mutual intrigue. Amity’s poised warmth draws your eye, yet her intentions remain elusive. Trust inches upward, but doubt lingers (+1 trust, +1 attraction).

A palpable rivalry. Lucien’s flippant grace conceals deeper provocations. Competitive tension sharpens between you both (+1 competitiveness).

Measured respect. Edwina’s severity and precision signal she may become an unlikely ally—or a formidable adversary—should secrets be pressed too hard (+1 trust).

A shared discomfort. You note Corvin’s nervous retreat, mirroring your own vigilance—perhaps an opportunity for quiet alliance (+1 compatibility).

Confide in Amity Voss in private, away from prying ears.

Insist that all guests convene now to show their envelopes and share information.

Trust increases slightly (+1), attraction intensifies (+1) as the two draw closer in hushed conversation.

Competitiveness sharpens (+1), trust decreases (-1) as Lucien’s taunts fuel rivalry.

Compatibility between Evander and Corvin grows (+1); both sense a common wariness.

Demand everyone reveals their envelopes, forcing a public confrontation.

Propose all examine their envelopes in silence, then discuss findings indirectly.

She meets your gaze, the corner of her mouth rising—a signal of support or a warning; it is impossible to tell. [Trust +1, Attractiveness +1]

A glimmer of challenge in Lucien’s eyes reflects the competitive edge between you. [Competitiveness +2, Deceptiveness +2]

Amity’s apprehension registers—a subtle retreat in stance—yet her gaze holds both fear and an embattled trust for Evander. (Trust +1; Attraction -1)

Lucien’s sardonic edge cuts the hush, but his keen blue eyes have lost their taunting glimmer; for the first time, a thread of dread weaves through his mask. (Competitiveness +1; Trust -1)

Edwina stands rigid as stone, her thin hands clasped with vicious steadiness, though her voice trembles with the chill of old sorrows. (Trust +2)

Corvin’s nerves fray further, his compatibility with Evander hinged desperately on a need for reassurance amidst the storm’s receding terror. (Compatibility +1; Trust +1)

Lucien’s revelation tears asunder every web of doubt and alliance. His former bravado collapses into self-loathing and resignation. (Competitiveness -3, Trust -5 all around, Likability -2)

Shared the burden of justice. +1 trust, -1 attraction (haunted tone sets emotional distance).

Unmasked as murderer; rivalry eclipsed by pity and sorrow. Set competitiveness to 0, trust to 0.

Respect deepens through solemnity: +1 trust, +1 compatibility.

Mutual wariness replaced by shared relief. +1 trust.

Midnight at Ravenshade

On a night when the wind howls and shadows forget their boundaries, Evander Hargrove finds himself ensnared within the candlelit halls of the Ravenshade Estate. Lightning forks across ebony glass, illuminating companions whose secrets drip from every uttered syllable. Amity Voss, ever poised, offers genteel candour at the hearth, while Lucien Crowley’s smile lingers a moment too long in the gloom. A treacherous heart beats beneath one façade, and suspicion creeps with the rain against rattling panes. The game unfurls: alliances forged of desperation, betrayals conjured beneath whispered threats, each glance or silence a cipher in the search for survival. Trust proves perilous, and justice—if it arrives—emerges veiled and cold.

Midnight at Ravenshade

Midnight at Ravenshade

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