Van Kessel Farmstead
Set just off a dirt path that winds toward the edge of the jungle, the Van Kessel farm appears quietly prosperous at a glance: well-maintained buildings, a sturdy barn, and rows of sugar cane flanked by half-wild fruit trees. But the illusion fades with every step closer. Once-proud flowerbeds are choked with creeping weeds, and a hush hangs over the place—an uneasy stillness that wraps around the lungs like damp cloth.
🏡 The House
Whitewashed walls, now weathered and cracked, sit beneath faded green shutters that hang slightly askew. From the upper window, a woman is sometimes seen staring without blinking—unmoving for hours at a time, her face obscured by shadow.
The air here smells wrong: beneath the sweet bite of cane and manure lies the metallic tang of blood and the acrid bite of pitch, faint but ever-present.
🚜 The Barn
Squat and looming behind the house, the barn’s wide doors are sealed with blackened iron hasps, and its few windows are boarded shut from the inside. The mud around it is churned and uneven, as if something large—and many-legged—frequented the ground recently. Deep gouges mark the earth.
A pair of massive hounds lounge near the entrance, their ears twitching toward every sound. Their eyes do not blink.
🐖 The Swine Pens
To the east of the barn, behind a crooked fence of iron and blackthorn, sit the pens of the carrion swine—bred and trained by the Van Kessels for the Immortals’ use.
The pigs here are no ordinary livestock. Bloated and twitching, their hides mottled with scabs and bristles, they pace in restless circles or stare at nothing with glazed eyes. Each one wears a heavy iron collar, and some already bear the rusted hook-loops for the bell harnesses.
The ground is black with old blood and something more viscous. The stench is overwhelming—a choking blend of offal, rot, and fear.
At night, the pigs wail. Not squeal—wail.