GM Information : Newhaven Survivors : Dara killed one of the female survivors who came to the farm. Her body is in the pantry, and meat from the body is currently being cooked into Dara's latest pie.
The McFly farm sits on a rise overlooking the coastal fields, its white paint long since peeled to grey.
Inside, the kitchen is spotless. Too spotless. Counters scrubbed to a dull shine, knives laid out in a perfect fan, a pie cooling on the windowsill with steam rising in slow, lazy curls. The crust is golden. The filling is… ambiguous.
A woman hums somewhere deeper in the house — a tune that can’t decide what key it wants to be in.
Dara appears in the doorway with a stained apron tied neatly around her waist, long brown hair pulled back with a cloth that was once white. Her eyes are a milky, unnatural green, glowing faintly in the dim light.
She smiles warmly, as if greeting old friends.
“Oh, you poor dears,” she says. “You look half-starved. Come in, come in. Circle of life, after all.”
She gestures toward the kitchen table, where mismatched plates have been set for guests who will never arrive.
Her cleaver gleams as she polishes it with a stained cloth, humming her discordant tune.
Nothing she does is overtly threatening. Everything she does is wrong.
Dara moves with the brisk efficiency of a farm wife preparing a meal for hungry workers. She checks the oven, stirs a pot, wipes her hands on her apron.
“You’re just in time,” she says brightly. “Haven’t had proper company in ages. The boys will be so pleased.”
There are no boys.
She circles the survivors with a cook’s eye, assessing cuts of meat, checking posture, pinching an arm as if testing ripeness.
“Good muscle tone,” she murmurs. “Fresh. Very fresh.”
She means it as praise.
If asked about the farm animals, she waves a hand dismissively.
“Oh, them? Part of the cycle. Everything feeds something. Circle of life.”
Her voice is cheerful, but her eyes glow a little brighter.
Dara begins preparing the kitchen with the calm certainty of someone following a well-worn routine.
She lays out ingredients. She sharpens her cleaver. She hums louder, the tune wobbling in and out of key.
“Now then,” she says, turning to the survivors. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Can’t cook with dirt on the skin.”
She gestures toward a large farmhouse sink.
“Hands and faces first. Then we’ll see what cuts best.”
If the survivors hesitate, she tilts her head, confused.
“No need to be shy. Everyone goes in the pot eventually. Circle of life.”
Her tone is gentle, patient — the way someone might coax a nervous animal.
If they resist further, she steps closer, cleaver in hand, not raised to strike but held like a kitchen tool she intends to use.
“Don’t fuss now,” she says softly. “You’ll spoil the recipe.”
The farmhouse reveals Dara’s fractured logic long before she does:
A row of pies cooling on the windowsill, each labelled with neat handwriting: “Beef,” “Pork,” “Special.”
A butcher’s block scrubbed clean except for faint stains that never washed out.
A recipe book open to a page titled “Feeding the Farmhands.”
A pantry stocked with jars of preserved vegetables — and jars of something else, pale and floating.
A dining table set for six, though only one chair shows signs of recent use.
A chopping board with a half-prepared “roast” that is unmistakably not animal.
Everything is orderly. Everything is prepared. Everything is waiting.
Dara speaks with warmth and domestic cheer, her tone at odds with her intentions.
Sample lines:
“Sit, sit. You must be famished.”
“Fresh ingredients make all the difference.”
“Don’t worry, dear. It won’t hurt long.”
“Everyone has their place in the circle.”
“Such lovely skin. Would make a fine crust.”
“The farm provides. Always has.”
Her voice should feel like a lullaby sung in the wrong house.
Players can notice the wrongness early — the pies, the jars, the animals arranged outside.
Talking buys time. Dara loves to chat while she works.
Sitting at the table or washing up delays escalation but increases danger.
Possible, but the farmhouse is cluttered with tools, narrow hallways, and doors that lock from the outside.
Dara will get more angry if the party refuse to eat her food, or ask too many questions about where she gets her meat, or what is in the Pantry. She will eventually attack, and immediately do so if they look in the Pantry.