To those close enough to know them (and their Twitch followers), Carnelian is, if nothing else, an excellent host. By their nature as a being built for service, they perpetually aim to please, and delight in the positive reactions of those under their care. They're typically quiet and yielding, preferring to stay on the sidelines of any interaction. Taking an active role in anything still feels foreign to them, and they'd rather not deal with the resulting discomfort of having to make small talk. Any issues that come up are dealt with quickly and quietly- their preferred role is to make sure their company is enjoying themselves.

To just about anyone else, Carnelian does not exist.

24/7 Room Service!

Our chefs are kept on a rotating schedule that allows them to be ready for any orders that may come at any time! Whatever craving hits you, you can rest assured that the Grand Carnelian will have it out of our kitchens and into your waiting hands in a jiffy.

Full Amenities!

All of our suites come fully furnished with a separate kitchen and bedroom, as well as satellite television, a hot tub,^{(fees may apply)} and a pullout couch^{(fees may apply)} with complimentary dressings! Feel free to invite friends and family into your room- we can handle it!

Why are you still reading this?

There's so much more to see. Move along, now.

Why the Grand Carnelian Luxury Resort and Spa closed down is still unknown. Some say it's because the hotel was built on swampy ground, that the foundations were rotting and buckling under their own weight. Some say it's because of an outbreak of food poisoning. It's a bit of a local legend, and everyone wants the credit of being the one to suss out the mystery of the Carnelian.

Whatever's in there wanted to be found, once. Judging by the state of the bodies found on its doorstep, though, it doesn't seem keen on visitors anymore. No, please, we insist. Make yourselves at home. :-)

Talk:The Grand Carnelian Luxury Resort and Spa

The hotel itself opened to much fanfare, celebrity appearances and news coverage abound spreading the word from shore to shore. It was the luxury resort destination, and it was happy being such. Opulence and glamour filled its every hall, the ring of exalted laughter sounded out long into the night, conventions started to hold themselves in its spacious conference rooms, its kitchens delivered far beyond its walls, and business, overall, was booming. Its guests couldn't complain, and neither could it- both in a metaphorical and a literal sense. No mouth.

It's in these early days that the Carnelian awoke, basking in the recognition and the glory it recieved, and knowing nothing else. Whatever it was, it was important. That's all it needed to know.

Rolling in money, the proprietors of the place grew negligent. To maximize profits, costs were cut across the board- lower quality chefs, lower quality waitstaff, lower quality janitorial services- yet the people still came. The hotel they arrived to was not the opulent manor they saw in the tabloids, but some rotting shell of its former self, and they reacted with appropriate disgust. Particularly bitter customers would deign to take their anger out on the walls of the hotel itself, and that served as the breaking point.

Their bodies were never found.

After the disappearance of several big-name Hollywood stars within its walls, patronage of the Carnelian dwindled until eventually coming to a halt, and proprietor and patron alike left it rotted and withering on that hill that'd housed so much joy only years before. The insides were left as they were the day the last customer had checked out, and the windows and doors were boarded shut, dissuading any would-be thrill-seekers from entering its mildewy confines. It was given plenty of time to ruminate, and ruminate it did.

The cud of the hotel rose to the ground floor, the slurry of rich-man meat coalescing into a humanoid shape. It was imperfect, awkwardly shambling, fleshy in the wrong places and unsure on its needle-point feet, but it was close enough to not feel alone once more. For decades it amused itself, wandering its own halls, running its spindly hands along the corroding copper armrails of the spiral staircase- until it was rudely interrupted.

He was a spindly little man, hands clutching a flashlight and some kind of strange, electronic box periodically producing odd crackling noises. Its windows shuttered themselves in anxiety, seeing the boards that had guarded their doors so crudely ripped off and fearing they'd suffer the same fate. Long-unused gas stoves clicked themselves on, doors slammed, elevators screeched to life- maybe loud noise would scare him off? If anything, though, he seemed only more excited, holding his box to the air and asking of the Carnelian a litany of questions they had no answers to. He delved further into the hotel's depths, empowered by the knowledge that there was something in there, and that he could be the first to document it.

The deeper in he went, though, the harder it became to find his way out. The hallways gave way to a twisting labyrinth of mildewy carpet and rotting wallpaper, entombing him within the bowels of the Grand Carnelian until the next hapless soul wandered through its doors. He wasn't the first, and he wouldn't be the last.

One such visitor came in a group- five, if they'd interpreted their footsteps right. They'd split off their separate ways, plucking petals off of long-dead flowers, polishing old brass trophies with their fetid breath 'til their faces shone clear as day in the rusting metal- and, occasionally, making their way into the hallways. Some left early, citing a "bad vibe" coming from the establishment. Others left with the excuse of prior obligations. A sole man remained, having lost himself to the ever-expanding halls of the Carnelian long ago, with no chance of ever escaping.

He elected to enter a room. Take a rest, eat something, get his head together. The door creaked open, long-unused spiderwebs breaking under the force and sending clouds of dust puffing into the still air. His eyes had clenched shut, coughing and wheezing, and when his eyelids tore themselves away from each other after what felt like hours of choked half-breaths, a figure stood before him.

Apparently, they hadn't made a good impression. His head exploded. How gross.

The crab within his head struggled to find a viable brain in its new host, coming only to still-boiling hot bile and rubbery skin. It was an eerily small, smooth thing, more akin to the brain of a rat or a bird, but they'd consumed it and rooted to it anyways- and when they did, instead of the rush of memory they'd come to expect, they found only potent, roiling hatred and a desire to right wrongs that'd become footnotes in the news long, long ago with their own twisted sense of justice.

It'd taken them long to remember how to turn their own lights on, much less route electricity to any other aspect of the hotel, but it'd serve beneficial in their quest. They'd been disconnected from most utilities almost as soon as the public had left them to crumble on their own, but old and bitter as they were, they no longer needed it- they ran on spite alone, and spite alone was all they needed to persist. Inside their visitor's bag was a laptop, expensive, gleaming chrome in the midday sun. On the laptop was a half-finished .py file, some indecipherable signature written in ASCII at the top. The Carnelian had no idea what to make of it. Soon enough, though, almost as if their hands had started moving on their own, it was finished and sent to some anonymous chat address, and recieved with thanks and a fat sum of money.

They had no idea what they'd just done, only that someone was apparently pleased with their work. It stirred a feeling in them that they hadn't experienced since their opening, leading them to delve further into their logs with the mystery client. They had no idea what "ransomware" or "botnets" were, but they seemed to be some grand inconvenience to their recipients. They'd never left their own walls before in their quest for revenge- but, now, maybe they wouldn't have to.

The internet opened up a world of possibilities for them. They made ties, contacts, people to make lives into living hells with hand-in-hand. They didn't care about the money, they had no use for it- they'd say the suffering they'd caused was enough, but under it all, what they were really after was the praise. Doling out services and being appreciated, revered, even, for it, harkened back to the glory days of the Grand Carnelian, a rush that they'd been seeking for decades. Something within them unlocked (in the metaphorical sense), focusing more on building up rapport than the viruses themselves, having their name plastered across shady messageboards as the guy to go to if you wanted to commit internet highway robbery.

With these contacts came more and more, exponentially blossoming into a network of names they'd never put faces to- names that, sometimes, held power. Names that could make things happen. Names they could use to further their own goals instead of cleaning up the mess of their last host. Databases were edited. Subliminal advertisements were put out. Eventually, a hotel that had been condemned for longer than most people had been alive quietly opened its doors to new guests, somehow in better shape than ever.

Guests are politely advised to ignore any veins behind the wallpaper.

Despite appearances, swears like a sailor.

Can leave the hotel. Doesn't want to.

Capable of using doors within the hotel to "teleport" to any location.

Speaks in complete monotone.

Mt. Dew Code Red enjoyer extraordinaire.

Moonlights as an ASMR streamer with a sizeable following.

RIBBONS