\ Haven:Mist and Shadow Encounterlogs/Deacons Odd Encountersrowen

Deacons Odd Encountersrowen

In the middle of a tempest, Deacon ventures into the heart of a raging storm on a clandestine mission. The deluge intensifies as he navigates deeper into the woods, his trusted compass in hand guiding him through the treacherous gates that permeate his town. As he pushes through the torrent, the rain abruptly ceases, revealing a peculiar calm at the eye of the storm. Therein lies a mysterious rock inscribed with an indecipherable rune, which seems to exude an intense magnetic force, repelling Deacon with an invisible energy. His military instincts kick in as he sets up his Barrett M82 rifle, calculating the possible interference from the bizarre wind patterns around him.

As Deacon prepares to take a shot at the rock, a black-clad figure on an orange dirtbike emerges from the storm's veil. Instead of shooting the rock, Deacon redirects his aim toward the newcomer, piercing the man's chest with a high-caliber round. Astoundingly, the man survives and approaches Deacon, revealing the stone to be a binding agent for the storm. A tense standoff ensues, and Deacon fires again, yet the man evades and repositions himself near the rock, shrinking it to a handheld size and offering it to Deacon. Despite their tense encounter, they reach an understanding. The enigmatic man retreats, leaving behind the storm and the rock with Deacon, who is charged with the responsibility of discarding it to finally quell the unnatural storm afflicting his town.
style="color:#008000"> (Deacon's odd encounter(SROwen):SROwen)

[Tue Nov 14 2023]

In the bathroom
This bathroom is kept in pristine condition. The floor is a series of
tiles that alternate between blue and white, and the tub is built into the
wall. Tub, sink, and toilet all are made with white ceramic, and the inside
of the toilet bowl is filled with water that's blue due to constant use of
pipe cleaning fluids. The whole area is lit by a ceiling fan, the blades of
which are made of some kind of whitened steel.

It is dusk, about 50F(10C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It's raining outside.

Acting on certain information, Deacon has set it upon himself to head out into the woods for himself. Bringing along his duffel, the soldier takes his vehicle and heads out toward the deepest end of the roads currently being developed into the deeper segments of the trees. When he can go no further on wheels, he takes to foot and when he can no longer see roads that brought him out here it's into his wallet to gather his compass. It's likely he heads north, rather than out west along Devilwood, as his contacts bring him closer to that end of town to begin with.

Rain. Rain. Why won't it go away? Why's it still here, even on another day? Deacon knows better than most that some phenomenons are less trustworthy than others. This one isn't particularly cheery, but it isn't wreaking certain havoc, either. There's an eeriness in that fact. Deacon would realize before long that the water's getting stronger. Droplets go from pins to fingers, thunking with heavy impact. Splashing with reverb, even. It can't just be the trees. Most of the leaves have left them by this time've year. He's getting towards some kind of epicenter.

Pushing himself forward, Deacon puts a hand up and then an arm to keep himself visible in some fashion as he tries to keep the rain out of his face. His leather jacket sadly isn't one of military issue so it doesn't have the zipped in hood for this kind of weather, but he does pull it up to help provide a sort of shelter against outright obscuring his ability to see. Luckily he has some of the best eyes in the business, piercing through the shadows of night and the rain with equal ease normally but even this is hectic. Monsoons he's dealt with before, growing up in New Orleans and so he pushes forward despite the rain. Always, he's checking his compass just every several paces trying to ensure he doesn't accidentally fall through one of the mysterious and temporal Gates that are drawn to this town like its own epicenter.

Deacon's compass begins to shake with an incredible force, and few would be keen to blame him if he were to lose control of it. The magnetic polarities are all wrong. Something is all wrong. All there is for Deacon to do is keep marching forward, right? Left. Right. Left. Right. Hup. Two. Three. . . . until the rustling, crackling, and snapping beneath his feet is all he hears. It's suddenly warm. Hell, the sky isn't blue, considering the hour-- but it's clear. In a circle. He can see where the clouds part, and the rain ... has left him. Morein, he left the *rain* behind. Deacon has found the eye of the storm, and synonymously, he's never been closer to a gate than he is... right... this... minute, without actually going *through* one. Is it... closed?

At the center of the rot-leaved marsh of a clearing, Deacon would see a rock. It looks like it has some kind of rune painted onto it. Black. It's the size of a human head.

A grunt comes from the soldier's mouth. "Huh ..fuckin' voodoo shit .." Deacon mutters to himself as the compass all but FWIPS out of his hand, lost to the wind as he continues to push himself forward. Then ... the eye of the storm. He blinks a little, the rain and gale force winds suddenly just falling away as the man crosses the threshhold of the sphere of space that represents that spot in the middle. Spotting the stone, the Cajun approaches a little more cautiouslyh. Without his compass now, the man takes one step before pausing to wait and check his surroundings. It's like watching him try to guess his way through a mine field as he makes his way toward the rock.

Voodoo, hoodoo... even shamanism, nothing seems to 'fit' the picture. The symbology of the signular ink-esque letter is jagged like a Norse script, but there's too much complexity and esotericism. Every point ends in a curl or a flourish, and the entire image is an angst on the mind. It shivers just as Deacon's compass had, but it seems cemented into the ground at the same time. Held in. Like a magnet to a fridge. The closer Deacon gets, sans his directionality, the more energy runs through the stone. Deacon feels... repelled. His surroundings show him no off sights, but the wind is picking up. To an extreme degree, really, and in... all kind've directions. Almost as if he's being warned away. There's silence, beyond the wisps of the air.

The continuation of the wind as it picks up, and there's a sense of apprehension. He may not understand it, he may not truck with it, but Deacon has a certain understanding for the potency and understanding of forces magicka. He slowly begins to back up, trying to find the place where the winds will die down enough that he feels like he might be able to get a half-decent shot off. Then he'll drop to a single knee before setting his duffel on the ground and slowly unzipping it to reveal the Barrett M82 rifle contained within. His eyes are already beginning to calculate now. How much wind, how strong? Will it pick up as the bullet whizzes closer? Inside his head he does the complex maths and geometry that comes with long-range shooting and if nothing else picks up or surprises him he'll slowly grab for the rifle and set himself up with the rock in his scope.

About thirty feet away from the stone, Deacon would find that things settle down to a twisting whisper of what they were, hardly blowing through hairs enough to be worthy of note. That's a big bullet he's got, there. And a... **mostly** unmoving target. There's barely even a number that runs through his mind, it's as easy as reflex. The shot would be as easy to make as any he'd ever. In fact, he's so close that it almost seems .... like it would be too easy. One... two... all set, and...

Is that the sound of an engine he's hearing? Like a little dirtbike, or something. Back in the rainclouds. Southwest?

Rather than try to swing his rifle all the way 'round, Deacon lowers it a half a step and lifts his eyes toward the sky instead as the noise reaches his ears. Now, he doesn't have the hearing of a dog or what anyone might call supernatural, but he knows the sound of a crop-duster or perhaps a bi-plane maybe when he hears one! Narrowing his eyes with a squint, he uses the clear skies above in this area to try and hone in on where he thinks the sound is coming from. The rain barrier and the wind that whips outside the Eye make it harder to determine the origin of the sound though and so it takes him a moment or two longer to realize it might be coming from the ground as his thoughts shift to dirtbike or ATV - his first instincts are always to look up - assess his cover.

Yeah, it's too quiet and obnoxious to be anything but a two wheeler, and it *must* be on the ground. There's no dustcloud for him to track down through the waves of the storm, but the sound- it's coming way closer. Soon, he can even see the damn thing. Someone's riding up to him, going about fifteen through all the debris of the woods, without a fear in the world. A black-suited rider in a motocross helmet, and an orange bike. Cheap, simple. The kind you see on a farm, or in an old country garage collecting dust. The rider skids to a halt, about twenty feet out, probably with a barrel aimed down his chest. Yikes. Two hands go up, and Deacon would hear an arrogant laughing from inside the echo chamber of the masked visor.

The laughter might reach the ears of Deacon, they might not but even as the man's arms go up the soldier boring down on the dude with the finest rifle money can buy for a large calibur bullet - the report of his rifle echos out. Something about the black dress of the man, it reminds him of the rune on the rock - even as shifty as it lies in his mind it's that very squirmy resistance to being put solidly into his mind's eye that activates that sixth sense that comes from years of serving in the middle of the deepest shit. The bullet goes flying toward the man even while he's still sitting on that motorbike. It may not be the smartest choice but Deacon makes it before he's even had time to completely think about it!

Assumedly, the guy is just a guy, right? He didn't *visibly* come bearing arms, but Deacon's here for a reason, and there's nowhere better for a one-on-one than the center of a storm circle. Every good battle royale says so, and Deacon's apparently a much better position to act, considering the other guy's taunt. BOOM! Goes the big one, a whole ... thirty feet past Deacon's muzzle. There's an incomprehensible yipe of a scream or a shout as the dude gets blasted off his bike, a smoking hole in his chest, on the ground. He just seizes for a minute or two. His gloved hand rapidly fumbles to shove the visor up, and he's still shaking, gasping. He even goes to sit up. "I didn't ... think you'd do it," Comes a croaky hispanic accent from a tanned face with brown eyes, seemingly South American in ethnicity. "Why- the *fuck* are *you*..." Damn, his chest cavity is showing. So is the huge metal clot of Deacon's. He *caught* the thing?

There's a blink .. and another blink. It might be the first time Deacon has legitimately watched his rifle blow an open hole through somebody just to have them sit back up! "Well hot damn that's a fucking thing to see" he mutters, eye still watching the man through the scope. BUT ... since the man is talking still and he's got him dead to rights the demigod's own arrogance rears its head and he pauses from taking that next shot that might obliterate the man's skull like a cantelope. "This storm on high, it got to go on its way, sha! Easy or hard she must be on her way! Why my gut, he tell me you thick in like a honeybadger sha."

From busted bones to tears in the chunks of meat, there's a visceral scene to the detail, but he shouldn't be getting up as he is, not even shakily. His knees up, his heels to his ass, then his shoulders pull up into a seat. Then he hops up into a stand, trying to raise both his hands Deacon's way. Surrender, that looks like! Right? "That ... maybe on me, you you know," A gesture goes to the rock, and he starts to move forward. One step. Two step. Three step. Four step. Testing, but not cursing or threatening. "Apparently we've been overdoing it," Comes as a calculation, but who we is, is absolutely without evident hint thus far.

The man's willing to let one step go by .. two, and three even. The man's talking but that gut feeling doesn't go away. That fourth step ... Deacon shakes his head as the man goes to make it. It's a subtle thing, but given how the man is advancing with similar tactics he himself might use to close the distance on an enemy with the advantage? No way - the rifle goes off again, aimed right the hollow of the man's throat before he can finish taking that final fourth step. Even as the rifle report roars out through the clearing in the eye of the storm, he's speaking up and over the echo of the noise. "If you can still get up, you keep that distance sha! If you can't ..." he lets that one hang.

Just as Deacon clicks the trigger down, the jacketed man hops into a sort've a jump- but it's something more. The path. He was ... hardly a second too early to take another one, and not only that, but he's behind Deacon in seconds. Far behind him. Standing next to the rock. "What was that?" Comes a call over from the shivering stone, now going into more of a crazed jolting mania with his close proximity. "You said you wanted the rain gone, right? This, is ... just a binding stone, friend. Gates like these don't like to be made to stay put." Not a road in sight, after all.

When the man disappears from sight, the first instinct that Deacon has is to follow him plain and simple. That moment where he tries to shift himself sideways and catch up to the man in an instant but ... he can't. This perpetual fatigue that's been bogging him down continues to drain at him, this curse that lie over him like a shadow! He grits his teeth, forced to accept the limitations forced upon him for now as the man moves by the stone. At least his scope shifts just as quickly, that half-heartbeat late before re-settling onto the man. "Something told me shooting the rock might be good ... might be bad. Your arrival wasn't coincidence. But .. you got me by the hairs .. a little bit. But only a little bit. Move it anywhere else, sha. Just not here."

"You take this, and you drop it down a wishing well somewhere. Or, ah- find a particularly deep puddle. Franklin Bridge would probably work, ehh..." The shady Hispanic fellow leans down, kleps the rock into a palm despite the head-like size, and kind've... shakes it for a minute. It shrinks down to the size of a snowball, the scripture turning to a glowing red. By the next blink, he's standing at Deacon's side. "Likewise, ese, you uh... you kind of fucking up my ride, here, but... fair is fair. You win. We'll have to figure out something more specific to route with than the stones." It's just that easy, right? He's even leaning down to make the rock easier for Deacon to grab from his aiming position. It's rather hard to try to shoot a man with a Barrett at point blank, but it's probably been done.

There's a moment of pause ... and then Deacon is lowering his rifle slowly. He knows if it comes down to it, this guy might take the advantage in a fight close-up because of his ability to keep a step ahead of him. He gives a short snort of air through his nose as he regards the offered rock. "I don't got nothing against your hustle, sha .. just have friends who need this to move further up the coast you know what I mean?" He stands up slowly for a moment, then lowers the rifle all the way. Another hesitation then he reaches for the rock. "No uh .... hard feelings?" He glances down for a moment at the hole that he blew through the man's chest of sorts, almost curious if it's healing or not.

There's a smile of white teeth, two being gold. His beady little eyes show a glint with an enunciation of "No hard feelings at all! Just, ah. Make sure you get rid of that thing somewhere wet-" It's hot to the touch, like a hand warmer might be. There's no other reactions, per se. It's rather benign. What *isn't*, is the massive hole in the ground. Where that rock was, a little bit've earth begins to fall through, then another. Below is naught but a red glow. "That'll be my call to get the hell out've here, though!" Is spoken with certainty, those boots daring enough to skitter back toward a since-stalled Suzuki. That wound? Hadn't healed a bit. He's even still stepping around with a hobble, despite the speed from before. An oddity in persona for certain, but he didn't exactly offer his name. "Feel free to stick around if you want a free ride to the Black Forest! That cannon isn't too extreme by their standards, though ..."

"Though. Though. Wherefore arthou, figaro?" Is confused, manic accented gibbering that comes out nothing short of humorous, echoed to the kickstart of the bike. The rain flickers once. Stops twice. Then... it's consistent again. It must be a sign, right? It hasn't stopped like that for days. Deacon, samaritan.