Encounterlogs
Deans Odd Encounter Sr Calista 240709
Dean, while wrapping up his shift at the corner bar of The Alley, receives a frenzied call from Phoebe, a close contact from his secretive circle, alerting him to the imminent danger posed by The Destined Host. They are after the Eye of Ahriman, a powerful artifact rumored to open gateways between realms, which is soon to be displayed at the local museum. Without hesitation, Dean ditches his bartending duties, spurred into action by the urgency in Phoebe’s voice and the stark realization that the artifact is within dangerous proximity to falling into malevolent hands. His preparation is swift, his determination fueled by a blend of duty and adrenaline as he navigates towards the museum, plotting to secure or neutralize the artifact before it can be exploited.
Inside the museum, Dean's infiltration takes a wild turn. The sequence of events escalates from covert entry to dramatic confrontation with a cultist intent on seizing the Eye for The Destined Host. Amid the chaos, Dean's supernatural nature is uncontrollably unleashed, revealing the dire extent he's willing to go to prevent the artifact from falling into the wrong hands. With the museum's tranquility shattered by his transformation into a formidable, albeit inadvertently pink, wolf, Dean manages to secure a mysterious briefcase, assumed to contain the Eye, following a heated pursuit. The resolution sees him, now burdened with the artifact and caught in the mundane aftermath of an extraordinary skirmish, contemplating his next move. The encounter at the museum serves as a testament to Dean's unwavering commitment to his covert mission, leaving a trail of bewilderment and unanswered questions among the witnesses of his remarkable feat.
(Dean's odd encounter(SRCalista):SRCalista)
[Mon Jul 8 2024]
At the Bar-and-Stage at The Alley
Carpeting stretches across the laminate flooring here, stained by footprints
and years of use, creating areas for lounge seating. Set up in front of a tiny
stage and a corner bar, here visitors are invited to grab a drink together, to
socialize, and perhaps even take the stage where a karaoke machine is prepared
for all those brave enough. The bar itself has seen better days, its counter a
gouged and scratched remnants of its former self, and almost all of the tables
and chairs in the room are similarly in need of either repair or replacements.
The corner bar displays a select assortment of draft beers and liquor - though
a good look behind the bar might cast the legitimacy of the liquor licenses in
doubt. Though dingy, the stools set up around this corner of the establishment
seem to be newer than any other furniture, featuring genuine ruddy-red leather
bar stools, and are actually pretty comfortable to sit on for lengthy periods.
It is morning, about 98F(36C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky.
(A local museum in Haven is hosting an exhibition of ancient artifacts, one of which the group learns is of significant interest to The Destined Host. The artifact, known as the 'Eye of Ahriman', is said to possess the ability to open a gateway between realms. The player characters find themselves racing against members of The Destined Host to secure the artifact. This encounter could involve a mix of investigation, stealth, and combat as characters navigate the museum after hours, contend with security measures, and fend off or outwit members of The Destined Host. They must decide whether to destroy, hide or keep the artifact once it is in their hands.)
Behind the bar, a somewhat quiet shift sees Dean working. The bartop is wiped clean, the trash is taken out. Proper garnish is cut and stored, while ice is renewed. Right now, he's in the process of carrying stacks of beer in cases of twenty, business-size, to replace the empty ones behind the counter. When that is done, too, he wipes his brow with the back of his fist, just to pick the rag over his shoulder and do the last of what would finish his shift. Wipe a stack of recently washed glasses from their water residue. He sure works, sometimes.
The end of one shift, in the peaceful hours of the morning when patrons come to the Alley more for the bowling than the drinking, would soon be interrupted by a phone call coming through to Dean's cellphone - piercing the quiet and acting like the foreboding trumpeter of news. When Dean answers, because the name displayed on the screen shows a familiar contact - one that Dean does not want to miss - he hears the expected female voice on the other end. She's revved up with some anxious energy as she relays information to the man through the speakers.
"There's been talk," she's already saying as the line picks up. Not even identifying herself. No small talk. "That Museum of Oddities around the corner from your place? It's having an exhibition and the elders- well-" There's a pause here, almost like she's checking around for listeners to their conversation on her end. Her voice drops a tad to exhibit more secrecy. "We think they've got the Eye of Ahriman. You know it?" Forget answering her, she's already skipping on to explain in her haste. "It's rumored to be able to open a gateway between realms. The Destine Host want it. I mean they REALLY want it. I've looked into it and the museum is closed while they prepare for the exhibition on..." she trails off, sounding far away as she presumably holds her phone down to check something on her Google. "Thursday night. Yah. Thursday." The voice gets louder again as the phone is raised back to her ear presumably. "Dean. You gotta get in there. It's so close - it's perfect." There's a rustling noise and then some muffled sounds of voices. Ah - the phone has been put in her pocket it seems for optics. A little bit of this pocket-dial style dialogue is heard before finally the voice comes back with a furtive whisper. "I gotta go. Do this for us?" And before Dean can even answer, the chaotic other line clicks dead.
Unfortunately for Dean, somewhere else in Haven, a contact for The Destined Host has been fed the same kind of information and is a little bit ahead of the game. One of their operatives has taken on a job as part of the setup crew for the event, and has them perfectly poised to be in the building and around the artifact at most times.
The rag is folded up one-handed, the phone, a burner, really only used between two people, is folded up and chucked aside. Dean gives his accompanying tender, the gothy chick also behind the bar, a subtle upnod to tell her to carry over, because really, there is often only one reason he ever receives a call from this Phoebe. And just like always, she barely gives him any time to get a word in. Dean's brows stay knit while he looks down at his phone, beeping with that sound of a cut short call. "God damnit, Phoebe." The extent of his curse carries no amount of heat whatsoever. Perhaps had it been anyone else from the pack that had called him, he would've hung up on their face - but it is hard to turn down a friend.
"I'm off, just let the glasses rack dry, not like anyone gives a fuck about water spots here - I haven't seen anyone not already drunk." He relays, and the gothy chick rolls perfectly made eyebrows away. It doesn't do anything to still Dean, already in motion. Leather gloves from his pockets, tugged on, and a helmet caught just before he bounded out of the periphery of the bar, affixed above his head. It seems like he has every intention to go there now, before the expedition takes place - this - sodding night. "They seriously owe me over this and last time."
When Dean exits the building, the oppressive heat of the outdoors hits him like a wall. The protective clothing he wears to zip around on his bike does nothing to help the matter - with sweat already forming on the base of his neck under the helmet when he puts it on to ready himself for the ride.
It's only 11 AM on a Monday and Dean is soon roaring through the small town's streets like he's playing out his own indie action movie delights, gaining eye rolls and squinted looks from seniors out for a stroll and mothers pushing their strollers with babies who refuse to sleep for them indoors. It doesn't take long at this speed and with the size of the town for Dean to find the museum on Ash street. Right across from a familiar looking tudor style seaside cabin that Dean might recognize as belonging to a friend.
The sign in the window says "CLOSED" but, there is definitely movement from within. It looks like renovations are being done to the foyer in preparations to host a number of elite guests. But the artifact - if it is even out to be viewed, is not something Dean gets to see from any window gazing.
The bike ruminates when he reaches his destination. Dean, in his ever aggressive method of driving through the streets in a level of haste his pleasure cruiser of a bike wasn't intended for, now waits while it is left running, and removes his helmet off the top of his head, hangs it on the handlebar, and the engine is killed in the next breath. Past the furtive glances of green eyes delivered aside, over his shoulder, at that cabin, at the museum, he has his attention and intent set on the latter.
Tip of his boot finds the kickstand to lay it down, and he leaves it exactly where it is to climb off and start to undress. Gloves, the excess protective gear, he stows them all away in the satchel of his bike to be left in his usual garment of road-frayed jeans, steel-toed boots, and a really flimsy tanktop that already bares the perspiration gathered on him in what built form it reveals underneath. His tongue click, then drags over his canids in slow contemplation post a slight movemenet of his jaw.
Then, he's off, not directly for the entrance, but around the periment of the building. As things are, Museums are novelty places. With food courts, gift shops, restrooms, the usual amenities. That bears the necessity of a back door for worker entry and waste disposal - who would want to enter somewhere when their garbage is carried out the front door on the hour? Despite the time of day, he easily sticks to the rail fence perimeter, low to the bushes, in the shaded treeline that surrounds the museum past the roadside entry. A level of stealth and caution, where all of his senses are on alert in his approach, just on the off-chance he runs into the counterpart of him here, the destined host working for the same goal, whether they're inside, outside, or plotting the same as him.
Irregardless, after a certain distance, he takes hold of the metal, and instead of skimming the area /outside/, bends himself a way into the garden, slips in, and continues on in the same quietitude that has become him, now - in his hopeful search. If not that, maybe he'd find an opportune window to break?
REGARDLESS of the strength exercised to get Dean into the garden, he would find that there is a much easier way to get inside the building proper when someone exits that back service door and actually props it open with a spare cinder block so that they can maneouver the wheeled skid of emptied booze crates out and over to their waiting truck. Either the museum doesn't know what they've -actually- got on their hands, or their hired contracts are extremely lax in their care for keeping a secure perimeter. Or perhaps it's option three, and the museum feels that their indoor security is good enough. Whatever the case may be, Dean can easily slip in the door with an upnod at the fellow taking things out. And if Dean bothered to look non-chalant enough about it, the worker wouldn't care enough to second guess his presence. There are after all, a lot of individuals coming together to make this thing work.
Inside, Dean would find himself navigating through the food prep area of the museum's restaurant/cafe and out into the modernized interior of the historical building. Down a well-lit hallway he can see the fully glass walls that lead into the main exhibition area. Already some glass cases have been erected under carefully aimed lightly and posts containing pertinent information hover next to them. Not all the cases would have their artifact within them, however. A long line of briefcases and luggage looking pieces with lock combinations is against one wall. Each marked with file number stickers to give the curators the notion of what is within. With further examination, Dean might notice a small table set up with a laptop, mouse, someone's overly large 'Stanley' cup of water, a half eaten sandwich and a pile of paperwork. Obviously a work station of some sort.
"Can I help you?" A voice sounds behind Dean. He would find a middle-aged and overly lean man with salt and pepper hair staring at him in an expectant way, dressed in a fairly decent cut of a suit. Is he staff? Is he foe? It's hard to tell at this point.
Nonchalant, casual, that's Dean, in practicality. Past the first hurdle of entering, he does his best to appraise, glance aroundand inspect the various displays set out in preparation of surely a grand exhibition. All too subtly, however, what he seeks out amongst them is only one thing. In his spot, right beside the treshold of an entry to that larger hall, with his shoulder to the frame, his nose twitches inexpectation and search. For that distasteful, disgusting scent of magic that'll no doubt raise his hair on end, and disrupt his attention.
Though he had intended to be stealthier about things, go about skulking and hiding, perhaps it would've been better had he gotten the tip last night where the staff weren't here. Not midday, where he sticks out like a sore thumb - and loses his chance to scamper to a shaded corner. He doesn't look at the voice, initially, not while he moves away, then cleans his throat, with an eventualy glance-over. "Yeah, actually."
A subtle show of exhaustion, he's already covered in sweat, and he rubs his wrists. The raw muscle on him already denotes him more as a physical worker. "I just got done taking out booze crates and the garbage, the truck's are loading," He steals the work he's seen the guy at the entry doing, nefarious, really. "Though, the- Tsk," Another click of his tongue, and he seems frustrated, brows knit, a hand coming up to his temple to brush away disarray of wet locks with the heel of his palm. "I forgot his name," The way he says it suggests as if he wants the gentleman to fill in the blanks. "Said we're short on time, and guys could use a heavy-lifter to set the displays. Not really what I signed up for, y'know? So I was waiting for someone to get me." Yet, yet, in that subtlety of a feigned worker's attitude, he spares no less of a glare at the man. It is the contemplative look of a predator, flitting every which way in search of a cabinet to shove the man into, if he needs to, before any commotion is made.
The lean man considers Dean while he talks, his deceptively light hazel eyes narrowing in on Dean's body language, his words - where is eyes seem to flit to the most. There's almost a twitch to his own nose, that has a stupidly thin moustache connected to an equally thin goatee resting beneath it, giving the main the air of a wannabe bohemian. The nose twitches again, almost like a tell as the man grows slightly more still.
Dean, being rather well versed in the body language of those in the family Canidae, might recognize this stillness as the moment before a very large decision is about to be made in his opponent. Either fight or flight.
Maybe because it's the time of day and everyone seems to be clearing out for lunch, or maybe it's just sheer recklessness like someone's hand being forced, but the man in his impeccable suit decides to just absolutely BOOK IT into the gallery proper and straight for the line up of cases containing the remaining artifacts. A catalogue of artifacts and their corresponding numbers probably on the laptop be damned - it looks like he may already have a good idea of what he's looking for and probably recognized it in Dean as well as someone who... doesn't need a spreadsheet to identify a particularly potently magical artifact.
While Dean waits, in that glare barely veiling the trepidation he seeks to inflict on the off-chance, his jaw shifts from side to side. That all too familiar fashion where he sets his teeth straight, where they don't fit right in his mouth. Another subtle second, and another - and when the man absolutely fucking books it, Dean's eyes widen up near instantly. He's left stock still, in fact, confounded and dumbfounded where his gaze wanders after the man running towards the gallery, then away, and back again.
It seems a little too little too late when it kicks into him, and he propels off of the ground, skids where his with a sound of rubber sole on marble tiles, and takes a hold of the door frame at his side to launch off. It's a poor form, not out of his make, but his predicament where he nearly topples into the first display of empty glass, but narrowly turns on a heel, "Hey!" It's a snarl, an angry one, but it seems he won't need to sniff things around to get a hold of the wanna-be bohemian, who has, surprisingly, given him quite the gap to cover despite being easily a couple decade and a half older than him at the very least. Maybe there is some value in heeding that old addage of old men in professions where people die young.
His first hurdle is a man with a crate, crossing ahead.
Dean slams into them, the poor guy. And likely, poor him.
The older male, who clearly has some extra, unnatural, pep in his step, slides into the cases like a baseball player trying to make base. Somewhere, there is a curator's spine crawling with ice at the thought of all these exceptional pieces being manhandled like this as the cases get scattered with some force. Hopefully, they are well padded inside just in case this sort of thing happens. He's trying to look for the right sticker - the right code - but he doesn't have time to really SEE the numbers and letters. Two cases E - 011313576 and E - 011331576 are honed in on, but there are a few just in front.
Dean would recover from the ricochet off the man with the crate crossing his path only to find a case hurtling across the room at him from his nemesis. That first throw is only just barely avoided by Dean and his reflexes, though it still clips his shoulder with a very uncomfortable 'thunk' that'll leave him feeling bruised until his superior healing takes care of that. The next briefcase hurled at him is easily ducked or skated around and it's at this point the salt-and-pepper man has got a clear space to grab those two identified cases.
He's running again - man this dude is fast for his age - and heading towards one of those big beautiful windows that separates the inside from the lovely gardens surrounding them on the outside. He tucks one of the cases under an arm so that a hand can be free to reach into his pocket, thumbing for something. Shortly afterwards there's a 'BEEP', a familiar sound of an electronic booting up in answer to a power button pressed somewhere. Dean's acute hearing would note it coming from the bottom corner of the window where a tiny red light flickers on to indicate some sort of incendiary device that's be attached to the glass. Oh, that slippery bohemian has been planning ahead it seems for if a quick way is needed out.
The trouble with these cult fanatics is that they really have no self preservation. And maybe it's the expendable ones they send on these missions anyway.
BANG!!! The window is blown out moments later as that light flickers to an increased pace of beeps until finally - time's up. Shards of glass... don't fly everywhere? Whatever that window is made out of or perhaps the strength of the explosive - put together - means that instead of a showering of glass, there was only a shotgun style burst of sound as the glass broke at a weak point, creating an absolute spider web of tiny cracks throughout the whole pane, rendering it completely weakened and easily kicked in.
Stopping for nothing, the lean man with the cases just throws his body at the window. The sounds of cracking and creaking can be heard as the whole pane falls out and crumbles into tiny glass pieces beneath the man as he goes shoulder first into the ground outside.
"Gods, fucking, damnit!" Dean, a man of few expletives, really - tight in his vocabularly in that regard, twists away from his initial obstacle. Just for another one to hit him then and there - reel him only slightly. While it'll sting, for sure, Dean doesn't have the option to wait. It's Haven, right? It'll be fine? Right? The thought barely crosses his mind while he stifles a snarl at the noise, the scent he tracks, and while the beeping begins, Dean is... shedding his tank top by tearing it off. Some feminine gasp resound in passing, and that poor curator of a woman is left with a sweaty biker's top half-torn. He doesn't bother with the rest, it is what it is, but what does comes with pain, and it shows.
Glint of a reflective light hits his eyes, all too sharp and yellowed out. Canids extend, where as maw begins to jut out in place of humanoid jaw to fit those teeth of his into a proper mouth made for it in lengthening lethal fangs. Vertebrae pop, joints crack, and past a vicious trail of torn off skin - under the sight of a lot of fearful people working their craft - Dean leaps, uses a few crates as a stepping stone for elevation in approach towards the shattered window.
When he tries to leap off of another man and his crate, it is not the guise of a man that he dons, but a massive, incredibly large wolf easily twice the size of a regular one, larger than a man just on all fours, towering should he ever manage to walk on two legs. Inadvertantly, he crashes, and whatever was inside of that crate, it erupts in a plume of pinkish haze that leaves him coated in it.
What ensues, at long last, is a snarling wolf trying to chew through a mouthful of pink styrofoam packaging, coated in its residue, and absolutely a sassy shade of pink crashing far, far faster through that opening made of the window, to hopefully land right on top of the surprisingly agile cultist.
Whatever this cultist had in mind for things that would happen to him in the year 2024, it was likely not being landed on by the Pink Wolf in the middle of this museum heist. He tries to scramble out in time but there's just too much wolf, and too much recovery from the crash to do it. A rather un-manly shriek comes out of his mouth then along with probably most of the air in his lungs as that furry weight hits him. He's clearly not one of their stronger operatives, but he's an agile one. He's squirming to get out from under the wolf - one briefcase still in hand while the other is scattered off out of reach from the impact of the Dean wolf hitting him. He has to make a choice here. Does he have the right artifact? Is it worth it now?
A sharp pain felt in the adductor area of Dean's inner leg muscle would come about as the man sticks the toe of a boot knife into him to give him that chance to get out from underneath. Son of a bitch this guy is full of annoyingly stupid gadgets! The briefcase in hand, this slippery eel with bad facial hair is running for his life down the garden and over the fence.
Dean might be inclined to follow, given that his rage levels are probably pretty high for that cultist but then again... there's a waft of a smell. A stink really. Like rotting garbage - like putrid flesh. Coming from the abandoned briefcase left behind. Something very powerful has been left within - Dean's wolf nose can tell no lies. And so now he must decide if he chases that cultist for revenge or focuses on the briefcase stinking up the joint.
OH, and the fact that he's just shifted in front of a bunch of museum employees who are screaming from inside a shattered window.
What a tousle. What a choice. To the point, after the abrupt start and end to their engagement, Dean stands very still where he is. A savage, massive, black wolf in the parking lot of the Haven Museum, breathing like dog, peering ahead with strangely empathic eyes while blood mats the fur over his leg. His head swivels, a brief, agitated and large motion in a a shake, and his snout is put against the ground in a low snarl, with a scarred pawn following at its heel to brush on his nose. In kept aggression, yet with the saving grace of having his intellect with a lack of the full moon to addle his brain, Dean moves up on ahead and picks the briefcase with his mouth.
And the pink wolf dashes away.
He'll first need an opportune place, with clothes, to shift back. He'll also need to reach a drop off point. The usual he uses to feed Phoebe whatever artifacts he ends up liberating at her behest. In time. Step by step. For now, he'll let the cultist go, live to fight another day, and hope that some Templars won't crash his door at night for the trick he just pulled.
(A close ally or beloved NPC of the target has gone missing. Upon investigation, it's revealed that they've been kidnapped by The Sapphire Martyrs. The group, believing in their mission, is trying to convert this person to their cause, exploiting their weaknesses, fears, and past traumas. The characters must rescue the ally/NPC before they break and join the Martyrs. Along the way, they might uncover distressing truths about The Sapphire Martyrs' plans and gain a deeper understanding of the Martyrs' tragic ideology. They may even have to confront a few members, giving them a firsthand experience of the chilling serenity these individuals possess.)
Please, tell me if there is anyone that Victoria cares for, and set up what she's up to!
Victoria just got home from a late breakfast (lunch really) at the diner where she met a few people. There's nobody really in Haven just yet that she's overly fond of.
What about in her life? Is there anyone from before she arrived in Haven that she loved? Cares for? Would try to protect?
Victoria would try to protect her family, but they moved from Haven years ago. They are still alive, however.
There is a call on her phone from an unknown number. This sunny day beats down upon Victoria, oppressive in its warmth, but a cool breeze from the ocean provides some relief
Startled by her phone ringing, Victoria peers at it a moment before answering. It's been quite a while since she's gotten a proper phone call. Hesitantly, she raises the phone to her ear after pressing accept. "Hello?" she asks.
"Victoria, please, I don't have time, they've taken me, some cult, Sapphire Martyrs. I don't even know where I-" There's a sound at the other end, her youngersister yells, the phone drops, a calm tone speaks and she can't quite make it out contrasted against the tone on the other end. Then, the call drops.
Victoria blinks in confusion. "Hello?" she asks. "Hey!" she looks at her phone, frantically pressing buttons to try to get the call to return. Why would her sister be anywhere near Haven? Who are these Sapphire Martyrs? She frowns, and begins to pace, thinking of where she should go to try to find her. "Maybe the police?" she murmurs out loud.
The police is a good spot, depending on how aware Victoria is, she knows the Haven PD have a special department which handles all the weird shit. There's also a number of factions, The Hand, The Temple or the Order would all be able to lend a hand if she went to them. Or, perhaps, if she's lost, she might find herself lucky.
Victoria decides perhaps it's better for the safety of her sister not to alert anyone just yet. She mutters something about "screw it", setting off toward some of the back alleys of Haven's streets, searching for somewhere a group like this might be meeting. Her cell phone is switched to silent, and tucked in her front pocket.
They don't put up posters on billboards or walls, but spend enough time in Haven and you can start to notice the signs, you can feel the rhythm in the air, the unsettling nature of spaces that just permeate the dark corners of Haven. Along this journey she makes her way to north end, in the industrial section, and...smells smoke, chemical smoke. A fire?
Victoria wrinkles her nose. "Ugh," she notes, but then she stops and a look of fear crosses her features. Eyes looking carefully, she begins to walk towards where the smell seems the strongest, careful not to make any unnecessary noises in the process.
There, Victoria spots a group of people in bright red robes. If she knows the cults at all, their symbols reflect a flame, not the Sapphire Martyrs but, the Black Flame? They're trying to burn down a neighbourhood shop it seems, and they turn to gaze upon her. "The hell you want?" one punk looking post teen hisses at her.
Victoria looks rather unimpressed, but holds her hands up, showing she means no harm. "Looking for the Sapphire Martyrs," she says softly. "Would you be able to point me in the right direction?" She stays a distance back from the hissing post teen starting at her for obvious reasons.
Victoria meant staring.
The lead scoffs and steps forward, grabbing a pipe and lifting it, menacingly. "If you don't fuck off, I'm gonna feed you to the fucking fire, got it?" The two others look between one another but move around supportively, perhaps intended to try to flank Victoria. She might have to fight here, but three of them?
Victoria sighs. "Listen, my sister's in trouble," she pleads. "Surely one of you has family- a younger sibling? Well, they've taken her and I have to find them," she looks to the pipe-wielding lead with her brow knit. "If you can't help, I'll go."
Inside the museum, Dean's infiltration takes a wild turn. The sequence of events escalates from covert entry to dramatic confrontation with a cultist intent on seizing the Eye for The Destined Host. Amid the chaos, Dean's supernatural nature is uncontrollably unleashed, revealing the dire extent he's willing to go to prevent the artifact from falling into the wrong hands. With the museum's tranquility shattered by his transformation into a formidable, albeit inadvertently pink, wolf, Dean manages to secure a mysterious briefcase, assumed to contain the Eye, following a heated pursuit. The resolution sees him, now burdened with the artifact and caught in the mundane aftermath of an extraordinary skirmish, contemplating his next move. The encounter at the museum serves as a testament to Dean's unwavering commitment to his covert mission, leaving a trail of bewilderment and unanswered questions among the witnesses of his remarkable feat.
(Dean's odd encounter(SRCalista):SRCalista)
[Mon Jul 8 2024]
At the Bar-and-Stage at The Alley
Carpeting stretches across the laminate flooring here, stained by footprints
and years of use, creating areas for lounge seating. Set up in front of a tiny
stage and a corner bar, here visitors are invited to grab a drink together, to
socialize, and perhaps even take the stage where a karaoke machine is prepared
for all those brave enough. The bar itself has seen better days, its counter a
gouged and scratched remnants of its former self, and almost all of the tables
and chairs in the room are similarly in need of either repair or replacements.
The corner bar displays a select assortment of draft beers and liquor - though
a good look behind the bar might cast the legitimacy of the liquor licenses in
doubt. Though dingy, the stools set up around this corner of the establishment
seem to be newer than any other furniture, featuring genuine ruddy-red leather
bar stools, and are actually pretty comfortable to sit on for lengthy periods.
It is morning, about 98F(36C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky.
(A local museum in Haven is hosting an exhibition of ancient artifacts, one of which the group learns is of significant interest to The Destined Host. The artifact, known as the 'Eye of Ahriman', is said to possess the ability to open a gateway between realms. The player characters find themselves racing against members of The Destined Host to secure the artifact. This encounter could involve a mix of investigation, stealth, and combat as characters navigate the museum after hours, contend with security measures, and fend off or outwit members of The Destined Host. They must decide whether to destroy, hide or keep the artifact once it is in their hands.)
Behind the bar, a somewhat quiet shift sees Dean working. The bartop is wiped clean, the trash is taken out. Proper garnish is cut and stored, while ice is renewed. Right now, he's in the process of carrying stacks of beer in cases of twenty, business-size, to replace the empty ones behind the counter. When that is done, too, he wipes his brow with the back of his fist, just to pick the rag over his shoulder and do the last of what would finish his shift. Wipe a stack of recently washed glasses from their water residue. He sure works, sometimes.
The end of one shift, in the peaceful hours of the morning when patrons come to the Alley more for the bowling than the drinking, would soon be interrupted by a phone call coming through to Dean's cellphone - piercing the quiet and acting like the foreboding trumpeter of news. When Dean answers, because the name displayed on the screen shows a familiar contact - one that Dean does not want to miss - he hears the expected female voice on the other end. She's revved up with some anxious energy as she relays information to the man through the speakers.
"There's been talk," she's already saying as the line picks up. Not even identifying herself. No small talk. "That Museum of Oddities around the corner from your place? It's having an exhibition and the elders- well-" There's a pause here, almost like she's checking around for listeners to their conversation on her end. Her voice drops a tad to exhibit more secrecy. "We think they've got the Eye of Ahriman. You know it?" Forget answering her, she's already skipping on to explain in her haste. "It's rumored to be able to open a gateway between realms. The Destine Host want it. I mean they REALLY want it. I've looked into it and the museum is closed while they prepare for the exhibition on..." she trails off, sounding far away as she presumably holds her phone down to check something on her Google. "Thursday night. Yah. Thursday." The voice gets louder again as the phone is raised back to her ear presumably. "Dean. You gotta get in there. It's so close - it's perfect." There's a rustling noise and then some muffled sounds of voices. Ah - the phone has been put in her pocket it seems for optics. A little bit of this pocket-dial style dialogue is heard before finally the voice comes back with a furtive whisper. "I gotta go. Do this for us?" And before Dean can even answer, the chaotic other line clicks dead.
Unfortunately for Dean, somewhere else in Haven, a contact for The Destined Host has been fed the same kind of information and is a little bit ahead of the game. One of their operatives has taken on a job as part of the setup crew for the event, and has them perfectly poised to be in the building and around the artifact at most times.
The rag is folded up one-handed, the phone, a burner, really only used between two people, is folded up and chucked aside. Dean gives his accompanying tender, the gothy chick also behind the bar, a subtle upnod to tell her to carry over, because really, there is often only one reason he ever receives a call from this Phoebe. And just like always, she barely gives him any time to get a word in. Dean's brows stay knit while he looks down at his phone, beeping with that sound of a cut short call. "God damnit, Phoebe." The extent of his curse carries no amount of heat whatsoever. Perhaps had it been anyone else from the pack that had called him, he would've hung up on their face - but it is hard to turn down a friend.
"I'm off, just let the glasses rack dry, not like anyone gives a fuck about water spots here - I haven't seen anyone not already drunk." He relays, and the gothy chick rolls perfectly made eyebrows away. It doesn't do anything to still Dean, already in motion. Leather gloves from his pockets, tugged on, and a helmet caught just before he bounded out of the periphery of the bar, affixed above his head. It seems like he has every intention to go there now, before the expedition takes place - this - sodding night. "They seriously owe me over this and last time."
When Dean exits the building, the oppressive heat of the outdoors hits him like a wall. The protective clothing he wears to zip around on his bike does nothing to help the matter - with sweat already forming on the base of his neck under the helmet when he puts it on to ready himself for the ride.
It's only 11 AM on a Monday and Dean is soon roaring through the small town's streets like he's playing out his own indie action movie delights, gaining eye rolls and squinted looks from seniors out for a stroll and mothers pushing their strollers with babies who refuse to sleep for them indoors. It doesn't take long at this speed and with the size of the town for Dean to find the museum on Ash street. Right across from a familiar looking tudor style seaside cabin that Dean might recognize as belonging to a friend.
The sign in the window says "CLOSED" but, there is definitely movement from within. It looks like renovations are being done to the foyer in preparations to host a number of elite guests. But the artifact - if it is even out to be viewed, is not something Dean gets to see from any window gazing.
The bike ruminates when he reaches his destination. Dean, in his ever aggressive method of driving through the streets in a level of haste his pleasure cruiser of a bike wasn't intended for, now waits while it is left running, and removes his helmet off the top of his head, hangs it on the handlebar, and the engine is killed in the next breath. Past the furtive glances of green eyes delivered aside, over his shoulder, at that cabin, at the museum, he has his attention and intent set on the latter.
Tip of his boot finds the kickstand to lay it down, and he leaves it exactly where it is to climb off and start to undress. Gloves, the excess protective gear, he stows them all away in the satchel of his bike to be left in his usual garment of road-frayed jeans, steel-toed boots, and a really flimsy tanktop that already bares the perspiration gathered on him in what built form it reveals underneath. His tongue click, then drags over his canids in slow contemplation post a slight movemenet of his jaw.
Then, he's off, not directly for the entrance, but around the periment of the building. As things are, Museums are novelty places. With food courts, gift shops, restrooms, the usual amenities. That bears the necessity of a back door for worker entry and waste disposal - who would want to enter somewhere when their garbage is carried out the front door on the hour? Despite the time of day, he easily sticks to the rail fence perimeter, low to the bushes, in the shaded treeline that surrounds the museum past the roadside entry. A level of stealth and caution, where all of his senses are on alert in his approach, just on the off-chance he runs into the counterpart of him here, the destined host working for the same goal, whether they're inside, outside, or plotting the same as him.
Irregardless, after a certain distance, he takes hold of the metal, and instead of skimming the area /outside/, bends himself a way into the garden, slips in, and continues on in the same quietitude that has become him, now - in his hopeful search. If not that, maybe he'd find an opportune window to break?
REGARDLESS of the strength exercised to get Dean into the garden, he would find that there is a much easier way to get inside the building proper when someone exits that back service door and actually props it open with a spare cinder block so that they can maneouver the wheeled skid of emptied booze crates out and over to their waiting truck. Either the museum doesn't know what they've -actually- got on their hands, or their hired contracts are extremely lax in their care for keeping a secure perimeter. Or perhaps it's option three, and the museum feels that their indoor security is good enough. Whatever the case may be, Dean can easily slip in the door with an upnod at the fellow taking things out. And if Dean bothered to look non-chalant enough about it, the worker wouldn't care enough to second guess his presence. There are after all, a lot of individuals coming together to make this thing work.
Inside, Dean would find himself navigating through the food prep area of the museum's restaurant/cafe and out into the modernized interior of the historical building. Down a well-lit hallway he can see the fully glass walls that lead into the main exhibition area. Already some glass cases have been erected under carefully aimed lightly and posts containing pertinent information hover next to them. Not all the cases would have their artifact within them, however. A long line of briefcases and luggage looking pieces with lock combinations is against one wall. Each marked with file number stickers to give the curators the notion of what is within. With further examination, Dean might notice a small table set up with a laptop, mouse, someone's overly large 'Stanley' cup of water, a half eaten sandwich and a pile of paperwork. Obviously a work station of some sort.
"Can I help you?" A voice sounds behind Dean. He would find a middle-aged and overly lean man with salt and pepper hair staring at him in an expectant way, dressed in a fairly decent cut of a suit. Is he staff? Is he foe? It's hard to tell at this point.
Nonchalant, casual, that's Dean, in practicality. Past the first hurdle of entering, he does his best to appraise, glance aroundand inspect the various displays set out in preparation of surely a grand exhibition. All too subtly, however, what he seeks out amongst them is only one thing. In his spot, right beside the treshold of an entry to that larger hall, with his shoulder to the frame, his nose twitches inexpectation and search. For that distasteful, disgusting scent of magic that'll no doubt raise his hair on end, and disrupt his attention.
Though he had intended to be stealthier about things, go about skulking and hiding, perhaps it would've been better had he gotten the tip last night where the staff weren't here. Not midday, where he sticks out like a sore thumb - and loses his chance to scamper to a shaded corner. He doesn't look at the voice, initially, not while he moves away, then cleans his throat, with an eventualy glance-over. "Yeah, actually."
A subtle show of exhaustion, he's already covered in sweat, and he rubs his wrists. The raw muscle on him already denotes him more as a physical worker. "I just got done taking out booze crates and the garbage, the truck's are loading," He steals the work he's seen the guy at the entry doing, nefarious, really. "Though, the- Tsk," Another click of his tongue, and he seems frustrated, brows knit, a hand coming up to his temple to brush away disarray of wet locks with the heel of his palm. "I forgot his name," The way he says it suggests as if he wants the gentleman to fill in the blanks. "Said we're short on time, and guys could use a heavy-lifter to set the displays. Not really what I signed up for, y'know? So I was waiting for someone to get me." Yet, yet, in that subtlety of a feigned worker's attitude, he spares no less of a glare at the man. It is the contemplative look of a predator, flitting every which way in search of a cabinet to shove the man into, if he needs to, before any commotion is made.
The lean man considers Dean while he talks, his deceptively light hazel eyes narrowing in on Dean's body language, his words - where is eyes seem to flit to the most. There's almost a twitch to his own nose, that has a stupidly thin moustache connected to an equally thin goatee resting beneath it, giving the main the air of a wannabe bohemian. The nose twitches again, almost like a tell as the man grows slightly more still.
Dean, being rather well versed in the body language of those in the family Canidae, might recognize this stillness as the moment before a very large decision is about to be made in his opponent. Either fight or flight.
Maybe because it's the time of day and everyone seems to be clearing out for lunch, or maybe it's just sheer recklessness like someone's hand being forced, but the man in his impeccable suit decides to just absolutely BOOK IT into the gallery proper and straight for the line up of cases containing the remaining artifacts. A catalogue of artifacts and their corresponding numbers probably on the laptop be damned - it looks like he may already have a good idea of what he's looking for and probably recognized it in Dean as well as someone who... doesn't need a spreadsheet to identify a particularly potently magical artifact.
While Dean waits, in that glare barely veiling the trepidation he seeks to inflict on the off-chance, his jaw shifts from side to side. That all too familiar fashion where he sets his teeth straight, where they don't fit right in his mouth. Another subtle second, and another - and when the man absolutely fucking books it, Dean's eyes widen up near instantly. He's left stock still, in fact, confounded and dumbfounded where his gaze wanders after the man running towards the gallery, then away, and back again.
It seems a little too little too late when it kicks into him, and he propels off of the ground, skids where his with a sound of rubber sole on marble tiles, and takes a hold of the door frame at his side to launch off. It's a poor form, not out of his make, but his predicament where he nearly topples into the first display of empty glass, but narrowly turns on a heel, "Hey!" It's a snarl, an angry one, but it seems he won't need to sniff things around to get a hold of the wanna-be bohemian, who has, surprisingly, given him quite the gap to cover despite being easily a couple decade and a half older than him at the very least. Maybe there is some value in heeding that old addage of old men in professions where people die young.
His first hurdle is a man with a crate, crossing ahead.
Dean slams into them, the poor guy. And likely, poor him.
The older male, who clearly has some extra, unnatural, pep in his step, slides into the cases like a baseball player trying to make base. Somewhere, there is a curator's spine crawling with ice at the thought of all these exceptional pieces being manhandled like this as the cases get scattered with some force. Hopefully, they are well padded inside just in case this sort of thing happens. He's trying to look for the right sticker - the right code - but he doesn't have time to really SEE the numbers and letters. Two cases E - 011313576 and E - 011331576 are honed in on, but there are a few just in front.
Dean would recover from the ricochet off the man with the crate crossing his path only to find a case hurtling across the room at him from his nemesis. That first throw is only just barely avoided by Dean and his reflexes, though it still clips his shoulder with a very uncomfortable 'thunk' that'll leave him feeling bruised until his superior healing takes care of that. The next briefcase hurled at him is easily ducked or skated around and it's at this point the salt-and-pepper man has got a clear space to grab those two identified cases.
He's running again - man this dude is fast for his age - and heading towards one of those big beautiful windows that separates the inside from the lovely gardens surrounding them on the outside. He tucks one of the cases under an arm so that a hand can be free to reach into his pocket, thumbing for something. Shortly afterwards there's a 'BEEP', a familiar sound of an electronic booting up in answer to a power button pressed somewhere. Dean's acute hearing would note it coming from the bottom corner of the window where a tiny red light flickers on to indicate some sort of incendiary device that's be attached to the glass. Oh, that slippery bohemian has been planning ahead it seems for if a quick way is needed out.
The trouble with these cult fanatics is that they really have no self preservation. And maybe it's the expendable ones they send on these missions anyway.
BANG!!! The window is blown out moments later as that light flickers to an increased pace of beeps until finally - time's up. Shards of glass... don't fly everywhere? Whatever that window is made out of or perhaps the strength of the explosive - put together - means that instead of a showering of glass, there was only a shotgun style burst of sound as the glass broke at a weak point, creating an absolute spider web of tiny cracks throughout the whole pane, rendering it completely weakened and easily kicked in.
Stopping for nothing, the lean man with the cases just throws his body at the window. The sounds of cracking and creaking can be heard as the whole pane falls out and crumbles into tiny glass pieces beneath the man as he goes shoulder first into the ground outside.
"Gods, fucking, damnit!" Dean, a man of few expletives, really - tight in his vocabularly in that regard, twists away from his initial obstacle. Just for another one to hit him then and there - reel him only slightly. While it'll sting, for sure, Dean doesn't have the option to wait. It's Haven, right? It'll be fine? Right? The thought barely crosses his mind while he stifles a snarl at the noise, the scent he tracks, and while the beeping begins, Dean is... shedding his tank top by tearing it off. Some feminine gasp resound in passing, and that poor curator of a woman is left with a sweaty biker's top half-torn. He doesn't bother with the rest, it is what it is, but what does comes with pain, and it shows.
Glint of a reflective light hits his eyes, all too sharp and yellowed out. Canids extend, where as maw begins to jut out in place of humanoid jaw to fit those teeth of his into a proper mouth made for it in lengthening lethal fangs. Vertebrae pop, joints crack, and past a vicious trail of torn off skin - under the sight of a lot of fearful people working their craft - Dean leaps, uses a few crates as a stepping stone for elevation in approach towards the shattered window.
When he tries to leap off of another man and his crate, it is not the guise of a man that he dons, but a massive, incredibly large wolf easily twice the size of a regular one, larger than a man just on all fours, towering should he ever manage to walk on two legs. Inadvertantly, he crashes, and whatever was inside of that crate, it erupts in a plume of pinkish haze that leaves him coated in it.
What ensues, at long last, is a snarling wolf trying to chew through a mouthful of pink styrofoam packaging, coated in its residue, and absolutely a sassy shade of pink crashing far, far faster through that opening made of the window, to hopefully land right on top of the surprisingly agile cultist.
Whatever this cultist had in mind for things that would happen to him in the year 2024, it was likely not being landed on by the Pink Wolf in the middle of this museum heist. He tries to scramble out in time but there's just too much wolf, and too much recovery from the crash to do it. A rather un-manly shriek comes out of his mouth then along with probably most of the air in his lungs as that furry weight hits him. He's clearly not one of their stronger operatives, but he's an agile one. He's squirming to get out from under the wolf - one briefcase still in hand while the other is scattered off out of reach from the impact of the Dean wolf hitting him. He has to make a choice here. Does he have the right artifact? Is it worth it now?
A sharp pain felt in the adductor area of Dean's inner leg muscle would come about as the man sticks the toe of a boot knife into him to give him that chance to get out from underneath. Son of a bitch this guy is full of annoyingly stupid gadgets! The briefcase in hand, this slippery eel with bad facial hair is running for his life down the garden and over the fence.
Dean might be inclined to follow, given that his rage levels are probably pretty high for that cultist but then again... there's a waft of a smell. A stink really. Like rotting garbage - like putrid flesh. Coming from the abandoned briefcase left behind. Something very powerful has been left within - Dean's wolf nose can tell no lies. And so now he must decide if he chases that cultist for revenge or focuses on the briefcase stinking up the joint.
OH, and the fact that he's just shifted in front of a bunch of museum employees who are screaming from inside a shattered window.
What a tousle. What a choice. To the point, after the abrupt start and end to their engagement, Dean stands very still where he is. A savage, massive, black wolf in the parking lot of the Haven Museum, breathing like dog, peering ahead with strangely empathic eyes while blood mats the fur over his leg. His head swivels, a brief, agitated and large motion in a a shake, and his snout is put against the ground in a low snarl, with a scarred pawn following at its heel to brush on his nose. In kept aggression, yet with the saving grace of having his intellect with a lack of the full moon to addle his brain, Dean moves up on ahead and picks the briefcase with his mouth.
And the pink wolf dashes away.
He'll first need an opportune place, with clothes, to shift back. He'll also need to reach a drop off point. The usual he uses to feed Phoebe whatever artifacts he ends up liberating at her behest. In time. Step by step. For now, he'll let the cultist go, live to fight another day, and hope that some Templars won't crash his door at night for the trick he just pulled.
(A close ally or beloved NPC of the target has gone missing. Upon investigation, it's revealed that they've been kidnapped by The Sapphire Martyrs. The group, believing in their mission, is trying to convert this person to their cause, exploiting their weaknesses, fears, and past traumas. The characters must rescue the ally/NPC before they break and join the Martyrs. Along the way, they might uncover distressing truths about The Sapphire Martyrs' plans and gain a deeper understanding of the Martyrs' tragic ideology. They may even have to confront a few members, giving them a firsthand experience of the chilling serenity these individuals possess.)
Please, tell me if there is anyone that Victoria cares for, and set up what she's up to!
Victoria just got home from a late breakfast (lunch really) at the diner where she met a few people. There's nobody really in Haven just yet that she's overly fond of.
What about in her life? Is there anyone from before she arrived in Haven that she loved? Cares for? Would try to protect?
Victoria would try to protect her family, but they moved from Haven years ago. They are still alive, however.
There is a call on her phone from an unknown number. This sunny day beats down upon Victoria, oppressive in its warmth, but a cool breeze from the ocean provides some relief
Startled by her phone ringing, Victoria peers at it a moment before answering. It's been quite a while since she's gotten a proper phone call. Hesitantly, she raises the phone to her ear after pressing accept. "Hello?" she asks.
"Victoria, please, I don't have time, they've taken me, some cult, Sapphire Martyrs. I don't even know where I-" There's a sound at the other end, her youngersister yells, the phone drops, a calm tone speaks and she can't quite make it out contrasted against the tone on the other end. Then, the call drops.
Victoria blinks in confusion. "Hello?" she asks. "Hey!" she looks at her phone, frantically pressing buttons to try to get the call to return. Why would her sister be anywhere near Haven? Who are these Sapphire Martyrs? She frowns, and begins to pace, thinking of where she should go to try to find her. "Maybe the police?" she murmurs out loud.
The police is a good spot, depending on how aware Victoria is, she knows the Haven PD have a special department which handles all the weird shit. There's also a number of factions, The Hand, The Temple or the Order would all be able to lend a hand if she went to them. Or, perhaps, if she's lost, she might find herself lucky.
Victoria decides perhaps it's better for the safety of her sister not to alert anyone just yet. She mutters something about "screw it", setting off toward some of the back alleys of Haven's streets, searching for somewhere a group like this might be meeting. Her cell phone is switched to silent, and tucked in her front pocket.
They don't put up posters on billboards or walls, but spend enough time in Haven and you can start to notice the signs, you can feel the rhythm in the air, the unsettling nature of spaces that just permeate the dark corners of Haven. Along this journey she makes her way to north end, in the industrial section, and...smells smoke, chemical smoke. A fire?
Victoria wrinkles her nose. "Ugh," she notes, but then she stops and a look of fear crosses her features. Eyes looking carefully, she begins to walk towards where the smell seems the strongest, careful not to make any unnecessary noises in the process.
There, Victoria spots a group of people in bright red robes. If she knows the cults at all, their symbols reflect a flame, not the Sapphire Martyrs but, the Black Flame? They're trying to burn down a neighbourhood shop it seems, and they turn to gaze upon her. "The hell you want?" one punk looking post teen hisses at her.
Victoria looks rather unimpressed, but holds her hands up, showing she means no harm. "Looking for the Sapphire Martyrs," she says softly. "Would you be able to point me in the right direction?" She stays a distance back from the hissing post teen starting at her for obvious reasons.
Victoria meant staring.
The lead scoffs and steps forward, grabbing a pipe and lifting it, menacingly. "If you don't fuck off, I'm gonna feed you to the fucking fire, got it?" The two others look between one another but move around supportively, perhaps intended to try to flank Victoria. She might have to fight here, but three of them?
Victoria sighs. "Listen, my sister's in trouble," she pleads. "Surely one of you has family- a younger sibling? Well, they've taken her and I have to find them," she looks to the pipe-wielding lead with her brow knit. "If you can't help, I'll go."