Encounterlogs
Harriets Odd Encounter Sr Alexander 240202
Harriet Fairfax, Warden of the Order, finds herself at the heart of a grave situation in Haven. Gruesome murders had left a series of exsanguinated corpses strewn across the city, pressing Harriet into action. She taps into her contacts in the supernatural community for any leads and heads to the police station for further investigation, her charismatic presence making waves among both the supernatural-aware and mundane officers. There, she meets Deputy Carroll, who provides crucial information pointing towards a pattern of abductions and killings leading them to suspect a blood farm operating out of the Temple Steel district. With this insight, Harriet senses the nearing confrontation with a monstrous adversary.
Ronan, with his enhanced senses, tracks vampire activity linked to the missing persons. Accompanied by several Moore thugs, he scrutinizes the nightclub scenes for clues, even as his own behavior draws attention amidst the flu season. Eventually, Harriet, armed with resolve and information, and Ronan, driven by the urge to find and avenge the victims, converge at the Temple Steel district. Their uneasy encounter transforms into a tentative alliance as Harriet, with a deputy in tow and Ronan's pack of toughs, infiltrates the suspected den of bloodthirsty predators.
Inside the warehouse, the stench of decay and muffled cries of agony unmask the grim reality: a blood farm with encaged, dehumanised victims, their lives leeched away by a group of young vampires. A brutal confrontation unfolds, showcasing Ronan's savage bestial ferocity and Harriet's lethal precision. Victory is theirs, but at a dire cost. Deputy Carroll, having fought bravely, suffers a fatal wound by a vampire among the chaos. Despite Ronan's rebuke of Harriet for risking innocents, they join forces to save those enslaved and shut down the harrowing operation. Harriet, still shaken and grappling with the ramification of the deputy's death, is left to wonder what monster will they face next in the shadowy corners of Haven.
(Harriet's odd encounter(SRAlexander):SRAlexander)
[Thu Feb 1 2024]
In Blood Circling the Drain
Missing persons, drained corpses, in numbers exceeding the norm, across the streets of Haven, someone needs to help.
It is night, about 16F(-8C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. There is a waning crescent moon.
Harriet will find the leads are up to her. Police have a recently uncovered body if she thinks such an investigation might yield fruit. She probably can guess the nature of the culprit's supernatural origin, perhaps tracking down one of the associated kind and...politely asking questions could lead to the answers that she seeks. Maybe the contacts she yielded over her time as the leader of the Order might guide her. Or, a trip to the police station to gather what intel they have and try to see what, if anything, connects the victims.
Any number of her talents might yield success.
With the realisation that the leads in this unsettling case rest squarely on her shoulders, Harriet Fairfax, Warden of the Order, contemplates her next move. A multifaceted approach seems necessary, and her first step is to leverage her extensive network. Determined, she initiates her investigation by engaging directly with the supernatural community, sending off a few texts to some contacts in the area to see if they have any news of where the latest victims were found. After she's gotten into her Aston Martin, she heads over to the station, aware that time is likely of the essence -- but she drives following perfectly every traffic law. Eventually, she arrives at her intended location, and heads inside to speak with the sheriff's department with all of the officers aware of the supernatural.
"Good evening," Harriet greets one of the deputies, and then proceeds to show them the e-mail, asking for any additional details they may have that could help guide her to confront whatever darkness awaits her.
No answer is immediately forthcoming, but sometimes answers take time to find. A fact she is made aware of as she drives through the Haven city streets. It's late evening, sun set long ago in these winter hours, but the telltale fog is distant and faint. She arrives before too long.
She arrives before long, heads turning as she strolls into the sheriff's department and then back. She's a known quantity in these parts even among the more mundane officers in their employ. Someone is flagged, a hushed whisper. She's greeted warmly by a desk jocky who looks equal parts distracted and eager to see her on her way, and before long she finds a deputy in the special division, a 'black cat' team that's more Aware of things. "Miss Fairfax," the young woman begins to explain. "Thanks for coming by, I know you're busy. I've assembled the victims we're aware of matching the profile and suspected missing persons." She is leading Harriet to an office down a long hall. Backrooms of the department.
Harriet acknowledges the nods and murmured greetings with a polite nod, her focus unwavering. Upon being greeted by the deputy who is ready to assist her, her demeanor shifts subtly. The mention of assembled victim profiles and potentially connected missing persons sharpens her focus -- this is exactly the kind of lead she has been seeking. "Thank you for gathering this information," the brunette responds in her posh British accent that conveys both her gratitude and her readiness to delve into the matter at hand. As she is led to the office, her steps are measured and mind already turning over the possibilities of what the assembled data might reveal. She approaches the materials laid out for her review with a keen eye, scanning the victim profiles, photographs, and any notes on the suspected missing persons. Her analytical mind begins to piece together the puzzle, searching for patterns, anomalies, or any threads that might connect these unfortunate souls to the sinister force they are up against.
The deputy nods to Harriet politely. She seems professional, well put together. Much too young for someone to be dealing with these kinds of matters. She's led into an office. The buzzing in the room, ill repaired heater, a faint chill, no windows. A whiteboard is on one length of the wall, a dozen or more photos of gruesome bodies, all more or less entirely exsanguinated and broken. They were discarded. Spent of life and wasted.
The Deputy lays out the facts for Harriet, and it doesn't take her long to pick out the pattern. The people were taken from the nightclubs in the surrounding areas. The bodies were discarded in the in the Temple Steel district of town. Might be operating out of there? It narrows down a search for certain.
It's the timeline that tells the story, a month, sometimes less, sometimes more. A person goes missing, then a body is found. Blood farm. The deputy doesn't seem to have a clue. What does she tell her?
In the meanwhile, what has Ronan been doing to track down leads?
Ronan has been just sniffing around the areas where they were last seen. Using his enhanced senses to get to the bottom of vampiric involvement- and possibly bring back a few of the missing trailer folk, avenge them if necessary. He's probably got a few Moore thugs with him as well. Perhaps. Street toughs, dressed like bikers. How much is a few? Hard to say. Lower than six. He sniffs at the air once. He sniffs at the air twice. It being flu season, Ronan is hoping that his behavior doesn't attract too much attention- also it being 11 o'clock at night.
In the stark, chill atmosphere of the office, Harriet absorbs the information laid out by the deputy with a sense of urgency, her hazel gaze sweeping over the haunting images displayed. The patterns become clear to her seasoned mind -- the nightclubs as hunting grounds, the Temple Steel district as the dumping site. It paints a grim picture of premeditation and ruthlessness.
"Thank you for your diligent work. It's clear we're dealing with something beyond ordinary criminal activities," she begins, choosing her words carefully. "The pattern you've identified points to a predator that's not just hunting but harvesting. This isn't a case of random violence -- it's methodical, and it targets a specific group within a specific timeframe." Then, in a rather commanding tone, she insists, "Come with me. Grab your gun." She has a plan in place, that mind of hers figuring out all of the steps, and understanding the challenges that come with it. Determined, she heads back to her vehicle and to Temple Steel. Pulling up to park, she gathers her weapons, and then beginning her own investigation, she finds Ronan, but does not know him. Uncertain, she asks, "Can I help you?"
"Oh." She stares at Harriet as if this is one of another things she'll think about when she isn't able to sleep. But maybe knowing it'll save her life? Or others? She follows after and nods, reporting in and moves to join her.
In fact, the Moore's found themselves shy of the location. The sense of smell, potent as it may be, won't help them if they can't narrow the field. Thankfully, the missing piece of the puzzle is held in Harriet's hands. Perhaps this could be a productive partnership?
someone finds Ronan, head cocked back. Sniffing at the air, amber eyes flickering around for a few moments. Turning towards someone, he eyeballs the Warden. No flicker of recognition entering his own eyes. Head slanting down now to fully face the maven, Ronan slants his head to the side. He looks to the deputy. Then to Harriet. Then to the deputy. Then to Harriet. Finally. Ronan's eyes land on the ring she bears- one specific ring, that is. "I didn't know the Order was in the interest of pulling along innocent deputies into their business. Assuming your business is my business- putting a stop to this madness. People're goin' missin'."
Harriet finds Ronan, head cocked back. Sniffing at the air, amber eyes flickering around for a few moments. Turning towards someone, he eyeballs the Warden. No flicker of recognition entering his own eyes. Head slanting down now to fully face the maven, Ronan slants his head to the side. He looks to the deputy. Then to Harriet. Then to the deputy. Then to Harriet. Finally. Ronan's eyes land on the ring she bears- one specific ring, that is. "I didn't know the Order was in the interest of pulling along innocent deputies into their business. Assuming your business is my business- putting a stop to this madness. People're goin' missin'."
Harriet finds Ronan, head cocked back. Sniffing at the air, amber eyes flickering around for a few moments. Turning towards Harriet, he eyeballs the Warden. No flicker of recognition entering his own eyes. Head slanting down now to fully face the maven, Ronan slants his head to the side. He looks to the deputy. Then to Harriet. Then to the deputy. Then to Harriet. Finally. Ronan's eyes land on the ring she bears- one specific ring, that is. "I didn't know the Order was in the interest of pulling along innocent deputies into their business. Assuming your business is my business- putting a stop to this madness. People're goin' missin'."
The Deputy goes to speak, but Harriet will have the first chance to respond.
Harriet has indeed brought along a deputy. "I needed someone to keep watch," she tells Ronan, eying him for a moment after. "As none of my people were available. I had no idea I would run to others who were intent on finding the culprits," is said to the man as she gestures to him with a slender right hand, and then to his family member thugs. "I do indeed intend to stop this nonsense." Her own nostrils flare as she takes in the scents in the air, but she doesn't appear to have found what she is looking for. "Over at the station, there was plenty of photographs of those who were fed on... too much... Bodies have been dumped in this area, and I intend to go inside of Temple Steel and have a look. Are you boys up for a search?" Obviously, she does not have a warrant.
Deputy Carroll, last night gives Ronan a look of anger and barely contained fury, she sticks to Harriet's side and noteworthy, her sidearm is drawn but kept to her side, not raised. Whether drawn for his presence or because of what they're hunting it's hard to say for sure.
"Speaking of putting a stop to madness," she says pointedly, then exhales sharp. Long enough to know the job, it seems. "I'm here for a different monster today, are you going to be a problem?" she asks.
last name, not last night*
"We have to keep up with the societies somehow." Ronan tells Deputy Carroll. "Scram, small-fry. Don't get yourself hurt if you can avoid it. The town needs you." Strangely enough. The concern in his voice- it's sincere. Turning his attention back to someone. "What do you mean 'fed?' What are we talking here. A shifter. A wight? Or a vampire?" A beat later, and Ronan adds. "Yeah. We're up for a hunt."
"We have to keep up with the societies somehow." Ronan tells Deputy Carroll. "Scram, small-fry. Don't get yourself hurt if you can avoid it. The town needs you." Strangely enough. The concern in his voice- it's sincere. Turning his attention back to Harriet. "What do you mean 'fed?' What are we talking here. A shifter. A wight? Or a vampire?" A beat later, and Ronan adds. "Yeah. We're up for a hunt."
Harriet listens to both Deputy Carroll and to Ronan, and she seems to understand the concern that the Moore has for the other woman. "Having another set of eyes is not a bad thing," she insists. "The deputies often show up to ensure nothing gets out of hand, even if they cannot personally interfere all the time. Deputy Wilson had to be used as a makeshift ambulance driver the other night. Deputy Bailey has stood by while I dealth with a gym ..." There's a pause. "Anyway..." Her right hand is waving dismissively, and her attention returns to the seriousness of the situation at hand. "Vampires, I believe," is shared in a lowered tone, and then she nods to the rest of the group, leading them onward and to Temple Steel.
The unlikely alliance between the trio bears fruit rather quickly. Between the intel that Harriet gathered, and the Moore's nose, it isn't long before they narrow it down to an abandoned structure near the water. A lot of the bodies washed down river, perhaps sloppily discarded, if not crammed into dumpsters around town in the neighbourhood. It's the copper scent of blood in the air that pulls the search close. Then...for one person a stronger sign makes clear they've likely found it.
It's a refurbished warehouse. One machinery equipment ran, it appears it might be running once more. Not an unusual sound for this place, but ominous for its purpose. A brief examination shows nothing on the exterior, no sentries, no guards. But it is almost certainly the place. They need only get inside and search.
"What's your name?" Ronan wonders of Harriet, eyes twitching- his entire face rolling, in disgust as the undead scent hits his nostrils. "Th'name's Ronan. Ronan Moore." He's letting his nose guide him for the moment.
As the group searches and the Moores have their supernatural senses on alert, Harriet and the Deputy are soon beside the buidling. Hazel eyes focused on the front door, the Warden tries the handle, trying to turn it to see if it is locked. If it isn't then, she's going to slowly open it up. However, if it is locked, she will retrieve a pick from her handbag and ever so casually work at it to see if she cannot get inside that way. "Ronan Moore," comes her reply to Ronan's introduction. "Harriet Fairfax, but please, call me Harry."
The suffering here is immense. Misery rolls off this place in a thick heady way. Harriet could sustain herself off this by just strolling by each day. That is, until they shut it down.
The doors are locked, but luckily, Harriet appears to have a key. At least, Deputy Carrolls is content to pretend that's the case as the door slides open. Inside the warehouse floors are humming generators. More than one would need, perhaps chosen more for the sound they generate, and can thusly cover up.
A wave of grotesque odor washes over the group, the Deputy looks like she might lose her dinner, but maintains, not straying far. Nothing else stands out, but they may need to read in further to find anything of note.
Past the opening where streetlight filters in, the building is pitch black. Some light on a few windows within give faint light but it mostly serves to cast long shadows
Ronan cracks his neck, then his knuckles as Harriet uses her... key. There's a feral grin on his face as he strolls into the approaching darkness. Within... bones crack. Break, even. Reshaping themselves, rearranging where they are. Healing when necessary. Breaking again. Healing. Flesh rips and tears, warping, fur sprouting. Now there are two creatures of darkness and fang within. Only one's got added claws and fur on-top.
That suffering feeds Harriet right now, and well... That stoic expression that had previously graced her facial features is now replaced by a glorious smile. She's really quite beautiful when she isn't scowling all the time. Although, she is also likely less attractive because she's giggling under her breath over the fact that so much suffering is seeping into her -- and, you know, some people probably find that a turn off. "Ah," gets sighed out past those smiling, plump lips, sounding euphoric in that moment. Once inside the building, she's still far too jolly, and her walk has swagger that it did not show off earlier. As Ronan turns into a wolf, she appears unsurprised, and continues on her search. The acrid tang of death is thick, and it does bother her, but the suffering outweighs the unpleasantness of everything else, and the brunette appears to be living her best life. Her eyes and her nose are her lead.
The Deputy shifts back and almost levels her firearm at Ronan as he changes but has better discipline than that. She follows Harriet's lead in the response but then the shift of euphoria puts her ill at ease. Black hair, and quite disturbed by her assistants she keeps to the rear, a flashlight providing useful if narrow beams of light. The crew finds it isn't long before they discover the staircase descending into the basement, a single flight, a steel door...and the intense yet faint cries of miserable people. The scent of death increases, turning stomachs of those not used to the smell of putrified flesh. And god save those who are.
The suffering only grows stronger as they approach.
Ronan(wolf) descends further into the pitch black, until they find the stairs. Ronan(wolf) being what he is- he comes leads the vanguard. Or, would. Assuming neither Harriet nor the good deputy will stop him.
Tension in the air thickens with the scent of death and the distant, miserable cries that echo through the staircase descending into the basement, but Harriet is still gleefully assessing the place. Her sides tremble as she attempts to swallow back her laughter that desires to spill forth. The deputy's visible discomfort and the grim discoveries that await them-/should/ only serve to point out the urgency of their mission, but there's Harriet, giggling under her breath, and then... Was that a moan? Yes, it was. "Stay behind me," she instructs the deputy, and her voice, albeit amused in a way... is also calm compared to the tumult of dread that surrounds them. The Moores are allowed to lead, and the Warden has her rifle in hand now, no longer slung over her shoulder, and she pays careful attention to Ronan(wolf), intent on maintaining his safety.
The door is opened and a rush of filthy and human misery hits the air. It's a choking cloying cloud now. Blood, rot, human excrement and worse and the sound of suffering grows heady as the door is opened. Perhaps fear of their torturer returning? It's a large chamber, nearly one hundred feet in length, and fifty feet in width. Four brick pillars as support and cut sightlines. The dim light, save the narrow torch that Carrols carries plagues anyone without effective nightvision in their arsenal.
But you can spy the people. A dozen cages, stacked with two or three people. Cages no larger than dog crates with I.V.'s draining blood, into bags, into buckets, into repositories.
A blood bank, hardly a noble endeavor for these creatures, but this one almost seems designed with callous disregard for the inhabitants. No wonder there are so many bodies. People blood in chains, malnourished, filthy, and wail. Those conscious are quieter, staring with renewed horror with senses they still possess, uncertain. Wondering if they are to be liberated, or condemned.
Ronan says, roaring, "Come out, coward!"
A thought might linger, how many more of these exist where the operator has the savvy to keep it quiet. A dozen mistakes or more spring to mind, and those with the inclination to know, those vulnerabilities could have been covered up. Especially in a town like Haven.
Harriet is paradoxically invigorated by the suffering around her. This dark euphoria seeps into her bones, compelling her to giggle and moan quite faintly now and then despite the this messed up situation. It's a reaction not of malice, but an innate response to the energies swirling in this place of torment. Despite the overwhelming rush that threatens to cloud her judgment, the brunette's resolve remains unshaken. Her mission is to free these people from their chains, and she really does try to cut through the haze of her bliss that is preventing her from being grounded in the moment. She focuses on the task at hand, truly trying to channel the surge of energy into a force for good... but it certainly isn't easy to accomplish that. Not while you're giggling and holding a rifle, and in the suffocating confines within a refurbished warehouse. Rifle held ready to fire, she watches Ronan(wolf) and his kin before her eyes carefully roam about the area, searching for a culprit... and then the softest little sound of what is most definitely another moan slips out past her full lips.
Ronan's bellowing warcry stirs terror in the sick and ailing, and echos out across the building. Deputy Carrolls is entirely out of her element, the trembling light shows the misery, the horror show, and she's the first to move towards the cage, trying to find a way to open the bars.
The first warning sign was basic arithmetic. A number of victims, scaled against the number found here, against the bodies found. Easy to forgive yourself for missing it. Not all the people taken, were killed.
A half dozen vampires in all close, hiss and descend upon the party to devour them. The Deputy shrieks, a cry of terror and fury both, but this isn't her kind of fight. Not in this space. Darkness closes in, clausterphobic. Scent overwhelmes sense. The cries fill the air.
But, perhaps were it anyone else this might have ended worse. Certainly, Harriet and Ronan both are not lambs to the slaughter. This isn't their first rodeo, will it be their last?
They missed the new moon to take advantage of Ronan(wolf)'s weakness. Crippled he may be, that doesn't stop the bruiser from bursting forward with blinding speed, claws swiping. Teeth gnashing together, tearing into undead flesh. His claws are mostly used to keep the undead menace at bay. It's the fangs that his prey must be weary of- and he uses them to rip into one's arm, head shaking repeatedly if he's managed to grip it, trying to tear it out of place- if not tear it off completely. Another, he'd crush their skull in his maw.
Harriet isn't entirely sure if this group has sanctuary or not, but she's not going to give them the benefit of the doubt -- and she's taking aim and shooting her rifle, trying to see if a bullet can even lodge itself in or through them -- or if they are all magically protected from each round. After, she moves at an incredible speed to take a better position. Then she's trying to assess what her shooting did to the one she'd fired at prior.
Ronan is without a doubt in his element here. Close quarters the hyper-violence of the garou is on full display here. An answer to Harriet's question found within the crunching skull of a vampire. Freshly turned, these vampires represent no greater society, have no greater protection extended to them. They show surprising strength, able to press these supernatural investigators limits, but they are young. Confused. Terrified. The blood that pulses through their veins gives them wild and terrifying strength, but it's nothing they haven't encounter before.
Harriet's rifle reports signals vicious wound, the rounds tearing holes through vampires excellently placed.
It's chaos, utter chaos but it ends as it began, abrupt and sudden, a half dozen score of vampire killed, and likely the 'sire' among them. Delusions of grandeur? Enterprising yet careless? Whoever sired this one did a halfassed job certain.
Harriet's finely honed instincts for the shadow games they play leaves her uncertain, what kind of play could this be if it was one? All that's left now, is to free the victims, and clean up, and wonder what the next move is going to be.
Ultimately, it always comes down to mathematics. How many lives lost, to the ones saved. A kind of calculus that one might engage in to help them sleep at night. Tonight, a victory. The cost? Deputy Carrols sits at the end of the fight, slumped against a cage, a hand on her neck. She's bleeding, the kind of steady pump that shows someone the beating pulse of their heart. The kind of injury that ends the lives of mortals and supernatural alike. She has a quiet grim expression, almost content. Behind her, children, teenagers barely into highschool. Dirty, terrified, but alive.
It's the kind of math that seems like it gives her comfort, if nothing else. As blood pools about her body and drifts into the drains in the basement.
Ronan says, turning around, looking to the dying deputy, then to Harriet, storming towards her, "Look at what you caused. Because you couldn't find, you couldn't -order- Shieldbearers and Swordbearers along. You're the damn Warden."
Still coming down from her high, Harriet is absolutely blissful, lowering her rifle done after their success, but then she blinks a bit and reality starts to sink in as Ronan begins to scold her. She looks confused, and the uncertainty etches over her face further. "How can she not have sanctuary in this town?" she asks Ronan, rushing over to the deputy. "What did you do?" gets asked as she drops to her knees before the bleeding woman, and her hands are moving to the woman's neck. "What did you do to lose your sanctuary?" she's demanding, like this is a bigger issue than the bloodbank at hand. "No, no, no. You've got to stay with me."
Carrols gives a faint grin, the color draining from her. "...Hey...knock it off...how many of us...you think you've..." She coughs, shuddering. "You think any of us ever expect to collect retirement...?" She leans back and her light fades. "...itsa job..." Perhaps Harriet will discover in time. Sanctuary protects against much, but it's never perfect, it's never flawless. What quirk, what trick exposed the young deputy? Or maybe, simply put, the injury wasn't stopped, and the bloodloss was simply considered incidental? What's one more mystery left in the dark of Haven?
The night goes on. Perhaps the Moore's cause some trouble with jurisdiction. Maybe it's the PD, or the Order, or who knows. Those rescued will survive. Those responsible were punished. And Haven puts an end to one more nightmare.
Just another night.
"It wasn't her damn job!" Ronan yells at Harriet, reaching over in an attempt to grab the woman by the shoulders and give her a few violent shakes. "You can't find someone to accompany you? -Tell- them to accompany you. At least risking life and limb against the terrors of the night is what they signed up for. You're the Warden! Pull your head out of your goddamn ass and start pulling rank if you have to!" With that, Ronan starts to storm off. He doesn't have the keys. He doesn't have the strength he would normally use to break apart the bars- so he leaves Harriet alone to ponder the death. To free the bank.
(The characters come across an old, haunted library. The ghost librarian insists they solve the riddle of his death before he will allow them to leave. The characters must investigate the library, uncovering clues and secrets to piece together the tragic story of the librarian's past.)
David was just sitting on his bed, trying to recover from an awful couple of days. Weariness clings to him like an awful miasma. He runs his fingers down his face, and pulls his glasses off in the process, setting them aside on the bedspread.
before David sets the glasses on the table, it's easy to see a package that had been left there, arranged carefully so the label reading, 'From Moreno' could be noticed clearly. Even before it's touched though, the level of arcane power seems to only increase until it's got a physical sort of sensation in the air. Next to the package is a letter in a simple envelope.
David wipes his glasses and puts them back on, rising slowly from the bed and advancing towards the table. There he stoops, firstly to inspect the package. The feeling of the static on his fingertips causes him to withdraw his hand cautiously, and reach for the envelope first. He opens that, and reads whatever may lie inside.
it's not hard to notice that the letter had been penned in an elegant hand and its swirling ink vivid against old paper. There's a musty sort of scent to it, as if the document had set for a long time amidst the aromas of ink, paper and leather.
"To who it may concern. My name is August Lordsley, the owner of a library only known as, the memory.
Even now as you read this. The place of where I speak of is contained in the pages of the book that accompanied this missive.
Even as David reads, the power from the wrapped book seems to respond, quivering with a sort of jelly like wrongness, light pulling from the room in little tendrils of chaos..
The letter continues down the page, and as it does the words start to jumble and bleed off the paper, the only sentence remaining is, "Who killed me?""
it's not hard to notice that the letter had been penned in an elegant hand and its swirling ink vivid against old paper. There's a musty sort of scent to it, as if the document had set for a long time amidst the aromas of ink, paper and leather.
To who it may concern. My name is August Lordsley, the owner of a library only known as, the memory.
Even now as you read this. The place of where I speak of is contained in the pages of the book that accompanied this missive.
Even as David reads, the power from the wrapped book seems to respond, quivering with a sort of jelly like wrongness, light pulling from the room in little tendrils of chaos..
The letter continues down the page, and as it does the words start to jumble and bleed off the paper, the only sentence remaining is, "Who killed me?"
Jelly-like wrongness? Tendrils of chaos? This is daily life for David. He doesn't even seem particularly disturbed. He just watches with weary eyes as everything goes bad yet again. He reaches for the book with a calm hand, despite it all. He hesitates only for a split second before peeling off the wrapping and tossing it aside. He must understand that the only way out is through.
Chaos, that's what's behind the paper. Absolute chaos, swirling galaxies, drifting stars and yet there's a wrongness to all of it. The astronomical bodies seem to have disturbing collars, splotched and fleshy even though there's nothing wrong.
It's too late now though, the book opens and sucks and drags David from the world into a dream that's maddening.
It's when David wakes that the first thing he notices is that there is the smell of rot, plague, and putrification in the place he's wound up in. Amidst all of it are bookshelves, their wood covered in fungus, splotches of what could only be rotting foliage dripping to the floor.
To the left and right are other bookshelves while in the middle of the room a man lies, dead on the floor, a copy of the same letter in his hand, except the letters are upside down and backward. The orientation of the paper is a little wrong as well.
Even David is disturbed by the sheer vastness of this false cosmos, and he drops the book, but as was said -- it's too late. He is part of the book now, and the book is part of him. His mind is siphoned into this vacuum of entropy.
Then, when his thoughts clear, he finds himself in this strange place, on a dank, damp floor of rotten wood. He starts to slowly rise from it, stumbling a bit. He's wounded. Even in this halfway place, he's still hurt. He clutches at his stomach as something moves within his abdomen, something beneath his shirt that writhes gently. He looks at the dead man, and his brow creases with empathy.
there's a little bit of a rotten smell from the corpse as well, the body looking bloated, yet something is wrong about it as well. Through the corpses skin is the remains of what looks like some sickly plant. It's clear to see it's poisonous, and beneath it is a book, the vines and roots attached to it and sprouting up through the male's, for it must be a male given the letter read, stomach.
They start to writhe and some of the books in the shelves seem to decay before David's eyes.
the book beneath the body though, it starts to gain some life.
ooc: must apologize but he apparently started this too late and is now falling asleep. I would still like to continue this story with you however if you wouldn't mind. I'd set it up as some sort of tiny plot!
Ronan, with his enhanced senses, tracks vampire activity linked to the missing persons. Accompanied by several Moore thugs, he scrutinizes the nightclub scenes for clues, even as his own behavior draws attention amidst the flu season. Eventually, Harriet, armed with resolve and information, and Ronan, driven by the urge to find and avenge the victims, converge at the Temple Steel district. Their uneasy encounter transforms into a tentative alliance as Harriet, with a deputy in tow and Ronan's pack of toughs, infiltrates the suspected den of bloodthirsty predators.
Inside the warehouse, the stench of decay and muffled cries of agony unmask the grim reality: a blood farm with encaged, dehumanised victims, their lives leeched away by a group of young vampires. A brutal confrontation unfolds, showcasing Ronan's savage bestial ferocity and Harriet's lethal precision. Victory is theirs, but at a dire cost. Deputy Carroll, having fought bravely, suffers a fatal wound by a vampire among the chaos. Despite Ronan's rebuke of Harriet for risking innocents, they join forces to save those enslaved and shut down the harrowing operation. Harriet, still shaken and grappling with the ramification of the deputy's death, is left to wonder what monster will they face next in the shadowy corners of Haven.
(Harriet's odd encounter(SRAlexander):SRAlexander)
[Thu Feb 1 2024]
In Blood Circling the Drain
Missing persons, drained corpses, in numbers exceeding the norm, across the streets of Haven, someone needs to help.
It is night, about 16F(-8C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. There is a waning crescent moon.
Harriet will find the leads are up to her. Police have a recently uncovered body if she thinks such an investigation might yield fruit. She probably can guess the nature of the culprit's supernatural origin, perhaps tracking down one of the associated kind and...politely asking questions could lead to the answers that she seeks. Maybe the contacts she yielded over her time as the leader of the Order might guide her. Or, a trip to the police station to gather what intel they have and try to see what, if anything, connects the victims.
Any number of her talents might yield success.
With the realisation that the leads in this unsettling case rest squarely on her shoulders, Harriet Fairfax, Warden of the Order, contemplates her next move. A multifaceted approach seems necessary, and her first step is to leverage her extensive network. Determined, she initiates her investigation by engaging directly with the supernatural community, sending off a few texts to some contacts in the area to see if they have any news of where the latest victims were found. After she's gotten into her Aston Martin, she heads over to the station, aware that time is likely of the essence -- but she drives following perfectly every traffic law. Eventually, she arrives at her intended location, and heads inside to speak with the sheriff's department with all of the officers aware of the supernatural.
"Good evening," Harriet greets one of the deputies, and then proceeds to show them the e-mail, asking for any additional details they may have that could help guide her to confront whatever darkness awaits her.
No answer is immediately forthcoming, but sometimes answers take time to find. A fact she is made aware of as she drives through the Haven city streets. It's late evening, sun set long ago in these winter hours, but the telltale fog is distant and faint. She arrives before too long.
She arrives before long, heads turning as she strolls into the sheriff's department and then back. She's a known quantity in these parts even among the more mundane officers in their employ. Someone is flagged, a hushed whisper. She's greeted warmly by a desk jocky who looks equal parts distracted and eager to see her on her way, and before long she finds a deputy in the special division, a 'black cat' team that's more Aware of things. "Miss Fairfax," the young woman begins to explain. "Thanks for coming by, I know you're busy. I've assembled the victims we're aware of matching the profile and suspected missing persons." She is leading Harriet to an office down a long hall. Backrooms of the department.
Harriet acknowledges the nods and murmured greetings with a polite nod, her focus unwavering. Upon being greeted by the deputy who is ready to assist her, her demeanor shifts subtly. The mention of assembled victim profiles and potentially connected missing persons sharpens her focus -- this is exactly the kind of lead she has been seeking. "Thank you for gathering this information," the brunette responds in her posh British accent that conveys both her gratitude and her readiness to delve into the matter at hand. As she is led to the office, her steps are measured and mind already turning over the possibilities of what the assembled data might reveal. She approaches the materials laid out for her review with a keen eye, scanning the victim profiles, photographs, and any notes on the suspected missing persons. Her analytical mind begins to piece together the puzzle, searching for patterns, anomalies, or any threads that might connect these unfortunate souls to the sinister force they are up against.
The deputy nods to Harriet politely. She seems professional, well put together. Much too young for someone to be dealing with these kinds of matters. She's led into an office. The buzzing in the room, ill repaired heater, a faint chill, no windows. A whiteboard is on one length of the wall, a dozen or more photos of gruesome bodies, all more or less entirely exsanguinated and broken. They were discarded. Spent of life and wasted.
The Deputy lays out the facts for Harriet, and it doesn't take her long to pick out the pattern. The people were taken from the nightclubs in the surrounding areas. The bodies were discarded in the in the Temple Steel district of town. Might be operating out of there? It narrows down a search for certain.
It's the timeline that tells the story, a month, sometimes less, sometimes more. A person goes missing, then a body is found. Blood farm. The deputy doesn't seem to have a clue. What does she tell her?
In the meanwhile, what has Ronan been doing to track down leads?
Ronan has been just sniffing around the areas where they were last seen. Using his enhanced senses to get to the bottom of vampiric involvement- and possibly bring back a few of the missing trailer folk, avenge them if necessary. He's probably got a few Moore thugs with him as well. Perhaps. Street toughs, dressed like bikers. How much is a few? Hard to say. Lower than six. He sniffs at the air once. He sniffs at the air twice. It being flu season, Ronan is hoping that his behavior doesn't attract too much attention- also it being 11 o'clock at night.
In the stark, chill atmosphere of the office, Harriet absorbs the information laid out by the deputy with a sense of urgency, her hazel gaze sweeping over the haunting images displayed. The patterns become clear to her seasoned mind -- the nightclubs as hunting grounds, the Temple Steel district as the dumping site. It paints a grim picture of premeditation and ruthlessness.
"Thank you for your diligent work. It's clear we're dealing with something beyond ordinary criminal activities," she begins, choosing her words carefully. "The pattern you've identified points to a predator that's not just hunting but harvesting. This isn't a case of random violence -- it's methodical, and it targets a specific group within a specific timeframe." Then, in a rather commanding tone, she insists, "Come with me. Grab your gun." She has a plan in place, that mind of hers figuring out all of the steps, and understanding the challenges that come with it. Determined, she heads back to her vehicle and to Temple Steel. Pulling up to park, she gathers her weapons, and then beginning her own investigation, she finds Ronan, but does not know him. Uncertain, she asks, "Can I help you?"
"Oh." She stares at Harriet as if this is one of another things she'll think about when she isn't able to sleep. But maybe knowing it'll save her life? Or others? She follows after and nods, reporting in and moves to join her.
In fact, the Moore's found themselves shy of the location. The sense of smell, potent as it may be, won't help them if they can't narrow the field. Thankfully, the missing piece of the puzzle is held in Harriet's hands. Perhaps this could be a productive partnership?
someone finds Ronan, head cocked back. Sniffing at the air, amber eyes flickering around for a few moments. Turning towards someone, he eyeballs the Warden. No flicker of recognition entering his own eyes. Head slanting down now to fully face the maven, Ronan slants his head to the side. He looks to the deputy. Then to Harriet. Then to the deputy. Then to Harriet. Finally. Ronan's eyes land on the ring she bears- one specific ring, that is. "I didn't know the Order was in the interest of pulling along innocent deputies into their business. Assuming your business is my business- putting a stop to this madness. People're goin' missin'."
Harriet finds Ronan, head cocked back. Sniffing at the air, amber eyes flickering around for a few moments. Turning towards someone, he eyeballs the Warden. No flicker of recognition entering his own eyes. Head slanting down now to fully face the maven, Ronan slants his head to the side. He looks to the deputy. Then to Harriet. Then to the deputy. Then to Harriet. Finally. Ronan's eyes land on the ring she bears- one specific ring, that is. "I didn't know the Order was in the interest of pulling along innocent deputies into their business. Assuming your business is my business- putting a stop to this madness. People're goin' missin'."
Harriet finds Ronan, head cocked back. Sniffing at the air, amber eyes flickering around for a few moments. Turning towards Harriet, he eyeballs the Warden. No flicker of recognition entering his own eyes. Head slanting down now to fully face the maven, Ronan slants his head to the side. He looks to the deputy. Then to Harriet. Then to the deputy. Then to Harriet. Finally. Ronan's eyes land on the ring she bears- one specific ring, that is. "I didn't know the Order was in the interest of pulling along innocent deputies into their business. Assuming your business is my business- putting a stop to this madness. People're goin' missin'."
The Deputy goes to speak, but Harriet will have the first chance to respond.
Harriet has indeed brought along a deputy. "I needed someone to keep watch," she tells Ronan, eying him for a moment after. "As none of my people were available. I had no idea I would run to others who were intent on finding the culprits," is said to the man as she gestures to him with a slender right hand, and then to his family member thugs. "I do indeed intend to stop this nonsense." Her own nostrils flare as she takes in the scents in the air, but she doesn't appear to have found what she is looking for. "Over at the station, there was plenty of photographs of those who were fed on... too much... Bodies have been dumped in this area, and I intend to go inside of Temple Steel and have a look. Are you boys up for a search?" Obviously, she does not have a warrant.
Deputy Carroll, last night gives Ronan a look of anger and barely contained fury, she sticks to Harriet's side and noteworthy, her sidearm is drawn but kept to her side, not raised. Whether drawn for his presence or because of what they're hunting it's hard to say for sure.
"Speaking of putting a stop to madness," she says pointedly, then exhales sharp. Long enough to know the job, it seems. "I'm here for a different monster today, are you going to be a problem?" she asks.
last name, not last night*
"We have to keep up with the societies somehow." Ronan tells Deputy Carroll. "Scram, small-fry. Don't get yourself hurt if you can avoid it. The town needs you." Strangely enough. The concern in his voice- it's sincere. Turning his attention back to someone. "What do you mean 'fed?' What are we talking here. A shifter. A wight? Or a vampire?" A beat later, and Ronan adds. "Yeah. We're up for a hunt."
"We have to keep up with the societies somehow." Ronan tells Deputy Carroll. "Scram, small-fry. Don't get yourself hurt if you can avoid it. The town needs you." Strangely enough. The concern in his voice- it's sincere. Turning his attention back to Harriet. "What do you mean 'fed?' What are we talking here. A shifter. A wight? Or a vampire?" A beat later, and Ronan adds. "Yeah. We're up for a hunt."
Harriet listens to both Deputy Carroll and to Ronan, and she seems to understand the concern that the Moore has for the other woman. "Having another set of eyes is not a bad thing," she insists. "The deputies often show up to ensure nothing gets out of hand, even if they cannot personally interfere all the time. Deputy Wilson had to be used as a makeshift ambulance driver the other night. Deputy Bailey has stood by while I dealth with a gym ..." There's a pause. "Anyway..." Her right hand is waving dismissively, and her attention returns to the seriousness of the situation at hand. "Vampires, I believe," is shared in a lowered tone, and then she nods to the rest of the group, leading them onward and to Temple Steel.
The unlikely alliance between the trio bears fruit rather quickly. Between the intel that Harriet gathered, and the Moore's nose, it isn't long before they narrow it down to an abandoned structure near the water. A lot of the bodies washed down river, perhaps sloppily discarded, if not crammed into dumpsters around town in the neighbourhood. It's the copper scent of blood in the air that pulls the search close. Then...for one person a stronger sign makes clear they've likely found it.
It's a refurbished warehouse. One machinery equipment ran, it appears it might be running once more. Not an unusual sound for this place, but ominous for its purpose. A brief examination shows nothing on the exterior, no sentries, no guards. But it is almost certainly the place. They need only get inside and search.
"What's your name?" Ronan wonders of Harriet, eyes twitching- his entire face rolling, in disgust as the undead scent hits his nostrils. "Th'name's Ronan. Ronan Moore." He's letting his nose guide him for the moment.
As the group searches and the Moores have their supernatural senses on alert, Harriet and the Deputy are soon beside the buidling. Hazel eyes focused on the front door, the Warden tries the handle, trying to turn it to see if it is locked. If it isn't then, she's going to slowly open it up. However, if it is locked, she will retrieve a pick from her handbag and ever so casually work at it to see if she cannot get inside that way. "Ronan Moore," comes her reply to Ronan's introduction. "Harriet Fairfax, but please, call me Harry."
The suffering here is immense. Misery rolls off this place in a thick heady way. Harriet could sustain herself off this by just strolling by each day. That is, until they shut it down.
The doors are locked, but luckily, Harriet appears to have a key. At least, Deputy Carrolls is content to pretend that's the case as the door slides open. Inside the warehouse floors are humming generators. More than one would need, perhaps chosen more for the sound they generate, and can thusly cover up.
A wave of grotesque odor washes over the group, the Deputy looks like she might lose her dinner, but maintains, not straying far. Nothing else stands out, but they may need to read in further to find anything of note.
Past the opening where streetlight filters in, the building is pitch black. Some light on a few windows within give faint light but it mostly serves to cast long shadows
Ronan cracks his neck, then his knuckles as Harriet uses her... key. There's a feral grin on his face as he strolls into the approaching darkness. Within... bones crack. Break, even. Reshaping themselves, rearranging where they are. Healing when necessary. Breaking again. Healing. Flesh rips and tears, warping, fur sprouting. Now there are two creatures of darkness and fang within. Only one's got added claws and fur on-top.
That suffering feeds Harriet right now, and well... That stoic expression that had previously graced her facial features is now replaced by a glorious smile. She's really quite beautiful when she isn't scowling all the time. Although, she is also likely less attractive because she's giggling under her breath over the fact that so much suffering is seeping into her -- and, you know, some people probably find that a turn off. "Ah," gets sighed out past those smiling, plump lips, sounding euphoric in that moment. Once inside the building, she's still far too jolly, and her walk has swagger that it did not show off earlier. As Ronan turns into a wolf, she appears unsurprised, and continues on her search. The acrid tang of death is thick, and it does bother her, but the suffering outweighs the unpleasantness of everything else, and the brunette appears to be living her best life. Her eyes and her nose are her lead.
The Deputy shifts back and almost levels her firearm at Ronan as he changes but has better discipline than that. She follows Harriet's lead in the response but then the shift of euphoria puts her ill at ease. Black hair, and quite disturbed by her assistants she keeps to the rear, a flashlight providing useful if narrow beams of light. The crew finds it isn't long before they discover the staircase descending into the basement, a single flight, a steel door...and the intense yet faint cries of miserable people. The scent of death increases, turning stomachs of those not used to the smell of putrified flesh. And god save those who are.
The suffering only grows stronger as they approach.
Ronan(wolf) descends further into the pitch black, until they find the stairs. Ronan(wolf) being what he is- he comes leads the vanguard. Or, would. Assuming neither Harriet nor the good deputy will stop him.
Tension in the air thickens with the scent of death and the distant, miserable cries that echo through the staircase descending into the basement, but Harriet is still gleefully assessing the place. Her sides tremble as she attempts to swallow back her laughter that desires to spill forth. The deputy's visible discomfort and the grim discoveries that await them-/should/ only serve to point out the urgency of their mission, but there's Harriet, giggling under her breath, and then... Was that a moan? Yes, it was. "Stay behind me," she instructs the deputy, and her voice, albeit amused in a way... is also calm compared to the tumult of dread that surrounds them. The Moores are allowed to lead, and the Warden has her rifle in hand now, no longer slung over her shoulder, and she pays careful attention to Ronan(wolf), intent on maintaining his safety.
The door is opened and a rush of filthy and human misery hits the air. It's a choking cloying cloud now. Blood, rot, human excrement and worse and the sound of suffering grows heady as the door is opened. Perhaps fear of their torturer returning? It's a large chamber, nearly one hundred feet in length, and fifty feet in width. Four brick pillars as support and cut sightlines. The dim light, save the narrow torch that Carrols carries plagues anyone without effective nightvision in their arsenal.
But you can spy the people. A dozen cages, stacked with two or three people. Cages no larger than dog crates with I.V.'s draining blood, into bags, into buckets, into repositories.
A blood bank, hardly a noble endeavor for these creatures, but this one almost seems designed with callous disregard for the inhabitants. No wonder there are so many bodies. People blood in chains, malnourished, filthy, and wail. Those conscious are quieter, staring with renewed horror with senses they still possess, uncertain. Wondering if they are to be liberated, or condemned.
Ronan says, roaring, "Come out, coward!"
A thought might linger, how many more of these exist where the operator has the savvy to keep it quiet. A dozen mistakes or more spring to mind, and those with the inclination to know, those vulnerabilities could have been covered up. Especially in a town like Haven.
Harriet is paradoxically invigorated by the suffering around her. This dark euphoria seeps into her bones, compelling her to giggle and moan quite faintly now and then despite the this messed up situation. It's a reaction not of malice, but an innate response to the energies swirling in this place of torment. Despite the overwhelming rush that threatens to cloud her judgment, the brunette's resolve remains unshaken. Her mission is to free these people from their chains, and she really does try to cut through the haze of her bliss that is preventing her from being grounded in the moment. She focuses on the task at hand, truly trying to channel the surge of energy into a force for good... but it certainly isn't easy to accomplish that. Not while you're giggling and holding a rifle, and in the suffocating confines within a refurbished warehouse. Rifle held ready to fire, she watches Ronan(wolf) and his kin before her eyes carefully roam about the area, searching for a culprit... and then the softest little sound of what is most definitely another moan slips out past her full lips.
Ronan's bellowing warcry stirs terror in the sick and ailing, and echos out across the building. Deputy Carrolls is entirely out of her element, the trembling light shows the misery, the horror show, and she's the first to move towards the cage, trying to find a way to open the bars.
The first warning sign was basic arithmetic. A number of victims, scaled against the number found here, against the bodies found. Easy to forgive yourself for missing it. Not all the people taken, were killed.
A half dozen vampires in all close, hiss and descend upon the party to devour them. The Deputy shrieks, a cry of terror and fury both, but this isn't her kind of fight. Not in this space. Darkness closes in, clausterphobic. Scent overwhelmes sense. The cries fill the air.
But, perhaps were it anyone else this might have ended worse. Certainly, Harriet and Ronan both are not lambs to the slaughter. This isn't their first rodeo, will it be their last?
They missed the new moon to take advantage of Ronan(wolf)'s weakness. Crippled he may be, that doesn't stop the bruiser from bursting forward with blinding speed, claws swiping. Teeth gnashing together, tearing into undead flesh. His claws are mostly used to keep the undead menace at bay. It's the fangs that his prey must be weary of- and he uses them to rip into one's arm, head shaking repeatedly if he's managed to grip it, trying to tear it out of place- if not tear it off completely. Another, he'd crush their skull in his maw.
Harriet isn't entirely sure if this group has sanctuary or not, but she's not going to give them the benefit of the doubt -- and she's taking aim and shooting her rifle, trying to see if a bullet can even lodge itself in or through them -- or if they are all magically protected from each round. After, she moves at an incredible speed to take a better position. Then she's trying to assess what her shooting did to the one she'd fired at prior.
Ronan is without a doubt in his element here. Close quarters the hyper-violence of the garou is on full display here. An answer to Harriet's question found within the crunching skull of a vampire. Freshly turned, these vampires represent no greater society, have no greater protection extended to them. They show surprising strength, able to press these supernatural investigators limits, but they are young. Confused. Terrified. The blood that pulses through their veins gives them wild and terrifying strength, but it's nothing they haven't encounter before.
Harriet's rifle reports signals vicious wound, the rounds tearing holes through vampires excellently placed.
It's chaos, utter chaos but it ends as it began, abrupt and sudden, a half dozen score of vampire killed, and likely the 'sire' among them. Delusions of grandeur? Enterprising yet careless? Whoever sired this one did a halfassed job certain.
Harriet's finely honed instincts for the shadow games they play leaves her uncertain, what kind of play could this be if it was one? All that's left now, is to free the victims, and clean up, and wonder what the next move is going to be.
Ultimately, it always comes down to mathematics. How many lives lost, to the ones saved. A kind of calculus that one might engage in to help them sleep at night. Tonight, a victory. The cost? Deputy Carrols sits at the end of the fight, slumped against a cage, a hand on her neck. She's bleeding, the kind of steady pump that shows someone the beating pulse of their heart. The kind of injury that ends the lives of mortals and supernatural alike. She has a quiet grim expression, almost content. Behind her, children, teenagers barely into highschool. Dirty, terrified, but alive.
It's the kind of math that seems like it gives her comfort, if nothing else. As blood pools about her body and drifts into the drains in the basement.
Ronan says, turning around, looking to the dying deputy, then to Harriet, storming towards her, "Look at what you caused. Because you couldn't find, you couldn't -order- Shieldbearers and Swordbearers along. You're the damn Warden."
Still coming down from her high, Harriet is absolutely blissful, lowering her rifle done after their success, but then she blinks a bit and reality starts to sink in as Ronan begins to scold her. She looks confused, and the uncertainty etches over her face further. "How can she not have sanctuary in this town?" she asks Ronan, rushing over to the deputy. "What did you do?" gets asked as she drops to her knees before the bleeding woman, and her hands are moving to the woman's neck. "What did you do to lose your sanctuary?" she's demanding, like this is a bigger issue than the bloodbank at hand. "No, no, no. You've got to stay with me."
Carrols gives a faint grin, the color draining from her. "...Hey...knock it off...how many of us...you think you've..." She coughs, shuddering. "You think any of us ever expect to collect retirement...?" She leans back and her light fades. "...itsa job..." Perhaps Harriet will discover in time. Sanctuary protects against much, but it's never perfect, it's never flawless. What quirk, what trick exposed the young deputy? Or maybe, simply put, the injury wasn't stopped, and the bloodloss was simply considered incidental? What's one more mystery left in the dark of Haven?
The night goes on. Perhaps the Moore's cause some trouble with jurisdiction. Maybe it's the PD, or the Order, or who knows. Those rescued will survive. Those responsible were punished. And Haven puts an end to one more nightmare.
Just another night.
"It wasn't her damn job!" Ronan yells at Harriet, reaching over in an attempt to grab the woman by the shoulders and give her a few violent shakes. "You can't find someone to accompany you? -Tell- them to accompany you. At least risking life and limb against the terrors of the night is what they signed up for. You're the Warden! Pull your head out of your goddamn ass and start pulling rank if you have to!" With that, Ronan starts to storm off. He doesn't have the keys. He doesn't have the strength he would normally use to break apart the bars- so he leaves Harriet alone to ponder the death. To free the bank.
(The characters come across an old, haunted library. The ghost librarian insists they solve the riddle of his death before he will allow them to leave. The characters must investigate the library, uncovering clues and secrets to piece together the tragic story of the librarian's past.)
David was just sitting on his bed, trying to recover from an awful couple of days. Weariness clings to him like an awful miasma. He runs his fingers down his face, and pulls his glasses off in the process, setting them aside on the bedspread.
before David sets the glasses on the table, it's easy to see a package that had been left there, arranged carefully so the label reading, 'From Moreno' could be noticed clearly. Even before it's touched though, the level of arcane power seems to only increase until it's got a physical sort of sensation in the air. Next to the package is a letter in a simple envelope.
David wipes his glasses and puts them back on, rising slowly from the bed and advancing towards the table. There he stoops, firstly to inspect the package. The feeling of the static on his fingertips causes him to withdraw his hand cautiously, and reach for the envelope first. He opens that, and reads whatever may lie inside.
it's not hard to notice that the letter had been penned in an elegant hand and its swirling ink vivid against old paper. There's a musty sort of scent to it, as if the document had set for a long time amidst the aromas of ink, paper and leather.
"To who it may concern. My name is August Lordsley, the owner of a library only known as, the memory.
Even now as you read this. The place of where I speak of is contained in the pages of the book that accompanied this missive.
Even as David reads, the power from the wrapped book seems to respond, quivering with a sort of jelly like wrongness, light pulling from the room in little tendrils of chaos..
The letter continues down the page, and as it does the words start to jumble and bleed off the paper, the only sentence remaining is, "Who killed me?""
it's not hard to notice that the letter had been penned in an elegant hand and its swirling ink vivid against old paper. There's a musty sort of scent to it, as if the document had set for a long time amidst the aromas of ink, paper and leather.
To who it may concern. My name is August Lordsley, the owner of a library only known as, the memory.
Even now as you read this. The place of where I speak of is contained in the pages of the book that accompanied this missive.
Even as David reads, the power from the wrapped book seems to respond, quivering with a sort of jelly like wrongness, light pulling from the room in little tendrils of chaos..
The letter continues down the page, and as it does the words start to jumble and bleed off the paper, the only sentence remaining is, "Who killed me?"
Jelly-like wrongness? Tendrils of chaos? This is daily life for David. He doesn't even seem particularly disturbed. He just watches with weary eyes as everything goes bad yet again. He reaches for the book with a calm hand, despite it all. He hesitates only for a split second before peeling off the wrapping and tossing it aside. He must understand that the only way out is through.
Chaos, that's what's behind the paper. Absolute chaos, swirling galaxies, drifting stars and yet there's a wrongness to all of it. The astronomical bodies seem to have disturbing collars, splotched and fleshy even though there's nothing wrong.
It's too late now though, the book opens and sucks and drags David from the world into a dream that's maddening.
It's when David wakes that the first thing he notices is that there is the smell of rot, plague, and putrification in the place he's wound up in. Amidst all of it are bookshelves, their wood covered in fungus, splotches of what could only be rotting foliage dripping to the floor.
To the left and right are other bookshelves while in the middle of the room a man lies, dead on the floor, a copy of the same letter in his hand, except the letters are upside down and backward. The orientation of the paper is a little wrong as well.
Even David is disturbed by the sheer vastness of this false cosmos, and he drops the book, but as was said -- it's too late. He is part of the book now, and the book is part of him. His mind is siphoned into this vacuum of entropy.
Then, when his thoughts clear, he finds himself in this strange place, on a dank, damp floor of rotten wood. He starts to slowly rise from it, stumbling a bit. He's wounded. Even in this halfway place, he's still hurt. He clutches at his stomach as something moves within his abdomen, something beneath his shirt that writhes gently. He looks at the dead man, and his brow creases with empathy.
there's a little bit of a rotten smell from the corpse as well, the body looking bloated, yet something is wrong about it as well. Through the corpses skin is the remains of what looks like some sickly plant. It's clear to see it's poisonous, and beneath it is a book, the vines and roots attached to it and sprouting up through the male's, for it must be a male given the letter read, stomach.
They start to writhe and some of the books in the shelves seem to decay before David's eyes.
the book beneath the body though, it starts to gain some life.
ooc: must apologize but he apparently started this too late and is now falling asleep. I would still like to continue this story with you however if you wouldn't mind. I'd set it up as some sort of tiny plot!