Encounterlogs
Ingas Odd Encounter Sr Aristotle
In the cool clinical silence of her room, Inga confronts an unexpected chilling presence. The temperature drops as eerie occurrences unfold—her electric heater inexplicably fails, her room is slowly engulfed in darkness, and a violent, cold force attacks her. Amidst the supernatural chaos, Inga glimpses the horrifying reflection of a ghost in her coffee—the specter of a man with a decaying face, who exerts a mute but forceful anger upon her. With resolve, she retrieves her Ouija board and attempts to communicate with the entity. The room's lights shatter, and amidst the turmoil, the ghostly visitor spells out "HOME" on the board repeatedly.
Recognizing the spirit's unrest and yearning for home, Inga empathizes and seeks to guide him toward peace. Her efforts to share her memories of a fever dream associated with a warm, inviting light seem to influence the ghost. Inga's sincere attempt to direct the spirit to what it could consider its eternal rest softens its rage into a gentle longing. The bone-chilling cold gradually dissipates from the room, and the ghost fades from view. Having successfully calmed the spirit, Inga is left in the aftermath of her victory—a room in disarray, the echo of a clock ticking, and a personal toll on her well-being but with the satisfaction of having guided a lost soul to find its "home."
(Inga's odd encounter(SRAristotle):SRAristotle)
[Thu Dec 14 2023]
In room 121, Clinician Wing
It is about 50F(10C) degrees.
(A ghost with only fragments of memory that have driven them near insane is attacking your target. They must either defeat it or find a way to calm it down.
)
OOC: Hello! Go ahead and emote what you were doing and we'll get this show on the road!
Sipping the dregs of her stale coffee, Inga sets the mug back upon her desk and takes a break from her research long enough to twist her neck from side to side to ease the tension from holding her hunched position for so long, casting a tired glance at the ticking institutional clock upon the wall.
Stale coffee and an incessant drone of a 'tick, tick, tick,' from the clock on the wall make the early morning hour feel much longer than it otherwise would be. The room is quiet, bright and clinical in the building, and the air seems cold. Along with the ticking of the clock, the patter of hail can be heard pounding against the building in gentle raps like hard rain. Inga can see her breath leaving her as she exhales, and the temperature seems to continue dropping.
"Damn boiler room again." Inga mumbles in annoyance under her breath, leaning under her desk to kick on the electric space heater she keeps just in case of emergencies like this. A cardigan is found and donned to give some warmth to her frail bones, bleary eyes blinking slowly as she attempts to refocus on the overwhelming pile of research.
While the cardigan provides some warmth, the electric heater unfortunately does not. At least, not for long. It kicks on as it's started, that hot air a reprieve from the quickening cold of the room, but soon - it dies out, as if succumbing to the cold. It isn't long before those slow blinks that Inga does seem to see the room darkening, as if every blink causes her vision to fade. It'd be startling thing were it not for the buzzing of the lights overhead betraying the actual problem - they flicker and darken.
Yawning into her palm and struggling to keep her eyes open, Inga gazes at her emptying coffee cup and debates getting up for more, though the cold seeps into her bones making her shiver and rub her arms under her cardigan, absently kicking the water as if it will automatically just start the troublesome thing up again.
It's in that coffee mug, in the liquid of what remains that Inga would see an odd visage. A reflection not her own, belonging to a man who at one point could be considered attractive were it not for the skin rot on his face and the jaw that seems to hang on by a thread. She blinks, and it's gone, but the temperature in the room continues to drop. The heater that she kicks doesn't spark the heater to life, but the gentle kick sees the machine flying backwards with a force that in no way would match the intensity at which Inga kicked at it. It's sent against the wall the crash, and with it the door to the office opens and closes abruptly.
"No more late nights." Inga says to herself after giving a high-pitched nervous laugh, her eyes flicking to the toppled heater and the frosting steam coming from her now cold coffee cup. "Lack of sleep. Thats all." she mutters to herself, stuffing her blue fingertips under her legs to try and warm up the suddenly painful chill.
There's a terrible cold that seems to pass through Inga, as if knifes were setting inside the marrow of her bones - the worst kind of chill that can only be described as angry and violent. It passes through her as she tries to rationalize it, and it's only a beat later that before her eyes flickers into being that same, ghastly visage she'd noticed in her coffee - that man with skin rot, jaw hardly attached. He looks pained - angry, and he stares at Inga with a grief-striken hate that sees him screaming. At least, that's what his expression looks like. There is no sound that leaves him, but in the weight of his scream there is some unseen force knocks her off her feet and sending her to thud against the wall.
"Not again." Inga sighs, the painful twist and fill of her lungs slowly drawn out, her thin frame twitching against the wall with an attempt to stand. Twice. Three times. On the fifth she finally gets some purchase to her feet, easing them across the floor for her Ouija board of all things, stuffed into a desk drawer. "Talk to me. I will listen."
There's no reply from the flickering in-and-out being that Inga calls to. At least, not yet - but the temperature continues to drop further and it makes being in the room almost painful. The Ouija Board would be easily accessed, and Inga the opportunity to set it up where and how she wishes. The lights above continue to flicker, and while there seems a relative peace for a moment, soon another surge of freezing air sees the research papers on Inga's desk fluttering about everywhere, and that seem feeling of hatred and grief begins to enter Inga as though something carrying those emotions were walking through her but failing to take hold.
"I can't help if you're going to be argumentative. Focus." Inga says with a clipped, shivering tone, snatching her frozen hands back to the board and placing them over the planchette without touching the wooden surface. Clearly the item is old, the writing Latin instead of English, but she knows enough of it to suss her way through the other side.
The lights above shatter, and while the casing for them send glass everywhere, the bulbs themselves continue to offer some illumination, despite the flickering. Another beat of peaceful reprieve occurs, and soon Inga's planchette begins to move of its own accord. They slowly move, as if influenced by the cold that enraptures the room to spell out: H.O.M.E.
"Where is home?" Inga asks patiently, ignoring the glass shards in her hair for the moment, though a lone scratch along her temple starts to seep with blood drops, two smearing upon the board and her fingertips in her concentration of communication. It takes all of her focus, cold sweat sliding down her furrowed brow.
There's no response from the planchette at Inga's question. The thick coldness of the air continues, and the lights above continue to flicker. The only thing that continues to audibly drone on is that 'tick tick tick' sound coming from the clock. It's not until some time passes that the planchette moves - and one can't help but ponder as to whether or not the ghost moving said planchette now was thinking - perhaps stumped by the question posed. The planchette moves once more, pointing out the letters: H.O.M.E. It does not stop there, though. It continues repeating the word, letter by latter with rapid haste.
"I hope this isn't your home." Inga mutters under her breath, casting a look to the hallway in case she can spot a White Oak member somewhere in the distance to help with such a task, but her attention soon flicks back to the ghost and the repeated word in frustration, looking ready to toss the whole thing out the window.
That look towards the hallway reveals nothing of helpful use - it's empty, and unsurprisingly, warmer than inside the office, but the feeling can't be shaked that whatever traveling is made, this entity would continue to follow until it is dealt with. On the Ouija Board, the word, 'HOME' is continually spelled out, and if Inga is looking down in frustration, the word itself seems to be spelled out with that same level of frustration.
You may not have a great deal of occult knowledge accessible to you, but you can recall from various consumption of media that most restless spirits learn to accept 'the other side' as home post-exorcisms. Perhaps that's what this restless spirit could need as a remedy.
"Right.. Home. I don't suppose you see a bright light anywhere?" Inga asks the spirit with a bit of a blink, her exhaustion taking a toll of her brain power, as well as the cold. "It's okay, you know. To rest. They're waiting for you in the light. I've been there myself..." she offers up, trying to concentrate all her will upon showing the entity her memories, what little she can recall of a bright light and the feeling of warmth and belonging. Of course hers was more of a fever dream from a mental breakdown, but ghosts don't have to know that.
The show of will that forces memories onto a spirit whose only memories seem to be of home, settle the room significantly. But, it is considerable effort required of Inga. That hateful grief that thickened the air with that bitter, biting cold, shifts to a gentle longing. Whatever Inga is doing seems to quell the rage within this spirit and force it malleable, now. It listens, and Inga can notice immediately through that concentration the affect she's having. The spirit flickers back in only for a moment, looking far off into the distance.
"Yes.. you can rest." Inga says in a pained whisper, blood dripping from her nose in cold of the room, barely sitting upright now, her eyes wanting to shut and her skinny body needing the warmth to return to recover.
The coldness of the room begins to lessen. The flickering of the shattered lights above slow to a halt, and soon the spirit fades from view. There is a true silence that fills the room, save for that 'tick, tick, tick' of the clock, but Inga can feel that her efforts were a success. The room is a mess, though - a broken heater on the wall, shattered glass on the ground, and her research papers in disrepair on the ground, but whatever spirit was running the risk of plaguing her has retreated into that home it seemed to so desperately seek out.
OOC: And we're wrapped! Thank you for spending this time with me!
Recognizing the spirit's unrest and yearning for home, Inga empathizes and seeks to guide him toward peace. Her efforts to share her memories of a fever dream associated with a warm, inviting light seem to influence the ghost. Inga's sincere attempt to direct the spirit to what it could consider its eternal rest softens its rage into a gentle longing. The bone-chilling cold gradually dissipates from the room, and the ghost fades from view. Having successfully calmed the spirit, Inga is left in the aftermath of her victory—a room in disarray, the echo of a clock ticking, and a personal toll on her well-being but with the satisfaction of having guided a lost soul to find its "home."
(Inga's odd encounter(SRAristotle):SRAristotle)
[Thu Dec 14 2023]
In room 121, Clinician Wing
It is about 50F(10C) degrees.
(A ghost with only fragments of memory that have driven them near insane is attacking your target. They must either defeat it or find a way to calm it down.
)
OOC: Hello! Go ahead and emote what you were doing and we'll get this show on the road!
Sipping the dregs of her stale coffee, Inga sets the mug back upon her desk and takes a break from her research long enough to twist her neck from side to side to ease the tension from holding her hunched position for so long, casting a tired glance at the ticking institutional clock upon the wall.
Stale coffee and an incessant drone of a 'tick, tick, tick,' from the clock on the wall make the early morning hour feel much longer than it otherwise would be. The room is quiet, bright and clinical in the building, and the air seems cold. Along with the ticking of the clock, the patter of hail can be heard pounding against the building in gentle raps like hard rain. Inga can see her breath leaving her as she exhales, and the temperature seems to continue dropping.
"Damn boiler room again." Inga mumbles in annoyance under her breath, leaning under her desk to kick on the electric space heater she keeps just in case of emergencies like this. A cardigan is found and donned to give some warmth to her frail bones, bleary eyes blinking slowly as she attempts to refocus on the overwhelming pile of research.
While the cardigan provides some warmth, the electric heater unfortunately does not. At least, not for long. It kicks on as it's started, that hot air a reprieve from the quickening cold of the room, but soon - it dies out, as if succumbing to the cold. It isn't long before those slow blinks that Inga does seem to see the room darkening, as if every blink causes her vision to fade. It'd be startling thing were it not for the buzzing of the lights overhead betraying the actual problem - they flicker and darken.
Yawning into her palm and struggling to keep her eyes open, Inga gazes at her emptying coffee cup and debates getting up for more, though the cold seeps into her bones making her shiver and rub her arms under her cardigan, absently kicking the water as if it will automatically just start the troublesome thing up again.
It's in that coffee mug, in the liquid of what remains that Inga would see an odd visage. A reflection not her own, belonging to a man who at one point could be considered attractive were it not for the skin rot on his face and the jaw that seems to hang on by a thread. She blinks, and it's gone, but the temperature in the room continues to drop. The heater that she kicks doesn't spark the heater to life, but the gentle kick sees the machine flying backwards with a force that in no way would match the intensity at which Inga kicked at it. It's sent against the wall the crash, and with it the door to the office opens and closes abruptly.
"No more late nights." Inga says to herself after giving a high-pitched nervous laugh, her eyes flicking to the toppled heater and the frosting steam coming from her now cold coffee cup. "Lack of sleep. Thats all." she mutters to herself, stuffing her blue fingertips under her legs to try and warm up the suddenly painful chill.
There's a terrible cold that seems to pass through Inga, as if knifes were setting inside the marrow of her bones - the worst kind of chill that can only be described as angry and violent. It passes through her as she tries to rationalize it, and it's only a beat later that before her eyes flickers into being that same, ghastly visage she'd noticed in her coffee - that man with skin rot, jaw hardly attached. He looks pained - angry, and he stares at Inga with a grief-striken hate that sees him screaming. At least, that's what his expression looks like. There is no sound that leaves him, but in the weight of his scream there is some unseen force knocks her off her feet and sending her to thud against the wall.
"Not again." Inga sighs, the painful twist and fill of her lungs slowly drawn out, her thin frame twitching against the wall with an attempt to stand. Twice. Three times. On the fifth she finally gets some purchase to her feet, easing them across the floor for her Ouija board of all things, stuffed into a desk drawer. "Talk to me. I will listen."
There's no reply from the flickering in-and-out being that Inga calls to. At least, not yet - but the temperature continues to drop further and it makes being in the room almost painful. The Ouija Board would be easily accessed, and Inga the opportunity to set it up where and how she wishes. The lights above continue to flicker, and while there seems a relative peace for a moment, soon another surge of freezing air sees the research papers on Inga's desk fluttering about everywhere, and that seem feeling of hatred and grief begins to enter Inga as though something carrying those emotions were walking through her but failing to take hold.
"I can't help if you're going to be argumentative. Focus." Inga says with a clipped, shivering tone, snatching her frozen hands back to the board and placing them over the planchette without touching the wooden surface. Clearly the item is old, the writing Latin instead of English, but she knows enough of it to suss her way through the other side.
The lights above shatter, and while the casing for them send glass everywhere, the bulbs themselves continue to offer some illumination, despite the flickering. Another beat of peaceful reprieve occurs, and soon Inga's planchette begins to move of its own accord. They slowly move, as if influenced by the cold that enraptures the room to spell out: H.O.M.E.
"Where is home?" Inga asks patiently, ignoring the glass shards in her hair for the moment, though a lone scratch along her temple starts to seep with blood drops, two smearing upon the board and her fingertips in her concentration of communication. It takes all of her focus, cold sweat sliding down her furrowed brow.
There's no response from the planchette at Inga's question. The thick coldness of the air continues, and the lights above continue to flicker. The only thing that continues to audibly drone on is that 'tick tick tick' sound coming from the clock. It's not until some time passes that the planchette moves - and one can't help but ponder as to whether or not the ghost moving said planchette now was thinking - perhaps stumped by the question posed. The planchette moves once more, pointing out the letters: H.O.M.E. It does not stop there, though. It continues repeating the word, letter by latter with rapid haste.
"I hope this isn't your home." Inga mutters under her breath, casting a look to the hallway in case she can spot a White Oak member somewhere in the distance to help with such a task, but her attention soon flicks back to the ghost and the repeated word in frustration, looking ready to toss the whole thing out the window.
That look towards the hallway reveals nothing of helpful use - it's empty, and unsurprisingly, warmer than inside the office, but the feeling can't be shaked that whatever traveling is made, this entity would continue to follow until it is dealt with. On the Ouija Board, the word, 'HOME' is continually spelled out, and if Inga is looking down in frustration, the word itself seems to be spelled out with that same level of frustration.
You may not have a great deal of occult knowledge accessible to you, but you can recall from various consumption of media that most restless spirits learn to accept 'the other side' as home post-exorcisms. Perhaps that's what this restless spirit could need as a remedy.
"Right.. Home. I don't suppose you see a bright light anywhere?" Inga asks the spirit with a bit of a blink, her exhaustion taking a toll of her brain power, as well as the cold. "It's okay, you know. To rest. They're waiting for you in the light. I've been there myself..." she offers up, trying to concentrate all her will upon showing the entity her memories, what little she can recall of a bright light and the feeling of warmth and belonging. Of course hers was more of a fever dream from a mental breakdown, but ghosts don't have to know that.
The show of will that forces memories onto a spirit whose only memories seem to be of home, settle the room significantly. But, it is considerable effort required of Inga. That hateful grief that thickened the air with that bitter, biting cold, shifts to a gentle longing. Whatever Inga is doing seems to quell the rage within this spirit and force it malleable, now. It listens, and Inga can notice immediately through that concentration the affect she's having. The spirit flickers back in only for a moment, looking far off into the distance.
"Yes.. you can rest." Inga says in a pained whisper, blood dripping from her nose in cold of the room, barely sitting upright now, her eyes wanting to shut and her skinny body needing the warmth to return to recover.
The coldness of the room begins to lessen. The flickering of the shattered lights above slow to a halt, and soon the spirit fades from view. There is a true silence that fills the room, save for that 'tick, tick, tick' of the clock, but Inga can feel that her efforts were a success. The room is a mess, though - a broken heater on the wall, shattered glass on the ground, and her research papers in disrepair on the ground, but whatever spirit was running the risk of plaguing her has retreated into that home it seemed to so desperately seek out.
OOC: And we're wrapped! Thank you for spending this time with me!