Encounterlogs
Isaiahs Odd Encounter Sr Lucas 241021
On a chilling evening, the tale begins with Chelsea in the midst of a seemingly mundane shower, engulfed by the steam and warmth, oblivious to the sinister approach of an intruder. The old house's groans mask the foreboding creaks of her impending doom. Her sanctuary is abruptly shattered by the unwelcome presence of two menacing figures, whose intentions are as clear as the cold air that intrudes the steam-filled bathroom. In a desperate attempt to flee, Chelsea finds herself overpowered, her screams echoing against the unforgiving tiles as a brutal hit sends her world spinning into darkness. The narrative takes a dark turn as the attackers, a duo of brutal efficiency, subdue her with a potent sedative, making clear their vile intentions of abduction for sinister purposes. This moment marks the beginning of Chelsea's nightmare, as the reality of her situation sinks in with the chilling realization of her imminent fate.
As consciousness slowly creeps back to Chelsea, her defiant spirit manifests in a desperate scream for help, a faint glimmer of hope in an otherwise hopeless situation. The sudden arrival of an external presence momentarily stalls the assailants, offering Chelsea a sliver of hope. Despite the heavy sedation and physical constraints, her resilience shines through as she seizes this fleeting opportunity to scream for help, her voice a beacon in the darkness. In the ensuing chaos and confusion, Chelsea's will to survive becomes palpable. She fights against her bindings and captors, the intensity of her struggle reflecting the fierce determination to reclaim her freedom. This pivotal moment of defiance disrupts the abductors' plans, leading to their hasty retreat in the face of potential intervention. Left alone, Chelsea's ordeal concludes with her breaking free from her physical constraints, a symbolic act of her unbroken spirit and will to survive, setting a tone of resilience and defiance against the darkness that sought to claim her.
(Isaiah's odd encounter(SRLucas):SRLucas)
[Sun Oct 20 2024]
At Tranquil Lane and Mariner's Highway
Stretching east and west is this one long and dusty highway road. The
asphalt of the pavement has seen a better day; it's patched and worn,
crumbling at the edges of its shoulders where an abundance of wild grasses
takes over. They slump into low ditches at the sides where water is meant
to pool, and beyond that are weak fences and forested property to the south,
as well as rolling hills to the north.
It is dusk, about 61F(16C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
(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.
)
A lonely stretch of Mariner's Highway winds its way through a dense forest, the remains of a long-forgotten farm house off in the distance. Towering trees, their branches twisted and gnarled, cast long shadows over the narrow road. The air is thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, and an eerie stillness hangs in the air, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves. As dusk settles in, the forest seems to close in around the highway, with the fading light barely penetrating the canopy above.
Every so often, the headlights of a passing car briefly illuminate the surroundings, revealing glimpses of the untamed wilderness on either side. The atmosphere is heavy with a sense of foreboding, as if the forest holds secrets that are best left undisturbed. This isolated stretch of highway is not just a path through the woods
Every so often, the headlights of a passing car briefly illuminate the surroundings, revealing glimpses of the untamed wilderness on either side. The atmosphere is heavy with a sense of foreboding, as if the forest holds secrets that are best left undisturbed. This isolated stretch of highway is not just a path through the woods; it is a journey into the unknown, where the line between reality and the supernatural seems perilously thin. The highway twists and turns, its path barely visible under the deepening twilight. The occasional break in the trees offers fleeting glimpses of the setting sun, casting long, ethereal beams of light that dance across the forest floor. The sound of your own footsteps or the hum of your car engine becomes a constant companion, magnified by the silence of the surrounding woods. There's a sense of isolation here, as if the world outside ceases to exist the moment you enter this forgotten stretch of road.
Travelling from further south in the woods, Isaiah and Ash make their way into town for whatever purposes drive them forward today. As they travel further, the forest seems to thicken, the trees growing closer together, their branches intertwining overhead like the gnarled fingers of ancient giants. No matter how many times the residents of this town walk through these woods and down these roads, that feeling never quite seems to pass. The underbrush is dense, with shadows growing longer and lurking in every corner, creating an almost labyrinthine feel. The deeper you go, the more the atmosphere shifts, becoming charged with an unseen energy. It's a place that feels alive, as if the very air is imbued with the whispers of the past, waiting to reveal its mysteries to those who dare to listen.
Emerging from the twilight shadows, a ghostly figure materializes at the edge of the clearing, his once-human form now an ethereal wisp of tattered robes and flickering translucence. His eyes, wide and vacant, dart frantically in all directions, reflecting the fractured remnants of a shattered mind. He moves with a jittery, erratic grace, as if caught in an eternal dance of confusion and despair. Wisps of fog cling to his form, swirling around him like a living aura, while disjointed murmurs escape his lipssnatches of forgotten memories and haunting laments, echoing the torment of a soul lost between worlds. This apparition, a tragic remnant of what once was, stands as a spectral reminder of the thin veil separating the seen from the unseen.
Isaiah parks her ferocious, black and red 2024 Indian Scout right here at bus stop one as the mists close in around her, unheeding of the ominous aura surrounding the place; Haven is always thus. A place where the material and the immaterial meet and collide and intermingle dependent upon where you go. She lingers here for a time before traveling deeper into the woods, making her path easy to follow for Ash whenever they do ultimately arrive- but her travel is cut short. There is no telling the expression that forms beyond the metallic, reflective visor of her helmet, but there comes no tension to her shoulders as it slowly turns to face its glossy sheen towards the specter. The tiny bundle of aggression and constant despair does not flinch, does not cower, does not even lift any number of the weapons she wears as she stares at the spirit. She only utters in a voice as coarse as freshly-ground black pepper, "You are not him. There is nothing in this world that will strike fear into my heart- if you want to continue your unlife, I suggest you keep to yourself and let me be."
Her piece spoken, she settles down by a disturbed mound of earth only a few paces away from where she had parked that motorcycle, then kneels, startign to sift through the topsoil gently, fingers bared by gloves that have nothing stitched in to protect them. She remains acutely aware of the ghost, and its proximity, but it seems that what she said is true: with every fibre of her being she feels absolutely no fear whatsoever. It's a calm confidence- not blatant disrespect, or a tamping down, even of the emotion. No. She feels nothing in the moment; beyond a seething anger and frustration that slowly bubbles inside of her as she presses her gloved palms against the ground where the earth has been upturned in a man-shaped divot. "Dean.." she whispers, taking up a blood-splattered leaf, and then letting it fall to rest back where she had found it. "... You died in battle.. But to what..?"
Ash arrives on Voltaire, their rusty trusty scooter, parking it near the Harley. They try to send a text on their Hello Kitty phone, long brown fingers flashing on the keyboard, but then they frown. They raise it in the air, trying to get signal, before giving up, shrugging, and moving into the brush. It doesn't take long for them to catch up to Isaiah, given that she isn't far, and her scent is fresh. Their face as they approach her is pensive and distracted, though just as likely with grief as whoever they were texting.
Ash looks up sharply, however at the spirit as it approaches, their hazel eyes lighting up gold... only for their expression and body language to completely drop into emotionless neutrality, green returning, then overtaking the gold. They turn to Isaiah to drawl, with a sigh in their voice, "Hey... sorry that that took so long. And... I looked over his body...."
They pause, taking a moment from their grief to actually think about it. They swallow, quietly, then glances at the spirit again. They're not particularly intrigued or afraid, but there's a slight tension at the presence, despite their mind being away.
The ghost that's appeared in the physical before Isaiah will be easily noticeable to ash, rags and robes a-tatter. Still, those mutterings and mad whispers don't seem to heed the new Alpha wolf's words at all, going largely ignored. Perhaps it can't hear her, or it just doesn't pay that much attention. When Ash arrives, there's a swivel as the ghost finally seems to take notice of the two. A loud, piercing screech comes roaring through the air where it shouldn't drilling into the sharper ears of the two supernaturals.
Rising up this ghost is more ashen and white, lacking that ethereal hue of a more corporeal spirit or one summoned up by an arcanist. No, this appears to be a mad spirit left behind like so many others and likely drawn to this place due to the recent pain and death that has occured here. The size and intensity of the spectre seem to grow with that screech, as it begins to close in at Isaiah and Ash.
It's only when the spirit refuses to fuck off as instructed that even a modicum of tension will come to Isaiah's shoulders; she didn't ride her Harley in. She rode that familiar Indian Scout, and she seems to be the embodiment of its former rider's 'my give a damn's busted' attitude, because the way she slowly rises to her feet comes with a spiritual pressure that threatens to crush the very trees that tower around her into sawdust. Her face is invisible behind the visor of her helmet, but even still the blue eyes hidden behind burst into sapphire flame as she shoots a disgusting glare towards the intruder upon her mourning, a stare that could kill if it were possible, dripping vitriol and malice the way it does. A low, rumbling grown vibrates deeply within her chest as her fingers curl around the hilt of that claymore strapped to her back, slowly pulling it from its sheath with the sound of metal scraping across leather.
*shing*
"You're not him," she repeats those words, only this time it sounds like a warning as that screech threatens to burst her eardrums even through the insulation of her helmet, though she stands resolute as she starts to slowly walk towards the apparition one slow step at a time. "Start a banishment ritual, Ash." she says, her voice clean and crisp. Calm. Calculated. Cold. "I've got some anger to let loose. I'll keep it busy for you," she says, wielding that claidheamh in both hands as she takes a wide stance. It's a heavy blade- too heavy for a normal, human female of her size to wield, and yet she does so effortlessly- as though it belonged in her hands. As though it were at home there.
Ash hisses at the ghost, declaring, "You have no *right*! You selfish fucking piece of shit - this is not about you! Fuck off!" Their freckles glow, bright white pinpricks that burst one by one into little pastel flames. the Witchfire King in this moment, their rage sudden and blazing. Their hand immediately begins to inscribe runes of banishing - before Isaiah can give the orders, even - an incantation of light drawn and shaped, a second hand joining, as they finger tut, draw, and carve the runes of banishment in a rage. No dance, nor latin chants here - pure symbolism and rage.
As they do, starting to build a circle, they hiss out, "Your time has passed - you feed off of our grief? His death is not yours to use to suit your fucking whims and desires - he's a person, whose death is sacred." They punctuate their deluge with flaring sigils that they push towards the spirit, intending to stick to it and, in witchlight, bind it, slowly but surely.
Rage is not a common emotion for Ash, nor is fury, but it's here, and present. Their words are surely aimed at the spirit, but it digs from something deep within them. "It's not for you to dictate, to feed from, to enjoy. It's not your fucking pleasure, you parasitic, attention-slut! Begone with you, and regret *ever* thinking to *dare* touch that which belongs to the Forged Fortune!"
Of course, their rage is just as verbose as their joy.
@isaiah, despite her petite stature, stands her ground, her red hair hidden behind the confines of a helmet. @Ash feels a cold sweat break out as the ghost's influence twists around their psyche. The ghosts presence seems to warp the very air around them, making the trees bend and the shadows dance with sinister intent. Whispers fill the air; desperate, unintelligible, yet heavy with anguish. The ghost's broken thoughts and memories leak into their minds, a torrent of fear and confusion. Both of them can feel their own emotions being twisted, a creeping anguish and despair settling in. The ghost seeks to possess them, to make them vessels for its own tortured existence. The situation presses at them, forcing them to confront their most recent pain as they struggle to resist the ghost's relentless psychic onslaught.
As the ghosts presence grows stronger, the surroundings begin to distort under its influence. Trees that once stood tall and resolute now twist and bend, their branches curling inward as if recoiling from an unseen force. The air around @isaiah and @Ash grows colder, each breath visible in the frigid air, carrying with it the chill of the grave. The moonlight now gleaming down in full, had offered some semblance of comfort, but now it flickers unnaturally, casting erratic shadows that seem to pulse and shift with a life of their own. The asphalt of Mariner's Highway cracks and warps off in their peripheral, as if the very ground is trying to escape the ghosts malevolent grasp. Phantom winds howl through the trees, carrying whispers of despair and disjointed cries that echo through the night.
The forest itself seems to come alive with haunting energy. Leaves rustle without any breeze, and unseen eyes seem to watch from the darkness. Every step the two take feels heavier, as if the ground is pulling them down. The ghosts psychic pressure bends reality, turning the once familiar landscape into a nightmare realm where the line between the living and the dead blurs and twists. Shadowy faces that carry those oh-so-familiar features reaching and stretching out in silent pleas of escape. But this spirit had made a terrible mistake. In the sink of madness, he hasn't paid attention to the arcane energy simmering within these two or lingering about them like an aura. He focuses on Isaiah as they take their weapon from it's scabbard and turn to face it. Conventional weapons aren't like to do much about it, but really it's about distracting the spirit while the enflamed Ash prepares to wreak vengeance upon this spirit.
Poor, poor ghost. Did it not know? Could it not sense it? Isaiah was already awash with anguish and despair barely leashed by their cold, uncaring countenance. Let those emotions come- she is full to the brim with her own, and there is no room for anything further, so those unwelcome feelings only pour into a cup that already does runneth over; it spills harmlessly down her sides. "You're not him," she tells the ghost, as though this creature formed entirely of unifinished business could even remotely understand what the fuck she means when she spits out these words in heated disarray. The tension in her legs builds- not out of fear, but out of power, bracing herself against the torrent of the warping world around her- and then springing, her Path a blazing trail of flaming leaves and refuse, the very sand beneath her feet becoming little more than molten slag as she blinks between the space where she once was and the space where the ghoul is. When she appears, she is high in the air as though mid-jump, that bastard of a claymore swung over her right shoulder as that righteous fury continues to blaze in her eyes.
"YOU'RE NOT DEAN!!" she roars, her mouth splitting to reveal the barely visible glint of lupine fangs in her mouth as every ounce of power within her body brings that two-handed sword to bare, burning red-hot in her grasp with the power of her fiery magic. She screams, a sound primal and feral and /angry/, cutting through the air so quickly that the blade whistles then cracks like a whip, leaving a sonic boom behind as it comes to a stop whether it slashes through the spirit or not. She knows she can't kill it- but she can distract it, and maybe, just maybe, with her particular style of banishment, she can hurt it before the two arcanists send it on its way.
Ash lashes the spirit with sigil after sigil, throwing arcane binding energy out after forming them like the invisible attacks of the guzheng (harp) assassins in Kung Fu Hustle. And as they do, their bare feet pace a circle around the spirit and the wolf, relying on someone to continue to do battle while Ash slowly, but furiously, continues their banishment ritual.
Ash growls, but it's with approval as they see the arcane blaze around the blade, the fury and heat. Less showy, but no less vital, their will o' wisps dance around them with the spasming, flickering light of a hundred candle in a buffeting wind, unable to be doused, or blown silent. Their eyes are completely golden, wild looking, as the hatred for this spirit, their anger, starts to bleed into their light. Red bleeds in like blood, from their fingers, to the spirit, spreading like a pool to the will o' wisps as well as the spirit's fate, and doom, is foretold by the faeborn.
Ash lashes the spirit with sigil after sigil, throwing arcane binding energy out after forming them like the invisible attacks of the guzheng (harp) assassins in Kung Fu Hustle. And as they do, their bare feet pace a circle around the spirit and the wolf, relying on Isaiah to continue to do battle while Ash slowly, but furiously, continues their banishment ritual.
Ash growls, but it's with approval as they see the arcane blaze around the blade, the fury and heat. Less showy, but no less vital, their will o' wisps dance around them with the spasming, flickering light of a hundred candle in a buffeting wind, unable to be doused, or blown silent. Their eyes are completely golden, wild looking, as the hatred for this spirit, their anger, starts to bleed into their light. Red bleeds in like blood, from their fingers, to the spirit, spreading like a pool to the will o' wisps as well as the spirit's fate, and doom, is foretold by the faeborn.
The ghost, its form flickering like a distorted image as a fiery blade comes crashing through it, finds itself ensnared within a swirling vortex of flames. The fire dances with a supernatural life, casting long shadows that twist and contort on the distant asphalt. Each flicker of flame licks at the ghost, causing it to writhe and scream in a soundless agony. The air crackles with energy as sigils, meticulously drawn in glowing, ethereal light, weave their binding magic around the spirit as they're thrown toward the spirit by Ash These sigils pulse rhythmically, tightening their grip with each throb, anchoring the ghost in place and preventing its escape. The flames and sigils form a symbiotic dance, each reinforcing the others power, creating a prison from which the ghost cannot flee.
As the ritual intensifies, the ghost's translucent body begins to ripple, its once-intangible form becoming more defined yet paradoxically less substantial. The flames swirl faster, creating a cyclone of heat and light that encases the ghost in a searing prison. Its eyes, wide and filled with madness, dart around frantically, reflecting the terror and rage of its impending banishment. The ghost's features contort in an eerie semblance of humanity, a twisted mask of agony and defiance. The sigils glow brighter, their light intensifying to a blinding brilliance that pierces through the darkness, each pulse sending ripples of power through the spectral entity.
The moment of banishment arrives with a crescendo of mystical energy. The flames flare one final time as hot as Isaiah's rage, consuming the ghost in a blaze of purifying fire. The sigils, now glowing white-hot, contract and collapse in on themselves, pulling the ghost's essence into the void. The ghosts screams, once silent, now echo through the realm, a chilling wail that reverberates in the air. As the last vestiges of its form disintegrate, the ghost is pulled inexorably toward the spirit realm, leaving behind only a faint, lingering trace of its presence. The forest falls silent once more, the oppressive energy dissipating, replaced by an eerie calm. The ghost is gone, banished to where it belongs, but the memory of its torment lingers, a stark reminder of the thin veil between worlds.
Isaiah falls silent and still as she lands on her feet, that aged blade cracking through the ghost like a whip and severing its connection to their realm in combination with the power flooding into on behest of Ash an their will-o-wisps. She stands there for a long while, crouched, panting with exertion, her small chest heaving with every breath until they start to not only slow, but calm, the blade no longer glowing bright red from her powers. A somber silence falls over her then, broken only by the soft sound of a single choked sob.
But it is only the once, and soon she stands, flicking the blade through the air, bringing it into a semicircle above her head, then tilting it at a diagonal, point-down as she slowly glides it back into its sheath safely. "You're not Dean fucking Whitaker," she tells the space where the ghost once haunted them, the fire in her eyes growing dim before darkness engulfs the area behind her helmet's visor once more. Again she stands for a while in stark silence before turning on her heels towards Ash, walking towards them, then past, laying a fingerless gloved hand on their shoulder, giving it a squeeze, and then marching past the place where her Alpha had fallen, or at least spilled blood. "He's not here," she whispers, her coarse voice somewhat soft. "Let's go home."
Things are as they once were. No cracks in the asphalt. No too-cold winter frigid air. Just the breeze and the leaves and the smell of burning trash and grass still smouldering along the side of the highway. Sadly, for Isaiah and Ash .. there is nothing left for them here but painful memories.
Ash finishes their circle as the battle heats up, but no sweat covers their skin, as they embrace the heat and flames. From their distance, it pales in comparison to a dragon's scales, or a summer infused with heat. No doubt, however, it is a *very* different story for the spirit. Ash relishes its agony, their monstrous nature flashing to light along with the sigils as their paced circle comes to an end.
Invisible threads from where they drew their sigils flare to life, along with the glow of the path taken, until a web of witchfire and red flames ensnare the foolish ghost while demonic fury makes it so that Ash can almost smell the burning flesh, as it licks up the spirit, closing their eyes to the symphony of its screams and wails. The image of blackening, curling, flaking skin fills their mind, though Isaiah or any psychics will only see their silent joy.
Until, at last, it is gone. The rage, not as quickly as it came, still does drain from them like water through a sieve, until they look tired and worn. Guilt, disgust, and self-loathing cross their expression as they face their monstrosity yet again, but it is pushed away for now. They look over the field, worried about forensic evidence destroyed in battle, and start move to Isaiah's side, but their leader is already coming for them. They nod, silent for once, and follow Isaiah home.
OOC: Thank you for participating. Lemme know where I can drop you if you need it!
(Your target is abducted in their sleep, waking up alone in a locked room. They need to either escape or draw attention to them so their allies can come and provide assistance.
)
As Chelsea stands within the shower, the amenities of the many fixtures provide a rather modern contrast to the bathroom's older walls. The steam from the shower does a fair enough job in occluding much of the bathroom, as does the sound of the pouring shower as it unleashes a cascade of continued hot water onto Chelsea. Occasionally, the water pressure abates slightly, a slight groaning noise in the walls indicating the struggle of the old building and its contemporary appliances.
Chelsea picks up a shampoo bottle, squirting some of the contents into her hand before lathering it through her hair. She vigorously rubs the shampoo in, generating a lot of suds, which end up obscuring her vision. She pays no heed to the old groaning and creaking of the house, due to it's age, of course it will make noise.
The groaning of the old house isn't much for concern, to be certain, but amidst the typical noises of pouring hot water and aging construction is an odder one: the sound of creaking coming from someplace outside is enough to potentially do so. The first two times are easy to miss, but the creaking gets progressively louder as it approaches the door of Chelsea's bathroom. The air is occluded with the presence of steam, and the glassy walls of the shower wall make it harder still to make out the shape of the closed bathroom door. Even still, Chelsea does not catch any signs of movement from it.
Chelsea hears an odd creak, but chalks it up to shifting foundation and floor boards. She washes the shampoo from her hair, letting the water hit her face. She soaks for a moment, trying to destress from the week, her head tilted down and her eyes closed.
Turning almost painfully slowly, the handle of the door shifts as something or someone presses their bulk against its mullion and pushes it inwards. The light in the bathroom is disrupted as the light from the exterior room peeks into the light from the bathroom and co-mingles. While still potentially unseen, it's the colder air from the exterior room that billows in next before reaching an equilibrium with the steam from the shower. As the weight of the intruder shifts from the exterior room and into the bathroom, the next sound is far more blatant and alien, the sound of a heavy-soled shoe against bathroom tile.
Chelsea hears clearly now the sound of boots treading on the floor, startling her. She lets out a scream as she makes a poor attempt to get through the shower door, and flee out of one of the two bathroom doors, but her assailant is in between her and freedom.
"Fuck!" a loud voice declares as the scream escapes from Chelsea's lips, reverberating heavy against the tiled bathroom walls and floors. "Shut her the fuck up! NOW!" a second baritone barks. As the shower door flies open about Chelsea's frantic attempt to escape, two figures, one scrawny and one muscular bar Chelsea's path. Not as soon as Chelsea catches sight of the room over does a searing hot pain erupt from the area of her chin, vision swimming as something hard connects at the leftwards base of Chelsea's jaw. Hot steam continues to pour out of the shower as the faucet remains on, hot water now splashing unrestricted from it and messily onto the bathroom floor. "Don't just fucking stand there," the baritone barks again, "do what you're supposed to!"
Chelsea goes down as the hit connects with her chin, landing hard on the tile. Dazed and bruised, she cries for help, but know it's not going to do her any good. She tries to crawl away from the men, trying in vain to escape them.
The flat of the same boot that compromised them now finds itself pressed hard against the flat of Chelsea's exposed back, pushing Chelsea's frame rather harshly against the bathroom floor in a bid to prevent Chelsea's escape. The cry for help, however, prompts a franticness from the scrawnier man who, baited by a combination of the larger man's orders and Chelsea's desperate screams, holds a syringe in his hands. Despite the urgency of the present situation, there's a practiced deftness from the scrawny man as he brings the sharp tip of the syringe over towards Chelsea's neck and pierces the flesh. Pushing the plunger of the needle inwards, the contents of the syringe are released into Chelsea. It doesn't take much to guess to its contents, as fatigue and exhaustion, begin to make their way onto Chelsea despite the adrenaline now likely coursing through Chelsea's veins.
Chelsea lets out a gasp, as her eyelids grow heavy and her vision goes black. She stops struggling as she loses consciousness and goes limp on the floor.
"Finally," the scrawny man sighs, rising from his squatted position as Chelsea's form grows limp. In response, the larger man raises his boot from Chelsea's back but makes an effort to carefully appraise the woman all the same before angrily barking at his companion. "You fucking idiot. You gave us away," he seethes, only to net a sudden bout of protest from the scrawnier man. "-I- gave us away?" the scrawnier man responds, offense clearly laden in his tone but perhaps lost on Chelsea in Chelsea's current state. "You insisted on wearing boots for this, you dumb shit." Not wanting to argue, or perhaps wishing he could but the current predicament of Chelsea's streams potentially being caught by the neighbors eliciting some urgency from him, the larger man grabs Chelsea unceremoniously by the ankle and begins to drag the woman from the bathroom and over into the adjacent room. "If it wasn't for you, we could've at least had some entertainment with her before we dropped her off the Syndicate," the larger man grumbles, only to net another round of protest by the scrawnier man. "No idea why they fucking hired you. You can't do that in this town. Not to these sorts. Let's just get ready to move her. We get our payday upon delivery."
Chelsea's chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, rendered unconscious by the sedative. Eventually, she begins to stir. Her body aches and her vision is momentarily blurry as she begins to come to, part of her hoping this was just a nightmare that she is waking up from.
Chelsea's stirring isn't lost on the larger man dragging Chelsea from the bathroom into the next. "She's waking the fuck up already?" the larger man snarls, his disdain writ plain but his attentions squared purely on Chelsea. "Don't blame me!" the scrawnier one whines, carefully inspecting the needle in his possession. "This is what they gave us. Said it always works like a charm." The feeling of Chelsea's back scraping against the harsh flooring likely only exacerbates Chelsea's senses returning to Chelsea more swiftly than intended. Another weight shifts and presses itself atop of Chelsea's chest, breathing likely coming more difficult as Chelsea continues to come to. "Get something to bind her with. Now." the baritone voice commands, brusque yet for the first time giving off a vibe that isn't raw anger during this whole fiasco. "Hurry up." At his order, the scrawny man sets to searching the apartment.
Chelsea, still groggy, is having difficulty moving. Though she is beginning to come to, she doesn't have full control of her body just yet, her limbs feeling heavy, as though they weigh ten times what they should. She groans, still too weak to effectively resist anything.
With his knee still pressing against Chelsea's prone, supine form, the larger man stares down at Chelsea with narrowed eyes before belting out another order: "Hurry. The. Fuck. Up!" Each word ends with pointed emphasis, the man's anger rising with each syllable pouring from his lips. The scrawny man seems to be doing just that, arriving with a few shoe laces likely liberated from Chelsea's own footwear. "Got it," the scrawny man says, "grab her hands." The larger man does just that, grabbing a hold of Chelsea's wrists as the scrawnier man begins to set to at binding Chelsea. "Listen here, bitch. I know you can hear me." The baritone seems to break through some of the haze still dogging at Chelsea's groggy perception. "You scream again, it'll be the last thing you do, okay? I don't care what kind of fucking mumbo jumbo this town has. You're going in the van. You're getting sold to some fuckin' weirdo. We get paid. Sucks to be you. End of story. Got it?"
Chelsea her spine shivers, and though her body still has some waking up to do, she hears the man loud and clear. "Ple... no..." She tries weakly to protest, but it is a mere whisper. She does not have the strength yet to struggle as one of the men ties her hands with the shoelace. Tears stream down her face as she sniffles and cries.
At first glance, despite Chelsea's protestations, it seems like the two men are going to get their payday despite the initial confrontation. The shower is still running, and there is a wet trail of water along the floor from the bathroom and towards the current room. Another voice rings out from outside the nearby front door, however, and it offers some measure of hope to Chelsea. "Ma'am, you okay?" the voice is fleeting, and there is a knock at the front door that comes with it, causing a panicked exchange between the two men, neither of which daring to answer at first.
Chelsea musters up everything she has in her, and screams as loud as she can. "HELP!" She knows these guys will probably try to kill her before whoever it is can get to her, but it's the only shot she sees, and being sold into slavery is worse than being killed. Though she is still under the influence of the sedative to a degree, she's getting some feeling back in her limbs, enough to struggle slightly, but not much.
The knocking at the door ceases as soon as Chelsea cries out and the two men scramble in a panic, as the baritone, heavy-set man hurriedly places a hand over Chelsea's mouth. "Don't worry!" the baritone man yells out to whoever is out in the hall. "It's me, her boyfriend. Things just a little rowdy. She's into this 'sort of thing', y'know? We'll quiet down." At first, there is a mild silence, as if whoever was outside was processing it: "O-oh. Well..." Before the voice outside has a chance to process, the scrawny voice then adds in tandem: "Yeah, it's alright! She's totally fine." There is a prolonged silence, as the baritone man stares dumbfoundedly and slackjawed at the scrawny man. "You fucking idiot. You didn't need to answer too!" There is a scrambling now outside and only a trailing tone of: "Honey, call the poli--" It's enough to act as a warning for both men, who then rise to their feet. "What the fuck do we do?"
Chelsea screams, muffled by the heavy-set hand clapped over her mouth. Hearing the voice from outside, she knows this is her chance. While the two are distracted, she tries to bite the hand, managing to nip it a little bit.
"What -WE'RE- going to do? You were the one who fuc-- FUCK!" The heavier man yelps as Chelsea sinks Chelsea's teeth into the flesh of his palm. Now scrambling to figure out their predicament, the man tears his hand and Chelsea's bite tears away a decent bit of skin. "You've got another syringe, right? Let's just go to another fucking house before the Sheriff's arrive. This bitch isn't worth it." The scrawny man seems to agree and both seem eager to leave Chelsea upon the ground, making their way to the front door and turning its handle to reveal the hallway. The scrawny man checks if the coast is clear and doesn't seem to bother sparing Chelsea a second glance before belting off; However, the heavier set man spares Chelsea one passing glance and a twisted smile: "See you around, girl." He sizes Chelsea's supine form up, as if he only finally just now had a chance to do so. "You tell the cops anything and I'll pay you another visit. Less pleasant this one." Not even bothering for a response, his heavy-set form disappears beyond the front door's threshold and only the heavy sound of boots colliding with the older wooden floors outside ring out before they fade.
Chelsea spits out the flesh, disgusted by the taste. She cries as the men escape, not bothering to move from her spot on the floor. She struggles against the shoe laces binding her wrists, and with no one to stop her, she eventually manages to loosen them enough to slip out. She gets up and moves to the bed, trying to grab a blanket or something to cover herself before help arrives.
As consciousness slowly creeps back to Chelsea, her defiant spirit manifests in a desperate scream for help, a faint glimmer of hope in an otherwise hopeless situation. The sudden arrival of an external presence momentarily stalls the assailants, offering Chelsea a sliver of hope. Despite the heavy sedation and physical constraints, her resilience shines through as she seizes this fleeting opportunity to scream for help, her voice a beacon in the darkness. In the ensuing chaos and confusion, Chelsea's will to survive becomes palpable. She fights against her bindings and captors, the intensity of her struggle reflecting the fierce determination to reclaim her freedom. This pivotal moment of defiance disrupts the abductors' plans, leading to their hasty retreat in the face of potential intervention. Left alone, Chelsea's ordeal concludes with her breaking free from her physical constraints, a symbolic act of her unbroken spirit and will to survive, setting a tone of resilience and defiance against the darkness that sought to claim her.
(Isaiah's odd encounter(SRLucas):SRLucas)
[Sun Oct 20 2024]
At Tranquil Lane and Mariner's Highway
Stretching east and west is this one long and dusty highway road. The
asphalt of the pavement has seen a better day; it's patched and worn,
crumbling at the edges of its shoulders where an abundance of wild grasses
takes over. They slump into low ditches at the sides where water is meant
to pool, and beyond that are weak fences and forested property to the south,
as well as rolling hills to the north.
It is dusk, about 61F(16C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
(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.
)
A lonely stretch of Mariner's Highway winds its way through a dense forest, the remains of a long-forgotten farm house off in the distance. Towering trees, their branches twisted and gnarled, cast long shadows over the narrow road. The air is thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, and an eerie stillness hangs in the air, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves. As dusk settles in, the forest seems to close in around the highway, with the fading light barely penetrating the canopy above.
Every so often, the headlights of a passing car briefly illuminate the surroundings, revealing glimpses of the untamed wilderness on either side. The atmosphere is heavy with a sense of foreboding, as if the forest holds secrets that are best left undisturbed. This isolated stretch of highway is not just a path through the woods
Every so often, the headlights of a passing car briefly illuminate the surroundings, revealing glimpses of the untamed wilderness on either side. The atmosphere is heavy with a sense of foreboding, as if the forest holds secrets that are best left undisturbed. This isolated stretch of highway is not just a path through the woods; it is a journey into the unknown, where the line between reality and the supernatural seems perilously thin. The highway twists and turns, its path barely visible under the deepening twilight. The occasional break in the trees offers fleeting glimpses of the setting sun, casting long, ethereal beams of light that dance across the forest floor. The sound of your own footsteps or the hum of your car engine becomes a constant companion, magnified by the silence of the surrounding woods. There's a sense of isolation here, as if the world outside ceases to exist the moment you enter this forgotten stretch of road.
Travelling from further south in the woods, Isaiah and Ash make their way into town for whatever purposes drive them forward today. As they travel further, the forest seems to thicken, the trees growing closer together, their branches intertwining overhead like the gnarled fingers of ancient giants. No matter how many times the residents of this town walk through these woods and down these roads, that feeling never quite seems to pass. The underbrush is dense, with shadows growing longer and lurking in every corner, creating an almost labyrinthine feel. The deeper you go, the more the atmosphere shifts, becoming charged with an unseen energy. It's a place that feels alive, as if the very air is imbued with the whispers of the past, waiting to reveal its mysteries to those who dare to listen.
Emerging from the twilight shadows, a ghostly figure materializes at the edge of the clearing, his once-human form now an ethereal wisp of tattered robes and flickering translucence. His eyes, wide and vacant, dart frantically in all directions, reflecting the fractured remnants of a shattered mind. He moves with a jittery, erratic grace, as if caught in an eternal dance of confusion and despair. Wisps of fog cling to his form, swirling around him like a living aura, while disjointed murmurs escape his lipssnatches of forgotten memories and haunting laments, echoing the torment of a soul lost between worlds. This apparition, a tragic remnant of what once was, stands as a spectral reminder of the thin veil separating the seen from the unseen.
Isaiah parks her ferocious, black and red 2024 Indian Scout right here at bus stop one as the mists close in around her, unheeding of the ominous aura surrounding the place; Haven is always thus. A place where the material and the immaterial meet and collide and intermingle dependent upon where you go. She lingers here for a time before traveling deeper into the woods, making her path easy to follow for Ash whenever they do ultimately arrive- but her travel is cut short. There is no telling the expression that forms beyond the metallic, reflective visor of her helmet, but there comes no tension to her shoulders as it slowly turns to face its glossy sheen towards the specter. The tiny bundle of aggression and constant despair does not flinch, does not cower, does not even lift any number of the weapons she wears as she stares at the spirit. She only utters in a voice as coarse as freshly-ground black pepper, "You are not him. There is nothing in this world that will strike fear into my heart- if you want to continue your unlife, I suggest you keep to yourself and let me be."
Her piece spoken, she settles down by a disturbed mound of earth only a few paces away from where she had parked that motorcycle, then kneels, startign to sift through the topsoil gently, fingers bared by gloves that have nothing stitched in to protect them. She remains acutely aware of the ghost, and its proximity, but it seems that what she said is true: with every fibre of her being she feels absolutely no fear whatsoever. It's a calm confidence- not blatant disrespect, or a tamping down, even of the emotion. No. She feels nothing in the moment; beyond a seething anger and frustration that slowly bubbles inside of her as she presses her gloved palms against the ground where the earth has been upturned in a man-shaped divot. "Dean.." she whispers, taking up a blood-splattered leaf, and then letting it fall to rest back where she had found it. "... You died in battle.. But to what..?"
Ash arrives on Voltaire, their rusty trusty scooter, parking it near the Harley. They try to send a text on their Hello Kitty phone, long brown fingers flashing on the keyboard, but then they frown. They raise it in the air, trying to get signal, before giving up, shrugging, and moving into the brush. It doesn't take long for them to catch up to Isaiah, given that she isn't far, and her scent is fresh. Their face as they approach her is pensive and distracted, though just as likely with grief as whoever they were texting.
Ash looks up sharply, however at the spirit as it approaches, their hazel eyes lighting up gold... only for their expression and body language to completely drop into emotionless neutrality, green returning, then overtaking the gold. They turn to Isaiah to drawl, with a sigh in their voice, "Hey... sorry that that took so long. And... I looked over his body...."
They pause, taking a moment from their grief to actually think about it. They swallow, quietly, then glances at the spirit again. They're not particularly intrigued or afraid, but there's a slight tension at the presence, despite their mind being away.
The ghost that's appeared in the physical before Isaiah will be easily noticeable to ash, rags and robes a-tatter. Still, those mutterings and mad whispers don't seem to heed the new Alpha wolf's words at all, going largely ignored. Perhaps it can't hear her, or it just doesn't pay that much attention. When Ash arrives, there's a swivel as the ghost finally seems to take notice of the two. A loud, piercing screech comes roaring through the air where it shouldn't drilling into the sharper ears of the two supernaturals.
Rising up this ghost is more ashen and white, lacking that ethereal hue of a more corporeal spirit or one summoned up by an arcanist. No, this appears to be a mad spirit left behind like so many others and likely drawn to this place due to the recent pain and death that has occured here. The size and intensity of the spectre seem to grow with that screech, as it begins to close in at Isaiah and Ash.
It's only when the spirit refuses to fuck off as instructed that even a modicum of tension will come to Isaiah's shoulders; she didn't ride her Harley in. She rode that familiar Indian Scout, and she seems to be the embodiment of its former rider's 'my give a damn's busted' attitude, because the way she slowly rises to her feet comes with a spiritual pressure that threatens to crush the very trees that tower around her into sawdust. Her face is invisible behind the visor of her helmet, but even still the blue eyes hidden behind burst into sapphire flame as she shoots a disgusting glare towards the intruder upon her mourning, a stare that could kill if it were possible, dripping vitriol and malice the way it does. A low, rumbling grown vibrates deeply within her chest as her fingers curl around the hilt of that claymore strapped to her back, slowly pulling it from its sheath with the sound of metal scraping across leather.
*shing*
"You're not him," she repeats those words, only this time it sounds like a warning as that screech threatens to burst her eardrums even through the insulation of her helmet, though she stands resolute as she starts to slowly walk towards the apparition one slow step at a time. "Start a banishment ritual, Ash." she says, her voice clean and crisp. Calm. Calculated. Cold. "I've got some anger to let loose. I'll keep it busy for you," she says, wielding that claidheamh in both hands as she takes a wide stance. It's a heavy blade- too heavy for a normal, human female of her size to wield, and yet she does so effortlessly- as though it belonged in her hands. As though it were at home there.
Ash hisses at the ghost, declaring, "You have no *right*! You selfish fucking piece of shit - this is not about you! Fuck off!" Their freckles glow, bright white pinpricks that burst one by one into little pastel flames. the Witchfire King in this moment, their rage sudden and blazing. Their hand immediately begins to inscribe runes of banishing - before Isaiah can give the orders, even - an incantation of light drawn and shaped, a second hand joining, as they finger tut, draw, and carve the runes of banishment in a rage. No dance, nor latin chants here - pure symbolism and rage.
As they do, starting to build a circle, they hiss out, "Your time has passed - you feed off of our grief? His death is not yours to use to suit your fucking whims and desires - he's a person, whose death is sacred." They punctuate their deluge with flaring sigils that they push towards the spirit, intending to stick to it and, in witchlight, bind it, slowly but surely.
Rage is not a common emotion for Ash, nor is fury, but it's here, and present. Their words are surely aimed at the spirit, but it digs from something deep within them. "It's not for you to dictate, to feed from, to enjoy. It's not your fucking pleasure, you parasitic, attention-slut! Begone with you, and regret *ever* thinking to *dare* touch that which belongs to the Forged Fortune!"
Of course, their rage is just as verbose as their joy.
@isaiah, despite her petite stature, stands her ground, her red hair hidden behind the confines of a helmet. @Ash feels a cold sweat break out as the ghost's influence twists around their psyche. The ghosts presence seems to warp the very air around them, making the trees bend and the shadows dance with sinister intent. Whispers fill the air; desperate, unintelligible, yet heavy with anguish. The ghost's broken thoughts and memories leak into their minds, a torrent of fear and confusion. Both of them can feel their own emotions being twisted, a creeping anguish and despair settling in. The ghost seeks to possess them, to make them vessels for its own tortured existence. The situation presses at them, forcing them to confront their most recent pain as they struggle to resist the ghost's relentless psychic onslaught.
As the ghosts presence grows stronger, the surroundings begin to distort under its influence. Trees that once stood tall and resolute now twist and bend, their branches curling inward as if recoiling from an unseen force. The air around @isaiah and @Ash grows colder, each breath visible in the frigid air, carrying with it the chill of the grave. The moonlight now gleaming down in full, had offered some semblance of comfort, but now it flickers unnaturally, casting erratic shadows that seem to pulse and shift with a life of their own. The asphalt of Mariner's Highway cracks and warps off in their peripheral, as if the very ground is trying to escape the ghosts malevolent grasp. Phantom winds howl through the trees, carrying whispers of despair and disjointed cries that echo through the night.
The forest itself seems to come alive with haunting energy. Leaves rustle without any breeze, and unseen eyes seem to watch from the darkness. Every step the two take feels heavier, as if the ground is pulling them down. The ghosts psychic pressure bends reality, turning the once familiar landscape into a nightmare realm where the line between the living and the dead blurs and twists. Shadowy faces that carry those oh-so-familiar features reaching and stretching out in silent pleas of escape. But this spirit had made a terrible mistake. In the sink of madness, he hasn't paid attention to the arcane energy simmering within these two or lingering about them like an aura. He focuses on Isaiah as they take their weapon from it's scabbard and turn to face it. Conventional weapons aren't like to do much about it, but really it's about distracting the spirit while the enflamed Ash prepares to wreak vengeance upon this spirit.
Poor, poor ghost. Did it not know? Could it not sense it? Isaiah was already awash with anguish and despair barely leashed by their cold, uncaring countenance. Let those emotions come- she is full to the brim with her own, and there is no room for anything further, so those unwelcome feelings only pour into a cup that already does runneth over; it spills harmlessly down her sides. "You're not him," she tells the ghost, as though this creature formed entirely of unifinished business could even remotely understand what the fuck she means when she spits out these words in heated disarray. The tension in her legs builds- not out of fear, but out of power, bracing herself against the torrent of the warping world around her- and then springing, her Path a blazing trail of flaming leaves and refuse, the very sand beneath her feet becoming little more than molten slag as she blinks between the space where she once was and the space where the ghoul is. When she appears, she is high in the air as though mid-jump, that bastard of a claymore swung over her right shoulder as that righteous fury continues to blaze in her eyes.
"YOU'RE NOT DEAN!!" she roars, her mouth splitting to reveal the barely visible glint of lupine fangs in her mouth as every ounce of power within her body brings that two-handed sword to bare, burning red-hot in her grasp with the power of her fiery magic. She screams, a sound primal and feral and /angry/, cutting through the air so quickly that the blade whistles then cracks like a whip, leaving a sonic boom behind as it comes to a stop whether it slashes through the spirit or not. She knows she can't kill it- but she can distract it, and maybe, just maybe, with her particular style of banishment, she can hurt it before the two arcanists send it on its way.
Ash lashes the spirit with sigil after sigil, throwing arcane binding energy out after forming them like the invisible attacks of the guzheng (harp) assassins in Kung Fu Hustle. And as they do, their bare feet pace a circle around the spirit and the wolf, relying on someone to continue to do battle while Ash slowly, but furiously, continues their banishment ritual.
Ash growls, but it's with approval as they see the arcane blaze around the blade, the fury and heat. Less showy, but no less vital, their will o' wisps dance around them with the spasming, flickering light of a hundred candle in a buffeting wind, unable to be doused, or blown silent. Their eyes are completely golden, wild looking, as the hatred for this spirit, their anger, starts to bleed into their light. Red bleeds in like blood, from their fingers, to the spirit, spreading like a pool to the will o' wisps as well as the spirit's fate, and doom, is foretold by the faeborn.
Ash lashes the spirit with sigil after sigil, throwing arcane binding energy out after forming them like the invisible attacks of the guzheng (harp) assassins in Kung Fu Hustle. And as they do, their bare feet pace a circle around the spirit and the wolf, relying on Isaiah to continue to do battle while Ash slowly, but furiously, continues their banishment ritual.
Ash growls, but it's with approval as they see the arcane blaze around the blade, the fury and heat. Less showy, but no less vital, their will o' wisps dance around them with the spasming, flickering light of a hundred candle in a buffeting wind, unable to be doused, or blown silent. Their eyes are completely golden, wild looking, as the hatred for this spirit, their anger, starts to bleed into their light. Red bleeds in like blood, from their fingers, to the spirit, spreading like a pool to the will o' wisps as well as the spirit's fate, and doom, is foretold by the faeborn.
The ghost, its form flickering like a distorted image as a fiery blade comes crashing through it, finds itself ensnared within a swirling vortex of flames. The fire dances with a supernatural life, casting long shadows that twist and contort on the distant asphalt. Each flicker of flame licks at the ghost, causing it to writhe and scream in a soundless agony. The air crackles with energy as sigils, meticulously drawn in glowing, ethereal light, weave their binding magic around the spirit as they're thrown toward the spirit by Ash These sigils pulse rhythmically, tightening their grip with each throb, anchoring the ghost in place and preventing its escape. The flames and sigils form a symbiotic dance, each reinforcing the others power, creating a prison from which the ghost cannot flee.
As the ritual intensifies, the ghost's translucent body begins to ripple, its once-intangible form becoming more defined yet paradoxically less substantial. The flames swirl faster, creating a cyclone of heat and light that encases the ghost in a searing prison. Its eyes, wide and filled with madness, dart around frantically, reflecting the terror and rage of its impending banishment. The ghost's features contort in an eerie semblance of humanity, a twisted mask of agony and defiance. The sigils glow brighter, their light intensifying to a blinding brilliance that pierces through the darkness, each pulse sending ripples of power through the spectral entity.
The moment of banishment arrives with a crescendo of mystical energy. The flames flare one final time as hot as Isaiah's rage, consuming the ghost in a blaze of purifying fire. The sigils, now glowing white-hot, contract and collapse in on themselves, pulling the ghost's essence into the void. The ghosts screams, once silent, now echo through the realm, a chilling wail that reverberates in the air. As the last vestiges of its form disintegrate, the ghost is pulled inexorably toward the spirit realm, leaving behind only a faint, lingering trace of its presence. The forest falls silent once more, the oppressive energy dissipating, replaced by an eerie calm. The ghost is gone, banished to where it belongs, but the memory of its torment lingers, a stark reminder of the thin veil between worlds.
Isaiah falls silent and still as she lands on her feet, that aged blade cracking through the ghost like a whip and severing its connection to their realm in combination with the power flooding into on behest of Ash an their will-o-wisps. She stands there for a long while, crouched, panting with exertion, her small chest heaving with every breath until they start to not only slow, but calm, the blade no longer glowing bright red from her powers. A somber silence falls over her then, broken only by the soft sound of a single choked sob.
But it is only the once, and soon she stands, flicking the blade through the air, bringing it into a semicircle above her head, then tilting it at a diagonal, point-down as she slowly glides it back into its sheath safely. "You're not Dean fucking Whitaker," she tells the space where the ghost once haunted them, the fire in her eyes growing dim before darkness engulfs the area behind her helmet's visor once more. Again she stands for a while in stark silence before turning on her heels towards Ash, walking towards them, then past, laying a fingerless gloved hand on their shoulder, giving it a squeeze, and then marching past the place where her Alpha had fallen, or at least spilled blood. "He's not here," she whispers, her coarse voice somewhat soft. "Let's go home."
Things are as they once were. No cracks in the asphalt. No too-cold winter frigid air. Just the breeze and the leaves and the smell of burning trash and grass still smouldering along the side of the highway. Sadly, for Isaiah and Ash .. there is nothing left for them here but painful memories.
Ash finishes their circle as the battle heats up, but no sweat covers their skin, as they embrace the heat and flames. From their distance, it pales in comparison to a dragon's scales, or a summer infused with heat. No doubt, however, it is a *very* different story for the spirit. Ash relishes its agony, their monstrous nature flashing to light along with the sigils as their paced circle comes to an end.
Invisible threads from where they drew their sigils flare to life, along with the glow of the path taken, until a web of witchfire and red flames ensnare the foolish ghost while demonic fury makes it so that Ash can almost smell the burning flesh, as it licks up the spirit, closing their eyes to the symphony of its screams and wails. The image of blackening, curling, flaking skin fills their mind, though Isaiah or any psychics will only see their silent joy.
Until, at last, it is gone. The rage, not as quickly as it came, still does drain from them like water through a sieve, until they look tired and worn. Guilt, disgust, and self-loathing cross their expression as they face their monstrosity yet again, but it is pushed away for now. They look over the field, worried about forensic evidence destroyed in battle, and start move to Isaiah's side, but their leader is already coming for them. They nod, silent for once, and follow Isaiah home.
OOC: Thank you for participating. Lemme know where I can drop you if you need it!
(Your target is abducted in their sleep, waking up alone in a locked room. They need to either escape or draw attention to them so their allies can come and provide assistance.
)
As Chelsea stands within the shower, the amenities of the many fixtures provide a rather modern contrast to the bathroom's older walls. The steam from the shower does a fair enough job in occluding much of the bathroom, as does the sound of the pouring shower as it unleashes a cascade of continued hot water onto Chelsea. Occasionally, the water pressure abates slightly, a slight groaning noise in the walls indicating the struggle of the old building and its contemporary appliances.
Chelsea picks up a shampoo bottle, squirting some of the contents into her hand before lathering it through her hair. She vigorously rubs the shampoo in, generating a lot of suds, which end up obscuring her vision. She pays no heed to the old groaning and creaking of the house, due to it's age, of course it will make noise.
The groaning of the old house isn't much for concern, to be certain, but amidst the typical noises of pouring hot water and aging construction is an odder one: the sound of creaking coming from someplace outside is enough to potentially do so. The first two times are easy to miss, but the creaking gets progressively louder as it approaches the door of Chelsea's bathroom. The air is occluded with the presence of steam, and the glassy walls of the shower wall make it harder still to make out the shape of the closed bathroom door. Even still, Chelsea does not catch any signs of movement from it.
Chelsea hears an odd creak, but chalks it up to shifting foundation and floor boards. She washes the shampoo from her hair, letting the water hit her face. She soaks for a moment, trying to destress from the week, her head tilted down and her eyes closed.
Turning almost painfully slowly, the handle of the door shifts as something or someone presses their bulk against its mullion and pushes it inwards. The light in the bathroom is disrupted as the light from the exterior room peeks into the light from the bathroom and co-mingles. While still potentially unseen, it's the colder air from the exterior room that billows in next before reaching an equilibrium with the steam from the shower. As the weight of the intruder shifts from the exterior room and into the bathroom, the next sound is far more blatant and alien, the sound of a heavy-soled shoe against bathroom tile.
Chelsea hears clearly now the sound of boots treading on the floor, startling her. She lets out a scream as she makes a poor attempt to get through the shower door, and flee out of one of the two bathroom doors, but her assailant is in between her and freedom.
"Fuck!" a loud voice declares as the scream escapes from Chelsea's lips, reverberating heavy against the tiled bathroom walls and floors. "Shut her the fuck up! NOW!" a second baritone barks. As the shower door flies open about Chelsea's frantic attempt to escape, two figures, one scrawny and one muscular bar Chelsea's path. Not as soon as Chelsea catches sight of the room over does a searing hot pain erupt from the area of her chin, vision swimming as something hard connects at the leftwards base of Chelsea's jaw. Hot steam continues to pour out of the shower as the faucet remains on, hot water now splashing unrestricted from it and messily onto the bathroom floor. "Don't just fucking stand there," the baritone barks again, "do what you're supposed to!"
Chelsea goes down as the hit connects with her chin, landing hard on the tile. Dazed and bruised, she cries for help, but know it's not going to do her any good. She tries to crawl away from the men, trying in vain to escape them.
The flat of the same boot that compromised them now finds itself pressed hard against the flat of Chelsea's exposed back, pushing Chelsea's frame rather harshly against the bathroom floor in a bid to prevent Chelsea's escape. The cry for help, however, prompts a franticness from the scrawnier man who, baited by a combination of the larger man's orders and Chelsea's desperate screams, holds a syringe in his hands. Despite the urgency of the present situation, there's a practiced deftness from the scrawny man as he brings the sharp tip of the syringe over towards Chelsea's neck and pierces the flesh. Pushing the plunger of the needle inwards, the contents of the syringe are released into Chelsea. It doesn't take much to guess to its contents, as fatigue and exhaustion, begin to make their way onto Chelsea despite the adrenaline now likely coursing through Chelsea's veins.
Chelsea lets out a gasp, as her eyelids grow heavy and her vision goes black. She stops struggling as she loses consciousness and goes limp on the floor.
"Finally," the scrawny man sighs, rising from his squatted position as Chelsea's form grows limp. In response, the larger man raises his boot from Chelsea's back but makes an effort to carefully appraise the woman all the same before angrily barking at his companion. "You fucking idiot. You gave us away," he seethes, only to net a sudden bout of protest from the scrawnier man. "-I- gave us away?" the scrawnier man responds, offense clearly laden in his tone but perhaps lost on Chelsea in Chelsea's current state. "You insisted on wearing boots for this, you dumb shit." Not wanting to argue, or perhaps wishing he could but the current predicament of Chelsea's streams potentially being caught by the neighbors eliciting some urgency from him, the larger man grabs Chelsea unceremoniously by the ankle and begins to drag the woman from the bathroom and over into the adjacent room. "If it wasn't for you, we could've at least had some entertainment with her before we dropped her off the Syndicate," the larger man grumbles, only to net another round of protest by the scrawnier man. "No idea why they fucking hired you. You can't do that in this town. Not to these sorts. Let's just get ready to move her. We get our payday upon delivery."
Chelsea's chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, rendered unconscious by the sedative. Eventually, she begins to stir. Her body aches and her vision is momentarily blurry as she begins to come to, part of her hoping this was just a nightmare that she is waking up from.
Chelsea's stirring isn't lost on the larger man dragging Chelsea from the bathroom into the next. "She's waking the fuck up already?" the larger man snarls, his disdain writ plain but his attentions squared purely on Chelsea. "Don't blame me!" the scrawnier one whines, carefully inspecting the needle in his possession. "This is what they gave us. Said it always works like a charm." The feeling of Chelsea's back scraping against the harsh flooring likely only exacerbates Chelsea's senses returning to Chelsea more swiftly than intended. Another weight shifts and presses itself atop of Chelsea's chest, breathing likely coming more difficult as Chelsea continues to come to. "Get something to bind her with. Now." the baritone voice commands, brusque yet for the first time giving off a vibe that isn't raw anger during this whole fiasco. "Hurry up." At his order, the scrawny man sets to searching the apartment.
Chelsea, still groggy, is having difficulty moving. Though she is beginning to come to, she doesn't have full control of her body just yet, her limbs feeling heavy, as though they weigh ten times what they should. She groans, still too weak to effectively resist anything.
With his knee still pressing against Chelsea's prone, supine form, the larger man stares down at Chelsea with narrowed eyes before belting out another order: "Hurry. The. Fuck. Up!" Each word ends with pointed emphasis, the man's anger rising with each syllable pouring from his lips. The scrawny man seems to be doing just that, arriving with a few shoe laces likely liberated from Chelsea's own footwear. "Got it," the scrawny man says, "grab her hands." The larger man does just that, grabbing a hold of Chelsea's wrists as the scrawnier man begins to set to at binding Chelsea. "Listen here, bitch. I know you can hear me." The baritone seems to break through some of the haze still dogging at Chelsea's groggy perception. "You scream again, it'll be the last thing you do, okay? I don't care what kind of fucking mumbo jumbo this town has. You're going in the van. You're getting sold to some fuckin' weirdo. We get paid. Sucks to be you. End of story. Got it?"
Chelsea her spine shivers, and though her body still has some waking up to do, she hears the man loud and clear. "Ple... no..." She tries weakly to protest, but it is a mere whisper. She does not have the strength yet to struggle as one of the men ties her hands with the shoelace. Tears stream down her face as she sniffles and cries.
At first glance, despite Chelsea's protestations, it seems like the two men are going to get their payday despite the initial confrontation. The shower is still running, and there is a wet trail of water along the floor from the bathroom and towards the current room. Another voice rings out from outside the nearby front door, however, and it offers some measure of hope to Chelsea. "Ma'am, you okay?" the voice is fleeting, and there is a knock at the front door that comes with it, causing a panicked exchange between the two men, neither of which daring to answer at first.
Chelsea musters up everything she has in her, and screams as loud as she can. "HELP!" She knows these guys will probably try to kill her before whoever it is can get to her, but it's the only shot she sees, and being sold into slavery is worse than being killed. Though she is still under the influence of the sedative to a degree, she's getting some feeling back in her limbs, enough to struggle slightly, but not much.
The knocking at the door ceases as soon as Chelsea cries out and the two men scramble in a panic, as the baritone, heavy-set man hurriedly places a hand over Chelsea's mouth. "Don't worry!" the baritone man yells out to whoever is out in the hall. "It's me, her boyfriend. Things just a little rowdy. She's into this 'sort of thing', y'know? We'll quiet down." At first, there is a mild silence, as if whoever was outside was processing it: "O-oh. Well..." Before the voice outside has a chance to process, the scrawny voice then adds in tandem: "Yeah, it's alright! She's totally fine." There is a prolonged silence, as the baritone man stares dumbfoundedly and slackjawed at the scrawny man. "You fucking idiot. You didn't need to answer too!" There is a scrambling now outside and only a trailing tone of: "Honey, call the poli--" It's enough to act as a warning for both men, who then rise to their feet. "What the fuck do we do?"
Chelsea screams, muffled by the heavy-set hand clapped over her mouth. Hearing the voice from outside, she knows this is her chance. While the two are distracted, she tries to bite the hand, managing to nip it a little bit.
"What -WE'RE- going to do? You were the one who fuc-- FUCK!" The heavier man yelps as Chelsea sinks Chelsea's teeth into the flesh of his palm. Now scrambling to figure out their predicament, the man tears his hand and Chelsea's bite tears away a decent bit of skin. "You've got another syringe, right? Let's just go to another fucking house before the Sheriff's arrive. This bitch isn't worth it." The scrawny man seems to agree and both seem eager to leave Chelsea upon the ground, making their way to the front door and turning its handle to reveal the hallway. The scrawny man checks if the coast is clear and doesn't seem to bother sparing Chelsea a second glance before belting off; However, the heavier set man spares Chelsea one passing glance and a twisted smile: "See you around, girl." He sizes Chelsea's supine form up, as if he only finally just now had a chance to do so. "You tell the cops anything and I'll pay you another visit. Less pleasant this one." Not even bothering for a response, his heavy-set form disappears beyond the front door's threshold and only the heavy sound of boots colliding with the older wooden floors outside ring out before they fade.
Chelsea spits out the flesh, disgusted by the taste. She cries as the men escape, not bothering to move from her spot on the floor. She struggles against the shoe laces binding her wrists, and with no one to stop her, she eventually manages to loosen them enough to slip out. She gets up and moves to the bed, trying to grab a blanket or something to cover herself before help arrives.