Encounterlogs
Jacks Odd Encounter Sr Alexander 240301
On a chilling winter night, Jack, a seasoned priest with extensive knowledge of the supernatural, experiences an eerie encounter in his parsonage. After performing his nightly rituals, he senses a strange presence, prompting him to invoke St. Procopius to reveal the unseen. The invocation leads him to a spectral figure digging ineffectually by the roadside. Donning a bathrobe and armed with a crossbow, Jack approaches the spirit, offering it a chance at rest rather than eternal torment. The ghost, clad in outdated garb and appearing weary, acknowledges Jack's power to banish him but divulges his plight of trying to dig his own grave, symbolizing a fixation on a past tragedy.
Jack engages the ghost in a poignant exchange, offering to send the spirit elsewhere without promise of the destination's nature, questioning the ghost's moral standing in life. The spirit, trapped in a salt circle prepared by Jack, confronts existential despair, questioning the significance of his actions in life. Jack begins a painful banishment ritual, causing the ghost to suffer existential agony. As the spirit's cries echo in the night, Jack reflects on his fate, determined not to share the ghost's doomed afterlife. The encounter concludes with Jack affirming his belief in his destiny and walking back to the warmth of his home, leaving behind the cold embers of the spectral fire and the ghost's tormented echoes.
(Jack's odd encounter(SRAlexander):SRAlexander)
[Tue Feb 27 2024]
In the bathroom of a Small Parsonage
The bathroom in the parsonage is compact and efficiently designed, with a stand-up shower, toilet, and a sink with a small mirror. All arranged to make the most of the limited space, with wooden paneling over the stone walls behind. No art is on the walls, but a crucifix has been hung up next to the mirror.
It is night, about 26F(-3C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. There is a waning gibbous moon.
(Your target encounters a ghost who's fixated on some past tragedy from their life, they need to either give the spirit some sense of closure, or send it on it's way through more violent means.
)
As Jack steps out of the shower, he stares at the mirror for a moment. Guilt floods his features -- there's a look, reaching up to touch at his face, tracing the lines of wrinkles that have faded into weathering. Then he looks, out the window, to the forest and the waning moon: and as the fear of death fills him, he returns his gaze to the mirror.
Jack has had a long and storied life. A lifetime of trying to walk that line of righteousness. Of doubt, perhaps? Each line on his face is won from another conflict. In the darkness and the woods, he knows. As each moonless night approaches, he feels a grim reminder. His reflection looks back, just as he looks.
Turning from the mirror, Jack goes to grab a towel, wrapping it around his waist. There's a grimace, low, and then he runs fingers through his hair, before he goes to start putting toothpaste on his toothbrush.
An owl hoots outside the window. There's little other noise in the midst of the chilly winter the city has endured. As Jack brushes his teeth there is a tickle on the back of his neck. An instinct perhaps? Surely he has been the experiencer of numerous supernatural dangers? But the line between awareness and anxiety is a tricky one to manage too. Perhaps there's time to rinse?
The priest, in fact, is a master of many magics -- bargained for and stolen. At that tickle, Jack sets his toothbrush down, and he reaches for the charms that dangle around his neck. He begins to mutter under his breath, some low charm: an invocation to St. Procopius to reveal the unseen.
Nothing so obvious as that, but perhaps a noticeable chill in the air indicates the nature of this threat? Something of the nightmare? Nothing in the room with him, at least, perhaps nearby?
There's a frown, and then, towel wrapped around his waist, Jack steps into the next room. Sensitive eyes see the nightmare as well as the mortal world, even as he continues his chanting low in Latin.
He proceeds, a man with knowledge of the supernatural vast, and especially that of the dead. As he moves warily into the next room, he hears a sound from the window. An odd sound distant, like metal striking dirt.
To the window -- as Jack goes, he picks up the crossbow that leans in the bottom of his wardrobe, looking for the window. He keeps the crossbow low, not raised. He's just keeping it nearby as he peers out the window.
It takes little effort for him to pierce the sight, there along the side of the road beside his house is the shape of a man so unmistkably spectral there's a level of comedy to it. But, the reality of the sound comes into play, he is...digging. Ineffectual, the man does not move any dirt each action.
Donning a bathrobe, Jack stops to grab a bag of things -- salt, candles, a bell, a book. The latter he holds in his hand, the cross silver in the moonlight as he steps out to the side of the road. His voice carries, gravelled. "It's late," he tells the spectre. "Too late, old man. It's time to rest."
The spirit gazes over at Jack, somewhat indistinct, but masculine. Wearing clothes not modern enough, but perhaps far enough from his area of expertise as to place it not quite older than him. The spirit, similarily looks tired. It turns and gazes deep into Jack's eyes. "You can force me to go can't you?"
"I can," Jack tells the spirit, his voice low. "There are words of power that can banish you," he says. "Or I can draw a circle and trap you there -- bind you smaller and smaller, until you are some bauble, among a collection of baubles." He pauses. "But I'm weary," he tells the spirit. "I am weary and I have lived a life alone," he says. "So I would not trap you to some terrible solitude if I need not." The way he says it suggests this is small mercy; there's a kind of wariness to him, the sort that makes him ready, perhaps, to turn to sorcery. "So tell me, old man: what ails you?"
A moment of silence passes. The spirit had been listening to Jack closely, but stupidly probably does not comprehend much of it. Perhaps it's fine, it seems as though it got the message. "I appreciate it. I don't much want to go anywhere else," the voice drawls, a mans. "I'm trying to dig..." he says quietly.
Quietly, Jack asks, "Dig for what?"
"My grave," he replies. Dumbly. A distant comment.
"To get into it?" Jack asks the man. "Or to get out of it?"
The man is stopped by that for a long moment...and lets out a little chuckle. "Suppose it's too late to dig that now isn't it? Stupid...stupid." He sighs. "There's nothing left now right? I'm just...here?" he asks.
"No," Jack tells the ghost, after a while. "If you'd like, I can send you elsewhere." He pauses, his voice low. "No promises where you go -- were you a good man?" he asks. "A bad man?" There's a pause, as he begins to spread a circle of salt on the dirt road. He leaves it open, one segment undone. "Step in," he tells him. "I can't promise the ending, but I can promise it will be painless."
"What if I don't want to?" He asks. His eyes trace down to the salt. "Was I good...?" he wonders. "Was I bad...?" He stares at Jack. "Do you really think anyone cares?" The question feels pointed as the spirit drifts into circle obediently. "...Everything I am or was is gone. I don't even know why. This is all it came to..."
Salt closes the circle, and then the ghost is trapped. "I'm sorry," Jack tells the ghost -- and then he begins to chant. As he does, it becomes apparent that just a moment ago, the priest lied. Good or bad, Heaven or Hell -- as blue flame begins to pulse from the salt in time with my chanting, what this is is not painless. It is some agony across emphemera.
The spirit cries out, some existential agony. It is not the man anymore than Jack is that man. Ephemera is right. A psychic echo. An accumulation of misery, poisoned by so many unexplainable phenomena within whatever realm the spirits dwell. It does not howl like the man would, but it does howl. Does he hope whatever spectre he leaves behind share the same fate? Perhaps.
As the cold, blue fire burns through the spirit, Jack stares at it. "I will not share that fate," he mutters to himself -- waiting for the spectral fire to grow cold, for the salt to blow away. "I know where I go." He starts towards back towards the warmth of his house. "And so I will never die, to be taken there."
Jack engages the ghost in a poignant exchange, offering to send the spirit elsewhere without promise of the destination's nature, questioning the ghost's moral standing in life. The spirit, trapped in a salt circle prepared by Jack, confronts existential despair, questioning the significance of his actions in life. Jack begins a painful banishment ritual, causing the ghost to suffer existential agony. As the spirit's cries echo in the night, Jack reflects on his fate, determined not to share the ghost's doomed afterlife. The encounter concludes with Jack affirming his belief in his destiny and walking back to the warmth of his home, leaving behind the cold embers of the spectral fire and the ghost's tormented echoes.
(Jack's odd encounter(SRAlexander):SRAlexander)
[Tue Feb 27 2024]
In the bathroom of a Small Parsonage
The bathroom in the parsonage is compact and efficiently designed, with a stand-up shower, toilet, and a sink with a small mirror. All arranged to make the most of the limited space, with wooden paneling over the stone walls behind. No art is on the walls, but a crucifix has been hung up next to the mirror.
It is night, about 26F(-3C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. There is a waning gibbous moon.
(Your target encounters a ghost who's fixated on some past tragedy from their life, they need to either give the spirit some sense of closure, or send it on it's way through more violent means.
)
As Jack steps out of the shower, he stares at the mirror for a moment. Guilt floods his features -- there's a look, reaching up to touch at his face, tracing the lines of wrinkles that have faded into weathering. Then he looks, out the window, to the forest and the waning moon: and as the fear of death fills him, he returns his gaze to the mirror.
Jack has had a long and storied life. A lifetime of trying to walk that line of righteousness. Of doubt, perhaps? Each line on his face is won from another conflict. In the darkness and the woods, he knows. As each moonless night approaches, he feels a grim reminder. His reflection looks back, just as he looks.
Turning from the mirror, Jack goes to grab a towel, wrapping it around his waist. There's a grimace, low, and then he runs fingers through his hair, before he goes to start putting toothpaste on his toothbrush.
An owl hoots outside the window. There's little other noise in the midst of the chilly winter the city has endured. As Jack brushes his teeth there is a tickle on the back of his neck. An instinct perhaps? Surely he has been the experiencer of numerous supernatural dangers? But the line between awareness and anxiety is a tricky one to manage too. Perhaps there's time to rinse?
The priest, in fact, is a master of many magics -- bargained for and stolen. At that tickle, Jack sets his toothbrush down, and he reaches for the charms that dangle around his neck. He begins to mutter under his breath, some low charm: an invocation to St. Procopius to reveal the unseen.
Nothing so obvious as that, but perhaps a noticeable chill in the air indicates the nature of this threat? Something of the nightmare? Nothing in the room with him, at least, perhaps nearby?
There's a frown, and then, towel wrapped around his waist, Jack steps into the next room. Sensitive eyes see the nightmare as well as the mortal world, even as he continues his chanting low in Latin.
He proceeds, a man with knowledge of the supernatural vast, and especially that of the dead. As he moves warily into the next room, he hears a sound from the window. An odd sound distant, like metal striking dirt.
To the window -- as Jack goes, he picks up the crossbow that leans in the bottom of his wardrobe, looking for the window. He keeps the crossbow low, not raised. He's just keeping it nearby as he peers out the window.
It takes little effort for him to pierce the sight, there along the side of the road beside his house is the shape of a man so unmistkably spectral there's a level of comedy to it. But, the reality of the sound comes into play, he is...digging. Ineffectual, the man does not move any dirt each action.
Donning a bathrobe, Jack stops to grab a bag of things -- salt, candles, a bell, a book. The latter he holds in his hand, the cross silver in the moonlight as he steps out to the side of the road. His voice carries, gravelled. "It's late," he tells the spectre. "Too late, old man. It's time to rest."
The spirit gazes over at Jack, somewhat indistinct, but masculine. Wearing clothes not modern enough, but perhaps far enough from his area of expertise as to place it not quite older than him. The spirit, similarily looks tired. It turns and gazes deep into Jack's eyes. "You can force me to go can't you?"
"I can," Jack tells the spirit, his voice low. "There are words of power that can banish you," he says. "Or I can draw a circle and trap you there -- bind you smaller and smaller, until you are some bauble, among a collection of baubles." He pauses. "But I'm weary," he tells the spirit. "I am weary and I have lived a life alone," he says. "So I would not trap you to some terrible solitude if I need not." The way he says it suggests this is small mercy; there's a kind of wariness to him, the sort that makes him ready, perhaps, to turn to sorcery. "So tell me, old man: what ails you?"
A moment of silence passes. The spirit had been listening to Jack closely, but stupidly probably does not comprehend much of it. Perhaps it's fine, it seems as though it got the message. "I appreciate it. I don't much want to go anywhere else," the voice drawls, a mans. "I'm trying to dig..." he says quietly.
Quietly, Jack asks, "Dig for what?"
"My grave," he replies. Dumbly. A distant comment.
"To get into it?" Jack asks the man. "Or to get out of it?"
The man is stopped by that for a long moment...and lets out a little chuckle. "Suppose it's too late to dig that now isn't it? Stupid...stupid." He sighs. "There's nothing left now right? I'm just...here?" he asks.
"No," Jack tells the ghost, after a while. "If you'd like, I can send you elsewhere." He pauses, his voice low. "No promises where you go -- were you a good man?" he asks. "A bad man?" There's a pause, as he begins to spread a circle of salt on the dirt road. He leaves it open, one segment undone. "Step in," he tells him. "I can't promise the ending, but I can promise it will be painless."
"What if I don't want to?" He asks. His eyes trace down to the salt. "Was I good...?" he wonders. "Was I bad...?" He stares at Jack. "Do you really think anyone cares?" The question feels pointed as the spirit drifts into circle obediently. "...Everything I am or was is gone. I don't even know why. This is all it came to..."
Salt closes the circle, and then the ghost is trapped. "I'm sorry," Jack tells the ghost -- and then he begins to chant. As he does, it becomes apparent that just a moment ago, the priest lied. Good or bad, Heaven or Hell -- as blue flame begins to pulse from the salt in time with my chanting, what this is is not painless. It is some agony across emphemera.
The spirit cries out, some existential agony. It is not the man anymore than Jack is that man. Ephemera is right. A psychic echo. An accumulation of misery, poisoned by so many unexplainable phenomena within whatever realm the spirits dwell. It does not howl like the man would, but it does howl. Does he hope whatever spectre he leaves behind share the same fate? Perhaps.
As the cold, blue fire burns through the spirit, Jack stares at it. "I will not share that fate," he mutters to himself -- waiting for the spectral fire to grow cold, for the salt to blow away. "I know where I go." He starts towards back towards the warmth of his house. "And so I will never die, to be taken there."