Encounterlogs
Laurens Odd Encounter Sr Luc 240405
In a lively scene set within the Front Bar and Lounge of The Succubus Club, amidst a backdrop of dancing friends and affectionate couples, Lauren's evening takes an unsuspecting turn. Her casual drinking at the bar is interrupted by a phone call, thrusting her into an impromptu rescue mission. The caller, adopting an overly enthusiastic tone, informs her of a person lost in the woods, the grandson of a senior member from the Iowa branch of a mysterious organization. Despite her initial reluctance, highlighted by a moment of humorous inefficacy dealing with her whiskey and phone, Lauren, driven by a blend of duty and curiosity, decides to embark on the quest, albeit slightly inebriated.
The narrative shifts to a darker, more atmospheric setting as Lauren ventures into the stormy woods on Elm's Bane, guided by the odd combination of modern technology and ancient blood - the lost individual being a descendant of a possibly lightning god. Drawing on her grit and a hint of annoyance, she navigates the foreboding forest, calling out and hoping for a response. The search culminates when she stumbles upon a man indulging in "storm-watching," a hobby that seemed inappropriate given the circumstances. This peculiar encounter, blending concern, skepticism, and an unexpected sneeze, leads to a wary but essential dialogue between the two. Despite the man's reticence about his identity and relation to the Iowans, he offers Lauren warmth and an eventual guide back, revealing a hidden connection to the natural elements and perhaps, the hint of a deeper story.
(Lauren's odd encounter(SRLuc):SRLuc)
[Thu Apr 4 2024]
At the Front Bar and Lounge of The Succubus Club
Though the thrum of club music greets visitors fresh in the door, the
sound is muted in this front partition bar, granting space for
conversational drinks and a place to request bottle service. The building
itself is a converted club warehouse, design sleek with the flash of modern
club setting and new renovation. Floating shelves with LED accent lighting
and a lit glass back drop lays scene for a multitude of liquor bottles
behind the bar, ranging from well club swills and beer displays to premium
bottles with prettier and pricier labels. The bar itself is long and topped
with smoked, sheened glass on the top surface, space for standing lounge
available toward the ends, past the available line of seating. A few pieces
of lounge furniture is on the other side of the room for more intimate
gathering away from the music and a smoking patio is visible through the
front doors when they open.
The bar area extends into a wide open dance floor ahead with waitress
service and wall lounge seating, the energy of the dance and trap music
compelling movement.
It is night, about 48F(8C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It's raining outside. There is a waning crescent moon.
(Your target's been contacted to help find a civilian who's become lost in the woods.
)
In one of the corners of the room, near the entryway to the dance floor, a group of friends unleashes their energy, displaying synchronized Tik-Tok dance moves and infectious enthusiasm. Laughter rings out as they trade banter, their movements fluid and effortless as they navigate the crowded floor. Why they've chosen the front of the club for their shenaniganry is anyone's guess; they're not even recording themselves to capitalise on the social clout! Truly, a waste of zoomer potential.
Nearby, a couple sways in perfect harmony, lost in their own world as they move to the beat. Their bodies pressed close together, they exchange whispered words and stolen glances, their connection palpable amidst the small throng of bodies surrounding them.
At the bar, near Lauren, a solo dancer aims to captivate and enthrall the audience with their bodacious moves, their skill and precision drawing gazes from those nearby. Unfortunately for them, they're a lot more drunk than they realise, and most of that attention is either scorn, amusement or pity, rather than the admiration they're seeking.
For Lauren, though, this all occurs in the background, washing over her like the current over a riverstone. Her phone buzzes in her pocket, then continues to vibrate at regular intervals. Clearly, someone wants her attention.
The balls of ice in her glass clink against each other and the walls of their confinement as Lauren gives the glass of whiskey a light spin, the melting ice slowly but surely turning her drink watery. She's pensive like she rarely is, one elbow upon the bar, chin propped up on her hand, and eyes taking in the usual club-goer shenanigans with something akin to detachment. It takes her a long moment to realize her phone is vibrating over the thrum of bass in the background, and longer still to actually get around to answering it. She pulls it out, almost drops it upon the floor in her clumsiness, catches it - barely - between her thighs, and then finally lifts it to her ear, uncaring of all the background noise whoever is on the other end may be privy to. Whether they can hear her clearly is debatable: "Sup?"
"Moshi moshi!" rings out a tinny male tenor, entirely too exuberant, too forced, and too god-damned weeby. Still, whoever-it-is is unabashed about their anime-favouring ways, and continues without pausing, "This is Lauren, right? You're one of the only agents active in the Order's Haven chapter around this hour! Initiate or not." Whoever this voice belongs to certainly isn't local. "So! A person of interest, just a normal guy, wandered into the woods off Elm Street about thirty minutes ago and hasn't reappeared! We can't keep track of his phone anymore, because your woods eat the signal of just about any phone that gets too near the gates, right? He's the grandson of one of our senior members in the Iowa branch, so we've been keeping watch on him while he's on Haven. Since no one else is available, we have to rely on you to go fetch him!"
"The fuck?" Lauren says into her phone at the greeting she receives, puzzlement furrowing her brow and a great big sigh leaving her next. "Where's fuckin' Vik when you need him?" she asks the person on the phone as though they're supposed to have the answer ready, and then decides, "I'm too drunk for this." As if to willingly make it happen with words alone, she downs the rest of her whiskey, and ensures the person on the other end gets to hear the loud crunch of ice between her teeth in full volume. Alas, she's still not drunk enough, goddamn this fucking weeby ass-
"Fine," Lauren decides. "Tell me more about this trust fund baby while I get my shit." It's a good thing home isn't too far of a drive for her to get her shit, as stated, and she's off towards the rickety road of Elm's Bane in due time, still in her too-high heels. Her marionette of a minion sits in the passenger's seat of her old Honda, just because Lauren probably trusts her more than herself with dealing with any of the things to be found in the vicinity of Haven's forest.
Announcing to the bar that you're drunk, slamming down the rest of your whiskey, and then making a break for your car is a great way to get held up by a bouncer in most places, but thankfully car accidents happen at an absolutely absurd rate in the small town of Haven and the locals don't seem to give a shit. Lauren manages even to not trip over her clumsy, whiskey-touched feet on her way to the Honda, and then it's off to Elm's Bane.
"Well, he's not a trust fund kid, we just keep an eye on the family of our more publicly-known agents, so they can't be used against us, right?" The weeb on the phone sounds almost rueful. "Anyway, he's unaware. His grandma's a demigod, though - descended from Zeus, or some other big-dick lightning god, you know the type. We think Zeus, though. Anyway, try to keep him out of danger... but on the very thin chance that he manages to get into real trouble and activate, try not to get hit by lightning, okay?"
It doesn't take long to pull up before the street hooks around - he's supposed to be somewhere around here, right? Thankfully, the piercings in her ear warm against the chilly night, and the distinct fragrance of cigarette ash intermingled with ozone catches her nose on the wind. It's not the very source of the scent trail, but it does come from the western woods.
Okay, to be fair, Lauren isn't /that/ drunk, or she'd probably have refused it more emphatically. As it is, she's just taking the excuse of being slightly tipsy to sass at the person on the other end of the phone, "Are you telling me he's got lightning demigod blood while we've literally got a STORM with LIGHTNING ongoing already, Jamie?!" Is his name Jamie? It doesn't matter. It is now, as far as Lauren's concerned. "Why the fuck did nobody teach him anything?! Oh sure, let's send him to Haven without telling him shit so he can wander off into the woods in the middle of the night - in the middle OF A STORM and get fuckin' eaten by weredeer or some shit. Goddammit, I'm not dragging his dead body back to town, you hear me, Jamie?" Jamie had better be hearing her well and good.
She shuts off her phone and lobs it onto the backseat without waiting for a reply just to establish dominance - and also because it's not going to get any signal in the forest anyway, and she's not getting her phone wet and ruined in the storm. "Come on, Aurey," she tells the marionette, "Just keep an eye out for shit, I guess. Good luck to us." With a click of her flashlight, she's off, ruing her lack of an umbrella. At least the dense cover of trees keeps her from getting too wet immediately as she sets off towards where she last smelled anything interesting, minion in tow.
Poor Jamie only has the time to get out a choked-off "My name's not Ja-" before that phone's chucked into the shadow realm, falling right into the cleft of two seats and sinking in nice and deep so that Lauren' have to spend like twenty minutes finding and retrieving the damn thing later. Just her luck. Aurey the marionette doesn't respond, not having a mouth, but it does its best to keep up with its animator on tiny wooden feet.
Tracking by scent in the woods isn't as fun when it's belting down with rain and the clouds thunder, rumble and erupt like a Texan after Taco Tuesday, but the trail's fresh enough that Lauren can follow along before it quite washes away. At least with this whether, most of the wildlife have gone for shelter - but that doesn't mean the witchy faeborn doesn't end up soaked to the bone and twice as cold. As lightning splits the sky with a jagged flash, the forest is momentarily illuminated in stark relief, casting eerie shadows against the opaque mist creeping in from the deeper woods. Following that crack of heaven's fire, the firmament rumbles in the distance, a low, menacing growl that reverberates through the dense undergrowth, enough to send shivers down the spine of any creature caught within its grasp.
But Lauren's definitely alone, of course. There couldn't be any frightened predators nearby, waiting to do what frightened predators do while she's let her guard down, ready to pounce and bite and bleed her...
"Stupid Jamie, just call the goddamn police. What're special deputies even for? I'm not some kinda sniffing dog," Speaking of the police and special deputies, Lauren really should've done that instead of coming out here on her own, too. Hindsight is 20/20. But, still, one can't work in ghosts if they're scared off by wandering spooky woods at night in the middle of a storm, and Lauren's no pussy. Her flashlight swings to and fro to illuminate different, darkened corners of the woods, and while she trips over every other root and every third stray stick on the ground on the way, she's still making her way into the forest, calling out the occasional, "HELLO?" at the top of her lungs, confident enough in her abilities - hopefully she'll scare off any frightened predators with her noise. "Shit- I should've gotten his name. IS ANYONE OUT THERE?! I'M HERE TO SAVE YOUR ASS." That'll do it.
There's a rustling in response to Lauren's shouting, but thankfully, it's from a benign source - a human head wrapped in a bright yellow oilskin hood sticks itself out from behind a tree. "Um," he says, looking her over with a wide-eyed bemusement. "Hello? You must be /freezing/, girl. Come over here." He shuffles out to reveal the rest of himself - he's in his fifties, wrapped up in that bright yellow raincoat, and nestled in a little bivouac with a radio and some old-timey scanners and other equipment.
"I'm storm-watching," murmurs the older man. For this to be a grandchild, that demigod blood must run pretty damn strongly in whoever-it-is that has people watching after him. "It's been my hobby since I was a kid. If you're looking for someone, you should dry off and get warm first. It's silly to navigate these woods without a proper sense of where you're going, or exposure to the elements, you know? These aren't the safest spots in nature... Particularly here."
How did Lauren not notice the bright yellow against the darkness of the forest? Oh, right, probably because of the darkness of the forest. Lauren opens her mouth to respond, and all that escapes is a big sneeze. A-choo! She sniffles, shines her flashlight some more right into the guy's eyes, and takes the opportunity while he's blinded to reach down and grab Aurey off the ground, who knows when to play dead when needed. "Hi," Lauren answers, once she's /kind of/ certain she's not going to sneeze again, and moves closer - the promise of warmth is enticing. "What the hell is storm-watching?" He's going to regret inviting her in real fast. "The storm's all over the fuckin' place, you don't have to go to the middle of the forest to 'watch' it. In fact, this is probably a worse idea, 'cause now all the trees are blocking your view. Did you try storm-watching from, like, the baseball field, or the cliffs or the lighthouse tower or something?" There's a pause, then, to squint at the scanners and other equipment as though she can make heads or tails of it, before she mentions, "... Thanks." And then, barely a second later, "Are you related to some annoying Iowans?"
That last question must have a positive answer, because the oilskin-clad man in the middle of a forest appears thoroughly creeped out by the younger woman approaching him about his family when he hasn't even introduced himself yet. "I'm going to decline to answer that," he says with a forced laugh and polite levity, "Considering I do not want to be axe-murdered out in the woods, alright? But you can get warm in the hut." He doesn't go into depth explaining the allure of stormchasing in the woods; he simply turns his attention up to the sky and breathes out slowly, finding some zen amidst nature and bad weather. If he's descended from a storm-god, that's probably some natural yearning being expressed, even if he's only a latent. "I'm okay, though. I only have room for one to sleep out here, so I can't offer for you to stay, but I can walk you back to the road if you need a hand, miss."
The narrative shifts to a darker, more atmospheric setting as Lauren ventures into the stormy woods on Elm's Bane, guided by the odd combination of modern technology and ancient blood - the lost individual being a descendant of a possibly lightning god. Drawing on her grit and a hint of annoyance, she navigates the foreboding forest, calling out and hoping for a response. The search culminates when she stumbles upon a man indulging in "storm-watching," a hobby that seemed inappropriate given the circumstances. This peculiar encounter, blending concern, skepticism, and an unexpected sneeze, leads to a wary but essential dialogue between the two. Despite the man's reticence about his identity and relation to the Iowans, he offers Lauren warmth and an eventual guide back, revealing a hidden connection to the natural elements and perhaps, the hint of a deeper story.
(Lauren's odd encounter(SRLuc):SRLuc)
[Thu Apr 4 2024]
At the Front Bar and Lounge of The Succubus Club
Though the thrum of club music greets visitors fresh in the door, the
sound is muted in this front partition bar, granting space for
conversational drinks and a place to request bottle service. The building
itself is a converted club warehouse, design sleek with the flash of modern
club setting and new renovation. Floating shelves with LED accent lighting
and a lit glass back drop lays scene for a multitude of liquor bottles
behind the bar, ranging from well club swills and beer displays to premium
bottles with prettier and pricier labels. The bar itself is long and topped
with smoked, sheened glass on the top surface, space for standing lounge
available toward the ends, past the available line of seating. A few pieces
of lounge furniture is on the other side of the room for more intimate
gathering away from the music and a smoking patio is visible through the
front doors when they open.
The bar area extends into a wide open dance floor ahead with waitress
service and wall lounge seating, the energy of the dance and trap music
compelling movement.
It is night, about 48F(8C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It's raining outside. There is a waning crescent moon.
(Your target's been contacted to help find a civilian who's become lost in the woods.
)
In one of the corners of the room, near the entryway to the dance floor, a group of friends unleashes their energy, displaying synchronized Tik-Tok dance moves and infectious enthusiasm. Laughter rings out as they trade banter, their movements fluid and effortless as they navigate the crowded floor. Why they've chosen the front of the club for their shenaniganry is anyone's guess; they're not even recording themselves to capitalise on the social clout! Truly, a waste of zoomer potential.
Nearby, a couple sways in perfect harmony, lost in their own world as they move to the beat. Their bodies pressed close together, they exchange whispered words and stolen glances, their connection palpable amidst the small throng of bodies surrounding them.
At the bar, near Lauren, a solo dancer aims to captivate and enthrall the audience with their bodacious moves, their skill and precision drawing gazes from those nearby. Unfortunately for them, they're a lot more drunk than they realise, and most of that attention is either scorn, amusement or pity, rather than the admiration they're seeking.
For Lauren, though, this all occurs in the background, washing over her like the current over a riverstone. Her phone buzzes in her pocket, then continues to vibrate at regular intervals. Clearly, someone wants her attention.
The balls of ice in her glass clink against each other and the walls of their confinement as Lauren gives the glass of whiskey a light spin, the melting ice slowly but surely turning her drink watery. She's pensive like she rarely is, one elbow upon the bar, chin propped up on her hand, and eyes taking in the usual club-goer shenanigans with something akin to detachment. It takes her a long moment to realize her phone is vibrating over the thrum of bass in the background, and longer still to actually get around to answering it. She pulls it out, almost drops it upon the floor in her clumsiness, catches it - barely - between her thighs, and then finally lifts it to her ear, uncaring of all the background noise whoever is on the other end may be privy to. Whether they can hear her clearly is debatable: "Sup?"
"Moshi moshi!" rings out a tinny male tenor, entirely too exuberant, too forced, and too god-damned weeby. Still, whoever-it-is is unabashed about their anime-favouring ways, and continues without pausing, "This is Lauren, right? You're one of the only agents active in the Order's Haven chapter around this hour! Initiate or not." Whoever this voice belongs to certainly isn't local. "So! A person of interest, just a normal guy, wandered into the woods off Elm Street about thirty minutes ago and hasn't reappeared! We can't keep track of his phone anymore, because your woods eat the signal of just about any phone that gets too near the gates, right? He's the grandson of one of our senior members in the Iowa branch, so we've been keeping watch on him while he's on Haven. Since no one else is available, we have to rely on you to go fetch him!"
"The fuck?" Lauren says into her phone at the greeting she receives, puzzlement furrowing her brow and a great big sigh leaving her next. "Where's fuckin' Vik when you need him?" she asks the person on the phone as though they're supposed to have the answer ready, and then decides, "I'm too drunk for this." As if to willingly make it happen with words alone, she downs the rest of her whiskey, and ensures the person on the other end gets to hear the loud crunch of ice between her teeth in full volume. Alas, she's still not drunk enough, goddamn this fucking weeby ass-
"Fine," Lauren decides. "Tell me more about this trust fund baby while I get my shit." It's a good thing home isn't too far of a drive for her to get her shit, as stated, and she's off towards the rickety road of Elm's Bane in due time, still in her too-high heels. Her marionette of a minion sits in the passenger's seat of her old Honda, just because Lauren probably trusts her more than herself with dealing with any of the things to be found in the vicinity of Haven's forest.
Announcing to the bar that you're drunk, slamming down the rest of your whiskey, and then making a break for your car is a great way to get held up by a bouncer in most places, but thankfully car accidents happen at an absolutely absurd rate in the small town of Haven and the locals don't seem to give a shit. Lauren manages even to not trip over her clumsy, whiskey-touched feet on her way to the Honda, and then it's off to Elm's Bane.
"Well, he's not a trust fund kid, we just keep an eye on the family of our more publicly-known agents, so they can't be used against us, right?" The weeb on the phone sounds almost rueful. "Anyway, he's unaware. His grandma's a demigod, though - descended from Zeus, or some other big-dick lightning god, you know the type. We think Zeus, though. Anyway, try to keep him out of danger... but on the very thin chance that he manages to get into real trouble and activate, try not to get hit by lightning, okay?"
It doesn't take long to pull up before the street hooks around - he's supposed to be somewhere around here, right? Thankfully, the piercings in her ear warm against the chilly night, and the distinct fragrance of cigarette ash intermingled with ozone catches her nose on the wind. It's not the very source of the scent trail, but it does come from the western woods.
Okay, to be fair, Lauren isn't /that/ drunk, or she'd probably have refused it more emphatically. As it is, she's just taking the excuse of being slightly tipsy to sass at the person on the other end of the phone, "Are you telling me he's got lightning demigod blood while we've literally got a STORM with LIGHTNING ongoing already, Jamie?!" Is his name Jamie? It doesn't matter. It is now, as far as Lauren's concerned. "Why the fuck did nobody teach him anything?! Oh sure, let's send him to Haven without telling him shit so he can wander off into the woods in the middle of the night - in the middle OF A STORM and get fuckin' eaten by weredeer or some shit. Goddammit, I'm not dragging his dead body back to town, you hear me, Jamie?" Jamie had better be hearing her well and good.
She shuts off her phone and lobs it onto the backseat without waiting for a reply just to establish dominance - and also because it's not going to get any signal in the forest anyway, and she's not getting her phone wet and ruined in the storm. "Come on, Aurey," she tells the marionette, "Just keep an eye out for shit, I guess. Good luck to us." With a click of her flashlight, she's off, ruing her lack of an umbrella. At least the dense cover of trees keeps her from getting too wet immediately as she sets off towards where she last smelled anything interesting, minion in tow.
Poor Jamie only has the time to get out a choked-off "My name's not Ja-" before that phone's chucked into the shadow realm, falling right into the cleft of two seats and sinking in nice and deep so that Lauren' have to spend like twenty minutes finding and retrieving the damn thing later. Just her luck. Aurey the marionette doesn't respond, not having a mouth, but it does its best to keep up with its animator on tiny wooden feet.
Tracking by scent in the woods isn't as fun when it's belting down with rain and the clouds thunder, rumble and erupt like a Texan after Taco Tuesday, but the trail's fresh enough that Lauren can follow along before it quite washes away. At least with this whether, most of the wildlife have gone for shelter - but that doesn't mean the witchy faeborn doesn't end up soaked to the bone and twice as cold. As lightning splits the sky with a jagged flash, the forest is momentarily illuminated in stark relief, casting eerie shadows against the opaque mist creeping in from the deeper woods. Following that crack of heaven's fire, the firmament rumbles in the distance, a low, menacing growl that reverberates through the dense undergrowth, enough to send shivers down the spine of any creature caught within its grasp.
But Lauren's definitely alone, of course. There couldn't be any frightened predators nearby, waiting to do what frightened predators do while she's let her guard down, ready to pounce and bite and bleed her...
"Stupid Jamie, just call the goddamn police. What're special deputies even for? I'm not some kinda sniffing dog," Speaking of the police and special deputies, Lauren really should've done that instead of coming out here on her own, too. Hindsight is 20/20. But, still, one can't work in ghosts if they're scared off by wandering spooky woods at night in the middle of a storm, and Lauren's no pussy. Her flashlight swings to and fro to illuminate different, darkened corners of the woods, and while she trips over every other root and every third stray stick on the ground on the way, she's still making her way into the forest, calling out the occasional, "HELLO?" at the top of her lungs, confident enough in her abilities - hopefully she'll scare off any frightened predators with her noise. "Shit- I should've gotten his name. IS ANYONE OUT THERE?! I'M HERE TO SAVE YOUR ASS." That'll do it.
There's a rustling in response to Lauren's shouting, but thankfully, it's from a benign source - a human head wrapped in a bright yellow oilskin hood sticks itself out from behind a tree. "Um," he says, looking her over with a wide-eyed bemusement. "Hello? You must be /freezing/, girl. Come over here." He shuffles out to reveal the rest of himself - he's in his fifties, wrapped up in that bright yellow raincoat, and nestled in a little bivouac with a radio and some old-timey scanners and other equipment.
"I'm storm-watching," murmurs the older man. For this to be a grandchild, that demigod blood must run pretty damn strongly in whoever-it-is that has people watching after him. "It's been my hobby since I was a kid. If you're looking for someone, you should dry off and get warm first. It's silly to navigate these woods without a proper sense of where you're going, or exposure to the elements, you know? These aren't the safest spots in nature... Particularly here."
How did Lauren not notice the bright yellow against the darkness of the forest? Oh, right, probably because of the darkness of the forest. Lauren opens her mouth to respond, and all that escapes is a big sneeze. A-choo! She sniffles, shines her flashlight some more right into the guy's eyes, and takes the opportunity while he's blinded to reach down and grab Aurey off the ground, who knows when to play dead when needed. "Hi," Lauren answers, once she's /kind of/ certain she's not going to sneeze again, and moves closer - the promise of warmth is enticing. "What the hell is storm-watching?" He's going to regret inviting her in real fast. "The storm's all over the fuckin' place, you don't have to go to the middle of the forest to 'watch' it. In fact, this is probably a worse idea, 'cause now all the trees are blocking your view. Did you try storm-watching from, like, the baseball field, or the cliffs or the lighthouse tower or something?" There's a pause, then, to squint at the scanners and other equipment as though she can make heads or tails of it, before she mentions, "... Thanks." And then, barely a second later, "Are you related to some annoying Iowans?"
That last question must have a positive answer, because the oilskin-clad man in the middle of a forest appears thoroughly creeped out by the younger woman approaching him about his family when he hasn't even introduced himself yet. "I'm going to decline to answer that," he says with a forced laugh and polite levity, "Considering I do not want to be axe-murdered out in the woods, alright? But you can get warm in the hut." He doesn't go into depth explaining the allure of stormchasing in the woods; he simply turns his attention up to the sky and breathes out slowly, finding some zen amidst nature and bad weather. If he's descended from a storm-god, that's probably some natural yearning being expressed, even if he's only a latent. "I'm okay, though. I only have room for one to sleep out here, so I can't offer for you to stay, but I can walk you back to the road if you need a hand, miss."