Encounterlogs
Lilahs Odd Encounter Sr Legion 240607
Lilah's night in her dorm room transforms drastically when the State Police arrive with a warrant for her arrest, claiming she's involved in a crime she knows nothing about. Despite her attempts at asserting her rights and requesting her lawyer, Solomon Inigo, Lilah is tased and forcibly taken to the station, subjected to further intimidation without a proper explanation for the charges against her. Eventually, after a disturbing and painful ordeal, Lilah is released without charge due to the mysterious clearing of the warrant, which was inexplicably for murder. Shaken, Lilah makes her way to the medical center, hinting at the deeper, potentially supernatural implications of her identity and the town's oddities.
In a parallel encounter filled with the same mystical undertones, Elanora deals with an unexpected intrusion by a group claiming to be from The Destined Host, desperately seeking her help for an upcoming ritual. Initially hostile, invoking her evident supernatural powers to compel compliance and punish one of the intruders, she eventually listens to their plea. The conversation moves from her living space to the balcony, teased with hints of otherworldly entities and apocalyptic themes, suggesting Elanora's involvement in far greater, possibly world-altering events. The mention of figures like Mammon, Lilith, and allusions to Elanora's larger role in these events paint a picture of a town deeply intertwined with the supernatural, where every character, willingly or not, plays a part in a much larger cosmic play.
(Lilah's odd encounter(SRLegion):SRLegion)
[Thu Jun 6 2024]
In Lilah's Room
Though most of this single-occupant room remains an empty canvas, the desk is piled high with books and a laptop computer. The bed is a heap of comfortable pillows and comforters, and looks to be used as much for studying as sleeping, given the books on the floor beside it, and stacked at the foot of the mattress. The walls are blank, though on the back of the door, a full-length mirror offers the occupant a good look at herself before leaving.
It is night, about 79F(26C) degrees, There is a new moon.
(Someone has sent the state police after your target. Perhaps they're a real criminal or perhaps they've been framed, in either case it's up to them to get their arrest warrant handled and removed.
)
Knock, knock, knock. It's heavy and hard on Lilah's door, a rap-rap-rap in the dorm that carries with it a kind of severity that brings with it the whiff and promise of trouble. The hour is equally concerning, late at night, and at the same time as that rap-rap-rap there is the play of sudden bright light against the young woman's window -- some kind of searchlight or bright flashlight, turned right on those panes of glass.
"Open up! Massachusetts State Police!" comes the call. It's not as loud as it could be, perhaps out of deference to the other sleeping sorority sisters nearby, but it is definitely stern.
Just back to her old dorm room after her extended departure from town, and clearly trying to sleep, there's a low groan at the sound of people at her door. For a moment, she does nothing, but after those few breaths a decision is made: Lilah rolls over, pulling her pillow over her head and curling up into her bed that much more deeply.
Rap, rap, rap. This time it's louder, and there's a low masculine voice. It's still pitched low, but it's meant to penetrate. "We have a warrant," the voice outside Lilah's door says. "There's no reason to cause more trouble than you need." Against the window, that too-bright light plays across the glass, sending strange chiaroscuro shadows into the room. The rapping continues, a harder knock, and then the voice says, "Now. This is your last warning. Police." It's got a low, ugly threat to the tone. "Open up, or else we are coming in. We have a warrant."
Perhaps Lilah is simply content to trust her safety to the strange wards that surround the campus, or maybe there's something that's just not quite right in the redhead's mind, for there's no fear that flickers across her face with the threats offered through her door. There's a flicker of irritation at having her sleep shattered; though far healthier than she'd been when she slunk away from town a month or so prior, the redhead still looks fragile. Sleep clings to her. She burrows deeper without a sound, though that in itself is a bit of undeniable defiance.
The door opens, and it's sudden movement. There was a key, at least, but it's the swift press of bodies fills Lilah's room: three State Police troopers in tactical gear, and somewhere behind them an HSD deputy with a key. The troopers are armed -- the lead trooper has a Taser drawn, while the third one has a shotgun with a bright yellow slide. "Up!" the lead trooper yells. "Hands on your head! Hands where I can see them!" The taser is aimed directly at Lilah, and there's a shift back and forth -- she might notice an unusual nervousness on the trio of State Police troopers, a kind of worried trepidation. Perhaps that's because of where she is; White Oak, after all, is not a student full of students who go easily into the night.
"Going to report this, just like I did with Hull," Lilah states when she sees that HSD deputy. "You're not allowed to open our rooms." With that, spoken in her quietly defiant tones, the redhead slowly sits up. She keeps her hands visible, but states, "I'm recovering from a pretty serious illness, officers, and -literally- just got back today. You can check with the registrar and hell, my medical records too. So... what's this about?" She's still thinner than is healthy, and pale, though she's lost the sallow, gaunt look and no longer looks like she's got one foot in death's door.
"Hands on your head!" Now it's a yell, from the lead man, and he's growing increasingly agitated. When there's defiance from Lilah, his concern seems to kick up a notch, and the Taser goes up -- he's got his finger on the trigger. "HANDS ON YOUR HEAD NOW!" His head is turned just slightly to talk to his side-partners. "She's not complying," he tells them. "COMPLY WITH OUR INSTRUCTIONS, NOW!"
The sound of doors opening in the hallways behind can't really be heard over the shouting, but they are: students poking their heads out as the deputy back there tells them to go back in their rooms.
"She's not complying!" the lead trooper yells. "Less lethal, less lethal!"
"I'd like answers," Lilah replies with a small shake of her head. "I know my rights, and at the very least you have to show me the warrant. You can see full well that I'm not a threat to anyone." She pauses, then twists slightly, displaying the mark that boldly stains her lower back, in her cropped sleep shirt. "My lawyer's name is Solomon Inigo," she adds, keeping her hands visible and eventually lifting them to her head, though she doesn't move off her bed, beyond that. "I'll call him, shall I? He can meet us here and you can give him the details, if you won't give them to me," she bluffs, with a lift of her chin.
Lilah is in the process of lifting her hands to her head when one of the troopers calls out, "She's doing it! She's doing it!" That's when the first trooper pulls the trigger on the taser -- two prongs lash out, pinpricks on the girl's upper torso, and then they are followed by a sudden, awful jolt of electricity.
"Deploying!" yells the Taser-wielding trooper, but then that's something Lilah doesn't need to hear: she's got some awful, electric force running through her as the room fills with the smell of ozone and the rapid-fire click-click-click-clicking of a taser deploying. The pain is intense, incapacitating, as the crew of state troopers rush towards the girl.
Outside, one of Lilah's sorority sisters is yelling, "What are you doing!? You're hurting her! Stop that! Stop it!"
It's a sensation not all that unlike what Lilah has experienced before, though far more... physical. As her body jolts and writhes, the sound that comes from her throat isn't as much a scream as it is the wretched keening growl of a wounded animal. There's definitely something not-quite-right about the redhead, but though she fights, there's little that she can do against the electrical current.
The troopers are moving towards Lilah, now -- the shotgun one is slinging his shotgun. "Hands!" he yells, as he lets the shotgun dangle from a strap. He's reaching for handcuffs, trying to grab hold of the redheaded girl with some force to roll over over on her stomach. There's a sickening fear as he wrenches her hands behind her back, struggling to get handcuffs on as the first trooper keeps pressing the button.
Jolt after jolt of electricity runs into her body, as the trooper gets frankly too happy with the electricity, until at last someone says, "I've got her." It's hard to even focus, it hurts so much, with Lilah only in her PJs, her arms yanked behind her back and her muscles tense and sore and on fire from the application of the Taser. "Let's get her going!" someone yells.
"Solomon Inigo," Lilah grits out, her words still a strained, feral sounding thing as she struggles to find her way back into control of her body. With her hands cuffed, she mutters, "Lawyer," then repeats both the name and the demand, as she's yanked to her feet. She sways there, eventually groaning a soft, "He'll kill us -all- if you've damaged this child..." And that, finally, for the first time seems to send its shiver of real fear through her, instead of this need to fight. Her body sways. Her knees buckle.
More worry flickers among the troopers, but then they are grabbing Lilah -- they're dragging her, picking her up bodily to carry her out of her dorm room. Out into the foyer of Delta Delta Delta, down the hall, across the quad... and then the friend Haven Sheriff's Department is letting them stash the red-headed girl, still handcuffed, in an interrogation room. There's a long, low look as the first trooper, the one with the taser, sits down in front of her.
"We have," he says to Lilah, "a warrant for your arrest. Would you like to know what for?" he asks her.
"You're required to tell me. I asked to see the warrant, you can't legally withhold that information," Lilah says. She sinks into the chair with a groan, curling slightly forward as best she can in an attempt to put her already weakened, now pained body at ease. "You've already violated my rights by attacking me without cause and," she remarks softly, but now back in control of her voice at least, she levels a fairly steady, but vehement look at the officers. "In front of my sisters as witnesses, you'll find that hard to refute." She tips a brief nod and adds, "Do please tell me what I'm accused of having done in the handful hours I've been back in the state."
"Things like you shouldn't have rights," one of the other troopers interjects, but there's a look from the lead trooper.
"I'm Detective Franks," the lead trooper says. "I don't have to show you an arrest warrant, but I do need to show you a search warrant," he says. "But we don't have a search warrant." He pauses. "We don't need one, to arrest someone in their own residence -- but that's not what you want to know, is it?" he says. "Before I can talk to you," he explains. "I need to explain to you that you have some rights, okay?" He pauses. "You have the right to remain silent. If you decide to talk to us about your charges, then later that can be used against you in court. You have the right to an attorney, and if you can't afford an attorney, we can have one appointed." He pauses. "First thing's first -- do you understand those rights? Just yes or no, right now. I can tell you why we have a warrant and what it is for, but we have to get through the rights first. Oh -- and just because you agree to talk about why you were arrested, you can stop the conversation at any time, okay?"
"I understand," Lilah states and then adds, "And I've asked for my lawyer twice now. Solomon Inigo," she repeats the name once more, before sinking down in her seat and trying to pull her legs in toward her belly in a quietly protective gesture. Despite her words, there's nothing in her tone that suggests she actually wants the man in question, yet she keeps bringing up his name as she turns a haunted, green-eyed stare on the detective.
"Okay," the trooper tells the young woman. He leans back, looking at Lilah. "You want a lawyer, we'll stop right now," he says. "No more questions." Implied -- no explanation of why there's a warrant for her arrest, either.
Lilah just nods. As visibly uncomfortable as she is, she seems more than willing to hold out for the appearance of a lawyer who is most definitely out of town - to the best of her knowledge. Perhaps that's the only reason she's so calm in employing his name. That set, grimly defiant look is back on her features, the sort that suggests she's resigned to pain in some form, no matter what she does, but those glittering eyes linger on the detective.
And then the troopers stand. "Well," the first one says. "You'll see a judge in about forty-eight hours." Then -- like that, just like that, he's walking out, leaving Lilah alone and handcuffed in the interrogation room.
Time passes; at a certain point, an HSD deputy comes in, unlocking Lilah's handcuffs, but it's not until morning that she's let out of the cell. "They cleared the warrant," the deputy explains. "Don't know why, or who -- but it was for murder." There's a long look at Lilah. "Don't see that very often."
"I've been out of state for -weeks-. I said that enough times last night," Lilah grouses as she slides to her feet shakily. She doesn't appear to have slept at all, since her arrival. "Whatever it was, whoever, it couldn't have been me." And with that, and a shake of her head, she wraps both arms around her belly and turns to head out of the cell on legs that still tremble. "You'd really, really better hope that those tasers didn't do it any damage," she says, her tone thick with foreboding and again that shiver of fear.
And with that, and her dismissal from HSD's custody, she heads straight for the medical center, before back to her room.
(Your target is approached by a member of The Destined Host who believes the target is crucial for an upcoming ritual. The member is desperate and will do anything to convince the target to participate, including providing information about the group's plans. It's a delicate negotiation that could have serious implications for the town of Haven. The target must tread carefully, balancing the need for information with the potential dangers of getting involved with The Destined Host. They have the option to play along, outright refuse, or attempt to sabotage the ritual. The encounter offers the opportunity to gather valuable intelligence about The Destined Host while also posing a significant potential risk.)
There is something to be said about the fae. Their penchant for good fortune or terrible misfortune is something incredible. Again, in another night, it shows. It is as if the darkness of the town seeks to drown everything of Elanora, drain her dry of every bit of mirthful hue she has upon her. Tonight, is no different than any other night in Haven. It is filled with the cacapony of a night out - but it is more ominous than usual, more decrepit, oppressive, and silent. Though it is not rare for it to be so quiet, the windows leading to her balcony give a muted serenity to the view. The bluffs of the sea visible from here ebb and flow in subtle waves of the fast-approaching summer, every bit the embodiment of June in their sway. Had it been any brighter, they would be illuminating their crystalline light. Yet, it is midnight, made upon the shores. They reflect the black sky with consuming vigor, hungry and undeterred.
It may be inviting for someone such as her, but tonight, it is enough to send a shiver up her spine. The sea is like a storm held, the precipice of violence and demeaning depths that devour and devour every light. Calm, before the apocalypse. It almost reflects the outlook of her foreboding penthouse. The dark marble floors are all the more subdued, and the paintings littering the room are more ominous. They aren't illuminated, and the room is basking in silence for it. The chandelier is turned off, but there is still the hum of electronics around. A robotic cleaner perpetually sweeps the floors - perhaps set on automatic to clear the debris gathered during the day. The littered ash and cigarette butts, the broken glass. All without complaint. Several of them work tirelessly in a hum of quiet across the whole penthouse, the hallways, and the two-room wide living space. Another hum comes from the fridge in the fridge at her back, far in the kitchen, led up by the steps - but that is all. No other sound, save for her own breathing.
Like something has its eyes upon her, watches and observes. Nestled deep in the aura of her surroundings, it doesn't relent for anything, but the weight of it thickens the air. Some suspense gathering, brewing in herald of the night to come, the strife of it all that she may or may not endure - up to her own conscience and decision. There are a few notifications on her phone, buzzing it awake - but they have nothing of consequence. Weather reports, a few emails, some MyHaven matches no doubt asking her to meet up, and some other more uncouth offers. Whether that takes hold of her attention or not, there is a knock at the door. It is subdued, just three-taps made quietly as if to avoid actually waking up anyone inside. Yet, it cuts through the din of everything. Some focal point in her begs, demands, trepidates her to turn her gaze that way to the ominious foyer with far more paintings that haunt the darkness, each streak of their color a grim backdrop and contour to the dominating statuettes that seem as if alive. That formless mass on a small pedestal with its wicked, liquid limbs looks as if it will latch onto the nearest living being. The half-face of a nun on another slender and unseen pedestal seems to hover in its melt on the upside-down skull affixed to it. It is as if its eyes watch Elanora from afar. A trick of the light, no doubt, it is inanimate. Yet the towering statue put up against the wall of a demonic woman bleeding black in agony is the worst of it all. The wounds littering the marble black expanse of it, with etched in sooth drips of unrealistic ichor - it is not real. It doesn't actually happen. It can't happen. She must be seeing things, if she were looking that way. A tear runs down the statue's face..
Another knock breaks the menace of a foreboding gathering here. A bit louder than the last, but still only three. Perfectly spaced, beckoning, and inviting. Whatever is behind the menacing steel of double-doors riveted to the utmost protection is the salvation from a night of horrors coming alive. Deep inside, something stirs her again. It whispers, a voice so angelic, yet so lecherous, she'd know who it was instantly when a pink haze clouds over her gaze that easily pierces through the veil of the dark around in illuminated pools of gold. "Answer it." The feminine tone demands mirth, so far withheld but on edge, like she holds back some giggle inside of her mind. The knocking increases and becomes all the more incessant. Again and again.
But still, all the more controlled, at the same pace as before.
Gold eyes flick up at the sound of the knocking and Elanora lays on the couch idly. A furrow graces her forehead and she turns her head as her hand lifts from idly petting the other sleeping woman curled up on the sofa. That was strange. It was too late for for most of her friends and Vincent had surely made it home. So... Who was it? She slowly gets to her feet, making sure not to disturb the sleep of the other woman and makes her way over to the door. Today she was dressed in a black corset with gold laces tied from chest to the bottom of her stomach. It's cinched tight over a spill of black skirts from her waist made of a rich, dark traffeta that holds it's shape, allowing the skirts to flare out around her body. A single garter of gold ribbon that matches her corset is tied on one thigh. It was perhaps a bit too hot to wearing stockings that usually accompany such an piece of clothing. Knock knock knock. That sound again. Elanora sighs as she slowly makes her way to the door frowning at it even as the unwanted whispers of something else giggles through her mind. She keeps the latch on the door and swings it open - just a sliver. "I'm in a bad mood." She tells whoever it is on the otherside. "Make it snappy or your neck might be."
A sliver is enough. It is more than that - and there is haste to every movement thereafter. The ajar-door would be instantly pressured in the blink of an eye. It is a thief's trick what ensues, rubber bands come one after another, a card slipped in - one that slides low, and whoever is on the other end of it doesn't give any opportunity for Elanora to react in the slightest with their expert delivery. Before she even shuts the door, they shut it for her - and the bands, those laughable objects, are used with such precision here and now that as soon as the door is shut they pull taught to flind the latch backwards.
When they push on, and it is they, a quartet, the door opens unopposed, practically flings on its hinges as all of them scramble and fall through the entry line that determines the sanctity of inside and outside. One above the other like a treehouse toppling, layering each hooded member one above another in a stack by her feet. Yet, none of them stay that way for more than a breath of time in their hurried, urgent and desperate attempt. The top-layer, a man no doubt with how stocky he is, lunges for Elanora's legs. Wraps around them like his life depends on it.
Right after, the do, a pair of feminine figures still robed in masked garbs, claim Elanora's arms on either side to carry her fall to the floor - gently. There is no harm whatsoever that falls upon her, and the lowermost, another man, thinner, lankier than others - but taller, scrambles up on his feet at once in efforted attempt to catch Elanora's mouth and clamp it shut with both palms as his associates complete a lockdown upon her to keep her on the ground locked in place on the marble, subduing her of any struggle. The breathless voice arrives a second later, from the man holding her lips. Hushed and modulated to keep low. "ShhhhH! Don't say a word, don't scream! Wait! We're not here to harm you, we're not, so please, don't wake anyone! It is delivered with the tone of a man who knows he's in the lion's den, with the people that sleeps inside. Particularly, maybe, the woman that sleeps on the couch.
If she were to stay calm and observe, Elanora would easily hear that tell-tale laughter at the back of her mind. Someone is amused at the charade, elevated, giddy even. Her voice doesn't come again, but the emotion easily bleeds into Elanora - and she'd see easily the mark of fear, caution, and every manner of forthcoming preparation on her immediate captors. Her held arms are captive by shivering hands, the bulky man wrapped around her legs is in a similar state, his hood has fallen over, and it is a rather stocky young man with puffy cheeks. A college student, likely, given his youth. Maybe a football player - but no doubt as mortal as they come as he keeps his eyes clutched shut in his fear to hold Elanora's legs still. "We'll let you speak if you won't scream, so please, please, please, just whisper!" And they wait - the decision is upon hers. Should she comply, even a nod of her head would remove the hand at her mouth, but not others on her body, not yet."
A sliver is enough. It is more than that - and there is haste to every movement thereafter. The ajar-door would be instantly pressured in the blink of an eye. It is a thief's trick what ensues, rubber bands come one after another, a card slipped in - one that slides low, and whoever is on the other end of it doesn't give any opportunity for Elanora to react in the slightest with their expert delivery. Before she even shuts the door, they shut it for her - and the bands, those laughable objects, are used with such precision here and now that as soon as the door is shut they pull taught to flind the latch backwards.
When they push on, and it is they, a quartet, the door opens unopposed, practically flings on its hinges as all of them scramble and fall through the entry line that determines the sanctity of inside and outside. One above the other like a treehouse toppling, layering each hooded member one above another in a stack by her feet. Yet, none of them stay that way for more than a breath of time in their hurried, urgent and desperate attempt. The top-layer, a man no doubt with how stocky he is, lunges for Elanora's legs. Wraps around them like his life depends on it.
Right after, the do, a pair of feminine figures still robed in masked garbs, claim Elanora's arms on either side to carry her fall to the floor - gently. There is no harm whatsoever that falls upon her, and the lowermost, another man, thinner, lankier than others - but taller, scrambles up on his feet at once in efforted attempt to catch Elanora's mouth and clamp it shut with both palms as his associates complete a lockdown upon her to keep her on the ground locked in place on the marble, subduing her of any struggle. The breathless voice arrives a second later, from the man holding her lips. Hushed and modulated to keep low. "ShhhhH! Don't say a word, don't scream! Wait! We're not here to harm you, we're not, so please, don't wake anyone!" It is delivered with the tone of a man who knows he's in the lion's den, with the people that sleeps inside. Particularly, maybe, the woman that sleeps on the couch.
If she were to stay calm and observe, Elanora would easily hear that tell-tale laughter at the back of her mind. Someone is amused at the charade, elevated, giddy even. Her voice doesn't come again, but the emotion easily bleeds into Elanora - and she'd see easily the mark of fear, caution, and every manner of forthcoming preparation on her immediate captors. Her held arms are captive by shivering hands, the bulky man wrapped around her legs is in a similar state, his hood has fallen over, and it is a rather stocky young man with puffy cheeks. A college student, likely, given his youth. Maybe a football player - but no doubt as mortal as they come as he keeps his eyes clutched shut in his fear to hold Elanora's legs still. "We'll let you speak if you won't scream, so please, please, please, just whisper!" And they wait - the decision is upon hers. Should she comply, even a nod of her head would remove the hand at her mouth, but not others on her body, not yet. (fix)
Elanora was pissed. There is was no other way to describe what she was felling as she fell backwards onto the marble, ridden down by a barrage of bodies that had come as she simply watched the latch being opened, too surprised to do anything except watch as the door magically was opened. Her topaz eyes glare at the four figures that are ontop of her, crushing her slender body, one's hand over her mouth. That one made the most angry. As did the bafoon at her feet. Still there is not to do as she's covered in bodies and she gives the curtest of nods, allowing the one ontop of her to pull back. "You." She says softly with a smile as she looks up straight into the man's hood. "Kick your male companion in the balls 5 times." Her topaz eyes turned luminsecent as she compells the man's body to act on it's own. There was a vicious sortof anger burning inside of her from the touching by all these people that would not stop touching her. "I'm not going to scream. But if anyone is still touching me in 5 seconds. You are all going to die." She gives a small smile, "Five."
She doesn't have to count for another second. The man that held her descends on his own associate, and the 'bufoon' already on the ground is shoved aside with surprisingly more force than this slender cultists frame would suggests. It isn't even a struggle, the downed, stockier of the two is clueless as to what transpires before folding immediately at the first kick of a hob-soled boot that crushes into his groin. It doesn't relent, either. Again, and again, a total of five times before the glaze in the man's eyes, brown and murky, fades into what he had just done. He topples over at once, crouches first in search of his friend's shoulders, then outright kneels to shake the groaning, spitting, made-mute man. "Max! Max, chris-" He stops himself before taking the lord's name in vain.
"Mammon preserve us," He hushes instead, "Are you okay, speak to me?" Yet all that returns is spittle and groan, painful agony as the stocky man curls in on himself, sobbing uncontrollably. The girls, holding onto Elanora on either side, stare at one another first, then at Elanora again, then back to each other -- and immediately release her to scramble up to their feet to assume an aura of having nothign to do with it. Yet it is no time for despair. The valiant hold of the stockier figure holding his scream in is aided by his aid, who rips out a thick cord of his robe to ball it up several times and shove it into his mouth. "Max, bite on it, whatever you do, do not cry out!" Another hushed demand, a pat on his cheek, efforted to be comforting but it is a distinct failure.
His eyes rise up to Elanora now, stare at her while she presumably stands up - satisfied in her cruel hypnotism. "Please," He pleads. Under the grim, watchful eye of the statues, two of which, the decrepit nun melting into skull, and the agonized demonic woman who seems as if watching them all, and the pillars of wealth, the famous paintings - his words grow quieter with a swallow that moves his throat. The decrepit figure of the Horse on the Nightmare painting, the incubus settled on the sprawled woman in the art, they stare, burrowing - while on the opposite, the figure of Satan in etched metal hang up on the wall peers at them all with a goat-like visage.
"Let's talk outside, hear us out-" He scrambles to produce an insignia. A ring, bearing the sigil of a crimson hand holding a blackened, thorned crown. It tells of who they are without him sparing the effort to. "We need your help, just hear us out, please."
Elanora gets to her feet, dusting off her own dress as she glares balefully at the people surrounding her. The man on the floor whose testicles were probably destroyed doesn't even get a second glance as if she's used to such a sight. Her hand reaches out to push the door closed, a talon like nail shredding through the rubber bands with ease to allow the door to knock. "Odd way of asking for help. Breaking into my door." She says with a tsk, "You would've had more luck selling girl scout cookies. Come along. I'm not talking outside. The other monsters sleeping here won't wake. If you're all good." A corner of her lips curve to show a single longer than usual canine on display and she leads them over to the second living room. "Carry that if he can't walk." Her hand idly gestures towards the man still on the floor before they trek past one of said sleeping monsters, snoozing away on the couch in the main living. The second living room is quiet, dark, without a light turned on as Elanora gracefully flops onto another couch, putting her heeled boots up onto the side of the couch. "You have 5 minutes to explain who you are. What you want and why you need my help." Her calm voice says softly as she lifts her talons up to study them, making sure cutting the rubber hadn't chipped them.
"Yes ma'am!" It is in unison that they hushedly exclaim. Except for the one on the ground. That one erupts in a quiet sound - a muffled, garbled agreement through the spit running down its chin, past the stuffed robe-ball in his mouth. Just in time, that one of those robotic cleaners, in sight of them all, as if with a will of its own, arrived from the hallway to the north of them. Slow, buzzing, turning left and right. It approaches tentatively while all the cultists stare at it, even the pained bulk in a heap. It beeps once, as if it found a target -- the approaches. Just to start bumping againt the poor fellow's head, again and again, and again with intent to wipe it clean. Doe-like, teary green eyes rise up from the man in question, looking at its bretheren who scramble now at once to take him by his arms.
While they drag him along, the girls, the lanky one in charge doesn't deign to help the girls who struggle, huff and puff to drag the much larger man along. The perspiration on his forehead suggests he's expended all the strength it had able to crush someone's manhood flat at Elanora's behest. In their departure, it is as if those statues and paintings still watch them, their uncanny, inanimate eyes trained on all of them at once.
Traversing past the woman sleeping on the sofa, carefully, they make small thuds they drag their sobbing compatriots all the way down further and further descent to the den of the living area. Tentative in each step, breath held, even - until they're exactly where Elanora beckoned them. The potted plants, much larger than they should be, loom all around like a spot of wildlife contained here, bear down in long stalks in ominious, lifeless pause. They're just as asleep any monster in the house. "You see." They begin, to another chagrin of humor at the back of Elanora's mind. It is that feminine whisper again, ominously whispering with a chitter inside of her skull. "They're after you, Elly," And it sound as if she knows what they truly want. Everyone in the room is reflected by the glassed windows surrounding the living den, the massive television, turned off and set in its unit casts facsimile shades of them. "We're here to.." He stammers. His cautious glances upon Elanora is fearful of reproach. "The world is ending, and.." Mumbles, wordless explanations, twiddled thumbs. "Mammon, said, without Lilith," They're all freshmen, no doubt about it. Marks of youth too plain on each features, just a few years younger than Elanora. "Vessel to be born of.."
"By three they come. By three, thy way opens.." Elanora intones as she finally looks up from her talons again, "They didn't say they'd send four." There finally seems to be some recognition for that voice in the back of her head and she smiles slightly as she looks over at the simpering group infront of her, "Hail daughter of Hatred. Hail the goddess of lust." Was she talking to them? Or was she talking to something else? It was hard to tell but no matter. Elanora seems amused by the antics of them carrying their still slobbering friend along. "The world is ending... Without Lilith.... Or Will end if you don't get Lilith's help?" She asks softly as she gets up from the couch. "Sorry I just realized we might still be a bit too loud and wake my friend." The word friend is said rather threateningly, as if said friend might jump up and destroy them all at any moment. "Lets go outside instead." More fangs on display as she steps over the man still sobbing on the floor as if he was a decoration and moves over to the balcony door. She slides it open to catch the fresh hair outside. "Four minutes."
Elanora steps out onto the balcony and just watches with an arched brow, waiting for the man on the ground to be carried some more.
In a parallel encounter filled with the same mystical undertones, Elanora deals with an unexpected intrusion by a group claiming to be from The Destined Host, desperately seeking her help for an upcoming ritual. Initially hostile, invoking her evident supernatural powers to compel compliance and punish one of the intruders, she eventually listens to their plea. The conversation moves from her living space to the balcony, teased with hints of otherworldly entities and apocalyptic themes, suggesting Elanora's involvement in far greater, possibly world-altering events. The mention of figures like Mammon, Lilith, and allusions to Elanora's larger role in these events paint a picture of a town deeply intertwined with the supernatural, where every character, willingly or not, plays a part in a much larger cosmic play.
(Lilah's odd encounter(SRLegion):SRLegion)
[Thu Jun 6 2024]
In Lilah's Room
Though most of this single-occupant room remains an empty canvas, the desk is piled high with books and a laptop computer. The bed is a heap of comfortable pillows and comforters, and looks to be used as much for studying as sleeping, given the books on the floor beside it, and stacked at the foot of the mattress. The walls are blank, though on the back of the door, a full-length mirror offers the occupant a good look at herself before leaving.
It is night, about 79F(26C) degrees, There is a new moon.
(Someone has sent the state police after your target. Perhaps they're a real criminal or perhaps they've been framed, in either case it's up to them to get their arrest warrant handled and removed.
)
Knock, knock, knock. It's heavy and hard on Lilah's door, a rap-rap-rap in the dorm that carries with it a kind of severity that brings with it the whiff and promise of trouble. The hour is equally concerning, late at night, and at the same time as that rap-rap-rap there is the play of sudden bright light against the young woman's window -- some kind of searchlight or bright flashlight, turned right on those panes of glass.
"Open up! Massachusetts State Police!" comes the call. It's not as loud as it could be, perhaps out of deference to the other sleeping sorority sisters nearby, but it is definitely stern.
Just back to her old dorm room after her extended departure from town, and clearly trying to sleep, there's a low groan at the sound of people at her door. For a moment, she does nothing, but after those few breaths a decision is made: Lilah rolls over, pulling her pillow over her head and curling up into her bed that much more deeply.
Rap, rap, rap. This time it's louder, and there's a low masculine voice. It's still pitched low, but it's meant to penetrate. "We have a warrant," the voice outside Lilah's door says. "There's no reason to cause more trouble than you need." Against the window, that too-bright light plays across the glass, sending strange chiaroscuro shadows into the room. The rapping continues, a harder knock, and then the voice says, "Now. This is your last warning. Police." It's got a low, ugly threat to the tone. "Open up, or else we are coming in. We have a warrant."
Perhaps Lilah is simply content to trust her safety to the strange wards that surround the campus, or maybe there's something that's just not quite right in the redhead's mind, for there's no fear that flickers across her face with the threats offered through her door. There's a flicker of irritation at having her sleep shattered; though far healthier than she'd been when she slunk away from town a month or so prior, the redhead still looks fragile. Sleep clings to her. She burrows deeper without a sound, though that in itself is a bit of undeniable defiance.
The door opens, and it's sudden movement. There was a key, at least, but it's the swift press of bodies fills Lilah's room: three State Police troopers in tactical gear, and somewhere behind them an HSD deputy with a key. The troopers are armed -- the lead trooper has a Taser drawn, while the third one has a shotgun with a bright yellow slide. "Up!" the lead trooper yells. "Hands on your head! Hands where I can see them!" The taser is aimed directly at Lilah, and there's a shift back and forth -- she might notice an unusual nervousness on the trio of State Police troopers, a kind of worried trepidation. Perhaps that's because of where she is; White Oak, after all, is not a student full of students who go easily into the night.
"Going to report this, just like I did with Hull," Lilah states when she sees that HSD deputy. "You're not allowed to open our rooms." With that, spoken in her quietly defiant tones, the redhead slowly sits up. She keeps her hands visible, but states, "I'm recovering from a pretty serious illness, officers, and -literally- just got back today. You can check with the registrar and hell, my medical records too. So... what's this about?" She's still thinner than is healthy, and pale, though she's lost the sallow, gaunt look and no longer looks like she's got one foot in death's door.
"Hands on your head!" Now it's a yell, from the lead man, and he's growing increasingly agitated. When there's defiance from Lilah, his concern seems to kick up a notch, and the Taser goes up -- he's got his finger on the trigger. "HANDS ON YOUR HEAD NOW!" His head is turned just slightly to talk to his side-partners. "She's not complying," he tells them. "COMPLY WITH OUR INSTRUCTIONS, NOW!"
The sound of doors opening in the hallways behind can't really be heard over the shouting, but they are: students poking their heads out as the deputy back there tells them to go back in their rooms.
"She's not complying!" the lead trooper yells. "Less lethal, less lethal!"
"I'd like answers," Lilah replies with a small shake of her head. "I know my rights, and at the very least you have to show me the warrant. You can see full well that I'm not a threat to anyone." She pauses, then twists slightly, displaying the mark that boldly stains her lower back, in her cropped sleep shirt. "My lawyer's name is Solomon Inigo," she adds, keeping her hands visible and eventually lifting them to her head, though she doesn't move off her bed, beyond that. "I'll call him, shall I? He can meet us here and you can give him the details, if you won't give them to me," she bluffs, with a lift of her chin.
Lilah is in the process of lifting her hands to her head when one of the troopers calls out, "She's doing it! She's doing it!" That's when the first trooper pulls the trigger on the taser -- two prongs lash out, pinpricks on the girl's upper torso, and then they are followed by a sudden, awful jolt of electricity.
"Deploying!" yells the Taser-wielding trooper, but then that's something Lilah doesn't need to hear: she's got some awful, electric force running through her as the room fills with the smell of ozone and the rapid-fire click-click-click-clicking of a taser deploying. The pain is intense, incapacitating, as the crew of state troopers rush towards the girl.
Outside, one of Lilah's sorority sisters is yelling, "What are you doing!? You're hurting her! Stop that! Stop it!"
It's a sensation not all that unlike what Lilah has experienced before, though far more... physical. As her body jolts and writhes, the sound that comes from her throat isn't as much a scream as it is the wretched keening growl of a wounded animal. There's definitely something not-quite-right about the redhead, but though she fights, there's little that she can do against the electrical current.
The troopers are moving towards Lilah, now -- the shotgun one is slinging his shotgun. "Hands!" he yells, as he lets the shotgun dangle from a strap. He's reaching for handcuffs, trying to grab hold of the redheaded girl with some force to roll over over on her stomach. There's a sickening fear as he wrenches her hands behind her back, struggling to get handcuffs on as the first trooper keeps pressing the button.
Jolt after jolt of electricity runs into her body, as the trooper gets frankly too happy with the electricity, until at last someone says, "I've got her." It's hard to even focus, it hurts so much, with Lilah only in her PJs, her arms yanked behind her back and her muscles tense and sore and on fire from the application of the Taser. "Let's get her going!" someone yells.
"Solomon Inigo," Lilah grits out, her words still a strained, feral sounding thing as she struggles to find her way back into control of her body. With her hands cuffed, she mutters, "Lawyer," then repeats both the name and the demand, as she's yanked to her feet. She sways there, eventually groaning a soft, "He'll kill us -all- if you've damaged this child..." And that, finally, for the first time seems to send its shiver of real fear through her, instead of this need to fight. Her body sways. Her knees buckle.
More worry flickers among the troopers, but then they are grabbing Lilah -- they're dragging her, picking her up bodily to carry her out of her dorm room. Out into the foyer of Delta Delta Delta, down the hall, across the quad... and then the friend Haven Sheriff's Department is letting them stash the red-headed girl, still handcuffed, in an interrogation room. There's a long, low look as the first trooper, the one with the taser, sits down in front of her.
"We have," he says to Lilah, "a warrant for your arrest. Would you like to know what for?" he asks her.
"You're required to tell me. I asked to see the warrant, you can't legally withhold that information," Lilah says. She sinks into the chair with a groan, curling slightly forward as best she can in an attempt to put her already weakened, now pained body at ease. "You've already violated my rights by attacking me without cause and," she remarks softly, but now back in control of her voice at least, she levels a fairly steady, but vehement look at the officers. "In front of my sisters as witnesses, you'll find that hard to refute." She tips a brief nod and adds, "Do please tell me what I'm accused of having done in the handful hours I've been back in the state."
"Things like you shouldn't have rights," one of the other troopers interjects, but there's a look from the lead trooper.
"I'm Detective Franks," the lead trooper says. "I don't have to show you an arrest warrant, but I do need to show you a search warrant," he says. "But we don't have a search warrant." He pauses. "We don't need one, to arrest someone in their own residence -- but that's not what you want to know, is it?" he says. "Before I can talk to you," he explains. "I need to explain to you that you have some rights, okay?" He pauses. "You have the right to remain silent. If you decide to talk to us about your charges, then later that can be used against you in court. You have the right to an attorney, and if you can't afford an attorney, we can have one appointed." He pauses. "First thing's first -- do you understand those rights? Just yes or no, right now. I can tell you why we have a warrant and what it is for, but we have to get through the rights first. Oh -- and just because you agree to talk about why you were arrested, you can stop the conversation at any time, okay?"
"I understand," Lilah states and then adds, "And I've asked for my lawyer twice now. Solomon Inigo," she repeats the name once more, before sinking down in her seat and trying to pull her legs in toward her belly in a quietly protective gesture. Despite her words, there's nothing in her tone that suggests she actually wants the man in question, yet she keeps bringing up his name as she turns a haunted, green-eyed stare on the detective.
"Okay," the trooper tells the young woman. He leans back, looking at Lilah. "You want a lawyer, we'll stop right now," he says. "No more questions." Implied -- no explanation of why there's a warrant for her arrest, either.
Lilah just nods. As visibly uncomfortable as she is, she seems more than willing to hold out for the appearance of a lawyer who is most definitely out of town - to the best of her knowledge. Perhaps that's the only reason she's so calm in employing his name. That set, grimly defiant look is back on her features, the sort that suggests she's resigned to pain in some form, no matter what she does, but those glittering eyes linger on the detective.
And then the troopers stand. "Well," the first one says. "You'll see a judge in about forty-eight hours." Then -- like that, just like that, he's walking out, leaving Lilah alone and handcuffed in the interrogation room.
Time passes; at a certain point, an HSD deputy comes in, unlocking Lilah's handcuffs, but it's not until morning that she's let out of the cell. "They cleared the warrant," the deputy explains. "Don't know why, or who -- but it was for murder." There's a long look at Lilah. "Don't see that very often."
"I've been out of state for -weeks-. I said that enough times last night," Lilah grouses as she slides to her feet shakily. She doesn't appear to have slept at all, since her arrival. "Whatever it was, whoever, it couldn't have been me." And with that, and a shake of her head, she wraps both arms around her belly and turns to head out of the cell on legs that still tremble. "You'd really, really better hope that those tasers didn't do it any damage," she says, her tone thick with foreboding and again that shiver of fear.
And with that, and her dismissal from HSD's custody, she heads straight for the medical center, before back to her room.
(Your target is approached by a member of The Destined Host who believes the target is crucial for an upcoming ritual. The member is desperate and will do anything to convince the target to participate, including providing information about the group's plans. It's a delicate negotiation that could have serious implications for the town of Haven. The target must tread carefully, balancing the need for information with the potential dangers of getting involved with The Destined Host. They have the option to play along, outright refuse, or attempt to sabotage the ritual. The encounter offers the opportunity to gather valuable intelligence about The Destined Host while also posing a significant potential risk.)
There is something to be said about the fae. Their penchant for good fortune or terrible misfortune is something incredible. Again, in another night, it shows. It is as if the darkness of the town seeks to drown everything of Elanora, drain her dry of every bit of mirthful hue she has upon her. Tonight, is no different than any other night in Haven. It is filled with the cacapony of a night out - but it is more ominous than usual, more decrepit, oppressive, and silent. Though it is not rare for it to be so quiet, the windows leading to her balcony give a muted serenity to the view. The bluffs of the sea visible from here ebb and flow in subtle waves of the fast-approaching summer, every bit the embodiment of June in their sway. Had it been any brighter, they would be illuminating their crystalline light. Yet, it is midnight, made upon the shores. They reflect the black sky with consuming vigor, hungry and undeterred.
It may be inviting for someone such as her, but tonight, it is enough to send a shiver up her spine. The sea is like a storm held, the precipice of violence and demeaning depths that devour and devour every light. Calm, before the apocalypse. It almost reflects the outlook of her foreboding penthouse. The dark marble floors are all the more subdued, and the paintings littering the room are more ominous. They aren't illuminated, and the room is basking in silence for it. The chandelier is turned off, but there is still the hum of electronics around. A robotic cleaner perpetually sweeps the floors - perhaps set on automatic to clear the debris gathered during the day. The littered ash and cigarette butts, the broken glass. All without complaint. Several of them work tirelessly in a hum of quiet across the whole penthouse, the hallways, and the two-room wide living space. Another hum comes from the fridge in the fridge at her back, far in the kitchen, led up by the steps - but that is all. No other sound, save for her own breathing.
Like something has its eyes upon her, watches and observes. Nestled deep in the aura of her surroundings, it doesn't relent for anything, but the weight of it thickens the air. Some suspense gathering, brewing in herald of the night to come, the strife of it all that she may or may not endure - up to her own conscience and decision. There are a few notifications on her phone, buzzing it awake - but they have nothing of consequence. Weather reports, a few emails, some MyHaven matches no doubt asking her to meet up, and some other more uncouth offers. Whether that takes hold of her attention or not, there is a knock at the door. It is subdued, just three-taps made quietly as if to avoid actually waking up anyone inside. Yet, it cuts through the din of everything. Some focal point in her begs, demands, trepidates her to turn her gaze that way to the ominious foyer with far more paintings that haunt the darkness, each streak of their color a grim backdrop and contour to the dominating statuettes that seem as if alive. That formless mass on a small pedestal with its wicked, liquid limbs looks as if it will latch onto the nearest living being. The half-face of a nun on another slender and unseen pedestal seems to hover in its melt on the upside-down skull affixed to it. It is as if its eyes watch Elanora from afar. A trick of the light, no doubt, it is inanimate. Yet the towering statue put up against the wall of a demonic woman bleeding black in agony is the worst of it all. The wounds littering the marble black expanse of it, with etched in sooth drips of unrealistic ichor - it is not real. It doesn't actually happen. It can't happen. She must be seeing things, if she were looking that way. A tear runs down the statue's face..
Another knock breaks the menace of a foreboding gathering here. A bit louder than the last, but still only three. Perfectly spaced, beckoning, and inviting. Whatever is behind the menacing steel of double-doors riveted to the utmost protection is the salvation from a night of horrors coming alive. Deep inside, something stirs her again. It whispers, a voice so angelic, yet so lecherous, she'd know who it was instantly when a pink haze clouds over her gaze that easily pierces through the veil of the dark around in illuminated pools of gold. "Answer it." The feminine tone demands mirth, so far withheld but on edge, like she holds back some giggle inside of her mind. The knocking increases and becomes all the more incessant. Again and again.
But still, all the more controlled, at the same pace as before.
Gold eyes flick up at the sound of the knocking and Elanora lays on the couch idly. A furrow graces her forehead and she turns her head as her hand lifts from idly petting the other sleeping woman curled up on the sofa. That was strange. It was too late for for most of her friends and Vincent had surely made it home. So... Who was it? She slowly gets to her feet, making sure not to disturb the sleep of the other woman and makes her way over to the door. Today she was dressed in a black corset with gold laces tied from chest to the bottom of her stomach. It's cinched tight over a spill of black skirts from her waist made of a rich, dark traffeta that holds it's shape, allowing the skirts to flare out around her body. A single garter of gold ribbon that matches her corset is tied on one thigh. It was perhaps a bit too hot to wearing stockings that usually accompany such an piece of clothing. Knock knock knock. That sound again. Elanora sighs as she slowly makes her way to the door frowning at it even as the unwanted whispers of something else giggles through her mind. She keeps the latch on the door and swings it open - just a sliver. "I'm in a bad mood." She tells whoever it is on the otherside. "Make it snappy or your neck might be."
A sliver is enough. It is more than that - and there is haste to every movement thereafter. The ajar-door would be instantly pressured in the blink of an eye. It is a thief's trick what ensues, rubber bands come one after another, a card slipped in - one that slides low, and whoever is on the other end of it doesn't give any opportunity for Elanora to react in the slightest with their expert delivery. Before she even shuts the door, they shut it for her - and the bands, those laughable objects, are used with such precision here and now that as soon as the door is shut they pull taught to flind the latch backwards.
When they push on, and it is they, a quartet, the door opens unopposed, practically flings on its hinges as all of them scramble and fall through the entry line that determines the sanctity of inside and outside. One above the other like a treehouse toppling, layering each hooded member one above another in a stack by her feet. Yet, none of them stay that way for more than a breath of time in their hurried, urgent and desperate attempt. The top-layer, a man no doubt with how stocky he is, lunges for Elanora's legs. Wraps around them like his life depends on it.
Right after, the do, a pair of feminine figures still robed in masked garbs, claim Elanora's arms on either side to carry her fall to the floor - gently. There is no harm whatsoever that falls upon her, and the lowermost, another man, thinner, lankier than others - but taller, scrambles up on his feet at once in efforted attempt to catch Elanora's mouth and clamp it shut with both palms as his associates complete a lockdown upon her to keep her on the ground locked in place on the marble, subduing her of any struggle. The breathless voice arrives a second later, from the man holding her lips. Hushed and modulated to keep low. "ShhhhH! Don't say a word, don't scream! Wait! We're not here to harm you, we're not, so please, don't wake anyone! It is delivered with the tone of a man who knows he's in the lion's den, with the people that sleeps inside. Particularly, maybe, the woman that sleeps on the couch.
If she were to stay calm and observe, Elanora would easily hear that tell-tale laughter at the back of her mind. Someone is amused at the charade, elevated, giddy even. Her voice doesn't come again, but the emotion easily bleeds into Elanora - and she'd see easily the mark of fear, caution, and every manner of forthcoming preparation on her immediate captors. Her held arms are captive by shivering hands, the bulky man wrapped around her legs is in a similar state, his hood has fallen over, and it is a rather stocky young man with puffy cheeks. A college student, likely, given his youth. Maybe a football player - but no doubt as mortal as they come as he keeps his eyes clutched shut in his fear to hold Elanora's legs still. "We'll let you speak if you won't scream, so please, please, please, just whisper!" And they wait - the decision is upon hers. Should she comply, even a nod of her head would remove the hand at her mouth, but not others on her body, not yet."
A sliver is enough. It is more than that - and there is haste to every movement thereafter. The ajar-door would be instantly pressured in the blink of an eye. It is a thief's trick what ensues, rubber bands come one after another, a card slipped in - one that slides low, and whoever is on the other end of it doesn't give any opportunity for Elanora to react in the slightest with their expert delivery. Before she even shuts the door, they shut it for her - and the bands, those laughable objects, are used with such precision here and now that as soon as the door is shut they pull taught to flind the latch backwards.
When they push on, and it is they, a quartet, the door opens unopposed, practically flings on its hinges as all of them scramble and fall through the entry line that determines the sanctity of inside and outside. One above the other like a treehouse toppling, layering each hooded member one above another in a stack by her feet. Yet, none of them stay that way for more than a breath of time in their hurried, urgent and desperate attempt. The top-layer, a man no doubt with how stocky he is, lunges for Elanora's legs. Wraps around them like his life depends on it.
Right after, the do, a pair of feminine figures still robed in masked garbs, claim Elanora's arms on either side to carry her fall to the floor - gently. There is no harm whatsoever that falls upon her, and the lowermost, another man, thinner, lankier than others - but taller, scrambles up on his feet at once in efforted attempt to catch Elanora's mouth and clamp it shut with both palms as his associates complete a lockdown upon her to keep her on the ground locked in place on the marble, subduing her of any struggle. The breathless voice arrives a second later, from the man holding her lips. Hushed and modulated to keep low. "ShhhhH! Don't say a word, don't scream! Wait! We're not here to harm you, we're not, so please, don't wake anyone!" It is delivered with the tone of a man who knows he's in the lion's den, with the people that sleeps inside. Particularly, maybe, the woman that sleeps on the couch.
If she were to stay calm and observe, Elanora would easily hear that tell-tale laughter at the back of her mind. Someone is amused at the charade, elevated, giddy even. Her voice doesn't come again, but the emotion easily bleeds into Elanora - and she'd see easily the mark of fear, caution, and every manner of forthcoming preparation on her immediate captors. Her held arms are captive by shivering hands, the bulky man wrapped around her legs is in a similar state, his hood has fallen over, and it is a rather stocky young man with puffy cheeks. A college student, likely, given his youth. Maybe a football player - but no doubt as mortal as they come as he keeps his eyes clutched shut in his fear to hold Elanora's legs still. "We'll let you speak if you won't scream, so please, please, please, just whisper!" And they wait - the decision is upon hers. Should she comply, even a nod of her head would remove the hand at her mouth, but not others on her body, not yet. (fix)
Elanora was pissed. There is was no other way to describe what she was felling as she fell backwards onto the marble, ridden down by a barrage of bodies that had come as she simply watched the latch being opened, too surprised to do anything except watch as the door magically was opened. Her topaz eyes glare at the four figures that are ontop of her, crushing her slender body, one's hand over her mouth. That one made the most angry. As did the bafoon at her feet. Still there is not to do as she's covered in bodies and she gives the curtest of nods, allowing the one ontop of her to pull back. "You." She says softly with a smile as she looks up straight into the man's hood. "Kick your male companion in the balls 5 times." Her topaz eyes turned luminsecent as she compells the man's body to act on it's own. There was a vicious sortof anger burning inside of her from the touching by all these people that would not stop touching her. "I'm not going to scream. But if anyone is still touching me in 5 seconds. You are all going to die." She gives a small smile, "Five."
She doesn't have to count for another second. The man that held her descends on his own associate, and the 'bufoon' already on the ground is shoved aside with surprisingly more force than this slender cultists frame would suggests. It isn't even a struggle, the downed, stockier of the two is clueless as to what transpires before folding immediately at the first kick of a hob-soled boot that crushes into his groin. It doesn't relent, either. Again, and again, a total of five times before the glaze in the man's eyes, brown and murky, fades into what he had just done. He topples over at once, crouches first in search of his friend's shoulders, then outright kneels to shake the groaning, spitting, made-mute man. "Max! Max, chris-" He stops himself before taking the lord's name in vain.
"Mammon preserve us," He hushes instead, "Are you okay, speak to me?" Yet all that returns is spittle and groan, painful agony as the stocky man curls in on himself, sobbing uncontrollably. The girls, holding onto Elanora on either side, stare at one another first, then at Elanora again, then back to each other -- and immediately release her to scramble up to their feet to assume an aura of having nothign to do with it. Yet it is no time for despair. The valiant hold of the stockier figure holding his scream in is aided by his aid, who rips out a thick cord of his robe to ball it up several times and shove it into his mouth. "Max, bite on it, whatever you do, do not cry out!" Another hushed demand, a pat on his cheek, efforted to be comforting but it is a distinct failure.
His eyes rise up to Elanora now, stare at her while she presumably stands up - satisfied in her cruel hypnotism. "Please," He pleads. Under the grim, watchful eye of the statues, two of which, the decrepit nun melting into skull, and the agonized demonic woman who seems as if watching them all, and the pillars of wealth, the famous paintings - his words grow quieter with a swallow that moves his throat. The decrepit figure of the Horse on the Nightmare painting, the incubus settled on the sprawled woman in the art, they stare, burrowing - while on the opposite, the figure of Satan in etched metal hang up on the wall peers at them all with a goat-like visage.
"Let's talk outside, hear us out-" He scrambles to produce an insignia. A ring, bearing the sigil of a crimson hand holding a blackened, thorned crown. It tells of who they are without him sparing the effort to. "We need your help, just hear us out, please."
Elanora gets to her feet, dusting off her own dress as she glares balefully at the people surrounding her. The man on the floor whose testicles were probably destroyed doesn't even get a second glance as if she's used to such a sight. Her hand reaches out to push the door closed, a talon like nail shredding through the rubber bands with ease to allow the door to knock. "Odd way of asking for help. Breaking into my door." She says with a tsk, "You would've had more luck selling girl scout cookies. Come along. I'm not talking outside. The other monsters sleeping here won't wake. If you're all good." A corner of her lips curve to show a single longer than usual canine on display and she leads them over to the second living room. "Carry that if he can't walk." Her hand idly gestures towards the man still on the floor before they trek past one of said sleeping monsters, snoozing away on the couch in the main living. The second living room is quiet, dark, without a light turned on as Elanora gracefully flops onto another couch, putting her heeled boots up onto the side of the couch. "You have 5 minutes to explain who you are. What you want and why you need my help." Her calm voice says softly as she lifts her talons up to study them, making sure cutting the rubber hadn't chipped them.
"Yes ma'am!" It is in unison that they hushedly exclaim. Except for the one on the ground. That one erupts in a quiet sound - a muffled, garbled agreement through the spit running down its chin, past the stuffed robe-ball in his mouth. Just in time, that one of those robotic cleaners, in sight of them all, as if with a will of its own, arrived from the hallway to the north of them. Slow, buzzing, turning left and right. It approaches tentatively while all the cultists stare at it, even the pained bulk in a heap. It beeps once, as if it found a target -- the approaches. Just to start bumping againt the poor fellow's head, again and again, and again with intent to wipe it clean. Doe-like, teary green eyes rise up from the man in question, looking at its bretheren who scramble now at once to take him by his arms.
While they drag him along, the girls, the lanky one in charge doesn't deign to help the girls who struggle, huff and puff to drag the much larger man along. The perspiration on his forehead suggests he's expended all the strength it had able to crush someone's manhood flat at Elanora's behest. In their departure, it is as if those statues and paintings still watch them, their uncanny, inanimate eyes trained on all of them at once.
Traversing past the woman sleeping on the sofa, carefully, they make small thuds they drag their sobbing compatriots all the way down further and further descent to the den of the living area. Tentative in each step, breath held, even - until they're exactly where Elanora beckoned them. The potted plants, much larger than they should be, loom all around like a spot of wildlife contained here, bear down in long stalks in ominious, lifeless pause. They're just as asleep any monster in the house. "You see." They begin, to another chagrin of humor at the back of Elanora's mind. It is that feminine whisper again, ominously whispering with a chitter inside of her skull. "They're after you, Elly," And it sound as if she knows what they truly want. Everyone in the room is reflected by the glassed windows surrounding the living den, the massive television, turned off and set in its unit casts facsimile shades of them. "We're here to.." He stammers. His cautious glances upon Elanora is fearful of reproach. "The world is ending, and.." Mumbles, wordless explanations, twiddled thumbs. "Mammon, said, without Lilith," They're all freshmen, no doubt about it. Marks of youth too plain on each features, just a few years younger than Elanora. "Vessel to be born of.."
"By three they come. By three, thy way opens.." Elanora intones as she finally looks up from her talons again, "They didn't say they'd send four." There finally seems to be some recognition for that voice in the back of her head and she smiles slightly as she looks over at the simpering group infront of her, "Hail daughter of Hatred. Hail the goddess of lust." Was she talking to them? Or was she talking to something else? It was hard to tell but no matter. Elanora seems amused by the antics of them carrying their still slobbering friend along. "The world is ending... Without Lilith.... Or Will end if you don't get Lilith's help?" She asks softly as she gets up from the couch. "Sorry I just realized we might still be a bit too loud and wake my friend." The word friend is said rather threateningly, as if said friend might jump up and destroy them all at any moment. "Lets go outside instead." More fangs on display as she steps over the man still sobbing on the floor as if he was a decoration and moves over to the balcony door. She slides it open to catch the fresh hair outside. "Four minutes."
Elanora steps out onto the balcony and just watches with an arched brow, waiting for the man on the ground to be carried some more.