Encounterlogs
Roxannes Odd Encounter Sr Kylia
Roxanne, gripped by an overwhelming drowsiness and suffering from withdrawal, suddenly collapses on Elm Street, succumbing to an uninvited slumber. In this vulnerable state, she finds herself trapped within the throes of a nightmarish dreamscape—an empty expanse under an oppressive night sky, with a tentacled abomination hauntingly drawing nearer. Despite her weakened body and the surreal quality of her dream, Roxanne frantically attempts to flee, driven by the primal rhythm of her heartbeat, which morphs into a symphony of chaotic but motivating drumbeats in her mind, urging her to escape the monstrous threat that relentlessly pursues her.
However, escape is futile; the road beneath her seems infinite, and each effort to run results in greater resistance, as if an unseen force binds her legs. A tentacle ensnares her, dragging Roxanne toward the creature's vast, open maw, poised to consume her. Amidst this trauma, a melodic saxophone reverberates in Roxanne's subconscious, offering a glimmer of hope. This resonance of sound disrupts the eerie dream, leading to a moment of lucidity where the nightmare's fabric frays and disintegrates. Roxanne awakens, lying disoriented on Elm Street amid the routine hustle of city life, her night terror dissolving into the ether as quickly as it materialized, leaving her to question the horrifying reality of her experience.
(Roxanne's odd encounter(SRKylia):SRKylia)
[Sun Jan 7 2024]
On Elm Street
It is dawn, about 16F(-8C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
(Your target has been singled out by a dream stalker who's invading their dreams. They cannot be woken, but their allies may be able to go into their dreams after them to help them fight off the invader and survive the nightmare.
)
Roxanne blinks, and an unexpected heaviness settles upon her eyelids. A subtle fatigue wraps around Roxanne's consciousness and a sudden wave of lightheadedness washes over Roxanne. With each passing second, the allure of sleep intensifies, as there's a feeling she might just pass out on her feet if she goes too much longer.
Stumbling over herself, Roxanne desperately tries to get inside her apartment. Limping. Clutching her side. It was a doomed prospect. Her muscles weak from withdrawals. Her vision clouded. Falling over herself and colliding with the ground, eyes forcing themselves shut. It wasn't her first time blacking out in the last three days.
With a blink, Roxanne's surroundings undergo a mysterious transformation and the fatigue disppiatets almost as quickly as it had begun. The once bustling road, adorned with the presence of countless pedestrians, is now an empty and it's the dead of night. Each step Roxanne takes seems to propel the road further into the horizon, disappearing into a vanishing point beyond what she can see, almost as if the road now stretches on forever.
A subtle chill grazes the Roxanne's spine, a primal instinct alerting her to an unseen presence. Instinctively, Roxanne turns, and her gaze is met with a tentacled shambling abomination far approaching from far away. With each agonizing step, it draws closer, it's countless limb undulates with an otherworldly rhythm, extending it's reach towards Roxanne as the distance between it and her rapidly begins to close.
Roxanne settles her eyes on whatever it was. At this point, she knew it was a dream. This wasn't real. A monster like this would never exist. But she felt a powerful pounding in her chest. A rhythmic thump. She was a woman who lived an incredibly hard life. Yet she turned to run. Her addled form trying to muster the energy required to escape. In her mind, every step, every breath was like a strike to a drum. A snare. A cymbal. Rhythmic but chaotic. Her vision blurring from the simple act of pushing her body. Those imaginary sounds were the only motivation her mind could find to fight this. To make that music in her head.
Roxanne speeds along the never-ending road, attempting to escape the menace that pursues her. The surrounding darkness seems to press in, and the ever-stretching horizon becomes a disorienting abyss. Yet, with each desperate stride, the air becomes thicker, resistance intensifies, and her legs weigh heavy as if tethered by unseen forces as if the ground beneath Roxanne's feet seems to morph into an inescapable trap, and the realization sets in- she can no longer run.
Without warning, a sinewy tentacle wraps itself around someone' foot and coils before the appendage tightens its grip. In an instant, a violent yank severs her connection with the ground, pulling her feet out from beneath her in a disorienting jolt. The relentless force drags Roxanne helplessly across the rough stone surface of the road. If Roxanne were to look back - she'd see she's being dragged toward a colossal, gaping maw that looms ominously in the shadows, awaiting it's prey with a hungry anticipation.
In a moment of surreal clarity, Roxanne rightly acknowledges the unreality that envelops her, the recognition rippling through the dream like a seismic shift. The fabric of the dream begins to fray, offering a tantalizing glimpse of liberation, the precipice of awakening just within reach, as that music in her head begins to dispell the illusion and the dream.
Roxanne speeds along the never-ending road, attempting to escape the menace that pursues her. The surrounding darkness seems to press in, and the ever-stretching horizon becomes a disorienting abyss. Yet, with each desperate stride, the air becomes thicker, resistance intensifies, and her legs weigh heavy as if tethered by unseen forces as if the ground beneath Roxanne's feet seems to morph into an inescapable trap, and the realization sets in- she can no longer run.
Without warning, a sinewy tentacle wraps itself around Roxanne's foot and coils before the appendage tightens its grip. In an instant, a violent yank severs her connection with the ground, pulling her feet out from beneath her in a disorienting jolt. The relentless force drags Roxanne helplessly across the rough stone surface of the road. If Roxanne were to look back - she'd see she's being dragged toward a colossal, gaping maw that looms ominously in the shadows, awaiting it's prey with a hungry anticipation.
In a moment of surreal clarity, Roxanne rightly acknowledges the unreality that envelops her, the recognition rippling through the dream like a seismic shift. The fabric of the dream begins to fray, offering a tantalizing glimpse of liberation, the precipice of awakening just within reach, as that music in her head begins to dispell the illusion and the dream.
Roxanne finds herself screaming. Her fingers trembling. This was too real to be a dream, wasn't it? The feeling of that grip. Her body scraping against the stone. She kicks helplessly at her pursuer. Fingers desperately clawing until her fingertips bleed. Trying to stop herself from being dragged closer, and closer to that maw. In her mind, a saxophone screeches. Cries out. Like the beast itself was chomping at the bit. She was suffering from mixed messages. She wanted to believe this was a dream. But now it felt too real. The warm blood on her fingers. Perhaps the ever growing feeling of warm breath washing over the winter chill. Her screams catch in her lungs. Trying, but it never comes out. Her mind races, trying to figure out what she can do. On one hand, she wanted to imagine this beast as some muscle mommy freak. It might make the inevitable easier. The other part of her wanted to resist. Prolong her meaningless life a few days longer. She had only one glimpse. One venue of resisting. She didn't know if she could, and perhaps that hesitance would burn more time.
With each agonizing inch, Roxanne is helplessly dragged towards the gaping maw of the monstrous beast by the sinewy tentacle. The creature's jaws yawn wide in anticipation as Roxanne is seconds away from being devoured. In a moment of desperation, a melody echoes in Roxanne's mind, that otherworldly saxophone, it's notes resonating with an ethereal power. The screech reverberates through the dream and a seismic shift occurs as the surreal nightmare begins to unravel, the dream's fabric tearing apart at the seams.
Once more, Roxanne blinks, as her eyelids part, she finds herself once again lying face-down on a familiar street, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of pedestrians, bathed in the reassuring glow of sunlight. There's no tentacle or muscle mommy freak. Only a split-second seems to have passed. A few people give Roxanne a concerned look, as one might when they see a stranger trip and fall over, but quickly go about their day.
Roxanne submits to death. To fate. Yet it doesn't come. A scream in her throat hitting the open air as she wakes up. Her tattooed, whorish frame moving to all fours. Gripping the cold ground. Feeling for that warmth on the tips of her fingers. She likely received many stiff glances. Judging her. The amount of ink on her skin. Her face and her neck. She was grateful that her arms were covered. Maybe it would have been worse if they weren't. Moving to her feet, she rubs her head. Then, she holds it in both hands. Asking herself, "What the fuck was that..?" as her chest heaves. Her voice a monotone wheeze in winter.
Life resumes it's natural course. Pedestrians pass by, conversations blending into the ambient hum of the city. The unsettling encounter with the tentacle and the nightmarish beast becomes a fleeting figment of Roxanne's imagination, vanishing without a trace.
However, escape is futile; the road beneath her seems infinite, and each effort to run results in greater resistance, as if an unseen force binds her legs. A tentacle ensnares her, dragging Roxanne toward the creature's vast, open maw, poised to consume her. Amidst this trauma, a melodic saxophone reverberates in Roxanne's subconscious, offering a glimmer of hope. This resonance of sound disrupts the eerie dream, leading to a moment of lucidity where the nightmare's fabric frays and disintegrates. Roxanne awakens, lying disoriented on Elm Street amid the routine hustle of city life, her night terror dissolving into the ether as quickly as it materialized, leaving her to question the horrifying reality of her experience.
(Roxanne's odd encounter(SRKylia):SRKylia)
[Sun Jan 7 2024]
On Elm Street
It is dawn, about 16F(-8C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
(Your target has been singled out by a dream stalker who's invading their dreams. They cannot be woken, but their allies may be able to go into their dreams after them to help them fight off the invader and survive the nightmare.
)
Roxanne blinks, and an unexpected heaviness settles upon her eyelids. A subtle fatigue wraps around Roxanne's consciousness and a sudden wave of lightheadedness washes over Roxanne. With each passing second, the allure of sleep intensifies, as there's a feeling she might just pass out on her feet if she goes too much longer.
Stumbling over herself, Roxanne desperately tries to get inside her apartment. Limping. Clutching her side. It was a doomed prospect. Her muscles weak from withdrawals. Her vision clouded. Falling over herself and colliding with the ground, eyes forcing themselves shut. It wasn't her first time blacking out in the last three days.
With a blink, Roxanne's surroundings undergo a mysterious transformation and the fatigue disppiatets almost as quickly as it had begun. The once bustling road, adorned with the presence of countless pedestrians, is now an empty and it's the dead of night. Each step Roxanne takes seems to propel the road further into the horizon, disappearing into a vanishing point beyond what she can see, almost as if the road now stretches on forever.
A subtle chill grazes the Roxanne's spine, a primal instinct alerting her to an unseen presence. Instinctively, Roxanne turns, and her gaze is met with a tentacled shambling abomination far approaching from far away. With each agonizing step, it draws closer, it's countless limb undulates with an otherworldly rhythm, extending it's reach towards Roxanne as the distance between it and her rapidly begins to close.
Roxanne settles her eyes on whatever it was. At this point, she knew it was a dream. This wasn't real. A monster like this would never exist. But she felt a powerful pounding in her chest. A rhythmic thump. She was a woman who lived an incredibly hard life. Yet she turned to run. Her addled form trying to muster the energy required to escape. In her mind, every step, every breath was like a strike to a drum. A snare. A cymbal. Rhythmic but chaotic. Her vision blurring from the simple act of pushing her body. Those imaginary sounds were the only motivation her mind could find to fight this. To make that music in her head.
Roxanne speeds along the never-ending road, attempting to escape the menace that pursues her. The surrounding darkness seems to press in, and the ever-stretching horizon becomes a disorienting abyss. Yet, with each desperate stride, the air becomes thicker, resistance intensifies, and her legs weigh heavy as if tethered by unseen forces as if the ground beneath Roxanne's feet seems to morph into an inescapable trap, and the realization sets in- she can no longer run.
Without warning, a sinewy tentacle wraps itself around someone' foot and coils before the appendage tightens its grip. In an instant, a violent yank severs her connection with the ground, pulling her feet out from beneath her in a disorienting jolt. The relentless force drags Roxanne helplessly across the rough stone surface of the road. If Roxanne were to look back - she'd see she's being dragged toward a colossal, gaping maw that looms ominously in the shadows, awaiting it's prey with a hungry anticipation.
In a moment of surreal clarity, Roxanne rightly acknowledges the unreality that envelops her, the recognition rippling through the dream like a seismic shift. The fabric of the dream begins to fray, offering a tantalizing glimpse of liberation, the precipice of awakening just within reach, as that music in her head begins to dispell the illusion and the dream.
Roxanne speeds along the never-ending road, attempting to escape the menace that pursues her. The surrounding darkness seems to press in, and the ever-stretching horizon becomes a disorienting abyss. Yet, with each desperate stride, the air becomes thicker, resistance intensifies, and her legs weigh heavy as if tethered by unseen forces as if the ground beneath Roxanne's feet seems to morph into an inescapable trap, and the realization sets in- she can no longer run.
Without warning, a sinewy tentacle wraps itself around Roxanne's foot and coils before the appendage tightens its grip. In an instant, a violent yank severs her connection with the ground, pulling her feet out from beneath her in a disorienting jolt. The relentless force drags Roxanne helplessly across the rough stone surface of the road. If Roxanne were to look back - she'd see she's being dragged toward a colossal, gaping maw that looms ominously in the shadows, awaiting it's prey with a hungry anticipation.
In a moment of surreal clarity, Roxanne rightly acknowledges the unreality that envelops her, the recognition rippling through the dream like a seismic shift. The fabric of the dream begins to fray, offering a tantalizing glimpse of liberation, the precipice of awakening just within reach, as that music in her head begins to dispell the illusion and the dream.
Roxanne finds herself screaming. Her fingers trembling. This was too real to be a dream, wasn't it? The feeling of that grip. Her body scraping against the stone. She kicks helplessly at her pursuer. Fingers desperately clawing until her fingertips bleed. Trying to stop herself from being dragged closer, and closer to that maw. In her mind, a saxophone screeches. Cries out. Like the beast itself was chomping at the bit. She was suffering from mixed messages. She wanted to believe this was a dream. But now it felt too real. The warm blood on her fingers. Perhaps the ever growing feeling of warm breath washing over the winter chill. Her screams catch in her lungs. Trying, but it never comes out. Her mind races, trying to figure out what she can do. On one hand, she wanted to imagine this beast as some muscle mommy freak. It might make the inevitable easier. The other part of her wanted to resist. Prolong her meaningless life a few days longer. She had only one glimpse. One venue of resisting. She didn't know if she could, and perhaps that hesitance would burn more time.
With each agonizing inch, Roxanne is helplessly dragged towards the gaping maw of the monstrous beast by the sinewy tentacle. The creature's jaws yawn wide in anticipation as Roxanne is seconds away from being devoured. In a moment of desperation, a melody echoes in Roxanne's mind, that otherworldly saxophone, it's notes resonating with an ethereal power. The screech reverberates through the dream and a seismic shift occurs as the surreal nightmare begins to unravel, the dream's fabric tearing apart at the seams.
Once more, Roxanne blinks, as her eyelids part, she finds herself once again lying face-down on a familiar street, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of pedestrians, bathed in the reassuring glow of sunlight. There's no tentacle or muscle mommy freak. Only a split-second seems to have passed. A few people give Roxanne a concerned look, as one might when they see a stranger trip and fall over, but quickly go about their day.
Roxanne submits to death. To fate. Yet it doesn't come. A scream in her throat hitting the open air as she wakes up. Her tattooed, whorish frame moving to all fours. Gripping the cold ground. Feeling for that warmth on the tips of her fingers. She likely received many stiff glances. Judging her. The amount of ink on her skin. Her face and her neck. She was grateful that her arms were covered. Maybe it would have been worse if they weren't. Moving to her feet, she rubs her head. Then, she holds it in both hands. Asking herself, "What the fuck was that..?" as her chest heaves. Her voice a monotone wheeze in winter.
Life resumes it's natural course. Pedestrians pass by, conversations blending into the ambient hum of the city. The unsettling encounter with the tentacle and the nightmarish beast becomes a fleeting figment of Roxanne's imagination, vanishing without a trace.