Encounterlogs
Tomass Odd Encounter Sr Yasmin
Tomas's quest for a late-night snack turns into a supernatural brawl in the neglected corners of Elm Street and Devilwood Drive. Cruising the pothole-ridden roads for a hot dog, he encounters a substitute vendor, bright-eyed and too knowledgeable, filling in for Doug. An exchange for a chili cheese dog is abruptly interrupted by a mysterious crow, which snatches the delicacy straight from the vendor's hand. Undeterred, Tomas insults the crow's future offspring and tries to order another, only to find his generosity tested when the second hot dog also becomes a casualty to the crows' malicious coordination.
As the plot thickens and the number of crows grows, Tomas's patience shrinks. His attempts to protect his snack fail once more as the crows demonstrate strategic prowess. The story crescendos with Tomas displaying his remarkable physical abilities against the feathered assailants, though he endures the pain and indignity of birds pecking at his most vulnerable spots. The vendor, having taken refuge in Tomas's van, watches in a mix of horror and fascination as the scene unfolds. What starts as a simple case of hunger escalates into an epic showdown between one man and a murder of crows, seasoned with a mix of violence and dark comedy as Tomas declares war over his stolen hot dogs.
(Tomas's odd encounter(SRYasmin):SRYasmin)
[Thu Dec 28 2023]
At Elm Street and Devilwood Drive
Cracked and pothole-ridden asphalt roads make up this part of town,
bordered on either side by poorly maintained cracked sidewalks. The
aluminum streetlights are painted a deep, chipped green and appear regularly
along the side, illuminating the street in spots of warm electric light when
it's dark. Where the street is widest small median islands appear with old
twisted trees planted in them. The buildings that line the street seem old
and poorly taken care of.
It is night, about 22F(-5C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. There is a waning gibbous moon.
(Your target is attacked by an animal or small group of animals driven mad with magic, it is up to them to escape or fight them off for long enough for their allies to arrive and help deal with the threat.
)
"Fuck's sakes," Tomas sighs, driving in another slow circuit around Devilwood Drive. "I know that fuckin' Doug guy was around here somewhere, right?" His stomach grumbles from below, and the Inigo makes a face. "Just wanted a fuckin' hot dog... I get hungry so fuckin' fast during winter. Maybe I shoulda gone home and got fat on Christmas food." Not that he'd ever call his childhood household 'home' in front of any kind of audience - that was reserved for these private moments, particularly when complaining about a lack of calories with which to fuel his biokinesis. Still, he cruises on, low and slow, keeping an eye out for The Hot Dog Man, hopeful even in the very wee hours of the morning.
The sun is nowhere to be seen, the light of the waning gibbous moon shining down from above like a silvery veil, lighting up what darkness the headlights of Tomas's van fail to pierce through. It's a mere night after the full moon, a time with magic and lunacy still rife in the air... not that most people would care for that. Case in point, it is a simple search for hot dogs that's brought Tomas to the seedy parts of town. It must be a very dedicated vendor indeed to be out here in these early morning hours, before the sun is even up. From somewhere unseen, there's a loud 'caw' that sounds through the silence of the abandoned streets; at least he's not alone in his hunger this morning.
Another slow circuit around the place, and Tomas may spy, out there in the distance, through the darkness of night... is that the hot dog man, setting up his stall? It may well just be.
There's an almost sexual moan of gratification once the hungry hungry hot-dog hunter sights his prey, and Tomas's minivan rolls forwards on quiet wheels in steady approach. The car radio plays something pleasant and minimal, easily reduced to background noise - Intro, by Alt-J - as the man pulls his wallet from his pocket, rolling up next to what is /hopefully/ a hot dog stall as if it were a drive-through service. Winding the window down, Tomas leans an arm over, then says, "Hey, is that Doug? I'm fuckin' starvin' - how much for a hot dog?"
In case Tomas comes this way often, he'd know that's not Doug the usual hot dog vendor; up close, it's easy to tell that it's someone else, much more androgynous. It's hard to tell their gender, especially in those baggy yet trendy clothes they're rocking, and when they look up at the sound of the minivan approaching to speak, their voice is a little raspy, revealing even less. "Hello, hello, Doug is still out visiting his family! I'm just a friend. A protege of sorts, you can say, taking over while he's gone." A protege in the ways of hot dog making? It would appear so. They continue on with a bright smile and an easy wink at Tomas, their hands continuing their work, prepping ingredients and already setting out a hot dog or two to grill at the side at Tomas's request without really even looking down that way. Remarkably awake, at ass o'clock in the morning. "Whatcha looking for on your hot dog today, Mr. Inigo?" Of course they know who Tomas is; everyone does. To the outstretched arm, they present a menu card of sorts, a list of toppings available: mustard, ketchup, onions, pickles, cheese, bacon, all the usual ones a hot dog connoisseur's heart could desire, and more.
Meanwhile, as the hot dogs are heated up on the grill, their aroma spreading through the air, there's a few other 'caw's sounding all around; if someone were to look up that way, they may even catch a glimpse of a few crows, sitting upon the nearby power lines and tops of buildings and balcony railings: watching, seeing, planning.
The growing murder of crows doesn't really register to Tomas. "I'll have, uh," he says, "One dog with chili and cheese, onions, pickles and mustard, and a double-dog with onions, pickles, cheese, ketchup, mustard and mayo, and do you do capers? I fuckin' love capers." There's no humour or insincerity in his tone - he's a hungry boy, and he wants himself some loaded dogs. He holds out a twenty-dollar note through the open window - that should hopefully cover it, but with inflation these days, it might not...
For their part, they're a real professional; Tomas's order is taken in with an easy grace, the twenty accepted with a wide, pleased grin. "Yessir, two dogs coming right up!" They've been working while Tomas's been making up his mind, even if it didn't take long at all for that - it helps that most of the ingredients were prepped already, just waiting to be brought out and re-heated, in some cases. A sizzling dog goes on the bun, topped with generous amounts of onions, pickles and chili. Cheese, and swirly squeezes of mustard go on last. "No capers today, I'm afraid! Doug didn't mention it, that ass. Come back tomorrow and I'll make sure I've got 'em, yeah? Here you go, Mr. Inigo - one dog with chili and cheese, onions, pickles, and mustard." They hold up the hot dog between gloved fingers, a napkin holding it there to keep the hands safe from any toppings or sauce dirtying them, and lift it to the window of the van, waiting for Tomas to grab it.
... and then, like a corvid ninja in the darkness, one of the crows swoops down in a blur of movement, and grabs it right out of the vendor's hand, making off with it before they can react. Goodbye, hot dog.
Tomas outright sticks his head out of the window, staring with absolute affront into the sky in the wake of the departing crow. "Cheeky fuckin' bastard," he swears, watching those gorgeous toppings falling off in a shower between wingbeats. "I'm gonna find your nest and cook your fuckin' eggs into an omelette." The bewilderment fades into a simple scowl, and then there's an assessing glance given to the new hot-dog-stand-worker. Selfish asshole tendencies war with the muted sympathies the poorest Inigo holds for street workers, and there's eventually a sigh and another tenner proferred. "No point in taking a loss," he mutters. "Not like I can't afford a single hot dog more. The birds normally this fuckin' bad? I'd understand if it was one of the seagulls, those things are fuckin' thieves, but damn."
In response to Tomas's threatening words, the caws that resound may or may not sound like laughter, just an endless cacophony of mocking cawcawcaw before it falls to silence. Silence, and the sound of beaks snapping at a newly-acquired prize, and the sound of the occasional bit of meat or topping splattering to the ground. They are not clean eaters.
For their part, the vendor seems entirely too apologetic, staring down shell-shock at their now-empty hand, and then back up to Tomas, and is quick to reassure him, "No- no, I'm sorry, Mr. Inigo! I'll be more careful with the next, that one's on me." Shaking their head, they turn back to their work, muttering something about the darn birds under their breath; the tenner stays in Tomas's hand. The second double-dog, just according to his preferences, is offered up soon enough, the vendor moving close to the van and offering it up with their hands, after a careful glance around and up at the gathered assemblage of crows. There doesn't seem to be any crows swooping in, that they can tell.
Or are there? Behind the vendor, there's a flapping of wings, more movement in the darkness. They've chosen the blind spot to strike from this time, where they're invisible to the person offering up the hot dog up to Tomas's van; this one is going to be forfeit too, if he doesn't react in time.
"I hear you," Tomas scowls, outright slamming the door open to try and get his hands on that speeding black streak through the dark morning air. Shifters? Familiars? Something was up with these crows, but it's not as if doing anything obviously supernatural would be very clever, right in front of the poor hotdog vendor, who clearly is innocent in these dealings. "Might be a problem of positioning," he observes, his temper beginning to flare. That said - he technically does leave the hotdog unprotected, in trying to deal with the crow directly.
Slamming the door open while the poor vendor is right there trying to get the hot dog up to Tomas safely? Poor choice; they stumble back with a loud yelp, and then duck when Tomas's obvious grab for the crow brings their attention back towards the feathery blur of fury and hunger swooping down on them. "Oh fuck!" comes the loud noise, half from just seeing Tomas apparently grab a fucking bird mid-air, and half from the fact that, during that shenaniganry, attempting to dodge the car door and then dodge a bird they didn't see coming, they've just managed to fumble hard enough that the second hot dog goes tumbling straight to the ground. "... shit."
Well. There's a struggling crow in Tomas's hand, sqwacking and cawing loudly and trying to peck at his fingers to pull free, and now he's gone and pulled the attention of every other crow in the vicinity. Maybe it's just the effect of the almost-full moon reflecting off their eyes, but that there is certainly something ominous that glints in their gazes, before there's an entire murder of crows flapping and screaming and diving down - straight for Tomas. Uh oh.
And yes, his hot dog is, once again, ruined.
Animal cruelty charges are naught but a myth to Tomas Inigo - he fucking splatters that crow on the ground like he's scoring a prize touchdown right before the end of a college football game. "I could easily beat a hundred crows in a fight," he informs the poor hot dog vendor. "Hurry, get in the fuckin' car and close the door. Take cover!" There's a laugh in his voice, an incredulity - and then he turns, teeth bared in a wide, delighted laugh before he's meeting the dive-bombing swarm in a flurry of punches and impressively quick kicks, exploding crows into clouds of feathers as he runs around the street, occasionally shrieking in pain as a good scratch or well-placed beak gets him... But, ultimately, these /are/ crows, and Tomas does prefer to deal with his problems the old fashioned way. He might not quite manage to fully cook a crow in a single slap, either, but passersby /may/ begin to notice a savoury aroma building up around him.
A hundred crows?! The vendor is certainly not going to argue with a hungry man on a mission; they seemed to be ready to duck under their stall for cover, but the van does seem like a much better idea, now that Tomas's given them the permission. No further cajoling needed, they quickly jump up into the seat Tomas abandoned - all heated up from his butt, very nice - and slam the door shut behind them, the window rolling up squeakily. Even if they're out of the way now, and enclosed enough that no aroma of cooked crow reaches them, their face can still be seen pressed up against the other side of the window, staring out with wide eyes at the ongoing spectacle, breath fogging up the window.
And what a spectacle it is. The wave of crows seems never-ending, one after the other dive-bombing at Tomas even as he slams them against the ground and slaps them out of the air, his strength sufficient to break beaks and bones before they even impact against the ground. A crow or two even go cartwheeling through the air and bring more of their companions down with them. What they lack in strength, however, they make up in sheer numbers and the intellect inherent to covids. The rowdy cawing sounds are deafening, their beaks attempting to go for the exposed parts of Tomas's skin, trying to peck at his eyes and ears; it's a good thing he's got his sunglasses on.
In the ensuing chaos, some half dozen of the crows pick away at the second hot dog, and another two dozen go for the remaining hot dogs in the abandoned stall. Their companions may be fighting a losing war and dying on the battlefield, but they're still hungry birds.
Whatever the vendor taking shelter in Tomas's car is seeing, it likely will stick with them for their lifetime. On top of being fantastically strong, he's as acrobatic as he is athletic, and flexible to boot. On top of /that/, he would also appear to have intelligence that proves at least the equal of the dumb fucking birds assaulting a demonborn with knife-resistant skin. He's cool, he's confident, he's mildly out of breath, he's -
"GET YOUR FUCKIN' BEAK OFF MY PENIS!" he bellows, dropping to his knees with a squawk of his own. Oh, these birds were cunning foes indeed, to strike through his cargo shorts - but it doesn't exactly appear that the crows wear him down /too/ much. All this'll take is time...
As the plot thickens and the number of crows grows, Tomas's patience shrinks. His attempts to protect his snack fail once more as the crows demonstrate strategic prowess. The story crescendos with Tomas displaying his remarkable physical abilities against the feathered assailants, though he endures the pain and indignity of birds pecking at his most vulnerable spots. The vendor, having taken refuge in Tomas's van, watches in a mix of horror and fascination as the scene unfolds. What starts as a simple case of hunger escalates into an epic showdown between one man and a murder of crows, seasoned with a mix of violence and dark comedy as Tomas declares war over his stolen hot dogs.
(Tomas's odd encounter(SRYasmin):SRYasmin)
[Thu Dec 28 2023]
At Elm Street and Devilwood Drive
Cracked and pothole-ridden asphalt roads make up this part of town,
bordered on either side by poorly maintained cracked sidewalks. The
aluminum streetlights are painted a deep, chipped green and appear regularly
along the side, illuminating the street in spots of warm electric light when
it's dark. Where the street is widest small median islands appear with old
twisted trees planted in them. The buildings that line the street seem old
and poorly taken care of.
It is night, about 22F(-5C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. There is a waning gibbous moon.
(Your target is attacked by an animal or small group of animals driven mad with magic, it is up to them to escape or fight them off for long enough for their allies to arrive and help deal with the threat.
)
"Fuck's sakes," Tomas sighs, driving in another slow circuit around Devilwood Drive. "I know that fuckin' Doug guy was around here somewhere, right?" His stomach grumbles from below, and the Inigo makes a face. "Just wanted a fuckin' hot dog... I get hungry so fuckin' fast during winter. Maybe I shoulda gone home and got fat on Christmas food." Not that he'd ever call his childhood household 'home' in front of any kind of audience - that was reserved for these private moments, particularly when complaining about a lack of calories with which to fuel his biokinesis. Still, he cruises on, low and slow, keeping an eye out for The Hot Dog Man, hopeful even in the very wee hours of the morning.
The sun is nowhere to be seen, the light of the waning gibbous moon shining down from above like a silvery veil, lighting up what darkness the headlights of Tomas's van fail to pierce through. It's a mere night after the full moon, a time with magic and lunacy still rife in the air... not that most people would care for that. Case in point, it is a simple search for hot dogs that's brought Tomas to the seedy parts of town. It must be a very dedicated vendor indeed to be out here in these early morning hours, before the sun is even up. From somewhere unseen, there's a loud 'caw' that sounds through the silence of the abandoned streets; at least he's not alone in his hunger this morning.
Another slow circuit around the place, and Tomas may spy, out there in the distance, through the darkness of night... is that the hot dog man, setting up his stall? It may well just be.
There's an almost sexual moan of gratification once the hungry hungry hot-dog hunter sights his prey, and Tomas's minivan rolls forwards on quiet wheels in steady approach. The car radio plays something pleasant and minimal, easily reduced to background noise - Intro, by Alt-J - as the man pulls his wallet from his pocket, rolling up next to what is /hopefully/ a hot dog stall as if it were a drive-through service. Winding the window down, Tomas leans an arm over, then says, "Hey, is that Doug? I'm fuckin' starvin' - how much for a hot dog?"
In case Tomas comes this way often, he'd know that's not Doug the usual hot dog vendor; up close, it's easy to tell that it's someone else, much more androgynous. It's hard to tell their gender, especially in those baggy yet trendy clothes they're rocking, and when they look up at the sound of the minivan approaching to speak, their voice is a little raspy, revealing even less. "Hello, hello, Doug is still out visiting his family! I'm just a friend. A protege of sorts, you can say, taking over while he's gone." A protege in the ways of hot dog making? It would appear so. They continue on with a bright smile and an easy wink at Tomas, their hands continuing their work, prepping ingredients and already setting out a hot dog or two to grill at the side at Tomas's request without really even looking down that way. Remarkably awake, at ass o'clock in the morning. "Whatcha looking for on your hot dog today, Mr. Inigo?" Of course they know who Tomas is; everyone does. To the outstretched arm, they present a menu card of sorts, a list of toppings available: mustard, ketchup, onions, pickles, cheese, bacon, all the usual ones a hot dog connoisseur's heart could desire, and more.
Meanwhile, as the hot dogs are heated up on the grill, their aroma spreading through the air, there's a few other 'caw's sounding all around; if someone were to look up that way, they may even catch a glimpse of a few crows, sitting upon the nearby power lines and tops of buildings and balcony railings: watching, seeing, planning.
The growing murder of crows doesn't really register to Tomas. "I'll have, uh," he says, "One dog with chili and cheese, onions, pickles and mustard, and a double-dog with onions, pickles, cheese, ketchup, mustard and mayo, and do you do capers? I fuckin' love capers." There's no humour or insincerity in his tone - he's a hungry boy, and he wants himself some loaded dogs. He holds out a twenty-dollar note through the open window - that should hopefully cover it, but with inflation these days, it might not...
For their part, they're a real professional; Tomas's order is taken in with an easy grace, the twenty accepted with a wide, pleased grin. "Yessir, two dogs coming right up!" They've been working while Tomas's been making up his mind, even if it didn't take long at all for that - it helps that most of the ingredients were prepped already, just waiting to be brought out and re-heated, in some cases. A sizzling dog goes on the bun, topped with generous amounts of onions, pickles and chili. Cheese, and swirly squeezes of mustard go on last. "No capers today, I'm afraid! Doug didn't mention it, that ass. Come back tomorrow and I'll make sure I've got 'em, yeah? Here you go, Mr. Inigo - one dog with chili and cheese, onions, pickles, and mustard." They hold up the hot dog between gloved fingers, a napkin holding it there to keep the hands safe from any toppings or sauce dirtying them, and lift it to the window of the van, waiting for Tomas to grab it.
... and then, like a corvid ninja in the darkness, one of the crows swoops down in a blur of movement, and grabs it right out of the vendor's hand, making off with it before they can react. Goodbye, hot dog.
Tomas outright sticks his head out of the window, staring with absolute affront into the sky in the wake of the departing crow. "Cheeky fuckin' bastard," he swears, watching those gorgeous toppings falling off in a shower between wingbeats. "I'm gonna find your nest and cook your fuckin' eggs into an omelette." The bewilderment fades into a simple scowl, and then there's an assessing glance given to the new hot-dog-stand-worker. Selfish asshole tendencies war with the muted sympathies the poorest Inigo holds for street workers, and there's eventually a sigh and another tenner proferred. "No point in taking a loss," he mutters. "Not like I can't afford a single hot dog more. The birds normally this fuckin' bad? I'd understand if it was one of the seagulls, those things are fuckin' thieves, but damn."
In response to Tomas's threatening words, the caws that resound may or may not sound like laughter, just an endless cacophony of mocking cawcawcaw before it falls to silence. Silence, and the sound of beaks snapping at a newly-acquired prize, and the sound of the occasional bit of meat or topping splattering to the ground. They are not clean eaters.
For their part, the vendor seems entirely too apologetic, staring down shell-shock at their now-empty hand, and then back up to Tomas, and is quick to reassure him, "No- no, I'm sorry, Mr. Inigo! I'll be more careful with the next, that one's on me." Shaking their head, they turn back to their work, muttering something about the darn birds under their breath; the tenner stays in Tomas's hand. The second double-dog, just according to his preferences, is offered up soon enough, the vendor moving close to the van and offering it up with their hands, after a careful glance around and up at the gathered assemblage of crows. There doesn't seem to be any crows swooping in, that they can tell.
Or are there? Behind the vendor, there's a flapping of wings, more movement in the darkness. They've chosen the blind spot to strike from this time, where they're invisible to the person offering up the hot dog up to Tomas's van; this one is going to be forfeit too, if he doesn't react in time.
"I hear you," Tomas scowls, outright slamming the door open to try and get his hands on that speeding black streak through the dark morning air. Shifters? Familiars? Something was up with these crows, but it's not as if doing anything obviously supernatural would be very clever, right in front of the poor hotdog vendor, who clearly is innocent in these dealings. "Might be a problem of positioning," he observes, his temper beginning to flare. That said - he technically does leave the hotdog unprotected, in trying to deal with the crow directly.
Slamming the door open while the poor vendor is right there trying to get the hot dog up to Tomas safely? Poor choice; they stumble back with a loud yelp, and then duck when Tomas's obvious grab for the crow brings their attention back towards the feathery blur of fury and hunger swooping down on them. "Oh fuck!" comes the loud noise, half from just seeing Tomas apparently grab a fucking bird mid-air, and half from the fact that, during that shenaniganry, attempting to dodge the car door and then dodge a bird they didn't see coming, they've just managed to fumble hard enough that the second hot dog goes tumbling straight to the ground. "... shit."
Well. There's a struggling crow in Tomas's hand, sqwacking and cawing loudly and trying to peck at his fingers to pull free, and now he's gone and pulled the attention of every other crow in the vicinity. Maybe it's just the effect of the almost-full moon reflecting off their eyes, but that there is certainly something ominous that glints in their gazes, before there's an entire murder of crows flapping and screaming and diving down - straight for Tomas. Uh oh.
And yes, his hot dog is, once again, ruined.
Animal cruelty charges are naught but a myth to Tomas Inigo - he fucking splatters that crow on the ground like he's scoring a prize touchdown right before the end of a college football game. "I could easily beat a hundred crows in a fight," he informs the poor hot dog vendor. "Hurry, get in the fuckin' car and close the door. Take cover!" There's a laugh in his voice, an incredulity - and then he turns, teeth bared in a wide, delighted laugh before he's meeting the dive-bombing swarm in a flurry of punches and impressively quick kicks, exploding crows into clouds of feathers as he runs around the street, occasionally shrieking in pain as a good scratch or well-placed beak gets him... But, ultimately, these /are/ crows, and Tomas does prefer to deal with his problems the old fashioned way. He might not quite manage to fully cook a crow in a single slap, either, but passersby /may/ begin to notice a savoury aroma building up around him.
A hundred crows?! The vendor is certainly not going to argue with a hungry man on a mission; they seemed to be ready to duck under their stall for cover, but the van does seem like a much better idea, now that Tomas's given them the permission. No further cajoling needed, they quickly jump up into the seat Tomas abandoned - all heated up from his butt, very nice - and slam the door shut behind them, the window rolling up squeakily. Even if they're out of the way now, and enclosed enough that no aroma of cooked crow reaches them, their face can still be seen pressed up against the other side of the window, staring out with wide eyes at the ongoing spectacle, breath fogging up the window.
And what a spectacle it is. The wave of crows seems never-ending, one after the other dive-bombing at Tomas even as he slams them against the ground and slaps them out of the air, his strength sufficient to break beaks and bones before they even impact against the ground. A crow or two even go cartwheeling through the air and bring more of their companions down with them. What they lack in strength, however, they make up in sheer numbers and the intellect inherent to covids. The rowdy cawing sounds are deafening, their beaks attempting to go for the exposed parts of Tomas's skin, trying to peck at his eyes and ears; it's a good thing he's got his sunglasses on.
In the ensuing chaos, some half dozen of the crows pick away at the second hot dog, and another two dozen go for the remaining hot dogs in the abandoned stall. Their companions may be fighting a losing war and dying on the battlefield, but they're still hungry birds.
Whatever the vendor taking shelter in Tomas's car is seeing, it likely will stick with them for their lifetime. On top of being fantastically strong, he's as acrobatic as he is athletic, and flexible to boot. On top of /that/, he would also appear to have intelligence that proves at least the equal of the dumb fucking birds assaulting a demonborn with knife-resistant skin. He's cool, he's confident, he's mildly out of breath, he's -
"GET YOUR FUCKIN' BEAK OFF MY PENIS!" he bellows, dropping to his knees with a squawk of his own. Oh, these birds were cunning foes indeed, to strike through his cargo shorts - but it doesn't exactly appear that the crows wear him down /too/ much. All this'll take is time...