11/19/2016 – 2:12pm
Weylen has accepted the encounter. Your target is attacked by a dream stalker who subjects them to their greatest fantasies in the dream world in order to keep their body passive while it's energies are fed upon. They need to, possibly with the help of allies entering their dreams, resist the temptation long enough for other allies to find them or for them to wake up.
[STalk] Weylen: 'Feel free to put me anywhere else for the purposes of your prompt!'
In the Dormitories of Horizons Advertising It has average decor.
The strangely patterned walls of the rest of the basement have been replaced
here, painted a warm red with a floor carpeted in sooty grey. Several well-appointed bunks line the walls on steel frames, large enough for individuals to sleep comfortably and pairs to sleep snugly. The eastern portion of the room is tiled behind a frosted glass wall with a sliding door, giving way to a co-ed communal shower.
A holographic media center has been built into the area quickly. The science of it far beyond any modern offering. Creating a massive projector screen sized area near a wall of three dimensional light and seemingly it's both voice controlled and can be interacted with by a nearby wireless mouse and keyboard.
It is afternoon, about 46F(7C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
Extra: all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all Places: the casino lobby
[ ] [ down ]
Weylen is standing here.
Dressed in clothing suitable for working out or at least clothing that isn't expensive, Weylen is heading out the door of Horizons Advertising without a real direction in mind. He's been hibernation sleeping for a few days which shows by the way he groans and stretches himself out as he walks.
OOC: Thanks for accepting the encounter. I will put 's around any emotes directed at you. If you have anyone nearby who would be around and should be included, please stalk up to me. Otherwise, I'll get started with my first pose.
[STalk] Weylen: 'You're good to roll I was just logging in and so alone! Fire away.'
Despite Weylen's stretching and intent, that hibernative sleep seems to be calling to him. His body becomes awash with fatigue and the beds in the dorms appear ever so inviting. His eyelids feel like heavy weights have been placed upon them and, while he doesn't feel drugged, a nap might be just the thing.
The call of Winter is hard to ignore for Weylen, and despite his best intentions to make something of the day he soon finds himself heading back to his bed, sprawling backward onto it, fully clothed as his dual colored eyes stare at the ceiling. A little droopier ... and droopier ... and he's drifting into slumber.
The forest rushes by Weylen as he lopes along through the trees. They crash around him in his monstrous form. To his side is the smaller sight of Issy, loping along at his side. Behind him, he can hear the breaths of huffing wolves, dozen of them, all part of his pack. Weylen and his pack stop outside the ruins of the Lawless. A sense of satisfaction might be felt by Weylen, as memories of his pack fighting and defeating Wroggar's Pack flow through him. The north forest is his. All the forests of Haven are his.
Before the man within can attempt to discern how the scenery has changed ... the Wolf inside of him cares nothing for it. Only the moment to him matters right now, large snout raised to the air. The boughs of the trees are all about him to his sides, no longer above his head but about it. Large paws give minor shudders into the earth as they land. There is no past and no future, only the present and he tucks his head back, the howl loud, deep. Echoing throughout the entire forest! Weylen sniffs at the remains of the Lawlesss Bar, flits of memories sifting buy that cause his forelegs to lift and prance, pushing the bits and remains of the building further into the earth.
Issy presses her snout against Weylen's side affectionately, and a few of the other bitches in his pack approach Weylen, each whining softly in either jealousy, envy or need. Before Issy or, indeed, Weylen can react, a group of the remaining resistance emerges from the southern woods. Dressed in Venetian armaments, the priests line up their rifles and bear their blades and maces. They're outnumbered, but they begin to attack Weylen's Wolves' flanks. There are only half a dozen or so, and Weylen might feel further satisfaction as memories of destroying the Cathedral sweep over him like a wave. Only pockets of Venetian Resistance exist to challenge Weylen's reign.
A mighty roar echos out from Weylen as he steps forward, blinking from sight as bullets whiz past only to appear before the members of this resistance. A large clawed paw rakes out, Jaws snap downward and his body itself if a heavily weighted weapon, pushing and thrashingback and forth to shove and push at those attacking his pack! The hot spray of arterial blood will hit the air at his first successful bite, but it's these new memories ... these remembrances of destroying the Cathedral that tickle at him. Not enough to distract him from those trying to hurt him or his wolves but a slight little naggling that won't go away ..
The Wolves of Weylen make short work of this particular band of resistance. The lesser wolves consume the bodies of the dead and howls resound, so many and so loud that it rocks the trees around like thunder causing even the screams and sounds of the dying and feast to be washed away.
Can make no sense of the small sensation that tickles at him and so he chooses to shove it aside. He walks, turning a circle across the skeleton of the Lawless, before his great weight drops onto the remains of the building as he lays himself down. His large eyes, shining in the light of the forest moon watches the rest of his pack revel. Small droplets of blood still grace and mat the fur of his muzzle but he doesn't bother to lick it clean. He watches, in silence and in pride. Another howl is finally tossed out into the caucaphony of thunder that the wolves make and his jaw splits, tongue lolling from the side as even his breaths sound like small gusts of wind in the immediate area. Weylen watches his pack, studying them. Studying how they share, how they separate their places and the status quo.
The wolves pounce and play after the battle is won. But there is indeed something off. The scents in the air seem dimmed. The play of light alternates between hyperreality and flat. Weylen has almost everything he's ever wanted, but the insects and animals of the forest seem to be gone. The air is stale, despite the coppery tinge of blood and the dark scent of bile and entrails.
As the rest of the wolves before him continue to pounce and play, slowly the small bits that seem off begin to register to Weylen. The lack of insects, of the sound of the forest alive around him being still ... this along is enough to put him into a more cautionary mood. The shifts ... the suddenly vibrant colors becoming faded and pastel only to return again ... the stale sense of the air here. A low growl begins in the deep recesses of Weylen's throat and slowly he lumbers to his feet. His attention no longer on the pack, but on the rest of the world around him. Looking for .... things not quite as they should be. Looking almost ... for a seam.
The Wolves of Weylen begin to encircle Weylen's and they shift to their human forms. Issy is at the forefront. She smiles up at Weylen, revealing ultra-long canine fangs. Her skin has an undead pallor and suddenly the scent of decay and death begin to wash over Weylen as the members of his pack unsheath their fangs and start to charge at him, their flesh rotting in places as they try to leap up and onto Weylen to bite at him and tear at him with their nails.
It's a roar of surprise that eminates from Weylen now as the members of his pack begin to twist and turn against him. If the remnants of their visages are supposed to hesitate or stay his paws however, they do not. He snarls and lashes out viciously amongst their number as he spins about. He leaps hi, over them and out of the impending circle and he turns, lashing out again before letting out a roar in their faces, at the surrroundings in general. His lips curl and drool slobbers from his jaws now as his rage builds rapidly.
The Vampires of Weylen all burst into ash, one after another. The ash coats Weylen and all of their attacks stop. Their mouths yawn open as a cacophony of screams and intermingled laughter pour from all of them. With Weylen's heightened hearing, it's damn near deafening. Issy remains at the forefront, naked, her eyes dead and staring up at Weylen as each wolf-vampire bursts until she's the last one left. Her distended, obviously pregnant stomach roils and her mouth closes as her stomach splits and a cub leaps out from her womb. The cub, somehow, is immediately recognizable as belonging to Wroggar. Something in its eyes, something in its coloring.
Issy dissolves into ash and the cub soon grows to monstrous, adult size, its coloring a blend of Wroggar's and Issy's as it squares off against Weylen, its own size equals Weylen's as its fangs retract and it growls, even as its flesh and fur begin to drop, revealing decayed flesh beneath.
With a low throated growl, Weylen prowls lower to the ground. Size ... perhaps no longer an advantage but the Alpha in him considers the fight calmly none the less his experience making him confident. With a snarl and he short jerked leap he engages the creature, drawing out it's defenses with a snap of jaw, pranced rakes of his forelegs and dewclaws, his eyes afueled with anger at the very presence of this thing, of it's nature, of the idea of it. Betrayal and indignation combine with each other as he slashes forward, snapping powerfully as he tries to grab for it's neck, to shake it, break it rattle the spine, defensively snapping and dodging if he misses.
The not-quite cub's throat is torn from it abruptly, its flesh and blood turn to ash within Weylen's mouth and it staggers backward, coming into view of Weylen once more. Something is wrong. The cub has no resemblance to Wroggar. Its fur, its features are a mix of Weylen and Issy's and its expression is one of horror, fear and betrayal. It collapses, its life's blood pours from its throat and its eyes go glassy and dead. No decaying flesh marks the creature. Only patches where fang and claw have torn into it. Weylen's Wolves lie similarly strewn about the forest. What once was perceived as ash is now... blood. Weylen's fur is sticky with it. Issy's body lays near her severed head. A long haired man with wintery eyes places its hand upon Weylen's shoulder and whispers into his ear, "Excellent."
Light burns overhead abruptly as Weylen's eyes open. A figure in a black hoodie launches himself through a wall, shimmering as he steps into thin air. Weylen's body feels drained and sluggish as the dormitory appears around him as he awakens.
Weylen blinks for several moment, growling loosely in his throat, coughing more by reflex than by pain now as he grabs at his chest feeling woozy. "The ... fuck .." he grumbles, stumbling and falling from the bed now. Lurching to his feet he's egging himself for the high tech interface, confused and uncertain what's happened ...
[STalk] Weylen: 'Thank you thank you for the encounter! Apologies for some of the AFK again toward the back portion! '
A lingering scent fills the air, masculine. Unknown to Weylen. Was the figure a part of the dream? The scent is sweaty, but fleeting and as Weylen becomes more and more awake, it fades. The sheets beneath Weylen are damp with sweat, his skin slick with it. For now, at least, the dream-turned-nightmare is gone and Weylen, Issy and those he care about have not endured the fate suffered during Weylen's slumber.
OOC: This ends the encounter. Please feel free to leave a comment if you have feedback on my SR Page. If you'd like a summon somewhere, please let me know, otherwise feel free to exit down.
With a headache quickly forming behind Weylen's eyes, he steadies himself on the back of the interface console then mucks for the showers, needing to ease the pain building and clearh his head