Patrollogs
(Autumn's decursing attempt)
[Fri Jan 12 2024]
On Beacon Point before the Lighthouse Rising Far above the Bay
A rocky shoreline surrounds a stone lighthouse that towers nearby in
cylindrical formation. Thick glassed windows are encased in a rugged, black
steel and form a lantern shape at the top of the house. The light that
resides within has served to warn ships of the jagged rocky shores while
offering a beacon of hope to those seeking land. Salty waves continually
roll in to splash and lick at the craggy rocks, creating a lulling sound.
During stormy weather, the beacon light is projected out onto the rough sea
it shines through the thick fog with a rotating glow that alerts nearby
captains.
It is night, about 26F(-3C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. There is a waxing crescent moon.
Autumn is shooing some birds away from her when she turns to see Solomon and Saint. "Evening," she says with a bow of her head while she holds up the wooden ring. "Found this in sand. And yes, Mister Inigo."
"Let's begin." A look at Saint. "I am Solomon Inigo," Solomon says, a little distasteful in his eyes over the figure. "And it's hard to know, isn't? I believe it is the one." A glance at Autumn. "Begin the incantation," he instructs her, and as he does he uses his cane to start sketching a circle around Autumn. "What is your name?" he inquires of Saint. "Have you any gift?"
Saint follows suit, drawing a circle around the other side of Autumn. They don't answer Solomon at all. Instead, they work to begin the ritual, trying to ignore the relentless assault of birds. He was not their friend. They were not his. They have a smile, but it's clearly professional. They're here to serve a purpose. Nothing else.
"On it," Autumn replies before she readies her hand. She whispers under her breath while she bears with the hostility of the birds, wincing from their attacks but she still stands. The runes on her bracelet start to glow red-orange as she clutches the ring in her other hand.
A section of Autumn's clothing catches fire.
"The birds serve a sometime rival," Solomon informs Autumn. "They do not like what we do." His eyes flick back to Saint. "Do you have a name?" he demands: now less polite, with some power in his voice. "We work a thing that makes us vulnerable," he says, even as he chants an invocation, sending some gust of wind to try to snuff the flames upon Autumn.
Shit. Someone was actually on fire. Saint is quick to throw water on them, quickly elaborating on the circle with fingers. "Shut up." They reply. "The more we speak, the more we're distracted." It's simple logic. They need to focus, and their tone spills out words in an inaudible mutter.
Solomon says dangerously, his eyes on Autumn, "Impoliteness among monsters is unwise."
Saint doesn't respond, uttering prayers and incantations, while squatted down. Their hands are pushed together, as they focus. They were ignoring him. He wouldn't force himself into their life in this scenario. They would not allow him.
A blast of force sends Saint flying into Solomon.
The birds deter from Autumn when a part of her sweater catches on fire, and she glances at the ember being extinguished by Solomon's wind. She continues to chant, her voice low with every whisper said as the birds relentlessly attack the trio. She does not pause but she nods her head. "Please help us remove this curse from artifact," she calls out to the sky.
Saint gets slammed into the one they were set to ignore, the breath stolen from their lungs as they tumble to the ground. Even breathless, they force themselves to speak, and to focus. Praying to higher powers.
Low chanting, then, as black birds flutter around Solomon. When Saint knocks into me, he staggers back, and then he raises his hand high. He begins to sketch a sigil of fire into the air, walking slowly around the protective circle to keep the birds and the arcane forces from Autumn.
Growing air pressure makes your ear's pop uncomfortably and deadens all sound.
Saint is definitely not special, if the gasping for air is anything to go by. But they push themselves. Calling out to -something- in the wild pale yonder, they put their energy into this. The grasping hands of the demon aiding them working. They wince. They speak faster. They were only a bare help. But they had to help.
Focusing on the cursed ring, Autumn's bracelet glows brighter as she channels her magic into the artifact. A warm glow begins to envelop the ring, pulsing as she gestures with one hand. Until she winces in pain when her ears pop, but they does not deter her from her duty.
This was becoming a bad situation. Saint was enduring enough pecking to break the skin. They're doing their best. Their best. They weren't special, but they didn't need to be. This was not their time to shine.
"You will find that if you wear the iron pentacle of our allegiance," Solomon tells Autumn in a low voice, "these magics will come easily. Your Order's wizardry is a shadow of the knowledge our masters give." He looks over at Saint, those fiery runes now making a circle around Autumn.
A blast of force sends Solomon flying into Saint.
A grunt: and then it is the dark-haired man hurtled into Saint, as Solomon loses his grip. The sigils in the air seem to flicker, beginning to die.
Saint can barely look over to see Solomon hurtling towards them. Their scream gets cut off as they tumble to the ground, wheezing for some of that sweet, sweet oxygen. He is LARGER than them. They're basically crushed on the spot.
There is another nod of Autumn's head, the old cuts from the corvid's attacks slowly feeling while new ones are made by the birds. The pulsing magic around the ring glows brighter and she then closes her hand around the ring.
Staggering to his feet, Solomon shouts in some ancient, unknown language, his voice hoarse as he hollers at the sky. There is a moment as birds swoop in, and then Solomon is clutching his fist to summon flickering flames to dance in a sphere around Autumn, Saint and himself.
Struggling to their feet, Saint begins to draw another circle, hobbling along from the pain. They mutter prayers as they work, trying to finish the circle before anything else happens that could get anyone hurt.
"We are close," Solomon tells Saint, the fiery dome overhead.
With a final burst of power the curse on a wooden ring is broken.
Autumns Decursing Attempt
(Autumn's decursing attempt)
[Fri Jan 12 2024]
On Beacon Point before the Lighthouse Rising Far above the Bay
A rocky shoreline surrounds a stone lighthouse that towers nearby in
cylindrical formation. Thick glassed windows are encased in a rugged, black
steel and form a lantern shape at the top of the house. The light that
resides within has served to warn ships of the jagged rocky shores while
offering a beacon of hope to those seeking land. Salty waves continually
roll in to splash and lick at the craggy rocks, creating a lulling sound.
During stormy weather, the beacon light is projected out onto the rough sea
it shines through the thick fog with a rotating glow that alerts nearby
captains.
It is night, about 26F(-3C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. There is a waxing crescent moon.
Autumn is shooing some birds away from her when she turns to see Solomon and Saint. "Evening," she says with a bow of her head while she holds up the wooden ring. "Found this in sand. And yes, Mister Inigo."
"Let's begin." A look at Saint. "I am Solomon Inigo," Solomon says, a little distasteful in his eyes over the figure. "And it's hard to know, isn't? I believe it is the one." A glance at Autumn. "Begin the incantation," he instructs her, and as he does he uses his cane to start sketching a circle around Autumn. "What is your name?" he inquires of Saint. "Have you any gift?"
Saint follows suit, drawing a circle around the other side of Autumn. They don't answer Solomon at all. Instead, they work to begin the ritual, trying to ignore the relentless assault of birds. He was not their friend. They were not his. They have a smile, but it's clearly professional. They're here to serve a purpose. Nothing else.
"On it," Autumn replies before she readies her hand. She whispers under her breath while she bears with the hostility of the birds, wincing from their attacks but she still stands. The runes on her bracelet start to glow red-orange as she clutches the ring in her other hand.
A section of Autumn's clothing catches fire.
"The birds serve a sometime rival," Solomon informs Autumn. "They do not like what we do." His eyes flick back to Saint. "Do you have a name?" he demands: now less polite, with some power in his voice. "We work a thing that makes us vulnerable," he says, even as he chants an invocation, sending some gust of wind to try to snuff the flames upon Autumn.
Shit. Someone was actually on fire. Saint is quick to throw water on them, quickly elaborating on the circle with fingers. "Shut up." They reply. "The more we speak, the more we're distracted." It's simple logic. They need to focus, and their tone spills out words in an inaudible mutter.
Solomon says dangerously, his eyes on Autumn, "Impoliteness among monsters is unwise."
Saint doesn't respond, uttering prayers and incantations, while squatted down. Their hands are pushed together, as they focus. They were ignoring him. He wouldn't force himself into their life in this scenario. They would not allow him.
A blast of force sends Saint flying into Solomon.
The birds deter from Autumn when a part of her sweater catches on fire, and she glances at the ember being extinguished by Solomon's wind. She continues to chant, her voice low with every whisper said as the birds relentlessly attack the trio. She does not pause but she nods her head. "Please help us remove this curse from artifact," she calls out to the sky.
Saint gets slammed into the one they were set to ignore, the breath stolen from their lungs as they tumble to the ground. Even breathless, they force themselves to speak, and to focus. Praying to higher powers.
Low chanting, then, as black birds flutter around Solomon. When Saint knocks into me, he staggers back, and then he raises his hand high. He begins to sketch a sigil of fire into the air, walking slowly around the protective circle to keep the birds and the arcane forces from Autumn.
Growing air pressure makes your ear's pop uncomfortably and deadens all sound.
Saint is definitely not special, if the gasping for air is anything to go by. But they push themselves. Calling out to -something- in the wild pale yonder, they put their energy into this. The grasping hands of the demon aiding them working. They wince. They speak faster. They were only a bare help. But they had to help.
Focusing on the cursed ring, Autumn's bracelet glows brighter as she channels her magic into the artifact. A warm glow begins to envelop the ring, pulsing as she gestures with one hand. Until she winces in pain when her ears pop, but they does not deter her from her duty.
This was becoming a bad situation. Saint was enduring enough pecking to break the skin. They're doing their best. Their best. They weren't special, but they didn't need to be. This was not their time to shine.
"You will find that if you wear the iron pentacle of our allegiance," Solomon tells Autumn in a low voice, "these magics will come easily. Your Order's wizardry is a shadow of the knowledge our masters give." He looks over at Saint, those fiery runes now making a circle around Autumn.
A blast of force sends Solomon flying into Saint.
A grunt: and then it is the dark-haired man hurtled into Saint, as Solomon loses his grip. The sigils in the air seem to flicker, beginning to die.
Saint can barely look over to see Solomon hurtling towards them. Their scream gets cut off as they tumble to the ground, wheezing for some of that sweet, sweet oxygen. He is LARGER than them. They're basically crushed on the spot.
There is another nod of Autumn's head, the old cuts from the corvid's attacks slowly feeling while new ones are made by the birds. The pulsing magic around the ring glows brighter and she then closes her hand around the ring.
Staggering to his feet, Solomon shouts in some ancient, unknown language, his voice hoarse as he hollers at the sky. There is a moment as birds swoop in, and then Solomon is clutching his fist to summon flickering flames to dance in a sphere around Autumn, Saint and himself.
Struggling to their feet, Saint begins to draw another circle, hobbling along from the pain. They mutter prayers as they work, trying to finish the circle before anything else happens that could get anyone hurt.
"We are close," Solomon tells Saint, the fiery dome overhead.
With a final burst of power the curse on a wooden ring is broken.