Amber’s Friday afternoon odd encounter(Seraphina)
Date: 2025-06-20 12:50
(Amber’s Friday afternoon odd encounter(Seraphina):Seraphina)
[Fri Jun 20 2025]
In Master Bedroom
This windowless bedroom is a dark sanctuary against any outside influence. There is no natural lighting, instead being lit primarily by various ambient lights and lamps set about the room. A large dresser and larger wardrobe are the principle furniture aside from a queen-sized bed placed more centrally.
It is about 70F(21C) degrees. The mist is heaviest At Mayflower and Madison/span
Amber lies on the bed, next to a sleeping figure beneath the sheets. She’s playing on her phone, looking utterly bored and tired.
While Amber wastes the afternoon by playing games on her phone, a strange fog begins to creep higher, swirling at her window, like knocking upon the pane for attention.
It might take Amber a while to notice. It’s not until she tosses her phone down between her and the sleeping figure that she gives a glance around the room for other entertainment. And it is then she spots the fog. She rolls off the bed before shuffling over to check.
Monsters, indeed! But it is not what Amber may think. This feels different. Dreamy. Perhaps even an illusion of fog. Or a way to mask someone who watches Amber through unseen eyes. For certain, the woman may feel as if there are eyes on her. The little hairs on the nape of her neck begin to stand, as do the hairs on her arms. There is a -tingle-.
Amber frowns deeply, reaching for the curtains to try to shut the ‘watching’ fog out of the room. “Nope. Just stay out, whatever you are,” she grumbles in what is likely a vain attempt to avoid trouble.
Trouble comes easy in a place like New Haven, it is a common knowledge shared by anyone who has stayed here long enough to know. Futile as it may be for Amber to try to close a curtain in a room that is windowless in normal circumstances, at least she is aware of the futility. Those little hairs that have risen on her pale skin start to cause her flesh to itch. They appear to be getting thicker. Longer. The dark shade turning white. Is the room getting larger, or is she getting smaller?
“Fuck me,” Amber whines when she sees the hair growing, “I just shaved a couple months ago.” She hasn’t been here long. Not long enough to immediately remember there’s no windows in the room, normally. But she does a double-take at the curtains and squints. “Fuck me,” she repeats again in realization before looking about the room for other changes. More windows? Is there still a door to the bathroom and out into the rest of the brownstone? She doesn’t want to linger in any case.
It would seem that Amber is trapped in a doorless, windowless room. But perhaps it is only illusion? Like fog tendrils rapping upon a window that never existed. The door was there, wasn’t it? It is disorientating for Amber, but if she were to try to search along the walls, she might feel the door jambs. Find the handle to open it, and shatter the image. The hair stops its rapid growth, and if Amber were to look at her hands, they are starting to morph themselves into paws. This, however, does not seem like someone simply playing a prank and haunting the woman. No, there is pain with this transformation as her fingers begin to curl in on themselves. Bones crack. They pop.
“Shit, ow,” Amber flinches as she feels around for the handle. Maybe she’s just trying to escape the illusion, or maybe it’s a more primal need to just try to flee, but either way she seems to have no better idea than to try to escape before she loses the ability entirely. “Come on… where’s the handle…”
Amber’s knees begin to bend the opposite direction they normally should, the creak and break of sinewy muscle and bone an echo in her ears, an initial searing pain. And should she be able to overcome that pain, as many who reside in New Haven may surely be able to, it still knocks the woman to the floor for the sudden imbalance. A transformation is far from complete. But her back legs begin to change, her feet grow longer, the ankles bending inhumanely so that they are flat to the floor. It is in this, possibly excrutiating, moment, a deep crimson glowing line begins to form along the wall, where the door does actually exist.
“Fuck,” Amber just keeps on swearing as she lands on the ground. She just kind of writhes there in pain a little before trying to get up again, “So help me, if I’m turning into a wearwolf I’m gonna…” She leaves the rest unvoiced as she uses the crimson line to try to find the door again.
Light, yellow and unnatural as if by a light fixture and a bulb begins to shine as the ‘door’ begins to open, perhaps giving Amber the opportunity to run, but as she reaches for the door, only a soft, fuzzy, and quite adorable, little paw pads upon it. When next she tries to speak, it is her jaw that is transforming. Her nose. She can see it if she looks cross-eyed. It is little and pink, and whats more, a distracting couple of whiskers break from her cheeks, peppering her pale flesh with freckles of blood. Speaking is not impossible — yet — but what more can possibly come? Well, suddenly a young woman casts a shadow with the light. “Hi,” they say, chipper.
Amber just kind of sits down as this happens, taking a moment to process. The fight has, for the moment, gone out of her. Maybe she’s accepted the inevitable, or maybe she just assumes it’s a dream at this point. But she sits there. After a moment, she looks at the woman approaching and attempts to meow? Whatever sound she makes, she will manage to make it sound fed up with life.
Just like that, when Amber has given up.. POP! From her rear end sprouts the fluffiest, poofiest, cottoniest white rabbit tail. It was certainly not a meow given. The woman closes the door behind her, the illusion shattered to reveal Amber’s room as it always is. “You know, it really isn’t very fun when they give up,” says the woman. Does she look familiar? Maybe not. But maaaaaybe, Amber may have seen her around town, on Campus? Maybe she’s felt those eyes on her before. The woman kneels to scoop the rabbit version of the woman up. “But I am going to hold you and squeeze you…” She does so, squeezes the little animal that was a woman, hard and stiffling. “And call you George.”
It’s hard to tell what kind of animal you’re being shapeshifted into when you make an unliving avoiding mirrors, one supposes. The lack of meow does seem to disappoint Amber a little, ears drooping. She seems resigned to her fate still as she’s picked up, but being named George? That’s a bridge too far. Vampire-bunny goes to bite the hand that would feed her.
“Ouch!” the woman yells, releasing Amber to fall the few feet down to the floor so that she can nurse her vampire-bunny bitten hand. “You are very naughty. But I always sensed that from you.” The woman now stalks Amber, as if she had not been before. “Now I’m going to rip your ears off and feed them to you. The woman, too caught up in having her prey has also forgotten to shut the door behind her, and if Amber is quick enough, she might be able to hop past her predator. The question would remain, how long would she remain a rabbit? What can be offered to soothe the sore hand of her obsessor?
Amber is probably the most out-of-shape vampire that has ever existed. She seems to hope being a rabbit will help, either from small size or better build. She also seems inclined to test that theory rather than tempt fate that the woman might actually rip her ears off. So she makes awkward hops out to the door.
“Ah ah!” the woman cries out. She doesn’t run after Amber, though, as the little darling puff of fur hops toward the door. No. She walks, singing, as she takes a little hammer from a bag, “Little bunny foo-foo…” A step. “Hopping through the forest…”
Amber is not practiced with bunny limbs, but that woman? Singing that rhyme? Nope, nope, nope. She books it double-time down the hall.
The woman continues the nursery rhyme, “Finding all the field mice…” Then the hammer comes down, attempting to strike Amber to knock the little bitty thing out cold. “And bopping them on their heads!” While strong, she is not quick enough to avoid the hammer, and there it strikes, at the womans now-rabbit temple.
And down she goes. While Amber might have some supernatural resilience going on, there’s only so much a bunny skull can do about a hammer. She’s out for the count.
The woman squeals in glee and victory, as she picks Amber in rabbit form up by its ears, the white fur now stained pink from blood. “What fun we will have, you and I…” And then she walks out the door with her prize in hand.
All chances for escape now lost, Amber has little choice but to endure and try to survive by playing along until the woman gets bored. In the end, she limps her way back to bed to recover.
winces as a crack of thunder filters in from the doors just behind her, sparing a glance toward the exit. “The Hollow Conclave have decided to utilize and sustain talismans and sigils throughout the borough to create this dreadful storm that never ends. They’ve been scouted across homes, storefronts, on the back of artworks, and often depict terrible mockeries of biblical stories. We need to work our way through the streets, do what we can to hone in on them and pull them off.”
Obadiah nods to Arachne as he checks his gear and tightens up straps and makes sure all valuables are tightly secured. “Right. Well that seems easy enough.”
“We expecting any resistance, madam?” Lykaia asks, as the information is given. “Or just simple as is work. Avoid thunder. Pull talismans off, clear out? Any way for us to trace them?”
“We know why? Or just for the lulz?” Amber wonders, squinting towards the door and the storm outside it. Hands go into her hoodie pockets, along with her phone, as she preps to set off with the others.
A nod, and Roberta waits for the rest.
Secret pockets, sheathes and items are checked, hood raised, and Roberta nods to Arachne as she speaks.
A likewise hidden button is pushed, and two bodyguards manifest out of the shadows. They stay back, though can be with the group when ever needed.
Arachne’s gaze drifts toward the different assortment of shoes covering the group’s feet, grimacing softly. “The lightning is going to be an issue,” she agrees with Lykaia. “But there’s no expectance of the Conclave coming out to harass us. Still, we shouldn’t be letting our guard down. Are there any arcanists among us besides me? If we can find one, we might be able to turn that dark power the talismans are giving off to trace the others and make it more quickly.”
Obadiah raises his hand, “I am.” He grins slightly, “I thought you knew that?” He shrugs then, “Though weather is hardly my specialty.”
“Not you, specifically,” Arachne sighs softly toward Obadiah. “It was geared toward the others.”
“Don’t look at me.” Roberta quips easily.
“I got muscle, quick fingers and plastic explosives.” Roberta likely wont get to blow anything up, and that’s reflected in the wistful way Roberta states it.
“Negative. No knowledge about the specialized arcane.” Lykaia answers, her gaze staying between Arachne’s nose between the eyes.
Amber gives a little shrug, “I know some rituals. Not a mancer yet.” Her hands sink more heavily into her pocket.
Obadiah nods to Arachne then and looks up at the ceiling.
Arachne turns on her heels with a squeak of leather, sashaying toward the front doors. “We don’t need anyone to be specialized in weather mincing. Just able to make use of the fundamentals of arcane work to track, neutralize, and weaken the talismans until we can disrupt everything to satisfaction.” She pulls her jacket in close, zipping it up, and pushing through the doors out into the relentless winds.
“Hope everyone brought the right shoes. Else you might be with mushroom feet in the coming days.” Lykaia says as she begins to follow on after Arachne, outside into the rain.
Mercedes has a pleasant little nervous smirk on her face as she looks around, “I am studying the arcane but I am also not a mancer quite yet,” she says and then tucks her hands with her rosary behind her back, “I will instead make myself scarce, seeing as I’m ill prepared. Please be careful out in this weather?” she beams and then steps out towards her motorcycle.
Obadiah follows after Arachne dutifully, adjusting his cufflinks as he walks, careful to try and avoid the deepest waters for now.
Amber trails along in the back of the group, following along silently.
The safety of the Nightside is left behind as the group trails out into the storm-ravaged streets. The flood waters have creeped up, splashing over shoes and immediately seeping in for those with improper footwear. Visibility is reduced, lightning crackling violently ahead, slamming into a light pole with a clap of thunder.
Wrapping Roberta’s cloak around her, Roberta follows Arachne, stomping through the puddles and pooling water with a dancer’s grace and a lot of annoyance for the condition of the world outside.
Still, rain and flooding isn’t the sun, which Roberta takes full advantage of, the downpour thankfully ruining the reflective landmines that puddles and free flowing water could become otherwise. She trails Arachne, keeping pace with Amber and Obadiah and Lykaia. “We’ll know them if we see them?” she asks, in only the way of someone with zero understanding of the arcane can muster.
Lykaia glances around. “Or trails to pursue? Could interrogate an agent.” She says, her eyes narrow, but draw around the wet surface steets.
“Feels a little like a needle in a haystack,” Amber admits once they’re outside, looking at what they have to work with between weather and the size of the space they’ll be canvassing.
Arachne widens her stance and hunkers down, reducing her surface area as the winds pick up rapidly. She grits her teeth, an arm thrown up to protect her face as a wayward branch comes hurtling past. “We’ll work on it!” She calls back in answer to Roberta, digging her free hand down into her pocket, tapping through her phone until she can tap into their societal comms for a private channel, her voice coming through more clearly, rather than having to compete over the winds.
“Don’t worry. I came prepared with a plan. I was able to find one of the talismans already just outside the NightSide, depicting Jesus Christ being, ah, sod– you know, that is irrelevant and even I don’t have the energy to blaspheme Christian deities today. I’ve already locked in on a few places. I’ll send you all the coordinates, and we’ll need to both take these talismans out – carefully, lest there’s feedback – and make sure we can reroute displaced residents. So, PR campaign and photo ops are always helpful. Understood?”
The phones collectively buzz as Arachne hits send on a prepared text, circulating several coordinates around for the 96 Lake Avenue Mansion, an alleyway behind 19 Carnation house, and one final location somewhere in a masoleum of Blackstone Valley Cemetery just two blocks down. There’s also MyHaven live feed updates of residents who foolishly sheltered in place, in need of freeing from the second stories of their gorgeous properties, and attempting to buy their freedom for priority rescue.
Obadiah glances at his phone when the it goes off and starts reading through the punch list before jumping with a wince at the lightning. Not enough to look off, but enough that people might notice he does not like lightning.
Lykaia looks down onto her phone, shaded gaze glancing over it before looking back up to Arachne. “We splitting or staying together, visit one by one? Can take a rescue. Who’s most profitable to the court? I’ll handle that. Should be simple. Brought Scuba just in case, too.”
Amber ducks and flinches as the wind rises and lightning comes down. “Fuck me,” she murmurs under her breath. She pulls out her phone, squinting at it, “I’ll leave the PR to the rest of you. Just tell me where to go.”
“There’s only five of us,” Arachne mentions to Lykaia. “But I can find a central spot between these coordinates to concentrate on making sure I can lead you guys safely to the locations. You just need to get there. So, if you want to split into twos and take one of the locations, we can do that.” She looks from Lykaia and Amber, to Obadiah, and Roberta, miserably fashionable, if drowned rats were still cute and chic. “We can start with the sigils, and if we see anybody who needs help on the way, and we have time, we can do that. Profitable rescues are the ones who look richest and probably have the best offer. It doesn’t matter really, as any bit helps.”
Obadiah nods and looks at his phone again, “Right. Well the grave yard is closest,” he says before taking down the charm at the shop, throwing it to the ground and grinding it into the mud with the heel of his surprisingly treaded oxfords. “I’ll head that way if anyone wants to come with me. Let’s get this done before I squid out.”
Ducking the branch, Roberta doesn’t really need to hunker down; She remains in the slipstream of the taller members of the group. Of course, that lack of appropriate footwear, and the lack of height and weight also proves itself inconvenient, as Roberta is working double time to keep up, especially with the problematic terrain.
She nods to Arachne’s explanation of that game plan, her own coms tuned in to the local shortwave frequency being used. “Oh. I though that was just fae. But I suppose deconsecrated church mentality…”
Trailing off, the albino refrains from smartassing, doing what she can to maintain unity with the group. Thankfully, there’s no stamina drain. Roberta doesn’t breathe, soldiering on.
“Money on the table.” is the only comment as Roberta looks over the live feed, though pragmatism demands attention– Roberta is Illusium court, after all, and so she begins furiously texting to various chatrooms to spam post that in spite of the Hollow Conclave’s machinations, the people who care about the fae, the Illusium Court, are here to save the citizenry of Aurora Heights from the deluge– Marketable heroism at its best. “I’ll tag.” she announces, falling into step with Obadiah. There’s likely some hope to get less drowned at play.
“Okay, but I wanna see you squid out,” Amber comments after Obadiah. She looks about to follow, but Roberta seems to beat her to it. So she wades over to Lykaia instead, “If we’re doing pairs, looks like you and me.”
“Just tell me where to go, madam. Will handle the rest.” Lykaia says, looking at Arachne, and then from her to Amber. “Madam Amber. Accompanying them or me? Your choice. Could stay with Madam Arachne, if you desired, too.”
As Obadiah takes down the first talisman, the storms begin to intensify as the balance of arcane power influencing the rituals are displaced. A torrential downpour of rain beats down upon the backs and shoulders, gale force winds racing through the streets, churning up debris-filled flood water. As the group splits into twos, it seems someone has a choice of a mansion and the alleyway behind a neighboring large house to choose from. The manicured lawn of the mansion is swamped in flood water, a poor effort made with sandbags to create a buffer that was quickly overrun as waters lap waist-high. A heavy, oppressive energy fills the area, and lightning constantly cracks and lances through the sky, striking the high points around the arched gothic roofing.
As Obadiah takes down the first talisman, the storms begin to intensify as the balance of arcane power influencing the rituals are displaced. A torrential downpour of rain beats down upon the backs and shoulders, gale force winds racing through the streets, churning up debris-filled flood water. As the group splits into twos, it seems Lykaia has a choice of a mansion and the alleyway behind a neighboring large house to choose from. The manicured lawn of the mansion is swamped in flood water, a poor effort made with sandbags to create a buffer that was quickly overrun as waters lap waist-high. A heavy, oppressive energy fills the area, and lightning constantly cracks and lances through the sky, striking the high points around the arched gothic roofing.
Lykaia glances back to Amber “Let’s just take the manor, madam Amber? Looks the most dangerous. Probably the worst choice, and perhaps ritualistically… it might need a systematic removal, but where’s the risk in that?” She suggests.
Obadiah tries to focus on the magics, fiddling with his prismatic runed ring and squints. Each time he thinks he has it, he looses it again. “Hmm,” he says squinting off into the middle distance.
Amber nods her agreement with Lykaia, trudging along in that direction. “Works for me. Probably some rich people around, too.” She tries to take shelter behind Lykaia, but she’s actually the taller of the two. She has to duck down lower.
Remaining in step with Obadiah, Roberta/span finally gives up; The boots come off, and Roberta elects to trudge, without shoes along with him. It’s a more stable footing, and as these things go, Roberta is best placed as muscle/backup for the arcanist, just in case.
Obadiah tries to lock in on the energies emanating from the cemetery, but the connection is faint, splitting in different directions across the cemetery grounds. He’ll have to peck and hunt for clarity.
@amber and @lyk have the fortune – or great misfortune, maybe – of the mansion’s grounds having tree cover, which offer some refuse. But as the clouds rumble ominously above, and the air is heavy with ozone, who’s to say before the next lightning strike licks at the ground? Or them?
From the window of an upstairs loft of a converted townhouse to flats, a young woman sticks her arm out, waving a makeshift flag, holding a crying baby under her arm. She’s a young blonde twenty-something, distressed, tired, and so over parenthood AND the flood, “Hey! Hey! Help us! I’ve got ten grand if you can get us airlifted out of here!”
When Roberta and Obadiah/span get to the cemetery they do just that, or at least Obadiah does. He doesn’t mind the wetness but he does put his back into it, looking around for the thing to the best of his abilities.
Being far too light and small does make it more difficult, though it likely helps that Lykaia isn’t yet trudging all the way through the water, and she comes to push on, muscle of her legs working her through the water to reach for a tree to duck and cover behind. She takes a deep breath through her nose. “Amber. We got to move towards the mansion. If you got no other ways, do as I do.” She says, and then actually goes down, sinking herself lower so that mostly her head pop out. Might as well reduce the surface friction, be a little bump in the water and not a standing person that can be more easily pushed, at the price of getting all her gear soaked and having water splatter into her face from the winds.
“Not the most athletic,” Amber pants softly until she reaches the tree as well. At that point, her fatigue recovers… not at all, really. It’s day time. She just looks worn out. But she puts forth the effort to try and copy Lykaia. She notices the blonde out the window, “Don’t think we can do any airlifting. Talisman first?”
The luck of the fae runs strong in Obadiah and Roberta as he manages, somehow, through the winds, rains, and vast amount of ground to cover to stumble across a rather disturbing scene hidden behind a masoleum’s half-ajar door; a vivid depiction of Moses and his people being devoured by tentacle creatures from the abyss, of all things, in true visceral horror houses another talisman.
Back over at the mansion blocks up, Amber manages to feel an oppressive energy coming from the side walk of the mansion just a few yards beyond a half-destroyed iron wrought gate. Problem is, a Hummer is rammed through, clearly pushed on its side by gale force winds. They’ll have to figure out a way around or over it.
That twenty-something and her baby scowls, slamming the window shut, and likely on X tweeting her displeasure.
“Tentacles,” Obadiah/span says with a heavy sigh and shake of his head, “Always with the tentacles.” He turns to Roberta and says, “You know, I was born this way. I didn’t ask to… you know what? Time and place.” With that he picks it off of the back of the masolem’s do and examines it briefly, “I mean… If you weren’t filling out neighborhood with water, Esme could probably sell it.”
The thought spared, he raises it above his head and throws it to the ground, the same heel grinding technique as before to make sure the magic is good and broke.
As Obadiah does the hard work, Roberta deploys her agents to begin the rescue efforts. There’s a dramatic to do with a series of off-the-cuff speaches about the safety of the people of Aurora Heights with shakey phone cam, hired muscle and a showy public display as she follows along, all in efforts to prove that though the Conclave caused these issues, the Court are publicly out in the thick of things, with agents (mostly unreliable, but who needs to know that) in the field. All the multitasking and bedraggled pomp that is musterable.
Amber reaches out to tap Lykaia’s shoulder from behind when she gets a read on the location, using her other hand to point towards the gate for Lykaia to lead the way.
Lykaia reaches around under the water for her belt harness, after Amber gestures to the direction they are to go with winds howling down, a storm, Lykaia was quite wet, too and with it also whatever other gear she has to deal with the axe problem. At least it is not what she goes for immediately. “Amber, help me try juggle the axe? Maybe we’re lucky. Probably not. Don’t think climbing is a good with the winds like this.”
Holding her phone up, the cam shielded and deliberately shakey with the buffetting winds and furious downpour, Roberta calls out, focusing through livestream on Obadiah as he lifts, then destroys that tentacular effigy. “That’s two. “I can only hope that our other rescue teams in the area are having as much luck with getting people out and destruction of the defacements.”
It’s always a choice for Obadiah to attempt to cleanse the talisman of its residual dark energies. But another talisman down, and the magic in the borough is steadily destabilized. The storm is worse, the winds screaming as it picks up before slowly dissipating to a light drizzle. Roberta’s reserve of seedy little henchmen available at a moment’s notice are put to quick work, and their efforts don’t go without notice among a few peeking out their windows. The ones who do show up are greatly appreciated.
Back with Lykaia and Amber, that damned axe manages to come loose, but it tumbles head over end and smacks Lykaia right in the face with its handle, fortunately, rather than the ax-head. A mild concussion, and some embarrassment, but at least no one was photo opping this.
“There are two more yeah? And the other two should have Lake Ave right? So we should go to carnation house,” Obadiah/span tells Roberta as he takes a step back and puts his hands in his pockets watching her minions do their thing before looking to Roberta more fully, “You know, if the next one isn’t too profane, and I can cleanse it, I might keep it. Might be worth some coin.”
“It is likely something we should display as New Haven historicle successes.” Roberta bullshits, phone still recording as she follows Obadiah to Carnation house… on foot, and through the downpour and flood waters.
When the opportunity presents itself, that phone is turned to the suited -not- mobsters known to frequent The NightSide as they begin their -rescue- efforts before turning back to Obadiah. “Full access for the good people of Aurora Heights to appreciate the utter depravity of the Hollow Conclave and how they would deface such a picturesque place as the Heights for their maliciously nefarious ends.”
Once again, Obadiah finds himself having a hard time locking in on the next exact location of the talisman. The coordinates, fortunately, help point him toward the alley way, but it’s a no man’s land of questionable garbage, dangerous things, and a rotten stench carried on the calming wind. Roberta’s going to have an excellent boost to her algorithms as more and more people tune in to see the results of her efforts, and that of her thugs turned heroes for profit.
Over with Lykaia and Amber, the Hummer gas-guzzling waste of metal isn’t completely tuned on its side. With some work, they can cross through the passenger’s side, through the flooded water, and push through the driver’s door pinned open.
Sometimes the old squid nose is better than relying on arcane senses for Obadiah. The stench of something simply wrong attracts his attention, the trail leading toward an upturned dumpster.
It’s fortunate that smell doesn’t come through on camera, but visuals of course will. But that’s perfectly fine; Roberta/span can likewise use this to televisual benefit for the Court and its needs.
Following on along with Obadiah as he uses the arcane, Roberta narrates as the two go. “So devilish.” She begins, with other associated statements, and claims that this ploy of the Conclave, plus the misstreatment of the Heights by the 63rd only allows such things as this defacement in this borough’s beautiful aesthetics. It’s bullshit, of course, but so are most political drives.
But here is that little different. Roberta, Arachne, Lykaia and Amber and Obadiah are on scene, being public and in the thick of things, the inhospitable weather being no barrier to the proposed narrative’s plot. Indeed, the inability of Obadiah to manage to arcanely find the next item is played into this. It was part of the Conclave’s ploy to make even the arcane harder for the citizens of Aurora Heights, something disallowed and strongly disproved of by the Illusium court.
In step, Roberta leaps the trashburgs along with Obadiah, the shakey cam footage livestream allowing the Havenites to experience exactly what lengths that Obadiah and the entire expedition are going to –exclusively, of course– for Aurora Heights.
The collective efforts of the team begin to erode the storm, bringing gale force winds down to a whispered calm. The nefarious energies still linger, but will dissipate over time as everything finds equilibrium.
Roberta frames Obadiah’s escape from the inferno dumpster fire, applying a filter and using it as a thumbnail as she has someone– Not her– uplode it to youtube from the Theatre.