Seraphina’s Monday evening odd encounter(Seraphina)

July 29, 2025

Date: 2025-07-28 18:51

(Seraphina’s Monday evening odd encounter(Seraphina):Seraphina)

[Mon Jul 28 2025]

In the Den

It is afternoon, about 87F(30C) degrees, and there are clear skies. The mist is heaviest At Birch and Franklin/span>/span(Your target and their allies discover a seemingly abandoned occult bookshop whose proprietor has mysteriously vanished mid-ritual. The shop’s protective wards are failing, and something hungry from the Other Side is slowly seeping through the cracks in reality. They must either complete the interrupted ritual or find another way to seal the breach before whatever’s coming through fully manifests.)

Seraphina approaches Thomas, having spied him from the road where she had been jogging. She pauses near him, breathing fairly normal. Perhaps she’s only just started her run? Bouncing on both feet, she greets the man. “Hi, Mister Hale! Didn’t expect to see you here..” Then a look about, finding that she’s stepped into a cemetary, and likely standing on someone’s grave. “Ghost hunting, are we?”

Dressed for some adventurous work, Thomas moves amongst the headstones. He looks up at Seraphina. “Miss Hawke!” he says to her — the ground muddy and wet from the floods that have just receded here in Bayview. He nods to her. “Something like that,” he shares, tilting his head. “Floods can disturb the dead, as they do in New Orleans,” he shares. “I am listening to see if there is one worth adding to the parliament.”

There is a frown from Seraphina at Thomas’s words. “I thought we were going to be releasing spirits, with that book… You promised.” Did he? Probably. She steps over a puddle of murky water to look at the gravestones with the man. “What do they offer you, by holding them?” She isn’t judging. Mostly. A simple, curious question from the ever questioning adventurous.

“I’m not looking to add spirits to the book,” Thomas replies to Seraphina, evasively. “The skulls?” he asks her. “They — well. It is an agreement, isn’t it?” he says. When she comes near, he smiles at her — his eyes skitter, really, over that outfit. “They provide me with knowledge, and I provide them with a little glimpse of the world,” he shares. “I think a spirit would be bound to go mad, if it spent centuries alone with nothing but cracked and faded memory.” He scans over the headstones. “Of course,” he says. “Some of them might prefer to rest, in the beginning…”

“And as time goes on?” Seraphina asks Thomas, lifting a single, softly shaped brow at him. “You’d think they would want rest, as time goes on, frankly. And when they are newly dead, they’d want to live. Through something. Someone…” She trails off. That someone being? Her? She shakes her head. “Anyway. I was just jogging through the city, kind of looking at the damage from earlier, and I got a ping on my phone about a bookshop dealing with the occult. If you want to go check it out with me? I hate to go alone, and you’re really the occult guru here.” She shows her phone to Thomas, giving the man the website picture and address. “Interested?”

Thomas shrugs to Seraphina. “Of course,” he tells the woman with a smile. “You know how I feel about occult bookshops, Miss Hawke: there’s always some treasure in there.” He digs for his keys, unlocking the Porsche, and then leads her to it. “There’s nothing worth — acquiring — in this cemetery anyways,” he says. “Though on the topic of the book…” He opens the door for her, before getting in himself to drive where she has directed.

The raven-haired athletic researcher knocks as much mud and muck off her sneakers that she can before getting into Thomas’s car. “On the topic of books…?” She asks, taking a moment to fidget with all of Thomas’s settings and plug in the address into his navigation. And change the music to something else. Because.

Nothing wrong with 80s metal, which seems to be high in Thomas’s rotation. He drives, glancing over at Seraphina, as he says, “I do have work to do with the chained book, and I need your help,” he says. “I have identified one of the spirits there which would serve an admirable purpose for me,” he says.

“And then we can free them, after they have helped?” Seraphina asks Thomas, stopping the channel on something pop related — at the other spectrum of hair bands and Iron Maiden. ‘Cause the players gonna play, play, play… “Oh! Oh! Stop. It’s this one.” She points to a little shop, quaint and squished between two other narrow and tall store fronts.

Thomas looks to Seraphina, pulling up. “We can talk about it,” he says. “Who can even say what ghosts are, really? It may well be that if we freed them they would just disappear — poof,” he says. “The end of existence.” He gets out, looking at the small shop. “What is interesting, here?” he wonders.

“I don’t know. You’re the one with the magic nose.” Seraphina tells Thomas. “Doesn’t anything prickle your senses, there, Scooby?” She grins aside to Thomas, then leans in to peck his nose before opening the passenger side door to slip out, but only after the song has ended. “Like, doesn’t your hair stand on end, or … your dick get hard?” She closes the door then leans her white-clad rear up against the red paint of the Porsche, looking at the building. “I really need some practice with magic. But it was never my true forte.”

Thomas stares at the store for a long moment, right outside the Porsche like a cool kid. “Something certainly prickles,” he says absently, standing to the side so Seraphina can emerge from the car. “Magic doesn’t make my dick hard,” he says. Liar. “You have other skills,” he says to her, distracted, as he mutters some charm. “Though I do appreciate your assistance. I can teach you the basics.” He steps towards the store. “What is it we have here?” he asks Seraphina and himself, opening the door.

The chime dingalings as the door opens, notifying the proprietor that there are visitors. But, there is no response ringing out other than this. The store is bright, and airy, as many windows as is possible giving the place a natural glow amongst the rows of books on display. Other items are on display, too, all too legit feeling, to Thomas, to be kitschy. Dust motes hang in the air, caught and frozen in the cascade of light. “It is nice in here. Nicer than that other shop we broke into..” But there is something off to Thomas. Something that he hasn’t put a finger on just yet, but the magic is off-kilter. A little dizzying.

There’s a moment, and then Thomas reaches for Seraphina — to lean on her, a little heavily, as he tries to look around the shop. “There’s -definitely- something here,” he tells the woman: his inner ear is a little off. His eyes scan the dust, green against the darkness. “Hello?” he says. “Books have power,” he tells Seraphina. “I can feel it, you can feel it… Power.”

There is no response from -anyone-. The shop seems to be completely abandoned. “I don’t feel anything,” Seraphina says to Thomas, extending an arm to hold Thomas up, “Are you okay?” She calls out now, “Hello? I think my friend needs some water!” No answer still. From above, the flourescent lights that aid in muting the natural light from the plethora of windows zap and dim, one goes completely out, and back on with the eerie hum all fourescent light have. She begins to lead Thomas about the store, over to an empty counter. “It is weird, isn’t it, for the door to be unlocked, but it seems that the store is closed.”

“It’s definitely weird.” Thomas leans against the counter, looking around. “Let’s see,” he says, and he digs in his things for a stub of candle, setting it on the counter. Then he produces a pen knife. “Give me your hand, Miss Hawke,” he tells her. “Your thumb, please.”

Seraphina holds out her hand, palm up. “What’s going on?” she asks, a little oblivious, until another light zaps out. This one stays out. There is a rush of cold air, frosting the panes of glass. There is no writing in this glass, though. It just freezes, and then spinters, shattering outward, as if something unseen broke though it to escape the confines. But it feels, at least to Thomas that something is still holding it in. For now.

Thomas opens the pocket knife, and then — with rising urgency — he pricks Seraphina’s thumb. Perhaps he should warn her; instead, he just turns her hand upside down, like a thumbprint on a ballot in some far-off, dusty country, and presses the bleeding pad to the countertop. He begins to move it in a circle, rather quickly, around the candle. “I don’t know,” he says, looking at the broken glass. “There is something here.” A beat. “Something trying to get out.” He releases her — releases her, to dig for a lighter to light the candle, beginning to chant.

“Ow! Warn a girl when you are going to prick her!” Seraphina says, in soft complaint to Thomas, though she understood the assignment. She watches as her blood is smeared onto the countertop, noting, “Mister Hale, there is another blood pattern on the counter…” She points with her free hand to the ritual circle, where something has been smeared across it, breaking the circle. A bloody handprint curls around the edge of the countertop. If one looks further, they would see that there is a trail of footprints leading away from the counter, heavy prints in a thick artisan rug. The footprints stop abruptly where they should not.

By the window, a being starts to come into focus, not just for Thomas, but for Seraphina, also. It is ghastly. It is human. Or was. But its flesh has been peeled away so that all that can be seen is the bloody muscle, tendon and the like that makes up a person. The sickly, drippy mass seethes. It looks as if it will charge toward the couple.

“This is –” The figure comes into focus. “Miss Hawke,” Thomas tells Seraphina. “And you think you’re not useful in matters arcane.” He falls back, a little, and he begins to chant — words twisting on himself. The flame of the candle begins to burn a sickly green, and he reaches for it with his left hand. There’s a wince as it singes him, but then he holds a ball of green witchfire in his hand. He does not wait for the thing to charge: instead, he hurls the green fire in its direction. “Put it down!” he cries to her.

“Put what do—” Seraphina starts to ask Thomas, eyes then growing wide as this horrible creature begins to charge. “Eeeeeeeeee!” She shrinks back some. “How? I — don’t think my sword will cut into a -ghost-!” But soon she does brandish it, pulling it from her bag and holding it with both hands if it gets too close. Is it iron? Well, one can only hope.

“Lord knows!” Thomas tells Seraphina. Necromancy to the rescue, now: “But if it can hurt us,” he says to her, digging for a handful of salt to throw in the spectre’s direction, “maybe we can hurt it!”

Another light zaps out, and there is a second rush of cold air. Nothing that is visible. Maybe it is nothing. But something is failing. And it is failing fast.

“Whatever ward this is,” Thomas tells Seraphina in low worry. “It is about to break: it is about to let whatever this is in the world.” He looks around — searches, really, with senses both mundane and supernatural — for what seems like it is the /source/ of whatever is wrong in this small bookstore.

The fireball strikes this corpreal ghost, manifesting itself with all of its might. The fire spreads across its chest, burning it so that bone now shows through the blackened inside-out flesh and muscle that was hiding the ribcage. The thing drifts in and out of view, but manifests again just as strong. It screams. A sound both human and creature. There is pain and anger in that scream. Then Seraphina screams, “Do something!” The thing charges again and the woman swings her sword at it, attempting to slice right through it.

It is with sheer luck, given the heightened emotions of Seraphina that she even manages to touch the being. But she swings her sword with the strength she can muster, slicing through it. Once the iron hits the thing’s shoulder, it begins to smoke, though, and then becomes transulent, before it disappears altogether in a puff of sulphiric smoke.

(re) It is with sheer luck, given the heightened emotions of Seraphina that she even manages to touch the being. But she swings her sword with the strength she can muster, slicing through it. Once the iron hits the thing’s shoulder, it begins to smoke, though, and then becomes transulent, before it disappears altogether in a puff of sulphiric smoke.

“Well done,” Thomas compliments Seraphina. He is still very much in fight or flight mode, however — he begins to stalk the bookstore. Taking up the candle, still burning an unearthly green, he holds it high above his head to bring a light to dark places.

The woman continues to brandish her sword, spinning in multiple directions as Thomas seeks some source of this issue. A few feet away from the rug, where the footsteps have simply vanished, is a a book. It is as if it had been tossed when whomever was holding, running, with it, threw it out from their hands. Another light dies. The room grows far darker. Another window can be heard shattering.

A book. Always a book. Thomas moves for it — fast, really, to go fall on his knees and begin to open it. If there is a rule for strange books and dark magic, it is perhaps said best in the Mummy: “Do not read from the book!” And so of course he does.

It is a bookstore, of the occult. Of course it is a book. Someone, probably, doing a ritual that was out of their knowledge and means. They, too, having just picked up said book and read from it. At least Thomas does not need to recite: klaatu barada…. something. But perhaps someone else did. It is hard to tell immediately what spell was used, since the book had been tossed and whatever page was being used is a mystery. At least there are pictures.

The being begins to form again, and this time it is in front of Seraphina’s face. It screams again. It’s maw opened far-too-wide to be humanly possible. The woman screams again, and without any thought, punches at the gross being, right inside of its mouth, trying to punch through the back of its head.

Pictures help. Thomas flips pages swiftly, looking for whatever enchantment opened this can of worms — looking for whatever spell can end it. He is not a master of the occult, but he is awfully close as he searches.

There is a squishy sound as Seraphina punches through the solid mass of … something not human as it should be. Seraphina pulls her hand back, covered in horrific particles of a person, a once person. The being, still has its mouth open, and it screams again, a mix of human and beast there, the view of the other side of the store visible to Seraphina. “Please, hurry, Thomas!”

“I found it!” Thomas cries. “Oh, poor bugger,” he tells Seraphina, heedless of the fact she is in mortal peril. “He turned himself into a demon by accident,” he tells her helpfully. “Fascinating. Perhaps not exactly a demon…”

There is empathy now from Seraphina. “Oh… poor thing.” She eyes the creature, watching as the muscle begins to sew itself back together to stop her view of the exit through its gaping hole. “Uh…. Thomas. How do we get rid of it?” She shrinks back some as it steps forward. “I don’t know that I can keep fighting it!”

Now Thomas looks for the words of power: how to control it. That is a way to get rid of it, isn’t it? Finding a likely invocation, he begins to command it, trying to seal it in the book.

Seraphina throws a knee-to-groin kick when the ichor covered thing appears in a blink of an eye in front of her. “Sorry!” she tells it. “But it is your own fault!”

Not an ideal situation, no — not as Thomas fails to find the binding spell he seeks. “I will need blood,” he tells Seraphina. “Blood to reverse this magic.” He looks up at her, considering. Her blood? His? He probably can’t just sacrifice her, since she is keeping him from being eaten. Besides: look at that ass! He produces his pocket knife, and as he grits his teeth he slices his wrist, deep, to begin to spread a circle of blood around himself. He can feel’s the immediate faintness of it, combined with the sense of magic here.

“Thomas!” Seraphina shouts as he slices through his wrist. Luckily not upward! “What are you doing?” She knows. “I know, sacrifice but–” Then the thing is upon her again and she shoves it away with all her given might, reclaiming her sword to pierce through it.

“Magic is sacrifice,” Thomas tgells Seraphina through gritted teeth. Blood is flowing freely, now, as it drips down his hand. He begins to draw an icon on the floor: the lines and curves and whorls of it seem to defy the eye, even as with his free, unbloodied right hand he turns from the page. Now he begins to read from the book, intoning in low, awful, guttural tones that promise something awful with every whisper.

On the shove, the creature stumbles backward, given Seraphina’s strength, and soon the angel is upon the demonized proprietor to plunge her sword into it’s heart, and pinning it to the floor. It is surprising, though, that it grabs the sword and starts to climb up it. “Thomas!” she cries again.

The invocation nears its end: Thomas scribes the sigil, says the words, and then full of power he stands, pointing a blood-dripping hand — his left hand, his sinister hand, at the demon creature climbing towards Seraphina. One red finger extends to towards it, and then he speaks a single word. If all goes well, it should be the arrow his magic has forged, slung into the heart of the creature’s existence.

The being doesn’t stop trying to stand, even as the hilt of the sword tries to stop it, the blade has come out of the floorboards, and Seraphina is trying now to yank the blade back out While Thomas chants, there is some knowledge in the eyes of the creature as the magic arrow also pierces its heart. When the iron blade finally is pulled free, sending ichor everywhere, the being looses one last scream. Then it falls to the floor. It does not shapeshift into the proprietor, however, as one might think. No, the proprietor was gone. Lost to the spell he tried to incite. His folly took his soul and his humanity the second the words left his mouth.

Perhaps best, all things considered. “Is it dead?” Thomas asks Seraphina, wincing a little: swaying on his feet, now, with blood loss. Even if the black magic here is gone, the librarian made a very deep cut, as he goes to grab hold of a bookshelf, heavily. He begins to dig in his things, seeking out the golden elixir that grants him some regeneration.

The adventurous says, giving the being a little kick in its exposed ribs, “I … I think so?” If it moves, it is only because organs start to seep out of the various cuts and holes Seraphina has made while fighting it. “We should … maybe take this to the hospital morgue and get you sutured…” She walks over to Thomas and places a hand around his cut wrist. Though blood seeps through her fingers, it glows as her hand does, warming and soothing to the self-inflicted wound.

Thomas winces, harder to Seraphina. “It should be fine soon,” he agrees to her. “But it’s probably — wise.” With that in mind, he begins to leave the shop, leaning on Seraphina as he does — though not before he grabs the book, slipping it amongst his things.