Ekaterina’s Monday morning odd encounter(Ekaterina)
Date: 2025-09-15 06:39
(Ekaterina’s Monday morning odd encounter(Ekaterina):Ekaterina)
[Mon Sep 15 2025]
At Well–trod pathway/span>/spanThe pathway winds through the fairground, its surface a mixture of packed
earth and scattered gravel worn smooth by countless footsteps. The ground
bears the permanent impressions of heavy carnival equipment wheels, creating
shallow ruts that collect rainwater during wet weather. Patches of stubborn
grass struggle to grow along the edges where foot traffic is lighter, though
most vegetation has long since surrendered to the constant parade of
visitors. Electric cables snake across the path in places, covered by thick
rubber mats to prevent tripping. The smell of popcorn and fried dough mingles
with diesel fumes from the generators that power the various attractions.
Colored bulbs strung overhead between temporary poles cast pools of red,
blue, and yellow light across the pathway after dark, while during daylight
hours the bare bulbs hang like strange fruit against the sky. Cigarette
butts, ticket stubs, and the occasional piece of carnival prize detritus
accumulate in the corners where the path meets attraction fencing, swept
there by the New England wind that carries with it the distant sound of
calliope music and the mechanical groaning of aged ride machinery./span>/spanIt is dawn/span>/span61F(16C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by grey clouds. The mist is heaviest At Birch and Hart/span>/span(Your target and their allies encounter the former thrall of a vampire who has run away from their previous master. Probably at least slightly mind controlled they’re likely confused and struggling with their decision. The characters need to either help them found a new life, or send them back to their owner.
)
“Come to think of it, it was the one with the orange logo instead,” Tenzin recalls, wandering the fairegrounds with his finger on his earpiece. “The Nicolodeon? Nickelodeon? The show with the orange soda.” MP7 in its holster and staff used as a walking stick, the monk makes a pit stop here for reasons only he knows.
It’s still early morning. Around the Faireground, the attractions are being set up. The sights, sounds and scents of faireground stalls drift through the area, just ahead, with the sweepers and last minute cleanup crews doing all they can to remove (dislodge) and clean (cast off to one side) the previous day and night’s leavings.
Tenzin’s morning is not interupted, though he does spot someone sitting upon the bench the monk himself sat with others on one day previous as he engaged in philosophical debate.
The figure looks forlorn somehow. Dejected, alone, and folded in on itself- Shabby jacket, threadbare sweats, sneakers that were likely out of date at the advent of Netflicks inception. He mutters to himself, eyes closed, huddled in, as small a target as it is possible to be, for all the world the lost little lamb.
It is too late for Tenzin. He sees the shabby figure, sandals paused in their step by the bench. Their paths have now intertwined, one could say. “Are you cold?” asks the monk.
Dark eyes study the dejected individual to gauge their state. It is not unknown to him that some may perish in their sleep when cold weather grows unforgiving. He does not get any closer than just out of arm’s reach, but for all the gear on him he appears disinclined to incite hostility with the homeless.
“Da.” Ekaterina agrees, her voice over comms amused. “Kel loves orange soda- I liked the Amanda show.”
The figure does not respond, shaggy head rising- Clean shaven, handsome if drawn, dark haired, this side of grey in spite of obvious youth in his features, eyes dull, not lifeless, but near blank, like Tenzin may witness from a hypnotism victim.
To spite the shabby state, he looks rather put together- Possibly ST Sera’s soup kitchen has given him new clothes and a razor, or perhapse what ever this is is something new.
Tenzin doesn’t see any electronic devices around him. Not a phone, Ipod or any of the other convenient items the youth usually have to hand. Though reasonably, why would he? The homeless are not known for expendable income. Yet, there is -something-
He is pale, hollow-eyed, with the blue lips of someone heavily anaemic. His neck, though half-covered by the collar of his jacket also has a mark. It’s potentially a tattoo, but Temple training has educated Tenzin otherwise. It’s a supernatural ownership brand.
His lips work slowly. They half-form words that die in their infancy, and instead of responding to the ascetic, he glances down to his hands- Scarred. Heavily scarred- The tracks and lines of something sharp having been drawn along vanes repeatedly.
“Why?” the young man mutters to himself, mirroring the lines of questioning that Tenzin had instigated a day previously. “Why? What did I do…”
Initially, Tenzin had plans to join the man on the bench, but now he questions the safety of it. The look in his eyes shifts as the Temple walls come up. “You just seemed cold, friend,” he addresses him in that steady tone. One that does not make the water ripple too much.
“Do you remember anything that you did? Anyone you have met recently?” he asks, gaze roving over the half glimpse of a brand on the man’s neck. He tries not to ask too many questions at once, giving him ample time to answer. The nomad is patient.
It’s good that Tenzin is patient, because he’s treated to another few repititions of “Why?” before any progress is made.
Then, the words sink in- delayed, but still answered, as though he were slow. “I am cold.” he whispers. “I am alone. Mistress… Why?”
His sad gaze returns to Tenzin then. “Why does Mistress not want me?” he asks of the monk, a curious echo to the meaning of the self reflection.
He smiles then, and the second question is answered. “I met my Mistress. I met Coral. Mistress liked Coral… Mistress said Coral would live with us…”
“Mistress?” Tenzin repeats, eyes narrowing with suspicion. Enough English lessons sponsored by the Temple means he understands this and its counterparts. “Have you ah, been abandoned?” he considers, venturing a step closer to the seated sad man. His stare stays on the mark on his neck and his right hand slowly reaches.
“May I see your tattoo? It looks interesting,” he hmms. “Who is Coral, can you tell me? Is she a good friend of yours?”
The man nods emphatically, those too pale lips breaking in to a smile- It’s not hard to see why he would be prised with that expression, it is beatific.
Reaching up, he folds his collar back, exposing the brand, three crimson teardrops falling from a ritual athame’s point.
“Mistress gave me my tattoo.” he explains, and the memory seems to be euphoric, his eyes clouding over as he grins like a madman.
“Coral had one, too. But I had mine first.” Who ever this Coral is then, she’s another thrall.
He shakes his head at the second part of the question, still smiling. “Mistress would never abandon me. She just needed me to go out and find a place to die. Isn’t that strange? I’m not allowed to leave her. I have to go back to her…” His head shakes again, this time quickly, like a dog with something in its ear, confused at the problem without being able to identify it. His brows nit. “I have to go away and die though.”
This admition is unnaturally calm, and at this juncture, it would be impossible for him to be anything other than enthralled. “Mistress said I had to.”
Tenzin sweeps his eyes over the brand, taking it to memory. He is a bit old-fashioned like that, even if snapping a photo would have been easier. “It is quite strange when you have certain expectations from your Mistress and she tests you with the opposite,” he notes, tone neutral to the point of being cold himself.
“If she is telling you to go away and die, you would never be able to return to her, would you not?” the monk tries, perhaps uselessly, to make the thrall see reason. “So I feel that there may be a need to ah, assist you in this interpretation. You do not mind that I call a friend, no?”
He does not wait for the man to answer. Taking a step away but keeping the thrall in his line of eye, he touches his earpiece and notifies over the comm lines in hushed tones, “Branded victim found at the Fairegrounds. The mark on his neck looks like three drops of blood from a ritual knife. Owner is a woman, but I am trying to see if he can point us in her direction. There is one other thrall named Coral. This one here is a man, ordered to ah, go away and die. I am suspecting Faeborn owner, based on solely this. My opinion, it is very child-like and they seem to grow bored of one thrall quickly.”
“Understood.” Once more, Ekaterina’s voice over comms. “I will begin researching what this mark means- Possible owners and likelyhood of a fae.”
The man considers Tenzin’s quandry, processing it and shaking his head. “Maybe you could kill me and then take me back to Mistress?” he suggests, as if this wern’t utterly insane. Fingers raise, the man running them through his shaggy hair. “Or maybe I could get a gun and-” He cuts himself off. “I don’t have any money. I cant buy a gun and pay a cab to take me back…”
The Temple comms sound again, Ekaterina typing as she speaks in to the system for Tenzin’s benefit. “Three drops and a ritual knife. That sounds like thatvampire cult that went dead some weeks back. They posed themselves as a family united by blood. Eidolon was named Lamure. It passed with the cultists, I think.”
The man considers the ferris wheel for a long moment. “Maybe if someone could pay for a ticket I could jump from the top? It would make Mistress happy. But then I still have to get back.”
Tenzin’s suggestion has entered one ear and out the other, the conflicting instructions leading him in to a spiral.
“It went dead? I–” Tenzin talks into his earpiece but the comm lines may hear him reprimand the thrall instead. “No, I am not going to kill you. You are clearly not in your right mind,” he tells him, clipped.
The monk groans over the frequency, muttering this time, “I do not think this man can reintegrate with society if he has this mark, still. It sounds like the cult is still out there, but they are refreshing its following. Do we have the resources to peel off brands, Director? Is this something Dr. Wilson or whoever in charge can do?”
He checks on the man once more, pity and disgust awash in those earthy eyes. The nomad strides up to him, hooks one arm around to lock him to his side, and begins to pull him towards the dirt carpark. “Come with me, we will find your Mistress. I will ask her for you what she meant. It is so inconvenient when women say one thing and do another, no?” he grumbles, taking some of that personally. “She was perhaps exaggerating, surely.”
“Where are your Mistress and this Coral now?”
“Da.” Ekaterina shares. “Shortly after I arrived the cult vanished- They say the leader, one of the Court was dragged off in to the Other thanks to a failed attempt to set fleshformed snakes on what is desc–” A pause and Ekaterina coughs, struggling to keep a straight face as she reads, “Described as scuba vampires out of Elysia…”
The Director does snort a laugh then. “Opening a gate in Aurora Heights in the hope that flesh eating snakes made their way to Elysia- These Courtiers are crazy.”
The man, surprisingly goes with Tenzin plassidly. It’s like a dog come to heel, with the nomad’s -aid- in finding his mistress taken as complete obedience.
Being told that yes, the Temple has the resources to remove brands, and yes, Doctor Wilson can handle it, Tenzin is able to guide him to 110 Church street without issue. He is transfered in to James Wilson’s care, and the brand is removed.
The owner of this man, indeed a member of the cult Consanguinitas is uncovered after a little conversation to be Roberta Pinn, the owner of the NightSide club in Aurora Heights. She did vanish about a month back. Her demonborn associates continuing the club’s upkeep.
Of this Coral, there’s no note, though she can be assumed to be another of Miss Pinn’s thralls.
Interestingly, should Tenzin research Miss Pinn, he would find that she was one of the fallen. A fae singer/actress who was shot dead in the 1930s, only to rise again as a vampire, so he wasn’t far wrong about the fae angle.
In a few days, Doctor Wilson judges the man safe to return to society, but he will be placed in a home for monster induced afflictions, likely for the rest of his life- And so ends another of Haven’s tragic tales, the lives of the innocent shattered by the malign influence of supernatural life living side-by-side with mundanity.
If only life could be like Nickelodeon, where each encounter would end with the soft, orange soda refresh of an episode of Kenan and Kel…