Maeve’s Friday evening odd encounter(Maeve)

Date: 2026-05-15 20:42

(Maeve’s Friday evening odd encounter(Maeve):Maeve)

[Fri May 15 2026]

In the serving counter of Petals And Thorns
This area of the shop is split in two, with one side being devoted to a scattering of tables and chairs, along with a long wooden counter in one corner, while the other continues the vine pathway, which splits off into two other rooms. The smell of sweets, sugars and fruits, overpowers the flowery aromas from the other rooms, coming from the counter, which displays a range of treats, along with a few drinks as well. On either side of the room are two glass doors, each leading off into flower gardens, in which more tables and chairs can be seen.
The door to one of the gardens is firmly locked, blocking access to whatever lies beyond for the time being, a plastic curtain pulled over it that reads “Under construction.”

It is about 55F(12C) degrees. The mist is heaviest At Mayflower and Blackstone/span

(Your target discovers a seemingly ordinary object – a vintage radio, old music box, or antique mirror – that’s actually a prison containing something malevolent. When they accidentally activate it, the entity begins trying to bargain for its freedom, offering knowledge or power in exchange, while subtly attempting to possess or corrupt anyone who listens too long.)

Having just entered the shop, Axle stands before the counter, studying the woefully sparse menu with a vague frown.

Things are arranged in the abandoned shop as though left behind, by hands that lovingly chose them, or hatefully chose them, who is Axle to know. What is slightly out of place, however, is a small clay figurine of a frog, seemingly watching the shop, left on the counter.

Catching sight of the little frog, Axle meets the thing’s eyes. Stares. Glares. Glares a bit harder. Then, snatching the frog up, he lifts it to look it in the eye. “You are one ugly little frog.” He tells the thing, turning it over in his gloved hand. “Why the hell would you be in a place like… well, like this?” He glances around the shop, then lowers the frog from his face, settling it in his palm. “Well, take a look you damn frog. Why?” He lifts the figurine, turning his hand to show it the room, before chuckling. “Ugly thing.” He decides, setting the figurine back on the counter, now facing opposite where it had been looking. “There. Have a change of scenery.”

The glow starts beneath the frog, nearly perfectly hidden against his glove, and when it’s set down, the entire clay figure is alight, pupils a bright gold. A croak comes from the front of it, then a cough. It shudders, but it does not move.@line
“H-Help!” comes a scream that he can hear, and feel, in his head.

Stepping back, Axle stares at the frog. “What the fuck?” He glances around the room, eyes narrowing. “Whose there?” He calls, reaching back to touch his axe. “Where are you? Who, are you?”

“I… I don’t know where I am,” the voice comes again, seemingly in his head, but also from the frog, at the same time. It’s feminine, weak, almost thick with tears, as she begs, “Please, please, help me, I… I’ve been stuck here, so long…” Her words trail off into a wet sniffle.

“Well how the hell am I supposed to help you if I don’t got a damn clue where you are?” Axle asks the voice, eyeing the frog suspiciously. “Is this, some sort of magic shit?” He reaches out to tap on the frog’s head. “Do you see a frog? I’m looking at a frog here, and your coming from that frog. Why the hell are you coming from a fucking frog?” He reaches to rub his temples. “Hell, I hope I’m not going insane…”

Not new to the things that go bump in the night, as it were, there’s something familiar about projected voices, and it takes little effort to figure out that, certainly, the voice is coming from the frog.

“I… I was bonded to a mancer, once, a darling, wonderful, splendid mancer, before he got sick of me. He wanted to try for better, and I heard that he was torn apart by the creature he summoned to replace me, as if he could ever seek to replace mee, like women are interchangeable…”

Something brushes against his mind, and he feels the urge to wipe the frog clean, an image of himself doing it in his mind’s eye. It would be so easy.

Staring down at the frog, Axle idly rubs a thumb over its head. “You were a mancer’s frog? What… is a mancer? Some kind of magicky person or whatever?” He lifts the frog again, turning it over and over in his hands, feeling the surface of the figurine. “Didn’t know magic types could just, switch up their pet… err, frogs?”

Taking advice from mental projections is… always a questionable path to follow, but Axle is not someone known for his brilliance, certainly. As he wipes at the frog, the dust, smoke, and general muck of being an unknowable number of years hardly budges, but where it does, it reveals what is causing part of the light… A collar of arcane runes bind the throat, glowing brighter with her voice.

“Good, that’s it, fireblood, you just need to…” she’s saying, as he scrapes away just the edge of one of those markings. That damsel tone evaporates, excitement filling her tone, as she says, “I will be so grateful, truly, fireblood, I will give you riches, I will teach you all that you seek to know, fill your veins with strength, it does not matter, anything you can wish, certainly.”

He can feel that press, again, almost like there’s somthing in his bones driving him toward cleaning the frog, breaking that band, pressing harder on his mind.

“Fireblood?” Axle asks, fingers pausing in their inspection. “What the hell? How…” His hand tightens on the frog, eyes narrowing. “This shit is magic.” He says to himself, pondering the situation. “Hell no.” And with that, he shoves the frog in his pocket. “This is going into storage in the base.” But as he shoves away that frog… a finger brushes right over one of those runes. Likely, the leather also scrapes over several as he stuffs it away.

As those runes are scuffed, lightened, chipped away at, even someone with no arcane training can feel the magic on this frog, and in particular, Axle has felt this before, malevolent, dark magic practically pouring off the thing, and that voice comes again, cooing, a siren’s song.

“Now, fireblood, won’t you just do a little more? It would be so easy, just one rune, and I’ll be free. Don’t you wish to free me? Power, a companion, knowledge, riches, all yours, and all you have to do…” Words come like a whisper flirting with his ear, “Is remove one. little. mark.”

He can feel that urge, like it were coming from the base of his soul, pressing against him, skin itching with resisting.

“Fuck, you, frog.” Axle growls, turning and beginning to stride for the door… but not entirely stopping the frog from being jostled around in his pocket. “I am NOT, falling for some trick. I’ve heard them all, power, glory, pleasure, all the things. You can’t get me, you little fucking frog.”

With each step, there’s a soft rubbing of fabric to stone, or whatever that frog might be, but, blessed is the fireblooded, apparently, when it does not, in fact, scrape away any rune. He’s back to his bike before he gets a text, Maeve asking, “You felt anything? There’s something magic, strong, going on.”

As he drives, that voice stays in his ear, though, flirty, angry, the whole mood chart, ranging from, “I could do things your girlfriend could never,” to “I will tear you apart when I find myself freed,” to “If you free me, I will let you bind me, be your weapon, PLEASE, I jus need to be freed!”

That urge comes, over and over, in waaves, to clean away the runes, but the desperation within seems to make it less intense than it was at first.

“Your a damn frog.” Axle mutters, texting back a single word when he reaches the base. Turning in the frog before returning to the shop.

Even when contained, any time someone passes the frog, it lights again, golden eyes, lit runes, a siren’s voice begging, bargaining for freedom, but one has to hope the Templars are smart enough to not free whatever is contained within that clay frog.