Hester’s Monday morning odd encounter(Hester)

August 11, 2025

Date: 2025-08-11 05:29

(Hester’s Monday morning odd encounter(Hester):Hester)

[Mon Aug 11 2025]

In A Sun–Drenched Art Deco Hallway/span
The hallway stretches between apartments, its walls painted in soft cream
that catches and reflects the natural light filtering through windows at
either end. Polished terrazzo flooring runs the length of the corridor,
flecked with bits of sea glass and shell that glint beneath overhead fixtures
styled with the geometric patterns characteristic of the building’s era.
Framed seascape paintings hang at regular intervals along both walls, their
subjects ranging from calm morning waters to storm-tossed waves, each matted
in white and housed in simple silver frames. The ceiling features subtle
stepped molding that echoes the decorative spandrels visible on the
building’s exterior, while apartment doors stand recessed in shallow alcoves,
their numbers displayed in brushed chrome art deco numerals. The salt-tinged
air circulates freely through the space, carrying the distant sound of waves
from the eastern shore and the occasional cry of gulls wheeling over the bay
to the south./span
It is about 65F(18C) degrees. The mist is heaviest At Plymouth and Woodcrest/span

(Your target discovers a mundane human who has accidentally witnessed something supernatural they shouldn’t have – perhaps a vampire feeding or a demon summoning. The witness is panicking and threatening to go to the media or authorities. The characters must decide whether to intimidate them into silence, alter their memories, or find another way to contain the situation before it spirals out of control.)

Returning to the Bayview apartment building, Ekaterina limps through the hall on the way back to her ap. Shouldering her backpack and rifle, she reaches into her fanny pack, withdraws the key and is about to slip it into the lock.

It’s been a quiet morning. Onee that consisted of the kind of day-to-day jobs one might make in the early hours. But with Haven being the city-between it is, weapons are issential.

She checks her phone, sees no new messages and leans against the wall, rubbing her thigh– It’s been an interesting day, and nearly involved a rip in reality if not for others already handling it.

“Oh, t-thank god,” a whimper goes out from up the hall. Here be a blonde with watering eyes, mascara run down her cheeks with her hair looking like she’d come out of a hurricane. Rips in her clothing betray what manner of ordeal she must’ve survived, with bruises colouring the bareness of legs beneath her plaid miniskirt.

A quiet morning for the most part, but New Haven tends to have much roiling beneath its misty calm surface.

“Help me, please! I n-need a ride to the bus stop, I can’t run.. I can’t-” she sobs at Ekaterina, dragging a half-zipped duffel bag across the corridor. One of her scarves escapes, laying strewn on the way.

Ekaterina turns on a booted heel, looks the blond up and down, the threat assessment done and over with in a second, and she nods– There’s no smile; Those are not comforting things, there’s just too much scarring for that.

Non-threateningly as a violently scarred woman festuned with weapons can be, the brunette holds up her hands, stepping forward to help the woman with that escapee scarf, reaching for it to hand it back. “Careful there.” she says gently, the rhotic intination of her accent thick.

“I will help. Tell me problem, da. And do zip on bag before you lose more of your things.”

Is she dumb or desperate? Whatever the woman was running from must’ve been heaps scarier than a scarred-up soldier armed to the teeth. The blonde hastily takes cover behind Ekaterina while terror-stricken eyes scan the door at the end of the hall.

There’s no time for even a mumbled thank you; the harrowed tourist stutters as she makes a grab for the scarf and stuffs it back into the duffel bag – poorly covering fields of green within. None other than cold, hard cash. The rifler certainly spied the goods when she was passing by, picking up the scarf.

“Shitfuck, oh god, m-my boyfriend. It’s my boyfriend, Wally,” she tries to explain, pipes leaking. Apprehensive glances are tossed to where the elevator is, but warily does she stare at the door back where she came from. “I came to give him a surprise visit, ’cause we’ve been long-distance for forever, but oh my god…”

You hear a wolf howl somewhere nearby.

The woman screams!

“And the money?” Ekaterina counters steadily; Water works arn’t going to work here, but where those don’t, the howls of wolves do.

That frenetic gaze sweeps the hall, the possible methods of egress, and the rifle comes up. It’s safety comes off, the hardwear raised to a shoulder in a single smooth motion. Single fire in this situation of course. Full autofire would be exceptionally destructive, and Ekaterina cant afford repairs on the entire building.

“I need more. Give me situation.” The brunette asks, but there’s a mounting tention there, a certain killing lust at that howl that leaks through.

“I-it’s mine. We were going to run away together,” the blonde musters an all-too-quick excuse for the duffel bag, intertwining the strap with her arm. It doesn’t sound like she’s telling the whole truth there, Ekaterina may be able to perceive that much.

She squeaks in fright when the rifle is lifted, crouching as best she can away from the line of fire. “I-I-I caught him in bed with another girl! I was gonna burst in after recording everything, but he started changing, like his-” Her mascara-streaked face contorts with disgust and horror as she mimes out. “His bones were breaking and his skin ripped and this -monster- came out of him??” she panics.

“He started eating her.. a-and not in the way I expected to catch on camera!” sobs the tourist, peering back at the door. Seemingly so.. calm from out here. “P-please, you have to get me out of here. I need to report it to the police! Oh god, I’ve got to call CNN. Fox News.”

“Ah hh.” Ekaterina is only half-listening, but the Ts must be crossed, the Is have to be dotted. “Which apartment?”

True or not, the brunette is calling the blond’s bluff, and a monster is going to have a bad morning.

Waiting for the responce, Ekaterina sweeps the rifle across the hall, the perpetual motion, the finger on the trigger, but observant to the safety of others.

“Camera.” -It’s not a request. Ekaterina wants to view the recording whilst in motion. Verification is important.

“T-that one, the room on the left,” the frazzled blonde points to the door at the end of the hall. Left from where they’re facing, seems. She takes a step back, eager to flee the scene before the proclaimed monster might come rampaging out of doors.

When Ekaterina states that one-word demand, she doesn’t think twice. All too happy to provide proof to the stranger with the gun – and likely too scared to refuse an order from a scary, armed person – she fishes her phone out of her jacket pocket in a hurry and hits play.

On the phone’s screen plays out shaky footage of the exterior of a local night club. Zooming in on a tattooed man with a buzzcut flirting up a storm with a redhead in heels. The video jumps to stalker-like takes, following the couple to the Bayview ground floor. But there’s no angry commentary whatsoever, just a spy’s worth of observation. Next thing, the door number is displayed. Cut to the knob of another door slooowly twisted – and that’s when the camera finds the graphic scene of a girl chained to the bed, muffled by a gag, while her captor begins to shapeshift in the most painful of ways.

The video cuts there.

The blonde chews on her acrylic manicure, torn between making her escape and sticking it out for Ekaterina to help her. “I-if I post this on my Tiktok, people will know it’s real, right?!” She keeps her gaze trained on the far door, as if expecting something to come out any second.

But nothing does.

“You have problem.” Ekaterina states; It’s not even in question. “You make good stalker.” -@me is already moving. “Look to me like kinky sex, but we will check.”

Advancing.

Reaching the door, a cloth is produced, wrapped around the handle and it’s turned. Should it open freely, it’s clear that the brunette will be dipping in and sweeping the room for evidence, but not fully trusting the tourist, one eye is kept on her, even as she steps to the side of the door so that anything waiting beyond wont get a clear line of attack.

(Your target encounters a ghost who doesn’t realize they’re dead, still going through the motions of their daily routine. The ghost becomes increasingly agitated as reality keeps contradicting their expectations – doors won’t open properly, people ignore them, and objects pass through their hands. The characters must decide whether to help the spirit accept their death and move on, or leave them in blissful ignorance.)

“Evening for him. Can’t tell the difference. Usually see him when he wakes up.” Lykaia says, making a slight shake of her head. “What is the difference you’re usually seeing, Tam?”

“No, this morning when I got to talk to him. He is just in a better mood when getting up,” Tamar explains to Lykaia with a faint smile. It seems to be a night for spookiness and the mists rise, just to the ankles, not so much as to cause alarm. As the two walk and chat, a young man appears to me coming down the sidewalk towards them. He looks flustered. Jeans, sneakers, a white, well-fitted white t-shirt with a generic gold chain around his neck. “Oi!” he yells at the pair and then pointing at himself. “Oi, you two. Y’can see me, right?!”

Lykaia pretends to not see random men calling out to her, keeping her gaze on Tamar. In a very quiet tone she tells her “Let’s not entertain another weirdo.” And then right away, louder. “Does he cook breakfast for you? He should.”

glances past Lykaia toward the young man again, her lips tightening just a litte. She answers the louder question first, her tone almost distracted. “Sometimes,” she says, eyes flicking back to the other woman as though the stranger weren’t there at all. “Waffles. He makes good waffles.”

“Hey! Don’t just fuckin’ ignore me. This ain’t funny no more.” The youth’s voice cracks as he steps forward, sneakers scuffing on the sidewalk without sound. “I know ya saw me. You just looked right at me!” He waves a hand between the two women, desperate for a reaction. Something about the way he moves is eerie and the gold chain swings unnaturally as though clipping through his chest when he turns too sharply.

Lykaia does not blink when a hand waves in front of her face, though Tamar could tell she is holding her breathe to not act on instinct that would probably see someone’s arm broken. “Havn’t tried them. Cautious with food offered. Plus. I think today’s going to be a killing day. Will find someone to hunt down soon… and punish them for reasons unfathomable.” She says that, not in her deadpan, but more like she is threatening someone, but that might only be more evident to Tamar, but what follows does lead into a deadpan “You know how it goes, Tam. Need to bypass the Geneva filter sometimes. What else would I do with my life?”

Tamar’s mouth presses into a thin line at Lykaia’s words, though she keeps her eyes on her companion. “You cannot just shoot every one who is not polite, Ly,” she says quietly, the tone too flat to really be considered a threat on her part. The younger woman’s weight shifts fractionally onto her back foot, the movement putting a hair more distance between them and the young man without looking like retreat.

Beside them, the young man’s voice cuts sharper, nearing the pitch of a paniced squeak. “You’re messing with me!” He steps closer, smarting with bravado but turns at the last minute. He throws a punch at the lamp post, hand plunging through metal as though it were fog. “See?! Someone’s fuckin’ done… /something/ to me.” The ankle-deep mist coils higher around his legs, slow and deliberate, as though it wishes to claim him.

Now that the man is not looking at them anymore, Lykaia gives him a look-over and then rolls her eyes. Her next words are far more quiet. “Freaks. They’ll usually harass you all the time, Tam. Best to ignore them or make yourself sound crazy or dangerous and they tend to fuck off. He’s probably on some sort of drugs or cursed and tries to make it someone else’s problem.” She grimaces “And neither of us got a clue about curses.”

The angelborn’s eyes follow the man’s fist as it sinks through the lamp post, worrying her lower lip for a moment. The mist licking at his legs pulls her focus for a heartbeat before she looks back to Lykaia. “Drugs do not do that,” she says, only to hesitantly add, “Do they? “And if it is a curse, ignoring it won’t make it go away. What if he follows us home?” She steps in closer to Lykaia now. “What if we take him to the homeless shelter? Or the clinic?”

In front of them, the young man looks down at his hands, curling them and flexing them repeatedly and muttering, “Not right… it ain’t right… the fuck?” As he turns away from the women, they can see a bloom of red against the pristine white of his shirt back. A bullet hole at the centre of the bloody rose.

“Hasn’t plugged the bullet out yet by the looks. He’s pretty safe with that.” Lykaia answers to Tamar, shrugging her shoulders far too easily. “And drugs do that. make you hallucinate or do some of the weirdest shit. Seen drugged up people run into the frontline and get gunned down because they thought they’d be invincible or imagining a mass charge and felt too confident they were on the safe part of a push. If it’s a curse. We probably wouldn’t be the only ones to see him.”

Her gaze lingering on that bloom of red, Tamar says. “Safe is not the word I would use. And you are right. I do not see anyone else looking his way. Another ghost?” Her bronze-edged eyes flick to the passing street as two people walk by without so much as a glance at the young man. She shifts her weight, voice dropping further as she leans closer to Lykaia, uneasy. “If you were the only one who could see someone bleeding out in the street, would you still just walk away?”

While the pair talk, the young man touches his back, fingertips skimming over the damp patch. He pulls his hand forward to check it and finds no blood on his skin. His breathing quickens, almost a pant, the sound sharp in the still air. “What the hell?!” Jerking his head back toward the two women, he starts to pat himself down. “Where’s my phone? My fuckin’ wallet?!”

“Tam. Am I really the right person to ask? Because, youu know, the answer is kind of guaranteed yes.” Lykaia says to Tamar, wrinkling her nose. “You can’t go out of your nest for anytthing when you’re on hostile territory. Even when you see allied units, or hostiles, dying. Exposure means potential death. You want to avoid exposure.” She shakes her head but then sighs, calling over “Dude. Stop fucking around.” He had his head jerked to them, so he might just glance them watching him. Lykaia does pull out the baton, swings out out and taps it lightly over her other palm. “Can do a nine-one-one call. Don’t care about what drugs you sucked up. If you’re a problem I beat you down.”

Tamar’s eyes search Lykaia’s face at her answer and she slowly draws in a deep breath then lets it out once more. “Hostile territory. Stay close. No jumping around. Do not let yourself get isolated,” she repeats the lessons from the morning before. It is around this point that her willpower subtly crumbles, seeing the other woman pull out her baton. “Let us just go then,” she tries to suggest. “There is no need for us to make things worse if we cannot fix it.”

When someone words cut through the air, the young man’s head snaps up and he stops trying to pat himself down. “You can see me,” he blurts out, voice full of relief. He takes a half-step forward, but the mist curls tighter around his shins, slowing him. “My shit’s gone. Can I use your phone? Or.. yeah.. ok. 911 or the cops?” The chain on his neck swings in jittery arcs, never quite right with the way he moves.

When Lykaia’s words cut through the air, the young man’s head snaps up and he stops trying to pat himself down. “You can see me,” he blurts out, voice full of relief. He takes a half-step forward, but the mist curls tighter around his shins, slowing him. “My shit’s gone. Can I use your phone? Or.. yeah.. ok. 911 or the cops?” The chain on his neck swings in jittery arcs, never quite right with the way he moves.

“You may not use my phone. Drop that fucking chain.” Lykaia answers, her eyes staring at where it swings. She exhales. “Tamar. Try do a nine-one-one? Tell them CFI Nachtlied is asking.”

She points the baton in the man’s direction. “You can explain what happened. Be quick. And remove that fucking chain from your neck and drop it on the ground.”

“CFI Nachlied,” Tamar repeats softly, brow furrowing briefly but then she is obedient at following through. She slips her phone from her pocket, thumb already unlocking it.

The young man’s eyes dart between the phone and Lykaia’s baton. “The chain? What? Why?” His fingers rise toward it, hesitating just short of touching the links and the mist at his legs roils.

“Just do as she says,” Tamar pleads, her tone low but firm, holding his gaze for the first time. The line clicks on in Tamar’s ear, the dispatcher’s voice issuing, “Nine one one, what’s your emergency?”

The young man’s fingers brush the chain and he tugs it over his head, the gold glinting once in the streetlight before it slips from his hand and lands on the pavement with an audible thud. The mist erupts upward, swallowing him in a heartbeat. There is no scream, no struggle. The space where he stood is empty and at their feet, the chain lies coiled, gleaming dully as the mists disperse.

“Freak.” Lykaia says, shaking her head, though it does mean she does not move to touch the necklace and instead, placing a hand onto her ear, mentions to Tamar, her slightly turning towards her. “Mention it’s a dumb magical mistake. Report will be available later.” And then to temple comms “Temple. Need an arcanist to secure a dangerous, probably cursed item. Seems related to the mist. I’m not touching it. Beacon street. Just near One-five-seven. East.”

“Shit,” Tamar says, making good use of the cursing that she is starting to pick up here. She lets out a breath, the tension in her shoulders easing. The dispatcher on the other end of the phone warbles at her and she stammers into it. “Um. CFI Nachlied. It is just a mistake. Report will be available later.” “Understood,” comes the reply and the line goes dead. Her gaze drops once more to the chain which appears to sit innocently on the now mistless sidewalk. Stepping back, she distances herself from it deliberately. “Make sure they are quick,” she says to Lykaia quietly. “I do not want to be here if whatever that was decides he is coming back for it.”

Much to both of their relief the Temple team is quick to mobilize, on scene in minutes with the chain carefully bagged and whisked off, awaiting reports and research.