Yerin’s Wednesday evening odd encounter(Yerin)

January 29, 2026

Date: 2026-01-28 20:29

(Yerin’s Wednesday evening odd encounter(Yerin):Yerin)

[Wed Jan 28 2026]

On Beacon Street/span

It is night, about 15F(-9C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky. The mist is heaviest At High and Oakwood/span
There is a waxing gibbous moon.

It doesn’t seem like Owen was doing much out and about on the streets of New Haven on this rather cold night. He’s tugging his scarf and coat tight around himself, stepping out of his car and about to head himself indoors, into the warmth of heating after a brief shopping trip.

The surroundings suddenly shift, drawing Owen deeper – until the shadows part just enough to reveal Owen in a completely new space. He stands stranded amid what appears to be a warped version of some dreamscape – a Nightmare where everything looks distorted, and eerily so. The cold that was harrying him somehow manifests, around a lone figure clutching at their sides, long dark hair whipping about their face as they remain huddled, surrounded by darkness. In contrast, where they stand seems to be the only source of light.

As Owen’s surroundings shift, he was in midst of taking a step towards a door, stumbling when that door is no longer in front of him. Eyes going wide, “Wh-” he states, outloud with fear and concern lacing his voice. “Who..?” Blinking back his eyesight adjusting to that only source of light, trying to focus on his new reality and spotting that lone figure, “Hello?” He calls out into the dreamscape. “Are.. Are you okay?”

The figure resolves into a woman, her features pale to the point of translucence, as though the light around her leaches warmth rather than creating any lighting. Long, dark hair spills loose around her face, caught in an unseen wind, framing sharp cheekbones and a mouth set somewhere between apprehension and defiance. Her eyes are shadowed but striking, carrying a familiarity. A familiarity that only deepens when she casts her gaze upon Owen. “Took you long enough,” she mutters, trudging towards Owen, and with that movement, the lighting about her stays fixed, like she were being followed by a theatre’s limelight. “This snow sucks.” The snow in question are large, frosty aberrations. The cold is decided by how close one decides to wander to one of these. She seems anxious to stand too close.

“I know you wanted some popcorn, but I think it’s way too cold to do this now, don’t you think?” she chatters away, staring at Owen pleadingly, wanting him to agree. “I kinda just want to go home now.” When she gets closer, it gets a little chillier too – but not as much of a bother as one of those large frost amalgamations trudging around aimlessly around her and Owen.

“Y..yerin?” Owen states as he watches that figure get closer. The chill seeping into him, “What do you mean? What.. What popcorn?” He asks, eyebrows tilting in confusion. He’s close enough to his loft, where he lives with Yerin, but something about it all.. A suspicious step forward from him, lifting a gloved hand a bit defensively. “Sure.. We can.. yeah, go home? It’s..” A look around, and he can’t see the door anymore, to where he lives. “Wait.. It’s..”

pauses mid-step, staring at Owen in askance. “Yerin?” she repeats back at Owen, utterly confused. Yet when that name is mentioned either by her or Owen, that chill threatening to sink into their bones dissipates almost instantly, replaced by an edged warmth. Not as comfortable as warmth could be when facing the cold, but it’s the far better alternative to freezing out in this mindscape borne from someone’s experiences. “Huh. Neat.” She repeats the name quietly to herself and nods. “That’s what you meant when you said you had special tricks up your sleeves,” she chirps, stalking forward, and illuminating Owen in that same light that follows her. “And here I thought you were just being weird with some innuendo when you said you had special talents. You’re the real deal.” A puff of mist leaves her lips when she talks. Glancing over her shoulders, the smile over her features doesn’t last too long. “Yes. Please take me home, Owen,” she says back to him with an expectant pout. She turns around, staring off into nothingness. “But it’s so hard to see where to go…”

It’s like a blizzard is happening all around them, and they’re in a protective bubble from the worst of it. Or well, any of it.

She pauses mid-step, staring at Owen in askance. “Yerin?” she repeats back at Owen, utterly confused. Yet when that name is mentioned either by her or Owen, that chill threatening to sink into their bones dissipates almost instantly, replaced by an edged warmth. Not as comfortable as warmth could be when facing the cold, but it’s the far better alternative to freezing out in this mindscape borne from someone’s experiences. “Huh. Neat.” She repeats the name quietly to herself and nods. “That’s what you meant when you said you had special tricks up your sleeves,” she chirps, stalking forward, and illuminating Owen in that same light that follows her. “And here I thought you were just being weird with some innuendo when you said you had special talents. You’re the real deal.” A puff of mist leaves her lips when she talks. Glancing over her shoulders, the smile over her features doesn’t last too long. “Yes. Please take me home, Owen,” she says back to him with an expectant pout. She turns around, staring off into nothingness. “But it’s so hard to see where to go…”

It’s like a blizzard is happening all around them, and they’re in a protective bubble from the worst of it. Or well, any of it.

“I…” Owen thinks it through, stopping in his tracks at realizing this Yerin, non-Yerin thing is addressing him. “What do you mean? What special tricks?” A gloved hand comes up, rubbing it over his eyes, like he’s tired, and he’s trying to rub sleep out of his eyes. As she stalks forward, that light bathes Owen in it, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He tells her, honestly, and openly. “Are you okay? It’s.. kinda cold. I know you just got home from work, but, maybe you’re just tired?” He says, creeping a bit closer now, still attentive, and a bit nervous all at once. “Are you messing with me?”

takes a small step back from Owen, giving him a strange smile, the same ones worn when someone might burst into some laughter. “You know. Like this one that keeps us warm. They uh, call that gifted. That’s you. You’re real /gifted/,” she murmurs, her voice heavy with syrupy approval. She moves closer and clings to Owen’s arm without much thought, deciding he’s the saviour – even if it seems that somehow it’s Owen’s fault in the first place they’re here. “I’m okay now. Now that you’re here with me.” She even smells familiar to Owen, heavy and awash with something that activates a sense of longing upon with him. Feels familiar too, down to every curve that she advertises to him by being this close, clinging to his arm. She suddenly doesn’t seem to be wearing very much. Just the bare minimum . “I don’t know why you downplay yourself so much…” she sighs, nodding forward. “Come on. Get moving. Take me home.” Where she nods is the same as elsewhere – a whole lot of nothingness. But that light above them shines down like they’re the stars to some stage play, following their every moment and movement to an invisible audience.

“This..” Owen thinks it over, trying to really decipher the words that this not-Yerin is saying to him. “I don’t know what you mean? What’s keeping us warm?” Eyes scan over towards her, as she clings to his arm, taking in the scent, the closeness, every curve that’s being advertised. He’s not one to particularly be resistant to the adverts that are sent his way, especially when she seems suddenly not wearing much in the way of clothing. A shudder courses through him, something tugging at the back of his mind, “But..” another look around, towards where he believes that door is. “Right.. Let’s.. go..” Shifting his weight, he begins stepping that way, towards the south-west, with this woman in tow, making sure she’s clinging right to his arm.

Not-Yerin gives Owen a bit of a frown, tilting her head as she weighs one of those odd, unblinking stares at him. “Well, you are,” she insists, keeping her claws clung to one of her arms, refusing to detach from him unless much force was imposed upon her. Instead of red on those fingers, there’s blue. Patient as any statue can be, she allows Owen to get his bearings, watching and waiting until his assessment over her has concluded. She smiles at that uncertainty voiced by him. “Maybe it’s this way?” She points a finger outwards – again in no particular direction, save the one they were already facing them. Once the pair moves, the light moves along with them, laser focused. “Say. You’re pretty good at baseball, isn’t that what you said?” she asks, leaning her head against his shoulder. This version of a woman Owen’s familiar with is shorter, just tall enough she can rest her head against his shoulder with no problem. “And why do you like popcorn so much? Or was that just something you wanted to share with me? And-” She doesn’t seem to need to breathe while shotgunning these queries at Owen. “Is red and green really your favourite colour combination? Or was that just something for Christmas?”

Around them, those hulking figures that trudge about seem to notice the pair’s movements as well, and odd noises emanate from them as they slowly trail after them.

Owen/span is doing his best to not pay much attention to the hulking figures, hoping that they’ll ignore him, if he ignores them. He’s walking alongside with Not-Yerin, still a little confused by everything. But, the warmth works for him. The closeness. It seeps into him, pushing him along a little bit. “That way?” Following the pointing figure, noticing for the first time she’s got `#afffblue fingers, and not the typical red she wears. “Did you change your nails?” He asks her, curiously, but trying to get something out of her at the same time. “Trying something out, hm?” As he walks, in an entirely different direction than pointed out, he chats, “Popcorn’s a nice snack, can’t say it’s my favourite, and.. red’s definitely my favourite colour, yeah.”

Not-Yerin’s attention lingers on his question, her gaze dropping to her hands as though she’s nly just noticed them herself. Pale fingers curl slowly, flexing, the nails an ordinary hue that seems wrong on her somehow. “Did I?” she answers lightly, a faint crooked smile forming over her lips. “Maybe I wanted to see what it felt like. Kinda seems to fit the theme,” she mentions. “Different things feel different here,” she tells Owen in that odd voice of hers, belonging and not belonging to her. It just feels different, as she herself said.

Her eyes lift again, catching the strange glow of the nightmare, and she gives a soft hum at his chatter. “Popcorn’s great!” she agrees, voice warm and close, indulgent even. “But favourites change all the time, don’t they?” There’s a briefest of pause, and she squints as something comes into view. “Hey. That’s yours isn’t it?” She points again – this time at a baseball bat and a black ballistic vest just lying on the curb before their path. And further beyond, something stands there ominously, making gurgled noises. The figures that were trailing after them appear to have taken a shortcut to cut them off. Not-Yerin’s grip on one of Owen’s arms tightens.

“I’m scared.”

There’s a frown on Owen’s features as Not-Yerin talks to him, but he’s paying attention to it all, trying to pick out some word or phrase that might be odd, or.. just entirely different. A change in her voice, something in her inflection. Owen isn’t catching anything obviously, so he continues to walk, to lead Not-Yerin ‘home’. “I guess they do, huh?” Agreeing with her assessment of things feeling different. “I do feel.. a little less cold, all of a sudden.

“Very true, favourites do change all the time. Movies, foods, songs.” Pausing in his tracks he spots the vest and baseball yet, “Yeah.. Those are mine.” Walking up and over to them, he begins to bend, keeping Not-Yerin clinging to his arm, in order to lift the bat, and the vest at the same time. “I.. don’t know how those got there,” he admits, softly.

Starting to begin the process of putting the vest on, watching the creatures in front of him.

Starting to begin the process of putting the vest on, watching the creatures in front of him. (fix)

There isn’t anything overtly obvious about Not-Yerin, other than she’s someone he might know. Just with oddities all about her. From her voice, to her shadowed eyes, down to the polish of her fingernails. The familiar touch of her hands to his forearms recede once the armaments become donned. Taking a step back, she blinks, wide-eyed and anxious, but ever close to Owen from behind, not wanting to stray too far, lest he get lost in the darkness. Once the vest is on, Owen just transforms. He’s no longer some college kid. He’s clad in plate armour from head to toe. Even the baseball bat in his arms has transformed into something much menacing: A two-handed morning star, wrought from heavy dark iron. The figure trundles forward, a huge glacier with stalactites around its ponderous form. Two jagged ice rimes serve as its arms, dragging itself forward right at Owen and Not-Yerin. It already has one of those giant slabs of ice raised in the air, with the clear intent to smash its quarry into red stains upon the snow. A hushed voice at Owen’s ear urges:

“Parry it!”

“Shit!” Owen grunts as that weapon comes crashing towards them both, and Owen works off instinct, the hushed voice urging him onwards and his own wants, needs, and a will to live. Up that two-handed morning star comes, hefting it with relative ease for the not particularly largely built man. A swing of his star against that arm, doing what he’s told, and parrying that blow, his teeth rattling inside his helmet with the force.

“What.. What are you?” He shouts through gritted teeth. Hefting that morning star in front of himself to provide protection for both him, and Not-Yerin both. Without waiting any longer, he steps forward now, looking to smash his weapon against this vile creature.

Cold iron meets colder ice with a sound like the world cracking. The morning star connects fully, its weight biting deep into the creature’s moving arm. For a heartbeat, everything holds. Strain, frost, the shriek of ice stressing and crackling, before fractures spiderweb outward from the point of impact. The monstrosity staggers, its massive form splintering as chunks shear away and collapse into the snow below.

Then the hulking behemoth simply gives up its shape, exploding through ruptures. An exultant cheer rises from Not-Yerin from behind, clinging at Owen’s arm once more. Her mouth is moving, but nothing can be heard. She leans in to press a kiss to a knight’s helmet, but can’t commit to the act. The world just snaps.

Owen jolts awake in his own bedroom in a cold sweat with someone staring down at him.