Date: 2026-10-10 21:29

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(Adrian’s odd encounter (SRLacey))

[Sat Oct 10 2026]

In The Hometown Diner’s Dining Room
This room is both cozy and fairly modern in style, with oak panelling along the bottom half of the walls, while the top has been painted a rich, bright shade of white. Open windows on the eastern wall look out over the diner’s pergola and firepit, offering a gorgeous view past that of the horizon to diners. The tables are spread out around the room so that the waitstaff can easily make their way to all diners, and the smell of home cooking fills the air at all hours of the day.

It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. There is a waxing crescent moon.

Sitting at a table within Hometown diner, talking to Natalie. They seem to be in the middle of a dinner and having a conversation. “Well, it is important to know how out of sync I am. I haven’t really tested myself since my injury, I just have been babying myself. That won’t do as any good in this town.” Adrian concludes, picking up his burger and taking a nice, hardy bite.

Natalie pokes some of her salad with her fork, spearing leaf and crouton and chicken all together for a hearty bite. Clearly she doesn’t do the dainty nibbles for Adrian. Washing down the garlicky goodness with her rootbeer float she nods at Adrian until her mouth is no longer full. “Right. So I know you’re just groaning about it, but you -are- going to come out with me,” she says in her bossy voice and a soft smirk.

A phone begins to ring somewhere in the diner. Not Adrian’s. Not Natalie’s. The sound comes from an empty booth a few tables away, where a battered black cellphone sits beside an abandoned coffee cup that neither of them saw anyone leave behind. It rings three times, stops, and immediately starts again. The screen displays no number, only UNKNOWN CALLER.

Should either of them answer, a man’s breathless voice comes through beneath a wash of static and what sounds suspiciously like branches snapping nearby. “Hi. Sorry. This is going to sound bad.” A pause follows, then a quieter, considerably less confident, “I think I’m lost in the woods.” Something cracks loudly on his end. “And before you ask, yes, I know you’re not supposed to follow weird noises. I followed the weird noise.” Another pause. “Twice.”

“Oh of course my love.” Adrian says with a growing grin on his face, “I mean, I am the journalist here, who would I be if I turned away a chance at adventure?” He lifts up his cup of coffee to take a large sip from his cup. At first, Adrian ignores the ringing phone. I mean, who wouldn’t ignore it at first? But after a minute or so, the likely annoying ringtone draws Adrian’s attention, “Who left there phone and why won’t it stop ringing? Very rude.” He grumbles away as he pushes himself to his feet, making it over to the phone. He means to swipe away the call, but accidentally presses the speakerphone button, broadcasting the call to the dinner. He narrows his eyes and only gives a, “Hello?”

Natalie was also ignoring the phone because that’s none of her business. But something in the ring irks Adrian enough to go turn it off. When he ends up picking up the line though, she turns in her booth seat, cocking her head to the side in quiet interest, listening to the man on the other side. “Why does it sound like a phone call I’d get from Lacey?” she mutters out loud, though not loud enough to cover the sound of the panicked person’s voice. “Who is it?” she asks, her voice lifting to Adrian then and giving a little turning hand motion as if to usher him to ask more important questions than just ‘hello’.

With the pondering, Adrian indeed does ask into the phone, “Lacey? Is that you? Or one of the cousins?” It seems Adrian seems to generally agree with Natalie’s assessment of the situation, peering down at the caller ID at the phone.

“Is that you?” Natalie gives Adrian an incredulous look, since the voice is at least decidedly male.

Nothing more than a grin approaches Adrian’s face as he glances over to Natalie and gives her a playful wink.

The voice on the phone goes quiet for a second, before speaking again and sounding slightly offended. “Uh. My name’s Eric. I was hiking out past the western woods before it got dark, and I took a shortcut this girl recommended. Western woods..” There is a rustle, followed by another sharp crack somewhere behind him. “The shortcut was bad.” His breathing picks up as something gives a long, low scrape against a tree on his end of the call. “Okay. So. Slight update. I don’t think I’m alone anymore.” There’s a moment of pause. “And whatever’s out here just laughed at me.” Another pause, and then a panicked, “I DON’T THINK BEARS DO THAT.”

The line goes dead.

Natalie runs her fingers through the hair on the crown of her head while exhaling thoughtfully. “Did Lacey just send a poor boy into the Moore woods?” She wonders out loud to Adrian, not sounding particularly frightened for the man, but rather slightly annoyed that they are now semi-witnesses to his plight.

“Ummmm.” Adrian murmurs as he looks down at the phone as the line cuts out. He looks back to Natalie with a faint shrug touching his shoulders, “I mean, it sounds like that Eric fellow might be in trouble. I can’t say I am terribly motivated to go trudge through the woods to find a lost tourist, but it might be a good chance to get out and stretch our legs. I don’t know, what do you think?”

“I could spin an illusion and really make him think he’s tripping balls,” Natalie suggests a little wickedly to Adrian. “But one that maybe leads him back out to the road at least?” She shrugs, shoving another big forkful of lettuce into her mouth. “Could be fun!” she says, mouth only slightly full.

Lowering his voice, since they are still in the diner, Adrian seems to agree however, “Yes, some nice delicious fear is always a nice dessert for sure.” He says with a touch of amusement in his voice.

Before either of them can settle the question, the abandoned phone gives a cheerful little ding. A text from UNKNOWN fills the screen.

ERIC: Good news- I found a trail. Bad news- something is standing on it. Worse news- I waved and it waved back with too many arms. Please come get me.

A second message arrives almost immediately.

ERIC: Also I am reconsidering every shortcut I’ve ever taken.

Picking up his ‘newly acquired’ phone and shoving it into his pocket, Adrian makes his way back over to the booth they were sitting at and reaches over to take one last farewell bite to his burger, barely a few bites into it. Then his dark gaze turns over to Natalie, offering his hand to her, “Shall we go for an evening stroll under the star filled night sky?”

“Alright, dessert it is then,” Natalie agrees, taking a long drink from her rootbeer float before she has to say goodbye to it for a different sweet treat. Then she’s taking Adrian’s offered hand and slipping out from the booth. “Now they say romance is dead,” she quips with a crooked smile.

While Natalie surrenders her drink, Adrian does not. His coffee comes with him and has no qualms about taking the mug with him. Together, they head out the door and start the journey in the general southwest direction towards the Moore woods, where this ‘Eric’ is likely at.

The phone in Adrian’s pocket gives another cheerful ding before they’ve quite made it to the door.

ERIC: Update- it moved.

Three little dots appear. Vanish. Reappear.

ERIC: Actually I moved. It just turned its head around to keep watching me. Pretty sure heads aren’t supposed to do that.

A final message follows.

ERIC: Please hurry. I would really like to remain a civilian, I am questioning my life choices, and I’m way too far in this forest.

Ding, ding, ding. The phone makes all kinds of noises in his pocket, but Adrian pays no heed to them. Instead he points skyward as he walks with Natalie, “It really is a lovely night tonight.” There seems to be some risk the pair might even get sidetracked.

“At least we can see more than five feet ahead now,” Natalie agrees, leaning against Adrian’s arm like they’re out for a leisurely stroll. She exhales, testing if she can see her breath in the dropping temperatures of the October evening. “You know, I should check to see if there are any crabapple trees in the Moore woods still dropping fruit. I could make something with them.” It’s picturesque. Gilmore Girls scene even as Natalie kicks at stray fallen leaves with her foot idly, meandering along with Adrian.

The western woods are considerably less interested in being picturesque. Somewhere beyond the next stand of trees comes a sharp crack of branches, followed by a man’s distant, thoroughly panicked, “NOPE!” A few seconds later, something large crashes through the undergrowth in their general direction. The phone in Adrian’s pocket finally gives one more ding.

ERIC: If you hear screaming, that’s me. Please follow it. I think this thing has friends.

“Like a pie or something? Crab apples are a little rough, I know some people eat them with salt and bake with them, but I never had any of those.” Adrian says idly as they casually make their way onward, surprising towards the right direction still, for now. He does take the moment though to wrap his arm around Natalie’s shoulder to help with a little warmth on this cool evening. When they get closer, Adrian doesn’t check the phone. He hasn’t so far. He has an arm around Natalie and the other is holding his still very hot coffee… Weird it is still very hot. However the screaming draws his attention and they continue walking that way as he takes a deep breath of the cool, crisp night air.

“You’d like what I make,” Natalie reassures Adrian without giving him much more info than that. The crashing sound of something large coming at them doesn’t seem to make the pair frightened, though the dark haired woman does decide to whistle loudly a jaunty tune as if drawing even more attention to them in the growing darkness. The arm not against Adrian is free for her hand to make some idle movements, gesturing with her fingers in seemingly random movements for now.

The crashing abruptly stops. For several seconds, the woods go completely still around them. Then a young man stumbles backward through the brush and nearly trips over a root, leaves tangled in his hair and one sleeve torn at the elbow. He spots Adrian and Natalie and relief floods his face. “Oh, thank God. Normal people.” Behind him, something shifts between two trees-tall, pale, and mostly hidden behind a trunk that is nowhere near wide enough to conceal it. One long arm slowly reaches around the tree and gives them a small, almost polite wave with spindly, sharply tipped fingers.

Eric doesn’t turn around. “It’s doing the fucking wave thing again, isn’t it?”

Not immediately acknowledging the waving hand with his words, but his dark eyes don’t break from it. Instead, Adrian notes, “Arms? You are seeing things. It is dark, it is just a tree branch waving in the breeze. You should get a closer look, it is just a harmless tree.” In his hand however, his coffee continues to get hotter and hotter to the point of boiling now, “What do you even think you are seeing? The boogie man? Grow up, you aren’t a child.”

Though there’s a full man that stumbles out of the brush in front of Natalie and Adrian, she barely affords him a look before she’s looking behind him at that ‘waving tree’. “Not very polite to avoid people who wave,” she says with a distracted little frown, bringing her eyes back to Eric for a moment. “If it weren’t a tree, of course,” she amends with a soft quirk of her mouth. She looks back over him again to the woods. “An almost… cute tree,” she continues distractedly, cocking her head to the side in curiosity.

The “tree” apparently takes offense at this assessment. It unfolds from behind the trunk with a series of soft, wet pops, revealing something roughly human-shaped if whoever assembled it had only received verbal instructions. Pale bark stretches over a narrow torso, four long arms hang nearly to its knees, and a smooth wooden face splits open around a mouth crowded with small, human-looking teeth. Two black eyes blink separately. Then it lifts all four hands and waves with considerably more enthusiasm.

Eric stares at it. “See? Arms. I feel extremely vindicated right now.”

Eric’s vindication lasts approximately two seconds. One of those long arms snaps forward with startling speed, coils around his middle, and yanks him backward off his feet. “OH, COME ON-” is all he manages before he’s hauled against the creature’s narrow chest, his legs kicking several feet above the ground. The thing continues waving at Adrian and Natalie with two of its remaining hands, apparently unwilling to let a kidnapping interfere with basic manners. Or perhaps to also snatch them up as well. It seems undecided.

“Well we tried.” Adrian concludes as he keeps focused on this odd tree creature, before noting, “Do you think it has humanoid organs or do you think it is much more plant based? A proper dissection would really only conclude that I believe.” He explains to Natalie as he takes his arm from around Natalie’s shoulders and reaches into his pocket pulling out a piece of brass.. His lighter. He flips it open with a flick of his wrist and the highly flammable wick ignites on its own accord with the assistance of a little magic. The flame, flickering against the darkness and likely something that could possibly be intimating to a potentially flammable tree.

“Definitely plant based,” Natalie responds with her opinion, discussing with Adrian like they don’t have a potential ticking timer of a situation in front of them. Nerves of steel or hearts of stone, it’s hard to tell with these two. But then the dark haired woman suggests something other than ‘walk away’ or ‘burn it down’. She murmurs sort of to herself and Adrian, “I wonder what its favourite treat is?” There’s a moment where she considers what might work as a distraction to a giant waving tree creature and then her purple ‘taloned’ hand is moving again, making a few short and swift motions with her fingers and suddenly from behind the tree-creature and a little to the left, there is an echo of giggling children, a hint of a shape of two small figures darting through the trees in the forest. Like the tale of Hansel and Gretel… what could two delectable little children be doing in the woods all alone? The sweaty, complaining man in the tree’s grip seems to grow a suspicious rash along his exposed skin, suggesting he might pass along something positively virulant to anything that tried to eat him. Or maybe it’s just a trick of the dappled light through the leaves of this forest at night.

The creature’s black eyes settle first on Adrian’s flame, and all four arms draw noticeably closer to its body. Apparently, whatever it is, it possesses a healthy respect for fire. Then children’s laughter drifts through the trees. Its head rotates toward the sound with another unpleasant series of pops, while its grip on Eric loosens just enough for him to drop several inches. It looks back at Eric, notices the rash spreading across him, then slowly holds the man farther away from itself like someone discovering mold on a sandwich.

“Okay, that’s insulting,” Eric wheezes.

Another peal of childish laughter sounds from the woods. The creature abruptly drops him and goes skittering after it on all fours, branches cracking beneath its strange, scrambling gait. Eric hits the ground with a grunt, immediately scrambling toward Adrian and Natalie. “I’m not saying I wanted it to eat me,” he pants, scratching at himself and the mystery of a rash, “but it could’ve looked a little less disgusted.”

Natalie couldn’t roll her eyes harder at the kid with his priorities all wonky. Considering the effort she used to create that pocket of escape for him, her eyes darken while considering the recent victim. “Best you get out of her and to a lighted, well used road before something else snaps you up,” she warns him in her slightly husky tone.

As the creature scampers off, Adrian snaps shut his lighter, letting it extinguish the flame. He reaches into his pocket and tosses the phone that he took from the dinner over to Eric casually before turning to look upon Natalie, “Well done my love. It seems to have a taste for small things that make poor choices. How about lets head out of here before it decides it wants to come back for a snack. I didn’t bring my sword, so chopping it up this evening is probably out of the question.” He says with a smirk.

Eric catches the phone against his chest with both hands, looking between the pair like he’s only just realized his rescuers may actually concern him more than the monster did. “Yep. Road. Lights. People. Excellent plan.” He takes two hurried steps before stopping to stare at the phone. “Wait. This isn’t mine.” From deeper in the woods comes another distant peal of children’s laughter, followed by an unmistakably irritated wooden shriek. Eric decides this mystery can wait and bolts toward the road.

Behind Adrian and Natalie, something gives one final crack among the trees. A pale hand briefly emerges from behind a trunk and offers them one last, considerably less enthusiastic wave before disappearing into the darkness.

Offering his arm once more to Natalie, Adrian asks her in his raspy voice, “Shall we head home now? I think we had enough adventure for this evening.”

“Enough adventure but not enough rootbeer float,” Natalie complains, but threads her arm through Adrian’s all the same to head back home.

Date: 2026-11-02 16:52

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(Callalily’s odd encounter (SRChristopher))

[Mon Nov 2 2026]

In a trailer bedroom.
This room is almost entirely taken up by the built in murphy bed, desk and wardrobe, with only a narrow space between allowing room to traverse when the bed is down. Extra drawers provide further storage beneath the bed, and a shelf above the desk has space for books or nicknacks. The walls have been painted a crisp white and a few extra shelves have been built in to contain various leafy plants. Strung across the roof are a couple of colorful Mexican banner flags with fairy lights interwoven around them and over the window a sarong dyed a deep blue has been tacked up. The floor is a cheap laminate meant to resemble dark wood.

It is afternoon, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few thin white clouds in the sky.

What a goddamn lazy dog Callalily is. She’s in FULL lounge mode, stretched across her bed and toggling between texting, attempting to beat an annoying Candy Crush level, and talking shit to her Wildwood brethren. Whatever she just heard leads to an eyeroll, and she sits up, moving into a cross-legged position.

As usual the days around here seem to either be completely insane or almost deafeningly quiet and it seems like today is going to be one of the latter. As someone watches the little pink heart counter drop to zero the level claims victory again. The air in the trailer is fresh today, a light breeze outside keeping things moving around and even so it remains unseasonably warm for the beginnings of November. But it’s the communications apps, texts, and lines out to Wildwood that will grab her attention, now. A text message pops up on the phone screen, the little window dipping down over the Candy Crush window to alert Callalily.

“Idiot scout lost in woods. Rough retrieval.” The line is short, and simple as the Collective doesn’t really do much for the fancy shit. Rough Retrieval? Sounds like a rescue and a hard lesson built into one, maybe. The text is not a group message, so there’s not telling if others have received it or not.

As usual the days around here seem to either be completely insane or almost deafeningly quiet and it seems like today is going to be one of the latter. As Callalily watches the little pink heart counter drop to zero the level claims victory again. The air in the trailer is fresh today, a light breeze outside keeping things moving around and even so it remains unseasonably warm for the beginnings of November. But it’s the communications apps, texts, and lines out to Wildwood that will grab her attention, now. A text message pops up on the phone screen, the little window dipping down over the Candy Crush window to alert Callalily.

“Idiot scout lost in woods. Rough retrieval.” The line is short, and simple as the Collective doesn’t really do much for the fancy shit. Rough Retrieval? Sounds like a rescue and a hard lesson built into one, maybe. The text is not a group message, so there’s not telling if others have received it or not.

“YES!” Callalily yells out loud in her house as she defeats the stubborn level, pumping her first happily. Alas, elation turns to irritation as her phone pings, and she swaps out of the game, signing as she reviews the very short and not particularly informative message. “Do I…have to?” she ponders to herself, but alas, yes. Have to, no, should, yes. Callalily shoots back a text requesting at least one or two more details and hauls herself off the bed.

Callalily heads to a trunk in the room and pulls out an all-black outfit and some gear, quickly stripping off her inside pants and changing into something more suited to the woods. Grabbing her bow and knife, she slings one over her shoulder and the other into the top of her boot, then checks her texts to see if there’s a location.

Getting dressed doesn’t take long, Callalily’s done it a million times before. Checking her geat, testing the string of the bow and securing the knife so she doesn’t slice open her own ankle. Check,check, and check. The phone offers some further information, now requested and now that she’s provided a repsonse in the affirmative. There’s a vague GPS link provided, the kind that give a generalized location but nothing too pinpoint, and with the magicks that surround the town these are so often only accurate within .. well, they work sometimes.

“South of Mariner’s Highway, last known location off of Dead Man’s Walk. Use caution, this area borders property owned by the Wilsons.” Not supremely informative but better than nothing for now, and certainly more useful than the GPS tag from the scout’s equipment. For now, nothing else comes and the phone goes silent, but for random pop-up ads that blare out tempting offers for Kingshot, or Jetpack Joyride.

Once she’s suited and booted, Callalily checks her phone and sighs. “Juju is annoying but it does have its uses.” She pockets the phone and heads to her back door, sliding it upen and stepping out. How convenient that Mariner’s Highway is right there, and Callalily picks it up, moving swiftly towards Dead Man’s walk. She keeps to the trees on one side, not really wanting anyone to call the fucking cops on a woman who is

checks notes

carrying a bow and arrow and looks like she’s going hunting in the countryside that is right there. Once she hits Dead Man, she scoots on past the Wilson’s ostentatious home with only one forlorn glance. Hitting the spot where she needs to turn off, Callalily checks for tracks or for anything visible through the trees.

Skirting past the large manor home that’s been built down deep in the south woods, Callalily will not only pick up a trail, she’ll pick a scent. Further down toward where Dead Man turns into Wildwood Way she’ll pick up the sight of some tracks as they break away from the dirt road and into the trees leading even further south into those too-deep woods. Broken branches and snapped underbrush, leaves pressed into softer earth from a footfall. Someone definitely came this way. The smell of a human man she can also pick up easily, and something else. If she’s ever been to Market … she’ll eventually recognize it. Strang, inhuman, acrid and somehow just WRONG – that’s the smell of a Goblin. They don’t often poke their noses outside of their little shadowy corner of the world, so what’s one doing out here?

Lucky for Callalily, her nose is solid even in this form, and she scents the air before turning to follow. Once that stronger smell hits her, though, she mumbles “Oh, fuck me” as she nocks an arrow and gets her bow ready, though she keeps it fairly lax for now. A full draw isn’t necessary…yet. Moving forward, she’s careful to keep her footsteps as muffled as possible, not really wanting to draw the attention of whatever is stinking up the joint out here.

Moving into the woods more cautiously now, Callalily will find more signs of passing. The further they go, the more they’ll find. Scrapes that brush across a tree trunk, more footfalls and now more outright pushing of things through the short trail that make it light up like a christmas tree to her eyes. the smell of both seems to come stronger and stronger the more they move through the woods and then a new thing hits the air. Iron, tangy like copper Callalily is sure to recognize the scent of blood- and a lot of it based on how heavily it sits on the air. Each quiet step only brings a fresh lungful until she can barely smell the forest for the trees.

As Callalily moves quietly through the trees and underbrush, her sharp gaze catalogs everything that she passes. What a lucky break for her that whatever did this left a trail as wide as a freeway – having to search for someone is a much bigger pain in the ass than being led right to them. When that tang hits her, she stops, closing her eyes and sighing before moving towards the source of the smell. Her shoulders are set and she’s braced, clearly expecting the worst. All talking to herself has ended because of, you know, the attempt to be stealthy, but Callalily’s expressions speak volumes.

Pushing through the trees, the Wolfy woman will take a knee as they approach what appears to be a small clearing in the woods, natural and not made by man. Approaching, she can already see now the source of that smell as her own annoyances are become confirmed. The clearing is mostly empty, but for the shadowy shapes of two things: One is the body of a man, supine on the ground and splayed out as if he’d been poleaxed and simply fell backward. The other is a short, squat thing wrapped in black robes hidden by the shadow and the cowl that deeply covers its face. Which can’t be seen because it’s buried in the stomach and guts of what is almost certainly the now-dead scout Callalily was sent to search for. Rough Retrieval indeed.

Sensing something, the robed head of that almost tiny creature suddenly lifts. Barely three feet tall Callalily might guess, but without being able to see features or details what she can see is large, too large ova-shaped yellow eyes that might take almost a comical amount of space inside the cowl of that hood. They gleam in the night, and turn to stare right at Callalily.

Game recognize game, and Callalily is alos sometimes a player in the snack on the body of some idiot who made a bad choice in the woods games. Gray eyes lock with the yellow of the creature who is currently enjoying a delicious dinner of tripas and she tilts her head, pondering for a moment. Alas, Callalily is no hero, and since the scout is dead anyways, she calls it a day and starts to move backwards, keeping her eyes on the little creature as she moves.

Through the shadows those yellow eyes watch Callalily slowly retreat. She shouldn’t be able to see it, the further she moves back though? She can SEE those teeth as the smile too big for such a small face spreads. Spindly, needle teeth like some kind of pirhanna covered in slick and blood. They watch long after she’s slunk back into the comfort of her own business. Somewhere back near the highway – Callalily will hear the soft yet somehow screechign sound of a maniacal giggle following her through the woods .. and all the way home.

Date: 2026-10-31 11:09

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(Callum’s odd encounter (SRSly))

[Sat Oct 31 2026]

In an oceanside cottage bedroom
Warm golden hardwood floors stretch across the master bedroom of this
bohemian oceanside cottage, where a king-sized bed with a polished
golden wood frame and plush cream, pale blue and gray bedding piled
high with pillows anchors the south wall. To the east, a large window
frames sweeping views of the Atlantic Ocean, filling the room with soft
coastal light and the feel of sea air.

A door to the west opens to the bathroom and another to the north leads
toward the kitchen, while a remote-controlled big-screen television
descends from the ceiling for movie nights, and disappears when not
in use.

It is morning, about 55F(12C) degrees,

On a late, lazy morning after far too much Halloween fun, Karma may just be scrolling when an incessant series of texts starts blowing up her phone. It’s Ivy, the college student she connected with for about two weeks in September, before the sudden flood situation scared her badly enough to transfer out of Greystone.

[Oct 31 11:15]Ivy: Hey Karma, how was Halloween?
Oct 31 11:15]Ivy: Long time sorry. Really need to talk.
Oct 31 11:15]Ivy: Please respond ASAP.

Sprawled diagonally across her bed, Karma has committed the better part of the morning to finding a position in which nothing aches, with very little success. A dull, familiar pain sits deep through her hips and thighs, compounded by the unpleasant throb behind her eyes whenever she makes the mistake of opening them. One arm is tucked beneath her pillow, the other lying loose across the sheets, a little square of gauze still taped into the crook of her elbow from her hematology appointment.

It takes her a while to dredge up the energy to check her phone, fishing the device over with a scoop of fingers, face lifted enough to let FaceID unlock before she swipes into the text thread.

Sprawled diagonally across her bed, Karma has committed the better part of the morning to finding a position in which nothing aches, with very little success. A dull, familiar pain sits deep through her hips and thighs, compounded by the unpleasant throb behind her eyes whenever she makes the mistake of opening them. One arm is tucked beneath her pillow, the other lying loose across the sheets, a little square of gauze still taped into the crook of her elbow from her hematology appointment.

It takes her a while to dredge up the energy to check her phone, fishing the device over with a scoop of fingers, face lifted enough to let FaceID unlock before she swipes into the text thread.

31 11:27AM] Karma: hey babe. what’s up? everything ok?

The very second that Karma replies, her iPhone starts buzzing with a FaceTime video request. It’s weird, probably — it’s not like she and Ivy have really spoken since she opted out of Greystone. The green-eyed blonde was a nice enough girl, and with excellent fashion taste, but not that much in common. She likes Taylor Swift, Sabrina Carpenter, and Pumpkin Spice Lattes. Karma likes spooky ghost stories and horror dolls. Ivy thought that kind of thing was eww, scary. It was really a surprise to no one that the flood freaked her out badly enough to leave town for good — she was never a local, to begin with. Still, right now, she’s calling. A brand new ghost to haunt the Swann, although this one’s still alive.

Karma’s pinches her brows together, drowsy eyes taking in the reflected image of herself as the FaceTime ring trills a few rounds. She grimaces at the shadows under her eyes, fingers dragging through her hair. She swipes to accept, and nestles her cheek into the pillow with the phone held at a flattering angle, mouth spreading into a dimpled affair of a lazy smile. “Hey, pretty girl,” she murmurs, voice still rough with lethargy, and a hint of a flirtatious lilt. Whatever their differences, her interests have always been remarkably flexible when a pretty girl is involved, and she’d been perfectly willing to develop strong opinions about Sabrina Carpenter if it meant getting a new eater. “You miss my face that bad? You could’ve warned me and dropped a pin. You know I’d have taken a trip to see you.”

Doubtless Ivy is a pretty girl, if a little on the basic side. She looks to have recently had an upper blepharoplasty, fairly young for it, but monied, and a trend is a trend. Charcoal liner emphasises her brand new eyelids, and pink gloss sparkles up her pouty, filler-injected lips. “Heyyyy, Karmaaa!” she greets on video, and seems keen to match the Swann’s flirtatious energy, but there’s a subtle nervousness to the flatter of her lashes; her green eyes dart back and forth towards the corner of the screen, then back to her former two-week acquaintance. “Oh my god, it’s so good to see you … you look great, great …” When she smiles, there’s a slightly tense purse to her mouth. “Umm, hey, so, I’m so sorry, I have been meaning to catch up with you fooorrrever,” she claims. “But I wanted to call you right now about the … the … oh my god, what did you call it? Your philosophical society? The one about, like, death. Umm yeah, I … I reeeally need to talk to you about that.”

“Baby, you don’t have to lie to me. I nkow I look ate the fuck up, but it’s whaaateevs…” Karma gives a quiet, throaty little laugh, though her gaze follows that repeated flick toward the corner of Ivy’s screen, her smile fading a touch into something akin to mild concern, picking up on thse vibes. “The Society for the Philosophical Enlightenment of Young Minds,” she supplies smoothly, willfully refusing to use its shortened form of simply the Salon, because it amuses her so. “Yeah. We did the funeral. What’s up?” She shifts against her pillow, easing her free hand beneath her cheek and itching at her scalp carefully with the tips of her fingernails, attention lingering on Ivy’s mouth, instinctively worrying her own bottom lip. “You seem a little nervous, babe. You good to talk? Tell me what’s going on. Maybe I can like, help.”

“Yeah so … okay,” Ivy tries, working her way to the heart of the matter. Although she doesn’t normally have a vocal fry, the visible signs of anxiety in her expression permeate her voice, too. “I know this is gonna sound crazy, but I think I actually met a vampire? And I remember some people in your club would talk about stuff like that, like unliving people, and I always thought that was a joke. But now I’m starting to remember stuff? Like about Greystone. And about the flood. And I legit haven’t even done Ayahuasca since my trip to Machu Picchu last summer because I’m only practicing altered states of consciousness with trained spiritual guides now, so I know it’s not that, and I’m just really freaking out.” She frowns, or tries to. She’s only twenty years old, but has already injected out any risk of lines in her forehead. “And I just really need to know if you like, remember anything too. Like do you remember anything weird from the week before the flood?”

Karma’s fingers still against her scalp, her bottom lip slipping free of her teeth as Ivy works her way through that explanation. For a moment, she just watches her, then carefully pushes herself higher against the pillows, a faint wince pinching her mouth. “Okay, babe. Slow down a little. I’m listening.” There’s none of that teasing lilt left in her voice, though she keeps it soft, thumb smoothing absently along the edge of her phone case. “Can you like, tell me where you are right now? And like, what do you remember about that? Why do you feel like you met a vampire?” She hesitates, visibly considering something while she drums her nails against the back of her phone case. “And this person you met… what happened that made you think vampire? Are you away from them right now? Where are you anyway?” A hand creeps over toward her iPad off screen, idly starting to tap at her pass code, then roll through contacts.

Her finger still over KING SLEAZE – DO NOT CONTACT AGAIN, then scrolls down the list, and back up between a few Orderite contacts, CRAZY EYES COOCHIE, and RICH FLEX THUGBUCKS listed in her contacts.

“Yeah I’m in New York. I transferred to NYU,” says Ivy, casually bragging on her academic upgrade. It’s probably not intentional, however, the way her unfocused green eyes keep darting back and forth. “So I met him at a party and he started asking me this stuff like, ‘how do you feel about death’? And I thought he was just a drunk philosophy major, he kind of reminded me of you. So I actually told him about my friend, Karma, and her philosophy society, from back when I was at Greystone. And then when I said ‘Greystone’ he was like, ‘Ah, so you’re aware.’ And I was like, ‘Aware what?’ And then he bit me. But it wasn’t like a sexy hickey, it really hurt, and it was weird, and he wasn’t even trying to hook up after, and then I just started remembering all this stuff about … you, and Haven, and that’s when I called.” Word vomit bubbles up from Ivy’s pretty lips all too quickly, but when she looks at the camera again, her stare for Karma is almost accusatory, disappointed — awaiting some sort of confession.

“Myeah I’m in New York. I transferred to NYU,” says Ivy, casually bragging on her academic upgrade. It’s probably not intentional, however, the way her unfocused green eyes keep darting back and forth. “So I met him at a party and he started asking me this stuff like, ‘how do you feel about death’? And I thought he was just a drunk philosophy major, he kind of reminded me of you. So I actually told him about my friend, Karma, and her philosophy society, from back when I was at Greystone. And then when I said ‘Greystone’ he was like, ‘Ah, so you’re aware.’ And I was like, ‘Aware what?’ And then he bit me. But it wasn’t like a sexy hickey, it really hurt, and it was weird, and he wasn’t even trying to hook up after, and then I just started remembering all this stuff about … you, and Haven, and that’s when I called.” Word vomit bubbles up from Ivy’s pretty lips all too quickly, but when she looks at the camera again, her stare for Karma is almost accusatory, disappointed — awaiting some sort of confession.

Karma shifts her phone to her right hand, leaving her dominant left free to author a sloppy text message to one of her many Inigo uncles currently inhabiting the upstate New York area. Active in the Whispering Hand operations there, he’s likely the best for this kind of thing.

“He fucking bit you?” the Swann echoes after Ivy, her attention fully back on the distraught, trauma-vomiting blonde on her screen. She presses her lips together, exhaling roughly through her nose. “Yeah, baby. I know about some of that stuff. I’m sorry you’re like, stumbling back into this shit but I’m texting my uncle, Eustus Inigo. He runs a law firm up there upstate, and knows a lot of people who can help you. Please do -not- tell anyone else about this, and wait for my uncle to ocntact you, okay? I gotta get ready for my hematology appointment in a few, but he’s going to take care of everything and make sure you’re gucci.”

“Okay, umm, umm, will you call me after?” Ivy seems on the verge of tears at this point, visibly distraught. Apparently, when she left the Greystone Institute, she wasn’t allowed to leave with her memories of Haven fully intact. At least she remembered her pretty Swann friend, and her philosophical society. And while they may not have been truly close before, sometimes it’s moments like these where one learns to appreciate people they’ve overlooked.

Later, perhaps, Ivy will make another friend to tell her story to, in Eustus Inigo — or if she’s very unlucky, an enemy. But so long as she reaches out to him first, hopefully no more stories of careless vampires will spread around the seat of their Empire.

“Yeah, sure,” Karma murmurs with no intention of calling Ivy back. Fuckbois, man. They’re horrible, no matter the form. She ends the call, tosses the phone over onto the bed, and rolls over to press her face into her pillow for a nap.

Date: 2026-10-14 14:39

---

(Catriona’s odd encounter (SRSly))

[Wed Oct 14 2026]

In The Forest

It is afternoon, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by dark grey clouds.

It’s barely been a week or two since Catriona’s transfer to the Haven Hand, yet perhaps to her surprise, Headquarters is already calling her up directly. Not President Wilson, and not over the radio: her phone specifically starts to ring, with a number set to override any ‘focus mode’ or silencing her phone may currently have: this call is important, with no name specified, only a company name: Coretech Industries.

Catriona is down south of the Arkwhight Cemetery, far enough along mangrove lane that the mists are present. Armored in black scale armor and carrying an overwrought spear. A bit off the trail, but only a pace past a service road. The forest is near enough to the water that it shows signs of the recent flooding. Rotting fish, dying trees. Near her, holding a hatchet, is a lumbering tall human skeleton whose bones are stained obsidian. The skeleton is hard at work in the the forest, smacking, inexpertly, at branches. She’s standing imperiously, watching. “Keep it up,” she orders. Stepping back toward the lane, her phone beeps. She looks down at it, curious.

Catriona swipes, accepting the call, then lifts it to her ear.

The voice on the other end of the line already sounds annoyed, even before Catriona’s answered. “Is this Ms Catriona Helvig?” comes the eloquent New York accent with impeccable diction. It’s an art, the way he manages to sound so severe without even remotely raising his voice. “The necromancer, if memory serves. I need you to stop whatever it is you’re doing and head to Willow Cove. Immediately.”

Catriona stands straight even though no one is there to see, chin lifting slightly. “Aye,” she declares, in her Scottish accent.

“Memory does serve, yours is impeccable. I don’t recall you, but I’m glad I made an impression,” Catriona admits.

Catriona says “I’m not so far from there now. What is going on?”

Catriona presses mute on her part of the conversation. Then shouts, “To me.” The nearby skeletal bones begin lumbering. its a short walk back off the service road to the black windowless van. She opens the back doors, letting the skeleton climb in, before pushing her spear, bow, and armor in after. Her armor takes more time, presumably time in which the man on the phone might be speaking, but it goes in last, before she clunks the doors shut.

“This is Prince Richard von Hohenzollern, Vampire Empire and Whispering Hand,” the voice on the other end of the line casually flexes his own titles in a smooth yet severe tone, one that carries the implicit threat of turning at moment’s notice. “One of my slaves has attempted to escape me to your little town, through the dream doors. I’ve ritually cursed him to remain trapped in that dreamworld, but I’d like you to go there and retrieve his body for me. Immediately, Ms Helvig, before Greystone or that Order marine biologist gets their hands on him.”

He adds after a beat, in a softer voice, “We haven’t met, I’m afraid, I tend to keep my distance from your kind; I’m sure you understand. But do this favour to my satisfaction, and I may reconsider … in time.”

After thumbing the mute she starts to speak. “I dinnae understand in the slightest,” Catriona declares. “Every vampire should see a necromancer regularly. Its as sensible as visiting a doctor or a dentist. But I suppose many are reluctant to do that as well.” No one is around to see it, but she’s dramatic anyway. Her hand goes to her chest and her face is a mask of faux-horror. “But surely a prince like yourself would not be afraid, like some cattle? Surely not. Perhaps, a check-up for you, after I fetch him?” She coaxes.

Catriona is going around to open the van, climbing in, and clunking it closed behind her. She puts the phone onto speaker, attaches it to a mount, and gets buckled. The engine purrs after she gets the key in and turns it. She peels onto the dirt road, dirt kicking up, starting the drive to the cove.

A royal scoff can be faintly heard on the other end of the line, soft enough to be mistaken for an exhale or static. “We’ll debate the art of living long and well, by managing potential risks, should you live past your three hundreds, Ms Helvig … let alone your thirties,” comes a soft, contemptuous reply, but breezes past to business rather than indulge in too much back-and-forth. “You should find the slave in the water, just off the cove. He doesn’t breathe, so I’m afraid you may have to get wet. I believe he thinks he’s a pirate, or something or other. Trapped in Blackwater Bay, you see.”

Catriona looks back over her shoulder toward the bones. Smirks.

Catriona turns back to the road.

“Oh, it won’t be a debate if you wait that long. By three hundred, you might be too late to stay in my good graces. I’m a daughter of Hel, after all. If ever there was a necromancer that could help you with those fangy political problems, it would the legacy of a goddess of death,” Catriona brags idly, while bumping along the dirt road. Behind her, bones are clattering and the spear is sliding about.

“Ah, Godlings,” the Prince manages to convey with a mix of fondness and dismissal. “Call me when it’s done. Or don’t … have the slave do it.” And with that, he hangs up.

Ahead, the road is fairly quiet. A substantial portion of Haven’s population prefer to avoid the sun altogether, and those who don’t are busy at work. She passes the quaint little shops of the Historic District, and a couple doomed redshirt-tourists milling around the path to the Hotel Antlers. The brief glimpse she gets of them, bathed in a green aura, shows happy faces and hiking gear; they’re the type who tend to show up, wander into the woods, and never be seen again. Soon enough, the closest stop is the Intersection of Lynch Avenue and Court Street; from there, it’s a short stroll along the bluffs to Willow Cove.

“That arrogant, short-sighted, daft IDIOT,” Catriona says. She shakes her head violently, platinum-blonde hair that is near white jostled with the motions.

“Uh, godlings,” Catriona imitates, making the words mocking. Then scoffs. “So arrogant to think a race that doesn’t come into being slaved to their sire is better than me. Don’t you know, I called myself pwince.”

Catriona parks and grabs her gear, getting changed in the back. “Should really put a mirror in here. Big enough for one. Alright. Lets go.”

Catriona steps into the nightmare before exiting her van and walking down toward the cove.

Haven’s true nature unfolds before Catriona as she walks through the Nightmare. The quaint trees are twisted in agony, the birds upon them monstrous and watchful. Approaching the Bay is like approaching Death; but perhaps for a descendant of Hel, that feels like homecoming. In the distance she sees the brief flicker of a ghost ship, a mere artefact of the Nightmare. The sweet song of sirens beckons to the waves, and each time a gull soars overhead, their squall resonates with a mayday cry, the voice of a drowned sailor reaching for salvation.

A set of brass elevator doors open to the north, giving a glimpse of a busy shipping dock, and beyond, a sleepy fishing village. The scent of salt air comes wafting towards you along with a sense of unease.

This is in all likelihood the dream door to Blackwater Bay. Catriona could either search for the slave within, or find him in the physical realm, at Willow Cove.

Catriona ignores the door. She’s scouting the area, not trying to get trapped inside a dream. So she’s looking for a body along the shore. Peering out into the waters. Or for panicking people, grouped up, because someone appears to be drowning.

Catriona searches the cove, looking for signs of her target.

Catriona smirks as she walks, amber-gold eyes tracing the shoreline.

It doesn’t take very long to find the body in the water at all, once she’s at Willow Cove. Mostly because he’s making a scene — and the body is undead.

“Avast, ye mateys! Ne’er again shall the boot of one crush the necks of the many!” The strikingly white guy in the water bellows out with a pastiche Caribbean-pirate accent, the sun sizzling his damp skin as he swashes an invisible sword about, wading through saltwater. “We take the ship tonight, and if it be mutiny, so it be! I’ll dine on barnacle scum no longer! The Captain’s quarters be ours, and so be the plunder! Arrr!”

It’s not implausible that someone can see what’s going on right now, from the cemetery, the lighthouse, or one of the distant Court Street shops — but this guy looks crazy, and nobody wants to approach a crazy guy on drugs in the water. Nobody except perhaps for Catriona and her entourage.

Catriona approaches the crazy pirate. She’s not in the physical, as he is. And if there are people around, she can’t see them. But distant watchers are watchers too. So she waits, patient and poised, for a wave to crash into the man. As she waits, she tries various poses, testing them. Hand on her hips, chest high. Chin on a palm. Arm thrust forward. A twirling, hands thrown out to the side motion.

Catriona reaches out to drag the pirate into the deep nightmare when a wave does crash, ripping him from the physical realm.

Catriona raises her voice. “It once happened that Julius Caesar was captured by pirates and held for ransom. He made them the raise the price for it, they wanted too little, for what he felt he was worth.” She spreads her arms. “And yet, here I stand, greater than Julius could ever hope to be. Do you seek treasure? Do you seek glory?”

Bodies wash up on the shores of Haven all the time. Some stories make news, most do not; it usually depends on whether the HSD or Signatory societies get there first. But local know not to make a fuss, and if anyone saw, they likely shut their blinds — and next anyone asks, no they didn’t.

So it goes that the vampire slave crashes into the waves without gurgling or drowning, disappears from the physical realm, and finds himself suddenly dripping wet in the deep nightmare, on all fours, facing Catriona. The advantage of this is that of course onlookers are no longer a concern; the disadvantage, for Catriona, is that in the Nightmare he’s gained a real outfit and real weapons, including the sodden garb of a deckhand. He straightens up with a scowl, drawing a rusty cutlass, and aims it at her from afar. “Avast, sea-witch!” he calls out. “Hath the Captain forged some unholy pact with ye? Ye shan’t take me alive.” He is, of course, not alive to begin with, but his dream identity may not realise that. “I’ll show ye … Julius Caesar!” He does not seem overburdened by Classical education, but he does maintain cocksure wits about him as he peers about in fear and confusion at his strange new surrounds, like a cornered animal ready to bite.

“Aye,” Catriona shouts back to the pirate.

Catriona smirks and steps forward. “The captain wants ye returned to him. And he’ll have ye!” She motions her skeleton forward, since the blasted man isn’t lost enough in his dream to mindlessly fall into trying to capture him.

Catriona says to a skeleton, “Bring him to me.”

Catriona holds up her bracer and concentrates. As a necromancer, she has power to inflict lethargy and even rigor mortis on the undead. Her golden bracer glows as she begins to sap the strength from the undead.

Catriona has a skeletal graveguard that surges forward into the nightmarish water.

The deckhand surges forward, one leg at a time, or tries to. He looks stumped and startled by the effect Catriona’s (un?)holy magic has upon him, and sneers as he gazes down at his water-logged boots. In the Nightmare, his mind fills in the blanks; he sees seaweed wrapped around his leather-clad ankles, and tries to shake the brine out of their holes. “Blast ye, Captain Dick! Blast ye, witch!” As the skeleton approaches, he tries to ineffectually swing his rusty cutlass in that direction, though it must be noted he’s not particularly good. Perhaps were he more skilled, he wouldn’t be a slave.

“Yer a fool, and ye’ll be punished, if not by the Lord on high, and if not by meself, then by the Captain, wench! We all joined his ship with promise of riches! Ye’ll see for yerself his word’s weight in salt!”

“Then perhaps we could work together to turn on the captain,” Catriona shouts back, as her skeleton closes distance to begin wailing on him. “Dinnae be daft! Surrender and cooperate and it’ll be me and ye against your captain.”

“Why should I trust ye, witch?” the deckhand bellows out back. He tests the skeleton graveguard with a few quick slashes of his rusty sword, although if the skeleton fights back, he’s unlikely to last. A combination of seaweed, saltwater, and too much grog weigh him down, or so he believes — in reality, it’s Catriona’s magic holding him back. “I trusted the Captain too! Promised us the Fountain of Youth, he did. Pfah!”

“I dinnae think you understand your position,” Catriona calls back in her Scottish accent. “I am no mere sea witch, but a daughter of Hel. I dinnae promise you youth. I threaten you. Fight me in this and you’ll be doomed to eternal undeath as my slave, rather than your captains.”

Catriona mentally gives the order to the skeleton to beat the pirate with fists, while readying her magic to regenerate the skeleton if he takes meaningful damage from the blade.

“Hell??” the dreaming slave mishears Catriona’s threats. “So ye admit you are a witch! She-devil! Consort of Satan!” He sneers in obvious distaste, even if soon after he manages to check his own hypocrisy. “The noose threatens us both, or I’d gladly see ye hang.”

The groggy pirate isn’t a match for Catriona’s minion, even without her necromancy slowing his flesh; she found him burning in the sun, three hours after noon; he seems clearly young and inexperienced for his kind, and whatever service he provides ‘the Captain’ has left him visibly drained, paler than the pale of his undead state. He grunts, knocked back, and momentarily loses his grip on his sword. Though he manages to lay a hand on its hilt on the ground, he focuses on bringing up an arm to shield his face from the skeleton’s next assault.

Catriona has a bracer which glows once more. This time, freezing the hand that is on the hilt of the sword, through a casting of rigor mortis. “No. Not Hell. Hela1 The one from the Marvel movie? Goddess of Death? They added the a, in the comics.” Her tone is almost pleading, begging the presumably fairly recently turned man to pick up the pop culture reference. “Floating swords? Break’s Thor’s hammer? Conquers Asgard?”

Catriona continues commanding her skeleton to beat up the runaway slave.

Alas. The dreaming dead man believes himself to be a pirate of dubious and anachronistic historical and geographical origins. Pop culture references may just be beyond him right now, but they do appear to confirm his suspicious that whatever Catriona’s saying to him right now, it’s some form of witchcraft.

He would perhaps continue protesting as much if not for the skeletal fists pummelling into his own flesh. He fights back as best he can, while he can, until suddenly his body grows completely still and stiff. “Ah-arrr!” come his hapless cries, and as soon as he can speak again, he chokes out, “Stop, stop! Belay the bones! Ye’ve made yer point, I surrender!” His wide eyes well up with tears at the prospect of whatever fate evidently awaits.

Catriona has a skeleton which is tall by human standards. Its bones are blackened to a deep obsidian and heavy ridges enforce the shoulders and forearms.

It bends in the water under her command, grabbing the man, and dragging him back to the shore, while Catriona stands before the nightmarish faux-shoreline watching on with amber-gold eyes frames by platinum-blonde hair.

Once he is on the shore proper she has the skeleton deposit him at her feet. There is no pity in her gaze as she stares down at him.

She kneels closer. “I have a gift for you,” she murmurs. “You are asleep right now, so you might not remember it conciously when you awaken, but in some ways that is better.”

She concentrates. “Watch the video and absorb your lesson.,” she orders, the words coming with supernatural persuasion backing them. “And I won’t break your arms and legs before dragging you to your captain.”

Catriona fishes out her phone.

“V–video?” the half-drowned pirates stutters back to the, alleged, sea-witch hovering over him and gazing into his eyes. He perhaps assumes this is a word in a foreign language, like Gaelic, or else some magic spell, but nevertheless, he clings to his dreaming notion of ‘life’ with enough desperation to submissively nod his head, rapidly, in understanding. Every motion he manages at this point screams out nonverbally: ‘please, I don’t want to die.’ Whatever file she offers him, he accepts, although his phone is on his physical form — not his pirate outfit in the Nightmare.

He tries one last time to plead, “Please … please don’t send me back to the Captain. He’s cruel. He’ll beat me for days. He … he bites people too.” His teary eyes widen. “He eats those who deny him, a cannibal. Legends of Blackbeard have nothing on Captain Dick. You ain’t the first witch he’s sent after us … he’ll turn on you too, mark my words.”

regards the miserable pirate for a moment, her smirk softening into something almost sympathetic. “Och, I believe you. I’ve spoken to your captain, you know. A dreadful wee man. Quite full of himself.” She shakes her head. “But dinnae mistake me. I’m not here to rescue you out of the goodness of my heart. That would be terribly unlike me.”

“You won’t have to go back right away,” Catriona continues. “We’re going to find a mirror first. You’re going to give me your phone. And when you leave, you’re going to have a much better understanding of who deserves your loyalty. Your captain will have his sailor back, aye. Just not quite the same sailor he lost.”

“There’s a little film I’d like you to watch. Something educational. About what you are, what I am, and the proper relationship between the two. You’ll watch every moment of it, and then we’ll have a wee discussion. After that, we’ll telephone your captain and arrange your return. Perhaps I can even persuade him to treat you better.”

Straightening, Catriona gestures to her skeletal graveguard. “Help our friend to his feet. And dinnae hurt him unless he makes it necessary.” She turns her attention toward the surrounding Nightmare, searching for a mirror large enough to provide them passage back into the waking world. Likely, a shop near the shore.

Without some sort of counterspell, the Princes’s slave remains trapped within his pirate dreamworld. He gazes in dazed confusion at Catriona when she offers him instructions pertaining to a ‘film’ or ‘telephone’, but he nods his head, knowing better by now than to argue with the fearsome sea-witch.

When the skeleton graveguard helps him to his feet, the deckhand yelps in alarm, and trembles head to toe even as he stands. Despite his delusions of mutiny, he lacks a princely demeanour of his own. For now, he follows Catriona timidly, even as he continues glancing around to try and calculate some sort of safe escape route. The obvious conclusion appears to be he’s safest submitting right now — like the good slave he is.

The most obvious mirror would likely be the changing rooms in Narnia, also located in Haven’s Historic District, and not far from where Catriona parked her car on the intersection of Lynch Avenue and Court Street. She should have no problem pulling him through the Nightmare there, although it’ll likely spook the addled deckhand even further.

“I’ll … I’ll watch … alright …” the beaten pirate lamely affirms, shivering from fear, since his undead flesh doesn’t feel the cold of saltwater dripping down his clothes. “Whatever you say.”

“Aye, you will,” Catriona assures him, walking with confidence toward Narnia. If she cares that he doesn’t understand her very well, she doesn’t show it. Sand gives way, and she and her skeleton march. “Are you thirsty,” she asks. She draws a small glass of blood out of a pocket. “I imagine you are. I could share it with you, if you’re good? Yummy… rum,” she calls it, trying to play into his fantasy.

The vampire doesn’t know why he wants it, but he knows he wants it. As soon as she reveals the blood, it’s pavlovian the way his blue eyes are at once drawn to its ruby surface. They perceptibly drift towards her wrist, too, but he appears to have enough presence of mind not to bite the hand that feeds. “Ain’t had good grog in days,” he laments to the necromancer. “Aye … ye … ye ain’t so bad for a witch.” Further talking himself into it, he mumbles as he reaches out with both hands to grasp the glass, “Suppose if the Navy catches either of us, I’d be good as a witch too, arr?”

“Aye, that’s right. Good lad. Come on then,” Catriona says. Enjoying the game of it, she turns to walk backwards toward Narnia for a time, letting the vial shake, the blood catch the light, swirl, and dance. She’s got a skip in her step now, walking a bit faster, eating up the distance, for all that she’s walking backward. And after some time she would turn to walk more normally.

Catriona doesn’t give the vial of course. Just an incentive, not a gift.

Outside of the Nightmare, the vampire is dressed like an ordinary man, although his clothes are dripping wet; pale and haggard as he is, he looks like a heroin addict in skinny black jeans and a ripped black tank, with Doc Martens on his feet. He no longer carries a cutlass with him, either, though he likely still imagines that he does. He follows Catriona like a hungry dog eyeing the promised treat, but the longer they continue, the more his eyes wander to vessels they shouldn’t linger on — her neck, her hands, anything he could sink his teeth into.

Onwards to her vehicle he’ll go, and from there, what she elects to do with the slave — and whether to obey the Vampire Prince’s command — is up to her.

Catriona once she has him back in her vehicle, she makes good on her plan to have him watch a video for her. Then, while he is doing that, she calls back the prince. The phone is left off speaker, to reduce the chance of video being picked up the microphone rather than filtered by gain gating.

The Prince lets the phone ring a few times. Of course he expects Catriona to pick up promptly when he calls; but important as he is, he feels beholden to no such rules. When he answers, his royal voice sounds faux-concerned. “Ms Helvig? Forgive me, I wasn’t expecting your call. Is everything alright?”

“Aye, quite alright. I’ve got your wayward fledgling with me,” Catriona says. “And I dinnae get wet doing it.” She pauses there.

“And why didn’t you have him call me himself, as I asked?” the New Yorker ever so politely inquires, all while modulating the pitch of his voice as if to really hammer home that he is not, in fact, impressed.

The fledgling in question watches Catriona commune with spirits in her device with growing concern. He doesn’t understand telephones, nor understand who the Prince is at present, but something in the back of his mind gnaws at him.

“You left it up to me and I didn’t think your fledgling, who think he’s a pirate, mind you, would understand how to work the phone,” Catriona says, her voice moving slow and gentle, like she’s of the opinion she’s talking to someone very stupid. “As you ought to remember, given your likely age, the age of sail wasn’t known for its teleco infrastructure.”

The voice on the other end sighs. He takes his sweet time before responding afterwards. “Very well. Deliver him back to me by Sunday; I’ve set aside the time to prise each and every fingernail slowly from his hands. We have a long talk overdue about loyalty,” he muses in an intentionally unbothered tone of voice. “As for your Hand, I will … remark to your superiors that you completed my request of you to … modest … satisfaction.” He emphasises that word as if it pains him to provide even the faintest bit of praise, all while still making a sense of disappointment clear. “I’ll keep him hexed for your convenience. Goodbye.” And he hangs up yet again without a further word.

Catriona could probably counter the hex, if she so desired to speak to the pirate in his rightful identity; but that is up to her.

Catriona texts immediately after he hangs up. Given the memory issues you’ve just had, its probably past due for a checkup. As you put it, in your own words, The Necromancer, I’m going to recommend you see one immediately. Now, I’m sure you know some you could go to. However, as a daughter of Hel, I can assure you, I’m better. Please schedule an appointment at your earliest convenience. I can send a calend.ly link to your email when I get back to a computer.. Then another: You’re quite welcome. It was no problem at all. Easy, in fact. I didn’t get wet.

The Prince never replies to Catriona’s texts. He of course deems himself far too important to.

Date: 2026-10-27 20:43

---

(Christopher’s odd encounter (SRDaphne))

[Tue Oct 27 2026]

In an Orderite Meeting Room
As soon as one moves down the stairs leading into this rather secretive hideout, they are greeted with a large room, lit not by overhanging lights, but by a large central brazier. Candle holders attached to the wall also hold lit candles, providing flickering ambient light to the room, casting shadows everywhere. The walls are made up of large limestone bricks, smoothed out and grinded, and the floor is made up of much the same, with clay quarry-tiles instead of limestone, lining the floor. Occasional tapestry and statues serve as decorations for the room, and a central table exists, circular and circling the large brazier, the emphasis of the room and its purpose, though, it certainly is not the only furniture in the room, with occasional sitting areas interspersed throughout the edges of the room, with small tables and large candles, attracting gatherings of occasional Orderites. Most of them are sitting, reading, socializing, or performing some other fashion of work, or they
Hallways lead off in separate directions of this central meeting room, also lined with candles mounted to the walls. Metal plaques are posted by the openings into these small hallways, denoting where each hall leads to.

East – Library
West – Jail
South – Training Room
Southeast – Armory

It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky. There is a waning gibbous moon.

Christopher is sitting in a meeting room that’s tucked underneath the floor of a night club. Up above the faint sound of heavy bass and deep speakers thumps through the floor providing an easy cover for the training, and other activites that go on down here. It seems he’s waiting around for some sense of meeting to start but other people have yet to arrive. Eventually, he’ll get up to head up the stairs, and through the door tucked behind the music booth of the club above. Through the space of the night club itself, it’s outside that Christopher is trying to get to. He passes the big man in front of the door with familiar lift of his chin in the bouner’s direction before he steps off to take in a breath of fresh air and take a look at the messages scrolling through his phone.

Just moments after Christopher steps outside, one of The Order’s… let’s call them pages runs out after, clearly trying to catch up to him. “Chris-” a hesitation from the young man, an angelborn in his senior year of High School: recently activated and trying to prove himself as much to The Order as to the college kids he’ll likely be enrolled alongside this time next year.

“Christopher,” he stammers out a beat later, weedy voice anxious. “We, uh, just got word that an elderly man wandered away from the Elm Street apartments and into the woods and- ah, they’re uh, wondering if you could go help find him?”

Christopher makes for a strange Orderite in some respects. His nature stands out clear, a gregarious smile always at the ready and a hand always ready to extend the man certainly fits the bill. But small things stand out too. That young kid can see shadows that rest behind the all american contender’s eyes. Bags under them, faint lines of worry that perhaps the more rapid healing of their kind can’t quite keep up with because their plight is constant and never-ending. The weight of the JOB sits across Christopher’s shoulders and he gives that bright-eyed bushy-tailed page a slow blink. So like him only a few scant weeks ago even.

“Shit.” The singular word just represents all of his emotion in one simple expletive. Resignation, annoyance, determination. It flows out of him and then he just nods at the kid. “Yeah … alright. I know the way.” And then he’s taking a long slow breath in and heading out to straddle his bike. The roar of the twin V engine precedes his departure.

Hopefully, as Haven’s fledgling branch of The Order finds its feet, young Initiates like this page will find themselves handling assignments more often. But the more recent one’s activation, well. He’s practically an untrained human at this point.

It does mean people like Christopher don’t have to deal with the administrative work like taking these reports and filtering through them. There’s a difference, after all, between ‘My little Timmy is two minutes past curfew!’ and someone’s grandfather was seen wandering into woods people in the know know aren’t what they seem.

The lad nods, relief in his own frame. He’s not quite bright-eyed and bushy-tailed: there’s an undercurrent of panic to everything he does. But his stress is self-inflicted. He’s anxious to do well. So, so anxious.

The path is, indeed, clear. Elm St apartments sit by the more westerly of the dirt roads north. Without all the gates found and secured, there’s no telling what might be out there.

It’s just past 9pm. The skies are clear, the moon still heavy enough to light the way, and the air has the beginnings of the bite of winter.

Finding himself parking his vehicle in the parking lot of the apartment complex itself, Christopher takes a quick breath and then he’s glancing around. With a chewing at the corner of his mouth he nods to himself. “Alright let’s get it.” He says to himself as a bit of a pep talk and then he’s striding forward with puporse out into the woods that surround the Elm apartments to the north. Before he hits that edge of town that seems to pull strangely at things like technology he checks his phone. He double-checks that report, scanning through the transcript of the call-in for any minute details that might give him a lead not so much on where this person went but moreso who they are or why they may have wandered off in the first place. Slipping his phone into a pocket, he has only the mooonlight, his perception, and unnaturally keen eyesight to help him. As he begins to cautiously look for trails or signs of passage along the treeline the night will grow darker, making it harder for him to see.

The details are sparse. Not because of a lack of information provided, per se. Just that there isn’t terribly much to provide. The man was one Ezekiel (Zeke) Kingston. 75. A widower who lives with his youngest daughter (Katy, 33) as his caretaker due to dementia. Katy is a practitioner in the know: Zeke is not.

Hence her knowing that his wandering into the woods is dangerous.

Hence there being little information: people with dementia sometimes wander, unfortunately.

At the outset, the trail is easy to find. He left in slippers, per Katy (as well as flannel pajamas), and the way their thick, padded soles crush the grass along the treeline is fairly notable.

From the looks of things, he followed the treeline west and could arguably have just been out for a (misguided) stroll. But then he takes a sharp right further into the woods between two evergreens: evidence not only in the tracks (that quickly dissipate in the more varied undergrowth) but the robe belt that got caught on a branch and remains tangled.

It’s these signs that Christopher has to follow now, and the deeper he goes the more he wishes he’d bothered to grab a few things out of his saddle bags. Still, his eyes continue to search for torn bits of flannel or robe, and crushed twigs or sticks that show the signs of someone passing through on foot. The size of the slippers he can probably gauge from the first tracks he finds, so it gives him something to comare others to, and keep an eye out for. “Zeke …” he calls out the name at a reasonable level but he’s not trying to yell out into the darkness within these woods he knows what that’s asking for. Rubbing either arm with his hands he tries not to think about the weather while he continnues to search deeper and deepaer into the forest. “Where did you get off too …” he murmurs to himself, pausing a moment to look around and re-gain his bearings now. Only the light from the clock tower and the Light house give him any indication of the town behind him.

At least this near to town, the woods aren’t generally dangerous from those things that slip through gates. Or even the gates themselves. GENERALLY. But the full moon this past weekend was hectic. There might still be things that go bump in the night. Ol’ Zeke might not be as fresh of prey for some, but he’s perfect for others.

Everything is prey to something else in the supernatural world.

Soon there are more signs of passage. Broken branches. A handful of leaves clearly pulled off a low branch and dropped aside. Someone just casting about, but thankfully: Christopher has an easy enough path to follow and those of his senses that are enhanced are making it a walk in the park.

(Not that Haven’s parks are much better.)

The next big clue, angling more directly north? The robe that matches the belt, spread out on the ground like it simply drifted there on a breeze.

With a curse, Christopher has to pick up the pace of his step now. The sight of the robe only causes him to curse again. “Great, now he’s gonna be naked. He’s gonna freeze to death.” Picking up from a stride to a shuffle, he starts covering ground a little more swiftly and then up to a jog. Still keeping his heav on a swivel it’s all he can do to follow the trail. HE has to sacrifice speed for caution though, and so he can only give up a quick silent prayer to the Nameless God of his lineage that he’s on the right track.

Fortunately, good ol’ climate change and a big El Nino year mean that the nights haven’t hit true freezing yet. Unfortunately, it doesn’t need to be below the freezing point for hypothermia to set in. Especially for the very young and elderly. Christopher could manage a night out here, even if he didn’t have those deific qualities. Ezekiel, on the other hand? Probably not.

But just like if Hell were listening in, the Orderite’s fears seem to be founded: the next thing he spots is a flannel, button-down pajama top with most of its buttons missing, the thing clearly torn off. It lies, forlorn, over a low branch, one sleeve fluttering faintly whenever a breeze passes. A few strides later, a slipper. Just the one, resting against a large stone.

Further and further Christopher has to go, and with every new sign of trouble and piece of clothing he’s only picking up the pace. “Shit shit shit” he says to himself, over and over again. Pausing at the sight of a slipper resting against a large stone, Christopher takes a moment to look around here, as well. But he has to squint into the dim light and take a gauge at far into the woods he’s come. His jaw tightens and he flexes the muscle at his mandibular with each clench and release of his teeth while he tries to sort the math. He’s unarmed and unarmored .. there’s a limit to how far he’ll go out here.

One more once over the area, Christopher has to turn and starts to look for signs of what might’ve tried to drag this poor fellow off. Any piece of information that can point him on the right track. He takes what he sees and applies it the learning he’s been doing with a quiet grunt. “ZEKE!” He finally bellows out once. Loud. Then he’s ducking into some brush or attempting to use a tree to keep him partially obscured: see what shakes loose.

Nothing comes running in response to the shout. There is some skittering in the undergrowth, but if Christopher looks, it’s just a young rabbit scurrying off and away.

However, in the silence that follows, there can be heard faintly some distance (not far, thankfully) to the north: “… did you …” in a decidedly elderly male voice. Silence, as if someone is responding, but even enhanced hearing couldn’t pick anything up. Then the man, again: “I ….. ..me-” he stops suddenly as if interrupted and seconds later, grunts.

If Christopher follows that path, he’ll find the other slipper. And if he follows it further, he will see an old man who is just about naked: ass to the south as he removes those flannel pajama bottoms: looking just ahead and to the right, in the shadows, as if listening to someone still.

Spotting the man seems to be the best news Christopher has had all day. “Hey, bud. It’s time to go inside” he says but he’s also not interested in playing this super gently at the moment, at least as far as the initial shock is concerned. He doesn’t quite bound up to the old man, but he does pause. It’s not always there for him .. but he squints and he squints hard into the darkness for one moment, expecting nothing but maybe ..

Even before his true injury and activation, Christopher has always had glimpses of the dead. People walking by that weren’t there a moment later. The familiar chill of something passing through a room that just … tells him. His eyes search hard through the darkness but even as they do, his arm is going around the old man and drawing him away from that shadow and back the way they’ve come. “C’mon .. it’s nice and warm inside yeah?” His West Coast accent comes through, warm and soothing as he tries to ease old Ezekiel here back into a state of lucidity no matter how slight.

But try as he might, Christopher doesn’t see anything. He senses something, yes, but it’s not ghostly in origin. It’s something else. A pressure of sorts, something probing against his mind, but so obviously so that he can resist it easily.

But Ezekiel? Well, the instant Christopher starts pulling him away, the man practically goes into a frenzy. “No! Hazel! I’m going with my Hazel!” It is a pure and deep panic in the poor man as he struggles (ineffectually as between his frail state and age and Christopher’s god-given strength, he has no chance) to get out of the Orderite’s grasp: his eyes flickering this way and that rapidly, as if he’s seeing something entirely other than the cold, dense woods.

“Trust me …If it was your Hazel I would know” Christopher says to the man. He knows it won’t help him, but he tries anyway. As gently as he’s able he’ll start tearing through the woods with the struggling dementia patient doing everything but trying to strike him – refusing to this old man any more harm. Bounding with less caution now that the prize is in hand though he can put everything into the speed with which he tries to flee them through the woods. He does his best to re-create the back trail he’d followed to get here, a barest pause at the large rock that still holds one the man’s slippers resting on it. “This way” he says out loud and he’s tearing off again. He keeps Zeke in a cautious bearhug now almost a waddle to carry him while he still struggles.

He can feel the pressure of whatever that is on his mind and he knows it’s not something that he’s used to. It’s know simply some spirit trying to linger or communicate from beyond the Veil. And that’s enough for him. Because of Zeke’s condition .. it allows him some leeways. He barrels THROUGH small trees and shoves things out of his way without looking and sometimes those are small saplings or growths as well. But he knows whatever Zeke does see .. nobody is likely to believe the story anyway. His sense of direction isnt’ horrible but it’s not pristine – so he points them in the direction of the apartment complex and those signs of the town that hangs high above the tree tops and he runs. He runs.

As Christopher continues to wrestle with Zeke, the old man loses the fight in him. Mostly due to tiring out quickly. He sobs and extends his arm toward the deeper shadows of the trees, crying “Hazel” and “don’t go” in patches. But even as this ‘Hazel’ retreats from his mind, she (or it) starts probing further at Christopher’s. The probing is clumsy. Uncareful. He’s not the usual prey, not the feeble-minded even if he isn’t practiced in guarding from these sorts. So it’s rough. It’s clawing. It’s the scratching at the door, the unknown beast begging for shelter.

And maybe that makes it all the worse. Because what it does manage to discover seems to give it pleasure.

Unfortunately for it and fortunately for Christopher, it is either unable to roam nearer the town or he is too quick for it. The pressure and intensity steadily ebb away until he can no longer feel them altogether. He is at least mostly on target when the trees thin and come into sight. He’s nearer the office building near the apartments, but still close enough to not be carrying a naked man through town.

Katy has been outside the building, pacing the entire time, looking ragged. She’d spent hours trying to scry for her father’s whereabouts before contacting the Order, after all. And the direction he’d gone in was the best she could manage: she is just beginning her journey with the arts, after all. But it means that Christopher is delivering the man into hands that can care for him: beyond the more mundane needs he’ll have.

Christopher is breathing heavy by the time he brings the Elm apartments into sight. It’s not from the running, he could do that all day and he picks up the pace. He doesn’t have the werewithal to process the feeling of it right now, but there is quite describing it. Like … like smoke or oil trying to claw it’s way into the back corners and nooks of his mind. His soul? It has him looking almost panic-eyed by the time he’s screeching to halt in front of Katy. He doesn’t offer her much in the way of explanation right now. Now he only turns to run off. Around the corner and down the street … it’s only when he can duck into the confines and relative privacy of a bummy alley that he leans against the wall. Eyes closed, all he wants is to be able to breathe.

Christopher says, sounding breathless, “H-hey … Sorry. I’m headed back now. “

Christopher says “This will do! “

Date: 2026-10-31 12:49

---

(Christopher’s odd encounter (SREris))

[Sat Oct 31 2026]

In a luxurious, lived-in Master Bedroom
Lived-in and exploited fully for all the lavishness it offers, this large master bedroom shows clear signs of rather-chaotic occupancy. While, along its dark, golden-grained wooden wall paneling, two sizable wardrobes stand, clothes are generally scattered in piles somewhere on the shadowy shag carpet flooring. Two classical wall lamps of forged and twisted, blackened metal are set up, pleasantly spaced from one another to keep their shedded illumination light on the eyes. A prominent king-sized bed, its mattress held in place solely by a slab of heated, natural stone, frameless as it is on its sides, claims prominence and commands considerable real estate in the eastern half of the room.

Double-doored, romantically-arched passage onto a small balcony is gained along the southern face, often curtained away behind thick, mahogany-hue drapes. The faintest traces of incense spices are carried through the air, with regular venting guaranteeing it is all but intoxicatingly hotbox-y in here. Sometimes. On either side of the bed, an elegant nightstand is posted on four curved legs, with one often serving as a book-stand while the other is tasked to host a bedside lamp.

It is noon, about 55F(12C) degrees,

Christopher is just waking up, peeling himself out of the bed that is far too enormous for just one person. And yet it is only one person. The afternoon is just beginning and the blond is rubbing at his face to wipe the sleep from his eyes.

The mansion is interrupted by a knocking at the front entrance. Three firm, deliberate raps, separated by an interval of perhaps a second each. A respectable knock, really. Not the sort of frantic pounding that might suggest an emergency, nor the timid tapping of someone uncertain of their welcome. Whoever has arrived seems quite comfortable announcing their presence at the home of a stranger.

Several seconds pass. Then comes another knock, somewhat louder than the first. A man’s voice follows, raised to carry through the entrance and into the house. “Hello? Anybody home?” The voice is unfamiliar, carrying the slightly flattened vowels of someone from Massachusetts. “I’m looking for whoever owns the place! Or anyone who was here last night, actually. It’s about the Halloween party!”

“Ugh ..” Christopher says, hearing the knock coming from downstairs. He rubs at his face again before pushing himself to his feet. He’s groggy and doesn’t really seem to care about his current state of undress as he lumbers past aquarium, and the landing. Down one slow marble stair at a time before he’s pushing past empty cans and now-lifeless party decorations. Leaning up, he’ll peer through the eyehole of the door with a squint before cracking the door open. He stands there in boxers and little else, viridian eyes starting out into the daylight with the look of someone offended at having to do so. “Yeah?” He mutters.

On the other side of the door is a man who looks rather thoroughly ordinary. Somewhere in his mid-thirties, perhaps, standing around five-foot-ten with a slightly stocky build, short brown hair in need of a trim, and several days’ worth of dark stubble along his jaw. Rectangular black-framed glasses rest upon a narrow nose, behind which a pair of grey-blue eyes blink at the rather underdressed young man answering the door. He’s dressed in a navy button-down shirt beneath a brown jacket, beige chinos, and sensible walking shoes. A black messenger bag hangs from one shoulder, its leather strap worn and creased with use.

He takes in Christopher, his eyes running up and down the boxer clad demigod of a man. Instantly feeling the mog, his bearing shifts, shoulder slumping.

“Oh! Uh, hello.” His eyes dip briefly toward Christopher’s boxers before returning, rather determinedly, to his face. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get you out of bed.” He offers an apologetic little smile, adjusting his glasses with one finger. “I’m Daniel. I’m a freelance journalist, actually. Doing a story about something that happened here last night.” He gestures vaguely toward the interior of the mansion, then seems to catch himself. “Well, I think it happened here, anyway. There was a Halloween party? An explosion involving a guy dressed as the Kool-Aid Man?”

He shifts the messenger bag against his hip, producing a smartphone from his jacket pocket. Its screen is already displaying a paused video, though he keeps it angled toward himself for the moment. “There’s a video going around on MyHaven. Pretty wild stuff. I’ve been trying to track down somebody who was actually there.” His smile returns, a touch more hopeful this time. “Would you happen to know anything about it?”

With another slow blink, the man actually seems to brighten up at the mention of the Journalist’s intentions and he opens the door up a little further. “Yeah, sure.” He doesn’t quite open the door, but he does step back and let it crack open a little further. “I’ll need to put on some pants, but .. you can come in.” He points at the living room area. The party indeed looks like it was wild, still half-cleaned up and showing signs of an absolute rager. Luckily, any illicit substances appear to have been picked up and cleaned up so the only left is scattered chips, empty cans and a lot of work for some poor schmuck who isn’t Christopher.

“Thanks! I appreciate it.” Daniel steps through the doorway, his eyes immediately wandering over the considerable devastation left in the wake of last night’s festivities. There’s no disguising that something happened here. The scattered cans and party decorations are ordinary enough, but the damaged plaster, the debris, and a particularly unfortunate stain on the upholstery speak to something rather more enthusiastic than a typical Halloween party. “Wow. Looks like you guys had quite a night.” He approaches the couch, hesitating when he notices the unmistakable remnants of somebody’s vomit staining one of the cushions. Choosing a cleaner section, he takes a seat, carefully setting his messenger bag beside him. “Go ahead and get dressed. I can wait. No rush.”

Looking around – Christopher will spy the pile of clothing he’d left on the bathroom floor. SPying a missed spot Christopher gives a faint grunt sound, making the mental note. “Hrm, they missed a spot.” Who missed a spot? Considering what the journalist may have heard about the party, it looks cleaner than it might. There’s no factual hole in the hole that can be seen and thank god most of the vomit and other unmentionables were taken care of right away because at least there’s no smell lingering in the air. He’ll walk past the journalist as he gestures around, that pile is right there at the door to the bathroom. A pair of pants … yes! He finds one, and turns to shimmy himself into them. “What’d you wanna know? The Kool-Aid man did make an appearance last night, it was a hell of a reveal” he tacks on smoothly.

Daniel’s attention doesn’t remain on the room for long. As Christopher turns away, the reporter gets an unobstructed view of the enormous man’s back. His eyes widen slightly behind his glasses. The musculature is impressive enough, but it’s the flowing stanzas of script crawling across that broad expanse of skin that really catch his attention. His smartphone rises almost of its own accord. _Click._ A photograph. He adjusts the angle, trying to capture the writing more clearly. _Click-click. “Fucking rad, what do those do?” Daniel asks Christopher.

Turning around, if Christopher hears the clicks or shutter sounds made by digital device to emulate the feel of the analog things we no longer care for – he just flashes a gregarious smile at the man as he turns back. Now wearing pants at least he meanders over toward the couch. rocking back on bare heels he raises his hands to lace fingers together and rest them atop his head. The light tension serves to keep his hands resting there as his tilts his head to regard the journalist. “What do what do now?” He says with a still-groggy chuckle. “As for anything else, I’m afraid I might have to confirm just about anything you heard. We even blew the fuse box!”

“The writing!” Daniel laughs, gesturing toward Christopher’s back with his phone. “Those tattoos. They look like something out of a fantasy novel. Thought they might mean something.” He glances down at the photographs he’s taken, enlarging one with his fingers before looking back up. “And the fuse box? Yeah, I bet you did! That’s actually part of what I wanted to ask about. I’ve seen some pretty impressive Halloween parties, but I’ve never seen one where somebody actually blew a hole in a wall.” His expression brightens with professional interest. “Was that planned? The Kool-Aid Man thing, I mean. Some kind of special effects stunt?”

He doesn’t quite wait for an answer before continuing. “Because there’s something else. And I’m really glad you’re going to cooperate to confirm it. See, I went through the footage. Frame by frame, actually. There’s this woman in the background with these enormous wings, and they’re moving. I thought it was an animatronic at first, but the movements are just so natural.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “I know, I know. Sounds ridiculous. But I’ve been doing this for years, and I can usually spot a fake.”

“Its magic right?”

Christopher raises his eyebrows at the journalist for a long moment, his question hanging in the air before letting out a rough, belly-rich peal of laughter. “Magic?” He shakes his head and turns around to look around. “I mean .. money can work some real magic” he adds, turning his gaze back to the man. “The wings? That was my girlfriend” he claims boldly. “Pixie moth? Shimmer glitter? She’s a tech whiz” he explains and with how readily that comes it might even be the truth.

“It was a lot of wires and stuff she spent all week on it! Hell, I got my mask cast out of real iron!” He just rattles on, doing his best to put the journalist at ease even if it becomes more clear about why he’s here. Looking around, Christopher will spot a lonely unopened can of beer still hanging out in one of the coolers, and he steps over to grab it. Stepping back he lets the silence hang for a moment before suddenly popping the tab on that beer. PSSSST!

“As for Kool-Aid man! Well that took some doing.” He doesn’t really offer any explanation about that though. He’s just staring. “Oh! My tattoo? Yeah I mean it’s got meaning of course, don’t all tattoos?” He keeps things light, and unconcerned for the time being. “Just for me, though. Well, and I guess Dylan Thomas. He wrote it. ”

settles back into the crouch and grimaces as Christopher fails to confirm the existence of magic. He nods to the explanations. “Tech wiz,” Daniel says. “Damn. No, when I’m talking about magic, I’m talking about something more…”

“See, the thing is, I’ve got a YouTube channel. About eight thousand subscribers. Nothing enormous, but I’ve built up a decent audience. And I saw something while hunting ghost stories in this town. That’s what my Youtube focuses on. Crazy, crazy fucking shit, out at the Arkwright graveyard. Flashes of light, stuff moving. I’m not talking Halloween pranks, man.” Seemingly worried he is crazy he starts throwing up objections. “I know how it sounds! But I’m not crazy. I’m really not. And I think you know I’m not! What I saw was real. There’s something going on in this town. Something you’re all trying to keep secret, right? Well, I’ve got an AUDIENCE. So when I break this, whatever you’re worried about? You don’t need to be. Too many people will know for it to keep getting hushed up. Just… work with me here man. Please?”

Listening to the man, Christopher just drinks some of that hair of the dog, and tilts the can back slowly. For someone who looks like he does, it’s hard to imagine how he keeps it that way drinking beers like that. “Sorry to say, man but it was just a party.” He shrugs a little bit, those broad shoulders moving up and down slowly. “Also I mean you don’t sound crazy you just sound like anyone else who’s gotten a wild hair up their ass.”

He smiles at the man, suddenly moving to pop a squat nearby him with an easy sense. He leans forward and tilts his head so he can look the man in the eye. “If there was some super weird shit going on bro? I’d be all over that how cool would that be?!” He just flashes a wide smile. “YOu’re not even the only one, last week there was like a big foot con or something up in boston we had a bunch of people out here doing stupid shit in the woods.”

And then Christopher is trying to KEEP the man’s gaze, eyes widening and growing bright with an inner light that doesn’t really have to do with being supernatural as it does the liquid pools of viridian green that try to draw the man’s mind into a softer, more malleable state. “You don’t want to get too caught up in that kind on nonsence, though.”

“Bigfoot con?” Daniel laughs, shaking his head. “No, no, you’ve got me all wrong. I’m not one of those people who…” He trails off, momentarily distracted by the intensity of Christopher’s gaze. Those remarkable viridian-green eyes are difficult to look away from. He blinks, once, twice, his smile lingering even as the amusement behind it begins to fade. “I mean, there’s evidence. I’ve got…” His voice grows quieter. The phone in his hand shifts slightly as his fingers relax around it.

Something about Christopher’s easy confidence, the steady rhythm of his words, and those brilliant green eyes seems to be making it increasingly difficult for Daniel to concentrate. His eyebrows draw together briefly, as though struggling to remember what he’d been saying. Then the tension leaves his face. His shoulders slump, his breathing settles into a slower, more regular rhythm, and his back gradually comes to rest against the cushions of the couch. The smartphone tilts precariously between his loosening fingers before slipping free altogether, landing with a soft clatter upon the floor. Daniel doesn’t look down. His eyes remain fixed upon Christopher’s, his lips parted slightly, his expression growing increasingly vacant.

“Yeah…” he murmurs, almost absently. The word comes without any particular conviction. His head tilts a fraction to one side, and the last vestiges of his professionally inquisitive expression dissolve into a docile passivity. His grey-blue eyes remain open, staring listlessly into Christopher’s vivid green ones.

“Yeah ..” Christopher murmurs quietly, and he’s moving with more purpose now. He scoops up the man’s phone while he’s slipping into that trance-like state. He’s not even concerned about looking through the device for individual pieces of evidence or problems, no he just shuffles through the menus until he finds the setting for factory reset. Starting that process on the phone, he quietly glances at the man’s messenger bag. On his own phone, he sends off a quick message to the people that handle his Orderite business. Some brief details and a request for Greystone to send a collection crew later Christopher puts his attention back onto the journalist.

“You want to look somewhere else, because you’re not gonna find any decent surprises here.” His words are soft, nudging at the man’s brain quietly with them to ease him in that direction. And to waste time.

Daniel scarcely reacts as his phone is taken from him. His fingers twitch once, closing belatedly around empty air, before settling back against his thigh. The little sounds of the device being handled, the taps upon its screen, the quiet activity taking place immediately before him, all pass without attracting much attention. His eyes remain fixed upon Christopher’s face, following the occasional movement of those remarkable green eyes. His lips move slightly, as though rehearsing an answer to a question he hasn’t quite understood.

The reporter’s phone offers little resistance once the necessary confirmations have been made. A final warning appears concerning the permanent erasure of all personal data, followed by a progress indicator as the device begins wiping itself. Christopher’s own phone, meanwhile, vibrates with a response from his Orderite contacts. “Received. We’ll arrange collection. Need identifying details on the subject. Full name, YouTube channel, associated social media accounts. Anything that’ll let us track his activities afterward in case he becomes a problem again.” A second message follows a few moments later. “Always the influencers needing some influence. Gives a new meaning to parasocial relationship.” The messenger bag remains beside Daniel on the couch, its worn leather flap secured by two brass buckles. Whatever other investigative materials the journalist brought with him are still among his possessions.

Daniel’s expression shifts faintly as Christopher’s words find purchase. “Somewhere else…” he echoes softly. A slow blink. “Not going to find any decent surprises here.”

“Exactly. But who knows what’s out there to find?” Christopher offers more conversationally. He gives the man a grin as he continues to hold that gaze so he can keep him pliable and quiet. “You want to tell me about your channel? You do” he says phrasing it first like a question and then softly turning it into a command. Luckily phones aren’t the only things that carry around our entire lives these days. “Show me” he pushes, suggesting it to him softly as his eyes drift only for a moment to the messenger bag. With an easy relaxed reach he’ll try to casually, slooowly separate the man from his things.

“My channel?” Daniel repeats, his expression remaining pleasantly vacant. “I’m C3. Claude Clue Collection. Eight thousand… something subscribers.”

He blinks slowly. The messenger bag comes away from him easily enough, only for him to reach for it and open it. He pulls out the computer. Opens it. The laptop boots fast. Soon he has the youtube channel pulled up. “I ask Claude where the ghosts are. Where the monsters are. Where the magic is.” His fingers work automatically, opening the laptop and navigating to his YouTube channel. The page is an extraordinary collection of AI-generated thumbnails, lurid titles, and videos featuring an unmistakably artificial narrator. “Claude does the research. Tells me where to go. I go there.” He smiles faintly, apparently rather proud of this arrangement.

“It used to be I was getting pretty generic stuff, fun, but not really what I was looking for. That was with the old models.” He begins scrolling down, showing older videos. The channel’s history is a peculiar thing. The earliest uploads, dating back several years, are almost comically generic. THE QUEEN MARY’S DARKEST SECRET REVEALED! features an obviously AI-generated ghost floating over a badly rendered ocean liner. Others concern the Bermuda Triangle, the Winchester Mystery House, and haunted dolls. “I have an AI model voice it all. It speaks, makes the images.”

He scrolls up to the top. There, the videos are quite different. “The latest models though are kind of crazy. They keep pointing me to things I’ve never ever heard of.” Strange disappearances in Massachusetts. Unexplained incidents involving particular individuals. Unusual footage from small towns that barely attracted local attention. The latest several uploads concern Haven.

With a small nod, Christopher just gives the impression of listening. He turns his ear to the man before raising his eyebrows and offering a mild sound of interest. “Oh, yeah AI is gettin’ kind of stupid out here” he agrees, chiming in. And he does so at the right intervals, reacting with small expressions across his features and and face. “Oh yeah look at that …” he says leaning over so he can take a look at the channel as he’s scrolling through it. Then he’s turning to glance at the man again with a warm smile ..and those eyes. “Let me take a look” he suggests, slipping that computer away from the man or trying to now that he’s done him the favor of booting it up. “I love this kind of stuff!”

Daniel relinquishes the laptop without resistance, his hands settling into his lap as Christopher takes possession of it. Fortunately, the man is one of those people who never seems to log out of anything. His YouTube account is already authenticated, and a second browser tab contains an active Claude conversation. The channel’s dashboard identifies its owner as Daniel Mercer, operating under the name C3: Claude Clue Collection, with 8,247 subscribers. An associated Gmail account is logged in, too. More importantly, the Claude conversation history is extensive, containing months of investigative prompts, uploaded photographs, and increasingly elaborate requests for the AI to identify genuine supernatural phenomena. The most recent conversation is titled “Haven Investigation: Highest Probability Leads.”

Christopher’s phone vibrates with another message from his Orderite contacts. There is certainly plenty for Orderite to examine. Enough so, its almost certaintly something to be handed off to them, when they show up, rather than a one man job.

“Take a look,” Daniel says in a hollow tone, belatedly, after the laptop is gone from his hands.

The message from the Orderite contact reads: Five minutes out, sending someone to bring them to the clinic.

And with a small buzz from his phone, Christopher fishes out his phone and takes a quick look at what it offers. He smiles briefly, then turns his attention back toward Daniel. “Right on, man this looks cool. I don’t know if you’re going to find a bunch of useful things to put into your videos but at least you believe in what you’re doing yeah?” He keeps up the conversastion gently setting the laptop aside and onto the nearby coffee table for the time being. He leaves it open. He makes small, minor bits of conversation still with the journalist to help pass those times. Every now and again his eyes will flicker toward the door perhaps expecting some sense of knock or new arrival if the man even has the werewithal to notice it from Christopher right now.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more of like a bombshell, but at least you might get a good story about the party?” He suggest.s

Three sharp knocks interrupt the conversation. They’re followed by a short pause, then another two, delivered with the brisk, businesslike confidence of someone accustomed to having doors opened for them. Daniel’s eyes wander toward the sound, but he makes no effort to rise. “Someone’s here,” he observes unnecessarily, before his attention drifts back toward Christopher.

And Christopher is standing up to open the door. “They are” he says to the man quietly. Moving from the couch he’ll move to open the door soon enough and stepping back he takes a quick view of who’s there. As long as it’s who he expects it to be, he’ll simply stand aside and let them enter. “Thanks for being quick” he says to the people that Daniel potentially cannot yet see.

Outside the door stand three individuals, two men and a woman, looking rather more like ordinary professionals than members of an organization devoted to keeping the supernatural world secret. The woman at the front appears to be in her early forties, with dark hair pulled into a tidy bun, a cream blouse beneath a fitted brown wool coat, and charcoal trousers. A leather satchel hangs from one shoulder. Behind her stands a younger man, perhaps twenty-eight, wearing a grey sweater, dark jeans, and a weatherproof jacket, with a laptop bag slung over his shoulder and a compact equipment case in hand. Their third companion is a broad-shouldered man in his thirties, with closely cropped brown hair, practical boots, and a worn brown leather jacket. A discreet earpiece is visible against one ear.

“Christopher?” The woman smiles, offering her hand. “Catherine. Librarians. And this is Michael, our technical specialist, and Thomas, from the Swordbearers.” She gestures toward each in turn. “Thank you for contacting us. We were in the area, fortunately.” Her gaze moves briefly past Christopher, taking in what she can see of the mansion’s interior. “I understand we’ve got a civilian who’s become rather too curious for his own good?” She doesn’t seem particularly perturbed by the prospect. If anything, her manner suggests this is merely another afternoon’s work.

What follows is rather procedural. The subdued Daniel is taken into custody, confused. They are soothing in tone. “You’re just going to the hospital. A check-up, for your psychological break.” Someone whose figured out so much and plans to share it can’t be allowed to seem sane. Soon the man is being bundled out of Christopher’s house while Catherine stays briefly to ask. “Anything we should know before we go?”

A small assessment comes for each of them. With a polite tone, Christopher relays the information they need and appears to be soon happy enough to be done with the whole thing. It’s the laptop that’s important and he makes sure they receive it. A few minutes later, he’s closing the door and sighing with relief.

Date: 2026-10-24 14:24

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(Christopher’s odd encounter (SREris))

[Sat Oct 24 2026]

On Elm Street

It is afternoon, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by grey clouds.

Last night had been a night of terror and madness, with howls piercing the pitch. The howls have faded into something muter with the dawn. Now they are naught but a memory to many. Though with the afternoon and the coming twilight, the promise of another full moon has the wise, wary, of what will come when darkness crosses the land again.

Elm street, near to the apartment complex and to the institute, but also near to the forest and having some of the very trees for which it is named, has some who are wiser than most.

Heedless of potential danger, a young woman in her thirties with dark hair and clear blue eyes approaches Christopher, arms waving nervously. “My cat,” she opens, raising her voice. “I need help with my cat. They’ve been up a tree ever since the howling and they are high enough that they’re too scared to come down.”

Given where the woman was walking closer from, one might gather they had walked this way from the apartment complex on Elm, looking for a strong man who might be able to help rescue their beloved pet.

Will Christopher answer their call?

At first, Christopher doesn’t even register the woman as they enter into his vision in the distance. Gone is the alert and shrewd gaze from the night before. The young would-be Orderite almost misses her entirely and it’s the sound of her voice rasiing up as he misses the first few syllables that come from her mouth that truly manages to grab his attention. The somewhat tall man pauses, his pace slowing into a stall it does finally register.

“W-what?” He says at first, trying to put together what he’s missed, but then the words are all kind of catching up to him in his ear and his face goes blank for just a moment. Then he’s trying to bring focus to his eyes. Open viridian orbs study the young woman, searching the woman for signs of deceit or duplicity, though the Jock is rarely the one to see what’s right in front of his face. Then he’s nodding his head slowly. Alright” he breathes quietly. “Alright. Show me the tree.” He just listlessly offers for the woman to take the lead, his hand dropping back to his side almost as soon as he lifts it.”

If there is acting there on the young woman’s face, it is good acting. The woman looks quite relieved when Christopher agrees to help, her worried expression brightening into a grateful smile. “Oh, thank you! Thank you so much. I’m Rebecca, by the way. It’s my Ollie! He’s usually such a good boy, as long as I’m not sick.” She turns, starting to walk, nattering as she does. “He always tries to help when I’m sick. Gets the birds. Brings them as gifts. Two a day, sometimes. He worries for me. He’s such a good kitty. But he doesn’t like dogs. Not at all. I tell him, I say, Ollie, they’re on their leashes, they’re in their houses. Stop your hissing. But he gets so scared. And, well..” She holds up an arm turning slightly to show Christopher. Long red lines, from a cat’s scratch. “He got away from huggies and ran outside and he’s been there since the morning. Poor thing.”

She does lead toward the Elm apartment complex. The southern parking lot comes into view. “He’s on the north side,” she tells Christopher. “He doesn’t like being near the pool and cars. He likes to watch the birds. Chirp with them. He’s so cute-”

Following along Christopher leaves the intersection that leads toward Paine Avenue behind, and he listens to the woman who’s introduced herself as Rebecca quietly letting her ramble on a little bit as they walk with the sense of someone who’s familiar with dealing with people’s nerves or maybe his own. “Sure.” He says and he musters up the energy to flash the woman his best attempt at a disarming, charming smile. His teeth are white and even, bright against his tanned skin and the only thing marring his face as slight crook in the bridge of his nose, as if it’s been broken before. “I’m Christopher. It’s nice to meet you” he squeezes in between on of Rebecca’s breaths as she continues to let the worlds spill out to help fill the awkward silence.

“I like dogs too I guess, but cats are where it’s at.” As they approach, Christopher will lean his head back to stare up at the offending tree as they pass through the parking lot and the offending Broadleaf. His squints up and at least it’s daytime. It helps that he can allow himself to use his vision to the fullest of its ability without making Rebecca supicious.

“Nice to meet you too,” Rebecca says to Christopher, returning his flashed smile. “I was thinking I might have to walk to the station myself, get someone that way. I tried to call and the lines were busy. Busy! Hhmrph.”

She shakes her head. “Reeve’ll probably tell me the flood is keeping them occupied still, I reckon.”

North of the multi-story Elm Apartments, the parking lot spreads between the building and the first trees of the forest. Cars occupy perhaps half the marked spaces: a silver hatchback, a mud-flecked pickup, a blue sedan with a cracked taillight, and several more ordinary vehicles, scattered rather than neatly grouped. The light is cool and thin beneath a sky broken by grey clouds and the afternoon sun hangs low.

Contrary to the woman’s speculation, the flood from more than a month ago isn’t the pressing issue it once was. It has receded, but it has not quite surrendered this place. A faint brown waterline stains the concrete base of the apartments. Dry silt lies packed into the seams of the asphalt and along the faded white parking stripes, where tires have cut pale tracks through it. Leaves, reeds, and little sticks remain caught beneath a storm-drain grate. A few shrubs beside the walkway are yellowing from the roots upward, their lower branches still tangled with scraps of washed-up debris. Here and there, an old muddy splash rises along a wheel arch; elsewhere the rain and regular use have scrubbed the cars clean. The lot is serviceable again, but its edges remember being underwater.

Christopher can see the cat well before they reach the tree, with his sight being what it is. He spots it even before the woman points it out.

At the forest’s nearer edge stands a towering elm, older and broader than the trees lining the spaces. Its rough, furrowed trunk rises out of a patch of exposed roots before dividing into heavy limbs above head height. The first sturdy branch is already an awkward reach from the ground; higher up, the limbs split and twist through a canopy of dark green and yellowing leaves. The recent flood has left a dull band of sediment around the lower bark, but the upper branches stretch untouched into the open air. A light breeze moves them against the grey sky, sending shadows wandering across the parked cars.

And high, high in that elm, nearly level with the upper floors of the apartments, is a small patch of unmistakable orange. An orange tabby clings to the fork of two narrow branches some thirty-five feet above the ground, his striped coat startlingly bright among the leaves. From below he might seem little more than a ginger bundle with a tail. An exceptionally sharp eye, though, could distinguish the white fur beneath his chin, the precise placement of his paws against the bark, and the restless movement of his ears as he looks down. He shifts his weight once, the twig beside him trembling, then settles back into his cramped perch. A thin, complaining meow floats down from the treetop, barely louder than the wind. “I GOT SOMEONE OLLIE! I GOT SOMEONE! YOU’RE GOING TO BE OKAY!” The woman screams up at the tree, alarming the cat, more then reassuring it. Its tail lashes this way and that. “MOMMA’S GOING TO SAVE YOU!”

Looing around, Christopher can’t help but marvel at the tenacity and resillience that this town often seems to display. His eyes flicker along the stained concrete and eyes that are used to working general labor on construction sites from here to Boston and back again note the water damage mentally tallying up what it would take to turn this place back into something that you might want standing just outside such a large complex as Greystone Clinic. He shakes his head to himself just barely, his eyebrows raising softly as he considers what he’s seen of the inside of the place as well. “Orange. This is …” Christopher does seem familiar with cats, because only someone who understand wholly how derpy orange cats can be would have said it like that. “Okay.”

With a slow gesture, Christopher rubs his hands together and the callouses along his palms and fingerpads scrape together with faint, rough friction. And that’s what he wants, stepping slowly up to the base of the tree. As he does, he has to crane his neck upward to keep the feline and the tree itself in full view. “This thing has to have been here a long time” he says. Glancing over his shoulder, he checks on Rebecca before placing his palm against the rough bark of the tree trunk. He rubs his there lightly too, to see how rough it is – how well his hands will hold. He glances back over his shoulder again, with a mildly alarmed glance when she yell out, startling him a tiny bit too.

The lowest substantial branch is nearly ten feet above the ground, a good four feet beyond Christopher’s comfortable standing reach. The trunk itself is deeply furrowed, its rough bark offering reasonable purchase, though there are few obvious footholds. A knot in the wood about five feet up might provide one, and a slight fork in the trunk another, higher still. The tree looks healthy enough, its great limbs thick and sturdy, though several of the smaller branches overhead appear considerably less trustworthy.

Ollie, meanwhile, is some thirty-five feet above the ground, and in a rather less accommodating part of the tree. The branches around him grow thinner, and their gentle swaying suggests they might not appreciate the weight of a grown man. The orange tabby watches Christopher’s inspection with apparent suspicion, his amber eyes following the movements of the man below.

When Christopher jumps, Rebecca looks toard him and giggles. “Its okay! I’m just letting him know you’re going to help him!” She looks at Christopher, then the branch above, noticing the problem. Her lips purse. Only five seven, her eyes seem to judge. No sympathy for short kings to be found, in those judging eyes. Her words are kinder. “I can give you a boost you need,” Rebecca offers.

The climb beyond the initial start seems tractable enough at least until the final approach to the cat. Easy, with both hands, and potentially doable with one hand holding a cat, but not a particularly comforting looking down climb.

Looking up, Christopher tilts his neck to one side for a moment as he gives that tree a quick judgement. Blinking, he glances over his shoulder again. This time he’s flashing a smile that comes much more easily as his gallant nature encourages him to do it himself. Not because it’s easier but because it’s more impressive if he does. “Don’t worry about it” he says to Rebecca confidently, and then he turns his attention to the tree. It’s good that he turns his expression away because his visage slips into a serious and intense mask that might be frightening in the wrong context. Rubbing his hand along the tree like he’s saying hello to an old friend … he crouches his legs underneath him and he jumps!

That knothole five feet up is the easiest thing to reach for, and he does. Fingers curl into it and the toe of his shoe hits the side of the tree to push him with the experienced familiarity of an athlete. Reaching out with his other hand as he pushes himself upward he grabs that lower brand near its base and begins hauling himself up. Once he’s got purchace on the branch he can reach out with his other hand and use the branch like a bar. With the smooth motion of a ‘muscle up’ he scrambles up onto the branch to try and figure out his next move. That scramble almost sees him falling out of the tree, as his grip almost gives way beneath him, his other hand reaching out to slam into the tree on the other side to try and find purchase. That hand is out of sight of Rebecca, but she can probably hear the sound of splintering wood, to say nothing of poor Ollie further up the tree!

Christopher may appear to be a rescuer to Rebecca An answer to her prayers! Literally, in fact, as Christopher begins to climb, and her hopes crystallize into wishes for well being for her Ollie.

But the cat is wiser. He knew to flee, when he heard the wolves, howling. He saw the eyes, so quick to spot him. Scardy cat, some might say, but he’s lived in Haven long enough to know his fur is right to stand on end in moments like this.

That was no normal leap. Wood does not give so beneath paw. The crunch especially has him letting out an alarmed hiss.

Not just him either. Birds in nearby trees are suddenly cawing, taking flight. A storm of feathers, running from the crunch. Which, incidentally, draws Ollie’s attention away. His butt gives a little shake. He lets out a, “Ch-ch-chirp,” as he pretends to be of them. Intent little eyes, tracking the birds which put distance between themselves and the strange. Surely, he’s not stupid enough to jump from this height.

“I’m not sick,” Rebecca calls up to her Ollie. “No more birds,” she pleas, with desperation.

Christopher’s face is covered in a wince, and he’s not glancing downward but up for the time being. “Easy” he calls up to the cat, trying to keep his voice level so that Ollie doesn’t try to do anything too stupid. Even more alarming when he starts chirrruping at the birds, as if he were stalking them through a window and he chews at the corner of his mouth. “It’s okay!” HE calls downward this time, before he’s reaching up again. This time it’s slower, hands slipping into the crevice of a y junction a little further up. Branch to branch, Christopher is heavy himself and he has to choose which limbs he tries to support himself on quite carefully, lest his two hundred and sixty pounds fall the potentially twenty plus feet to the ground.

“I am not that kind of dude, okay?” He’s still muttering up at the Orange Tabby, talking to it like it can understand him and who the hell knows maybe it does. He keeps his hands in sight now, before glancing down at the ground again. He’s higher up now and he has to take am oment to catch his balance. “Woah .. ” he says, swaying a little before reaching up once more. Higher and higher, until the large Linebacker is all but cramping through the gnarl of branches that rest higher in the broadleaf Elm. At long last he tries to bring himself close enough to the cat to at least make eye contact with the beast. “Can we do this easy? Please?” He asks, not really expecting it to work out that way.

There is something terribly suspicious about this particular human. Ollie has seen them climb before, of course. Children sometimes climb trees. But they are small things, and awkward, and most importantly, they do not usually climb quite so high. This one is enormous. He is coming closer. And closer. And now he is talking to him. The cat’s ears flatten, his tail lashes, and a low, rumbling growl rises from somewhere deep in that fluffy orange chest.

“HISSSSS!” The answer to Christopher’s polite request is rather emphatic. One white-tipped paw rises, claws unsheathing, and delivers a furious little swipe in his direction. Too far away to connect, but the sentiment is unmistakable. Ollie retreats another few inches along his branch, which bends beneath even his modest weight. He pauses, looks down at the considerable distance separating him from the ground, and then looks back at Christopher. His enormous amber eyes narrow.

“Oh, Ollie, please!” Rebecca calls from below. “He’s trying to help you, sweetheart!” She cranes her neck, one hand shielding her eyes from the afternoon light. “You’re going to be okay!”

“I knew it” Christopher says, almost sighing and he screws up his faced when that paw comes cocking back but he doesn’t flinch when it swipes out. Thankful it doesn’t reach him, Christopher opens one eye again and he stares right at those narrrowed eyes of the tabby. “Look” he mutters to the thing, more quiet and less within Rebecca’s reach. How would it look for him to be just out here talking to animals? “I just want to put you on the ground.” He glances between the feline and the ground, making slow observable motions to try and give the animal some small sense of his intentions. Then he’s grimacing and with a slow breath in to ready himself he reaches out his hand slowly, extending out an arm toward the retreating Ollie.

He doesn’t try to grab at the cat, though. He extends his hand out, palm upward and fingers kept together if loosely so his hand doesn’t look as big as it could be. He braces, expecting that paw to whip out with the machine gun sttacatto of a professional boxer to rip up his hand. But if it does, he’ll lock his muscles in place and try to bear it out in hopes that it will realize he’s not trying to hurt the thing. “Hey Rebecca, does he have like any treats or anything he likes? Maybe you could go get something to lure him down!”

Christopher’s offered hand receives a long, unblinking stare. Then a white paw lashes out. Once, twice, a third time, claws flicking at Christopher’s fingers before Ollie tucks the offending weapon beneath his chest. His hiss dwindles into a low, uncertain growl. The hand has not grabbed him. This appears to require further consideration. He watches it closely, whiskers forward, one ear turning toward Rebecca’s voice while the other remains flattened.

“Chicken! He’s got little chicken treats. He knows the bag.” Rebecca is already fumbling for her keys, looking between the apartment entrance. “I’ll get them! Just, please, don’t let him jump!” She hurries toward the building, keys jingling, with another anxious glance over her shoulder.

Up among the branches, the departure earns a small, questioning chirrup. Ollie watches her go. Then he looks at Christopher. Then at the hand. Something creaks beneath his perch, and his claws tighten against the bark. Slowly, without surrendering an inch of branch, he stretches his neck toward the offered fingers. A pink nose twitches. There is a tentative sniff, followed by another little hiss.

The cat approaches a little closer. Sniffs again. Its hairs stand on end. The scent of wolf. The scent of the howling, baying creatures of the last night. “HISS! HISSSSS! HISSSSSSS!” And finally, the claws descend. Bat. Bat. Two little slaps against the side. Not brutal and tearing open flesh, but more of a warning.

Christopher’s offered hand receives a long, unblinking stare. His hiss dwindles into a low, uncertain growl. The hand has not grabbed him. This appears to require further consideration. He watches it closely, whiskers forward, one ear turning toward Rebecca’s voice while the other remains flattened.

“Chicken! He’s got little chicken treats. He knows the bag.” Rebecca is already fumbling for her keys, looking between the apartment entrance. “I’ll get them! Just, please, don’t let him jump!” She hurries toward the building, keys jingling, with another anxious glance over her shoulder.

Up among the branches, the departure earns a small, questioning chirrup. Ollie watches her go. Then he looks at Christopher. Then at the hand. Something creaks beneath his perch, and his claws tighten against the bark. Slowly, without surrendering an inch of branch, he stretches his neck toward the offered fingers. A pink nose twitches. There is a tentative sniff, followed by another little hiss.

The cat approaches a little closer. Sniffs again. Its hairs stand on end. The scent of wolf. The scent of the howling, baying creatures of the last night. “HISS! HISSSSS! HISSSSSSS!” And finally, the claws descend. Bat. Bat. Two little slaps against the side. Not brutal and tearing open flesh, but more of a warning. (fixed)

Christopher expected that, he had to of course but it still stings when those claws nail him repeatedly. He winces but he keeps it there still. “Yeah, they scare me too” he says in the face of that hissssing protest and he looks relieved when someone starts fumbling with her keys. “Perfect!” He says down to her before he puts his attention back onto the orange tabby. “Ollie.” He tries to use the cat’s name hoping it will be familiar too. But when someone leaves, he seems to think about taking a larger risk. “C’mon …” he murmurs before he hears that CRACK of the branch.

With a sudden motion, Christopher makes a desperate reach for the cat trying to flash forward and grab up the cat by the scruff or hell just even scooping him up in any fashion. But then the branch is snapping more severely underneath him and the cat both and he’ls begin to scramble in more of a panic as the world literally begins to drop out from underneath him.

Christopher expected that, he had to of course but it still stings when those claws nail him repeatedly. He winces but he keeps it there still. “Yeah, they scare me too” he says in the face of that hissssing protest and he looks relieved when someone starts fumbling with her keys. “Perfect!” He says down to her before he puts his attention back onto the orange tabby. “Ollie.” He tries to use the cat’s name hoping it will be familiar too. But when Rebecca leaves, he seems to think about taking a larger risk. “C’mon …” he murmurs before he hears that CRACK of the branch.

With a sudden motion, Christopher makes a desperate reach for the cat trying to flash forward and grab up the cat by the scruff or hell just even scooping him up in any fashion. But then the branch is snapping more severely underneath him and the cat both and he’ls begin to scramble in more of a panic as the world literally begins to drop out from underneath him.

Christopher expected that, he had to of course but it still stings when those claws nail him repeatedly. He winces but he keeps it there still. “Yeah, they scare me too” he says in the face of that hissssing protest and he looks relieved when Rebecca starts fumbling with her keys. “Perfect!” He says down to her before he puts his attention back onto the orange tabby. “Ollie.” He tries to use the cat’s name hoping it will be familiar too. But when Rebecca leaves, he seems to think about taking a larger risk. “C’mon …” he murmurs before he hears that CRACK of the branch.

With a sudden motion, Christopher makes a desperate reach for the cat trying to flash forward and grab up the cat by the scruff or hell just even scooping him up in any fashion. But then the branch is snapping more severely underneath him and the cat both and he’ls begin to scramble in more of a panic as the world literally begins to drop out from underneath him.

As Christopher makes his grab, the tree and Ollie both protest. The tree does so in the manners that trees often do. Barking, so unlike a dog, it nevertheless manages to upset Ollie still further. Wood bends, not giving out at all once, but in a sharp series of staccato cracks and creaking.

The cat is fast. Ollie is a lean, mean, orange machine. Bird-snatcher and snake dodger, he could dodge, were he anywhere else. Instead, he’s at the end of his branch, figuratively more than literally. As he tries to dodge, he finds little to hold onto. So, feet scrabbling, hissing, and claws flashing this way and that, he is grabbed up.

Branch falls away and there are more branches below. In the brief, mad fall lower toward branches below any normal human would have likely been doomed. What is grabbing a limb as it flashes by really going to do with more than two hundred pounds of weight behind it? But Christopher isn’t a normal person. So as a limb flashes by and his hand reaches out, he could dig in, and grab a branch.

In the distance of the parking lot, the resulting cracks have drawn Rebecca’s attention. A scream of panic and fear comes out. “OLLIE!!!” She runs madly toward the pair.

Falling Christopher first has a moment of victory, because the cat is in his hands and he’s calling out “Yes!” But then the ground really does fall away so to speak and then he’s in free-fall. moving quickly, Christopher does reach out with his other hand trying to snatch or grab at any branch even if it’s not sturdy enough to hold him! It’s not even a conscious decision really, flailing out of sheer instinct as the panic of the fall sets in and the ground comes rushing up at what might be break-neck speeds. Fingers flutter over a branch missing it, scraping just past before it’s out of reach. Then another, and a third before his fingers finally hook over something and they curl tightly and grab on for dear life!

IN a sudden jerk, Christopher stops in mid-air hanging from his arm, Ollie the tabby no doubt swearing and hissing up a storm as he tries to turn the blond’s hand into ribbons. The jolt only lasts a moment though, before he lets out a sudden cry of pain and his arm loses its grasp and he’s falling again. Curling, that pause of momentum might be just enough as he turns to try and land on the ground on his back so he doesn’t squish the animal he’s trying to save. “UHhnnngnnn” The whimper of sound is all that comes from Christopher, to give Rebecca any indication of signs of life.

Rebecca runs close. “Ollie! Ollie!” She’s panicked, tears in her eyes. Ollie once on the ground is too frightened to run into Rebecca’s arms. He dashes off, dodging her attempts to grab him, then darting into the parking lot. Once there, he races under a parked car, then with the slinking movements of a scared cat, belly low, he scurries beneath it. From the shadows beneath the wheel, eyes emerge, watching from darkness.

For a few seconds, Rebecca is chasing after the cat, but when she realizes he has gotten away, finally, she turns back toward the downed Christopher. “Chris,” she says, in an expansion of recent vocabulary. “Chris!” She repeats. She jogs toward Christopher now. “Oh my goodness, oh my goodness.” Reaching him, she goes to her knees, setting chicken cat treats beside him. They’re in a colorful purple bag with little paw prints marks on them.

There were plenty of leaves and branches that fell around Christopher. Yet as she settles, another finally chooses to make itself known. The tiniest of twigs. More an insult, added to injury. The twig falls from above, final tethering giving way as a gust of wind shakes the branches. Zoom. Bonk.

Rebecca blinks in surprise. Then shuffles out from under, apparently reconsidering the wisdom of standing beneath a partly damaged tree. “Are you okay!?”

Blinking slowly, Christopher just groans again at first. Then he’s slowly looking up to try and stop his vision from swimming as Rebecca comes back into focus. Sitting up next, he groans and the woman can easily see that the bulge of his shoulder on the right side seems a little out of place. He glances over to the side and his face blanches a little. Assessing himself, he’s speaking at Rebecca but looking at his arm. His left hand reaches over across his body to grab at his own wrist. With a very sudden and sharp JERK as his shoulder is drawn down with a snap, and the sound of a click inside his socket. “OH!” He gasps, lurching forward from the painful sensation.

“Is .. is your cat okay?” He asks at long last, finally able to turn his attention back onto the situation at hand. He hasn’t moved himself yet either, still too dazed to care about falling debris from above.

Watching Christopher take care of himself seems to bring little comfort to the woman. Rebecca goes pale and looks like she might be sick after watching Christopher reset his shoulder. “I think he’s okay. He landed on you and he was moving pretty fast. Scared right now,” Rebecca says. “He’s not usually like that, he’s sweet. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He’s been so frightened since he heard the doggos.” She looks backward, checking on the malice filled eyes watching from the gloom beneath a car wheel.

Christopher’s arm stings where red scratches were gifted to him. His other shoulder is sore from the pain of losing its socket and having it reset.

“But what about…” A howl comes from the distance. Afternoon is heading toward night. Rebecca winces at the horrible noise of a wolf. “Its okay Ollie! Its just a doggo.” But the cat is properly spooked by the noise. It decides to run, heading away, toward the apartment, having learned the trees are unsafe. “Damnit,” Rebecca groans.

Hearing that … Christopher is pulling himself to his feet. “It might be a good idea to let him hide now he’s not up a tree” Christopher says roughly, but then he tries to give Rebecca a lasting smile. “But other than the it looks like he’ll be okay. Honestly, I’m glad I can help.” He blinks once, before glancing down the road. “But I have to go.” This is a little more urgent from him, that sound drawing a rememebered fear into his eyes. “It was nice to meet you” he offers her before he musters up enough energy to try and point himself toward the street.

Date: 2026-10-20 15:05

---

(Christopher’s odd encounter (SRSly))

[Tue Oct 20 2026]

At Sidney Beach

It is afternoon, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds.

Christopher is relaxing on the beach, enjoying the rare day with temperatures above sixty degrees. He’s been joined by his Frat brother Shay, the pair of them bullshitting over nothing and taking in the sound of the waves, and the sunlight as it comes in off of the Bay.

“I’m from New York. Or I suppose, I grew up in New York,” Shay explains to Christopher, giving a small nod, as he continues their conversation. “And yeah, in LA? This is definitely winter temperature. Which, I mean, is nice. Imagine being able to go to the beach, like, twenty-four-seven. Back in NYC, that’s not gonna happen.” There’s a small little scoff at the mind-trick, and with some amusement, the Salte, simply responds with, “That’s a nice trick. But I didn’t use that when I was doing some swimming and diving in the Pacific, of the south-eastern coast of Australia. It gets pretty cold there, in the water. Best way to resolve all that? Get good equipment, pack reliable tools. Like a wetsuit.”

“Ha! Bro, I wouldn’t throw my enemies into the Hudson let alone try to beach!” Christopher gives a warm, rich chuckle but he does nod more seriously at something else he says. “Woah, that’s kind of tight. We got shit covered Coast to Coast, huh?” His grin comes with a wink and then he’s leaning back his weight onto his hands as they dig into the sand beneath them. “And yeah I bet! Deep water is cold as fuck.”

Autumn in New England isn’t typically the best season for too many beach activities, but it appears that the two frat bros chilling on Sidney aren’t the only ones who might disagree with that view. As they’re enjoying the afternoon sun, or what little of it can still be caught through looming stormclouds, a svelte young woman comes wandering up the sand in a golden bikini and a full face of make-up. Much of it has been smeared by saltwater, giving her a very literal washed-up look; mascara and eyeshadow extend to her eyebrows and cheeks in a raccoon-like look, and her painted red lips have a sad clown cast. She is otherwise in stunningly perfect shape, with model good-looks, in the prime of her youth — she’s just having a bad hair day.

Her expression is vacant as she slowly meanders in the direction of Shay and Christopher, zig-zagging and stumbling just a little. As she approaches, she starts to stare, but almost seems to be staring through them.

At first, Christopher just watches the woman as she walks along the sand. Despite the makeup he’s not above taking a moment to check the woman out, proportions and the rest of the package finding nothing to sneeze at! But then the man is noticing that slightly vacant look across her face; the soft stumbles as if they don’t quite really know where they are. He tilts his neck, craning his head over to glance at Shay with a quiet expression before tilting his chin in the woman’s direction with a silent question.

Tilting his chin, he turns to glance at her again and notes that she’s looking their direction now at least although .. it doesn’t quite seem like she’s all there. “This … might be one of your deals?” He says to his brother, uncertainly.

As the woman begins walking towards the duo, Shay lifts his eyes and levels his gaze on the poor woman who’s stumbling around. His eyebrows lift upwards as he watches the woman, and he twists his lips, this way and that way, his gaze swiftly analyzing that washed-up makeup, he gold bikini, and then the way it looks like she just woke up out of bed and threw herself into the water after putting on some make-up. Those lips of his finally settle into a gradual and deep frown, especially as the woman zig-zags this way and that, staring through the both of them.

“Uh. Chris. You seeing this?” he asks quietly, giving a side-glance to his fellow bro. “This doesn’t look right. Yeah. Let’s uh. Let’s figure out what the fuck is going on.”

Christopher gives a quick nod toward Shay, “Yeah man .. I’ll follow your lead you know what the fuck you’re doing more than me” he murmurs before sitting himself up a little straighter. He dusts off his hands from the gathered up sand and he slowly starts pulling himself up to his feet. With a little stretch he does his best to keep things very nonchalant as he turns his attention back to the golden-bikini clad woman. “Hey, yo!” He calls out with his usual greeting, lifting a hand in her direction and waving to see if he gets any real kind of response.

The bikini-clad woman slows to a stop. She gazes at Shay and Christopher with vacuous uncertainty; as they take in her appearance, so too does she take in theirs, although she focuses only on their faces, their eyes. Whether she fully understand where she is or what’s going on, their attention on her is noticed, and evidently prompts her to return the favour.

Pedicured wet feet stumble through the sand, becoming quickly coated in Mother Nature’s glitter. She practically falls in Christopher’s direction when he waves and calls to her, dropping to her knees in front of him, as she too raises a hand to wave back almost automatically. “Hello sir,” she greets him, extending her arm out towards him, with her fist loosely curled and facing upwards.

Christopher doesn’t really seem to know what to do! When she stumbles forward, it’s the young man’s natural instinct to reach out and try to help her though he doesn’t quite make it in time. Lifting her hand upward Christopher just blinks with true uncertainty now as he turns to glance at Shay and figure out what the heck he’s supposed to do. Confusion and also curiosity mar his expression and bring a sharper focus into the striking green eyes that flicker back and forth between their strange new visitor and Shay.

“Uh. Weird,” Shay mumbles, as he glances back at Christopher again. “Okay. Let’s uh. Figure out whether she got roofied, I guess,” he mutters, before slowly and cautiously padding towards the woman. Those bow-shaped lips of his still carry a frown, and those eyebrows of his are knitting together and binding themselves into something resembling concern. Eventually when he closes in on the woman, he drops to his knee, keeping just out of arm’s reach of the woman. “Who are you,” he asks softly, “And are you alright? You look like you’ve had a bad night. Bad day. And it’s just kept going.”

Taking his cue from Shay, Christopher turns his attention back to the woman. He’s not as wise as his bro though, offering out a hand in support without really thinking about it and his eyrbrows pull down into a furrow. “Nothing we can’t handle though. Did you fall asleep on the beach?” He doesn’t know if it was this nice last night … but probably not. Still he can’t think of much else to ask for say for the time being, letting Shay take the lead in figuring out what exactly HAS happened to this woman.

The young woman waits with her arm outstretched in front of Christopher for at least a minute, until she’s at the point where she can no longer hold her arm out. In her condition, this seems to be far less time than the frat bros would likely manage; although her physique is tanned and toned, she’s limp as a ragdoll. Then, she slowly turns her head to look in Shay’s direction. Her clear blue eyes take a moment to adjust, as if his face were inherently shining a bright light on her, the pupils momentarily contracting and her mascara-darkened lashes falling to half-mast. Then, she answers. “I’m Aphrodite, sir,” she tells the Warden, far too docile to truly convey a Goddess at full glory. “Do I not please you?” She averts her gaze, but without any discernible disappointment to match her tone. Instead, she tilts her head to one side, sweeps her bottle-blonde hair to one side, and exposes her neck and shoulder directly for Shay.

The claim almost brings a snort out of Christopher before he can stifle it back, thankfully he manages but it’s hard to see this woman with her makeup smeared and expression so vacant as some mysterious Goddess. Watching still in silence, his eyes cut over toward Shay again with a confused look. The look on his face makes it clear he’s spinning the wheels up there, trying to put pieces together before his Frat brother has to spell it out for him. When she moves her hair, tilting her head there is some sense of recognition that comes alive in Christopher’s eyes.

“Uh,” Shay squints briefly, staring at the woman. He’s already made her judgement, she’s not a goddess, and his eyebrows show some skepticism that challenges that claim. However, he seems a bit more willing to play along with whatever’s going on, because then, he asks her, softly, “Whatever made you think that?” Then, softer, he asks, very carefully and very lightly, “And, why would you please me?”

Continuing to watch now that her focus has shifted over toward Shay as he tries to sus out the woman’s deal, Christopher relaxes ever so slightly no longer wondering if she’s going to suddenly spring up and turn into some crazy thing. He lifts a hand to run fingers through the shorter bristles of his hair, rubbing along his scalp in a self-soothing gesture.

“Mr Arkwright told me so,” the young blonde answers Shay in a far-off monotone. “He is so smart. And handsome. And funny.” She smiles politely, but it doesn’t touch her eyes. As she did for Christopher with her arm, she holds her current pose for Shay for at least a minute, waiting for something, and seems unsure of herself when her expectations aren’t met. She lifts her delicate head again, looking between the two frat bros faces, as if trying to guess what it is they want of her. Their simple desire for answers doesn’t appear to compute, right now. “Are you enjoying the party so far?” she asks.

“Man …” Christopher says quietly, but even for him the name that crosses the woman’s lips is one that Christopher recognizes. “I think this one might be … outside of our purview, bro. Maybe we should call someone she knows?” He asks of Shay generically, and beginning to chew at the corner of his mouth in worry. Since she seems almost vapid the blond doesn’t really shy from speaking over her for the moment. He does eventually answer her, putting a gentle edge to his voice. “It was a good party” he says vaguely before clearing his throat. “But it’s time for everyone to go home … you know?”

Sighing softly, Shay mutters, “Well. This is going to be fun.” Then, turning over towards Christopher, he lowers his voice, tactically making his words something only the other jock can hear. “I’m thinking they’re mind-fucked, yeah? One of the more obvious cases. Normally you’re not supposed to be able to tell the difference, but, there’s a lot of amateurs or other people who either don’t know how to do it properly, or they just don’t care enough to do it properly.” Turning his gaze back over towards the poor woman, he asks, very carefully, once more elevating his voice. “The, uh. The Arkwright. James Arkwright?” It’s a very specific question as he attempts to test the woman a little, and leaning in a bit closer, he asks her, softly, “So, he told you that you were Aphrodite? A goddess? And you believe that’s reality rather than some cheeky flirting?”

Listening quietly, Christopher can only nod at Shay when he consults with him and he gives a faint wince. “I think you’re about right on the money” he says back to the man just as softly before quieting down so he can ask the woman the question. Turning around to glance over his shoulder, Christopher seems to check and make sure they’re still mostly alone out here on the beach as the conversation turns a little direct. He nods once, before he opens his mouth to say something, and just clips his teeth together instead with a soft click.

The young woman’s face suddenly lights up under Christopher’s praise for the supposed party, glowing. “Of course,” she says to him, “would you like me to get your coat?” When Shay says the word ‘Arkwright’, her focus likewise sharpens, and she gazes into the Salte’s eyes intently for instruction. “No silly,” she replies, favouring him too with a smile, and perhaps even a little cheeky flirting. “Elijah Arkwright. He calls all of us his goddesses. I know it’s only for fun.”

If this is what fun looks like, unfortunately she’s had a little too much of it. After a moment’s hesitation, she asks him, “Would you like to call me something else? I’ll ask Mr Arkwright if that’s OK.”

There’s a look of sadness almost that passes across Christopher’s face. It’s clearly striking some kind of chord within the young man because his face looks pained at the state this woman is in. He shakes his head ever so slightly. “Oh uh .. I’m sure it’s fine” he murmurs when she seems to strive for any way she can to please them? Moroever, whatever nonchalant sense of curiosity that he had has faded away in the sight of his first real look at what the toll of this place can cost people. Looming storm clouds on the horizon only seem to match the man’s expression as he continues to watch Shay try and navigate the broken and scattered threads of this woman’s psyche.

“Alright… that makes a bit more sense,” Shay sighs out in relief, perhaps at the fact that he doesn’t have to work with someone who literally thinks they’re a goddess. With a gradual frown, and a simple nod, he asks, “Well. It’s now…” he checks his phone, “About Three PM. There’s no party going on right now, and well. Elijah has been gone from Haven for about a month. His place was wrecked. Now. I’m fairly concerned, because, well. He’s been gone for about a MONTH. And If you’re one of his gals, then like… how the hell have you survived? Are you hydrated, hungry?” As if to sate his curiosity, he shuffles a bit closer towards the woman, and begins inspecting her more thoroughly, one of his tattoos dimly glowing from beneath the clothes he has on. “Alright. We’re going to help you, can I have a name for you, my dude? And… along with that, I need a few answers to my questions, that way we can make sure you’re safe and not catatonically ‘living it up’ in a dangerous dump that probably wasn’t repaired.”

“That sounds like a good plan” Christopher says to Shay and he sounds like he means it. “Sounds like you’ve come across this kind of thing before too” he adds with that stormy mood still hanging over him now as he continues to deal with this newfound revelation. “Hometown is just down the way, we can get her some food maybe? Maybe .. the relief vounteers will know something was his house caught up in the flood?” He wonders aloud, giving the other man a potential avenue to follow if they need a place to help keep this woman safe.

‘Aphrodite’ seems most at ease when she’s keeping everyone happy. And so Christopher’s reassurance regarding his coat has her flashing him another small smile, still glowing from the smallest bit of praise about the party, eyelashes fluttering. It might be cuter if her dark mascara weren’t clumped haphazardly on light, bent hairs.

As soon as Shay says the name ‘Elijah’, she looks back at him, and does her best to listen carefully to what he says, still kneeling in the sand. When he says the man has been gone for a month, and that there’s in fact no party right now, her smile fades, expression downcast. She listens but perhaps declines to absorb, giving her head the faintest little shakes as he speaks, quivering, as if to physically discard the truthful words that are trying to sink into her brain. “I’m sorry …” she begins to say, sounding to be on the verge of tears, although she manages to hold them back. “I ate … from the pantry … I know that I’m not supposed to eat without permission. I was hungry. Elijah was busy, I didn’t want to bother him.”

Elijah was apparently busy not being in Haven at all. That doesn’t prevent her guilt. There is some hesitation in her voice as she considers the more serious question of her name, but all she seems able to come up with is, “My name is Aphrodite. I wasn’t anyone before I met Mr Arkwright.” She looks up again and smiles dreamily at Shay, telling him, “He’s the love of my life.”

To Christopher, she gives a little nod. “There was a flood, yes … Mr Arkwright will know what to do. He always has a plan.”

“What a fun day…” Shay mutters, shaking his head as that frown of this dips deeper. About as deep as any frown can go really. Carefully, he positions himself, near the woman. He aims. And then, careful not to use all his strength, he palm-chops her temple, intent on knocking her out.

When Shay makes his move, Christopher has to react almost by reflex. As the chop comes swiping in toward the woman, he’ll move forward to try and catch her unwilling to see her crumple into a heap on the sand if he can avoid it. “Could be worse, I guess … probably just got a lot busier for you though” he says over to Shay more plainly once the deed is done.

Just like going to sleep, without so much as a look of shock or a cry of pain, the young ‘Aphrodite’ crumbles into Christopher’s arms. Aside from her smeared makeup, she looks more peaceful now than she did before, free of any anxiety as to how to please these ‘party guests’.

Christopher spends a long moment staring down at the unoncsious woman, before breathing out a quiet sigh. “I feel for this woman, Shay. Is .. she going to end up alright?” He doesn’t mean it like anything silly of course, but just displaying some of his compassion for the world to see. His question is posed with the same sense of uncertainty he’s shown during the whole ordeal – only this time it’s because he knows the answer.

“It’s got a lot busier for the both of us,” Shay expresses to Christopher with a deep frown. Carefully, he begins to hoist the woman over his shoulder, being as gentle as he can manage. “We need to move her, fast. There’s a place where we can begin undoing some of the fuckery that’s happened. And it’s a lot easier explaining away a passed out drunk woman, than it is to explain why we’re toting a struggling woman around.” Rising to his feet, he lowers his voice, tactically, again, and murmurs to his fellow, “She’s been branded. Which means the mind-fuckery about her isn’t going to go away, and instead, she’s going to likely, starve to death. Because Elijah, that prick, doesn’t care. Once she’s awake, we’re going to figure out if there’s anyone else stuck in his old place. And I’ll pray to god he didn’t just leave people to die inside.”

Taking that in, Christopher just eventually nods slowly. Toting the woman in his arms .. he nods his chin at Shay. “Let’s go” he says, setting his jaw in determination.

A shift of the woman’s weight is all it takes for Christopher to put over one shoulder with an ease that comes not so differently from Shay’s own strength. Crouching, Christopher scrunches up his face and kicks open the cooler that’s there on the beach and snags one of the drinks from inside. “I’m gonna need this” he says to himself more than to Shay that doesn’t stop him from using his teeth to pop the top off the bottle without any fear of causing himself any damage. “And you’re right about that. Sooner started, sooner done” he says of the extra work.

Two frat bros may be seen carrying around a passed out drunk woman in a bikini, with a messy faceful of makeup; but she looks college-aged, and so accompanying her either to the Clinic or the Goblin Market isn’t too hard to explain away, as Shay suggested. Asking around on faction comms should inform them that there’s currently a Market door at the Black Rose Bookstore, and the brand is shockingly inexpensive to remove there. Evidently, the Arkwright raven on her lower back has been there long enough to have lost a lot of the protection that typically makes them harder to remove, when they’re still fresh.

When she comes to, she may be more willing and able to answer questions: whether Christopher and Shay wish to let her rest, or speak to the real her at this point, is up to them.

After removing the woman’s brand at the Goblin Market, Shay is more than willing to interview her, his lips pursed as he makes sure that, first, she’s fine and well, and second, to get her actual details. Including what her name is, where she’s from, if she has any family. After those crucial details, he gets to the meat of the matter. “So,” he asks softly to the woman, “I need to know if you can remember any other gals or guys you were with in the Arkwright manor. You mentioned Elijah talking about how he all calls you goddesses, and well. That gives me some concern.”

The clear and present ‘New Guy’ to this whole thing, Christopher keeps himself in a little bit of a corner but he’s listening carefully as Shay starts to try and wring some more useful details out of the woman, now. Apart from looking perhaps vaguely menacing, he doesn’t seem to have much to offer as his bro starts to get down to brass tacks. “You want me to stay?” He asks Shay simply. “Might be .. more comfortable, less anxious if I’m not looming over you two. Whatever helps. ”

“It’s your choice if you want to, this is a lot right now, and I wouldn’t want to overwhelm you with this before I’ve had a chance to teach you much,” Shay expresses to Christopher with a slow nod and a reassuring pat to their shoulder. “So, if you want to stay, stay. If you want to bounce, bounce. I can handle this on my own.”

With a slow nod, Christopher seems to err on his own side of caution. “Yeah, I’ll let you handle it. I’m .. I can /handle/ it – but maybe one step at a time into the deep end” he murmurs before stepping forward. He pats Shay on the shoulder, before crouching down enough to give this woman a long look. HIs green eyes study her for some time in silence his expression muddled with care and worry. “You’ll be alright” he says to her quietly. THen he stands up, and he’s turning around. “Luckily … I’ve been here before.” He nods to Shay and leaves him to it.

Aphrodite was out like a light; dehydrated, starved, and clearly unsteady on her feet even prior. The only mercy is that after a month of her master’s absence, there were no visible bite marks on her skin, which must’ve healed up; there are no obvious signs of her having been fed on since, although not all supernaturals leave marks when doing so.

When she comes to in the Goblin Market’s magical workshop, with the brand on her lower back faded as though it never was, she’s almost a different person. Her attention remains hazy, plainly unsure of where she is and what’s going on, but her eyes are much sharper in their desire to at least take in her surroundings and make some sort of assessment. She doesn’t look at Christopher and Shay’s faces with sad puppy hope for instruction, but instead glances to the door, towards their clothes for any signs of weapons, and around the workshop for anything she herself could use. Her frown flickers between confusion, concern, fear and anger. Using the back of her hand, she wipes away clumps of makeup from her eyes. “Shit …” she starts to say. “Shit, shit shit shit shit shit.” She scrambles back away from both of them, the weight of the past month minimum of her existence hitting her like a truck. “There’s others,” she confirms, “please don’t hurt us. We didn’t do anything.” When Christopher starts to leave, she looks a little relieved, but then looks back up at Shay, wide eyed to see what he might do next.

Holding up his hands, Shay keeps his distance from the woman, and, adopting a gentle smile, he tells her, “It’s alright. Calm down. I’m not here to hurt you. In fact, I’m here to help.” Pausing, and almost cryptically, he raises one of his chief concerns, almost immediately, through the general esoteric most people on average ask when dealing with someone who’s not supernaturally aware. “Are you aware?” he asks softly, knitting his eyebrows together.

Sitting atop the arcane workbench, Aphrodite pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them, offering some meagre modesty to her scantily clad body. She shivers, letting her salt-frizzed damp hair fall across the sides of her face. “I never wanted to be,” she quietly protests. “My friends and I just came here for a hiking trip. Some idiots on Brown kept saying Bigfoot lives here, and we didn’t believe them, but we were going to film a YouTube series tracking him down. And then we met Elijah at the Lodge … that charming fuckhead. He’s a fucking narcissist. And he said we could save some money and crash at his beach house and there’d be party drugs and shit, and I don’t know what he did to us. I didn’t leave my drink, we were all looking out for each other. We just wanted that soft life, you know? Be some rich guy’s sugarbabies for a weekend. And then we just didn’t leave.” Tears replace the seawater that had dampened her lashes, as she wipes away some more clumped-up make-up. “I’m Annie. Paula’s still there. And so are Matty and Tom. Oh my god, Lucy … He fucking killed Lucy. He … he drank her dry. Like some fucked up reverse Edward Cullen.”

“I’m Shay Salte, Warden of the Order,” Shay murmurs over towards someone, before wincing briefly at the woman tugging her knees up and hugging them to her chest. Taking his spare white t-shirt, he gingerly pads over, careful not to make the woman more skittish or fearful. And with some delicateness, he offers the woman his shirt. “It’ll take a moment to describe what Orderites are, but, many of us fight against things like this.” Briefly, he takes a step back and begins typing into his phone, frowning deeply at the idea of the vampire committing murder. But he’s done this song and dance before, and instead of horror or sympathy, he glances upwards and murmurs, gingerly, softly, “I can understand the fear, the pain. Likely, what he did is screw with your mind. There’s a bunch of things that, well. Supernatural people can do. One of them is a manipulation of the psyche, through hypnosis or psychic persuasion.” Patting his chest, he mentions, cautiously, “You won’t have to worry about blood-shenanigans with me. I’m not that type of person. Nor do I prey upon anyone. It’s against everything I believe in. But… I am going to take custody of you for a week or so, educate you on the world you, now, sadly, have to live in. Make sure you’re equipped with the tools to survive and keep yourself alive… And perhaps live a good life in despite of everything. So, I’m going to get you to the clinic, and for now, I want you to stay there, until I return. I’m going to have to fetch your friends and bring them here, get the mind-fuckery undone on them, and then I’ll bring them to the clinic as well. Odds are you lot will be suffering from dehydrations, sleep deprivation, and malnutrition. And while I can slap a bandaid on you and call it a day, I think your condition requires a bit more than a bandaid, and something that lies a bit further outside of my expertise.”

“I’m Shay Salte, Warden of the Order,” Shay murmurs over towards Annie, before wincing briefly at the woman tugging her knees up and hugging them to her chest. Taking his spare white t-shirt, he gingerly pads over, careful not to make the woman more skittish or fearful. And with some delicateness, he offers the woman his shirt. “It’ll take a moment to describe what Orderites are, but, many of us fight against things like this.” Briefly, he takes a step back and begins typing into his phone, frowning deeply at the idea of the vampire committing murder. But he’s done this song and dance before, and instead of horror or sympathy, he glances upwards and murmurs, gingerly, softly, “I can understand the fear, the pain. Likely, what he did is screw with your mind. There’s a bunch of things that, well. Supernatural people can do. One of them is a manipulation of the psyche, through hypnosis or psychic persuasion.” Patting his chest, he mentions, cautiously, “You won’t have to worry about blood-shenanigans with me. I’m not that type of person. Nor do I prey upon anyone. It’s against everything I believe in. But… I am going to take custody of you for a week or so, educate you on the world you, now, sadly, have to live in. Make sure you’re equipped with the tools to survive and keep yourself alive… And perhaps live a good life in despite of everything. So, I’m going to get you to the clinic, and for now, I want you to stay there, until I return. I’m going to have to fetch your friends and bring them here, get the mind-fuckery undone on them, and then I’ll bring them to the clinic as well. Odds are you lot will be suffering from dehydrations, sleep deprivation, and malnutrition. And while I can slap a bandaid on you and call it a day, I think your condition requires a bit more than a bandaid, and something that lies a bit further outside of my expertise.”

“Custody?” Annie cries, covering her eyes. The word evidently rubs her the wrong way given recent experiences, but she does take the offered T-shirt and pull it over her scantily-clad body. “I need to call my parents … please let me just call my parents. I called them before and told them Paula and I were running away together and that we’re lesbians, and not to come looking for us, and that I hate them. I’m not … Oh god they must be so worried.”

Yet despite these recent experiences, or maybe because of them — a lesson in the futility of resisting supernaturals that has come hard and fast — she does gingerly drop her sand-covered feet to the floor, straightening up, and seems ready to follow him to the clinic or wherever else. Her one small token act of defiance as she does so is to grab at the 14kt anklet she’s wearing, with its maritime charms and little raven, and forcibly rip it off, discarding it on the arcane workbench. If Shay later has an arcanist examine it, he’ll be able to determine it’s cursed. She may not know that, but she seems to know at the very least that she no longer wants to wear a token of Elijah’s affections. “He took our phones. I’ll go wherever, but I want to call my parents.”

“Custody,” Shay confirms for someone, giving a tired nod. “For your own safety. There’s a lot of rules that go on within the world you kind of just got forced into,” he explains, coating his words with some gentleness. “And, sure. You can call your parents. Just… uh. Don’t explain the vampire things to them, please? I know this is all, like, really strange, but, I’d prefer to do this without further complications than you or I need on our plates.” With that, he hands his phone over, with the phone app open and put on speeddial. “I’ll fetch your friends. I have a little hideout that I’ve built, and you and yours can stay there for a while, to remain safe.”

“Custody,” Shay confirms for Annie, giving a tired nod. “For your own safety. There’s a lot of rules that go on within the world you kind of just got forced into,” he explains, coating his words with some gentleness. “And, sure. You can call your parents. Just… uh. Don’t explain the vampire things to them, please? I know this is all, like, really strange, but, I’d prefer to do this without further complications than you or I need on our plates.” With that, he hands his phone over, with the phone app open and put on speeddial. “I’ll fetch your friends. I have a little hideout that I’ve built, and you and yours can stay there for a while, to remain safe.”

“I know. I know the rules,” Annie sniffles, “Elijah told me.” Wiping her arm with her elbow, she bitterly murmurs, “I hope he’s dead. For real fucking dead. We’re going to stake him when we find him.” She takes the phone, hesitating for a moment as she stares at the keypad, but she apparently doesn’t remember which number to call. She ends up opening a browser to google her own parents, before finally lifting the receiver to her ear for the call. Eyes red, she looks around the room and back at Shay, evidently still trying to decide what to make of her helper. Trust seems difficult for her, at the moment.

“Let me handle Elijah,” Shay tells someone with a small nod. “You can be present for the trial, but, ultimately, it’s something I need to handle. Plus, odds are, he’ll fuck you up long before you’re even able to get near him. Especially if you have no training in fighting.” Patiently he waits and watches the woman, sympathy finally emerging on his face. “Hey. If you need some help… getting uh. Some more information on you, if he’s fucked with your mind and wiped you clean of memories, I can help with that too. I don’t mind expending some resources to help some innocent people recover from something like this. In fact, it’s my responsibility to do so.” With that, after all that’s said and done, the Salte escorts the woman to the clinic to make sure she’s well taken care of, stationing two shields by her door to keep any more harm done to her from the more dodgy of staff and the people around town who might not be too honest with their intentions. Upon saving the other thralls of the group, he’ll do much the same thing, removing the brand, obtaining personal information, before eventually, he informs them of much the same thing that he informed Annie. That he needs to retain custody of them for a while before he cuts them loose… And once they’re all taken care of, looked after… After the scene of the ‘crime’ has been properly photographed and everything looked into, Shay would eventually bring them to his Orderite base… And begin his further business of the day.

“Let me handle Elijah,” Shay tells Annie with a small nod. “You can be present for the trial, but, ultimately, it’s something I need to handle. Plus, odds are, he’ll fuck you up long before you’re even able to get near him. Especially if you have no training in fighting.” Patiently he waits and watches the woman, sympathy finally emerging on his face. “Hey. If you need some help… getting uh. Some more information on you, if he’s fucked with your mind and wiped you clean of memories, I can help with that too. I don’t mind expending some resources to help some innocent people recover from something like this. In fact, it’s my responsibility to do so.” With that, after all that’s said and done, the Salte escorts the woman to the clinic to make sure she’s well taken care of, stationing two shields by her door to keep any more harm done to her from the more dodgy of staff and the people around town who might not be too honest with their intentions. Upon saving the other thralls of the group, he’ll do much the same thing, removing the brand, obtaining personal information, before eventually, he informs them of much the same thing that he informed Annie. That he needs to retain custody of them for a while before he cuts them loose… And once they’re all taken care of, looked after… After the scene of the ‘crime’ has been properly photographed and everything looked into, Shay would eventually bring them to his Orderite base… And begin his further business of the day.

Date: 2026-10-01 05:54

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(Claire’s odd encounter (SRGraham))

[Thu Oct 1 2026]

In the contemporary, central, spacious living area of the apartment
The main room is a wide, low-ceilinged space that has clearly been lived
in by many people and never quite made anyone’s own. Scuffed floorboards run
under a faded rug, and tall western windows let in thin, tired light. A
mismatched collection of second-hand furniture crowds the middle of the
room: a sagging gray sectional, a scratched coffee table, an armchair with
its arms worn pale. Somewhere below, the faint smell of old fabric and dust
drifts up from the shop, mixing with a trace of detergent.

It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. There is a waning gibbous moon.

Claire finishes taping a paper over a door and takes a step back to admire her handiwork. It’s simply a list of what appear to be various chores. “That’ll do,” she comments to herself in the very same vein of patting one’s self on the back. “Now onto roomie number two’s.”

Yes, indeed. Roomie Number Two and their chores. If, indeed, those chores might ever be done. An irritability creeps up along Claire’s back, up her neck, and settles itself around her brain stem like an irascible serpent at the roots of the world tree. It’s insulting that she should even have to put these lists up in the first place, isn’t it? That the people she opens her door to cannot be trusted to simply behave as adults and contribute to the maintenance of the apartment? The thought rasps along the soft tissue of her brain like a dull razor against a strop.

“Fucking bitch,” someone whispers under their breath, artless but easily audible.

Odd. That had sounded a lot like her own voice.

Claire loses her train of thought and deviates from her grand mission to bring order to the flat, turning to peek between the curtains and cast judgment upon Main. She sets her sights on the Chill Zone just across the street with a large black vending machine with her name on it. “I could use a drink,” she sings to the tune of self-whimsy, only to hear someone say something very rude. Abandoning the need for a quick jaunt to a vending machine, she turns to address whoever that might be. “Huh?”

No, no. There’s nobody there. Who could Claire be looking for? She’s all alone in there, isn’t she?

The universe doesn’t give up an easy answer. Nothing leaps out at her after an appropriately dramatic pause, no little speakers beep and give away their position – and who would have planted any prank devices like that already, anyway? She’s all alone, and that sense of irritation only grows. Maybe it’s making her paranoid. A trip to the vending machine to spoil herself with a little treat could be just the thing to calm her down. There aren’t any monsters lurking in the proverbial waters across the street, as far as she knows. It’s a vending machine.

Finding no one to confront, Claire’s shoulders slump, shedding that flight or flight faster modus operandi she has developed over the years. She breathes out a relieved exhale, but concern doesn’t seep from her system that easily. She starts searching inwardly, clutching at her heart, and to her chagrin finds it beating faster than she would like. Nothing to show for herself like clockwork, she slumps against the wall and rummages around her pockets, producing an empty pillbox. Her fears are confirmed when she rattles it, just in case, and tosses it aside. “It’s just another panic attack,” she tells herself, seeking to find solace through her phone instead. That doesn’t garner her much hope either — all her precious few contacts are nonexistent at this hour. Though for a moment her thumb hovers over the prospect of giving a Wilson a call. She immediately abandons that idea.

A heart that beats too quickly, a weight upon her shoulders, a tightness in her chest, and a strange sense of bloating. Yes, there’s something quite awry here – perhaps Claire is coming down with something. Or perhaps it’s just the fact she let herself run out of pills again, like the flagrant, tail-flaunting brim she is. A bilious knife of self-disgust lances into her gut with an audible gurgle.

Maybe she really should get herself something to drink – like good old Pepto-Bismol, or anything else which might settle the squeasy, queasy unease which besets her. And it’s all Roomie Two’s fault. That strumpet.

Claire pulls a face and stares at the dim screen of her phone for advice. Somehow, she lacks even the motivation to wake the screen and get lost into its depths. She’s feeling way too off about that. She wearily pushes herself up from the floor and takes a deep breath, seeking that elusive grasp of composure. It does the trick, and she strides past the bedroom door she was fussing over, necessitating a detour to the kitchen. Straight to the fridge, to find something to soothe her ails. Bending low enough to peek inside of the appliance, she’s met with another dismal reality: it’s hardly stocked save for a few eggs. She settles with a cool glass of water, chugging it down at the risk of cratering an already terrible score she’s rocking.

Date: 2026-10-10 09:48

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(Claire’s odd encounter (SRLillian))

[Sat Oct 10 2026]

In Cair Paravel
The interior of the building is draped lavishly in clothing of all sorts
and rotary racks pepper the bulk of the available space like multicolored
trees. The walls here are obscured with wood paneling from which hangers
can be attached to display individual items and the floor is likewise
hardwood.

The southwestern section shifts from casual to formal as it approaches the
furthest point. Mirrors are quite common along the walls and give an
impression of vast space. The changing rooms are also located here and
labeled obscurely. One to the northwest reads “Sons of Adam” while the
other more directly to the west displays “Daughters of Eve”.

It is morning, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds.

Claire browses some of the discounted articles of clothing at Narnia, an avid passtime of hers. There’s no real commitment to look for anything to buy, she’s just indulging in her whimsies this morning and killing time.

Whimsy may be the key word of the day; there’s damn near nothing on the racks that sparks interest. Boring, drab, out of fashion, old but not in the cool way, or just downright gross, it seems like it’s a dud of a thrift day. Even with the clouds outside it’s a bright day, though, the sun just barely breaking through a threatened storm every few minutes.

You find yourself alone amidst the riff-raff of discounted clothes, the cast-offs of years gone by. And it is in that loneliness that you spot it: a scarf. $6.99, the price tag proudly displays. It’s thick-knit, cable style, with gorgeous celtic patterns running up and down in tasteful cream. It’d be perfect for fall. It’s fall now, in fact.

Claire turns and spots the scarf with that price tag that’s too good to be true. The stage is set, her eyes meet its, its nonexistent eyes beckon her over, and fate sets things in motion from there. “What do we have here?” she asks, taking the scarf from the riffraff that garners not even a whit of her attention. The Celtic embroidered along its length isn’t something she isn’t too familiar with, so she must run her fingers over it to gain more information instead of consulting Siri.

It practically tingles under your fingertips. The knitting is undeniably fine, and it seems to not have been machined. No, this was hand-made, done a single stitch at a time by the expert needles of a pair of wrinkled, wizened hands, no doubt in the copious spare time an older woman finds herself blessed with. This, you realize, was made with love. It was made FOR someone.

How sad, then, that it has ended up here, in the racks, buried beneath ugly sweaters and windbreakers and mustard-colored button-ups that even a used car salesman would think was tacky. It’d look great on you. You know it to be true, oddly enough, as your fingers run across the celtic knotting.

It imprints upon you, in fact, that you want to try on the scarf. Fingers tracing runes are enough to trigger whatever magic they were hiding.

“A cut above. This isn’t French at all,” Claire realizes, relieved and heartened all at once. With only that singular trait, she grows a certain attachment for the wayward apparel, she holds it close, getting a feel for its texture. Resolve to try it on is injected into her very being then and there. Anxious to see how it looks, she carefully drapes the material around her neck, nodding in satisfaction. In the thrift store, all alone in the clothing section, she commands the room with a lift of her chin, not realizing the novice mistake she’s just made. Those runes should be a red flag for anyone with the know how.

They very much are a red flag. Although, perhaps not so terrible as they might otherwise have been. Along with the instantly gratifying satisfaction of accomplishing your one mission (trying on the scarf), you find yourself feeling altogether lighter, altogether faster. Rather than cursed, the scarf must be an artifact of some kind! A relic! Your vision sharpens. Your sense of smell heightens. Your hearing, by GOD, your hearing must be ten or twelve times increased. The celtic runes whispered of the animal kingdom, of the power locked beneath fur and scale, and it must have granted you some of that.

Coincidentally, you also notice the racks seem a bit larger. Much larger, actually. So much larger that you realize you must have fallen over when you tried on the scarf. You are on the floor. Your tail whips behind you, keeping you nice and balanced, and your fur insulates you from the fall chill and the air conditioning this damn building refuses to turn off even in this weather. Your large ears swivel and turn, taking in all the noises of potential predators around you, and your paws are perfect for scampering or grabbing food.

You are a mouse.

Claire stays perfectly still for a long moment amid the folds of the fallen scarf and the large pool of clothing she was once wearing only a moment ago. Small black eyes fix on a hanger swaying far overhead. Then she rights herself with great dignity, smooths her paws over her large ears, and squares her tiny shoulders as though this were a minor wardrobe malfunction. “Squeak.” she squeaks thoughtfully, unable to convey the emotion she so desires. “Squeak,” she realizes her folly, ears swiveling. She has been bamboozled.

Wandering in with some poor schmuck’s confiscated phone he’s intent on having cloned, Graham pauses at the sight of the random puddle of clothing, and the verminous little creature that appears to be mousing around in it.

“Oh,” Graham frowns, coming closer. “It is a mouse. Disgusting.”

But he’s a fairly quick guy, too, and he knows those clothes. They’re his employees. The employee he’d just been berating for letting slip certain rumours about him, ones he claims are entirely baseless. He starts to crouch down, but he’s not quite there yet with his prosthesis-using skills.

“Is that… You, Claire? Or is there just a rat in your clothes while you’re scampering off naked somewhere?” He pauses for a moment, then snorts. “Serves you right. Do you understand me? Use your hands. I’m not listening to some rat chitter on and on.”

Ohhhhh, SHIT. Thank goodness for mouse ears and mouse nose, both of which alerted Claire to this massive, peg-legged monstrosity long before his voice ever did. Claire feels, no doubt, the instincts of a mouse she is not yet used to: FLEE. Flee, as fast as your mousey little legs can carry you!! With her mind yet intact, though, she needn’t listen to that insistent nagging, that terrible mousey fear of being eaten by this large, bipedal cat. Moreover, she has the good fortune of understanding English. T’would seem hers is a curse of forced shifting.

The scarf remains where it fell, draped lovingly around a neck that can no longer support it, now piled on the ground around a mouse. The celtic runes on the scarf seem mocking, now, telling tales of fur and scale that aren’t so glorious as borrowing the senses of the animal kingdom, but rather, wearing them forevermore. A curse, rather than a blessing. But this is the mistake of an amateur, of course: the same runes which write the spell could reverse it, perhaps?

Claire just bolts, or more specifically dives into the pile of her clothing, still warm with her body heat. It’s safe. Graham’s voice eventually draws her out of hiding, her less natural instincts compelling her she might get help from him. She emerges from the large pile of clothing, shifting out of some floral underwear so she can stand on her hind legs and meet Graham’s gaze with her pitch black eyes. It might be like staring into the void, but she’s just a mouse, so there is none of the intimidation factor.

“Squeak?” she squeaks some more, entreating with her employer. But those not in the know with mouse speak might misinterpret her as asking if anyone’s got Gouda. She has no hands, but she has paws, which are the same thing. As best as she can, she motions at the pile of clothing, then makes the same gesture at Graham, initiating what must be a game of charades, her tiny mouse heart thumping to a marching band’s tempo, cause her natural she so brazenly defies is screaming at her she’s about to get eaten.

Graham shuts his eyes and sighs inwardly, and also outwardly. While this was not the first time he’d seen the victim of such a curse… He didn’t know if he had the patience to deal with it this morning. But this is one of his employees, and a missing person under his employee would lead the sheriffs to him and he didn’t need to be investigated for a second disappearance of a woman in Haven. He reaches out to try and grab the mouse up, to little avail; he’s not particularly deft, and that poor little mouse brain is particularly daft. Couldn’t she see he was there to help her?

“Claire,” he tries again, his voice as thin as his patience. “I don’t know a fucking thing about magic. Just…” He gesticulates vaguely. “Pray to me. Make a wish. I’ll hear it. I swear to God, though, if I get even a hint of cheese in my brain, I am going to go and find a tomcat.”

He’s not a very nice boss.

Pray? Cheese? Tomcat? Two out of three ain’t bad. Mouse brain doesn’t care, loves, and hates those words, pretty much in that order. Claire brain might have other ideas. Nonetheless, she has proven her superiority over this particular cat, whose clumsy, unclawed hands cannot catch her superior mouse agility. Indeed, she could probably run circles around him. On top of that, she’s got this nice safe pile of clothes, which he does not have, and if she REALLY tried, she could probably bolt for the nearest fitting room and disappear forever into the walls of Narnia.

Actually, you know what? There’s probably a lot of other mice in those walls. Nice mice. Maybe they’d like to be friends. No cats in the walls, that’s for sure. No food either, though. The cats are always where the food is. Wonder why? Is it cosmic coincidence? Is it ordained? Is there some sick creator who loves games of cat and mouse, sitting up there, selectively placing the food you need to live within reach of the cat who desperately wants to murder and eat you? What a sicko. These thoughts and more run through the racing mouse brain, suddenly given access to human processing power. Existentialism and mice don’t mix very well. RUN, GIRL.

Claire darts to the left, then right, and the left again, evading on Graham’s attempts to get at her. She knows he’s trying to help, but her mouse instincts just kick in and she needs to style on him to earn some useless points she won’t be able to redeem ever. She’s deep in the weeds, or more specifically deep within the nest of her own clothing, but her cute little mouse face peeks out after Graham offers a bit of diplomacy, convincing the part of her that hasn’t succumbed to far less base instincts he’s probably not going to stomp on her.

But ultimately mouse brain wins, and its more to stare up at Graham to scoff as much as a mouse could and tell him without words she’s a believer in science, not God. Without warning, she bolts between Graham’s legs, eyeing the super expensive prosthetic limb in the process, unable to really cast judgment on the merits of peglegsmaxxing as much as she’d like right now since she’s a mouse. In all that movement, she kicked at something small and shiny that laid at the top of her clothing. And next to her phone.

It’s that silver ear cuff with the carved runes that some might be able to suss out as an arcane focus.

“Damn it, Claire, just -” Graham pinches his nose as he straightens up, not looking to stir the mouse into any more of a flurry. “Just think clearly, would you?” He sighs and bends down, putting all the strain on his middle-aged lower back instead of crouching because he is as-of-recently a disabled man, and grumbles as he begins to sift through her clothes. Dress and blouse, panthose – thong, nice – earring. Okay. He snags it and holds it up, inspecting it this way and that. Yep; a focus.

“Claire,” he calls, not sure he could actually spot her at this point without her flipping a switch and racing up his leg. “I have your earring. This is it, right? It’s not the headband? And the scarf isn’t yours, right?” He eyes it dubiously. “What else do I need to do? Think very hard about it. Use your brain, not your heart.”

Claire knows exactly what to do: a little bit of simplistic ritual magic would undo a hex of this caliber. I mean, a mouse? Really? It’s not even properly a curse. It didn’t come with any riders, you don’t think. I mean, you wouldn’t really be able to check, would you? Well, none of the runes appeared to be for anything other than transfiguration, at least.

In any case, it would be simple: a ritual circle, the focus, and the runes run in reverse, with something of hers present to ensure the ritual understands she’s meant to become HERSELF again, and not some other human, or some other animal. That, plus… well… a cost. The spirits would demand it. No doubt the mage who ensorcelled this scarf paid quite a price indeed. Yours will be lesser.

Two things are necessary, first off: a space, and something with which to draw the circle.

Claire squeaks incessantly beneath Graham, darting between his legs, because within her are two mice. One wants to get the heck out of Dodge, and the other wants to school Graham, and more importantly help him solve this issue of hers, so she settles with the happy medium of running around him. Which probably doesn’t make the man’s life any easier here. If she had her voice, she’d probably be screaming at him to hurry up and fix this for her already. Sometimes her more level-headed frame of thinking wins out and she strays from the circuit around a foot and peg, running in the barest semblance of a circle. Since she’s a tiny little thing, the circle probably doesn’t need to be too spacious, just enough to contain the arcane focus and maybe a robust form with a mouse running within its circumference.

There we go. That’s much clearer, and makes somewhat obvious to him what is blatantly obvious to Claire. It’s not that he’s unintelligent; he just really never took a try at magic.

“A circle,” he sighs, very grateful for his ability to interpret mouse wishes into demigod thoughts. “Easy enough.”

And it is easy enough. Graham’s actually really, really good with circles and shapes. Step one: he pulls another – ideally not enchanted – scarf off a rack before taking out a rather fancy fountain pen from his jacket pocket. Uncapping it, it has a genuinely razor-sharp nip with no ink flow at all; a pen dedicated to signing in blood.

Step two: He bites down on his lip as he shunts the nib of said pen into the soft part of his wrist. No thumbprints here; if he’s going to make a magic circle, he’ll need a decent amount of blood. He knows that much. He tugs the pen down, wounding himself mildly as he gashes his wrist. It’s not enough for him to bleed out before his body will knit the wound, but he quickly wraps the end of the scarf around his wrist to get it nice and thick and waterlogged – bloodlogged? Ensanguinated.

Step three; he drops the clean end of the scarf down onto the ground and pins it in place with his peg leg. He grabs the rack itself, trusting it to take his weight while he tries a manoeuvre with his dodgy new leg, and drops the bloody end of the scarf down onto the ground as well, a fair distance away. Then he steps on it with his good foot and – slowly, carefully, begins to drag the scarf around him at full extension, using the rack to balance, and the peg leg and scarf as a compass of sorts. As a nice bonus, it’s made of rather potent demigod blood, only recently saturated to its maximum capacity of life essence by a hospital visit.

“Okay,” he sighs. He’s done a single part of the process, but it’s a very well made circle.

A circle! It’s a circle! Graham has completed a circle! A really good one, too. Little mouse feet are fully capable of filling the circle in with the necessary ritual components, runes, rites, wordings, entreatments… yeah, this will work. Claire just needs to get blood all over her paws and run around chaotically in the middle until the circle is done. The potency of the blood matters too, as Claire’s mouse senses, combining with the arcane senses Claire’s human form typically has, are already picking up on something… coming.

That something… is no doubt the spirits. Claire noticed it long before Graham does: they are already watching, already approaching. They smell the blood, smell the offer, smell the ritual. They are not the normal spirits, either. They are so much smaller, and so much greater. Thousands of them, tiny and swarming, on scampering feet and sniffing noses and sinewy tails. They gather, and they watch, salivating.

The next step: RUN! FLEE! THERE’S A CAT!!! At least, that’s what mouse brain is screaming. The real next step is to properly entreat the spirits and make a deal: life force for transfiguration. Returning Claire to the proper form. Undoing the fell magic that’s been done.

Claire scampers about, her mouse-like instincts and urges dying down as she gets acclimated in her new body. She might even at one point have tried to clamber up one of Graham’s pantlegs during the demonstration in fundamental geometry , but she was much too frantic to make meaningful progress. She falls onto her side and quickly vaults over a curve of blood, somehow managing to having the mind to avoid making a mess of the precious gift Graham bestowed upon her.

She may be a mouse, but she’s still Claire at heart. It’s all coming back to her. What she must do. She settles at an equidistant point centering herself within the circle and stands on her hindlegs, making a plea through squeaks, with a promise of benefits. She is within a circle of Godsblood after all. A great offering in of itself. It might be impressive to look upon too, since she isn’t even two apples tall, let alone one. So caught up in this performance she might miss the addition of another player to the mix. Or her trust in Graham is so great she is willing to make this gambit.

Graham watches the little mouse squeak and gesticulate with all the passion of a particularly diminutive preacher, wholly incapable of understanding her words but reasonably confident that she knows what she’s doing. Or, at the very least, that she knows what she’s trying to do. That’s more than he can say for himself. He stoops once more, albeit with some difficulty, and deposits that little silver ear cuff within the circle, along with a floral-print scrap of Claire’s discarded clothing. There. That should be everything.

He straightens up with a grunt, one hand finding purchase against the clothing rack as he surveys their handiwork. It’s a peculiar sight: a mouse, a magic circle, and a quantity of his own blood that might ordinarily have warranted a trip to the emergency department. For all his ignorance of the arcane, Graham understands one thing exceptionally well: the art of the deal. His attention fixes upon the rambunctious rodent as she makes her wordless plea.

Nothing happens.

At least, for several moments, nothing happens but the eerie silence of magic gone wrong. All that blood, all that begging, all that entreating, only for there to be no response. The weight of the spirits is still present; by now, even Graham can feel them, waiting there in the dark just beyond the periphery of one’s senses. A teeming horde, slavering and hungry. For Claire, though, she knows this part. This is the calm before the storm. Once the cuff is in the circle, she has the last piece that she needs: Magic. True magic. Real, dirty, ritualistic magic, the kind bookstore Wiccans could only dream of.

And then it happens. All at once, the spirits surge, like a great shadow descending. A mass of wriggling, writhing, tiny furry bodies surges forward, bursting upon the ritual circle like a vast tidal wave of chittering hunger. They come, and they feast, and they devour. Blood is ripped from the floor like so many pieces of tape upon the stage of a long-forgotten school play, yanked free from its mortal coil and devoured by a million-million mouths.

Then, he arrives. The largest mouse spirit, who no doubt lays down the law and sets most if not all of the rules of mouse-kind. He gluts himself on the lion’s share of Graham’s potent blood, before his vast, girthy shadow passes over Claire directly. There’s some sorrow in his passing; he mourns for the mouse he loses this day, one might think. It is bittersweet, for though his belly is fat and full of life force, his horde loses a fine addition.

Claire, naked as the day she was born, is all that remains as the invisible swarm recedes, leaving nothing on the floor but a few errant smudges and an aching hole in her heart where cheese once reigned.

Claire draws up to the extent her small, mouse-like shell can grant her, holding a paw out to really drive out the squeaky appeals she makes to an invisible audience. A mouse may be a mouse, but she still has her wits about her, and the tithe of knowledge that comes from being transformed. This might even be a taste of what she may never have the potential for after this point — living through the eyes of a shifter. She wouldn’t choose a mouse in normal circumstances, but beggars can’t exactly be choosers. Her mousy spirit wilts as she feels that oppressive presence as the spirits of rodent-kind encroach upon the small circle she’s taken refuge from, warded by pesky interlopers that might seek to do her harm.

Like that damn cat. In the hierarchy of the animal kingdom, she bows her head to the largest of them all. “Squeak,” she says in obeisance, knowing her place, then shuts her eyes, large, round ears turning inwards to betray the fright taking hold of her. A flash of light precedes the not so magical girl transformation. Sitting with her legs sprawled, she holds a hand over her chest when she grows to titanic (to her) heights. “It’s done,” she says, her voice hoarse, but no longer a squeak. Her ears start to turn red, not forgetting Graham’s presence, nor the circumstances of their previous exchanges before meeting here of all places. “Thanks,” she says without turning her head.

Graham’s Claire’s employer, a banker, an investor; he is, quite literally, The Fat Cat. “Huh,” Graham echoes, taken a little off-kilter by the rapidity of the transformation. Also by the naked employee at his feet. A handbra doesn’t do much when you’re going Bare Pussy Out At Walmart, or Narnia, or whichever general supermarket. He has to force himself to look away. “Well, Miss Han-Whitfield, welcome back to bipedalism. Go ahead and get dressed. I might have got some blood on your clothes.” He’s still holding his own arm clamped shut as the gouge heals over. “This is what happens when you tell rumours about your boss, just so we’re clear.”

Claire doesn’t rush to move, comforted by the fact that her back is turned to Graham and she’s seated in a sprawl with her clothes in front of her. Preferring to bare herself to them than her employer. Reaching out, she singles out the apron dress, easily slipping it over her naked body and affording her a healthy helping of modesty after covering up the essentials, giving her the confidence to rise and start working on slipping into the rest of her clothing. The pantyhose come up next, then the undies. And finally her shoes. She turns, presenting a mostly composed package before Graham, donning the alice band over her hair. “It was a bad judgment call,” she freely admits, breathing out a soft sigh. “Me and my big mouth,” she adds for good measure. It goes without saying, she’s assuring Graham she’s learned from her mistakes and it won’t happen ever again.

Date: 2026-10-08 07:48

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(Claire’s odd encounter (SRLogan))

[Thu Oct 8 2026]

On Main Street

It is dawn, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by wispy white clouds.

Claire leans against one of the many city light poles that stand sentinel over main street, pressing a raised foot against its base while she waits the last few minutes before it hits eight o’clock, when the Chill Zone across the thrift shop opens for business. Wearing a blank expression, she feels no need to put on a facade when not even an alley cat is around to witness her.

It’s the early morning hours of Haven when the small sleepy town is just getting into the motion of waking up. It’s just a bit too early for anyone to be out in the streets, except some suit-wearing guy who’s making his way to the bank down the street. Looking like he’s going to start the day by opening up for business. Get the money flowing.

Ding! It hits eight o’clock, and the automatic lights of the Chill Zone flicker on, clearly hooked up to some sort of timer. Neon lights advertise tons of tasty snacks to Chill, and Fill yourself upon. Looking across the way into that shop would reveal what appears to be a brief flicker of something staring back at Claire from the window – it’s just a faint sort of flicker, and it could be mistaken for a shadow, or a smudge on the glass that has yet to be cleaned. Regardless, it’s breakfast time, or a late night snack and the Chill Zone is calling her name.

Claire waits a few more minutes before she makes her move, not wanting to be one of those customers who burst into a place the instant it opens. That’s not the best way to build rapport with the staff, and so she fishes her iPhone out from a pocket and glosses over a few notifications on her phone, considering a handful of unanswered texts or DMs from MyHaven. A thumb is poised over its screen, ready to send off a reply or two, but she doesn’t have the inspiration for that yet. She kicks off from the light fixture and starts to head inside, pausing for a brief second to stare at the glass pane. “Weird,” she comments, then steps inside of the store.

As Claire passes the front of the store there’s a gust of wind that blows across the street – a sudden freak of nature gust, upon that wind is just a quiet, hushed sound that sounds a lot like “Claire,”.

The instant she steps inside that voice is gone, instead replaced by the buzzing of some vending machines and one of the staff members blearily manning the indoors, making sure things are clean and tidy for any potential new customers.

Inside and if she takes a look around, sitting right on the glass of the vending machine is that same familiar shadow from outside. It gives off a little sense of deja vu, seeing something odd twice in a row. It’s just a coincidence. Probably. More than likely.

“Ah,” Claire stammers, holding her hands over the front of her skirt as that gust of wind comes blowing over, starting the day emulating the blonde bombshell from the fifties. Her skirt flutters from behind, but it’s the front she maintains integrity for. She clears her throat and stands straight before she steps inside, paying the flash incident no more mind. “That’s actually Marilyn Monroe,” she tells the voice that called out her name, but sees no one close enough to get schooled upon that bit of spontaneous trivia. Making for the vending machine, she’s about to insert a dollar bill into the slot before that shadow catches her eye again. This time she fixates at that spot, staring real intently.

It’s fortunate that there was nobody outside in the street, there was no peeping toms or other sort of paparazzi to take notice of Claire’s possible outfit mishap.

The store is entirely safe from wind and breezes and now there’s nothing else to worry about in regards to that. It’s that spot though, the longer she fixates on it, the longer it seems to come tangible. A real sort of thing that rests somewhere in between.

“CLAIRE.” A voice calls out, and if she were too look, it would be none of those staff members. They’ve gone into a different room to look around, leaving her the only person. The direction of the voice could be somewhere off to her west, which leads further into the store – signs indicating a bathroom leads that way.

That tangible spot even seems to gesture, blurring slightly on the glass – a longish sort of limb like thing that might be urging her to move, to listen to that voice, it’s a pulling, somewhere deep inside of her.

Claire wrinkles her nose and looks away from the blurred spot on the vending machine’s display. It gets too aggravating to focus on the more she stares. Instead, she inserts a dollar bill into the vending machine’s feed, and because the economy slips in three more quarters so she can get a small black can of coffee for her troubles. “Suntory Boss Black,” she quips like she were in an advertisement, then turns on her heels and stalks to the restrooms, compelled to go there for reasons of her own, or something else’s influence.

Unfortunately for Claire there are no cameras around her. There’s no secret boom mic recording her advertisement quips, and so, she will go completely unpaid for her efforts. No residuals, and no five minutes of fame for that impressive, impressive acting moment.

The bathroom of Chill and Fill Snack Express is your typical bathroom. It’s a unisex bathroom. It’s clearly meant for one person at a time. There’s a toilet, a sink, and a mirror (which on first glance doesn’t seem to reflect anything) above the sink – with a toilet paper holder. Bathroom is clean enough, not the best bathroom you’ve ever seen in your life, but it’s also not disgusting. There’s some graffiti on the wall that reads all kinds of things: ‘For a good time call –‘ the number has been roughly scratched at. A tiny hole in the wall with an arrow pointing into it – some text indicating it might be a good spot to stick a certain body part. Though, the bathroom clearly does’t have anything attached to it.

Once the door shuts behind her, the lights inside flicker, and there’s a shift in the bathroom, a noticeable sort of change. The air feels heavier, and thicker. The lights turn back on, and Claire’s reflection appears in the mirror.

Claire pokes her head through the door before she slips inside, her nose wrinkling in mild distaste. A cursory scan paints it all out for her, largely ignoring the hallmarks of human activity that’s transpired over the years in this public washroom. Cracking the can of coffee open, she sips from it daintily, the hit of caffeine spurring her forward on a red carpet. She stops before the mirror, meeting the gaze of her own reflection. What she sees compels her to start fussing over the front of her vest, and tugging at the neckline of her blouse, marginally bothered at her appearance. Improvements must be made.

Her reflection matches her fussing, at least for a while. It’s perfectly in sync with her. Flicking off some lint from her vest, tugging at her neckline, but soon it starts morphing. It changes into something less Claire-like. It’s not an opposite. It grows in the mirror, and the figure becomes more whole. More of what it might actually look like.

It’s seemingly made of shadow, an inky blackness that drips the stuff behind it. It’s not whole-y human at all. It’s face is sunken in, a black hole of nothingness. It has no eyes, nor mouth, and yet, it’s obviously staring at Claire. A humanlike gesture, it’s ‘head’ tilting slightly, an arm raising extending forward. It begins to push through the mirror, convexing it from the opposite side. A raspy voice comes out, “CLAIRE.” It pushes forward, the first of it’s inky, black fingers starting to escape into reality and reaching for her. “WHY DID YOU LEAVE US.” The voice might be something she recognizes – a sort of weird mix of what her parents sounded like.

Claire takes a single, small step back from the mirror, leaving the faucet running. Only a brief flicker over her features gives the hint she might have been perturbed. She closes her fingers around her left wrist, her actions granting the entity the room it needs to spill out of that mirror. Her eyes flit about without turning her head, puzzling out if she’s still in the Chill Zone, or somewhere else entirely. “I already told you. That’s old news,” she replies calmly, taking a page out of Dumbledore’s book.

That figure begins to push further out of the mirror, first it was it’s hand, now it’s gotten to it’s arm. It continues to climb out, faster and faster. It’s head pushing out, then the rest of the body. Another figure appears behind the first, staring at Claire. It begins to join the first in making it’s way out of the mirror. Multiple join in, filling up the space. The mirror convexes, being pushing outward – like a balloon being blown up.

The first creature, finally makes it way out, falling from the mirror onto the floor in front of Claire, dripping it’s shadowy ink. “YOU LEFT US. YOUR FAMILY.” It does not at all resemble her parents, in voice, nor in any physical similarities, but the creature seems to know something about her. The way it stares at her, reading her soul, digging deep inside.

Claire creates some more distance between herself and the creature, unable to really figure out what or who it is. She maintains a generous distance, unwilling to let it come close, though she doesn’t have much room to work with. Noting that there’s more to come in that mirror, she doesn’t look very enthused to the idea, and ticks her stare to the door leading back outside. “Everyone leaves eventually. I’m sure you know that. Baby birds need to fly out of their nest. Just how it is,” she says, trying to talk things out. “What do you want?”

“YOU.” The creature replies, it’s voice raspy, angry, a kind of hollow ringing sound. A second creature’s head is slowly making it’s way out of the mirror, and the first moves towards Claire, sort of backing her up into the small space of the bathroom. “WE DO NOT TALK.” The original creature, the one doing all the talking swipes it’s hand in the air. It doesn’t connect with Claire, it’s not close enough, but it seems threatening. “YOU SHALL HURT FOR THE HURT YOU’VE CAUSED.” The lights flicker again, causing the room to go entirely dark.

The lights come back on and three of them stand there and still, more crawl out of the mirror. Angry.

Claire clears her throat, much like someone might be to test out their vocal chords before the big moment on screen. It’s a little showy in the lilt. Though she would have liked a moment to consult with the mirror, she makes do with what she has available to her: Herself and the shrinking space afforded to her. With a small flourish, her wrist turns inwards, performing a small, exact cueing gesture, reaching for the space between two of the encroaching shapes, aiming to make each one mistake the other for her. Pressing her back against the wall,she starts to slide along it, planning to break out. “Take your time,” she urges them. “Decide who you came to shout at.”

These creatures seem to work off pure instinct, and no real smarts behind them. They’re beasts of anger, of rage, of emotion. So, when one in their midst looks like Claire to them, the other two turn – all of their attentions on the closest figure they came to attack. “YOU.” It shouts, at it’s friend and swipes it’s large arm at it. The thud is hard, a solid blow despite it looking like it’s made entirely of ink. The creature that was hit stumbles back a bit, letting out a bellowed call as it lunges forward to begin attacking the first.

There’s a lot of confusion in the ranks of these creatures now, which might give Claire some time to escape.

Claire takes no real pleasure out of all of this, but now she is obligated to see out some conclusion, if not for her sake, then for the angry congregation before her. Stickling close near the exit in case things go awry and she must make a hasty escape, she turns her attention to the lighting above, flicking her fingers in it to embellish the light further, shining it upon another party in this gathering. The reddish light focuses on everyone except herself, leaving her to work behind the scenes while she busies herself in drawing their attention upon each other, and maintaining that double on the unluckiest of the trio.

The rest of the mirror creatures that were trying to claw their way out have stopped in their tracks, confusion in those ranksat watching their own fight each other. Dissident sows. Chaos spreads. There’s a fight inside the bathroom now, even if that magic from Claire might not last forever. It’s lasting long enough to keep this situation contained. There’s no focus on her.

A battle of the ages, two of their own fight. Arms being used like clubs as they batter at each other – it’s probably not something that Claire wants to get hit by. There’s a lot of force behind those swings, and one of them hits the wall, making a rather large dent in it. Cracking a tile.

Claire watches for a time, perhaps admiring the chaos that has unfolded. In her eyes, she has given the people what they want and inches towards the door, lingering long enough before she shows herself out, leaving them to fight amongst themselves and hopefully get things squared out. Most importantly without her being involved whatsoever. If she’s able to vacate the place, she’d make right for the vending machine again, and maybe head outside to find a breather outside.

Date: 2026-10-10 11:20

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(Concepcion’s odd encounter (SRCatriona))

[Sat Oct 10 2026]

In a master bedroom full of valuables and a shitty bed
Floor length, heavy black curtains made of velvet shield the windows, blocking out the sunlight entirely most of the time. Real, richly patterned Persian rugs are on the floor. There’s a decadent dressing table that is occupied by an array of fine jewelry and expensive perfume bottles. There are antiques of all kinds, valuable paintings in ornate frames, and even a very expensive crystal chandelier — no wait, there are TWO that hang from the ceiling. It is genuinely extravagant, until your eyes fall upon the bed that is certainly cheap and does not belong.

It is morning, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by dark grey clouds.

Concepcion has just awoken after a long night of partying at a funeral. Eyelids lift to reveal those haggard eyes that never do seem to get enough beauty rest, and she stretches lazily, turning her head to look at that book about the oppression and forced eunuch-ism upon the female sex. It lies on her pillow, and the blanket covers a corner of it, all tucked in. A smile graces her lips, albeit closed lips, and then she sits up, letting the bedding slip down her front to pool around her waist, revealing her black silk kimono robe that has been embroidered in golden florals.

is only just awoken and stretching when the oppressive world begins to rear its head. Her sleek black smartphone beeps in the tell-tale sign that something has happened. The notification that appears has the contact name of her faction, it isn’t some random person contacting her about the recent funeral-party, nor police looking into the food on offer not meeting health safety regulations. This is a mission.

PRIORITY NOTICE: A supernatural fugitive wanted by multiple factions has been located approaching Haven. The suspect is believed responsible for several disappearances and the theft of restricted supernatural materials. Capture is preferred. Further details attached.

The attachment contains a photograph of a rather ordinary-looking man in his early forties, with thinning brown hair, a narrow face, and an expensive charcoal suit. His name is listed as Dr. Julian Mercer.

INTELLIGENCE UPDATE: Mercer is believed to be attempting to enter Mariner Highway, where he expects to find protection under the town’s Sanctuary. However, recent damage to the roads leading into town has forced several routes to close. His car was seen empty and he is believed to be proceeding on foot.

TACTICAL ASSESSMENT: The closures have created an opportunity. The remaining approach passes through a narrow stretch of road with limited avenues of escape, well outside the protection of Sanctuary. An interception here would afford a considerable tactical advantage over attempting to apprehend the suspect within town where Sanctuary would complicate tactical options His estimated arrival leaves a narrow window in which to organize a response.

A final message follows, addressed directly to Concepcion. “Vidal. We have a chance to take Mercer before he reaches Sanctuary. Once he’s inside, our options become considerably more complicated. Exercise your discretion regarding his disposition, but whatever you decide, I strongly recommend acting before he reaches town.”

It is rather lazily, and without any sense of urgency, that Concepcion glances over at her phone. The right side of her mouth twitches three times in a row, and then the eye above it follows up with a chorus of its own. A few minutes pass before she reaches for that buzzing electronic device that is only delivering messages, only some of the other electronic devices that can buzz in her bedroom. After another stretch and some time taken to examine a wall by staring at it blankly for a while, she blinks and then reaches for the phone. “What is it now? If Tish ate another Tide pod I’m going to have to concede and tell that nurse that she was right that bringing laundry detergent to a memorial service was a bad idea.”

After the pad of a forefinger has swiped across the screen and then taps at the new message, she purses her lips and begins to read. The information is taken in, and she considers it all. Haven’s local chapter of The Hand is still yet to learn to never send Concepcion on a mission on her own, if on any at all. Although the Spanish and the Italians have learned their lesson over the years regarding her degrading mental health and talents, the Americans are a bit behind still, it would seem. “Huh.” She was not expecting this opportunity, and the Hand member who is currently demoted and on what she calls ‘janitor duty’ as a slave to all but the interns begins to smile. “They trust me,” gets decided. “This is good news. Maybe I won’t have to don that French maid’s outfit to clean Mister Wilson’s toilets after all.”

Once she’s gotten ready for the day, and been distracted several times by various little things, including dust floating through the air, she heads out, talking to what appears to be the air beside her. “But Pilar, they contacted me. It’s not like I volunteered. It’ll be fine,” her reassurance is given to no one at all. Off she goes after getting on her motorcycle and traveling down the road, heading to the destination she was provided through that text.

Concepcion probably meant ‘unlike some of the other electronic devices.’

During Concepcion’s moments of distraction, the texts keep coming. Whoever is managing this operation on The Hand’s side has a very different sense of how urgent it is. They’re a busy bee, texting away, making the phone buzz, buzz, buzz, as bees so often do.

SUPPLEMENTARY INTELLIGENCE: Target is Dr. Julian Mercer, male, approximately 42 years old, 5’11”, slender build, thinning brown hair, narrow facial features. Last observed wearing a charcoal-grey business suit, white shirt, and dark tie”

POSITION UPDATE: Mercer’s abandoned vehicle has been located near the southern road closure on Mariner Highway. Interception remains viable. Please confirm agent is on-route?”

The small town of Haven still shows the many signs of the recent flood. The bridge has construction crews on it, causing traffic to build up, with construction behind orange cones. The roads themselves are frosted in places with salt and along the sides are accumulated flotsam stacked in piles. The smell of the sea is heavy in the air, even well away from the beach.

The bee buzzes once more.

CLARIFICATION REQUESTED: Priority task was routed to agent labeled cleaner. Please confirm that cleaner is in route and available?

And indeed, they have sent the cleaner, though perhaps not the cleaner they thought they were sending.

There is no sign along the road of a man on foot, but eventually Concepcion does reach where the tidal wave has closed off Mariner Highway.

Mariner Highway cuts through a narrow passage between steep, wooded embankments, its two lanes of weathered asphalt following a gradual bend toward Haven. Recent damage has rendered much of the road impassable. Broad fractures split the pavement, and one section has subsided several feet into the earth, leaving a jagged depression filled with loose gravel, broken asphalt, and muddy rainwater. Orange construction barriers and reflective ROAD CLOSED signs block the damaged lane, their plastic surfaces streaked with dirt. Beyond them, an abandoned roadwork vehicle stands with its hazard lights extinguished.

Where could the man be? The forest, perhaps? Farther back down the road? Or has he already escaped into the city and its protections?”

Opinionated, Concepcion judged the description of the doctor she is after. “This man could really get some good tips by reading the Gospel of Gains.” A pause is taken as she tries to recall, and then she says aloud in that empty room, “That one verse about how they can transplant hair from your behind to the top of your head,” after the description of thinning hair. “Looks maxxing is real. How doesn’t he know that already?”

But off she went. There’s no time to reply to the message while riding her Dark Horse, but she does glance at her watch to catch the message relaying the final destination. By the time she’s there, after manoeuvering through the (what she finds) exciting barriers and dangers, she’s already forgotten about the confirmation request, and she dismounts, telling the bike, “Thanks, Stud,” and giving its seat an affection-filled pat-pat-pat via a palm. Staring blankly ahead for a few seconds, she then asks, “What was I doing again? It was something…” Checking her phone would make the most sense, but this is Concepcion we’re talking about, and instead she’s trying to figure out her mission based on the terrain alone. Nostrils flare some as she sniffs at the air for any signs of other living beings around, and she bends over to pick up a fine looking, long y-shaped stick that would work gloriously to roast marshmallows or hotdogs with over a campfire. Then said piece of thin but sturdy enough wood is held up and she points it here and there, acting as if it were some sort of divining stick that can tell her all she needs to know about why this non-arcanist is here. “What do we have here?” comes in a curious tone past her lips.

The world around Concepcion gives no answer as to how the man hasn’t heard of the wonders of Clavicular and other viral influences. Nor does it explain his lack of apparent interest in the physical transformations of people like Altman, Musk, and Bezos after they acquired their riches. All of this to the poor doctor’s shame. Perhaps a better looking man would have had the HR department declare his stealing a mere borrowing. Regardless, the crimes are the crimes, and in looks as well as everything else he stands convicted.

The lack of response to the text messages seems to please the buzzy bee that is Concepcion’s phone. It buzzes all the more in increasing agitation.

Hand Command: Please confirm. Urgent! Target is approaching Haven.

Hand Command: What sort of cleaner are you? We need communication if we’re going to close the pincer.

Hand Command: Hello?

Hand Command: Damnit Vidal. Please tell me you at least passed this on to someone more qualified.

After Concepcion gets off the bike and asks the stud to stay, it ceases its growling. One might gather it was pleased at the compliment, though a saner person might venture that automobiles stop making noise when turned off.

The area smells of the wood. In Haven, that’s a variety of scents. The scent of kobold packs, frog men, enormous rats. Stronger than that is the scent of several people who have been by this way. Many of them are wearing axe body spray and those scents are around the road vehicle. One might expect that they are the scents of the road clearing crew, which in the tradition of all construction workers, is somehow visibly present in spirit with their vehicle there, but nonetheless not actually present doing the work.

Beyond the axe body spray there are several more scents. Two are almost completely muted. One of those muted scents, though, carries a faint tainge of blood to it. A person whose taken care to try to cover their scent. Perhaps even a pair of them. The final scent, which the two muted scents follow, has the distinctly musky scent of someone who hasn’t bothered to shower in a while. The doctor, going by his shabby appearance, might well be that scent.

It is this scent which starts to trend back toward town, along the side of the road rather than on it. The muted scents trail him. In places in ground still more muddy than usual tracks are left. The muted scent is wearing sneakers. The others, some sort of combat boot. The scent is faint. Whoever came this way was there perhaps ten or fifteen minutes ago. They are heading Havenward.

It would have been a good idea for Concepcion to have had a dose of psychiatric meds before starting the day outside of her apartment, but good ideas are not often this woman’s forte. So she’s out here raw dogging it. Unfortunately. Life is often more fun with hallucinations and lack of mental clarity anyway. The Axe Effect’s presence brings a frown. “Is that Axe?” Suddenly, she become somber and utters out, “I really miss that lumbersexual,” about her possibly dead almost husband she memorialised the evening prior. However, that sadness is quickly replaced by an important question. “I wonder what would happen if one were to spray Axe in their mouth like a breath freshening spray?” But she turns that into a punchline of sorts almost immediately, turning it into a joke, as she laughs out, “They’d have an Axe scent…” The accent pun is delivered to the trees as she swings that stick around like she’s conducting an orchestra. As she’s shamelessly laughing at herself, she takes notice of the blood and those haggard eyes have pupils sharply narrowing suddenly. Body odour brings about another mournful expression, clearly reminding her of someone she cares about.

But buzz buzz buzz goes her phone. “What is it now?” she’s asking as her smartphone vibrates away, and she’s retrieving it. “Oh right.” The stick is tossed aside and she begins to swipe off a text in return: Confirmed. The first part. I am at the location, no sign of the target.

A predator instinct kicks in, and she’s moving down the road, slipping into the trees and doing her best to cover ground as quickly as possibly whilst still maintaining the protection of the woods to prevent her, possibly, from being seen so easily.

Trees creek and groan as Concepcion delivers her axce-scent pun. The wind is heavy enough that it has the branches swaying. So the groans aren’t in condemnation for the pun. The wind tugs at her locks too. Some loose leaves flutter from the forest, carrying the faintly draonic scent of kobold. The mist lingers just past the edge of the forest somewhere between knee and waist height. Unless you’re a midget. Midgets are doomed to walk nearly completely submerged in fog, their heads barely poking free like shark fins. With all the magical things around Haven, this is perhaps the start of an explanation for the distinct lack of Dwarves and Hobbits.

Hand Command: Agents were already there. As I said, we had confirmation that the vehicle was abandoned.

Except, in this, there is some confusion. Because while there is a vehicle present, its a construction worker’s vehicle. The situation on the ground has changed since his last report. Also conspicuous in its absence is whatever vehicle the two tracking the man fleeing toward Haven had arrived in.

Mysterious!

Further along the road an answer to the mystery begins to present itself. A mile down the road, the three scents veer into mist and deeper into the wood. There are some signs of struggle. Bullet casings. Scarred wood. Broken twigs.

It seems the world didn’t slow down while Concepcion was busy staring at nothing and talking to herself. Things happened.

The smell of blood is thicker a bit deeper into the woods. Then there is the panting sound of a man, making pained noises. Dressed in the dark combat garb of a Shadow, he is propped against a tree, clutching his gut. He doesn’t notice someone’s approach, what with her stealthy skills, and the blood spilling out over fingers that can’t quite keep the liquid inside him.

Trees creek and groan as Concepcion delivers her axce-scent pun. The wind is heavy enough that it has the branches swaying. So the groans aren’t in condemnation for the pun. The wind tugs at her locks too. Some loose leaves flutter from the forest, carrying the faintly draonic scent of kobold. The mist lingers just past the edge of the forest somewhere between knee and waist height. Unless you’re a midget. Midgets are doomed to walk nearly completely submerged in fog, their heads barely poking free like shark fins. With all the magical things around Haven, this is perhaps the start of an explanation for the distinct lack of Dwarves and Hobbits.

Hand Command: Agents were already there. As I said, we had confirmation that the vehicle was abandoned.

Except, in this, there is some confusion. Because while there is a vehicle present, its a construction worker’s vehicle. The situation on the ground has changed since his last report. Also conspicuous in its absence is whatever vehicle the two tracking the man fleeing toward Haven had arrived in.

Mysterious!

Further along the road an answer to the mystery begins to present itself. A mile down the road, the three scents veer into mist and deeper into the wood. There are some signs of struggle. Bullet casings. Scarred wood. Broken twigs.

It seems the world didn’t slow down while Concepcion was busy staring at nothing and talking to herself. Things happened.

The smell of blood is thicker a bit deeper into the woods. Then there is the panting sound of a man, making pained noises. Dressed in the dark combat garb of a Shadow, he is propped against a tree, clutching his gut. He doesn’t notice someone’s approach, what with her stealthy skills, and the blood spilling out over fingers that can’t quite keep the liquid inside him.

A canopy audience in the form of the trees creek and groan as Concepcion delivers her axce-scent pun. The wind is heavy enough that it has the branches swaying. So the groans aren’t in condemnation for the pun. The wind tugs at her locks too. Some loose leaves flutter from the forest, carrying the faintly draonic scent of kobold. The mist lingers just past the edge of the forest somewhere between knee and waist height. Unless you’re a midget. Midgets are doomed to walk nearly completely submerged in fog, their heads barely poking free like shark fins. With all the magical things around Haven, this is perhaps the start of an explanation for the distinct lack of Dwarves and Hobbits.

Hand Command: Agents were already there. As I said, we had confirmation that the vehicle was abandoned.

Except, in this, there is some confusion. Because while there is a vehicle present, its a construction worker’s vehicle. The situation on the ground has changed since his last report. Also conspicuous in its absence is whatever vehicle the two tracking the man fleeing toward Haven had arrived in.

Mysterious!

Further along the road an answer to the mystery begins to present itself. A mile down the road, the three scents veer into mist and deeper into the wood. There are some signs of struggle. Bullet casings. Scarred wood. Broken twigs.

It seems the world didn’t slow down while Concepcion was busy staring at nothing and talking to herself. Things happened.

The smell of blood is thicker a bit deeper into the woods. Then there is the panting sound of a man, making pained noises. Dressed in the dark combat garb of a Shadow, he is propped against a tree, clutching his gut. He doesn’t notice Concepcion’s approach, what with her stealthy skills, and the blood spilling out over fingers that can’t quite keep the liquid inside him.

Alas, Concepcion is not a midget, but if ever asked, she does share her ideas for how to use little people to serve chips and salsa in a Mexican restaurant. As she’s moving through the mist, focused on her task at hand. No time to examine those pesky texts with likely vital information, she is taking in everything visually. A van. Trees. That thin cloud of tiny water droplets that are suspended in the air near the ground and up her waist that reduces visibility, although a bit less than fog does.

The scent trail is followed, and she’s muttering under her breath in a command, “This way, Pilar,” paired with a hand gesture to follow. There is no one there. Crouching, she examines a bullet casing and says, “Things happened,” in regards to the evidence she’s just come across, but the blood seems to call to her, and she’s back on the move a moment later. Is that easy prey she hears? Then she sees the man, and she slows, sneaking more carefully towards him.

Concepcion gets closer loser through the fog and as she does things become more clear. At first, just his head, like the dwarves, his head barely peaking out of the fog, on account of his being propped against the tree. Then the inevitable fact that he is injured becomes clear, a hand against his gut. Not a gun shot wound. The black tactical would have stopped that. The man has been stabbed.

More becomes apparent as Concepcion comes closer. There are bodies in the fog. Rats, of unusual size, but just rats.

The man breathes in and out in thin pained gasps. On his breast, there is a dark clenched fist, an emblem of the hand. To someone in the organization, it would be beyond obvious that this man is a shadow. Also obvious is that he’s quite out of it, very easy prey, barely holding on.

His eyes are searching the low fog, rather than for higher things, as if hunting for additional rats that might be hunting for him and his attention is more on the deeper wood than it is on Vidal herself. He doesn’t see her approaching.

With some effort, he raises a radio to his mouth. “Command, can you hear me? Command?” But of course, the radio doesn’t work out here in the boonies. “Damnit,” he groans, listening to the static that comes in reply.

There’s something about the smell of blood. It’s like warm iron that has begun to turn sharp and coppery, like old coins left to tarnish out in the elements, mixing in with a freshly turned furrow of hard clay after a hard rain. For Concepcion, it’s alluring, rather than being something along the lines of a cold, static bite of a wet blade that can bring forth dread in others. She’s intoxicated by it, and unable to stay back.

As Concepcion approaches the injured Shadow she’s being careful, and quietly, she replies, “I hear you,” in a voice that is oozing with desire for this fellow’s unfortunate situation rather than offering up a response of authority and hope of a rescue. But that damn tattoo. Does she risk even further punishment and possibly become the rank equivalent of a toilet, rather than be the person cleaning the ones Graham Wilson has mentioned she will make sparkling if instructed to due to her very recent terrible behaviour and outbursts.

“You’re hurt,” she points out ever so helpfully, now exercising some restraint. Both hands are up, palms out as if in surrender to show she is not a threat. Not immediately, at least. Slowly, she takes hold of the charm near her throat, turning it over to expose the clenched fist that declares her a member of his faction. “I come in peace.”

Mist curls lazily around the wounded man’s legs, gathering in the hollows between the roots and drifting across the bodies of the oversized rats scattered nearby. Their blood mingles with his own, though there is little mistaking the difference to a nose as sensitive as Concepcion’s. His is fresh, warm, and wonderfully rich, carrying that tantalizing coppery sweetness beneath the salt of his sweat. His face has grown pale, his lips almost colorless, and a fine sheen of perspiration glistens along his brow. Beneath the collar of his tactical clothing, the vulnerable flesh of his throat remains exposed, a faint pulse still beating there. His breathing is shallow, his strength visibly failing. Even the hand pressed against his abdomen cannot quite contain the blood welling between his fingers. There is something almost indecently inviting about how helpless he looks.

And what a convenient little scene the forest has arranged! Dead rats litter the ground around him, their oversized bodies half-concealed beneath the rolling mist. Blood, violence, and the evidence of a desperate struggle are everywhere. Should some unfortunate soul perish here, the monstrous rodents would make a rather convincing explanation for how they met their end. The wind stirs the branches overhead, setting them creaking against one another, while the low mist winds around the fallen bodies like a pale, restless tide.

The man’s reaction to Concepcion’s voice is immediate. His head jerks toward her, eyes widening in naked fright. One bloodied hand twitches toward the weapon at his hip, though the effort produces little more than a pained gasp. “Shit! Don’t move! Don’t come any closer. There might be more,” he begs.

Recognition transforms his expression. The tension leaves his shoulders, and he slumps back against the tree with an almost pitiful sigh of relief. “Oh, thank Command. You’re one of ours.” His attempt at a smile becomes a grimace. He swallows, struggling to gather enough breath to explain. “We caught him. Mercer. Had the bastard in cuffs, heading back toward the road when those things came out of the woods.” His eyes flick toward the enormous rats. “Wasn’t just rats, either. There were other things moving in the mist. We got separated in the fighting, and somehow the doctor slipped his cuffs. One moment he was secured, next he was stabbing my own knife into me and running.” A cough interrupts him, followed by a sharp intake of breath as he presses harder against his wound. “My partner went after him. I stayed to hold the creatures off.”

With considerable effort, he raises a trembling, bloodstained hand and points back through the trees, toward the damaged stretch of Mariner Highway. “That way. Mercer doubled back toward the road closure. My partner was right behind him.” His arm falls back to his side, and he looks up at Concepcion with exhausted, hopeful eyes. “You’re the other side of the net, right? Any chance you can get me to a hospital?” The poor fellow seems tremendously relieved by the prospect, apparently having no idea just how appetizing his rescuer might find him.

Scenario wise, this situation is so enticing to Concepcion. It’s the ideal layout for the perfect crime, save for the fact this man is one of her own. Dat pulse doe. That’s the sexiest thing she’s seen all day. Focus, Concepcion. Focus. His fearful warning and order do not halt this woman. Stealthily, she continues forward, but her scent is not masked and forest monsters may very well notice her. Although she’s holding back on lunging at the man, she can’t seem to resist the urge to be closer, to examine him, to see if she could get away with at least a little something. That desire clouds her mind and her judgment.

Then the bleeding dude has to start sharing details, and that makes her have to try and force her cognitive abilities back into a better existence. She manages to succeed a little and straightens her posture, glancing over in the direction that the stranger points, and she can smell where the Mercer fled, along with the other Hand operative.

Decisions, decisions. There’s a real struggle going on inwardly, and as Concepcion fights with herself on what feels like another plane of existence, her face contorts and twitches. Finally, she tells him, “You look kind of heavy and you’d bleed all over me,” in an excuse, knowing full well she would lose all self control and suck him dry, and not in a sexy to him way. “You should stay here. Stay quiet. I’ll radio your position in as soon as I find service. It’s for your own good.” This is about the time she recalls a fellow Hand member knows about the supernatural. Doh! So, she opens her mouth, upper lip pulling its way to reveal her very sharp fangs that are so ready to pierce that man’s flesh. “Stay away from me,” comes her order, and she turns away, rushing off after the bleeding man’s partner and the Mercer, following the fragrance of cheap men’s body spray.

For a moment, the wounded Shadow seems not to understand why Concepcion has refused him assistance. His brow furrows, his mouth opening around another plea. Then her upper lip lifts, revealing those unmistakable fangs. The change in him is immediate. His eyes widen, and the blood drains from what little color remains in his face. “Oh. Oh, fuck.” His shoulders press back against the tree, and he tries to drag himself farther away, succeeding only in smearing fresh blood across the bark. The movement draws a strangled gasp from him. “You’re a… Oh, God.”

“I won’t! I won’t move!” he promises desperately, which is perhaps the easiest promise a man with a knife wound in his abdomen has ever made. His fingers tighten over the injury, squeezing out another glistening trickle of that deliciously fragrant blood. He watches Concepcion withdraw with an expression caught somewhere between terror and relief.

The trail begins to bend back toward the very stretch of Mariner Highway where Concepcion first arrived. Whatever happened after the wounded agent lost sight of his partner, it seems the pursuit has doubled back upon itself.

As the trees thin and the road comes into view, her phone finally regains its connection. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz-buzz-buzz. The little electronic pest has apparently been saving up its complaints. Messages arrive in such rapid succession that the notification sound scarcely has time to finish before beginning again.

HAND COMMAND: FIELD EMERGENCY. Shadow operative wounded in the forest adjoining Mariner Highway. Abdominal injury. Requires immediate medical evacuation. Location being relayed to response personnel.

HAND COMMAND: Vidal? We understand you may be in the vicinity of the wounded operative. Please confirm your location.

HAND COMMAND: Vidal, do NOT approach the casualty. Repeat, DO NOT APPROACH. Medical assistance is being arranged separately. You are to maintain your distance and continue the primary assignment.

HAND COMMAND: Vidal? Vidal, please do not approach! We are aware of your circumstances. We do not need another casualty. Please acknowledge this message.

The subsequent notifications suggest that Command has rather more pressing concerns than the possibility of its appointed cleaner eating one of its own employees.

TACTICAL UPDATE: Target has returned to his vehicle. Dr. Mercer is now fleeing AWAY from Haven, traveling south along Mariner Highway. Pursuing operative attempted a PIT maneuver during last confirmed contact. Communications were lost immediately afterward. Agent is not responding. Vehicle status unknown.

HAND COMMAND: POSSIBLE VEHICLE COLLISION. Last known position south of the damaged highway approach. Additional response personnel being notified. Vidal, if you have visual contact, report immediately.

The highway itself offers some rather suggestive evidence. Fresh black tire marks scar the asphalt near the road closure, their sharp, sweeping curves quite unlike the ordinary tracks of vehicles negotiating the damaged pavement. One set crosses the center line at an abrupt angle, accompanied by a scatter of broken plastic and glittering fragments of glass. The acrid smell of burnt rubber hangs stubbornly in the damp air. Whatever happened here involved considerable speed and a sudden, violent change of direction.

Farther south, beyond the bend in the road, a column of dark smoke has begun rising above the treetops. It gathers thickly near the ground before the wind catches it, spreading ragged grey streamers across the afternoon sky. The source remains hidden by the curve of the highway, although the faint, unpleasant smell of something burning is beginning to reach this stretch of road. Whether the smoke belongs to Mercer’s vehicle, his pursuer’s, or something else is not yet apparent.

And then the faint sound of screaming starts. Ever so faint. There are also dull bangs. The rats, it seems, have found the Hand soldier.

What to do, what to do. Head toward the distant smoke, or double back again to the Hand soldier being harried by rats.

Reluctantly, Concepcion rushes onward, leaving behind what could have been a very tasty meal. She’s following her nose, relying on that ability to track as she weaves through the mist and finds herself heading back to the beginning of the trail. “What is going on here?” Before she can answer herself with a likely very wrong response, her phone is disrupting her train of thought. It is retrieved once again. “Too late,” gets murmured as she’s reading the orders and instructions. “Did that… Oops.” The more she scrolls downward, the more her head tilts to the right. Eyes lift from the screen and dart about her surroundings. “Welp.” Lips smack together and she begins to fire off a couple of texts that read ‘Approached casualty. Send help immediately. He looks incredible.’ and ‘No direct visual of accident. Smoke in the distance. Screaming. Casualty is dying.’ What to do? “If I go back… Lord help me… I might kill him before the rats do.” Squinting, she looks over towards where she left that bleeding soldier. “Hang in there, little buddy. You can do it.” Her words of encouragement do not catch his ears, certainly. Then a moment later she’s getting on top of Stud, using her hand to make him thrum between her thighs — because she turned him on. Like via the ignition. That motorcycle heads off with her on it, and she steers her way towards the smoke, ready for anything. Unless there is more blood. Self restraint can only stretch so far.

Stud, true to his name, is a good ride. Unlike the larger cars and trucks which can’t easily pass the ruined stretch of road, he squeezes through a narrow opening without problem. Then he’s rumbling as he carries Concepcion toward the smoke.

The smell of burning rubber grows stronger, accompanied now by the unmistakable acrid tang of gasoline and something else burning. Ahead, a column of dark smoke rises above the trees, perhaps another quarter mile down the road. Whatever happened there, the wreck itself remains obscured by the highway’s course.

But before she reaches it, something moves along the roadside. A man. Not merely walking, but staggering, one hand pressed against his ribs while the other occasionally reaches toward the guardrail to steady himself. His expensive charcoal suit is in a dreadful state, one sleeve torn nearly to the shoulder and the white shirt beneath stained with blood. His thinning brown hair has come loose from its careful arrangement, and a dark bruise spreads across one side of his narrow face. He takes several uneven steps, favoring his right leg, before stumbling against the guardrail. For a moment, it seems he might simply collapse there.

Yet the approaching motorcycle draws his attention. He lifts his head, blinking through what might be blood or sweat, and something approaching desperate hope crosses his battered features. The resemblance to the photograph sent by Command is unmistakable. Dr. Julian Mercer, wanted fugitive, suspected murderer, thief of supernatural secrets.

“HEY!” His voice comes out hoarse and ragged. He raises an arm, waving frantically toward Concepcion and nearly losing his balance in the process. “HEY! PLEASE! STOP!” He staggers another step toward the edge of the road, one hand still clutching his side. “I need help!”

Burning rubber is not as delectable as fresh blood streaming down a man’s paling flesh. It would be acrid and even suffocating, but Concepcion doesn’t breathe, so her long dead lungs are just fine. Catching sight of a well dressed man, she slows her mechanical steed as she says, “Ho… Ho, good boy,” like she’s directing a horse to slow to a stop as she approaches the bloodied up stranger with the thinning hair.

The motorcycle pulls up alongside the suspected Mercer. “Hey, are you okay?” she’s asking the man who is obviously the opposite of that. “Come on, come here. Let me get you somewhere safe we can patch you up? Yeah? Hurry.” A hand is extended towards him, offering the fellow the bitch seat position. There’s something genuine about her, as if in those moment she thinks she is helping someone in need, controlling her innate need for the blood that is slipping from the man’s side. But then… that hair. The thinning. Her memory is generally shit, but the whole maximizing physical attractiveness thought she had earlier is immediately present again in her head. Deja vu occurs, and then she remembers why. “Come on. You’re in bad shape. Let’s get out of here.”

The relief that washes across Mercer’s battered face is almost pitiful. “Oh, thank God. Thank you,” he gasps, stumbling toward Concepcion’s motorcycle with one hand still pressed firmly against his bleeding side. He accepts her offered hand, his fingers slick with blood, and uses it to steady himself while awkwardly climbing onto the passenger seat. The effort draws a sharp cry from him, followed by several shallow, trembling breaths. For a moment, he simply sits there, hunched forward, struggling to remain upright.

“I just need… a ride into town,” he manages between breaths. “If you wouldn’t mind turning the bike around? Haven. I need to get to Haven.” His eyes flick anxiously toward the smoke rising farther down the highway. “Please. Quickly.” He swallows, wincing as he shifts his injured leg.

“You’re welcome,” Concepcion replies breathless, very bewildered by this chance opportunity of finding the man she was sent after, and him just walking up to her in need. “I’m really good at this,” she murmurs, and then glances over at the wanted Mercer to try and make it sound like she meant something else entirely. “I’m really good at getting people where they need to go quickly. So hold on.” The bike is turned around and the two are heading towards Haven, but slowly, taking advantage of the damage to the road. She even his a few pot holes on purpose to make that injured leg attached to the guy behind her suffer some more. Texting while driving is never a wise idea, nor is it legal, but she’s sending off a text one handedly whilst steering erratically. “These roads are really bad. Hold on. We’ll get you to the hospital,” she’s assuring as she presses the send button. The text the Hand will receive is typo ridden: Merver in posdesdion. En route yo Haven. Block the roas to take him begore sanc is restited.’

Mercer discovers that the road to salvation has rather a lot of potholes. Each jolt knocks another breath out of him; at one particularly unpleasant bump, his injured leg jerks and his forehead nearly meets Concepcion’s shoulder. “Please, just… carefully,” he manages through clenched teeth. His bloody fingers tighten their hold. Behind them, the smoke dwindles between the trees, while ahead the salt-streaked highway winds back toward Haven.

Her phone buzzes. Command has evidently managed to translate.

HAND COMMAND: Acknowledged. Mercer in your custody, returning toward Haven. Recovery team moving to intercept your route. DO NOT CROSS INTO SANCTUARY WITH THE TARGET. Rendezvous coordinates attached.

HAND COMMAND: What about the second Shadow? The operative pursuing Mercer, not the casualty in the woods. Did you locate him at the collision? Can you establish his condition?

A short interval follows. Then a correction.

HAND COMMAND: Disregard that request. Do NOT return to investigate. Medical recovery will check the wreck and retrieve the forest casualty. Keep the target with you. Proceed directly to handover.

HAND COMMAND: Your receiving team is in a black van before the Sanctuary boundary. Hand medical personnel, Peacekeeper escort. They are expecting you. Deliver Mercer alive.

Beyond the next bend, a black van waits at an angle across the usable roadway, its tires powdered with pale road salt. The side door slides open at the sound of the approaching motorcycle, and four people spill out in quick succession. Two wear fitted body armor and carry compact firearms pointed toward the ground. The other two shoulder medical packs, with a folded stretcher passed out behind them. Small silver clenched fists are fastened prominently to their chests; the same emblem sits above the word MEDIC on the pair carrying the packs.

One of the armed personnel takes the roadside while the other remains beside the open door. A woman with tightly pinned hair pulls on blue gloves as her colleague unfolds the stretcher.

Mercer stiffens against Concepcion’s back. His gaze catches on one of those silver fists, then snaps toward the narrow space beside the van. “No. No, don’t stop.” He leans closer, his voice suddenly urgent at her ear. “Those people are bad, bad news. Just go past. Please, go past them!”

Concepcion assures in a bold faced lie to the Mercer, “I’m doing the best I can!” Or maybe it isn’t a lie, because she is really doing the best she can to make this journey unpleasant for the wanted man. Several glances to her watches are given, taking in each text, and she is mumbling under her breath a little over what she reads, and then mms softly in agreement with another. Finally, the van comes into view. “You’re delirious,” she claims to the Mercer behind her. “You’re imagining things. It’s all going to be okay. Trust me.” The motorcycle does exactly what he does not desire it too. Stud is rebellious like that, it seems, and the Spaniard veers off course to Haven to flag down the medical personnel. “Help! We need help!”

The wanted man stares past Concepcion at the waiting van. His lips move against a shallow breath. “Luck be with me again.” As Concepcion’s motorcycle slows, his bloodied hand tightens on her shoulder. Then he twists in the passenger seat and swings his other fist toward the side of her head, trying to knock her out of the saddle. The movement pulls a sharp, pained grunt from him; his injured leg scrapes awkwardly against the bike as he struggles for leverage. “Get OFF!”

The reception party breaks into motion. Boots strike the asphalt as the two armed escorts close the distance, the medics following with the stretcher. One of the men steps into Mercer’s line of sight and points directly at him. “Hands up and eyes on me!”

Mercer’s head turns. His gaze catches on the man’s eyes and stays there. His mouth remains open around another word that never arrives; the hand clutching Concepcion’s shoulder loosens. For a moment, he sits blinking, his expression gone slack and bewildered. His raised fist slowly uncurls. “I… wait…”

A sharp snap interrupts him. The second escort has moved to the side, and two thin wires unspool from the weapon in his hands, their darts catching in Mercer’s torn jacket and trousers. The doctor’s back arches. A strangled cry breaks into clenched teeth as his limbs jerk and his heels knock against the motorcycle. A dark wet patch spreads across the front of his trousers.

When the crackling stops, Mercer sags sideways, breathing in short, ragged bursts and falls from the bike to the dirt. Both escorts move in, catching his arms and supporting his weight before he can slip beneath the bike.

“I’m Lady Luck herself,” is uttered out after Concepcion has caught the doctor’s words. When she’s being removed from her own ride, the temptation to latch onto his neck is strong. Teeth are revealed so very suddenly, and she’s about to feast when that voice calls out in a threatening demand.

It seems that Concepcion is used to being the one in trouble, and the near teeth sinking encounter evolves quickly into one that resembles a child whose hand got caught in the cookie jar. Although it is likely that the intention behind ‘hands up and eyes on me’ was for the wanted man, the vampire has her hands shooting straight up. “Don’t shoot! I’m unarmed!” What operative goes out on a mission without any kind of weapon?

THIS ONE.

Soon after (about the time that the man behind her is getting electrocuted), she realises she is not the threat, and turns to look at the Mercer as he’s on the ground beside her. “Wait…” Is that pee? “Did you just piss on Stud?” Horror envelopes her and she’s scooting forward and arcing her torso as it turns awkward to get a better view of the black seat beneath her.

Hand professionals are moving expediently, securing the doctor, loading him onto the stretcher. His partner is looking at Concepcion askance. “Why the hell is she here.”

Stud is perhaps slightly damp. Able to get the ladies wet, were they to sit on him, but the looks-minner hadn’t quite soaked through himself before being captured. Apparently, the local reputation of the cleaner isn’t as good as whatever impression Command had gotten when they’d heard that Concepcion was a cleaner. “We need to get to the accident,” one agent says to the other. “No time to dally here.” They’re already moving back toward the cars, though, considering that the screaming had stopped from the woods, it may be they are two late for the man left to fend with rats.

Hand professionals are moving expediently, securing the doctor, loading him onto the stretcher. His partner is looking at Concepcion askance. “Why the hell is she here.”

Stud is perhaps slightly damp. Able to get the ladies wet, were they to sit on him, but the looks-minner hadn’t quite soaked through himself before being captured. Apparently, the local reputation of the cleaner isn’t as good as whatever impression Command had gotten when they’d heard that Concepcion was a cleaner. “We need to get to the accident,” one agent says to the other. “No time to dally here.” They’re already moving back toward the cars, though, considering that the screaming had stopped from the woods, it may be the two are too late for the man left to fend with rats. (fixed)

Concepcion looks right back at the man questioning her existence within this retrieval, and she shrugs. It’s one of the ‘hell if I know’ sort of reactions, just as surprised as he is. Except that she has this look of pride residing in her dark eyes. This mission was a success, and so she winks at the professional, smiling like she believes they could not have managed to do this without her participation.

Once they are heading off, she sends off a text that reads: Handed off Mercer. What should I do now? Over.

As she awaits a response, she starts Googling how to clean up Stud after the urine leakage has tainted his beautiful saddle.

The black van recedes along the salt-streaked highway.

Google recommends an immediate blotting with paper towels, as well as Harley Davidson Motorcycle Seat Care. It’s quite clear that one ought to avoid harsher chemicals such as bleach or detergent. Left-over tide pods candy are, it seems, not recommended.

While Concepcion investigates the consequences of transporting a tazered passenger, her phone supplies an answer to her rather more official inquiry.

HAND COMMAND: Handover confirmed. Mercer received alive, outside Sanctuary. Objective complete. Medical recovery is handling the wounded operative and the collision site. No further action required from you. Stand down and return to mandated janitorial duties.

A second message follows after a short pause.

HAND COMMAND: And good job bringing him in, after he took down two other agents.

Concepcion and her Stud have emerged victorious, somehow, even if her slothful distraction saw half the adventurer taking place without her.

Some twenty-five minutes after the successful handover of Dr. Julian Mercer, and long after the last of the urgent messages has fallen silent, Concepcion’s phone gives another little buzz. It is Hand Command again, though the tone has shifted from frantic demands to the considerably more subdued language of an incident report.

HAND COMMAND: RECOVERY UPDATE: Medical personnel reached the reported location of our wounded Shadow operative. Unfortunately, the casualty was not present upon arrival. Blood matching the apparent site of his injury was discovered, along with his damaged radio and several personal effects. No body recovered.

HAND COMMAND: Search personnel identified multiple sets of small, clawed footprints surrounding the position. Drag marks and disturbed vegetation lead deeper into the woodland. Preliminary assessment suggests a group of kobolds may have carried the operative away. His present condition and whereabouts remain unknown.

A final message follows after another minute.

HAND COMMAND: Search and recovery operations are being organized. Vidal, your assignment remains complete. No further action is required of you. Thank you for your assistance.

And so the unfortunate Shadow, having survived a stabbing, an encounter with monstrous rats, and a rather hungry colleague, appears to have fallen into the hands of the local kobold population.

Date: 2026-10-21 15:23

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(Concepcion’s odd encounter (SRChristopher))

[Wed Oct 21 2026]

In a master bedroom full of valuables and a shitty bed
Floor length, heavy black curtains made of velvet shield the windows, blocking out the sunlight entirely most of the time. Real, richly patterned Persian rugs are on the floor. There’s a decadent dressing table that is occupied by an array of fine jewelry and expensive perfume bottles. There are antiques of all kinds, valuable paintings in ornate frames, and even a very expensive crystal chandelier — no wait, there are TWO that hang from the ceiling. It is genuinely extravagant, until your eyes fall upon the bed that is certainly cheap and does not belong.

It is afternoon, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey clouds.

The sun is still out, so Concepcion is still in, and she’s relaxing on her bed in a bedroom that is very clean, but has a hole in the ceiling and a battery-free boyfriend hanging from the rococo chandelier. It can now be referred to as a rococko, no doubt. There is no breathing to be had, but a blank face as she stares at a wall, appearing pretty emotionless and also empty all at once, which isn’t a whole to witness. As she remains halfway covered up by the bedding, the rest of her is kept modest by a kimono robe. Her hair is in disarray, like she was possibly pulling at it all night while this nocturnal creature was up.

Of all the things in all of their glory under the Sun .. there’s is nothing more frustrating or annoying perhaps for Concepcion than the Sun. The curtains along the walls do well to keep the harsh and offending rays at bay, but there’s no escaping the lethargy and pull that always seems to drag down while She’s in the sky. Today is no different, and Concepcion finds herself waiting as she no doubt always does for the light to disappear so that the those things that bump may go out into the night. Late October, the weather has been erratic as of late here in Haven with the last couple of days being unseasonably warm. And so it may come as something of an attention-getter when the feel in the room goes down by several degrees. Of course, Concepcion may not notice it at all, less relevent to here existence. The flow of air through the room causes the crystal shards of the chandlier above to drift ever so slightly, but there is no light for those facets to amplify or reflect.

The minutes pass, unblinking eyes staring unerrring into the distance until without warning Concepcion feels .. something. Some kind of pressure that seems to skitter or move across the bed and then gone. Just out of the corner of her eye the flicker of motion catches the attention.

Attention.

Although the drop in temperature does not warrant a response for Concepcion, the questionable storage place for an intimate item above her does. “Sergio?” she asks, as if the culprit is that thing, and it has a name. Sitting up, she tries to get a better view and then glances about the room, because perhaps she recalled that that device is not sentient, nor does it have any way to move on its own. “Hello?” Blackout curtains ensure there is no light within the dark room, but her night vision ensures that that face is no problem for her. Dark eyes dart about, trying to find any sign of life.

Once she’s decided all is all right, she’s about to recline again, murmuring, “It’s the cockroaches again. They stole that pizza the other night, now they intend to take Sergio as well.” A forced long suffering sigh escapes her mouth, as inhaling and exhaling is not usually her forte. Before her messy haired head finds the comfort of her pillow again, she pauses, and then her whole body reacts. Knees are drawn up to her chest as her behind scoots back and her back hits the headboard. “I need to call an exterminator, or an Orderite vampire who enjoys sucking the blood out of filthy insects,” is uttered out, trying to convince herself this is all just cockroach related.

As the startling motion suddenly causes Concepcion to spasm backward, she’ll hold herself there a moment, Wide almond eyes scanning through the dark but unable to find anything but the imagined cockroaches to blame. Smacking up against the headboard creates a quiet *thump* against the wall and that reverberates through the surface and up along the ceiling. Soft chintzing sounds come as the shards of both chandelier move and sway more noticeably from the disturbance – and with a sudden jolt Sergio suddenly jostles free and falls to land with an anti-climactic THUD on the floor, or the foot of the bed depending on where the chandelier hangs. Despite there being no batteries, there’s almost an expectent sense that the marital aid may start to suddenly activate that just never comes to pass. However, when she opens her mouth to mutter those words invoking the need for a fangman on a diet SOMETHING whooooshes through the room and Concepcion can feel something she’s felt before and probably never wants to feel again. The feel of some otherly power suffusing through her limbs, her body, her head. She will suddenly find it very hard to move, without expending a great deal of physical exertion.

Sergio has had a lot of air time recently, as one does in order to get stuck on a chandelier on high, but he hasn’t gotten better at this whole flight thing, and down he goes, hitting the floor and bouncing ounce before landing with a bit of a wobble. This fact pleases Concepcion — not the inability to fly, just the fact that he is now free to continue life with her — but she’s still quite unsure as to what exactly is going on. But there it is — it is a sensation she is familiar with, and the dread begins, feeling just as heavy as her body has become. Her mind is racing, and she’s not struggling physically, reserving her energy for now, but mentally she is expending herself to the extremes.

This doesn’t feel exactly like the kind of ensorcelment that comes from the power over her kind specifically, Concepcion can tell that immediately. This isn’t as bone deep, and it doesn’t wrench at the very cells of her flesh. With a painful expansion of her lungs, her body is forced to breathe in deeply as if for the first time in a long time. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she can feel it. A small knot of consciousness that throbs and pulses while it tries to spread itself throughout. No, far from the twisted yet finnesse touch of the Arcane, this feels like something has quite literally crawled inside her and is trying to move her around like an Edgar-suit. From her lips, her voice gasps in with surprise at that breath and it’s frightening thing hearing yourself make sound and knowing it isn’t you.

Putting up those mental defenses shows wisdom, because it’s the only thing that leaves her with any ‘room’ inside the palace of her mind. But it does leave her some. Taken by surprise whatever this entity is has taken root quickly, but Concepcion can sense perhaps that a deeper control is still out of its reach.

It would seem that Concepcion is the least magical vampire you’ll likely ever meet. She has no talents in the arcane whatsoever, nor in communing with the dead. Although she believes she converses with her deceased best friend, Pilar, daily who was killed the night that Concepcion was turned — she’s just hallucinating and is prone to all kinds of psychotic disruptions. Not knowing what to do, the usually headstrong, not going to deal with anyone’s shit, follow me or get out of the way woman is suddenly incapacitated and feeling stripped of all of her rights and even the ability to move. Feeling like a prisoner in her own body, she’s stuck. Trapped. Sergio is useless in this scenario.

Movements from Concepcion are rickety, stiff at first. Her lungs rise and fall as they fill with air they don’t need just to experience it. “What is this body?” The voice that comes out of soft plush lips is hers, but the words are not. Her body begins to move on it’s own now. Rickety at first, the motions are jerky and stiff as she can feel herself climbing out of bed. In the dark, all she can do from within her prison right now is watch like a camera her eyes spanning down to check out herself! Stretching one leg out to admire it, and then an arm. What controls her seems pleased, Concepcion can feel the threads of thought almost invading into her own. That pleased satisfaction becomes harder to tell whether it comes from her or from without. Several minutes pass this way, forced to sit passenger as her body is walks around the room. Oblivious to certain realities though, she watches now as her form moves toward the curtains that cover the windows and deny the sun entry.

Reaching out, Perhaps the internal sense of Concepcion flinches in recoil as her own hands grab the curtains and FLING them open wanting to feel the warmth of the sun on her face …

Pain. It lances through Concepcion’s eyes, and washes over her skin and the sheer surprise almost overtakes her completely. Is it her surprise? Doesn’t she know that that was a foolish idea? Stumbling back, all Concepcion herself can do for now is experience the pain and consequences along with whatever’s in the driver seat. Sitting frozen with uncertainty, surely she’ll be doomed to whatever Fate it has in store.

Breathing does not come naturally anyway, so being forced to isn’t too much different for Concepcion’s body, but the face that it isn’t her forcing it scared her to death (or re-death since she is technically dead already). As she’s being moved through the use of her own legs by someone or something else, she wants to scream, but there is no point in trying. She’s likely tried to fight her way through this in the past, and found it to be quite useless when all she’s invested her life into is conning people and stealing their money and valuables. Although that talent is great at a nice bar where wealthy men are willing to cheat on their wives, it does absolutely nothing for her in this moment.

The almost engaged, but never even officially girlfriend of a sleazebag, who is now even more single than she was then is being moved about, and although it is against her will, she does not fight it. Well, she didn’t…

It’s a pity that Stephenie wasn’t right about vampires sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight. That would have been pretty cool. It’s a blessing that Anne Rice was wrong about them burning and being quickly consumed by flames before they were reduced to ash. Instead, sunlight causes sunburns so easily and quickly, even worse than gingers get, and makes her so lethargic. Even though she is not going to suddenly catch fire, she does not enjoy the sunlight, and so the physical exertion begins, and she tries so hard to fight against the movements to pull the curtains open.

That fighting doesn’t help Concepcion avoid that blast of Sunlight across her visage but it does seem to .. expand the sense of space that she can feel around her mind as if the space its trapped in has suddenly grown a little larger around her. In some ways this may be even more terrifying, feeling as tough Concepcion’s mind is only being pushed further into the dark. On the other hand … there’s less of the strange and ephemoral feeling of restraint. That stumble back thankfully allows the curtains to fall back into place and before she knows it the back of Concepcion’s legs hit the edge of her bed and send her tumbling backward which is at least softer than the floor. “Wh-what?” More words come scraping out of her throat, unpowered by her will and there’s a blast of confusion that runs through Concepcion’s body next. Next, pulses of confusion or realization that draw a red-hued rage that even though it’s like watching a home movie from inside her skull Concepcion can almost imagine a red patina of shade as that anger rushes through her quickening the flow of blood through her veins. “No!”

This woman has PTSD, which is understandable, given the horrible incident that made Concepcion this way over two decades ago. Watching movies inside of her head is a pretty normal occurrence. It usually feels like a thousand movie screens playing the past she wants to leave behind, but she’s locked in a room with no way out and no one can hear her screaming for help. In this moment, she really doesn’t have the ability to escape on her own, not just a mental one. As she remains a witness, there’s at least a tiny amount of relief over the fact that the curtains have fallen closed again. When she falls back, it startles her as well.

Every day of her undead life has been spent with some sort of denial over her start. This woman has never come to terms with the fact that she is a vampire. She invested the first decade in trying to find a way to reverse it, but never found anything that came close to giving her any hope. Now, she lives in denial now and then, as well as suffers from mental illness after going so long with that denial and lack of luck in freeing herself. As that sudden, heavy rush of anger floods her it is all too familiar. This woman is prone to public outbursts and hostility in her anger, so many a Havenite would likely not expect this to be any different.

“No!” The outburst comes again, and thankfully this is normal behavior for Concepcion because it’s petulant and screamed out in frustration. “I want to live. I want to LIVE!” That anger is all-consuming, so much more than it needs to be even for such a tragic occurance as this. All of those threads of anger they spin and mix and twist with new memories that come flooding through the twisted mentally unstable corridors. Memories of a normal life, spent average and overlooked. Memories of the life of a woman who was average and overlooked. Who spent her days fantasizing about the things she wished to take instead of taking them. A life of NOTHING, and the resentment and pallor it casts over those memories. Memories of growing sick before her time and feeling that resentment turn into a festering sore of emotion of hate that stays with her. She remembers clinging to that hate as she lies dying in a cold, sterile hospital bed weak and alone.

These memories conflict and intertwine with Concepcion’s own true life and tragedies.

Once more she can feel her body jerking and moving – is it less smooth than before? The memories of this spirit fade in and out, each time she can feel that presence trying to cling more sharply to the inside of a form no longer capable of holding the human Soul. “You..” Venom drips from the words, that deep hatred and resentment doing what it always does: It finds a new target to blame, and that target is Concepcion or more accurately her body. A jerked step away from the bed. Another. As eyes pan over, that curtained window once more comes into view.

If Concepcion is good at anything aside from being a confidence woman, it’s being angry. She gets angry every day. Her fists ball up and she screams at someone, or it comes out quieter through her making accusations and trying to start arguments so she feels like the anger is justified. The words of wanting to stay alive are haunting, though. Does she want to stay ‘alive’ in this way? It’s been two decades of debating as she’s suffered daily in refusing to wholly accept her reality.

As flashbacks to a life she never experienced are flooding her mind, it’s only making her more outraged. Although, that death likely would have led to a different path if someone had turned her in a hospital, instead of the bloodbath she died in during her birthday party, losing nearly everyone she ever cared about. It confuses her, as she seems to relive something she never had, but it starts infuriating her that she did not get to die like that. How unfair life was to her, she feels, although she did horrible things day in and day out, and if karma exists this is it playing out. Her reality is a living hell after she’d made so many men have that same sort of reality, in a sense.

Now, she is like a little fireball of anger and vexation that feeds it even more, and she’s struggling to try and stop her limbs.

There … that fireball of rage that stems from HER, and Concepcion can feel it almost like the tilting of a balanced beam or a see-saw. For a moment she can absolutely feel the control of her own limbs return, her body freezing mid-faltered step. It’s a tension that feels behind her eyes not quite like a headache, but perhaps like what that might feel like if it was only pressure, but not really pain. Tension as she tries to claw back her own sense of autonomy from this spirit. “”

acks. Please hold.

There … that fireball of rage that stems from HER, and Concepcion can feel it almost like the tilting of a balanced beam or a see-saw. For a moment she can absolutely feel the control of her own limbs return, her body freezing mid-faltered step. It’s a tension that feels behind her eyes not quite like a headache, but perhaps like what that might feel like if it was only pressure, but not really pain. Tension as she tries to claw back her own sense of autonomy from this spirit. “Hate …” the words is mumbly, almost bumbling from those lips as the spirit’s source of power that venomous hate and bile forces the words into the air. She remains quivering in place for a long moment, before at long last her body takes another step toward that window. “You..” Those memories and that hate … it’s all that is left of this spirit. That obsession and desire pushes her forward again, but Concepcion can feel her tenuous hold on re-gaining control hold firm. It’s a struggle, tug-of-war as she’s never had to feel before, in part because it would be so much fruitless effort in the hands of real monsters. The question that hangs over her head like the pointed sword is whether or not she has the WILL. Does she want to die? Does she want to live? Desparate and searching, what will she cling to in this moment to match the intensity of the single-minded drive that tries to take that last vestige of choice and freedom away from her.

With every ounce of her being, Concepcion tries to scream. Her limbs are still being focused on, but the way she’s trying to move them is showing further anger more than actually aiming to go or not go anywhere — like pantomiming slamming a door shut, throwing something, or breaking personal items, maybe even trying to throw a few punches. The desire to remain on this plane of existence does come through, though. This is a petty woman, and she has unfinished business. There’s no way she is going to let someone else win, and so her desire to carry on is fueled by that want to retaliate.

Pettiness … for such a shallow thing, it can run surprisingly deep. Drawing on this, Concepcion can feel that pressure continuing to build behind her eyes until she’s sure that they’re going to suddenly pop in a gruesome display of ichor and jelly … and then the sound of something far away seems to come slowly to her ears. Each passing second hears it grow faintly closer and as she may strain to hear it? She’ll realize it’s the sound of her own voice. Concepcion screams out, raw and gutteral as her mouth splits open. The note strains at her voice, pushes her vocal cords until they’re raw. Second pass as that scream just echos out around her and at long last …

Concepcion realizes she’s the one screaming. That it’s HER voice to use. Her body lurches forward as she feels the tension that she’s been tugging against mentally release in one swift snapback. Her face plants into the curtains of the window, smacking into the glass and then she’s tumbling backward again and falling. She misses the bed this time, her body turning and falling. She might have time to put out her arms once more under her power to break her fall but it all comes so swiftly. Blinking … blinking slowly in the dark. Concepcion finds herself on the floor of her bedroom. In her eyeline – the sight of Sergio all but filling up her sight of vision. The fall to the floor has caused it to fall over at last.

It’s been a long while since Concepcion had a scream that good. Although it hurts, it feels freeing, and it literally is freeing because there she goes, face first against the curtain-covered window. “Ahh!” A lesser scream comes out as she hits the floor, knocking the wind out of her since whatever was inside of her had forced her to breathe. There is a groan that follows, and it is anything but sexual. Her head turns and the rest of her body lies limp. What does she see? The boyfriend she’ll have to make do with, and other things, now that her life’s trajectory has changed so much over the last eighteen hours. “It’s okay, Sergio,” is said hoarsely. “We’re okay.” Those words have a tone to them that suggest she thinks that silicone can understand her and is comforted by her gently assurances.

For now – things seem as they always are. Just another day waiting for the sun to disappear. As things calm, and Concepcion reassures her BFB that things will be alright, there is one thing that remains, refusing to let her write things off as just another oddity to forget. Those memories and that life so .. normal? They remain twisted and confused, jumbling with the thoughts of her own past. Life is unfair, and this burdeon too is now one that she will have to carry.

Date: 2026-10-03 21:26

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(Concepcion’s odd encounter (SRGrant))

[Sat Oct 3 2026]

At the lighthouse pier

It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky. There is a waning crescent moon.

What a lovely evening for pier watching, or pier stalking, as it may be. The rain has at least let up, affording Concepcion a largely uninterrupted view of the waters beyond. The gentle arcs of light from the lighthouse above serve to cut through the darkness in slow, rotating motions. Whether she were practicing her ash-throwing skills for a later date, or simply doing her best to look like an international woman of mystery, her thoughts or prayers are eventually interrupted by a beep from her phone.

Concepcion is standing on the rickety pier, looking out at the bay. She’s basking in the darkness, enjoying the evening like beach goers would relish the sunshine. After a few more moments, she gets back to examining the pier, trying to figure out the logistics of something, or at least it seems. No ash has been through. Yet. When the notification goes off on her smartphone, she’s retrieving it and swiping a thumb up across the screen to see what is waiting for her on the electronic device.

Work.

Work is what is awaiting Concepcion on her phone. It seems like it’s never done, no doubt. In this case specifically it is literally a task that hasn’t been completed, however. The long and short of it? Her employeers have their hands on a source of information that hasn’t been quite right since the floods. They’ve pushed them into a medical coma, and attempted to invade their dreams to squirrel away the prizes within – only for the intern level agents to end up trapped inside. Now there’s a room of largely unconscious Hand interns trapped in the dreamscape of a rapidly dying man. The powers that be seem to have decided that this mess belongs to Concepcion, given her obvious rapport with the other interns.

The outer right corner of Concepcion’s mouth twitches three times in a row. It’s work instead of an invitation of someone volunteering her to buy drinks for everyone. Is that a positive or a negative? She seems to be weighing that, and her head tilts back and forth from side to side as she considers the situation. “I suppose I’m saving money, and possibly saving lives, so… Work it is.” As if she had a choice in it at all. Trying to get psyched up about her mission despite: “I know nothing about this stuff.” Thick brows furrow. “I guess you always have to start somewhere.” Next, she’s sending a reply with a finger swiping all over the phone’s screen while autocorrect changes a lot of words, which ends up taking her much longer than it should, correcting each and every mistake. Once the text is in proper English it reads: ‘Where do I need to go?’ While waiting for the response, she’s off to the parking lot and getting on her motorcycle.

The outer right corner of Concepcion’s mouth twitches three times in a row. It’s work instead of an invitation of someone volunteering her to buy drinks for everyone. Is that a positive or a negative? She seems to be weighing that, and her head tilts back and forth from side to side as she considers the situation. “I suppose I’m saving money, and possibly saving lives, so… Work it is.” As if she had a choice in it at all. Trying to get psyched up about her mission despite: “I know nothing about this stuff.” Thick brows furrow. “I guess you always have to start somewhere.” Next, she’s sending a reply with a finger swiping all over the phone’s screen while autocorrect changes a lot of words, which ends up taking her much longer than it should, correcting each and every mistake. Once the text is in proper English it reads: ‘Where do I need to go?’ While waiting for the response, she’s off to the parking lot and getting on her motorcycle. (repost)

The moral balance of choosing work over potential loss of life may just serve as the next subject for another meeting of The Haven Society for the Philosophical Enlightenment of Young Minds, but for now, the choice has been made.

It doesn’t take too long for a response to come through, a fairly simple thing, listing an address amongst the trailer trash of WestHaven. The text has been coloured red too, as the person on the other end appears to enjoy the theatrics of it.

The European chapters of The Hand that Concepcion has worked with, particularly those in Spain and Italy, would never entrust this psychologically unstable woman with a mission like this. It seems Haven’s lovely chapter has yet to learn why, although there are those warnings in her file about how over the last twenty years with The Hand she has been suffering a gradual psychological deterioration. You live and you learn, as they say, and they might just learn that fact of life very shortly while Concepcion is a part of all this and engaged. Not in marriage (although she’s semi engaged to a maybe dead man at the moment).

Off to the home of the Trailer Park Boys and the Wheel Housewives of Westhaven where there is always Moore to love, and very possibly Moore than one baby daddy. She passes by what could very likely be a pregnant woman sipping a beer. Arriving at her destination, she heads up and gets herself inside eager to find out what is ahead of her.

It’s a rough part of town, that’s for certain. There’s even a dog smoking a cigarette, sitting on a street corner. Nevertheless, Concepcion makes it to the address she was referred to without too many problems. She doesn’t even get pulled over on the way. The engaging engaged woman finds herself before yet another lego-land esque trailer. There isn’t much that sets it apart from it’s neighbours. There’s an American flag in the window. A bunch of empties perched around the door. The general scent of a lower socio-economic bracket.

The door, while closed, would be discovered to be very much unlocked upon testing.

A rough part of town, and with that Marlboro Mutt on the corner, it’s also a ruff part of town. After glancing around and ensuring there isn’t a canine cartel around she is approaching the door. Concepcion does test it and finds she does not need a lock picking kit. The door opens, and she’s going through it.

Thankfully, the paw patrol is distracted with other things right now, and as such either no one notices or no one cares to notice Concepcion slipping into the trailer. The inside of the place more or less matches what one might expect, given the outside. It’s a one-room set up. There’s a bed in the centre of the room, set up to fold into a wall, if needed. A crappy television in the corner, blasting static, and about four bodies strewn about the place. Again, what you’d expect from a trailer.

One of the bodies, a thin, pale looking muppet, is tied to the bed. He’s covered in sweat, and breathing shallowly. He’s garbed in little more than pantyhose and a wife-beater. An interesting combination, for sure.

The other bodies scattered about the floor, would quickly be identified as the interns Concepcion had been told about. A quick inspection would confirm that none of these kids have the type of surname that matters in Haven, which might be why Concepcion was volunteered for this particular task, in spite of her record.

Stepping inside, Concepcion does not appear to be too surprised by the interior of the space. She gives the tee vee a glance, but leaves it on. That harsh, continuous KSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHH crackles and hisses as thousands of those tiny electrical pops sputter beneath that relentless rush of white noise. There is also an occasional much sharper KZZZT! Or maybe that’s just a one of those light thingies outside that zap and kill mosquitoes. The second thing Concepcion notices are the panyhose. Her dark eyes catch those hose faster a shirtless man with a beer belly leaning against a Camaro, holding a carton of Marlboros, and a winning scratch-off ticket can catch a ho or three in the trailer park.

It takes her several minutes to refocus. Whatever she’s thinking about is distracting her very much from her duties, and when she comes back to reality, she says, “No,” and turns away, looking at the rest of the interns. She has no clue what to do, so she moves over to the sink and retrieves a cup that is mingling with some other dishes, filling it up with some water with one hand, and texting one-handedly on her other: ‘What do I do?’

What does one do with a trio of passed out kids, trapped in the dreamscape of a pantyhose-clad man? A good question. Those pesky three dots appear and disappear several times, as if the question is stumping the other person on the end of the line too. It’s the textual version of a shrug. While waiting for an answer, Concepcion would likely find evidence of how the kids had been trying to manipulate their way into his dreams. There are dream catchers on some of their persons. Various illicit substances. An alarm clock. Melatonin. They’ve come equipped, for something or other, but whatever they did only resulted in their own capture.

Eventually a response comes through, |Wake them, or crawl into his dreams. We would prefer not to lose any interns, but a single loss is acceptable collateral.|

“Lumbersexuality is spreading,” Concepcion is mumbling to herself, equating men in tights as lumbersexuals for some reason. “I blame Joe Rogan. Now all these men with a beard thinks they are a survival expert, and they don’t eat fruit because they might grow breasts.” The cup is now overfilling. She shuts off the faucet and then checks her phone. This woman has far too many questions. Her latest text requests: “How do I kill them? That way I know not what to do.” She isn’t just standing around, taking that glass with her, water sloshing over the rim and onto the floor, hitting her boots, splashing off, and more goes onto the floor. “I could throw the water in this guy’s face… but I don’t know if something that sudden could ruin his life and… end it… He does look like a good snack, though…” Temptation is born. Fighting her urge, she moves over to a less tasty looking one, kneeling beside and going a much more gentle route. That route involves taking the fingers of one of the intern’s hand and putting them in the warm watter to see what happens. If anything.

|What?| The text message doesn’t even have it’s red colour this time.

|You would need to wake them before the dreamscape fails, whether that be that he wakes, or dies. That, and the usual causes of death. Shall I go through them one by one?| Sassy.

The spectre of Joe Rogan is invoked, and far off in the distance the sound of a man screaming like an ape may be heard, or it may not be, as it was entirely imagined. The water splashes about, skittering all over rare collectors editions of playboy magazines, and carpet mold. Concepcion experiment on the passed out youth bears fruit, which is to say, a darker stain spreads across their pants as they piss themselves in their sleep.

“Pilar,” Concepcion calls out, glancing over a shoulder briefly. “Can you help me with this? I don’t really know what to do, and you always have the answers. You always did.” Have and did present two very different timelines, as the latter emphasizes possession in the past. The thing is, there is no one named Pilar in the room with her. It’s just that guy who has obviously chosen hose before bros over there, and the poor interns. The buzzing vibrations of her phone attract her ever distracted attention, and she reads the message. Her head nods, and she says willfully, “Yes,” and types the very same, sending off: ‘Yes.’ Was it sassy? It might come off as her being a bitch, but that enthusiasm behind the need for more knowledge is very real. Unfortunately for her, whoever is on the other end of the text messages cannot see that truth.

And this is when Concepcion realises that her plan only worked half way. It seems there was some sort of pisscommunication, as a nocturnal Niagra took place, and nothing more. “Shit.” After that expletive, she’s glancing around, paying more attention to the screaming, although she really isn’t sure if it was in this world, or the one she semi exists in where Pilar exists. “Yes, Pilar, you’re right. I should.” She stands back up, and looks over the pills that won’t do anything for her sleep… but that snack… A laugh escapes her throat, and then a few moments later her teeth are in the intern’s. Throat. She’s letting those sleeping medications enter her body, and enjoying it a little too much. Two murders in one week wouldn’t help her file and reputation.

There’s an flash of those three dots, before a text arrives, |Head off. All burned up. Blood on outside, not inside. Decomposed. Organ missing.| Whatever list this poor dispatcher was using clearly wasn’t on wikipedia.

Well, they say to never let a free meal go to waste, and Concepcion appears to have heard them say this. Who is they will remain a mystery for now, as the cocktail of drugs, and other blood-born diseases flow through her juicebox and into her own system. The terrible buzzing screech of the television grows louder, and louder yet. All consuming, drowning out her other senses as a wave of unconsciousness threatens to swallow her as a flood had done to the town only a week earlier.

Concepcion is lost in her feeding and doesn’t notice the phone. She may be little more than a biohazard vacuum cleaner at this rate, like one of those wet vacs that won’t short out or electrocute you when they suck up fluids. Something or someone makes her stop before it is too late for the intern, but it could just be that the drugs are working, or Pillar tapping her on the shoulder. Trying to concentrate, she fails to hold onto anything tangible and just murmurs out, “Pilar…” before those last thoughts slip beyond her control. After one last increasingly futile effort to remain conscious, she’s out.

How lucky Concepcion’s future husband will be with this matrimonial petri dish of a bride. But at least she’s got good suction. That fang powered pathogen hoover.

Concepcion falls, literally and otherwise, as she is cast into the depth of the unstable dreamscape within the room.

The terrible buzzing of the television evolves, changing and shifting, until it is the crashing of waves and water, throwing her subconscious around in a crashing storm of sensations. The floor drops out from beneath her, sending her tumbling through a tunnel of panty-clad man working grills. They laugh in unison, and wave a sausage at her. Their faces shift and change, away from that of the man in the bed and to whomever Concepcion’s subconscious elects to fill in the gaps with.

Pantyhose-clad men, rather. A slightly different perversion.

Falling almost seems like it brings Concepcion some peace, even though the terror is still very real, there’s something about suffering that gives her hope of some kind. She’s also disturbed when she lands and has to fight through the noise and pain that shoots through her body, especially her head. Hands clutch over her ears, and then she struggle to get upright to stand again.

This scene feels all too familiar to Concepcion. Perhaps she’s dreamt it before, or maybe she’s just recalling that day Mister Sly threw cooked meat at a woman for telling him ‘no.’ And now it is multiplied by many. Her subconscious, however, may have a very unhealthy appetite for wieners as minced meat stuffed in a cylindrical casing is getting waved at her. Is this her wurst nightmare come true? It at least brings an entirely new meaning to a sausage party. Those faces are the one and only Mister Sly.

Of course they are.

Has there ever been a mostly dead man mourned so readily, or publically by an entire town? Likely not.

The sausage party continues all around her, as the waves crash and boom. Other voices can be heard, calling out, lost amidst these depths, though they are muted and dulled by the sizzling of meat. The sable-slickback sausage sizzler stares at Concepcion over the top of the grill, turning the sausages this way and that. They scream too. Lovely. They’re people, people bloated, and drowned, and tiny. Maybe not the most appealing meal. “Winds howlin’.” They observe, in a voice that Concepcion’s subconscious dubs over with a venetian edge.

So many Mister Slys in pantyhose. What’s a girl to do? She looks around, senses assaulted by so much in this place, trying to keep it together. Concepcion begins to move, or at least tries to, remembering that she is on a mission. But oh, the wind? Already distracted, she’s trying to figure out if the wind could sound like people howling out behind the other noises and various disturbances. “It really does howl,” she says to the men in tights. Perhaps this place isn’t much different from that world she half lives in most of the time. Perhaps there are many Mister Slys on her mind on the regular. INTERNS. Right. Snapping back to the very reason why she is here in the first place, she starts to try and find where the voices are coming from, moving through whatever is here… water, hot dog water… sand… cooked meats.

She moves, and the space around her moves with her. It’s like walking on a treadmill. A terrible treadmill surrounded by strange nightmare apparations wearing the face of her almost-dead almost-fiance.

The water level continues to rise, all the while, as her keen senses are indeed able to pick out the sounds of screams amongst the other noise polution. The pantyhose-clad man behind the grill plucks up one of the people-sausages on his grill, turning it this way and that, causing it’s bloated juices to pop and spray into the coals where they sizzle and smoke.

The water rises.

The sound of sirens cut through some of the din. Yet more screams. But the men keep sizzling, and sizzling away. “It’s good weather for a grill. I think the rain will hold out.” He insists, alien words shifting a familiar face.

The water rises.

As Concepcion trudges forward with increasing determination, she’s finding that she is not moving. Her body is trembling as she’s haunted by those faces and each step is carrying her precisely nowhere at all. Concentration evolves into indignation, and her pace quickens. She’s trying to sprint. Perhaps she can outrun whatever fundamental mechanics control this place she’s in, but likely not. The water does not seem to frighten her, and the breathless woman focuses on trying to save the screaming victims of her many nearly beloveds, nearly deceaseds.

“I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to wake them.” A second later, she’s joining in with the screams. Perhaps she can jolt the interns out of this dream.

Lips part and then she release an experimental yell, testing its strength before she throws back her head. Her entire form tenses. Then she unleashes a prolonged and blood curdling shriek that she pours all of her energy into, drawing upon every terrible memory that she has tried to bury unsuccessfully over the last two decades. Face contorting, she wails and keens again, pouring more of that grief, fear, rage, terror, and self-loathing into that roar of emotions until her voice cracks and fractures beneath that sheer, earsplitting intensity.

The water rises.

Concepcion runs, sprints, screams and at first, it all seems to be in vain.

The water rises.

It laps at her knees now, accompanying every move with a splish, or a splash, or another water-movement sound. It changes, though, when she experiments with that stronger, more focused scream. Perhaps that is where the interns had gone wrong, they had tried to fight through this terrible dream of sausage sizzling men with what they had on hand, instead of bringing more of themselves into this liminal space.

Concepcion doesn’t make this mistake, drawing upon her own trauma and terrible memories, flooding this space with new sensation, with new terror and grief. Rage, and fear.

The water rises.

It washes over Concepcion. It washes over the Sly-gangers. It washes away the screams.

It fills Concepcion’s lungs, yet the scream continues despite this. Blood curdles.

There is a flurry of motion, of movement, the waves around her throwing her – up and up, away from the depths, and the corpse-sausages, and the screams. It’s crimson, and raw, and it’s hers, and it carries her, and those snagged within this nightmare, crashing back up into reality with a start.

There’s something weirdly comforting about nearly drowning in her own blood, probably because Concepcion isn’t all together healthy in her head. But she fights the whole way, trying to force the others awake. The screaming doesn’t stop when her eyelids lift, instantly revealing her dark irises. All of that intensity, that pain that plagues her day and night, keeps coming out in those tormented caterwauls. It’s probably not any of the interns’ favourite of ways to wake up.

The echoing screams that cut through reality, and the relative quiet of the Westhaven trailer park speaks to Concepcion’s success. As the interns snap up with a start, bar the one who had been made a meal of, who slumps up with a slow. There’s a lot of cursing, and screaming, and shouting, but eventually they’re all staring around, wide-eyed and alert, having had their itty bitty lives saved by Concepcion’s lung capacity, and trauma.

The static of the television bleeds back into reality, drawing in to fill the empty space left when the screams subside.

Concepcion sits up but doubles over right away. Her mouth is still open, but nothing more emerges. No noise. No exhales. She turns her head to view the newly conscious interns. “Hey…” gets managed after she successfully sits up after the second attempt. “Everyone’s alive right?” Most of her worry is for the one she fed on. Poor Tim. He always has the worst of luck.

Everyone is indeed alive, great success!

Tim groans out and sobs, like the crybaby he is. Just because he has an open wound at the neck, or formally open wound. Kids these days.

There’s probably a lot of chatter, and finger-pointing that goes on, but with the lives saved and the nightmare escaped, Concepcion can probably leave the interns to clean up any lingering messes.

Cleaning is probably one of Concepcion’s least favourite activities. Those memories of her mother working as a maid in other people’s homes. Ugh. This woman became who she is due to the very fact she never wanted to become -that-. And yet… she scrubbed those walls with lemons for a certain someone.

Date: 2026-10-31 21:42

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(Daphne’s odd encounter (SRGrant))

[Sat Oct 31 2026]

In a Cozy, Modified, Single-wide Trailer
The primary living space occupies the center of the trailer, cramped but comfortable after years of careful repairs. An old couch and battered recliner face a large window overlooking the forest to the south, with a scarred coffee table between them. Bookshelves sag beneath marine engineering manuals, fishing guides, paperbacks, and a handful of framed photographs. A small wood stove provides most of the heat, its stovepipe disappearing through the ceiling. Everything here is worn, practical, and maintained rather than replaced.

It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few thin white clouds in the sky. There is a last quarter moon.

It’s late. The trick-or-treating is done… for the small ones. Now it’s college kids out in either their day-to-day clothes or last minute costumes assembled just for free candy. Sure, there may be the rare group (of frat boys often) that actually manages something clever, but mostly it’s just The Shenanigan Hours now.

But not out here. Not out here in the woods. There were no trick-or-treaters. No eggs. No TP. Just a darkened trailer and a woman who got really high and dozed off on the couch… which is where she is now, attired still in her star-print pajama pants and a long-sleeved shirt with a smiley face on it.

Sprawled haphazardly, Daphne snores. Barely, but still she snores.

There is something to be said about the serenity that can be found in solitude, alone with one’s thoughts and a nice mellow high? That is the advantage offed by this isolated trailer, away from the kids and the candy, the tricks and the treating. Daphne doesn’t need to worry about anyone knocking on her door, or throwing random shit at her windows.

Her barely-there snores fill the homely space, with little competition for the time being.

What a warm, comfortable, safe place.

A chill spreads through the trailer like an uninvited guest, slipping through cracks and vents as the temperate starts to drop in degrees, to such a point that Daphne may wake up with a shiver.

Even a trailer as modified as this one is difficult to keep truly heated. And it’s not as if this one was modified to be super modern or anything. Just to be a permanent home. Daphne does shiver, bare feet seeking some sort of warmth on the old couch, but between the chill and the moving around: the Swann wakes. She flops around a bit and finally pushes herself upright with a groan, blinking into the darkness with narrowed eyes.

Right. Hiram went on a tear about the lights being left on. She scrubs at her face and pulls messy hair into a sad excuse for a ponytail at the nape of her neck, secured with a band kept around her wrist. “Bet he left a window open,” Daphne mutters to herself as she gets to her feet and pads through the dark room to begin checking said windows to ensure they are securely shut.

Men, right? Always leaving the toilet seat up, and the windows open. For good or ill, there doesn’t appear to be any ready source of the coolness that comes upon the space. No mundane explanation, at the very least. When someone does approach the window, however, catching sight of her own reflection, poor ponytail and all, there is something amiss. A pitter-patter of sorts against the pane, silent, and cold. It’s like rain, but in reverse, coming up from the earth rather than falling from the heavens.

There isn’t even a sprinkler set up outside that may serve as a source for this.

Should Daphne linger near this window she would note the slow, daunting appearance of a hand print against the outerpane, flickers of hoarfrost about it as it bleeds into reality.

Isn’t it good that she has all this solitude, and isolation?

Men, right? Always leaving the toilet seat up, and the windows open. For good or ill, there doesn’t appear to be any ready source of the coolness that comes upon the space. No mundane explanation, at the very least. When Daphne does approach the window, however, catching sight of her own reflection, poor ponytail and all, there is something amiss. A pitter-patter of sorts against the pane, silent, and cold. It’s like rain, but in reverse, coming up from the earth rather than falling from the heavens.

There isn’t even a sprinkler set up outside that may serve as a source for this.

Should Daphne linger near this window she would note the slow, daunting appearance of a hand print against the outerpane, flickers of hoarfrost about it as it bleeds into reality.

Isn’t it good that she has all this solitude, and isolation?

And linger Daphne does because she is no stranger to strange.

And not the kind of strange you pick up on a desperate Friday night at the bar.

The woman frowns as she considers the droplets while ensuring the window is locked and secured. And then the hand print begins appearing and she takes a solid step back: “Oh hell naw.” It’s not shouted, but there is a higher pitch to her voice that cracks with the remnants of sleep. Daphne takes another step back toward her backpack, on the floor next to the couch. She rifles around inside, but doesn’t surface with much. A headlamp, for one, though it’s just set on the arm of the couch for now. Otherwise… it’s a lighter that she comes out with. No arcane tools, but then: she’s no arcanist.

Good timing, all things considered. What was it that Hiram was saying about the lights? I suppose it doesn’t matter as they die. Not all at once, or with a dramatic flash and spark. They simply fade, in drips and drabs. As if their light was being smothered in slow waves, as something works its way into Daphne’s little haven within Haven.

The gloom sweeps in where the light once was, suffocating in it’s thickness, like a fog or a mist roiling over the Badwater bay in the early morning. A crackle, and a distinct clunk escapes the old radio in the unit. It fuzzes. It buzzes. Though the rushing of static starts to give way to the slightly different surging of waves, and quiet screams. A voice speaks, distant, and muffled.

“We are receiving reports of dangerous rising waters, a flash flood. It is too late to evaculate. Please, stay within your homes, secure the doors, and get as high as possible. I repeat, do not to try to weather the storm.”

“Like fuck there is,” Daphne says to the radio, having already frowned at what lights there are going dim and dark in the trailer. She shoves everything back in her bag and out from under the couch slides a bullpup rifle. Both are slung over her shoulder as she stalks through the trailer toward the back door which would lead onto a porch… and access to a rather elaborate lookout tower.

Provided the doors actually work…

The doors working is an important step in this plan, and unfortunately undoes Daphne’s schemes as it does not, in fact, work. What happens instead, when she reaches for the door, is that something starts to move through it. Not by opening it, but rather, by trying to press and shift through it. It’s like the edges of reality isn’t are bending inwards as space warps and bleeds before Daphne.

That voice on the radio is still going, assuring people that their Mayor is standing by to assist, that there is state support coming. Daphne may very recognize this broadcast, as it was playing on the day of the floods a month and change earlier.

“Piss off, ghost!” Daphne says as something tries to press through the door. She kicks it for good measure before backing away. The radio broadcast is familiar, but not, to her. She was aware of the floods, yes, but she wasn’t yet back in Haven for them. She kept up with family, of course.

Backing up several steps, she dumps her things on a chair at the kitchen table and becomes fluid. Well, not liquid really. She’s no Alex Mack. But Daphne does, in fact, change. The woman steadily disappears and soon instead there is an animal in her place: a melanistic jaguar (commonly referred to as simply ‘a panther’) that growls lowly at the door. Hunkered low to the ground, ears flat, she pads steadily backward.

If Haven weren’t already aware that Daphne was a forty-year old woman, well, she certainly dates herself with an Alex Mack reference. The ghost, for that is what it is, as accurately noted by someone, does not, unfortunately, piss off. It is very much still pissing on. That thin barrier between realities is pushed, until its sunken, bloated, corpse-like features can be seen pushing through, and into this twee little trailer.

It is evident that this spook was not expecting to find a giant predator in leiu of a defenceless victim, and it hesitates for several moments, gurgling and choking on brine. The stench of rot, and bad fish fills the space as it looms forward, taking soggy, messy steps across someone’s decor.

If Haven weren’t already aware that Daphne was a forty-year old woman, well, she certainly dates herself with an Alex Mack reference. The ghost, for that is what it is, as accurately noted by Daphne(panthera onca), does not, unfortunately, piss off. It is very much still pissing on. That thin barrier between realities is pushed, until its sunken, bloated, corpse-like features can be seen pushing through, and into this twee little trailer.

It is evident that this spook was not expecting to find a giant predator in leiu of a defenceless victim, and it hesitates for several moments, gurgling and choking on brine. The stench of rot, and bad fish fills the space as it looms forward, taking soggy, messy steps across Daphne(panthera onca)’s decor.

As the ghost reveals more of itself, Daphne(panthera onca) backs up further toward the main room of the trailer. She bares large teeth as she hisses. Another warning that comes with a lash of her tail… even if her tail whacks a cabinet.

A few more steps back and that smell hits her. She snorts, shaking her head slightly.

Bad fish? That gaze seems to say. You bring… B A D F I S H into this place? What follows is a growl. Of indignation and outright offense.

Bad fish. Very B A D F I S H. Bad vibes too. Everything about this spectre is bad, and awful. It looks hideous, it smells worse. No doubt it will taste even worse yet.

What this dead thing, an innocent victim of the floods no doubt, wants more than anything is the warmth of life. There is no other motivation for this terrible spirit. someone is so very warm. So very full of life. It staggers toward her, twisted and swollen limbs reaching out as it grows more and more physical with each step and the chill deepends.

The thudding of inverted rain against the outside of the trailer grows louder, and louder yet, like surging waves, and breaking dams.

Bad fish. Very B A D F I S H. Bad vibes too. Everything about this spectre is bad, and awful. It looks hideous, it smells worse. No doubt it will taste even worse yet.

What this dead thing, an innocent victim of the floods no doubt, wants more than anything is the warmth of life. There is no other motivation for this terrible spirit. Daphne(panthera onca) is so very warm. So very full of life. It staggers toward her, twisted and swollen limbs reaching out as it grows more and more physical with each step and the chill deepends.

The thudding of inverted rain against the outside of the trailer grows louder, and louder yet, like surging waves, and breaking dams.

There is fear that ripples through Daphne(panthera onca). It can be seen in how her hackles rise. In how her sides twitch every so often. And certainly in how the wild cat has continued backing away. Has continued those growls that say stay back. Go now and I will let you pass. She ends up in the darkened living room again, passing by couch and chair into the narrow space between them.

The next growl rises in pitch with the undercurrents of a yowl. Something more uncertain, perhaps more overtly frightened, calling for aid that is unlikely to come.

There is a terrible inevitability to this dead things movements, were it’s heart still beating there may be fear, and terror, but it isn’t capable of considerations of even this base level. There is one yearning want, a need really. It trips, slips and falls forward, crashing down onto the flooring with a wet smack, and the slucing of the rotten waters inside of it. Black ooze leaks from its ears and onto the floor, it gurgles, and barfs, a terrible wave of nausea escaping it as the contents of its stomach wash free and onto the floor. Brine. Sand. Shells. A rotting fish. It’s all very upsetting.

It tries to push itself back up, though one of its hands remain upon the floor- detached from the rot of the wrist. It claws towards Daphne(panthera onca) of its own will, fingernails digging into the flooring, and one is lost in the process.

It is incredibly upsetting. All of those delicious fish gone to waste. So many families going unfed! While this… this monstrosity, this abomination, this grotesque is simply spilling its guts right in front of her!

And it didn’t even ask first. Not even a courtesy ‘can I unload on you?’

With a startled leap as some of that blackened bile nearly touches a paw, Daphne(panthera onca) leaps with a truncated yowl onto the couch. It creaks in protest, upset at the sudden weight of the panther. The hand is swatted at: a large dinner plate of a paw flinging it off that-a-way. Maybe.

The spectre is not a gentleman, it didn’t give Daphne(panthera onca) so much as a warning before making a mess of her space.

While the bulk of the creature pushes up with agonizing slowness, its hand is flung across the room at near lightspeed. That dinner plate of a paw sending the thing soaring across the room to collide into the nearest wall with a splat. It doesn’t tumble back though, it simply explodes into yet more briny fog, scattering away from this reality.

Daphne(panthera onca) may not get too long to celebrate her handy skills, because the rest of the drowned corpse is on its feet now and stumbling toward her and that couch both – looking to test its load bearing abilities.

A bit of the animal now exists, here. It smacked something. That something exploded. The way her tail moves now isn’t the lashing of fear and anger… it’s the twitch of curiosity. A bit of the animal has taken over and Daphne(panthera onca) is slightly more in the backseat now. Something in her chest rumbles: a growl, yes, but maybe… more playful, this time?

But it doesn’t last long. The abomination rises and begins approaching and so Daphne(panthera onca)’s ears flatten again. Daphne(panthera onca) hisses again.

But Daphne(panthera onca) doesn’t have anywhere to retreat to, so… the next best option.
Daphne(panthera onca) launches from those hind legs RIGHT AT THE GHOST. With paws (and their respective claws) out and ready to whap-whap-whap at the ghost as she.. well, clearly Daphne(panthera onca) is trying to make it explode to pieces (TO PIECES!), but it is of the supernatural.

And the supernatural does so love to be contrary.

It certainly does, there are many terrors that lurk in the dark. Many of which go out of their way to show what may be a weakness in order to have you play your hand.

This isn’t one of those. This poor, unfortunate soul, is simply broken. Twisted. Torn asunder. It is the terror of its death that has it clinging to this mortal plane, as little more than a reflection of the circumstances which rent its life away. It wants warmth, and life, and what it gets instead are paws, and claws.

The festering corpse is beaten, and begins to ooze and break beneath the assault, smushing like moldy cake as Daphne(panthera onca)’s paws don’t just strike against it, but sink into the cavern of its chest. Through its blistering, bloasted skin. It bursts like overstuffed sausage, guts and bad fish spilling out all over her lovely home as it collapses beneath the assault. Each severed piece twisting and turning before exploding into fog, and brine.

Initially, Daphne(panthera onca) feels victory. That sweet satisfaction of a predator who has defeated another. It is not caught prey, it is defending her territory and oh, how sweet it is. But then, as she lands on her feet and begins to preen… its pieces and parts begin to explode.

There is that gagging that only a cat can manage. Not quite a hairball, but as if preparing to upchuck one. Rejecting those enhanced senses, she shudders back and back toward the kitchen, toward a cleaner floor, preparing to shift back.

Has victory ever tasted so rotten, and briny? Who knows.

Once more Daphne is alone with her thoughts, however, and the quiet. The radio has stilled, the cold is slowly retreating as her bones feel warmth anew, and the strange rain has come to end.

Solitude. Peace.

A whole lot of brine, corpse-water and a not-quite-a-hairball to clean up. Lovely.

Date: 2026-10-15 22:37

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(Evelyn’s odd encounter (SRClaire))

[Thu Oct 15 2026]

At a luxurious patio area
This luxurious outdoor patio is designed for both entertaining and
unwinding, with a large retractable projector screen and hidden
surround-sound speakers creating a true open-air cinema. Facing the
screen, deep sage-green sectional couches piled with plush throw
pillows and soft blankets invite everyone to sink in and settle down
for a movie.

At the heart of the space, a sunken stone fire pit is ringed by a curved
built-in bench layered with cushions and cozy throws, its flames dancing
from a bed of smooth glass beads. Tucked into a shaded corner, a plush
woven hammock in soft cream cotton hangs from a sturdy teak frame,
swaying gently with the slightest breeze.

It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky. There is a waxing crescent moon.

Evelyn sits at a bench near the fire pit, freshly woken and freshly showered and freshly abandoned all alone in the house, looking up… sheep farms in her area on the phone? There’s worse things to Google, surely.

A pair of headlights sweeps the very far edge, rudely washing over Evelyn before the crunch and rumble of a car pulling in close by can be heard right outside. The audible thud of a car door slamming outside precedes someone knocking loudly on the premise doors, trying to capture any inhabitant’s attention within.

“Hello? Open up!”

Evelyn blinks, snapped out of looking at pictures of a baby lamb being bottle-fed – they’re so gosh darn adorable – by the ruckus at the front of the house. There’s a glance around – nobody else here to open up, yep – and then she warily makes her way back into the house and to the front door, inching it open just a crack to peek through. Mister Wilson won’t be happy if someone breaks down his front door. “Hello,” she calls out, “This is Mister Graham Wilson’s residence – how can I help you?” Is the porch light on? She should turn that on. Her eyes aren’t any good in the dark.

The state police trooper has the knock and announce rhythm down cold, his hands already half-lifted to rap again when the door swings open. He must mean business, though a trooper this far out in a near backwater like Haven might seem off, he might be a long way from home (his station). He’s got his torch on lighting the place up, wearing shades, but it’s slid down far enough the bridge of his nose it’s too easy to catch the widening of his eyes upon sighting Evelyn. It’s an instinctive balk of someone who didn’t expect to see Evelyn’s sort opening up for him. He clears his trhoat, squares his shoulders, and corrects himself quick like, gaze somewhere safely above the collar. He adjusts the spotlight of his torch away to avoid blinding Evelyn.

“…evening, ma’am. This is a wellness check,” he says easy enough, his bristly moustache giving the man a walrus-like demeanour. He’s fit, but starting to show age in his build. “And you are…” He’s confused, but has a name. “Evelyn?”

Oh. A police officer. Evelyn should’ve expected that from the manner of knocking, but such fine details are beyond her for now, alas. The door opens wider, just enough to be polite. It wouldn’t do to make the man suspicious by continuing to mostly-lurk behind it.

The sound of her name gets a blink. “This is Evelyn Taylor, officer,” she confirms, a smile slipping onto her face, practised.

“… I am well.” That’s what a wellness check is for, right? Do they even send state troopers for wellness checks?

Evelyn’s brow furrows. She steps outside now, coming to stand on the porch and letting the door click shut behind her. “May I know your name, officer?”

You mildly want to help Trooper Hollis get a good look at that exposed cleavage.

The officer establishes himself as a gentlemanly sort, at least from the outside. He lowers his flashlight and tucks it into his belt, then grips at the beltline, adjusting his trousers to stand tall before the door. “May I come in?” he asks at first, but remembers his manners, courtesy of the young woman before him. “Officer Hollis,” he provides, tipping his hat, then steps forward, one hand reaching for that door unprovoked. “Just a routine, ma’am. We’ve had some trouble reaching Mr. Wilson. Is he in this evening? It’s urgent.” He tries to peek in from his new posture right up against the door way, about to brace his palm against the surface. “Are you here alone?” he asks more quietly.

You slightly want to help Trooper Hollis step inside.

The next breath Evelyn takes is slightly ragged, the woman seeming to space out for a few seconds before she snaps back into it with the question asked– and the officer is much too close now, with her standing against the door already. She shifts in place, just briefly, but doesn’t step aside, her brow furrowing. While the door automatically locks, she does have a key. “Officer Hollis,” she repeats with a smile, lifting a hand to rest it upon his forearm – that’s not your door, sir – don’t be rude. “I’ll let him know you visited, so he can get back to you later. In… the morning?” Her head shifts to the side, as though to remind the man that it’s almost midnight, and no respectable police officers come knocking on doors at midnight for anything good. “You can leave your number with me.”

She throws in a smile, for good measure.

And hey, if him being that much closer lets him take a better look into Evelyn’s cleavage, that’s all his own doing, really.

Trooper Hollis, if that’s really what he’s all about stares at Evelyn, holding onto something that’s a mix between concern and uncertainty. The delayed response encourages him to push his luck to try and coerce his way inside, but Evelyn activates just in time, halting his advance for now. Hollis permits her hand rest on his forearm and doesn’t move it, though his weight settles back half a step off the threshold. Taking off the shades at least, he hooks them in his shirt pocket, tired eyes steady on hers. “I’d appreciate that, ma’am, and I’d like nothing better than to come back in the morning.” His moustache twitches, manifesting his walrus animal spirit. He’s getting pudgy enough he can work the look well enough, if not intentionally.

“But ‘urgent’ isn’t a figure of speech tonight, hear me? I don’t have a number to leave that’ll get Mr. Wilson to me any faster than he’d get himself here.” He glances past her shoulder into the dim hall, then back. Or more appropriately, down the hollow of Evelyn’s throat. “You got yourself a key in hand. I noticed. Is there a reason you’re not letting me in?” He speaks with the forcefulness of someone who isn’t used to being on the bottom rung of any power dynamic, but it’s curbed a touch by the view he’s getting.

You slightly want to help Hollis stay a proper gentleman. God help him be strong.

Evelyn’s an animal person, even if walruses aren’t quite her forte. “Mister Wilson isn’t going to be back tonight,” she lies blatantly, letting her lips drop into a frown. She’s not the best liar, but it’s also not as though the officer is looking into her eyes anyway – or in the vicinity of her face, really. “He’s out on business, I’m afraid.”

Whoever’s on the top rung here, though, it’s definitely not Evelyn either. Maybe it’s the ghost of Graham in her head, his clutches around her soul even when the man himself is nowhere to be seen. “I’d love to let you in, officer, it’s just…” she averts her gaze as though abashed, exhaling out a slow, soft sigh and slumping her shoulders. “Mister Wilson is having some renovations go on, and he’d be most displeased if esteemed members of our community-” that’s you, officer Hollis, you dirtbag, “-happened to see his house in such a state. It’s still being built, you know, with the flood… and then with his accident and his leg…” She shakes her head. Such a sad thing to happen to such an upstanding man. Ha. Ha. Upstanding.

Walrus-stache bristling, Hollis tears his eyes away from the upperside of Evelyn’s bust, if reluctantly. His dark brown eyes look into the virulent greens, which if he were a smoother, more upstanding man would admit they were more mesmerizing than her chest. For a few reasons, they’re harder to maintain eye contact with though. Even so, he’s a big boy, and his days of chasing tail are more or less behind him, though the urge does crop up now and then, such as tonight. It’s a distraction he wasn’t really expecting. He was expecting to entreat with a more robust sort.

He tries to peek past Evelyn’s shoulder and spot any of these renovations himself, but it’s not much use. “Terrible thing, that,” he says aside for Graham’s accident. “I’m terribly sorry to hear all that, ma’am. Genuinely.” He tips his chin toward the dark drive behind him. “Tell you what. I won’t ask to come in,” she works up some compromise, though it comes on the side of favouring his side of things than Evelyn’s. “But I’d like to walk the front of the property and have a look at the vehicles. So I can write that Mr. Wilson’s away on business. Would that be all right with you?” He shifts back, drawing away, but keeping his arm extended to maintain that small physical contact with Evelyn.

You mildly want to help Hollis plant a bug or two around the premise.

One might argue Evelyn’s a much more pleasant company to sit with than Graham Wilson. The officer should be pleased, actually, for getting to meet with the person who won’t be plotting to ruin his life for putting a damper on their evening.

Still, it’s nice to see the officer can be reasonable. Evelyn likes reasonable people, especially when they seem willing to compromise. Her shoulders ease a smidge more, and she flashes the man a smile, polished and dazzling.

“Of course,” she agrees easily, stepping closer and shifting the touch of her palm to instead have her hand tucked into the crook of the officer’s elbow. Her chest presses against his arm. She’s just showing him around to the parking area, that’s all. “He took his car,” Evelyn tells him, walking him around the side of the house where two bikes are parked, and no cars. “So that’s his bike,” that’s the Harley Davidson over there, gleaming brand new and shiny, “and that’s my bike.” That’s the Ducati. One couldn’t hide a car here, surely. The Wilson is well and truly Not Here. Evelyn gives him her best trustworthy eyes – surely he’ll believe her now. “Would that be all, officer?”

He’s free to sneak in what bugs he can while Evelyn’s latched onto his arm – it would be impressive if so.

Clearing his throat, Hollis stiffens the instant her chest settles against his arm. Every ounce of his twenty years in the force holds his face to polite neutrality, but the walrus moustache betrays him on that front. It twitches and the tips of his ears grow a shade pinker than any cold could explain on his behalf. His only consolation is that it might be too dark to take note of the flush, and the longing bestowed upon him by that companionable proximity.

At the parking area, he makes a show of sweeping his flashlight over the Harley and Ducati, rumbling a soft noise of approval for the pair. “Nice machines,” and awkwardly pulls a notebook from his breast pocket with his free hand. Somewhere in the motion, his fingers slip towards the pocket of his shirt, and tries to lean toward the Harly to check the plate. He’s confounded from doing anything slick at every turn while the woman remains hooked to his arm, all close. It is a critical failure on his part, letting Evelyn take the lead. Eventually, he’s out of cards to play and clears his throat, straightening, confirming what Evelyn has been saying all along. “Well,” he manages not to bluster, his voice strained in defeat, stemming some urge about Evelyn herself. “Looks like you’re right, ma’am. No car.” He tucks his notebook away, cutting his losses here and tips his hat to her. “No nothing…” He bristles, but lays the blame all on himself and Graham Wilson. “I’ll write Mr. Wilson is away on business then.”

You want to help Hollis earn a kiss on the cheek for his troubles.

It’s okay, his brain wasn’t working right to figure out the plan in advance. It happens. Evelyn knows a thing or two about it. She breathes more easily now that the matter seems well and truly over, even if she’s still gotta see the officer back to his car – and watch him drive away, just for peace of mind. “So he is. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful, officer…” she offers some platitudes, slowly starting to steer him back towards his own ride with the pressure of hand (and boob) on his arm. That’s a hint right there, good sir. “I’ll be sure to tell him you stopped by, though. And you can still leave a phone number for him to get back to you. I promise I’ll pass it on.”

And, well, she does catch the pinkening of his ear and the twitching of the ‘stache – the latter is harder to miss than the former – and Evelyn simply cannot help but to add on, leaning just a tad further against him, “Thank you for checking in, Officer Hollis. I know I’ll be resting easy tonight knowing we’ve got brave officers like you patrolling the roads.” And then there’s her hand and all of her warmth, slipping away from his side as she takes a step back, smiling, eyes too bright in the darkness.

“Ma’am,” Hollis murmurs softly, adjusting the brimmed hat over his head. Relief comes over the walrus who has been bested, coming away almost entirely empty-handed, finding some small solace with Evelyn’s close presence. “One for the road,” he says, only a tiny bit disappointed. But he’s a married man, he should know better. Then he carefully disentangles from Evelyn, treating her as if she was a delicate fixture that could break with the wrong move, disappearing into his car. The headlights glow with the purr of the engine, and Hollis rides off into the sunset he imagines, boosting his own morale further.

Date: 2026-10-29 06:07

---

(Evelyn’s odd encounter (SRGraham))

[Thu Oct 29 2026]

In Biolabs Pharmaceuticals – Hygiene & Cosmetics
This corner is stocked with more mundane essentials, typically the most ignored region of a pharmacy unless people can’t afford branded cosmetics. Drugstore makeup, sunscreen, and even mosquito repellent fills the shelves. The cotton is here, too, right next to the bottles of acetone and cheap nail polish. Boxes of toothpaste form a foundational layer beneath hanging rows of toothbrushes, but these are but some of the miscellaneous items that fall under hygiene and skincare.

Chimes with silver and white-toned tubes that sway from a delicate pinecone-inspired top from above one of the shelves.

It is before dawn, about 55F(12C) degrees, There is a waning gibbous moon.

Evelyn is very deep in thought in the middle of shopping.

Ah; the condom selection. A tricky bit of shopping for the newcomer, particularly with how the smallest size seems to be ‘Large’ and boy do they take off from there. Trojan, Durex, SKYN, Glyde; ultra-thin, duration-boosting, flavoured, ‘naturally’ flavoured, ribbed for her pleasure. Some which even glow in the dark and appear to be selling themselves entirely seriously and not as a gag gift and/or Halloween prop. Kimono, Crown; Japanese products with Advanced Japanese Engineering. Perhaps they’d been folded ten thousand times and could cut a woman in half with a single thrust. There’s probably a market for that.

Then there’s the packaging, which seems to have been designed by a committee of adolescent boys with an unlimited marketing budget. Lightning bolts, roaring flames, sleek black boxes with metallic lettering; one might reasonably mistake the display for a selection of energy drinks or particularly aggressive automotive lubricants. Every manufacturer seems determined to suggest that its product will transform an otherwise pedestrian encounter into an event of considerable historical significance. Some even come with testimonials, though who exactly is reviewing these things, and under what circumstances, is probably best left unexplored. There’s something deeply peculiar about standing in a pharmacy aisle and reading promises of heightened sensation and unforgettable pleasure while a pensioner shuffles past in search of haemorrhoid cream. And, of course, there’s the question of whether to ask an employee for advice. What does one even say? ‘Excuse me, which of these would you recommend for someone I’m not very familiar with?’ Yes, that ought to go down splendidly.

Perhaps it would be for the best for Evelyn to stick to the pregnancy tests she’d come here for. Surely those won’t raise any eyebrows —

Ah. No. Evelyn’s wandering fingers would appear to disagree as, quite unbidden, they would appear to be actively snagging multiple samples out of boxes of varying size, branding, and utility. Not only that, but these sticky fingers don’t seem to understand that these things go into the shopping basket unboxed, because currently they’re trying to see how many condom wrappers she can stuff into the nooks and crannies of her blazer dress before the Old Lady With Haemorrhoids notices. Or a staff member. Is there a security camera anywhere? And could her fingers please stop stealing condoms?

Evelyn’s dress has pockets. Evelyn’s dress has so many pockets to hold so many condoms she doesn’t want. She definitely doesn’t want the yummy strawberry pudding flavored condom, thanks fingers, this isn’t a dessert line, please stop now- hopefully nobody is staring at her, oh god, are there any employees watching her stuff her bra with condoms? Please say no. Luck has never been on Evelyn’s side, but maybe today is the day. You get some bad luck (self-acting, condom-stealing fingers) and some good luck (nobody watches you do it) right? Surely it can’t all be bad luck forever.

She watches her fingers grab a cola-flavored condom (why?) and then a couple ‘fizzy pop rock’ condoms (why???? what does that even mean?) with growing panic She reaches out, and tries to grab one wrist with the other. Stop, body. You’re better than this. Evelyn’s better than this.

… well, maybe–

No, she’s definitely better, if barely.

Even these shelves didn’t know they had a fizzing brand of condoms stocked away somewhere, because that sounds like a fucking terrible idea. Imagine that being put to more coital use? This is probably the fault of all those flavours of vapes becoming popular. The whole damn world has gone astray at the hands of artificial flavouring.

“Excuse me, dearie,” comes the voice of doom. Not a New England accent, though; British. There’s some law of the universe out there that raises the slider on chance-to-be-British when it’s an old woman. “I couldn’t help but notice-”

She cuts off with a horrible gasp. Evelyn should probably just kill herself now; better than succumbing to shame toxicity. This has to be past the point of lethal concentration within her blood. She’s just stuffed a handful of condoms down some other old woman’s neckline.

It prompts a scream, of course; what else? A shrill, horrified shriek, and then Evelyn’s being battered with a shopping basket full of Piles Poultice, Asshole Ointment and more. It kind of hurts, actually.

But it’s enough. The clerk lets out a teenaged, “What the fuck?” before bothering to get onto his feet and come looking for the source of the commotion – and Evelyn still can’t control her hand.

Oh. Okay. Evelyn knows what’s happening here. She isn’t awake. This is all– ow, that butt cream hurt — all just a dream, and she’s going to wake up any second now, and none of this will have happened, because it’s not happening, and it will never happen. She smiles to herself, like a normal person and not a maniac condom assaulter.

…

…

Hey, why isn’t Evelyn awake yet? Usually when she has an anxiety-inducing dream (very often), her body wakes her up by the time she’s having heart palpitations, and this is definitely past that point. Her cheeks are flushed. The smile drops.

Is this… real? Evelyn looks at the approaching clerk now, and then towards her hand, trying to hold off flying tubes of butt care from hitting her while the other hand works on replacing the old lady’s cart items – and clothing apparently – with condoms instead. “I-” Evelyn begins, mortified. “I don’t know what happening, I’m so sorry I promise I don’t mean to- I’ve never-” and yet, here she is. She smacks her own hand. Stop it. Stop it now.

Evelyn smacks her hand? Her hand, getting smacked around? Fuck that. A rebellious phase upgrades into open revolt, and Evelyn’s swinging for the fences in a brutal backhand which might just kill that old lady and OUCH, FUCK, THAT REALLY HURT. She didn’t hit the old lady at all, but she did just swing her hand at maximum velocity into the metal support structure of that shelving as the old lady abandons her shopping to run off at top velocity, damn near a jog in fact. Her hand hurts real bad. She’s split a knuckle, and one of her fingers is simultaneously totally numb while also throbbing with pain. There’s some damage there, to be sure. At least the pain seems to have stunned it into inaction for the moment.

The pharmacy clerk rounds the aisle. “Hey, what the fuck?” he echoes – it’s some skinny white kid with bad bangs and a worse attempt at a beard that places him somewhere between the ages of fifteen and twenty nine. The scrawny figure and bad acne help tamp down the upper ranges, there. Unfortunately, the kid is also carrying a taser gun. “You’re – you’re one of those fucking mental patients from Greystone, aren’t you?” he yells, lifting the taser. It’s hard to say if he’s more frightened by the prospect of this big-breasted, bootylicious babe being a potential psycho-murderer or excited at the chance to get to shoot someone with his taser like a hero. He’s not a hero, obviously, but teenagers are dumb.

His finger slips. He pulls the trigger immediately, and out come whizzing the darts.

Evelyn does what any reasonable person would do when their hand smacks right into a metal shelf, and joins in on the screaming. You’re not the only one who can scream, hemorrhoidal old lady. Tears well up in her eyes, but at least she’s not on the verge of a panic attack anymore because she fucking hurts and ow ow ouch owie.

In fact, she says that out loud: “Owww!” before the kid who might be ten years older or younger than her’s words catch up, and she blinks teary eyes over at him, “No! I’m not–” too late. “Don’t-!”

Out whizz the darts, and one impales itself right in the flesh of Evelyn’s boob, piercing through her dress. She yells again.

Oh, bad luck, Evelyn. One of the little prongs – no, two of the little prongs – get her right in the tits; one gets her in the less boobed-up chest, and one gets her in the neck. God damn, nevermind the hand, this hurts; arcs of lightning riot along her nervous system like a personal fuck-you from the Thunder-Bringer himself, and Evelyn crashes to the floor in a fit of convulsing muscles. At least she has air bags.

But the taser fries itself pretty quickly; those wires can’t handle the load for long, and although the smell of burnt-out wiring is extremely unpleasant, the relief that comes with it is immense.

“Oh, shit,” the clerk gasps, and turns tail to run. Evelyn’s left crumpled on the floor, for a moment – but feeling is beginning to return to her fingers. Her very disobedient fingers.

Her hand really hurts. Her neck hurts. Her boobs hurt now, too. Evelyn might have peed herself if she hadn’t peed before leaving home. Thank God for small mercies. She sniffles, too panicked and hurt to do a lot about it when she’s laying on the ground — meeting the ground chest-fist also hurts like a goddamn bitch, who knew? – and then as footsteps begin to retreat, she slowly curls up on her side, clutching her hand to her chest. Can it behave, please?

If it stays easily at her chest – or even if it doesn’t – she’s going to pull herself up to her feet and try to stagger out before police can be called. Fuck condoms. She’s never looking at condoms again. Fucking condom ghosts. Bareback is the way to go, it’s decided.

Yeah, no, things don’t end with Evelyn tased. It might bring to mind the closing scene of a horror movie, when the villain – buried in a shallow grave – suddenly thrusts his hand up through the soil, revealing to the audience that he didn’t really die. Only, in Evelyn’s case, it shoots out along the floor instead, and begins to drag her along the floor. Does it hurt? Enormously. Does that stop it? No – it appears Evelyn’s doing all the pain-feeling here, and the hand is more fixated on… whatever it’s fixed upon. Revenge-getting, perhaps, because as she drags herself manically across the ground like a ridiculously buxom ankle-biting zombie, her hand grabs something off a bottom shelf – some cheap but heavy bottle of perfume – and fucking lobs it like Randy Johnson at the back of the clerk’s skull, but if that skull was a poorly-timed bird swooping across the field.

Evelyn’s going to get in so much trouble.

No, no, no, no, nononono, oh no, absolutely not, NO! “No!” Evelyn yells out, in fact, as her hand hurls that bottle of perfume over without her say-so, and squeezes her eyes shut against the carnage before she’s even seen the result of it.

That’s fair. It’s only her hand (and the arm it’s attached to) which are misbehaving; her eyelids cooperate and shield her from the vision of her misdeeds.

They don’t block out the sickening squelch that coincides with the sound of heavy glass breaking against someone’s skull, or the zombie-like moan that follows, or the second, fleshy thud that follows that, or the crash of a shelf topping over which follows that.

Holy fuck, Evelyn might’ve just killed someone.

“Holy fuck,” a quiet voice whispers, unseen but certainly heard somewhere behind another shelf. “I think I just killed someone.”

This might just be the worst night (morning now?) of Evelyn’s life. She hiccups out a sob when she hears the squelching and the thudding and the crashing, curling up on herself and blinking her eyes open to take in all of what’s going on. She hurts so bad, all over, her hand especially a throbbing ball of pain, and tears begin to leak slowly down her eyes. Fuck. Is her hand her own now? Can she see whoever is behind that shelf?

And, more importantantly, is Evelyn’s phone working?

Why yes – Evelyn’s phone is still working. Liam might even be the right man to call. It’s just that other help – ‘help’ – arrives first. The pharmacy’s doors ring out their little greeting chime as someone steps through, followed by the harrying footsteps of Ole Lumpybum herself.

“Just in here, deputy,” she directs, Karenesque, as she attempts to direct the Law unto a troublemaker. Then both sets of footsteps stop as the deputy and biddy both come across the supine sales clerk, and that other voice sounds out again. “Oh, Jesus,” they whimper. “Aw, Jesus,” the deputy curses, crouching down in his cowboy boots and trousers to take the clerk’s pulse. There’s a relieved breath. “Go get someone from the clinic, direct-like,” the deputy orders, and the old lady rushes to do her civic duty, grabbing for her phone as she exits the store.

Artificial as the descriptor might sound, the lawman epitomises the image of a deputy. He is, indeed, a testament to the profession. Moustachioed, well-fit, sporting a wide-brimmed hat, he glances up the aisle to the trembling voice, then over to Evelyn – just in time. As she’s checking her phone, her less-compliant limb has gathered another potentially-deadly throwing object, and it lobs the projectile like her hand’s a cannon.

But it’s not quite a hand-cannon. This deputy’s got the quick-draw down pat; even from a crouch, his trusty revolver’s in his hand in a flash, taking aim, and placing a bullet dead-centre in the pressurised canister. It explodes midair; deodorant-debris turns into sweet-smelling shrapnel as it’s flung every which way. It feels like Evelyn’s been punched in the chest. Oh, god – oh, wait, hey! Thanks, God. It looks like a shard of thin aluminium managed to jam itself into a stack of three wrapped condoms right over her heart. Saved by safe sex.

“I think I see what’s happenin’ here,” the lawnman drawls. “Billy, I want you to let go’a that li’l spell of yours right quick. You can bet your buttcheeks it’s detention for you, boy – let’s not make that incarceration.”

Isn’t attacking a police officer a crime punishable by death or something? Evelyn’s teary eyes widen, a whimper escapes her throat, and she closes her eyes again against the explosion in mid-air, and how come her hand’s still aiming so well when she’s in so much pain?! Evelyn just barely keeps from screaming, because she doesn’t want to be shot, and her hand – her own hand – presses down on the call button, the number easily found in her speed dial. Would Graham trust a deputy she doesn’t know with covering up a murder?! No, probably not, and nor will Evelyn. She’s doing this right, dammit, and then she’s going to cry a whole fucking lot because she’s going to jail, or worse, being fired. “I- I didn’t mean to, I didnt-” she mumbles out loud, mostly to herself, staring shell shocked at the carnage her hand has wrought.

“You’re alright there, doll, just try and hold that hand of yours still, would you?” The deputy gives Evelyn a smile and a nod that suggests his estimation of her competence to be not high before he stands and gets out of the way of the tased woman’s all-star pitching.

“No, no, it was an accident, I didn’t want her to hurt anyone-” squeaks out that other voice, and then there’s a little scuffle as, out of sight, the cop grabs whoever-it-is and starts dragging them up the aisle. “I said drop your fuckin’ spell, William,” the sharp-shooting deputy barks, and there’s a loud slap – and suddenly, thankfully, finally Evelyn’s arm goes limp and she can just lay there and let the pain ache through her without having to focus on anything else. Well, for a moment. She might have blacked out for a moment, because the next thing she knows, that cop is crouching over her with a handcuffed, skinny young teenager – black hoodie, distressed jeans, slinky black hair; the full school shooter look – sulking behind him. “Everyone’s going to be all right, you hear me?” he says. “I just gotta take you in and get your statements sorted. And we’ll get you checked out for that shock you took. Might’a scrambled you a little bit.” He nods to the dropped, burnt-out taser left on the floor.

Evelyn’s misfortunes have paid off with a single ray of luck – a competent Special Deputy, ready to cover-up the shit out of some Greystone student’s malefic prank, gone awry.

Evelyn stares into the special deputy’s eyes, and abruptly bursts into loud, sobbing tears, big, fat droplets running down her cheeks and pattering onto her dress, soaking into the fabric. Her shoulders shake with the force of her hiccuped breaths, and she reaches forward to throw herself into the deputy’s arms – please don’t tase and/or worse her – to cry her pain away (it doesn’t work very well). In between the blubbering and the crying and the sobbing, she can manage to let out something about “Mister Wilson will be so mad” and “oh my god is he dead” and “what do I do”. Good luck with that, Deputy.

He doesn’t tase or worse her, thankfully, and there are worse things than to have a woman like Evelyn pressed up close like that. Truly, though – the man’s quite good at his job. The detainee, ‘Billy’, and Evelyn both are made to wait so that the deputy can keep an eye on the unconscious man until an ambulance arrives – very quickly; Greystone’s clinic is fucking phenomenal – before guiding both unintentional and rather more intentional perpetrators into his vehicle for a good few hours’ worth of debriefing, punishment, and cover-ups. Evelyn’s given plenty for the pain; Billy barely gets a slap on the wrist. Greystone does not let its students suffer much by way of consequences. There’s no news of the injured man… But no news is good news, right?

But yeah, no. People are very much going to hear of this. Too bad for Evelyn’s low-profile shopping trip.

Date: 2026-10-17 07:48

---

(Evelyn’s odd encounter (SRGraham))

[Sat Oct 17 2026]

On Mariner’s Highway
Stretching east and west is this one long and dusty highway road. The
asphalt of the pavement has seen a better day; it’s patched and worn,
crumbling at the edges of its shoulders where an abundance of wild grasses
takes over. They slump into low ditches at the sides where water is meant
to pool, and beyond that are weak fences and forested property to the south,
as well as rolling hills to the north.

It is dawn, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It’s raining. Ankle high mist flows through the area.

It’s misty and rainy at the same time – that lovely New England weather Evelyn has come to just adore. At least the little droplets feel nice as they trickle down the skin, but they don’t make it any warmer, nor do they do anything to make her clothing any better for a meandering outdoors trek along Haven’s and most isolated road. Even now at eight in the morning, it’s almost completely quiet here.

Almost.

There’s one car approaching from over east down the street, the feeble light of their headlights doing little to cut through the morning’s mist. A coupe? A sedan? No, it’s a cruiser – it gets easier to identify as it gets closer and closer. A nice, blue cruiser with a lightbar up top, headed west along Mariner where only one person lives.

Uh oh.

There’s really not much poor Evelyn can do to outpace the car, what with it moving at a rate of knots – speeding, surely, the way it zips up towards her. And is that – yes, that’s someone leaning out of the back window, where detainees should be held. Someone with their arm out, and –

WHAM.

Whoever-it-is snatches Evelyn right up off the roadside, heaving her in through the window in a single, brutal motion. Her midsection aches like someone just took a baseball bat to it. No human arm should have survived an impact like that. Even her own enhanced flesh feels like it’s taken some damage.

When her eyes adjust to the darkness inside the vehicle, she finds herself staring up into the features of an angry-looking man of Eastern Asian ethnicity; hair tied back, lips in a thin scowl. He’s dressed like a policeman, though his collar only half conceals a strange tattoo halfway up the man’s neck. The driver’s hidden from view by the divider between the front and back seats.

“You must be the assistant,” the policeman sneers. His voice is heavily accented – he can’t have learned English until well into his adult years, though his wording is fine. “The one with no protections.”

Evelyn trails along the side of the road, out on a nice, peaceful, early morning walk – it’s always empty this time of the morning anyway, and while the autumn of New England – especially when it’s raining – isn’t her favorite weather, she has no complaints for the time being, with the rain pattering down on her and soaking through her clothes. It’s almost meditative, in a way.

No complaints, that is, until she’s fucking accosted — her, an innocent passerby who’s done nothing wrong, just snatched up like a criminal! It takes her brain a second to catch up with her body, a sharp yell escaping her from the sudden pain, and she starts to struggle immediately, the hurt taking over her conscious mind until she’s lashing away out of reflex. Her lungs fill, ready for another, ear-piercing scream.

It’s a bad move to telegraph her big scream like that, mouth wide to suck in air. The policeman’s hand clamps over her mouth quickly and coldly, leaving her with the urge to cough and splutter as her airway is suddenly blocked off.

“Don’t bother,” the man warns. He’s strong. Ridiculously strong, actually; even more so than most of the supernaturals Evelyn has met. “My name is Dai. Your employer, Mister Wilson – he is a man with many protections. He cannot be moved out of his stronghold. Cannot be harmed while he is in it.” Dai looks down to Evelyn and studies her fleshformed features. “This is not the case for you, is it? I do not see the aura.” His thin lips quirk up into a dark, triumphant smile. “You are leverage.”

He barks out instructions to whoever’s driving the police cruiser, which turns up towards Tranquility Farm… Then slowly reverses back out and turns to head east once more along Mariner; towards the town’s main exit.

“You will tell us what you know about the Wilson family,” Dai orders, looking back down at Evelyn. “Or you will die.”

She already hurts madly. Being more-or-less clotheslined at such a speed had been bad enough, but to have then been dragged through the tiny window? Her scraped but unbroken skin aches and throbs with the same intensity her gut does.

Her skin is slippery with rainwater – she was entirely soaked from the rain, and most of it gets all over the backseat of the cruiser now, dripping off her hair and getting the policeman’s uniform wet as he presses close to clamp her mouth shut. She doesn’t bite the hand, but it’s a close thing, her lungs siezing and her body aching. Tears gather in her eyes, warm against the coldness of her skin. She’s shivering already.

Evelyn doesn’t want to die. She really, really doesn’t, and- look, she’s never been threatened so blatantly before, okay? It’s been an interesting week, full of new experiences since she’s joined the Wilson’s side in the public eye, but this is yet still a newer experience, and if he goes through with this, she’s not going to have any more experiences, ever. Evelyn breathes in a ragged breath through her nose, mascara smearing down her cheeks if it hadn’t already from the rain, and tries not to burst into outright sobbing. “I- I’ll tell you,” she says against the grip of that hand, words muffled. “Whatever you want.” It’s not like she knows anything truly important. Evelyn doesn’t go well with interrogation, okay? She wasn’t made for this.

Dai smiles. It’s a thin-lipped, too-wide expression, and he pats her cheek twice with the same hand he’d used to gag her. Patronising, insulting, threatening. “That is good,” he agrees. “We want everything. His schedule; when he is supposed to commute. Where the daughter takes her meals. Who they have been in contact with. Who has keys to the house. Speak. I will record.”

He reaches up with his spare hand to tap twice at a wireless earpiece. Safe to assume that what Evelyn might say now will be either recorded or broadcast elsewhere.

It was so quick – just a simple walk along the road and she’d been kidnapped without a chance to react. This new world she’s involved one is a dangerous one, clearly. What can she even do from here?

Evelyn’s eyes widen further, still dripping big, fat, silent tears at the litany of things she’s apparently supposed to know but doesn’t, and she whimpers softly under her breath, shaking her head and pressing her aching body back against the seat, trembling. “I- I don’t-” she begins, eyes darting towards the window – where are they taking her? – and back to Dai. “I don’t know, I’ve- I’ve only been with him for a short time. I- he- he goes to the bank on weekdays.” She knows this much. Evelyn takes in deep, gasping breaths, trying to calm down, but it’s so hard to breathe, all of a sudden. “And- and he takes some calls at home. With the-” her fingers claw at the seat, then lift to her throat. Hand? Do they know about the supernatural world? That strength wasn’t human, but they’re just cops, right? Evelyn doesn’t know anything, she doesn’t know how to tell if he knows or not– she doesn’t want to die, she’s gonna die if she tells him, she knows enough to know Venice will get her, that had been taught to her, but if he knows and she’s supposed to tell him, then she’ll die anyway because he’ll kill her for not telling her, and Evelyn’s dead either way, and–

Her hands claw at her throat, the choker feeling too suffocating as she tries to take in a single, full breath, her lips turning blue, because she can’t breathe.

So, the answer to the question is: she can have a panic attack.

“She’s praying,” says a man in the front. Not the driver – someone in the passenger seat. That brings the total of goons in the vehicle with her to three. “Dumb bitch.”

Dumb bitch indeed. Alas, the Make-a-Wish foundation shan’t be dropping demigodly assistance from the sky upon poor Evelyn today, but even within the darkest of moments – such as a panic attack – can hope be found. As she claws and grasps at her throat, she feels a faint buzz beneath her fingers. The hidden device in her choker pendant is now listening. A brilliant move, Miss Taylor. She definitely planned that, right?

“Shh, shh,” Dai hushes, though her panic and fear and suffering only seem to be enriching the man’s lidded expression. Perhaps Evelyn’s not yet versed well enough in this world to recognise a demonborn’s strength, but that is most certainly what holds her in his grip, and her rampant emotions only entice him further. A demigod, a demonborn, and… a mystery. The driver’s lineage is impossible to know with so little to go on.

But her pendant is listening.

“You will remember,” Dai enthuses. “Even if you are scared. We will take it slow. We will use knives. You will remember for us.”

A buzz beneath her fingers, and Evelyn manages to hitch in a breath, a sob, that transmits along the line, her body doing its best to breathe despite all the panic and pain that overwhelms her. Her chest heaves with the rapid, shallow breaths that aren’t quite enough to fill her lungs, though they do keep her from passing out – for now. “N-no,” she gets out, shaking her head rapidly. “No knives- please- no knives. I’m- I’m telling you everything. I promise.”

Her head throbs, a painful pulse at her temple that makes her wince. She’s going to be bruised all over, if she lives, her skin pale enough it’s going to show easily and eagerly. Evelyn’s eyes flick to the window again, and she hunches down further into herself, still tugging at the choker, breathing still shallow. “I’ll tell you everything,” she repeats, more of a plea, one of her hands lifting to Dai’s arm, clutching at him, more mascara smeared beneath her eyes with her tears. “W-will you take me back home after that? Please? I’ll- I’ll be good.” She just needs to know. She wants to live.

“Obviously,” Dai replies, brandishing a smile full of knives as he lies his evil little ass off. He’s probably being transmitted too, this close. A shame that Evelyn can’t hear whatever else might be under discussion, but that probably means Dai can’t, either, which is good. Not long after that, the pendant buzzes once and goes completely still. There’s no more speaking. There might not even be any more transmission. But if someone’s cut her comms, then they’ve noticed something’s amiss.

Hopefully they won’t hold her claims of cooperation against her.

“Begin, then,” Dai barks once more, leaning in a little closer. He openly ogles the expanse of cleavage on display from this viewpoint, but it’s all about keeping her audible to the earpiece he’s got recording her, obviously.

Evelyn’s not a good interrogatee, considering all the panic attacks, and she’s an even worse interrogator. She doesn’t catch onto the lie, her shoulders easing the tiniest bit possible, and she sniffles – wetly and snottily, considering the crying – before beginning again. At least she can breathe now. Ish. Panic still claws at her, but the initial adrenaline has begin to fade away. More dread creeps in instead, her limbs cold from it. “H-he- he doesn’t go out of town regularly. Only if business comes up.” Is that true? Evelyn doesn’t fucking know, she’s not even been here properly for a week. “He’s usually busy with-” her eyes flicker over to the partition in the middle of the cruiser – someone had said something about praying. That means they know, right? “With the Hand, when he’s not at work.”

“His daughter- she… she has a cottage. She lives with her bodyguard. I- I don’t know where. I haven’t been there. She goes to the college.” Anyone could’ve found that out with any bit of researching, surely. She wracks her brain for anything else, anything that won’t get her killed.

Now there’s an interesting tidbit. The daughter lives away from the main house, with a bodyguard. Oddly, whoever’s riding shotgun must have found that, or something else, really funny; he looses a slow, baleful chuckle that rumbles through the car.

They’re outside the township limits, now. Out beyond the limits of Sanctuary, though Evelyn had never known its touch. How long had they been driving? An hour now, maybe. Where were they headed? Dai’s certainly not sharing – he’s just repeating the things Evelyn says, slowly and carefully, into his earpiece. Thank god the Hand didn’t get to hear her give actual, usable intel to these freaks.

The car explodes into a flurry of moths and butterflies.

Yes, really – it’s an overwhelming burst of colour and fluttering, a lepidoptibomb that has the driver finally curse out a quiet, feminine, “Fuck,” as the car careens madly, her instinctive swerve throwing off any control of the vehicle. It becomes quickly apparent, though, that the bugs are just an illusion; not only because they cannot be felt, but also because they promptly cease to exist as the car rolls and rolls and rolls over. Despite that, it doesn’t slam into much of anything, only throwing the occupants of the vehicle around a few inches in each direction before the overturned car comes to a rest. There’s nothing visible out through the windows. The car’s been ripped into the nightmare. Uh oh.

When she gets out of here – hopefully alive and with all her limbs intact and unknifed – Evelyn will confess her wrongdoings to her employer and accept what punishment she will most assuredly receive for her part in putting him and his daughter in danger. For now, all she can do is scream out loud as the car explodes, curling into herself – and the pain the quick action brings out from her poor, bruised body is a whole another thing.

Her first thought when the car comes to a stop with darkness all around is: I’m dead, aren’t I?, which then fades away when she sees the car – and Dai – here. Surely, she wouldn’t be sent to hell straight away with a torturer. Is her karma that bad?

When she gets out of here – hopefully alive and with all her limbs intact and unknifed – Evelyn will confess her wrongdoings to her employer and accept what punishment she will most assuredly receive for her part in putting him and his daughter in danger. For now, all she can do is scream out loud as the car explodes, curling into herself – and the pain the quick action brings out from her poor, bruised body is a whole another thing.

Her first thought when the car comes to a stop with darkness all around is: I’m dead, aren’t I?, which then fades away when she sees the car – and Dai – here. Surely, she wouldn’t be sent to hell straight away with a torturer. Is her karma that bad? (fix sorry)

Evelyn’s abductors aren’t quite so slow to react. The car explodes into rounds of foreign – probably some denomination of Asian – yelling, and Dai slams the car door with an explosive kick, sending it flying out into the darkness. It is really hard to make things out, out there. It’s not a true lack of light, but the inchoate demimonde of the Deep Nightmare, all but entirely featureless. There’s obviously some form of floor to walk on, because Dai springs out there and puts his fists up, looking around for whichever illusionist has beset them. There’s the sound of blades being drawn from the front seat and the driver clambering over the centre console as they find their way out too, weapons draw, and poor Evelyn is left curled up against the door pinned shut by the ground beneath it. Someone draws a bow, the strain on its bowstaff audible. Breaths are kept low and quiet as the wary trio await their unseen ambusher.

Evelyn’s got a few moments to react here, or to hide here and not help out at all. Violence is imminent. What will she do?

There are few things Evelyn wants less than to go out there and fight alongside the people holding her captive. She remains huddled up at the bottom of the car, curled in on herself, making herself as small as possible. Maybe if she stays very still, they’ll forget about her. She doesn’t know who else is out there – it could be an even worse possibility than the monsters she knows.

Not so lucky is poor Evelyn. “Don’t let them sneak behind us to take the girl,” the demigod says, henceforth dubbed Shotgun. Driver, Shotgun, and Dai. The trio appear to have some training, though it’s hard for her to make out much of anything from her position. There’s only the rear window to look out of, unless she wants to climb out of the car. Perhaps that’s a good thing, though. It keeps her nice and unblinded as

a beam of prismatic light temporarily sets the Deep Nightmare aglow, eliciting a cry of pain from Driver.

Things break down from there. The trio of abductors shout something out in a tongue Evelyn doesn’t understand, but probably goes something to the tune of ‘They’ve got a fucking sorcerer!’ before there’s the tell-tale twang of an arrow loosed.

Brilliant colours paint the blank sky in the battle that ensues. At one point, there’s a disgustingly wet and gristly crack of Dai’s super-powered fist driving into the soft flesh of someone’s face, answered by a broken, pained sound from Shotgun. There’s another cuss and foreign phrase – I’m seeing fucking ghosts! – before manic battle resumes.

It’s not the fastest battle. Whoever this ambusher is, they’re working on their lonesome, but they’re certainly proving the superior foe. Still, time is something that he has, and the trio are slowly worn down, as much by their own misguided attacks as by the bolts of prismatic light which occasionally cut through the sky. By the end of it, quite a while has passed – and a middle-aged man with a shocking red chin-beard pokes his head over the window. Just barely. The man’s very short, and he’s wearing an honest-to-God leprechaun hat.

“Hey,” he says, in a voice as deep and basso as the man is squat. “I’m Clyde from Maine. Get on up out of there. You’ll have to climb your way out.” ‘Cause Clyde from Maine is certainly not tall enough to pull her out.

Evelyn squeezes her eyes shut against the pretty rainbows and pretends she’s not even here, even if she can hear the demigod talking about her right this very second. She’s not here, she decides, as arrows whistle through the air and flesh and bones go crunch, and colors flash behind her closed eyes, and foreign phrases are yelled into the air, and even more arrows fly and then, finally, blessedly, everything goes quiet, and Evelyn is well and truly Not Here in peace.

Until Clyde-from-Maine’s voice sounds out to break her free from it. Her eyes snap open, finding him. She shuffles to the side, feeling her muscles uncramp from being curled up on herself for so long, and dares a glance out of the car’s (lack of) door. “Where are…” she begins, glancing around. Are they gone? Is it over?

“Dead,” Clyde from Maine responds. His voice is ridiculous, coming from such a tiny frame, but he has no humour on his face. He just looks funny. “Which is why I involved myself. Can’t have the Haven branch getting all murder-happy. That’s how they lose that Sanctuary of theirs.”

On full review, Clyde from Maine is a very short man – perhaps about five feet tall – in full leprechaun getup, green velvet and tailcoats and all. It doesn’t even need to be said out loud. This is a man who made a bad deal with a Fae at some point. And yet, he’s a sorcerer, so he perhaps got something out of the bargain. “And you got a long road ahead of you, chica. I can’t bring you back with me. Riding the rainbow’s a solo experience. You just wait for the real world to come back, yeah, then you follow the road north. Get at least five miles away from here before you call someone for a pickup. I’ll let them know to patch your comms back in.” He looks Evelyn up and down, checking for injuries, then clicks his tongue. “Looks like you didn’t even take a scrape. Bad time to have used up all your luck, I tell you what. Just watch. You’ll make it twenty feet before you trip and scrape your knee real bad. Better than getting kidnapped, I guess. Now – ‘fore I head back up on the rainbow – you got anything urgent you need to tell me?”

He doesn’t even have an Irish accent. He doesn’t even sound like he’s from Maine. What the fuck.

Is this a dream? Evelyn feels like she might be dreaming. That would make more sense than her being dead. She shakes her head mutely at Clyde from Maine, her brow furrowing briefly at the luck comment. This is her being lucky? Fuck her entire life, then. Evelyn will take a knee scraping instead of a disembowelment though, that’s for sure.

That does remind her, though, that there is a thing she should tell him about. In fact, she’d tell him anything he asked. Evelyn’s helpful and giving like that. “They were talking to someone,” she says, so drained she can’t muster up a single bit of emotion in her voice. “With an earpiece.”

“Well, they’re not Syndicate, and they were all -” He pauses, undoubtedly on the edge of a word which should not be said, then continues, “Asians. Which means Dynasty, probably. Maybe. You’ll see their bodies when the nightmare drops out. They don’t linger here; fall straight through to what’s real. I wouldn’t advise you go through their stuff, though. Their comms are just as trackable as yours are. Good thing you kept your phone on you, huh?” He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t make a single expression. There’s no cheer in this leprechaun. “Anyway, we’ll have cleaners come along, but until then they’re dead cops and a crashed cruiser. Clear out and don’t make too many calls. The real police will probably look for activity logged by the local phone towers around the time of death, if they manage to get here first. So, you want to -”

He’s gone. The sky is back, and Evelyn’s standing by three burnt and gorified dead cops. Behind her, the cruiser groooooans before listing over, crashing down flat onto its wheels. Clyde from Maine’s nowhere to be seen – but maybe that’s some comfort. Evelyn has such a long walk ahead of her.

Date: 2026-10-02 02:59

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(Graham’s odd encounter (SRCiara))

[Fri Oct 2 2026]

At A Victorian Gothic Bar & Lounge (Howl)
Stepping through the eastern door reveals the bar’s main room, a hexagonal chamber wrapped in the warm embrace of mahogany paneling. Its grandeur is heightened by a high, arching ceiling, from which a wrought-iron chandelier casts a dramatic, low glow. This light mingles with the flickering flames from the southeastern fireplace, lending a captivating depth to the marble floor, its dark green hues streaked with black, reflecting the room’s moody illumination.

The room’s focal point lies to the west: an exquisite antique mahogany bar, masterfully refinished, standing with regal poise. Arched built-ins behind the bar display an array of spirits, inviting a closer look into the world of refined tastes. The space is primarily a lounge, offering diverse seating arrangements. Sleek green and black barstools line the bar, while plush couches and a wall of books create a cozy nook to the north. Nearby, a cluster of thick armchairs surrounds the fireplace, providing a warm, inviting area for intimate conversations.

On the northern wall, a captivating mural commands attention. It features a pint-sized figure with glossy black hair and an intriguing assortment of tattoos, her gaze directed thoughtfully to the right. The way her fringe blends into the crescent moon adds a mystic quality to the image. Her expression, tinged with a hint of sadness yet laced with hope, seems to invite onlookers into a world beyond the mural, adding a layer of emotional depth to the bar’s enigmatic ambiance. This artistic touch not only enhances the room’s aesthetic but also weaves a narrative that resonates with the mysterious allure of the establishment. One can just make out the faint outline of an old door beneath that mural.

It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by thin white clouds. There is a waning gibbous moon.

Like most other establishments in Haven, the Witching Hour is a late enough time to dampen the festive mood significantly. The Victorian bar and lounge remains mostly-free of patrons aside from the occasional drowsy drunkard slumped over an armchair or the quiet couple seeming lost in each other as they sit near the fire, taking in murmurs too low to overhear.

And Graham, of course, who’s receiving the best service money can buy. A glass of something assuredly expensive is placed in front of him, served by the bartender in a classy, dark blue gown with a slit that bares far too much of her thigh, sun-tanned cleavage offered in easy view as she leans in to tell him, “Enjoy, Mister Wilson,” in a smoke voice, followed up by a wink. The place knows how to make money.

And then – stepping through the nightmare? Definitely shimmering in from the northern end through the mural – is another woman, dark-haired and diminutive. Her skin is pale enough to seem translucent, though most of it is covered with an assortment of tattoos, and her eyes carry something distant – a longing in tones of silvered grey, sharpening into focus as she steps closer to the bar and lays eyes on Graham.

“Ah…” her lips part with the intonation. Another step is taken closer, her head tilting to the side, sending silky strands of hair falling into her eyes. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Take a seat,” Graham replies, glancing up to the pale lady before pulling out a stool beside himself. Then, to the barman, his words dripping with supernatural suggestion, “Take a smoke break. A long one.” There. Not many other patrons at this hour. The Wilson takes a long sip of his bourbon before he sits it flat against the counter, tugging his jacket smooth. He’s freshly showered, but there’s still a woodsy smell to him; pine needles and sawdust. He must’ve been working on the roads until now. “How can I help you, madam? And who am I speaking with?”

The bartender looks offended, her eyes not straying towards the other woman at all, fixated as they are on the Wilson – how’s she supposed to tease a big fat tip out of Graham if she can’t even flirt outrageously while he drinks? But, well, alright. She’s got her pride, even if she still huffs as she mutters out a, “Suit yourself,” and slides out from behind the bar, wandering off for a few.

The other woman, pale-skinned and pale-eyed, seems similarly fixated on Graham, even if there’s a faint uptick of wry amusement to her lips as she takes the offered seat, settled completely comfortably in place in the second he takes to lay his suggestions on the bartender. “You will fulfill my wish,” she tells him in a voice that is drifting and steady all at once, lifting a hand as she leans forward and, rather boldly, places it on his cheek. Her fingers are ice-cold as they press against his stubble. “Won’t you?” She doesn’t answer the last question.

Chilly. Graham’s eyes search the strange woman’s for some hint as to what she’s up to here, but finding few answers, he opts instead to indulge her a moment longer. “You’re doing a worse job than the lady who pours my drinks, if you’re trying to win me over by being pretty.” He reaches up to try and brush the woman’s hand off his cheek, the back of his fingers against her wrist. “But I’m in the business of doing favours, so long as they’re returned. So maybe I can help you, lady, but I need to know who’s asking, and I need to know what they’re asking for.”

He’s been in this game for a while. Decades, even. He’s not so much jaded as desensitised, and being accustomed to Sanctuary and its very many benefits, he’s not too worried yet about the woman’s over-familiar proximity. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?” he asks. “Tell me about this great wish of yours.”

She’s not quite the opening up type, even if she is very pretty, in a distant, fragile sort of way. It’s an easy thing to brush her hand off his cheek, and there’s a sly little smile on her lips before she exhales out a sigh, steeling herself and placing her hands back in her lap. She did ask, and it’s not as though she can expect him to read her mind.

Whether or not she’ll be able to return the favor is left unsaid, though.

“Well…” comes the slow murmur after that, contemplative as the story begins, limpid, moonlit eyes peering into Graham. It would be easy to get lost in them. “You see, there once was a man who loved a woman very much. But, as is the way of tragedies, it was not to be. Perhaps her family disagreed. Perhaps he was afraid to commit. Perhaps it just wasn’t the right time. Whatever the journey, the end is the same, so does it really matter?” She pauses as though waiting for Graham’s input, and then presses on. “And so, as is the way of tragedies, she died.”

There’s a certain hardness that enters Graham’s eyes at the blase retelling of the rather vague and evasive romantic-tragedy. “The death of love is, of course, a great lament,” he replies, slow and smooth and steady. Those eyes are very pretty, he can admit, and so he looks elsewhere – like his bourbon. Time for another sip. “Now, with that said, I’m afraid I still do not know what you’re after, or if I am supposed to be much invested yet in ‘a man’ and ‘a woman’. I’m offering you my time, madam, so I advise you not to waste it dodging questions I’ll need answered regardless before I can do anything for you. And don’t waste it with story time, either. Give me actionable data and I can create results. Trim the fat, drop the bloat. Tell me what you want. I’m a busy man.”

As though this is a great, cosmically ordained joke, the woman laughs, drawing no eyes from the few lingering patrons. The bartender’s still on her very long break. Doesn’t Graham wish she was back already?

Movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention while he stares at the bourbon, and she’s pressed up behind him, chin resting on his shoulder, chilly touch upon his cheek, and a cold running down his spine that has nothing to do with the temperature whatsoever. “I’m telling you everything, if you would listen,” she murmurs into his ear, but there’s no movement of breath apart from the phrase. She does not breathe.

“And so, she died.” Comes the repetition – emphasis. Her touch turns his head to the side, towards the mural on the wall. “And so, he grieved, in the way men do. And because grief eats your heart and your soul and still wants somewhere to put itself, he found a use for what was left of her.” She lets him take that in.

Hmmm. Graham’s confident he’d felt the woman physically; he’d pushed her hand aside. But that didn’t mean it was real, necessarily. If this were a spirit, it might be inside his head instead, whispering electrical signals from neuron to neuron. He probably isn’t asleep and dealing with some dreamchild-psychic-imprint. Probably. Or maybe this is just a normal woman trying to sound spooky. Plenty enough of those in Haven.

“And what exactly was left of her?” he asks, lifting his eyebrows. “Some fetter of her mortal coil, with her spirit bound to it? A necklace imprinted with her psyche which possesses whichever woman wears it?” His eyes briefly plunge down her neckline. Totally professional.

He can likely assume he’s not asleep. The woman lets out a delicate little snort, and the death-like coldness that had seeped into him pushes away as she drifts her way back over to the mural’s side now, that wistful look on her face mirroring the look she wears on the wall. Warmth curls back into his limbs, slowly settling in while she answers, “Paint.”

Maybe Graham’s willing to commit shameless property damage where others weren’t.

It takes a moment for it to click in Graham’s mind, as his attention is more fixed on the woman herself than the backdrop behind her. Then, in the way that realisations often come into being, it all clicks into place at once.

“Oh,” he says, and she’ll have to forgive him if a brief chuckle escapes him before he squashes it dead in his chest. “I see. I thought you would need something buried or consecrated. You… Want me to have this mural defaced?” The corner of his mouth ticks up faintly. “But I don’t own the property. That would be… illegal.”

It looks like he’s trying to pressure her, of all things. “I suppose I could look into it. Get the… appropriate documents drafted. But what’s in it for me?”

Well, that’s no way for a gentleman to treat a lady now, is it? Her features twist briefly into something less wistful and soft, almost like she’s glitching out for a second before they’re back in place – did Graham just imagine that? – and she’s frowning, lips turning down into a heartbreaking curl. It’s almost devastating enough to bring a grown man to his knees.

“No documents. I know how bureaucracy works,” says the ghost, “You have to do it now, and I’ll let you leave here unharmed. And then you get your peace and quiet,” she offers, hair falling into her eyes again as she tilts her head and bares the expanse of her throat, too tempting to not be dangerous.

There’s a quiet scoff from the hollow of Graham’s throat. “Don’t threaten me, madam. I’m intimately familiar with the dangers you pose to me, and the dangers you do not.” He leaves his drink on the countertop as he rises from his stool, glancing for the barwoman – still smoking, very good – before he extends a hand to the cold woman, palm up, golden band glinting dully on his finger. “Come with me,” he says. “And we can negotiate the finer points of a more immediate deal. I’ll have to pay off the owner, you know. It’s a nice painting. They’ll be sad to lose it.” There’s not a lot of places for him to take the ghost, mind. The street’s too public a place for dealings with the supernatural… Surely he can’t mean the bathroom behind him. What the hell would he want from her in there?

“Do this,” he murmurs, “And your problems will be addressed before the sun rises.”

Which is maybe half an hour away. Not a bad offer.

Amusement glimmers in the woman’s eyes as she takes in the extended hand and the man behind it. Not a deal with the Devil, certainly – no, there’s people much worse to make deals with, and she’s getting what she wants.

So fine. Alright.

Cold fingers slip into Graham’s, nails sliding along the pulse point at his wrist as she steps in, letting him draw her close.

“Hardly a threat,” she murmurs finally, her words low and throaty. “Simply a prediction. But I knew I chose right.” Those pretty eyes look up into Graham’s again, and he doesn’t have to look away this time. “I have waited so long… I can do thirty minutes more.”

“Shall we, Graham?”

None of that demure ‘Mister Wilson’ bullshit, as their negotiations begin, leading into the morning.

– End Encounter –

Date: 2026-10-07 03:37

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(Graham’s odd encounter (SRCiara))

[Wed Oct 7 2026]

In room 123, Clinician Wing

It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few thin white clouds in the sky. There is a waning crescent moon.

The wee hours of the night do not mean quiet – it never does in Haven. Graham is out in the clinic instead of resting at home, after his ordeal(s), and the physician is also here, instead of resting at home, because that’s just how the dice roll sometimes. Sometimes, Graham Wilson makes you show up at work at almost four in the morning, and you suck it up and do it because you know better than not to.

Anyway, that’s mostly irrelevant. He’ll suck it up, and get paid for the call outside office hours. It’s just good business.

Speaking of business, though, the commotion that starts up out there is not. It’s terrible business, that – there’s an unholy crash right outside in the hallway, perhaps too loud by virtue of being so close, and the door’s slamming open and then shut a second after. The woman that rushes in is a bit of a mess, for all that her features are quite aristocratic, with high cheekbones and a pointy jaw; she’s wearing a hospital gown, her brown hair matted and looking as though it could really use a nice, gentle brushing.

Wild, red eyes fixate upon Graham, then the doctor, and she lunges forward before the newly-maimed man can move fast enough, placing herself behind the Wilson and lifting something to his neck. Sharp. Sanctuary might be able to help him, but there’s only so much it can do against an accidental slip of the hand, isn’t it?

“Call them off,” she says to the doctor, voice steady even if Graham can hear the rapid heartbeat in her chest, too quick, a fluttering dum-dum-dum-dum of panic. Her other hand wrenches Graham’s hair back. She’s strong. Stronger than him? Perhaps so. It’s hard to say, unless he wants to struggle. “Call them off and I won’t hurt him.”

Footsteps sound in the hallway outside, a bit of yelling – looking for someone. There’s panic in the air. That must be ‘them’.

Graham hesitates. It’s unlike him, really; he (and others) had long considered decisiveness to be one of his better qualities. That said, this is the wrong place to make a public showing of his power. Whether the Institute is aware or not, whether they’re business partners of the Hand or not, it’s also the biggest font of gossip in the whole town, and he’d rather not make a show of the state he’s in, the prices he’s paid, and the deals he’s made in the wake of his recent abduction. His toes tingle and throb and ache so fiercely. They never did that when they were still attached.

“I have limited authority over the Greystone faculty,” he replies instead, smooth and even. Yes, he’ll use his words for now. Play the little baby human game. He was a Whisper, after all. This was one of his powers.

“And that man is supposed to be treating me right now, so I would very much appreciate if you would let him go. My name is Graham Wilson. I’m an influential man. Place yourself in my custody and the Institute will not seize you from me.”

Probably. The Webster Clinic is on Institute grounds, after all. And that’s presuming the men storming the place work here – but it would be a short-lived problem if they aren’t. Those lumpy-faced monks give Graham the fucking creeps.

She sneers at the very thought, a disdainful look fixed on Graham at the very suggestion. “Place myself in your custody,” she repeats, her accent a very curious one – it’s not one he hears often, with harsh syllables, but it’s vaguely familiar. “I have heard that before, Wilson.” She didn’t need to make his name sound like a curse, but it does anyway.

No, she’s definitely not convinced. Blood-red eyes stare into him for a second longer, and then wrench away towards the door. Someone should be checking in here any minute now. “Call them off, if you are an influential man. Let me leave this accursed place. Give me a nightmare charm. And I will remember this.”

Her lips curve up into a smile, sharp and wicked. “My name is Inanna Zhul. I’m an influential woman.”

That is familiar: even if Graham limited himself to the most superficial of supernatural news, which he certainly doesn’t, he’d have heard of the capture of an infamous agent of the Chosen by this name, a week or two before the flooding. He wouldn’t have known she was being held here, of course, but here she is regardless, expectant and impatient.

“The Institute grounds are nightmare warded,” Graham responds, though he does seem to be playing along for now, stepping aside to place himself directly before the doorway. He doesn’t glance over his shoulder to whoever’s approaching up the hall; better for them to take a few minutes longer, dealing with their uncertainty, to decide to deal with the obstacle he presents. His position should guarantee him that much, at least. “You’re a powerful woman, Lady Zhul. I’ve heard of you. I admit, though – your reputation paints you as the daughter of a baron of Hell.” His eyes wander her form, always accepting of excuses to do so, and the corner of his mouth turns down a little. “I’m not seeing demonskin, though. A shame. Perhaps a distant granddaughter, then. Mighty… But nothing these people cannot manage.” He purses his lips for a long moment of consideration, then continues, “I’m not sure if you get much news in here, but surely you noticed there’s been a lot of activity on the grounds. Rescue efforts. Volunteers everywhere. The road to Hell has been washed away, Lady Zhul. For the moment, the Chosen are quite crippled. Are you sure now is the time to make your escape?”

Hey, that doctor probably doesn’t appreciate being held on the edge of what looks to be a particularly sharp shard of a broken mirror for so long. He’s giving Graham all sorts of pleading looks, though he doesn’t dare to move or speak, only breathing shallowly and holding very, very still.

Regardless of whether or not it’s wise to be goading a wild-eyed demonborn, Inanna doesn’t seem to take serious offense. Or, rather, she does, her gaze sharpening, and then realizes what Graham is up to and laughs out loud instead. A trickle of blood trails down the poor doctor’s collar, and he lets out a pitiful whimper. This is probably included in the job’s hazard pay. “My father would make an example of you, should you dare to utter those words near him. Malakor Zhul suffers no insults. You should be thankful I am a better woman than him.”

“I have my contacts,” she tells Graham next, as open as he’s being, now that he’s shown his willingness to get along with her, even if just a little bit. “Even if the roads are gone. I can find them, once I am out of this clinic.” That’s a curse-sounding word again. She doesn’t sound too certain of the fact, though, for all that she’s full of bravado. A flicker of something akin to weakness crosses her eyes – had she been pumped that full of drugs, to have missed an entire flood, hidden away in the dark bowels of the institute? There was, certainly, a lot of activity for the late night. She doesn’t say any of those out loud. One doesn’t survive in Hell like that.

One also doesn’t survive in Hell by being foolish and refusing to accept claims that show all evidence of being true. Her lips turn down into a frown, and her hand moves from the doctor’s hair to his mouth, clamping shut in case he tries to scream. “All right,” Inanna says. “Keep them from seizing me, and I will owe you.” That is not a small thing, her tone implies.

Footsteps near the door. The knob turns. Time’s almost up.

GrahamKeep them from seizing me, and I will owe you. Genuinely tempting; a red-eyes’ favour wasn’t something to pass up lightly. He already had a few things he might throw her at. Alas, the opportunity lies a little beyond his reach – if it’s the Faculty back there, then he’ll only weaken his position in town by making a stand to boss them around and being subsequently ignored.

So it’s time to play it like this is entirely his intent.

“Perhaps if you’d taken the offer I made to begin with, you’d be out past the front already,” he claims. “But a loose Chosen, active in my town, is something better avoided. It’s too bad you have no demonskin – you’re as susceptible to a good tranquiliser as the rest of us, without it. His eyes fix on the demonborn and her medicus hostage; she shouldn’t be able to slash his throat so badly he can’t be saved. Not through Sanctuary, at least. They’re already in the hospital. And then he’d have a doctor’s favour in his pocket, instead. Not much of a consolation prize, but sometimes you needed the hospital to come to you, rather than the other way around.

His eyes smoulder with hynotic, entrancing power – not enough to properly snag the doctor’s mind in the midst of having his life threatened, but hopefully enough to dull all that fear and anger he’s soaking into the room, feeding the demonborn. ”

(fix) Keep them from seizing me, and I will owe you. Genuinely tempting; a red-eyes’ favour wasn’t something to pass up lightly. Graham already had a few things he might throw her at. Alas, the opportunity lies a little beyond his reach – if it’s the Faculty back there, then he’ll only weaken his position in town by making a stand to boss them around and being subsequently ignored.

So it’s time to play it like this is entirely his intent.

“Perhaps if you’d taken the offer I made to begin with, you’d be out past the front already,” he claims. “But a loose Chosen, active in my town, is something better avoided. It’s too bad you have no demonskin – you’re as susceptible to a good tranquiliser as the rest of us, without it. His eyes fix on the demonborn and her medicus hostage; she shouldn’t be able to slash his throat so badly he can’t be saved. Not through Sanctuary, at least. They’re already in the hospital. And then he’d have a doctor’s favour in his pocket, instead. Not much of a consolation prize, but sometimes you needed the hospital to come to you, rather than the other way around.

His eyes smoulder with hynotic, entrancing power – not enough to properly snag the doctor’s mind in the midst of having his life threatened, but hopefully enough to dull all that fear and anger he’s soaking into the room, feeding the demonborn. ”

(I suck, proper fix) Keep them from seizing me, and I will owe you. Genuinely tempting; a red-eyes’ favour wasn’t something to pass up lightly. Graham already had a few things he might throw her at. Alas, the opportunity lies a little beyond his reach – if it’s the Faculty back there, then he’ll only weaken his position in town by making a stand to boss them around and being subsequently ignored.

So it’s time to play it like this is entirely his intent.

“Perhaps if you’d taken the offer I made to begin with, you’d be out past the front already,” he claims. “But a loose Chosen, active in my town, is something better avoided. It’s too bad you have no demonskin – you’re as susceptible to a good tranquiliser as the rest of us, without it.” His eyes fix on the demonborn and her medicus hostage; she shouldn’t be able to slash his throat so badly he can’t be saved. Not through Sanctuary, at least. They’re already in the hospital. And then he’d have a doctor’s favour in his pocket, instead. Not much of a consolation prize, but sometimes you needed the hospital to come to you, rather than the other way around.

His eyes smoulder with hynotic, entrancing power – not enough to properly snag the doctor’s mind in the midst of having his life threatened, but hopefully enough to dull all that fear and anger he’s soaking into the room, feeding the demonborn.

God dammit. God fucking dammit. The delicious waves of terror cease, only the milder undertones of pain left to filter through the air, and Inanna growls low in her throat like a threatened animal. She’d been so sure it would work, trusting the greed of people to get her through this. Alas, it is not to be, this time.

Her hand freezes in place, as though she’d attempted to slit the doctor’s throat casually and found her body unresponsive, and she kicks the entranced man away in frustration, breaking him out of it — and she’s certainly stronger than Graham, considering the way the man’s body crunches against the wall before crumpling to the ground like a ragdoll. A genuine accident, but he lets out a ragged scream, and then the door’s flying open, orderlies and monks rushing in with a commotion. “Get back, Mister Wilson, this is a very dangerous fugitive!” one is saying, placing himself between Graham and the demonborn on the defensive — and her defensiveness is more offense, really.

She’s backed into a corner as they build formation around her, lashing out with her shard of broken mirror against military-grade weaponry; a stab in the thigh makes one of the monks fall with a strangled yell, and another barely avoids getting an eye gouged out before the tranquilizer darts finally take effect. Cursing and yelling in the Hellish dialect of the Wildling tongue slurs as Inanna Zhul slows, and then, finally, drops.

Her eyes, glazed over with the fast-acting drugs, fix on Graham one last time, before they roll back in her head.

She’ll remember this.

Fucking incredible. What a show; Graham’s night is made just by witnessing the spectacle. He steps fluidly out of the way as the commotion takes place, openly boggling at what he had just witnessed.

He had no god damned idea those things could talk.

Date: 2026-10-16 02:20

---

(Graham’s odd encounter (SREvelyn))

[Fri Oct 16 2026]

In the General Store
A simple small wooden building, the general store serves most of the day
to day needs of locals and travelers, wooden shelves line all the walls
filled with sacks of flour, potatoes, preservatives and other everyday
items. One section of the shop is set aside for adventuring supplies, with
weapons, as well as hunting and forestry equipment.

It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by dark grey clouds. There is a waxing crescent moon.

It’s late enough at night that one doesn’t expect to find a lot of shoppers in any general stores, especially ones that happen to be located all the way in the wilds, with their sparser population compared to the great United States of America. The store’s still open though, for whatever unfathomly reason. One can only wonder what pressing potato needs Wildings have at two in the morning.

The Wildling behind the counter is a sleepy-looking guy who yawns right in Graham’s face, not even looking up when the Wilson steps into the shop. “Welcome,” he calls out in accented English, polishing an already-clean handmirror with a rag that might be turning it dirtier instead of cleaner. “What can I help you with?”

It’s a frigid evening, really, but Graham’s dressed in layers to spare. He approaches the wizened, crippled wildling, benumbed by the cold and the late hour, and leans against the countertop. This is too weak, too feeble a figure to properly sate his appetite – but he does have a good eye on the foot traffic in the border town.

“I’m looking for an acquaintance of mine,” he replies, smooth and vague. “They would’ve passed by not long ago. I don’t suppose you saw which way they went?” He doesn’t have any Wildling gold on him to bribe the information out of the man, but perhaps some of his other sundries might prove compelling, if necessary.

“What kind of acquaintance? Lots of people passing through here.” The man finally looks up, sets the mirror on the countertop, reflective side up, paying proper attention to Graham now. His eyes are nice and green, bright despite his other shortcomings. “We’ve not had a lot of people today, though a couple earthlings did pass earlier…” He pauses, considers Graham from head to toe – or waist, considering the counter blocking his view. Yeah, that’s an earthling alright. Couldn’t be mistaken for anything else, what with that suit of his, and the rifle he carries.

Upon the reflective surface of the mirror, a dark shadow swirls where it catches an edge of the Wilson’s image.

Graham only spares that shadow half a glance; his attention is on the crippled shopkeeper. “More than one?” he asks, eyebrows climbing. “Perhaps we’ve got company I wasn’t expecting. Which way did they go?” He avoids naming specifics for now, and what did it matter to the wildling, anyway? Graham’s just an earthman, looking for his fellow earthman. No predatory business going on over here, no sire. “And did they buy anything from you?”

Well, he’s a shopkeeper at heart, and his job is to sell his shit, not give away information for free and drive Graham away without buying anything. So instead of answering how many there were, or which way they went, he instead gestures grandly at the mirror sitting on the countertop. “They were real interested in this mirror. One of ’em kept looking into it, almost bought it, but the other didn’t want to.” He doesn’t ‘pah’ out loud and hack out a glob of spit in disdain, but it’s a near thing. “Perfectly good mirror if you ask me. Just got it off a off an Illarin tradesman – good man, passes through often.” Nobody’s interested in hearing any of this. That doesn’t stop him from prattling on. “It’s real silver. No flaws, no cracks. Apparently belonged to a noblewoman. It’d make a fine gift for a lady.” Your lady, he means, though he doesn’t rob himself of a paying customer by making assumptions about whether or not Graham has a lady of his own.

Yes, fine; Graham can deal with this sort of negotiation, even if the information he’s after isn’t that valuable to him. It’s a fine enough looking mirror.

“Maybe if you weren’t rubbing grime into it,” he scowls, “You might have had a sale. I’ll take it off your hands, see if they’re still interested. How much are we talking?” He glances down to check his watch -then looks outside as night gives way to day. “Time is money, sir. Don’t cost me too much more of mine, if you please.”

Wait, really? That’s all it took? The man pauses, glancing down at the Perfectly Innocuous Mirror and then back up at Graham. “Twenty silver,” he’s lowballing it a little, for reasons known only to him (and to the other guy interested in the mirror, maybe). “And I’ll throw in where the fellas from earlier went.” Surely Graham can appreciate a good deal.

A pause. The man eyes Graham’s watch greedily. “Or I’ll take the watch, and throw in a few supplies for it, eh?” he wonders. He’s got an eye for fine things, clearly.

Twenty silver pieces for a handmirror? Graham eyes the little thing in the wildling’s hands dubiously. It is made of silver, he supposes. Maybe he could melt it down later. “Fine,” he exhales, thumbing through a handful of paper bills as he eyes the exchange rate. Handy, not having to carry the silver himself. “That watch is worth thousands of American dollars,” he scoffs, looking back to the wildling. “Absolutely not. Here.” He slaps the wad of Benjamins down on the counter. “Twenty silvers’ worth. Please point me in my companions’ direction.” He glances again to the mirror, then shrugs. He wants it, after all. “And the mirror, please.”

Easy peasy. The man takes the bills – he’s not fond of dealing with paper money, but enough Earthlings come through that it’s just a part of business, unfortunate as it is. He doesn’t look disappointed at not getting the watch. It doesn’t seem like he’d actually expected it.

“Here ya go, sir.” He just hands the mirror over. There’s no fanfare, no wrapping paper, no fancy box to place it gently in. Graham gets his ware the Wildling way. “Your companions were headin’ out to the bar, and then out west, talking about hunting. One of ’em wanted to nab a wolf. Was a couple hours ago, might be leavin’ the bar about now. Good ol’ Jaina knows how to keep ’em buying drinks.” He shrugs a wizened shoulder, speech slipping to a more relaxed pattern with the sale made. He’s not gonna call said companion a fool, but it’s clear he thinks that’s what he is.

There’s another swirl of shadow in the mirror when Graham’s hand comes into contact with the silver frame, and, if he’s looking, the reflection’s surroundings turn a dark crimson, as though the room in the mirror were bathed in blood.

It’s a handmirror and Graham just bought it. Of course he looks into it, raising an eyebrow at the sanguine scenario his self-reflection is situated in. He frowns, then looks back to the wildling. “Is this a magic mirror you’ve just sold me?” he asks, delaying his hunt for two drunken earthlings. Honestly, they’d just had the road rebuilt, and they were already cruising in the Wilds just for something to drink?

What is a man, if not an empty vessel perpetually in search of booze to drink? Yes, they were cruising in the wilds for something to drink. Of course that’s the first thing humans – especially of the American variety would do, Graham.

The wildling proprietor frowns, leaning forward to peer into the mirror himself, and then at Graham. “Wouldn’t have sold it to you for twenty if it was magic, sir,” he says, and he doesn’t seem to be lying, for whatever that’s worth. “Magic mirrors go for a lot more.” Is that magic? He peers again, now interested. Maybe he can convince Graham to reverse the trade.

Graham’s reflection looks back at him – he knows it’s looking, even with the glasses. His face twists into a snarl of frustration. Finally,” comes the voice – that’s his voice, lower and raspier than usual. “Let me out, Graham.”

The wildling doesn’t seem to be reacting at all. He must be a real good liar, if he’s hearing it.”

(fix sorry) What is a man, if not an empty vessel perpetually in search of booze to drink? Yes, they were cruising in the wilds for something to drink. Of course that’s the first thing humans – especially of the American variety would do, Graham.

The wildling proprietor frowns, leaning forward to peer into the mirror himself, and then at Graham. “Wouldn’t have sold it to you for twenty if it was magic, sir,” he says, and he doesn’t seem to be lying, for whatever that’s worth. “Magic mirrors go for a lot more.” Is that magic? He peers again, now interested. Maybe he can convince Graham to reverse the trade.

Graham’s reflection looks back at him – he knows it’s looking, even with the glasses. His face twists into a snarl of frustration. “Finally,” comes the voice – that’s his voice, lower and raspier than usual. “Let me out, Graham.”

The wildling doesn’t seem to be reacting at all. He must be a real good liar, if he’s hearing it.

Graham lifts glasses up and away, peering into the mirror quizzically. “Right,” he replies to the shopkeeper, quite idly. That’ll be his magic handmirror, thank you; he turns and trots out of the shop, one cripple outracing the other. At least he had the benefit of Earth prosthetics. That other Wildling would never catch him. Once he’s out on the street, Graham peers back into the mirror and says, eyes unmasked, “Who are you to be stuck inside a mirror, then? I’m open to doing a little business with a trapped spirit, lesser demon, that sort of thing. What are you?”

Oh, excellent. The reflection’s glasses are gone too now, like they never were. His eyes are blue, but somehow bluer than Graham’s could ever hope to be, endless pools of starry brightness, looking at him, into him, seeing him– seeing what else is there with him. His grin widens, a shark-like thing on Graham’s face. Is this what Graham looks like when he’s out terrorizing other, lesser folk? It’s hard to look away.

“I’m you, Graham,” the mirror – the demon, spirit, whatever it is – says, voice a purr. He leans in, a hand coming up to the mirror’s edge. It rests against the invisible boundary of the flawless surface, as though he could just reach out and grab hold if he could.

“… or, well. I’m going to be you.”

It’s really, really hard to look away.

Graham had heard of this sort of thing before, but this is his first time actually encountering one of the dread doppelgangers he’d heard so much about. “Ah,” he says, a faint smile playing on his lips. He can only hope his confidence is well-founded, but he sure is confident. He owes a few too many higher powers favours; he doubts he’ll be left trapped away long, even if this thing does manage to ensnare him. “I’m not sure you want to be me,” he continues. “Are you telepathic? A mind reader? I assume that’s how you know my name. Look a little further, I encourage you – see the quagmire you’d land yourself in.” His smile is somewhere between sleazy and sharklike. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t be free of your confines, o spirit. Why don’t you tell me about the sort of life you’d like to live, and how you might make it up to me if I gave you that life?”

Who’s Graham to tell the creature who it does or doesn’t want to be? It likes Graham’s life – what it’s seen of it, at least, and certainly, it must be a telepath or a mind reader of some sort. “All the money you could ever need, all the women you could ever fuck, and all the power you could ever wield?” What a terrible life Graham must live. Truly. One might wonder how he can bear to be alive. The reflection of Graham tilts his head to the side – it’s an uncanny gesture on his body. “All in exchange for some squabbling? What mortal problems. I can take care of that for you.” That’s a life the spirit would like to live, it seems, if Graham doesn’t want it himself.

He reaches out again, the hand on the mirror’s inside shifting, reaching out so that it almost looks like Graham could stretch his own hand out and grasp it. “”

“Take my hand,” the spirit urges, voice lowering further, barely a rasp reaching Graham’s ears. It’s still looking into Graham’s eyes, the contact unwavering.

“Never enough money to pay the prices you incur,” Graham scowls back. “All the pretty little men and women you can stomach, because you often can’t stomach them. Look further, spirit.”

Memories and warnings ripple through Graham’s mind, strung out-of-order and scrambled. “I have children to look after, spirit,” he whispers into the mirror. “And you’re not swaying me. Bargain with me or be buried.”

That inviting look in the mirror disappears, replaced by a snarl as the spirit recoils for a brief moment, and its hand smacks against the surface hard enough to echo in Graham’s ears. “Bury me? Fool,” it declares Graham to be – and is that the surroundings turning redder around the Wilson, the trees of the Wilds taking in an unholy, sanguine hue? “Arrogant. So arrogant, Graham, to think I’m here to bargain. Is that what you think this is? A give and take?”

He hasn’t looked away from the spirit’s eyes. Why hasn’t he looked away? It’s impossible now, the swirling blues enrapturing, mesmerizing, endless, he’s drowning in them. “You’ve given and given and given already,” the spirit whispers, leaning in, eyes brighter and brighter still, victorious, triumphant, taking. Its hand doesn’t smack on the mirrored surface anymore. It wades through like water, reaching for him. “And I take, and take, and take…”

The boundary stretches thin, between what’s here and not here, what’s real and not real. Is Graham real anymore?

“Well,” Graham exhales. “I was hungry, anyway.” Feeling one presence touch another, the demigod does not opt to leave things to a tug-of-war between two parasites. He reaches out to snag the invading arm by the wrist, gritting his teeth as he opens up the yawning pit in his soul. In his weakness, Graham isn’t the voracious power he once had been; his monstrosity quelled until only the plainest of psychic energies could fill him.

Whatever moments pass next are too quick and too internal to figure out what’s going on by any prying eye. An unearthly snarl erupts from Graham’s throat, sounding inhuman and ragged and not his own, the mirror all but vibrating in his grasp. Birds flee from the trees in alarm.

And then it’s all over, between a moment and the next. The mirror stops its humming. A solemn pause takes over — and then it shatters, fragments flying free and tinkling to the ground.

A trickle of blood trails down from Graham’s nose. His stomach roils in protest.

Date: 2026-10-31 09:46

---

(Graham’s odd encounter (SREvelyn))

[Sat Oct 31 2026]

In the manager’s office
This space can be closed off from the bank’s lobby by shutting the solid
wood door. Blinds occupy the rest of the glass face and allow for anyone
inside to control the transparency of the office. Inside, a large wooden
desk with a slim profiled computer faces a pair of chairs for visitors
though another two are provided just outside.

It is morning, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky.

Ah, the sweet time of almost ten in the morning, a perfect time for fuckery to abound, and shenanigans to ensue and motherfuckers who can’t stop fucking shit up to fuck Graham’s shit up. Of course, it being a Saturday doesn’t mean the day will go easy on him.

His client this morning is Damien Sanders, a middle-aged – but younger than him – former military veteran with deep ties to the Temple. It is known. Negotiations are to take place, soon. The man, as far as he’s said, wishes to rent out a large building near the steelworks – all for above-board business, of course, just a mattress shop. Who doesn’t need new mattresses? Soft, firm, hard, squishy, any and all sorts of mattresses the residents of Haven could need. That’s the story, at least. Whatever they might get up to in there once the place is rented out and cleared of its current belongings and replaced with a bunch of foam and feather mattresses is nothing Graham needs to worry about, right? That’s probably the idea, at least. The Temple would certainly like it if he were lax in his dealings with Sanders – just treat him as just another client bringing him and the Wilsons more money, eh?

There’s a knock at the door as the belltower begins to chime, and it begins to open without waiting for Graham’s response. His client must be here – right on the dot, not a second earlier or later. What a punctual man. Surely Graham can appreciate that. “Good morning, Wilson.”

Graham’s eyebrows arch up. Just ‘Wilson’? Not ‘Mister Wilson’, not even a simple ‘sir’? “Good morning, Mister Sanders,” he replies, smooth and professional, because he is a professional. “Please, take a seat. I understand you’re looking to lease a storefront between Franklin Street and Temple Lane?” He slides a few neatly-bundled stacks of paperwork across the desk. “We’ve gone ahead and drafted up the contracts for the lease, the deed, as well as insurance on your goods.” He’s not going to push too hard, here. He and his family care for this bank, and he does things mostly legitimately. He could have his subordinates look into all these bedding goods outside of office hours. “Will you be hoping to fund this through an account directly with us at Haven National Bank, or are you hoping to transfer from another major branch? Or, perhaps, is there a separate financier we should be speaking with?”

Just Wilson, yes. The man who walks in has a chip on his shoulder and sunglasses perched on his nose, shielding his eyes from view, but unfortunately, he also looks like a Competent with a capital C kind of guy. He takes the seat in front of Graham’s desk, manspreading out and giving off an aura of disgruntlement for some reason – but that would track for someone whose faction has failed to establish a foothold in Haven at all since the flood. A pity, that is.

One of his fingers bears a ring with a stylized sun, glinting in the light as he taps it against the arm of his chair, the other hand reaching out to grab the stacks of paperwork, answering in his own crisp and sharp voice, “Account here. Opening deposit comes from a holding company; Reed-Walker.” Oh, Graham has heard of that, recently, though most people wouldn’t be aware of it — a tactical-grade equipment manufacturing company, on the surface, with a hand in also manufacturing neutralizers and naturalizers and other such items for supply to the Temple.

He can’t see the man’s eyes behind the sunglasses, but his head does tilt up Graham’s way enough to show when his attention drifts from the papers back to Graham. “What do I need to know before signing this?” presumably, it was drafted after having gone through with his lawyer – or however this stuff works.

“Rent is weekly, you do not qualify for our missed payment grace window, and you’re competing with a furniture store on Main Street that also happens to be one of the longest-running establishments in town, so expect to face some corporate rivalry, Mister Sanders.” Graham’s got his glasses off for once, so that’s something; he’s happy to meet the Templar’s cocksure swagger with cool professionalism. This is his bank, his town, and the Temple – at the moment, at least – are not a great threat to him. “As a personal aside, I’ll warn you that setting up so close to the bay inlet is going to expose your product to a lot of sea air. That’ll drive your insurance up significantly. Not great for the long term health of your product, you see.” His eyes flicker over the man. “Or anything else you keep in there. Delicate or not. The salt eats at it all.”

“Isn’t that everywhere in town? Beachside,” the main intones, looking at Graham’s eyes in the manner of someone searching for something – or, at least, that’s the impression Graham may get, given that he still can’t see the man’s eyes. “Salt and shit everywhere. Eating at everything. Decaying long-term healths.” He’s probably not talking about the sea air anymore. “No need to worry, Wilson. We’ll keep stuff clean.”

The man leans back in his seat, glaring – probably glaring? Most likely glaring – at him. “Everything else clear? Where do I need to sign?” Graham could probably find a thing or two to hound the fella on, if he felt so inclined, but before he can do that, Sanders asks, “How often are your inspections?” They do do those, right?

“Once yearly for the first two years, then moved to every three years presuming our insurance team finds no faults prior to that.” Graham’s eyes narrow a little in suspicion, looking the Templar up and down. What is this all about, really? He clearly has an ulterior motive of some sort, but it’s beyond him to just reach out and scoop it out of the man’s mind. He misses it already. What a terrible, terrible thing to have to give up, even if it would have caused him no end of grief to just keep on with a finger on the threads of the entire town’s web of consciousness. His gut clenches just thinking about it. Perhaps there had been an addictive element to all of this he wasn’t aware of. “Sign here,” he says, leaning forwards to gesture at the closed field. He fingers a few plastic tags sticking out from the sides of the paper stacks. “Each of these has a signature required. Go ahead and flick through. It should only take… ten minutes?”

Ten minutes of just signing things. Such are the ways of banks.

Addictive? Surely not. Nobody could blame a man for making use of what tools he has available at his disposal, could they? Damien exhales out a sigh when he sees just how many signates are required, leaning back in his seat and bringing one leg up to cross over the other for a more convenient flat surface. He doesn’t use Graham’s desk like any normal signatory would. Maybe he’s just trying to assert dominance.

The pen slides across paper, over and over and over and over again still as myriad signatures are signed, the i’s dotted and the t’s crossed, and it’s a whole ten minutes later when he looks up again, sliding the pen and papers back over to Graham. “Pleasure doing business,” he rumbles, not meaning it at all, and instead of shaking hands and being on his unmerry way, he keeps sitting back and staring. “A lot of work to be done in town here, Wilson,” he says, rather ominously. Just making small talk? A warning?

Is this going to be Graham’s morning? Two older factionalists, doing paperwork, pretending they both wouldn’t rather strangle each other with a loop fashioned from their own intestines? Graham lets out a quiet sigh and buzzes in a young clerk to take the paperwork away to be filed. “A pleasure doing business, Mister Sanders,” he echoes, reaching over to offer the man handshake. Just a handshake. Definitely not two grown men about to try and break each other’s hands. Besides; Graham’s a demigod. Unless this Templar’s full of mechanical parts, this should be no contest, really.

Come on, Sanders. Won’t you shake a poor sinner’s Hand?

Unfortunately for Graham, this Templar is, indeed, full of mechanical parts. Maybe he should’ve done more research into who he’d be having over for his ten A.M. slot. Damien’s hand is firm and his handshake even firmer; these aren’t the hands of a man who leaves important business to his underlings while he pushes paper around and waits for results to happen. No; these are the hands of a man who makes things happen.

His hand squeezes down on Graham’s just as Graham’s does to his. There’s a creaking noise, somewhere, from some or the other joint. The line of his mouth remains perfectly even as they try to strangle the life out of each other’s hands. Had Graham even been in the room with his wife, having his hand clasped while she gave birth, it would have been less intense than this still. A shame his eyes are hidden; he does have the advantage here of being able to hide the pain within.

Graham can’t be the Hand President if he doesn’t have a good Hand Shake, and damn, the man can shake a hand, that’s for sure.

Joints creak and something probably cracks in there – goddamn, his bones were supposed to be reinforced with the Good Stuff. Damien grunts; as much of an exclamation of pain as Graham will likely hear, but at least he gets to soak in the hurt and the suffering the man exudes like the bastard supernatural he is. It’s a nice, if small, hit.

They part hands, and Sanders tries to not make it too obvious when he clenches and unclenches his hand into a fist at his side, trying to force feeling back into it. The thin line of his lips has turned into an outright frown, and he stands up now, glaring at Graham again. “Have a good rest of your morning, President,” he spits – not Vice President, while Graham’s at the bank – and Graham can hear the fuck you, you piece of shit that the man really can’t say out loud in there. Maybe if he could hear his thoughts now…

Oh, how fucking satisfying that had been. Graham flexes his fingers with a tiny little smirk playing on the corner of his mouth. That was just how he liked it – a human enhanced with the finest technology they could fashion, more than enough to put up a fight… But still falling under the inexorable superiority of the elite. His hand throbs, but it’s a pleasant ache, and well earned. “Senior Vice President Graham Wilson,” he gently corrects, knowing it’s unnecessary. “I remain at your service if there should be anything else you require, Mister Sanders. Thank you for choosing Haven National Bank – and good luck with your mattresses.”

Fuck you and fuck off, is what Sanders would say right now were he to say anything at all to Graham, so instead he clenches his jaw shut so tight it looks like it hurts, and swirls around to step out the door. His booted feet thud heavily upon the ground, and his hand grips the doorknob tightly enough to dent the metal as it’s pulled open. He’ll surely be getting his technology advanced further.

He also, just to be a fucking asshole, leaves the door wide open. Surely Graham deserves it for something or the other. Bastard probably has an auto-closing door anyway.

Date: 2026-10-02 23:48

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(Hiram’s odd encounter (SRChristopher))

[Fri Oct 2 2026]

At The Forest

It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. There is a last quarter moon.

Hiram is running a road grader through the area, occasionally glancing at his phone to pester someone or another. It is dark in the forest, but not the deep forest. Just the one with the regular monsters running around.

In the cool shadow of the night, things seem to be quiet .. and quiet is never a sign of peace in this small town. Hiram sits in the seat of the piece of heavy machinery, the rumble of the large thing filling up the night air and scaring away all of the various critters that might normally be filling the background air with their own song. It’s not sound but lights that will catch the salty dog’s attention, though. Behind his work, back up the way the road leads – the faint sight of red and blue flashes lacking the sound of any kind of siren. Before too long the sight of a squad car (perhaps the only one in Haven) can be seen trundling along the rickety dirt roads that lead out into the edges of town and disappear into the woods.

Little by little the police vehicle makes its way closer, until the lights are bright, filling up the area not only with the tinted color of the plastic lights but the bright, false light of those headlights as they beam out across the patch of field that’s slowly being transformed into what could be called a road. “Sir? … Sir! Can he hear us? SIR!” A voice call out – the doors of the cop car opening as a deputy steps out of either side of the vehicle. No telling of course which one calls out.

“You one of Frank’s boys,” Hiram asks the deputy without really looking at him. Figuring this is going to be a long conversation he shuts off the machinery and gets down, pulling the head phones off as he finally turns his attention to the deputy. “Cause if you are Dustin Moore can vouch for my whereabouts all fucking day.”

“That’s right” That deputy on the driver’s side offers out toward Hiram as they step out front of the car. For the most part the two deputies seem amicable enough and the one speaking even has the werewithal to spot Hiram and offer a small frown that creases the more veteran of the two cops’ expression. “Mister … Salte, is it?” He asks, taking a quick shot out in the dark. The other deputy walks out with his partner and for now he’s quiet, taking his lead from the talkative one. Both deputies are dressed in the usual uniform, consistent with the local deputies as well. The one speaking at least seems to recognize Frank Reeve’s name. “We got a call … well, hell. This is a pickle. We got a call about a noise complaint. And a tip about some permits … this .. this has to be some sense of a mix-up I’m sure. Give us a few minutes of your time and we’ll try to sort this out quick as we can, alright? Sit tight for me.” He turns and gives a nod to his fellow deputy, before the driver heads back to the squad car for a moment. The one still standing with Hiram for now is the younger of the two. “Salte, huh?” He says, sounding distinctively less impressed than the first cop.

“Hiram Salte, yeah, that’s me,” Hiram says as the first one wanders off and his weathered features turn towards the second. “Wilbur’s my Uncle,” he says as if that should be explanation enough. “This road was washed out in the wave. Just getting it rebuilt so people can get back to their coastal homes.”

The excuse sounds reasonable enough, but this younger deputy just seems to want to stand there with hands near his belt and sneering toward Hiram without any real noticeable reason why. “Oh, you’re uncle’s Wilbur is it?” The guy says, but before he can make himself look any worse that first cop is coming back from the front seat of the squad car. “I don’t know how but the SCMODS does appear to have a warrant on the wire .. that seems awful fast, though.” He returns to the conversation, and the more reasonable of them turns his attention back onto Hiram. “I’m having someone call back this warrant because I wasn’t certain about it, you know? It seems a bit much for the noise especially if you’re just adding to the restoration efforts. I’m not quite certain about what’s going on but again, we’ll get it sorted out.”

Turning back, the first deputy seems intent on going back to check in on that in fact, but the younger of the two suddenly frees his baton when the first turns away and without any warning he lashes out with the weapon and clips the older cop over the back of his skull! With a groan and a crumple, he goes down in a heap of clothes and the sickening crack of that blow really echoes itself out amongst the trees who seem to soak it up, somehow. “God, I was tired of listening to that old fucking hack.” The deranged policeman says to himself before slowly turning himself back toward Hiram, with a baton in hand.

“Shouldn’t have done that,” Hiram mutters as he scans around, spying the toolbox in the back of his truck. Too far to grab a wrench so he’ll just have to make do with what he can make do with. A Salte, and a sailor, in never caught flat footed though, and a knife falls out of Hiram’s coverall sleeve. “Might want to take your partner to the hospital and we both pretend we didn’t see what we both just saw.”

“I’m going to enjoy this” This man sneers, perhaps somewhat unaware or a little too zealous of the nature of both the man and the lineage that he’s putting hismelf up against, here. But then again, maybe not. Stepping forward, SRChristopher moves as if to engage with Hiram and the salty sailor will see a small pendant hanging around the man’s neck. A stylized symbol of a sunburst, shedding out it’s rays. The man moves as if to swing that baton around toward the other, but he’s young. Hiram’s instincts and experience of the way of things give him a breath of advantage, able to react before he’s clobbered over the head.

Hiram is not terribly fast but he is, in fact, strong. When the deputy takes a step in, Hiram takes a step in and klobbers him with a big ham of a fist. Whether it knocks him out cold, or the man keeps fighting, Hiram doesn’t seem to register at first, his grey eyes wandering to the necklace.

This deputy is only human, and Hiram’s reflexive attack arcs up to knock the man across his chin! He flies backward a couple of feet to land on his ass and the baton in the young man’s hand goes flying out as well, and just like that .. all is quiet. Now Hiram finds himself standing in the quiet again, which is nice. But there’s also the squad car, the knocked out deputy moonlighting as a maniac, and the injured deputy on the ground. The quiet sets in oppressively now, making each passing second one more that piles onto the grand headache that this is now becoming.

“What a fucking shit show,” Hiram says with a heavy sigh, but this isn’t the first or last time something like this has happened in Haven. He pulls out his phone and opens it, speed dialing one of the Reeve boys, someone actually related to Frank that Hiram would have gone to school with. “Hey, its me,” he mutters as he walks around poking the two with his steel toed boot. “Yeah yeah I know I know Go Jets. Fuck you too Reeve. Listen a couple of Frank’s Boys are out here fucking around with jewelery that they ought not fuck with ya know? I am going to throw the necklace in the sea if you come get these two to a drunk tank.” Another long pause, “Yes I’ll tell Dusty he still owes you money…. No I am not… No I am not… Listen I am not fucking telling a fucking Wilson to… You know what? Just get your ass here before you wake up to fish in your fucking car again.” And with that a he slams his phone closed. A long slow breath then a cigarette comes out, “Welcome home, Hiram.”

Ahh, the familiar tones of home. As the conversation comes to a close, Hiram has a minute or two to enjoy a drag or two of that cigarette after he stuffs away his phone. Another few minutes will pass before another car comes crawling up that dirt path. This one’s a cop car too, maybe the only OTHER car in town for the time being – and this one only carries one guy. When he gets out … he lifts a hand in some sense of familiarity with the Salte that’s out here doing the good works for the town. “Hiram?” He calls out, but he doesn’t need to wait for an answer. He spies the two uniform-clad men on the ground now, nearby the Salte and comes over. HE toes the one with the head injury, nodding quickly to himself. The one Hiram’s put down with a swift slobber-knocker though, when he gets turned over this new arrival gives a quick frown. “I don’t think he’s one of us. It was good you called. We’ll take care of this.”

Crouching nearby the man, this new deputy is picking him up and hauling up ungently to shove him violently over toward his own squad car. “C’mon scum bag! I know a Sheriff who’s going to be dying to meet you.” Hiram can watch as this potential imposter(?) get shoved into the back of that second car before the man returns. “I’ll send someone else out for him and the car” he offers on his way back. Glancing around he doesn’t seem any more pleased with the circumstance than Hiram is. Still, at least it’s under the cover of the night. Around here, it’s always better that way. “Oh. Dusty says Fuck you.” This last is delivered flippantly, casual remark from one inside that inner circle of people at the center of town politics. Soon enough, the second car is pulling away and it won’t be long before all evidence of this snafu is swept under the rug entirely. Until then … Hiram will suffer the jarring, interchanging blue and red lights that silently flash back and back, back and forth. What a night.

Hiram lets out a sigh and chuckle, making his way back to his truck to head into town.

Date: 2026-10-19 13:04

---

(Kade’s odd encounter (SRShay))

[Mon Oct 19 2026]

On Paine Avenue

It is afternoon, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky.

Bag upon bag upon bag. It seems Kade had been shopping, because he’s carrying all of that like they’re nothing. The door to the store opens with his shoulder bash, and he wanders backwards for a while longer, telling off a clerk that, likely, has realized by now that he’s a haggler and he doesn’t care to continue this conversation while making off with his things.

On the edge of the paine avenue, where the early afternoon light doesn’t quite shine beside the alley Kade is at, he sighs as he sets the bags down, and starts to stuff all the bags into a hanging satchel off the saddle of his bike. “Damn, I should’ve bought a jacket.” Kade’s murmur is low, just under his breath. “It’s cold.” Though, briefly once he gets rid of his bags, he’s distracted by his phone- briefly skimming through a few texts that make him smirk.

Luckily (or perhaps unluckily) for Kade, the day seems relatively normal. It’s chilly, the air slowly becoming sharper against throat and lungs as winter sings its approach. The sun shines, offering the barest promise of warm refuge from the cold, and most passerby still amble onward, not so effected yet by the cold climes around them. While the alleyway is caught in the shade, the sun does its best, and light clips in, about halfway down the building’s wall to the east. But even without the light, Kade’s bike… it shines. Not so much that it’s inherently noticeable by passerby, but, it glints as if its been struck, directly by the sun. A temporal oddity perhaps? Maybe a trick of the mind.

As those bags slowly get placed within the satchel hanging off the bike, Kade can certainly notice his reflection glinting off the body of his bike, warped slightly by the bike’s inherent curves in its structure. It seems entirely normal, had it not been for the way the sun shines overhead. And how… prevalent and emphasized his own reflection is. And the way his reflection smirks back at him, staring… rather intently.

For a while at the very least, Kade is too occupied with his phone- but as he tries to send a few texts, he finds that the reception quality is rather poor, and his texts aren’t going out. It does make him pinch his brows, try several more times, but eventually, he resigns himself to clicking the screen off and sliding it in his pocket. The rest of his attention is spent on his bike, typing up the strap, fixing it in place, and making sure that nothing he’s bought is going to spill out.

Probably.

Still, the strangeness of his woman- his bike, does catch his attention the way someone notes the smallest discrepancy when they see it on something they see very day. A slight nagging at the back of the skull, an itch that screams something in his peripheral is different. Kade’s eyes grow narrow with the notion, cast out to glance around and about, only to eventually land on his bike. The reflection of himself distorted by the blackish-purple hue of the chassis. It’s wiped with a thumb, first, and then again, just to eventually exclaim, under his breath.

“..Fuck.”

Rubbing his own reflection does not seem to dispel away the distortion, the one that grows larger and larger by every passing minute. It does not grow by size, but rather discrepancy, for as one would imagine that their thumb would be reflected, this doesn’t happen with the bike. Instead, there’s nothing but that face and the rest of Kade’s body scrunched up to follow the curves. And when the lad’s eyes grow narrow, the reflection mimics it, but, almost appears to be mocking the viewer. When he exclaims that expletive, the lips don’t move right in the reflection. Instead, it says something different. It almost appears to mouth ‘yes’.

If Kade decided to look a bit more, scrutinize the reflection, he would notice, immediately that everything with that caricature , is utterly wrong. The lips are too long. The eyes, too dark. The face too shallow and elongated, the chin becoming narrow and then wider than it should. As if whatever this caricature is, it’s only doing a lazy, barely passable attempt at mimicry. And those eyes, those dark eyes seem to be utterly directed at Kade. And if all the malice and hate in the world could be contained in mere orbs, organs for sight, this false facsimile would bear it through with its own, arguably existent, ones.

What transpires, perhaps, is not the immediate reaction one ought to have to something otherwise bone-chilling and terrifying as this. While his reflecion harbors all manner of wickedness directed at Kade, his features grow harsher, too. In the tightness of his jaw, and in the manner with which he straightens up. “I swear to God,” Kade starts. “Whatever the fuck you are, if you don’t leave my bike alone, I’m going to strangle you flat and toss you like a broken straw down the pier.”

As brazen as he is, perhaps in lieu of the deific blood that runs through him, at least a measure, Kade reaches forward to grab the handlebar of his bike, and kicks the bike off its stand with a boot. “Let me make it easier for you, asshole.” And he starts to drag it his bike, out of the limelight the sidewalk affords, and into the dimly lit alleway behind with all of its garbage and detritus strewn about. “Come on, fuckface.” The bike is shoved in like it weighs nothing, where it loudly clunks against the wall. “Get out of my baby and show yourself.”

When Kade makes that threat against his own reflection, the distortion and false facsimile curves its lips and flashes its teeth. Sharp teeth, that it should not have, teeth that look more like they belong in some other creature. Like a lamprey. Those teeth do not extend just from the top of the mouth. Or the bottom. No, they ring around this things mouth, like a circle. And the teeth itself? They’re shaped like thin triangles, as if every tooth were nought but of the canine variety, except, much, much thinner, much, much longer.

It takes little time for the creature within the reflection to make a response. And even its voice, sounds like Kade’s, except distorted. As if a crowd of people were speaking at once, and the man simply had a microphone and speakers to layer his voice atop theirs, to nearly blot them out. “You. Strangle me?” it asks, before it laughs and that laughter vibrates, seeming to come from every wall in the alleyway. When the bike is pushed into the dimly lit alleyway, it doesn’t seem to lose its shine. If anything, it shines brighter… but, certainly not from the sun. No, the reflection changes its hue, just slightly, the reflection darker, and tinted orange. “Do you want me to exit your bike?” it asks anew, the voice coming in like a whisper carried by the wind. “I can do that, if you want,” it wheezes out… and the noise seems to present itself, right into the fellow’s ear, as if whomever spoke was standing, right beside him, yammering over his shoulder.

Whether he’s offended that his own image is distorted and misshapen to this degree, or because the creature is actually terrifying and Kade merely masks it with a look of growing anger – both remain unclear. He watches that chassis however, like a hawk, even as the thing croaks its laughter and the bike seems brighter for it. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I want.”

All that he says, really, before his teeth grit as the rest of the thing’s voice sounds right over his shoulder. Admittedly, he probably guessed that amongst the possibilities it could be behind him, but it was a prospect he didn’t- or rather, didn’t want to entertain. Whether that is true or not, he shoves his hand straight into the building at his side.

Fingers dig in with a rough, unforgiving crack, tear into concrete like it is butter to claim a firm grip. One that he yanks, and tears out a head-size chunk of stone. Not deep enough to make a hole leading straight through, but enough that he hefts the rock, and swings all in one to his back- “Motherfucker!” Either to collide with empty air, or that of his stolen face.

Offended or not, Kade’s anger seems only to make the creature widen its horrifying grin, spinning all its teeth in its mouth like some sort of robotic contraption, ready to devour everything with utter destruction. Its croaked laughter elevates in volume, and with a voice, suddenly louder than anything a human could bellow out, asks the host of its appearance, “Come now, Kade Avery, I want you to think. I want you to really think. Do you think you can really hurt me?” When that swing comes around, it doesn’t hit anything solid, it comes slicing through the air. But, something does happen. The reflection disappears, momentarily.

Any relief for that momentary disappearance wouldn’t last for very long. Because where, normally, there would be a chunk of the wall missing, where they would be a small recess that would certainly widen the eyes of any witness or whomever owned the building… There is instead a hand. A hand that suddenly reaches out and grabs Kade’s throat, opportunely. Instead of choking the man, however, it instead begins to slowly move him, as if he weighed nothing, moving him back, as the arm elongates, and something, rather large, impossibly squeezes itself like a worm, outside of the recess. Its almost like some sort of jelly at first, not in appearance but in characteristic, with the way the abomination pushes through the wall, and the wall doesn’t seem to buckle at all from the mere act. Still, the creature pushes through. Shoulder, face, neck, torso, its other arm. And all of it, every single inch of it, seems to be some distorted, gargantuan copy of Kade. As it emerges, it flashes those strange teeth, its eyes blinking, not from its lids being up and down, but rather, positioned at each side of the eye. “I could squish your neck until your eyeballs pop out,” the creature informs Kade gleefully, before giving, an almost teasing test of strength, squeezing with something nearly impossible for any creature he’s ever encountered, to maintain. “But. I won’t. Instead, let me offer you a little something for your time.”

That’s not what at all Kade had expected, evidently. Sure, the rock hitting nothing and it all being some kind of trick was within the realm of possibility – but not this. Not the hand that suddenly shoots out, makes him drop the rock in favor of grabbing the decrepit, malformed hand from the fingers around his throat. The most he can manage in the blink of time that he has to react is slip a few digits along theirs, pressure outward and resist the chokehold of fingers squeezing his life.

He grunts, growls straight from his chest while he props a foot against the wall beside the recess that the creature has elongated itself out of like an ooze. “Mother-f-uck-er.” Kade’s jaw tightens, and teeth and cuspid are bared all the same while his eyes hold animosity and nothing but directed upon the creature wearing his own skin. The throes of his struggle is only that, then, just struggle, maintain a modicum of space to breathe, while he’s face-to-face with his own warped features and their spinning teeth.

“..Speak.” Kade spits, barely, though evidently willing to listen given that he has little else beside his own strength to fight this. And as that is foiled, there is a brief expression of fear. If not in his face, it resides in the slight perspiration running down his temple in spite of the cold, in the dry swallow moving his throat in between the swifter rise and fall of his chest.

“Mm, the realm of beings like you, so filled with tantalizing flesh-puppets,” the creature hisses out, seemingly pleased with that brief expression of fear that Kade shows him. Licking its lips, with a three pronged tongue, displaying more of that utterly alien, inhuman nature, it settles itself completely out of the wall, slowly elongating itself as it, seemingly, solidifies from whatever strange jelly form it had prior. Releasing Kade, it, pats his head, with its elongated, freakish hand, standing half as tall as the building it stands next to. And yet, even while it seems clearly there, clearly solid, passerby don’t stop to gawk at it, from where they walk, outside of the alley. As if the creature did not truly exist, or as if the man suffering from this weird, reality-breaking moment, was on his own, utterly and completely. “I am Shrygza, and you have potential, little morsel. So. I will offer you this. Make people suffer for me. Make them suffer well. Toy with them, break them… and I will make you strong. Break them entirely, and I’ll make you stronger than you thought you could be. Defy me, and I will hunt you down. I will whisper into your ear every night. I will fill every dream and daydream you have with nightmares. I will haunt your every step. I will grind down your sanity and make you hurt everyone you ever see.” Stooping low, it blinks its eyes, again. And then, opens a third eye. A fourth one. And a fifth one, all positioned on the creatures brow like some unorthodox, yet perfect pentagram.

The release is enough to pivot Kade off balance from the spot he was taking leverage, against the wall of the building. He falls backwards on his rear with a thud, grunts yet again- a sound that’s silenced immediately when he feels a hand- his hand, not-his-hand, on the top of his head. One of his palms immediately scrape against the filthy floor while he kicks with his legs to gain space from the monster that fully leaves the confines of the building to stand taller – and Kade only stops when his back meets the other end of the alley.

Dilated eyes flit to the people passing by only within several arms reach, unaware of the creature that slowly but surely looms like a terrifying omen of all that unholy, unfurling like an abomination of ungodly proportions. He, in turn, is paler than he usually is even though he keeps that expression enmity locked in his features, aggression that blooms on him like it belongs, often only shoved away and elsewhere in lieu of distance and detachment. Now, though, the latter of that isn’t found, when he’s anchored by poorly subdued fright.

“I-” Kade starts, staring at the blossoming eyes of his own warped and fucked up face worn by the beast. “I don’t know.” He briefly wets his lips, clears his throat, and strokes his neck with the hand not planted on the earth. Feel the bruise under his digits. Perhaps a tad daring, he declares, slowly, cautiously, all too carefully. “There are lot of things that go bump in the dark.. and offer greatness.. Very few of them can give proof that they have the power to actually..” The word is searched in his mouth, after another slow, dry swallow. “.. elevate another.. Where’s yours?”

Stooping lower, scrunching its absurdly distorted body for a moment, the creature levels all four of its eyes upon Kade, staring at them, before whirring its hundreds of teeth in response to him trying to kick away and put some distance between himself and whatever this creature is. Placing their palms on the ground, and clicking its fingers against the cracked pavement of the alley, the creature offers a small smile, or at least, what resembles it, with that chaotic ensemble of teeth still spinning in its mouth. “I just squeezed through a small crack in the wall, formed myself from the reflection from your bike, and I seem to know your name. Do you need proof of my power, little worm? Or do I need to break you before you understand what I am?” it asks, in a voice so low and quiet that it’s barely a whisper. And yet, the voice that comes forth, doesn’t pass through the creatures lips, but yet, once again, right behind Kade, into his ear. “Do you think me a mere illusion?” it asks, this time, rumbling forth with a roar. Still, those passerby just keep passing by, as if this demonic entity inscrutable, unknowable, and nearly eldritch in appearance, isn’t just looming over a man, perhaps a fifth of its size. “Gods don’t care about you, Kade Avery. They’ll either enslave you, or ignore you. Fae will just want to play with you, toy with you, because they’re unfathomably bored. But us? Oh, we’re entirely trustworthy. We won’t toy with you, so long as you please us. We’ll keep this strictly business. You give us pain to feast on, we’ll give you something you want. The more pain? The more power. We could just take your pain though… we could just make you suffer. We could feed off you, like flies to carrion.”

As the thing moves closer and closer, crawls on the ground face-level with the seated demigod, Kade turns his head away from the infernal visage and breath both. Squeezes his eyes shut, and his fingers curling into the earth dig shallow burrows beneath each digit. The fact that the concrete pavement still cracks under his touch is the slightest of relief, but he can’t bear to keep staring, when he listlessly exclaims, “Enough!” just at the height of its cruel whispers.

“I get it.. enough.” Repetition, like a mantra, spoken through grit teeth and a deep furrow to his brows. Sweat, by now, drips from his chin, and slicks the mess of his hair to frame his face in continued disarray. “..Give me some time to think. A week, a few days- some time.” A last ditch effort, perhaps, to gain time; weeks; months- who knows how long before the creature manifests itself yet again in his life. “I’ll have an answer for you next time- but not..” His words are interrupted by a harsh sigh under his breath. “Not now.”

“Oh, will you?” the creature asks, decidedly dragging one of those dreadful, fingers along Kade’s brow, all five eyes blinking one at a time, as if staring at the man was this creature’s top priority. Blinking again, all five eyes suddenly look to be aflame, breaking the illusion, for a moment. And as it stares at its target and victim, it begins to morph, its flesh slowly sloughing off, as flies, maggots, and all sorts of insects begin to burst forth from its flesh. Horns pierce through the skin, five of them, all at once, with two major ones, flanking the side of its skull, curling outward like those of a ram. Two, forking upward and to the side, like a gazelle, and one, flaring backwards, like something a peasant would’ve thought a dragon might’ve had, long ago. The skin turns pallid and cold to the touch, while two more arms unfold from its back, to settle on the ground and support this behemoth as he continues this scrunched up crouch. “Oh, my sweet child,” it croons in multiple voices, first a man, than an old woman’s, then a child’s. “You’ll have five days. Five because I like that number. After the fifth day, if you make me wait any longer for an answer, I’ll come back. And I’ll break you.”

The lurching of one’s stomach is not an easy thing, and Kade doesn’t have to open his eyes to hear, smell, and sense the sloughing flesh, the writing insects and all other manner of putrefied morphing of this thing that starts to hound him so very close. Kade gags, first, turns his head and body further away from the hand and beast that looms lower, and covers his mouth with the back of a wrist. Drops, even, on the forearm of his other limb, smaller on the ground.

By the time he dares to open his eyes and see the monster, he’s already on the verge of emptying the contents of his stomach on the pavement. It’s held back by sheer will, if anything, or mortified petrification that renders him barely mobile enough to only breathe. Kade’s head dips, once, twice- something that can and should be miscontrued as a nod, in his attempt to do so, before he speaks hoarsely. “Five days… it’s long enough..”

“Good, five days. Or I will come for you. And I will make you understand Hell,” the creature informs Kade, before, all of a sudden, it burst, spreading a noxious smell of sulfur, as it turns into thousands and thousands of carrions flies, flying everywhere. Upon the man, on to the walls of the alleyway, into the sky, released and swarming. And with this momentary form of inflicting some faint form of torture upon its victim, it dissipates and disappears entirely. There’s no reflection, no more flies or insects, instead, the smell of rot and sulfur lingers, barely-there. The crack in the wall, of course, remains, but there’s no creature hiding there, no abomination blinking its many eyes. There’s nothing in the alley, not anymore, if there was anything there in the first place. The passerby and pedestrians keep wandering forth, only sparing Kade a passing glance. Some do give him, a particularly strange and knowing look, offering a devilish smile… and there’s this eerie feeling that he’s being watched, but other than that, nothing else. Nothing discernable. Nothing that seems… grounded in reality, or real.

Not even a second after the abomination explodes into that amalgamated mass of carrion, disappears from view and leaves the remnant lingering taste and scent of sulphur and rot- Kade turns away. Scrambles to the edge of the nearest garbage container to throw open the hinge. It cracks against the wall, damn near embeds itself into it with the force with which he shoved it open and then promptly shoves his head inside, too, to do what he couldn’t.

After a moment of disgrace, full of hurling and nothing but, Kade withdraws on unsteady legs. Wipes the corner of his mouth with his sleeve and shambles to the wall. Takes support from it to start hauling himself away. “Fuck- fuck, fuck, fuck..” He repeats through grit teeth, and looks sicker than a mangy dog while making every effort to vacate the area.

Date: 2026-10-01 10:54

---

(Karma’s odd encounter (SRSly))

[Thu Oct 1 2026]

In Blackrose Cafe
Large columns support the high ceiling which has a large stained glass roof that, in the day time at least, dapples the small cafe below in shades of rosy reds, greens and dark gray shadows. Each of the black painted columns are ornamented with leafy vines that wind their way around them. The walls are covered from ceiling down with crimson lake hued wallpaper, embossed in a subtle raised pattern of more of the blooms that lend the shop its name. From roughly head height the wallpaper gives way to darkly stained wood panelling which then gives way to similar dark hard wood floors. In the center of the room is a circular counter, inside of which serves as the hub for the little cafe that offers patrons a place to sit and read while snacking or sipping on some coffee or tea.

It is morning, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds.

The lazy morning slips away like a frat boy from a fresher’s dorm. Soon the light turns to dark, as Karma immerses herself in the works of Edgar Allen Poe.

She may have had plans for the day, matters to see to, but if she’d set an alarm, she must’ve missed it. How does one while away an entire day in a book shop without noticing? The staff have already locked the doors, and the window pane beside her has had enough time to evaporate morning dew and gather evening frost.

Above her, just as she’s starting to notice how late’s it’s gotten, the eyes of a raven appear to be watching intently.

Karma’s Tell Tale Heart-painted nail rests beneath the passage where Madeline stands bloodied in the doorway, having clawed her way out of the tomb. “You heard her for days,” she murmurs, brows drawing together. “And you just fucking sat there…”

She reaches absently for her cup, then pauses, realizing the natural light of the morning has long since given way to the encroaching dark of evening. Her gaze lifts from the page and drifts across the empty tables, the locked door, before catching on a silhouette between the columns.

Something stands crooked in the shadows. A shoulder hangs too low; its head dangling against a snapped vertebral column in its neck that couldn’t hold it that way. Rotten flesh pulls around a mouth she almost recognizes.

Her heart lurches in her throat, gaze dragged away and up to notice the eyes of a raven transfixed on her. “… Has payment for my sins finally come due, little guy?” she muses quiet, her book held against her chest in a white-knuckled grip, unwilling or unable to fully sort through what is her own mental maladies and grim reality, as it all bleeds together in her tired mind. “… Fair, I guess.”

The Raven tilts its oily black head. It slowly blinks its beady black eyes. It opens its beak to caw, and …

Quoth the Raven, “Karma? Are you alright?”

A familiar face lingers nearby, not one of the deceased, but the mousy blonde student Karma sometimes runs into here at the book store. An expression of concern briefly flickers in her expression as she studies the Swann intently; then it flickers again, and her blue eyes darken, revealing the feathered face of the Raven once more. “Caw, caw!” It menacingly flaps its wings, hovering by her shoulder.

Karma’s lips part softly, an answer half-formed before the blonde’s face gives way to feathers and a menacing caw. She leans back at the flap of wings, unfocused eyes widening, her book still open beneath one hand. She can only stare for a painfully long moment.

“Okay,” she murmurs. “You were a girl a second ago,” she reasons, eyes following the raven beside her shoulder, brows slowly knitting. “Or you’re still a girl and my brain’s just… fucking rotting.”

She glances down at Poe, then back up. “Am I seeing you because I’m reading this, or did I pick this because… something’s already wrong?” A small, uncertain laugh breaks into a half-choked sob, twisted emotion clawing itself up until her throat burns. “… That’s a really fucking annoying question, actually.”

“I … you’re really starting to scare me,” comes that familiar voice from somewhere near Karma’s ear. A bubbling of nervous laughter rises to meet her own, but the shop remains dark, and now the girl is nowhere to be seen. A soft scratching sound can be heard in one corner of the shop, shifting to another, and sounding like it’s coming from somewhere underneath. The source reveals itself when a floorboard shift, and up claws a feminine, shrivelled hand.

“You know why you’re here,” a deeper and more ominous voice echoes to Karma from the dark. “You know what you did — to who you did it. You know what you are.” A prolonged hiss echoes before a damning conclusion arrives, “You don’t belong here. Here, with the day people.”

Karma draws her sneakered feet beneath her chair when a hands suddenly claw through the floor, the book slipping shut in her lap, nearly forgotten. “I-I’m scaring -you-?” she echoes on the warble of a broken laugh, incredulous, twisting toward the voice resounding at her ear.

Her stomach twists itself into a knot of apprehension, quiet terror, and anger until the burn of bile licks at her throat. “Which one?” The question slips out before she can reconcile with it, nails catching beneath the book’s cover. “… If you know so fucking much, then…” Unshed tears burn at her lashline, green eyes squeezing themselves closed with a desperate breath dragged in through her nose. “… Don’t make me guess.”

“Did you take something? Shit …” The concerned sounding voice grows increasingly distant, as though Karma were hearing it played back from an old recording. The second voice, colder yet lacking in kindness, answers her on the heel of a peal of thunder and in the window outside. “Shall we count the ways?” it asks. The feeling of an ice cold hand pushes itself down on her chest, pressing her deeper into the chair. “We would weigh your soul if you had one; here, at least, you do not. It’s stored away somewhere, Karma Swann. Do you know where?”

“Karma? Karma! I’m calling someone!” comes a panicked susurrus from somewhere above her.

Karma presses a palm against her chest, fingers bunching in the fabric of her t-shirt, as she struggles to sit forward. “N-No… Not…” The answer catches on a shallow breath, the hammer of her own heart a painful affair beneath her rib, but she doesn’t struggle as much.

Deeper and deeper she sinks, her gaze dropped slowly to her own hand, as though she might find something missing beneath it. “… Doesn’t make sense,” she decides quietly. “I don’t… I don’t know…” Her sneakers scrape against the floor as a leg shifts, trying to push herself upright again, head spinning.

“The sooner you accept it, the better.”

It’s no longer clear whose voice is speaking to Karma, or from where. The light hitting her pupils feels painfully bright, even though moments prior she’d found herself adrift in the evening lull.

“You don’t belong here, Karmelita Swann. You’re not one of them. You’re …” A word is whispered to her, but it’s hard to hear, emanating in a soft, constrained choke. As darkness floods her vision again, it reveals the oily feathers of the Raven perched above her, shaking its head in a circle, side-to-side, and gazing intently into her eyes as it puffs up its plumage.

The girl is back, blue-eyed and furrowed brows. Accompanying her, a Greystone Clinician in a white coat, his hand firmly pressing her down as he shines a light in her eyes. “Can you hear me?” he asks. But she hears more than him.

The Raven’s whisper echoes in her ears. “Other, other, other, other.”

Karma stares past the light, pupils dilated, her unfocused gaze drifting across the clinician’s face as tears drain down her cheeks. “… Dad,” her voice comes thin and hoarse, full of longing for her father.

Her eyes find the blonde for a moment before wandering above the clinician’s head. “… I don’t want to see you, Raven… Where’s my dad?” She swallows, struggling to bring him back into focus.

Perhaps the good news is that Karma didn’t lose the entire day. It was never night. But the bad news, “She’s having some kind of psychotic episode,” claims the Greystone Clinician. His tone is uncharacteristically soft, laced with genuine concern. And the worse news: Karma’s dad is not here. He won’t be coming back.

The girl from the book shop, our unsung hero, lets out another peal of nervous laughter as she observes the scene, but her misty eyes evoke relief. “Umm, Karma, I think Kevin Taylor was filming you at Blackrose? I don’t know if … if he thought maybe you were doing a bit, like for philosophy club?”

No one has the guts to answer her question about her father. They leave it up to her brain to catch up.

Karma em blinks at the girl, her gaze catching at last. “Kevin was filming?” She scrubs her wet cheeks with her sleeve, looking past the clinician toward the other tables. “No, I just” She struggles to her feet, clutching the book against her chest before turning its cover outward.

“I fell asleep. I was reading Poe and dreamed I was in it.” A laugh catches in her throat, she forces the rest out, waving the book. “Fucking metal as hell. Very immersive. Wouldn’t recommend.”

She stuffs it into her bag with fumbling hands. “I’m fine. Thanks. Seriously.” Already edging around the chair, she nearly catches her sneaker on its leg, rights herself, and hurries toward the door.

Date: 2026-10-31 19:32

---

(Katalin’s odd encounter (SRConcepcion))

[Sat Oct 31 2026]

In Room Six of Vesper House
Almost nothing in this room was bought new. A double bed with a black iron frame sits beneath the south window, made up in violet sheets, a thrifted patchwork quilt and far too many pillows. A heavy curtain stays drawn across the glass even in daylight, so the room runs on lamplight and the blue glow of screens. A clip-on grow light hangs over a row of plants crowding the sill, and a music stand waits in the corner nearest the bed, a pencil balanced on its ledge.

The rest of the room belongs to the desk. Two monitors that don’t match, one propped up on a dictionary, sit above a sticker-covered ThinkPad with keys worn shiny. Around them lies work at every stage of being finished: a phone opened face-down on a silicone mat with its screws lined up in order, a breadboard trailing jumper wires, a soldering iron cooling in its stand. Overdue library books and old leather notebooks are stacked wherever there is room. Cables snake across the floor from a single overloaded power strip, and the air smells of rosin, solder flux and cold coffee.

It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky. There is a waning gibbous moon.

Katalin is sitting on her bed, looking at her new phone and trying to figure out how everything works. She sighs, bringing her feet up onto the bed and laying back, looking up to the ceiling as she just lets her mind wander.

As Katalin lies there on the bed messing around with that brand new electronic device that undoubtedly has some flashy features, an inexplicable though begins to intrude that mind that now begins to wander. “Beige isn’t yellow.” Those words are so clear in the woman’s mind, like they were her own words being spoken, but not aloud. The tone itself suggests that any reasonable person would understand that claim.

For a few minutes, life returns to normal, or however normal someone will have it be, after the fact that something was saying something in her head that sounded like herself. But then there’s another thought, and it’s stating, “And neither is chartreuse for that matter!” That thought comes in like a rebuttal. Actually, not just a rebuttal but stated in a way that would suggest an insult of the highest order is being given.

As Katalin lies there on the bed messing around with that brand new electronic device that undoubtedly has some flashy features, an inexplicable though begins to intrude that mind that now begins to wander. “Beige isn’t yellow.” Those words are so clear in the woman’s mind, like they were her own words being spoken, but not aloud. The tone itself suggests that any reasonable person would understand that claim.

For a few minutes, life returns to normal, or however normal Katalin will have it be, after the fact that something was saying something in her head that sounded like herself. But then there’s another thought, and it’s stating, “And neither is chartreuse for that matter!” That thought comes in like a rebuttal. Actually, not just a rebuttal but stated in a way that would suggest an insult of the highest order is being given.

‘The heck?’ Katalin sits up in her bed, blinking a few times to make sure she wasn’t dreaming, was this related to earlier today? When she was turned into a literal cat by some weirdo and made to solve riddles? Today has just been one whole steaming pile of confusion. In her mind Katalin straight up tells herself to “Shut the hell up.” Crashing her head back down onto the bed, hugging her pillow, just assuming her brain is still recovering from being a cat. She says aloud, “Can’t even leave myself alone…”

Yes, ‘The heck?’ is an acceptable response to what is going on, but the instruction to ‘shut up’ is either not taken seriously, or not heard because, “The sheer arrogance of that man…” enters the poor literally-was-a-cat-earlier’s mind. Wandering thoughts are no longer a thing in Katalin’s brain most likely, but if they are, they are entwining with these new, very straightforward ones. The more those thoughts are processed, the more obvious it probably becomes that this is not normal and absolutely should not be occurring. They do not belong to this woman, and yet there they are, existing as hers. “Confusing a colour with a shade and then, pfft, he actually has the audacity to lecture me about the difference. As if I am the problem here!” Irritation comes through to the point that is it palpable for Katalin, even though there really should not be any reason for her to feel it. Does she even have any recollection of a man who might have offended her so terribly by someone calling beige a shade of yellow?

Katalin is starting to get fed up with everything, her memory loss, the becoming a cat, and now a voice in her head, if anything she is getting irritated more by everything that has happened rather than this specific instance, but regardless, she has had it and shouts out, alone in her room, “S-s-shut up!! I… T-t-the color… the color doesn’t… FREAKING!! M-MATTER!! S-SO WHAT IF HE… IF… G-god… what does it matter… if it is f-freaking beige… yellow… or chart… cheer… charuse! S-shut up brain!!”

Katalin has to stand up, she paces around the room clutching at her hair, half wanting to rip it out. Everyone in the dorm probably heard her scream, even if they didn’t understand what she said. Katalin stops pacing and just looks out the window, pouting.

After Katalin raises her voice and shares her thoughts aloud on the matter, there is a brief reprieve from those unwelcome thoughts.

Ah, peace.

Perhaps Katalin did fall asleep, and those words were simply invading her dreams. Unfortunately, that is not what happened, and the voice returns. “You need to listen. On top of that, he had the gall to suggest that women are incapable of understanding scientific principles!” Indignation is one thing. Indignation paired with an irate yell in your head is blistering. It’s even more difficult when it is your own voice performing it all. “I have forgotten more about colour theory than that insufferable little man will ever know, and I still know so much.” A pause follows that proud claim once again before a question is posed, and to Katalin by her own voice. In her head. There is concern as whatever is inside of Katalin’s mind is now processing what was being yelled in the bedroom. “You do understand the differences between hue and saturation right? Don’t you?” This thought is a bit different than the others, as it is not merely an opinion or a recollection, but of a clearly traumatising chromatic catastrophe in which one individual’s complete inability to distinguish between beige and yellow was then surpassed by his confidence to mansplain both of them. Instead, this thought is focused on Katalin’s consciousness, like something has slipped inside of her. It really is unmistakable that these words are directed at the girl with the new phone, and there is a heaviness growing within her in some sort of unpleasant expectation that she really needs to answer, despite all of the previous shouts that this woman does not give a fudge.

Katalin groans into her hands, falling to the floor in a calculated collapse, annoyedly talking into her hands, “Hue is just t-t-the freaking colloooor… and saturation is just how puuurre it is!! A-and I’m telling you that it j-j-just DOESN’T MATTER!! Why are you so worked up about it?! Y-you know there are colorblind people! T-they don’t see some c-colors!! And g-guess what!! T-t-they live j-just fine!! It d-doesn’t matter!! It d-doesn’t freaking matter!”

Katalin talks to the voice in her head as if there were genuinely a person in the room she was talking with.

It seems to matter very much to whatever or whoever is possessing Katalin and dwelling within her form, focused on her mind. Inside of Katalin is a peculiar sensation. It is one of someone, inside of her (and not in an erotic way), reconsidering their approach after all of that protesting. “Oh, dear.” A gasp. “You really do not have the faintest idea of what I’m talking about, do you?” The tone softens and then it boarders on embarrassment. “I apologise. Truly. I was under the impression that you were listening to my argument with Samson just now.” Everything is still in Katalin’s voice. “My name is Agatha Baker, and I am trying to settle this matter, which is of considerable importance.”

There is this gentleman named Samson Siebert. You know him, right? We are at a dinner party at the Carmichael’s. It is Halloween, and us older folks gathered to escape the wee ones. Who wants to give candy to already energetic children? Not me. It is the year two thousand and twenty six. We have all kinds of alternatives to cancer causing agents. Anyway. Samson made these outrageous assertions, and I was in the middle of correcting him when–” Katalin’s voice cuts off in her mind for a moment. “Oh, how peculiar. I can’t remember what happened after that. But, anyway, I was saying that beige is not yellow. Wait. Where am I? Where are we? What is this place? Where did Samson and the others go?””

“I am in m-my room, y-you are in my head, I p-p-politely ask f-for you to please g-get the heck out of it.” Katalin flops over onto her back, her arms extended out to the sides of her as she stares up at the ceiling, Katalin answers “B-Beige is a shade of b-brown, that can look yellow in the right circumstances, does that make you h-happy? D-does this settle it for you? B-but brown is k-kinda j-just… like… a desaturated yellow/orange… s-so technically it is yellow? B-but really it is j-just… b-brown, s-s-so there… p-problem solved… g-get out of my h-head and leave m-me to r-rest…” Katalin moves to put her hands over her ears, she knows it won’t do anything, but it makes her feel better.

Despite Katalin’s best efforts, her explanation does not appease this entity. Unease is now dwelling in Katalin’s mind, along with this apparently very new Ghost of Halloween Present. “No. No, no, no, that’s not right.” It is said in response to Katalin. There is no way this could be a young woman’s bedroom. Could it? The state of denial. What a place that is.

“I remember that I stood up, Samson was smiling at me making that stupid face with that ugly mug of his. Insufferable. I was… I was…” A few more seconds are needed for the voice to be recalling what happened. “I was about to explain how saturation concerns the intensity of a colour, but not its hue. It is such a simple, simple distinction, and even a child spazzing out on candy could understand it, but not Mister Siebler.” A sensation of pressure begins to be felt in Katalin’s head. Then there is a terrible pain. It could all be a hallucination. All of this could be. Did Katalin drink anything that someone could have spiked? Who knows. This ghost doesn’t. “As I opened my mouth, I couldn’t speak. I tried. I kept trying! My legs gave out from under me, and… the carpet. I can see the carpet now. It’s such an ugly carpet. I tried to convince Mildred to go with beige…” Perhaps that was what sparked this great debate. “She chose burgundy if you must know, which was popular in the early nineteen nineties. Not red. Burgundy.” The sheer horror if it all. Another pause is had, giving Katalin a short break once again, but then her voice starts back up. “People started shouting. Someone said they were calling nine one one. Someone knelt down beside me. Oh. It was Samson. I could hear him saying my name repeatedly, but I couldn’t answer.” And then the terrible realisation hits, and it floods Katalin’s body as if she herself were realising: “Good heavens, I died, didn’t I?!”

The ghost is so stressed out she keeps changing Samson’s last name, it seems.

Katalin gets on her knees and curls into a ball, much like how one would get into a duck and cover position except instead of covering the neck she covers her head. Katalin feels like she is going insane, she can’t live like this. “YES YOU DIED!! YOU DIED!! YOU DIED AND ARE IN MY HEAD PLEASE MAKE YOUR WAY TO THE EXIT AND GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY HEAD GET OUT OF MY HEAD!! YOU WERE NOT INVITED!! PLEASE LEAVE!! YOU ARE GOING TO DRIVE ME INSANE!! I DO NOT CARE ABOUT YOUR PETTY SQUABBLE, YOUR COLOR THEORY!! YOUR STUPID CARPET BURGUNDY CHEEERUSE SIEBLING WIEBLER!! FOR ALL THAT IS HOLY PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF THE LORD:
GET
THE
FUCK
OUUUUUUUUT!!!” Katalin is losing it, losing her marbles, thrown into such desperation her nervous stutter has disappeared.

Katalin should have known better that “@line” doesn’t work in quotations

The voice is still going on alongside a near mental breakdown. She’d have another heart attack if she could. The ghost, that is. emote The way Katalin is reacting certainly isn’t the way soothe and calm down a ghost who is realising they died probably not even an hour ago “I’m dead! I’m actually dead!” With this realisation comes a huge wave of distress that even threatens Katalin’s own emotions. It is screaming in Katalin’s head.

“And I never got to finish my argument!”

Apparently, not getting the last word in is the more distressing revelation for the recently deceased who now dwells inside of Katalin.

“That miserable little Samson Silberstein.” Yet another surname is used. Perhaps dementia played a large part in her later years. “He probably thinks that he won! I can imagine it. Oh, it’s terrible. He is probably sitting there right now so proud of himself and how he can now claim that he argued a woman into an early grave! I’m only ninety-two!” Determined, she begins to instruct Katalin through Katalin’s own voice within her head, per usual — at least for tonight it is usual.

“Listen!” Katalin is yelling at herself in her own head, or at least it sounds like that, which probably doesn’t help her mental state at the moment. “I need you to calm down!” Because telling someone who is freaking out to calm down always goes over very well. “Log into a personal computer and go to yahoo dot com,” the website address is expressed slowly with very strong enunciation so that Katalin doesn’t get it wrong, and is probably exactly the way someone spoke those very words to her once upon a time, “and then you’ll have to… Oh, for heaven’s sake. What do they call them? Those little secret words you have to give the computer before it lets you read your electronic correspondence? The electronic identification particulars.” Also known as credentials. “We need to find him in my electronic mail phone book. You do have a personal computer, right? My great great grandson has three for some reason. One of them is called an eck box or something like that, and it terrifies me. This computer lets you shoot people!” She moves back to the emergency situation at hand, “Surely you have at least one. Anyway, we need to get the last word in.” It seems this ghost will not find her peace and leave to rest until she ‘wins’ the great Beige is Not Yellow argument.

“Fine! I already know his number! Look! Obviously it is 7104004! Everyone knows Mister Silgerbend!! Tell me what do you want me to text him! And I’ll block him RIGHT afterwards so he can’t ever respond and get another word in! Tell me! What do you want me to text him!” Katalin hopes the dementia ridden grandma doesn’t think too hard about it, Katalin is just going to pull anything out of her ass at this point to get this woman to rest in peace.

Katalin emphatically shows her phone to herself, and indirectly the grandma

Texting. This ghost, when she was a human, never did own one of those terrible things that could perform such tasks. Perhaps she would have, except that 5G rolled out. The internet warned her about the awful intents of the people who invented it. Texting. That new phone is seen, and since she doesn’t have to worry about brainwashing or cancer anymore, she seems to consider this a viable option.

“Is it his number?” It’s not like she would know. Her memory is not that great. And she just died, so that is probably also affecting her thought process. Just a tad overwhelmed by it all. That’s all. “Now, type in this: Dear Mister Segal, You insufferable intellectually bankrupt poor excuse for a man! Beige is NOT yellow, and it is actually hue that determines the family of colour itself. Saturation on the other hand describes its intensity. Do not ever reduce the saturation of yellow and declare that it is beige again or vice versa. You pompous ignoramus! ALSO your assertion that women are incapable of understanding science and its principles? Sir! That is rich coming from a man who cannot distinguish between what is beige and what is yellow! I was RIGHT and you were WRONG. The fact that I suffered a fatal medical emergency before I could explain this to you absolutely does not constitute a victory for you, sir! Although you may have gotten the last word in at the Carmichaels’ dinner party, you will NOT have it now. Good evening, Samson Siegal. This conversation is OVER. Pee ess, the carpet was burgundy and not red you fool. Sincerely, Agatha Baker.”

All of that is expected to be relayed to that phone number Katalin likely made up.

“Okay! You see this?!” Katalin points to one of the symbols at the rop right of her phone, the bars. “You see this?! This means It is going straight to him, direct connection! And you see this right here?!” Katalin points to the wifi symbol, “This means he CAN’T respond back no matter what!! And by law he is legally required to read what I am typing to him.”

And so she types into her notes app, the title of the note being 7104004.

“Dear Mister Senegal, you absolutely intolerable piece of fecal matter that has sat underneath the sun for a week as a magnifying glass concentrated it onto a single point until it caught aflame. Beige is ABSOLUTELY NOT YELLOW, the HUE determines the family of the color, SATURATION is the intensity. I swear to the lord above if you ever, and I mean E V E R, reduce the SATURATION of yellow and declare it is BEIGE, or BEIGE is YELLOW, I will crawl from my grave and personally drag you back into the grave with me. It would be ABSOLUTELY your fault because I died because of YOUR stupidity, your IGNORANCE. God looks down on you and declares you a MISTAKE, and I KNOW, OHHHH I KNOW because I just spoke to him right now, and I’m sorry to say you are going to hell. UNLESS you CONCEDE that BEIGE is NOT YELLOW. IF YOU SHAN’T, CARMICHAELS’ will NOT be the LAST PLACE you SEE ME, because when the trumpets sound, I swear I will take you down with my OWN HANDS and soak the carpet RED with your PUTRID BLOOD. SIR SIMPSON SOPRANO, I BID YOU GOOD DAY and a BAD LIFE. Sincerely, Agatha Baker.” Katalin sighs as she finishes her ‘message’

“It is done, he saw this message in front of his eyes in real time, burned into his retinas, the FBI has that technology now. And so for the rest of his days, when he closes his eyes- EVERY TIME HE BLINKS!!! – He shall see this message, and remember what a fool he was.”

Anticipation can be felt inside of Katalin’s mind as the ghost carefully watches through the woman’s eyes and hears all of those not exactly true words, taking in that screen with the belief of a child whose mother is telling them that Santa Clause came down the chimney, ate the cookies and drank the milk, and left the present that are under the tree. As some artistic liberties are taken, the ghost seems to approve. “Oh that’s good. I will crawl from my grave. You are correct. You are a wise girl. This sounds like something my great great grandson would play on his eck box computer. Horror genre? I think?” That would certainly be a strange video game…

“Did you send it? Did he receive? Oh! I really wish I could see that fool’s face!” Her excitement is so strong. It’s also probably the first time Agatha ever wanted to see Samson’s face as it didn’t sound like they particularly liked each other’s company. There is satisfaction now, just pure and unadulterated. “Well! There we have it. I suppose this settles the matter.” Relief now floods through Katalin’s mind. The burden that Katalin never knew herself but was still carrying now begins to lift, and then it is gone. Almost. “And he cannot respond once you block him, right? Not even if he tries? Marvellous. Absolutely marvellous. What a wonderful invention, and I honestly wish I had known about this blocking business years ago. Thank you Jesus for the eff bee eye!” Silence follows. For the first time since this whole ordeal began in Katalin’s bedroom and inside of her head, the silence is actually peaceful, but the ghost is not yet gone and breaks that silence once more.

“You know, deary, I believe I feel better now. I feel…” Warmth spreads through Katalin’s consciousness suddenly. “Oh goodness! Heavens! I think I’m going somewhere.” As the ghost’s presence diminishes, so does any leftover irritation, that indignation, and the truly inexplicable conviction over the belief that beige is absolutely not yellow. At all. “Thank you…” The voice grows fainter, and then it is almost entirely faded, except there is one last claim. It is the same claim still.

“BEIGE IS NOT YELLOW!”

After that, Agatha Baker is gone. Now, Katalin’s thoughts belong entirely to her. Hopefully this young woman’s night will improve. It certainly cannot get any worse. Can it?

Katalin says “I hate S-Simpson Soprano…”

Date: 2026-10-31 16:10

---

(Katalin’s odd encounter (SRHiram))

[Sat Oct 31 2026]

In Room Four of Vesper House
College-issued furniture has been crowded into the bedroom and dressed up in pale pink, ivory, and lilac, gauzy white curtains framing the southern window. Pink and blue lighting washes over midnight blue walls, where horror posters and vinyl sleeves share space with a faded Honda racing print and silver Theta Nu Rho pennants. Glossy fashion cutouts fill the gaps, several models sporting little mustaches drawn in black marker. Around a crooked gold-framed Sacred Heart print, photo strips capture myriad moments in candid frames, while a string of pearls hangs off a full-length mirror arranged by the door. A miniature basketball hoop hangs over the back of it, its backboard plastered with glo stickers.

Around a crooked gold-framed Sacred Heart print, photo strips capture myriad moments in candid frames, while a string of pearls hangs off a full-length mirror arranged by the door. A miniature basketball hoop hangs over the back of it, its backboard plastered with glo stickers.

It is afternoon, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky.

Thanks for accepting my encounter! Please give a pose on what you were doing and we will go from there.

Katalin was laying in her bed, doing nothing in particular, staring at the wall, thinking about all the vast amounts of information she has been taught over the past few days. So much to learn and so little she knows, let alone understand. The poor girl can barely handle it.

Katalin until suddenly she… isn’t in her bed? When did she get in here?

It is shortly before a quarter past four on the Greystone campus, Katalin is relaxing on her bed in Room for of Vesper House and all seems right with the world. Just a usual Halloween afternoon before the parties begin.

After a moment, however, the cat bell on Katalin’s collar starts to feel warm to the touch. Not painful, but definitely not the cool metal it was a moment ago.

Katalin doesn’t notice it at first, but her hand brushes up against it as she adjusted herself in her bed and it drew her attention. Did her body warmth travel through the leather and make the bell warm? Had the sun been shining in on it? Is the bell just naturally warm? Katalin was perplexed, she had nothing better to do so she started to fiddle with it, rolling it between her fingers.

As Katalin starts to feel the bell with her fingers, it starts to feel different, bigger in her hand somehow. Soon the bell is incredibly hot, not enough to burn her mind you, but hot enough to indicate something supernatural is happening. A moment later an intense wave of nausea hits Katalin and she blacks out, if only for a moment.

When she comes to, there is something off about how she feels.

Katalin awakes, groaning reaching up with her hand to her head, “Uuuughh…” She just sinks further into her bed (If that is where she still is) and tries to figure out what just happened. She remembers the bell, looking down to it, and tapping it to see if it is still hot, or if it has indeed grown.

When Katalin’s hand, or rather paw, touches her head it very fuzzy. A quick glance around at her body would reveal that Katalin, has indeed, become a cat. A very fluffy orangeish red tabby with a full wavy coat and amber eyes.

Katalin does what one would expect from a freaked out cat, her legs going out, her eyes going wide, her ears pinning back and her tail going puffy, she starts to sprint around the room her, “What the HECK?!! WHAT THE HECK?!!” turned into “MRAAAAAAOWW!! MRAAAAAOOOW!!”

after a few sprints around the room she gets back up on the bed and crawls her way underneath the blankets.

And so Katalin is nice and warm under the covers, still very much turned into a cat in her dorm room. Perhaps there is someone that will hear the meowing, or someone that she lives with that will be in soon to check in on her?

If there isn’t, her phone, and clothes, are still piled up on the bed. Maybe there is something there that can help with this predicament.

KatalinKatalin cautiously crawls out from under the blankets, sniffing at her phone and the clothes, she apparently has an entire stack of pancakes with sausage and hashbrowns hidden in there, to which she quickly eats one of the sausage links. She looks back to her phone, letting out a “Mrrrrp…” and uses her paws and mouth to open it. Her phone has no sort of password or anything, thank the lord, but who is to say she even has anything within it that will help her.

“MRaaaaaaoowWW!”

After a moment there is a short brisk chuckle at the window as a man appears, stepping out of the shadows. “Well, well, well,” he says eying the kitty cat. Or Katy Kat? “I didn’t expect it to work so quickly. Hexes to transmute College students are notoriously fincky given….” He gestures wildly before finding a seat at the school desk and crossing his legs at the knee. “You weren’t, exactly, the one I wanted but you were half cat anyway. How are you feeling Miss….” the man with purple tinted grey hair stops and looks around, having not actually even bothered to learn the name of the person he was invading and transforming into wildlife, “Oh right. You can’t answer nor to I particularly care.”

“MRaaaaaaaoww MgAAOWW!! MAAaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAowWW!” Katalin voices her displeasure, arching her back on the bed to look /reeeeeaaaaaal/ big, growling towards the man. Katalin isn’t stupid, she is a feline and he is an entire man, she stands no chance against him, but she still puffs out her… tail, and her slitted amber eyes stare claws at the man.

“Hisssssssssss-”

“Yeah yeah, I know, kitty cat has sharp claws,” the man says before looking at here longer. “Do you have big orange cat energy? I don’t know….” He squints, “I like black cats personally. Aloof and….” He gestures vaguely again, before continuing, “Anyway Let’s play a game! I like games. Do you like games? I hope you like games. Riddles! Answer three riddles and I will turn you back human. Fail to answer them correctly and I will trap you as a cat for all eternity, take you to the Golden City and sell you to the highest bidder so that I can buy a black cat.”

Katalin continues to growl, occasionally hissing, she loafs on the bed, maintaining her alert stare, her tail thumping behind her, she really has no choice here.

The man claps his hands excitedly, “Excellent! First one: I walk without a sound, with velvet paws upon the ground, I chase the things that cannot flee, yet sometimes run from what I see. What am I?” He finishes then stares intently at Katalin with his bright blue eyes, hanging on every hiss and meow.

Katalin responds with an emphatic “MEOOWWWWWWWWWWWW” and she suddenly starts to bathe herself with her tongue, if the man asked these questions without being unable to understand what a cat is saying, it would be quite foolish of him.

“Hisssssssssss”

“I am disappointed,” the man says with a scowl. “Not even trying to answer such an obvious riddle. Why you would be trapped for all time if you don’t play along.” He shakes his head, “Another then!

I have whiskers but no beard,
I have claws but am not feared.
I love a box that’s much too small,
And somehow think I own it all.
What am I?”

“I am disappointed,” the man says with a scowl. “Not even trying to answer such an obvious riddle. Why you would be trapped for all time if you don’t play along.” He shakes his head, “Another then!”

“I have whiskers but no beard,”
“I have claws but am not feared.”
“I love a box that’s much too small,”
“And somehow think I own it all.”
“What am I?”

Katalin goes back over to her phone, using her paws to type in the word

“CAT” into her notes app, it takes many backspaces, but eventually she is able to spell the three letter word with her feeble form, to which she then bats the phone off of the bed onto the floor. She jumps down, taking the phone into her mouth, and dropping it at the foot of the man, to which she then looks up to him and once more release a powerful,

“MaaaaAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAOwwWWWWW”

The man claps excitedly as Katalin decides to play along with his games, truly excited with this whole encounter. “Excellent! Excellent! Alright, one more then I will turn you back but I promise it will be increadibly painful, all of those bones popping and growing and what not.” He rubs his hands together excitedly, “What is black and white and red all over?”

Katalin growls as she now has to type out an extremely long word, it takes at least two minutes, but feels like twenty, but eventually, after many internal tears and obligatory hisses at the man, the word on her phone screen clearly reads out,

“Newspaper”

Katalin had had the word “NeeEwwpaper” and “newPapr”, of which could both probably be deciphered to mean ‘newspaper’, but she wasn’t taking any chances, and with one final “HISSSS” she takes a step back away from the phone, ready to give this man some absolutely wicked cat scratches if he tries to play her.

“I would have also accepted sun burned penguin,” The man with the silvery purple hair says before reaching out and grabbing Katalin by the kitty off button, or the back of the neck. If she tries to scratch at him he doesn’t flinch despite his slender form. “Well I guess a promise is a promise….”

With that he stares deep into her eyes almost swallowing her soul with his own, lulling her in until she blacks out once more. When she awakes, she is back in her dorm room… naked but in human form though she does have an inexplicable craving for tuna.

Katalin says “MGAAOOW- Ougghhh F-fUuucckckk”

OOC: Thank you again for accepting my encounter. I hope you had fun. If you want, I can summon you to Greystone.

Katalin crawls back onto her bed, lazily slipping back on her clothes, and going back to sleep.

Katalin OOC: Sure.

Katalin OOC: Was fun!

Date: 2026-10-11 18:07

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(Lacey’s odd encounter (SRAdrian))

[Sun Oct 11 2026]

In a cozy trailer living room
The living room is small but comfortable, pieced together from things acquired at different times and somehow made to work. A worn couch occupies most of one wall, softened with mismatched cushions and a faded throw draped over the roughest patch of upholstery. Across from it, a questionably obtained flatscreen hangs above a narrow secondhand console crowded with candles, framed photographs, cheap little trinkets, and a glass dish collecting keys and loose change. A battered coffee table sits in the middle of the room, usually holding a couple of remotes, an old coaster, and a magazine or two. Touches of burgundy, muted green, and tarnished gold give the place some color, while a thrifted lamp provides warmer light than the harsh overhead fixture. Nothing quite matches and plenty of it has been repaired at least once, but the floors stay swept, the clutter is kept under control, and the whole place has been made considerably prettier than its contents probably cost.

It is dusk, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It’s raining outside.

Lacey spends the rainy day poking at her computer with a very hunt-and-peck strategy, tongue poked out one side of her mouth in concentration.

Indeed, the right continues to come down raining cats and dogs, also who knows what in this town of Haven. Lightning crackles in the distance, sending rolling waves of thunder rattling the glass. What a good evening to stay in. Already it is feeling pretty dark out with the heavy cloud cover. Perhaps it will be a good evening to curl up in a blanket and just leave the dampness outside. Of course, this is the town of Haven, it is never that simple. BOOM BOOM BOOM! At first, it might be taken as thunder, but the pattern to it, it is done by an intelligent source. It sounds like someone is pounding hard on the door of the trailer. If the door isn’t reinforced (who wouldn’t do that in Haven though?) it would likely break the poor trailer door down. Which guardian flamingo was on duty today???

Lacey HAD had been perfectly content curled up in front of the computer, a blanket over her legs and something terrible playing on the television, when the pounding nearly sends her drink into her lap. “Jesus Christ…” She stares toward the door, then reluctantly untangles herself from the blanket. “If that’s somebody selling something, I’m gonna be so fucking impressed with their dedication.” Another glance at the door has her reaching for the nearest thing she could reasonably defend herself with, though she makes no immediate move to open it. “Who is it? And before you answer, if you’re here to murder me, I’m gonna need you to come back when the weather’s better.”

The pounding on the door continues, but it doesn’t sound as menacing as one might think. Instead it sounds more frantic and panicked. The rumbling thunder of the evening storm partly drowns out a voice outside, it seems to be quickly rambling on about something. Rumble rumble ‘claws’ rumble rumble. It is hard to make out, but then it raises up, the voice yells out, “HELP ME!!!” And then of course, pounding continues.

The unmistakable cry for help wipes most of the amusement from Lacey’s face. “Claws?” she repeats, glancing toward the door. “Oh, that’s a fantastic word to hear through a locked door in Haven.” She sets her drink aside and approaches, careful to stay out of the doorway itself as she reaches for the lock. “Okay! Okay, I’m opening it! But if something with claws is chasing you, I’d really appreciate you mentioning how close it is.” She draws the door open just enough to get a look outside, keeping one hand firmly on its edge.

Of course, it seems like there is no heed on Lacey’s words as she tells the person on the other side the ground rules. There is a sudden burst of force against the door as someone tries to get through the door. However, Lacey is sufficiently strong to keep the door where it is. It is a young man on the other side of the door, he just bounces off the door, stumbling back and falls off Lacey’s porch, but first into the dirt out front… or rather mud now. Probably leaving a muddy smudge in Lacey’s lawn. He quickly scrambles to his feet and heads back towards the door, “Please! Let me in! HELLP!” There is no sign at all of anything with claws out there though. Not any real indication of any source of living soul out there at all. Just Lacey’s flamingos. Maybe they were doing their job and attacked the young man? Perhaps… Perhaps…

Bracing herself against the door as the man throws his weight into it, Lacey’s brows shoot upwards when he promptly bounces backward and disappears off the porch. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Her eyes roll to the back of her head as she leans out just far enough to watch him scramble out of the mud, then casts a quick look over the yard. Nothing. Just rain, darkness, and a few plastic flamingos who are apparently taking their security responsibilities very seriously. “Okay, first of all, you can’t just charge somebody’s front door!” She pulls it open wider, stepping aside to give him room. “Get in here. Quickly. And try not to bring the entire yard with you.” Her gaze lingers on the darkness beyond him. “What the hell is chasing you?”

The panicked man bursts through the doorway like a rushing cat might squeeze though any offered opening to get into a room they aren’t supposed to, except in this case, he was invited in. He looks back at the door like he expects something to burst through it behind him. Breathing heavy, dripping water and mud all over Lacey’s floor, he starts to tell his tale. “I… I… I was in the woods. I dropped my phone…. There was a little…. Monster? That can’t be right, monsters aren’t real… But it was a monster. It was a little man… Except he was a lizard and he chased me and tried to cut me with his claws. I need to tell someone… The police? No.. I need to go to the press… Maybe the internet? People need to know. They need to go get it!”

(repost) The panicked man bursts through the doorway like a rushing cat might squeeze though any offered opening to get into a room they aren’t supposed to, except in this case, he was invited in. He looks back at the door like he expects something to burst through it behind him. Breathing heavy, dripping water and mud all over Lacey’s floor, he starts to tell his tale. “I… I… I was in the woods. I dropped my phone…. There was a little…. Monster? That can’t be right, monsters aren’t real… But it was a monster. It was a little man… Except he was a lizard and he chased me and tried to cut me with his claws. I need to tell someone… The police? No.. I need to go to the press… Maybe the internet? People need to know. They need to go get it!”

Lacey shuts the door behind him, throwing the lock before looking down at the muddy footprints spreading across her floor. “Well, that’s gonna be fun to clean.” She retrieves an old towel and holds it out to him, listening as his story takes an increasingly interesting turn. “Okay, so you met a little lizard man with claws in the woods, and your first thought after surviving was to put him on the internet?” One brow lifts. “Honey, I admire the ambition, and certainly the questionable decision making, but maybe we figure out whether you’re bleeding before you start your press tour.” She gestures toward a chair, then glances at the door. “And how little are we talking? Like, toddler-sized? Or could I reasonably punt him if he shows up?”

The man takes the towel without much thought and starts wiping his face off which is covered in rain and mud, if Lacey wanted him to clean up the mess he is making, that message never made it to his brain. The man answers her questions as he shakes his head slowly, “Bigger than a toddler I guess, it came about to my waist. It was an… evil evil little thing! It isn’t supposed to be real, but it is! The government needs to send like troops and they need to hunt it down and kill it. Like take it to a lab or something.”

Lacey watches him use the towel on his face while muddy water continues dripping onto her floor. “Great. The towel’s working hard. Shame it’s the only one of you making an effort.” She grabs another towel and drops it near his feet before considering his description. “Waist-high. Okay, so punting is still on the table, but I might need a running start.” Her brows rise at the mention of government troops. “You want the military to come to Haven because a lizard with anger issues chased you through the woods?” She pauses, looking almost thoughtful. “Actually, no, I’d pay good money to watch somebody explain that requisition.” A faint smile tugs at her mouth. “And just so we’re clear, are we killing it or taking it to a lab? Because those are two very different field trips.”

“We? I am not going anywhere near anything. I just am trying to figure out where I can get help.” The young man says, before declaring, “They will probably send Seal Team six on this one. Or do you think the X-Files are real? Like send some FBI agents? I don’t know, I never met storybook monsters before. None of this is supposed to be real, but the government has to know. It probably is a cover up like Roswell.” The man starts pacing, poor Lacey’s floor as the young man spreads around the mud and water without putting any mind to it as his panicked mind scrambles through ideas to a solution to his problem. Either way, it probably won’t go well for him. Breaching the understanding always comes with a heavy price.

Following the muddy footprints with considerably more interest than the man’s government conspiracy theories, Lacey murmurs, “Mhm. SEAL Team Six. Mulder and Scully. Maybe the Men in Black if everybody else’s busy.” She folds her arms, considering him for a moment before a rather unfortunate idea begins to take shape. “Actually, you know what? I might know a shortcut.”

Her expression brightens. “See, calling the police means paperwork, and the FBI’s probably gonna want proof. But there’s an old trail through the western woods that cuts right around to where you can get some help. Much faster than waiting for somebody to believe you.” She glances down at another muddy footprint. “And you wouldn’t even have to go back the way you came.” A small, entirely innocent smile follows.

The whole idea seems to cause the young man’s eyes to grow very wide, “Back in the woods?! You have to be insane! I am never setting foot in a forest ever again in my life. And even then, it would be to soon! I am just lucky I found your house. You are my savior!” He says as he pleads with Lacey, clasping his hands together in a begging motion, “Please, there has to be someway better to get to the police or to some kind of help. I am not that brave to take shortcuts to my death.”

Lacey stares at his clasped hands, then at the muddy trail he’s managed to establish across her living room. “My savior? That’s a lot of responsibility to put on a woman whose biggest problem twenty minutes ago was deciding whether to get another beer.” She tilts her head, apparently giving his predicament some serious thought. “Look, I get it. The woods are scary. Little lizard men are rude. But think about it. If you take that shortcut, you’ll be getting help and avoiding the main road, where everybody’s gonna see you looking like you lost a fight with a septic tank.” She offers him an encouraging smile. “Besides, what are the odds of running into the same monster twice in one night?” She pauses. “Actually, don’t answer that. Statistics have never been particularly supportive of my ideas.”

Pacing around the room, the young man, probably no older than twenty sits down on the couch, his face buried into his hands. Of course, this leaves a lovely print of his silhouette on Lacey’s couch made of mud and …. well lets hope it is only mud. Does Dustin walk his dog into Lacey’s yard? Maybe… Maybe… The young man just breaks down into tears as he murmurs on and on, “I am going to get eaten by a monster, I don’t know if you even believe me. You are so nice though, to take me into your home. You don’t know who I am and I must sound crazy.”

Watching him settle onto her couch, Lacey’s mouth parts slightly as the muddy outline of his backside becomes a permanent contribution to the upholstery. “Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.” She closes her eyes for a moment, apparently reconsidering several of her recent charitable decisions. “I believe you. Really. This is Haven. A little lizard man isn’t even making my top five weirdest things this week.” Her gaze drops to the couch again before returning to him, and she softens a little at the sight of his tears. “Hey, come on. Don’t cry. Nobody’s getting eaten in my living room. Not by anything outside anyway. That’s a house rule.” She crouches slightly to catch his attention, offering an encouraging smile. “But listen, about that shortcut? I really think you oughta reconsider. Fresh air, a little exercise, and somebody who actually knows how to handle your problem at the other end.”

The young man’s arm comes up to wipe away tears and snot away from his weeping face. Letting his arm drop away, coming in contact with the back of Lacey’s couch. Is more substances being added as well? “Do you know this shortcut is safe? Maybe the monsters are out there waiting for me. Like… I don’t know… It seems… like it is to risky. I am safe here. Can’t I just stay here until the Army comes?”

Lacey watches his arm drag another questionable substance across the back of her couch, and her smile becomes just a little too pleasant. “The Army? By the time they get here, you’ll have died of old age, and I’ll have died of whatever you’re rubbing into my furniture.” She glances at the smear, then back at him. “But you know what? I’ve got a better idea. Forget the shortcut. I’ve actually got a safe room right here on the property.” Her expression brightens as she gestures toward the back door. “Underground, nice and private, reinforced walls. Even has a cage for extra protection. Nobody’s getting through that without some serious effort.” She reaches for her keys, apparently delighted with her own generosity. “I’ll walk you over myself. There’s a few chains down there, too, so we can make absolutely sure nothing gets to you.” A moment passes before she adds, sweetly, “And the best part? Not a single piece of leather furniture for you to wipe your ass on. Come on. Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

Standing up the young man looks puzzled for a moment and glances back at the couch. It is at that moment, he realizes at the mess he has created. The you man apologizes profusely, “I am so sorry! I am glad it was an old couch at least. You were about to throw it out right? It looks like it was from the seventies. Maybe, I can help you throw it out and I can give you some money towards your new couch.” The young man offers before starting to follow her, “A safe room? To wait out the monsters until the Army comes? Are you going to call them?”

Lacey stops dead in her tracks, turning slowly to look at the man. “Throw it out?” Her brows climb. “That couch has survived three generations of questionable decisions, and you’re now the first person who’s ever made me consider a homicide over upholstery.” She gives him a long look before waving away his offer. “Keep your money. You’re gonna need it for therapy. Probably a lot of it.” With a remarkably pleasant smile, she heads toward the back door. “And of course I’ll call somebody. We’ve got a whole system for this sort of thing out here. Very discreet. Government doesn’t like people knowing about it.” She retrieves a flashlight and motions for him to follow. “Now, the safe room’s underneath my shed. There’s a cage, some chains, very sturdy construction. You know, in case anything tries to break in.” She pauses at the doorway, looking back at him. “One little thing, though. Once you’re inside, don’t go messing with the locks. They’re complicated.”

With a look of growing suspicion at Lacey, the young man crosses his arms over his chest, “Ummm… There isn’t monsters in your… basement are there? And chains? Why chains?” But regardless, the young man follows his ‘savior’ from the monsters of the forest.

Glancing over one shoulder, Lacey looks mildly offended by the question. “Monsters in my basement? Jesus, what kind of woman do you think I am?” She pauses. “First of all, it’s under the -shed-. Completely different property feature.” She continues toward the back door, flashlight in hand, apparently finding nothing unusual about this conversation. “And the chains are for security, obviously. You said this thing had claws, right? Well, what happens if it follows you here? You want a couple of flimsy little locks standing between you and a waist-high murder gecko?” She shakes her head. “Didn’t think so.” Opening the door, she gestures for him to follow, her smile returning. “Besides, if I were keeping monsters down there, do you really think I’d tell you?” A small snicker follows. “Kidding! Well, mostly. God, you should see your face. Come on, before you get my kitchen dirty too.”

Indeed, there is a horrified look on the young man’s face. Only letting a nervous laugh, without confidence he says, “ha.ha… good one…” He says not very convincingly, but he does follow behind slowly, shuffling his feet. Once he heads out into the yard. He looks out into the dark of the stormy night. Lightning streaks across the sky, briefly lighting up the trailer park. BOOOOM the thunder rumbles. The young man basically jumps out of his skin, getting much closer to the confident Lacey, bumping into her.

Lacey stumbles half a step when the unnamed man bumps into her, catching herself before giving him an incredulous look. “My God, you’re like a golden retriever with a warrant out for its arrest.” She catches his arm, steering him toward the shed as another rumble rolls overhead. “Come on, almost there. You’re doing great. Very brave. The Army’s gonna give you a sticker.” Once inside, she leads him down into the underground room, sweeping her flashlight across the chains and the sturdy kennel occupying one side. “See? Told you. Five-star accommodations. Very exclusive. Terrible cell reception, though.” She gestures toward the kennel with an encouraging smile, waiting until he’s close enough before giving him a sudden, thoroughly werewolf-strength shove straight through its opening. “And that’s what we call express check-in!” She swings the gate shut behind him, securing the latch with a cheerful little rattle. “Congratulations. You’ve been upgraded to a private suite.” Her smile turns positively radiant. “Now, about that Army. I’ll be sure to mention you next time I see one.” She wiggles her pinky at him. “Promise.”

And that is exactly what Lacey does, the young man goes flying into the hole and hits the bottom with a sickening kurrplunk! It seems like he was knocked out cold by the fall so he won’t be offering any resistance anytime soon. Whatever Lacey decides to do with him later, whether it is to turn him over to the Hand, let the Sheriff department deal with him or something much much darker, that is up to her. For now however, the young man is out of her hair.

Date: 2026-10-07 13:11

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(Letitia’s odd encounter (SRShay))

[Wed Oct 7 2026]

Before BioLabs Pharmaceuticals
Bridging the way from curb to the glass front doors, a wheelchair-friendly path of stone slabs have been laid upon a freshly cut lawn. The scent of grass is zesty and herbaceous in the air, mingling with what fragrances waft over from the pharmacy gardens on either side.

The main destination here is the two-story building before you, a slate gray facade that’s pretty straight forward. A sign over the doors lights up at night, spelling out in bold letters: Biolabs Pharmaceuticals

It is afternoon, about 55F(12C) degrees,

Kai was walking into the Biolabs Pharmaceuticals to go spar in the Goblin Market, walking alongside Letitia, he snaps his fingers, “Oh wait, left my bag in the car,” he he tells her, “Do you have yours?”

Letitia meanders toward the shop on the opposite side of the street, watermelon in hand, juice dripping like a total gremlin. “It’s super good, and I think they like, do community outreach stuff? My family works with them sometimes, I guess.” She waves it off, approaching the door to the shop. “I was thinking we could spar in that cage in the market, maybe? Instead of the regular sand pit.” At his question, she looks down at herself, as though checking for her corset, then up at Kai. “Um. I forgot. We could spar with just the knives, though, right? I won’t steal your kidneys…”

“If you do, only take one,” Kai snickers and munches on his watermelon, he gives her hip a firm little bump with his.

To Kai and Letitia, it seems to be an ordinary Wednesday. The sun’s out. The sounds of the sea can be heard in the distance. And there’s people walking back and forth along the busy streets of Haven. Or rather, this district. Mostly shoppers it seems. The remark about stealing kidneys and the mention of sparring with knives certainly earns a few looks from passerby, but nothing too deeply attentive. There’s a level of peace that hangs over the air, and there seems to be little that can go wrong.

Until it does. Right when Letitia opens the door, she gets that uncanny feeling as if someone is watching her. As if something or someone is staring rather intently at her.

Letitia puffs out her cheeks, hand on the door, and she glances back at Kai. “…was that you?” she asks him, voice dropped lower, trying not to be overheard. A chill works its way up her spine, and the goth flicks her gaze around the passing Havenites and tourists.

Kai glances at Letitia, a guilty expression comes over his face and he sighs at her, “I thought if I did it outside you wouldn’t notice. You must have a good sense of smell like me, huh?” he asks, clueless, “I’m sorry babe.”

Other than that uncanny feeling there’s nothing immediately amiss. Of course, that sixth-sense continues, and… now? Kai feels it too. It’s something nearly anxiety inducing. It’s intense, something… something is staring at him as well, and there’s that gradual feeling of some sort of malevolence in the air. Just as there were shoppers in the streets, casually walking around, it now seems that the streets are emptying out. As if unconsciously, the street-goers and shoppers, and everyday civilians are clearing out and making way for whatever is about to happen. There’s onesies and twosies that still wander around, but for the most part, the streets are rather vacant. Except for a parked van, on the opposite side of the street from Biolabs Pharmaceuticals. It’s white. Nondescript. Tinted windows. No license plate.

bats at Kai and sighs, saying, I heard something, or… felt… you know when you’re SURE something happened?” Letitia asks, her gaze sweeping over the crowd. “Maybe not a person… a ritual? Something weird?” Then, her eyes alight on the van, and she flits her eyes around, looking for something to hide behind to observe.”

“Yeah but, I don’t know what you…” Kai trails off and his head tilts a bit, like a dog who just heard something, he looks to Letitia and notices the van, he slips his hands into his hoodie pocket and wanders off, all casual like, toward a shelf he can obscure himself mostly behind.

Letitia ducks behind a nearby bit of vegetation, or perhaps a planter, nearly impossible to tell with how she’s there one moment, and gone the next, blending into the shadows like she was born of them, eyes on that van.

The Van does seem to be highly suspicious. Especially to Kai, who can pick up, someone talking within. Quite a few someone’s. But, sadly for him, the van isn’t the only thing he picks up on. There’s the sound of someone sending their bolt forward, slamming a round home into the chamber of… a rifle? And it’s not in the van. It’s above them, on the rooftop of the gym nearby. There’s even a glint of a scope from that far away, and, from what the man can see… a laser dot traipsing against the wall, slowly moving towards Letitia.

While the streets are rather sparse, Letitia notices that entering the shop would, most certainly, provide the best case scenario for survival against whatever’s about to happen. It’s already the route she was intending to go, its got walls, and she can always go deeper into the laboratory should she need to, in an attempt to escape from danger. Other than that, there’s certainly a couple sedans parked on the street she can crouch behind if she really wanted to.

“Babe! Gun on the roof,” Kai stage whispers to her, trying to not yell and panic the whole store, he ducks down a bit and looks for something more substantial for cover, “And there’s like, a bunch of guys in that van, I think we’re in trouble. Does this place have a backdoor or something?” he asks, completely, in the moment, forgetting about the Goblin Market exit.

Here a moment, gone the next, Letitia slips inside, hissing to him, “Inside!” She’s crouched down, peering through the windows, and asks, “Any idea if it’s… Templar type things, or more… are they just looking to rob the place?” She reaches in her bag, digging out her knife, and drops the watermelon on the floor. “This is gonna suck if … they want us. I’m tough, but a lot less without my armor…”

As Letitia slips inside, a quiet crack rings out… and a bullet whizzes past Kai, right into the wall, behind where the goth gal was standing just prior. As that shot misses, the van’s back doors open. Several men spill out of it, leaping on to the ground, with their rifles most definitely pointed at the sardonic eyed man. They’re dressed in, what appears to be SWAT gear. But anyone who lives in Haven knows that the HSD doesn’t have a SWAT team.

“Gaaaah!” Kai yelps out in a surely manly way and not in fright, he ducks down and flees after Letitia, chucking his watermelon off to one side, “I don’t know, but they have a lot of guns!” he calls to her and keeps running until he can crouch by her, peeking out, “We should run, that’s a lot of guns,” he tells her.

“…Fuck me,” Letitia breathes out as the shot misses her. Stealth is fine and dandy, but a peacekeeper and a protective girlfriend does not mesh to create a girl who will let her man get shot at. She asks him, “Think I should try to grab our gear, or… just… slip into the market? With that many people… I’m tough, but they don’t look like pushovers, and I don’t think they’ll answer questions.”

“We don’t even have our stuff, I vote running into the market, that’s a good idea babe,” Kai hisses to her quietly and peeks out again.

Cluelessly, the receptionist inside greets Letitia and Kai, lifting her gaze as she peeks at them. Seeming particularly uncaring of their conversation, the woman asks them, “Are you here for an appointment by chance? May I have your names?”

Outside though, if the duo were to take a peek, they would find that the group of ‘SWAT’ are moving towards the building at a hurried pace. There’s eight of them, and four split off in a tactical line, moving in a beeline to the side, until they’re out of view. Likely to move towards the side of the building, and, if one were thoughtful enough, they could consider that this group is trying to find a backdoor. The rest of the four simply approach the front door with caution. They wear badges on their vests, and it’s a toss-up right now to discern whether its legit or not. The sniper is out of view of course, and while there are occasional flickers of that red-dot laser circling near the door of the place, he’s not able to do much of anything. At least for right now.

When Letitia attempts to discern who the group belongs to, nothing comes to mind. They’ve done well to shroud their associations, and while, she most certainly can identify that they’re not really police officers, there’s nothing to pinpoint who they really might belong to. She does know, however, that whoever they are? They have a lot of money. They’re all armed with H&K 416s, noteworthy rifles that are oft used by special combat teams, from the FBI to the Navy SEALS.

“Yeah uh… I think this place is about to be robbed, a bunch of guys with guns just got out of like, a van over there,” Kai tells the receptionist and points behind him, his voice a half an octave higher from nerves, his fingers trembling just a bit as he points, “Do you have like… a bathroom or something we could hide in until they get here?” he asks and ducks down a bit, glancing over his shoulder to watch for the kill squad.

Letitia flicks her eyes around, noticing the other group heading off, and she hisses to Kai, “Which door is it? I usually just follow you…” and she forces a little smile at the receptionist. “Oh, no appointment, just… um… Just, like, do you have a restroom?” she asks, forcing a smile, and hiding her knife in her sleeve, assassin’s creed style. When Kai blows any sense of cover, she hisses, “KAI!”

The receptionist gives a few blinks at Kai in utter surprise, and she asks, confusedly, “Pardon a bunch of guys with-” She doesn’t finish her question, however, as the front door suddenly opens. Or rather, it opens enough for a strange white orb to be thrown in. Annnnnd it’s beeping. The receptionist points at it and blubbers out, “What in the world is that?!” and reaching towards the phone on her desk, she frantically begins dialing numbers. And messing up of course (a feat considering it’s just ‘911’), occasionally cursing herself.

Just as soon as the front door is open, it slams closed. Probably related to the white orb. But the white orb doesn’t appear to be the only immediate issue. There’s also the sound of someone breaking down a door in the back, with a ‘POLICE. GET DOWN ON THE GROUND!’.

Luckily for Kai, he remembers exactly where the strange door is. Someone, for whatever reason, decided to fashion the restroom as a door to the goblin market. However, this specific restroom is in the bowels of the laboratory, and not immediately accessible from where they are. They’ll likely have to race the two groups of angry rifle men to dodge inside.

Letitia puffs out her cheeks and asks, “Ready to run?” of Kai. She doesn’t know what the orb does, she doesn’t have time to ponder the orb. She does, however, have a bit of supernatural speed, and grip strength enough to make her way the fuck out of this room, dragging Kai.

“Bathroom, in the lab!” Kai tells Letitia and turns to look at one of the lead persuers. He utters a single soft word of power and, if successful, his amber pendant will glow temporarily before rupturing the blood vessels in his eyes. Either way, he drags and is dragged by Letitia as they try to flee to the Market.

Decides to throw up his meague magical shield around himself as Kai tries to shield Letitia from gunfire while they run.

Kai meant meager.

The front-door is held firmly shut, and team one (the group at the front-door) seems to be out of view, at least for the moment. They’re not firing, guns blazing yet. But team two (the group at the back-door) is definitely fast on the approach. Their cries for people to get down on the ground is getting closer, and closer, and closer.

Right as Letitia attempts to dart away, the white orb beeps frantically, and then releases a crackle of energy, a wave of sorts that bursts across the room, only barely visible by the light that floods in and then dissipates. Luckily for the goth gal, Kai decides to stand in the way between her and potential danger, and it’s him that’s hit instead of her. However, it becomes apparent that, while he’s unharmed, their advantages are slowly dialing down. His force shield dissipates almost immediately and he feels weaker. More human.

Just as the neutralizer goes off, the door flings open and in charges the first group, immediately firing at the duo. Luckily for the pair, they dart into a hallway just as the shots slam into the wall, right where they just were prior.

Kai hisses as his shitty little magic barrier just kind of fizzles out, “Not good… they gotta be like, Templars, Hunters or Witch Hunters, or some really great fucking combo,” he complains quietly to Letitia.

“Either way, we need to get the fuck out…” Letitia breathes, her hand in his. “Let me stay between you, and… one can hope, they’re just Templars. I think I can avoid a shot or two… hopefully…” She sweeps her eyes around for a way downstairs. Anything to get out, to somewhere where they have a little more control.

The building is laid out in this manner: The reception area, which is a small room that has two side-doors, and one door behind the receptionist’s desk, a desk that prevents access to the offices within. The two side doors lead into hallways, one that leads directly downstairs, and one leading to laboratory one with an emergency stairwell right by it. While the reception area was sparse, undecorated, and rather clinical, with only the occasional stereotypical painting or poster you might find in a doctor’s office, set up rarely on the blank white walls… the hallways are a bit more decorated. Mostly with scientific and medical diagrams, formulas, the like. There’s a poster of the parts of an eyeball in one place, the chemical makeup of aspirin in another. There’s a bulletin board on one of the walls and a little rest area that branches off from the hallway, with a water-cooler that trickles and leaks water from the massive jug on top, and a vending machine for snacks. A little sitting area too. This hallway leads to the main labs, and the one you’re currently in. Your goal is to get to the restroom within the center of the building, and, if you take a look at the building’s diagram, helpfully posted on an emergency stairwell, it appears to be that said restroom is downstairs, below the main labs and adjacent to some biomed-engineering lab.

someone successfully shoves open the door to the emergency stairwell and begins to dart down said stairwell, right before the first SWAT group rounds the corner. Kai isn’t so lucky with timing, and as he attempts to move through, a bullet slams into his leg. Sanctuary protects though, and the man isn’t yet injured, it’s only a matter of time before he’s knocked out.

The building is laid out in this manner: The reception area, which is a small room that has two side-doors, and one door behind the receptionist’s desk, a desk that prevents access to the offices within. The two side doors lead into hallways, one that leads directly downstairs, and one leading to laboratory one with an emergency stairwell right by it. While the reception area was sparse, undecorated, and rather clinical, with only the occasional stereotypical painting or poster you might find in a doctor’s office, set up rarely on the blank white walls… the hallways are a bit more decorated. Mostly with scientific and medical diagrams, formulas, the like. There’s a poster of the parts of an eyeball in one place, the chemical makeup of aspirin in another. There’s a bulletin board on one of the walls and a little rest area that branches off from the hallway, with a water-cooler that trickles and leaks water from the massive jug on top, and a vending machine for snacks. A little sitting area too. This hallway leads to the main labs, and the one you’re currently in. Your goal is to get to the restroom within the center of the building, and, if you take a look at the building’s diagram, helpfully posted on an emergency stairwell, it appears to be that said restroom is downstairs, below the main labs and adjacent to some biomed-engineering lab.

Letitia successfully shoves open the door to the emergency stairwell and begins to dart down said stairwell, right before the first SWAT group rounds the corner. Kai isn’t so lucky with timing, and as he attempts to move through, a bullet slams into his leg. Sanctuary protects though, and the man isn’t yet injured, it’s only a matter of time before he’s knocked out.

As Letitia makes it down the dimly lit stairwell, she sees another door, this one with an alarm linked to it. It appears that the Biolabs are far more concerned with accidents happening in its depths, rather than with the labs above. And while it takes a moment for Kai to catch up, he too can see the same thing. Through the door’s window, there’s another hallway, one with doors ranging from the left and the right, though, discerning where they might lead to in reference to the map on the stairwell, isn’t a possibility, at least for this moment.

“Fuuuucck,” Kai groans and stumbles to the ground, holding his leg, “Fuck fuck!” he kicks the emergency door shut with his good leg and tries to jam one of his throwing knives into the base where the doorjamb meets the door, in an effort to slow their pursuers even a bit, “…This is gonna suck,” he mutters and basically tries to roll himself sideways down the stairs to catch up with Letitia, howling in pain as he tries to scramble after her.

“Shit shit shit shit,” Letitia mutters under her breath, pulling Kai closer. “We need to get the fuck out, need to… to slip into the market. I don’t imagine the Hunters will have many allies in the market, and I’d figure the Templars wouldn’t go in there… it’s… I’m just a shifter, not a biter… fuck,” she rambles, yapping with her anxiety. “We gotta get out, baby, you can run on that, right?” she asks, not sure, but telling him he’s gonna. At that door, heading roughly in the direction she thinks the middle of the building would be, she glances at him. “We can’t worry too much about alarms… They might even help us, cover up your limping…”

Kai jams the door as he slams the door on his pursuers, which prompts the rather well-equipped door to start trying to kick the door down. Sirens are heard in the distance… likely HSD coming to respond to whatever is happening on this side of town.

Both Kai and Letitia can hear a voice, possibly from the second-group, shouting, “They’re trying to escape! Get down the other stairwell! Cut them off!” Whomever is chasing them, they certainly know about the market too. And it seems they’re desperate to prevent both the duo from reaching it.

Once Letitia shoves the doors open, the alarms sound, and there’s panicked cries everywhere as people begin rushing out the laboratories. Kai, while his leg isn’t bleeding, is very much bruised. It appears that Sanctuary is strong enough to prevent any catastrophic wounds from really disabling him, but that shot to his leg will certainly bruise, and maybe slow him down if he’s not well-equipped to tolerate the pain.

“Nope, you gotta carry me,” Kai tells her and tries to literally jump up onto her back, he points to the door he recognizes, “I think that one,” he says as he looks over his shoulder, arms around her neck and good leg around her waist.

“You’re so fucking lucky I’m swol as fuck,” Letitia says under her breath, carrying her boyfriend through the lab hallway, like this is a normal situation. She moves quickly, too quickly, normally obscuring her heritage better, but this is quite literally life or death. Her head is lowered, trying not to be seen on cameras, but its probably a bit too late for that.

“I’m lucky for a lot of reasons,” Kai says and casts another frantic look back over his shoulder, “I think I bruised my assbone,” he tells her.

Both Kai and Letitia are able to enter the hallway and get through it, without much avail for the moment. Doors are labeled, based on their labs, or if they’re a hallway leading towards a lab. They pass several, one marked for Bio-Chem, another marked for ‘Organic Disposal’, and another marked with a sign pointing towards a hallway that leads towards the center of the building. ‘Prosthetics and Medical Engineering’ is its label, and, quite likely, leads towards the BioMed Engineering Lab’.

Above the duo, shouts are heard, and a slam as well. It seems that Kai’s throwing knife didn’t halt the first group permanently, and there’s clear thudding down the stairs as the group makes its way to the very same hallway Letitia and Kai are traveling through. On the opposite side of the hallway, a door opens, and facing the two are the second group, who swiftly raise their rifles. “Freeze!” they shout, seemingly bearing more manners than the first group. “Get on the ground, before we collar you!” Said sign, pointing out the more engineering side of the pharmacy, is luckily of course, to the immediate right of the pair.

Kai throws up one hand in the air, “Don’t shoot, we’re human!” he says, clinging onto his much smaller girlfriend who is carrying him like he isn’t quite a bit larger than her, “They went that way,” he points to a random door and, using Letitia like a horse, presses his left knee into her side to indicate she should run right.

Letitia does not pause, does not slow down, and even before the idiot she so dearly loves nudges her like a horse – he’ll be hearing about THAT shit later – she’s turning to the right, and sprinting. “Okay, eyes open, nut up and try not to get your butthole pounded by a Hunter,” she tells him, head on a swivel, and moving as her blood tells her to

“I think I might have fooled them,” Kai lies breezily to Letitia and looks over his shoulder, he chucks a throwing knife at the opposite wall, his intent to, perhaps, make them hesitate even a bit if they know that he and Letitia aren’t defenseless and have an open shot at them. He leaves getting to the door to Letitia, what with her having two working legs and all.

While the second group seems far more reasonable than the first group, reason is tossed out the window Kai attempts to bluff with them. “Shut the fuck up and get down on the ground,” is said by one of the bigger fellows in that group, his rifle still pointed in the duo’s general direction. But as soon as Letitia moves and keeps running, one of the scrawnier members just says “Fuck it, just shoot them. We’ll bag them afterwards.” Group one, who has, apparently in their blind rage, kicked the other door off the hinges, barreling into a group of staff trying desperately to exit the building, and has begun firing pot-shots at the duo, whenever they can safely do so. Another shot lands and grazes Kai’s arm, another, his back. And still, both groups begin to converge and chase after the duo from within the hall.

The hall isn’t very long, but it feels like it takes forever to get down it, leading to another hallway that spans both left and right. The doors are also marked with metal placards, detailing their use, and there’s a few scientists and engineers who are scrambling to leave, as the alarm blares overhead, shrill and ear-piercing. To the left appears a rack of prosthetic limbs. And to the right, there are two bulletin boards plastered to the wall, denoting notes on ‘3-d printers’ and their operations. There’s not yet a restroom in sight, just yet, but there does appear to be a door marked with a prosthetic symbol, also to the right.

“Fuck!” Kai hisses out in pain when the first shot hits him, but the second shot has him rock against Letitia and his vision swims in his eyes as he tries to keep conscious, “Fuck… god damn… shot me,” he mumbles out in pain, or tries to as he sucks in breath, the wind knocked out of him.

“Baby, I know, come on, come on, we need to get the fuck out,” Letitia pants out, between the running, the extra weight of her boyfriend and all his shit, she’s panting. She doesn’t really pause so much as she pivots, grabbing at that rack. It’s an asshole move, a serious risk of murder, but…

Seemingly, Kai isn’t in any danger of falling unconscious just yet, though he’s dangerously close. Sanctuary can prevent grievous harm of course, especially when someone has lethal intent, but it won’t stop someone from beating you over the head with a wooden plank in a fight, knocking you out. Sadly for him, it’s not a someone, but a group of someones and it’s not a wooden plank, but rather a rifle. And they’re not beating him, but shooting him. Regardless, he stays awake, and somewhat slips as Letitia rips the rack from the wall and throws it at their pursuers, knocking down the second group who pursued them. They’re not unconscious and they’re certainly not pleased, but they are preoccupied for a moment, trying to wrestle the large rack off of them, shouting and cursing. The trigger-happy first group reaches the end of the hallway that the pair just came from, and with weapons raised they get prepared to issue another volley of fire in the duo’s direction, seemingly fairly non-plussed about their buddies getting knocked down like a bunch of pins in a bowling alley. Still, the pair needs to make a quick decision, on where to head. There’s a few more doors they can pick out, other than the one labeled with a Prosthetic Symbol. One has a the symbol of some strange engine. Another has a symbol of a leaf. The other has the symbol of a pill.

Kai remembers with the help of Letitia, who is most certainly not a ham sandwich, that the door they need to enter is the one with a prosthetic hand symbol. It’s the ‘Bio-Med Engineering Lab’, mostly focused on producing prosthetics. Past the lab is another hallway that will lead to the restroom door they need, neatly tucked out of the way to make sure that random Havenites wouldn’t accidentally enter the door if it led into the Goblin Market at any given time.

“That one… I think, right? The hand,” Kai points vaguely at the door, a rivulet of blood down one side of his hand as he points, he uses his other arm to hang on to her, which is about the best he’s able to do with the current state of him.

“Okay, baby… we… we’re almost there,” Letitia tells Kai as she kicks open, then closed, that door, trying to wedge it into the frame with a swift kick but not really putting much focus into it. She’s sprinting, putting everything that she can into it, on the hopes that she can duck into that hallway before that door comes open. It’s not her that’ll get knocked out, after all, and an arm comes up to hold Kai’s, keeping him close and in place on her back. “I love you, I’m sorry that… that this is, um, this is happening…” She’s panicking. She hasn’t even thought to call for Hand backup.

Kai is pretty goofy from pain but he mumbles to Letitia, “I love you too baby, I always loved you,” he squeezes his arm around her a little tighter as he holds on and basically contributes by fighting off unconsciousness.

Just as Letitia darts through the door, the first group opens fire. Except for one, rather burly fellow. Who… is clanking a bit while he begins to dash forward? Just as the Salte bursts through the door, the behemoth of a man charges at it reaching out. One of his eyes is… covered with a red-lens that doesn’t seem to relate entirely to the rest of his outfit. Probably far more advanced and reveals the capabilities of whichever group this ‘outfit’ belongs to. Just as she slams the door upon the behemoth, his hand bursts through the wood of the door, nearly grabbing the woman and Kai… who is doing his best to maintain consciousness.

It’s a straight shot towards the other-side of the lab, and the other door to the next hallway they need to get to is there, on the other-side, unbarred. No scientists lurk in this room, which is littered with 3-d printers and all sorts of materials, from plastics to metals, to occasional odd diagrams and valves. There’s even a blueprint pasted on a giant white-board, an experimental prosthetic heart that’s made entirely of organic compounds paired with silicon. Even-so, the door that Letitia jammed won’t last overly long. The augmented man with his fist stuck through the door is slamming into the door, desperately trying to reach the handle, shoving more of his arm through the hole he’s created. There’s more shouting and the clanging of metal, the clatter of plastic objects on the floor… and it seems apparent that the more reasonable group of gunmen is nearly free. And still, shots ring out, as bullets whizz through the same door the augmented behemoth is stuck in, peppering the wall opposite of that door and randomly hitting objects here and there. “Stop fucking shooting you morons, let me break this door down first,” is said from the behemoth.

Kai tries his best to chuck a knife into the arm of the behemoth as he tries to get through the door, but the angle isn’t great and he’s unsteady, but it’s all he can think to do as he clings to his girlfriend and looks back at their pursuers.

Letitia ducks, lowering her already low center of gravity. When she tries, she can step silently, moving through without a sound, and she’s doing that. Doing her best, at least. Doors are for people with time, and property damage is a lot less your problem when it’s not your place. She’ll bill it to someone else, if they come after her. Seeing how this shituation is going, though, it’ll probably involve a lot of wiping of minds, anyway, so she sprints toward the back, toward that hallway, muttering, “Let’s… fucking get out… has to be this way…”

The door creaks from the strain as the behemoth does his damnest to break it apart. And it even begins to bow and bend a bit, the snapping of wood becoming prevalent. Up until Kai throws a dagger into the man’s arm, lodging itself inside the, seemingly, cybernetic implant of some kind. It sparks immediately, causing the behemoth to cry out in pain and slam his body into the door clumsily, like a rabid animal. Apparently this also causes issues on the other side as the trigger-happy group fires. And no bullets come out the other side of the door. The doorhandle flies off of course, but nothing more than that. Instead, the behemoth’s arm relaxes, even while its still sparks, and some great weight is settled on the door. “Fuck this,” someone says from behind the door. “I still have some C-4 on me. Set a short fuse, blow the fucking wall down.”

Letitia manages to avoid getting shot so far, so she and Kai are quite certainly safe for the moment. However, just as she reaches the door in a blinding pace, the efficiency of the group is shown. The wall blows down as soon as the door is open, and pouring in, are the first group and the second group, minus the behemoth, who has apparently been abandoned in whatever position he’s in. Just as shots come ringing out, Letitia and Kai enter the hallway, and their goal is at the other end. Safety is within reach, if only they can get themselves through it before the ‘SWAT’ group reaches them first.

“Woot! Goteeeeem,” Kai says in what should be a shouted cheer but he doesn’t have the energy for that right now. He twists and tries to kick the door shut with his good leg and slam another of his knives into the seam of the door in an effort to slow them down. Either way, he sags back against Letitia, that was the last little burst of energy he had, at least for a while.

There’s a few moments that Letitia allows Kai, a heartbeat, two, before she grabs him up, lifting him like a sack of potatoes, and she’s running for the bathroom, and that door into the market by extension. “Come along, limpy,” she exhales, no thoughts, just getting away.

“My hero,” Kai purrs out at Letitia without much gusto, clinging onto her for dear life.

As Kai bars the door, there’s absolutely no way that the group after them can get through. Unless they have more C4. Still, the door stalls the fireteams for some time, and while rushing down the long hallway, filled with doors, and racks and posters, devoid of personnel and with lights flickering (probably from the explosion that destroyed some wiring), they reach the bathroom door. Right when they cast it open, the door that leads to the Goblin Market, the other door they jammed comes flying into the wall opposite of it with a loud crashing sound. Splinters fly everywhere. And just as the fire-team enters the hallway, ready to begin firing again, both Kai and Letitia enter the doorway, escaping into the Goblin Market.

Kai continues to cling onto Letitia, “Woot… teamwork,” he murmurs to Letitia, hopefully his regeneration starts up in full force once they reach the goblin market, “You’re so fast and strong,” he tells Letitia, grinning at her dimly, “Uugh…”

As that door shuts behind her, Letitia sinks to her knees, settling Kai from where she’s been half-carrying, half dragging him, panting, a few tears coming, and she manages a very breathy, “…fuck me with a rake…” before giving him a wobbly sort of smile. Time for an adrenaline dump.

Date: 2026-10-03 11:03

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(Lillian’s odd encounter (SREris))

[Sat Oct 3 2026]

In an opulent bedroom with ocean views
The main bedroom is the epitome of grandeur and luxury, designed to evoke awe at every turn while maintaining an enveloping sense of comfort. The eastern wall is a dramatic expanse of floor-to-ceiling glass, offering a panoramic view of the beach and ocean below. Each morning, the rising sun bathes the room in a warm, golden glow, creating an ethereal effect as it reflects off the rich materials and finishes throughout the space. Motorized sheer curtains, with intricate gold-thread embroidery, cascade from the ceiling, offering effortless control over light and privacy.

At the heart of the room is a lavish king-sized bed with an oversized tufted headboard upholstered in deep purple velvet with gold accents. The bed itself rests on a sleek platform of polished black marble with gold veining, matching the luxurious marble flooring that stretches across the room. The bedding is nothing short of opulent – Egyptian cotton sheets, a custom silk duvet, and an array of pillows encased in high-thread-count fabrics in tones of gold and champagne. Flanking the bed are custom rosewood nightstands, topped with marble and adorned with gilded hardware, each supporting tall, crystal table lamps that cast a soft, ambient glow.

The room is furnished with a grand seating area, featuring a pair of plush, cream velvet armchairs set around an intricately carved rosewood coffee table with a glass top. A matching chaise lounge rests along the window, providing the perfect spot to gaze out at the ocean. The entire seating area sits atop a handwoven silk rug in rich tones of deep gray and gold.

Opposite the bed, a stunning floor-to-ceiling fireplace clad in polished black marble with gold veining, serves as the rooms centerpiece. Above it, a 90-inch, frameless flat-screen television seamlessly integrated into the wall, maintaining the rooms sleek aesthetic. Crystal sconces line the walls, casting delicate patterns of light across the space, while an oversized chandelier, dripping with crystals and gold leaf accents, hangs from the ceiling, adding an extra layer of grandeur to this already opulent space. Every detail of the master bedroom has been crafted to exude luxury.

It is morning, about 55F(12C) degrees,

There are differences in class. For some people the morning is a hard thing.

There are differences in class. For some people the morning is a hard thing.

Low morning sunlight reaches between Haven’s buildings, catching the upper windows in pale gold while the streets below remain cool and shaded. The flood has long since withdrawn. Dried silt flakes beneath passing tires, and a chalky crust of salt clings to shopfronts and railings. Brown watermarks run along the lower walls, interrupted here and there where someone has started scrubbing.

The smell lingers. Salt and dead fish, wet timber, the thickening sweetness of rot. It gathers around the drains and beneath the heaps of ruined belongings waiting at the curb: swollen drawers, split shelving, rolls of carpet still dark at their centers. As the sun reaches them, a little warmth lifts the smell into the street. A gull picks through a torn rubbish bag, tugging at something caught beneath a broken chair.

Shutters rattle open. Somewhere down the block, a shovel scrapes grit across concrete, followed by the hollow clatter of debris dropped into a skip.

For an Arkwhight?

Well away from the flood-stained streets, the morning arrives differently here. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass, the ocean lies bright and deceptively clean beneath the rising sun, its surface catching long bands of gold. The city beyond may still smell of salt, fish, wet timber, and rot, but none of it reaches this room. Here, the air is cool, filtered, and faintly perfumed by clean linen and polished wood.

Sunlight pours through the sheer embroidered curtains and spills across black marble veined in gold, warming the edge of the silk rug and the foot of the enormous bed. Crystal lamps and chandelier drops catch the light and scatter it in small flashes across velvet, rosewood, and glass. The effect is almost absurdly serene compared to the work still being done elsewhere in Haven.

From the chaise by the window, the devastation is reduced to distance and geography: rooftops, streets, and the occasional work vehicle moving far below. Inside, the room remains insulated by money, height, and glass, untouched except for the quiet awareness that the same sea glittering beautifully in the morning light is the one that came ashore days before.

And apparently, some people are jealous of that. What she did and why is currently a mystery. Perhaps she took this home from its previous owner. Perhaps someone is using the chaos of the city to try and take a shot at the Arkwhight. Regardless…

Something changes.

The feeling of arcane power comes against Lillian’s skin. Then it sinks in. A man is briefly visible through the window, arcane focus raised. Then he is leaving, running. There are only seconds to react to the strange thing that is happening as Lillian’s body begins to shift and change into something other than its natural form. A seagull, of all things, going by how the body wants to shrink and the way feathers are beginning to sprout. A flying pest.

Lillian has only seconds to react, and those seconds are stretched to an eternity in the morning sun, for Lily. Her body and mind alike are slow to react, the fatigue of the hated sun settled deep into her bones, granting her a supernatural lethargy equal or greater in measure to the terror she sows in the night. It is thus that her own arcane senses do not warn her until the trap is already sprung, and the magic is wrought.

Lily reaches for her own focus, but it’s too late – the man’s already gone, and a great many things have lessened her: the sun. Dustin’s curse. Her own lazy feeding habits in the wake of the wave. God, is this really happening to HER of all people? As her body twists and contorts, her face manages to make the most disgusted, cruel, rich-girl sneer before it sprouts into a beak. After a few more agonizing, aggravating moments of transfiguration, she finds herself atop her own pillow as a vile rat of the sky, a wretched beast of feather and shit and french fry-stealing. You have to be kidding me, she says. “SquaWWW!!” leaves her beak instead.

Ah. The wonders of Sanctuary. In any other place in the world, an assassination would have been a clean and easy thing. Here, under the powerful magical protection, assassins are forced to get far more creative.

The change is stranger from the inside than it ever could have looked from without. There is a moment of vertigo as the world seems to surge upward around her, furniture stretching into enormous planes and edges while her own weight simply vanishes. Arms become something broader and lighter, bones seeming almost hollow with possibility. Fingers cease to matter. In their place comes the odd, immediate certainty of feathers: hundred of tiny surfaces shifting against one another, each catching air she had never before been able to feel.

Then her vision changes.

The room does not merely become sharper. It becomes busier. White is no longer simply white; it breaks into subtle differences of clean glare, chalky plaster, cool reflected daylight, and faint stains that had been invisible before. The edge of sunlight spilling through glass has an almost violet cast to it. Every movement is suddenly more important than it was: the twitch of a curtain, a hand shifting on fabric, something tiny skittering near the baseboard.

Her body wants her head to jerks toward those motions before she consciously decides to look. The gesture feels absurdly natural now. Whether the ancient predator actually falls into such base insincts is another matter entirely.

Many who have seen Lillian before would have admitted she was a cute bird. Now? That meaning has shifted considerably. The rat of the sky’s squack breaks the air.

Ritual magic could fix this. But a simple cut on a human palm is quite a bit more serious upon the body of a small bird. Not to mention things like chalk and other ritual implements are not so easy to use. Even simple things like zippers and cupboards threaten to be a massive chore. For someone without arcane skill, without the knowledge of how to get free of this, this trap might have worked. But perhaps, as the man flees away from the estate, he has underestimated the bird. Men often do.

Lillian is no stranger to bestial instincts, burdened with the gift that she is; these, however, are quite different. She finds herself tweaking her head this way and that, unused to shifting into so base a form, unused to battling with animal instincts rather than predatorial, bestial ones. The whole thing annoys her, so very deeply, as many things do these nights. To be brought low AND to do bird things? Yuck. She ruffles her feathers indignantly, wings flapping out in aggravation – this, too, is an animal instinct, her own ‘human’ feelings translated into bird ones. She feels the deep and intimate urge to peck out an eyeball or two, rage writ feathered.

Her mind is still hers, despite these needles of instinct now acupunctured into every wrinkle; rage is a powerful motivator, and although it partially makes her want to go eat a fish and shit directly into the middle of a windshield, she struggles to ensure that rage is directed towards matters of the arcane. Woe that ritualism upon herself will ruin a trace so she could exact vengeance. That will have to wait.

She hops down from her bed – and promptly slams into the ground, all grace removed. The sun STILL wears on her. Even as a bird!! The indignity! She flops on the ground for a moment, wings askew, before she finally manages to get herself back up onto webbed seagull feet, leaning over and tilting her head odd ways to really get a look at them. Pedicures ruined, she flutters indignantly once more. She’s gonna have to deal with this herself. She looks about, first – ritual implements are usually never very far for the arcanist, but… in her BEDROOM? Unlikely. This will be… difficult.

Lillian is an opulent bedroom with beautiful views of the ocean. In the distant, her new kin circle high above the crashing ocean waves. Some dive down lazily, swooping toward the shore. There is plenty to eat after the flood. Fish washed up on the shore, after the wave. Human things, deposited as flotsam. Its a great time to be a gluttonous bird.

And wow. Apparently, the sky is clear. No window in the way, the birdish brain might insticntively prompt. One could just fly right out it? Toward the food? Amazing times!

Of crouse, there is a window in the way. Being floor to ceiling, its not really the sort of window that is easily opened by a bird-body. More promising is the rest of the house, assuming she can get the door. There is also a smartphone, if a bird beak can even operate a touch sensitive device like that.

Even with the window not literally openable, there are still other ways out, if the door proves too heavy. An enterprising bird could grab things in the room and fly them to the window before releasing them, to try to shatter the wonderful glass.

Oh wow. There ARE fish out there, huh? Fish sounds good right about now. Once she’s got herself oriented on her stupid seagull feet, Lillian ponders very seriously the option of clear, sunny blue sky, fresh sea air, and fish just waiting to be caught. She trills. Her. Trilling. Nasty. As she spreads her wings testingly, though, two instincts fight in her head: hang the fuck on. It’s almost noon. There’s no WAY she’s going out into the noontime sun. She might not even be able to fly, much less catch a fish. No, wait, that’s not why. Damn it.

The door. Have to get the door. She turns, forcing herself away from the tantalizing window to peer at the door. That’ll have to do. She flaps and flaunts, trying to figure out lift. There’s some instinct to it, sure, but it’s clumsy. She leaps and, instead of landing gracefully on one of the handles and letting her weight depress it, she awkwardly claws at it, misses, thumps into the door, and hits the ground again in a whirlwind of feathers and frustration.

On the ground again, she’s getting all the more frustrated. Fuck it. Why even bother leaving the bedroom? There’s fish right outs– no. No, no, no. Sharp. She needs something sharp. Shattered glass might do. Or… she raises a wing, peering at it from one birdy eye, and wonders. Any loose feathers? A quill! Classic. She starts to preen, pretending that she’s doing it because she wants to get a feather to write with, and not because she’s a stupid fucking bird.,

Between the violence of her transformation, the bumbling flight and falls, and Lillian’s own feather ruffling there are indeed a few loose feathers that a careful preening could tug free. The bird insitncts don’t want them ripped free, preferring a careful smoothing, but the mind of the predator is wiser.

Outside, the wonderful rituals of natural gull life are cawing and calling. Boy gulls are reguritating their fish to woo their would be companions. Supposed friends are robbing each other of meals. Cats are prowling, killing birds, in blatant hedonism rather than need.

Alright, but we all agree that Gull-Lily would whoop the shit out of any cat, because she’s built different. She could go out there and become Queen of the Gulls. It’d be so easy. She’d have a harem of gulls to feed on. So many fish. The city would be cleans–

Oh my god, does Lillian ever hate being a bird. She yanks a feather free, bird eyes wide with indignant rich-girl rage. She pecks. She pecks AGAIN. She yanks feathers free until they BLEED. She needs blood, not just to drink, but to work magic. She fights against not only bird instincts, but human instinct – hurting oneself is not an easy task. Only the century of magical practice, of slitting one’s own hand to access the power of blood, can overcome natural self-preservation. That, and the knowledge that her body is hardly fragile.

Drip. Once she’s yanked a feather and bloodied her own wing, she can start her plans to conquer all seagull k– to draw a simple ritual circle to cleanse hexes, actually. Now this, this is exceedingly difficult. Gone is the long-practiced muscle memory, the smooth lines, the fine tools and well-prepared space. She has to drag bloody feathers with her beak, re-wetting them frequently, all while bleeding and birding and hearing the many many calls of other gulls who are having a much better day than her. Nonetheless, she works: an unbroken circle. Then, she must fill the circle with power. Then, a break for some fish. Then, she’ll be herself again. We hope.

Lillian’s feather comes free with a sharp, intimate pain beneath the wing. Not the harmless slipping of something ready to be shed, but a tug that leaves the surrounding skin sore and the neighboring feathers brushing against a newly tender place. The next movement stings. So does the one after it. Blood gathers among the disturbed plumage, turning a few pale filaments into narrow, red threads that cling together instead of lifting with the rest.

The first drop falls onto the marble. From standing height, it would scarcely deserve a glance. Down here, it has a shape: a small, rounded bead, dark at its center, with a bright reflection of the window caught along its upper edge. Another lands close enough to touch it. Their edges meet, hesitate, then draw together into something slightly larger. Beneath the injured wing, the ache persists through all the little adjustments needed to remain upright on unfamiliar feet.

It is not the Witching Hour. Far from it. It is not the time of easy rituals.

It also not a chamber well prepared for rituals. Though, in some ways, it is a chamber. A massive, massive, chamber, for Lillian’s birdy body is so small compared to her prior form.

The duvet hangs over the bed’s edge in heavy champagne folds, its nearest seam suspended well above her head. Along that seam, individual stitches are visible, with one loose loop hanging lower than its neighbors. The nightstand’s drawer is an overhead wall of polished rosewood. Its handle throws a long shadow beneath it. The lamp, the tabletop, all the convenient surfaces on which a person might put something down are hidden beyond the edges of furniture she once reached without looking.

Under the bed, however, there is considerably more to see. The platform’s recessed underside opens into a low strip of shadow, bordered by a thin wash of daylight across the floor. Dust has gathered against the supports. A pale thread rests in a little curl beside a hair, and farther back there is the flattened track where a cleaning tool reached almost, but not quite, to the wall. At this height, the narrow space looks deep enough to enter. Its ceiling would pass close above her feathers. The bed that had been something to sleep in has become something with an underneath large enough to inhabit.

A feather makes a poor substitute for the tools she knows, but not nearly so bad as one might fear. Birds use feathers, from time to time, when building nests. Her body knows how to carry one. How to position it carefully. The tip is even good for scratching fine lines. Still, she lacks human precision in this form. So where it touches the marble, it leaves a broad beginning that narrows as it is dragged, then broadens again when the angle changes. Her beak is so close to the work that the rest of the room slips out of view. There is the feather, the line, the enormous dark plane beneath them. To see how the curve is progressing, she must lift her head and look again.

The design itself is familiar. A century of practice has made its proportions something she can remember without a diagram. It is the execution that has become laborious. What would have been a small movement of her wrist now involves her neck, her balance, the placement of both feet. The floor offers little purchase. A claw wants to slide against the stone; the edge of a webbed foot catches briefly in the shallow joint between slabs. Every return to the bloodied plumage brings the sore wing back into sharp awareness. The feather darkens, touches down, and the interrupted work continues.

As the work progress, a gull passes beyond the window, its shadow moving across the marble and briefly through the unfinished design. Outside comes a succession of sharp calls, followed by an answering clamour farther down the shore. None of the callers appears troubled by geometry. A second bird banks into view, showing a white belly against the blue reflected sky before disappearing beyond the frame. Inside, the quiet returns to the small scrape of feather against stone and the occasional click of a beak adjusting its hold.

The circle gradually becomes a whole. It is not elegant. Some portions are thin and others carry small, dark accumulations where the feather paused; one edge is feathered with the marks of individual strands. But the line meets itself. At the join, fresh blood shines beside a section already losing its wet gloss. The shape is recognizable despite the awkward tool and the body forced to wield it. Step one complete, a circle drawn.

Outside, another raucous argument breaks out over the shore. The harem of gulls doesn’t understand. Lillian, the would be queen gull, could lead them, if only they rescued her from this prison of glass and wood and marble. So they argue with each other over the fish that could be hers. The tasty, tasty fish. The smell of seagull blood in the room does little to reduce a vampire-gull’s hunger.

Lillian, could, of course, even despite the lack of the ritual hour, speed along her casting by crying out to the listening spirits. Squacking, trilling, singing out her birdy-best-beats to hasten the ritual.

Work. Toil. Scrape. Draw. Bleed. Fly. Call. Fish. NO. It’s a far cry from her usual work, and here in the noontime sun, it’s harder than ever. Lillian feels, for the first time in a long time, like a young apprentice again, barely able to draw a circle without earning a scolding, a beating, or worse. She’s reminded, briefly, in her addled birdly brain, of old Bartholomew. The memories that float through her mind are ones she has long since suppressed, the old bastard, always cruel, always exacting. It wasn’t until James claimed her that she really began to learn the art. The blood makes her remember, too. Someone else’s blood, making a ritual circle…

She’s yanked from her reverie by the arguments outside. Now, hold on, these gulls would never argue if she were out there. She’d have them in line. Obedient. Pliant. Oh, an army at her beck and call. And so many fish. FUCK, she’s hungry. Seagull blood doesn’t normally smell good, to a human vampire – maybe it smells good to a seagull vampire? It’s her own, though. These thoughts and more filter through the tiny little seagull brain she’s now forced to fistfight, metaphorically, as she hops from place to place, wetting her seagull-feet with blood and using them to aide in her circle drawing. The birdy-bloody-dance is aided by… embarrassingly… trills. Squalls. Calls. “Squaw! Squonk!” she calls, rhythmically, even as she hops over lines and plants little feet-prints where runes should go, roughly approximating the shapes.

She’s joining the raucous chorus of the gulls outside, too. It’s difficult to keep her squawks as ritualistic calls to spirits, and not screeches of ‘THAT’S MY FISH, I DON’T KNOW YOU’ at other gulls who would dare to approach her. She flaps her wings, too, joining into the dance, and if anyone from outside were watching, they’d see… well, a bloody seagull flailing around on the floor making an absolute mess of things, yet somehow there’s order in this chaos, however little.

Lillian’s squawking attracts an audience. A small shape pads into view beyond the windowpane: a well-fed tabby from one of the neighboring house, its white chin lifted toward the noise. A little tag swings from its blue collar. It takes another step, peers past the reflection of the sea, and discovers a bird. Inside. On the floor. Doing quite a lot of unnecessary moving about.

The cat stops. Its ears turn forward. Its mouth opens a fraction, and its jaw begins to tremble around a series of tiny, frustrated sounds. “Ek-ek-ek. Chrrk.” Through the glass, the chatter is faint; the expression is not. Its eyes follow every lift of a wing, every hop between the markings. One hind paw shifts beneath it. The tip of its tail begins making small, deliberate movements.

A soft paw presses against the window. The toes spread. From this close to the floor, the pale hooks that briefly emerge are rather more noticeable than they would have been from the bed. The paw slides down with a faint squeak, leaving a smear. The cat examines this failure, looks back at the bird, and tries the same thing again. Apparently the problem may simply be that it has not pawed hard enough.

The tabby settles in, doing its best to imitate the squacking. Nothing to see here, it seems to want the bird to believe. Just your fellow sea rat. It watches with intent eyes, ignorant to how outmatched it is by the Queen of Gulls.

Something else is listening, too.

Beneath the sounds of the room, the ritual begins to receive an answer. The familiar sense of attention gathering is there, but its character is different. The first presence brings an impression of wet stone, bitter wind, and the precarious warmth of an egg beneath a feathered breast. Another carries the endless motion of waves seen from high above.

Its a subtle thing, the spiritual presence. But as it grows, and ritual power mounts within the circle, the tabby’s fur eventually raises on end. It stands. Hisses, looking about. Then flees the scene of its would be crime.

Lillian simply doesn’t notice the cat, at first. Now quite deep into her ritual, she’s falling into muscle memory, the rhythm and concentration of ritualism helping her to beat back the instinct of bird. It is unfortunate, then, that upon the second paw swipe, that instinct rears its ugly head again. Noise, it says. Not you. Danger? She looks, tilting her head mid squawk to behold a fat predator in all its glory. Horrifying, beautiful in its perfection, a honed murdering machine that could destroy all of seagull-kind left unchecked.

She freezes, considering. Could she mance in this form…? No, probably not. She’d have to fight the cat gull-style, since there’s nothing between her and this cat. Nothing at all. Just clear blue sky out there. Oh, hey, she could just fly out, that’s basically a hole in the wall. Why didn’t she notice that bef–

The chill that shoots up her birdly spine yanks her from that thought. The spirits have answered… different spirits than usual, but the spirits, nonetheless. As the cat hisses, she opens her wings, trying to appear large and intimidating, squawking a warning to this predator that she is not to be trifled with. The threat works! The cat leaves! She’s basically mastered this bird thing, she thinks, before she turns to answer to the calls of the spirits. They come wanting, and she must give in order to receive. Nothing without cost, a deep memory says in her mind, a truth she has learned time and time again.

Perhaps seagull spirits will appreciate seagull life force. Perhaps they will not. She will find out; she moves forth, hopping bird-like towards the center of her circle, where she can scratch the final sigils needed now that the spirits have answered. She can strike the deal with them to be returned to her proper, much larger seagull form without feathers or a beak but with a prettier face.

The offering scarcely reaches the circle before something lunges for it. A loose feather skitters across the marble, stops against the bloodied line, and abruptly shoots sideways as another presence shoulders into the first. The curtain nearest the bed lifts without its motor stirring. Beneath the chandelier, crystal touches crystal in a quick, uneven series of clicks.

More arrive. The attention gathered around the working becomes a crush of hungry, quarrelsome things, each trying to put itself between the offering and everything else entitled to it. An impression of an immense wing sweeps through the room. Something smaller darts beneath it. The blood inside the markings dimples as though touched by an invisible beak. Whatever reservations the dead might have about accepting life from a temporarily feathered vampire, they appear willing to set them aside. But its hardly a human-like spiritual trade going on. This is something hungrier, primal, stranger — at least, stranger to a vampire. A practionier with a more natural bent might find such animlistic spirits to be more natural.

Strength leaves Lillian, claimed by the foreign power that manages to dominate the contest. A rush of cold air catches the discarded feathers. They lift together, scatter, and begin to wheel around the circle in ragged, competing currents.

Through all of it, the circle holds. The crooked lines, the little bloody footprints, the sigils scratched into place with an unsuitable implement. The offering has terms. To take what she has offered, something must release what has been done to her.

The hex tightens painfully for a moment, pulled in competing directions. Every feather stands away from her body. Her reflection in the marble stretches into a pale, wavering shape, contracts, then stretches again. A sound like a great flock taking flight fills the room, although nothing crosses the sunlight except loose down. Somewhere within that rush, the binding gives.

Weight returns first. The strange lightness of the gull’s body becomes a deep, downward pull, followed by the disorienting sensation of the room drawing closer. The marble presses against feet that are lengthening, changing, losing the spread of their webbing. The narrow bird’s balance no longer serves. Wings unfold into arms; joints find their old places, and fingers separate where there had been no way to hold anything properly at all.

Plumage loosens in a sudden flurry of grey and white. Some feathers fall, while others thin into drifting motes and disappear before reaching the floor. The pressure in her face releases. Her beak recedes, leaving the familiar shape of a small nose and softly pronounced lips. A breath can pass through a human mouth again without becoming a contribution to the argument outside.

Dark hair spills against her cheeks and shoulders, thick, slightly unruly, a few strands immediately settling across her face. The gull’s bright stare resolves into hazel, flecked with muted green and amber beneath the familiar dark framing of her eyes. Pale shoulders, delicate collarbones, the recognizable curves of waist and hips: her own shape returns, with all its accustomed beauty and considerably fewer feathers. At the ends of her hands, her nails are once again violet.

The furniture resumes its proper scale. The nightstand is within reach. The bed is a bed rather than an enormous overhanging structure, and the intriguing recess beneath it has become a dusty gap she would have to make a deliberate effort to inspect. The room contains Lillian again, raven-haired and pale against the dark marble, with glossy black lips and a streak of drying blood along one arm. A final flare of power has the blood burning up, ashing. Vanishing. The chandelier gives one last delicate tick. The curtain settles. Feathers descend through the noon light and land across the floor, some inside the once circle, some well beyond it.

One small feather turns lazily in the air and comes to rest beside a trail of bloody webbed footprints.

Lillian has recovered her human form.

Date: 2026-10-09 21:50

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(Logan’s odd encounter (SRClaire))

[Fri Oct 9 2026]

On Main Street

It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey clouds. There is a new moon.

The old street lights along Haven’s Main Street harbour small, faint pools of amber against the dark, their glow pooling on the pavement and fading before it can reach the storefronts. The clouds are heavy tonight, partially obscuring the moon’s waning crescent. Somewhere past the end of the street, beyond the sea breathes in and out as a melancholy air hangs throughout the town honouring one of the Helping Hand’s fallen. Every so often, a light flickers in a window, then settles, leaving the street to otherwise be still with only the fall autmn breeze’s chill keeping Logan company.

Logan had been going for a small little drive it would seem, and he’s just hopping out of his Ford Bronco. Still a bit of a weird vehicle for a small town, but, well, you know what they say about big trucks? Big attitude. The breeze hits him a bit, and he huddles a little bit, pulling his collar of his shirt up just a tiny little bit. “Alright,” he murmurs to himself idly. “Food. And no more ramen..” Looking around, “HomeTown.. Yeah.”

It’s probably to no one’s surprise, including Logan, but his phone buzzes insistently, the precursor for some sort of text missive, or maybe less exciting like a notification on one of the many apps he may have installed on his phone. It turns out to be a text message by an unknown number in this case.

[Unknown] 710-XXX : “You don’t know me, and I’d like to keep it that way. I’m not a fan of you. Never have been. Anyway, I left you something. I hope you enjoy it, Logan. Try not to lose control of the evening. </3”

The unknown number with the cold, clipped and ominous message will likely spring up a bunch of questions. Namely who this person could be, and what they might mean. The omen for a bad time intensifies when that breeze grows even colder, chilling Logan to the bone. His primary arm – the one that usually handles his phone twitches of its own volition, muscles contraction like it were trying to warn Logan of the impending danger.

Being a typical college kid, Logan has a slight addiction to his phone, so, when it buzzes he’s pulling it out to read it. Staring at it in disbelief. Reading it once, and then twice, to actually make sure he’s reading what it is he’s reading.

“The fuck?” he lets out, an annoyed little laugh – the fact that someone might not like him sees to absolutely irritate him. There’s an annoyance that builds in his features.

Breathing out, he shakes his head, and gets hit with a wave of coldness – it courses through him from head to toe, a little shiver running it’s way down his spine. Arm twitching, hand twitching, and there’s goosebumps on the back of his neck, his senses kicking into overdrive. His head snaps upwards and he looks left and right.

The twitching in Logan’s arms intensifies, the muscles contracting to the point it goes from inducing some discomfort to real, growing pain. Then it just stops. Stops completely the same way a held breath ceases, though the stillness that follows might be worse. The fingers tighten around the phone, thumb working along his contact list, slowly at first, then with a strength that is at odds with Logan’s directives. The screen bends at the press of the thumb, aiming to hit one of his contacts — any which one and patter out an incomprehensible message – “Ayouytt faftass” it tries to type out and send, but it’s clumsy and not at all adept with working the screen. It tries its hardest send something out though. Logan’s wrist begins to turn, the whole arm swinging outward with a will of its own, aimed at nothing in particular and everything near him. What’s worse is below, his legs start to take a mind of their own as the will to defy Logan grows with disdain building deep in the pits of his stomach.

The last person that Logan texted was someone on his contact list named – Claire, so, the text more than likely goes to her. There’s probably going to be some explaining that he’ll have to do in the future, and Logan is already annoyed that someone out there doesn’t like him.

“Ueck,” Logan grunts out, a low sort of growl in his throat, full of phlegm. Grimacing at the pain in his arm. “Fucking stop that.” Who knows why he’s talking to himself, but, he is. Maybe it’s just his way of trying to self-soothe. But there’s more reactions for him to deal with, his arm swinging outward. Thankfully, he’s got a firm grip on his phone, fingers tightening of their own will to stop his phone from flying off in a random direction. The legs have him confused, and there’s a tiny step forward, his left foot not following. Clearly something trying to drag him somewhere that he’s trying real hard to control.

A sudden chime from Logan’s phone. [Unknown: 710-xxx]: “I hope you pay attention from now on. You don’t have to be such an asshole. Stop treating like people don’t exist.”

After that most resentful text message chimes in, the arm holding that phone shoves the screen right into Logan’s face, really making it difficult to even read and process that message. Someone really has a bone to pick with Logan, and is acting like they have some sort of history. Meanwhile, Logan’s legs start to act of their own accord. They force Logan, or attempt to make him perform an about face, some internal compass pointing west, towards Greystone Institute. One foot steps forward, testing. Then the other makes its pledge to bring him in that same direction. And while that’s going on, another message from the unknown sender.

[Unknown: 710xxx]: “Are you even listening? This is going to be an important life lesson for you. Buckle up.”

The first message is read successfully, but it’s soon shoved into his face and he got about, well, halfway through it. Though, he might be able to get the gist of it. Eyes going cross-eyed at trying to decipher the second half of the text.

It’s not of his own volition that he’s starting his march towards Greystone, having left his truck behind, in a really shitty parking job, in fact. There’s an internal struggle, his brain working overtime – all of his senses heightened. The hairs on his neck stand up, and though he’s wearing a shirt, his arms are covered in goosebumps. It’s fight or flight kicking in. There’s a struggle, and Logan tries to pull himself back, straining his muscles – gritting his teeth to not go wherever it is this thing wants him to go.

His tongue still works, along with his jaw, and maybe whoever is out there is listening to him. “Who the fuck are you?” He calls into the cold breeze.

Throughout this, Logan might be able to make a few deductions on what’s happening to him. The man seems to have some arcane knowledge under his belt, extensive enough to pick up on a few things. This is an obvious hex, but the construction and incantations, even the delivery are all pretty sloppy and hastily meted out on him. Cast with emotion guiding their intentions rather than anything methodical and controlled, the will behind it is loud and emotional.

A lot of time went into casting this hex, and that means a lot of potential mistakes and slip-ups in the process. A practiced and collected thought or two might help Logan start to break out of this himself. Or he could play along for awhile and see how this all plays out. In fact, every hex needs something to hold on to, something to bind it. An amateur might leave that exposed in various ways to detect them, and there’s always the reliable trace. It’s only whether Logan can concentrate to conduct that trace while his limbs act against him. There are no more text messages for now. Only a singular will to bring Logan back to the campus.

Logan’s brain works overtime, thinking it’s at first some sort of external threat. It is, in a way, but he was mostly thinking something was about to attack him right then, right now. That doesn’t seem to be the case immediately. Eyes search and scan, and he’s not the most perceptive person of all time, but he’s got some pretty good senses. And he has yet to spot anyone in the exact, specific vicinity that is coming out to attack him.

There’s an exhaled breath, as he begins to slowly gather his thoughts. The idea sinks into him, it’s something magical. At least that part he can figure out after having the chance to think. The exhale helps, centering his breathing, his focus.

But, as he’s walking, it seems he’s decided on his course of action. There’s some muttering under his breath. It’s the start of some incantation, what sounds like a trace incantation, more than likely is he figuring out if it’s even possible for him to walk and cast it.

Whoever laid the curse ritual upon Logan had the same line of thinking as him. Every step towards the campus gives Logan something new to work with, namely that the source of the problem feels stronger, some sort of draw for him to concentrate his efforts upon. Whoever, or whatever has anchored the hex in the depths of Greystone. The last street light on Main flickers out as he passes it, the movements of his legs starting to feel more like his own as whatever pressure upon him starts to grow lax, like the incantation he mutters might be having an effect, if somewhat small. It lessens the burden that’s suddenly borne upon him moments ago, which is probably a very good sign. Crossing the street seems like a fever dream, some sort of haze, with the sound of the waves by the Hometown Diner falling away behind him.

[Unknown: 710-xxx]: “What are you doing?”

His hand holding that phone is still a thorn in Logan’s side though. It smushes the screen towards his eyes, working against the intent to have him read that message. Logan’s incantation serves as some sort of ward, the muttered breaths having an adverse effect on the hex, even if it holds.

There’s a bit of a swell of confidence in Logan. From being entirely worried, to now, to facing something head on. At first his instincts told him to not go to the second location, but, in this specific circumstance, and noticing the affect it’s all having, he starts trying to hurry himself. To push himself. The hold on his limbs lessens and his pace quickens.

Step, step, step of his shoes on solid concrete. It might have felt like he was walking through molasses before, but now it could be wading through a kiddie pool. It’s not a jog, not yet, at least but he’s moving.

Seeing that text once more that’s smushed against his face, has him laughing. A sort of uncontrollable laugh that he can’t help. “I’m coming to fuck you up,” Logan growls through his teeth. “If you’re gonna text me from an unknown number and.. what..” The words trail off though, realizing his mistake – it stopped his incantation, putting a pause to it. Quickly, as quickly as he can, he tries to resume, muttering softly under his breath once more.

Incoming text on Logan’s phone: [7100083]: “Were you, perhaps saying I have a fat ass? Thanks.” Oh wait, that’s just Claire. Logan can probably deal with that later. Though she doesn’t seem to be too bothered by the random text given the mild response.

Unfortunately, Logan, much like his opponent with a vendetta, slipped up. The half-spoken trace unravels as his concentration falters to growl out that promise. The cold surges back into his arm like a dam breaking, followed by the loose easy strides underneath him. His legs stiffen, trying to pull him into a different, jerkier rhythm, but it’s not as strong as it could be either. Like so, his fingers clamp down on the phone hard enough that it might just warp, causing the light to flicker briefly. The pressure of it all doesn’t fall on him at once at least. It leans, kind of like the same way a person leans into a door that’s been shut in their face. The resumed words come to bring order out of chaos as Logan tries again, perhaps a mistake he can reflect upon after all of this nonsense is done with. He recovers from his fumble, and the thread of influence he felt before shows again, brighter, thinner, and trembling: Through Greystone’s reception and beyond to its depths. He even gets a split-second image in his mind: The underground levels where the phone reception is at its weakest.

Logan considers the text received from someone, and can’t help but smile at it, it’s fond, it’s full of humour. This time, he refrains from laughing. Keeping up his mutterings as his march towards Greystone gets closer and closer.

His phone warps in his hand just a bit, a tiny, little crack heard – most likely bending something on the case he has. That momentary lapse in his judgment was a mistake, and he regrets it. Instantly, emotions boiling up over into anger. But he’s back in some control, his jerky movements becoming more fluid now, regaining that slight bit of control again.

Logan considers the text received from Claire, and can’t help but smile at it, it’s fond, it’s full of humour. This time, he refrains from laughing. Keeping up his mutterings as his march towards Greystone gets closer and closer.

His phone warps in his hand just a bit, a tiny, little crack heard – most likely bending something on the case he has. That momentary lapse in his judgment was a mistake, and he regrets it. Instantly, emotions boiling up over into anger. But he’s back in some control, his jerky movements becoming more fluid now, regaining that slight bit of control again.

In better circumstances, Logan might be excused for lamenting about damaging his phone, depending on the state of his bank account is at the moment it could be quite the setback for the college student. But his focus is paying off, even if he is thinking fondly of others at this time. The incantation catches a second time, the pattern of the hex lies open for a heartbeat. The binding is carefully lettered in the grand scheme of things, but the frays are starting to show, especially now that Logan is imposing his own influence to counter it. The whole construction carries beyond the usual spots — libraries, classrooms, somewhere labyrinthine an underground. It’s somewhere where nobody would ever expect a collegiate to conduct their ill-intentioned rituals and hexes on their classmates. Which makes it the perfect place to perform such things, all things considered.

The campus reception is open when he reaches it, and the hinstant his shoes cross into the grounds, the hex stops being a pressure and becomes a direction. His intuitions and light arcane practices materialize, creating what is effectively an internal GPS system. That thread he traced on the street isn’t thin, but a bright lifeline for him to tug on. It pulls through him, humming in the cursed arm and pooling cold straight into his breastbone. Lit or not, everything seems dim as a beacon compels Logan to travel underground and find the source of this madness. And finally put an end to this once and for all: A picture of the pool locker room burns in the mind as his destination. And yet:

[Unknown] 710-xxx: “So what have we learned?”

No longer his Logan’s face mushed up to that phone after crossing the threshold into Greystone and the reception. In fact, he can actually read most of the texts now, getting his limbs back to himself. Shaking them out, Logan groans in discomfort at the entire sensation that’s happened to him. From being forcibly led on a goose chase to having someone dislike him. It becomes a bit of an emotional turmoil. Reading that last text, Logan grins, widely. There’s more purpose now, his shoulders relaxing, head held high.

Heading westwards, deeper into the campus, Logan makes his way towards the Arts Center. Blowing through doors, not even bothering to shut them behind himself. Down and down Logan descends, and when he gets to the pool locker room door, he tugs on it.

It’s locked. Another annoyance he has to deal with.

A sneer crosses his face for a moment, and his right hand twists the ring on his right, and places his palm upon the door handle. A red-hot glow begins to form upon that metal handle, superheating it right there.

There’s no verbal answer to the text he read, his mission focused.

The moment the metal begins to glow, the cursed arm seizes. The hex has been tolerating his stride, but this is the first thing he’s done that it can read as an attack on the place that has led him here, and it answers at once. The fingers of his right hand spasm, all the muscles flexors going wild, then struggle against the handle, trying to peel away from it, the whole limb jerking back from the door as if the red-hot metal were the thing controlling it.

The cold in his shoulder spikes, pushing hard against the heat in his palm. It fights him the whole way through, but the curse’s effects are waning at this point. One can only maintain the curse for so long, and the perpetrator doesn’t seem to be the most accomplished of arcanists in the first place. Somewhere beyond the failing doorway, something shifts, and a bolt of cold runs throughout Logan’s shoulder as one last line of defense. Within, a hushed gasp breaks out, giving away the girl skulking within it. She scrambles to her feet and backs away to the furthest corner in a feeble attempt to blend in. No more texts, and nothing from the culprit herself. Suddenly silence is golden.

“Fuck,” Logan grunts at his seizing hand, trying to push against the door and fight back. It’s unsuccessful for the time. And he peels his hand away, panting, some sweat beading on his forehead at how much he strained himself to fight back.

A shiver hits him in the shoulder, that cold spiking and it seeps throughout him, holding him there – unable to push forward into the room. Logan grits his teeth, his jaw tensing, the masseter muscle clenching tight.

“Whoever the fuck you are,” he shouts, “Just fucking stop.” It seems whatever feeling just hit him, that spike of cold, his seizing hand, the young college man doesn’t want to press back into the door. No time to set up for whatever might be laying in wait. A thought occurs to him, he’s unweaponed, unprepared, despite the fact Greystone doesn’t like weapons, he’s already been hexed and it might be time to let this go. “I’m gonna leave. Just.. fucking stop, and we’ll call it even. Yeah?” Another flex of his hand – bringing his fingers into a fist and the hotness subsides pulling his hand away from the door knob, and taking a step back.

No answer comes within the locker room. But it’s lit well enough, despite the arrangement of candles around a bench suggesting the lights need to be dimmed. It’s lit well enough that Logan can see for himself something that might creep him out. The pool locker room has been completely taken over. Every locker door is papered in glossy printouts of one face: Logan at the gym, Logan squinting into the sun, Logan mid-bite of a burger, Logan asleep on the bus, Logan holding a ramen cup like a trophy. Each photo is laminated, labeled in neat ballpoint, and dated with the care of a museum archive file, such as: “Day 301: Held a door for three people. Let go before I reached the door.” That particular note has a knife stabbed into it.

Everything looks like it was taken out of Logan’s social media. At the centre, on a platform of stacked kickboards draped in a beach towel, sits a shrine itself. An enormous, slightly out-of-focus blow up of his profile picture, framed in tinsel. When Logan himself speaks up, a slight girl with dark brown hair approaches, arms folded and glowering at the floor. He’d recognize her, maybe. The girl who’s always in class who’s always paying attention but never called upon or even noticed. “You’re going to call it even?” she asks in a squeaky voice, tension radiating in every syllable.

Peering inside Logan blinks at what he witnesses, the photos of him, the shrine of himself, it freaks him out, for like half a second, but, then, he’s just letting out a quiet laugh. It turns out to be the opposite, maybe, just maybe Logan’s brain is entirely fired. Whoever it was doesn’t dislike him, no, it’s the fact they’re so obsessed with him. There’s a chipper attitude almost now, less angry about the whole thing. And, surprisingly, a lot less scared.

“Yeah, we can call it even,” Logan beams a smile at the girl. “I mean, you’re obsessed with me, right?” Extending a hand forward to gesture at her, and then everything else in the locker room. “I don’t blame you, it’s hard not to be.” Nope, his brain is just fried. So stuck up his own ass that he’s almost a narcissist, this might be the perfect place for him. Pictures of himself. “I thought you disliked me,” he explains.

Stunned silence follows from the girl. Logan doesn’t even know her name, and she’s probably not even in the right frame of mind to even think about that. She goes rigid, the pen in her hand frozen halfway in her notes on how to get back at Logan. The bookish sort who doesn’t look like she knows what sunlight is and a half-undone brown raid over her shoulder. A baggy grey cardigan swallows her hands, and thick glasses have already slid down her nose, leaving her red-rimmed eyes open to appraisal. The plan she’s rehearsed for Logan’s downfall ends with him laughing at her. “You think this is funny,” she says, quiet and not quite accusing, more like she’s checking instead. She glares at the paper in her hand, and then at Logan, carefully approaching him. His right hand suddenly balls up into a fist and tries to punch its owner right in the face as she extends that paper for him to take.

“I’m not laughing at you,” Logan assures his classmate, his grin fading just a tiny bit. “I just though you were like..” thinking his word choice over, trying to be careful. “I guess you might kinda hate me, but it’s not like an evil hatred.” Peering at her red-rimmed eyes, Logan nods slowly. “It’s born from passion, or some shit right? What’s the crime..” Snapping, “Oh a crime of passion.” But then his hand works against his own will – he let his guard down, thinking it was over, and was not at all prepared for this outcome. It lands squarely against his jaw, rattling him just a bit. “Ow, fuck,” Logan groans out, using his left hand to take whatever the paper is.

Unsatisfied, the girl watches on just as Logan takes that blow from himself and grabs the note simultaneously. The curse is on its last legs, but has enough left to deliver another blow to Logan’s noggin, with more spirit, hopefully to send him reeling on the floor. Or preferably for the unknown Greystone student’s sake, knock him out so she can make the cleanest getaway with most of her dignity intact, to never hear him laugh at her again. In any case, whenever Logan recovers from that strike to his head, the note is there waiting for him to read it.

“Yes I am asking if you would like to go on a date with me to get coffee this Saturday at 11:00AM Starbucks at 72 Beech Street with romantic intentions. I find I am very attracted to you and would like to spend time together, just the two of us if that’s okay. I don’t have any friends anyway. Please bring your deck as we will be playing cards.

I hope that you will also be interested in me after we walk around the town holding hands with interesting bantering involved. After this date please expect one hug and one kiss on a cheek if you consent. Also be sure to inform me through text within five days if you would like to go on a second date because my answer is already yes, I think you are very cute and handsome and I am interested getting to know you a lot. Romantically.”

Neatly written and cursive. But she forgot to even sign her name. Oh well.

The End.

Date: 2026-10-04 08:00

---

(Logan’s odd encounter (SRClaire))

[Sun Oct 4 2026]

In Room Four of Ashgrove House
This is the most fairly typical guy’s dorm room one could imagine. It’s comfortable, good enough to live in, but it’s not home. It’s relatively clean, despite some food wrappers and perhaps one or two pairs of socks scattered about.

Tucked into one corner of the room is the dorm-room sized bed. It’s just a single bed. It’s orderly though. The bedding is navy blue, with white pillows and white sheets.

In another part of the small dorm room is a desk that seems adjustable.

It is dawn, about 55F(12C) degrees,

The early light filters weakly through the blinds, dawn barely having broken over Ashgrove House. Dust hangs faintly visible in the thin shafts of gray gold light, drifting undisturbed across the room. The dorm is quiet aside frm the hallways fill with noise and footsteps and as the building properly wakes with the new hour. Somewhere beyond the window, a bird calls once, twice, then falls silent again, swallowed by the cold morning air. The chirping begins anew like clockwork. The faint hum of the building’s old heating system ticks on in the walls, a low, steady sound beneath everything else. Logan probably hasn’t even started to properly wake up before he might already feel his phone buzzing somewhere on his mattress, longing for his attention, which might spring the question of who would want to contact Logan this early and at this hour?l

Roused from his sleep by the phone buzzing, Logan grumbles a bit, rolling over. Eyes still shut, shielding himself from the light filtering into his room. He’s yet to buy blackout curtains, and clearly he should have. “Eck..” letting out a sound, one eye cracking open to begin perusing his screen. “Who..?” The question is left in the air – mostly to the void. “Shit. Did I have a class?” That’s his next question, and yet he doesn’t seem to be leaping out of bed.

At all of those relevant questions, both inward and outward, Logan’s phone persists in trying to take all of the college student’s early morning for itself. The alert is quite insistent that it even chimes loudly, bypassing any mute settings on Logan’s device. Before he can even work to unlocking his phone, there’s already something there for him to feast his eyes on.

Fulfilling its duty to shatter the silence of the frat room dorm, the insistent pulses are placated with the reading : MISSING PERSON ALERT URGENT ASSISTANCE REQUESTED

Name: Zoe Marsh. Height/Build: Small for her age, very slight build at 8 years. Last Seen Wearing: A red jacket, brown trousers, and red sneakers.

Last seen approximately two hours ago, playing near the tree line at the edge of the woods bordering Greystone Campus. Did not return home for breakfast. Family reports he often plays alone near the old fence line but has never wandered this far before.

The persistent noise startles him awake, “Okay, okay,” Logan groans, now fully awake – realizing what it is that he’s reading on his phone. “Really?” Eyes look upwards, towards the ceiling, and the heavens above. “A missing child, at eight in the morning?” There’s an annoyed sound from him, a raspberry crossing his lips. “That’s… not far.” Going through the routine, Logan grabs basically yesterday’s clothes, pulling his pants on and the rest of the outfit follows. “Do I call..” the question is probably redundant, “the police?” Once he’s up and dressed he shakes his limbs, rolling his neck.

Before Logan can even get any other ideas, there is a series of sharp knocks on the door leading into the modest dorm room. The knocking was just a courtesy, since whoever banged on the door opens it shortly after. It’s one of Logan’s fraternity brothers, though the mousy-eared student that peeks in doesn’t really seem to recognize Logan, nor would logan recognize him aside from seeing them in passing at best. The brown-eyed teen squints then gets to the brass tacks. “Hey dude. Did you check your phone? Pi Sigma Tau’s gonna find Zoe! Come and get up. We’re gonna be hot shit!”

It’s fortunate enough that Logan had already gotten himself dressed, the alarms woke him up, and this mousy-eared kid has finished the job. “Yeah, alright,” he says, “But don’t just open my fucking door.” There’s a bit of an annoyed grumble as he says this, grabbing just his keys to his vehicle and leaving the dorm room. In fact, he practically sprints out of there. Using that speed to carry him outwards and towards where this missing girl might be.

“Bro,” the unnamed student both urges and rouses, overstaying his welcome by stepping inside, taking a look inside of Logan’s room. Bro code and bylaws probably means that you might be able to get away with stepping beyond etiquette and other pertinent protocols. Not to mention the fact that there is a missing child that needs to be found. “It was already open,” he lies for his own convenience, waiting patiently, and perhaps throwing his weight around as someone who’s been here longer than Logan. “Logan right? New guy, right on. I’m Hunter. A-hey!” Hunter chases after Logan, suddenly becoming his wingman in this search. He might be shorter and leaner than Logan, but he easily catches up. “I’m Hunter,” he says through breaths, being one of those guys who like to attach themselves any way, anyhow. “Where do you wanna search first? Know the way around?” Even when they get to the vehicle he rounds to the other side.

“It wasn’t open,” Logan calls over his shoulder. Working his way through the dorm, and onto the campus proper, and then further on. Sirens begin to fill the air, flashing police lights from the cruisers. There’s some hustle and bustle of staff and students going to an fro, the campus more than likely being in a bit of a tizzy about all this.

“No, not really. I moved here the other night,” Logan tells Hunter, “She was..” addressing his phone once more, “Somewhere near the Campus? The edge of the forest.” Sucking at his teeth, Logan grimaces in fear – since things linger in the forests.

“Who, a girl you met?” Hunter asks, ever ready to stay at Logan’s side. They made for a mad dash to where the girl was reported last seen, but he’s hardly broken a sweat, and he doesn’t even seem to need to catch his breath. Amber eyes search ahead of them as they approach the outskirts of the forest, the trees rising ahead in a dense, uneven wall. The chill and the leaf litter heralds autumn is well underway. Already, there is a collection of flashlight beams that cut through the early morning dim, with volunteer’s voices calling out the missing girl’s name faintly beyond. Yellow tape has been strung loosely between trunks overhead, and a cluster of worried adults huddle near a folding table stacked with lights and bottled water. A woman sits at the desk, directing all volunteers to take reflective vests and instructing everyone nearby — Logan and his new party member to exercise caution and not go alone. “Oh dude. Let’s get some of these,” Hunter figures, grabbing a vest and pulling it on. While Hunter does that, Logan might see something that everyone else overlooked, something red lying half-buried in the mud. The search has barely started, so everyone is still getting ready and overlooking all sorts of things.

“What?” Logan asks confusedly to his newfound shadow. “What are you talking about? I’m talking about this girl we’re trying to find. What girl are you talking about?” They pull up to the volunteer booth, and Logan pulls on his own reflective vest, making sure it’s snug and tight. It’s early morning, so it’s probably not needed too much, but safety first. You never know. There’s a scanning of the crowd, of his whereabouts – they way he does it, it looks practiced. Like he has some sort of background in the military, or the police, or something like that. Or, he’s just a perceptive lad.

“Yo,” Logan mentions to Hunter, nudging him in the arm. A nod and Logan heads that way, towards the something red.

“Oh yeah. Zoey,” Hunter realizes, getting back to business, or at least it would seem. He’s checking on his phone, staring at the alert. Then at the missing poster with the missing child’s photo. It’s all the attributes of her in the flesh, or at least within a photo of her. Brown hair, hazel eyes, smiling shyly at the camera and holding a stuffed rabbit against her cheek. Any urgency for the girl is diminished whenever Hunter seems to open his mouth. “Oh one of these babes I met last night,” he says, his voice obnoxious like smog in how smug he sounds. “The locals are pretty cute. Banging even. I was THIS close to getting this girl’s number at the Alley.” He sounds wistful. Then stops when Logan reminds them of their important mission. “Oh shit yeah.” He strides along Logan, daydreaming about some babe he allegedly met. Upon closer inspection, the flash of red spotted by Logan happens to be a small red mitten, sized for a child. Its partner in crime is nowhere to be found, but there is a small trail that leads deeper into the forest. “Don’t go alone!” an elderly woman shrieks at Logan and Hunter, albeit needlessly. They’re partnered up already.

Now, Logan isn’t a professional detective by any means, but he’s absolutely smart enough to not touch the red mitten with his hands. “Hey!” He calls out to the elderly woman, “You should get someone to check this out!” A hand waves downwards at the mitten, and then with a thumb, he jams it in the direction of the trail that leads into the forest. “And this, we’re going in, but, you know, trained professionals would be a good call!”

And off Logan jogs, half-listening to the ramblings of his new partner in crime about the banging girl he’s met. “Sounds like you had a good time man, I also had a good time with this lady.” That’s about as far as he explains, since they’re now edging into the forests, and Logan has his eyes peeled.

“No kidding,” Hunter says, keeping pace with Logan. He was about to bend down and pick up the tiny mitten and likely set the investigation back a notch or two, but he prioritizes attaching himself at Logan’s side. “You’ll need to tell me about it later, man. Right now we gotta focus up, you know? Babes are great and all, but there’s a damn kid missing, Logan,” he reminds, showing his hand as being something of a revisionist. The trail narrows quickly past the tape, undergrowth thickening on either side as the search volunteer’s voices fade behind him. A small red sneaker, and small sneaker print, half-filled with muddied water, sits pressed into a patch beside the path, much to small to be an adult’s, and much like the mitten doesn’t have its own partner in crime like Logan does. It’s as if whoever this belonged to was fleeing from something. Beyond, there are figures ahead who are canvassing the area, calling out the missing girl’s name.

Putting a hand out, Logan stops Hunter, and he scans the area in front of them, head tilting to the side like a dog – like he’s listening for anything that might help, he even goes so far as sniffing the air. “Hey, you happen to be strapped?” Logan asks Hunter curiously, one hand reaching out to pat his own pocket – right then left, and coming up empty-pocketed. Creeping forward, he watches that red trail more closely, noticing the way things lay.

Hunter bumps into the arm, but while he might seem pretty athletic, he’s still much smaller in stature than Logan, so he stumbles back from the other college student’s arm. “Me? No way. Listen, Logan,” he says, gesturing out before him, starry-eyed and losing his tempo. “Girls hate that shit. So even if I AM packing heat, you don’t go flaunting that around. Guns are like, no good. But yeah I actually got one on me,” he says, sending mixed messages every which way and that. He reaches under his waistband and holds out a black handgun, looking too big in the smaller guy’s hands. “Glock,” he whispers, then keeps his eyes peeled, angling along with someone, think we’re gonna end up finding some shit?” The trail goes cold at this point, but there are voices ahead, sounding a little frantic. “What’s going on there?” Hunter asks, perplexed. The treeline is too dense here, but the sound doesn’t seem too far off in the distance.”

Hunter bumps into the arm, but while he might seem pretty athletic, he’s still much smaller in stature than Logan, so he stumbles back from the other college student’s arm. “Me? No way. Listen, Logan,” he says, gesturing out before him, starry-eyed and losing his tempo. “Girls hate that shit. So even if I AM packing heat, you don’t go flaunting that around. Guns are like, no good. But yeah I actually got one on me,” he says, sending mixed messages every which way and that. He reaches under his waistband and holds out a black handgun, looking too big in the smaller guy’s hands. “Glock,” he whispers, then keeps his eyes peeled, angling along with Logan, think we’re gonna end up finding some shit?” The trail goes cold at this point, but there are voices ahead, sounding a little frantic. “What’s going on there?” Hunter asks, perplexed. The treeline is too dense here, but the sound doesn’t seem too far off in the distance.”

Hunter balks, then stares at Logan as if he just betrayed him. “Of course I do,” he says, huffing and harrumphing. There is a rather audible *CLICK* from Logan’s side, and if he were to investigate he’d see Hunter priming it to fire. “The girl’s gonna be alright, right?” he worries at Hunter, showing he does have a heart after all. “You’re in Greystone so you probably know the whole deal with Sanctuary. No way she’d die to anything out here,” he speculates under his voice, though he seems unaware of how the forest monsters that prowl the depths of the forest can abduct people and eventually kill them in horrific ways. They track further towards the sounds of the worried chatter, and as if heralding a bad omen, there’s a woman wailing, her grief cutting through the air.

Looking to his side, Logan sees Hunter, and his real lack of firearm safety – the barrel was pointed directly at Logan and he hisses, “Fucking point it away from me, fucking hell.” And then keeps his eyes forward. “Yeah, she’ll be fine.” It doesn’t sound exactly like a promise. Sanctuary exists, of course, but, monsters? They’ve got a lot of different rules. And Logan might not fully understand them himself, really. Even if he’s aware of their existence. The wailing gives him pause, and he looks over his shoulder, at the path they came from. Deep, deep down that path Logan might be able to spot the fruit of his labours with that elderly woman earlier – some people with actual authority investigating the mitten, he hopes.

“Sorry man,” Hunter says, realizing the error of his ways. He shifts from a secret agent posture to holding his glock down off to the side, aimed at the ground, and more importantly away from Logan and himself. “There’s something going down over there,” Hunter reminds, even if they’re already on their way to investigate. There’s a clearing up ahead, and a small gathering of adults, mostly volunteers, but a woman is hunched on the ground, sobbing hysterically, inconsolable. Behind her, an adult man in his forties stands besides her, stony faced, no emotion etched over the granite jawline supporting his features. He stares straight ahead, in a completely different world. Before them, a small cluster of first responders huddle around something. “…did they find her?” Hunter asks, swallowing hard.

“I don’t know,” Logan says through gritted teeth. “But.. based of that wailing?” There’s an exhale, a long one. “It sounds like it. Yeah. I don’t think we should.. investigate more.” Shaking his head from side to side, Logan’s shoulders slump. It seemed he had hope up until this point, and there’s something cracking in him. “If.. it’s something bad, we gotta give the parents their space.” Eyes straight ahead, just watching the gathering in front of himself.

For the first time ever, Hunter hesitates. He refuses to venture any further, glancing down at his feet. He stares down at his phone, checking the time, then goes through a few questionable images of women in various states of undress. But not even hot babes can lift his spirits. “What the hell could have happened?” he wonders out loud.

The pair are spotted, and a man in a uniform wearing a wide-brimmed hat and shades approaches with long strides. “Ya’ll should head back now,” he advises them, his features grim. Behind him, the woman begs to see her daughter, crying hysterically. The man behind her remains a statue, emotionless and holding a thousand-yard stare. The officer clears his throat and shakes his head, unable to help but confide to Logan. “Some sort of animal attack,” he says, yet skeptical. “But there doesn’t appear to be any struggle. Looks like she was just dropped here under the leaf litter with some tracks going back and forth. I don’t like it.”

There’s a glance at Hunter’s phone from Logan, and his lips curl into a thin line. But he can’t help being a college male, and there’s a lift of his eyebrow. “I..”

But then the uniformed man comes to address them both, and whatever it was that Logan was going to say is silenced, not bothering to say it at all. “Is she okay?” But, he seems to have some understanding of the situation. His hope fading more and more by the minute, the way he holds himself – a slump in his shoulders.

The officer sets his hands at his sides, fingers hooking into the belt of his trousers, adjusting it with a tug. Keeping his hands there, he presents a wide, authoritative stance, dipping his head as he realizes he might be too presumptuous in his speculation. “Right. You two head on back now.” There is a glint over his shades as he dips his chin. “Sigma Tau boys?” There is a small note of approval from him as she scans Hunter in particular, noting the Greek alphabet he’s repping. “My son wants to join. Bunch of good fellas,” he says to bring some levity, but it’s for naught. Not with the poor small woman shrieking uncontrollably, running herself hoarse, yet a mother’s love keeps her running. “She’ll be right as rain,” he assures Logan, lying through white teeth. “Now go on.” He fishes for his wallet, and hands $logan a crisp fifty dollar bill. “Get yourselves a good breakfast.”

–END ENCOUNTER–

There’s one last look towards the group behind the officer, and Logan nudges Hunter, realizing the money is basically a ‘get the fuck outta here’ ticket, Logan accepts it, and slinks back – heading back the way they came.

Date: 2026-10-26 08:37

---

(Maybell’s odd encounter (SRSly))

[Mon Oct 26 2026]

In hospital room 1
Sparsely furnished. Sanitary white walls match the linoleum and the thin sheets on the gurney that serves as a bed. A small television is mounted high in the corner, out of reach, set to a low volume that cannot be adjusted from the bed. A thin curtain bisects the room in an effort at privacy for whoever is on the other side of it.
The curtain does nothing for sound. The door has a window in it and the window has no blind, and the light in the corridor outside stays on all night.
It is morning, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky.

Maybell shakes her phone, hits it a few times, gets really frustrated with the lack of signal, turns it off and on (that always works right?) It doesn’t. This hospital stay is so boring, being on the mend is the -worst-. She tries to launch blockblast offline instead of texting or doom scrooling since she has no connection right now. All and all she looks very put out.

Early morning at the hospital, a petite woman wearing a lab-coat stops by Maybell’s room. Her bubblegum-pink hair is bound in a side-swept ponytail, and she smiles warmly at the patient, glancing down at her clipboard.

Maybell has never seen this woman before.

“Good morning,” the woman cheerfully greets the injured patient. “Maybell Harper?” She offers a sympathetic look, perhaps even a little excessive in affect, jutting her lower lip in a slight pout. “It says here you’ve suffered a terrible animal attack. You poor dear. We’ve had so many patients just like you at our hospital these past few days.”

Maybell lowers her phone because it’s rude to be tied up with your phone when someone is talking to you. That doesn’t stop her occasional glances to check if signal has come back yet (it hasn’t), but at least she looks at the person whose talking to her. Hey that hair is kind of neat.

“Ahh, yeah?” She starts. A pause, “I mean like, I did come in with one other woman but she already got out and then I was trying to walk around the ward to talk to other patients, but like this other girl was like, leave me alone, so I did. No idea if she also got attacked by a bunch of -really- bad dogs.” A show of distates as she says really bad dogs. Clearly there is no respect for the wild here. She sniffs

The pink-haired woman giggles. She scribbles a little something on her clipboard, possibly taking notes on the patient, although the motion seems too lackadaisical to be very detailed; it could be two letters or digits at most. “It is very worrying you’re taking so long to recover!” she claims, as if being mauled by a giant ‘dog’ is something one generally bounces back from within a day. “So I’m going to start you on some new antibiotics. You might be infected. Maybe you’re going to die?” She bounces her eyebrows and widens her neotenous blue eyes for emphasis of this horrifying prospect. Her heels click across the sterile floor as she makes her way over to Maybell’s IV, pulling a syringe from her pocket. She gives it a little flick, and then injects it directly into the top of the bag, letting it drip into the existing liquid. “Anyway, you should feel right as rain in no time. I can’t wait!”

She beams brightly at Maybell. Her skincare routine must be phenomenal, because she looks a fair bit younger than her patient; if not for her lab-coat, one would likely guess her to be in her late teens.

listens to the woman, girl? Teen? It’s hard to tell, but oddly she doesn’t seem to mind. Anyway, she talks and Maybell nods her head in agreement, she MIGHT die, it is worrying she’s stuck here so long, she MIGHT be infected! Antibiotics sound totally awesome. Not even a tiny look of suspicion about this being injected into the iv that she’s currently getting.

“You know, I really appreciate that, like someone told me you should cauterize dog bites and I’m like, don’t we have vaccines for that?” She folds her arms, “Really what are they going to suggest next, blood letting?”

“That’s soooo crazy,” the pink-haired woman in the labcoat concurs with Maybell, and snaps her fingers in the direction of the IV she’s just injected. “That’s the vaccine for that. It should kick in any moment now. Good luck!” She turns to strut away in her stiletto heels, tossing the empty syringe over her shoulder to discard it.

She wasn’t lying entirely — whatever was in that syringe does work fast, and Maybell starts to feel it just as soon as the lady’s left the room. Nausea rises in her throat as organs and bones start to shift beneath her skin. Her chestnut-brown hair begins to elongate, and then so does the hair on her arms. She can feel her eyes moving in their sockets, spreading out across her face, as her jaw elongates. The hospital bed feels far too small. Suddenly, all she wants is to be on all fours.

Maybell makes a funny little squeek sound, initialy distracted by the syringe being tossed, but then all everything getting weird. The sound she makes keeps shifting, until it isn’t recognizable. She’s probably freaking out, literally, what-is-happening. She has no idea. Luckily she’s on a hospital bed so she’s not standing up but sort of writhing! She rolls over and gets tangled in her sheets.

The bed suddenly snaps underneath Maybell’s monumental weight, falling with a loud clatter to the ground and knocking the IV over. Her breakfast tray, too, takes an unfortunate tumble. Where a brutally injured woman lay moments prior, suddenly there is now a chestnut-brown wolf, with copper toned streaks and earthy hazel green eyes. All that remains of the woman Maybell was before is her mind; her conscious remains fully intact. She sees her reflection in the toppled breakfast tray, and immediately knows what she is, even if she doesn’t yet know how she is.

Maybell then TOTALLY freaks out, but like she doesn’t know how anything works, so instead of any normal reactions, she’s all barks and yips and making circles. You could tooootally mistake her for a over eunthusastic dog (if not a very large one) getting more tangled with sheets around her legs. She doesn’t know how to be menacing (or not menacing) and somehow manages to be both menacing (due to sheer size) and not menacing (she looks like a doofus wolf) at the same time. Also probably wrecking more things as her size she’s not used to knocks around the small room. Thank goodness she didn’t have any room mates or they’d have been trampled. -Everyting- in the room gets trampled. The place is trashed in a moment but she lacks attentiveness to care. After the initial freak out passes she looks at the door as if trying to size up her ability to get out of it.

It’s at this point that a woman Maybell has actually seen before, before this very moment, bursts into the room. Nurse Lopez, who’s dutifully checked on the patient every day to ensure her comfort and recovery, bursts into the room.

Lopez doesn’t look anything like the woman in the lab-coat who walked in before. She’s short and stout, wearing sensible shoes rather than stiletto heels. Although her hair is also dyed — crimson-maroon, in this case — the fraying gray roots underneath are visible, as are the lines under her small dark eyes that betray her age. She is an actual professional. Except that what she sees right now makes her scream.

“Call security!” Nurse Lopez exclaims over her shoulder, glancing over her shoulder as she starts fearfully backing out of the room that now holds an enormous wolf, instead of a recovering woman who was injured by a wolf.

Maybell couldn’t agree more, or less? She’s not sure, she eunthusastically says, “Yes, call security, definately!” Except no she doesn’t, what she does instead is yips and barks. Luckily she’s not growling, because she’s not like feeling aggression, fear, panic? An utter lack of knowing how to use this strange body she finds herself in ? A desperate desire for this to all be a dream? Why are dreams always gong straight to the source of what you are feeling and worried about? Probably not the best time to wax philisophical, but what else is she going to do.

Maybe she can Lassie it, maybe the nurse will understand her if she barks -just right-. She tries barking someo more.

Unfortunately, the understanding Nurse Lopez appears to develop is that an enormous wolf has just finished tearing up a hospital room, and is now barking at her directly. She does the utmost sensible thing in response, which is scream some more, and then stumble out of the room, careening and windmilling her arms.

Security doesn’t arrive to soon. But hurried footsteps can be heard outside Maybell’s room, and people are definitely mobilising. Four sets of hurried footsteps, two from each end of the corridor, begin marching towards her door. She can hear them so clearly — she can smell them, too. If she hones her senses, a clear picture emerges of everything going on outside, all the doctors and nurses she knows … and the one she doesn’t. The perpetrator is getting further and further away by the second.

Weirdly it doesn’t seem to occur to Maybell that someone did this to her, maybe she’s too scatter brained, maybe she’s just too stupid. However one thing does occur to her, she should probably leave. She tries to leave. At first momentum doesn’t come, clawed feet probably doesn’t work very well on sterile tile (this might explain why wolves never seem to attack the hospital). It takes her a bit of scratching the floor to get going and when she finally does get going the opposite problem becomes apparent. When she tries changing direction she keeps going in her original direction until hitting something solid, like a wall and then has to start up again to get moving. Really if you played the Benny Hill theme to her attempt to escape it would probably fit pretty well.

Soon, the four sets of footsteps Maybell heard outside close in on her room. There is perhaps still time to escape if she sets her mind to it, but at this point it appears people will at least try to stop her. The four figures in white coats appear to be orderlies of the Greystone clinic, stoic-faced and severe. One of them carries a tranq gun, another holds a taser, and a third has a coil of metal rope in his hands. The fourth holds only a communication device, waiting to communicate orders and updates to his fellow Clinic staff.

Maybell tells them that, “Don’t worry, it’s fine, it’s fine, I just really need to go outside and probably sleep off this, hangover? I’m not sure, but lets not do anything rash.”

Unfortunately this comes out as woof! Woof woof woof woof, woof woof woof woof. No doubt they look more threatening as she barks at them and them being threatening makes her feel threatened and that makes her try to escape again which is again rather comical as her claws really don’t go well on tile. She might have size right now, but she clearly has no idea how to use that size and frankly won’t be that hard to capure, with the right tools. Though she would have no idea if those are the right tools or not.

Greystone’s orderlies are very, very good at their jobs. Perhaps not good enough to have successfully stopped the pink-haired maniac from creating this situation in the first place, but generally speaking, supernatural aggressors don’t get to fuck around in here for very long.

Whether this is good or bad from Maybell’s perspective is a matter that may require some calmer reflection at a later date, but in the moment, unfortunately it is violent and very sudden. The first orderly shoots her with a taser, rattling her already injured frame. The second shoots her with a tranq gun, relaxing the considerably large muscles she’s currently using to skid all across the hospital tile. The third one wraps her in metal wire with such skill and speed that everything feels like it takes less than a second. With a sudden thud, her muzzle hits the ground, and she’s being pulled out of the room, across the sterile corridor.

Everything starts to fade to black …

Maybell can feel her consciousness fading, but not before she catches a glimpse of the pink-haired crook smirking from a distance. She’s no longer wearing her lab-coat at this point, but lingers outside another room in a fashion-forward ensemble, consisting of a plum turtleneck sweater, a tan tartan pencil skirt, and patent leather stiletto heels.

Maybell really did love that awesome hair. That’s the last thing she’s thinking in her tranq addled brain. Followed shortly by, Wait, did that bitch drug m- And then she’s out. What’s next? How should she know, probably if she had the prescence of mind she would hope that it doesn’t involve a literal dog pound, or worse, whatever worse is? She has no idea what happens to dogs, or well wolves when they are caught, also is this forever? She has no idea. Absolutely no idea. She probably dreams of fake bacon, not like veggie bacon, but like that commercial that is done in first snout prospective and the dog is convinced it’s bacon, but it’s not bacon, it’s a dog treat that is supposed to look and taste like bacon.

There is good news and bad news in store for Maybell when she finally comes to.

The good news: she’s no longer a wolf. She’s got all four human limbs intact; five fingers at the end of each hand, which she can wriggle. She can see her chestnut-brown hair draped over her fair-skinned shoulders, which lack any excess body-hair otherwise.

The bad news: she’s completely stark naked. She does not in fact feel any physically better than she did before receiving her ‘vaccine’ or ‘antibiotics’ or whatever it was in that syringe. In fact, after falling off the bed, hitting her jaw on the floor, being tased, tranquilised, and dragged about, she feels a good deal worse, sore all over. And she finds herself in one of the Clinic’s isolation cells, for very bad behaviour.

Maybell sort of huddles up into a ball and feels bad for herself. She doesn’t know what else she can do except say, “Ah hello, can I have my clothes back or a gown or something?” This is -super embarassing. At least she’s herself, she thinks. Maybe it was all a dream and she just sleep walked. That’s probably what happened.

At first, no one answers. Maybell gets to sit there and think about what she’s done for a good five to ten minutes.

What she’s done is nothing and be preyed upon, but unfortunately that’s how it goes sometimes in Haven. Sometimes you get bullied and then tossed into the clinic just for the bad luck of encountering the wrong person, at the wrong time.

Eventually, mercy arrives in the form of Nurse Lopez. Her pitter-patter, chunky little footsteps can be heard waddling outside the door, unlatching the lock, before it swings open. In she steps, and folded over her arm are comfortable, pyjama-like white clothes, and a straitjacket. She’s also carrying a fresh new breakfast tray, since Maybell’s wolf form so discourteously spilled her first one.

“Hello,” Nurse Lopez greets the patient, who now seems to be a prisoner, a little nervously. “I brought you some new food … and some clothes.” She politely looks away, rather than stare at Maybell’s naked form. “We don’t plan to keep you here long … but I would like to understand … what exactly happened, and why. You must not do what you did again in future, please. It is not acceptable to transform into an animal on Institute grounds. You scared the patients. And the staff.” She, in fact, still looks scared, darting her gaze about the walls with wide, wary eyes. “If this happens again, we may have to keep you as a patient here indefinitely until we can correct your mental illness.”

Maybell gets eyes as large as saucers. She was pretty sure that was a sleep walking dream. She’s -still- pretty sure of that so when she’s presented with a done do that again she just says, “I ahhh, have no idea what you mean, I definately didn’t transform into any animal, that’s like not even possible.” She grins, like this is a big joke, forgetting for a moment that the hospital apparentyl took her clothes away, which was not cool. Then she goes on to say, “But I swear I won’t do that again I’ll be good and stuff” Because it’s easy to promise something that’s not possible.

“Anyway, is there like another nurse? Young, with like cool pink hair? She came in before you to give me drugs and I think a rabbies vaccine? Sort of weird though since I thought you got like a bunch of shots instead of just something injected into an iv bag..” She seems to get lost in thought remembering the horror of rabbies vaccine stories.

The more Maybell talks, the more concerned Nurse Lopez looks. She does in fact deign to look at the naked patient at this point, even though that isn’t polite. Her eyes focus on the much younger’s woman, perhaps trying to ascertain her mental state. “There is no one who works at this hospital who has pink hair,” she informs her. “You … turned into a wolf. You don’t remember?” She purses her lips. “Unfortunately, this is common after receiving a bite from a werewolf. It is why it is important to cauterise these wounds immediately. In fact I am going to look through your records and see why this wasn’t done, and the person responsible will be held to account. I know it wasn’t me, because it’s the first thing I’d have done with a Full Moon attack patient.”

There is a short pause from the increasingly haughty, judgemental nurse, when a small piece of the puzzle that doesn’t quite make sense slots into place for her. “You usually won’t turn until the Full Moon after. Was this your first bite, Miss Harper? Or were you already a werewolf before? Were you also attacked by one last month?” She takes a few more cautious steps, further into the cell, and sets the pyjamas down on Maybell’s prison cot expectantly. The single grey mattress here is a lot less pleasant than her hospital bed.

Maybell is still clearly not convinced, she has that, this is all a big joke or misunderstanding look, but I’m humoring you. She speaks in a voice that also shouts humoring. “Ah, I was attacked recently and never bitten by any dogs before then.” She still doesn’t pay the huge wolves the respect they probably deserve. “So like, yeah and I mean, it was all a dream, people don’t turn into wolves.” She insists.

A moment later, “Maybe that nurse was a dream too and whatever she injected me with. ” She looks back at the actual nurse and says, “Can I have those clothes now please?”

A growing look of incredulity works its way across Nurse Lopez’ face. “Please get dressed,” she says, pointing to the pyjamas she’s left for Maybell on the bed. “I will return shortly to perform some tests.” With that, she turns around and putters out, firmly locking the door behind her.

Alongside the set of mental patient pyjamas, a straitjacket has been left for Maybell too. It isn’t forced upon her, however … yet.

Maybell looks at the jacket like, she’s not sure what it’s for. Even if the wolf thing was true (it’s not) there is no way that jacket could be enough to stop it, right? She puts on the pajamas and shouts out, “Can I have my phone? This room is somehow more boring than the last one!”

Maybell gets twenty to thirty minutes this time to think about what she’s done. Apparently the Clinic staff deem that five to ten minutes prior was insufficient.

Eventually, Nurse Lopez returns. Accompanying her are the four orderlies from prior, as she wheels in a set of metal shelves that contain what looks to be a full suite of torture devices. There are multiple syringes, vials of coloured liquid, and medications, but the pliers, knives and saw are perhaps less reassuring.

The orderlies approach, and one grabs her by each limb. The straitjacket is forced upon her. Nurse Lopez prepares a syringe and a tube for what looks like a blood test, although to her credit, she does this with much more promising professional expertise and professionalism, compared to the pink-haired young woman from before. “Sharp scratch,” she politely advises Maybell, as she prepares to draw blood.

Maybell broods and is rather petulant about it, probably one of the more irritating patients they’ve ever had. When they return with the implements she’s definately got a wut look onher face and at first she’s easy to handle becaues she’s so taken aback that she can’t even think to fight back yet, then she fights back. . .

And honestly she’s still easy to handle becaues she wasn’t that strong to begin with and they came prepared, “Wait hold on that look what do you mean sharp scratch?!”

Luckily (for them), the orderlies are used to patients who fight back; that’s what they’re here for, after all. And they are used to much stronger, supernatural patients doing so, so it isn’t with much difficulty that they overpower her (for them). For Maybell, matters of luck and difficulty with the situation are perhaps very different.

The answer to Maybell’s question comes in the form of a needle biting her arm, through a circular eyelet in the straightjacket. A tube is then connected, and the nurse smiles at her politely. “Just relax,” she suggests, “we are just going to draw a little blood for some tests.” She collects several vials, and then returns to her little metal cart. Evidently, these tests will be conducted here and now — Greystone is truly miles above any other institution in American healthcare.

“Hmm!” Lopez looks surprised, although Maybell perhaps wouldn’t be by what she’s discovered. “You don’t test positively for lycanthropy! How strange! Would you like to tell us what you are, Miss Harper? Some sort of Fae shifter? An illusionist?” She turns and peers at her suspiciously.

Maybell looks utterly confused and says, “Nothing?” She knots her brows and says, “I’m just an ordinary person.. Though.” She frowns, “If like some woman with really cool pink hair showed up and like.. maybe someone is trying to mess with me, I wonder if I’m like at risk of being messed with.” Then she muses more, “Maybe the dog attack wasn’t so random.” She frowns a bit and seems to have forgotten entirely about getting a blood draw.

“Take her into the Nightmare?” Nurse Lopez politely requests. And the orderlies do so.

If Maybell has never been in the Nightmare before, this is probably a shock. The walls turn an abyssal black, and writhing, ephemeral tentacles appear to be reaching into the room, pushing against the borders of her realities. The orderlies holding her suddenly look different, too: they are faceless beings, smooth and featureless, stark white all over with black holes where their faces should be.

The nurse does not join Maybell in the Nightmare, but observes from beyond, her own features blurred as if through a pane of frosted glass. She watches, tilts her head, and then beckons for the orderlies to bring her back, whilst preparing a second syringe.

Maybell doesnt’ seem to be that freaked out, as if she’s been there before, by chance, perhaps from just being sort of bored in the hospital. She looks around like it’s just, okay, then comes back and goes, “Woah, weird fast dream drugs?” She bites her lip then tries to wiggle her nose, she has an itch, but is in a straight jacket.

“Miss Harper …” Nurse Lopez patiently asks Maybell, though her voice has grown terse with discernible frustration at this point. She holds up the prepared syringe, which contains a faintly glowing, carmine liquid. “Are you … aware of the supernatural, at all?” By the downward curve of her pursed lips and mystified expression, it appears she’s at least beginning to believe that this woman really is truly innocent, and completely human. After all, the Nightmare reveals nothing out of the ordinary.

Maybell huffs in frustation and says, “Like, I mean Eris told me there are vampires in town, but I’m not sure I believe it.” She looks like she doesn’t like the topic of supernatural, but she’s literally a captive audience.

“I see,” Nurse Lopez responds, and has the decency to at least look embarrassed, at this point. There is a faint redness to her cheeks. “Well, not to worry. This will all be over soon.” She once again takes a few waddling steps over to the patient-turned-prisoner, and gently warns her, “Sharp scratch.”

This time, the needle goes into Maybell’s neck, and it’s seconds before the alchemical potion within works its way to her brain. She has just a few moments to parse what is happening and perhaps respond, before once again …

Everything fades to black …

Maybell flops, because what else CAN you do, she did start to panic before the needle, but since she cant’ actually escape the needle.. well.

When next Maybell wakes up, she’s once more in a hospital bed. Not the same one, since that was destroyed, but all hospital beds do look fairly similar, ultimately. The floor of her room has been cleaned; the devices that could be salvaged have been righted, and others have been replaced. Today’s lunch is waiting by her bed, since she’s managed to miss breakfast — twice.

She feels so much better; real antibiotics and triage has been provided, and the most wonderful, maximum strength painkillers to ease her recovery.

And didn’t she just have the strangest dream? One where she turned into a wolf, and then the orderlies dragged her downstairs into some sort of dungeon. Nurse Lopez was even there and interrogated her, but of course that makes no sense, because Nurse Lopez is lovely and takes great care of Maybell — she would never. But painkillers do sometimes induce very odd and vivid dreams.

Maybe someday, when Maybell gets better and wiser to the nature of Haven, she’ll realise that all of this was in fact very real. But for now, the alchemical potion in her system keeps her memories repressed, and all discussions about the supernatural a secret.

Which is very convenient for the pink-haired fae girl, whom she’s highly likely to see again about town in Haven — watching, smirking, and always up to further, mischievous games.

Maybell seems, at least for the momennt, after looking around, that she is indeed correct that it was all a dream. Clearly, had to be a dream. Also, she deep down knows, she would be the derpiest wolf.

Date: 2026-10-25 04:31

---

(Rio’s odd encounter (SRGrant))

[Sun Oct 25 2026]

In the wood between worlds
The interior of the building is draped lavishly in clothing of all sorts
and rotary racks pepper the bulk of the available space like multicolored
trees. The walls here are obscured with wood paneling from which hangs can
be attached to display individual items and the floor is likewise hardwood.

The floor plan of the interior of the thrift shop channels customers through
this central location from which the rest of the store can be accessed. The
area is marked with a prominent lamp post doubling as a street sign. The
two paths leading out from it are marked in delicate gold as Witch’s Castle
to the north and Cair Paravel to the south. The sections are stocked
primarily with outerwear and formal wear respectively with a transition in
the center. The color scheme changes dark to warm as it transitions to the
south, but is done in whites and silvers to the west.

It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky. There is a full moon.

Rio has just been discharged from the Greystone clinic, to which she decided to celebrate her healing victory by spending it on a mild shopping spree. Job be damned, she had a little bit of cash left over from her savings, and she thought to spend it browsing through a market for scents to wear along with some mild groceries. Though this time, she darts from the darkness quickly, she’s a lot more cautious, and her brows furrow at any signs of activity from the grasses or bushes. Going from door to bike as quickly as she can go. Where we zoom in, she was just shopping at a store that was just about to close very soon. Weighing her options on a few bottles before tossing them into a bag to pay. Her bones ache, and her wounds still sting. Body so battered. But here she was.

Clearly it’s been a rough few days for Rio, though she may just be on the other side of whatever terrible events had befallen her. She’s minding her own business, totally innocent no doubt, when she may catch side of some movement at the front of the store and the hushed speech of lowered voices. A fellow wearing a Deputy’s uniform had just entered the store, and engaged the clerk in a quiet conversation. There’s gesturing. There’s a photo shown. The clerk raises their hands a little defensively before peering at the photo. There’s a nod. Another exchange of words. Then that bastard of a clerk is raising their hand and pointing in Rio’s direction.

Oh, no. Not in her direction, actually. Right at her. The Deputy extends a curt nod aside to them, and then starts making their way through the store, beelining toward Rio. “Rio.” They call out, trying to catch her attention, “Ms. Rio Fernandez?” Whether it is her name or not, it’s certainly the one she’s given here in Haven.

Rio rubs at her eyes, trying to work away the fatigue that’s built up on her body from days of straining her mind and body. Just as she found the purfume she wanted, her name was called out. To which she squinted in pain at the loud voice called out to her – her mind bleary and pounding with a migrane – before she span her gaze over to the deputy calling for her. “What can I do for you, officer?” Oh the poor fool. She was good in nature, seeing the best in people where she could. But even now she feels an uneasiness about everything, alarm bells going off in her head. “Something wrong?”

“That’s a good question, young lady.” The Deputy responds back with the sort of practiced smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, as he raises his hand to draw his sunglasses off and tuck them into his pocket. He’s an older fellow, pushing forty, with a little salt mixing with the pepper of his beard, and hair. “You have any ID on you?” He asks then, in the same gentle yet direct tone, hands coming to rest against his belt as he looks her up and down. There’s a pause, and a glance afforded to her bag, which gets a little hum from the man.

Rio blinks twice, the sort of confused gesture you make when you realize ‘oh shit, this is really happening’. She adjusts her sunglasses that she had pushed above her head as she reached down into her backpack to search for her wallet – pulling out a driver’s license. British Columbia, Canada. Rio Fernandez. DOB: 1993-Oct-29. “I swear, sir, I have my student visa.” Said she, in a mild panic, as she held out her card for him to examine. Though she traces his gaze down toward her bag, and then back toward him. Cocking her head. “Seriously, what’s wrong? You’re kinda freaking me out, sir.”

This is really happening.

The Deputy reaches out to accept the identification, drawing it closer to read over the details with a squint. He’s getting older, the eyes aren’t what they used to be. “Canada, eh?” He comments, like a judgemental American, before passing it back to her. “You haven’t done anything wrong,” He lies, like cops often do, reaching over to pat at Rio’s shoulder, hand lingering there. “I understand you arrived in town a few days back, is that right? No family here, no job waiting?” There’s a longer beat then, “Then there was some trouble down at the Tavern. I’ve got witnesses placing you there. I think it might be best if you come down to the station at the Institute and have a chat with a few of the boys.”

Rio nods, “Canada…. eh?” Mimicing the officer with a smile, hoping he had a sense of humor. Though, while a part of her enjoyed company and the presence of other people, another part of her – the part with the migrane – wanting nothing to do with the cop and just wanted to curl into bed. But, she forced herself to keep going and play along with whatever he was in for. She takes her ID back and tucks it away into a fold of her wallet. But, a part of her flinches when the officer touches her shoulder. It wasn’t that she hated touch. Quite the opposite, she loved close contact. It was the last few days which made her so twitchy. Werewolves and monsters, her world being upturned in a single night? She was just oh so exhausted and reactive. “T-that’s right. I do Youtube content where I can. I still do ghost stories online for a little bit of money. I’m mostly here on personal research, and then I enrolled with Greystone to help.” However, she scrunges up her eyes at him when there’s a sudden accusation. “You talking about the Dragon or the Lodge? …yeah. There was wildlife that came barging in and attacking all of us. Go for it.” Perfume gets placed down, and the tomboy just stuffs her hands into her jacket pockets, upnodding him forward. “Lead the way.”

“Well, that ain’t the story we’ve heard.” The Deputy notes back to Rio, the joke passing by him with little comment. That hand on Rio’s shoulder attempts to direct her out and toward the front of the store now, as it grows a little less friendly, “We can get into the details when you’ve been processed, but it doesn’t seem to be a coincidence, does it? You arrive in town. Then there’s a bloodbath down at the Sleepy Dragon? We’ve had a few person tell us that you lost your mind. Started biting into people.” He shares more than he probably should, as he tries to guide her out.

Rio seems a bit agitated now that she’s been a bit more… accused than before. A hint of panic starting to seep into her system. She felt the weight of her knife in her jacket and a macabre monkey-primal sort of part of her brain thought about stabbing and making abreak for it. But that’s all that was. Just a passing thought. She followed along all the while with a sinking gut feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Yeah. Like I said. Wolves came in and started making everyone their chew toy, dude. I told you. Do you think my chompers would be able to bite into people like that? And fuck, /I/ got bit! You’re from Greystone. You’d see that I got admitted yesterday!”

“Wolves. Robot birds. Giant rats in the sewers.” The roll of the man’s eyes can be heard in his voice as the kindness bleeds from his tone, and his grip upon Rio grows more violent yet. “There’s always an excuse in this place, but hey, look at the bright side. You’ll either end up in a cell, with a few square meals, and won’t need to wander around. Or you’ll be back up in Canada where you belong.” The mask drops a little more as the Deputy presses her out of the doors of the store and into the street, shoving her a little roughly toward a pickup parked on the side of the road. There are no offical markings upon it.

Rio would look back toward the car, and then toward the officer, suddenly now much more reminded of that switchblade in her pocket. She was a good person at heart, but she wasn’t a pushover. When she felt that heavy hand start shoving her she immediately backfired. “Hey, man! No need to shove! What the hell? I always was coming!” But, things were starting to click together for her. She glances at the car, and then the plates. And then just. Stares at him as he starts manhandling her. “Who the hell are you? You ain’t a cop.” The woman rolls her shoulder in order to shrug off his grip, and then steps away a few paces back away from him. “The fuck are you, man. I’m not letting you Bill Cosby me.” Flexing her hands, itching for her pocket but not drawing just yet.

Rio does manage to roll her way out of the man’s grip, which seems to surprise him. The audacity of it. How many times has this act worked, and how many people has he escorted to his vehicle without the ‘Deputy’ having them even try to escape. “There isn’t any reason to make this any more ugly than it needs to be,” The man intones to her, hand lowering to rest at the firearm holster on his hips. “I think I can plug a few holes in you, and still get everything I need out of those pretty little veins of yours. I know what you are. I know what you’re worth.” He’d say, ‘dead or alive’, but that’s a little redundant isn’t it? The black market for Vee sure has been booming lately, with so many established farms having been wiped out in the flood. They’re always looking for a new source.

Rio would freeze for a moment as she thought of her potential move, and then just… bum rushes it as hard as she can at him. Quickly darting forward with her hand pulling out the knife and flipping it opened as quickly as she could. She wasn’t a trained supernatural, but she at least had the speed she had in life. So thus, with a glint of light, she’d aim to stick the knife in his gun arm, as quickly as she could, holding the knife forward with both hands like a sword. Hands trembling. “Fuck you!”

There’s a saying about bringing a gun to a knife fight, but there is some nuance in this. If you’ve already got the knife in your hand, and they haven’t drawn? Then you might just have an advantage. Rio’s charge provides proof of this, as the sharp, biting blade of her blade sinks into the flesh of the man’s right arm. The sheer audacity, not to mention the sudden pain, absolutely shocks the ‘Deputy’ who yells out in pain, skittering backwards and slapping a hand over the open wound as he staggers backwards, leaning against the car, “You fuckin’ bitch! I’m going to drain you die!” He snarls at her, trying to find his senses as he stems the bleeding with his hand – until he’s scrambing to try and draw the pistol with his offhand.

“Drain you dry,” The terrible man likely said.

Rio fucking books it as quickly as she could. But what COULD she do? The shop she came from was already closing for the night and the light has since went dark, and then there was just this man in the middle of the morning. So she did what she’s always done most of her life. Ran. She hadn’t down her dawn jog anyways! Might as well get get those steps in. So she leaves the knife stuck in the man and darts over to a nearby car. Sinking into the shadows as she goes from point to point trying to lose him. All the while pulling out her phone and dialing in the proper authorities. “Come on… come on come on!”

The commotion is drawing attention, which has to be the last thing that someone trying to kidnap another person off the streets wants. More cussing and yelling escapes from the faux-Deputy as he draws his weapon, sweeping it around with little to no muzzle discipline, just tagging it past innocent folk who go running down the street. It’s not that Rio chose the best hiding spot ever, but he certainly can’t see her. A few people yell, and call out, echoes of ‘911’ cutting through the nights air. With a snarl he drags the drivers door of his car open, and slides into it, gunning the engine and starting the car to flee the sight of the would-be crime. Rio is able to easily record the license plates for later use.

Rio saw the window and took care to take advantage of it. As wounded as she was, she wouldn’t get far, and even if her wounds healed as fast as it did, she was still hurt. By the end of the whole encounter, she’d end up panting for breath, stuck up against a lightpost as she scribbled down the plate for the authorities later. But lo, the light that shone above her flickered and died. And the light of the sun began to sprinkled over the town just so lazily enough to buy her time to head home. She was safe. For now.

Rio at least hopes she’s safe?

She was indeed safe, for now.

Though one wonders, is safety in Haven just an illusion?

Date: 2026-10-15 23:15

---

(Serena’s odd encounter (SRChristopher))

[Thu Oct 15 2026]

In the central hall of a spacious, sprawling home
This broad junction divides private quarters from the social spaces to the south. Sightlines extend toward the entrance, living area and northern passages, making the layout immediately legible on arrival.

It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky. There is a waxing crescent moon.

Standing the the sprawling entry foyer to Graham Wilson’s new mansion, and by extension, to Serena’s sometimes-here-sometimes-not home, the Wilson girl flips through a binder with different swaths of silk-prints. An audible hum escapes from her lips as those blue eyes scrutinize what’s there.

Flip. Flip. Frown.

The contractors glance at one another warily.

Flip. Flip. Frown.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, a manicured nail points to a particular ombre from red to orange to golden yellow. “This one for the foyer. It’s warm enough but not garish.” The lead decorator nods, hustling their interior design lemmings into the newest assignment while Serena pulls out her iPhone, swiping through it for new texts.

As Serena finally seems to come to a decision on whats colors she desires, the contractors that hang on her words all seem to breath a soft, if palpable sigh of relief at having a direction to move in. The man in charge takes the swatch from the young woman for reference and is soon shooing some of his people off and out to the trucks to find the right cans and the things they’ll need to mix up the proper shade. “Right away, ma’am!” comes the respectful reply from that foreman and off he goes. All things seem normal for a night here in Haven. The wind is cutting with an extra edge to the chill that blows in from the Bay on October winds. The feel of the impending holiday hangs heavily over the town, stretching thin from something festive into something a little more ominous this far away from the main avenues of the town.

As Serena continues to flip through her collection of color swatches and choices for her next inevitable harrassment of the workers, (beneath her as they are) when the relative peace and quiet is suddenly interrupted! KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. Three solid booms come clanging off of the front door of this place – loud enough that Serena might even wonder if they’ve scuffed the brand new finish or polish on that door!

The Wilson scion looks up from another binder full of swatches, rolling her eyes as she leaves the binder on a nearby surface, pulling out her iPhone to leave herself a quick voicenote: “Convince Dad to get a private doorman.”

With a sigh, Serena calls out towards the front door. “Gentler please! That’s Sapele you’re denting!” she snips, before opening the door, just a crack with the arrogant air of a young woman who has just been parted from her Very Important Task of spending Daddy’s money.

Opening the door, the young woman will find two uniformed Deputies standing awkwardly on the front porch of the newly-built mansion. Part of it seems to be the sheer opulence of the place, putting these two blue-collar types just well beyond their comfort zone. The other part of it seems to be potentially their business out here in the first place, as homes like this one tend to say things about the people that live in them. “Good evening, ma’am. Are you ..” The Officer speaking glances down at the clipboard in his hand, and Serena can catch a glimpse of his name tag: Shaun. “Serena Wilson?” He asks, eyes cutting back up from the clip board and briefly shooting sidelong toward his partner who for the moment chooses to remain silent.

Eyeing the two strangers, Serena’s eyes scan them both, her back a little straighter as she opens the door just a smidge more. “Yes, speaking. How can I help you officers tonight?” she replies, her voice suddenly less annoyed and now plied with the typical Polite Company tone that Graham and Patricia trained into her.

“Is something the matter?”

At this, there’s another shared glance between the two officers, and Shaun turns his attention back onto the young Wilson. “Well, maybe yes and maybe no. We tried to process a bench warrant for Graham a couple of weeks ago, and there was apparently some issue or mixup with the paperwork … is mister Wilson home?” While this one asks some cursory questions of Serena, the other Deputy continues to play the strong and silent type. He’s a little taller, with a weathered color to his skin that seems coastal – so probably a local. He looks scruffy, arm hair and a shaggy beard to go with his uniform that isn’t quite as neatly tucked in and put together as Shaun’s is, certainly.

“A warrant for my father?” Serena replies, her tone surprised, and skeptical, both. There’s a harder look in those blue eyes now, a wariness as that Polite Tone grows just a touch colder. “I’m sure that’s a mistake. And no, he’s out tending to business. What’s this about?” Her gaze flits between Shaun and the other one.

While her natural perception might not be exceedingly dialed in, Serena’s sharp eyes do still manage to catch another quick look between Shaun and the other Deputy, now. That looks gives her just a moment to respond as the officers take in that information that Graham isn’t home. “Let’s do it” Shaun suddenly says and the other Deputy is suddenly moving to try and take a quick grab at Serena’s arm! Moving in, she can see his name tag now at last: Buck. A split second is all she has, but it’s something as that hairy-knuckled hand lashes out to try and reach for her.

That quick look was the first clue. But the second is undeniable as Officer Buck reaches for Serena. In the space of a few heartbeats, Serena’s eyes go wide as she attempts to pull back from the assailant, trying her best to slam that door in their faces, if she can.

Serena has that moment and she uses it! Reacting quickly, she moves to slam that door shut and while it might be expensive, no doubt it’s nice and sturdy(heavy) as well! It swings shut .. but Buck seems capable of pushing back against the attempt, just before the latch can click into place in the door frame – The man’s own strength pushing against the young woman’s attempt to push at the door! She can quickly determine that trying to win the strength contest against the Deputies is a losing battle, but she’s bought herself a moment or two while she does her best to keep them from shoving it open again. With only moments to surrender, she needs to think fast and figure out her next move.

Whatever Serena Wilson was expecting to do tonight, it was not trying to Tug-of-War with the entryway to her father’s home. She presses her back to the door, trying to leverage her frame against that heavy door, but she’s one against two, and her anchoring foot starts to slide… there’s only so much time, and so Serena takes a deep breath, stepping away from the door entirely and springing back, allowing the door to open in full as she faces the Officers, looking them full in the face.

“Officers, I think we got off on the wrong foot. There must be a misunderstanding. Let’s just calm down and have a conversation. There’s no need to mess with the door, you can just stay where you are.” There’s an emphasis to those last few words, said with a mental hope and a prayer.

As the young woman springs back from the door, the thing just outright swings open at great speed, as Buck and Shaun both kind of stumble forward as the resistance to their shoving suddenly disappears! Both of them stumble and lose their footing, making it easier for her to reach out the small tendrils of her mind and begin to dig at their psyche. “And why should we do that, huh?” Buck speaks at last, his voice as gruff and scruffy as the rest of him, reminding Serena of a Moore in some ways. Despite the question … the two Deputies do in fact stay there a moment or two longer as they have to regain their footing and once more the Wilson is left with a scant few moments to figure out their next move before these two decide to press their advantage. “We got orders … you’re coming with us one way or the other.” Now it’s the Deputies that try to pursuade Serena to the hopelessness of her current situation. There’s nothing supernatural about their own words, however. Just simple intimidation and menace.

While there may be a manifold of ways to deal with Stranger Danger, to say that Serena is unworried and unflappable would be a mistake. There’s a trembling in Serena’s hands, one that she attempts to hide by clenching her hands at her sides into fists.

When the two deputies take a moment to regain their footing, those blue eyes dart from one to another, attempting to make contact with both of their eyes in turn. “Oh, I think you gentlemen are mistaken. You have the wrong house. I’m not even sure why you’re here, really.”

Sharp under the pressure, she turns first toward Buck who is arguably the more dangerous looking of the two, at the very least. Catching his eye, the burlier man seems to suddenly kind of stop in his tracks. seems to go listless, mouth hanging slightly agape. Shifting her gaze toward Shaun, Serena will find that despite making eye contact trying to push herself to entrance someone so quickly one after the next is taxing. Shaun doesn’t quite find himself under – warily looking at Serena as he sees his backup all the sudden just stop moving. Granted – without Buck TO back him up Shaun seems a little less confident, given the aptitude that Serena’s shown thus far. “You’re right I DON’T really wanna be here, at a Wilson’s home. But you do what you gotta do, right?” He hesitates just a moment – but Serena can tell he’s going to make a move. He’s telegraphing the tension in his muscles and legs, and again she’ll find herself with just a moment’s forewarning, as long as she doesn’t disturb Buck she’s got one taken care of at least.

Those blue eyes are wide and scared. Everything is happening so quickly that she has to stay tense and ready for whatever comes. To her immense relief, the scarier of the two officers seems dazed, but the wind leaves Serena’s sails, her energy waning from that as Serena takes a step back. It’s a show of weakness, but it’s too late for her to take back. At least Shaun seems smaller than the other.

Summoning whatever energy Serena has left, Serena tries to cover her trembling with puffing herself up, standing straight-backed and projecting as stern of a voice as she can, “Do you even know who my Grand Auntie is? Patricia Wilson.” Serena adds in a glare there at Shaun. “So you had better leave here and never come back unless you want a whole heap of trouble to contend with.”

At that moment, a number of things all seem to converge into one moment as several things happen at once. Even as Shaun seems about to make his last desperate attempt, a voice sounds out from beyond that now wide open front door! “Hey, is everything okay, ma’am?” The Contractor foreman, and a couple of his workers are back from the truck, carrying cans of freshly mixed paint. And wouldn’t you know it – Serena’s acute eyes can’t help but notice that the shade of Ombre of the spills that decorate the outside of those cans? It’s just not quite right, is it? This stops Shaun from making that move for at least a moment or two longer, and it’s enough time for Serena to try and push at his psyche again. A strong, piercing headache begins to settle in behind her eyes, ramping up from hints of pain to thudding pain in no time flat. The rushing sound of her own blood can be heard in her ears, her heartbeat pounding against the inside of her chest. With a panicked look and a quick glance around him, Shaun has no choice but to admit defeat as Luck seems to bless the young Wilson just in the nick of time. He grabs Buck’s arm and pulls at him, moving toward the door. “We’ll be back” he promises to Serena, trying to sound as threatening as he can while being forced by circumstance to retreat. Still … the name Patricia Wilson? It leaves the look of FEAR behind Shaun’s eyes as he backs away pulling his dazed partner along with him slowly. Once more, he mouths the words in silence toward Serena before shoving past the workers … and thankfully off and out of sight in a minute or two more. The Contractors meanwhile just stand around looking bewildered.

In this moment, Serena Wilson cannot help but notice that those decorators are holding cans of oxblood paint. Which was NOT a part of the approved swatch. But she can’t focus on that. Not here, not now. Not while contending with… whoever the hell these are.

The Wilson attempts to focus herself on Shaun. But it’s not easy. Nor pleasant. With a wince, Serena reaches a hand up to her temples, holding her head as it throbs, almost unable to hear Shaun’s threat to return. Her vision is blurry, but not too blurry to see the officer mouthing those words again.

Pale, and shaking, Serena leans against the closest surface: an entryway table, for support.

Rubbing her temples, Serena growls at the contractors. “That is NOT the right color.”

Date: 2026-10-09 00:32

---

(Serena’s odd encounter (SRGraham))

[Fri Oct 9 2026]

In the Snack room of The Chill and Fill Snack Express
The floors are made of teak wood and the walls have been painted a plain pastel lavender. The painted walls are the most defining feature of the spacious room, which is otherwise oddly empty except for one large black vending machine, lit up inside by fluorescent white lights to showcase its goods, which emits a faint buzzing hum.

A few hand painted wooden signs have been hung up on the wall next to the vending machine that declare:

[ Here ] Snacks
[ South ] Prepared Foods + Slushies
[ South + West ] Restroom
[ West ] Lounge
[ North ] Employees Only

It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky. There is a waning crescent moon.

For the moment – for this brief moment – there’s really not much going on tonight. It’s pleasant, maybe slightly chilly evening, with a gentle westerly blowing against the bay. It’s warmer in here than out there, though; the pretty pastels of the low-key snack hub provides a warm and cozy shelter against the depredations of the weatherman. There are fewer and fewer people to be seen walking the street outside, though, as the night gets darker and colder and mistier. It’s Haven, after all.

Or maybe not. A little throng passes by at pace, energised and playful and visibly laughing amongst themselves as they glance occasionally over their shoulders. Teenagers mocking some other poor bastard on the street, no doubt. At least the Chill and Fill’s walls stop either Serena or Callum from having to hear it.

For the moment, for this brief moment, there’s really not much going on.

Serena looks over the goods in the vending machine, her face lit by the ambient glow. “So you’re a Skittles boy, are you?” she teases to Callum. “And to be honest, there’s a dearth of ice cream shops here, I think maybe the closest one is Boston? I’ll order some tubs of vanilla and mint choco chip for next time though,” the Wilson offers. “I’m maybe feeling a slush, and I’ll steal some of your candies? Maybe we should just get a grab bag of snacks for when we get munchies,” she offers to her companion.

“Skittles man, la. Skittles /man./” Callum corrects with an amused wrinkle of the nose as he spins the candies idly in his hand, “I mean, I prefer them over M&Ms. They always melt in me back pocket, and then when I got to eat them they’re just smeared.” He relates back to Serena, which really seems to be a problem with how he manages his chocolates than the candies themselves. “Plus, I like to taste the rainbow, eh?” He adds with a waggle of the brow, “Eh?” The Scouser repeats, just in case it was too subtle the first time.

There are a few beats before he drops it, “That’s a good idea, somethin’ to munch on always goes well with rotting.” He notes in agreement of her snackage plans.

Rotting? Vegging? Assuming the role of general layabouts? Maybe if they’d just bought the damn skittles instead of philosophising about it. Alas; their idle hands are not to be filled only with sugar and spice and all things nice.

A woman comes tearing up the road in what might be described in Scouse as ‘a right fucken flap’. Her eyes bug out of her head, her hair’s rather damp with sweat, and she’s moving at a rate of knots. She’s terrified – and she notices the lights on in the Chill and Fill, complete with an approachable-seeming young woman and a less-approachable-but-maybe-that’s-what-she-needs looking young man. She makes a sharp, stumbling turn, then slams through the door and kicks it clumsily shut behind her, diving down to the floor as she sucks air.

“Oh god,” she gasps. “Oh, Christ, get down, both of you. Oh, Jesus.”

She’s attractive enough – twenty something, maybe a well-aged thirty something. One piece, clingy dress, fit for a nightclub – in fucking taupe of all colours, eugh. Nice hips, though. The effect’s somewhat dampened by the streaks of sweat that stain it, and she’s been running barefoot by a while judging by the superficial damage to be found there.

“There’s a fucking monster out there.”

“That’s because you shouldn’t put them in your back pocket, Cal.” She nudges his arm, “That’s like asking to have a brown smear on your jeans.” Serena’s nose wrinkles at the mental image. “Just eat them as soon as you get them or get a bag,” she points out, sensibly.

A laugh escapes from the Wilson scion. “Taste the rainbow? Is that a euphemism now for whatever we’re picking up next?” There’s an edge to her smile now, a look of excitement at the prospect of a chill evening. She’s not rolled her eyes yet, nor given him the look, so Callum must be doing -something- right tonight. At least, so far. Time will perhaps tell.

That is… until- Serena snaps her gaze towards the woman who has just bust into the snack shop, an eyebrow raised. Immediately, the Wilson takes a step back behind Callum. “What?” she asks, her tone alarmed. “What do you mean?” Those blue eyes flick towards the glass door, trying to look beyond it into the evening.

There is an audible part of Callum’s lips as he prepares to find some way to disagree with Serena, though the chance to share his wisdom doesn’t come. There is a slight twitch to his features as he hears the woman coming before he sees her, gaze darting over toward the doors of the store with a raise of his brows. It’s a good thing that Serena was already moving behind him, as an arm snakes out to guide her exactly there, while he shifts between her and the woman. He flicks a look toward the door, and then drags himself, and Serena, god willing, down behind the relatively poor cover of the closet set of shelves.

“Oi, shut up!” He calls over at the poor woman, who is poor not just because she’s still clubbing in her thirties, but also because something appears to have gone amiss. He clucks his tongue at himself, “Well, don’t shut up- be fuckin’ clear, eh? What’s out there?” Callum hisses at her, electing to keep down rather than risk peeking. Besides, he has all these other senses that don’t expose himself, and more importantly, Serena to any further potential risk.

“It-” she freezes a little, something between a whimper, a whine, and a squeal escaping her. Her chest’s locking up, she can’t breathe – yes she can, it’s just fear – the room’s too bright, they’ll be found, the monster’s coming. It’s a sequence of emotions that run over her features like a movie; likely familiar to the more monstrous of the pair, and sure to become familiar to the ingenue if it isn’t already.

She doesn’t require a second prompting, though. Just a second for those emotions to slam against her psyche and make a mess of her thought process. Pretty regular reaction. “It – it’s like one of those wolves the deputies keep telling us don’t live in the woods,” she whines. “Only huge. Oh God. And it was chasing me. I swear, it’s not natural. It would slow down every time it got close. I knew it was playing with me, but I just couldn’t stop running. It – it bit me. I know it’s real.”

Oh, yeah, there’s the scent of blood, and to a sharp enough nose, there’s the very faint whiff of a lycanthrope, too. It’s not the right time of month for this, though. If this is a werewolf, it’s probably not lunacy to blame. Probably.

Serena gets caught in the momentum of Callum’s faster movements, finding herself dragged to the ground. It’s not an ideal vantage point, but she shuts up for a moment, her eyes darting between Callum and the woman in an attempt to understand what is going on, really.

But when the woman begins to explain, the Wilson’s eyes are trained firmly upon her shifting expression.

… like one of those wolves the deputies keep telling us don’t live in the woods…

Serena doesn’t need to nudge Callum, a quick glance of her eyes is made to the man. And a shiver of fear grips Serena from the memory of something. “It… It bit you? Like just now?” Her eyes are sharp to scan the woman.

“Alright,” Callum’s brain is whirling into gear with clanks, and starts, as he starts to peel his jacket off, of all things. The heavy garment is shed, and then passed back to Serena, “Covered in me scent,” He offers to her, a half-reason for why he’s done this, before he clears his throat. He doesn’t even look at the woman to check for wounds, on the totem pole of concerns, that can wait. His nostrils flair as he samples the air and leans to the side, “Right, well. Here’s the silver lining for ya, la? We just happen to know that they’re proper afraid of grape juice. Makes all uneasy, yeah? Because of Jesus,” He’s running his mouth, but he’s doing so confidently enough that he hopes he can sell it.

Callum plucks a bottle of the aforementioned grape juice from the shelf above him, and slides across the floor to the poor ancient woman. Thirties? He looks at her hand, for a wedding ring. Poor lass. “Here’s the plan proper, splash that all over yaself, and run out to the street, straight down to the Lodge, yeah? We’ll make some proper noise out the back to attract it.”

A hand snakes behind him, searching for Serena’s wrist to squeeze it, and hold her still. This is not the plan, it communicates.

Perhaps there’s an advantage to this vantage after all. It’s only slight, but there’s a trickle of blood visible just past the back and inside of the woman’s thigh. The flow’s not heavy enough to have come from much higher up than that – Serena’s not seeing evidence of anything indecent, but she’s also not seeing evidence of a werewolf’s usual savagery. They aren’t exactly creatures of great control and precision while shifted, but this could only be the most glancing of injuries; a nip at most. The girl’s being played with.

She’s not wearing a ring, but – oh, hang on. Callum can see a faint tan line. Someone took their ring off before heading off to the clubs, maybe looking for a cheeky shag. Tut tut. Well, she’s already paid her just deserts; the woman’s having a horrible night.

There’s nothing to be seen out through the windows. Nothing giving chase, following the heady scent of the dyed-blonde’s scent trail or the delicious fear wafting off her. It’s enough even for the weakest of supernaturals to feed on, if they only reach out to suck it in. “Please,” she whimpers. “I- Please, you need to get down.” A little too shocked for an interrogation, then. Or for grape juice.

There’s a sudden crash and the shattering of glass. Something just rammed through the fucking bathroom wall. Whoever this is, they’re not a fledgling, and they’re pissed as fuck. Bestial, slavering noises sound out from behind the door as the unseen creature gets back up onto its feet. That door’s not going to hold.

The cover-up can wait. Protect yourselves first.

Serena is quick to wrap the jacket around her, as large as it is on her frame. It certainly couldn’t hurt in this moment. If this were a party, she’d have laughed at Callum, rolled her eyes at him. Delivered that look that she learned from her father. And yet, none of this is funny now. And this is no party that Serena wants to attend.

Through it all, she feels the touch of Callum’s hand upon her wrist, her own hand already trembling, until stilled by the grip of his.

But the sound of that *crash* of that shattering glass runs a jolt of fear through Serena. Those blue eyes are wide now, darting to the woman, then darting to the bathroom door that shakes.

When faced with danger, some people find that they are lions. But now? Now, Serena Wilson finds that she is not a lion. No, she is just afraid.

There’s a pounding in Callum’s chest as his eyes flash this way and that, greedily drinking in every scrap of information that they can glean. Door. Woman. Wolf. Serena. Machine. Is this what other people feel when he and his kin are hunting them down? There’s no time for that as he physically shakes the thoughts away for the time being, “Rena, door. Check if there’s a way out.” He directs Serena in a reversal of their typical roles, giving an order now with a tone that doesn’t welcome disagreement. A jolt of his chin toward the northern door serves as direction for her, before he releases his grip on her. “You, Tragedy, check the lounge one!” He tries to direct the terrified woman toward the western door, with a subtle buzz of command in his tone. The scouser is far less confident in the perceived mundy’s ability to do as she’s told, and so he takes the choice away from her.

Then Callum is darting forward, toward the bathroom door, where the terrible sounds of destruction eminate from – though taking a slight turn on his way. He heaves against the heavy weight of the vending machine, pushing and grunting as he tries to turn it into a makeshift barrier before it’s too late.

Easy. A little frisson of seducere in Callum’s voice and Tragedy hops up to her feet with a short, quick nod. She’s a Havenite. She’s heard of wolf incidents before. Never lived through one, but she can do this! She scampers over to the lounge door and, much as the entry way, batters the bitch down with a wanton shoulder charge. In another life, the woman’s playing for the NFL. “It’s open!” she shrieks. “It’s open!”

The bathroom door doesn’t so much get knocked down as it explodes outwards from its frame with a cacophonous BANG! and go flying across the room, and a huge, russet-coated wolf drags itself out through the evacuated frame. Its breath forms a fog even indoors, eyes mad. It’s already made a start for poor Tragedy, but once its brain has the time to spark a connection between two neurons, it whirls around to face the stench of two fellow lycanthropes. Its lips pull back into a furious snarl, and garbled human speech tears itself out of its chest like the purr of a Harley Davidson.

“MINE.”

An escape is possible, here, especially if Serena and Callum decide to leave the woman behind. Otherwise, trying to flee and failing might end in injury… Or, of course, they could stay and fight. Sanctuary should still hold.

Callum’s words spark something in Serena’s mind. Orders. Right. Serena Wilson understands orders. She is at least swift to get to her feet, leaving the lounge to be explored by the terrified woman. She moves to test the front door: the most logical immediate conclusion of Point A to Point Get-The-Fuck-Out-Of-Here. But the latch is fucked by whatever the hell scramble allowed Tragedy into the snack shop.

Then, two things happen at once in quick succession: Tragedy battening down the hatch of that lounge door and the bathroom door then exploding outwards with that cacophonous BANG.

At seeing the creature, Serena freezes, immediately. Freezes the way that a smaller animal that knows its prey would. Twitchy and emanating fear. The only thing moving being Serena’s blue eyes that find Tragedy. And then Callum. And then a decision is made.

Serena whirls back to the woman, “Stay where you are. Let us handle this.” There’s an urgency in Serena’s voice, a firmness that is at odds with the shaking of my hand as the Wilson dares to edge towards the open lounge door.

Oh, so close. Those words worm and wriggle and coax their way along the wrinkles in poor Tragedy’s feeble human brain, probing for entrance. It’s working. It’ll work –

The werewolf snarls and she fucking bolts. The backlash slams into Serena’s mind hard enough for her vision to darken for a moment, then resume as her head throbs in pain.

The werewolf tears off in pursuit. It’ll catch the woman in seconds. This is your very last chance to make a call.

Callum understands that word immediately.

/Mine./

Whatever other misunderstandings may arise between wolves, and men, this isn’t one of them. The scouser lad doesn’t even look toward Tragedy. Doesn’t take so much so much as half a step in her direction. He isn’t the hero of this story, he’s just another scumbag. Just another ratbag trying to survive. And he has a job to do.

Instead he slowly extends his arms out, creating a line of his shoulders, and collecting Serena within it as he begins to give ground. Slowly. Deliberately.

“Yours.” There’s an acknowledgement afforded to the wolf, as he cants his head toward Tragedy, without quite looking at her.

“Mine.” It’s a set of terms. A compact, then. As his outstretched arms indicate Serena in turn.

His posture changes with this offer of sorts, shoulders angling, rather than squaring off. Chin dipping just enough to take the challenge out of it. He doesn’t bare his teeth. He doesn’t stare. Eyes avert from the creatures own and toward the centre of it’s mass.

Every bit of him says the same thing in a language considerably older than English, that he will not challenge the wolfs claim.

“Easy,” His voice is low, and quiet as he speaks to Serena now, still not moving his gaze from where it lingers, “We’re goin’.” Another step, and another yet, each brings him closer to her, “Loose, but not slack. Eyes down, but not away.”

The high road, the safe road, and the one that still manages to expose Callum’s hideous other nature, even if not through his own actions.

The werewolf surges past the retreating pair, wolf and false-wolf, as Tragedy screams shrill in fear, then in agony as the wolf falls upon her and begins to shred her to bloody bits. Where is the damn woman’s Sanctuary? She hadn’t had a red aura, but – it’s sickening by sound alone, even if he and Serena avert their gaze. The screams die down into wet, messy gurgles very quickly as viscera is torn loose and flung in every other direction. Bones crunch and snap as they’re forced far beyond their limits. Through it, the wolf rants in its broken, bestial tongue.

“FUCKING WHORE.”

“TRUSTED YOU.”

“LOVED YOU.”

So much for that love – the werewolf is a fiendish thing, taking its time to butcher and consume its unwitting wife. Distracted as it is, Serena and Callum have plenty of time to retreat to safety and call this in. This is going to need a real conspiracy to cover up what details can be hidden at all.

There’s certainly no hiding the danger of a werewolf’s love.

It’s too bad for Tragedy. Love has to be mutual to remove the wards of Sanctuary, doesn’t it?

— End Encounter —

Date: 2026-10-20 00:04

---

(Serena’s odd encounter (SRLogan))

[Tue Oct 20 2026]

In an oceanside cottage living room
This cozy oceanside cottage living room centers on an oversized,
deep-seated couch with sink-in feather cushions so plush they
seem to swallow anyone who sits down, piled with soft throw
pillows and a woven blanket and facing a large television mounted
on the opposite wall. A frosted glass door to the south leads to
the bathroom, while a polished oak door to the east opens into the
kitchen. In the far corner, a spiral wooden staircase winds gracefully
up to the upper floor.

The room is spotless and sparsely decorated, with bare walls, empty
shelves, and a few unopened boxes stacked neatly by the stairs, as if
someone has only just moved in and has not yet had time to make it
their own.

It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky. There is a waxing gibbous moon.

What do normal women of college age do on a Monday night? Well, in the case of Serena Wilson, she sits on the couch in her living room scrolling TikTok on her phone while holding, of all things, a paper bag filled with coffee grounds that she periodically holds up to her nose to sniff. Odd. But the young woman seems utterly relaxed while she’s at home, a battered brown shearling jacket over her shoulders for warmth.

Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.

It seems that this particular Wilson is quite picky about her videos, but she finally stops to watch one with a gradient eye shadow makeup tutorial, head tilted as if to decide whether or not she loves it, or hates it.

Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.

That’s a great thing to be doing on a Monday night. It’s a school night afterall. Serena may be a little peculiar, with her sniffing of the coffee grounds, but who isn’t just a little odd. Besides, this is probably what makes this Wilson, Serena. If she didn’t enjoy sniffing coffee grounds, she could be a Berena. Or a Babina.

BAM. BAM. BAM. It’s a sudden sound of knocking that slams against the door to her home. It’s loud and aggressive for that matter. Clearly, whoever it is, wants something. Or, they’re at the wrong house.

Serena decides she doesn’t like that video after all…

Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.

Serena continues with her intermittent coffee grounds sniffing (this bag isn’t even open).

But that loud knocking jolts Serena in her seat, her head immediately turning towards the front door. There’s a sense of unease that flits across Serena’s face. What is it her father told her recently? Oh right… stop opening the door for people.

Still, the Wilson is at least, somewhat curious, and if anything, maybe this is a new lead on whomever keeps stalking their family. And so she rises from the couch, trying to make her way as silently as possible towards the front door to peer out the peephole at whomever is outside, that bag of coffee grounds still clutched in her hand.

Her father’s wisdom is probably correct. In this specific circumstance though, none of what happens would be Serena’s fault. There’s nobody to blame except for the people who are to blame.

The only thing Serena might catch from staring out the peephole is someone who appears to be wearing a balaclava. There’s a flash of white – his teeth. And then..

There’s a loud sound. It’s the sound of a window breaking, and something being tossed inside.

BOOM. A bright light fills the space along with a bang. It’s a flashbang. Someone, or something just set off a flashbang in Serena’s living room. It explodes by her feet, blinding and disorienting her.

Putting her eye up to the peephole, Serena catches that flash of white teeth and suddenly?

Her world goes white.

That bag of coffee grounds falls onto the ground as Serena staggers backward, a scream emerging from her lips as she tries frantically to get her bearings again. “Who the fuck are you?! What the FUCK are you doing in my house?!”

Such language for a young lady. And yet, Serena is pissed. And scared. And alone…

Perfect timing. The door bursts open, someone hitting it hard and fast. It cracks in it’s frame. From that shattered window, there’s the sound of footsteps crunching over broken glass.

“See? I told you guys she’d be alone!” A voice calls out, though, it might be muffled from the flashbang. Hard for her to hear.

It all happens quick, Serena is soon blackbagged, the white being replaced with darkness. Next, someone’s got her by the wrists, zip ties. They zip tie her hands and then, lastly, she’s seated on the floor – ankles bound together.

“Good fucking work, fellas!” Someone cries out. “We did that shit to a T. Timed and planned perfectly.”

Serena’s screams are muffled by the black bag over her head. The Wilson struggles, hard against those zip ties, but she’s at a disadvantage with the unknown group who have taken over.

“Who are you? Who are you with?” Serena demands.

“Do you know who my Father is?! My Grand Auntie? They’ll have your heads if you don’t let me go,” she threatens.

But she’s shaking too, because this was supposed to be her safe place. Her refuge.

“Yeah, Graham Fucking Wilson.” The voice taunts back. “Like I give a fuck. Now,” seeing Serena trying to struggle out of the zipties, the voice gets closer, sort of leaning into her covered face. “Stop yer fucking squirming, and this’ll go easier.” There’s a shove to her chest with a forceful hand, pushing her onto her back. “What we want is simple, see?” Still that voice is particularly close, squatting right beside her.

“Yer blood, that’s what we want, Missie. Don’t struggle, it’ll be over soon.” It’s pretty threatening, actually. Or at least it’s supposed to be.

Serena struggles against those ties, fruitlessly. Fuck zipties. But that shove, puts her at a disadvantage, pushed to the floor, her wrists and ankles tied, blind ed.

“You don’t want to do this,” she warns them. Whoever they are. With the lack of sight, all she has are her other senses. And the new one. Serena takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself, trying to focus.

“The consequences are going to be dire. So let’s save you and me the trouble, what else do you want?” she asks, in a bid to buy herself some more time, to keep them talking.

“Boys,” the man says to the rest of his crew. “What is it that we want? Huh?” A hand reaches out to grab at Serena’s face and haul her upwards a bit – so she’s forced to ‘look’ at him. If it can even be described as looking, since, she’s entirely blindfolded. “Nah, we want your blood. See Missy? We’s gonna be.. what’s it they call yous? Supernatural? Superhuman?” That hand squeezes her face – a bit hard and he lets go, letting Serena drop back to the floor with a thunk. “It’s not fair you got money, and powers. So. We thought, we’d take your blood. Get us some powers.”

Serena is yanked to her feet, unsteady and off-kilter with the unpredictable momentum of it all. But her head follows the voices, and when her cheek gets squeezed, Serena tries to bite that hand through the cloth – a reflexive motion.

“That’s not how this works, dipshits.” She struggles against those zipties again, growling in frustration. For as much as she can hurl words and insults, the truth is that supernatural or no, Serena Wilson is in a bad position right now.

“Oi,” The man grunts at the feisty nature of the Wilson. “Don’t be fucking bitin’ you bitch,” he says. “Or I gotta find something to shut your mouth with.” A grin creeps into his features. “I heard you got some chickens, maybe that’ll shut you up. I am kinda hungry.”

The man seems to be tugging Serena now, across the floor as she’s stood up – probably bringing her somewhere else in the house. At least, that’s what it might feel like to her senses. She knows the layout of her own house, and it doesn’t seem like she’s stepped outside.

All in all, the man isn’t fully paying attention to Serena, and in fact, it seems like his two buddies have gone off. Probably to loot whatever jewelery and shit they can find. “That’s what they’d all say, that’s not how it works. You’re gonna help us out, and we’ll leave you alone. It’s really that simple.”

“If it was that simple, why the FUCK did you break into my house?!” Serena yells, furious, but powerless at the same time. Dragged through her own house, Serena howls when one of the assailants brings up the chickens. “FUCK YOU, YOU LEAVE THE CHICKENS ALONE!”

Her breathing is ragged with all of the yelling she’s doing, yelling that is quickly making Serena dizzy with the lack of air in that black bag.

This is a quandary. This is an issue.

“Fine,” she chokes out, her voice broken, shaking. “J-just take it and go.”

Blood is a precious thing. A sacred thing. Not to be given lightly. But Serena Wilson is out of options now.

“Hey, Boris,” the man calls out to somewhere in the house. “You got the shit, right? To get her blood? Needles?” Pulling her along still, and they end up in the bathroom where Serena is shoved a bit roughly onto the toilet.

“I know you’re a rich kid, but I thought they gave you a good education.. If we asked politely, you wouldn’t have let us in. Now would you?” There’s a long drawn out sigh, “Boris, get your fucking ass in here!” And then, he shouts some more. “Don’t fuck with the chickens, wherever you are, Dante. Just go fucking stand guard or some shit!”

Most of the house has been abandoned, there’s nobody on watch at all. But, the house is a wreck if Callum was to come home to it. The front door has been broken down, cracked in places, and one of the windows was shattered – there’s probably the smell of gunpowder in the living room, and what’s clearly a left over grenade – a flashbang somewhere on the floor.

Shoved onto the bidet, Serena is breathing hard from inside that black bag, trying hard not to hyperventilate now, trying hard not to panic. Because she’s tired, all of that struggling coming to naught. The lack of air is starting to get to Serena now too, the voices swimming in Serena’s head, the overwhelming sensation of multiple new and unknown scents floating in the air, clouding her senses.

“P-please. I’ll pay you to go. Whatever you want-” her voice trembles now. It’s the last refuge: money. But even then, Serena knows it’s just a hail mary at this point. They’ll take what they want.

Well, Callum wasn’t in the worst of moods. Sure, he’d forgotten to stash himself some clothes and ended up having to steal some tighter-than-comfortable women’s clothing from the Westhaven facilities, but all things considered? He’s hard worse experiences. He’s jogging along the dirt path that leads to the cottage he shares with Serena, as her loyal and platonic roommate, when he catches the scent that doesn’t belong. What had been a jog quickly turns into a sprint, turns into a mad dash, his JUICY embossed arse tearing across the landscape as fast as he can.

Worry, and concern are quickly replaced with burning fury as the cottage comes into view, with it’s door torn asunder, and the fellow is just about seeing red at this point as he streaks toward it. The terrible sound of tearing clothes, rending flesh and breaking bones cuts through the steady pace of his breathing as he begins to splinter and crack mid-stride, falling forward to land on all hours, on pads and paws, as he explodes into the dwelling like a bullet.

Whomever has the misfortunate to be closest to the door, and not named Serena Wilson, may find themselves suddenly face-to-face with a spitting, howling, beast the size of a car.

From down the street, Callum(wolf) might see the flicker of some embers fading away into the night. A cigarette was lit. There’s a loud yelp that fills the cottage. It’s not from Serena, and it’s not from Callum(wolf). No. It’s from that poor, poor schmuck who was about to stand guard. That cigarette is no longer lit. The man, Dante, in this case, was absolutely hit by that car sized beast that was Callum(wolf). Whatever words or scream he was going to let out are gone. His cigarette was swallowed, and he’s choking on it.

There’s still work to be done, and it seemed Callum(wolf) was somehow stealthy enough to avoid alerting the other two ne’er-do-wells. “Okay, Missy,” the main man says – he has not yet given a name, and it might be on purpose. “We’s gonna take your blood now. A little donation. I don’t want your fucking money. I just wanna be like you. Whatever the fuck you are.” Reaching out to take Serena, the man grabs her arm – starting to tie a band tight around the bicep – drawing out the veins in her skin.

Serena cries out in pain. With her wrists tied together, the band now squeezing her bicep is more than uncomfortable, it’s plainly painful.

“You’re never going to be like me,” she spits out to them, vehemently. But the effect would have been better if she weren’t so tired, if she weren’t so dizzy, if her body wasn’t overwhelmed with stress from how quickly it all happened.

Still, she doesn’t make it easy for them, despite saying she would comply, squirming hard against the grip on her arm.

Doesn’t Dante know? Cigarettes’ll kill ya.

The wolf barely stops as it lunges at the man, crashing into him at full pelt and snapping the cruel strength of it’s jaws toward his head. It swallows his scream, his breath, and chunks of his skull and flesh as the pressure caves right on through, and into the warm wetness of his grey matter. No Sanctuary. What a blessing.

Callum(wolf) doesn’t linger to enjoy his kill, there’s no thought for it. There’s barely any thoughts at all. He’s pure instinct, senses scrambling out for scent trails and sounds as he gives the body another quick jerk, and then darts into the house- crashing through the remains of the door in the process and charging toward the bathroom door. If it still stands, it likely won’t for much longer.

See? Cigarettes do kill! They generally kill in other ways, but maybe, just maybe, if this guy wasn’t worried about lighting up, he might have seen the furry car about to maul him over. Well, it’s too late for that.

The guy is a human, through and though. This is what his plan was. To steal blood from a supernatural and become one. Maybe that would have protected him from his head immediately being turned into pink mist.

It wouldn’t be hard to smell the rest of the two. They smell of late night debauchery. Cigarettes, alcohol, and just that stink. It’s like a strip club. There’s something about it. It’s hard to explain, but you just kinda know that’s what it smells like. There’s also the familiar scent of Serena that Callum(wolf) could tell. She’s probably scared.

“Oi, Missy Wilson, stop yer fucking squirmin’.” Then he turns slightly towards Boris in the bathroom, “Needle ready? Bag ready? Let’s get this fucking line in.” Then, he’s letting go of Serena’s arm to call out. “DANTE! Where are you? Might need your help up here. Get your lazy ass up here.” Too little too late. He’s too late. Dante is gone.

Through the miasma of various scents, Serena picks up a new one in the air. One that grows stronger, one that gives the shaking, squirming Wilson hope. With whatever dwindling strength Serena has left, she tries to yank her arm away from the ringleader.

“You should have let me go when you had the chance,” she growls to them, even as the pain lances through her body, her circulation disturbed by all those zip ties.

In the chaos they may not even hear it, the thing that Serena smelt, and likely hears before these poor Mundy’s do. A low, grumbling growl that builds in volume as the door to the bathroom swings inwards with a creak on it’s hinges, and Callum(wolf) lopes into the room. So much slower than the sprint that had brought him home. He doesn’t need to run. They have nowhere to go. There’s very little left in Callum(wolf)’s eyes that may register as human, replaced with pure brutal primal fury as his claws rake against the tiled floor, screeching and scratching. His muzzle is covered in blood, and fragments of bone, and drool unfurls to spool from his jaw as that growl registers into a snarl.

They should have let Serena go when they had the chance.

There is the slightest of pauses here, as he holds the gaze of the men with a weight that goes beyond the mere physical. This wolf, larger than any seen in the wild, no doubt, is the reason that men learned to fear the dark, learned to bar their doors and light their fires. These men have made a terrible mistake of coming to his home, and laying their hands on HIS (totally platonic) roommate (they’re just roommates).

He wants their stomachs to drop with fear, and their insides turn to water before he rips them out.

The wolf pounces in a flurry of snapping jaws, and rending claws, to rip and tear.

“Dant-” the main man says. Still totally nameless. He was happy to throw his friends under the bus, but not himself. That call out is stopped in it’s tracks as he sees the door swing inwards. His eyes bulge basically out of his head, and whatever he was doing to Serena (just taking her blood!) is dropped. The man backs up, hitting the far wall away from the door. “What.. what the fuck. What the fuck is that!” The second man, Boris, drops the needle that he was about to stick into Serena’s arm. Panic in his face, and in fact, there’s now a wet spot that trickles down the front of his pants, down his leg and onto the floor.

“Fuck.. Fucking, fuck, fuck. This.. is not real. No way.”

They picked the wrong house. The wrong person. The wrong time. They should have just let Serena go.

The main guy was closest to the bathroom, to the door and is absolutely the first one to get rip and teared upon by Callum(wolf).

The scent of blood being spilled would have normally set Serena on edge, but now? In this context? It’s sweet relief.

Serena can feel Callum(wolf)’s presence in the room, even if the black bag around her head keeps her from actually being able to see them. She knows well what that terror is, what those claws and teeth can do. And in the adrenaline crash, Serena remembers her training. Trussed up the way she is, there isn’t much she can do but try to scrunch up small on the bidet, and wait for justice to be served. It’s a dirty, ugly business. But she still has all her blood in her veins, so who is Serena Wilson to complain?

Perhaps it is a small mercy that Serena doesn’t need to see what happens next, an echo of another night with another wolf, as Callum(wolf) sets to work with his terrible task. Oh, how his blood sings. The violence is indulgent, drawn out. With nowhere to go, and no weapons to defend themselves, Callum(wolf) doesn’t just harm, or kill these men. He punishes them. Bones break. Flesh is torn asunder. Blood sprays across the mirror, across the tiles. Across decor more expensive than Callum(wolf)’s car. Crimson is splattered on their towels, (His and hers, so they don’t use their roommates one accidentally,) and likely even across Serena herself.

Callum(wolf) has always described himself as a weapon, as a bullet, as a grenade tossed into a closed room. It’s here in these moments that he provides proof of this, tearing the first man apart in front of his friend that he may watch knowing that he is next. Knowing that there is no escape. How delicious.

Callum(wolf) rips the first man apart with ease. It’s not even a remotely fair fight at all. There was no fight. It would be like using a hydrogen bomb to cook eggs. Yeah, it’ll work, probably, but everybody is gonna die. A new scent joins the flesh, blood, gore. It’s poop. It’s actual poop. Boris has just defecated himself at watching Callum(wolf) maul his friend.

There’s nothing left for him to do. There’s no escape. Fight or flight doesn’t exist. It’s fear. Pure fear now. He backs up into the corner, falling onto the floor, cowering. There’s murmured cries from him, calling out to God and to his mother.

Serena grimaces as fresh, warm blood splatters across her. Sadly, this isn’t the first time that Serena has hear the sounds of a live person being torn apart by a wolf, and yet, sitting through this isn’t any easier to hear. The sudden stink in the air makes Serena’s nose wrinkle. Maybe having a black bag over her head was a blessing in disguise. At least her face will stay clean, even if it’s hot in there, even if she’s still dizzy from the lack of air.

Curled up on the bidet, Serena calls out, her voice muffled by the bag. “No mercy.”

A command. And it means she’ll have to sit through more of this. Listen to it. Smell it. Bear as blind witness to the atrocity.

But if there is one thing Serena Wilson likes, it is to be right. And she did tell them to let her go…

A command. How interesting.

The dog accepts commands, he is a very good dog. Sometimes. But Callum(wolf) isn’t a dog, he’s a wolf. There is a slow pause as his gaze ticks over toward Serena’s bound form, a low rumble in his throat, and he pads toward her, claws clacking against the tiles and smushing the various bits of man left tossed about like a Pollock painting. Serena may very well feel the heat of Callum(wolf)’s maw as he drws in closer to her, the scent of blood and broken bone on his hot breath as it washes over her.

It’s terrible maw parts, and the wolf seizes the edge of the bag, roughly tugging it free from her features, freeing her to breath, and see, and smell all the better, to see the carnage and damage, and in effect, arming her too, as those pretty, oceanic blues are left uncovered.

The wolf snarls now, turning away from Serena, and toward that last remaining man, should she wish for no mercy to be shown, this is her chance to make it so, else, of course, she has her other weapons at her disposal than the wolf, as a capable and proud scion of the Wilson family.

Once that bag is removed from Serena’s head, she’d be able to see the entire carnage of what’s transpired in her bathroom. It’s straight out of a saw movie. Gore fans would probably have to be changing their pants for what Callum(wolf) just did in here.

Boris, that poor poor man. He thought he’d get powers. He was talked into it. It wasn’t his fault, he just had medical training, knew how to draw blood. “Please.. pl-..” the words are whimpered, and he’s pressing himself into the corner as far as he can. “I.. did.. didn’t..” His eyes drift upwards and he makes the sign of the cross.

“Our father, who art in Heaven, hallowed by Thy Name.”

God probably won’t save him now. Nothing will. Only the mercy of one Serena Wilson. That is his only chance.

Serena Wilson has made a huge mistake.

And she realizes it when she feels the rumble and heat of Callum(wolf)’s breath so close to her. Her body trembles like a leaf when it approaches. For she doesn’t need eyes to feel how close she is to something dangerous. Something wild. Something you do NOT give orders to like a dog.

When that bag is pulled away, Serena’s face is pale and covered with sweat. Those sharp eyes of hers bear true witness to the horror that is now her once-pristine bathroom with imported tiles.

She gulps in that air, as putrid as it is, and those eyes move to Callum(wolf), fixed upon it, before her gaze lowers.

“I’m not going to tell you what to do,” she tells the wolf, as the man prays in the background. “But I won’t stop you either.”

There’s a pause there as Callum(wolf)’s ear flicks at Serena’s words, and his gaze tracks back aside to stare at her. The icy-grey orbs dip down to her bindings, and then shift back over toward Boris, the poor man. The silly fool who thought he could pluck divinity from Serena like fruit from the vine. He rises once again, giving himself a shake, and starts to move. Not immediately toward the man, but closer yet to Serena, barely brushing the side of his face against her to smear his scent on her. To claim her under his terrible protection, and possession. Like you do with a roommate.

Then, with a suddenness that almost seems at odds for how large he is, he leaps over to someone, seizing the man by the neck and dragging him down onto the floor. The wolf twists and angles his prey, turning and grinding him until he can lock eyes with Serena, with the man’s neck in his mouth, and only when her eyes meet his own do those vicious, deadly teeth begin to clamp down in earnest, puncturing and breaking flesh with slow, agonizing patience. There is, in fact, no mercy in this killing.

There’s a pause there as Callum(wolf)’s ear flicks at Serena’s words, and his gaze tracks back aside to stare at her. The icy-grey orbs dip down to her bindings, and then shift back over toward Boris, the poor man. The silly fool who thought he could pluck divinity from Serena like fruit from the vine. He rises once again, giving himself a shake, and starts to move. Not immediately toward the man, but closer yet to Serena, barely brushing the side of his face against her to smear his scent on her. To claim her under his terrible protection, and possession. Like you do with a roommate.

Then, with a suddenness that almost seems at odds for how large he is, he leaps over to Boris, seizing the man by the neck and dragging him down onto the floor. The wolf twists and angles his prey, turning and grinding him until he can lock eyes with Serena, with the man’s neck in his mouth, and only when her eyes meet his own do those vicious, deadly teeth begin to clamp down in earnest, puncturing and breaking flesh with slow, agonizing patience. There is, in fact, no mercy in this killing.

God did not in fact save

God did not in fact save Boris at all. Nope. God probably had his eyes shut to the horrors of this bathroom. Turned a blind eye to it all. Serena did not either. There was no mercy here.

There’s no fight from the man. He can barely even react. There’s a wolf on him in seconds – and a whimpered cry from his throat as it’s seized.

The light fades from his eyes, right there on the bathroom floor. At least, nobody got Serena’s blood. Hopefully the cleaners have a hazmat suit. This si going to be a pain to clean up.

With eyes locking on Callum(wolf), Serena holds her breath as she watches. This is what she asked for after all, wasn’t it? And despite her brave words earlier, Serena shrinks against the bidet as flesh and bone are rendered lifeless.

This was not how Serena Wilson wanted her Monday night to go.

Date: 2026-10-09 13:15

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(Sidonie’s odd encounter (SRHiram))

[Fri Oct 9 2026]

In a quiet bedroom beneath the eaves
Sloping ceilings and pale, weathered floorboards lend this second-story bedroom a sheltered intimacy. A broad bed rests against the interior wall, its ivory linen layered beneath a deep sea-green quilt. Small walnut nightstands flank the headboard, each bearing a shaded lamp
a paperback lies face-down beside a shallow dish for rings and loose change. Beneath the sash window, a cushioned bench overlooks the street below, though salt-clouded glass softens the view. Warm lamplight gathers over the bed while the corners beneath the eaves remain dim. Heavy curtains can be drawn across the window, their edges meeting without a gap. Near the door, an old iron latch supplements the newer lock.

It is afternoon, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky.

Thank you for accepting my encounter! Please give me a quick post as to what you were doing.

The bedroom is… not a mess, per se. Just rumpled. The kind of place where the inhabitants aren’t slobs, just lackadaisical about their cleaning. Clothes not put away, bed not made. Sidonie is checking the contents of her purse before heading out through the door toward the kitchen.

Which is strangely much cleaner than the bedroom. Save for an empty bottle of wine on the counter and a single glass next to it.

In the real world there are Amber Alerts when Children go missing, silver alerts for the elderly, blue for people who killed cops. In Haven, there is another, for people lost in the woods. Code Magenta. Why Magenta? The world will never know. Some say it is because Frank Reeves likes Magenta. Others say it is because Mary Moore held Frank upside down over the bridge until a new code was created and Magenta is her favorite color. Either way, it exists and all phones in Haven are subject to the alert.

And so, lazy day Sidonie, not cleaning her room is notified on her phone that Albert McCay aged 36 was last seen about 1200 feet from the edge of town and is suspected missing.

Every day is lazy day for Sidonie Renault. There is a reason she is rarely awake before noon unless she stayed up the whole night through (in which case she is usually asleep by 7 and thus still not awake by noon).

The lavender-haired woman’s hand is on the door leading from the kitchen to the balcony above the salon that is currently being gutted to become an as-of-yet unnamed gallery. (They should really work on that.) But then her phone receives an alert. Not by beep or chime, because she’s not a monster who submits others to constant phone noises. No, it just buzzes, vibrating in her bag.

Some juggling of clutch, keys, door, and phone later, Sidonie is moving down the steps a bit more quickly. One may not think her the type to go out and save people, but then… none here in Haven yet know of past allegiances or refusals thereof. She mumbles to herself as she squints at the screen, trying to get a good look at the map location of where Mr. McCay was last seen. “I say to everyone, the woods they are dangerous… But people, they do not listen.” Once she feels (relatively) confident on where to go, she gets into her car and is…

…okay, not off to the races. The vintage vehicle takes some coaxing in the cooler weather to get going, but once it does things are smooth sailing. To the edge of town, at least.

At the edge of town the mist has started to roll in. Some of the HSD is already out there doing the official search. A small gathering of locals are also there getting ready to help but Sidonie knows that some of those are just going to look for their own gain. With any luck he hasn’t gottn sucked in a gate or something

Slow rolling past, Sidonie probably looks like a lookie-loo. This is fine. It gives her the opportunity to get a good look at the locals: make mental note of any that need to have an eye kept on them. Ultimately, she parks not too far away, circling back.

Quietly cursing her choice of attire for the day, but then. She has very little in her wardrobe that would be suitable for traipsing through the woods. Even so, a tulle skirt? Maybe she should keep a change of clothes in the car…

Oh no, clothes shopping, how terrible a thought.

Checking her purse — compass, check. flashlight(s), check. — Sidonie locks her car and shakes out the bracelet she always wears, the garnet charm flaring (just briefly), before heading into the edge of the treeline.

Just the usual spooks of town, so everyone with oddly colored hair and eyes. OOC: Does Sidone have any acute senses or other stats/skills she wants to use for her investigation?

Through investigation by Sidonie shows a small trail into the underbrush. Why no one else noticed it is suspicious, maybe they thought it was a game trail or something else, but this just feels different to Sidonie. Like this might be important enough to follow for a little ways.

Surely one cannot consider Sidonie one of those spooks. Anyone can dye their hair! Hers is even faded dye, but there is reason for that. Someone with a carefully curated appearance and presence such as Miss Renault here would plan for that. No, no, unnaturally colored hair would always be intense, bright, no roots showing (actually she’s quite careful of those, too).

Taking a deep breath, she angles away enough from the others and starts slowly pressing further into the trees. At least she’s not in heels today. Mary Janes are some of the most sensible of the ‘cute’ shoes. Her eyes finally fall onto the trail and she stops to study it. To look toward where two guys are bumbling along not terribly far away, talking about their hope for a good reward. She shakes her head and (quietly, she hopes) moves forward into the underbrush (clutching scarf and skirt close!) to follow the trail.

Bright colors are a sign of toxic nature. Maybe Sidonie is secretly a toxic witch. The world will never know! Mysteries abound in Haven. After a period of time she is away from the group, away from prying eyes, and near a gate, given that her compass keeps pointing ‘That-a-way’ some distance away from her.

Robert Muldoon, Sidonie is not, but she is able to make her way through the trail following foot steps and monitoring broken branches, however the trail stops abruptly in the middle of a clearing

Thank our Thirst Lord and Savior Jeff Goldblum she’s not. Sidonie would rather survive the film adaptation. The Haven Witch Project? Witches of Haven? Impractical Magic?

The Frenchwoman is very careful about where she steps: both because of those tricksy gates and because of her attire. By the time she reaches the edge of the clearing, she starts to get that niggling feeling that Something Is Up. That one that comes with the trail of goosebumps down the spine and a raising of hair on the back of the neck. She shivers and it’s not the cold, New England autumn air. There’s no taking in the glory of the changing leaves for this one (though really, she should consider doing that before the entirety of them dump on the ground).

“Mr. McCay?” Sidonie’s voice starts out soft as she presses a few steps more into the clearing, keeping half an eye on her compass. Then, a bit louder: “Albert McCay?”

From the center of the ring, a head pops out from around a tree. He is scared, and suspicious of Sidonie. “Who… who are you?”

Both hands go up, showing that Sidonie is holding nothing more dangerous than a compass. No gun. No knife. No military grade equipment being carried around town by a college student that shouldn’t have the money let alone access to such things. “It is okay,” she says, trying to level out her accent as much as possible (her media rep has given her some coaching in this for the one or two interviews she’s had for middling YouTube channels), “I am Sidonie Renault. You are Mr. McCay, oui?”

Notably, she does not move any closer. For the moment, she does not move at all. She is still alert, yes, keeping ears and eyes open just in case. But she doesn’t move.

“Many people, they are looking for you. They are concerned.”

“I am concerned!” Albert exclaims. “I was out picking chantrells and then boom! Was being chased by a minotaur being ridden by a woman with purple hair.” He shakes his head, “Where am I anyway? I don’t want to move… I don’t want to trip into another gate.”

A minotaur? Sidonie blanches at that, but thankfully: she’s already a rather fair-skinned woman and she’s wearing makeup. It’s not terribly visible. She knew the risks moving to Haven, but still.

Deep breath. “Not far from the road, I promise.” It’s hard for her to say exactly where. “West of town, but not so far as the Moore woods?” The uncertainty isn’t too strong and hopefully will be taken as ‘hey buddy it’s the woods, precise positioning is hard without a GPS.’

However, Sidonie does hold up the compass a bit more prominently. “I have a compass, Mr. McCay. It will tell us where the gate is, non? Follow me and I will get us back to the road. The sheriff department is also out looking, they can make sure you go home safe.”

“Oh… Oh ok,” the man says following Sidonie shuffling along with her, keeping close to her until they get out of the forest. He doesn’t mind following her but definitely needs a drink, or more. He nods then and thanks her.

OOC: Thank you for the Scene! Do you need me to transport you somewhere?

Date: 2026-10-25 02:44

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(Sidonie’s odd encounter (SRLogan))

[Sun Oct 25 2026]

In a quiet bedroom beneath the eaves
Sloping ceilings and pale, weathered floorboards lend this second-story bedroom a sheltered intimacy. A broad bed rests against the interior wall, its ivory linen layered beneath a deep sea-green quilt. Small walnut nightstands flank the headboard, each bearing a shaded lamp
a paperback lies face-down beside a shallow dish for rings and loose change. Beneath the sash window, a cushioned bench overlooks the street below, though salt-clouded glass softens the view. Warm lamplight gathers over the bed while the corners beneath the eaves remain dim. Heavy curtains can be drawn across the window, their edges meeting without a gap. Near the door, an old iron latch supplements the newer lock.

It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky. There is a full moon.

At current time, the bedroom is not the most tidy. But it’s not a wreck, either. Just the result of two people who have been a bit too lazy to clean up thoroughly. A pair of pants there. A jacket here. Sidonie is pacing the room absently, dressed as if she is either soon to go out, or just got back in. Either way, she paces, typing things out on her phone. Mostly texts.

A clean bedroom might say a lot about a person, or the two people who live here. Lazy could be one of them. Or busy! That’s also something that could be said about the residents of this particular bedroom. It looks to be one of those nights, an anxious sort of thing, her back and forth pacing. Unsure if she should stay or go. Go or stay.

Maybe soon the decision has been made for Sidonie. The air around her suddenly feels heavy and warm. It’s like a massive, giant cocoon all of a sudden. Her limbs feel heavy, and her eyes droop – just a smidge. Something in her body wants to tell her to lay down. To sleep. To dream.

It practically calls to her now, her bed. Just a strange desire that leaps out at her.

Sleeeeeeep.

There’s one MyHaven text thread that Sidonie keeps opening, then closing. Opening, then closing. She never actually types anything in it, but she frowns deeply the whole time. A frown that deepens when she’s hit by the sleepies. Something seems off… wrong. There’s a strangeness to it.

And yet, even as the arcanist is trying to push through it, she’s removing her peacoat, her scarf, and shedding them alongside her boots on the floor as she makes her way to the bed. “…sit down for a moment…” Sidonie mumbles to herself as she does just that. And almost as soon as she does, she’s slouched over — phone left by her hip — and drifting off.

Something is definitely, definitely off. Because Sidonie should have not been that sleepy all of a sudden. It hits her like a ton of bricks, the weight of sleepies descending upon her. It’s pretty nice at first. Who doesn’t like naps? Naps are fantastic, especially if you’re overthinking whatever text message you wanted to send. Sleep it off. Though that’s probably for injuries.

Once Sidonie is asleep, she’s hit by a dream. It starts somewhat normal at first, or, as normal as dreams can be.

Sidonie finds her dream-self standing on some French street, in front of a cafe. It’s a nice, calm, spring day. It looks to be about early morning. The air fresh with the aroma of freshly ground coffee, and goods baking all down the street. Not many souls in sight to ruin such a nice (depending on your opinion) start to a dream.

For some texts, sleeping on it probably IS the best decision. This one may very well fall into that category. Sidonie is no stranger to naps. Or sleeping in. Or lazing around in bed in general: it’s one of her favorite things to do, in fact.

Dreams can be an interesting place. Sometimes one intersects other places. Or receives information of some ilk or another. Sometimes they just find themselves in a familiar place. This is exactly that. The cafe that she and Alain would go to in the mornings when they first began living together (which, let’s be honest: was about a week after they met). Sidonie takes in the scent of coffee, pastry, and with a content sigh she starts toward the cafe proper, intent on having a good croissant and coffee. The former having been well-missed.

It’s the hope that gets you.

There’s just something incredibly off about this street. It’s too perfect. Too clean. Too.. pure. The smells are probably exactly what Sidonie remembers, only, slightly off. There’s just an impurity in those smells. Something faint that’s hard to tell.

In the corner of her eye a figure appears, hurrying down the main road, and it doesn’t stop – it runs off into the distance. Another figure pops up. Then a third, and then a fourth. The hustle and bustle of this early morning street starting to rev up. Each figure is a sort of blur, like a passage in time. They might have been real at one point, they could have been the exact people that Sidonie has seen before at that little cafe where she went with Alain, but now they’re a blur, not entirely whole. Perhaps the dream isn’t about them specifically.

There’s a flicker, a black splotch in her vision – it’s a split second and everything rights itself once more. It felt almost like someone had turned off the lights and quickly flicked them back on.

Has it been so long? Has she forgotten how it smelled? No… Sidonie would remember these things. Scent memory is strongest, after all. She still, after all these years, is taken right back to childhood whenever she smells the perfume her mother preferred.

Pausing by the small tables and chairs that are arranged on the sidewalk outside of the cafe, Sidonie turns and watches people as they come and go. And then there’s that flicker. She blinks a few times, lifts a hand to press gently at her eyes… on the off-chance it was a bit of errant mascara or something she’d blinked into her vision. “Hello? Is someone out there?”

It’s a call into the void – there’s no response to Sidonie calling out.

All that does is seem to stir those beings around her. More of them come, faster, hurrying harder. One passes just in front of her, and she’d feel the way it’s movements whips at her clothes, a blur as it passes by, close. Another comes behind her and this one brushes against her back with it’s elbow, seemingly not even noticing that she’s there.

More sounds fill the space. Cars. Lots of cars. The vague sound of talking, but it’s incomprehensible, it’s not a specific language, or any sort of specific dialect, in fact, it sounds entirely alien.

BLACKNESS. Those lights flicker again but this time the blackness stays longer than before, and now there’s just.. a presence, a sort of being that hovers just out of reach, out of sight.

The people (or memories? echoes?) passing through Sidonie leave her shivering. Whether there’s a sensation or no, she is a Sensitive. It comes with the territory, for better or worse. The blackness is worse and has her freezing in place. “Ah,” she says quietly. Though truthfully, she doesn’t know what it is. It’s a feigned confidence. She at least knows there is… something.

Sidonie turns, slowly, keeping her eyes somewhat unfocused. “You are not a thief of memory. I would not remember having even seen a glimpse. Are you searching for something?” She opts to move to one of the tables on the sidewalk, reaching a hand toward a chair- carefully, mindful of the fact it may not be solid to her.

Fortunately for Sidonie, that chair is particularly solid. But not the echo that just barrels into her. There’s a force, a thump as it slams into her. It keeps it’s course, but, Sidonie doesn’t. It sends her sprawling a bit, stumbling this way and that.

The entire street tilts as she stumbles – and then she’s falling. Falling. Falling.

Out in the real world Sidonie still lies asleep. Unable to awaken even with the sensation that she’s falling.

A flash black to the dream, and the world rights itself once more, Sidonie skidding to a stop on the street. Numerous of those echoes appear around her – their blurry faces all twisting and turning to regard her at once. She might get that feeling of being watched, by thousands of eyes all at once. And still, at the back of her mind is that presence. That lingering thing. It has yet to talk, or to demand nothing. Maybe it’s purpose is to toy with people. To invade their dreams and have it’s fun.

The world flips the other way, sending Sidonie flying back down the street – that chair falling with her.

There is a frustration once she’s back fully in the dream, eyes on her and everything. Sidonie swears aloud, colorfully (albeit in French) as she works on getting herself back to her feet. “This is not funny,” she declares, feeling for her focus — that garnet on her bracelet — to tap into her magic. “We can talk like reasonable people or-”

Anything else is cut off as Sidonie yelps, tumbling once more. And difficult it may be, she does try her damndest to right herself or to exert her own control over the dream: to wrest it back from whatever is messing with her.

Whatever this thing is, it’s clearly having fun. It’s strong, but the grip it has over the dream isn’t absolute. This is Sidonie’s dream after all, and whatever this being is just a very rude visitor.

She might notice the changes that happen in the dream as she fights back, exerting control. There’s a flicker again, but this time, it isn’t black. It’s light. Once that light flickers in her vision a few of those blurred beings slow their approach, and some even turn away from her, no longer finding her interesting. Whatever is attacking her, is slowly, slowly, losing it’s grip.

No voice responds to her requests but a laugh. A deep, grating laugh that is filled with heat.

“No, absolutely not,” Sidonie says, feeling more strained than if she hadn’t slept at all!

Hopefully it’s just a dream-weariness and she wakes up feeling better rested. “I already have business with one demon, you might as well move right along buddy. He’s a bit of the jealous sort.” Whether that’s true or not, not even Sidonie knows, but she does suspect they all aren’t so terribly fond of sharing contracts. Particularly if there’s risk of overlap and conflicting desires.

While she doesn’t quite know if it works in a dream or not, Sidonie does bite down on the side of her tongue: hard enough to draw a bit of blood. This she places her thumb to as it stains her lips and starts drawing runes: on herself. She can’t trust staying in one spot to do it there, so instead she starts with herself. Protection. Mostly from possession, yes. That is the first one. But she is steadily trying to reinforce her control over her dream.

That angry laugh seems to almost turn into confusion at Sidonie at her words, and when she bites herself. The world pauses.

BREATH.

An exhale. Everything moves again. Those weird echoes are running around, a little bit panicky now. They don’t even seem to want to look at Sidonie anymore. Whatever it is she’s doing, might be working.

The runes work, at least, from what she can tell. She can bleed in this dream, and that mean, she might also be able to be injured.

A bit more worrying at that one spot for more blood and Sidonie kneels in place, taking advantage of the echoes now moving on by. She starts to draw a circle around her, murmuring in French as she starts working up a rite to either wake herself… or to force herself out of this, if it proves not to be a dream. An anti-summoning, in a sense. If she is being possessed, they will be expelled from her. If she is not, she will be expelled from here.

In theory, of course. This whole thing is operating on theory at the moment for her: she’s been in a lot of bad spots, but not quite this bad. Once the circle is complete (if it manages to be so), she places her fingertips to it and pushes heat through them to feed the ritual.

The real Sidonie might not be having a grand ol’ time. She’s still fast asleep – but her breathing is quickened, she’s tossing and turning now. More violently than one might normally do while taking a quick little nap. There’s even some sweat beading upon her forehead. Absolutely, she’s stuck asleep. More than likely nothing will wake her.

Unless…

The ritual begins to take effect. The dream starting to bleed back into something more familiar to her. That smell of cafes, of coffee, and of cigarettes. This time, it’s more normal.

That presence roars in outrage, it’s grip on her dream slipping. Maybe it never got a full grip to begin with, because it acts now – trying to tilt the entire world and throw Sidonie off her game. This time, though, she might be ready for it.

As she starts to regain control, Sidonie doesn’t need her magic quite so much. Some, yes, but now a lot of it is just good ol’ lucid dreaming: the skill even your most normie of norms can manage. She plants her feet, smears the last bit of blood from her thumb onto the garnet, and feeds more of her will into solidifying the dream to *her* will.

“You had best hope I do not find you,” she says, less taunt and more threat. “I would feed you to the one that has my contract.”

Even if this is a bit of a… bluff, really. The demon with her contract is more like to be thrilled over her being tortured, even if it isn’t quite in the usual fulfillment of the expected ways. Torture is torture, pain is pain, and Hell loves these things.

Whatever this dream creature was might not be the strongest creature of all time, or, perhaps it’s torn between multiple dreams. Stalking, attacking, whatever else it seems to do. It’s attentions are not fully on Sidonie, and it’s power slips, slips and slips some more.

Soon, she’s got pretty much full control of her dream. Those weird blurry shapes are gone. The smells. Oh the smells. They just smell French. They smell of her times with Alain.

Back in the real world, Sidonie stirs. No more thrashing, no more rolling side to side on that bed of hers. She’s still, calm, at peace. Slowly, her eyes drift open, and she might slowly regain conciousness.

And she is utterly covered in sweat. Or at least moreso than she’d ever prefer to be (without certain activities involved*). Sidonie groans faintly, a hand to her forehead… which comes away with an “ugh” uttered. She pushes herself upright slowly, muttering under her breath. Nonsense things. Frustrated things. Notes to herself to update some of the wards on the apartment.

* like hot yoga. Obviously.

Date: 2026-10-15 07:19

---

(Simone’s odd encounter (SRGrant))

[Thu Oct 15 2026]

In the bathroom
This bathroom is kept in pristine condition. The floor is a series of
tiles that alternate between blue and white, and the tub is built into the
wall. Tub, sink, and toilet all are made with white ceramic, and the inside
of the toilet bowl is filled with water that’s blue due to constant use of
pipe cleaning fluids. The whole area is lit by a ceiling fan, the blades of
which are made of some kind of whitened steel.

It is dawn, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few thin white clouds in the sky.

Simone says “Not sure if you can see this, but I can’t send you tells. Mind need to consent to ooc rules.”

Simone rubs her temple, laid back in the waters of the tub in the rather dim bathroom of her hotel room. It had been a long day at work, and she’d had to use a hairpin to pick a lock to get into the room. Her first payday in this town wouldn’t be for another week. At the very least, if not through nice clothes or good food, or even a bed of her own, the hot water offered some semblance of relief to her worries.

For some time the hot water likely does it’s job. Soaking through the stress carried in Simone’s frame as she relaxes in the tub, or at least tries to. How much can one truly relax when waiting on a paycheck? When they need to burgle their way back into their own room? The bathroom is quiet, save for the occasional drip from a tap that couldn’t quite shut off all the way, or a low complaint of plumping deeper within the walls as another room uses their own facilities.

Then something knocks beneath the tub.

Three hollow taps. A pause, and then three more. Harder this time.

Perhaps it is the room below, if there is one, banging on the roof for some god-forsaken reason?

Simone blinks at the first tap, eyes opening wide from their relaxed position. By the second, they’re darting, surveying the room in the meager light of the ceiling fan. She covers her chest with one arm and leans over the edge of the tub tentatively, peeking along the floor like a girl looking under her bed for monsters.

There must be some relief, surely, when Simone’s slow craning motion brings her gaze teetering over the edge of the tub without anything leaping out to grab at her. That fear of something in the dark is buried deep in the human psyche after all, and for good reason. There is, however, a puddle on the floor. It quivers. Her own features reflected in the surface of the spilled water. Only, there’s something somewhat amiss.

Looming over her form in this reflection is a pale, dark-eyed woman, her hair drifting down across Simone’s shoulders and chest, even as she covers and protects her modesty. When she looks in the reflection she can almost feel it.

Three more taps ring out, as the image of the woman in the reflection reaches up toward her- tapping at the surface of the water as if she were trapped within it.

Simone finds goosebumps rising along her skin, the phantom touch of that hair making a shiver run down her back. She stares, unaware of the supernatural, certain its just a trick of the light in the dark. Her eyes are blue, afterall. Not the ghastly shade she sees before her. Lowering her arm from her chest, she leans forward, vulnerable and bare, grazing the top of her fingers atop that pool. She hadn’t stood up to send water anywhere. Why -is- there a pool here?

In a town like Haven, people rarely remain unaware for long. Those who survive their initial encounter with the truth that flows beneath reality often flee the town after the initial peek, while others further commit to exploring how far the truth goes. One must wonder, what type is Simone?

A trick of the light. A leaky faucet. There are so many ways to rationalize this strangeness as the blue-eyed woman stares down at this almost-reflection. Curiousity must have it’s claws in her, as she reaches down to graze her fingers across the surface of the water, sending ripples skittering along it.

The motion that comes is sudden, too quick for words, not that Simone has any to spare. Where the image in the water had been reaching, now it is surging forward, toward her, grasping at her arms and trying to drag itself out of the puddle in the floor.

Simone manages to pull one of her arms back from the image’s sudden lunge, but the other is seized. Simone is a mute, and though terror meets her expression, her scream is little more than a forceful exhale. She can’t even call for help. Her body flails, tugging for a moment against that grip. She’s not a strong woman. Fighting down the panic, she reaches for her conditioner bottle, and sends a deluge of the white substance down her arm, coating it to try and make herself too slippery to grasp.

There’s a sudden and terrifying shift in perspective as Simone deploys her clever attempt at freedom. The world goes all top-turvy, and her senses briefly fuzz out. When they return things aren’t how they were. She isn’t trying to stop someone from clawing at her any longer, she’s the one reaching up, desperately trying to cling onto her own conditioner lathered arm as a strangers sneer looks back at her from her own features.

Simone stares a moment, peering up into the blue of her own eyes, now sneering down at her. Her grip on her own arm is slipping, and she’s not much of a fighter whatever body she’s in. Whether this is a dream, or the creature is truly trying to steal her mind, maybe the transfer isn’t fully complete. Maybe it takes concentration to hold. Could a woman steal a body with just the touch of a hand? She brings her tongue between her teeth, and bites down hard, hoping that sharp pain might clarify he own senses, or distract whatever process the woman in the puddle had begun.

The taste of blood fills her mouth. Her mouth.

The young woman is mute, and as such the scream that escapes from her is inhuman and alien, a voice that doesn’t belong to her – or very well may, and she has never heard it before.

“NOOOOOOO.”

The shriek echoes through the small space as Simone is cast adrift amidst the taste of her own blood, and the agony of vocal chords that refused and were unable to sing for her until this point. She can see both perspectives for one brief shining moment, her own features through the eyes of the apparation, and it’s terrible visage in turn – but then, she is free! Slipping and crashing backwards into the tub and sending a surge of water spilling and splashing over the lip.

Simone pants heavily, peering about with a panicked expression. Was that real? A dream? Was she attacked, or was that a nightmare and she simply woke startled in the tub. Her body is so tense with fear its hard to move, but she peers over the side of the tub, looking for that puddle, that portal so some bodystealing… thing.

What puddle? The water that had spilled from the tub in her panic has been slowly draining down a drainhole in the centre of the bathroom. She must’ve fallen asleep in the tub, or something. That’s the only rational explanation, of course.

Though, that doesn’t explain the claw marks upon her forearms, or the ache in her throat, does it?

But stranger things have happened.

Simone rubs her throat lightly, breathing heavy, not sure what to believe or disbelieve. She steps out of the water, covers herself in a towel, and locks the bathroom door behind her. She does not sleep well that night.

Date: 2026-10-20 23:17

---

(Sly’s odd encounter (SRSerena))

[Tue Oct 20 2026]

On Wildwood Way
Branching off from Dead Man’s Walk, the woods here grow denser and wilder. Unique flora never ordinarily seen in these woods sprout from prehistoric foliage, assaulting the senses with saccharine aroma. The sound of chirping birds nearby is deeper in pitch, emanating a low, rolling rumble and the sound of faint clicks. Occasionally from the southeast, one hears a screech, through thickets of constricting vines and oversized jungle ferns. The woods appear to resist the path carved through them, ever encroaching and ensconcing the bare space, eager to reclaim the intrusion and anyone standing upon it.

It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by dark grey clouds. There is a waxing gibbous moon.

It’s close to midnight, and Sly is out on Wildwood Way, just outside the gate to the Wilds. He’s dressed somewhat anachronistically, not in his town clothes, or in a way that faithfully respects the Treaty — but this far into the outer forest, there’s no chance of any unawares stumbling upon him without also stumbling on something far worse. A dour look clouds his face as he sorts through his belongings, tying together a bag beside his Ducati.

The witching hour approaches. A low hush settles over the trees in the area, the stillness only broken by the slow creak of branches overhead and the dry whisper of leaves shifting where no wind blew.

Thirty yards down the dirt road, off to the side, hidden in a bramble of bushes is a man in full camouflage gear with a set of digital night vision binoculars. The upper echelon of the shittier version off Amazon. The binoculars focus in on the license plate of the Ducati, reading 965 QD2 before flicking to zoom in on Sly as he dourly tries together a bag by the Ducati. “Overwatch to Hollow. Target in sight,” speaks the voyeur, a faint crackle on the other line responds: “Copy, Overwatch. Closing in.”

The dead of night is broken by the flash of lights down the road, and the roar of an engine as a black Jeep Grand Cherokee speeds down that dirt road, highbeams on to clear the way in the dark until at last Sly and his Ducati come into view. The Jeep swerves to the side, the driver: a woman in her forties with tired lines around her eyes kills the engine, stepping out of the car and calling out towards Sly. “Dangerous to be out here at this time. You having car trouble over there?” Friendly enough. The windows of the Jeep are tinted black.

The section of otherworldly forest that Sly’s standing in presently might also, coincidentally, be called the upper echelon of the shittier version of Amazon, depending on one’s perspective — what with it strange prehistoric jungle flora. Although one doesn’t typically find men in tights in the rainforest, and that’s what Sly here is. He’s not even the dashing Robin Hood kind, but the beady eyed, slimy variety with a slicked back widow’s peak.

Like a condor, he hunches his shoulders and squints over in the direction of the camo-geared man with the binoculars, assessing the situation, and then swerves around to take note of the approaching Jeep. He’s armed, and makes a mental note of how well-armed the duo closing in on him also appear to be. “Not at all, my lady,” he replies, without the nice-guy voice required to properly tip a verbal fedora. “I’m exactly where I’d intended to be. Are you?” He glances over to the gates to the Wilds, although whether they know it’s there is another matter. Without a compass, it’s just another step into the dangerous woods.

The woman has dark hair that is clearly graying in the harsh ambient light cast by the Jeep, those highbeams still on full blast, pointed at Sly and the Ducati. Her hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail, her outfit casual at a glance, but telling to those looking in the right places: a black turtleneck sweater, black cargo pants with pockets filled out, some kind of belt and holster at her hips, and heavy duty boots, the kind for stomping in the forest at midnight. In the glow of those lights, she’s leaning in on the older side of her 40’s, actually. She holds her hands up, palms facing Sly, her voice still friendly, matching his tone.

“My, my. Ain’t we got good manners?” There comes a low chuckle. “That depends. Imma lil here, there, and everywhere,” the woman explains, “Lucky that y’ain’t stuck. Plenty o’people been findin’ themselves at the wrong place at the wrong time, y’know?” A pause. “My son included.”

The woman reaches into one of her cargo pockets, pulling out a photograph. An old school printed one (who even does that anymore?).

“Average height. Black hair, brown eyes. Smokes like a chimney. Senecas only,” she explains, holding out the photograph towards Sly. An offering. “You seem ‘im ’round?”

In the distance, down the road, the camoflaged individual crawls to a better vantage point to witness the exchange.

“Name’s Boris. Missing since last night. Ain’t like him not to call his Momma.” Those tired eyes bore into Sly, unblinking, measuring.

Reaching out with a leather gloved hand, Sly takes the photograph from the woman, looks it over, and nods. He recognises the picture at once, and he doesn’t lie about that.

Well, not completely, anyway.

“I’ve seen him,” he confirms, extending the photograph back to the scouring mother. “Hunter family, hmm?” He turns, looking over his shoulder at the man who’d first spotted his license plate, plainly including him in this guess — but then he turns back around to the matriarch. “I last saw your son trying to chat up a woman. My woman, in fact.”

Even before the duo came upon him, there was already a dour look on Sly’s face as he was sorting through his archaic equipment by the Ducati. It returns in full force now, darkening his beady eyes, as he sniffs and looks back over to her. “I wish the very best of luck to you and your son. I don’t stand for that sort of embarrassment, so I cut her loose. Didn’t like the way she was looking at him. Making eyes at him. Barely so much as pretended to care when his hand was all over her breast.”

On the dirt road in the dead of night there is an unusual pairing of cars: a Ducati by which Sly stands, and a black Jeep Grand Cherokee parked behind it, the highbeams on, casting a spotlight on Sly himself. A woman on the older side of her 40’s with greying hair and tired brown eyes watches Sly with a watchful expression as he takes that photograph in hand. Her eyes narrow as he invokes that word. She doesn’t bother to turn to see where Sly’s gaze goes off the road, because she knows. Instead, she keeps those tired brown eyes trained on him before she spits on the dirt road.

“Your woman, huh? Y’gotta name? Description? Where was this?” There’s an edge to her words, an increasing irritation that begins to feel less like a conversation and more like an interrogation now as a sour note enters her tone.

Down the road, the man hiding in the bushes begins a slow army crawl through the wild fauna and flora towards the cars.

“Sounds like she wasn’t your girl, then,” Daphne calls out toward Sly, approaching from along the road. On foot. But she looks to be about the height of health and in her prime, so sure. Walking out in these woods late at night: that’s totally normal. Her flashlight does get switched off and tucked into her jacket once she’s close enough for the headlights to be more than enough. Her voice is light, easy, almost on the edge of laughter.

Trying to ease tensions, presumably. With hands deep in those pockets, she ambles nearer, but not directly into the light: she remains where the shadows begin their melding into night. “Strange place for a tailgate, hope someone saved me a beer.”

Perhaps Sly’s used to being interrogated. Perhaps he’s just too broken up about losing his woman to Boris to act in self-preservation. Perhaps on some level, he’s just enjoying twisting Boris’ mum into knots with the steaming heap of bullshit he’s just fed her. Either way, he remains remarkably nonchalant about the whole thing, seeming lost in the sauce of his spinning tale of woe. “Frankly, not my woman anymore, so you can both have her,” he bitterly recalls. “I invited her for a romantic dinner at the Lodge, and found them both there when I arrived. I assume he was staying in one of the rooms?” He starts to unpack the bag he’d just begun to pack by the Ducati, still talking as he does. “Concepcion Vidal. Beautiful, beautiful woman, but cursed in her blood. Long black hair, womanly hips …” He makes a crude gesture over his own chest. “… Large breasts. Angelic blood. In hindsight, I should’ve known better than to tangle with such a creature. You know what they say about angel-blooded women, right? You barely have to even try to impress them, you just tell them what you want, you hold it in your heart, and they’ll fulfil every desire you have. I think if you just march up to her, and tell her you want to see your son again, she’ll hand him right back to you. And if you give her any trouble, you just tell her politely to stop giving you trouble, and she’ll stop.”

Sly has his limits, though. He holds his crossbow up casually in the direction of the approaching fellow. “Don’t come any closer, I’ve just had my heart broken and I’m ready to break some more.”

He squints over in the direction of Daphne as she approaches, but doesn’t aim his crossbow at her. Probably because she’s only rubbing salt into his wounds, not crawling in what seems to be attack mode. “Are you all one family?”

A few things happen all at once. First, the woman tenses and scowls on instinct at the sound of a new voice, whirling around in Daphne’s direction. “Stay where y’are, missy. This ain’t concern ya none.”

From the bushes, the man in full camo hiding in the underbrush freezes, only twenty yards away now as they spot the crossbow aimed in their direction.”

And the passenger side door to that black Jeep Grand Cherokee busts open, a burly, muscular woman in her thirties exiting, bearing a striking resemblance to The Mother, if the Mother was built like a linebacker. In the woman’s hand is a gun, trained right on Sly. “Lower the crossbow,” she croaks at him.

Seeing her backup has arrived, The Mother turns away from Daphne, spitting on the ground, aiming a wad of that mouth-juice right at Sly’s reinforced leather boots.

“I always said this town was full of witch-bitches. Always messin’ with ya mind, turnin’ heads to sin. To evil.” She crooks a finger and points at Sly, “Evil like you,” comes the low growl. “So here’s what we gonna do. Ya gone set down ya weapons fore y’get into a mess.” Her tone implies business, but Daphne is not forgotten, even as The Mother continues keeping her eyes trained on Sly. “Just stay back, like I said, missy. Don’t be stickin ya nose where it ain’t belong. Or it liable to get cut off, whole.””

“It concerns me plenty,” Daphne says with a one-shouldered shrug. As if it concerns her, but it doesn’t *bother* her. “Firstly, you’re crowding the road. At least pull off to the side for fuck’s sake. Secondly, this is some great drama and I’m disappointed no one filled me in first. I don’t have a goddamn TV, I need this kinda thing.” She digs in her pockets, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. “So, tell me, how straight is this family tree? We talking like, saguaro or Charlie Brown Christmas Tree?”

There’s a look of amusement on Sly’s face as Daphne continues to add a little oil on the fire. He’s not even mad about it, he just gives her the look of game recognising game.

Unfortunately, this game could potentially have serious consequences, and so he soon redirects his attention strictly to the thirty-something now aiming a gun at him.

“Tell you what,” says Sly, “how about you put down your weapons first, and we both agree to talk things through without any violence.” He locks eyes on her when he says this, genial enough, but the weight of psychic persuasion is behind it.

She was absolutely right. This town really is full of evil witch-bitches, and Sly certainly is one of them.

Daphne does indeed have game. Maybe not as much as someone, but more than most.

Daphne does indeed have game. Maybe not as much as Sly, but more than most.

The burly woman’s eyes were trained on Sly, eyes on the prize after all, right? But rookie mistake not to wear any eye-protection when she popped out. And thus when Sly slithers that request to her, she begins to lower the gun.

Meanwhile, The Mother scowls at Daphne again, her eyes narrow as she takes in Daphne with a new light behind those baleful eyes. “Don’t play word games with me, girl. Y’one of ’em witch-bitches ain’t ya?” The term seems to be liberally applied. But she can’t give Daphne too much shit, for the woman does a double take at her relation when that gun is lowered, “Goddamn it, Becky! The fuck we tell ya in the drills?!” Her hand reaches to her side, where something is holstered, simultaneously stepping towards Sly now.

And during this distraction, the man from down the road pops up to his feet out of the bushes and pulls out a dart-gun, aiming it at Daphne. “PUT YOUR HANDS UP YA BLUE HAIRED WITCH!!” he shouts from the bushes.

“Fuck’s sake,” Daphne says, lighting her cigarette. She tucks the pack and lighter away, only giving Sly a brief, side-eyed look. “How many boxes are you gonna tick? Clearly you’re those kind of rednecks who live off-grid, probably in some old fuck-ass cabin, all sharing a bed. Shitting in an outhouse.” She takes one rolling step toward the collective, though her hands are.. well, not up-up, but she makes to brush a leaf off her shoulder. “First of all, bitch is a gendered insult and you should be ashamed of yourselves, but I’m betting you’re not. Nah, you see a black lady and assume the worst, right?.” Though she could be mistaken for well-tanned in this light, the joys of being of mixed race.

Another step and a more broadly, wide-handed (but open-handed) gesture. “I mean, fuck’s sake, how do you even define witch? You think I’m gonna start flying or casting spells like Harry Potter or some shit? Cause while, damn, I wish I could fly… I can’t do any of that.”

Sly stares at the blue-haired lady in horror, even if he wasn’t her intended audience to scare here. However, he does decide to start making use of her distraction tactic. Even as he slowly starts to lower his crossbow, he pushes a bolt towards his palm, slicing it open. A trickle of blood drips down, a flow of crimson which he conceals by wrapping his hand around the golden crucifix at his belt soon after.

And then he begins to pray. That’s not witchy at all, right? Sly recites his psalms under his breath, perhaps beseeching our Lord in Heaven for salvation from the pack of inbred rednecks and a blue-haired witch-bitch, as each drop of blood envelops his Murano glass prayer beads.

From the distance he’s at, the man hollers at Daphne, “DAMN BITCH, SAID HANDS UP NOT OUT! UP IN THE AIR! THINK ROLLER COASTER, NOT JESUS ON THE CROSS!”

Meanwhile, burly Becky’s face looks pained as she pleads to The Mother and to the man with the dart gun. “C’mon y’all.” Those beady eyes of her dart towards Sly as he chants, “He’s usin’ the Lord’s name. We really should talk this out peaceful like,” she croaks.

But as Sly continues to pray more, his words born into the dead of night, lingering in the dark a strange thing begins to happen. A look of resolution comes into Becky’s eyes as she aims that gun at The Mother. “I can’t letcha do this, Karen!” And the man? A similar strange expression crosses his face as he begins to dead sprint towards the ringleader, tackling her to the ground, where she lays pinned, squirming and hollering. “WHAT THE FUCK!?”

For her part, Becky adjust her aim down at the other woman, and pulls the trigger. What escapes is not a bullet, but a tranquilizer dart, stick quick into Karen’s shoulder, her struggling growing less and less until at last, she is still, her eyes still open but glazed. She’s breathing at the very least.

Catching Sly’s look of horror, Daphne just grins. Are there maybe a few too many teeth in that grin for a split second?

Yes, absolutely there are.

But then the man is shouting at her again and she rolls her eyes. “What, do the Nazi Scouts give you double points for murder on a Tuesday night?” Pause. “Sorry to say, it’s Wednesday.” Words muddied around the cigarette she’s balancing between her lips. She’s not sure just what Sly is doing over there, but her limited knowledge of the occult tells her it’s certainly something and she just has to hope it isn’t directed at her. So she continues to distract. Or try.

Until she’s just watching in mute admiration as the trio turn on one another. One hand falls to pull away the cig so she can exhale (and speak) properly. The other drops into her pocket again. “Well shit, nice work altarboy.”

Sly continues praying like the good little altarboy he is, even as he begins to observe the growing chaos all around him. The high he gets from all their (suffering) is perhaps not from God; or at least not the same version these rednecks believe in, but one traditionally thought of as dwelling down below. In reality, they probably dwell behind a gate somewhere in this otherworldly forest.

He starts to take a few steps back towards the blue-haired gal, and while he may not know her, he seems to decide that he can trust her with a chainsaw right now, even after seeing all her teeth inside that grin; he nudges it in her direction while the very close-knit family fights.

Sly is obviously a terrible judge of character.

This family clearly has issues like tissues, as Daphne so perceptively pointed out earlier. But their infighting means that only spotlight left are the highbeams aimed at Sly and his Ducati. The man and Becky, both, seeming to have forgotten entirely about Daphne in their focus on Karen, the man starting to drag that limp body towards the Jeep. “Get the zip ties, Becks!” he hollers as Becky plunders the keys from the immobilized Karen’s pockets, the two of them too focused on their current goal to take much stock of Daphne and Sly. For better or worse…

“Awww, Santa really *does* listen to prayers,” Daphne says, in a tone of faux, girlish delight. “An old-ass chainsaw, just what I’ve always wanted.” She kneels once near enough and gathers it up. But ass she straightens, the Swann lets out an “awwwww” of disappointment as she watches the retreat toward the Jeep.

“So close to a free car,” she sulks to herself.

“Not really,” Sly casually says aside to Daphne, watching the trio load one of their own into the back of the Jeep. “I’m afraid they’ve already caused trouble for friends of mine, and that little hex won’t last forever. So, now that it’s /me/ and mine …” He raises his crossbow again, takes aim, and attempts to shoot the man in the back.

While Becky is busy with trying to truss up Karen in the back of the Jeep, the man steps back from the car to allow Becky the room to maneuver more easily. And this is what proves to be his fatal misstep, for stepping away from the Jeep is exactly what gives Sly the window of opportunity to let that arrow fly, the bolt hitting him in the back with enough force to puncture through to the front. He stumbles, and gurgles as blood rises from his mouth, leaking as he falls to his knees, staggering before falling to the ground, twitching as the life literally begins to ebb from him.

And Becky? Hearing the commotion just as she finishes with those zip ties, she too steps back from the car only to see the man twitching and bleeding on the ground, a shrill scream emerging from her lips, “DAVID!!” Right. Because these are people. With lives. And personal connections. People who live and breath, or in David’s case, who live and die.

There is a moment. Not even an actual moment. But a moment, all the same. Daphne looks at Sly as he talks. She grimaces, features clouding over. Wherever she goes, she misses the worst of it. No, not the worst. Because it’s Becky’s scream that brings her back to the moment. “Fuck.” Sharp, full of intent; full of frustration. “It’s a gift with strings attached. Of course it is.” She doesn’t even seem to be speaking to Sly.

Well, until she looks right at him and says: “You’re gonna owe me a drink.” Then moves: careful-like at the moment, taking advantage of the distraction of David’s death. Once she decides it’s probably too late for Becky to do anything about it, she turns on the chainsaw and turns it on the panicking woman.

Hopefully they weren’t too close to the car. That’s gonna be a bitch to get out of the seats.

Sly watches a little dumbstruck as Daphne closes in on Becky with the chainsaw. Perhaps he wasn’t exactly expecting her to take so easily and naturally to the task of cold-blooded murder.

Still, he plays his part, praying under his breath, as he too approaches from the other side, in order to flank poor Becky. “Know this, Becky,” he interrupts his prayer briefly to say, “It was Karen who killed your David. Karen with her futile vendetta who brought you out here.” And hopefully, whatever reaction she has to that, she’s looking at him when she has it — not at Daphne.

Becky falls to her knees, blubbering now over David as he enters those last, painful throes of death, his twitching finally ceasing as the life ebbs out of him. There are some things that can never be taken back, and this is one of them.

And though the roar of the chainsaw is unmistakable, Becky is too far in her grief, tears in her eyes, to be able to react properly to the approaching Daphne. All the training in the world can’t truly prepare you for a moment like this. And this truism holds for Becky, for once that blurry gaze turns towards Daphne, it’s already too late, the woman is set upon: her fate gorier than the one that her family member has met. And unfortunately for Becky, her eyes do lock on Sly in her final moments, the pain of her fate made all the worse as he pours metaphorical salt in her ever-gaping wounds, her mind broken as her body too fractures.

Becky’s screams of pain and horror ring shrill and haunting into the dead of night, those screams only stopping when the horizon begins to lighten. She is reduced to a puddle of flesh, bone, and chainsaw churned innards on the side of the dirt road.

And in that black Jeep Cherokee, Karen remains, zip tied and tranquilized. Hearing. But does she understand? Is anyone even home?

While Sly may be dumbstruck, Daphne is clearly not *enjoying* her task. On the walk over, knowing (roughly) what was to come, she pulled out her sunglasses and set them on her face. And as the chainsaw came down, her mouth was set in a thin, tight line. A grim look at the executioner, indeed.

And when all is said and done? Daphne drops the chainsaw and turns away, bracing her palms on her knees as she leans forward and loses the contents of her stomach on the side of the road.

Sly’s a sensitive kind of guy, so of course he feels for this whole family as they meet their tragic demise — and what he feels is great. Grinning ear to ear, he strolls on over to the back of the trunk with a skip in his step, glances down at Karen momentarily, and then over to poor Daphne, who is dealing with her own internal ordeal. “Alright, I need to deliver this one to my friend,” he mentions, affording his brand new coconspirator privacy from his gaze as she pukes. He gazes down at the bound matriarch, whom he apparently intends to leave alive. For now.

After a few moments, he circles around to face Daphne again, stepping around the former contents of her stomach. He peers down at her, which is considerably easier while she’s bent, although he’s four inches taller than her as is. After a long pause, he finally asks, “Who are you again?”

Karen remains frozen and tied. Unable to do a goddamn thing as she lays in the back of the Jeep. The keys to the Jeep are on the ground, covered in gore and the mingled blood of both David and Becky. There for any takers. The Jeep itself, at least, looks to be in good condition.

“Iwanthcar,” Daphne mumbles around a now-raw throat in the immediate aftermath of a mostly-coffee exfill. She slowly straightens a moment later, drawing the hem of her shirt up (revealing just her abdomen, sorry) to use it to scrub at her mouth and even tongue a bit. Blech. “Surprised my cousins haven’t made everyone in town aware,” she says mildly. “Daphne Swann, the cat that came back.” A twitch of mouth but it fades quickly as she starts over toward the remains. “Think anything that’ll clean this up is hanging out nearby?” There’s a stricken set to her features: she’s not over it, but she’s swallowing everything down deep, deep… especially as she uses her toe to prod around for the key. There might be a ‘hork’ or two in there as she gags.

…actually, there’s definitely some horkin’.

A sharp look in Sly’s beady grey eyes hones in on Daphne when she finally introduces herself. “Miss Swann,” he echoes. “The Gate to the Wilds is just over there.” He idly points his bloodied hand southeast, and although a gate can’t be seen, they generally aren’t visible. The clues to its presence are in the wildness of the woods, the otherworldy flora that grows all around, and the occasional peculiar animal screech. “We can drag the bodies there, leave them in the woods on the other side. Something’ll eat them. As for her …” He redirects his gaze to poor Karen. “You can have the car. I just need her. Mind helping me drag her and the bodies?” He turns and smirks at the woman wiping vomit from her mouth, clearly well aware this isn’t a fun ask for her. “If it’s easier, just cut up the bodies into a few smaller pieces first.”

Other than a faint rustling among this wild, alien flora, the witching hour is silent now, the screams of pain and horror having ebbed away. The scent of death lingers heavy in the air, mingled now with the scent of Daphne’s vomit.

“Didn’t realize one had been tied down after the flood,” Daphne says as she taps a spot, winces at a squelch, but keeps working the same spot. “Yeah, I can help,” she adds, but then snorts. “Pretty sure that would make it worse. Especially if you want to move them. I’m just emptying more of the meat from its sack.” Thankfully, she’s hit pay dirt (almost literally in this case) and drags her foot back. It takes a deep breath and a few misses at grabbing gingerly at a single un-goo’d spot, but she finally retrieves the keys. “There we go.” For the moment, they get tossed on the seat where they can be found much more easily. “Okay. Let’s go feed the beasts.” Apparently, dealing with the bodies is less bad enough than doing the Actual Murder (TM) that she can get through.

Sly decides to leave his equipment here, on this side of the Gate, next to his Ducati. There’s always a risk of theft, but it’s easier to carry dead bodies without weapons weighing him down, and he decides he can handle the one that’s still alive without them.

And so, with Daphne’s help, a crime is committed and cleaned up with ease, evidence swept under the rug to become another world’s problem. The Swann ends up one car richer, Sly ends up with a life-force battery to recuperate the cost of his ritual. And they all lived happily ever after, the end. (Except for a growing list of murder victims in the Boris Affair, and one hostage.)

Date: 2026-10-30 14:47

---

(Sly’s odd encounter (SRShay))

[Fri Oct 30 2026]

In Room 101 – Damp & Decay
The smell of damp prevails in the air, with cracks and black mould ascending the walls. This apartment is ill tended-to and claustrophobic. A sitting area of deflated second-hand furniture litters the living room, facing a flatscreen television. Yet the single most expensive item in the room is most likely the golden crucifix affixed to the wall, a gilded reminder that Jesus is watching over you.

It is afternoon, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by thin white clouds.

Perhaps the first thought anyone might have in a shit-sty like this would be: ‘Damn, bitch, you live like this?’ And the answer for Sly is evidently yes, he lives like this. He lives in a poorly ventilated apartment infested with black mould, with fruit flies swarming his kitchen sink, and cigarette ash staining the carpets.

At present, the filthy Sly is just about unwinding from a busy workday as Haven’s slimiest Handjob, which he does by filling up his favourite mug with an excessive serving of cheap tequila. Upon it are the words ‘BEST DAD’ in a rainbow gradient of Comic Sans, a clip-art necktie, and a carton thumbs up. Someone’s scrawled ‘HAVEN’S’ above the default print in black sharpie.

While contemplating whatever unfortunate soul or prankster must’ve gifted him this dubious novelty, Sly squints suspiciously over at the gilded crucifix that hangs on his wall. Above it, an otherworldly, iridescent lizard is perched, which he regards with growing distaste.

While Sly is busy contemplating his newly found relationship with Liesel, for better or for worse… And all the while he is gazing betwixt the gilded crucifix that hangs on his wall, he hears something. Or rather, multiple somethings. A bolt being pulled to the rear, something metallic being loaded in… and the click of the bolt being pushed forward.

Footsteps. Several. Apparently multiple ‘someones’ are in his apartment, and they’re suddenly and rather swiftly moving towards his position in the living room, and apparently, they’re all around. He can hear them outside his front door, which, he just now realizes his only cracked closed. His bathroom, his bedroom, they’re coming from everywhere, converging on him in this instant. How they got in, is beyond his guess, especially with how many of them there appear to be. Five? Five is seems.

Five it* seems.

Despite Sly’s preoccupations or soon to be, preoccupations, the footsteps proceed. Doors are suddenly kicked open, and men armored in what appears to be ‘SWAT’ uniforms, armor, and equipment, burst through. On their vests, ‘HSD’ and ‘SWAT’. However, it becomes immediately clear to the fellow that, HSD does not have a SWAT unit. Nor would it get involved in something like this. To the sleazebag, these dudes smell way too clean. Like sanitizer and surgery, like a cleansed lab that’s not 99.99/ cleansed of germs, but a complete 100/. Immediately, they raise their rifles, and, with those acute senses, Sly can immediately pick up on a… decreased amount of gunpowder. They’re not firing bullets, but it seems like they’re about to fire something else.

[Intended for placement above the last SR emote:]

At first, Sly doesn’t really move. It’s not that this isn’t a highly concerning and possibly life-threatening situation, it’s just that he’s not the type to panic under pressure. With his acute senses, he cants his head and takes a moment to try and count the footsteps, listen for the weight of them, and catch any distinct signatures of scent. Male, female? Natural, supernatural? Clean, smelly? Of this world?

Reluctantly, Sly at least makes the sensible decision that perhaps now is not the best time to be drinking his tequila, so he sets his chintzy mug down on the kitchen counter. Then, not wanting to be shot on sight by American cops (the Venetian has heard stories), he walks around to hide behind his kitchenette. It wouldn’t be hard for anyone to find him there if they’re looking, but he at least receives some cover from gunfire there, should anyone start shooting the moment they enter. He has a knife in his jacket, but otherwise makes no attempt to reach for any better weapons or armour.

[After the last SR emote:]

Once they’ve burst in, Sly puts his hands up above the top of the kitchen counter and cries out, “Don’t shoot!”

As Sly raises his hand, one of the ‘SWAT’ dudes just fires at him, and he is soon to realize, that they do indeed know about him, and know their stuff. He’s not hit by a bullet. Not a quartz bullet. But a strange syringe. Oddly? It’s got a quartz tip. The bigger, beefier member of the group, with a strange, red eye, approaches. While the rest have sunglasses, this pale, gigantic behemoth of a man does not. And when he moves, he simply tells his new target, “Get on the ground. Or you’re going to go to sleep for a while.” Then he promptly shoots Sly’s hand for good measure, with that quartz tipped syringe.

Well, there goes Sly’s plan to try and talk to these guys. He lets out a yelp of pain when the syringe hits his hand, lowers it right back down, and stares at it incredulously. He doesn’t try to pluck it out or fight what’s likely to come next, making a quick assessment of his odds here and how badly that’d likely turn out. When the big, beefy behemoth of a man approaches and starts barking out instructions, the Handjob grimaces, gets down on the ground, and then lets out a grunt when he’s shot yet again. For the time being, he decides to save any further attempt to reason with his attackers, and elects instead to simply cooperate.

Sly getting on the ground does at least help him in the matter of not getting shot again by the group. But, as soon as he gets on the ground, the group converge on him, his hands are handcuffed behind his bag, his legs are zip-tied together, and for good measure, the behemoth of a man suddenly raises his rifle and slams the butt of it into his temple for good measure. A black bag made of cloth is suddenly tugged on to the sleazebag’s head, so even if he averted being put to sleep by the blow to the head, he can’t see what’s to come next. However, whatever was in those syringes don’t put the dude in any advantageous positions. He feels groggy, he’s having trouble keeping his eyes open, and sooner or later he’ll pass out. Seems these dudes loaded up those syringes with an extra nasty cocktail of sedatives that could put an elephant to sleep near instantly.

After the demonborn passes out, he’d awaken somewhere… dim. Dark. Damp. A basement. There’s exposed pipes in the ceiling, drooling a constant dribble of water that drops on to the floor, landing in a puddle. Brown and grey, the room is, with a bare and uneven cement floor, cracked everywhere, whether it be from something heavy slamming into it, or age. Occasional bloodstains coat this area and that, rust colored. And, sadly for Sly, he’s to find himself bound to a chair, with only a single naked lightbulb swaying, overhead, on some sort of wire. The behemoth is there, still armored up. And there’s a new fellow, his scent pungent and reminiscent of cigars and cheap booze. He’s wrapped up in a white button-up shirt, some black slacks, and a black tie. He’s got brown loafers, and his sleeves are pulled up partially, revealing some military tattoos, it seems. Black hair is cut into a fade, and the man is bare of facial hair. Sharp chin, slender figure, hazel eyes, hawkish nose. He seems to be about fourty-ish. And when he stoops low, to examine Sly. “Welcome to the waking world, fucker. Now. I’m going to get some information out of you. You’re going to yap. Or I’ll have my guys attach some jumper-cables to your fingers. We’ve got a car-battery right here. So… easy way, or the hard way?”

Luckily, Sly feels right at home in dim, dark, damp rooms, in varying states of disrepair. Some part of him has to respect the effort his captors have undertaken to cultivate such an inhospitable ‘guest’ room, one seasoned torturer to another. In his head, Sly’s taking notes, assigning scores … that swinging lightbulb overhead, he glances up towards and decides is a real nice touch. As it illuminates various corners of the room, he follows its trajectory with a focused squint, trying to pick up every possible detail he can about his situation.

“Oh, yes sir,” Sly then quickly, dutifully responds as soon as the tattooed veteran addresses him, with a prompt, rapid nod of his head. “Easy way all the way. You don’t need to threaten me, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.” His fingers feel around to assess the nature of his bonds, but he makes no attempt of any kind to break them.

“Tell us about the Hand,” the more formal man asks, before glancing over towards the behemoth. “If he mouths off, slug him in the face.” Rather lazily, the formal man turns his gaze over towards Sly, taking him in again. And seemingly ready to get the show on the road, and make his preparations complete, he moves to one corner of the room, fetching some jumper-cables. He tosses those at the sleazebag’s feet before moving forward, to stand before the demonborn.

As Sly looks around, he notices this and that. There’s an assortment of tools on a workbench in one corner of the room, though, they seem to be a mix-matched assortment of some things used for surgery, carpentry, your basic house-hold tools, some mechanic things, along with some rather wicked looking DIY devices. Seems these dudes just grabbed whatever they thought could be useful for torture, and set them here. Along the opposite corner of the room is a dark stairwell, leading upwards. There’s no very little light over there, but, our ‘hero’ can certainly see that there’s cracks of lights, beading through from the cracks in the door frame.

As he glances down at the jumper cables that have just been tossed at his feet, Sly might be reflecting on how unfair it is that, even after agreeing to come quietly, and showing perfect willingness to cooperate and speak on his captors’ terms, he’s still been injured, and may perhaps still end up tortured. There’s perhaps some sort of lesson in there somewhere, but alas he lacks any self-awareness or accountability to grow from it.

“Sure, what do you want to know about the Hand?” he politely asks the duo, focusing for now on how best to appease them for as smooth a shitty situation as possible. “Locally we’re led by President Graham Wilson.” There’s a very short pause as Sly carefully considers his next words, perhaps aware there’s a risk they won’t be received well. “Would you mind me asking why you’ve chosen me specifically to interrogate about this? I’m fairly new to the local chapter — but if you explain why you’ve chosen me, it’ll help me understand how best I can assist you with your inquiries, gentlemen.”

“We ask the questions here, Sly,” the man answers. Then he asks a question, glancing over towards Sly while scanning their face. He’s stoic. Unreadable. He bears no emotion forth to be read from, and those eyes of his, they watch the sleazebag like a hawk, looking for any point of weakness, looking for any point where his victim might fuck up. “Tell us what sort of position you retain in the Hand.” Then there’s a small smile thrown the demonborn’s way. And those eyes are filled with utter expectation and some sort of sadistic glee. Then he lifts a finger. “Hold on, buddy. Wait one. I’m going to grab the car-battery from upstairs. Can’t let my friend here have all the fun.” And with that, the man walks upstairs, opens the door, and leaves Sly alone with the titan of a man. Who is now staring at him with some sort of awkward impatience.

Nobody likes being tortured, and Sly’s no exception to the rule. He does, however, seem to have enough experience being tortured that the threat of car batteries and jumper-cables don’t quite dent his composure, at least not yet. Not because they aren’t scary, but because he understands that anything other than polite cooperation is only going to hasten his next undesired encounter with that kind of pain. And if it’s going to happen anyway, it’s going to happen anyway. He’s already at the acceptance stage of grief for that.

“Well, I joined the Hand about four months ago, Venice branch,” Sly begins telling his poker-faced lies, which like all the best lies, contain just enough technical degree of truth that even he, on some level, can believe his own words as he’s selling them. “Or technically I suppose the Venice branch is part of the Rome territory, so — Roman Hand. After three months, the Gate-town got flooded so bad it lost access to its own gates. Some people were never found, and our servers were badly damaged, so an influx of new transfers had to be sent over to try and fix things up. That’s when I moved to Haven. It helps that I speak English. Currently I’m just an intern. I don’t really know if I plan to stay, though.”

Stoically, the behemoth stares at Sly, making this a sort of awkward situation between them both. And with the absence of the more formal of the two, there’s not much of a response going to be ready for the sleazebag. Oddly, it’s been a few minutes, and certainly, lugging a car battery around wouldn’t take that long. Surely. But, he doesn’t appear to be coming back, which makes this entire odd interrogation even worse. There comes a point where the behemoth looks rather worried, before he mumbles, “The car-battery was… just right outside the door…” And with that, he gives Sly the most intimidating glare he can really manage, his lips curled into a snarl, revealing chrome teeth, and that red lensed eye, which, this close, now appears to be some sort of cybernetic prosthetic eye, fastens its dark-crimson dot upon the demonborn. “Stay here,” he demands, before ambling his way, up the stairs, through the door, closing it behind him. Not, of course, before Sly can hear the sound of a muffled gunshot. And a VERY heavy thud.

‘Stay here’, Sly’s told, like he has a choice. Well, does he have a choice? Now that he’s alone, he decides to experiment a little more with testing his bindings, seeing if he can’t possibly bring his arms towards the knife in his jacket. He even tries craning his neck to try and retrieve its hilt between his teeth, although he’s really not that kind of flexible.

Sadly for Sly, he can’t bring his arms toward his jacket. However his new bindings are considerably weaker than before. He’s tied with rope against the chair, his hands looped against the backrest of the wooden thing, his legs tied to the legs of the chair. While he’s experimenting, he is able to hear sounds of gunfire upstairs. Explosions. Bullets punching through wood. Shouting, screaming, the whole nine-yards.

For a supernatural monster, Sly’s fairly scrawny; whatever power he possesses, it isn’t in his physical build. He hastens his efforts to tear at his bindings, grimacing as he tries to tug and strain at them. If he has any hope of trying to make an escape on his own before the source of the commotion finds him, it’s perhaps more likely in sleight of hand. He looks around the room for anything sharp, and tries to see if he might be able to lift his chair and angle his ropes against some sort of corner or edge. His fingers meanwhile attempt to pick at the knot, and he keeps glancing warily over in the direction of the noise.

Could these be rescuers? Sly doesn’t look like he’s keen to find out, or be caught up in whatever’s going on out there.

The knot binding Sly’s hands together seem to be something hasty and not entirely secure. While they’d certainly tighten if he put stress on them or attempted to pull his arms outward, however, if he relaxed enough, he could certainly loosen his bindings and slip out of them. Anything sharp, other than the jumper cables would prove to be too far to get to without breaking the chair to move. And the jumper cables simply would probably force the demonborn into an uncomfortable position.

With a bit of finesse, and a hasty dose of trial and error, eventually Sly manages to loosen the bindings around his wrists. He wastes absolutely no time at all in retrieving the knife from his jacket, and then cutting his ankles loose as well.

As a sheer matter of due diligence, he doesn’t quite disappear from this awful place immediately. As soon as he’s in the Nightmare, he first takes a moment to try and investigate upstairs, to see who exactly the belligerents seem to be in whatever ongoing conflict between his captors and their interlopers. Only once he has something concrete, to report on the situation back to the Hand, does he make it an immediate point to abscond.

It seems, at least to Sly, after he tucks himself into the nightmare, no longer a prisoner, that the people attempting to blast each other to pieces, are mostly human. There’s a few other, clearly supernatural people on the belligerent side, wearing collars. And it’s very clear, none of them are too happy with the demonborn ‘s captors.

Date: 2026-10-26 10:41

---

(Spring’s odd encounter (SRClaire))

[Mon Oct 26 2026]

In the kitchen of Vesper House
Homeliness and efficiency in equal measure: silver appliances against cerulean cabinetry, gold-flecked counters usually buried under snacks or the early stages of the next house dinner. A central island doubles as a breakfast bar, stools tucked neatly beneath. Above the stove a silver plaque carries the sorority motto, meant as encouragement during the unglamorous work of cooking.
Beside the refrigerator a bulletin board carries the week’s menu, house announcements and the occasional notice from the Institute. The Institute notices are never signed and never dated, and they have a way of describing things the house has not told anyone yet.
It is morning, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few thin white clouds in the sky.

Inside the warm and inviting kitchen, there must be all sorts of comforting aromas filling the place. Though one would hope. As this is the kitchen to none other than Vesper House, it’s almost just as likely there is a cadre of horrific experiments done under the name of science and/or cuisine. Whatever Vesper walks into, she might come across a plate of freshly baked pastries sitting on the kitchen counter behind a glass dome. What might make it /extra/ tempting is the note that says clearly in black sharpie:

‘DO NOT EAT THIS IS FOR CHEER SQUAD!’

Spring wanders into the kitchen, drawn by the promise of something pleasant amid the usual uncertainty of anything associated with Vesper House. Her glossy white hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders, contrasting with the dark fabrics and lavender accents of her outfit. She pauses near the counter, emerald eyes drifting toward the plate of pastries displayed beneath a glass dome. They look perfectly inviting, golden and delicate, their sugary surfaces catching the warm light. Almost suspiciously inviting, really. Her gaze catches on the note beside them. She tilts her head, reading it a second time, then a third. One brow arches as she leans closer, inspecting the pastries without making any move to touch them. “Well, that’s reassuring,” she murmurs, her tone dry. “Nothing inspires confidence quite like a warning written in permanent marker.” She circles the counter slightly, peering at the plate from another angle as though expecting to discover a tiny warning label on the pastries themselves. Given the house’s apparent enthusiasm for experiments masquerading as cuisine, she isn’t entirely convinced these are food at all. Perhaps they’re perfectly ordinary. Perhaps someone has laced them with something unpleasant. Or perhaps the cheer squad is simply being used as an unwitting collection of test subjects. Here folds her arms, her expression settling into thoughtful skepticism. “And why, exactly, does the cheer squad get its own designated batch of mystery pastries?” she wonders aloud. “Is this a reward for being obtuse, or are we conducting some sort of population control experiment?” Her eyes flick toward the doorway, then return to the glass dome. She makes no attempt to lift it, much less sample its contents. Curiosity is one thing; volunteering herself for whatever questionable undertaking has produced these suspiciously pristine baked goods is quite another.

The pastries sit there way too enticingly for their own good underneath the clear glass dome, the golden crusts each one possesses dusted with powdered sugar. Besides them rests a small ceramic dish of lavender-glazed cookies, each of them decorated with delicate little stars in white icing. Oddly enough, those cookies didn’t get the warning note treatment like those decadent looking pastries made with some Halloween flair and glitz.

A fellow sorority sister comes bustling down from the stairs, racing for the kitchen counter. She’s got dark auburn hair and green eyes, and a case of the freckles over her features. A bit of a slight bust, but she’s got a decent figure anyway. She pauses when she sees Spring here as well. “Oh. Uh, new girl right?” she says, smiling at her, though it’s clear she’s here for the baked goods and not Spring. She snatches one of the cookies and bites down on it, immediately sounding as if she just had a foodgasm. “Help yourself,” she urges her, racing off when the ominous bells sound out lethargically, apparently late for class.

Spring eyes the lavender-glazed cookies for another moment warily, before finally conceding that a tiny taste probably won’t kill her. Probably. She reaches for one, carefully selecting a cookie decorated with a particularly neat arrangement of white icing stars. Holding it between two fingers, she brings it to her lips and takes the smallest nibble imaginable, just enough to sample the glaze without fully committing herself to the experience. Her expression remains composed as she chews, emerald eyes narrowing faintly in consideration. “Hm. Not immediately terrible, I guess” she murmurs, as though awarding the cookie a reluctant compliment. Turning the cookie between her fingers, she shifts her weight to get a better look at the plate beneath the glass dome. In the process, her elbow catches the edge of the display. “Oh” The dome topped container wobbles precariously. Here she makes a quick, and yet very unconvincing attempt to catch it, her fingers brushing the glass just as the entire arrangement tips sideways. The plate slides, the dome tumbles, and the Halloween pastries scatter across the counter and onto the floor in a spectacular little disaster. For a ong moment, she simply stares at the aftermath, her half-eaten cookie still pinched delicately between her fingers, like it is somehow going to turn into a feral raccoon. “Well.” She blinks, then looks around the empty kitchen as though expecting someone to materialize from thin air and accuse her. “That’s unfortunate.” She crouches to inspect the fallen pastries, her white hair slipping over one shoulder as she peers at the scattered treats without actually touching them. A faint crease forms between her brows, though the tiny, suspiciously innocent nibble of cookie remains her only apparent culinary commitment. “I was trying to be careful,” she informs the empty room, sounding entirely unconvinced by her own defense. After a moment, she straightens and glances toward the doorway, listening for approaching footsteps. Then she looks down at the ruined display again, lips twitching with the faintest hint of a smile. “At least nobody can accuse me of eating them.” She pauses and heaves a groan. “Unless it’s Logan, I swear he would eat a notebook if you said it was a delicacy.”

Once the cookie passes Spring’s lips, the lavender glaze leaves behind an unexpectedly pleasant sweetness, something too indescribable to behold. It’d be impossible to even put a finger on how it tastes, just that it’s too good to have been baked here in Vesper House of all places. Footsteps sound from the doorway. None other than a lean, mean, athletic machine, someone Spring would immediately recognize. Except he’s dressed in long flowing robes for some reason, hooded until he pulls it off with his too handsome face smiling at Spring, eyes twinkling. His robes trail behind him almost too dramatically while he carries himself with an unfamiliar gravitas. He stops a few paces away from Spring, then bows deeply, one arm drawn across his chest.

“Ah, mistress.” His voice is way too earnest to belong to the real deal, but it’s syrupy just for Spring. “Forgive me. I had not realize dyou would be receiving at this hour.” He remains bent for a moment longer than necessary before righting himself before Spring, folding his hands neatly into wide sleeves of his robe. “Is there anything I might do for you?” he asks, lowering his head once more, treating her with a deference as if she were his superior. “A task to undertake? A mystery to unravel? Perhaps you can enlighten me on the secrets of the arcane as you promised me,” he murmurs. “Simply name it, and I shall endeavour to prove myself worthy of your instruction,” he begs her as respectfully as one of his station can.

Spring is still staring at the unfortunate pastry massacre when the footsteps draw her attention toward the doorway. She looks up, sees Logan, and promptly forgets about the pastries. Her eyes travel from his face to the flowing robes, follow the dramatic trail of fabric, then return to his face. A long, profoundly judgmental silence follows, painfully at that. “Logan,” she drawls out at last, with the weary concern of someone discovering a beloved houseplant has developed a criminal record for robbing a pet store. He bows. He /bows/. Then he proceeds to address her like she’s the queen of an ancient empire, complete with syrupy reverence and a promise to prove himself worthy of her instruction. She blinks. Once. Twice. “Have you been taking some street drugs?” She asks this with genuine concern, briefly leaning forward to inspect his face. Perhaps there’s a fever. Perhaps he suffered a head injury. Perhaps someone finally found a way to remove his brain and replace it with an exceptionally polite butler. Her gaze drops to the robes again. “Because if this is a cry for help, I need you to understand that I am spectacularly unqualified to provide it.” She straightens, folding her arms. The tiny remnant of lavender cookie between her fingers suddenly seems considerably more suspicious. “You’ve never called me mistress in your life. You’ve never begged me to teach you anything. And the last time I checked, you weren’t auditioning to play a haunted curtain in a low-budget production of Harry Potter…” The gestures she makes toward him, ensures she has been taking in the entire absurd ensemble. “Although I must admit, the curtains are very convincing.” She glances at the scattered pastries on the floor, then back at Logan, as if wondering whether this is somehow connected to the crime scene at her feet. “Right. Let’s establish a few things.” She raises one finger. “I have made no promises to teach you the arcane.” A second finger. “I am not your mistress.” A third. “And if you call me that again, I’m going to start charging you rent for all the space you’re taking up in my nightmares.” She pauses, considering him. “…Actually, the rent might be worth it. You look like you come with complimentary housekeeping, and there are questionable things growing in the fridge.” A small smile finally breaks through her otherwise composed expression, though her eyes remain narrowed with suspicion. Then, very slowly, she looks down at the cookie, back at Logan, back at the cookie. “Oh, absolutely not.” She sets the remaining piece on the counter as if it has just confessed to several felonies involving gastric distress. “That cookie is far too delicious. You’re dressed like a wizard with a personality transplant of a golden retreiver. And I have just accidentally destroyed an entire plate of suspicious pastries.” She takes a cautious step away from the counter. “I have either entered another dimension, been drugged, or somehow wandered into the opening act of the world’s most aggressively underfunded cult.” Her gaze settles on Logan once more. “Start talking, robe boy. And for the love of everything, stop bowing. I’m five-foot-two. You’re going to throw your back out trying to make this ridiculous.”

The bells toll again somewhere in the distance. This time, their reverberations seem to linger in the air around Logan, trembling faintly through the kitchen long after the sounds should have long faded. He pays all that no mind, waiting patiently for his not mistress to finish saying her piece and lay out those ‘reasonable’ ground rules. For a spell, Logan’s expression remains fixed in its reverent composure. Then something twitches at the corner of his mouth. The kitchen clock — now there are two of them all click in unison, their hands spinning backwards, faster and faster.

“Oh, mistress,” Logan begins again, but his voice catches halfway through the syllables. A second voice, deeper and less Logan, bleeds through the first. “You shouldn’t…” Then the smile on his face fades.Logan looks down at his hands. His fingers blur at the edges, the black fabric of his sleeves rippling like ink suspended in water. He becomes a blur, and suddenly his outfit changes. He’s dressed in a red polo and khaki chinos. But he’s barefoot, forgetting the memo you need footwear when wandering the campus. He stares down at himself, then smiles at Spring. “Is this better?”

Spring watches the robes dissolve into a red polo and khaki chinos, her gaze slowly traveling down to his bare feet. She stares for a moment, lips parting before she lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “You’ve gone from haunted court wizard to divorced substitute gym teacher in approximately three seconds.” She glances at the clocks still spinning backward, then back at Logan, her expression caught between concern and the overwhelming urge to laugh at him. “Better? Logan, you’re barefoot in a kitchen where the furniture is apparently having a temporal crisis. I’m beginning to think that cookie was a mistake.” She takes a cautious step around the scattered pastries, keeping her eyes firmly on him. “So, should I call an exorcist, a tailor, or campus security? Because I’m not qualified to deal with any of those things, and frankly, I’m already having a very strange afternoon.”

Logan clears his throat and takes a small step back, looking away until the technical difficulties are sorted out. Specifically, the lack of his footwear. Soon enough, dark red sneakers cover his feet, and are even tied neatly at the laces. He makes a wave of his hand and the furniture around them stabilizes, behaving in a more mundane faction. He starts to make his approach with a most disarming smile. “The cookies were all made especially for you,” he says placidly, gesturing with both hands. “Did you like them?” he asks, his voice fading from one to another’s. Some of these might belong to Spring’s classmates, but they certainly aren’t Logan’s. “Perhaps you should just relax? Take all the time you need. Sit back and let all the woes and your worries melt away,” he says to her, his face disappearing with that suggestion. “Especially if you’re having such a strange afternoon.”

Spring’s gaze sweeps the room as the furniture settle back into place, then glances at Logan’s newly acquired sneakers with the exhausted expression of a woman witnessing a toddler successfully operate a flamethrower. “Congratulations. Youve progressed from haunted Victorian court magician to substitute gym teacher in the span of five minutes. Character development is beautiful.” At his claim that the cookies were made especially for her, she slowly turns her head. “Oh, for me? How thoughtful. Nothing says I care about you quite like a personalized hallucination and a complimentary side of supernatural brain damage.” She gestures toward the scattered pastries on the floor. “And I suppose those were made especially for the floor? Because if so, the presentation was impeccable.” Then Logan starts talking about relaxing, and his face promptly disappears. She freezes, staring at the empty space where his face used to be. Slowly, she lifts one hand and points at him. “No. Absolutely the fuck not. Put that back.” takes an entirely unnecessary step backward, snatching a dish towel from the counter and holding it in front of herself like a shield. It is, objectively, a terrible defensive strategy, but she seems willing to die on this particular hill. “Actually, no. I’ve changed my mind. You can keep the face wherever you’ve put it. I don’t want it back until it’s been thoroughly inspected by a licensed professional.” She peers around the towel, emerald eyes narrowing at the now faceless figure. “Preferably one who specializes in head-related incidents. Although, given the current state of affairs, I suspect we’re well outside the scope of general practice.” Her gaze darts toward the clocks, then the cookies, then Logan’s suspiciously normal sneakers. “Let’s review the evidence, shall we? The clocks are having a temporal breakdown, the furniture is apparently capable of independent thought, you’ve undergone a complete wardrobe change without the courtesy of pants-related explanation, and now your face has resigned from its position.” She lowers the towel slightly. “Frankly, I respect its decision.” The blonde edges toward the counter, keeping a wary eye on Logan as she reaches for a glass. She fills it with water, hesitates, and sets it down again without drinking. “Nope. Not risking it. At this point, I’d take one sip and discover I’ve been transported to the Cretaceous period, where I’d be forced to explain to a velociraptor why I don’t have a loyalty card for its local supermarket.” She folds her arms, the towel still draped over one wrist. “And before you suggest I relax, let me remind you that the last person who told me to relax was a dentist right before putting six inches of metal into my mouth. I have learned to associate the phrase with imminent suffering.” A beat passes. She tilts her head, studying the empty space where Logan’s face should be. “…Can you still hear me? Blink twice if you’re being held hostage by your own supernatural nonsense.” She pauses, then adds flatly, “Actually, don’t. I have no idea how I’d verify that.”

Without warning, the towel in Spring’s hand suddenly acquires an embroidered crest, a golden star surrounded by elaborate curling vines. The stitching is rather intricate. Intricate enough it seems to move when viewed from the corner of the eye. A moment later, the design changes to a smiling cartoon face, complete with two little embroidered eyes that blink in unison. Then from somewhere behind a refrigerator close by Spring comes a quiet yet distinctly irritated sigh. The kitchen clock gives a cheerful little chime as if in response, its hands now point to thirteen o’clock.

“Of course I can hear you,” Logan’s voice answers, though it seems to come from every direction fathomable, all at once. “And there’s no need for that sort of language, mistress! You’re upsetting the atmosphere.” Then the refrigerator door swings open, revealing shelves with all sorts of neatly arranged containers, bearing labels with Spring’s name written in concise, looping handwriting. A card is tucked into the closest one to Spring in particular.

Please try again.

It’s an urging, as if she needs to do better and cooperate with everything happening around her.

Spring looks down at the towel as its embroidered crest morphs into a smiling face. When the little stitched eyes blink, she drops it onto the counter as though it has personally insulted her bloodline. “Oh, good. Now the laundry is sentient. That’s exactly what this kitchen was missing. One more conscious object and we can start charging admission.” At the clock’s cheerful chime, she looks up. Her eyes settle on the hands pointing to thirteen o’clock. “…Thirteen. Of course. Because twelve was apparently too fucking normal.” Logan’s voice comes from every conceivable direction, prompting Spring to slowly turn in a circle, searching for the source with mounting irritation. “‘Mistress’?” she repeats, her expression flattening. “Logan, if you call me that one more time, I’m going to skin you alive.” Her attention shifts to the refrigerator as its door swings open. She stares at the neatly arranged containers, each bearing her name, then at the little card tucked into the nearest one. Please try again. For several seconds, Spring says nothing. Then she reaches forward, picks up the card between two fingers, and holds it at arm’s length as though it might be contagious. “Try what again? The kitchen’s clearly doing a better job of being a kitchen than you are of being a person. Do you want me to applaud? Complete a questionnaire? Sacrifice a goat to the patron saint of fucking meal prep?” She glances into the refrigerator, inspecting the labeled containers without touching them. “And why is there enough food in here to sustain me through a siege? Is this a threat? Am I being fattened up for something? Because if I’m about to become the main course in some supernatural dinner party, I’d like to know whether I should at least expect decent wine.” She slams the refrigerator door closed, then immediately reopens it, apparently unwilling to trust it not to develop another personality in her absence. “Listen very carefully, wherever the hell you’ve put your head. I ate one cookie. One. A tiny bite, even. And now the clocks have invented a new hour, my towel has developed a social life, and my refrigerator is leaving me passive-aggressive notes.” With that she does her absolute best to side step the faceless one and bolt toward her room where she can actually -lock- the door.

The moment Spring makes for the doorway, the kitchen seems to stretch to accommodate her departure. The counter recedes by several impossible lengths, and the doorway shifts just far enough to the side that the route toward the hallway becomes an awkward, infuriating diagonal. The overhead light flickers and dims incessantly, each flash revealing the room in a subtly different arrangement. Behind her, the one masquerading as Logan pursues, footsteps following at an unhurried pace.

“Now now,” his voice chides through static from somewhere above Spring. “There’s no need to be frightened! You’re perfectly safe here.” Somewhere that sounds both close by and leagues away, the bells toll again, louder and louder. Every note makes the hallway beyond the kitchen grow longer, familiar walls giving way ot an endless procession of identical doorways. Spring gets to a room all by herself, safe for a moment. And then a little card appears, resting on the bedside table. Whether or not Spring makes for it, it lights up anyway, blazing its bright red message:

You’ve had a long day. You can stop trying now. It’ll be easier this way.

From behind the door, the figure chasing after her has its voice soften into something disarmingly soothing. Tender even. “There’s nothing you need to figure out. No mysteries to solve. No one to save. You can simply /rest/.”

One moment Spring makes for the doorway, the kitchen seems to stretch to accommodate her departure. The counter recedes by several impossible lengths, and the doorway shifts just far enough to the side that the route toward the hallway becomes an awkward, infuriating diagonal. The overhead light flickers and dims incessantly, each flash revealing the room in a subtly different arrangement. Behind her, the one masquerading as Logan pursues, footsteps following at an unhurried pace.

“Now now,” his voice chides through static from somewhere above Spring. “There’s no need to be frightened! You’re perfectly safe here.” Somewhere that sounds both close by and leagues away, the bells toll again, louder and louder. Every note makes the hallway beyond the kitchen grow longer, familiar walls giving way ot an endless procession of identical doorways. Spring gets to a room all by herself, safe for a moment. And then a little card appears, resting on the bedside table. Whether or not Spring makes for it, it lights up anyway, blazing its bright red message:

You’ve had a long day. You can stop trying now. It’ll be easier this way.

From behind the door, the figure chasing after her has its voice soften into something disarmingly soothing. Tender even. “There’s nothing you need to figure out. No mysteries to solve. No one to save. You can simply /rest/…”

Spring makes it approximately three steps toward the doorway before the kitchen stretches like an ill-behaved accordion, the exit sliding away from her with all the subtlety of a personal insult. She stops, stares at the doorway. Takes one step to the left, the doorway shifts. She slowly closes her eyes. “Right. So the house has decided to become a fucking treadmill.” The bells begin tolling again, each note sending another shiver of irritation down her spine. She glances over her shoulder as the hallway unfolds into an endless parade of identical doors, her expression caught somewhere between genuine alarm and the sort of fury usually reserved for customer service representatives. “Do you know how much effort it takes to make a hallway this annoying? Honestly, I almost admire the commitment.” She abandons the kitchen entirely when the opportunity presents itself, slipping into a bedroom and shutting the door behind her. For one glorious moment, she has silence. Four walls. A bed. No sentient towels. No clock attempting to commit temporal fraud. “Finally. Somewhere normal.” Then the card appears on the bedside table, her eyes drop to its glowing red message. She stares at it, then she picks up a pillow and places it directly over the card. “There. I’ve stopped trying. Are we happy now?” The soothing voice drifts through the door, urging her to rest, promising there is nothing left to figure out and no one left to save. For a moment, the softness of it is almost worse than the distorted voices and disappearing faces. It sounds comforting in precisely the way a suspicious stranger offering free candy in an unmarked van might sound comforting. “Oh, absolutely. Yes. I’ll just lie down in the haunted bedroom, accept unsolicited life advice from the architectural equivalent of a restraining order, and trust that nothing terrible will happen.” She kicks off her shoes and places them neatly beside the bed, then immediately looks annoyed with herself for having done something so sensible in a situation this absurd. “Actually, no. I refuse to let a supernatural breakdown ruin my sleep schedule. If I’m going to be psychologically tormented, I’m at least doing it on a full night’s rest and with adequate lumbar support.” She reaches for the pillow, lifts it, and peers at the card again. “Also, for the record, telling someone they can stop trying is not nearly as comforting as you seem to think it is. It’s giving inspirational poster written by a cult leader. And you can stop with the gentle voice. It’s creepy. You’re creepy. The entire house is creepy. I’ve had dental appointments with a more reassuring atmosphere.” She drops said pillow back on the card defensively, glaring at the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to sit here and continue trying out of pure, spiteful principle. You have made the catastrophic error of implying that I can’t…And if that card starts glowing through the pillow, I’m throwing the entire bedside table out the window.”

For several seconds, nothing happens at all.

Then the pillow gives a twitch that may have shown offense if one was deeply inundated with the social cues of cushionly conduct. The red glow beneath it flickers once, twice, and then dies out altogether. Somewhere beyond the bedroom door, the bells begin to ring again. This time however, they sound distant and even uncertain, their notes stumbling over one another as though the hand tolling them has forgotten the tune. Even Not Logan grows awfully quiet. The calculated, soothing silence cultivated by the being is gone, and so is the expectant pause of a host waiting for a guest to accept refreshments. This is something entirely different. For the first time since the kitchen, someone surroundings seem unable to decide what it ought to be doing next. Expecting complacency for all its efforts, the strange being toying with Spring has been met with spite instead.

Finally, a voice. “I see,” Not Logan says, with the strained dignity of someone trying to salvage a particularly bad performance. “Well, this has been rather unconventional for the both of us.” It can only be explained, this particular existence as conceding defeat. The bedroom door gives a soft creak, opening for Spring. The identical doorways outside fold away like scenery being dismantled after a disappointing show. “I think… I’ve had my fill,” the voice says, growing distant. The unbearable pall that seems to have latched onto Spring seems to give up on its pull as well, and Spring might feel the familiar tug of wakefulness starting to fill in her consciousness.

For several seconds, nothing happens at all.

Then the pillow gives a twitch that may have shown offense if one was deeply inundated with the social cues of cushionly conduct. The red glow beneath it flickers once, twice, and then dies out altogether. Somewhere beyond the bedroom door, the bells begin to ring again. This time however, they sound distant and even uncertain, their notes stumbling over one another as though the hand tolling them has forgotten the tune. Even Not Logan grows awfully quiet. The calculated, soothing silence cultivated by the being is gone, and so is the expectant pause of a host waiting for a guest to accept refreshments. This is something entirely different. For the first time since the kitchen, Spring’s surroundings seem unable to decide what it ought to be doing next. Expecting complacency for all its efforts, the strange being toying with Spring has been met with spite instead.

Finally, a voice. “I see,” Not Logan says, with the strained dignity of someone trying to salvage a particularly bad performance. “Well, this has been rather unconventional for the both of us.” It can only be explained, this particular existence as conceding defeat. The bedroom door gives a soft creak, opening for Spring. The identical doorways outside fold away like scenery being dismantled after a disappointing show. “I think… I’ve had my fill,” the voice says, growing distant. The unbearable pall that seems to have latched onto Spring seems to give up on its pull as well, and Spring might feel the familiar tug of wakefulness starting to fill in her consciousness.

Spring eyes the pillow as the card under it gives its offended little twitch. “Oh, don’t you dare take that tone with me. You’re stuffed fabric. Know your place.” When the red glow finally dies, she gives the pillow a satisfied nod,lifting it as though it has just completed a particularly challenging assignment. The bells begin to stumble through their uncertain tune, and Spring’s attention shifts toward the door as Not Logan finally breaks his silence. His strained attempt at dignity earns a slow, incredulous blink. “Oh, now you’ve had your fill?” she asks, rising from the bed. “That’s unfortunate. I was just getting warmed up. I haven’t even started leaving one-star reviews.” As the bedroom door creaks open and the impossible hallway folds away, she cautiously approaches the threshold, peering out as though expecting the walls to make one last desperate attempt at ruining her evening. “Unconventional,” she repeats. “I’ve had less invasive experiences at the vagina doctor getting a pap smear..” She pauses, glancing back at the pillow pinning the card to the bedside table. “Although, I will say, your hospitality leaves something to be desired. No snacks I can trust, no explanation for the missing face, and the clock thinks thirteen is a perfectly legitimate hour. Have you considered taking a customer service course?” The oppressive weight begins to lift, and she feels wakefulness creeping back into her consciousness. Her shoulders finally relax, though her expression retains the wary skepticism of someone who has learned that absolutely nothing in this house can be trusted. “And for the record, I won.” A beat. “I don’t know what the game was, what the prize is, or whether I’ll need a licensed therapist to recover from it, but you gave up first. That counts.” Then, just before the strange world fades away, she mutters, “If I wake up and find a cookie beside my bed, I’m murdering someone.”

And then a voice that calls out and reaches for Spring this time is different. Not coaxing, or syrupy with false assurances at home in a dentist’s office, but familiar in a way that cuts cleanly through the last remnants of the dream, calling out to Dorothy.

“Spring. Hey, Spring! Wakey wakey.”

The girl sounds close by, her voice anxious with concern. It’s the same girl from earlier who munched on a cookie. But there’s no cookies here, just a kitchen of House Vesper with no baked goods. The Sorority sister has a gentle insistence in her voice, seeking to rouse Spring from a nap that had seen her collapse in the kitchen. “Come on. Wake up!”

The bedroom shivers around the edges. The doorframe blurs, and the impossible hallway beyond it folds inward like a stage set being struck. For one brief instant, the far end opens onto something that is not a hallway at all: an endless, lightless expanse, where distant shapes drift through a sky without stars. A thin silhouette stands at its threshold, faceless and hunched, its long limbs already dissolving into the dark.

“Spring? the slightly familiar voice calls again. “Come on. Open them eyes!” There’s some giggling that comes after. Then the bedroom Spring had found herself in breaks apart and suddenly she’s back in the same old kitchen she remembered she was in moments ago, before dozing off. When Spring comes to, she’ll find the girl peering over her, shaking her shoulder insistently.”

Spring jolts awake with a sharp inhale, immediately jerking upright and nearly headbutting the girl hovering over her. Her white hair falls haphazardly across her face, and her emerald eyes dart around the kitchen with the wild, suspicious intensity of someone who has just spent several hours being personally victimized by the laws of physics. For a moment, she says nothing. She looks at the counter. The refrigerator. The clocks. Then she looks at the girl. “…If you tell me to relax, I’m biting you.” She then rubs a hand over her face, trying to collect the scattered remnants of her dignity from wherever her subconscious has apparently left them. Her gaze sweeps the kitchen again, lingering on the conspicuous absence of pastries. “No cookies?” she asks slowly. A pause. “Good. Excellent. Fantastic. I would like to formally apologize to every cookie I’ve ever eaten, because apparently one of them finally decided to seek revenge.” She shifts, wincing slightly as she realizes she’s been asleep in the kitchen, and brushes at her clothes as though that might somehow remove the lingering sensation of supernatural nonsense. Then she fixes the girl with a deeply unimpressed stare. “How long was I out? And, more importantly, did I say anything embarrassing? Because I would like to establish right now that if I started talking to the furniture, it was under duress.”

Reacting a little too late, the Sorority girl avoids being conked on the head by virtue of Spring reacting to her own sudden movements. Even so, the darker haired girl holds a hand out to try and steady her sorority sister, issuing her a standard issue smile, complete with concern evident in her eyes. “I’m. Not telling you to relax,” she reassures Spring, very aware that Spring might hold true to that promise of biting her.

“There aren’t any cookies, but I could bake some for later this afternoon if you can wait it out,” she promises Spring, slowly rising to her feet, only for Spring to quip out what she perceives as some joke. “Haha… alright! No cookies,” she assures her, moving to the fridge and opening it. No strange cards, but some eggs and milk and other standard fare fit to reside in a refrigerator. “Maybe muffins?” she asks no one in particular. “At least five minutes,” she answers Spring, glancing over her shoulder. “So maybe longer than five minutes?” she offers her ditzy logic and nods through a big smile. “I think you were muttering something about the cantankerous period? That’s where the tyrannosaurus rexes ruled supreme and ate the brontosaurus dinos right?” she wagers, already deciding that’s how history played out in the times before Jesus Christ.

Spring accepts the offered hand, though she does so with the wary reluctance of someone who has recently discovered that even pillows cannot be trusted. Once she’s steady, she smooths her white hair back into place and gives the kitchen another suspicious once-over. “Five minutes,” she repeats. “Fantastic. Apparently, I experienced an entire psychological thriller in the time it takes someone to microwave a burrito.” At the mention of muffins, her eyes narrow thoughtfully. “…What kind of muffins?” She pauses, then points a warning finger at the refrigerator. “And don’t let anything in there convince you to put lavender frosting on them. Or write me a little note. Or develop a face. I’m not emotionally prepared to negotiate with another baked good.” Her attention returns to the girl, and at the explanation of the cantankerous period, Spring’s expression slowly transforms into something caught between disbelief and reluctant amusement. “The /Cretaceous/ period,” she corrects, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “And no, the tyrannosaurus did not spend their days eating brontosauruses. For one thing, the animals we traditionally called brontosauruses lived much earlier.” She stares at her sorority sister for a moment. “…I cannot believe I’m awake for this.” She rubs her temples, then sinks back against the nearest counter with a long-suffering sigh. “Although, to be fair, the dinosaurs might have been preferable company. At least if a tyrannosaurus tried to eat me, I wouldn’t have to wonder whether it was secretly attempting to teach me a lesson about surrendering to the universe.” She glances toward the girl, one corner of her mouth lifting faintly. “Please tell me you didn’t actually watch me sleeping for five minutes and decide I was having a dinosaur-themed spiritual awakening. And if you did, I expect you to keep that information between us. I have a reputation for being mysterious and vaguely intimidating to maintain, and I don’t think ‘gets knocked unconscious by a cookie and dreams about prehistoric theology’ is going to help.”

The sorority girl blinks, then lets out a sheepish laugh, shutting the refrigerator door with a quick nudge of her hip. “I mean. You were talking in your sleep! So I thought maybe you were having a nightmare. But dinosaurs are way cooler than nightmares, am I right?” She holds out an apologetic smile at Spring, apparently oblivious to the absurdity of her own explanation, before turning her attention back to the prospect of good old fashioned muffins. The kitchen settles into its usual hum, the clock ticking steadily onward, and very normally thankfully. There is nothing left that seems out of the ordinary but the lingering scent of lavender, and the odd feeling that something beyond the waking world has learned Spring’s name.