{"id":31545,"date":"2026-09-24T14:06:50","date_gmt":"2026-09-24T18:06:50","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/havenrpg.net\/newsite\/?page_id=31545"},"modified":"2026-09-24T14:06:50","modified_gmt":"2026-09-24T18:06:50","slug":"h5-encounter-logs","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/havenrpg.net\/newsite\/h5-encounter-logs\/","title":{"rendered":"Encounter Logs"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<div class=\"wp-block-columns is-layout-flex wp-container-core-columns-is-layout-9d6595d7 wp-block-columns-is-layout-flex\">\n<div class=\"wp-block-column is-layout-flow wp-block-column-is-layout-flow\" style=\"flex-basis:66.66%\"><div class=\"custom-category-posts-display \"><article id=\"post-31624\" class=\"category-display-post\"><a id=\"adrians-odd-encounter-srlacey\" class=\"post-name-anchor\"><\/a><h2 class=\"category-display-post-title\">Adrian&#8217;s odd encounter (SRLacey)<\/h2><div class=\"category-display-post-content\"><div class=\"category-display-post-full-content\"><style>\n    .edgt-post-text-inner p {\n        margin-bottom: 35px !important;\n    }\n    <\/style>\n<p><strong>Date:<\/strong> 2026-10-10 21:29<\/p>\n<hr>\n<p>(Adrian&#8217;s odd encounter (SRLacey))<\/p>\n<p>[Sat Oct 10 2026]<\/p>\n<p>In The Hometown Diner&#8217;s Dining Room<br \/>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&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds.  There is a waxing crescent moon.  <\/p>\n<p>Sitting at a table within Hometown diner, talking to Natalie. They seem to be in the middle of a dinner and having a conversation. &#8220;Well, it is important to know how out of sync I am. I haven&#8217;t really tested myself since my injury, I just have been babying myself. That won&#8217;t do as any good in this town.&#8221; Adrian concludes, picking up his burger and taking a nice, hardy bite. <\/p>\n<p>Natalie pokes some of her salad with her fork, spearing leaf and crouton and chicken all together for a hearty bite. Clearly she doesn&#8217;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. &#8220;Right. So I know you&#8217;re just groaning about it, but you -are- going to come out with me,&#8221; she says in her bossy voice and a soft smirk. <\/p>\n<p>A phone begins to ring somewhere in the diner. Not Adrian&#8217;s. Not Natalie&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>Should either of them answer, a man&#8217;s breathless voice comes through beneath a wash of static and what sounds suspiciously like branches snapping nearby. &#8220;Hi. Sorry. This is going to sound bad.&#8221; A pause follows, then a quieter, considerably less confident, &#8220;I think I&#8217;m lost in the woods.&#8221; Something cracks loudly on his end. &#8220;And before you ask, yes, I know you&#8217;re not supposed to follow weird noises. I followed the weird noise.&#8221; Another pause. &#8220;Twice.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Oh of course my love.&#8221; Adrian says with a growing grin on his face, &#8220;I mean, I am the journalist here, who would I be if I turned away a chance at adventure?&#8221; 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&#8217;t ignore it at first? But after a minute or so, the likely annoying ringtone draws Adrian&#8217;s attention, &#8220;Who left there phone and why won&#8217;t it stop ringing? Very rude.&#8221; 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, &#8220;Hello?&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Natalie was also ignoring the phone because that&#8217;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. &#8220;Why does it sound like a phone call I&#8217;d get from Lacey?&#8221; she mutters out loud, though not loud enough to cover the sound of the panicked person&#8217;s voice. &#8220;Who is it?&#8221; 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 &#8216;hello&#8217;. <\/p>\n<p>With the pondering, Adrian indeed does ask into the phone, &#8220;Lacey? Is that you? Or one of the cousins?&#8221; It seems Adrian seems to generally agree with Natalie&#8217;s assessment of the situation, peering down at the caller ID at the phone. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Is that you?&#8221; Natalie gives Adrian an incredulous look, since the voice is at least decidedly male. <\/p>\n<p>Nothing more than a grin approaches Adrian&#8217;s face as he glances over to Natalie and gives her a playful wink. <\/p>\n<p>The voice on the phone goes quiet for a second, before speaking again and sounding slightly offended. &#8220;Uh. My name&#8217;s Eric. I was hiking out past the western woods before it got dark, and I took a shortcut this girl recommended. Western woods..&#8221; There is a rustle, followed by another sharp crack somewhere behind him. &#8220;The shortcut was bad.&#8221; His breathing picks up as something gives a long, low scrape against a tree on his end of the call. &#8220;Okay. So. Slight update. I don&#8217;t think I&#8217;m alone anymore.&#8221; There&#8217;s a moment of pause. &#8220;And whatever&#8217;s out here just laughed at me.&#8221; Another pause, and then a panicked, &#8220;I DON&#8217;T THINK BEARS DO THAT.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>The line goes dead. <\/p>\n<p>Natalie runs her fingers through the hair on the crown of her head while exhaling thoughtfully. &#8220;Did Lacey just send a poor boy into the Moore woods?&#8221; 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. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Ummmm.&#8221; 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, &#8220;I mean, it sounds like that Eric fellow might be in trouble. I can&#8217;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&#8217;t know, what do you think?&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;I could spin an illusion and really make him think he&#8217;s tripping balls,&#8221; Natalie suggests a little wickedly to Adrian. &#8220;But one that maybe leads him back out to the road at least?&#8221; She shrugs, shoving another big forkful of lettuce into her mouth. &#8220;Could be fun!&#8221; she says, mouth only slightly full. <\/p>\n<p>Lowering his voice, since they are still in the diner, Adrian seems to agree however, &#8220;Yes, some nice delicious fear is always a nice dessert for sure.&#8221; He says with a touch of amusement in his voice. <\/p>\n<p>Before either of them can settle the question, the abandoned phone gives a cheerful little ding. A text from UNKNOWN fills the screen.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>A second message arrives almost immediately.  <\/p>\n<p>ERIC: Also I am reconsidering every shortcut I&#8217;ve ever taken. <\/p>\n<p>Picking up his &#8216;newly acquired&#8217; 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, &#8220;Shall we go for an evening stroll under the star filled night sky?&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Alright, dessert it is then,&#8221; 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&#8217;s taking Adrian&#8217;s offered hand and slipping out from the booth. &#8220;Now they say romance is dead,&#8221; she quips with a crooked smile. <\/p>\n<p>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 &#8216;Eric&#8217; is likely at. <\/p>\n<p>The phone in Adrian&#8217;s pocket gives another cheerful ding before they&#8217;ve quite made it to the door.  <\/p>\n<p>ERIC: Update- it moved.  <\/p>\n<p>Three little dots appear. Vanish. Reappear.  <\/p>\n<p>ERIC: Actually I moved. It just turned its head around to keep watching me. Pretty sure heads aren&#8217;t supposed to do that.  <\/p>\n<p>A final message follows.  <\/p>\n<p>ERIC: Please hurry. I would really like to remain a civilian, I am questioning my life choices, and I&#8217;m way too far in this forest. <\/p>\n<p>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, &#8220;It really is a lovely night tonight.&#8221; There seems to be some risk the pair might even get sidetracked. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;At least we can see more than five feet ahead now,&#8221; Natalie agrees, leaning against Adrian&#8217;s arm like they&#8217;re out for a leisurely stroll. She exhales, testing if she can see her breath in the dropping temperatures of the October evening. &#8220;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.&#8221; It&#8217;s picturesque. Gilmore Girls scene even as Natalie kicks at stray fallen leaves with her foot idly, meandering along with Adrian. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s distant, thoroughly panicked, &#8220;NOPE!&#8221; A few seconds later, something large crashes through the undergrowth in their general direction. The phone in Adrian&#8217;s pocket finally gives one more ding.  <\/p>\n<p>ERIC: If you hear screaming, that&#8217;s me. Please follow it. I think this thing has friends. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;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.&#8221; 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&#8217;s shoulder to help with a little warmth on this cool evening. When they get closer, Adrian doesn&#8217;t check the phone. He hasn&#8217;t so far. He has an arm around Natalie and the other is holding his still very hot coffee&#8230; 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. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;You&#8217;d like what I make,&#8221; Natalie reassures Adrian without giving him much more info than that. The crashing sound of something large coming at them doesn&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>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. &#8220;Oh, thank God. Normal people.&#8221; 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.  <\/p>\n<p>Eric doesn&#8217;t turn around. &#8220;It&#8217;s doing the fucking wave thing again, isn&#8217;t it?&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Not immediately acknowledging the waving hand with his words, but his dark eyes don&#8217;t break from it. Instead, Adrian notes, &#8220;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.&#8221; In his hand however, his coffee continues to get hotter and hotter to the point of boiling now, &#8220;What do you even think you are seeing? The boogie man? Grow up, you aren&#8217;t a child.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Though there&#8217;s a full man that stumbles out of the brush in front of Natalie and Adrian, she barely affords him a look before she&#8217;s looking behind him at that &#8216;waving tree&#8217;. &#8220;Not very polite to avoid people who wave,&#8221; she says with a distracted little frown, bringing her eyes back to Eric for a moment. &#8220;If it weren&#8217;t a tree, of course,&#8221; she amends with a soft quirk of her mouth. She looks back over him again to the woods. &#8220;An almost&#8230; cute tree,&#8221; she continues distractedly, cocking her head to the side in curiosity. <\/p>\n<p>The &#8220;tree&#8221; 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.  <\/p>\n<p>Eric stares at it. &#8220;See? Arms. I feel extremely vindicated right now.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>Eric&#8217;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. &#8220;OH, COME ON-&#8221; is all he manages before he&#8217;s hauled against the creature&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Well we tried.&#8221; Adrian concludes as he keeps focused on this odd tree creature, before noting, &#8220;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.&#8221; He explains to Natalie as he takes his arm from around Natalie&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Definitely plant based,&#8221; Natalie responds with her opinion, discussing with Adrian like they don&#8217;t have a potential ticking timer of a situation in front of them. Nerves of steel or hearts of stone, it&#8217;s hard to tell with these two. But then the dark haired woman suggests something other than &#8216;walk away&#8217; or &#8216;burn it down&#8217;. She murmurs sort of to herself and Adrian, &#8220;I wonder what its favourite treat is?&#8221; There&#8217;s a moment where she considers what might work as a distraction to a giant waving tree creature and then her purple &#8216;taloned&#8217; 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&#8230; what could two delectable little children be doing in the woods all alone? The sweaty, complaining man in the tree&#8217;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&#8217;s just a trick of the dappled light through the leaves of this forest at night. <\/p>\n<p>The creature&#8217;s black eyes settle first on Adrian&#8217;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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Okay, that&#8217;s insulting,&#8221; Eric wheezes.  <\/p>\n<p>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. &#8220;I&#8217;m not saying I wanted it to eat me,&#8221; he pants, scratching at himself and the mystery of a rash, &#8220;but it could&#8217;ve looked a little less disgusted.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Natalie couldn&#8217;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. &#8220;Best you get out of her and to a lighted, well used road before something else snaps you up,&#8221; she warns him in her slightly husky tone. <\/p>\n<p>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, &#8220;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&#8217;t bring my sword, so chopping it up this evening is probably out of the question.&#8221; He says with a smirk. <\/p>\n<p>Eric catches the phone against his chest with both hands, looking between the pair like he&#8217;s only just realized his rescuers may actually concern him more than the monster did. &#8220;Yep. Road. Lights. People. Excellent plan.&#8221; He takes two hurried steps before stopping to stare at the phone. &#8220;Wait. This isn&#8217;t mine.&#8221; From deeper in the woods comes another distant peal of children&#8217;s laughter, followed by an unmistakably irritated wooden shriek. Eric decides this mystery can wait and bolts toward the road.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>Offering his arm once more to Natalie, Adrian asks her in his raspy voice, &#8220;Shall we head home now? I think we had enough adventure for this evening.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Enough adventure but not enough rootbeer float,&#8221; Natalie complains, but threads her arm through Adrian&#8217;s all the same to head back home. <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/article><article id=\"post-31629\" class=\"category-display-post\"><a id=\"catrionas-odd-encounter-srsly\" class=\"post-name-anchor\"><\/a><h2 class=\"category-display-post-title\">Catriona&#8217;s odd encounter (SRSly)<\/h2><div class=\"category-display-post-content\"><div class=\"category-display-post-full-content\"><style>\n    .edgt-post-text-inner p {\n        margin-bottom: 35px !important;\n    }\n    <\/style>\n<p><strong>Date:<\/strong> 2026-10-14 14:39<\/p>\n<hr>\n<p>(Catriona&#8217;s odd encounter (SRSly))<\/p>\n<p>[Wed Oct 14 2026]<\/p>\n<p>In The Forest<\/p>\n<p>It is afternoon, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by dark grey clouds.  <\/p>\n<p>It&#8217;s barely been a week or two since Catriona&#8217;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 &#8216;focus mode&#8217; or silencing her phone may currently have: this call is important, with no name specified, only a company name: Coretech Industries. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s standing imperiously, watching. &#8220;Keep it up,&#8221; she orders. Stepping back toward the lane, her phone beeps. She looks down at it, curious. <\/p>\n<p>Catriona swipes, accepting the call, then lifts it to her ear. <\/p>\n<p>The voice on the other end of the line already sounds annoyed, even before Catriona&#8217;s answered. &#8220;Is this Ms Catriona Helvig?&#8221; comes the eloquent New York accent with impeccable diction. It&#8217;s an art, the way he manages to sound so severe without even remotely raising his voice. &#8220;The necromancer, if memory serves. I need you to stop whatever it is you&#8217;re doing and head to Willow Cove. Immediately.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Catriona stands straight even though no one is there to see, chin lifting slightly. &#8220;Aye,&#8221; she declares, in her Scottish accent. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Memory does serve, yours is impeccable. I don&#8217;t recall you, but I&#8217;m glad I made an impression,&#8221; Catriona admits. <\/p>\n<p>Catriona says &#8220;I&#8217;m not so far from there now.  What is going on?&#8221;<\/p>\n<p>Catriona presses mute on her part of the conversation. Then shouts, &#8220;To me.&#8221; 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. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;This is Prince Richard von Hohenzollern, Vampire Empire and Whispering Hand,&#8221; 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&#8217;s notice. &#8220;One of my slaves has attempted to escape me to your little town, through the dream doors. I&#8217;ve ritually cursed him to remain trapped in that dreamworld, but I&#8217;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.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>He adds after a beat, in a softer voice, &#8220;We haven&#8217;t met, I&#8217;m afraid, I tend to keep my distance from your kind; I&#8217;m sure you understand. But do this favour to my satisfaction, and I may reconsider &#8230; in time.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>After thumbing the mute she starts to speak. &#8220;I dinnae understand in the slightest,&#8221; Catriona declares. &#8220;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.&#8221; No one is around to see it, but she&#8217;s dramatic anyway. Her hand goes to her chest and her face is a mask of faux-horror. &#8220;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?&#8221; She coaxes. <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>A royal scoff can be faintly heard on the other end of the line, soft enough to be mistaken for an exhale or static. &#8220;We&#8217;ll debate the art of living long and well, by managing potential risks, should you live past your three hundreds, Ms Helvig &#8230; let alone your thirties,&#8221; comes a soft, contemptuous reply, but breezes past to business rather than indulge in too much back-and-forth. &#8220;You should find the slave in the water, just off the cove. He doesn&#8217;t breathe, so I&#8217;m afraid you may have to get wet. I believe he thinks he&#8217;s a pirate, or something or other. Trapped in Blackwater Bay, you see.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Catriona looks back over her shoulder toward the bones. Smirks. <\/p>\n<p>Catriona turns back to the road. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Oh, it won&#8217;t be a debate if you wait that long. By three hundred, you might be too late to stay in my good graces. I&#8217;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,&#8221; Catriona brags idly, while bumping along the dirt road. Behind her, bones are clattering and the spear is sliding about. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Ah, Godlings,&#8221; the Prince manages to convey with a mix of fondness and dismissal. &#8220;Call me when it&#8217;s done. Or don&#8217;t &#8230; have the slave do it.&#8221; And with that, he hangs up.  <\/p>\n<p>Ahead, the road is fairly quiet. A substantial portion of Haven&#8217;s population prefer to avoid the sun altogether, and those who don&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s a short stroll along the bluffs to Willow Cove. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;That arrogant, short-sighted, daft IDIOT,&#8221; Catriona says. She shakes her head violently, platinum-blonde hair that is near white jostled with the motions. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Uh, godlings,&#8221; Catriona imitates, making the words mocking. Then scoffs. &#8220;So arrogant to think a race that doesn&#8217;t come into being slaved to their sire is better than me. Don&#8217;t you know, I called myself pwince.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Catriona parks and grabs her gear, getting changed in the back. &#8220;Should really put a mirror in here. Big enough for one. Alright. Lets go.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Catriona steps into the nightmare before exiting her van and walking down toward the cove. <\/p>\n<p>Haven&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>Catriona ignores the door. She&#8217;s scouting the area, not trying to get trapped inside a dream. So she&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>Catriona searches the cove, looking for signs of her target. <\/p>\n<p>Catriona smirks as she walks, amber-gold eyes tracing the shoreline. <\/p>\n<p>It doesn&#8217;t take very long to find the body in the water at all, once she&#8217;s at Willow Cove. Mostly because he&#8217;s making a scene &#8212; and the body is undead.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Avast, ye mateys! Ne&#8217;er again shall the boot of one crush the necks of the many!&#8221; 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. &#8220;We take the ship tonight, and if it be mutiny, so it be! I&#8217;ll dine on barnacle scum no longer! The Captain&#8217;s quarters be ours, and so be the plunder! Arrr!&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>It&#8217;s not implausible that someone can see what&#8217;s going on right now, from the cemetery, the lighthouse, or one of the distant Court Street shops &#8212; 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. <\/p>\n<p>Catriona approaches the crazy pirate. She&#8217;s not in the physical, as he is. And if there are people around, she can&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>Catriona reaches out to drag the pirate into the deep nightmare when a wave does crash, ripping him from the physical realm. <\/p>\n<p>Catriona raises her voice. &#8220;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.&#8221; She spreads her arms. &#8220;And yet, here I stand, greater than Julius could ever hope to be. Do you seek treasure? Do you seek glory?&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>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 &#8212; and next anyone asks, no they didn&#8217;t.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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. &#8220;Avast, sea-witch!&#8221; he calls out. &#8220;Hath the Captain forged some unholy pact with ye? Ye shan&#8217;t take me alive.&#8221; He is, of course, not alive to begin with, but his dream identity may not realise that. &#8220;I&#8217;ll show ye &#8230; Julius Caesar!&#8221; 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. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Aye,&#8221; Catriona shouts back to the pirate. <\/p>\n<p>Catriona smirks and steps forward. &#8220;The captain wants ye returned to him. And he&#8217;ll have ye!&#8221; She motions her skeleton forward, since the blasted man isn&#8217;t lost enough in his dream to mindlessly fall into trying to capture him. <\/p>\n<p>Catriona says to a skeleton, &#8220;Bring him to me.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>Catriona has a skeletal graveguard that surges forward into the nightmarish water. <\/p>\n<p>The deckhand surges forward, one leg at a time, or tries to. He looks stumped and startled by the effect Catriona&#8217;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. &#8220;Blast ye, Captain Dick! Blast ye, witch!&#8221; As the skeleton approaches, he tries to ineffectually swing his rusty cutlass in that direction, though it must be noted he&#8217;s not particularly good. Perhaps were he more skilled, he wouldn&#8217;t be a slave.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Yer a fool, and ye&#8217;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&#8217;ll see for yerself his word&#8217;s weight in salt!&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Then perhaps we could work together to turn on the captain,&#8221; Catriona shouts back, as her skeleton closes distance to begin wailing on him. &#8220;Dinnae be daft! Surrender and cooperate and it&#8217;ll be me and ye against your captain.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Why should I trust ye, witch?&#8221; 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&#8217;s unlikely to last. A combination of seaweed, saltwater, and too much grog weigh him down, or so he believes &#8212; in reality, it&#8217;s Catriona&#8217;s magic holding him back. &#8220;I trusted the Captain too! Promised us the Fountain of Youth, he did. Pfah!&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;I dinnae think you understand your position,&#8221; Catriona calls back in her Scottish accent. &#8220;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&#8217;ll be doomed to eternal undeath as my slave, rather than your captains.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Hell??&#8221; the dreaming slave mishears Catriona&#8217;s threats. &#8220;So ye admit you are a witch! She-devil! Consort of Satan!&#8221; He sneers in obvious distaste, even if soon after he manages to check his own hypocrisy. &#8220;The noose threatens us both, or I&#8217;d gladly see ye hang.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>The groggy pirate isn&#8217;t a match for Catriona&#8217;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 &#8216;the Captain&#8217; 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&#8217;s next assault. <\/p>\n<p>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. &#8220;No. Not Hell. Hela1 The one from the Marvel movie? Goddess of Death? They added the a, in the comics.&#8221; Her tone is almost pleading, begging the presumably fairly recently turned man to pick up the pop culture reference. &#8220;Floating swords? Break&#8217;s Thor&#8217;s hammer? Conquers Asgard?&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Catriona continues commanding her skeleton to beat up the runaway slave. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s saying to him right now, it&#8217;s some form of witchcraft.  <\/p>\n<p>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. &#8220;Ah-arrr!&#8221; come his hapless cries, and as soon as he can speak again, he chokes out, &#8220;Stop, stop! Belay the bones! Ye&#8217;ve made yer point, I surrender!&#8221; His wide eyes well up with tears at the prospect of whatever fate evidently awaits. <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>She kneels closer. &#8220;I have a gift for you,&#8221; she murmurs. &#8220;You are asleep right now, so you might not remember it conciously when you awaken, but in some ways that is better.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>She concentrates. &#8220;Watch the video and absorb your lesson.,&#8221; she orders, the words coming with supernatural persuasion backing them. &#8220;And I won&#8217;t break your arms and legs before dragging you to your captain.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Catriona fishes out her phone. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;V&#8211;video?&#8221; 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 &#8216;life&#8217; with enough desperation to submissively nod his head, rapidly, in understanding. Every motion he manages at this point screams out nonverbally: &#8216;please, I don&#8217;t want to die.&#8217; Whatever file she offers him, he accepts, although his phone is on his physical form &#8212; not his pirate outfit in the Nightmare.  <\/p>\n<p>He tries one last time to plead, &#8220;Please &#8230; please don&#8217;t send me back to the Captain. He&#8217;s cruel. He&#8217;ll beat me for days. He &#8230; he bites people too.&#8221; His teary eyes widen. &#8220;He eats those who deny him, a cannibal. Legends of Blackbeard have nothing on Captain Dick. You ain&#8217;t the first witch he&#8217;s sent after us &#8230; he&#8217;ll turn on you too, mark my words.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>regards the miserable pirate for a moment, her smirk softening into something almost sympathetic. &#8220;Och, I believe you. I&#8217;ve spoken to your captain, you know. A dreadful wee man. Quite full of himself.&#8221; She shakes her head. &#8220;But dinnae mistake me. I&#8217;m not here to rescue you out of the goodness of my heart. That would be terribly unlike me.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;You won&#8217;t have to go back right away,&#8221; Catriona continues. &#8220;We&#8217;re going to find a mirror first. You&#8217;re going to give me your phone. And when you leave, you&#8217;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.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;There&#8217;s a little film I&#8217;d like you to watch. Something educational. About what you are, what I am, and the proper relationship between the two. You&#8217;ll watch every moment of it, and then we&#8217;ll have a wee discussion. After that, we&#8217;ll telephone your captain and arrange your return. Perhaps I can even persuade him to treat you better.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>Straightening, Catriona gestures to her skeletal graveguard. &#8220;Help our friend to his feet. And dinnae hurt him unless he makes it necessary.&#8221; 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. <\/p>\n<p>Without some sort of counterspell, the Princes&#8217;s slave remains trapped within his pirate dreamworld. He gazes in dazed confusion at Catriona when she offers him instructions pertaining to a &#8216;film&#8217; or &#8216;telephone&#8217;, but he nods his head, knowing better by now than to argue with the fearsome sea-witch.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s safest submitting right now &#8212; like the good slave he is.  <\/p>\n<p>The most obvious mirror would likely be the changing rooms in Narnia, also located in Haven&#8217;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&#8217;ll likely spook the addled deckhand even further. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;I&#8217;ll &#8230; I&#8217;ll watch &#8230; alright &#8230;&#8221; the beaten pirate lamely affirms, shivering from fear, since his undead flesh doesn&#8217;t feel the cold of saltwater dripping down his clothes. &#8220;Whatever you say.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Aye, you will,&#8221; Catriona assures him, walking with confidence toward Narnia. If she cares that he doesn&#8217;t understand her very well, she doesn&#8217;t show it. Sand gives way, and she and her skeleton march. &#8220;Are you thirsty,&#8221; she asks. She draws a small glass of blood out of a pocket. &#8220;I imagine you are. I could share it with you, if you&#8217;re good? Yummy&#8230; rum,&#8221; she calls it, trying to play into his fantasy. <\/p>\n<p>The vampire doesn&#8217;t know why he wants it, but he knows he wants it. As soon as she reveals the blood, it&#8217;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. &#8220;Ain&#8217;t had good grog in days,&#8221; he laments to the necromancer. &#8220;Aye &#8230; ye &#8230; ye ain&#8217;t so bad for a witch.&#8221; Further talking himself into it, he mumbles as he reaches out with both hands to grasp the glass, &#8220;Suppose if the Navy catches either of us, I&#8217;d be good as a witch too, arr?&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Aye, that&#8217;s right. Good lad. Come on then,&#8221; 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&#8217;s got a skip in her step now, walking a bit faster, eating up the distance, for all that she&#8217;s walking backward. And after some time she would turn to walk more normally. <\/p>\n<p>Catriona doesn&#8217;t give the vial of course. Just an incentive, not a gift. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;t linger on &#8212; her neck, her hands, anything he could sink his teeth into.  <\/p>\n<p>Onwards to her vehicle he&#8217;ll go, and from there, what she elects to do with the slave &#8212; and whether to obey the Vampire Prince&#8217;s command &#8212; is up to her. <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>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. &#8220;Ms Helvig? Forgive me, I wasn&#8217;t expecting your call. Is everything alright?&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Aye, quite alright. I&#8217;ve got your wayward fledgling with me,&#8221; Catriona says. &#8220;And I dinnae get wet doing it.&#8221; She pauses there. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;And why didn&#8217;t you have him call me himself, as I asked?&#8221; 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.  <\/p>\n<p>The fledgling in question watches Catriona commune with spirits in her device with growing concern. He doesn&#8217;t understand telephones, nor understand who the Prince is at present, but something in the back of his mind gnaws at him. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;You left it up to me and I didn&#8217;t think your fledgling, who think he&#8217;s a pirate, mind you, would understand how to work the phone,&#8221; Catriona says, her voice moving slow and gentle, like she&#8217;s of the opinion she&#8217;s talking to someone very stupid. &#8220;As you ought to remember, given your likely age, the age of sail wasn&#8217;t known for its teleco infrastructure.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>The voice on the other end sighs. He takes his sweet time before responding afterwards. &#8220;Very well. Deliver him back to me by Sunday; I&#8217;ve set aside the time to prise each and every fingernail slowly from his hands. We have a long talk overdue about loyalty,&#8221; he muses in an intentionally unbothered tone of voice. &#8220;As for your Hand, I will &#8230; remark to your superiors that you completed my request of you to &#8230; modest &#8230; satisfaction.&#8221; 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. &#8220;I&#8217;ll keep him hexed for your convenience. Goodbye.&#8221; And he hangs up yet again without a further word.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>Catriona texts immediately after he hangs up. Given the memory issues you&#8217;ve just had, its probably past due for a checkup. As you put it, in your own words, The Necromancer, I&#8217;m going to recommend you see one immediately. Now, I&#8217;m sure you know some you could go to. However, as a daughter of Hel, I can assure you, I&#8217;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&#8217;re quite welcome. It was no problem at all. Easy, in fact. I didn&#8217;t get wet. <\/p>\n<p>The Prince never replies to Catriona&#8217;s texts. He of course deems himself far too important to. <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/article><article id=\"post-31597\" class=\"category-display-post\"><a id=\"claires-odd-encounter-srgraham\" class=\"post-name-anchor\"><\/a><h2 class=\"category-display-post-title\">Claire&#8217;s odd encounter (SRGraham)<\/h2><div class=\"category-display-post-content\"><div class=\"category-display-post-full-content\"><style>\n    .edgt-post-text-inner p {\n        margin-bottom: 35px !important;\n    }\n    <\/style>\n<p><strong>Date:<\/strong> 2026-10-01 05:54<\/p>\n<hr>\n<p>(Claire&#8217;s odd encounter (SRGraham))<\/p>\n<p>[Thu Oct  1 2026]<\/p>\n<p>In the contemporary, central, spacious living area of the apartment<br \/>The main room is a wide, low-ceilinged space that has clearly been lived<br \/>in by many people and never quite made anyone&#8217;s own. Scuffed floorboards run<br \/>under a faded rug, and tall western windows let in thin, tired light. A<br \/>mismatched collection of second-hand furniture crowds the middle of the<br \/>room: a sagging gray sectional, a scratched coffee table, an armchair with<br \/>its arms worn pale. Somewhere below, the faint smell of old fabric and dust<br \/>drifts up from the shop, mixing with a trace of detergent.<\/p>\n<p>It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds.  There is a waning gibbous moon.  <\/p>\n<p>Claire finishes taping a paper over a door and takes a step back to admire her handiwork. It&#8217;s simply a list of what appear to be various chores. &#8220;That&#8217;ll do,&#8221; she comments to herself in the very same vein of patting one&#8217;s self on the back. &#8220;Now onto roomie number two&#8217;s.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Yes, indeed. Roomie Number Two and their chores. If, indeed, those chores might ever be done. An irritability creeps up along Claire&#8217;s back, up her neck, and settles itself around her brain stem like an irascible serpent at the roots of the world tree. It&#8217;s insulting that she should even have to put these lists up in the first place, isn&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Fucking bitch,&#8221; someone whispers under their breath, artless but easily audible.  <\/p>\n<p>Odd. That had sounded a lot like her own voice. <\/p>\n<p>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. &#8220;I could use a drink,&#8221; 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. &#8220;Huh?&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>No, no. There&#8217;s nobody there. Who could Claire be looking for? She&#8217;s all alone in there, isn&#8217;t she?  <\/p>\n<p>The universe doesn&#8217;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 &#8211; and who would have planted any prank devices like that already, anyway? She&#8217;s all alone, and that sense of irritation only grows. Maybe it&#8217;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&#8217;t any monsters lurking in the proverbial waters across the street, as far as she knows. It&#8217;s a vending machine. <\/p>\n<p>Finding no one to confront, Claire&#8217;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&#8217;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. &#8220;It&#8217;s just another panic attack,&#8221; she tells herself, seeking to find solace through her phone instead. That doesn&#8217;t garner her much hope either &#8212; 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. <\/p>\n<p>A heart that beats too quickly, a weight upon her shoulders, a tightness in her chest, and a strange sense of bloating. Yes, there&#8217;s something quite awry here &#8211; perhaps Claire is coming down with something. Or perhaps it&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>Maybe she really should get herself something to drink &#8211; like good old Pepto-Bismol, or anything else which might settle the squeasy, queasy unease which besets her. And it&#8217;s all Roomie Two&#8217;s fault. That strumpet. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s met with another dismal reality: it&#8217;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&#8217;s rocking. <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/article><article id=\"post-31622\" class=\"category-display-post\"><a id=\"claires-odd-encounter-srlillian\" class=\"post-name-anchor\"><\/a><h2 class=\"category-display-post-title\">Claire&#8217;s odd encounter (SRLillian)<\/h2><div class=\"category-display-post-content\"><div class=\"category-display-post-full-content\"><style>\n    .edgt-post-text-inner p {\n        margin-bottom: 35px !important;\n    }\n    <\/style>\n<p><strong>Date:<\/strong> 2026-10-10 09:48<\/p>\n<hr>\n<p>(Claire&#8217;s odd encounter (SRLillian))<\/p>\n<p>[Sat Oct 10 2026]<\/p>\n<p>In Cair Paravel<br \/>The interior of the building is draped lavishly in clothing of all sorts<br \/>and rotary racks pepper the bulk of the available space like multicolored<br \/>trees.  The walls here are obscured with wood paneling from which hangers<br \/>can be attached to display individual items and the floor is likewise<br \/>hardwood.<\/p>\n<p>The southwestern section shifts from casual to formal as it approaches the<br \/>furthest point.  Mirrors are quite common along the walls and give an<br \/>impression of vast space.  The changing rooms are also located here and<br \/>labeled obscurely.  One to the northwest reads &#8220;Sons of Adam&#8221; while the<br \/>other more directly to the west displays &#8220;Daughters of Eve&#8221;.<\/p>\n<p>It is morning, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds.  <\/p>\n<p>Claire browses some of the discounted articles of clothing at Narnia, an avid passtime of hers. There&#8217;s no real commitment to look for anything to buy, she&#8217;s just indulging in her whimsies this morning and killing time. <\/p>\n<p>Whimsy may be the key word of the day; there&#8217;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&#8217;s a dud of a thrift day. Even with the clouds outside it&#8217;s a bright day, though, the sun just barely breaking through a threatened storm every few minutes.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s thick-knit, cable style, with gorgeous celtic patterns running up and down in tasteful cream. It&#8217;d be perfect for fall. It&#8217;s fall now, in fact. <\/p>\n<p>Claire turns and spots the scarf with that price tag that&#8217;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. &#8220;What do we have here?&#8221; she asks, taking the scarf from the riffraff that garners not even a whit of her attention. The Celtic embroidered along its length isn&#8217;t something she isn&#8217;t too familiar with, so she must run her fingers over it to gain more information instead of consulting Siri. <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;d look great on you. You know it to be true, oddly enough, as your fingers run across the celtic knotting.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;A cut above. This isn&#8217;t French at all,&#8221; 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&#8217;s just made. Those runes should be a red flag for anyone with the know how. <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>You are a mouse. <\/p>\n<p>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. &#8220;Squeak.&#8221; she squeaks thoughtfully, unable to convey the emotion she so desires. &#8220;Squeak,&#8221; she realizes her folly, ears swiveling. She has been bamboozled. <\/p>\n<p>Wandering in with some poor schmuck&#8217;s confiscated phone he&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Oh,&#8221; Graham frowns, coming closer. &#8220;It is a mouse. Disgusting.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>But he&#8217;s a fairly quick guy, too, and he knows those clothes. They&#8217;re his employees. The employee he&#8217;d just been berating for letting slip certain rumours about him, ones he claims are entirely baseless. He starts to crouch down, but he&#8217;s not quite there yet with his prosthesis-using skills.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Is that&#8230; You, Claire? Or is there just a rat in your clothes while you&#8217;re scampering off naked somewhere?&#8221; He pauses for a moment, then snorts. &#8220;Serves you right. Do you understand me? Use your hands. I&#8217;m not listening to some rat chitter on and on.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;would seem hers is a curse of forced shifting.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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? <\/p>\n<p>Claire just bolts, or more specifically dives into the pile of her clothing, still warm with her body heat. It&#8217;s safe. Graham&#8217;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&#8217;s gaze with her pitch black eyes. It might be like staring into the void, but she&#8217;s just a mouse, so there is none of the intimidation factor.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Squeak?&#8221; she squeaks some more, entreating with her employer. But those not in the know with mouse speak might misinterpret her as asking if anyone&#8217;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&#8217;s tempo, cause her natural she so brazenly defies is screaming at her she&#8217;s about to get eaten. <\/p>\n<p>Graham shuts his eyes and sighs inwardly, and also outwardly. While this was not the first time he&#8217;d seen the victim of such a curse&#8230; He didn&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s not particularly deft, and that poor little mouse brain is particularly daft. Couldn&#8217;t she see he was there to help her?  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Claire,&#8221; he tries again, his voice as thin as his patience. &#8220;I don&#8217;t know a fucking thing about magic. Just&#8230;&#8221; He gesticulates vaguely. &#8220;Pray to me. Make a wish. I&#8217;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.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>He&#8217;s not a very nice boss. <\/p>\n<p>Pray? Cheese? Tomcat? Two out of three ain&#8217;t bad. Mouse brain doesn&#8217;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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>Actually, you know what? There&#8217;s probably a lot of other mice in those walls. Nice mice. Maybe they&#8217;d like to be friends. No cats in the walls, that&#8217;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&#8217;t mix very well. RUN, GIRL. <\/p>\n<p>Claire darts to the left, then right, and the left again, evading on Graham&#8217;s attempts to get at her. She knows he&#8217;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&#8217;t be able to redeem ever. She&#8217;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&#8217;t succumbed to far less base instincts he&#8217;s probably not going to stomp on her.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s a believer in science, not God. Without warning, she bolts between Graham&#8217;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&#8217;d like right now since she&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>It&#8217;s that silver ear cuff with the carved runes that some might be able to suss out as an arcane focus. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Damn it, Claire, just -&#8221; Graham pinches his nose as he straightens up, not looking to stir the mouse into any more of a flurry. &#8220;Just think clearly, would you?&#8221; 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 &#8211; thong, nice &#8211; earring. Okay. He snags it and holds it up, inspecting it this way and that. Yep; a focus.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Claire,&#8221; he calls, not sure he could actually spot her at this point without her flipping a switch and racing up his leg. &#8220;I have your earring. This is it, right? It&#8217;s not the headband? And the scarf isn&#8217;t yours, right?&#8221; He eyes it dubiously. &#8220;What else do I need to do? Think very hard about it. Use your brain, not your heart.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s not even properly a curse. It didn&#8217;t come with any riders, you don&#8217;t think. I mean, you wouldn&#8217;t really be able to check, would you? Well, none of the runes appeared to be for anything other than transfiguration, at least.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s meant to become HERSELF again, and not some other human, or some other animal. That, plus&#8230; well&#8230; a cost. The spirits would demand it. No doubt the mage who ensorcelled this scarf paid quite a price indeed. Yours will be lesser.  <\/p>\n<p>Two things are necessary, first off: a space, and something with which to draw the circle. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;t make the man&#8217;s life any easier here. If she had her voice, she&#8217;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&#8217;s a tiny little thing, the circle probably doesn&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>There we go. That&#8217;s much clearer, and makes somewhat obvious to him what is blatantly obvious to Claire. It&#8217;s not that he&#8217;s unintelligent; he just really never took a try at magic.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;A circle,&#8221; he sighs, very grateful for his ability to interpret mouse wishes into demigod thoughts. &#8220;Easy enough.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>And it is easy enough. Graham&#8217;s actually really, really good with circles and shapes. Step one: he pulls another &#8211; ideally not enchanted &#8211; 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.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s going to make a magic circle, he&#8217;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&#8217;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 &#8211; bloodlogged? Ensanguinated.  <\/p>\n<p>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 &#8211; 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&#8217;s made of rather potent demigod blood, only recently saturated to its maximum capacity of life essence by a hospital visit.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Okay,&#8221; he sighs. He&#8217;s done a single part of the process, but it&#8217;s a very well made circle. <\/p>\n<p>A circle! It&#8217;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&#8230; 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&#8217;s mouse senses, combining with the arcane senses Claire&#8217;s human form typically has, are already picking up on something&#8230; coming.  <\/p>\n<p>That something&#8230; 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.  <\/p>\n<p>The next step: RUN! FLEE! THERE&#8217;S A CAT!!! At least, that&#8217;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&#8217;s been done. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>She may be a mouse, but she&#8217;s still Claire at heart. It&#8217;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&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s doing. Or, at the very least, that she knows what she&#8217;s trying to do. That&#8217;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&#8217;s discarded clothing. There. That should be everything.  <\/p>\n<p>He straightens up with a grunt, one hand finding purchase against the clothing rack as he surveys their handiwork. It&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>Nothing happens.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s share of Graham&#8217;s potent blood, before his vast, girthy shadow passes over Claire directly. There&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>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 &#8212; living through the eyes of a shifter. She wouldn&#8217;t choose a mouse in normal circumstances, but beggars can&#8217;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&#8217;s taken refuge from, warded by pesky interlopers that might seek to do her harm.  <\/p>\n<p>Like that damn cat. In the hierarchy of the animal kingdom, she bows her head to the largest of them all. &#8220;Squeak,&#8221; 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. &#8220;It&#8217;s done,&#8221; she says, her voice hoarse, but no longer a squeak. Her ears start to turn red, not forgetting Graham&#8217;s presence, nor the circumstances of their previous exchanges before meeting here of all places. &#8220;Thanks,&#8221; she says without turning her head. <\/p>\n<p>Graham&#8217;s Claire&#8217;s employer, a banker, an investor; he is, quite literally, The Fat Cat. &#8220;Huh,&#8221; Graham echoes, taken a little off-kilter by the rapidity of the transformation. Also by the naked employee at his feet. A handbra doesn&#8217;t do much when you&#8217;re going Bare Pussy Out At Walmart, or Narnia, or whichever general supermarket. He has to force himself to look away. &#8220;Well, Miss Han-Whitfield, welcome back to bipedalism. Go ahead and get dressed. I might have got some blood on your clothes.&#8221; He&#8217;s still holding his own arm clamped shut as the gouge heals over. &#8220;This is what happens when you tell rumours about your boss, just so we&#8217;re clear.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Claire doesn&#8217;t rush to move, comforted by the fact that her back is turned to Graham and she&#8217;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. &#8220;It was a bad judgment call,&#8221; she freely admits, breathing out a soft sigh. &#8220;Me and my big mouth,&#8221; she adds for good measure. It goes without saying, she&#8217;s assuring Graham she&#8217;s learned from her mistakes and it won&#8217;t happen ever again. <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/article><article id=\"post-31614\" class=\"category-display-post\"><a id=\"claires-odd-encounter-srlogan\" class=\"post-name-anchor\"><\/a><h2 class=\"category-display-post-title\">Claire&#8217;s odd encounter (SRLogan)<\/h2><div class=\"category-display-post-content\"><div class=\"category-display-post-full-content\"><style>\n    .edgt-post-text-inner p {\n        margin-bottom: 35px !important;\n    }\n    <\/style>\n<p><strong>Date:<\/strong> 2026-10-08 07:48<\/p>\n<hr>\n<p>(Claire&#8217;s odd encounter (SRLogan))<\/p>\n<p>[Thu Oct  8 2026]<\/p>\n<p>On Main Street<\/p>\n<p>It is dawn, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by wispy white clouds.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>It&#8217;s the early morning hours of Haven when the small sleepy town is just getting into the motion of waking up. It&#8217;s just a bit too early for anyone to be out in the streets, except some suit-wearing guy who&#8217;s making his way to the bank down the street. Looking like he&#8217;s going to start the day by opening up for business. Get the money flowing.  <\/p>\n<p>Ding! It hits eight o&#8217;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 &#8211; it&#8217;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&#8217;s breakfast time, or a late night snack and the Chill Zone is calling her name. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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. &#8220;Weird,&#8221; she comments, then steps inside of the store. <\/p>\n<p>As Claire passes the front of the store there&#8217;s a gust of wind that blows across the street &#8211; a sudden freak of nature gust, upon that wind is just a quiet, hushed sound that sounds a lot like &#8220;Claire,&#8221;.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s just a coincidence. Probably. More than likely. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Ah,&#8221; 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&#8217;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. &#8220;That&#8217;s actually Marilyn Monroe,&#8221; 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&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>It&#8217;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&#8217;s possible outfit mishap.  <\/p>\n<p>The store is entirely safe from wind and breezes and now there&#8217;s nothing else to worry about in regards to that. It&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;CLAIRE.&#8221; A voice calls out, and if she were too look, it would be none of those staff members. They&#8217;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 &#8211; signs indicating a bathroom leads that way.  <\/p>\n<p>That tangible spot even seems to gesture, blurring slightly on the glass &#8211; a longish sort of limb like thing that might be urging her to move, to listen to that voice, it&#8217;s a pulling, somewhere deep inside of her. <\/p>\n<p>Claire wrinkles her nose and looks away from the blurred spot on the vending machine&#8217;s display. It gets too aggravating to focus on the more she stares. Instead, she inserts a dollar bill into the vending machine&#8217;s feed, and because the economy slips in three more quarters so she can get a small black can of coffee for her troubles. &#8220;Suntory Boss Black,&#8221; 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&#8217;s influence. <\/p>\n<p>Unfortunately for Claire there are no cameras around her. There&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>The bathroom of Chill and Fill Snack Express is your typical bathroom. It&#8217;s a unisex bathroom. It&#8217;s clearly meant for one person at a time. There&#8217;s a toilet, a sink, and a mirror (which on first glance doesn&#8217;t seem to reflect anything) above the sink &#8211; with a toilet paper holder. Bathroom is clean enough, not the best bathroom you&#8217;ve ever seen in your life, but it&#8217;s also not disgusting. There&#8217;s some graffiti on the wall that reads all kinds of things: &#8216;For a good time call &#8211;&#8216; the number has been roughly scratched at. A tiny hole in the wall with an arrow pointing into it &#8211; some text indicating it might be a good spot to stick a certain body part. Though, the bathroom clearly does&#8217;t have anything attached to it.  <\/p>\n<p>Once the door shuts behind her, the lights inside flicker, and there&#8217;s a shift in the bathroom, a noticeable sort of change. The air feels heavier, and thicker. The lights turn back on, and Claire&#8217;s reflection appears in the mirror. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>Her reflection matches her fussing, at least for a while. It&#8217;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&#8217;s not an opposite. It grows in the mirror, and the figure becomes more whole. More of what it might actually look like.  <\/p>\n<p>It&#8217;s seemingly made of shadow, an inky blackness that drips the stuff behind it. It&#8217;s not whole-y human at all. It&#8217;s face is sunken in, a black hole of nothingness. It has no eyes, nor mouth, and yet, it&#8217;s obviously staring at Claire. A humanlike gesture, it&#8217;s &#8216;head&#8217; 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, &#8220;CLAIRE.&#8221; It pushes forward, the first of it&#8217;s inky, black fingers starting to escape into reality and reaching for her. &#8220;WHY DID YOU LEAVE US.&#8221; The voice might be something she recognizes &#8211; a sort of weird mix of what her parents sounded like. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s still in the Chill Zone, or somewhere else entirely. &#8220;I already told you. That&#8217;s old news,&#8221; she replies calmly, taking a page out of Dumbledore&#8217;s book. <\/p>\n<p>That figure begins to push further out of the mirror, first it was it&#8217;s hand, now it&#8217;s gotten to it&#8217;s arm. It continues to climb out, faster and faster. It&#8217;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&#8217;s way out of the mirror. Multiple join in, filling up the space. The mirror convexes, being pushing outward &#8211; like a balloon being blown up.  <\/p>\n<p>The first creature, finally makes it way out, falling from the mirror onto the floor in front of Claire, dripping it&#8217;s shadowy ink. &#8220;YOU LEFT US. YOUR FAMILY.&#8221; 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. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;t have much room to work with. Noting that there&#8217;s more to come in that mirror, she doesn&#8217;t look very enthused to the idea, and ticks her stare to the door leading back outside. &#8220;Everyone leaves eventually. I&#8217;m sure you know that. Baby birds need to fly out of their nest. Just how it is,&#8221; she says, trying to talk things out. &#8220;What do you want?&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;YOU.&#8221; The creature replies, it&#8217;s voice raspy, angry, a kind of hollow ringing sound. A second creature&#8217;s head is slowly making it&#8217;s way out of the mirror, and the first moves towards Claire, sort of backing her up into the small space of the bathroom. &#8220;WE DO NOT TALK.&#8221; The original creature, the one doing all the talking swipes it&#8217;s hand in the air. It doesn&#8217;t connect with Claire, it&#8217;s not close enough, but it seems threatening. &#8220;YOU SHALL HURT FOR THE HURT YOU&#8217;VE CAUSED.&#8221; The lights flicker again, causing the room to go entirely dark.  <\/p>\n<p>The lights come back on and three of them stand there and still, more crawl out of the mirror. Angry. <\/p>\n<p>Claire clears her throat, much like someone might be to test out their vocal chords before the big moment on screen. It&#8217;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. &#8220;Take your time,&#8221; she urges them. &#8220;Decide who you came to shout at.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>These creatures seem to work off pure instinct, and no real smarts behind them. They&#8217;re beasts of anger, of rage, of emotion. So, when one in their midst looks like Claire to them, the other two turn &#8211; all of their attentions on the closest figure they came to attack. &#8220;YOU.&#8221; It shouts, at it&#8217;s friend and swipes it&#8217;s large arm at it. The thud is hard, a solid blow despite it looking like it&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>There&#8217;s a lot of confusion in the ranks of these creatures now, which might give Claire some time to escape. <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s a fight inside the bathroom now, even if that magic from Claire might not last forever. It&#8217;s lasting long enough to keep this situation contained. There&#8217;s no focus on her.  <\/p>\n<p>A battle of the ages, two of their own fight. Arms being used like clubs as they batter at each other &#8211; it&#8217;s probably not something that Claire wants to get hit by. There&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s able to vacate the place, she&#8217;d make right for the vending machine again, and maybe head outside to find a breather outside. <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/article><article id=\"post-31623\" class=\"category-display-post\"><a id=\"concepcions-odd-encounter-srcatriona\" class=\"post-name-anchor\"><\/a><h2 class=\"category-display-post-title\">Concepcion&#8217;s odd encounter (SRCatriona)<\/h2><div class=\"category-display-post-content\"><div class=\"category-display-post-full-content\"><style>\n    .edgt-post-text-inner p {\n        margin-bottom: 35px !important;\n    }\n    <\/style>\n<p><strong>Date:<\/strong> 2026-10-10 11:20<\/p>\n<hr>\n<p>(Concepcion&#8217;s odd encounter (SRCatriona))<\/p>\n<p>[Sat Oct 10 2026]<\/p>\n<p>In a master bedroom full of valuables and a shitty bed<br \/>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&#8217;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 &#8212; 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.<\/p>\n<p>It is morning, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by dark grey clouds.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>INTELLIGENCE UPDATE: Mercer is believed to be attempting to enter Mariner Highway, where he expects to find protection under the town&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>A final message follows, addressed directly to Concepcion. &#8220;Vidal. We have a chance to take Mercer before he reaches Sanctuary. Once he&#8217;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.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>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. &#8220;What is it now? If Tish ate another Tide pod I&#8217;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.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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. &#8220;Huh.&#8221; She was not expecting this opportunity, and the Hand member who is currently demoted and on what she calls &#8216;janitor duty&#8217; as a slave to all but the interns begins to smile. &#8220;They trust me,&#8221; gets decided. &#8220;This is good news. Maybe I won&#8217;t have to don that French maid&#8217;s outfit to clean Mister Wilson&#8217;s toilets after all.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>Once she&#8217;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. &#8220;But Pilar, they contacted me. It&#8217;s not like I volunteered. It&#8217;ll be fine,&#8221; 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. <\/p>\n<p>Concepcion probably meant &#8216;unlike some of the other electronic devices.&#8217; <\/p>\n<p>During Concepcion&#8217;s moments of distraction, the texts keep coming. Whoever is managing this operation on The Hand&#8217;s side has a very different sense of how urgent it is. They&#8217;re a busy bee, texting away, making the phone buzz, buzz, buzz, as bees so often do.  <\/p>\n<p>SUPPLEMENTARY INTELLIGENCE: Target is Dr. Julian Mercer, male, approximately 42 years old, 5&#8217;11&#8221;, slender build, thinning brown hair, narrow facial features. Last observed wearing a charcoal-grey business suit, white shirt, and dark tie&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>POSITION UPDATE: Mercer&#8217;s abandoned vehicle has been located near the southern road closure on Mariner Highway. Interception remains viable. Please confirm agent is on-route?&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>The bee buzzes once more.  <\/p>\n<p>CLARIFICATION REQUESTED: Priority task was routed to agent labeled cleaner. Please confirm that cleaner is in route and available?  <\/p>\n<p>And indeed, they have sent the cleaner, though perhaps not the cleaner they thought they were sending.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>Where could the man be? The forest, perhaps? Farther back down the road? Or has he already escaped into the city and its protections?&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Opinionated, Concepcion judged the description of the doctor she is after. &#8220;This man could really get some good tips by reading the Gospel of Gains.&#8221; A pause is taken as she tries to recall, and then she says aloud in that empty room, &#8220;That one verse about how they can transplant hair from your behind to the top of your head,&#8221; after the description of thinning hair. &#8220;Looks maxxing is real. How doesn&#8217;t he know that already?&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>But off she went. There&#8217;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&#8217;s there, after manoeuvering through the (what she finds) exciting barriers and dangers, she&#8217;s already forgotten about the confirmation request, and she dismounts, telling the bike, &#8220;Thanks, Stud,&#8221; and giving its seat an affection-filled pat-pat-pat via a palm. Staring blankly ahead for a few seconds, she then asks, &#8220;What was I doing again? It was something&#8230;&#8221; Checking her phone would make the most sense, but this is Concepcion we&#8217;re talking about, and instead she&#8217;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. &#8220;What do we have here?&#8221; comes in a curious tone past her lips. <\/p>\n<p>The world around Concepcion gives no answer as to how the man hasn&#8217;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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>The lack of response to the text messages seems to please the buzzy bee that is Concepcion&#8217;s phone. It buzzes all the more in increasing agitation.  <\/p>\n<p>Hand Command: Please confirm. Urgent! Target is approaching Haven.  <\/p>\n<p>Hand Command: What sort of cleaner are you? We need communication if we&#8217;re going to close the pincer.  <\/p>\n<p>Hand Command: Hello?  <\/p>\n<p>Hand Command: Damnit Vidal. Please tell me you at least passed this on to someone more qualified.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>The area smells of the wood. In Haven, that&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;t bothered to shower in a while. The doctor, going by his shabby appearance, might well be that scent.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s forte. So she&#8217;s out here raw dogging it. Unfortunately. Life is often more fun with hallucinations and lack of mental clarity anyway. The Axe Effect&#8217;s presence brings a frown. &#8220;Is that Axe?&#8221; Suddenly, she become somber and utters out, &#8220;I really miss that lumbersexual,&#8221; about her possibly dead almost husband she memorialised the evening prior. However, that sadness is quickly replaced by an important question. &#8220;I wonder what would happen if one were to spray Axe in their mouth like a breath freshening spray?&#8221; But she turns that into a punchline of sorts almost immediately, turning it into a joke, as she laughs out, &#8220;They&#8217;d have an Axe scent&#8230;&#8221; The accent pun is delivered to the trees as she swings that stick around like she&#8217;s conducting an orchestra. As she&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>But buzz buzz buzz goes her phone. &#8220;What is it now?&#8221; she&#8217;s asking as her smartphone vibrates away, and she&#8217;s retrieving it. &#8220;Oh right.&#8221; 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.  <\/p>\n<p>A predator instinct kicks in, and she&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>Hand Command: Agents were already there. As I said, we had confirmation that the vehicle was abandoned.  <\/p>\n<p>Except, in this, there is some confusion. Because while there is a vehicle present, its a construction worker&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>Mysterious!  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>It seems the world didn&#8217;t slow down while Concepcion was busy staring at nothing and talking to herself. Things happened.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;t notice someone&#8217;s approach, what with her stealthy skills, and the blood spilling out over fingers that can&#8217;t quite keep the liquid inside him. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>Hand Command: Agents were already there. As I said, we had confirmation that the vehicle was abandoned.  <\/p>\n<p>Except, in this, there is some confusion. Because while there is a vehicle present, its a construction worker&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>Mysterious!  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>It seems the world didn&#8217;t slow down while Concepcion was busy staring at nothing and talking to herself. Things happened.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;t notice someone&#8217;s approach, what with her stealthy skills, and the blood spilling out over fingers that can&#8217;t quite keep the liquid inside him. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>Hand Command: Agents were already there. As I said, we had confirmation that the vehicle was abandoned.  <\/p>\n<p>Except, in this, there is some confusion. Because while there is a vehicle present, its a construction worker&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>Mysterious!  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>It seems the world didn&#8217;t slow down while Concepcion was busy staring at nothing and talking to herself. Things happened.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;t notice Concepcion&#8217;s approach, what with her stealthy skills, and the blood spilling out over fingers that can&#8217;t quite keep the liquid inside him. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>The scent trail is followed, and she&#8217;s muttering under her breath in a command, &#8220;This way, Pilar,&#8221; paired with a hand gesture to follow. There is no one there. Crouching, she examines a bullet casing and says, &#8220;Things happened,&#8221; in regards to the evidence she&#8217;s just come across, but the blood seems to call to her, and she&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>More becomes apparent as Concepcion comes closer. There are bodies in the fog. Rats, of unusual size, but just rats.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s quite out of it, very easy prey, barely holding on.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;t see her approaching.  <\/p>\n<p>With some effort, he raises a radio to his mouth. &#8220;Command, can you hear me? Command?&#8221; But of course, the radio doesn&#8217;t work out here in the boonies. &#8220;Damnit,&#8221; he groans, listening to the static that comes in reply. <\/p>\n<p>There&#8217;s something about the smell of blood. It&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s intoxicated by it, and unable to stay back.  <\/p>\n<p>As Concepcion approaches the injured Shadow she&#8217;s being careful, and quietly, she replies, &#8220;I hear you,&#8221; in a voice that is oozing with desire for this fellow&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;You&#8217;re hurt,&#8221; 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. &#8220;I come in peace.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Mist curls lazily around the wounded man&#8217;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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>The man&#8217;s reaction to Concepcion&#8217;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. &#8220;Shit! Don&#8217;t move! Don&#8217;t come any closer. There might be more,&#8221; he begs.  <\/p>\n<p>Recognition transforms his expression. The tension leaves his shoulders, and he slumps back against the tree with an almost pitiful sigh of relief. &#8220;Oh, thank Command. You&#8217;re one of ours.&#8221; His attempt at a smile becomes a grimace. He swallows, struggling to gather enough breath to explain. &#8220;We caught him. Mercer. Had the bastard in cuffs, heading back toward the road when those things came out of the woods.&#8221; His eyes flick toward the enormous rats. &#8220;Wasn&#8217;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.&#8221; A cough interrupts him, followed by a sharp intake of breath as he presses harder against his wound. &#8220;My partner went after him. I stayed to hold the creatures off.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>With considerable effort, he raises a trembling, bloodstained hand and points back through the trees, toward the damaged stretch of Mariner Highway. &#8220;That way. Mercer doubled back toward the road closure. My partner was right behind him.&#8221; His arm falls back to his side, and he looks up at Concepcion with exhausted, hopeful eyes. &#8220;You&#8217;re the other side of the net, right? Any chance you can get me to a hospital?&#8221; The poor fellow seems tremendously relieved by the prospect, apparently having no idea just how appetizing his rescuer might find him. <\/p>\n<p>Scenario wise, this situation is so enticing to Concepcion. It&#8217;s the ideal layout for the perfect crime, save for the fact this man is one of her own. Dat pulse doe. That&#8217;s the sexiest thing she&#8217;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&#8217;s holding back on lunging at the man, she can&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>Decisions, decisions. There&#8217;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, &#8220;You look kind of heavy and you&#8217;d bleed all over me,&#8221; in an excuse, knowing full well she would lose all self control and suck him dry, and not in a sexy to him way. &#8220;You should stay here. Stay quiet. I&#8217;ll radio your position in as soon as I find service. It&#8217;s for your own good.&#8221; 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&#8217;s flesh. &#8220;Stay away from me,&#8221; comes her order, and she turns away, rushing off after the bleeding man&#8217;s partner and the Mercer, following the fragrance of cheap men&#8217;s body spray. <\/p>\n<p>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. &#8220;Oh. Oh, fuck.&#8221; 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. &#8220;You&#8217;re a&#8230; Oh, God.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;I won&#8217;t! I won&#8217;t move!&#8221; 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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>HAND COMMAND: Vidal? We understand you may be in the vicinity of the wounded operative. Please confirm your location.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>HAND COMMAND: Vidal? Vidal, please do not approach! We are aware of your circumstances. We do not need another casualty. Please acknowledge this message.  <\/p>\n<p>The subsequent notifications suggest that Command has rather more pressing concerns than the possibility of its appointed cleaner eating one of its own employees.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s vehicle, his pursuer&#8217;s, or something else is not yet apparent.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>What to do, what to do. Head toward the distant smoke, or double back again to the Hand soldier being harried by rats. <\/p>\n<p>Reluctantly, Concepcion rushes onward, leaving behind what could have been a very tasty meal. She&#8217;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. &#8220;What is going on here?&#8221; Before she can answer herself with a likely very wrong response, her phone is disrupting her train of thought. It is retrieved once again. &#8220;Too late,&#8221; gets murmured as she&#8217;s reading the orders and instructions. &#8220;Did that&#8230; Oops.&#8221; The more she scrolls downward, the more her head tilts to the right. Eyes lift from the screen and dart about her surroundings. &#8220;Welp.&#8221; Lips smack together and she begins to fire off a couple of texts that read &#8216;Approached casualty. Send help immediately. He looks incredible.&#8217; and &#8216;No direct visual of accident. Smoke in the distance. Screaming. Casualty is dying.&#8217; What to do? &#8220;If I go back&#8230; Lord help me&#8230; I might kill him before the rats do.&#8221; Squinting, she looks over towards where she left that bleeding soldier. &#8220;Hang in there, little buddy. You can do it.&#8221; Her words of encouragement do not catch his ears, certainly. Then a moment later she&#8217;s getting on top of Stud, using her hand to make him thrum between her thighs &#8212; 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. <\/p>\n<p>Stud, true to his name, is a good ride. Unlike the larger cars and trucks which can&#8217;t easily pass the ruined stretch of road, he squeezes through a narrow opening without problem. Then he&#8217;s rumbling as he carries Concepcion toward the smoke.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s course.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;HEY!&#8221; His voice comes out hoarse and ragged. He raises an arm, waving frantically toward Concepcion and nearly losing his balance in the process. &#8220;HEY! PLEASE! STOP!&#8221; He staggers another step toward the edge of the road, one hand still clutching his side. &#8220;I need help!&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Burning rubber is not as delectable as fresh blood streaming down a man&#8217;s paling flesh. It would be acrid and even suffocating, but Concepcion doesn&#8217;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, &#8220;Ho&#8230; Ho, good boy,&#8221; like she&#8217;s directing a horse to slow to a stop as she approaches the bloodied up stranger with the thinning hair.  <\/p>\n<p>The motorcycle pulls up alongside the suspected Mercer. &#8220;Hey, are you okay?&#8221; she&#8217;s asking the man who is obviously the opposite of that. &#8220;Come on, come here. Let me get you somewhere safe we can patch you up? Yeah? Hurry.&#8221; A hand is extended towards him, offering the fellow the bitch seat position. There&#8217;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&#8217;s side. But then&#8230; 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. &#8220;Come on. You&#8217;re in bad shape. Let&#8217;s get out of here.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>The relief that washes across Mercer&#8217;s battered face is almost pitiful. &#8220;Oh, thank God. Thank you,&#8221; he gasps, stumbling toward Concepcion&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;I just need&#8230; a ride into town,&#8221; he manages between breaths. &#8220;If you wouldn&#8217;t mind turning the bike around? Haven. I need to get to Haven.&#8221; His eyes flick anxiously toward the smoke rising farther down the highway. &#8220;Please. Quickly.&#8221; He swallows, wincing as he shifts his injured leg. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;You&#8217;re welcome,&#8221; 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. &#8220;I&#8217;m really good at this,&#8221; she murmurs, and then glances over at the wanted Mercer to try and make it sound like she meant something else entirely. &#8220;I&#8217;m really good at getting people where they need to go quickly. So hold on.&#8221; 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&#8217;s sending off a text one handedly whilst steering erratically. &#8220;These roads are really bad. Hold on. We&#8217;ll get you to the hospital,&#8221; she&#8217;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.&#8217; <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s shoulder. &#8220;Please, just&#8230; carefully,&#8221; 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.  <\/p>\n<p>Her phone buzzes. Command has evidently managed to translate.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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?  <\/p>\n<p>A short interval follows. Then a correction.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>Mercer stiffens against Concepcion&#8217;s back. His gaze catches on one of those silver fists, then snaps toward the narrow space beside the van. &#8220;No. No, don&#8217;t stop.&#8221; He leans closer, his voice suddenly urgent at her ear. &#8220;Those people are bad, bad news. Just go past. Please, go past them!&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Concepcion assures in a bold faced lie to the Mercer, &#8220;I&#8217;m doing the best I can!&#8221; Or maybe it isn&#8217;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. &#8220;You&#8217;re delirious,&#8221; she claims to the Mercer behind her. &#8220;You&#8217;re imagining things. It&#8217;s all going to be okay. Trust me.&#8221; 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. &#8220;Help! We need help!&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>The wanted man stares past Concepcion at the waiting van. His lips move against a shallow breath. &#8220;Luck be with me again.&#8221; As Concepcion&#8217;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. &#8220;Get OFF!&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s line of sight and points directly at him. &#8220;Hands up and eyes on me!&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>Mercer&#8217;s head turns. His gaze catches on the man&#8217;s eyes and stays there. His mouth remains open around another word that never arrives; the hand clutching Concepcion&#8217;s shoulder loosens. For a moment, he sits blinking, his expression gone slack and bewildered. His raised fist slowly uncurls. &#8220;I&#8230; wait&#8230;&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s torn jacket and trousers. The doctor&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;I&#8217;m Lady Luck herself,&#8221; is uttered out after Concepcion has caught the doctor&#8217;s words. When she&#8217;s being removed from her own ride, the temptation to latch onto his neck is strong. Teeth are revealed so very suddenly, and she&#8217;s about to feast when that voice calls out in a threatening demand.  <\/p>\n<p>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 &#8216;hands up and eyes on me&#8217; was for the wanted man, the vampire has her hands shooting straight up. &#8220;Don&#8217;t shoot! I&#8217;m unarmed!&#8221; What operative goes out on a mission without any kind of weapon?  <\/p>\n<p>THIS ONE.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s on the ground beside her. &#8220;Wait&#8230;&#8221; Is that pee? &#8220;Did you just piss on Stud?&#8221; Horror envelopes her and she&#8217;s scooting forward and arcing her torso as it turns awkward to get a better view of the black seat beneath her. <\/p>\n<p>Hand professionals are moving expediently, securing the doctor, loading him onto the stretcher. His partner is looking at Concepcion askance. &#8220;Why the hell is she here.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>Stud is perhaps slightly damp. Able to get the ladies wet, were they to sit on him, but the looks-minner hadn&#8217;t quite soaked through himself before being captured. Apparently, the local reputation of the cleaner isn&#8217;t as good as whatever impression Command had gotten when they&#8217;d heard that Concepcion was a cleaner. &#8220;We need to get to the accident,&#8221; one agent says to the other. &#8220;No time to dally here.&#8221; They&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>Hand professionals are moving expediently, securing the doctor, loading him onto the stretcher. His partner is looking at Concepcion askance. &#8220;Why the hell is she here.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>Stud is perhaps slightly damp. Able to get the ladies wet, were they to sit on him, but the looks-minner hadn&#8217;t quite soaked through himself before being captured. Apparently, the local reputation of the cleaner isn&#8217;t as good as whatever impression Command had gotten when they&#8217;d heard that Concepcion was a cleaner. &#8220;We need to get to the accident,&#8221; one agent says to the other. &#8220;No time to dally here.&#8221; They&#8217;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) <\/p>\n<p>Concepcion looks right back at the man questioning her existence within this retrieval, and she shrugs. It&#8217;s one of the &#8216;hell if I know&#8217; 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.  <\/p>\n<p>Once they are heading off, she sends off a text that reads: Handed off Mercer. What should I do now? Over.  <\/p>\n<p>As she awaits a response, she starts Googling how to clean up Stud after the urine leakage has tainted his beautiful saddle. <\/p>\n<p>The black van recedes along the salt-streaked highway.  <\/p>\n<p>Google recommends an immediate blotting with paper towels, as well as Harley Davidson Motorcycle Seat Care. It&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>While Concepcion investigates the consequences of transporting a tazered passenger, her phone supplies an answer to her rather more official inquiry.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>A second message follows after a short pause.  <\/p>\n<p>HAND COMMAND: And good job bringing him in, after he took down two other agents.  <\/p>\n<p>Concepcion and her Stud have emerged victorious, somehow, even if her slothful distraction saw half the adventurer taking place without her. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>A final message follows after another minute.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/article><article id=\"post-31606\" class=\"category-display-post\"><a id=\"concepcions-odd-encounter-srgrant\" class=\"post-name-anchor\"><\/a><h2 class=\"category-display-post-title\">Concepcion&#8217;s odd encounter (SRGrant)<\/h2><div class=\"category-display-post-content\"><div class=\"category-display-post-full-content\"><style>\n    .edgt-post-text-inner p {\n        margin-bottom: 35px !important;\n    }\n    <\/style>\n<p><strong>Date:<\/strong> 2026-10-03 21:26<\/p>\n<hr>\n<p>(Concepcion&#8217;s odd encounter (SRGrant))<\/p>\n<p>[Sat Oct  3 2026]<\/p>\n<p>At the lighthouse pier<\/p>\n<p>It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky.  There is a waning crescent moon.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>Concepcion is standing on the rickety pier, looking out at the bay. She&#8217;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&#8217;s retrieving it and swiping a thumb up across the screen to see what is waiting for her on the electronic device. <\/p>\n<p>Work.  <\/p>\n<p>Work is what is awaiting Concepcion on her phone. It seems like it&#8217;s never done, no doubt. In this case specifically it is literally a task that hasn&#8217;t been completed, however. The long and short of it? Her employeers have their hands on a source of information that hasn&#8217;t been quite right since the floods. They&#8217;ve pushed them into a medical coma, and attempted to invade their dreams to squirrel away the prizes within &#8211; only for the intern level agents to end up trapped inside. Now there&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>The outer right corner of Concepcion&#8217;s mouth twitches three times in a row. It&#8217;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. &#8220;I suppose I&#8217;m saving money, and possibly saving lives, so&#8230; Work it is.&#8221; As if she had a choice in it at all. Trying to get psyched up about her mission despite: &#8220;I know nothing about this stuff.&#8221; Thick brows furrow. &#8220;I guess you always have to start somewhere.&#8221; Next, she&#8217;s sending a reply with a finger swiping all over the phone&#8217;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: &#8216;Where do I need to go?&#8217; While waiting for the response, she&#8217;s off to the parking lot and getting on her motorcycle. <\/p>\n<p>The outer right corner of Concepcion&#8217;s mouth twitches three times in a row. It&#8217;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. &#8220;I suppose I&#8217;m saving money, and possibly saving lives, so&#8230; Work it is.&#8221; As if she had a choice in it at all. Trying to get psyched up about her mission despite: &#8220;I know nothing about this stuff.&#8221; Thick brows furrow. &#8220;I guess you always have to start somewhere.&#8221; Next, she&#8217;s sending a reply with a finger swiping all over the phone&#8217;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: &#8216;Where do I need to go?&#8217; While waiting for the response, she&#8217;s off to the parking lot and getting on her motorcycle. (repost) <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>It doesn&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s semi engaged to a maybe dead man at the moment).  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>It&#8217;s a rough part of town, that&#8217;s for certain. There&#8217;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&#8217;t even get pulled over on the way. The engaging engaged woman finds herself before yet another lego-land esque trailer. There isn&#8217;t much that sets it apart from it&#8217;s neighbours. There&#8217;s an American flag in the window. A bunch of empties perched around the door. The general scent of a lower socio-economic bracket.  <\/p>\n<p>The door, while closed, would be discovered to be very much unlocked upon testing. <\/p>\n<p>A rough part of town, and with that Marlboro Mutt on the corner, it&#8217;s also a ruff part of town. After glancing around and ensuring there isn&#8217;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&#8217;s going through it. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s a one-room set up. There&#8217;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&#8217;d expect from a trailer.  <\/p>\n<p>One of the bodies, a thin, pale looking muppet, is tied to the bed. He&#8217;s covered in sweat, and breathing shallowly. He&#8217;s garbed in little more than pantyhose and a wife-beater. An interesting combination, for sure.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>It takes her several minutes to refocus. Whatever she&#8217;s thinking about is distracting her very much from her duties, and when she comes back to reality, she says, &#8220;No,&#8221; 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: &#8216;What do I do?&#8217; <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;ve come equipped, for something or other, but whatever they did only resulted in their own capture.  <\/p>\n<p>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.| <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Lumbersexuality is spreading,&#8221; Concepcion is mumbling to herself, equating men in tights as lumbersexuals for some reason. &#8220;I blame Joe Rogan. Now all these men with a beard thinks they are a survival expert, and they don&#8217;t eat fruit because they might grow breasts.&#8221; 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: &#8220;How do I kill them? That way I know not what to do.&#8221; She isn&#8217;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. &#8220;I could throw the water in this guy&#8217;s face&#8230; but I don&#8217;t know if something that sudden could ruin his life and&#8230; end it&#8230; He does look like a good snack, though&#8230;&#8221; 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&#8217;s hand and putting them in the warm watter to see what happens. If anything. <\/p>\n<p>|What?| The text message doesn&#8217;t even have it&#8217;s red colour this time.  <\/p>\n<p>|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.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Pilar,&#8221; Concepcion calls out, glancing over a shoulder briefly. &#8220;Can you help me with this? I don&#8217;t really know what to do, and you always have the answers. You always did.&#8221; 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&#8217;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, &#8220;Yes,&#8221; and types the very same, sending off: &#8216;Yes.&#8217; 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.  <\/p>\n<p>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. &#8220;Shit.&#8221; After that expletive, she&#8217;s glancing around, paying more attention to the screaming, although she really isn&#8217;t sure if it was in this world, or the one she semi exists in where Pilar exists. &#8220;Yes, Pilar, you&#8217;re right. I should.&#8221; She stands back up, and looks over the pills that won&#8217;t do anything for her sleep&#8230; but that snack&#8230; A laugh escapes her throat, and then a few moments later her teeth are in the intern&#8217;s. Throat. She&#8217;s letting those sleeping medications enter her body, and enjoying it a little too much. Two murders in one week wouldn&#8217;t help her file and reputation. <\/p>\n<p>There&#8217;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&#8217;t on wikipedia.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>Concepcion is lost in her feeding and doesn&#8217;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&#8217;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, &#8220;Pilar&#8230;&#8221; before those last thoughts slip beyond her control. After one last increasingly futile effort to remain conscious, she&#8217;s out. <\/p>\n<p>How lucky Concepcion&#8217;s future husband will be with this matrimonial petri dish of a bride. But at least she&#8217;s got good suction. That fang powered pathogen hoover. <\/p>\n<p>Concepcion falls, literally and otherwise, as she is cast into the depth of the unstable dreamscape within the room.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s subconscious elects to fill in the gaps with. <\/p>\n<p>Pantyhose-clad men, rather. A slightly different perversion. <\/p>\n<p>Falling almost seems like it brings Concepcion some peace, even though the terror is still very real, there&#8217;s something about suffering that gives her hope of some kind. She&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>This scene feels all too familiar to Concepcion. Perhaps she&#8217;s dreamt it before, or maybe she&#8217;s just recalling that day Mister Sly threw cooked meat at a woman for telling him &#8216;no.&#8217; 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. <\/p>\n<p>Of course they are.  <\/p>\n<p>Has there ever been a mostly dead man mourned so readily, or publically by an entire town? Likely not.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;re people, people bloated, and drowned, and tiny. Maybe not the most appealing meal. &#8220;Winds howlin&#8217;.&#8221; They observe, in a voice that Concepcion&#8217;s subconscious dubs over with a venetian edge. <\/p>\n<p>So many Mister Slys in pantyhose. What&#8217;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&#8217;s trying to figure out if the wind could sound like people howling out behind the other noises and various disturbances. &#8220;It really does howl,&#8221; she says to the men in tights. Perhaps this place isn&#8217;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&#8230; water, hot dog water&#8230; sand&#8230; cooked meats. <\/p>\n<p>She moves, and the space around her moves with her. It&#8217;s like walking on a treadmill. A terrible treadmill surrounded by strange nightmare apparations wearing the face of her almost-dead almost-fiance.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s bloated juices to pop and spray into the coals where they sizzle and smoke.  <\/p>\n<p>The water rises.  <\/p>\n<p>The sound of sirens cut through some of the din. Yet more screams. But the men keep sizzling, and sizzling away. &#8220;It&#8217;s good weather for a grill. I think the rain will hold out.&#8221; He insists, alien words shifting a familiar face.  <\/p>\n<p>The water rises. <\/p>\n<p>As Concepcion trudges forward with increasing determination, she&#8217;s finding that she is not moving. Her body is trembling as she&#8217;s haunted by those faces and each step is carrying her precisely nowhere at all. Concentration evolves into indignation, and her pace quickens. She&#8217;s trying to sprint. Perhaps she can outrun whatever fundamental mechanics control this place she&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;I don&#8217;t know how to do this. I don&#8217;t know how to wake them.&#8221; A second later, she&#8217;s joining in with the screams. Perhaps she can jolt the interns out of this dream.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>The water rises.  <\/p>\n<p>Concepcion runs, sprints, screams and at first, it all seems to be in vain.  <\/p>\n<p>The water rises.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>Concepcion doesn&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>The water rises.  <\/p>\n<p>It washes over Concepcion. It washes over the Sly-gangers. It washes away the screams.  <\/p>\n<p>It fills Concepcion&#8217;s lungs, yet the scream continues despite this. Blood curdles.  <\/p>\n<p>There is a flurry of motion, of movement, the waves around her throwing her &#8211; up and up, away from the depths, and the corpse-sausages, and the screams. It&#8217;s crimson, and raw, and it&#8217;s hers, and it carries her, and those snagged within this nightmare, crashing back up into reality with a start. <\/p>\n<p>There&#8217;s something weirdly comforting about nearly drowning in her own blood, probably because Concepcion isn&#8217;t all together healthy in her head. But she fights the whole way, trying to force the others awake. The screaming doesn&#8217;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&#8217;s probably not any of the interns&#8217; favourite of ways to wake up. <\/p>\n<p>The echoing screams that cut through reality, and the relative quiet of the Westhaven trailer park speaks to Concepcion&#8217;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&#8217;s a lot of cursing, and screaming, and shouting, but eventually they&#8217;re all staring around, wide-eyed and alert, having had their itty bitty lives saved by Concepcion&#8217;s lung capacity, and trauma.  <\/p>\n<p>The static of the television bleeds back into reality, drawing in to fill the empty space left when the screams subside. <\/p>\n<p>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. &#8220;Hey&#8230;&#8221; gets managed after she successfully sits up after the second attempt. &#8220;Everyone&#8217;s alive right?&#8221; Most of her worry is for the one she fed on. Poor Tim. He always has the worst of luck. <\/p>\n<p>Everyone is indeed alive, great success!  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>There&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>Cleaning is probably one of Concepcion&#8217;s least favourite activities. Those memories of her mother working as a maid in other people&#8217;s homes. Ugh. This woman became who she is due to the very fact she never wanted to become -that-. And yet&#8230; she scrubbed those walls with lemons for a certain someone. <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/article><article id=\"post-31601\" class=\"category-display-post\"><a id=\"grahams-odd-encounter-srciara\" class=\"post-name-anchor\"><\/a><h2 class=\"category-display-post-title\">Graham&#8217;s odd encounter (SRCiara)<\/h2><div class=\"category-display-post-content\"><div class=\"category-display-post-full-content\"><style>\n    .edgt-post-text-inner p {\n        margin-bottom: 35px !important;\n    }\n    <\/style>\n<p><strong>Date:<\/strong> 2026-10-02 02:59<\/p>\n<hr>\n<p>(Graham&#8217;s odd encounter (SRCiara))<\/p>\n<p>[Fri Oct  2 2026]<\/p>\n<p>At A Victorian Gothic Bar &amp; Lounge (Howl)<br \/>Stepping through the eastern door reveals the bar&#8217;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&#8217;s moody illumination.<\/p>\n<p>The room&#8217;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.<\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s enigmatic ambiance. This artistic touch not only enhances the room&#8217;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.<\/p>\n<p>It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by thin white clouds.  There is a waning gibbous moon.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>And Graham, of course, who&#8217;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, &#8220;Enjoy, Mister Wilson,&#8221; in a smoke voice, followed up by a wink. The place knows how to make money.  <\/p>\n<p>And then &#8211; stepping through the nightmare? Definitely shimmering in from the northern end through the mural &#8211; 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 &#8211; a longing in tones of silvered grey, sharpening into focus as she steps closer to the bar and lays eyes on Graham.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Ah&#8230;&#8221; 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. &#8220;I&#8217;ve been looking for you.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Take a seat,&#8221; 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, &#8220;Take a smoke break. A long one.&#8221; 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&#8217;s freshly showered, but there&#8217;s still a woodsy smell to him; pine needles and sawdust. He must&#8217;ve been working on the roads until now. &#8220;How can I help you, madam? And who am I speaking with?&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>The bartender looks offended, her eyes not straying towards the other woman at all, fixated as they are on the Wilson &#8211; how&#8217;s she supposed to tease a big fat tip out of Graham if she can&#8217;t even flirt outrageously while he drinks? But, well, alright. She&#8217;s got her pride, even if she still huffs as she mutters out a, &#8220;Suit yourself,&#8221; and slides out from behind the bar, wandering off for a few.  <\/p>\n<p>The other woman, pale-skinned and pale-eyed, seems similarly fixated on Graham, even if there&#8217;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. &#8220;You will fulfill my wish,&#8221; 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. &#8220;Won&#8217;t you?&#8221; She doesn&#8217;t answer the last question. <\/p>\n<p>Chilly. Graham&#8217;s eyes search the strange woman&#8217;s for some hint as to what she&#8217;s up to here, but finding few answers, he opts instead to indulge her a moment longer. &#8220;You&#8217;re doing a worse job than the lady who pours my drinks, if you&#8217;re trying to win me over by being pretty.&#8221; He reaches up to try and brush the woman&#8217;s hand off his cheek, the back of his fingers against her wrist. &#8220;But I&#8217;m in the business of doing favours, so long as they&#8217;re returned. So maybe I can help you, lady, but I need to know who&#8217;s asking, and I need to know what they&#8217;re asking for.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>He&#8217;s been in this game for a while. Decades, even. He&#8217;s not so much jaded as desensitised, and being accustomed to Sanctuary and its very many benefits, he&#8217;s not too worried yet about the woman&#8217;s over-familiar proximity. &#8220;Why don&#8217;t you start from the beginning?&#8221; he asks. &#8220;Tell me about this great wish of yours.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>She&#8217;s not quite the opening up type, even if she is very pretty, in a distant, fragile sort of way. It&#8217;s an easy thing to brush her hand off his cheek, and there&#8217;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&#8217;s not as though she can expect him to read her mind.  <\/p>\n<p>Whether or not she&#8217;ll be able to return the favor is left unsaid, though.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Well&#8230;&#8221; 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. &#8220;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&#8217;t the right time. Whatever the journey, the end is the same, so does it really matter?&#8221; She pauses as though waiting for Graham&#8217;s input, and then presses on. &#8220;And so, as is the way of tragedies, she died.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>There&#8217;s a certain hardness that enters Graham&#8217;s eyes at the blase retelling of the rather vague and evasive romantic-tragedy. &#8220;The death of love is, of course, a great lament,&#8221; he replies, slow and smooth and steady. Those eyes are very pretty, he can admit, and so he looks elsewhere &#8211; like his bourbon. Time for another sip. &#8220;Now, with that said, I&#8217;m afraid I still do not know what you&#8217;re after, or if I am supposed to be much invested yet in &#8216;a man&#8217; and &#8216;a woman&#8217;. I&#8217;m offering you my time, madam, so I advise you not to waste it dodging questions I&#8217;ll need answered regardless before I can do anything for you. And don&#8217;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&#8217;m a busy man.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>As though this is a great, cosmically ordained joke, the woman laughs, drawing no eyes from the few lingering patrons. The bartender&#8217;s still on her very long break. Doesn&#8217;t Graham wish she was back already?  <\/p>\n<p>Movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention while he stares at the bourbon, and she&#8217;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. &#8220;I&#8217;m telling you everything, if you would listen,&#8221; she murmurs into his ear, but there&#8217;s no movement of breath apart from the phrase. She does not breathe.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;And so, she died.&#8221; Comes the repetition &#8211; emphasis. Her touch turns his head to the side, towards the mural on the wall. &#8220;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.&#8221; She lets him take that in. <\/p>\n<p>Hmmm. Graham&#8217;s confident he&#8217;d felt the woman physically; he&#8217;d pushed her hand aside. But that didn&#8217;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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;And what exactly was left of her?&#8221; he asks, lifting his eyebrows. &#8220;Some fetter of her mortal coil, with her spirit bound to it? A necklace imprinted with her psyche which possesses whichever woman wears it?&#8221; His eyes briefly plunge down her neckline. Totally professional. <\/p>\n<p>He can likely assume he&#8217;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&#8217;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, &#8220;Paint.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>Maybe Graham&#8217;s willing to commit shameless property damage where others weren&#8217;t. <\/p>\n<p>It takes a moment for it to click in Graham&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Oh,&#8221; he says, and she&#8217;ll have to forgive him if a brief chuckle escapes him before he squashes it dead in his chest. &#8220;I see. I thought you would need something buried or consecrated. You&#8230; Want me to have this mural defaced?&#8221; The corner of his mouth ticks up faintly. &#8220;But I don&#8217;t own the property. That would be&#8230; illegal.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>It looks like he&#8217;s trying to pressure her, of all things. &#8220;I suppose I could look into it. Get the&#8230; appropriate documents drafted. But what&#8217;s in it for me?&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Well, that&#8217;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&#8217;s glitching out for a second before they&#8217;re back in place &#8211; did Graham just imagine that? &#8211; and she&#8217;s frowning, lips turning down into a heartbreaking curl. It&#8217;s almost devastating enough to bring a grown man to his knees.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;No documents. I know how bureaucracy works,&#8221; says the ghost, &#8220;You have to do it now, and I&#8217;ll let you leave here unharmed. And then you get your peace and quiet,&#8221; 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. <\/p>\n<p>There&#8217;s a quiet scoff from the hollow of Graham&#8217;s throat. &#8220;Don&#8217;t threaten me, madam. I&#8217;m intimately familiar with the dangers you pose to me, and the dangers you do not.&#8221; He leaves his drink on the countertop as he rises from his stool, glancing for the barwoman &#8211; still smoking, very good &#8211; before he extends a hand to the cold woman, palm up, golden band glinting dully on his finger. &#8220;Come with me,&#8221; he says. &#8220;And we can negotiate the finer points of a more immediate deal. I&#8217;ll have to pay off the owner, you know. It&#8217;s a nice painting. They&#8217;ll be sad to lose it.&#8221; There&#8217;s not a lot of places for him to take the ghost, mind. The street&#8217;s too public a place for dealings with the supernatural&#8230; Surely he can&#8217;t mean the bathroom behind him. What the hell would he want from her in there?  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Do this,&#8221; he murmurs, &#8220;And your problems will be addressed before the sun rises.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>Which is maybe half an hour away. Not a bad offer. <\/p>\n<p>Amusement glimmers in the woman&#8217;s eyes as she takes in the extended hand and the man behind it. Not a deal with the Devil, certainly &#8211; no, there&#8217;s people much worse to make deals with, and she&#8217;s getting what she wants.  <\/p>\n<p>So fine. Alright.  <\/p>\n<p>Cold fingers slip into Graham&#8217;s, nails sliding along the pulse point at his wrist as she steps in, letting him draw her close.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Hardly a threat,&#8221; she murmurs finally, her words low and throaty. &#8220;Simply a prediction. But I knew I chose right.&#8221; Those pretty eyes look up into Graham&#8217;s again, and he doesn&#8217;t have to look away this time. &#8220;I have waited so long&#8230; I can do thirty minutes more.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Shall we, Graham?&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>None of that demure &#8216;Mister Wilson&#8217; bullshit, as their negotiations begin, leading into the morning.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8211; End Encounter &#8211; <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/article><article id=\"post-31611\" class=\"category-display-post\"><a id=\"grahams-odd-encounter-srciara\" class=\"post-name-anchor\"><\/a><h2 class=\"category-display-post-title\">Graham&#8217;s odd encounter (SRCiara)<\/h2><div class=\"category-display-post-content\"><div class=\"category-display-post-full-content\"><style>\n    .edgt-post-text-inner p {\n        margin-bottom: 35px !important;\n    }\n    <\/style>\n<p><strong>Date:<\/strong> 2026-10-07 03:37<\/p>\n<hr>\n<p>(Graham&#8217;s odd encounter (SRCiara))<\/p>\n<p>[Wed Oct  7 2026]<\/p>\n<p>In room 123, Clinician Wing<\/p>\n<p>It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few thin white clouds in the sky.  There is a waning crescent moon.  <\/p>\n<p>The wee hours of the night do not mean quiet &#8211; 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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>Anyway, that&#8217;s mostly irrelevant. He&#8217;ll suck it up, and get paid for the call outside office hours. It&#8217;s just good business.  <\/p>\n<p>Speaking of business, though, the commotion that starts up out there is not. It&#8217;s terrible business, that &#8211; there&#8217;s an unholy crash right outside in the hallway, perhaps too loud by virtue of being so close, and the door&#8217;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&#8217;s wearing a hospital gown, her brown hair matted and looking as though it could really use a nice, gentle brushing.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s only so much it can do against an accidental slip of the hand, isn&#8217;t it?  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Call them off,&#8221; 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&#8217;s hair back. She&#8217;s strong. Stronger than him? Perhaps so. It&#8217;s hard to say, unless he wants to struggle. &#8220;Call them off and I won&#8217;t hurt him.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>Footsteps sound in the hallway outside, a bit of yelling &#8211; looking for someone. There&#8217;s panic in the air. That must be &#8216;them&#8217;. <\/p>\n<p>Graham hesitates. It&#8217;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&#8217;re business partners of the Hand or not, it&#8217;s also the biggest font of gossip in the whole town, and he&#8217;d rather not make a show of the state he&#8217;s in, the prices he&#8217;s paid, and the deals he&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;I have limited authority over the Greystone faculty,&#8221; he replies instead, smooth and even. Yes, he&#8217;ll use his words for now. Play the little baby human game. He was a Whisper, after all. This was one of his powers.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;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&#8217;m an influential man. Place yourself in my custody and the Institute will not seize you from me.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>Probably. The Webster Clinic is on Institute grounds, after all. And that&#8217;s presuming the men storming the place work here &#8211; but it would be a short-lived problem if they aren&#8217;t. Those lumpy-faced monks give Graham the fucking creeps. <\/p>\n<p>She sneers at the very thought, a disdainful look fixed on Graham at the very suggestion. &#8220;Place myself in your custody,&#8221; she repeats, her accent a very curious one &#8211; it&#8217;s not one he hears often, with harsh syllables, but it&#8217;s vaguely familiar. &#8220;I have heard that before, Wilson.&#8221; She didn&#8217;t need to make his name sound like a curse, but it does anyway.  <\/p>\n<p>No, she&#8217;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. &#8220;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.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>Her lips curve up into a smile, sharp and wicked. &#8220;My name is Inanna Zhul. I&#8217;m an influential woman.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>That is familiar: even if Graham limited himself to the most superficial of supernatural news, which he certainly doesn&#8217;t, he&#8217;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&#8217;t have known she was being held here, of course, but here she is regardless, expectant and impatient. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;The Institute grounds are nightmare warded,&#8221; Graham responds, though he does seem to be playing along for now, stepping aside to place himself directly before the doorway. He doesn&#8217;t glance over his shoulder to whoever&#8217;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. &#8220;You&#8217;re a powerful woman, Lady Zhul. I&#8217;ve heard of you. I admit, though &#8211; your reputation paints you as the daughter of a baron of Hell.&#8221; His eyes wander her form, always accepting of excuses to do so, and the corner of his mouth turns down a little. &#8220;I&#8217;m not seeing demonskin, though. A shame. Perhaps a distant granddaughter, then. Mighty&#8230; But nothing these people cannot manage.&#8221; He purses his lips for a long moment of consideration, then continues, &#8220;I&#8217;m not sure if you get much news in here, but surely you noticed there&#8217;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?&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Hey, that doctor probably doesn&#8217;t appreciate being held on the edge of what looks to be a particularly sharp shard of a broken mirror for so long. He&#8217;s giving Graham all sorts of pleading looks, though he doesn&#8217;t dare to move or speak, only breathing shallowly and holding very, very still.  <\/p>\n<p>Regardless of whether or not it&#8217;s wise to be goading a wild-eyed demonborn, Inanna doesn&#8217;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&#8217;s collar, and he lets out a pitiful whimper. This is probably included in the job&#8217;s hazard pay. &#8220;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.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;I have my contacts,&#8221; she tells Graham next, as open as he&#8217;s being, now that he&#8217;s shown his willingness to get along with her, even if just a little bit. &#8220;Even if the roads are gone. I can find them, once I am out of this clinic.&#8221; That&#8217;s a curse-sounding word again. She doesn&#8217;t sound too certain of the fact, though, for all that she&#8217;s full of bravado. A flicker of something akin to weakness crosses her eyes &#8211; 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&#8217;t say any of those out loud. One doesn&#8217;t survive in Hell like that.  <\/p>\n<p>One also doesn&#8217;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&#8217;s hair to his mouth, clamping shut in case he tries to scream. &#8220;All right,&#8221; Inanna says. &#8220;Keep them from seizing me, and I will owe you.&#8221; That is not a small thing, her tone implies.  <\/p>\n<p>Footsteps near the door. The knob turns. Time&#8217;s almost up. <\/p>\n<p>GrahamKeep them from seizing me, and I will owe you. Genuinely tempting; a red-eyes&#8217; favour wasn&#8217;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 &#8211; if it&#8217;s the Faculty back there, then he&#8217;ll only weaken his position in town by making a stand to boss them around and being subsequently ignored.  <\/p>\n<p>So it&#8217;s time to play it like this is entirely his intent.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Perhaps if you&#8217;d taken the offer I made to begin with, you&#8217;d be out past the front already,&#8221; he claims. &#8220;But a loose Chosen, active in my town, is something better avoided. It&#8217;s too bad you have no demonskin &#8211; you&#8217;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&#8217;t be able to slash his throat so badly he can&#8217;t be saved. Not through Sanctuary, at least. They&#8217;re already in the hospital. And then he&#8217;d have a doctor&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>His eyes smoulder with hynotic, entrancing power &#8211; not enough to properly snag the doctor&#8217;s mind in the midst of having his life threatened, but hopefully enough to dull all that fear and anger he&#8217;s soaking into the room, feeding the demonborn. &#8221; <\/p>\n<p>(fix) Keep them from seizing me, and I will owe you. Genuinely tempting; a red-eyes&#8217; favour wasn&#8217;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 &#8211; if it&#8217;s the Faculty back there, then he&#8217;ll only weaken his position in town by making a stand to boss them around and being subsequently ignored.  <\/p>\n<p>So it&#8217;s time to play it like this is entirely his intent.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Perhaps if you&#8217;d taken the offer I made to begin with, you&#8217;d be out past the front already,&#8221; he claims. &#8220;But a loose Chosen, active in my town, is something better avoided. It&#8217;s too bad you have no demonskin &#8211; you&#8217;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&#8217;t be able to slash his throat so badly he can&#8217;t be saved. Not through Sanctuary, at least. They&#8217;re already in the hospital. And then he&#8217;d have a doctor&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>His eyes smoulder with hynotic, entrancing power &#8211; not enough to properly snag the doctor&#8217;s mind in the midst of having his life threatened, but hopefully enough to dull all that fear and anger he&#8217;s soaking into the room, feeding the demonborn. &#8221; <\/p>\n<p>(I suck, proper fix) Keep them from seizing me, and I will owe you. Genuinely tempting; a red-eyes&#8217; favour wasn&#8217;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 &#8211; if it&#8217;s the Faculty back there, then he&#8217;ll only weaken his position in town by making a stand to boss them around and being subsequently ignored.  <\/p>\n<p>So it&#8217;s time to play it like this is entirely his intent.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Perhaps if you&#8217;d taken the offer I made to begin with, you&#8217;d be out past the front already,&#8221; he claims. &#8220;But a loose Chosen, active in my town, is something better avoided. It&#8217;s too bad you have no demonskin &#8211; you&#8217;re as susceptible to a good tranquiliser as the rest of us, without it.&#8221; His eyes fix on the demonborn and her medicus hostage; she shouldn&#8217;t be able to slash his throat so badly he can&#8217;t be saved. Not through Sanctuary, at least. They&#8217;re already in the hospital. And then he&#8217;d have a doctor&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>His eyes smoulder with hynotic, entrancing power &#8211; not enough to properly snag the doctor&#8217;s mind in the midst of having his life threatened, but hopefully enough to dull all that fear and anger he&#8217;s soaking into the room, feeding the demonborn. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>Her hand freezes in place, as though she&#8217;d attempted to slit the doctor&#8217;s throat casually and found her body unresponsive, and she kicks the entranced man away in frustration, breaking him out of it &#8212; and she&#8217;s certainly stronger than Graham, considering the way the man&#8217;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&#8217;s flying open, orderlies and monks rushing in with a commotion. &#8220;Get back, Mister Wilson, this is a very dangerous fugitive!&#8221; one is saying, placing himself between Graham and the demonborn on the defensive &#8212; and her defensiveness is more offense, really.  <\/p>\n<p>She&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>Her eyes, glazed over with the fast-acting drugs, fix on Graham one last time, before they roll back in her head.  <\/p>\n<p>She&#8217;ll remember this. <\/p>\n<p>Fucking incredible. What a show; Graham&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>He had no god damned idea those things could talk. <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/article><article id=\"post-31603\" class=\"category-display-post\"><a id=\"hirams-odd-encounter-srchristopher\" class=\"post-name-anchor\"><\/a><h2 class=\"category-display-post-title\">Hiram&#8217;s odd encounter (SRChristopher)<\/h2><div class=\"category-display-post-content\"><div class=\"category-display-post-full-content\"><style>\n    .edgt-post-text-inner p {\n        margin-bottom: 35px !important;\n    }\n    <\/style>\n<p><strong>Date:<\/strong> 2026-10-02 23:48<\/p>\n<hr>\n<p>(Hiram&#8217;s odd encounter (SRChristopher))<\/p>\n<p>[Fri Oct  2 2026]<\/p>\n<p>At The Forest<\/p>\n<p>It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds.  There is a last quarter moon.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s not sound but lights that will catch the salty dog&#8217;s attention, though. Behind his work, back up the way the road leads &#8211; 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.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s slowly being transformed into what could be called a road. &#8220;Sir? &#8230; Sir! Can he hear us? SIR!&#8221; A voice call out &#8211; 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. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;You one of Frank&#8217;s boys,&#8221; 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. &#8220;Cause if you are Dustin Moore can vouch for my whereabouts all fucking day.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;That&#8217;s right&#8221; That deputy on the driver&#8217;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&#8217; expression. &#8220;Mister &#8230; Salte, is it?&#8221; He asks, taking a quick shot out in the dark. The other deputy walks out with his partner and for now he&#8217;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&#8217;s name. &#8220;We got a call &#8230; well, hell. This is a pickle. We got a call about a noise complaint. And a tip about some permits &#8230; this .. this has to be some sense of a mix-up I&#8217;m sure. Give us a few minutes of your time and we&#8217;ll try to sort this out quick as we can, alright? Sit tight for me.&#8221; 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. &#8220;Salte, huh?&#8221; He says, sounding distinctively less impressed than the first cop. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Hiram Salte, yeah, that&#8217;s me,&#8221; Hiram says as the first one wanders off and his weathered features turn towards the second. &#8220;Wilbur&#8217;s my Uncle,&#8221; he says as if that should be explanation enough. &#8220;This road was washed out in the wave. Just getting it rebuilt so people can get back to their coastal homes.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>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. &#8220;Oh, you&#8217;re uncle&#8217;s Wilbur is it?&#8221; 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. &#8220;I don&#8217;t know how but the SCMODS does appear to have a warrant on the wire .. that seems awful fast, though.&#8221; He returns to the conversation, and the more reasonable of them turns his attention back onto Hiram. &#8220;I&#8217;m having someone call back this warrant because I wasn&#8217;t certain about it, you know? It seems a bit much for the noise especially if you&#8217;re just adding to the restoration efforts. I&#8217;m not quite certain about what&#8217;s going on but again, we&#8217;ll get it sorted out.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>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. &#8220;God, I was tired of listening to that old fucking hack.&#8221; The deranged policeman says to himself before slowly turning himself back toward Hiram, with a baton in hand. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Shouldn&#8217;t have done that,&#8221; Hiram mutters as he scans around, spying the toolbox in the back of his truck. Too far to grab a wrench so he&#8217;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&#8217;s coverall sleeve. &#8220;Might want to take your partner to the hospital and we both pretend we didn&#8217;t see what we both just saw.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;I&#8217;m going to enjoy this&#8221; This man sneers, perhaps somewhat unaware or a little too zealous of the nature of both the man and the lineage that he&#8217;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&#8217;s neck. A stylized symbol of a sunburst, shedding out it&#8217;s rays. The man moves as if to swing that baton around toward the other, but he&#8217;s young. Hiram&#8217;s instincts and experience of the way of things give him a breath of advantage, able to react before he&#8217;s clobbered over the head. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;t seem to register at first, his grey eyes wandering to the necklace. <\/p>\n<p>This deputy is only human, and Hiram&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;What a fucking shit show,&#8221; Hiram says with a heavy sigh, but this isn&#8217;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. &#8220;Hey, its me,&#8221; he mutters as he walks around poking the two with his steel toed boot. &#8220;Yeah yeah I know I know Go Jets. Fuck you too Reeve. Listen a couple of Frank&#8217;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.&#8221; Another long pause, &#8220;Yes I&#8217;ll tell Dusty he still owes you money&#8230;. No I am not&#8230; No I am not&#8230; Listen I am not fucking telling a fucking Wilson to&#8230; You know what? Just get your ass here before you wake up to fish in your fucking car again.&#8221; And with that a he slams his phone closed. A long slow breath then a cigarette comes out, &#8220;Welcome home, Hiram.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s a cop car too, maybe the only OTHER car in town for the time being &#8211; and this one only carries one guy. When he gets out &#8230; he lifts a hand in some sense of familiarity with the Salte that&#8217;s out here doing the good works for the town. &#8220;Hiram?&#8221; He calls out, but he doesn&#8217;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&#8217;s put down with a swift slobber-knocker though, when he gets turned over this new arrival gives a quick frown. &#8220;I don&#8217;t think he&#8217;s one of us. It was good you called. We&#8217;ll take care of this.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>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. &#8220;C&#8217;mon scum bag! I know a Sheriff who&#8217;s going to be dying to meet you.&#8221; Hiram can watch as this potential imposter(?) get shoved into the back of that second car before the man returns. &#8220;I&#8217;ll send someone else out for him and the car&#8221; he offers on his way back. Glancing around he doesn&#8217;t seem any more pleased with the circumstance than Hiram is. Still, at least it&#8217;s under the cover of the night. Around here, it&#8217;s always better that way. &#8220;Oh. Dusty says Fuck you.&#8221; 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&#8217;t be long before all evidence of this snafu is swept under the rug entirely. Until then &#8230; Hiram will suffer the jarring, interchanging blue and red lights that silently flash back and back, back and forth. What a night. <\/p>\n<p>Hiram lets out a sigh and chuckle, making his way back to his truck to head into town. <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/article><article id=\"post-31600\" class=\"category-display-post\"><a id=\"karmas-odd-encounter-srsly\" class=\"post-name-anchor\"><\/a><h2 class=\"category-display-post-title\">Karma&#8217;s odd encounter (SRSly)<\/h2><div class=\"category-display-post-content\"><div class=\"category-display-post-full-content\"><style>\n    .edgt-post-text-inner p {\n        margin-bottom: 35px !important;\n    }\n    <\/style>\n<p><strong>Date:<\/strong> 2026-10-01 10:54<\/p>\n<hr>\n<p>(Karma&#8217;s odd encounter (SRSly))<\/p>\n<p>[Thu Oct  1 2026]<\/p>\n<p>In Blackrose Cafe<br \/>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.<\/p>\n<p>It is morning, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds.  <\/p>\n<p>The lazy morning slips away like a frat boy from a fresher&#8217;s dorm. Soon the light turns to dark, as Karma immerses herself in the works of Edgar Allen Poe.  <\/p>\n<p>She may have had plans for the day, matters to see to, but if she&#8217;d set an alarm, she must&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>Above her, just as she&#8217;s starting to notice how late&#8217;s it&#8217;s gotten, the eyes of a raven appear to be watching intently. <\/p>\n<p>Karma&#8217;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. &#8220;You heard her for days,&#8221; she murmurs, brows drawing together. &#8220;And you just fucking sat there&#8230;&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>Something stands crooked in the shadows. A shoulder hangs too low; its head dangling against a snapped vertebral column in its neck that couldn&#8217;t hold it that way. Rotten flesh pulls around a mouth she almost recognizes.  <\/p>\n<p>Her heart lurches in her throat, gaze dragged away and up to notice the eyes of a raven transfixed on her. &#8220;&#8230; Has payment for my sins finally come due, little guy?&#8221; 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. &#8220;&#8230; Fair, I guess.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>The Raven tilts its oily black head. It slowly blinks its beady black eyes. It opens its beak to caw, and &#8230;  <\/p>\n<p>Quoth the Raven, &#8220;Karma? Are you alright?&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>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. &#8220;Caw, caw!&#8221; It menacingly flaps its wings, hovering by her shoulder. <\/p>\n<p>Karma&#8217;s lips part softly, an answer half-formed before the blonde&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Okay,&#8221; she murmurs. &#8220;You were a girl a second ago,&#8221; she reasons, eyes following the raven beside her shoulder, brows slowly knitting. &#8220;Or you&#8217;re still a girl and my brain&#8217;s just&#8230; fucking rotting.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>She glances down at Poe, then back up. &#8220;Am I seeing you because I&#8217;m reading this, or did I pick this because&#8230; something&#8217;s already wrong?&#8221; A small, uncertain laugh breaks into a half-choked sob, twisted emotion clawing itself up until her throat burns. &#8220;&#8230; That&#8217;s a really fucking annoying question, actually.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;I &#8230; you&#8217;re really starting to scare me,&#8221; comes that familiar voice from somewhere near Karma&#8217;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&#8217;s coming from somewhere underneath. The source reveals itself when a floorboard shift, and up claws a feminine, shrivelled hand.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;You know why you&#8217;re here,&#8221; a deeper and more ominous voice echoes to Karma from the dark. &#8220;You know what you did &#8212; to who you did it. You know what you are.&#8221; A prolonged hiss echoes before a damning conclusion arrives, &#8220;You don&#8217;t belong here. Here, with the day people.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>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. &#8220;I-I&#8217;m scaring -you-?&#8221; she echoes on the warble of a broken laugh, incredulous, twisting toward the voice resounding at her ear.  <\/p>\n<p>Her stomach twists itself into a knot of apprehension, quiet terror, and anger until the burn of bile licks at her throat. &#8220;Which one?&#8221; The question slips out before she can reconcile with it, nails catching beneath the book&#8217;s cover. &#8220;&#8230; If you know so fucking much, then&#8230;&#8221; Unshed tears burn at her lashline, green eyes squeezing themselves closed with a desperate breath dragged in through her nose. &#8220;&#8230; Don&#8217;t make me guess.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Did you take something? Shit &#8230;&#8221; 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. &#8220;Shall we count the ways?&#8221; it asks. The feeling of an ice cold hand pushes itself down on her chest, pressing her deeper into the chair. &#8220;We would weigh your soul if you had one; here, at least, you do not. It&#8217;s stored away somewhere, Karma Swann. Do you know where?&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Karma? Karma! I&#8217;m calling someone!&#8221; comes a panicked susurrus from somewhere above her. <\/p>\n<p>Karma presses a palm against her chest, fingers bunching in the fabric of her t-shirt, as she struggles to sit forward. &#8220;N-No&#8230; Not&#8230;&#8221; The answer catches on a shallow breath, the hammer of her own heart a painful affair beneath her rib, but she doesn&#8217;t struggle as much.  <\/p>\n<p>Deeper and deeper she sinks, her gaze dropped slowly to her own hand, as though she might find something missing beneath it. &#8220;&#8230; Doesn&#8217;t make sense,&#8221; she decides quietly. &#8220;I don&#8217;t&#8230; I don&#8217;t know&#8230;&#8221; Her sneakers scrape against the floor as a leg shifts, trying to push herself upright again, head spinning. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;The sooner you accept it, the better.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>It&#8217;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&#8217;d found herself adrift in the evening lull.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;You don&#8217;t belong here, Karmelita Swann. You&#8217;re not one of them. You&#8217;re &#8230;&#8221; A word is whispered to her, but it&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>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. &#8220;Can you hear me?&#8221; he asks. But she hears more than him.  <\/p>\n<p>The Raven&#8217;s whisper echoes in her ears. &#8220;Other, other, other, other.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Karma stares past the light, pupils dilated, her unfocused gaze drifting across the clinician&#8217;s face as tears drain down her cheeks. &#8220;&#8230; Dad,&#8221; her voice comes thin and hoarse, full of longing for her father.  <\/p>\n<p>Her eyes find the blonde for a moment before wandering above the clinician&#8217;s head. &#8220;&#8230; I don&#8217;t want to see you, Raven&#8230; Where&#8217;s my dad?&#8221; She swallows, struggling to bring him back into focus. <\/p>\n<p>Perhaps the good news is that Karma didn&#8217;t lose the entire day. It was never night. But the bad news, &#8220;She&#8217;s having some kind of psychotic episode,&#8221; claims the Greystone Clinician. His tone is uncharacteristically soft, laced with genuine concern. And the worse news: Karma&#8217;s dad is not here. He won&#8217;t be coming back.  <\/p>\n<p>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. &#8220;Umm, Karma, I think Kevin Taylor was filming you at Blackrose? I don&#8217;t know if &#8230; if he thought maybe you were doing a bit, like for philosophy club?&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>No one has the guts to answer her question about her father. They leave it up to her brain to catch up. <\/p>\n<p>Karma em blinks at the girl, her gaze catching at last. &#8220;Kevin was filming?&#8221; She scrubs her wet cheeks with her sleeve, looking past the clinician toward the other tables. &#8220;No, I just&#8221; She struggles to her feet, clutching the book against her chest before turning its cover outward.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;I fell asleep. I was reading Poe and dreamed I was in it.&#8221; A laugh catches in her throat, she forces the rest out, waving the book. &#8220;Fucking metal as hell. Very immersive. Wouldn&#8217;t recommend.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>She stuffs it into her bag with fumbling hands. &#8220;I&#8217;m fine. Thanks. Seriously.&#8221; Already edging around the chair, she nearly catches her sneaker on its leg, rights herself, and hurries toward the door. <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/article><article id=\"post-31627\" class=\"category-display-post\"><a id=\"laceys-odd-encounter-sradrian\" class=\"post-name-anchor\"><\/a><h2 class=\"category-display-post-title\">Lacey&#8217;s odd encounter (SRAdrian)<\/h2><div class=\"category-display-post-content\"><div class=\"category-display-post-full-content\"><style>\n    .edgt-post-text-inner p {\n        margin-bottom: 35px !important;\n    }\n    <\/style>\n<p><strong>Date:<\/strong> 2026-10-11 18:07<\/p>\n<hr>\n<p>(Lacey&#8217;s odd encounter (SRAdrian))<\/p>\n<p>[Sun Oct 11 2026]<\/p>\n<p>In a cozy trailer living room<br \/>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.<\/p>\n<p>It is dusk, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds.  It&#8217;s raining outside.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;t reinforced (who wouldn&#8217;t do that in Haven though?) it would likely break the poor trailer door down. Which guardian flamingo was on duty today??? <\/p>\n<p>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. &#8220;Jesus Christ&#8230;&#8221; She stares toward the door, then reluctantly untangles herself from the blanket. &#8220;If that&#8217;s somebody selling something, I&#8217;m gonna be so fucking impressed with their dedication.&#8221; 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. &#8220;Who is it? And before you answer, if you&#8217;re here to murder me, I&#8217;m gonna need you to come back when the weather&#8217;s better.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>The pounding on the door continues, but it doesn&#8217;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 &#8216;claws&#8217; rumble rumble. It is hard to make out, but then it raises up, the voice yells out, &#8220;HELP ME!!!&#8221; And then of course, pounding continues. <\/p>\n<p>The unmistakable cry for help wipes most of the amusement from Lacey&#8217;s face. &#8220;Claws?&#8221; she repeats, glancing toward the door. &#8220;Oh, that&#8217;s a fantastic word to hear through a locked door in Haven.&#8221; She sets her drink aside and approaches, careful to stay out of the doorway itself as she reaches for the lock. &#8220;Okay! Okay, I&#8217;m opening it! But if something with claws is chasing you, I&#8217;d really appreciate you mentioning how close it is.&#8221; She draws the door open just enough to get a look outside, keeping one hand firmly on its edge. <\/p>\n<p>Of course, it seems like there is no heed on Lacey&#8217;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&#8217;s porch, but first into the dirt out front&#8230; or rather mud now. Probably leaving a muddy smudge in Lacey&#8217;s lawn. He quickly scrambles to his feet and heads back towards the door, &#8220;Please! Let me in! HELLP!&#8221; 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&#8217;s flamingos. Maybe they were doing their job and attacked the young man? Perhaps&#8230; Perhaps&#8230; <\/p>\n<p>Bracing herself against the door as the man throws his weight into it, Lacey&#8217;s brows shoot upwards when he promptly bounces backward and disappears off the porch. &#8220;Oh, for fuck&#8217;s sake.&#8221; 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. &#8220;Okay, first of all, you can&#8217;t just charge somebody&#8217;s front door!&#8221; She pulls it open wider, stepping aside to give him room. &#8220;Get in here. Quickly. And try not to bring the entire yard with you.&#8221; Her gaze lingers on the darkness beyond him. &#8220;What the hell is chasing you?&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>The panicked man bursts through the doorway like a rushing cat might squeeze though any offered opening to get into a room they aren&#8217;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&#8217;s floor, he starts to tell his tale. &#8220;I&#8230; I&#8230; I was in the woods. I dropped my phone&#8230;. There was a little&#8230;. Monster? That can&#8217;t be right, monsters aren&#8217;t real&#8230; But it was a monster. It was a little man&#8230; Except he was a lizard and he chased me and tried to cut me with his claws. I need to tell someone&#8230; The police? No.. I need to go to the press&#8230; Maybe the internet? People need to know. They need to go get it!&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>(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&#8217;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&#8217;s floor, he starts to tell his tale. &#8220;I&#8230; I&#8230; I was in the woods. I dropped my phone&#8230;. There was a little&#8230;. Monster? That can&#8217;t be right, monsters aren&#8217;t real&#8230; But it was a monster. It was a little man&#8230; Except he was a lizard and he chased me and tried to cut me with his claws. I need to tell someone&#8230; The police? No.. I need to go to the press&#8230; Maybe the internet? People need to know. They need to go get it!&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Lacey shuts the door behind him, throwing the lock before looking down at the muddy footprints spreading across her floor. &#8220;Well, that&#8217;s gonna be fun to clean.&#8221; She retrieves an old towel and holds it out to him, listening as his story takes an increasingly interesting turn. &#8220;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?&#8221; One brow lifts. &#8220;Honey, I admire the ambition, and certainly the questionable decision making, but maybe we figure out whether you&#8217;re bleeding before you start your press tour.&#8221; She gestures toward a chair, then glances at the door. &#8220;And how little are we talking? Like, toddler-sized? Or could I reasonably punt him if he shows up?&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>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, &#8220;Bigger than a toddler I guess, it came about to my waist. It was an&#8230; evil evil little thing! It isn&#8217;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.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Lacey watches him use the towel on his face while muddy water continues dripping onto her floor. &#8220;Great. The towel&#8217;s working hard. Shame it&#8217;s the only one of you making an effort.&#8221; She grabs another towel and drops it near his feet before considering his description. &#8220;Waist-high. Okay, so punting is still on the table, but I might need a running start.&#8221; Her brows rise at the mention of government troops. &#8220;You want the military to come to Haven because a lizard with anger issues chased you through the woods?&#8221; She pauses, looking almost thoughtful. &#8220;Actually, no, I&#8217;d pay good money to watch somebody explain that requisition.&#8221; A faint smile tugs at her mouth. &#8220;And just so we&#8217;re clear, are we killing it or taking it to a lab? Because those are two very different field trips.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;We? I am not going anywhere near anything. I just am trying to figure out where I can get help.&#8221; The young man says, before declaring, &#8220;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&#8217;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.&#8221; The man starts pacing, poor Lacey&#8217;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&#8217;t go well for him. Breaching the understanding always comes with a heavy price. <\/p>\n<p>Following the muddy footprints with considerably more interest than the man&#8217;s government conspiracy theories, Lacey murmurs, &#8220;Mhm. SEAL Team Six. Mulder and Scully. Maybe the Men in Black if everybody else&#8217;s busy.&#8221; She folds her arms, considering him for a moment before a rather unfortunate idea begins to take shape. &#8220;Actually, you know what? I might know a shortcut.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>Her expression brightens. &#8220;See, calling the police means paperwork, and the FBI&#8217;s probably gonna want proof. But there&#8217;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.&#8221; She glances down at another muddy footprint. &#8220;And you wouldn&#8217;t even have to go back the way you came.&#8221; A small, entirely innocent smile follows. <\/p>\n<p>The whole idea seems to cause the young man&#8217;s eyes to grow very wide, &#8220;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!&#8221; He says as he pleads with Lacey, clasping his hands together in a begging motion, &#8220;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.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Lacey stares at his clasped hands, then at the muddy trail he&#8217;s managed to establish across her living room. &#8220;My savior? That&#8217;s a lot of responsibility to put on a woman whose biggest problem twenty minutes ago was deciding whether to get another beer.&#8221; She tilts her head, apparently giving his predicament some serious thought. &#8220;Look, I get it. The woods are scary. Little lizard men are rude. But think about it. If you take that shortcut, you&#8217;ll be getting help and avoiding the main road, where everybody&#8217;s gonna see you looking like you lost a fight with a septic tank.&#8221; She offers him an encouraging smile. &#8220;Besides, what are the odds of running into the same monster twice in one night?&#8221; She pauses. &#8220;Actually, don&#8217;t answer that. Statistics have never been particularly supportive of my ideas.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s couch made of mud and &#8230;. well lets hope it is only mud. Does Dustin walk his dog into Lacey&#8217;s yard? Maybe&#8230; Maybe&#8230; The young man just breaks down into tears as he murmurs on and on, &#8220;I am going to get eaten by a monster, I don&#8217;t know if you even believe me. You are so nice though, to take me into your home. You don&#8217;t know who I am and I must sound crazy.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Watching him settle onto her couch, Lacey&#8217;s mouth parts slightly as the muddy outline of his backside becomes a permanent contribution to the upholstery. &#8220;Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.&#8221; She closes her eyes for a moment, apparently reconsidering several of her recent charitable decisions. &#8220;I believe you. Really. This is Haven. A little lizard man isn&#8217;t even making my top five weirdest things this week.&#8221; Her gaze drops to the couch again before returning to him, and she softens a little at the sight of his tears. &#8220;Hey, come on. Don&#8217;t cry. Nobody&#8217;s getting eaten in my living room. Not by anything outside anyway. That&#8217;s a house rule.&#8221; She crouches slightly to catch his attention, offering an encouraging smile. &#8220;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.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>The young man&#8217;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&#8217;s couch. Is more substances being added as well? &#8220;Do you know this shortcut is safe? Maybe the monsters are out there waiting for me. Like&#8230; I don&#8217;t know&#8230; It seems&#8230; like it is to risky. I am safe here. Can&#8217;t I just stay here until the Army comes?&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Lacey watches his arm drag another questionable substance across the back of her couch, and her smile becomes just a little too pleasant. &#8220;The Army? By the time they get here, you&#8217;ll have died of old age, and I&#8217;ll have died of whatever you&#8217;re rubbing into my furniture.&#8221; She glances at the smear, then back at him. &#8220;But you know what? I&#8217;ve got a better idea. Forget the shortcut. I&#8217;ve actually got a safe room right here on the property.&#8221; Her expression brightens as she gestures toward the back door. &#8220;Underground, nice and private, reinforced walls. Even has a cage for extra protection. Nobody&#8217;s getting through that without some serious effort.&#8221; She reaches for her keys, apparently delighted with her own generosity. &#8220;I&#8217;ll walk you over myself. There&#8217;s a few chains down there, too, so we can make absolutely sure nothing gets to you.&#8221; A moment passes before she adds, sweetly, &#8220;And the best part? Not a single piece of leather furniture for you to wipe your ass on. Come on. Let&#8217;s get you somewhere safe.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>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, &#8220;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.&#8221; The young man offers before starting to follow her, &#8220;A safe room? To wait out the monsters until the Army comes? Are you going to call them?&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Lacey stops dead in her tracks, turning slowly to look at the man. &#8220;Throw it out?&#8221; Her brows climb. &#8220;That couch has survived three generations of questionable decisions, and you&#8217;re now the first person who&#8217;s ever made me consider a homicide over upholstery.&#8221; She gives him a long look before waving away his offer. &#8220;Keep your money. You&#8217;re gonna need it for therapy. Probably a lot of it.&#8221; With a remarkably pleasant smile, she heads toward the back door. &#8220;And of course I&#8217;ll call somebody. We&#8217;ve got a whole system for this sort of thing out here. Very discreet. Government doesn&#8217;t like people knowing about it.&#8221; She retrieves a flashlight and motions for him to follow. &#8220;Now, the safe room&#8217;s underneath my shed. There&#8217;s a cage, some chains, very sturdy construction. You know, in case anything tries to break in.&#8221; She pauses at the doorway, looking back at him. &#8220;One little thing, though. Once you&#8217;re inside, don&#8217;t go messing with the locks. They&#8217;re complicated.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>With a look of growing suspicion at Lacey, the young man crosses his arms over his chest, &#8220;Ummm&#8230; There isn&#8217;t monsters in your&#8230; basement are there? And chains? Why chains?&#8221; But regardless, the young man follows his &#8216;savior&#8217; from the monsters of the forest. <\/p>\n<p>Glancing over one shoulder, Lacey looks mildly offended by the question. &#8220;Monsters in my basement? Jesus, what kind of woman do you think I am?&#8221; She pauses. &#8220;First of all, it&#8217;s under the -shed-. Completely different property feature.&#8221; She continues toward the back door, flashlight in hand, apparently finding nothing unusual about this conversation. &#8220;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?&#8221; She shakes her head. &#8220;Didn&#8217;t think so.&#8221; Opening the door, she gestures for him to follow, her smile returning. &#8220;Besides, if I were keeping monsters down there, do you really think I&#8217;d tell you?&#8221; A small snicker follows. &#8220;Kidding! Well, mostly. God, you should see your face. Come on, before you get my kitchen dirty too.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Indeed, there is a horrified look on the young man&#8217;s face. Only letting a nervous laugh, without confidence he says, &#8220;ha.ha&#8230; good one&#8230;&#8221; 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. <\/p>\n<p>Lacey stumbles half a step when the unnamed man bumps into her, catching herself before giving him an incredulous look. &#8220;My God, you&#8217;re like a golden retriever with a warrant out for its arrest.&#8221; She catches his arm, steering him toward the shed as another rumble rolls overhead. &#8220;Come on, almost there. You&#8217;re doing great. Very brave. The Army&#8217;s gonna give you a sticker.&#8221; Once inside, she leads him down into the underground room, sweeping her flashlight across the chains and the sturdy kennel occupying one side. &#8220;See? Told you. Five-star accommodations. Very exclusive. Terrible cell reception, though.&#8221; She gestures toward the kennel with an encouraging smile, waiting until he&#8217;s close enough before giving him a sudden, thoroughly werewolf-strength shove straight through its opening. &#8220;And that&#8217;s what we call express check-in!&#8221; She swings the gate shut behind him, securing the latch with a cheerful little rattle. &#8220;Congratulations. You&#8217;ve been upgraded to a private suite.&#8221; Her smile turns positively radiant. &#8220;Now, about that Army. I&#8217;ll be sure to mention you next time I see one.&#8221; She wiggles her pinky at him. &#8220;Promise.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/article><article id=\"post-31613\" class=\"category-display-post\"><a id=\"letitias-odd-encounter-srshay\" class=\"post-name-anchor\"><\/a><h2 class=\"category-display-post-title\">Letitia&#8217;s odd encounter (SRShay)<\/h2><div class=\"category-display-post-content\"><div class=\"category-display-post-full-content\"><style>\n    .edgt-post-text-inner p {\n        margin-bottom: 35px !important;\n    }\n    <\/style>\n<p><strong>Date:<\/strong> 2026-10-07 13:11<\/p>\n<hr>\n<p>(Letitia&#8217;s odd encounter (SRShay))<\/p>\n<p>[Wed Oct  7 2026]<\/p>\n<p>Before BioLabs Pharmaceuticals<br \/>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.<\/p>\n<p>The main destination here is the two-story building before you, a slate gray facade that&#8217;s pretty straight forward. A sign over the doors lights up at night, spelling out in bold letters: Biolabs Pharmaceuticals<\/p>\n<p>It is afternoon, about 55F(12C) degrees, <\/p>\n<p>Kai was walking into the Biolabs Pharmaceuticals to go spar in the Goblin Market, walking alongside Letitia, he snaps his fingers, &#8220;Oh wait, left my bag in the car,&#8221; he he tells her, &#8220;Do you have yours?&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Letitia meanders toward the shop on the opposite side of the street, watermelon in hand, juice dripping like a total gremlin. &#8220;It&#8217;s super good, and I think they like, do community outreach stuff? My family works with them sometimes, I guess.&#8221; She waves it off, approaching the door to the shop. &#8220;I was thinking we could spar in that cage in the market, maybe? Instead of the regular sand pit.&#8221; At his question, she looks down at herself, as though checking for her corset, then up at Kai. &#8220;Um. I forgot. We could spar with just the knives, though, right? I won&#8217;t steal your kidneys&#8230;&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;If you do, only take one,&#8221; Kai snickers and munches on his watermelon, he gives her hip a firm little bump with his. <\/p>\n<p>To Kai and Letitia, it seems to be an ordinary Wednesday. The sun&#8217;s out. The sounds of the sea can be heard in the distance. And there&#8217;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&#8217;s a level of peace that hangs over the air, and there seems to be little that can go wrong.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>Letitia puffs out her cheeks, hand on the door, and she glances back at Kai. &#8220;&#8230;was that you?&#8221; 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. <\/p>\n<p>Kai glances at Letitia, a guilty expression comes over his face and he sighs at her, &#8220;I thought if I did it outside you wouldn&#8217;t notice. You must have a good sense of smell like me, huh?&#8221; he asks, clueless, &#8220;I&#8217;m sorry babe.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Other than that uncanny feeling there&#8217;s nothing immediately amiss. Of course, that sixth-sense continues, and&#8230; now? Kai feels it too. It&#8217;s something nearly anxiety inducing. It&#8217;s intense, something&#8230; something is staring at him as well, and there&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s white. Nondescript. Tinted windows. No license plate. <\/p>\n<p>bats at Kai and sighs, saying, I heard something, or&#8230; felt&#8230; you know when you&#8217;re SURE something happened?&#8221; Letitia asks, her gaze sweeping over the crowd. &#8220;Maybe not a person&#8230; a ritual? Something weird?&#8221; Then, her eyes alight on the van, and she flits her eyes around, looking for something to hide behind to observe.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Yeah but, I don&#8217;t know what you&#8230;&#8221; 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. <\/p>\n<p>Letitia ducks behind a nearby bit of vegetation, or perhaps a planter, nearly impossible to tell with how she&#8217;s there one moment, and gone the next, blending into the shadows like she was born of them, eyes on that van. <\/p>\n<p>The Van does seem to be highly suspicious. Especially to Kai, who can pick up, someone talking within. Quite a few someone&#8217;s. But, sadly for him, the van isn&#8217;t the only thing he picks up on. There&#8217;s the sound of someone sending their bolt forward, slamming a round home into the chamber of&#8230; a rifle? And it&#8217;s not in the van. It&#8217;s above them, on the rooftop of the gym nearby. There&#8217;s even a glint of a scope from that far away, and, from what the man can see&#8230; a laser dot traipsing against the wall, slowly moving towards Letitia.  <\/p>\n<p>While the streets are rather sparse, Letitia notices that entering the shop would, most certainly, provide the best case scenario for survival against whatever&#8217;s about to happen. It&#8217;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&#8217;s certainly a couple sedans parked on the street she can crouch behind if she really wanted to. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Babe! Gun on the roof,&#8221; 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, &#8220;And there&#8217;s like, a bunch of guys in that van, I think we&#8217;re in trouble. Does this place have a backdoor or something?&#8221; he asks, completely, in the moment, forgetting about the Goblin Market exit. <\/p>\n<p>Here a moment, gone the next, Letitia slips inside, hissing to him, &#8220;Inside!&#8221; She&#8217;s crouched down, peering through the windows, and asks, &#8220;Any idea if it&#8217;s&#8230; Templar type things, or more&#8230; are they just looking to rob the place?&#8221; She reaches in her bag, digging out her knife, and drops the watermelon on the floor. &#8220;This is gonna suck if &#8230; they want us. I&#8217;m tough, but a lot less without my armor&#8230;&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>As Letitia slips inside, a quiet crack rings out&#8230; 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&#8217;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&#8217;re dressed in, what appears to be SWAT gear. But anyone who lives in Haven knows that the HSD doesn&#8217;t have a SWAT team. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Gaaaah!&#8221; 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, &#8220;I don&#8217;t know, but they have a lot of guns!&#8221; he calls to her and keeps running until he can crouch by her, peeking out, &#8220;We should run, that&#8217;s a lot of guns,&#8221; he tells her. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;&#8230;Fuck me,&#8221; 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, &#8220;Think I should try to grab our gear, or&#8230; just&#8230; slip into the market? With that many people&#8230; I&#8217;m tough, but they don&#8217;t look like pushovers, and I don&#8217;t think they&#8217;ll answer questions.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;We don&#8217;t even have our stuff, I vote running into the market, that&#8217;s a good idea babe,&#8221; Kai hisses to her quietly and peeks out again. <\/p>\n<p>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, &#8220;Are you here for an appointment by chance? May I have your names?&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>Outside though, if the duo were to take a peek, they would find that the group of &#8216;SWAT&#8217; are moving towards the building at a hurried pace. There&#8217;s eight of them, and four split off in a tactical line, moving in a beeline to the side, until they&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s not able to do much of anything. At least for right now.  <\/p>\n<p>When Letitia attempts to discern who the group belongs to, nothing comes to mind. They&#8217;ve done well to shroud their associations, and while, she most certainly can identify that they&#8217;re not really police officers, there&#8217;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&#8217;re all armed with H&amp;K 416s, noteworthy rifles that are oft used by special combat teams, from the FBI to the Navy SEALS. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Yeah uh&#8230; I think this place is about to be robbed, a bunch of guys with guns just got out of like, a van over there,&#8221; 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, &#8220;Do you have like&#8230; a bathroom or something we could hide in until they get here?&#8221; he asks and ducks down a bit, glancing over his shoulder to watch for the kill squad. <\/p>\n<p>Letitia flicks her eyes around, noticing the other group heading off, and she hisses to Kai, &#8220;Which door is it? I usually just follow you&#8230;&#8221; and she forces a little smile at the receptionist. &#8220;Oh, no appointment, just&#8230; um&#8230; Just, like, do you have a restroom?&#8221; she asks, forcing a smile, and hiding her knife in her sleeve, assassin&#8217;s creed style. When Kai blows any sense of cover, she hisses, &#8220;KAI!&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>The receptionist gives a few blinks at Kai in utter surprise, and she asks, confusedly, &#8220;Pardon a bunch of guys with-&#8221; She doesn&#8217;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&#8217;s beeping. The receptionist points at it and blubbers out, &#8220;What in the world is that?!&#8221; and reaching towards the phone on her desk, she frantically begins dialing numbers. And messing up of course (a feat considering it&#8217;s just &#8216;911&#8217;), occasionally cursing herself.  <\/p>\n<p>Just as soon as the front door is open, it slams closed. Probably related to the white orb. But the white orb doesn&#8217;t appear to be the only immediate issue. There&#8217;s also the sound of someone breaking down a door in the back, with a &#8216;POLICE. GET DOWN ON THE GROUND!&#8217;.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;ll likely have to race the two groups of angry rifle men to dodge inside. <\/p>\n<p>Letitia puffs out her cheeks and asks, &#8220;Ready to run?&#8221; of Kai. She doesn&#8217;t know what the orb does, she doesn&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Bathroom, in the lab!&#8221; 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. <\/p>\n<p>Decides to throw up his meague magical shield around himself as Kai tries to shield Letitia from gunfire while they run. <\/p>\n<p>Kai meant meager. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s him that&#8217;s hit instead of her. However, it becomes apparent that, while he&#8217;s unharmed, their advantages are slowly dialing down. His force shield dissipates almost immediately and he feels weaker. More human.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>Kai hisses as his shitty little magic barrier just kind of fizzles out, &#8220;Not good&#8230; they gotta be like, Templars, Hunters or Witch Hunters, or some really great fucking combo,&#8221; he complains quietly to Letitia. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Either way, we need to get the fuck out&#8230;&#8221; Letitia breathes, her hand in his. &#8220;Let me stay between you, and&#8230; one can hope, they&#8217;re just Templars. I think I can avoid a shot or two&#8230; hopefully&#8230;&#8221; She sweeps her eyes around for a way downstairs. Anything to get out, to somewhere where they have a little more control. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s office, set up rarely on the blank white walls&#8230; the hallways are a bit more decorated. Mostly with scientific and medical diagrams, formulas, the like. There&#8217;s a poster of the parts of an eyeball in one place, the chemical makeup of aspirin in another. There&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;t yet injured, it&#8217;s only a matter of time before he&#8217;s knocked out. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s office, set up rarely on the blank white walls&#8230; the hallways are a bit more decorated. Mostly with scientific and medical diagrams, formulas, the like. There&#8217;s a poster of the parts of an eyeball in one place, the chemical makeup of aspirin in another. There&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;t yet injured, it&#8217;s only a matter of time before he&#8217;s knocked out. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s window, there&#8217;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&#8217;t a possibility, at least for this moment. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Fuuuucck,&#8221; Kai groans and stumbles to the ground, holding his leg, &#8220;Fuck fuck!&#8221; 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, &#8220;&#8230;This is gonna suck,&#8221; 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. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Shit shit shit shit,&#8221; Letitia mutters under her breath, pulling Kai closer. &#8220;We need to get the fuck out, need to&#8230; to slip into the market. I don&#8217;t imagine the Hunters will have many allies in the market, and I&#8217;d figure the Templars wouldn&#8217;t go in there&#8230; it&#8217;s&#8230; I&#8217;m just a shifter, not a biter&#8230; fuck,&#8221; she rambles, yapping with her anxiety. &#8220;We gotta get out, baby, you can run on that, right?&#8221; she asks, not sure, but telling him he&#8217;s gonna. At that door, heading roughly in the direction she thinks the middle of the building would be, she glances at him. &#8220;We can&#8217;t worry too much about alarms&#8230; They might even help us, cover up your limping&#8230;&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>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&#8230; likely HSD coming to respond to whatever is happening on this side of town.  <\/p>\n<p>Both Kai and Letitia can hear a voice, possibly from the second-group, shouting, &#8220;They&#8217;re trying to escape! Get down the other stairwell! Cut them off!&#8221; Whomever is chasing them, they certainly know about the market too. And it seems they&#8217;re desperate to prevent both the duo from reaching it.  <\/p>\n<p>Once Letitia shoves the doors open, the alarms sound, and there&#8217;s panicked cries everywhere as people begin rushing out the laboratories. Kai, while his leg isn&#8217;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&#8217;s not well-equipped to tolerate the pain. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Nope, you gotta carry me,&#8221; Kai tells her and tries to literally jump up onto her back, he points to the door he recognizes, &#8220;I think that one,&#8221; he says as he looks over his shoulder, arms around her neck and good leg around her waist. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;You&#8217;re so fucking lucky I&#8217;m swol as fuck,&#8221; 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. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;I&#8217;m lucky for a lot of reasons,&#8221; Kai says and casts another frantic look back over his shoulder, &#8220;I think I bruised my assbone,&#8221; he tells her. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;re a hallway leading towards a lab. They pass several, one marked for Bio-Chem, another marked for &#8216;Organic Disposal&#8217;, and another marked with a sign pointing towards a hallway that leads towards the center of the building. &#8216;Prosthetics and Medical Engineering&#8217; is its label, and, quite likely, leads towards the BioMed Engineering Lab&#8217;.  <\/p>\n<p>Above the duo, shouts are heard, and a slam as well. It seems that Kai&#8217;s throwing knife didn&#8217;t halt the first group permanently, and there&#8217;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. &#8220;Freeze!&#8221; they shout, seemingly bearing more manners than the first group. &#8220;Get on the ground, before we collar you!&#8221; Said sign, pointing out the more engineering side of the pharmacy, is luckily of course, to the immediate right of the pair. <\/p>\n<p>Kai throws up one hand in the air, &#8220;Don&#8217;t shoot, we&#8217;re human!&#8221; he says, clinging onto his much smaller girlfriend who is carrying him like he isn&#8217;t quite a bit larger than her, &#8220;They went that way,&#8221; 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. <\/p>\n<p>Letitia does not pause, does not slow down, and even before the idiot she so dearly loves nudges her like a horse &#8211; he&#8217;ll be hearing about THAT shit later &#8211; she&#8217;s turning to the right, and sprinting. &#8220;Okay, eyes open, nut up and try not to get your butthole pounded by a Hunter,&#8221; she tells him, head on a swivel, and moving as her blood tells her to <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;I think I might have fooled them,&#8221; 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&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>While the second group seems far more reasonable than the first group, reason is tossed out the window Kai attempts to bluff with them. &#8220;Shut the fuck up and get down on the ground,&#8221; is said by one of the bigger fellows in that group, his rifle still pointed in the duo&#8217;s general direction. But as soon as Letitia moves and keeps running, one of the scrawnier members just says &#8220;Fuck it, just shoot them. We&#8217;ll bag them afterwards.&#8221; 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&#8217;s arm, another, his back. And still, both groups begin to converge and chase after the duo from within the hall.  <\/p>\n<p>The hall isn&#8217;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&#8217;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 &#8216;3-d printers&#8217; and their operations. There&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Fuck!&#8221; 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, &#8220;Fuck&#8230; god damn&#8230; shot me,&#8221; he mumbles out in pain, or tries to as he sucks in breath, the wind knocked out of him. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Baby, I know, come on, come on, we need to get the fuck out,&#8221; Letitia pants out, between the running, the extra weight of her boyfriend and all his shit, she&#8217;s panting. She doesn&#8217;t really pause so much as she pivots, grabbing at that rack. It&#8217;s an asshole move, a serious risk of murder, but&#8230; <\/p>\n<p>Seemingly, Kai isn&#8217;t in any danger of falling unconscious just yet, though he&#8217;s dangerously close. Sanctuary can prevent grievous harm of course, especially when someone has lethal intent, but it won&#8217;t stop someone from beating you over the head with a wooden plank in a fight, knocking you out. Sadly for him, it&#8217;s not a someone, but a group of someones and it&#8217;s not a wooden plank, but rather a rifle. And they&#8217;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&#8217;re not unconscious and they&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s the &#8216;Bio-Med Engineering Lab&#8217;, 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&#8217;t accidentally enter the door if it led into the Goblin Market at any given time. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;That one&#8230; I think, right? The hand,&#8221; 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&#8217;s able to do with the current state of him. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Okay, baby&#8230; we&#8230; we&#8217;re almost there,&#8221; 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&#8217;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&#8217;s not her that&#8217;ll get knocked out, after all, and an arm comes up to hold Kai&#8217;s, keeping him close and in place on her back. &#8220;I love you, I&#8217;m sorry that&#8230; that this is, um, this is happening&#8230;&#8221; She&#8217;s panicking. She hasn&#8217;t even thought to call for Hand backup. <\/p>\n<p>Kai is pretty goofy from pain but he mumbles to Letitia, &#8220;I love you too baby, I always loved you,&#8221; he squeezes his arm around her a little tighter as he holds on and basically contributes by fighting off unconsciousness. <\/p>\n<p>Just as Letitia darts through the door, the first group opens fire. Except for one, rather burly fellow. Who&#8230; 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&#8230; covered with a red-lens that doesn&#8217;t seem to relate entirely to the rest of his outfit. Probably far more advanced and reveals the capabilities of whichever group this &#8216;outfit&#8217; 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&#8230; who is doing his best to maintain consciousness.  <\/p>\n<p>It&#8217;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&#8217;s even a blueprint pasted on a giant white-board, an experimental prosthetic heart that&#8217;s made entirely of organic compounds paired with silicon. Even-so, the door that Letitia jammed won&#8217;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&#8217;s created. There&#8217;s more shouting and the clanging of metal, the clatter of plastic objects on the floor&#8230; 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. &#8220;Stop fucking shooting you morons, let me break this door down first,&#8221; is said from the behemoth. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;t great and he&#8217;s unsteady, but it&#8217;s all he can think to do as he clings to his girlfriend and looks back at their pursuers. <\/p>\n<p>Letitia ducks, lowering her already low center of gravity. When she tries, she can step silently, moving through without a sound, and she&#8217;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&#8217;s not your place. She&#8217;ll bill it to someone else, if they come after her. Seeing how this shituation is going, though, it&#8217;ll probably involve a lot of wiping of minds, anyway, so she sprints toward the back, toward that hallway, muttering, &#8220;Let&#8217;s&#8230; fucking get out&#8230; has to be this way&#8230;&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;s arm relaxes, even while its still sparks, and some great weight is settled on the door. &#8220;Fuck this,&#8221; someone says from behind the door. &#8220;I still have some C-4 on me. Set a short fuse, blow the fucking wall down.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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 &#8216;SWAT&#8217; group reaches them first. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Woot! Goteeeeem,&#8221; Kai says in what should be a shouted cheer but he doesn&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>There&#8217;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&#8217;s running for the bathroom, and that door into the market by extension. &#8220;Come along, limpy,&#8221; she exhales, no thoughts, just getting away. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;My hero,&#8221; Kai purrs out at Letitia without much gusto, clinging onto her for dear life. <\/p>\n<p>As Kai bars the door, there&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>Kai continues to cling onto Letitia, &#8220;Woot&#8230; teamwork,&#8221; he murmurs to Letitia, hopefully his regeneration starts up in full force once they reach the goblin market, &#8220;You&#8217;re so fast and strong,&#8221; he tells Letitia, grinning at her dimly, &#8220;Uugh&#8230;&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>As that door shuts behind her, Letitia sinks to her knees, settling Kai from where she&#8217;s been half-carrying, half dragging him, panting, a few tears coming, and she manages a very breathy, &#8220;&#8230;fuck me with a rake&#8230;&#8221; before giving him a wobbly sort of smile. Time for an adrenaline dump. <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/article><article id=\"post-31605\" class=\"category-display-post\"><a id=\"lillians-odd-encounter-sreris\" class=\"post-name-anchor\"><\/a><h2 class=\"category-display-post-title\">Lillian&#8217;s odd encounter (SREris)<\/h2><div class=\"category-display-post-content\"><div class=\"category-display-post-full-content\"><style>\n    .edgt-post-text-inner p {\n        margin-bottom: 35px !important;\n    }\n    <\/style>\n<p><strong>Date:<\/strong> 2026-10-03 11:03<\/p>\n<hr>\n<p>(Lillian&#8217;s odd encounter (SREris))<\/p>\n<p>[Sat Oct  3 2026]<\/p>\n<p>In an opulent bedroom with ocean views<br \/>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.<\/p>\n<p>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 &#8211; 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.<\/p>\n<p>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.<\/p>\n<p>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.<\/p>\n<p>It is morning, about 55F(12C) degrees, <\/p>\n<p>There are differences in class. For some people the morning is a hard thing.  <\/p>\n<p>There are differences in class. For some people the morning is a hard thing.  <\/p>\n<p>Low morning sunlight reaches between Haven&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>Shutters rattle open. Somewhere down the block, a shovel scrapes grit across concrete, followed by the hollow clatter of debris dropped into a skip.  <\/p>\n<p>For an Arkwhight?  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8230;  <\/p>\n<p>Something changes.  <\/p>\n<p>The feeling of arcane power comes against Lillian&#8217;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&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>Lily reaches for her own focus, but it&#8217;s too late &#8211; the man&#8217;s already gone, and a great many things have lessened her: the sun. Dustin&#8217;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. &#8220;SquaWWW!!&#8221; leaves her beak instead. <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>Then her vision changes.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s squack breaks the air.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>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 &#8211; this, too, is an animal instinct, her own &#8216;human&#8217; feelings translated into bird ones. She feels the deep and intimate urge to peck out an eyeball or two, rage writ feathered.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>She hops down from her bed &#8211; 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&#8217;s gonna have to deal with this herself. She looks about, first &#8211; ritual implements are usually never very far for the arcanist, but&#8230; in her BEDROOM? Unlikely. This will be&#8230; difficult. <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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!  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>Oh wow. There ARE fish out there, huh? Fish sounds good right about now. Once she&#8217;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&#8217;s almost noon. There&#8217;s no WAY she&#8217;s going out into the noontime sun. She might not even be able to fly, much less catch a fish. No, wait, that&#8217;s not why. Damn it.  <\/p>\n<p>The door. Have to get the door. She turns, forcing herself away from the tantalizing window to peer at the door. That&#8217;ll have to do. She flaps and flaunts, trying to figure out lift. There&#8217;s some instinct to it, sure, but it&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>On the ground again, she&#8217;s getting all the more frustrated. Fuck it. Why even bother leaving the bedroom? There&#8217;s fish right outs&#8211; no. No, no, no. Sharp. She needs something sharp. Shattered glass might do. Or&#8230; 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&#8217;s doing it because she wants to get a feather to write with, and not because she&#8217;s a stupid fucking bird., <\/p>\n<p>Between the violence of her transformation, the bumbling flight and falls, and Lillian&#8217;s own feather ruffling there are indeed a few loose feathers that a careful preening could tug free. The bird insitncts don&#8217;t want them ripped free, preferring a careful smoothing, but the mind of the predator is wiser.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>Alright, but we all agree that Gull-Lily would whoop the shit out of any cat, because she&#8217;s built different. She could go out there and become Queen of the Gulls. It&#8217;d be so easy. She&#8217;d have a harem of gulls to feed on. So many fish. The city would be cleans&#8211;  <\/p>\n<p>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 &#8211; hurting oneself is not an easy task. Only the century of magical practice, of slitting one&#8217;s own hand to access the power of blood, can overcome natural self-preservation. That, and the knowledge that her body is hardly fragile.  <\/p>\n<p>Drip. Once she&#8217;s yanked a feather and bloodied her own wing, she can start her plans to conquer all seagull k&#8211; 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&#8217;ll be herself again. We hope. <\/p>\n<p>Lillian&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>It is not the Witching Hour. Far from it. It is not the time of easy rituals.  <\/p>\n<p>It also not a chamber well prepared for rituals. Though, in some ways, it is a chamber. A massive, massive, chamber, for Lillian&#8217;s birdy body is so small compared to her prior form.  <\/p>\n<p>The duvet hangs over the bed&#8217;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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>Under the bed, however, there is considerably more to see. The platform&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>Outside, another raucous argument breaks out over the shore. The harem of gulls doesn&#8217;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&#8217;s hunger. <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>Work. Toil. Scrape. Draw. Bleed. Fly. Call. Fish. NO. It&#8217;s a far cry from her usual work, and here in the noontime sun, it&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;t until James claimed her that she really began to learn the art. The blood makes her remember, too. Someone else&#8217;s blood, making a ritual circle&#8230;  <\/p>\n<p>She&#8217;s yanked from her reverie by the arguments outside. Now, hold on, these gulls would never argue if she were out there. She&#8217;d have them in line. Obedient. Pliant. Oh, an army at her beck and call. And so many fish. FUCK, she&#8217;s hungry. Seagull blood doesn&#8217;t normally smell good, to a human vampire &#8211; maybe it smells good to a seagull vampire? It&#8217;s her own, though. These thoughts and more filter through the tiny little seagull brain she&#8217;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&#8230; embarrassingly&#8230; trills. Squalls. Calls. &#8220;Squaw! Squonk!&#8221; she calls, rhythmically, even as she hops over lines and plants little feet-prints where runes should go, roughly approximating the shapes.  <\/p>\n<p>She&#8217;s joining the raucous chorus of the gulls outside, too. It&#8217;s difficult to keep her squawks as ritualistic calls to spirits, and not screeches of &#8216;THAT&#8217;S MY FISH, I DON&#8217;T KNOW YOU&#8217; 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&#8217;d see&#8230; well, a bloody seagull flailing around on the floor making an absolute mess of things, yet somehow there&#8217;s order in this chaos, however little. <\/p>\n<p>Lillian&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>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. &#8220;Ek-ek-ek. Chrrk.&#8221; 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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>Something else is listening, too.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>Its a subtle thing, the spiritual presence. But as it grows, and ritual power mounts within the circle, the tabby&#8217;s fur eventually raises on end. It stands. Hisses, looking about. Then flees the scene of its would be crime. <\/p>\n<p>Lillian simply doesn&#8217;t notice the cat, at first. Now quite deep into her ritual, she&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>She freezes, considering. Could she mance in this form&#8230;? No, probably not. She&#8217;d have to fight the cat gull-style, since there&#8217;s nothing between her and this cat. Nothing at all. Just clear blue sky out there. Oh, hey, she could just fly out, that&#8217;s basically a hole in the wall. Why didn&#8217;t she notice that bef&#8211;  <\/p>\n<p>The chill that shoots up her birdly spine yanks her from that thought. The spirits have answered&#8230; 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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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 &#8212; at least, stranger to a vampire. A practionier with a more natural bent might find such animlistic spirits to be more natural.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>Weight returns first. The strange lightness of the gull&#8217;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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>Dark hair spills against her cheeks and shoulders, thick, slightly unruly, a few strands immediately settling across her face. The gull&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>One small feather turns lazily in the air and comes to rest beside a trail of bloody webbed footprints.  <\/p>\n<p>Lillian has recovered her human form. <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/article><article id=\"post-31620\" class=\"category-display-post\"><a id=\"logans-odd-encounter-srclaire\" class=\"post-name-anchor\"><\/a><h2 class=\"category-display-post-title\">Logan&#8217;s odd encounter (SRClaire)<\/h2><div class=\"category-display-post-content\"><div class=\"category-display-post-full-content\"><style>\n    .edgt-post-text-inner p {\n        margin-bottom: 35px !important;\n    }\n    <\/style>\n<p><strong>Date:<\/strong> 2026-10-09 21:50<\/p>\n<hr>\n<p>(Logan&#8217;s odd encounter (SRClaire))<\/p>\n<p>[Fri Oct  9 2026]<\/p>\n<p>On Main Street<\/p>\n<p>It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey clouds.  There is a new moon.  <\/p>\n<p>The old street lights along Haven&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s chill keeping Logan company. <\/p>\n<p>Logan had been going for a small little drive it would seem, and he&#8217;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. &#8220;Alright,&#8221; he murmurs to himself idly. &#8220;Food. And no more ramen..&#8221; Looking around, &#8220;HomeTown.. Yeah.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>It&#8217;s probably to no one&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>[Unknown] 710-XXX : &#8220;You don&#8217;t know me, and I&#8217;d like to keep it that way. I&#8217;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. &lt;\/3&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>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 &#8211; 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. <\/p>\n<p>Being a typical college kid, Logan has a slight addiction to his phone, so, when it buzzes he&#8217;s pulling it out to read it. Staring at it in disbelief. Reading it once, and then twice, to actually make sure he&#8217;s reading what it is he&#8217;s reading.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;The fuck?&#8221; he lets out, an annoyed little laugh &#8211; the fact that someone might not like him sees to absolutely irritate him. There&#8217;s an annoyance that builds in his features.  <\/p>\n<p>Breathing out, he shakes his head, and gets hit with a wave of coldness &#8211; it courses through him from head to toe, a little shiver running it&#8217;s way down his spine. Arm twitching, hand twitching, and there&#8217;s goosebumps on the back of his neck, his senses kicking into overdrive. His head snaps upwards and he looks left and right. <\/p>\n<p>The twitching in Logan&#8217;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&#8217;s directives. The screen bends at the press of the thumb, aiming to hit one of his contacts &#8212; any which one and patter out an incomprehensible message &#8211; &#8220;Ayouytt faftass&#8221; it tries to type out and send, but it&#8217;s clumsy and not at all adept with working the screen. It tries its hardest send something out though. Logan&#8217;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&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>The last person that Logan texted was someone on his contact list named &#8211; Claire, so, the text more than likely goes to her. There&#8217;s probably going to be some explaining that he&#8217;ll have to do in the future, and Logan is already annoyed that someone out there doesn&#8217;t like him.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Ueck,&#8221; Logan grunts out, a low sort of growl in his throat, full of phlegm. Grimacing at the pain in his arm. &#8220;Fucking stop that.&#8221; Who knows why he&#8217;s talking to himself, but, he is. Maybe it&#8217;s just his way of trying to self-soothe. But there&#8217;s more reactions for him to deal with, his arm swinging outward. Thankfully, he&#8217;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&#8217;s a tiny step forward, his left foot not following. Clearly something trying to drag him somewhere that he&#8217;s trying real hard to control. <\/p>\n<p>A sudden chime from Logan&#8217;s phone. [Unknown: 710-xxx]: &#8220;I hope you pay attention from now on. You don&#8217;t have to be such an asshole. Stop treating like people don&#8217;t exist.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>After that most resentful text message chimes in, the arm holding that phone shoves the screen right into Logan&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s going on, another message from the unknown sender.  <\/p>\n<p>[Unknown: 710xxx]: &#8220;Are you even listening? This is going to be an important life lesson for you. Buckle up.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>The first message is read successfully, but it&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>It&#8217;s not of his own volition that he&#8217;s starting his march towards Greystone, having left his truck behind, in a really shitty parking job, in fact. There&#8217;s an internal struggle, his brain working overtime &#8211; all of his senses heightened. The hairs on his neck stand up, and though he&#8217;s wearing a shirt, his arms are covered in goosebumps. It&#8217;s fight or flight kicking in. There&#8217;s a struggle, and Logan tries to pull himself back, straining his muscles &#8211; gritting his teeth to not go wherever it is this thing wants him to go.  <\/p>\n<p>His tongue still works, along with his jaw, and maybe whoever is out there is listening to him. &#8220;Who the fuck are you?&#8221; He calls into the cold breeze. <\/p>\n<p>Throughout this, Logan might be able to make a few deductions on what&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s always the reliable trace. It&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>Logan&#8217;s brain works overtime, thinking it&#8217;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&#8217;t seem to be the case immediately. Eyes search and scan, and he&#8217;s not the most perceptive person of all time, but he&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>There&#8217;s an exhaled breath, as he begins to slowly gather his thoughts. The idea sinks into him, it&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>But, as he&#8217;s walking, it seems he&#8217;s decided on his course of action. There&#8217;s some muttering under his breath. It&#8217;s the start of some incantation, what sounds like a trace incantation, more than likely is he figuring out if it&#8217;s even possible for him to walk and cast it. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>[Unknown: 710-xxx]: &#8220;What are you doing?&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>His hand holding that phone is still a thorn in Logan&#8217;s side though. It smushes the screen towards his eyes, working against the intent to have him read that message. Logan&#8217;s incantation serves as some sort of ward, the muttered breaths having an adverse effect on the hex, even if it holds. <\/p>\n<p>There&#8217;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&#8217;s all having, he starts trying to hurry himself. To push himself. The hold on his limbs lessens and his pace quickens.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s not a jog, not yet, at least but he&#8217;s moving.  <\/p>\n<p>Seeing that text once more that&#8217;s smushed against his face, has him laughing. A sort of uncontrollable laugh that he can&#8217;t help. &#8220;I&#8217;m coming to fuck you up,&#8221; Logan growls through his teeth. &#8220;If you&#8217;re gonna text me from an unknown number and.. what..&#8221; The words trail off though, realizing his mistake &#8211; 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. <\/p>\n<p>Incoming text on Logan&#8217;s phone: [7100083]: &#8220;Were you, perhaps saying I have a fat ass? Thanks.&#8221; Oh wait, that&#8217;s just Claire. Logan can probably deal with that later. Though she doesn&#8217;t seem to be too bothered by the random text given the mild response.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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&#8217;t fall on him at once at least. It leans, kind of like the same way a person leans into a door that&#8217;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&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>Logan considers the text received from someone, and can&#8217;t help but smile at it, it&#8217;s fond, it&#8217;s full of humour. This time, he refrains from laughing. Keeping up his mutterings as his march towards Greystone gets closer and closer.  <\/p>\n<p>His phone warps in his hand just a bit, a tiny, little crack heard &#8211; 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&#8217;s back in some control, his jerky movements becoming more fluid now, regaining that slight bit of control again. <\/p>\n<p>Logan considers the text received from Claire, and can&#8217;t help but smile at it, it&#8217;s fond, it&#8217;s full of humour. This time, he refrains from laughing. Keeping up his mutterings as his march towards Greystone gets closer and closer.  <\/p>\n<p>His phone warps in his hand just a bit, a tiny, little crack heard &#8211; 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&#8217;s back in some control, his jerky movements becoming more fluid now, regaining that slight bit of control again. <\/p>\n<p>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 &#8212; libraries, classrooms, somewhere labyrinthine an underground. It&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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:  <\/p>\n<p>[Unknown] 710-xxx: &#8220;So what have we learned?&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>No longer his Logan&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s more purpose now, his shoulders relaxing, head held high.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>It&#8217;s locked. Another annoyance he has to deal with.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>There&#8217;s no verbal answer to the text he read, his mission focused. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>The cold in his shoulder spikes, pushing hard against the heat in his palm. It fights him the whole way through, but the curse&#8217;s effects are waning at this point. One can only maintain the curse for so long, and the perpetrator doesn&#8217;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&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Fuck,&#8221; Logan grunts at his seizing hand, trying to push against the door and fight back. It&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>A shiver hits him in the shoulder, that cold spiking and it seeps throughout him, holding him there &#8211; unable to push forward into the room. Logan grits his teeth, his jaw tensing, the masseter muscle clenching tight.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Whoever the fuck you are,&#8221; he shouts, &#8220;Just fucking stop.&#8221; It seems whatever feeling just hit him, that spike of cold, his seizing hand, the young college man doesn&#8217;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&#8217;s unweaponed, unprepared, despite the fact Greystone doesn&#8217;t like weapons, he&#8217;s already been hexed and it might be time to let this go. &#8220;I&#8217;m gonna leave. Just.. fucking stop, and we&#8217;ll call it even. Yeah?&#8221; Another flex of his hand &#8211; bringing his fingers into a fist and the hotness subsides pulling his hand away from the door knob, and taking a step back. <\/p>\n<p>No answer comes within the locker room. But it&#8217;s lit well enough, despite the arrangement of candles around a bench suggesting the lights need to be dimmed. It&#8217;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: &#8220;Day 301: Held a door for three people. Let go before I reached the door.&#8221; That particular note has a knife stabbed into it.  <\/p>\n<p>Everything looks like it was taken out of Logan&#8217;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&#8217;d recognize her, maybe. The girl who&#8217;s always in class who&#8217;s always paying attention but never called upon or even noticed. &#8220;You&#8217;re going to call it even?&#8221; she asks in a squeaky voice, tension radiating in every syllable. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s just letting out a quiet laugh. It turns out to be the opposite, maybe, just maybe Logan&#8217;s brain is entirely fired. Whoever it was doesn&#8217;t dislike him, no, it&#8217;s the fact they&#8217;re so obsessed with him. There&#8217;s a chipper attitude almost now, less angry about the whole thing. And, surprisingly, a lot less scared.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Yeah, we can call it even,&#8221; Logan beams a smile at the girl. &#8220;I mean, you&#8217;re obsessed with me, right?&#8221; Extending a hand forward to gesture at her, and then everything else in the locker room. &#8220;I don&#8217;t blame you, it&#8217;s hard not to be.&#8221; Nope, his brain is just fried. So stuck up his own ass that he&#8217;s almost a narcissist, this might be the perfect place for him. Pictures of himself. &#8220;I thought you disliked me,&#8221; he explains. <\/p>\n<p>Stunned silence follows from the girl. Logan doesn&#8217;t even know her name, and she&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;s rehearsed for Logan&#8217;s downfall ends with him laughing at her. &#8220;You think this is funny,&#8221; she says, quiet and not quite accusing, more like she&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;I&#8217;m not laughing at you,&#8221; Logan assures his classmate, his grin fading just a tiny bit. &#8220;I just though you were like..&#8221; thinking his word choice over, trying to be careful. &#8220;I guess you might kinda hate me, but it&#8217;s not like an evil hatred.&#8221; Peering at her red-rimmed eyes, Logan nods slowly. &#8220;It&#8217;s born from passion, or some shit right? What&#8217;s the crime..&#8221; Snapping, &#8220;Oh a crime of passion.&#8221; But then his hand works against his own will &#8211; 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. &#8220;Ow, fuck,&#8221; Logan groans out, using his left hand to take whatever the paper is. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s noggin, with more spirit, hopefully to send him reeling on the floor. Or preferably for the unknown Greystone student&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;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&#8217;s okay. I don&#8217;t have any friends anyway. Please bring your deck as we will be playing cards.  <\/p>\n<p>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.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>Neatly written and cursive. But she forgot to even sign her name. Oh well.  <\/p>\n<p>The End. <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/article><article id=\"post-31607\" class=\"category-display-post\"><a id=\"logans-odd-encounter-srclaire\" class=\"post-name-anchor\"><\/a><h2 class=\"category-display-post-title\">Logan&#8217;s odd encounter (SRClaire)<\/h2><div class=\"category-display-post-content\"><div class=\"category-display-post-full-content\"><style>\n    .edgt-post-text-inner p {\n        margin-bottom: 35px !important;\n    }\n    <\/style>\n<p><strong>Date:<\/strong> 2026-10-04 08:00<\/p>\n<hr>\n<p>(Logan&#8217;s odd encounter (SRClaire))<\/p>\n<p>[Sun Oct  4 2026]<\/p>\n<p>In Room Four of Ashgrove House<br \/>This is the most fairly typical guy&#8217;s dorm room one could imagine. It&#8217;s comfortable, good enough to live in, but it&#8217;s not home. It&#8217;s relatively clean, despite some food wrappers and perhaps one or two pairs of socks scattered about.<\/p>\n<p>Tucked into one corner of the room is the dorm-room sized bed. It&#8217;s just a single bed. It&#8217;s orderly though. The bedding is navy blue, with white pillows and white sheets.<\/p>\n<p>In another part of the small dorm room is a desk that seems adjustable.<\/p>\n<p>It is dawn, about 55F(12C) degrees, <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s old heating system ticks on in the walls, a low, steady sound beneath everything else. Logan probably hasn&#8217;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 <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s yet to buy blackout curtains, and clearly he should have. &#8220;Eck..&#8221; letting out a sound, one eye cracking open to begin perusing his screen. &#8220;Who..?&#8221; The question is left in the air &#8211; mostly to the void. &#8220;Shit. Did I have a class?&#8221; That&#8217;s his next question, and yet he doesn&#8217;t seem to be leaping out of bed. <\/p>\n<p>At all of those relevant questions, both inward and outward, Logan&#8217;s phone persists in trying to take all of the college student&#8217;s early morning for itself. The alert is quite insistent that it even chimes loudly, bypassing any mute settings on Logan&#8217;s device. Before he can even work to unlocking his phone, there&#8217;s already something there for him to feast his eyes on.  <\/p>\n<p>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  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>The persistent noise startles him awake, &#8220;Okay, okay,&#8221; Logan groans, now fully awake &#8211; realizing what it is that he&#8217;s reading on his phone. &#8220;Really?&#8221; Eyes look upwards, towards the ceiling, and the heavens above. &#8220;A missing child, at eight in the morning?&#8221; There&#8217;s an annoyed sound from him, a raspberry crossing his lips. &#8220;That&#8217;s&#8230; not far.&#8221; Going through the routine, Logan grabs basically yesterday&#8217;s clothes, pulling his pants on and the rest of the outfit follows. &#8220;Do I call..&#8221; the question is probably redundant, &#8220;the police?&#8221; Once he&#8217;s up and dressed he shakes his limbs, rolling his neck. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s one of Logan&#8217;s fraternity brothers, though the mousy-eared student that peeks in doesn&#8217;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. &#8220;Hey dude. Did you check your phone? Pi Sigma Tau&#8217;s gonna find Zoe! Come and get up. We&#8217;re gonna be hot shit!&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>It&#8217;s fortunate enough that Logan had already gotten himself dressed, the alarms woke him up, and this mousy-eared kid has finished the job. &#8220;Yeah, alright,&#8221; he says, &#8220;But don&#8217;t just open my fucking door.&#8221; There&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Bro,&#8221; the unnamed student both urges and rouses, overstaying his welcome by stepping inside, taking a look inside of Logan&#8217;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. &#8220;It was already open,&#8221; he lies for his own convenience, waiting patiently, and perhaps throwing his weight around as someone who&#8217;s been here longer than Logan. &#8220;Logan right? New guy, right on. I&#8217;m Hunter. A-hey!&#8221; Hunter chases after Logan, suddenly becoming his wingman in this search. He might be shorter and leaner than Logan, but he easily catches up. &#8220;I&#8217;m Hunter,&#8221; he says through breaths, being one of those guys who like to attach themselves any way, anyhow. &#8220;Where do you wanna search first? Know the way around?&#8221; Even when they get to the vehicle he rounds to the other side. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;It wasn&#8217;t open,&#8221; 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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;No, not really. I moved here the other night,&#8221; Logan tells Hunter, &#8220;She was..&#8221; addressing his phone once more, &#8220;Somewhere near the Campus? The edge of the forest.&#8221; Sucking at his teeth, Logan grimaces in fear &#8211; since things linger in the forests. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Who, a girl you met?&#8221; Hunter asks, ever ready to stay at Logan&#8217;s side. They made for a mad dash to where the girl was reported last seen, but he&#8217;s hardly broken a sweat, and he doesn&#8217;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&#8217;s voices calling out the missing girl&#8217;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 &#8212; Logan and his new party member to exercise caution and not go alone. &#8220;Oh dude. Let&#8217;s get some of these,&#8221; 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. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;What?&#8221; Logan asks confusedly to his newfound shadow. &#8220;What are you talking about? I&#8217;m talking about this girl we&#8217;re trying to find. What girl are you talking about?&#8221; They pull up to the volunteer booth, and Logan pulls on his own reflective vest, making sure it&#8217;s snug and tight. It&#8217;s early morning, so it&#8217;s probably not needed too much, but safety first. You never know. There&#8217;s a scanning of the crowd, of his whereabouts &#8211; 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&#8217;s just a perceptive lad.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Yo,&#8221; Logan mentions to Hunter, nudging him in the arm. A nod and Logan heads that way, towards the something red. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Oh yeah. Zoey,&#8221; Hunter realizes, getting back to business, or at least it would seem. He&#8217;s checking on his phone, staring at the alert. Then at the missing poster with the missing child&#8217;s photo. It&#8217;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. &#8220;Oh one of these babes I met last night,&#8221; he says, his voice obnoxious like smog in how smug he sounds. &#8220;The locals are pretty cute. Banging even. I was THIS close to getting this girl&#8217;s number at the Alley.&#8221; He sounds wistful. Then stops when Logan reminds them of their important mission. &#8220;Oh shit yeah.&#8221; 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. &#8220;Don&#8217;t go alone!&#8221; an elderly woman shrieks at Logan and Hunter, albeit needlessly. They&#8217;re partnered up already. <\/p>\n<p>Now, Logan isn&#8217;t a professional detective by any means, but he&#8217;s absolutely smart enough to not touch the red mitten with his hands. &#8220;Hey!&#8221; He calls out to the elderly woman, &#8220;You should get someone to check this out!&#8221; 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. &#8220;And this, we&#8217;re going in, but, you know, trained professionals would be a good call!&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>And off Logan jogs, half-listening to the ramblings of his new partner in crime about the banging girl he&#8217;s met. &#8220;Sounds like you had a good time man, I also had a good time with this lady.&#8221; That&#8217;s about as far as he explains, since they&#8217;re now edging into the forests, and Logan has his eyes peeled. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;No kidding,&#8221; 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&#8217;s side. &#8220;You&#8217;ll need to tell me about it later, man. Right now we gotta focus up, you know? Babes are great and all, but there&#8217;s a damn kid missing, Logan,&#8221; 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&#8217;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&#8217;s, and much like the mitten doesn&#8217;t have its own partner in crime like Logan does. It&#8217;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&#8217;s name. <\/p>\n<p>Putting a hand out, Logan stops Hunter, and he scans the area in front of them, head tilting to the side like a dog &#8211; like he&#8217;s listening for anything that might help, he even goes so far as sniffing the air. &#8220;Hey, you happen to be strapped?&#8221; Logan asks Hunter curiously, one hand reaching out to pat his own pocket &#8211; right then left, and coming up empty-pocketed. Creeping forward, he watches that red trail more closely, noticing the way things lay. <\/p>\n<p>Hunter bumps into the arm, but while he might seem pretty athletic, he&#8217;s still much smaller in stature than Logan, so he stumbles back from the other college student&#8217;s arm. &#8220;Me? No way. Listen, Logan,&#8221; he says, gesturing out before him, starry-eyed and losing his tempo. &#8220;Girls hate that shit. So even if I AM packing heat, you don&#8217;t go flaunting that around. Guns are like, no good. But yeah I actually got one on me,&#8221; 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&#8217;s hands. &#8220;Glock,&#8221; he whispers, then keeps his eyes peeled, angling along with someone, think we&#8217;re gonna end up finding some shit?&#8221; The trail goes cold at this point, but there are voices ahead, sounding a little frantic. &#8220;What&#8217;s going on there?&#8221; Hunter asks, perplexed. The treeline is too dense here, but the sound doesn&#8217;t seem too far off in the distance.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Hunter bumps into the arm, but while he might seem pretty athletic, he&#8217;s still much smaller in stature than Logan, so he stumbles back from the other college student&#8217;s arm. &#8220;Me? No way. Listen, Logan,&#8221; he says, gesturing out before him, starry-eyed and losing his tempo. &#8220;Girls hate that shit. So even if I AM packing heat, you don&#8217;t go flaunting that around. Guns are like, no good. But yeah I actually got one on me,&#8221; 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&#8217;s hands. &#8220;Glock,&#8221; he whispers, then keeps his eyes peeled, angling along with Logan, think we&#8217;re gonna end up finding some shit?&#8221; The trail goes cold at this point, but there are voices ahead, sounding a little frantic. &#8220;What&#8217;s going on there?&#8221; Hunter asks, perplexed. The treeline is too dense here, but the sound doesn&#8217;t seem too far off in the distance.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Hunter balks, then stares at Logan as if he just betrayed him. &#8220;Of course I do,&#8221; he says, huffing and harrumphing. There is a rather audible *CLICK* from Logan&#8217;s side, and if he were to investigate he&#8217;d see Hunter priming it to fire. &#8220;The girl&#8217;s gonna be alright, right?&#8221; he worries at Hunter, showing he does have a heart after all. &#8220;You&#8217;re in Greystone so you probably know the whole deal with Sanctuary. No way she&#8217;d die to anything out here,&#8221; 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&#8217;s a woman wailing, her grief cutting through the air. <\/p>\n<p>Looking to his side, Logan sees Hunter, and his real lack of firearm safety &#8211; the barrel was pointed directly at Logan and he hisses, &#8220;Fucking point it away from me, fucking hell.&#8221; And then keeps his eyes forward. &#8220;Yeah, she&#8217;ll be fine.&#8221; It doesn&#8217;t sound exactly like a promise. Sanctuary exists, of course, but, monsters? They&#8217;ve got a lot of different rules. And Logan might not fully understand them himself, really. Even if he&#8217;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 &#8211; some people with actual authority investigating the mitten, he hopes. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Sorry man,&#8221; 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. &#8220;There&#8217;s something going down over there,&#8221; Hunter reminds, even if they&#8217;re already on their way to investigate. There&#8217;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. &#8220;&#8230;did they find her?&#8221; Hunter asks, swallowing hard. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;I don&#8217;t know,&#8221; Logan says through gritted teeth. &#8220;But.. based of that wailing?&#8221; There&#8217;s an exhale, a long one. &#8220;It sounds like it. Yeah. I don&#8217;t think we should.. investigate more.&#8221; Shaking his head from side to side, Logan&#8217;s shoulders slump. It seemed he had hope up until this point, and there&#8217;s something cracking in him. &#8220;If.. it&#8217;s something bad, we gotta give the parents their space.&#8221; Eyes straight ahead, just watching the gathering in front of himself. <\/p>\n<p>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. &#8220;What the hell could have happened?&#8221; he wonders out loud.  <\/p>\n<p>The pair are spotted, and a man in a uniform wearing a wide-brimmed hat and shades approaches with long strides. &#8220;Ya&#8217;ll should head back now,&#8221; 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. &#8220;Some sort of animal attack,&#8221; he says, yet skeptical. &#8220;But there doesn&#8217;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&#8217;t like it.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>There&#8217;s a glance at Hunter&#8217;s phone from Logan, and his lips curl into a thin line. But he can&#8217;t help being a college male, and there&#8217;s a lift of his eyebrow. &#8220;I..&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>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. &#8220;Is she okay?&#8221; But, he seems to have some understanding of the situation. His hope fading more and more by the minute, the way he holds himself &#8211; a slump in his shoulders. <\/p>\n<p>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. &#8220;Right. You two head on back now.&#8221; There is a glint over his shades as he dips his chin. &#8220;Sigma Tau boys?&#8221; There is a small note of approval from him as she scans Hunter in particular, noting the Greek alphabet he&#8217;s repping. &#8220;My son wants to join. Bunch of good fellas,&#8221; he says to bring some levity, but it&#8217;s for naught. Not with the poor small woman shrieking uncontrollably, running herself hoarse, yet a mother&#8217;s love keeps her running. &#8220;She&#8217;ll be right as rain,&#8221; he assures Logan, lying through white teeth. &#8220;Now go on.&#8221; He fishes for his wallet, and hands $logan a crisp fifty dollar bill. &#8220;Get yourselves a good breakfast.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>&#8211;END ENCOUNTER&#8211; <\/p>\n<p>There&#8217;s one last look towards the group behind the officer, and Logan nudges Hunter, realizing the money is basically a &#8216;get the fuck outta here&#8217; ticket, Logan accepts it, and slinks back &#8211; heading back the way they came. <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/article><article id=\"post-31617\" class=\"category-display-post\"><a id=\"serenas-odd-encounter-srgraham\" class=\"post-name-anchor\"><\/a><h2 class=\"category-display-post-title\">Serena&#8217;s odd encounter (SRGraham)<\/h2><div class=\"category-display-post-content\"><div class=\"category-display-post-full-content\"><style>\n    .edgt-post-text-inner p {\n        margin-bottom: 35px !important;\n    }\n    <\/style>\n<p><strong>Date:<\/strong> 2026-10-09 00:32<\/p>\n<hr>\n<p>(Serena&#8217;s odd encounter (SRGraham))<\/p>\n<p>[Fri Oct  9 2026]<\/p>\n<p>In the Snack room of The Chill and Fill Snack Express<br \/>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.<\/p>\n<p>A few hand painted wooden signs have been hung up on the wall next to the vending machine that declare:<\/p>\n<p>[ Here ] Snacks<br \/>[ South ] Prepared Foods + Slushies<br \/>[ South + West ] Restroom<br \/>[ West ] Lounge<br \/>[ North ] Employees Only<\/p>\n<p>It is night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky.  There is a waning crescent moon.  <\/p>\n<p>For the moment &#8211; for this brief moment &#8211; there&#8217;s really not much going on tonight. It&#8217;s pleasant, maybe slightly chilly evening, with a gentle westerly blowing against the bay. It&#8217;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&#8217;s Haven, after all.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s walls stop either Serena or Callum from having to hear it.  <\/p>\n<p>For the moment, for this brief moment, there&#8217;s really not much going on. <\/p>\n<p>Serena looks over the goods in the vending machine, her face lit by the ambient glow. &#8220;So you&#8217;re a Skittles boy, are you?&#8221; she teases to Callum. &#8220;And to be honest, there&#8217;s a dearth of ice cream shops here, I think maybe the closest one is Boston? I&#8217;ll order some tubs of vanilla and mint choco chip for next time though,&#8221; the Wilson offers. &#8220;I&#8217;m maybe feeling a slush, and I&#8217;ll steal some of your candies? Maybe we should just get a grab bag of snacks for when we get munchies,&#8221; she offers to her companion. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Skittles man, la. Skittles \/man.\/&#8221; Callum corrects with an amused wrinkle of the nose as he spins the candies idly in his hand, &#8220;I mean, I prefer them over M&amp;Ms. They always melt in me back pocket, and then when I got to eat them they&#8217;re just smeared.&#8221; He relates back to Serena, which really seems to be a problem with how he manages his chocolates than the candies themselves. &#8220;Plus, I like to taste the rainbow, eh?&#8221; He adds with a waggle of the brow, &#8220;Eh?&#8221; The Scouser repeats, just in case it was too subtle the first time.  <\/p>\n<p>There are a few beats before he drops it, &#8220;That&#8217;s a good idea, somethin&#8217; to munch on always goes well with rotting.&#8221; He notes in agreement of her snackage plans. <\/p>\n<p>Rotting? Vegging? Assuming the role of general layabouts? Maybe if they&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>A woman comes tearing up the road in what might be described in Scouse as &#8216;a right fucken flap&#8217;. Her eyes bug out of her head, her hair&#8217;s rather damp with sweat, and she&#8217;s moving at a rate of knots. She&#8217;s terrified &#8211; 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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Oh god,&#8221; she gasps. &#8220;Oh, Christ, get down, both of you. Oh, Jesus.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>She&#8217;s attractive enough &#8211; twenty something, maybe a well-aged thirty something. One piece, clingy dress, fit for a nightclub &#8211; in fucking taupe of all colours, eugh. Nice hips, though. The effect&#8217;s somewhat dampened by the streaks of sweat that stain it, and she&#8217;s been running barefoot by a while judging by the superficial damage to be found there.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;There&#8217;s a fucking monster out there.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;That&#8217;s because you shouldn&#8217;t put them in your back pocket, Cal.&#8221; She nudges his arm, &#8220;That&#8217;s like asking to have a brown smear on your jeans.&#8221; Serena&#8217;s nose wrinkles at the mental image. &#8220;Just eat them as soon as you get them or get a bag,&#8221; she points out, sensibly.  <\/p>\n<p>A laugh escapes from the Wilson scion. &#8220;Taste the rainbow? Is that a euphemism now for whatever we&#8217;re picking up next?&#8221; There&#8217;s an edge to her smile now, a look of excitement at the prospect of a chill evening. She&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>That is&#8230; 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. &#8220;What?&#8221; she asks, her tone alarmed. &#8220;What do you mean?&#8221; Those blue eyes flick towards the glass door, trying to look beyond it into the evening. <\/p>\n<p>There is an audible part of Callum&#8217;s lips as he prepares to find some way to disagree with Serena, though the chance to share his wisdom doesn&#8217;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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Oi, shut up!&#8221; He calls over at the poor woman, who is poor not just because she&#8217;s still clubbing in her thirties, but also because something appears to have gone amiss. He clucks his tongue at himself, &#8220;Well, don&#8217;t shut up- be fuckin&#8217; clear, eh? What&#8217;s out there?&#8221; Callum hisses at her, electing to keep down rather than risk peeking. Besides, he has all these other senses that don&#8217;t expose himself, and more importantly, Serena to any further potential risk. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;It-&#8221; she freezes a little, something between a whimper, a whine, and a squeal escaping her. Her chest&#8217;s locking up, she can&#8217;t breathe &#8211; yes she can, it&#8217;s just fear &#8211; the room&#8217;s too bright, they&#8217;ll be found, the monster&#8217;s coming. It&#8217;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&#8217;t already.  <\/p>\n<p>She doesn&#8217;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. &#8220;It &#8211; it&#8217;s like one of those wolves the deputies keep telling us don&#8217;t live in the woods,&#8221; she whines. &#8220;Only huge. Oh God. And it was chasing me. I swear, it&#8217;s not natural. It would slow down every time it got close. I knew it was playing with me, but I just couldn&#8217;t stop running. It &#8211; it bit me. I know it&#8217;s real.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>Oh, yeah, there&#8217;s the scent of blood, and to a sharp enough nose, there&#8217;s the very faint whiff of a lycanthrope, too. It&#8217;s not the right time of month for this, though. If this is a werewolf, it&#8217;s probably not lunacy to blame. Probably. <\/p>\n<p>Serena gets caught in the momentum of Callum&#8217;s faster movements, finding herself dragged to the ground. It&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>But when the woman begins to explain, the Wilson&#8217;s eyes are trained firmly upon her shifting expression.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8230; like one of those wolves the deputies keep telling us don&#8217;t live in the woods&#8230;  <\/p>\n<p>Serena doesn&#8217;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. &#8220;It&#8230; It bit you? Like just now?&#8221; Her eyes are sharp to scan the woman. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Alright,&#8221; Callum&#8217;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, &#8220;Covered in me scent,&#8221; He offers to her, a half-reason for why he&#8217;s done this, before he clears his throat. He doesn&#8217;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, &#8220;Right, well. Here&#8217;s the silver lining for ya, la? We just happen to know that they&#8217;re proper afraid of grape juice. Makes all uneasy, yeah? Because of Jesus,&#8221; He&#8217;s running his mouth, but he&#8217;s doing so confidently enough that he hopes he can sell it.  <\/p>\n<p>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. &#8220;Here&#8217;s the plan proper, splash that all over yaself, and run out to the street, straight down to the Lodge, yeah? We&#8217;ll make some proper noise out the back to attract it.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>A hand snakes behind him, searching for Serena&#8217;s wrist to squeeze it, and hold her still. This is not the plan, it communicates. <\/p>\n<p>Perhaps there&#8217;s an advantage to this vantage after all. It&#8217;s only slight, but there&#8217;s a trickle of blood visible just past the back and inside of the woman&#8217;s thigh. The flow&#8217;s not heavy enough to have come from much higher up than that &#8211; Serena&#8217;s not seeing evidence of anything indecent, but she&#8217;s also not seeing evidence of a werewolf&#8217;s usual savagery. They aren&#8217;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&#8217;s being played with. <\/p>\n<p>She&#8217;s not wearing a ring, but &#8211; 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&#8217;s already paid her just deserts; the woman&#8217;s having a horrible night.  <\/p>\n<p>There&#8217;s nothing to be seen out through the windows. Nothing giving chase, following the heady scent of the dyed-blonde&#8217;s scent trail or the delicious fear wafting off her. It&#8217;s enough even for the weakest of supernaturals to feed on, if they only reach out to suck it in. &#8220;Please,&#8221; she whimpers. &#8220;I- Please, you need to get down.&#8221; A little too shocked for an interrogation, then. Or for grape juice.  <\/p>\n<p>There&#8217;s a sudden crash and the shattering of glass. Something just rammed through the fucking bathroom wall. Whoever this is, they&#8217;re not a fledgling, and they&#8217;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&#8217;s not going to hold.  <\/p>\n<p>The cover-up can wait. Protect yourselves first. <\/p>\n<p>Serena is quick to wrap the jacket around her, as large as it is on her frame. It certainly couldn&#8217;t hurt in this moment. If this were a party, she&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>Through it all, she feels the touch of Callum&#8217;s hand upon her wrist, her own hand already trembling, until stilled by the grip of his.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>There&#8217;s a pounding in Callum&#8217;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&#8217;s no time for that as he physically shakes the thoughts away for the time being, &#8220;Rena, door. Check if there&#8217;s a way out.&#8221; He directs Serena in a reversal of their typical roles, giving an order now with a tone that doesn&#8217;t welcome disagreement. A jolt of his chin toward the northern door serves as direction for her, before he releases his grip on her. &#8220;You, Tragedy, check the lounge one!&#8221; 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&#8217;s ability to do as she&#8217;s told, and so he takes the choice away from her.  <\/p>\n<p>Then Callum is darting forward, toward the bathroom door, where the terrible sounds of destruction eminate from &#8211; 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&#8217;s too late. <\/p>\n<p>Easy. A little frisson of seducere in Callum&#8217;s voice and Tragedy hops up to her feet with a short, quick nod. She&#8217;s a Havenite. She&#8217;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&#8217;s playing for the NFL. &#8220;It&#8217;s open!&#8221; she shrieks. &#8220;It&#8217;s open!&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>The bathroom door doesn&#8217;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&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;MINE.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8230; Or, of course, they could stay and fight. Sanctuary should still hold. <\/p>\n<p>Callum&#8217;s words spark something in Serena&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s blue eyes that find Tragedy. And then Callum. And then a decision is made.  <\/p>\n<p>Serena whirls back to the woman, &#8220;Stay where you are. Let us handle this.&#8221; There&#8217;s an urgency in Serena&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>Oh, so close. Those words worm and wriggle and coax their way along the wrinkles in poor Tragedy&#8217;s feeble human brain, probing for entrance. It&#8217;s working. It&#8217;ll work &#8211;  <\/p>\n<p>The werewolf snarls and she fucking bolts. The backlash slams into Serena&#8217;s mind hard enough for her vision to darken for a moment, then resume as her head throbs in pain.  <\/p>\n<p>The werewolf tears off in pursuit. It&#8217;ll catch the woman in seconds. This is your very last chance to make a call. <\/p>\n<p>Callum understands that word immediately.  <\/p>\n<p>\/Mine.\/  <\/p>\n<p>Whatever other misunderstandings may arise between wolves, and men, this isn&#8217;t one of them. The scouser lad doesn&#8217;t even look toward Tragedy. Doesn&#8217;t take so much so much as half a step in her direction. He isn&#8217;t the hero of this story, he&#8217;s just another scumbag. Just another ratbag trying to survive. And he has a job to do.  <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Yours.&#8221; There&#8217;s an acknowledgement afforded to the wolf, as he cants his head toward Tragedy, without quite looking at her.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Mine.&#8221; It&#8217;s a set of terms. A compact, then. As his outstretched arms indicate Serena in turn.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;t bare his teeth. He doesn&#8217;t stare. Eyes avert from the creatures own and toward the centre of it&#8217;s mass.  <\/p>\n<p>Every bit of him says the same thing in a language considerably older than English, that he will not challenge the wolfs claim.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Easy,&#8221; His voice is low, and quiet as he speaks to Serena now, still not moving his gaze from where it lingers, &#8220;We&#8217;re goin&#8217;.&#8221; Another step, and another yet, each brings him closer to her, &#8220;Loose, but not slack. Eyes down, but not away.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>The high road, the safe road, and the one that still manages to expose Callum&#8217;s hideous other nature, even if not through his own actions.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s Sanctuary? She hadn&#8217;t had a red aura, but &#8211; it&#8217;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&#8217;re forced far beyond their limits. Through it, the wolf rants in its broken, bestial tongue.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;FUCKING WHORE.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;TRUSTED YOU.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;LOVED YOU.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>So much for that love &#8211; 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.  <\/p>\n<p>There&#8217;s certainly no hiding the danger of a werewolf&#8217;s love.  <\/p>\n<p>It&#8217;s too bad for Tragedy. Love has to be mutual to remove the wards of Sanctuary, doesn&#8217;t it? <\/p>\n<p>&#8212; End Encounter &#8212; <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/article><article id=\"post-31619\" class=\"category-display-post\"><a id=\"sidonies-odd-encounter-srhiram\" class=\"post-name-anchor\"><\/a><h2 class=\"category-display-post-title\">Sidonie&#8217;s odd encounter (SRHiram)<\/h2><div class=\"category-display-post-content\"><div class=\"category-display-post-full-content\"><style>\n    .edgt-post-text-inner p {\n        margin-bottom: 35px !important;\n    }\n    <\/style>\n<p><strong>Date:<\/strong> 2026-10-09 13:15<\/p>\n<hr>\n<p>(Sidonie&#8217;s odd encounter (SRHiram))<\/p>\n<p>[Fri Oct  9 2026]<\/p>\n<p>In a quiet bedroom beneath the eaves<br \/>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<br \/> 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.<\/p>\n<p>It is afternoon, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky.  <\/p>\n<p>Thank you for accepting my encounter! Please give me a quick post as to what you were doing. <\/p>\n<p>The bedroom is&#8230; not a mess, per se. Just rumpled. The kind of place where the inhabitants aren&#8217;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.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>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).  <\/p>\n<p>The lavender-haired woman&#8217;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&#8217;s not a monster who submits others to constant phone noises. No, it just buzzes, vibrating in her bag.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8230; 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. &#8220;I say to everyone, the woods they are dangerous&#8230; But people, they do not listen.&#8221; Once she feels (relatively) confident on where to go, she gets into her car and is&#8230;  <\/p>\n<p>&#8230;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. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;t gottn sucked in a gate or something <\/p>\n<p>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.  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8230;  <\/p>\n<p>Oh no, clothes shopping, how terrible a thought.  <\/p>\n<p>Checking her purse &#8212; compass, check. flashlight(s), check. &#8212; 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. <\/p>\n<p>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? <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s quite careful of those, too).  <\/p>\n<p>Taking a deep breath, she angles away enough from the others and starts slowly pressing further into the trees. At least she&#8217;s not in heels today. Mary Janes are some of the most sensible of the &#8216;cute&#8217; 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. <\/p>\n<p>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 &#8216;That-a-way&#8217; some distance away from her.  <\/p>\n<p>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 <\/p>\n<p>Thank our Thirst Lord and Savior Jeff Goldblum she&#8217;s not. Sidonie would rather survive the film adaptation. The Haven Witch Project? Witches of Haven? Impractical Magic?  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s not the cold, New England autumn air. There&#8217;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).  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Mr. McCay?&#8221; Sidonie&#8217;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: &#8220;Albert McCay?&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>From the center of the ring, a head pops out from around a tree. He is scared, and suspicious of Sidonie. &#8220;Who&#8230; who are you?&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;t have the money let alone access to such things. &#8220;It is okay,&#8221; 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&#8217;s had for middling YouTube channels), &#8220;I am Sidonie Renault. You are Mr. McCay, oui?&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;t move.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Many people, they are looking for you. They are concerned.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;I am concerned!&#8221; Albert exclaims. &#8220;I was out picking chantrells and then boom! Was being chased by a minotaur being ridden by a woman with purple hair.&#8221; He shakes his head, &#8220;Where am I anyway? I don&#8217;t want to move&#8230; I don&#8217;t want to trip into another gate.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>A minotaur? Sidonie blanches at that, but thankfully: she&#8217;s already a rather fair-skinned woman and she&#8217;s wearing makeup. It&#8217;s not terribly visible. She knew the risks moving to Haven, but still.  <\/p>\n<p>Deep breath. &#8220;Not far from the road, I promise.&#8221; It&#8217;s hard for her to say exactly where. &#8220;West of town, but not so far as the Moore woods?&#8221; The uncertainty isn&#8217;t too strong and hopefully will be taken as &#8216;hey buddy it&#8217;s the woods, precise positioning is hard without a GPS.&#8217;  <\/p>\n<p>However, Sidonie does hold up the compass a bit more prominently. &#8220;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.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Oh&#8230; Oh ok,&#8221; the man says following Sidonie shuffling along with her, keeping close to her until they get out of the forest. He doesn&#8217;t mind following her but definitely needs a drink, or more. He nods then and thanks her.  <\/p>\n<p>OOC: Thank you for the Scene! Do you need me to transport you somewhere? <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/article><article id=\"post-31630\" class=\"category-display-post\"><a id=\"simones-odd-encounter-srgrant\" class=\"post-name-anchor\"><\/a><h2 class=\"category-display-post-title\">Simone&#8217;s odd encounter (SRGrant)<\/h2><div class=\"category-display-post-content\"><div class=\"category-display-post-full-content\"><style>\n    .edgt-post-text-inner p {\n        margin-bottom: 35px !important;\n    }\n    <\/style>\n<p><strong>Date:<\/strong> 2026-10-15 07:19<\/p>\n<hr>\n<p>(Simone&#8217;s odd encounter (SRGrant))<\/p>\n<p>[Thu Oct 15 2026]<\/p>\n<p>In the bathroom<br \/>This bathroom is kept in pristine condition.  The floor is a series of<br \/>tiles that alternate between blue and white, and the tub is built into the<br \/>wall.  Tub, sink, and toilet all are made with white ceramic, and the inside<br \/>of the toilet bowl is filled with water that&#8217;s blue due to constant use of<br \/>pipe cleaning fluids.  The whole area is lit by a ceiling fan, the blades of<br \/>which are made of some kind of whitened steel.  <\/p>\n<p>It is dawn, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few thin white clouds in the sky.  <\/p>\n<p>Simone says &#8220;Not sure if you can see this, but I can&#8217;t send you tells. Mind need to consent to ooc rules.&#8221;<\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;d had to use a hairpin to pick a lock to get into the room. Her first payday in this town wouldn&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>For some time the hot water likely does it&#8217;s job. Soaking through the stress carried in Simone&#8217;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&#8217;t quite shut off all the way, or a low complaint of plumping deeper within the walls as another room uses their own facilities.  <\/p>\n<p>Then something knocks beneath the tub.  <\/p>\n<p>Three hollow taps. A pause, and then three more. Harder this time.  <\/p>\n<p>Perhaps it is the room below, if there is one, banging on the roof for some god-forsaken reason? <\/p>\n<p>Simone blinks at the first tap, eyes opening wide from their relaxed position. By the second, they&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>There must be some relief, surely, when Simone&#8217;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&#8217;s something somewhat amiss.  <\/p>\n<p>Looming over her form in this reflection is a pale, dark-eyed woman, her hair drifting down across Simone&#8217;s shoulders and chest, even as she covers and protects her modesty. When she looks in the reflection she can almost feel it.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;t stood up to send water anywhere. Why -is- there a pool here? <\/p>\n<p>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?  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s claws in her, as she reaches down to graze her fingers across the surface of the water, sending ripples skittering along it.  <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<p>Simone manages to pull one of her arms back from the image&#8217;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&#8217;t even call for help. Her body flails, tugging for a moment against that grip. She&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>There&#8217;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&#8217;t how they were. She isn&#8217;t trying to stop someone from clawing at her any longer, she&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s not much of a fighter whatever body she&#8217;s in. Whether this is a dream, or the creature is truly trying to steal her mind, maybe the transfer isn&#8217;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. <\/p>\n<p>The taste of blood fills her mouth. Her mouth.  <\/p>\n<p>The young woman is mute, and as such the scream that escapes from her is inhuman and alien, a voice that doesn&#8217;t belong to her &#8211; or very well may, and she has never heard it before.  <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;NOOOOOOO.&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;s terrible visage in turn &#8211; but then, she is free! Slipping and crashing backwards into the tub and sending a surge of water spilling and splashing over the lip. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8230; thing. <\/p>\n<p>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&#8217;ve fallen asleep in the tub, or something. That&#8217;s the only rational explanation, of course.  <\/p>\n<p>Though, that doesn&#8217;t explain the claw marks upon her forearms, or the ache in her throat, does it?  <\/p>\n<p>But stranger things have happened. <\/p>\n<p>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. <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/article><\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n<div class=\"wp-block-column is-layout-flow wp-block-column-is-layout-flow\" style=\"flex-basis:33.33%\"><div class=\"custom-category-post-list \"><ul><li><a href=\"#post-31624\">Adrian&#8217;s odd encounter (SRLacey)<\/a><\/li><li><a href=\"#post-31629\">Catriona&#8217;s odd encounter (SRSly)<\/a><\/li><li><a href=\"#post-31597\">Claire&#8217;s odd encounter (SRGraham)<\/a><\/li><li><a href=\"#post-31622\">Claire&#8217;s odd encounter (SRLillian)<\/a><\/li><li><a href=\"#post-31614\">Claire&#8217;s odd encounter (SRLogan)<\/a><\/li><li><a href=\"#post-31623\">Concepcion&#8217;s odd encounter (SRCatriona)<\/a><\/li><li><a href=\"#post-31606\">Concepcion&#8217;s odd encounter (SRGrant)<\/a><\/li><li><a href=\"#post-31601\">Graham&#8217;s odd encounter (SRCiara)<\/a><\/li><li><a href=\"#post-31611\">Graham&#8217;s odd encounter (SRCiara)<\/a><\/li><li><a href=\"#post-31603\">Hiram&#8217;s odd encounter (SRChristopher)<\/a><\/li><li><a href=\"#post-31600\">Karma&#8217;s odd encounter (SRSly)<\/a><\/li><li><a href=\"#post-31627\">Lacey&#8217;s odd encounter (SRAdrian)<\/a><\/li><li><a href=\"#post-31613\">Letitia&#8217;s odd encounter (SRShay)<\/a><\/li><li><a href=\"#post-31605\">Lillian&#8217;s odd encounter (SREris)<\/a><\/li><li><a href=\"#post-31620\">Logan&#8217;s odd encounter (SRClaire)<\/a><\/li><li><a href=\"#post-31607\">Logan&#8217;s odd encounter (SRClaire)<\/a><\/li><li><a href=\"#post-31617\">Serena&#8217;s odd encounter (SRGraham)<\/a><\/li><li><a href=\"#post-31619\">Sidonie&#8217;s odd encounter (SRHiram)<\/a><\/li><li><a href=\"#post-31630\">Simone&#8217;s odd encounter (SRGrant)<\/a><\/li><\/ul><\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_bbp_topic_count":0,"_bbp_reply_count":0,"_bbp_total_topic_count":0,"_bbp_total_reply_count":0,"_bbp_voice_count":0,"_bbp_anonymous_reply_count":0,"_bbp_topic_count_hidden":0,"_bbp_reply_count_hidden":0,"_bbp_forum_subforum_count":0,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-31545","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/havenrpg.net\/newsite\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/31545","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/havenrpg.net\/newsite\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/havenrpg.net\/newsite\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/havenrpg.net\/newsite\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/havenrpg.net\/newsite\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=31545"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/havenrpg.net\/newsite\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/31545\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/havenrpg.net\/newsite\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=31545"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}