{"id":29776,"date":"2026-05-14T06:53:09","date_gmt":"2026-05-14T10:53:09","guid":{"rendered":""},"modified":"2026-05-14T06:53:09","modified_gmt":"2026-05-14T10:53:09","slug":"encounter-1411","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/havenrpg.net\/newsite\/2026\/05\/14\/encounter-1411\/","title":{"rendered":"Maeve&#8217;s Wednesday evening odd encounter(Axle)"},"content":{"rendered":"<style>\n    .edgt-post-text-inner p {\n        margin-bottom: 35px !important;\n    }\n    <\/style>\n<p><strong>Date:<\/strong> 2026-05-13 18:43<\/p>\n<hr>\n<p><span style=\"color:#008000\">               (<\/span>Maeve&#8217;s Wednesday evening odd encounter(Axle):Axle<span style=\"color:#008000\">)<\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"color:#008080\">        [<\/span>Wed May 13 2026<span style=\"color:#008080\">]<\/span><\/p>\n<p>In Stix &amp; Stones Snacks<br \/>Dark, gloomy, near-black but high shine paint coats every wall, and the ceiling, in this ominous space. The lobby has dark, near-black tiles of striated green flecked with brown, that almost resemble graveyard dirt, if one particularly squints, and it leads in, past foam tombstones printed with names of popular items, toward the dining area and the counter.<\/p>\n<p>   Tucked into alcoves hidden by shadow, sat at their own tables out of the way, and behind the counter, wearing the uniform, seemingly pouring a coffee, articulated skeletons who are fully dressed add a little more to the absurd energy of this cemetary-themed establishment, and above the board that lists what&#8217;s for sale, the sign simply reads, &#8220;OBITUARIES&#8221;.<\/p>\n<p>It is about <span style=\"color:#008080\">55<\/span>F(<span style=\"color:#008080\">12<\/span>C) degrees.  The mist is heaviest <span style=\"color:#a6ceff\">A<span style=\"color:#a3ccf8\">t<span style=\"color:#a1cbf2\"> <span style=\"color:#9fc9eb\">M<span style=\"color:#9dc8e5\">a<span style=\"color:#9bc7de\">y<span style=\"color:#99c5d8\">f<span style=\"color:#96c4d2\">l<span style=\"color:#94c3cb\">o<span style=\"color:#91c1c5\">w<span style=\"color:#8fc0bf\">e<span style=\"color:#8cbfb9\">r<span style=\"color:#8abdb2\"> <span style=\"color:#87bcac\">a<span style=\"color:#84bba6\">n<span style=\"color:#82b9a0\">d<span style=\"color:#7fb89a\"> <span style=\"color:#7cb693\">S<span style=\"color:#79b58d\">i<span style=\"color:#76b487\">d<span style=\"color:#73b281\">n<span style=\"color:#70b17b\">e<span style=\"color:#6cb074\">y\/span<\/span\/span><\/p>\n<p>(Your target discovers a cursed object at an estate sale or thrift shop that seems innocuous but begins feeding on their life force or luck. They must figure out how to break the curse or pass it along to someone else before it drains them completely &#8211; raising questions about whether they&#8217;re willing to doom another person to save themselves.)<\/p>\n<p>The building of Sticks and Stones had, formerly, been quiet, aside from Maeve and whatever noise she happened to be making. Then&#8230;  <br \/>\nBang!  <br \/>\nSomething strikes the wall with enough force to make glass tremble. That sudden eruption of noise is it however, as the establishment falls quiet once more. No further sounds break the calm for a long, long moment, as if the air itself were frozen.  <br \/>\nThen the tension snaps, and sound rushes back in, though&#8230; is it, just ever so slightly muted now? <\/p>\n<p>Maeve sighs and looks deeper in toward the mall, a hand going to her bag, instinctively, slipping her athame to hand, and her gaze sweeps about. She gives a nod to the kids who work there, letting them go to the back, and she rubs at an ear only once out of line of sight from them. She&#8217;s casting her gaze about, looking for&#8230; any sign of what happened, feeling for blood from her ears &#8211; it&#8217;s not the first time her eardrums have been ruptured, it seems. <\/p>\n<p>While the quiet has set in, Maeve can hear something else. It is like something. A thousand, no, a million, voices. All singing in the same tune. However, all sound different. One is a gentle, almost loving refrain. The next, a sob, the words wetted by tears and sorrow. The next a death rattle, blood clogging a dying throat. Screams of pain, cries of bliss, joy, laughter&#8230; all rising in the same ethereal chorus. And then there are the visions.  <br \/>\nAt first it is nothing. Until a shadow flickers across the edge of Maeve&#8217;s view. Then another. A hand reaches around, before dissolving away like so much mist in the morning light. With the visions comes the feeling. Not something major. Yet. But a faint&#8230; lethargy, like a ritual, a spell dragging the vital essence from Maeve&#8217;s body. It is subtle, but, as Maeve notices it, the feeling begins to increase in potency. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Urgh, you son of a bitch, this is a shop with an AESTHETIC, not an invitation,&#8221; <span style=\"color:#ffffff\">Maeve<\/span> growls, athame opening the skin on the back of her arm, letting blood drip as the haemomancer works, trying to figure out if it&#8217;s a spell from here, or from range, if it&#8217;s centered on her, on the location, or if it&#8217;s simply coming from here. After all, she&#8217;s not new to hauntings. Should any apparition linger, she&#8217;d ask them, but that doesn&#8217;t stop her from trying to figure it out her way. By contacting her ancestors. <\/p>\n<p>As Maeve cuts into her own arm, the voices rise, a chorus of ghostly singers growing closer and closer&#8230; And then they fade. Not gone. Just returned. Only&#8230; are they louder now?  <br \/>\nIt takes a moment before the weakness hits. But when it does&#8230; it is like nothing imaginable. All strength is sucked straight from Maeve&#8217;s muscles, and for a moment, there is not even enough to draw breath. No strength. No life. Only the voices. The voices&#8230; and the song. Such a pretty song&#8230; Is it from before? Mother singing at the cradle? Father humming in passing? School, long ago, sung with others in a class? It is familiar, but tugging yields only a cut thread of memory. What was it? The words&#8230;  <br \/>\nThen, a voice snaps into the strange weakness. &#8220;&#8230;Ve&#8230;Maeve! Wake up!&#8221;  <br \/>\nWhen the song fades, Maeve finds herself on the floor. The knife has fallen from limp fingers, and kneeling next to her, is <span style=\"color:#ffffff\">Axle<\/span>, staring down with worried eyes. &#8220;What the hell? Are you alright?&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Maeve shakes her head as though to clear it, breathing out shakily. &#8220;Fucking&#8230; What cocksock would DARE put a ritual on me?&#8221; A hand reaches up toward her earpiece, and she sweeps her gaze around the room, checking for ghosts, for anything out of the norm, as she asks, plesant as one can, &#8220;Can you see ghosts, Ax?&#8221;  <\/p>\n<p>Over her comms, she&#8217;s far less pleasant. &#8220;If one of you two hit me with a ritual, I recommend not doing that again, and apologizing, before body parts no one wants to be degloved are degloved.&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Ghosts?&#8221; <span style=\"color:#ffffff\">Axle<\/span> asks, glancing around the room.  <br \/>\nAs Maeve speaks into the comm&#8230; her fingers come into contact with something. Something&#8230; that should not be there. A simple earring. It dangles, innocently, from one ear. So like it was meant to be there that&#8230; but was it? Wasn&#8217;t it a&#8230; a gift? Yes. Yes, that&#8217;s it. It was a gift. Maeve can vividly see it. A gift from her mother, handed with a smile, and&#8230; a song. A simple song. A sweet song. Its right there. Right at the tip of the tongue. And&#8230; the ear? Its there. Somewhere off in the distance, that song is being sang! If Maeve can just find the singers, get a little closer, she can&#8230; finally sing that song. A lovely song&#8230; such a lovely&#8230;@line The crackle of static tears through the fog. The earpiece, normally so reliable&#8230; crackles with shuddering, distorted static. And there&#8230; under the static&#8230;  <br \/>\nIs that a song?  <br \/>\nThe weakness intensifies slowly. Its not something threatening&#8230; yet. But it continues to grow. Maeve can feel it. Deep in her bones. Something, is, wrong. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;&#8230;fuck&#8230; Sirens&#8230; maybe? No, dead&#8230; fucking&#8230;&#8221; <span style=\"color:#ffffff\">Maeve<\/span> breathes out, humming the song, quietly, the parts she can pick out. &#8220;I&#8230; I don&#8217;t know if it&#8217;s here, or&#8230; or if it&#8217;s on me,&#8221; she breathes, quietly. &#8220;Could be both, I don&#8217;t fuckin&#8217;&#8230; I don&#8217;t know. What is this SONG?!&#8221; <\/p>\n<p>Louder&#8230; The song grows louder as Maeve begins the humming. Louder, and louder and louder and&#8230;  <\/p>\n<p>Silence. It is so blissfully. Blessedly&#8230; silent. Maeve can see nothing. Feel nothing, hear, nothing. All there is rest&#8230; And the song. Such a lovely song. Such a&#8230; beautiful song.  <br \/>\nThe chapel is filled with the congregation at this hour. But not the waking one. Not the sleeping, no no no, they died in their beds, so long ago. It is her congregation. Maeve&#8217;s, to love. To guide. To sing of. Her beautiful little singers. Joe, with his son, cradled in his arms&#8230; the axe protruding from the child&#8217;s head so beautiful to the eye. Anna Marie. Her tears had all dried up, by the time she flung herself, singing, from the roof. But now, her tears flow eternal. And there, Martin Blane. His wife, sitting with her hand in his. He sings even now, throat opened from ear to ear, by the woman he loved. All of them, such beauties, and they are all Maeve&#8217;s. All&#8230; hers.  <br \/>\nNo. This isn&#8217;t right. Is it? It can&#8217;t be. The earring&#8230;  <br \/>\nIt is hers, this chapel, with its congregation of singers. Hers to do with as&#8230; as she wishes.  <br \/>\nThe song tugs at the ears. It lifts the heart. It breaks it, just as its creator broke over this very altar. Maeve&#8217;s, altar. Her creation. Her neck, twisted so violently. Her spine, cracked and cut. It was her bones shattered as the artifact consumed all of them. All of them to forge its hunger.  <br \/>\nThis can&#8217;t be right. There is something&#8230; shaking&#8230;  <br \/>\nHers, all Maeve&#8217;s, to love&#8230; to be loved by&#8230; for&#8230; ever&#8230; <\/p>\n<p>Maeve yanks at that earring, not caring if it rips straight through her lobe. In fact, she&#8217;d prefer it, the pain alighting in her consciousness of any sort, should she be able to. It&#8217;s sort of a &#8216;white bear&#8217; situation, the psychological phenomenon where if you try to not think of something, it becomes all you can think of. But still, she tries, thinking of any other song, anything, anything at all, to get that cursed song out of her head. If anything nearby seems sharp, she&#8217;s willing to cause herself more of that sharp, focusing pain, spilling blood, breaking the bind, if only she can. <\/p>\n<p>Maeve reaches up&#8230; But she can&#8217;t. She can&#8217;t, possibly hurt her&#8230; her creation. It is so beautiful, that little silver bud, where it swings from her ear. Its song so sweet, her congregation, her&#8230; her children, all of them. They sing to her, their sweet voices, calling&#8230; calling&#8230;  <br \/>\nThe weakness grows, tugging away vitality at an increasingly alarming rate. Should it be left&#8230; well, who knows what will happen. That little voice that fights in the back of Maeve&#8217;s mind grows quieter with every breath. Every, verse&#8230; <\/p>\n<p>Forcing words past her lips, not knowing if he&#8217;s here, if he can hear her, if he can help, <span style=\"color:#ffffff\">Maeve<\/span> pleads to the one person she&#8217;s trusted in a decade. &#8220;Ax&#8230; ear&#8230;ring,&#8221; she forces, between her lips. It&#8217;s almost impossible, and she tries, once more, to fight through it, to fight through everything. She has to protect him, and she can read the writing on the walls, the loved ones killed. <\/p>\n<p>No. No, Maeve can&#8217;t&#8230;  <br \/>\nBut then, there is a sharp, tearing pain. A pain like no other. It is blinding, and yet&#8230; and yet, freeing. The song, that beautiful, vile, accursed, horrid, song, turns to a chorus of shrieking. Laughing. The earring&#8230; is laughing. The thousands of voices, all clamoring to be heard in their amusement. And then&#8230;  <br \/>\n&#8220;Angel!&#8221; <span style=\"color:#ffffff\">Axle<\/span> has Maeve hugged tight to himself, arms at her sides. At some point, it seems she regained her knife, which juts from <span style=\"color:#ffffff\">Axle&#8217;s<\/span> side. A bloody gash drips from Maeve&#8217;s ear, and in <span style=\"color:#ffffff\">Axle&#8217;s<\/span> hand&#8230; as Maeve looks, a small whisp rises from the piece of metal. Then, with a crack&#8230; it is gone. Dissolving away as the mist swirls up, vanishing before it reaches Maeve&#8217;s head in height. <\/p>\n<p>&#8220;&#8230;fuh&#8230;. fuck,&#8221; <span style=\"color:#ffffff\">Maeve<\/span> coughs out, squirming. &#8220;Did I&#8230;. I didn&#8217;t get you too bad, did I?&#8221; Tears line her lashes, concern filling them as the fog of whatever overtook her fades. &#8220;Fuckin&#8217;&#8230; ghosts&#8230; demons&#8230; both, probably, ghosts with demon friends&#8230;. Beetlejuices lookin&#8217; asses,&#8221; she grumbles, slipping the athame from his side in a single tug, dark blood likely pouring out after it. At least it&#8217;s not serrated. <\/p>\n<p>Grunting as the knife is withdrawn, <span style=\"color:#ffffff\">Axle<\/span> releases Maeve, standing up slowly. &#8220;No&#8230; no I&#8217;m fine. Just a little wound. Nothing bad.&#8221; He presses his palm to the stab, blood already slowing to a trickle, then ceasing to flow as the wound tries to knit closed. <br \/><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Date: 2026-05-13 18:43 (Maeve&#8217;s Wednesday evening odd encounter(Axle):Axle) [Wed May 13 2026] In Stix &amp; Stones SnacksDark, gloomy, near-black but high shine paint coats every wall, and the ceiling, in this ominous space. The lobby has dark, near-black tiles of striated green flecked with brown,&#8230;<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","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":""},"categories":[134],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-29776","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-encounterlog"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/havenrpg.net\/newsite\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/29776","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/havenrpg.net\/newsite\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/havenrpg.net\/newsite\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"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=29776"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/havenrpg.net\/newsite\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/29776\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/havenrpg.net\/newsite\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=29776"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/havenrpg.net\/newsite\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=29776"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/havenrpg.net\/newsite\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=29776"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}