Encounterlogs
Alexanders Odd Encounter Sr John 240127
One chilly evening in Haven, Alexander encounters a group of teenagers discussing a mysterious dog carving in the woods that had attracted a circle of howling wolves. Intrigued by the supernatural implication, Alexander decides to investigate. Locating the carving and the wolves, he feels an odd sense of natural harmony, assuaging his initial fears of malice. However, when he attempts to move the idol, the wolves grow agitated, leading him to wisely place it back. Recognizing that this strange event is not his to interfere with, Alexander respectfully retreats, leaving the wolves to their uncanny ritual.
On a separate occasion, Jack, an old priest, is haunted by the ghostly apparition of Father Adrian Wolff in his parsonage. Father Adrian’s specter blows the door open and confronts Jack, accusing him of arrogance and threatening his eternal soul. Jack defies the haunting with confidence in his faith, wielding a crucifix and chanting in an ancient tongue. He repels the ghost with a ruby-studded ankh, and, with a display of spiritual power, prepares to banish the spirit. But instead, he speaks words of redemption, urging the unquiet spirit towards a path of eternal peace rather than casting it to damnation, showing mercy even in the face of supernatural terror.
(Alexander's odd encounter(SRJohn):SRJohn)
[Fri Jan 26 2024]
At the bar
This well lit area is home to a long, polished bar that stretches from
west to east along the centermost portion of the northern wall. A number of
refrigerators and shelves within have been filled with various drinks and
town memorabilia for display, but the large head of a black bear mounted
higher on the wall attracts more attention. Food for the bar is prepared on
a cast iron cooking surface behind the bar, but well within sight of
patrons. It's so large that several different meals can all be cooked at
the same time.
Starting to the side of the Lodge's entrance to the north, several booths
follow the old hardwood walls and wrap around the pool tables to the east.
Their sequence is only interrupted there by the exit to the courtyard in the
distance.
A small HD flatscreen television hangs in the southwestern corner, open to
sight for all of those at the bar.
It is about 50F(10C) degrees.
(A mysterious artifact surfaces in Haven, causing a surge in supernatural activity. Your target must investigate and resolve the situation, dealing with the artifact's effects and those eager to exploit them along the way.)
Alexander rubs his face as he walks through the lodge. He sniffs at his clothes and wrinkes his nose. "Alright. Shower. Rest. Get some food," he hesitates on that one, uneasy recollection filtering into his mind. He'll reconsider the food. He walks through the lodge and makes way to his room.
Friday night: A great time to wind down for the weekend or crank things up for a few days worth of good times. Also a good time for supernaturally charged artifacts and relics. Not long into the evening, Alexander overhears a group of teenagers in the Lodge, sitting just a little ways away at the dining counter. someone someone "Did you hear about that dog carving out in the woods? Jim said there was like... A dozen wolves just sitting around, howling at it." One murmurs to another, all while a third shakes their head, "Sounds like bullshit to me, man. Jim's been smoking too much again."
Friday night: A great time to wind down for the weekend or crank things up for a few days worth of good times. Also a good time for supernaturally charged artifacts and relics. Not long into the evening, Alexander overhears a group of teenagers in the Lodge, sitting just a little ways away at the dining counter. "Did you hear about that dog carving out in the woods? Jim said there was like... A dozen wolves just sitting around, howling at it." One murmurs to another, all while a third shakes their head, "Sounds like bullshit to me, man. Jim's been smoking too much again."
Alexander pauses a halfstep, uneasy. Dog carving, in the woods. A half dozen ways to die flash before Alexander's mind but he still doesn't just walk on his way. There's something to it, idle curiosity maybe? Or...a quiet sense of duty? The memory of that altar in the woods comes to mind, of the stone in his pocket, of the hunger. Unchecked, things happen, he knows. He doubles back a bit and waves at the kids. "What the hell was your friend doing in the woods watching wolves howl?" he asks, more impressed than scolding, at least, in tone.
The group of kids all turn their heads at their own pace to look over their collective shoulders towards Alexander, all at different levels of not having expected a stranger to join the chatter. It's the third teen, a boy of no more than sixteen that speaks up, sounding entirely unconvinced, "Our friend Jim is a burnout, dude. Last week its dragons, next week it'll be fairies. I wouldn't pay it any mind." He mutters towards Alexander, only for the first to pipe up again, "No, seriously, he said he had pictures. Just a bunch of wolves sitting around this big wooden carving, all howling together at it! Isn't that freaky?"
Alexander laughs. He's young enough to not feel self conscious on the approach, but old enough to realize it moments later that he's probably an uncomfortable. "Man, did he send them? Probably full of shit otherwise," he notes.
Did he actually send those pictures? Well, the first boy goes silent, but the second finally speaks up again, pulling out his phone and leaning over across the other two to show a photo up towards Alexander, "Yeah, check this out..." He mutters, angling the phone up to give Alexander the best possible view. Certain as sin, there's a somewhat blurry picture, framed by a copse of trees and snow. Centered in frame is a wooden statue of a wolf, sat on its haunches and looking up towards the moon. The thing looks as though it was carved out of the very core of the tree of the stump it sits upon now. Around the carving is a host of wolves, all peering up at the moon in much the same manner.
Alexander blinks, letting them know that he's impressed by the picture. He lets out a little sound, a hmm. "Did he say where he was...?" he asks, trying to looking for distinguishing things in the photo, lighthouse, anything.
It's the first boy's turn to speak up again and he hooks a thumb right over his shoulder, which just so happens to align with what comes out his mouth, "North o' town, he said. Like... A half mile into the woods, I guess."
Alexander nods. "Hah, weird. Thanks, have a goodnight," he says. "Tell your friend to stop wandering off into the woods, won't be the first person attacked by wolves in this town," he warns them soberly. Then he makes his way off. Into the woods, he supposed. He groans when he's out of earshot.
The boys wave off Alexander and get back whatever it is that teens get up to on their Friday night. As for Alexander, the trip through town and into the North woods doesn't take any longer than it normally would and before he knows it, Alexander finds himself in the familiar expanse of trees, all peacefully blanketed in snow. Now, one might think it a difficult task to find a lone carving in the forest, but thankfully Alexander soon finds himself in earshot of a cacophony of howling to follow, no more than a quarter mile away.
Alexander shifts uneasily. He reaches into the duffel he carries with him and checks his firearm. Has he used it? Yes. Has he used it for anything real? Well. He checks the safety, leaves it on, makes sure a round is chambered and the clip is otherwise full. Then, inhale, slow steady, exhale. He steps into the woods slowly toward the sound, keeping his head on a swivel.
Before long, Alexander finds himself standing in what may have been the very same spot the photo he had seen was taken from. At least a baker's dozen of full grown wolves sit around that lifesize carving, entirely entranced by it and the moon above. For the moment, they seem entirely unconcerned with Alexander's poking around.
Alexander shivers, uneasy. This is the sensible moment to put an end to this adventure, he could make it back, quiet, avoid drawing their attention. His gaze flicks, low branches he could pull himself up on, trees he could climb. Full grown wolves, did they really get that big? Did they really get that size? He knows wolves are...tied to things, but the absence of a full moon, as he believes is how it works, gives him some comfort. Some. As if a bakers dozen of them matters if its mundane wolves or not. He tries to move quietly, and make it to the shortest path where he might emerge and approach the idol.
As Alexander approaches the lupine Idol, a feeling washes over him that he's witnessing something as natural as a great oak or the wolves themselves. Perhaps even -more- natural. It's most certainly some form of supernatural aura, but it doesn't radiate any malice. The wolves still don't react, even as Alexander finds himself close enough to touch the thing.
Alexander hesitates. His demeanor changes. He pulls his hand back before he touches it and just lowers his head in deference to it. "...I feel I have been called here," he says softly, to who? The wolves? "I would like to take this idol with me. I was worried it might be something malicious but..." he peers from side to side, less concerned, maybe? Then, extends his hand to touch it, and pick it up, and inspect it closely. "I won't take it without sign," he says softly, perhaps reverently.
Touching the Idol? This seems to pull some of the wolves out of their trance, enough so that they pull their eyes from the moon and down towards Alexander. For that brief moment they only watch, but the moment that Alexander removes the idol from the stump of the tree, a low growl steadily builds around the group. A few start stalking closer to Alexander, baring teeth in warning.
Alexander lowers the idol back down. Shifting a half step away from it, hoping that might defuse the tension in the wolves. But...remaining in grabbing range if it doesn't.
The moment that Alexander places the Idol back in its rightful place, the wolves are calmed. While they do keep their collective eyes on Alexander for a while longer, many of them soon resume their watch of the moon, with a fewer still begininning to howl once again.
Alexander shifts a half-step away. Wolves in the woods, howling at the moon before an idol. Spooky, sure. Odd. But the feeling in the air convinces him, this is fine. He's not here to pillage and plunder Haven, to unearth its oddities and every scrap of power. The curios pull tells him to snatch it and run but he doesn't. He lowers his head to the pack respectfully and backpedals to make his way away to leave them to their curious ritual.
Those wolves gathered around the Idol do not impede Alexander as he moves away and their gathering can be heard continuing on as he makes his way out of the woods. Harmful or not, natural or not, things spin on. A curious start to a weekend to be sure.
(Your target is being pursued by a vengeful ghost from their past, who has been unquieted by some recent event. This spirit can't physically harm them, but can manipulate objects in the environment and tries to psychologically torment them. The target must either appease the ghost, find a way to banish it, or endure its haunting until morning, when it will be forced to rest.)
It's late. Jack's bed, a room over, is still bare, the mattress destroyed and not replaced, and so the old priest sits by the fire, staring at it. He's healing, his cane set aside, and he's got a book in his hand -- a journal, writing slow, careful notes, sleepless. Some of them are strange sigils, written carefully with tiny notes around them in a scrawling, spidery hand.
It's a cozy place, really, even in its disarray. A meek but comfortable nook for Jack to study the Word and do his craft. Relatively speaking, it's even warm, sheltered from the falling snow. But that shelter is thrown into question when the door gusts open, no doubt a consequence of the bitter winter weather. The whirling sound of the shrieking winds outside bursts it way inside, the flimsy barricade broken all at once.
There's a pause -- a sigh, from the old priest, who puts down his journal and reaches for his cane. Lifting himself up, he starts to hobble towards the door, limping in some effort to get to it, to close it. Jack tugs his jacket close around him as he approaches, muttering some casual prayer that he not catch cold.
But before Jack's uneven footfalls can reach the door, it slams again, and hard, blowing a flurry of snow inside. There's an angry finality to the sound it makes, as if it were more than a mere door to a parsonage, but some superlative entrance shut forever in Jack's face, with extreme prejudice and with no regard for him whatsoever. Yet the sound of the howling wind persists somehow, or some other airy, baleful song that wafts from corner to corner within the humble room, unexplained and inexplicable.
Now there's a turn, searching the room. Digging into his shirt, Jack produces a wooden crucifix, and as he clasps the wood between his fingers he mutters some low incantation in Latin. One might think it a prayer, if one didn't have the language, but the words in truth mean 'Gremory, I have bound thee, and by the cross I command thee to reveal all hidden things.'
And by the cross, so the spectre appears. A thin man, so thin he might as well be translucent -- and so he is, the stones visible behind his meager form. Unlike Jack, he is frocked, and there he stands in full priestly attire, his white-hot eyes harder than any fleshly man's could be. He is familiar. He has a name that comes immediately to mind: Father Adrian Wolff. But lupine he is not -- if one were to compare him to an animal, it would be the mantis, locked in prayer. His eyes are large and bulge from their sockets, alight with unnatural luminescence. His robes glow at their edges; his collar is phosphorescent. He stares with vengeful eyes at Jack, boring through the man of flesh. He speaks not, but his mouth is open, and from it pour those windy, stormy sounds.
"God save us," Jack says, and then he steps forward. The cross is held up. "God save you, Adrian -- Father," he says. "Father, can you hear me?" he asks, his tongue full of friendliness. Friendly or not, though, he has some wariness to him, too, as he tightens his grip upon his crucifix. "You are lost," he tells the spectre. "Let us find you a way home. A way home to Heaven, where you belong."
The appration's white-fire eyes beam with light, and it opens its mouth like a serpent unhinging its jaw to consume. The shrieking of the 'winds' grows ever more wilder, and seems for a while this may be the only sound the spectre produces, until those awful sounds coalesce into terrible words.
I AM NOT LOST
I COME TO TAKE YOU HOME. And from the threshold it drifts -- not steps -- closer to Jack.
I HAVE BEEN TASKED TO FETCH YOU, it 'says,' though to suggest it is speaking is to personify it far beyond what it deserves.
"I see," says Jack, and there is some low sigh. He leans on his cane, looking at the apparition, and there is some tension in him. Some fear washes over the priest -- the knowledge of damnation, visions of the pit. The Devil himself, swimming red and angry in his eyes, as his hand clutches at the crucifix. "My day will come," he tells the ghost. "I know where I am headed." Steel, now, in his voice. "But that day is not today." He releases the crucifix, now digging for a ruby-studded ankh looted from an Egyptian tomb.
YOU MISUNDERSTAND.
YOU THINK YOUR SACRIFICE GREATER THAN CHRIST'S OWN. ARROGANCE.@line
IS YOUR SIN. AND FOR THIS, INTRABIS PURGATORIUM, UBI ANIMA TUA PER AETATES PURGABITUR.
The spectral priest drifts all the closer, and every flaw of him can be seen, those present in life and those left behind by death and rot -- the maggot-filled hole in his cheek, the swollen lip, the brittle fingernails. He lifts a hand and points directly at Jack's heart.
YOU MISUNDERSTAND.
YOU THINK YOUR SACRIFICE GREATER THAN CHRIST'S OWN. ARROGANCE.
IS YOUR SIN. AND FOR THIS, INTRABIS PURGATORIUM, UBI ANIMA TUA PER AETATES PURGABITUR.
The spectral priest drifts all the closer, and every flaw of him can be seen, those present in life and those left behind by death and rot -- the maggot-filled hole in his cheek, the swollen lip, the brittle fingernails. He lifts a hand and points directly at Jack's heart.
YOU MISUNDERSTAND.
YOU THINK YOUR SACRIFICE GREATER THAN CHRIST'S OWN. ARROGANCE.
THIS IS YOUR SIN. AND FOR THIS, INTRABIS PURGATORIUM, UBI ANIMA TUA PER AETATES PURGABITUR.
The spectral priest drifts all the closer, and every flaw of him can be seen, those present in life and those left behind by death and rot -- the maggot-filled hole in his cheek, the swollen lip, the brittle fingernails. He lifts a hand and points directly at Jack's heart.
The ankh is produced, and now new words are spoken: not in Latin, but in something like Egyptian, the incantation rolling off Jack's tongue with low and easy power. Rubies blaze on the ankh. "Back!" cries the priest. "Greater?" he asks. "I do not measure myself against the Son of God." And yet he does, his eyes on fire. "But I tell you this: when Christ died on the cross, he went to Heaven. When I die?" he says. "I will go to Hell. Who sacrificed what?"
So the apparition is pushed back against the wall, with what would have been a gasp if it were living. Instead, with a windy sound, a terrible vaccum lifts the objects in the room, including Jack himself, drawn like magnets towards the wall.
The spectre hisses, its mouth agape even wider than before, unnaturally tall. It is pinned against the stone as if he were its very own crucifix. And yet...still it speaks, even trapped as it is.
SPES NON AMISSA EST. PECCATA TUA FORSAN PER IGNEM ET SUDOREM FRONTIS TUI PURGARI POSSUNT. DOMINUM NOSTRUM LUDIBRIO HABES FABULIS TUARUM MARTYRIORUM. ATTAMEN ET TU IGNOSCI POTERIS, IN POENITENTIA MILLENNIORUM.
Now Jack begins to chant, and his voice is low. "I do not want to send you to the pit," Jack says. With the ankh held up to press back against the spectre, the old priest grabs a bag of salt from the kitchen. He begins to throw handfuls out, making a rough semi-circle around the wall the ghost is pressed to. "I will. I can speak a word of power and banish you, old friend, but the pain: the pain," he says. "No. Go instead with trumpets. You are not damned," he says. "Go to purgatory, and tell whatever devils linger there that TONIGHT is not my night. He shall have me when my work is done."
On a separate occasion, Jack, an old priest, is haunted by the ghostly apparition of Father Adrian Wolff in his parsonage. Father Adrian’s specter blows the door open and confronts Jack, accusing him of arrogance and threatening his eternal soul. Jack defies the haunting with confidence in his faith, wielding a crucifix and chanting in an ancient tongue. He repels the ghost with a ruby-studded ankh, and, with a display of spiritual power, prepares to banish the spirit. But instead, he speaks words of redemption, urging the unquiet spirit towards a path of eternal peace rather than casting it to damnation, showing mercy even in the face of supernatural terror.
(Alexander's odd encounter(SRJohn):SRJohn)
[Fri Jan 26 2024]
At the bar
This well lit area is home to a long, polished bar that stretches from
west to east along the centermost portion of the northern wall. A number of
refrigerators and shelves within have been filled with various drinks and
town memorabilia for display, but the large head of a black bear mounted
higher on the wall attracts more attention. Food for the bar is prepared on
a cast iron cooking surface behind the bar, but well within sight of
patrons. It's so large that several different meals can all be cooked at
the same time.
Starting to the side of the Lodge's entrance to the north, several booths
follow the old hardwood walls and wrap around the pool tables to the east.
Their sequence is only interrupted there by the exit to the courtyard in the
distance.
A small HD flatscreen television hangs in the southwestern corner, open to
sight for all of those at the bar.
It is about 50F(10C) degrees.
(A mysterious artifact surfaces in Haven, causing a surge in supernatural activity. Your target must investigate and resolve the situation, dealing with the artifact's effects and those eager to exploit them along the way.)
Alexander rubs his face as he walks through the lodge. He sniffs at his clothes and wrinkes his nose. "Alright. Shower. Rest. Get some food," he hesitates on that one, uneasy recollection filtering into his mind. He'll reconsider the food. He walks through the lodge and makes way to his room.
Friday night: A great time to wind down for the weekend or crank things up for a few days worth of good times. Also a good time for supernaturally charged artifacts and relics. Not long into the evening, Alexander overhears a group of teenagers in the Lodge, sitting just a little ways away at the dining counter. someone someone "Did you hear about that dog carving out in the woods? Jim said there was like... A dozen wolves just sitting around, howling at it." One murmurs to another, all while a third shakes their head, "Sounds like bullshit to me, man. Jim's been smoking too much again."
Friday night: A great time to wind down for the weekend or crank things up for a few days worth of good times. Also a good time for supernaturally charged artifacts and relics. Not long into the evening, Alexander overhears a group of teenagers in the Lodge, sitting just a little ways away at the dining counter. "Did you hear about that dog carving out in the woods? Jim said there was like... A dozen wolves just sitting around, howling at it." One murmurs to another, all while a third shakes their head, "Sounds like bullshit to me, man. Jim's been smoking too much again."
Alexander pauses a halfstep, uneasy. Dog carving, in the woods. A half dozen ways to die flash before Alexander's mind but he still doesn't just walk on his way. There's something to it, idle curiosity maybe? Or...a quiet sense of duty? The memory of that altar in the woods comes to mind, of the stone in his pocket, of the hunger. Unchecked, things happen, he knows. He doubles back a bit and waves at the kids. "What the hell was your friend doing in the woods watching wolves howl?" he asks, more impressed than scolding, at least, in tone.
The group of kids all turn their heads at their own pace to look over their collective shoulders towards Alexander, all at different levels of not having expected a stranger to join the chatter. It's the third teen, a boy of no more than sixteen that speaks up, sounding entirely unconvinced, "Our friend Jim is a burnout, dude. Last week its dragons, next week it'll be fairies. I wouldn't pay it any mind." He mutters towards Alexander, only for the first to pipe up again, "No, seriously, he said he had pictures. Just a bunch of wolves sitting around this big wooden carving, all howling together at it! Isn't that freaky?"
Alexander laughs. He's young enough to not feel self conscious on the approach, but old enough to realize it moments later that he's probably an uncomfortable. "Man, did he send them? Probably full of shit otherwise," he notes.
Did he actually send those pictures? Well, the first boy goes silent, but the second finally speaks up again, pulling out his phone and leaning over across the other two to show a photo up towards Alexander, "Yeah, check this out..." He mutters, angling the phone up to give Alexander the best possible view. Certain as sin, there's a somewhat blurry picture, framed by a copse of trees and snow. Centered in frame is a wooden statue of a wolf, sat on its haunches and looking up towards the moon. The thing looks as though it was carved out of the very core of the tree of the stump it sits upon now. Around the carving is a host of wolves, all peering up at the moon in much the same manner.
Alexander blinks, letting them know that he's impressed by the picture. He lets out a little sound, a hmm. "Did he say where he was...?" he asks, trying to looking for distinguishing things in the photo, lighthouse, anything.
It's the first boy's turn to speak up again and he hooks a thumb right over his shoulder, which just so happens to align with what comes out his mouth, "North o' town, he said. Like... A half mile into the woods, I guess."
Alexander nods. "Hah, weird. Thanks, have a goodnight," he says. "Tell your friend to stop wandering off into the woods, won't be the first person attacked by wolves in this town," he warns them soberly. Then he makes his way off. Into the woods, he supposed. He groans when he's out of earshot.
The boys wave off Alexander and get back whatever it is that teens get up to on their Friday night. As for Alexander, the trip through town and into the North woods doesn't take any longer than it normally would and before he knows it, Alexander finds himself in the familiar expanse of trees, all peacefully blanketed in snow. Now, one might think it a difficult task to find a lone carving in the forest, but thankfully Alexander soon finds himself in earshot of a cacophony of howling to follow, no more than a quarter mile away.
Alexander shifts uneasily. He reaches into the duffel he carries with him and checks his firearm. Has he used it? Yes. Has he used it for anything real? Well. He checks the safety, leaves it on, makes sure a round is chambered and the clip is otherwise full. Then, inhale, slow steady, exhale. He steps into the woods slowly toward the sound, keeping his head on a swivel.
Before long, Alexander finds himself standing in what may have been the very same spot the photo he had seen was taken from. At least a baker's dozen of full grown wolves sit around that lifesize carving, entirely entranced by it and the moon above. For the moment, they seem entirely unconcerned with Alexander's poking around.
Alexander shivers, uneasy. This is the sensible moment to put an end to this adventure, he could make it back, quiet, avoid drawing their attention. His gaze flicks, low branches he could pull himself up on, trees he could climb. Full grown wolves, did they really get that big? Did they really get that size? He knows wolves are...tied to things, but the absence of a full moon, as he believes is how it works, gives him some comfort. Some. As if a bakers dozen of them matters if its mundane wolves or not. He tries to move quietly, and make it to the shortest path where he might emerge and approach the idol.
As Alexander approaches the lupine Idol, a feeling washes over him that he's witnessing something as natural as a great oak or the wolves themselves. Perhaps even -more- natural. It's most certainly some form of supernatural aura, but it doesn't radiate any malice. The wolves still don't react, even as Alexander finds himself close enough to touch the thing.
Alexander hesitates. His demeanor changes. He pulls his hand back before he touches it and just lowers his head in deference to it. "...I feel I have been called here," he says softly, to who? The wolves? "I would like to take this idol with me. I was worried it might be something malicious but..." he peers from side to side, less concerned, maybe? Then, extends his hand to touch it, and pick it up, and inspect it closely. "I won't take it without sign," he says softly, perhaps reverently.
Touching the Idol? This seems to pull some of the wolves out of their trance, enough so that they pull their eyes from the moon and down towards Alexander. For that brief moment they only watch, but the moment that Alexander removes the idol from the stump of the tree, a low growl steadily builds around the group. A few start stalking closer to Alexander, baring teeth in warning.
Alexander lowers the idol back down. Shifting a half step away from it, hoping that might defuse the tension in the wolves. But...remaining in grabbing range if it doesn't.
The moment that Alexander places the Idol back in its rightful place, the wolves are calmed. While they do keep their collective eyes on Alexander for a while longer, many of them soon resume their watch of the moon, with a fewer still begininning to howl once again.
Alexander shifts a half-step away. Wolves in the woods, howling at the moon before an idol. Spooky, sure. Odd. But the feeling in the air convinces him, this is fine. He's not here to pillage and plunder Haven, to unearth its oddities and every scrap of power. The curios pull tells him to snatch it and run but he doesn't. He lowers his head to the pack respectfully and backpedals to make his way away to leave them to their curious ritual.
Those wolves gathered around the Idol do not impede Alexander as he moves away and their gathering can be heard continuing on as he makes his way out of the woods. Harmful or not, natural or not, things spin on. A curious start to a weekend to be sure.
(Your target is being pursued by a vengeful ghost from their past, who has been unquieted by some recent event. This spirit can't physically harm them, but can manipulate objects in the environment and tries to psychologically torment them. The target must either appease the ghost, find a way to banish it, or endure its haunting until morning, when it will be forced to rest.)
It's late. Jack's bed, a room over, is still bare, the mattress destroyed and not replaced, and so the old priest sits by the fire, staring at it. He's healing, his cane set aside, and he's got a book in his hand -- a journal, writing slow, careful notes, sleepless. Some of them are strange sigils, written carefully with tiny notes around them in a scrawling, spidery hand.
It's a cozy place, really, even in its disarray. A meek but comfortable nook for Jack to study the Word and do his craft. Relatively speaking, it's even warm, sheltered from the falling snow. But that shelter is thrown into question when the door gusts open, no doubt a consequence of the bitter winter weather. The whirling sound of the shrieking winds outside bursts it way inside, the flimsy barricade broken all at once.
There's a pause -- a sigh, from the old priest, who puts down his journal and reaches for his cane. Lifting himself up, he starts to hobble towards the door, limping in some effort to get to it, to close it. Jack tugs his jacket close around him as he approaches, muttering some casual prayer that he not catch cold.
But before Jack's uneven footfalls can reach the door, it slams again, and hard, blowing a flurry of snow inside. There's an angry finality to the sound it makes, as if it were more than a mere door to a parsonage, but some superlative entrance shut forever in Jack's face, with extreme prejudice and with no regard for him whatsoever. Yet the sound of the howling wind persists somehow, or some other airy, baleful song that wafts from corner to corner within the humble room, unexplained and inexplicable.
Now there's a turn, searching the room. Digging into his shirt, Jack produces a wooden crucifix, and as he clasps the wood between his fingers he mutters some low incantation in Latin. One might think it a prayer, if one didn't have the language, but the words in truth mean 'Gremory, I have bound thee, and by the cross I command thee to reveal all hidden things.'
And by the cross, so the spectre appears. A thin man, so thin he might as well be translucent -- and so he is, the stones visible behind his meager form. Unlike Jack, he is frocked, and there he stands in full priestly attire, his white-hot eyes harder than any fleshly man's could be. He is familiar. He has a name that comes immediately to mind: Father Adrian Wolff. But lupine he is not -- if one were to compare him to an animal, it would be the mantis, locked in prayer. His eyes are large and bulge from their sockets, alight with unnatural luminescence. His robes glow at their edges; his collar is phosphorescent. He stares with vengeful eyes at Jack, boring through the man of flesh. He speaks not, but his mouth is open, and from it pour those windy, stormy sounds.
"God save us," Jack says, and then he steps forward. The cross is held up. "God save you, Adrian -- Father," he says. "Father, can you hear me?" he asks, his tongue full of friendliness. Friendly or not, though, he has some wariness to him, too, as he tightens his grip upon his crucifix. "You are lost," he tells the spectre. "Let us find you a way home. A way home to Heaven, where you belong."
The appration's white-fire eyes beam with light, and it opens its mouth like a serpent unhinging its jaw to consume. The shrieking of the 'winds' grows ever more wilder, and seems for a while this may be the only sound the spectre produces, until those awful sounds coalesce into terrible words.
I AM NOT LOST
I COME TO TAKE YOU HOME. And from the threshold it drifts -- not steps -- closer to Jack.
I HAVE BEEN TASKED TO FETCH YOU, it 'says,' though to suggest it is speaking is to personify it far beyond what it deserves.
"I see," says Jack, and there is some low sigh. He leans on his cane, looking at the apparition, and there is some tension in him. Some fear washes over the priest -- the knowledge of damnation, visions of the pit. The Devil himself, swimming red and angry in his eyes, as his hand clutches at the crucifix. "My day will come," he tells the ghost. "I know where I am headed." Steel, now, in his voice. "But that day is not today." He releases the crucifix, now digging for a ruby-studded ankh looted from an Egyptian tomb.
YOU MISUNDERSTAND.
YOU THINK YOUR SACRIFICE GREATER THAN CHRIST'S OWN. ARROGANCE.@line
IS YOUR SIN. AND FOR THIS, INTRABIS PURGATORIUM, UBI ANIMA TUA PER AETATES PURGABITUR.
The spectral priest drifts all the closer, and every flaw of him can be seen, those present in life and those left behind by death and rot -- the maggot-filled hole in his cheek, the swollen lip, the brittle fingernails. He lifts a hand and points directly at Jack's heart.
YOU MISUNDERSTAND.
YOU THINK YOUR SACRIFICE GREATER THAN CHRIST'S OWN. ARROGANCE.
IS YOUR SIN. AND FOR THIS, INTRABIS PURGATORIUM, UBI ANIMA TUA PER AETATES PURGABITUR.
The spectral priest drifts all the closer, and every flaw of him can be seen, those present in life and those left behind by death and rot -- the maggot-filled hole in his cheek, the swollen lip, the brittle fingernails. He lifts a hand and points directly at Jack's heart.
YOU MISUNDERSTAND.
YOU THINK YOUR SACRIFICE GREATER THAN CHRIST'S OWN. ARROGANCE.
THIS IS YOUR SIN. AND FOR THIS, INTRABIS PURGATORIUM, UBI ANIMA TUA PER AETATES PURGABITUR.
The spectral priest drifts all the closer, and every flaw of him can be seen, those present in life and those left behind by death and rot -- the maggot-filled hole in his cheek, the swollen lip, the brittle fingernails. He lifts a hand and points directly at Jack's heart.
The ankh is produced, and now new words are spoken: not in Latin, but in something like Egyptian, the incantation rolling off Jack's tongue with low and easy power. Rubies blaze on the ankh. "Back!" cries the priest. "Greater?" he asks. "I do not measure myself against the Son of God." And yet he does, his eyes on fire. "But I tell you this: when Christ died on the cross, he went to Heaven. When I die?" he says. "I will go to Hell. Who sacrificed what?"
So the apparition is pushed back against the wall, with what would have been a gasp if it were living. Instead, with a windy sound, a terrible vaccum lifts the objects in the room, including Jack himself, drawn like magnets towards the wall.
The spectre hisses, its mouth agape even wider than before, unnaturally tall. It is pinned against the stone as if he were its very own crucifix. And yet...still it speaks, even trapped as it is.
SPES NON AMISSA EST. PECCATA TUA FORSAN PER IGNEM ET SUDOREM FRONTIS TUI PURGARI POSSUNT. DOMINUM NOSTRUM LUDIBRIO HABES FABULIS TUARUM MARTYRIORUM. ATTAMEN ET TU IGNOSCI POTERIS, IN POENITENTIA MILLENNIORUM.
Now Jack begins to chant, and his voice is low. "I do not want to send you to the pit," Jack says. With the ankh held up to press back against the spectre, the old priest grabs a bag of salt from the kitchen. He begins to throw handfuls out, making a rough semi-circle around the wall the ghost is pressed to. "I will. I can speak a word of power and banish you, old friend, but the pain: the pain," he says. "No. Go instead with trumpets. You are not damned," he says. "Go to purgatory, and tell whatever devils linger there that TONIGHT is not my night. He shall have me when my work is done."