Encounterlogs
Alexanders Odd Encounter Sr Marcus 240213
In a moment of deep, immersive writing, Alexander unwittingly transcribes a compulsive urging, typing "And then Alexander went outside," over and over, dominated by a mysterious impulse. Despite his reluctance and the realization that such repetition was out of place, he eventually yields, shouting his frustration over the strange command and steps into the chilly evening. Once outside, Alexander confronts the silence until suddenly he is ambushed and abducted, his consciousness fading after feeling a syringe pierce his skin. He is armed with knives and a pistol, yet weapons provide no defense against his unseen captor.
Upon waking, Alexander finds himself bound and facing 'Peter,' a man who appears too young to be the father of a seven-year-old girl in danger. The interaction reveals a psychological battle, with neither willing to succumb to the other's desires. Peter explains a daemon called Valefar demands a sacrifice—Alexander's life for the safety of Peter's adopted daughter. Despite his reasonable doubts, Alexander must entertain the possibility that Peter is sincere, enduring a torturous internal dilemma. Desperation and empathy for an innocent child wash over him, leaving Alexander to ponder surrender and sacrifice for a chance to save the girl, even as his heart beckons him toward a more peaceful, final escape from his troubled existence.
(Alexander's odd encounter(SRMarcus):SRMarcus)
[Mon Feb 12 2024]
In a well-appointed office with impressive views overlooking Main Street
The office is an inviting blend of crisp design and personal flair, its high ceilings a striking mix of pewter and white that draw the eye up into thought. The warmth of polished teak floors grounds the space, harmonizing with the coolness of eggshell white walls. Here, a stately desk stands central, surrounded by an array of screens that suggest a hub of multifaceted activity, veiled subtly by the sophistication of the room.
As evening shades the room, burnished brass lamps cast a comforting glow, transforming the space into a cozy alcove for nocturnal pursuits. Plush curtains in dusk blue frame the generous windows, balancing the room's sleek modernity with a touch of classic luxury, perfect for contemplative moments away from the glow of monitors and the hum of hard drives.
It is afternoon, about 27F(-2C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
(Your target has been chosen to be a sacrifice in a dark ritual by a group of cultists. The group must locate and interrupt the ritual before it's too late.)
Alexander is working away on his novel right now. A little scraped from an encounter with a vampire in his own home, but looking in good cheer.
For a precious while, Alexander is allowed the chance to write uninterrupted. Yet writer's block is a fickle thing. One really has to let the ideas flow freely in order to avoid self-imposed hangups. So, for the time being, Alexander has entered what many artists call the Zone. Despite being shaken from his earlier travails, he is writing fluidly and without getting caught up in over-editing.
As such, it takes a while for Alexander to notice what exactly he has been typing in this flow state. He may have been thinking of protagonists and antagonists, expositions and denouements, but what he typed was very specific and very repetitive. For almost half a page, one sentence repeats again and again and again:
And then Alexander went outside. And then Alexander went outside. And then Alexander went outside. And then Alexander went outside. And then Alexander went outside.
On and on it goes. Sometimes there are typos, underlined in squiggly red. Sometimes there are capitalization errors, underlined in squiggly green. But all of it has the same message.
Alexander went outside.
Alexander finds that his writing is quite easy today, joyously he relaxes as he types, having a good time of it. He enjoys the concepts, the lessons he tries to work in. Then he hesitates. "Yes...I see..." He lets out a huff and yells to the world around him. "I'M NOT A HARD GUY TO GET AHOLD OF!" he insists. Pushing out from his chair, he does exactly as the tale requires. He goes outside.
But even as Alexander abandons the computer and shuts the door of the office behind him, descending the stairs, that sentence doesn't leave his mind. It's in his own voice, bouncing from ear to ear within his skull. And then Alexander went outside. And then Alexander went outside. The mantra only ceases when he swings the door open and actually takes a step out into the winter chill, feeling the wind in his face and shutting the door behind him. It leaves him in peace for a moment in the alley behind the bank, the familiar voice fading into the muted sounds of traffic meandering through nearby Main Street. A quick look around reveals nothing is obvious off despite the coaxing, beckoning voice that brought him here.
Then, darkness. A bag is tossed over Alexander's head. Strong arms grip him from the side, a syringe sinking into his flesh. Then...nothing.
Alexander stands outside, he has his jacket on, pistol and knives tucked into the sides. His eyes scan the city with curiosity. "Well!?" he insists, then, he lets out a groan, his knife flashes, but it's much too late, Ineffectual. He's gone.
There was not much Alexander could have done, armed or unarmed. Whoever captured him did not show themselves, hiding themselves through some magical or mundane means. But there's no time to think about that. In the twinkling of an eye -- but who knows how long, really -- Alexander is elsewhere.
The bag has been removed from his head, so when he is capable of opening his groggy eyes, he finds himself in an enclosed room without windows. It's lit by a corner lamp and not much else. It could be anywhere, but it has the look of a basement, dusty and gritty and quiet. As Alexander's eyes come into focus, he realizes he is lying down, stripped of his armor and weapons, and tied with many tightly wound loops of coarse rope to some sort of rugged wooden table. He can feel the knotted bark against his back through his shirt. It's dim in this place, but if he turns his head just so he can see a figure sitting on a chair not far from where he is. It's hard to make out the figure's face through the drowsiness and the meager light, but it does seem to be a male one.
Alexander remains still and quiet. He closes his eyes, remains still and calm. He tests each limb, arm, arm, leg, leg, he tries to be subtle and quiet. "Hello," he manages at last, there's a casualness to his tone, undercutting the fear.
Everything seems to be in working order, from what Alexander can gauge from just twitching. More than that is not really possible within the tightness of his bounds. Even before Alexander speaks his greeting, the man in the chair must have noticed a little stirring -- that or he's lucky, because he's already scooting closer with a grinding of wood against the floor. His face comes into view, illuminated by the lamplight. The man is in young. Too young to be doing...whatever he's doing. Or at least, that's how he appears -- one never knows in this town. Alexander's Sensitive eyes pick up a faint aura of some kind, but it's hard to get a good glimpse just yet, even after several blinks. What is visible is that his features are gentle and kind, and his eyes are blue. His youthful lips bear a soft downward curve, a thoughtful frown.
"Hello," the man says in return, his voice quiet. The first impression would be that he is English, but as he goes on, it's clear that English is actually his second language, but he's learned the British variety. "I'm sorry to have to do this," he says to him. "You don't deserve it. But this is how it has to be. There's no way to argue your way out of it, so don't try. You'll just make us both sadder."
Alexander exhales and gazes away from him, avoiding meeting his eyes. "Well, that sounds like a win, if I can't kick your ass making you cry is the next best thing. Who are you. Why am I here. What do you want from he," he demands
Alexander studies the aura briefly, but doesn't linger. It won't help him and he likely won't figure it out anyway.
"You can call me Peter," the young man says, and he stands up, his chair scooting noisily back. "It's close enough to my real name." He stands over Alexander for a moment, his solemn face hovering over the rough wooden table where Alexander is tied up. There is an aura about him, white wings and a golden corona behind his brown-haired head, visible out of the corner of Alexander's attuned eyes. Then it's gone in a wink. "There's a power here," says Peter as he stoops over Alexander. He checks the ropes, making sure they're secure, but he seems to be very tense as he does so, fighting some urge to do something else...release Alexander, maybe? He doesn't, though. In fact, he tightens one of them that he apparently found too loose for his taste. "I need to feed that power today. My daughter's life depends on it. Do you have children, Alexander?" His voice is pleading.
Alexander takes a deep breath. "If I believed you, yes." He glowers at Peter. "But I don't. Because there's lots of ways to fucking get my help! But tying me up isn't one of them!" he insists.
Alexander studies the wings, his desire is clear, escape, strong, loud and clear. Not that he's really putting intention into filtering it out there. Perhaps he feels a strong desire from the man.
Desires are indeed bouncing between the two, forming a sort of strange self-cancelling feedback loop. Peter's fingers tremble and he seems to have trouble standing still. But Alexander, too, feels periodically compelled to stay where he is, to accept his fate. Right now, the two men are at a psychic stalemate, neither one willing to fully cave to the desires of the other. It's enough to make Peter very restless. He's pacing now, staying away from the rough-hewn table.
"She's seven years old," Peter says, turning towards the corner, looking away from Alexander, trying not to think about the magnetic pull he feels to undo his bindings. "You don't deserve this. But neither does she. It won't let her go until I feed you to her. She's not here in Haven -- she doesn't have Sanctuary. I have to do what it says. I don't know why it wants you. I'm sorry."
A sickening, hot-cold feeling descends upon Alexander.
(fixed) Desires are indeed bouncing between the two, forming a sort of strange self-cancelling feedback loop. Peter's fingers tremble and he seems to have trouble standing still. But Alexander, too, feels periodically compelled to stay where he is, to accept his fate. Right now, the two men are at a psychic stalemate, neither one willing to fully cave to the desires of the other. It's enough to make Peter very restless. He's pacing now, staying away from the rough-hewn table.
"She's seven years old," Peter says, turning towards the corner, looking away from Alexander, trying not to think about the magnetic pull he feels to undo his bindings. "You don't deserve this. But neither does she. It won't let her go until I feed you to it. She's not here in Haven -- she doesn't have Sanctuary. I have to do what it says. I don't know why it wants you. I'm sorry."
A sickening, hot-cold feeling descends upon Alexander.
Alexander growls. "What does it want from me, where does it want me," he snarls. Feeling a sinking pit of horror in his gut.
Alexander says "What is it! Why does it want me!?"
Alexander bites his lower lip. Does he believe the man? He doesn't. He lets out a hiss, the doubt lays at his heart, it's agonizing. He would give his life to save this child, but he's smart enough to know better. This is the exact play someone should use on him. The price is the pivot. If he can remain in Sanctuary, in Haven...
Maybe it's because of the desires in Alexander's heart, or maybe just because of the situation, but one wish Alexander made has been granted, at least. Peter starts to cry. He holds his head in his hands, facing the dusty corner, and weeps quietly, his shoulders shuddering. No answer comes from Peter. Perhaps he really doesn't know, or he can't bring himself to say it, or...as Alexander suspects, it's all part of the ruse. Who can say?
But the fever-chill spreads through Alexander's nervous system, filling his whole body with cold fire, from his core to his fingertips and toes. There is something terrible here.
Alexander exhales harshly, letting out a shuddering and subdued terrified noise. He bites his lower lip harshly and draws himself tight as he can against his bindings. "I am not yours! You cannot have me! I will not feed you! Take from me what you can and let me free! Sanctuary protects me!" he insists desperately.
Alexander closes his eyes, and he feels no desire to allow Peter to die. He doesn't believe the man, of course, look at him, his age, a daughter of that age? Perhaps he's some very young doting father who also has tied to the syndicate to save his daughter from some hideous monster. Such things are always possible. "Untie me Peter. I am not going to harm you," Alexander insists. If he has to die, so be it. The idea is not even railed against. It seems, he's been ready to die for a long time yet, the impulse barely registers.
It's true. Peter does look a bit young to be the father of a seven-year-old. Something seems off, at first glance. But then again, the lighting in here isn't great, softening the features...well, it's hard to say, now; Peter is facing the corner, away from Alexander in his torment. His crying has subsided somewhat, though it's still audible in his voice when he says, "I will, Alexander." The struggle against his nature can be heard in the tightness and thinness of his voice. "But when I do, what will you do?" Finally, Peter turns around. His face is red from crying, dried tears sticky on his cheeks. The effect does age him somewhat, but still...
"Someone has to die." Peter looks resigned. "I'm sure they've told you the same. You needed to know the rules before I untied you. Now you know. We can't leave together." His eyes trace to the door. It's been very securely boarded up with slats of oak, no doubt done while Alexander was unconscious. It would take tools and great effort to undo it, and Alexander finds himself without his nightmare charm.
"But if you save yourself...just know," Peter says, "you're dooming my daughter." And then he steps over and begins to untie Alexander, loosing a long breath as he allows himself to embrace his desire at last.
Alexander is through the illusion in a sense, even as his desire to die remains strong. He doesn't know why it comes to mind, because frankly, it's never really all that far away. He stays quiet, deep breaths. He doesn't speak and when untied he pivots to Peter, standing. He rubs his wrists, his arms. "We don't need to play this ugly game," Alexander insists. "If it's true, then kill me. I won't lower my sanctuary for it, your precious daughter awaits. It'll be slow, eventually, I suspect, I'll get sick from my injuries, eventually in a way that Sanctuary won't protect from." He moves to lean against a wall, studying Peter, the room. Pulling the pieces together. "A hellish week or two for her life. Surely that'll be worth it...?" he studies the man closely.
"Is that how it works?" Peter steps over to a table against a wall. From there he picks up two knives. One he presents to Alexander, and one he himself holds, loosely, pointed downwards. Right now, he doesn't threaten Alexander with it, but nor does he threaten himself. "I don't think I can hurt you that badly. I think you'll recover easily from anything I can deliberately do to you."
Alexander peers around the room.
jams a blade into his arm, ignoring Peter for now. It isn't a serious injury, enough to provide him paint for his work. A ritual springs to mind, something... "Tell me about this figure, who has your daughter," Alexander insists.
Peter's blue eyes widen at the sight of Alexander plunging the blade into his arm. Perhaps he expects that the knife will cut somewhere more vital, but when it doesnt't, he just shudders and holds his own knife low, observing Alexander with great care and attention. "He told me his name was Valefar," he eventually mumbles. "The prince of thieves." The activity in Alexander's head buzzes with dark energy at that name and title.
Alexander says "Valefar. Peter, I would like you to give me your blood. Willing or otherwise."
Alexander says "Well, willing...ideally"
Alexander shuffers, and clutches his heart. It would be so peaceful. So nice to just...stop.
Alexander stops drawing symbols on the wall and leans against it. Letting out a shudder. His entire frame trembles, eyes welling up.
Most people might take a step back at a comment like that from Alexander, but Peter takes an unconscious step forward, even as his lips speak warily: "Why?" He adjusts his grip on his knife, and lifts it, though not to threaten Alexander. In fact, it's his own arm he stares at.
Alexander says "...nevermind...it doesn't matter does it...?"
Alexander shifts back, a half finished circle on the floor, and sits back on the chair, gazing emptily at the floor.
Alexander says "...What are you Peter...?"
"No," says Peter, "I suppose it doesn't." And then he approaches another step. "I'm angelborn," he tells Alexander, looking at the partially finished ritual markings. "I took in my daughter when she was three. She had nowhere to go. But already the demons had their claws in her." His eyes trace back to Alexander in the dim light. "I didn't know at the time. I knew I was saving her, but not from what. Now I know. I was saving her from a demon. And here I am, turning myself into a killer to do it again." He sounds resigned. "Maybe I don't have it in me."
gazes down. "I have a girlfriend, Bianca, it'll be important you let her know what happened...Harriet too. I doubt me dying will fix anything but..." Alexander shrugs helplessly. "Just make sure they know why, yeah...?"
Alexander gazes down. "I have a girlfriend, Bianca, it'll be important you let her know what happened...Harriet too. I doubt me dying will fix anything but..." Alexander shrugs helplessly. "Just make sure they know why, yeah...?"
Upon waking, Alexander finds himself bound and facing 'Peter,' a man who appears too young to be the father of a seven-year-old girl in danger. The interaction reveals a psychological battle, with neither willing to succumb to the other's desires. Peter explains a daemon called Valefar demands a sacrifice—Alexander's life for the safety of Peter's adopted daughter. Despite his reasonable doubts, Alexander must entertain the possibility that Peter is sincere, enduring a torturous internal dilemma. Desperation and empathy for an innocent child wash over him, leaving Alexander to ponder surrender and sacrifice for a chance to save the girl, even as his heart beckons him toward a more peaceful, final escape from his troubled existence.
(Alexander's odd encounter(SRMarcus):SRMarcus)
[Mon Feb 12 2024]
In a well-appointed office with impressive views overlooking Main Street
The office is an inviting blend of crisp design and personal flair, its high ceilings a striking mix of pewter and white that draw the eye up into thought. The warmth of polished teak floors grounds the space, harmonizing with the coolness of eggshell white walls. Here, a stately desk stands central, surrounded by an array of screens that suggest a hub of multifaceted activity, veiled subtly by the sophistication of the room.
As evening shades the room, burnished brass lamps cast a comforting glow, transforming the space into a cozy alcove for nocturnal pursuits. Plush curtains in dusk blue frame the generous windows, balancing the room's sleek modernity with a touch of classic luxury, perfect for contemplative moments away from the glow of monitors and the hum of hard drives.
It is afternoon, about 27F(-2C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
(Your target has been chosen to be a sacrifice in a dark ritual by a group of cultists. The group must locate and interrupt the ritual before it's too late.)
Alexander is working away on his novel right now. A little scraped from an encounter with a vampire in his own home, but looking in good cheer.
For a precious while, Alexander is allowed the chance to write uninterrupted. Yet writer's block is a fickle thing. One really has to let the ideas flow freely in order to avoid self-imposed hangups. So, for the time being, Alexander has entered what many artists call the Zone. Despite being shaken from his earlier travails, he is writing fluidly and without getting caught up in over-editing.
As such, it takes a while for Alexander to notice what exactly he has been typing in this flow state. He may have been thinking of protagonists and antagonists, expositions and denouements, but what he typed was very specific and very repetitive. For almost half a page, one sentence repeats again and again and again:
And then Alexander went outside. And then Alexander went outside. And then Alexander went outside. And then Alexander went outside. And then Alexander went outside.
On and on it goes. Sometimes there are typos, underlined in squiggly red. Sometimes there are capitalization errors, underlined in squiggly green. But all of it has the same message.
Alexander went outside.
Alexander finds that his writing is quite easy today, joyously he relaxes as he types, having a good time of it. He enjoys the concepts, the lessons he tries to work in. Then he hesitates. "Yes...I see..." He lets out a huff and yells to the world around him. "I'M NOT A HARD GUY TO GET AHOLD OF!" he insists. Pushing out from his chair, he does exactly as the tale requires. He goes outside.
But even as Alexander abandons the computer and shuts the door of the office behind him, descending the stairs, that sentence doesn't leave his mind. It's in his own voice, bouncing from ear to ear within his skull. And then Alexander went outside. And then Alexander went outside. The mantra only ceases when he swings the door open and actually takes a step out into the winter chill, feeling the wind in his face and shutting the door behind him. It leaves him in peace for a moment in the alley behind the bank, the familiar voice fading into the muted sounds of traffic meandering through nearby Main Street. A quick look around reveals nothing is obvious off despite the coaxing, beckoning voice that brought him here.
Then, darkness. A bag is tossed over Alexander's head. Strong arms grip him from the side, a syringe sinking into his flesh. Then...nothing.
Alexander stands outside, he has his jacket on, pistol and knives tucked into the sides. His eyes scan the city with curiosity. "Well!?" he insists, then, he lets out a groan, his knife flashes, but it's much too late, Ineffectual. He's gone.
There was not much Alexander could have done, armed or unarmed. Whoever captured him did not show themselves, hiding themselves through some magical or mundane means. But there's no time to think about that. In the twinkling of an eye -- but who knows how long, really -- Alexander is elsewhere.
The bag has been removed from his head, so when he is capable of opening his groggy eyes, he finds himself in an enclosed room without windows. It's lit by a corner lamp and not much else. It could be anywhere, but it has the look of a basement, dusty and gritty and quiet. As Alexander's eyes come into focus, he realizes he is lying down, stripped of his armor and weapons, and tied with many tightly wound loops of coarse rope to some sort of rugged wooden table. He can feel the knotted bark against his back through his shirt. It's dim in this place, but if he turns his head just so he can see a figure sitting on a chair not far from where he is. It's hard to make out the figure's face through the drowsiness and the meager light, but it does seem to be a male one.
Alexander remains still and quiet. He closes his eyes, remains still and calm. He tests each limb, arm, arm, leg, leg, he tries to be subtle and quiet. "Hello," he manages at last, there's a casualness to his tone, undercutting the fear.
Everything seems to be in working order, from what Alexander can gauge from just twitching. More than that is not really possible within the tightness of his bounds. Even before Alexander speaks his greeting, the man in the chair must have noticed a little stirring -- that or he's lucky, because he's already scooting closer with a grinding of wood against the floor. His face comes into view, illuminated by the lamplight. The man is in young. Too young to be doing...whatever he's doing. Or at least, that's how he appears -- one never knows in this town. Alexander's Sensitive eyes pick up a faint aura of some kind, but it's hard to get a good glimpse just yet, even after several blinks. What is visible is that his features are gentle and kind, and his eyes are blue. His youthful lips bear a soft downward curve, a thoughtful frown.
"Hello," the man says in return, his voice quiet. The first impression would be that he is English, but as he goes on, it's clear that English is actually his second language, but he's learned the British variety. "I'm sorry to have to do this," he says to him. "You don't deserve it. But this is how it has to be. There's no way to argue your way out of it, so don't try. You'll just make us both sadder."
Alexander exhales and gazes away from him, avoiding meeting his eyes. "Well, that sounds like a win, if I can't kick your ass making you cry is the next best thing. Who are you. Why am I here. What do you want from he," he demands
Alexander studies the aura briefly, but doesn't linger. It won't help him and he likely won't figure it out anyway.
"You can call me Peter," the young man says, and he stands up, his chair scooting noisily back. "It's close enough to my real name." He stands over Alexander for a moment, his solemn face hovering over the rough wooden table where Alexander is tied up. There is an aura about him, white wings and a golden corona behind his brown-haired head, visible out of the corner of Alexander's attuned eyes. Then it's gone in a wink. "There's a power here," says Peter as he stoops over Alexander. He checks the ropes, making sure they're secure, but he seems to be very tense as he does so, fighting some urge to do something else...release Alexander, maybe? He doesn't, though. In fact, he tightens one of them that he apparently found too loose for his taste. "I need to feed that power today. My daughter's life depends on it. Do you have children, Alexander?" His voice is pleading.
Alexander takes a deep breath. "If I believed you, yes." He glowers at Peter. "But I don't. Because there's lots of ways to fucking get my help! But tying me up isn't one of them!" he insists.
Alexander studies the wings, his desire is clear, escape, strong, loud and clear. Not that he's really putting intention into filtering it out there. Perhaps he feels a strong desire from the man.
Desires are indeed bouncing between the two, forming a sort of strange self-cancelling feedback loop. Peter's fingers tremble and he seems to have trouble standing still. But Alexander, too, feels periodically compelled to stay where he is, to accept his fate. Right now, the two men are at a psychic stalemate, neither one willing to fully cave to the desires of the other. It's enough to make Peter very restless. He's pacing now, staying away from the rough-hewn table.
"She's seven years old," Peter says, turning towards the corner, looking away from Alexander, trying not to think about the magnetic pull he feels to undo his bindings. "You don't deserve this. But neither does she. It won't let her go until I feed you to her. She's not here in Haven -- she doesn't have Sanctuary. I have to do what it says. I don't know why it wants you. I'm sorry."
A sickening, hot-cold feeling descends upon Alexander.
(fixed) Desires are indeed bouncing between the two, forming a sort of strange self-cancelling feedback loop. Peter's fingers tremble and he seems to have trouble standing still. But Alexander, too, feels periodically compelled to stay where he is, to accept his fate. Right now, the two men are at a psychic stalemate, neither one willing to fully cave to the desires of the other. It's enough to make Peter very restless. He's pacing now, staying away from the rough-hewn table.
"She's seven years old," Peter says, turning towards the corner, looking away from Alexander, trying not to think about the magnetic pull he feels to undo his bindings. "You don't deserve this. But neither does she. It won't let her go until I feed you to it. She's not here in Haven -- she doesn't have Sanctuary. I have to do what it says. I don't know why it wants you. I'm sorry."
A sickening, hot-cold feeling descends upon Alexander.
Alexander growls. "What does it want from me, where does it want me," he snarls. Feeling a sinking pit of horror in his gut.
Alexander says "What is it! Why does it want me!?"
Alexander bites his lower lip. Does he believe the man? He doesn't. He lets out a hiss, the doubt lays at his heart, it's agonizing. He would give his life to save this child, but he's smart enough to know better. This is the exact play someone should use on him. The price is the pivot. If he can remain in Sanctuary, in Haven...
Maybe it's because of the desires in Alexander's heart, or maybe just because of the situation, but one wish Alexander made has been granted, at least. Peter starts to cry. He holds his head in his hands, facing the dusty corner, and weeps quietly, his shoulders shuddering. No answer comes from Peter. Perhaps he really doesn't know, or he can't bring himself to say it, or...as Alexander suspects, it's all part of the ruse. Who can say?
But the fever-chill spreads through Alexander's nervous system, filling his whole body with cold fire, from his core to his fingertips and toes. There is something terrible here.
Alexander exhales harshly, letting out a shuddering and subdued terrified noise. He bites his lower lip harshly and draws himself tight as he can against his bindings. "I am not yours! You cannot have me! I will not feed you! Take from me what you can and let me free! Sanctuary protects me!" he insists desperately.
Alexander closes his eyes, and he feels no desire to allow Peter to die. He doesn't believe the man, of course, look at him, his age, a daughter of that age? Perhaps he's some very young doting father who also has tied to the syndicate to save his daughter from some hideous monster. Such things are always possible. "Untie me Peter. I am not going to harm you," Alexander insists. If he has to die, so be it. The idea is not even railed against. It seems, he's been ready to die for a long time yet, the impulse barely registers.
It's true. Peter does look a bit young to be the father of a seven-year-old. Something seems off, at first glance. But then again, the lighting in here isn't great, softening the features...well, it's hard to say, now; Peter is facing the corner, away from Alexander in his torment. His crying has subsided somewhat, though it's still audible in his voice when he says, "I will, Alexander." The struggle against his nature can be heard in the tightness and thinness of his voice. "But when I do, what will you do?" Finally, Peter turns around. His face is red from crying, dried tears sticky on his cheeks. The effect does age him somewhat, but still...
"Someone has to die." Peter looks resigned. "I'm sure they've told you the same. You needed to know the rules before I untied you. Now you know. We can't leave together." His eyes trace to the door. It's been very securely boarded up with slats of oak, no doubt done while Alexander was unconscious. It would take tools and great effort to undo it, and Alexander finds himself without his nightmare charm.
"But if you save yourself...just know," Peter says, "you're dooming my daughter." And then he steps over and begins to untie Alexander, loosing a long breath as he allows himself to embrace his desire at last.
Alexander is through the illusion in a sense, even as his desire to die remains strong. He doesn't know why it comes to mind, because frankly, it's never really all that far away. He stays quiet, deep breaths. He doesn't speak and when untied he pivots to Peter, standing. He rubs his wrists, his arms. "We don't need to play this ugly game," Alexander insists. "If it's true, then kill me. I won't lower my sanctuary for it, your precious daughter awaits. It'll be slow, eventually, I suspect, I'll get sick from my injuries, eventually in a way that Sanctuary won't protect from." He moves to lean against a wall, studying Peter, the room. Pulling the pieces together. "A hellish week or two for her life. Surely that'll be worth it...?" he studies the man closely.
"Is that how it works?" Peter steps over to a table against a wall. From there he picks up two knives. One he presents to Alexander, and one he himself holds, loosely, pointed downwards. Right now, he doesn't threaten Alexander with it, but nor does he threaten himself. "I don't think I can hurt you that badly. I think you'll recover easily from anything I can deliberately do to you."
Alexander peers around the room.
jams a blade into his arm, ignoring Peter for now. It isn't a serious injury, enough to provide him paint for his work. A ritual springs to mind, something... "Tell me about this figure, who has your daughter," Alexander insists.
Peter's blue eyes widen at the sight of Alexander plunging the blade into his arm. Perhaps he expects that the knife will cut somewhere more vital, but when it doesnt't, he just shudders and holds his own knife low, observing Alexander with great care and attention. "He told me his name was Valefar," he eventually mumbles. "The prince of thieves." The activity in Alexander's head buzzes with dark energy at that name and title.
Alexander says "Valefar. Peter, I would like you to give me your blood. Willing or otherwise."
Alexander says "Well, willing...ideally"
Alexander shuffers, and clutches his heart. It would be so peaceful. So nice to just...stop.
Alexander stops drawing symbols on the wall and leans against it. Letting out a shudder. His entire frame trembles, eyes welling up.
Most people might take a step back at a comment like that from Alexander, but Peter takes an unconscious step forward, even as his lips speak warily: "Why?" He adjusts his grip on his knife, and lifts it, though not to threaten Alexander. In fact, it's his own arm he stares at.
Alexander says "...nevermind...it doesn't matter does it...?"
Alexander shifts back, a half finished circle on the floor, and sits back on the chair, gazing emptily at the floor.
Alexander says "...What are you Peter...?"
"No," says Peter, "I suppose it doesn't." And then he approaches another step. "I'm angelborn," he tells Alexander, looking at the partially finished ritual markings. "I took in my daughter when she was three. She had nowhere to go. But already the demons had their claws in her." His eyes trace back to Alexander in the dim light. "I didn't know at the time. I knew I was saving her, but not from what. Now I know. I was saving her from a demon. And here I am, turning myself into a killer to do it again." He sounds resigned. "Maybe I don't have it in me."
gazes down. "I have a girlfriend, Bianca, it'll be important you let her know what happened...Harriet too. I doubt me dying will fix anything but..." Alexander shrugs helplessly. "Just make sure they know why, yeah...?"
Alexander gazes down. "I have a girlfriend, Bianca, it'll be important you let her know what happened...Harriet too. I doubt me dying will fix anything but..." Alexander shrugs helplessly. "Just make sure they know why, yeah...?"