Encounterlogs
Aristotles Odd Encounter Sr Carmine 240705
In a peculiar twist of events, Aristotle finds himself momentarily disoriented in his own home, grappling with the stifling heat and a sudden lapse in memory. This disorientation quickly morphs into an eerie encounter when he hears a whistle from his bedroom, only to discover that the room has bizarrely transformed into a replica of his childhood bedroom. However, anomalies abound; the room fills in details from his memory on-the-fly, and his partner is nowhere to be found. Instead, he's confronted by a younger version of himself who appears to be caught in a dream—or more accurately, a nightmare—crafted by a dream stalker. The encounter escalates as this apparition challenges Aristotle's life choices, insinuating a failure to live up to his family's legacy, and hinting at a dangerous complacency in his career as a deputy. Despite the invasive and accusatory nature of the dream, Aristotle confronts the scenario head-on, ultimately dismissing the apparition's criticisms as "trickery" and asserting his own achievements and decisions before stepping back into reality.
The unsettling experience leaves Aristotle with lingering doubts and insecurities, which are briefly set aside as he receives an ambiguous invitation to a neighborhood gathering. The message, appealing to his esteemed lineage, masks the true intent of the meeting as a recruitment effort for The Black Flame cult. The setting shifts to a picturesque home outside city limits, suggesting a normalcy and camaraderie far removed from his recent nightmare. Guests appear engaged in pleasant social exchanges, unbeknownst to the underlying cult activities and the impending ritual designed to summon an eldritch horror. Aristotle, still reeling from his dream confrontation, now must navigate this deceptively innocuous social setting, deciphering the cult's intentions while maintaining his own disguise. The story leaves Aristotle on the precipice of a new, albeit very different, kind of nightmare—one that requires wit and subtlety to disrupt the cult's plans without revealing his true intent.
(Aristotle's odd encounter(SRCarmine):SRCarmine)
[Thu Jul 4 2024]
In the central hallway of an eerie colonial building
The oppressive atmosphere continues into the central hallway, walls of decorative wooden paneling feel strangely cramped despite being objectively spacious. The electronic chandelier give too little light for comfort, casting shadows that play tricks behind pots of dried flowers. Paintings, each in lavish frame, add a forlorn touch as if abandoned, rueful. The hallway features polished, smooth hardwood floors that creak with each and every step and sometimes, adding another creak by itself.
It is afternoon, about 106F(41C) degrees,
(Your target has been singled out by a dream stalker who's invading their dreams. They cannot be woken, but their allies may be able to go into their dreams after them to help them fight off the invader and survive the nightmare.
)
Aristotle, at present, is at his home in the hallway next to the front door. Fully dressed, and likely on his way out. He doesn't exit yet, though, holding in his hands his badge as he tries to slip it into his pockets in a way that doesn't make his shorts buldge at the side.
It's hot as hell, even indoors. Haven does not typically get this hot and so most buildings lack proper HVAC or even basic air conditioning. For whatever reason Aristotle's mind goes blank and that feeling of 'how did I get here' and 'what was I just doing' comes on quickly.
Where Aristotle was about to go seems to have slipped his mind. He does recognize where he is at least since it's his own home. After a long moment of sudden blankness there is a whistle coming from the bedroom that snaps Aristotle back into the present.
Aristotle blinks. Once, twice, and then a third as his mind brings him back to the present moment after having zoned way the hell out. Chalk it up to the unusual heat in Haven. His badge goes forgotten in his pocket as the whistle tugs at his attention. He doesn't seem startled by it, instead turning to move towards that direction. "Someone slept in late." He calls out in reply, assuming the whistling is coming from his partner. "It's hot as shit out, so heads up clothing is no-no today." He casually claims, starting upstairs to push his way into the bedroom.
When Aristotle arrives in his bedroom, it's certainly HIS bedroom. But not the one he currently resides in. It's like he walked into his childhood room. Whatever space he considers his childhood bedroom is where he finds himself now, things are not quite right though, details are missing or seem to fill in as Aristotle thinks about them as if someone is recreating based on his stream of consciousness.
Whats also likely alarming is that his partner is not here. Despite hearing the earlier whistle.
Of what to be surprised by first, be it the absence of his partner, or his room being his but not, the room takes the floor for now. Aristotle pauses at the threshold, looking into his childhood room. The surprise alone doesn't seem to alert him yet of missing details, especially as it seems they appear as he further recollects. White walls reflecting whatever light pours in from large windows - photo of himself and his father on the bedside table, and the bed which are clothed in pink sheets because why not? His brow creases a bit in confused surprise, and he's stumped for a moment before he takes a step backwards as if to move himself out of the bedroom.
AS Aristotle steps back to retreat, he bumps into a small form. Not too hard and the voice that says, "Excuse me!" is cheery and youthful. It takes all of a heartbeat for Aristotle to realize he's face to face with someone very familiar. His childhood self. The young man, perhaps ten years old beams at Aristotle "Wow a policeman so cool!" he says, even though nothing about Aristotle's dress today would indicate that to be the case.
The sound of the voice accompanying the small form he bumps into has Aristotle flinching just a bit - and in the back of his mind it's a voice he recognizes, but it's easily justified as a coincidence or literally anything else until he spots the face of the form he's bumped into. Eyes widen as that heartbeat of realization hits. "...Woah." He says first, taking a step back /into/ the room now as he looks down at a younger, innocent version of himself. The mention of a policeman does draw his eyes to his clothing, and despite not being in uniform that's probably the least weird thing about this. He then goes to slowly pinch at the skin on his forearm. "...Am I having a heat stroke?" He wonders, more to himself than to... himself.
The young Aristotle is still beaming at Aristotle, watching him with childlike delight. Kindly waiting while Aristotle gets his bearings about how fucked up this all probably feels and how confusing it clearly is. Eventually the young boy says, "What are you doing here? Are you looking for a bad guy? Are you here for me?" there is a hint of fret in the last words.
Whether or not his pinch gave him any pain enough to realize if he were present or not, it slips from his mind as he's asked that question from his younger self. Aristotle's attention diverts fully now to the boy, expression still confused but now for a separate reason. "...What do you mean?" He asks himself, starting to crouch down to meet him at his eyeline. "Why would I be here for you? You didn't do anything wrong." He promises.
"Oh I dunno." the boy says sheepishly as if he's hiding something naughty. He shyly looks away for a moment when Aristotle comes to eye level but soon looks back, "I want to be a police man one day." he tells Aristotle, brightly. "I want to fight crime and put all the bad guys in jail. Do you think I can be one like you?"
The slightest of head tilts at his words, and Aristotle looks down at the younger version of himself and states, with a bit of a snort. "No you don't." He says. "Why would you want to be a police officer? We're only doing this because we were forced to." He says. Then, pauses, and amends with, "I mean... me? You. You?" There's another pause, as if unsure of how to actually address either one of them. "You'd be happier living with your dad, Ari." He decides, then.
Aristotle feels unsettled, realizing that perhaps at that age he didn't dream of being a police officer. The inconsistency eats away at Aristotle and the boys face seems to shift just a little out of focus, making the boy seem less a childlike image of himself and more like a poor imitation of a memory. When Aristotle makes the contradiction the boy's face snaps back into the childlike version, resuming the illusion. "Live with my dad? Why?"
For a moment, after that question is posed by his younger self, Aristotle turns his eyes about the room. It seems he tries to give it a studious stare as his eyes sweep about the space. He's still crouched at his younger self's eyeline, and when he answers the question, it's still with his eyes about the room, like he's searching for something out of place externally, as opposed to the unease he feels inside. "Because he's free." He says. Perhaps a bit vaguely, but his answer is genuine enough if tone is anything to go by. "You know your dad, right?" He asks, looking back to the younger version of himself, and it seems in how he asks that question is comes off more like a test of sorts than genuine curiosity.
With an awkward giggle the boy says, "Of course I know my dad." and he purposefully elaborates no further. The room doesn't seem quite right. Nothing is just as Aristotle remembers it, its as though someone was told what his room looked like and they tried to recreate it like a sketch artist, close but imperfect.
There is a long strange pause as the boy stares at Aristotle as though the illusion was malfunctioning before he suddenly speaks again, "My family is really rich." why is that relevant?
Aristotle starts to rise to his feet after a moment. That sudden blurting of Aristotle's family's wealth from his younger self is unacknowledged for now, but his attention shits between the boy and the space he finds himself in. When he speaks, it's still somewhat uncertain, but he states, "This isn't... my room." He says. "And you seem wrong." He says then to the child. "Maybe I am here for you afterall." He says, going back on his previous reassurance as he looks down at him. "What is this?"
"You are just a lazy piece of shit who never amounted to anything but a deputy in a small town police department." The boy says, the strong words from the little boys mouth and tone come across as very odd, no kid speaks this way. There is an eye roll that follows and the boy tells Aristotle, "You could do so much more with your life."
The boy motions around and says, "You are a Wilson, you should be leading men and be feared." the boy narrows his eyes on Aristotle. Watching him for a response to these accusations.
"Ah, okay, really poking at that insecurity, huh?" Aristotle says, aware enough to at least be able to directly lay that claim. "I'm gonna take a second to correct you though, kid. I'm a Wilson." He continues, motioning a hand over himself with a slight shrug. "I don't 'need' to be doing anything, because I'm fucking rich. If you want to look down on me, go right ahead. I'll stand on my wallet and loom over you. Now, what the fuck is this?" He asks, though his tone brings it out more like a demand for an answer than a request.
Sighing the boy speaks with the voice of a much older man as he explains to Aristotle, "You idiot. THIS is a warning from the family. You are not living up to the Wilson name." then a darkness crosses his features as he adds while stepping to the side of the door, "If you want to stand on OUR wallet and loom over others, you better embrace the family name."
With that the boy has delivered a message, is it actually from the family? Who knows. It seems to have an authoritative edge to it. "You do not want to be cut off."
"...This isn't real." Aristotle says, quietly to himself. It seems something in his younger form's words sparked that realization. "If my family wants to send a message, this isn't how they would do it. They're direct. This? This is..." His face starts to contort a bit, like he's disgusted. "...Trickery." His eyes start to narrow as he looks down at the younger boy. "Everything that I've accomplished, was done for the direct benefit of my family and their dealings. You'd know that if you were who you say you were. But you're not." He says. "Put a stop to this."
"Believe want you want to believe." the boy tells Aristotle. He holds a hand out towards the door to offer it to Aristotle, "Just know you are disappointing. We expect more from you." The boy does not wait for Aristotle to take the door before he takes the door himself, opening it and stepping into the hall. Not to his childhood home but to the hall of Aristotle's present home. As he steps away, the boy begins to fade entirely leaving nothing but Aristotle in his old childhood bedroom with an exit back to reality.
Whether or not those words cut isn't shown on Aristotle's face. Instead, disdain settles. "Bugger this." He says, or rather, spits out, as the door is opened. He stalks off, but it's apparent in how he moves this nightmare of an experience touched rather deeply on some insecurity of his. Nothing is stated though, as he makes his way through the door back to his own reality.
(Your target has been invited to a seemingly innocuous neighborhood gathering, only to discover that it's a recruitment meeting for The Black Flame. The characters must navigate social interactions with these cult members while concealing their true intent and gathering information about the cult's plans. As the night wears on, they witness a ritual designed to hasten the arrival of an eldritch horror and must figure out how to subtly disrupt it without blowing their cover.)
A new message arrives, causing Aristotle's phone to buzz gently and its screen to light up to display a new message from an unfamiliar number. The text reads, 'Hello Ari, you are warmly invited to join us for an evening gathering. It's a casual meet and greet with our neighbourhood group. We'd love to get to know you better and share some of our community activities. You carry an impressive surname and your heritage is admired.' Few more details are included, involving the location which is a residence located just outside of city limits. This seemingly friendly invitation carries no immediate signs of any underlying intentions, all skillfully masked beneath the veneer of a simple, neighbourhood camaraderie.
Aristotle, fighting for his life in this heat, stands before his thermostat. The temperature is set to 70, and yet it's boiling inside. He sighs, irritated and sweltering, and soon finds himself distracted by the alert on his phone. He reads over the message, brows lifting a bit in surprise. "Oh? This is nice..." He says, tapping on the screen a few times to pull up exact location details. He's already dressed - though for the weather than for a social event, but he doesn't seem bothered enough to try and change.
Next, Aristotle receives an attachment that is a photo of a home nestled off of Devilwood Drive. It's a charming little house that sits serenely in a forest clearing. The architecture is quaint and inviting through its rustic appeal and the woodland surroundings. It is two stories, painted a soft, welcoming cream colour, and white trim around the windows and a cozy wrap around porch that is arranged with hanging plants and a few wooden rocking chairs makes the residence appear friendly enough. Guests are dressed casually for the warm weather and are scattered about in the picture. Some are gathered on the lawn whilst enjoying refreshments and conversation, while others are relaxing on the porch steps, appearing to be laughing and having a good time. The text that gets sent next reads: 'Bring yourself and any friends. We're starting now.'
The unsettling experience leaves Aristotle with lingering doubts and insecurities, which are briefly set aside as he receives an ambiguous invitation to a neighborhood gathering. The message, appealing to his esteemed lineage, masks the true intent of the meeting as a recruitment effort for The Black Flame cult. The setting shifts to a picturesque home outside city limits, suggesting a normalcy and camaraderie far removed from his recent nightmare. Guests appear engaged in pleasant social exchanges, unbeknownst to the underlying cult activities and the impending ritual designed to summon an eldritch horror. Aristotle, still reeling from his dream confrontation, now must navigate this deceptively innocuous social setting, deciphering the cult's intentions while maintaining his own disguise. The story leaves Aristotle on the precipice of a new, albeit very different, kind of nightmare—one that requires wit and subtlety to disrupt the cult's plans without revealing his true intent.
(Aristotle's odd encounter(SRCarmine):SRCarmine)
[Thu Jul 4 2024]
In the central hallway of an eerie colonial building
The oppressive atmosphere continues into the central hallway, walls of decorative wooden paneling feel strangely cramped despite being objectively spacious. The electronic chandelier give too little light for comfort, casting shadows that play tricks behind pots of dried flowers. Paintings, each in lavish frame, add a forlorn touch as if abandoned, rueful. The hallway features polished, smooth hardwood floors that creak with each and every step and sometimes, adding another creak by itself.
It is afternoon, about 106F(41C) degrees,
(Your target has been singled out by a dream stalker who's invading their dreams. They cannot be woken, but their allies may be able to go into their dreams after them to help them fight off the invader and survive the nightmare.
)
Aristotle, at present, is at his home in the hallway next to the front door. Fully dressed, and likely on his way out. He doesn't exit yet, though, holding in his hands his badge as he tries to slip it into his pockets in a way that doesn't make his shorts buldge at the side.
It's hot as hell, even indoors. Haven does not typically get this hot and so most buildings lack proper HVAC or even basic air conditioning. For whatever reason Aristotle's mind goes blank and that feeling of 'how did I get here' and 'what was I just doing' comes on quickly.
Where Aristotle was about to go seems to have slipped his mind. He does recognize where he is at least since it's his own home. After a long moment of sudden blankness there is a whistle coming from the bedroom that snaps Aristotle back into the present.
Aristotle blinks. Once, twice, and then a third as his mind brings him back to the present moment after having zoned way the hell out. Chalk it up to the unusual heat in Haven. His badge goes forgotten in his pocket as the whistle tugs at his attention. He doesn't seem startled by it, instead turning to move towards that direction. "Someone slept in late." He calls out in reply, assuming the whistling is coming from his partner. "It's hot as shit out, so heads up clothing is no-no today." He casually claims, starting upstairs to push his way into the bedroom.
When Aristotle arrives in his bedroom, it's certainly HIS bedroom. But not the one he currently resides in. It's like he walked into his childhood room. Whatever space he considers his childhood bedroom is where he finds himself now, things are not quite right though, details are missing or seem to fill in as Aristotle thinks about them as if someone is recreating based on his stream of consciousness.
Whats also likely alarming is that his partner is not here. Despite hearing the earlier whistle.
Of what to be surprised by first, be it the absence of his partner, or his room being his but not, the room takes the floor for now. Aristotle pauses at the threshold, looking into his childhood room. The surprise alone doesn't seem to alert him yet of missing details, especially as it seems they appear as he further recollects. White walls reflecting whatever light pours in from large windows - photo of himself and his father on the bedside table, and the bed which are clothed in pink sheets because why not? His brow creases a bit in confused surprise, and he's stumped for a moment before he takes a step backwards as if to move himself out of the bedroom.
AS Aristotle steps back to retreat, he bumps into a small form. Not too hard and the voice that says, "Excuse me!" is cheery and youthful. It takes all of a heartbeat for Aristotle to realize he's face to face with someone very familiar. His childhood self. The young man, perhaps ten years old beams at Aristotle "Wow a policeman so cool!" he says, even though nothing about Aristotle's dress today would indicate that to be the case.
The sound of the voice accompanying the small form he bumps into has Aristotle flinching just a bit - and in the back of his mind it's a voice he recognizes, but it's easily justified as a coincidence or literally anything else until he spots the face of the form he's bumped into. Eyes widen as that heartbeat of realization hits. "...Woah." He says first, taking a step back /into/ the room now as he looks down at a younger, innocent version of himself. The mention of a policeman does draw his eyes to his clothing, and despite not being in uniform that's probably the least weird thing about this. He then goes to slowly pinch at the skin on his forearm. "...Am I having a heat stroke?" He wonders, more to himself than to... himself.
The young Aristotle is still beaming at Aristotle, watching him with childlike delight. Kindly waiting while Aristotle gets his bearings about how fucked up this all probably feels and how confusing it clearly is. Eventually the young boy says, "What are you doing here? Are you looking for a bad guy? Are you here for me?" there is a hint of fret in the last words.
Whether or not his pinch gave him any pain enough to realize if he were present or not, it slips from his mind as he's asked that question from his younger self. Aristotle's attention diverts fully now to the boy, expression still confused but now for a separate reason. "...What do you mean?" He asks himself, starting to crouch down to meet him at his eyeline. "Why would I be here for you? You didn't do anything wrong." He promises.
"Oh I dunno." the boy says sheepishly as if he's hiding something naughty. He shyly looks away for a moment when Aristotle comes to eye level but soon looks back, "I want to be a police man one day." he tells Aristotle, brightly. "I want to fight crime and put all the bad guys in jail. Do you think I can be one like you?"
The slightest of head tilts at his words, and Aristotle looks down at the younger version of himself and states, with a bit of a snort. "No you don't." He says. "Why would you want to be a police officer? We're only doing this because we were forced to." He says. Then, pauses, and amends with, "I mean... me? You. You?" There's another pause, as if unsure of how to actually address either one of them. "You'd be happier living with your dad, Ari." He decides, then.
Aristotle feels unsettled, realizing that perhaps at that age he didn't dream of being a police officer. The inconsistency eats away at Aristotle and the boys face seems to shift just a little out of focus, making the boy seem less a childlike image of himself and more like a poor imitation of a memory. When Aristotle makes the contradiction the boy's face snaps back into the childlike version, resuming the illusion. "Live with my dad? Why?"
For a moment, after that question is posed by his younger self, Aristotle turns his eyes about the room. It seems he tries to give it a studious stare as his eyes sweep about the space. He's still crouched at his younger self's eyeline, and when he answers the question, it's still with his eyes about the room, like he's searching for something out of place externally, as opposed to the unease he feels inside. "Because he's free." He says. Perhaps a bit vaguely, but his answer is genuine enough if tone is anything to go by. "You know your dad, right?" He asks, looking back to the younger version of himself, and it seems in how he asks that question is comes off more like a test of sorts than genuine curiosity.
With an awkward giggle the boy says, "Of course I know my dad." and he purposefully elaborates no further. The room doesn't seem quite right. Nothing is just as Aristotle remembers it, its as though someone was told what his room looked like and they tried to recreate it like a sketch artist, close but imperfect.
There is a long strange pause as the boy stares at Aristotle as though the illusion was malfunctioning before he suddenly speaks again, "My family is really rich." why is that relevant?
Aristotle starts to rise to his feet after a moment. That sudden blurting of Aristotle's family's wealth from his younger self is unacknowledged for now, but his attention shits between the boy and the space he finds himself in. When he speaks, it's still somewhat uncertain, but he states, "This isn't... my room." He says. "And you seem wrong." He says then to the child. "Maybe I am here for you afterall." He says, going back on his previous reassurance as he looks down at him. "What is this?"
"You are just a lazy piece of shit who never amounted to anything but a deputy in a small town police department." The boy says, the strong words from the little boys mouth and tone come across as very odd, no kid speaks this way. There is an eye roll that follows and the boy tells Aristotle, "You could do so much more with your life."
The boy motions around and says, "You are a Wilson, you should be leading men and be feared." the boy narrows his eyes on Aristotle. Watching him for a response to these accusations.
"Ah, okay, really poking at that insecurity, huh?" Aristotle says, aware enough to at least be able to directly lay that claim. "I'm gonna take a second to correct you though, kid. I'm a Wilson." He continues, motioning a hand over himself with a slight shrug. "I don't 'need' to be doing anything, because I'm fucking rich. If you want to look down on me, go right ahead. I'll stand on my wallet and loom over you. Now, what the fuck is this?" He asks, though his tone brings it out more like a demand for an answer than a request.
Sighing the boy speaks with the voice of a much older man as he explains to Aristotle, "You idiot. THIS is a warning from the family. You are not living up to the Wilson name." then a darkness crosses his features as he adds while stepping to the side of the door, "If you want to stand on OUR wallet and loom over others, you better embrace the family name."
With that the boy has delivered a message, is it actually from the family? Who knows. It seems to have an authoritative edge to it. "You do not want to be cut off."
"...This isn't real." Aristotle says, quietly to himself. It seems something in his younger form's words sparked that realization. "If my family wants to send a message, this isn't how they would do it. They're direct. This? This is..." His face starts to contort a bit, like he's disgusted. "...Trickery." His eyes start to narrow as he looks down at the younger boy. "Everything that I've accomplished, was done for the direct benefit of my family and their dealings. You'd know that if you were who you say you were. But you're not." He says. "Put a stop to this."
"Believe want you want to believe." the boy tells Aristotle. He holds a hand out towards the door to offer it to Aristotle, "Just know you are disappointing. We expect more from you." The boy does not wait for Aristotle to take the door before he takes the door himself, opening it and stepping into the hall. Not to his childhood home but to the hall of Aristotle's present home. As he steps away, the boy begins to fade entirely leaving nothing but Aristotle in his old childhood bedroom with an exit back to reality.
Whether or not those words cut isn't shown on Aristotle's face. Instead, disdain settles. "Bugger this." He says, or rather, spits out, as the door is opened. He stalks off, but it's apparent in how he moves this nightmare of an experience touched rather deeply on some insecurity of his. Nothing is stated though, as he makes his way through the door back to his own reality.
(Your target has been invited to a seemingly innocuous neighborhood gathering, only to discover that it's a recruitment meeting for The Black Flame. The characters must navigate social interactions with these cult members while concealing their true intent and gathering information about the cult's plans. As the night wears on, they witness a ritual designed to hasten the arrival of an eldritch horror and must figure out how to subtly disrupt it without blowing their cover.)
A new message arrives, causing Aristotle's phone to buzz gently and its screen to light up to display a new message from an unfamiliar number. The text reads, 'Hello Ari, you are warmly invited to join us for an evening gathering. It's a casual meet and greet with our neighbourhood group. We'd love to get to know you better and share some of our community activities. You carry an impressive surname and your heritage is admired.' Few more details are included, involving the location which is a residence located just outside of city limits. This seemingly friendly invitation carries no immediate signs of any underlying intentions, all skillfully masked beneath the veneer of a simple, neighbourhood camaraderie.
Aristotle, fighting for his life in this heat, stands before his thermostat. The temperature is set to 70, and yet it's boiling inside. He sighs, irritated and sweltering, and soon finds himself distracted by the alert on his phone. He reads over the message, brows lifting a bit in surprise. "Oh? This is nice..." He says, tapping on the screen a few times to pull up exact location details. He's already dressed - though for the weather than for a social event, but he doesn't seem bothered enough to try and change.
Next, Aristotle receives an attachment that is a photo of a home nestled off of Devilwood Drive. It's a charming little house that sits serenely in a forest clearing. The architecture is quaint and inviting through its rustic appeal and the woodland surroundings. It is two stories, painted a soft, welcoming cream colour, and white trim around the windows and a cozy wrap around porch that is arranged with hanging plants and a few wooden rocking chairs makes the residence appear friendly enough. Guests are dressed casually for the warm weather and are scattered about in the picture. Some are gathered on the lawn whilst enjoying refreshments and conversation, while others are relaxing on the porch steps, appearing to be laughing and having a good time. The text that gets sent next reads: 'Bring yourself and any friends. We're starting now.'