Encounterlogs
Ashs Odd Encounter Sr Dean 240828
Isaiah and Ash find themselves on an eerie, otherworldly adventure after Isaiah's reluctant interaction with a mysterious door leads them into a strange and unsettling place known as the Golden Auction. Amidst the fantastical and bizarre items up for bid, Isaiah's disdain for Fae games and Ash's curiosity about their own faeborn heritage are put to the test. As the auction progresses, both are tempted by the objects on offer, including a Singing Silver Feather and a Gilded Cage of Echoes, each with a horrifying price to pay. The atmosphere of the auction is oppressive, with a sense of dread that seeps through the encounters, culminating in the offering of the Hourglass of Anubis, a powerful object that demands a steep price – the life force of another.
Ultimately, Isaiah decides the cost of participating is too high, especially when the final item, the Hourglass of Anubis, requires sacrificing a portion of their lives alongside their shadow and reflection. Despite Ash's lingering curiosity and the gravity of the artifacts presented, Isaiah's protective nature prevails, choosing their safety over the allure of the auction's promises. Requesting to leave, they express a desire to return to the familiarity of Haven, Massachusetts, underscoring their profound discomfort and wish to escape the auction's malevolent grasp. As they’re transported back to their starting points, the transition back to reality leaves them pondering the experience, with the Golden Auction's send-off hinting at a foreboding invitation for future attendance. The incident leaves an indelible mark, not just on their physical beings but on their psyche, altering their perception of the supernatural world and its untold dangers and wonders.
(Isaiah's odd encounter(SRDean):SRDean)
[Wed Aug 14 2024]
On Hart Avenue by the roadside leading to Antlers
The quaint street is bathed in the soft glow of a waxing gibbous moon, which hangs low in the deep blue sky, casting gentle shadows. The old but respectable hotel stands proudly by the roadside, its aged brick facade covered in a tapestry of ivy. The warm, amber light spilling from its windows is a telltale sign of activity within, while the sign at the front denotes it as 'The Antlers'
Lining the cobblestone street are small, charming houses, their front gardens, if they have any, adorned with blooming flowers. The shops, with their vintage wooden signs in the distance and colorful awnings, are closed for the evening, but their displays are a cheerful sight under the streetlights. The town feels peaceful, eerily so, so different from the usual Haven, almost timeless, with the gentle rustling of leaves and the occasional distant sound of a passing car or footsteps.
It is night, about 91F(32C) degrees, There is a waxing gibbous moon.
"I don't fuck with Fae shit," Isaiah tells Ash in a brutally honest fashion as that handle begins to behave more erratically, only causing him to act more cautious about it. "There's three things I don't dip my fingers into," he says, seemingly unnerved by Ash's behavior as they dance around what he obviously perceives to be some kind of dangerous threat to his health. "Garbage disposals, crazy bitches, and Fae shit. They can be worse than any fucking Demons- at least my kin will shoot it to you straight. The Fae make riddles, and puzzles, and fucking /games/," he says, but Ash is right. The world is changed, and his blue eyes do catch sight of that nearby clock, tick tick ticking away. That red line. That eerie red line. His heart starts to thunder in his chest as goosebumps prickle over his flesh. "God dammit," he says. "God fucking dammit. GOD FUCKING DAMMIT, I hate the God damned Fae," he snaps, kicking the curb repeatedly a few times.
He huffs, and he puffs, and that clock keeps ticking, and he sweats, and then he screams and lashes out at the air, punching it again and again before snapping up one of Ash's hands in his own, squeezing tightly, trembling, then using the other to reach for the knob, attempting to twist. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking fuck."
Ash hums softly, grinning widely - it's their Cheshire cat grin. "But... you know that I'm faeborn, right?" It's an almost innocent question, with their tone of voice, but they hold his hand tightly, stepping quickly to be right by his side. "I'm sort of curious how a *real* fae does it, honestly... I've been pushed into a perfect, obedient human shape for so long, like all school and no play, and I don't know Jack about real Games, just a dull boy...." It gets a bit nonsensical there, but they reach out their other hand, soft and long artist's fingers resting against Isaiah's calloused one, and turn the knob with him.
Bam!
As soon as someone touches the door's knob, he'd find his aggressive approach is met with eagenerness. He doesn't need to do much at all, just the barest hold of that golden metal erupts in a ray of illuminate hues of all shades in yellow and gold. It erupts from the handle, to someone' fingertips. It's power, crawling under his skin, brushing upon his heart -- and traverses all across the limb extended for Ash to explore him the same with the curiosity of a hound running rampant in their veins. By the time the energizing force has vanished, and the door has practically sucked them in, they would find themselves to be in a stranger place.
Just upon the red carpet of a.. hallway? Is that what it is? Hard to tell, while their eyes adjust. But one thing is is for certain, and it is that on the back of each hand is a symbol of a golden door, now. A mark that feels warm, enveloping -- something to it feels like a tether to their magically attuned senses. Thin threads of arcane connecting them through with which they came, a ticket. Something else tells them, they better not lose their hands, literally, because it may just be that there could be no return if they do.
Bam!
As soon as Isaiah touches the door's knob, he'd find his aggressive approach is met with eagenerness. He doesn't need to do much at all, just the barest hold of that golden metal erupts in a ray of illuminate hues of all shades in yellow and gold. It erupts from the handle, to someone' fingertips. It's power, crawling under his skin, brushing upon his heart -- and traverses all across the limb extended for Ash to explore him the same with the curiosity of a hound running rampant in their veins. By the time the energizing force has vanished, and the door has practically sucked them in, they would find themselves to be in a stranger place.
Just upon the red carpet of a.. hallway? Is that what it is? Hard to tell, while their eyes adjust. But one thing is is for certain, and it is that on the back of each hand is a symbol of a golden door, now. A mark that feels warm, enveloping -- something to it feels like a tether to their magically attuned senses. Thin threads of arcane connecting them through with which they came, a ticket. Something else tells them, they better not lose their hands, literally, because it may just be that there could be no return if they do.
Bam!
As soon as Isaiah touches the door's knob, he'd find his aggressive approach is met with eagenerness. He doesn't need to do much at all, just the barest hold of that golden metal erupts in a ray of illuminate hues of all shades in yellow and gold. It erupts from the handle, to Isaiah's fingertips. It's power, crawling under his skin, brushing upon his heart -- and traverses all across the limb extended for Ash to explore him the same with the curiosity of a hound running rampant in their veins. By the time the energizing force has vanished, and the door has practically sucked them in, they would find themselves to be in a stranger place.
Just upon the red carpet of a.. hallway? Is that what it is? Hard to tell, while their eyes adjust. But one thing is is for certain, and it is that on the back of each hand is a symbol of a golden door, now. A mark that feels warm, enveloping -- something to it feels like a tether to their magically attuned senses. Thin threads of arcane connecting them through with which they came, a ticket. Something else tells them, they better not lose their hands, literally, because it may just be that there could be no return if they do.
OOC: Roomdesc. updated.
Ash gasps softly, admiring the opulence, and especially the sky. They take a step forward, then pause, looking down at their hand, and the symbol of the door. Their eyes follow over to Isaiah's, then back to the room. Their eyes don't pause, bouncing from one thing to another, from one person to another, before saying to Isaiah, "We should take our seats, before it starts." Whatever *it* is, and wherever *their seat* may be.
Isaiah is the polar opposite of Ash in this instance, as he is with many, but here, in this circumstance, in this /event/, the redhead and the dreadhead have never been more differing. Where the androgyn seems to take glee in what is unfolding, in their capture, in the world around them, the more masculine of the two is tense, unnerved, shaken, and entirely unamused. Feeling that creeping feeling in his veins is akin to cockroaches climbing over his body. He smacks at himself, shakes, claws, and begins to hyperventilate, especially as he feels himself take that tumble through the door that has sucked him in. At first, his eyes are wide; panicked, searching for something, anything, a way out. Then they are clenched shut, stars sparkling in his vision from the pressure with which he keeps his eyelids closed. He's falling, and he doesn't like where to- especially once he lands. That red carpet may as well be a drawbridge over boiling oil rather than a welcome mat to the Demonborn, and as he gazes at the emblem emblazoned on the back of his hand, he swears again and punches a scarred and freckled fist into that blasted rug.
"FUCK!!" he shouts, as loud and feral as he can make it, his hand all but snatched away from Ash when he realizes they are enjoying themselves. He stares at the brown-skinned Faeborn in a combination of disbelief and disdain, his heart thundering still in his ribcage. "You don't get it. I don't want to take a seat. I want to /leave/," he says, and without further ado, without offering a hand, without telling Ash to follow, he just storms off, following that trail of long red carpet as his baby blue eyes scan for clues or hints of some kind.
Ash frowns, then runs after Isaiah, attention back on him. "Jay... Jay, wait! Wait for me. I know it's... I know... okay, I *understand* that you feel... trapped. But... either we play along, or we leave. We can try to leave, Jay. Let's go back to the door." The fun is sucked right out of them, as they watch his fury take over to cover up his fear. "I'm not... I'm not enjoying it because it's fun, Jay," they try to clarify as they keep up with him. "More because my life... not, it's..." They're frantic, trying to put things back together after upsetting him. "Because I'm good at playing along, that's all. We took the invitation, Jay, maybe now we can decline." They try to keep their voice low, not wanting to shout across the hall and catch attention, but loud enough to ensure that their words get through to him.
The atmosphere is oppressive, filled with a sense of dread that seems to seep from every corner. The velveteen floor, rich in gold and crimson hues, extends in all directions, a never-ending path suspended in an abyss that stretches infinitely. The golden lights hanging in the distance flicker like predatory eyes, their gaze unsettling and unblinking, watching every movement with sinister intent. The air is heavy, thick with an unspoken menace, as if the very walls of the hallway hold secrets too terrible to be spoken.
At the end of this surreal corridor, the space opens up into an immense chamber. Grecian pillars rise majestically from the ground, supporting a sky that resembles a rippling nightscape, deep and star-speckled. Strange, indistinct shapes glide through the dark expanse above, their movements both fluid and unnatural, leaving trails of faint luminescence in their wake. The pillars, though grand, feel cold and uninviting, their surfaces slick and smooth, as if carved from gold-embosssed marble that never warmed to the touch.
The Auction House sprawls beneath this eerie sky, its grandeur tainted by a sense of wrongness. The seats, ornate and decadent like thrones fit for emperors, are arranged meticulously around private desks and tables. Yet, there is no comfort here; the chairs seem to pulse with a life of their own, their intricate designs shifting subtly, as if breathing in anticipation of whomever is to seat them. They remain vacant, as of yet. There is still time, there is stillness- no rush. It is as if the time here is different than the time outside. Foreboding or relieving as it may be - as it is common with the Fae to spend eons. It feels like they could grow old and die here, and it wouldn't pass a second outside. But then, is it really Fae?
At the center of it all, the grand dais stands empty, save for a single pedestal draped in a dark, heavy cloth. Whatever lies beneath it is hidden from view, but the very presence of the covered item emanates a malevolent energy, making the air hum with an uneasy anticipation. The pedestal is cold and unyielding, its surface polished to a mirror-like sheen that reflects the crimson curtains lining the walls.
These curtains, luxurious and thick, ripple as if alive, responding to the slightest movement. Occasionally, shadowy forms pass behind them, their shapes indistinct yet horrifying in their obscurity. The sound of rustling fabric is punctuated by the occasional low, guttural noise, as if the creatures beyond the curtains are whispering in a language not meant for human ears. The golden floor beneath reflects everything with unsettling clarity, but the reflections seem distorted, wrong, as if they hold a different truth than what is seen above them.
The space is filled with the uneasy silence of something waiting to happen, a moment suspended in time where the line between the real and the unreal blurs. The air is thick with the smell of decay and opulence, a sickly sweet combination that lingers long after it should have faded. In this place, the very fabric of reality seems twisted, and every shadow, every movement, feels laden with unspeakable horror. As if that wasn't all, what interrupts the two, especially Isaiah in his forward charge trying to lead Ash, is a woman.
A woman of grace, of feminine curves and soft features, a cherubian expression of delight. She's dressed stately in gold and black, a suit as grand with its coattails and adornments as this place is -- but that's the least of their concern. She is amicably flicking a black, clawed finger at the two that still them midmotion and suspended, and the onyx of her skin in as dark as everything around them. The horns upon her head are long and crowning through alabaster locks falling in minute disarray, but otherwise held in a ponytail. Her words vibrate in their heads, without any motion of those picture perfect lips beyond a smile of jagged, sharp teeth lining row upon row.
"Welcome to the Golden Auction. No need for haste - I will be your assistant tonight, for whatever your heart desires." It sounds like they have no choice in the matter. Another gesture, and both are released from suspension on their feet, with the demonic woman stepping aside to gesture ahead with an open, inviting palm. "You are the last to arrive; we will begin when you are seated." If, you are seated. The words echo at the back of their skulls - and it appears, this is an out, if they wish to turn tail and return. If not, the grandeur awaits.
Ash struggles as they find themself frozen, their attempt silent and private, frozen. When they are released, they stumble slightly, then move immediately to Isaiah's side, slightly behind. One hand rises to rest against his back, the other reaching around his belly, in a protective hug that looks, from their shorter height, more like hiding behind him, or clinging. They look the woman over, face almost expressionless... there's a hint of curiosity, but their mood is still dampened, dour. On tiptoes, they whisper to Isaiah, "Let's just go, then. I think we can still go. All my heart desires is you, Jay... and I don't need a Golden Auction for that."
"You're excited, Ash. You're happy. It's.. It's not okay. Being here is not okay. You want to see how real Fae Games are played? Fine, but do it on your own time," Isaiah snarls as that corridor widens into a chamber and awestruck eyes gaze up at the Eldritch sky straight out of Lovecraftian dreams and whimsies. He squints, attempting to decipher what those beings are that move above, blending so seamlessly with everything around them. He ultimately gives up on the endeavor, instead opting to drag his eyes across the room where chairs and desks spread around them like a colosseum, and beasts rattle their cages as these two 'gladiators' wander into a den of danger and unknown magic. Isaiah is already looking for another way out when that woman appears before he and Ash, pausing them both mid-stride. Horns. Black skin. These are familiar to Isaiah. He knows these features. His tense body relaxes some, but not all the way- he still suspects Fae, it seems, to be at work here, and so he remains ever cautious.
"What the fuck is this place?" he attempts to ask the woman, a hand reaching towards a chair, feeling how it thrums with life, and then immediately attempting to withdraw that touch with a strange retching sound that bubbles from deep within his stomach. It's only Ash's hug from behind that seems to calm him, even a little bit, and then, too, does his shivering stop as well. He takes slow, deep breaths, attempting to calm himself as part of the unknown becomes known to him. Familiar. Comfortable, even. "No... I'll stay," he murmurs quietly to Ash.
"I don't know if this is Fae, or Demonic, or Eldritch, or something else entirely, but... I know when I'm going to die, and that isn't today. If you're curious, and you want to see this shit... I feel slightly safer now. So.. Let's hear them out."
Ash flinches at Isaiah's accusations, letting out the slightest of whimpers. "I-i'm... I'm sorry... I know I'm not supposed to... I got comfortable, I'm sorry," they murmur in apology to Isaiah, some deep-seated trauma bursting to the surface. They truly are clinging to him now, their view of the world retracting as they keep their focus on the immediate. The stars still call to them, but they turn their head away. The eldritch beings that they were once both fascinated with and terrified of simply echo on the outside of their bubble. The confidence and playfulness that some know them for is gone, the fae part of them rejected, leaving behind just the wet little boy from the beach.
Ash rubs Isaiah's back, leaning into his need for touch as a way to help, or to apologize, and the fingers on their other hand tighten around the cloth of his tank top, pulling it taut as they pull a wad into their fist. They squeeze him tightly, murmuring, "You're more important to me than any of this, Jay... I'll be miserable if you're suffering here. We can go." They do *sound* like they're approaching miserable, anyways.
"Why, this is the Golden Auction." The stately woman by the two of them informs Isaiah and Ash, without speaking at all. It appears there is a mote of privacy to their discussion - because even their voice is kept to the circle of three, with no visible evidence of it travelling anywhere else. That too, has a mote of magic to it. A sense of restraint to sound surrounding them in a bubble of sorts, no doubt caused by their demonic company. Despite her words, that things will start as soon as they're seated and they are the last one to arrive, the area remains empty, still. All around, the house is blank save for the movement seen through halls leading to who knows where shouded by the velvet curtains, their motions ant the growls or moans accompanying them. There is no doubt a sense of Fae at play here, but so is an oppressive weight of Godlike nature. An amalgamation of curiosities. A snap of the woman's fingers, and both Ash and Isaiah would be enraptured in a 'pop' that seats them in their joint table side to side, their thrones vibrating underneath them like a perfect masseuse - in delight. The armrests are wet, despite the dry appearance of cloth. It is as if what they sit on drools. Should either of them look anywhere that is the floor, they'd see shapes and sizes of all assortments, watching them in the reflection, seated in every desk there is -- whereas in their reality, vacancy continues. The woman doesn't offer anything more than what she has - the offer is still there, still open, no doubt she's prying through their thoughts to note their desire to leave, and opts to remain quiet for them to make the decision. The world waits on them. The Golden Auction is opt-in, if nothing else, with all of its horrors and wonders.
Isaiah's hands curl into fists as the feeling of that chair caresses his tawny, freckled flesh and his eyes scan the floor, seeing the amassment of attendees that exist here, and yet don't. He can still leave- he can still go. And yet a certain resolve comes over him, and he breathes out one last smooth, cool exhale before taking the back of Ash's chair in hand and pulling it out for them, the other hand gesturing towards the moist cushion. "Sit," he commands, his eyes drifting closed and, whether Ash sits or not, ultimately taking a seat for himself. His right leg bounces with anxiety and worry, vibrating nearly as much as his soggy chair does- it might feel good under literally any other circumstance. He's silent then, his eyes peeling open to look straight ahead rather than staring at the floor for too long; in fact, he blatantly avoids looking downwards at all. It's clear that he's here for Ash's sake and not his own, letting the Faeborn explore their natural curiosity whilst the Demonborn explores his natural broodiness. Two peas in a pod, these two. "Let's get this show on the road," he calls out towards the departing woman.
Ash sits when commanded, well trained, pulling away from Isaiah reluctantly, but immediately,taking their seat. They shiver, unnerved by the seats as they expand their awareness. "These seats... feel alive...," they hiss, no doubt stating the obvious. They reach a hand out for Isaiah after sitting, stiff in their seat and refusing to lean back. Their hazel eyes flicker golden as they look around, noticing the same thing as Isaiah, surely. They look down at his reflection, then immediately up at the pedestal, the nervousness contagious. They hold otherwise still, hyperactivity in their gaze, and in their other hand, which plays with the bead on their long dreads. They don't speak, just waiting for him, hoping that he'll hold their hand.
She hasn't departed at all, she's their attendant, here for their sake and their whims. The nature of her existence is solely this, and perhaps she doesn't even exist beyond it, because she assumes a spot just a step behind the two of them with her hands held together over her chest like a swooning woman waiting for greatness to witness. And as it were, it does happen. The curtains shift behind the dais, and a man steps through. Something vaguly man-shaped, anyway. Dressed in an ochre lined suit of frayed edges and the scent of sulphur too thick.
He doesn't speak - he doesn't have a mouth, nor any facial features. A skinwalker as it were, moving with silent poise to the center of the stage to bow once, all regal and perfect. His eyes, more than the usual two set, cover much of his face, each a different color, a different shade of a different beast as if they were gouged by some random schmuck and affixed to him for the sake of having at least one face that vaguely has the parts of a human even if others are missing. Mayhaps its his idea of what a human should look like -- because if anyone were to look, a reflection underneath him splinters to give insight to what other attendees may see. Various forms, various things - each more distinct, beastly, some angelic, some demonic, others more godlike or stranger still, animalistic.
After his silent greeting, he turns to the pedestal. The cloth over the object is gone, and the words stream from above; here and there, everywhere and nowhere. "Esteemed guests! Our first, without further ado; The Singing Silver Feather!" A pause, and it continues. "Plucked from the wing of a celestial bird, it sings for its beholder, can soothe any creature into a peaceful sleep or wake them from the deepest of slumbers. The tune will cater to you, and only you, the Esteemeed, and if you dip it in ink, well.." A hundred murmurs fill the auction house, laughing in decrepit tones and sounds. All differing, all growled, just behind the veil. "We'll start the bid at one Loved Ones Loyalty"
As if reading their thoughts, the woman behind Isaiah and Ash leans her head down between the two of them. Her smile, picture perfect and plush lips parting for that show of rows upon rows of teeth nestled perfectly in her mouth, remains as still as it ever was over her sculpted features. A fleshformed monster in her own right. Her words, soothing and explanatory, echo in their minds as it always will, "As payment, the bidder might be forced to sacrifice the loyalty or love of someone they hold dear. This person could be compelled to betray them, forget them entirely, or even become their enemy, depending on the severity of the deal. Shall I make a bid for our guests?"
Ash hisses at the bid, expression growing pissed at the idea. Their thoughts certainly were certainly not questioning what it meant. They shake their head furiously, their shorter dreads bouncing from side to side. Their jaw goes tight, and their hand reaches further. The faeborn is only able to relax even a tad more once and if Isaiah takes their hand, despite an inclination to snatch it away when the woman bends over it. They seem inclined to skip this offering completely.
Isaiah's jaw clenches as the price is named and the description of the item once dipped in ink is left vague. His curiosity is piqued, but it seems that this price is too high for him, for he sits back, and forms an upside down nest with his hands, fingers interlocked with their partners on the opposing appendage as he takes on a more stately and aristocratic air- perhaps calling upon his teachings from when he /did/ live the high life, rooming with Mommy and living off of Daddy's money. He's the picture of elegance and professionalism, even in his gym outfit with the unmatching and torn leather jacket that he wears over his tank top. His gaze is cold and calculating, and his face emotionless as he turns his head to the side, speaking to the woman in soft tones as, for a moment, he breaks his finger nest to lay them over Ash's hand instead. "No, thank you. I'll be looking for something more functional during my attendance."
Ash relaxes once Isaiah's hand covers theirs, exhaling. They still don't lean back in their seat, but seeing him finally playing along, falling into the role, they follow suit. They squeeze his hand tightly, then let the same sort of expression cross their face. It's easy for them, to wear this mask, as vulnerability is something they generally reserve for Isaiah. Their eyes flit back, and they start to allow themself, again, to appreciate the scene. The fractal realities gain glance after glance, but never a proper look... curiosity battling against sanity.
It's too late, anyway. There is motion underfoot, of bids made, of creatures, warped and disgusting, elegant and mesmerizing in reflection. Though no sound is made, ever, and they remain in the basked silence of their attendant and the occasional voice of the auctioneer calling names in untold tongues that sound garbled and wrong, The final destination of the constant pointing finger is to their right, on an empty desk. Beneath it, something sits, shown only in reflection. The chair moves, presumably because they stand, and that image of a thousand wings folded within in on itself makes for what may be the equivalent of a bow. If one had the discerning eye, they could note - the colour of its feathers are the same as the feather on display.
As soon as the auction for that one object is done, there is vacancy in the seat. They leave, disppearing in misty plumes of a receding reflection - and the presence they may have felt in that direction is gone, entirely. "Wise choice, Guests." The voice of their attendant whispers. "She would've killed you for it, had you acquired it." At least one person is on their side. Or is she? She was the one asking whether they would bid, after all. Nonetheless, the moment is drowned in another thunderclap of a sound, of a voice falling from the nightsky above in its golden cadence; "The Esteemed, fret not! We only give better than what was last. This is The Gilded Cage of Echoes!"
Where the feather stood on the pedestal, a ray of light passes with the gesture of the skinwalker stood at the dais, and the draw of his gloved hand reveals slowly the sight of an iron, rustic birdcage. "Though empty, it is never silent whispers, laughs, and cries from long-departed souls echo within. It is said that the cage can trap the voice of anyone who speaks near it, preserving their words forever, but it can also drive the listener mad with the constant barrage of forgotten voices. The bid will start, at one vow of silence for the rest of your life!"
"How are you liking it?" Isaiah asks Ash aside, keeping his voice low so as to not rouse the attention of the auctioneer. "Everything you'd dreamed of?" he asks, his eyes not looking to the androgyn as he speaks; rather curiously watching the Auctioneer in question and observing their appearance; to him, at least, in his realm of perception and understanding. A glance aside to the 'empty' desk where the winged monster had made its bet is given, and then around at the other 'empty' seats, but never at the floor; it seems to unsettle Isaiah beyond belief.
Ash watches their neighbor with a bit too much interest - the wings, and the feathers are not missed. They lick their bottom lip as they watch the eerily silent commotion, then chew on it as the round of bids end. Their eyes are bright again, focused. Interested. They start to lean back in their seat - then jolts forwards, still finding the seat uncomfortable. Ash squeezes Isaiah's hand as their attendant adds that fun little factoid on, not looking at her. There's not fear there... but disinterest.
As the thunderclap sounds, their attention is captured again, and they lean forward, just slightly. They tilt their head as the voice calls, the name coaxing their curiosity. Then, they relax, as they listen, growing disinterested. Careful, so as not to be misinterpreted, they move one of their dreadlocks, where a bead spits ugly, distracting noises, to as far back behind their head as they can, irritated at the distractions. Long fingers approach their face, an index under their bottom lip as they watch, murmuring, "No interest," to the attendant. No interest in this item, at least.
When Isaiah speaks to them, they frown, saying, "I'm... I... kind of am... sorry. It's... interesting." They sound reluctant, as if admitting to a dirty secret. They grimace, slightly, not looking over to Isaiah but moving to interlace their fingers with his. "I have to wonder if... if there will come anything worth considering."
Sadly, that item, too, before they can even make a bid or bet, is gone. Someone from the front rows claims it, someone shaded in total shadow and shade of darkness. Nothing beyond a cloud of it shows in the reflection, and perhaps, given the state of their physiology, this was a free win for them. A vow of silence is free, if you can't speak, right? The item is delivered, as before, but now, it is gone. Devoured in a vibrant cascade that shimmers when it traverses the veil from one place to the next.
Their attended clucks her tongue. Maybe she thought that was a good catch. "Our third." The voice informs again from above. The skinwalker moves to thecenter of the dais, holds very still, with gloved hands clapsed over one another in front of him. They part slowly, reveal an intricate hourglass suspended between his palms as the air becomes somber, quiet, even distantly melancholic across the hall.
"Hourglass of Anubis." Did he even have one of those in the myths? Maybe it's a new item, crafted specifically for this - but it is a great one nonetheless. It lends a covetious air across the hall, of desire, of need. "An hourglass filled not with sand, but with thick, dark red liquid that pulses as if alive. The hourglass can be used to extend the life of the holder by a set amount of time, but the price is always steep - the life force of another must be taken to refill the hourglass, and the liquid grows darker with each use."
And after a lengthy pause of trepidation;
"The bid is your reflection, your shadow, and a portion of your life."
Leaning close yet again, but whispering in their mind, their attendant informs the two dutifully. "What he means," A gesture of her clawed digits up above, "Your reflection and your shadow will be taken hostage. They will be employed to hunt you, for the rest of your time - and the cost to your life ensures the item on bid will be ensured to put to use." And she retracts, simply. "This is the last item tonight. I'm afraid I was not informed if you will be attending tomorrow's." But then, when is tomorrow, here?
Ash seems less interested in the shadow, listening for a response from Isaiah. Despite the wonders offered, he seems to still remain their prime concern. They watch the skinwalker's movement, appreciating the little trick with his hands, given the slightest rise of their eyebrows in response. The name, however, has their brows furrowed, their history in myth and folklore rising through them as they consider... then they shrug. It's whatever, it seems. As he describes its details, they observe it for themself, watching the liquid swirl within. They consider it - but only for a moment, shaking their head. Instead, they start to glance over at Isaiah - only to find the attendant speaking to them. They smirk at her explanation - because of *course* they will be hunted by their shadow and reflection. It only reaffirms their disinterest, and they say, "I don't know if I'll be invited, but I don't think I have a need for this, no." They glance over to Isaiah this time, properly, and let their hazel eyes soften to a green, despite the golden reflection from the floors, waiting for his response.
This. This captures Isaiah's interest; blatantly. He sits up in his seat, shifting forward as his eyes lock onto that hourglass, stealing every bit of attention he has to spare for several moments. The hand holding Ash's twitches, then starts to lift into the air slowly, only to be halted by what the woman says to him. It isn't the murder that has him second-guessing. He seems as though he would be fine slitting the throat of any number of sacrificial lambs to fuel this item. No. It's the hunting. The look in his eyes says that if that weren't the case, he'd happily give up both shadow and reflection to secure the prize. He mutters something under his breath, then leans back, too, shaking his head. "I need to sleep," he confesses- downtrodden and disappointed by the ultimate price of the item. The fine print. "Take us home, please," he says to the woman, palpably upset by the revelation. "I'd like you to deposit me in front of or near the Antlers hotel in Haven, Massachusetts." Then he glances aside to Ash. "Please place them before the Lodge in the same city and state. We're done here," he confirms. "Perhaps tomorrow."
Ash watches this with interest, considering Isaiah's reaction with sharp, careful analysis. They seem to sag with him as he sits back, deflated by his deflation. They perk up when he speaks, but Ash looks over to someone with a look of wild desperation, a frown, when he states a desire to be returned separately. Their breath hitches, then they look away, down at their feet, though their hand grips his a bit more tightly for a moment. Then, they're fine, just fine, resting a hand on the armrest - ew, no, not there - on their knee, so that they can stand up properly.
For better or for worse, through the covetious desire of nearly everyone willing to sacrifice it all for such an item, someone - someone high, high above on a seat previously unseen until the skinwalker points at a balcony seat reserved for only one, claims this item for themselves. There are no bets placed after theirs. It commands some trepidation, surely, whoever they may be - but all that is up there is a single, simple chair. Nothing like what they sit upon. No table, no desk. It is absent of everything, but there is a sensation of being watched should they look up to the balcony. A sapping of energy that even their 'ticket', the brands on the back of their hands cannot protect them from. It weakens, surely, it feeds on every sense they have, every sensation, every thought.
"That concludes our opening act."
The voice from the heavens tells them all, now. Surely there will be many more mystical, stranger artifacts should anyone ever get invited by the Golden Door again. But for tonight? This is it. The revelation ends the sudden feeblement over Isaiah and Ash, leaves them unburdened, and whatever was lost, the sigil upon their digits gleam aglow, reinstate what was lost from them at once with an incessant attitude as if offended, but not willing to do anything about it, to whomever that was. Every light begins to dim in the grandiose hall until there is nothing, not even the attendant that remains in sight. Just Ash, just Isaiah on their own. The sound of clapping hands are heard within the darkness, and the voice calls over from the top, almost as if adhering to Isaiah's wishes to leave.
"We will await your next attendance, with interest."
The voice is decrepit, haunting. Nothing like the golden velvet of a tone spilling like angelic delight -- it is vile, brimstone and fire, humored and amused. There are a thousand eyes in the darkness -- but then sights and colors filter in slowly. Like a theatre being unveiled, a static being dismissed. They are no longer seated, they are standing -- exactly where they were, before, with only some time having passed despite what must've felt like years behind those doors. The mark on their hand swivels, arises off of their skin -- and disappears in a golden dust fading with the wind.
Ash watches this with interest, considering Isaiah's reaction with sharp, careful analysis. They seem to sag with him as he sits back, deflated by his deflation. They perk up when he speaks, but Ash looks over to Isaiah with a look of wild desperation, a frown, when he states a desire to be returned separately. Their breath hitches, then they look away, down at their feet, though their hand grips his a bit more tightly for a moment. Then, they're fine, just fine, resting a hand on the armrest - ew, no, not there - on their knee, so that they can stand up properly.
Ultimately, Isaiah decides the cost of participating is too high, especially when the final item, the Hourglass of Anubis, requires sacrificing a portion of their lives alongside their shadow and reflection. Despite Ash's lingering curiosity and the gravity of the artifacts presented, Isaiah's protective nature prevails, choosing their safety over the allure of the auction's promises. Requesting to leave, they express a desire to return to the familiarity of Haven, Massachusetts, underscoring their profound discomfort and wish to escape the auction's malevolent grasp. As they’re transported back to their starting points, the transition back to reality leaves them pondering the experience, with the Golden Auction's send-off hinting at a foreboding invitation for future attendance. The incident leaves an indelible mark, not just on their physical beings but on their psyche, altering their perception of the supernatural world and its untold dangers and wonders.
(Isaiah's odd encounter(SRDean):SRDean)
[Wed Aug 14 2024]
On Hart Avenue by the roadside leading to Antlers
The quaint street is bathed in the soft glow of a waxing gibbous moon, which hangs low in the deep blue sky, casting gentle shadows. The old but respectable hotel stands proudly by the roadside, its aged brick facade covered in a tapestry of ivy. The warm, amber light spilling from its windows is a telltale sign of activity within, while the sign at the front denotes it as 'The Antlers'
Lining the cobblestone street are small, charming houses, their front gardens, if they have any, adorned with blooming flowers. The shops, with their vintage wooden signs in the distance and colorful awnings, are closed for the evening, but their displays are a cheerful sight under the streetlights. The town feels peaceful, eerily so, so different from the usual Haven, almost timeless, with the gentle rustling of leaves and the occasional distant sound of a passing car or footsteps.
It is night, about 91F(32C) degrees, There is a waxing gibbous moon.
"I don't fuck with Fae shit," Isaiah tells Ash in a brutally honest fashion as that handle begins to behave more erratically, only causing him to act more cautious about it. "There's three things I don't dip my fingers into," he says, seemingly unnerved by Ash's behavior as they dance around what he obviously perceives to be some kind of dangerous threat to his health. "Garbage disposals, crazy bitches, and Fae shit. They can be worse than any fucking Demons- at least my kin will shoot it to you straight. The Fae make riddles, and puzzles, and fucking /games/," he says, but Ash is right. The world is changed, and his blue eyes do catch sight of that nearby clock, tick tick ticking away. That red line. That eerie red line. His heart starts to thunder in his chest as goosebumps prickle over his flesh. "God dammit," he says. "God fucking dammit. GOD FUCKING DAMMIT, I hate the God damned Fae," he snaps, kicking the curb repeatedly a few times.
He huffs, and he puffs, and that clock keeps ticking, and he sweats, and then he screams and lashes out at the air, punching it again and again before snapping up one of Ash's hands in his own, squeezing tightly, trembling, then using the other to reach for the knob, attempting to twist. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking fuck."
Ash hums softly, grinning widely - it's their Cheshire cat grin. "But... you know that I'm faeborn, right?" It's an almost innocent question, with their tone of voice, but they hold his hand tightly, stepping quickly to be right by his side. "I'm sort of curious how a *real* fae does it, honestly... I've been pushed into a perfect, obedient human shape for so long, like all school and no play, and I don't know Jack about real Games, just a dull boy...." It gets a bit nonsensical there, but they reach out their other hand, soft and long artist's fingers resting against Isaiah's calloused one, and turn the knob with him.
Bam!
As soon as someone touches the door's knob, he'd find his aggressive approach is met with eagenerness. He doesn't need to do much at all, just the barest hold of that golden metal erupts in a ray of illuminate hues of all shades in yellow and gold. It erupts from the handle, to someone' fingertips. It's power, crawling under his skin, brushing upon his heart -- and traverses all across the limb extended for Ash to explore him the same with the curiosity of a hound running rampant in their veins. By the time the energizing force has vanished, and the door has practically sucked them in, they would find themselves to be in a stranger place.
Just upon the red carpet of a.. hallway? Is that what it is? Hard to tell, while their eyes adjust. But one thing is is for certain, and it is that on the back of each hand is a symbol of a golden door, now. A mark that feels warm, enveloping -- something to it feels like a tether to their magically attuned senses. Thin threads of arcane connecting them through with which they came, a ticket. Something else tells them, they better not lose their hands, literally, because it may just be that there could be no return if they do.
Bam!
As soon as Isaiah touches the door's knob, he'd find his aggressive approach is met with eagenerness. He doesn't need to do much at all, just the barest hold of that golden metal erupts in a ray of illuminate hues of all shades in yellow and gold. It erupts from the handle, to someone' fingertips. It's power, crawling under his skin, brushing upon his heart -- and traverses all across the limb extended for Ash to explore him the same with the curiosity of a hound running rampant in their veins. By the time the energizing force has vanished, and the door has practically sucked them in, they would find themselves to be in a stranger place.
Just upon the red carpet of a.. hallway? Is that what it is? Hard to tell, while their eyes adjust. But one thing is is for certain, and it is that on the back of each hand is a symbol of a golden door, now. A mark that feels warm, enveloping -- something to it feels like a tether to their magically attuned senses. Thin threads of arcane connecting them through with which they came, a ticket. Something else tells them, they better not lose their hands, literally, because it may just be that there could be no return if they do.
Bam!
As soon as Isaiah touches the door's knob, he'd find his aggressive approach is met with eagenerness. He doesn't need to do much at all, just the barest hold of that golden metal erupts in a ray of illuminate hues of all shades in yellow and gold. It erupts from the handle, to Isaiah's fingertips. It's power, crawling under his skin, brushing upon his heart -- and traverses all across the limb extended for Ash to explore him the same with the curiosity of a hound running rampant in their veins. By the time the energizing force has vanished, and the door has practically sucked them in, they would find themselves to be in a stranger place.
Just upon the red carpet of a.. hallway? Is that what it is? Hard to tell, while their eyes adjust. But one thing is is for certain, and it is that on the back of each hand is a symbol of a golden door, now. A mark that feels warm, enveloping -- something to it feels like a tether to their magically attuned senses. Thin threads of arcane connecting them through with which they came, a ticket. Something else tells them, they better not lose their hands, literally, because it may just be that there could be no return if they do.
OOC: Roomdesc. updated.
Ash gasps softly, admiring the opulence, and especially the sky. They take a step forward, then pause, looking down at their hand, and the symbol of the door. Their eyes follow over to Isaiah's, then back to the room. Their eyes don't pause, bouncing from one thing to another, from one person to another, before saying to Isaiah, "We should take our seats, before it starts." Whatever *it* is, and wherever *their seat* may be.
Isaiah is the polar opposite of Ash in this instance, as he is with many, but here, in this circumstance, in this /event/, the redhead and the dreadhead have never been more differing. Where the androgyn seems to take glee in what is unfolding, in their capture, in the world around them, the more masculine of the two is tense, unnerved, shaken, and entirely unamused. Feeling that creeping feeling in his veins is akin to cockroaches climbing over his body. He smacks at himself, shakes, claws, and begins to hyperventilate, especially as he feels himself take that tumble through the door that has sucked him in. At first, his eyes are wide; panicked, searching for something, anything, a way out. Then they are clenched shut, stars sparkling in his vision from the pressure with which he keeps his eyelids closed. He's falling, and he doesn't like where to- especially once he lands. That red carpet may as well be a drawbridge over boiling oil rather than a welcome mat to the Demonborn, and as he gazes at the emblem emblazoned on the back of his hand, he swears again and punches a scarred and freckled fist into that blasted rug.
"FUCK!!" he shouts, as loud and feral as he can make it, his hand all but snatched away from Ash when he realizes they are enjoying themselves. He stares at the brown-skinned Faeborn in a combination of disbelief and disdain, his heart thundering still in his ribcage. "You don't get it. I don't want to take a seat. I want to /leave/," he says, and without further ado, without offering a hand, without telling Ash to follow, he just storms off, following that trail of long red carpet as his baby blue eyes scan for clues or hints of some kind.
Ash frowns, then runs after Isaiah, attention back on him. "Jay... Jay, wait! Wait for me. I know it's... I know... okay, I *understand* that you feel... trapped. But... either we play along, or we leave. We can try to leave, Jay. Let's go back to the door." The fun is sucked right out of them, as they watch his fury take over to cover up his fear. "I'm not... I'm not enjoying it because it's fun, Jay," they try to clarify as they keep up with him. "More because my life... not, it's..." They're frantic, trying to put things back together after upsetting him. "Because I'm good at playing along, that's all. We took the invitation, Jay, maybe now we can decline." They try to keep their voice low, not wanting to shout across the hall and catch attention, but loud enough to ensure that their words get through to him.
The atmosphere is oppressive, filled with a sense of dread that seems to seep from every corner. The velveteen floor, rich in gold and crimson hues, extends in all directions, a never-ending path suspended in an abyss that stretches infinitely. The golden lights hanging in the distance flicker like predatory eyes, their gaze unsettling and unblinking, watching every movement with sinister intent. The air is heavy, thick with an unspoken menace, as if the very walls of the hallway hold secrets too terrible to be spoken.
At the end of this surreal corridor, the space opens up into an immense chamber. Grecian pillars rise majestically from the ground, supporting a sky that resembles a rippling nightscape, deep and star-speckled. Strange, indistinct shapes glide through the dark expanse above, their movements both fluid and unnatural, leaving trails of faint luminescence in their wake. The pillars, though grand, feel cold and uninviting, their surfaces slick and smooth, as if carved from gold-embosssed marble that never warmed to the touch.
The Auction House sprawls beneath this eerie sky, its grandeur tainted by a sense of wrongness. The seats, ornate and decadent like thrones fit for emperors, are arranged meticulously around private desks and tables. Yet, there is no comfort here; the chairs seem to pulse with a life of their own, their intricate designs shifting subtly, as if breathing in anticipation of whomever is to seat them. They remain vacant, as of yet. There is still time, there is stillness- no rush. It is as if the time here is different than the time outside. Foreboding or relieving as it may be - as it is common with the Fae to spend eons. It feels like they could grow old and die here, and it wouldn't pass a second outside. But then, is it really Fae?
At the center of it all, the grand dais stands empty, save for a single pedestal draped in a dark, heavy cloth. Whatever lies beneath it is hidden from view, but the very presence of the covered item emanates a malevolent energy, making the air hum with an uneasy anticipation. The pedestal is cold and unyielding, its surface polished to a mirror-like sheen that reflects the crimson curtains lining the walls.
These curtains, luxurious and thick, ripple as if alive, responding to the slightest movement. Occasionally, shadowy forms pass behind them, their shapes indistinct yet horrifying in their obscurity. The sound of rustling fabric is punctuated by the occasional low, guttural noise, as if the creatures beyond the curtains are whispering in a language not meant for human ears. The golden floor beneath reflects everything with unsettling clarity, but the reflections seem distorted, wrong, as if they hold a different truth than what is seen above them.
The space is filled with the uneasy silence of something waiting to happen, a moment suspended in time where the line between the real and the unreal blurs. The air is thick with the smell of decay and opulence, a sickly sweet combination that lingers long after it should have faded. In this place, the very fabric of reality seems twisted, and every shadow, every movement, feels laden with unspeakable horror. As if that wasn't all, what interrupts the two, especially Isaiah in his forward charge trying to lead Ash, is a woman.
A woman of grace, of feminine curves and soft features, a cherubian expression of delight. She's dressed stately in gold and black, a suit as grand with its coattails and adornments as this place is -- but that's the least of their concern. She is amicably flicking a black, clawed finger at the two that still them midmotion and suspended, and the onyx of her skin in as dark as everything around them. The horns upon her head are long and crowning through alabaster locks falling in minute disarray, but otherwise held in a ponytail. Her words vibrate in their heads, without any motion of those picture perfect lips beyond a smile of jagged, sharp teeth lining row upon row.
"Welcome to the Golden Auction. No need for haste - I will be your assistant tonight, for whatever your heart desires." It sounds like they have no choice in the matter. Another gesture, and both are released from suspension on their feet, with the demonic woman stepping aside to gesture ahead with an open, inviting palm. "You are the last to arrive; we will begin when you are seated." If, you are seated. The words echo at the back of their skulls - and it appears, this is an out, if they wish to turn tail and return. If not, the grandeur awaits.
Ash struggles as they find themself frozen, their attempt silent and private, frozen. When they are released, they stumble slightly, then move immediately to Isaiah's side, slightly behind. One hand rises to rest against his back, the other reaching around his belly, in a protective hug that looks, from their shorter height, more like hiding behind him, or clinging. They look the woman over, face almost expressionless... there's a hint of curiosity, but their mood is still dampened, dour. On tiptoes, they whisper to Isaiah, "Let's just go, then. I think we can still go. All my heart desires is you, Jay... and I don't need a Golden Auction for that."
"You're excited, Ash. You're happy. It's.. It's not okay. Being here is not okay. You want to see how real Fae Games are played? Fine, but do it on your own time," Isaiah snarls as that corridor widens into a chamber and awestruck eyes gaze up at the Eldritch sky straight out of Lovecraftian dreams and whimsies. He squints, attempting to decipher what those beings are that move above, blending so seamlessly with everything around them. He ultimately gives up on the endeavor, instead opting to drag his eyes across the room where chairs and desks spread around them like a colosseum, and beasts rattle their cages as these two 'gladiators' wander into a den of danger and unknown magic. Isaiah is already looking for another way out when that woman appears before he and Ash, pausing them both mid-stride. Horns. Black skin. These are familiar to Isaiah. He knows these features. His tense body relaxes some, but not all the way- he still suspects Fae, it seems, to be at work here, and so he remains ever cautious.
"What the fuck is this place?" he attempts to ask the woman, a hand reaching towards a chair, feeling how it thrums with life, and then immediately attempting to withdraw that touch with a strange retching sound that bubbles from deep within his stomach. It's only Ash's hug from behind that seems to calm him, even a little bit, and then, too, does his shivering stop as well. He takes slow, deep breaths, attempting to calm himself as part of the unknown becomes known to him. Familiar. Comfortable, even. "No... I'll stay," he murmurs quietly to Ash.
"I don't know if this is Fae, or Demonic, or Eldritch, or something else entirely, but... I know when I'm going to die, and that isn't today. If you're curious, and you want to see this shit... I feel slightly safer now. So.. Let's hear them out."
Ash flinches at Isaiah's accusations, letting out the slightest of whimpers. "I-i'm... I'm sorry... I know I'm not supposed to... I got comfortable, I'm sorry," they murmur in apology to Isaiah, some deep-seated trauma bursting to the surface. They truly are clinging to him now, their view of the world retracting as they keep their focus on the immediate. The stars still call to them, but they turn their head away. The eldritch beings that they were once both fascinated with and terrified of simply echo on the outside of their bubble. The confidence and playfulness that some know them for is gone, the fae part of them rejected, leaving behind just the wet little boy from the beach.
Ash rubs Isaiah's back, leaning into his need for touch as a way to help, or to apologize, and the fingers on their other hand tighten around the cloth of his tank top, pulling it taut as they pull a wad into their fist. They squeeze him tightly, murmuring, "You're more important to me than any of this, Jay... I'll be miserable if you're suffering here. We can go." They do *sound* like they're approaching miserable, anyways.
"Why, this is the Golden Auction." The stately woman by the two of them informs Isaiah and Ash, without speaking at all. It appears there is a mote of privacy to their discussion - because even their voice is kept to the circle of three, with no visible evidence of it travelling anywhere else. That too, has a mote of magic to it. A sense of restraint to sound surrounding them in a bubble of sorts, no doubt caused by their demonic company. Despite her words, that things will start as soon as they're seated and they are the last one to arrive, the area remains empty, still. All around, the house is blank save for the movement seen through halls leading to who knows where shouded by the velvet curtains, their motions ant the growls or moans accompanying them. There is no doubt a sense of Fae at play here, but so is an oppressive weight of Godlike nature. An amalgamation of curiosities. A snap of the woman's fingers, and both Ash and Isaiah would be enraptured in a 'pop' that seats them in their joint table side to side, their thrones vibrating underneath them like a perfect masseuse - in delight. The armrests are wet, despite the dry appearance of cloth. It is as if what they sit on drools. Should either of them look anywhere that is the floor, they'd see shapes and sizes of all assortments, watching them in the reflection, seated in every desk there is -- whereas in their reality, vacancy continues. The woman doesn't offer anything more than what she has - the offer is still there, still open, no doubt she's prying through their thoughts to note their desire to leave, and opts to remain quiet for them to make the decision. The world waits on them. The Golden Auction is opt-in, if nothing else, with all of its horrors and wonders.
Isaiah's hands curl into fists as the feeling of that chair caresses his tawny, freckled flesh and his eyes scan the floor, seeing the amassment of attendees that exist here, and yet don't. He can still leave- he can still go. And yet a certain resolve comes over him, and he breathes out one last smooth, cool exhale before taking the back of Ash's chair in hand and pulling it out for them, the other hand gesturing towards the moist cushion. "Sit," he commands, his eyes drifting closed and, whether Ash sits or not, ultimately taking a seat for himself. His right leg bounces with anxiety and worry, vibrating nearly as much as his soggy chair does- it might feel good under literally any other circumstance. He's silent then, his eyes peeling open to look straight ahead rather than staring at the floor for too long; in fact, he blatantly avoids looking downwards at all. It's clear that he's here for Ash's sake and not his own, letting the Faeborn explore their natural curiosity whilst the Demonborn explores his natural broodiness. Two peas in a pod, these two. "Let's get this show on the road," he calls out towards the departing woman.
Ash sits when commanded, well trained, pulling away from Isaiah reluctantly, but immediately,taking their seat. They shiver, unnerved by the seats as they expand their awareness. "These seats... feel alive...," they hiss, no doubt stating the obvious. They reach a hand out for Isaiah after sitting, stiff in their seat and refusing to lean back. Their hazel eyes flicker golden as they look around, noticing the same thing as Isaiah, surely. They look down at his reflection, then immediately up at the pedestal, the nervousness contagious. They hold otherwise still, hyperactivity in their gaze, and in their other hand, which plays with the bead on their long dreads. They don't speak, just waiting for him, hoping that he'll hold their hand.
She hasn't departed at all, she's their attendant, here for their sake and their whims. The nature of her existence is solely this, and perhaps she doesn't even exist beyond it, because she assumes a spot just a step behind the two of them with her hands held together over her chest like a swooning woman waiting for greatness to witness. And as it were, it does happen. The curtains shift behind the dais, and a man steps through. Something vaguly man-shaped, anyway. Dressed in an ochre lined suit of frayed edges and the scent of sulphur too thick.
He doesn't speak - he doesn't have a mouth, nor any facial features. A skinwalker as it were, moving with silent poise to the center of the stage to bow once, all regal and perfect. His eyes, more than the usual two set, cover much of his face, each a different color, a different shade of a different beast as if they were gouged by some random schmuck and affixed to him for the sake of having at least one face that vaguely has the parts of a human even if others are missing. Mayhaps its his idea of what a human should look like -- because if anyone were to look, a reflection underneath him splinters to give insight to what other attendees may see. Various forms, various things - each more distinct, beastly, some angelic, some demonic, others more godlike or stranger still, animalistic.
After his silent greeting, he turns to the pedestal. The cloth over the object is gone, and the words stream from above; here and there, everywhere and nowhere. "Esteemed guests! Our first, without further ado; The Singing Silver Feather!" A pause, and it continues. "Plucked from the wing of a celestial bird, it sings for its beholder, can soothe any creature into a peaceful sleep or wake them from the deepest of slumbers. The tune will cater to you, and only you, the Esteemeed, and if you dip it in ink, well.." A hundred murmurs fill the auction house, laughing in decrepit tones and sounds. All differing, all growled, just behind the veil. "We'll start the bid at one Loved Ones Loyalty"
As if reading their thoughts, the woman behind Isaiah and Ash leans her head down between the two of them. Her smile, picture perfect and plush lips parting for that show of rows upon rows of teeth nestled perfectly in her mouth, remains as still as it ever was over her sculpted features. A fleshformed monster in her own right. Her words, soothing and explanatory, echo in their minds as it always will, "As payment, the bidder might be forced to sacrifice the loyalty or love of someone they hold dear. This person could be compelled to betray them, forget them entirely, or even become their enemy, depending on the severity of the deal. Shall I make a bid for our guests?"
Ash hisses at the bid, expression growing pissed at the idea. Their thoughts certainly were certainly not questioning what it meant. They shake their head furiously, their shorter dreads bouncing from side to side. Their jaw goes tight, and their hand reaches further. The faeborn is only able to relax even a tad more once and if Isaiah takes their hand, despite an inclination to snatch it away when the woman bends over it. They seem inclined to skip this offering completely.
Isaiah's jaw clenches as the price is named and the description of the item once dipped in ink is left vague. His curiosity is piqued, but it seems that this price is too high for him, for he sits back, and forms an upside down nest with his hands, fingers interlocked with their partners on the opposing appendage as he takes on a more stately and aristocratic air- perhaps calling upon his teachings from when he /did/ live the high life, rooming with Mommy and living off of Daddy's money. He's the picture of elegance and professionalism, even in his gym outfit with the unmatching and torn leather jacket that he wears over his tank top. His gaze is cold and calculating, and his face emotionless as he turns his head to the side, speaking to the woman in soft tones as, for a moment, he breaks his finger nest to lay them over Ash's hand instead. "No, thank you. I'll be looking for something more functional during my attendance."
Ash relaxes once Isaiah's hand covers theirs, exhaling. They still don't lean back in their seat, but seeing him finally playing along, falling into the role, they follow suit. They squeeze his hand tightly, then let the same sort of expression cross their face. It's easy for them, to wear this mask, as vulnerability is something they generally reserve for Isaiah. Their eyes flit back, and they start to allow themself, again, to appreciate the scene. The fractal realities gain glance after glance, but never a proper look... curiosity battling against sanity.
It's too late, anyway. There is motion underfoot, of bids made, of creatures, warped and disgusting, elegant and mesmerizing in reflection. Though no sound is made, ever, and they remain in the basked silence of their attendant and the occasional voice of the auctioneer calling names in untold tongues that sound garbled and wrong, The final destination of the constant pointing finger is to their right, on an empty desk. Beneath it, something sits, shown only in reflection. The chair moves, presumably because they stand, and that image of a thousand wings folded within in on itself makes for what may be the equivalent of a bow. If one had the discerning eye, they could note - the colour of its feathers are the same as the feather on display.
As soon as the auction for that one object is done, there is vacancy in the seat. They leave, disppearing in misty plumes of a receding reflection - and the presence they may have felt in that direction is gone, entirely. "Wise choice, Guests." The voice of their attendant whispers. "She would've killed you for it, had you acquired it." At least one person is on their side. Or is she? She was the one asking whether they would bid, after all. Nonetheless, the moment is drowned in another thunderclap of a sound, of a voice falling from the nightsky above in its golden cadence; "The Esteemed, fret not! We only give better than what was last. This is The Gilded Cage of Echoes!"
Where the feather stood on the pedestal, a ray of light passes with the gesture of the skinwalker stood at the dais, and the draw of his gloved hand reveals slowly the sight of an iron, rustic birdcage. "Though empty, it is never silent whispers, laughs, and cries from long-departed souls echo within. It is said that the cage can trap the voice of anyone who speaks near it, preserving their words forever, but it can also drive the listener mad with the constant barrage of forgotten voices. The bid will start, at one vow of silence for the rest of your life!"
"How are you liking it?" Isaiah asks Ash aside, keeping his voice low so as to not rouse the attention of the auctioneer. "Everything you'd dreamed of?" he asks, his eyes not looking to the androgyn as he speaks; rather curiously watching the Auctioneer in question and observing their appearance; to him, at least, in his realm of perception and understanding. A glance aside to the 'empty' desk where the winged monster had made its bet is given, and then around at the other 'empty' seats, but never at the floor; it seems to unsettle Isaiah beyond belief.
Ash watches their neighbor with a bit too much interest - the wings, and the feathers are not missed. They lick their bottom lip as they watch the eerily silent commotion, then chew on it as the round of bids end. Their eyes are bright again, focused. Interested. They start to lean back in their seat - then jolts forwards, still finding the seat uncomfortable. Ash squeezes Isaiah's hand as their attendant adds that fun little factoid on, not looking at her. There's not fear there... but disinterest.
As the thunderclap sounds, their attention is captured again, and they lean forward, just slightly. They tilt their head as the voice calls, the name coaxing their curiosity. Then, they relax, as they listen, growing disinterested. Careful, so as not to be misinterpreted, they move one of their dreadlocks, where a bead spits ugly, distracting noises, to as far back behind their head as they can, irritated at the distractions. Long fingers approach their face, an index under their bottom lip as they watch, murmuring, "No interest," to the attendant. No interest in this item, at least.
When Isaiah speaks to them, they frown, saying, "I'm... I... kind of am... sorry. It's... interesting." They sound reluctant, as if admitting to a dirty secret. They grimace, slightly, not looking over to Isaiah but moving to interlace their fingers with his. "I have to wonder if... if there will come anything worth considering."
Sadly, that item, too, before they can even make a bid or bet, is gone. Someone from the front rows claims it, someone shaded in total shadow and shade of darkness. Nothing beyond a cloud of it shows in the reflection, and perhaps, given the state of their physiology, this was a free win for them. A vow of silence is free, if you can't speak, right? The item is delivered, as before, but now, it is gone. Devoured in a vibrant cascade that shimmers when it traverses the veil from one place to the next.
Their attended clucks her tongue. Maybe she thought that was a good catch. "Our third." The voice informs again from above. The skinwalker moves to thecenter of the dais, holds very still, with gloved hands clapsed over one another in front of him. They part slowly, reveal an intricate hourglass suspended between his palms as the air becomes somber, quiet, even distantly melancholic across the hall.
"Hourglass of Anubis." Did he even have one of those in the myths? Maybe it's a new item, crafted specifically for this - but it is a great one nonetheless. It lends a covetious air across the hall, of desire, of need. "An hourglass filled not with sand, but with thick, dark red liquid that pulses as if alive. The hourglass can be used to extend the life of the holder by a set amount of time, but the price is always steep - the life force of another must be taken to refill the hourglass, and the liquid grows darker with each use."
And after a lengthy pause of trepidation;
"The bid is your reflection, your shadow, and a portion of your life."
Leaning close yet again, but whispering in their mind, their attendant informs the two dutifully. "What he means," A gesture of her clawed digits up above, "Your reflection and your shadow will be taken hostage. They will be employed to hunt you, for the rest of your time - and the cost to your life ensures the item on bid will be ensured to put to use." And she retracts, simply. "This is the last item tonight. I'm afraid I was not informed if you will be attending tomorrow's." But then, when is tomorrow, here?
Ash seems less interested in the shadow, listening for a response from Isaiah. Despite the wonders offered, he seems to still remain their prime concern. They watch the skinwalker's movement, appreciating the little trick with his hands, given the slightest rise of their eyebrows in response. The name, however, has their brows furrowed, their history in myth and folklore rising through them as they consider... then they shrug. It's whatever, it seems. As he describes its details, they observe it for themself, watching the liquid swirl within. They consider it - but only for a moment, shaking their head. Instead, they start to glance over at Isaiah - only to find the attendant speaking to them. They smirk at her explanation - because of *course* they will be hunted by their shadow and reflection. It only reaffirms their disinterest, and they say, "I don't know if I'll be invited, but I don't think I have a need for this, no." They glance over to Isaiah this time, properly, and let their hazel eyes soften to a green, despite the golden reflection from the floors, waiting for his response.
This. This captures Isaiah's interest; blatantly. He sits up in his seat, shifting forward as his eyes lock onto that hourglass, stealing every bit of attention he has to spare for several moments. The hand holding Ash's twitches, then starts to lift into the air slowly, only to be halted by what the woman says to him. It isn't the murder that has him second-guessing. He seems as though he would be fine slitting the throat of any number of sacrificial lambs to fuel this item. No. It's the hunting. The look in his eyes says that if that weren't the case, he'd happily give up both shadow and reflection to secure the prize. He mutters something under his breath, then leans back, too, shaking his head. "I need to sleep," he confesses- downtrodden and disappointed by the ultimate price of the item. The fine print. "Take us home, please," he says to the woman, palpably upset by the revelation. "I'd like you to deposit me in front of or near the Antlers hotel in Haven, Massachusetts." Then he glances aside to Ash. "Please place them before the Lodge in the same city and state. We're done here," he confirms. "Perhaps tomorrow."
Ash watches this with interest, considering Isaiah's reaction with sharp, careful analysis. They seem to sag with him as he sits back, deflated by his deflation. They perk up when he speaks, but Ash looks over to someone with a look of wild desperation, a frown, when he states a desire to be returned separately. Their breath hitches, then they look away, down at their feet, though their hand grips his a bit more tightly for a moment. Then, they're fine, just fine, resting a hand on the armrest - ew, no, not there - on their knee, so that they can stand up properly.
For better or for worse, through the covetious desire of nearly everyone willing to sacrifice it all for such an item, someone - someone high, high above on a seat previously unseen until the skinwalker points at a balcony seat reserved for only one, claims this item for themselves. There are no bets placed after theirs. It commands some trepidation, surely, whoever they may be - but all that is up there is a single, simple chair. Nothing like what they sit upon. No table, no desk. It is absent of everything, but there is a sensation of being watched should they look up to the balcony. A sapping of energy that even their 'ticket', the brands on the back of their hands cannot protect them from. It weakens, surely, it feeds on every sense they have, every sensation, every thought.
"That concludes our opening act."
The voice from the heavens tells them all, now. Surely there will be many more mystical, stranger artifacts should anyone ever get invited by the Golden Door again. But for tonight? This is it. The revelation ends the sudden feeblement over Isaiah and Ash, leaves them unburdened, and whatever was lost, the sigil upon their digits gleam aglow, reinstate what was lost from them at once with an incessant attitude as if offended, but not willing to do anything about it, to whomever that was. Every light begins to dim in the grandiose hall until there is nothing, not even the attendant that remains in sight. Just Ash, just Isaiah on their own. The sound of clapping hands are heard within the darkness, and the voice calls over from the top, almost as if adhering to Isaiah's wishes to leave.
"We will await your next attendance, with interest."
The voice is decrepit, haunting. Nothing like the golden velvet of a tone spilling like angelic delight -- it is vile, brimstone and fire, humored and amused. There are a thousand eyes in the darkness -- but then sights and colors filter in slowly. Like a theatre being unveiled, a static being dismissed. They are no longer seated, they are standing -- exactly where they were, before, with only some time having passed despite what must've felt like years behind those doors. The mark on their hand swivels, arises off of their skin -- and disappears in a golden dust fading with the wind.
Ash watches this with interest, considering Isaiah's reaction with sharp, careful analysis. They seem to sag with him as he sits back, deflated by his deflation. They perk up when he speaks, but Ash looks over to Isaiah with a look of wild desperation, a frown, when he states a desire to be returned separately. Their breath hitches, then they look away, down at their feet, though their hand grips his a bit more tightly for a moment. Then, they're fine, just fine, resting a hand on the armrest - ew, no, not there - on their knee, so that they can stand up properly.