Encounterlogs
Ashs Odd Encounter Sr Novel 240828
Ash's serene day takes a jarring turn as their enhanced senses lead them to the grim scene of a brutal crime in the nearby woods. Initially heading out with the intention of enjoying a peaceful sketching session thanks to the pleasant weather and a recent reconciliation with their significant other, Jay, Ash’s plans are derailed by the distant sounds of violence. Reminded of past vulnerabilities and threats on campus, they reluctantly decide to investigate, arming themselves with a rifle and sabre for protection. As they venture deeper into the woods, the reality of their town’s supernatural dangers weighs heavily on them, yet the determination to possibly prevent further harm propels them forward.
Discovering a grotesque murder scene, Ash is confronted with the aftermath of a demonborn's sadistic act. The perpetrator, overwhelmed by regret and self-loathing, presents a complex dilemma to Ash, who is torn between various courses of action. The killer’s apparent remorse and the purely human nature of the crime complicate Ash's feelings about intervening. Ultimately, Ash chooses to withdraw from the scene, reflecting on their own monstrous struggles and acknowledging the thin line they walk between humanity and inhumanity. This encounter underscores the darker undercurrents of their world, where the concepts of strength and weakness, predator and prey, are tangled in the brutal reality of existence—even as life continues undisturbed just beyond the woods, highlighting the stark divide between the ordinary and the horrific. Ash carries on, a somber reminder of the duality they and others like them must navigate, leaving the man to face the consequences of his actions alone, preserving the status quo yet deeply unsettled by the encounter.
(Ash's odd encounter(SRNovel):SRNovel)
[Fri Aug 16 2024]
On Warden's Way
Smooth asphalt roads continue through this part of town, bordered on either side by well maintained concrete sidewalks. Where the street is widest small median islands appear with old twisted trees planted in them. The buildings that line the street seem quaint, but well maintained.
It is afternoon, about 80F(26C) degrees,
(Your target and their allies encounter a demonborn who in the midst of sadistic lust has gone too far and is now filled with regret and self loathing at what they've done.
)
It's another gorgeous, sunny day, brightly lit and the warmth of the sunshine shining down upon Ash. The buildings are tidy, the sun is up, and the weather is great - the world is Ash's oyster and they can take themselves wherever they please. Even the disasters and horrors that are so common being so close to the supernatural seems so far away as a gentle breeze picks up from the shore, softening the heat and making it more pleasant.
Ash breathes in the air and sighs in relief. The nightmares are over. They fixed things with Jay, and he wants *all* of them, their authentic self. They told him their secret, and they will learn how to swim. They know how to fight ghosts, and it seems like everything in their life is finally, at long last... turning out *good* for once. Their enhanced senses take in the scent of the breeze, and they decided to simply find a good spot to finish their sketch of Fayad. And maybe work on something else, after. They *do* have their canvas on hand....
Then Ash's advanced senses hear it. Picking up on something faint, in the dark woods to the north, where they loom and wrap around the institute. To some they would be a refreshing mark of nature, a breath of fresh air. But to any who knows the awfulness of this town, the corruption, they're disturbing tendrils that burst forth from the ground to reach, to grasp, to strangle anything in their path and only held barely beaten back by the power of civilization. Of Order. A guiding Hand that helps keeps things as they Should Be, with the best floating to the top.
It echoes oddly, broken up by the softness of the trees, bouncing off of hard wood and concrete and steel to become echoy. But distinctly to the north and west, further and further away from the life and busyness and the comfort that he is finding through life.
It's not a shriek, or a scream, or a shout, or any of those exciting noises. It's a thumping. A thudding. The crack of branches and crunching of leaves. It's the noise of a meat cleaver hewing through flesh. It's the noise of a soft voice calling faintly, "mother." Followed by a very, very, wet gurgle after that goes suddenly... silent.
Space. Time. The gentle rustle of leaves. The birds have gone silent. And then from the same direction, a sobbing.
Ash sighs, a tired exhale as their mood goes. "The silence. Always the silence. But, at least, this time it's not everything, everywhere. It's a natural silence. They turn towards the woods, contemplatively, playing with a dreadlock. Is this their problem? Not really... but, it's practically on campus. Ash is reminded of their second time they were choked near death, a day after the first, and their finger goes up to their neck at the memory. The vampire on campus, in the library. The bruises that followed, their helplessness... and they recall the new students they met the night before. No... this isn't their problem... but it would become someone's if left alone. White Oak isn't as secure as the staff say it is.
With that in mind, they unlock the basket on their scooter, taking out a bag before glancing around. When they don't see anyone too close, they pull out a rifle, then a sabre, stuffing them quickly into the bag. Next, a vest, which they roll into the canvas case that they pull out next. Then, a pause. They're being stupid... paranoid. No, it's habit. They put the bags back, taking the weapons and armor, and simply moves into the woods to avoid a panic instead. Move fast, carefully, no one will bother you. Once in the woods, the street still in view, they slide the vest on, securing it before making sure their sabre and rifle are clipped properly so that they can switch from one to the other easily. That done, they hold the rifle securely, and head further in, eyes furtive, their enhanced senses on alert."
Ash then sighs, a tired exhale as their mood goes. "The silence. Always the silence." But, at least, this time it's not everything, everywhere. It's a natural silence. They turn towards the woods, contemplatively, playing with a dreadlock. Is this their problem? Not really... but, it's practically on campus. Ash is reminded of their second time they were choked near death, a day after the first, and their finger goes up to their neck at the memory. The vampire on campus, in the library. The bruises that followed, their helplessness... and they recall the new students they met the night before. No... this isn't their problem... but it would become someone's if left alone. White Oak isn't as secure as the staff say it is.
With that in mind, they unlock the basket on their scooter, taking out a bag before glancing around. When they don't see anyone too close, they pull out a rifle, then a sabre, stuffing them quickly into the bag. Next, a vest, which they roll into the canvas case that they pull out next. Then, a pause. They're being stupid... paranoid. No, it's habit. They put the bags back, taking the weapons and armor, and simply moves into the woods to avoid a panic instead. Move fast, carefully, no one will bother you. Once in the woods, the street still in view, they slide the vest on, securing it before making sure their sabre and rifle are clipped properly so that they can switch from one to the other easily. That done, they hold the rifle securely, and head further in, eyes furtive, their enhanced senses on alert.
Natural is a word for it. There's no attempt to enforce it. The quietness is subtle. The distant crash of water across the shore, the whirring of vehicles and electronics, the chatter of people going about their day upon the busy, warm streets. For most, life goes on, unaware of the horrors that lie beneath the thinnest veneer of politeness and illusion and powdered sugar to keep folks content. Branches and plants and woods zip by, Ash hunting down the crying that slowly becomes louder.
The scene is red. Bright, brilliant red, scattered across the forest floor, across the trees, scarlet crescents beneath a tree.
A sillhoute. Tall. Broad of shoulder. Masculine, deeply tanned, someone who exercises and goes out regularly. Wearing gorgeous black leathers from head to toe and black hair and chisled jawline. A small, almost dainty black hunting hatchet is gripped in one meaty hand and the other massive hand is clenched into a fist. His side profile in full view to Ash. The blood soaks through fresh and red and dripping from every part of his body, giving it a stark contrast to his dark colors.
Before him, collapsed in a heap against a tree is an empty, broken shell. A thin, delicate-seeming young woman, her eyes glazed and empty and tongue hanging out, the final blow taking her right between the eyes. Naked, but her ruined body only barely has enough substance to recognize the sex of the poor person. Not a single part of them is left untouched. Purple-black bruises. The white hair has been hacked off and put aside. The ears notched, the shoulders and neck bitten and then cut, the rib cage splayed open and the legs flayed, someone has gone and even peeled the skin off in several places. The limbs hewed open, the toes and fingernails removed, the organs spilling out in a pile of bloody viscera that meets an oozing pool of foul-smelling vomit. The typical scents of death, of organ failure, actinic and sharp and sewage mingles with the mouth-filling coppery taste of rusty blood.
A closer look upon the man. His face pierced. The nose, the lips, still stained green with bile. There's no glee here. He's shaking, Ash realizes. Weeping. It's not a pretty cry, tears and snot running down his face as he shakes and trembles, those destructive digits slowly opening to allow the weapon to slip to the floor. He collapses to his knees, burying his head into his hands as his shoulders shake. Doing his best to muffle it. The silent cry of not wanting to be caught in a moment of weakness, a man's strength brought low by sadness and own failings.
Ash pauses, considering. The stench is powerful, to their acute scent of smell, and they have to turn their head, gagging silently, though with an eye on the scene. But, having surely smelled it before arriving, they've already come to adjust some. They look over the man's 'work' silently, the brutality of it, the ruined beauty and the monstrous defilement of her body. They can't help but wonder... were the sounds that they heard him or her? But, they answer the question. Him. It was all him.
There's a variety of options here... one could kill him. He's clearly a murder, who brutalized and tortured this woman. One could try to speak with him, try and console him. We are monsters. We have monstrous urges. Ash knows this well, having confessed to the priest the night before through yelling and tears. One could even try to make a 'citizen's' arrest, to remove someone dangerous and lethal, to make him pay for his crime. Ash... choses the fourth option. They back away carefully, rifle at the ready, but making their way away. This isn't their problem. It was clearly a personal crime. The man called her his mother. There is no sign of magic here, just brutality. In a world of demonborn and fae, this is just invading someone's feeding... whether he hated having to do it, or not.
The man is far too distracted to chase, to focus on Ash, in the depths of his self-centered, self-inflicted misery and pain. But perhaps he had limited choice in the matter as the other armed and armored decides to not intervene. To leave the man to his own cleanup and problems. After all - he did take control and use up the weak. Who is to say he was in the wrong? This is what is preached. The strong are ontop and the weak submit. His shoulders shake. His hands pressing up against his face, painting the wreckage there further with the red that coats his hands and body that left his face untouched for now.
The sensitivity. The man practically glows with his own lifeforce, having becoming figuratively fat and sated on the mayhem he has caused and touched. A gnashing of teeth, a parting, a growled, deep, bassy, "Why..." A statement about life in general. About being lost and attempting to find your way through confusion and suffering. And that's when Ash realizes.
The call for one's mother did not come from his lips.
And Ash backs away, untouched, unmolested, the scene fading from his eyes and ears, though even as he returns to the sunshine and normalcy of bright life of people and busyness and humanity moving around and pretty college students passing by - the occasional alarmed glance to his weaponry - as life just... moves on. The things below the surface.
The status quo, kept.
Ash quickly removes their items before they get to the edge of the forest, as soon as they see the streets and movement. Any glances while they put their things away gains a friendly smile. They seem... relatively unperturbed. Not because the man was in the right in any way - the Hand that they've seen is not about domination of the weak so much it is about excelling with one's self. And embracing the monster - which is what the man did, though he was like Ash. Too human to be inhuman, too inhuman to be human - just like Ash had told the priest the night before. The urges, the cold, the monstrous desire to feed, to treat others, especially humans, like prey... and the humanity to have guilt, self-loathing, and regret. Not that Ash has ever indulged like the man had... but Lydia comes to mind, and the bland, empty taste their interactions had left them with. She, at least, had been willing. Another rabbit, quivering eagerly for the touch of a wolf's maw. Such as it was in Haven, so many were either wolves, or rabbits... or, like Ash and some others they knew, both. They did not judge the man - he did what he needed to do. It was what Elias warned them would happen. You feed the urge, or the urge consumes you. And you're left with... well, that.
Discovering a grotesque murder scene, Ash is confronted with the aftermath of a demonborn's sadistic act. The perpetrator, overwhelmed by regret and self-loathing, presents a complex dilemma to Ash, who is torn between various courses of action. The killer’s apparent remorse and the purely human nature of the crime complicate Ash's feelings about intervening. Ultimately, Ash chooses to withdraw from the scene, reflecting on their own monstrous struggles and acknowledging the thin line they walk between humanity and inhumanity. This encounter underscores the darker undercurrents of their world, where the concepts of strength and weakness, predator and prey, are tangled in the brutal reality of existence—even as life continues undisturbed just beyond the woods, highlighting the stark divide between the ordinary and the horrific. Ash carries on, a somber reminder of the duality they and others like them must navigate, leaving the man to face the consequences of his actions alone, preserving the status quo yet deeply unsettled by the encounter.
(Ash's odd encounter(SRNovel):SRNovel)
[Fri Aug 16 2024]
On Warden's Way
Smooth asphalt roads continue through this part of town, bordered on either side by well maintained concrete sidewalks. Where the street is widest small median islands appear with old twisted trees planted in them. The buildings that line the street seem quaint, but well maintained.
It is afternoon, about 80F(26C) degrees,
(Your target and their allies encounter a demonborn who in the midst of sadistic lust has gone too far and is now filled with regret and self loathing at what they've done.
)
It's another gorgeous, sunny day, brightly lit and the warmth of the sunshine shining down upon Ash. The buildings are tidy, the sun is up, and the weather is great - the world is Ash's oyster and they can take themselves wherever they please. Even the disasters and horrors that are so common being so close to the supernatural seems so far away as a gentle breeze picks up from the shore, softening the heat and making it more pleasant.
Ash breathes in the air and sighs in relief. The nightmares are over. They fixed things with Jay, and he wants *all* of them, their authentic self. They told him their secret, and they will learn how to swim. They know how to fight ghosts, and it seems like everything in their life is finally, at long last... turning out *good* for once. Their enhanced senses take in the scent of the breeze, and they decided to simply find a good spot to finish their sketch of Fayad. And maybe work on something else, after. They *do* have their canvas on hand....
Then Ash's advanced senses hear it. Picking up on something faint, in the dark woods to the north, where they loom and wrap around the institute. To some they would be a refreshing mark of nature, a breath of fresh air. But to any who knows the awfulness of this town, the corruption, they're disturbing tendrils that burst forth from the ground to reach, to grasp, to strangle anything in their path and only held barely beaten back by the power of civilization. Of Order. A guiding Hand that helps keeps things as they Should Be, with the best floating to the top.
It echoes oddly, broken up by the softness of the trees, bouncing off of hard wood and concrete and steel to become echoy. But distinctly to the north and west, further and further away from the life and busyness and the comfort that he is finding through life.
It's not a shriek, or a scream, or a shout, or any of those exciting noises. It's a thumping. A thudding. The crack of branches and crunching of leaves. It's the noise of a meat cleaver hewing through flesh. It's the noise of a soft voice calling faintly, "mother." Followed by a very, very, wet gurgle after that goes suddenly... silent.
Space. Time. The gentle rustle of leaves. The birds have gone silent. And then from the same direction, a sobbing.
Ash sighs, a tired exhale as their mood goes. "The silence. Always the silence. But, at least, this time it's not everything, everywhere. It's a natural silence. They turn towards the woods, contemplatively, playing with a dreadlock. Is this their problem? Not really... but, it's practically on campus. Ash is reminded of their second time they were choked near death, a day after the first, and their finger goes up to their neck at the memory. The vampire on campus, in the library. The bruises that followed, their helplessness... and they recall the new students they met the night before. No... this isn't their problem... but it would become someone's if left alone. White Oak isn't as secure as the staff say it is.
With that in mind, they unlock the basket on their scooter, taking out a bag before glancing around. When they don't see anyone too close, they pull out a rifle, then a sabre, stuffing them quickly into the bag. Next, a vest, which they roll into the canvas case that they pull out next. Then, a pause. They're being stupid... paranoid. No, it's habit. They put the bags back, taking the weapons and armor, and simply moves into the woods to avoid a panic instead. Move fast, carefully, no one will bother you. Once in the woods, the street still in view, they slide the vest on, securing it before making sure their sabre and rifle are clipped properly so that they can switch from one to the other easily. That done, they hold the rifle securely, and head further in, eyes furtive, their enhanced senses on alert."
Ash then sighs, a tired exhale as their mood goes. "The silence. Always the silence." But, at least, this time it's not everything, everywhere. It's a natural silence. They turn towards the woods, contemplatively, playing with a dreadlock. Is this their problem? Not really... but, it's practically on campus. Ash is reminded of their second time they were choked near death, a day after the first, and their finger goes up to their neck at the memory. The vampire on campus, in the library. The bruises that followed, their helplessness... and they recall the new students they met the night before. No... this isn't their problem... but it would become someone's if left alone. White Oak isn't as secure as the staff say it is.
With that in mind, they unlock the basket on their scooter, taking out a bag before glancing around. When they don't see anyone too close, they pull out a rifle, then a sabre, stuffing them quickly into the bag. Next, a vest, which they roll into the canvas case that they pull out next. Then, a pause. They're being stupid... paranoid. No, it's habit. They put the bags back, taking the weapons and armor, and simply moves into the woods to avoid a panic instead. Move fast, carefully, no one will bother you. Once in the woods, the street still in view, they slide the vest on, securing it before making sure their sabre and rifle are clipped properly so that they can switch from one to the other easily. That done, they hold the rifle securely, and head further in, eyes furtive, their enhanced senses on alert.
Natural is a word for it. There's no attempt to enforce it. The quietness is subtle. The distant crash of water across the shore, the whirring of vehicles and electronics, the chatter of people going about their day upon the busy, warm streets. For most, life goes on, unaware of the horrors that lie beneath the thinnest veneer of politeness and illusion and powdered sugar to keep folks content. Branches and plants and woods zip by, Ash hunting down the crying that slowly becomes louder.
The scene is red. Bright, brilliant red, scattered across the forest floor, across the trees, scarlet crescents beneath a tree.
A sillhoute. Tall. Broad of shoulder. Masculine, deeply tanned, someone who exercises and goes out regularly. Wearing gorgeous black leathers from head to toe and black hair and chisled jawline. A small, almost dainty black hunting hatchet is gripped in one meaty hand and the other massive hand is clenched into a fist. His side profile in full view to Ash. The blood soaks through fresh and red and dripping from every part of his body, giving it a stark contrast to his dark colors.
Before him, collapsed in a heap against a tree is an empty, broken shell. A thin, delicate-seeming young woman, her eyes glazed and empty and tongue hanging out, the final blow taking her right between the eyes. Naked, but her ruined body only barely has enough substance to recognize the sex of the poor person. Not a single part of them is left untouched. Purple-black bruises. The white hair has been hacked off and put aside. The ears notched, the shoulders and neck bitten and then cut, the rib cage splayed open and the legs flayed, someone has gone and even peeled the skin off in several places. The limbs hewed open, the toes and fingernails removed, the organs spilling out in a pile of bloody viscera that meets an oozing pool of foul-smelling vomit. The typical scents of death, of organ failure, actinic and sharp and sewage mingles with the mouth-filling coppery taste of rusty blood.
A closer look upon the man. His face pierced. The nose, the lips, still stained green with bile. There's no glee here. He's shaking, Ash realizes. Weeping. It's not a pretty cry, tears and snot running down his face as he shakes and trembles, those destructive digits slowly opening to allow the weapon to slip to the floor. He collapses to his knees, burying his head into his hands as his shoulders shake. Doing his best to muffle it. The silent cry of not wanting to be caught in a moment of weakness, a man's strength brought low by sadness and own failings.
Ash pauses, considering. The stench is powerful, to their acute scent of smell, and they have to turn their head, gagging silently, though with an eye on the scene. But, having surely smelled it before arriving, they've already come to adjust some. They look over the man's 'work' silently, the brutality of it, the ruined beauty and the monstrous defilement of her body. They can't help but wonder... were the sounds that they heard him or her? But, they answer the question. Him. It was all him.
There's a variety of options here... one could kill him. He's clearly a murder, who brutalized and tortured this woman. One could try to speak with him, try and console him. We are monsters. We have monstrous urges. Ash knows this well, having confessed to the priest the night before through yelling and tears. One could even try to make a 'citizen's' arrest, to remove someone dangerous and lethal, to make him pay for his crime. Ash... choses the fourth option. They back away carefully, rifle at the ready, but making their way away. This isn't their problem. It was clearly a personal crime. The man called her his mother. There is no sign of magic here, just brutality. In a world of demonborn and fae, this is just invading someone's feeding... whether he hated having to do it, or not.
The man is far too distracted to chase, to focus on Ash, in the depths of his self-centered, self-inflicted misery and pain. But perhaps he had limited choice in the matter as the other armed and armored decides to not intervene. To leave the man to his own cleanup and problems. After all - he did take control and use up the weak. Who is to say he was in the wrong? This is what is preached. The strong are ontop and the weak submit. His shoulders shake. His hands pressing up against his face, painting the wreckage there further with the red that coats his hands and body that left his face untouched for now.
The sensitivity. The man practically glows with his own lifeforce, having becoming figuratively fat and sated on the mayhem he has caused and touched. A gnashing of teeth, a parting, a growled, deep, bassy, "Why..." A statement about life in general. About being lost and attempting to find your way through confusion and suffering. And that's when Ash realizes.
The call for one's mother did not come from his lips.
And Ash backs away, untouched, unmolested, the scene fading from his eyes and ears, though even as he returns to the sunshine and normalcy of bright life of people and busyness and humanity moving around and pretty college students passing by - the occasional alarmed glance to his weaponry - as life just... moves on. The things below the surface.
The status quo, kept.
Ash quickly removes their items before they get to the edge of the forest, as soon as they see the streets and movement. Any glances while they put their things away gains a friendly smile. They seem... relatively unperturbed. Not because the man was in the right in any way - the Hand that they've seen is not about domination of the weak so much it is about excelling with one's self. And embracing the monster - which is what the man did, though he was like Ash. Too human to be inhuman, too inhuman to be human - just like Ash had told the priest the night before. The urges, the cold, the monstrous desire to feed, to treat others, especially humans, like prey... and the humanity to have guilt, self-loathing, and regret. Not that Ash has ever indulged like the man had... but Lydia comes to mind, and the bland, empty taste their interactions had left them with. She, at least, had been willing. Another rabbit, quivering eagerly for the touch of a wolf's maw. Such as it was in Haven, so many were either wolves, or rabbits... or, like Ash and some others they knew, both. They did not judge the man - he did what he needed to do. It was what Elias warned them would happen. You feed the urge, or the urge consumes you. And you're left with... well, that.