Encounterlogs
Brians Odd Encounter Sr Roger 240831
Brian's evening takes a horrifying turn when he wakes up in a dark, damp room, confused and disoriented. He is alone, with no signs of his belongings, trapped in a featureless space marked only by four walls, a solitary dim bulb, and a heavy, unyielding metal door. Panic and determination fuel him as he surveys his grim cell, eventually focusing on a rusted vent near the ceiling as a potential escape route. Despite initial despair, Brian's resilience shines through as he manages to dislodge the grate and arm himself, just in time to confront an unknown assailant who enters his cell. The encounter reveals to Brian a world he never knew existed — one filled with supernatural beings, as his attacker attempts to set the room ablaze with flames conjured from his hands.
The story escalates quickly when Brian outsmarts his supernatural captor, locking him inside the cell and encountering yet another eerie figure outside - a woman transforming into a grotesque creature before his eyes. Adrenaline and survival instinct kick in, driving Brian to engage in a desperate fight, using the grate as a weapon before fleeing towards the uncertain safety of the outside world. A heart-pounding chase ensues, with Brian barely managing to escape to the bustling streets of Haven, avoiding becoming prey to the werewolf by mere seconds. His fortune continues as he navigates through the night, his path lit by streetlights and the occasional passing car, towards the relative sanctuary of the Antlers. The story culminates in Brian's conflicted relief, tormented by the thought of others left behind but grateful for his own life, indicating a profound, unsettling change in his understanding of the world around him.
(Brian's odd encounter(SRRoger):SRRoger)
[Fri Aug 30 2024]
In the stairs
Hardwood stairs lead up to the next floor while another set falls down
towards the main entrance bellow. Paneled walls reflect the wooden theme of
the building, suspending a collection of paintings that add to the decor
with an aesthetic appeal. The doors down the hallway are marked with the
appropriate room number.
It is dusk, about 90F(32C) degrees,
(Your target is abducted in their sleep, waking up alone in a locked room. They need to either escape or draw attention to them so their allies can come and provide assistance.
)
Haven is a place of misfits and misadventures, and one of the newest people to have moved here is about to discover as much, first hand. Whatever Brian had been doing earlier in the evening is interrupted by the sharp sting of a prick in his neck, and the sudden darkness that follows.
When Brian's eyes open once more, it is to darkness, his senses slowly coming to life. A rough, cold surface pressed against his back-a floor, concrete, maybe. The air hung heavy with the scent of dust and dampness, mingled with a faint metallic tang. Above, a single bulb flickered weakly, its dim light struggling against the shadows creeping along the walls.
The room was small, the walls bare and featureless, save for a few cracks running like veins along the ceiling. No windows, just that solitary bulb and the constant hum of some distant machinery. Across from him, a door loomed-a thick slab of metal, solid and unyielding, with no visible handle on his side. The seams between the door and the frame were tight, offering no hint of what lay beyond.
Near the ceiling, a small grated vent drew his eye, too high to reach without a way to climb. The metal grille looked old, flecked with rust. The sound of his own breathing seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness, the quiet broken only by the distant, muffled drone from somewhere far away.
No sign of his belongings, no immediate clues to his surroundings-just four walls, a door, and the pressing weight of silence.
Brian sits up abruptly, a gasp escaping his mouth as he looks around him. "Where the... what the... fuck?!?!" he says. He stands, moving to the door. He tries to push on it, and when it does not move, he hits it three times. "Hey, let me out of here!" he yells.
Brian turns to look at the room, taking stock of his surroundings. "Where the hell am I?" he asks, receiving only the buzzing in return.
It's rare that the rule of three fails, and that makes this particular situation one of those exceptions. The sound of strikes rings out in the small space, and the demand yelled by the young man falls upon deaf and uncaring ears, or none at all. There's certainly no response from the other side of the door, and only the flicker of the single bulb above his head within the room.
Where am I? How many times has this question been asked in this very room? There are stains on the floor, and walls. Some of it carrying that faded rusty crimson of dried blood. Not a good sign. Not a good sign at all.
Brian closes his eyes for a moment, taking in a deep, slow breath. "Okay, Brian. Don't panic. Take stock, and figure out how to improve your situation." Opening his eyes again, he looks around, checking the walls, the floor, even the ceiling, to make sure there is nothing he can use. Even a chip of stone can be sharpened, and is more than he has now. He feels every crack, checking for weakness. Finally, even if it seems futile, he jumps, trying to reach for the grate.
"Okay, Brian.." The man's own words echo somewhat in this enclosed space, like a little chorus of supporters and clones hidden in the dim lighting. There are definitely cracks, and chips in the concrete of the cell, but trying to fashion a tool from these little pebbles seems to be a fools errand.
Futile as it might be, on the first one or two jumps, Brian manages to make contact with the grate. It's roughly the size of an A3 piece of paper, rusted and with gaps that he might just be able to cling onto. The screws that hold it in place are loose, on further inspection, suggesting that others have tried to grab onto this in the past- but been interrupted before they were able to free themselves.
Brian tries to hook his fingers into the grate, hoping that his bodyweight will allow him to pull it down. Once he has a hold, he swings back and forth as best he can, trying to build momentum to cause the screws to hopefully fail.
Pull, Brian! Pull! You can do it!
The swinging movement, along with his body weight, serve to cause those loosened, rusted screws to cry out in complaint. They sing, stretch, and begin to pop, one by one. It isn't too long before Brian is falling back down toward the floor, but with a prize in hand! The grate falling down atop him! Oof!
It's now, with this rather loud sound, that Brian may just hear sound other than the hum of machinery from outside of his cell. The sound of a chair scrapping against cold concrete.
Brian gets up and moves quickly to one side of the door, picking the right side since he isn't sure which way the door will open. He crouches, loading his legs so that he can spring if someone opens the door. He remembers Coach Cahill's favorite saying: "There's no such thing as getting too low." He has the grate in his hands, ready to use it if needed, to drive into whoever opens the door. He waits, his heart racing, trying to slow his breath as best he can.
Chink-chink. Shuffle-shuffle. Click-clock.
The sound of keys are heard on the other side of the door as they are shaken out, raised and slot into the lock on the other side of the door. It clicks, unlocks, and then the door is pushed open forcefully. A large, strange looking man stalks into the room.
Brian is broadly shouldered, fit. A big fellow. But the man that walks inside is built like a brick shithouse. He's nearly as wide as he is tall, and his skin is covered in strange, rough contours. Like he had an unusual condition that left him looking like half a Sandshrew.
Thankfully, his back is turned to Brian as he steps in to peer up at the grate, clearly thinking that his captive has climbed into it. A hand is raised, and then fire blooms into being within his fist. These flames are coaxed up and into the hollow beyond where the grate once was, exploding forth and filling the space - while also somewhat blinding the large man with it's sheer brightness.
If Brian wasn't aware of the supernatural before this evenings events, then he is in the middle of a crash-course to becoming aware.
Brian blinks, stunned for a moment at what he sees. He shakes his head, and as he somewhat comes to his senses, tries to slip out the door. He will pull it closed behind him as quickly as he can, hopefully before the huge man notices what he's done. Once out of the room, and with the stranger hopefully locked in, he will look around again, taking stock of his surroundings before trying to figure out where to go.
The door slams shut, and locks- affording Brian more time yet. Though it's a precious commodity at the best of times, and especially right this moment. Outside of the room the hum of the machinery is louder yet, grinding against his thoughts, and irritating the ears.
He's in a bunker, or at the very least, a small concrete room. There are two other cell doors on his left, and right, and a path leading toward some stairs in front of him. A small table rests in the far corner, with two chairs. One slid back, and unoccupied, and the other? A young woman is sat in the other, her hair braided and knotted, and flittered with feathers, and fetishes. She wears heavy eye-shadow, and it bleeds across the bridge of her nose. "Another one banging their head?" The woman wonders of Brian at first, without looking up.
But then her nostrils flex, and she samples the air. She smells something wrong. She smells someone wrong. Her deep blue eyes flash up and over toward Brian, surprise quickly giving way to anger.
Brian doesn't even think as he rushes her, grate out in front of him, putting his full weight and strength behind it, trying to slam her down or smash her into the wall. He doesn't want to do this, feels a slight sense of shame at the idea of harming a woman, even one who could be dangerous, but survival comes first, and he needs to get out of here. If fighting dirty is the way to do that, so be it.
"Mmoff!" The air is pressed from the woman's lungs as she's grate-tacked into the wall, smashing into it, and bouncing back to crash into the table. It half-breaks beneath her weight, but then there's a low, dangerous growl from her. She's bleeding as she stares up at Brian, but that wound is accompanied by a manic, unhinged grin. "Hello, food."
That threat is delivered in yet another growled sound, and then something terrible and horrific begins to happen to her. She starts to twitch, and turn, as her bones break beneath her flesh, and her skin rents open- patches of fur push through her pores as her flesh sloughs away from her, and she screams out, in agony and ecstacy alike.
She is shifting.
She is turning.
Brian gets up, disentangling himself as quickly as he can. He steps forward and puts everything he has into a vicious kick to her head, then does not wait to see the outcome before he runs for the stairs, any thought of staying to fight banished by whatever the hell he just saw.
The kick lands.
But not against the face of a woman, but that of a beast. Covered in blood, and flesh, and with wild manic eyes. It is the head of a wolf, having burst free of her skull and shaped her very bones. There's a snarl from the beast as it shakes off the dregs of it's flesh-cocoon, and the scraps of clothing she had been wearing.
Brian gets a lead on the thing, steps falling under his feet as he charges up then, but the sound of paws against concrete, heavy breathing and a snarl chases after him!
Brian books it as fast as he can, putting everything he has into running. 'I hope all those hours in the gym pay off... and that I don't shit myself.' he thinks. Whatever is at the top of the stairs, a door, a guard... he will hit it at full speed, his only intent trying to get away from the wolf-thing 'Werewolf? They're real?' behind him.
Werewolves. They're real.
What a terrible, horrible thought. It's not enough that Brian has been drugged, and kidnapped, but now he's being chased down by a monster from myth and legends. What is it that stops a werewolf? Garlic? No, that's not right. It's silver, and unfortunately for Brian he doesn't seem like the sort of man to be wearing chains.
There's a door at the top of the stairs, yet another barrier between the man and freedom- though it falters beneath his shoulder, bursting open and throwing Brian right into the chaos of Temple Steel, the mill settled near the Franklin Bridge in the north of Haven. He stumbles, and thankfully so, for as Brian tries to regain his footing amongst the sudden light and noise of the machinery, the wolf goes sailing over his head, jaws snapping right where his skull was only moments earlier before it crashes into a humming piece of equipment, denting it.
Brian does not stop to look as he runs. Recognizing roughly where he is, he wastes no breath shouting as he heads west, trying to reach the street or the bridge, any place where there should be more lights, more people, perhaps even cars, and maybe, dare-to-dream, even a police car. He redoubles his efforts, the adrenaline surge pushing him faster than he thinks he's ever run before, and hopefully fast enough to outpace a werewolf.
Brian is quick, but the wolf is quicker yet. It shakes itself free from the concussive blow of it's crash, and then charges after the man. Every moment it gets closer and closer. He can hear the panting of it's breathing. Feel the heat of each expelled breath. It's large, larger than any wolf has any right to be- but just as it was preparing to launch upon him once more, it pauses, and snarls, and comes sliding to a stop- right as several cars pass by. As such Brian is able to escape across the street, while this barrier of traffic keeps the wolf at bay.
The beast paces back and forth several times, it's eyes alight as it follows Brian's movements, but- eventually- it gives up, stalking back into the dark of the Steel Mill and tending to whatever prey yet remains in it's lair.
Brian has escaped, for now.
Brian keeps running until he can't continue, then stops, hands on knees, doubled-over and panting. 'Could there have been other people there? Shit! I could have helped them... and if I had, I'd probably be dead.' He waits, in a brightly lit area, with traffic, until he catches his breath, and then heads back to the Antlers, constantly looking behind him along the way.
The story escalates quickly when Brian outsmarts his supernatural captor, locking him inside the cell and encountering yet another eerie figure outside - a woman transforming into a grotesque creature before his eyes. Adrenaline and survival instinct kick in, driving Brian to engage in a desperate fight, using the grate as a weapon before fleeing towards the uncertain safety of the outside world. A heart-pounding chase ensues, with Brian barely managing to escape to the bustling streets of Haven, avoiding becoming prey to the werewolf by mere seconds. His fortune continues as he navigates through the night, his path lit by streetlights and the occasional passing car, towards the relative sanctuary of the Antlers. The story culminates in Brian's conflicted relief, tormented by the thought of others left behind but grateful for his own life, indicating a profound, unsettling change in his understanding of the world around him.
(Brian's odd encounter(SRRoger):SRRoger)
[Fri Aug 30 2024]
In the stairs
Hardwood stairs lead up to the next floor while another set falls down
towards the main entrance bellow. Paneled walls reflect the wooden theme of
the building, suspending a collection of paintings that add to the decor
with an aesthetic appeal. The doors down the hallway are marked with the
appropriate room number.
It is dusk, about 90F(32C) degrees,
(Your target is abducted in their sleep, waking up alone in a locked room. They need to either escape or draw attention to them so their allies can come and provide assistance.
)
Haven is a place of misfits and misadventures, and one of the newest people to have moved here is about to discover as much, first hand. Whatever Brian had been doing earlier in the evening is interrupted by the sharp sting of a prick in his neck, and the sudden darkness that follows.
When Brian's eyes open once more, it is to darkness, his senses slowly coming to life. A rough, cold surface pressed against his back-a floor, concrete, maybe. The air hung heavy with the scent of dust and dampness, mingled with a faint metallic tang. Above, a single bulb flickered weakly, its dim light struggling against the shadows creeping along the walls.
The room was small, the walls bare and featureless, save for a few cracks running like veins along the ceiling. No windows, just that solitary bulb and the constant hum of some distant machinery. Across from him, a door loomed-a thick slab of metal, solid and unyielding, with no visible handle on his side. The seams between the door and the frame were tight, offering no hint of what lay beyond.
Near the ceiling, a small grated vent drew his eye, too high to reach without a way to climb. The metal grille looked old, flecked with rust. The sound of his own breathing seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness, the quiet broken only by the distant, muffled drone from somewhere far away.
No sign of his belongings, no immediate clues to his surroundings-just four walls, a door, and the pressing weight of silence.
Brian sits up abruptly, a gasp escaping his mouth as he looks around him. "Where the... what the... fuck?!?!" he says. He stands, moving to the door. He tries to push on it, and when it does not move, he hits it three times. "Hey, let me out of here!" he yells.
Brian turns to look at the room, taking stock of his surroundings. "Where the hell am I?" he asks, receiving only the buzzing in return.
It's rare that the rule of three fails, and that makes this particular situation one of those exceptions. The sound of strikes rings out in the small space, and the demand yelled by the young man falls upon deaf and uncaring ears, or none at all. There's certainly no response from the other side of the door, and only the flicker of the single bulb above his head within the room.
Where am I? How many times has this question been asked in this very room? There are stains on the floor, and walls. Some of it carrying that faded rusty crimson of dried blood. Not a good sign. Not a good sign at all.
Brian closes his eyes for a moment, taking in a deep, slow breath. "Okay, Brian. Don't panic. Take stock, and figure out how to improve your situation." Opening his eyes again, he looks around, checking the walls, the floor, even the ceiling, to make sure there is nothing he can use. Even a chip of stone can be sharpened, and is more than he has now. He feels every crack, checking for weakness. Finally, even if it seems futile, he jumps, trying to reach for the grate.
"Okay, Brian.." The man's own words echo somewhat in this enclosed space, like a little chorus of supporters and clones hidden in the dim lighting. There are definitely cracks, and chips in the concrete of the cell, but trying to fashion a tool from these little pebbles seems to be a fools errand.
Futile as it might be, on the first one or two jumps, Brian manages to make contact with the grate. It's roughly the size of an A3 piece of paper, rusted and with gaps that he might just be able to cling onto. The screws that hold it in place are loose, on further inspection, suggesting that others have tried to grab onto this in the past- but been interrupted before they were able to free themselves.
Brian tries to hook his fingers into the grate, hoping that his bodyweight will allow him to pull it down. Once he has a hold, he swings back and forth as best he can, trying to build momentum to cause the screws to hopefully fail.
Pull, Brian! Pull! You can do it!
The swinging movement, along with his body weight, serve to cause those loosened, rusted screws to cry out in complaint. They sing, stretch, and begin to pop, one by one. It isn't too long before Brian is falling back down toward the floor, but with a prize in hand! The grate falling down atop him! Oof!
It's now, with this rather loud sound, that Brian may just hear sound other than the hum of machinery from outside of his cell. The sound of a chair scrapping against cold concrete.
Brian gets up and moves quickly to one side of the door, picking the right side since he isn't sure which way the door will open. He crouches, loading his legs so that he can spring if someone opens the door. He remembers Coach Cahill's favorite saying: "There's no such thing as getting too low." He has the grate in his hands, ready to use it if needed, to drive into whoever opens the door. He waits, his heart racing, trying to slow his breath as best he can.
Chink-chink. Shuffle-shuffle. Click-clock.
The sound of keys are heard on the other side of the door as they are shaken out, raised and slot into the lock on the other side of the door. It clicks, unlocks, and then the door is pushed open forcefully. A large, strange looking man stalks into the room.
Brian is broadly shouldered, fit. A big fellow. But the man that walks inside is built like a brick shithouse. He's nearly as wide as he is tall, and his skin is covered in strange, rough contours. Like he had an unusual condition that left him looking like half a Sandshrew.
Thankfully, his back is turned to Brian as he steps in to peer up at the grate, clearly thinking that his captive has climbed into it. A hand is raised, and then fire blooms into being within his fist. These flames are coaxed up and into the hollow beyond where the grate once was, exploding forth and filling the space - while also somewhat blinding the large man with it's sheer brightness.
If Brian wasn't aware of the supernatural before this evenings events, then he is in the middle of a crash-course to becoming aware.
Brian blinks, stunned for a moment at what he sees. He shakes his head, and as he somewhat comes to his senses, tries to slip out the door. He will pull it closed behind him as quickly as he can, hopefully before the huge man notices what he's done. Once out of the room, and with the stranger hopefully locked in, he will look around again, taking stock of his surroundings before trying to figure out where to go.
The door slams shut, and locks- affording Brian more time yet. Though it's a precious commodity at the best of times, and especially right this moment. Outside of the room the hum of the machinery is louder yet, grinding against his thoughts, and irritating the ears.
He's in a bunker, or at the very least, a small concrete room. There are two other cell doors on his left, and right, and a path leading toward some stairs in front of him. A small table rests in the far corner, with two chairs. One slid back, and unoccupied, and the other? A young woman is sat in the other, her hair braided and knotted, and flittered with feathers, and fetishes. She wears heavy eye-shadow, and it bleeds across the bridge of her nose. "Another one banging their head?" The woman wonders of Brian at first, without looking up.
But then her nostrils flex, and she samples the air. She smells something wrong. She smells someone wrong. Her deep blue eyes flash up and over toward Brian, surprise quickly giving way to anger.
Brian doesn't even think as he rushes her, grate out in front of him, putting his full weight and strength behind it, trying to slam her down or smash her into the wall. He doesn't want to do this, feels a slight sense of shame at the idea of harming a woman, even one who could be dangerous, but survival comes first, and he needs to get out of here. If fighting dirty is the way to do that, so be it.
"Mmoff!" The air is pressed from the woman's lungs as she's grate-tacked into the wall, smashing into it, and bouncing back to crash into the table. It half-breaks beneath her weight, but then there's a low, dangerous growl from her. She's bleeding as she stares up at Brian, but that wound is accompanied by a manic, unhinged grin. "Hello, food."
That threat is delivered in yet another growled sound, and then something terrible and horrific begins to happen to her. She starts to twitch, and turn, as her bones break beneath her flesh, and her skin rents open- patches of fur push through her pores as her flesh sloughs away from her, and she screams out, in agony and ecstacy alike.
She is shifting.
She is turning.
Brian gets up, disentangling himself as quickly as he can. He steps forward and puts everything he has into a vicious kick to her head, then does not wait to see the outcome before he runs for the stairs, any thought of staying to fight banished by whatever the hell he just saw.
The kick lands.
But not against the face of a woman, but that of a beast. Covered in blood, and flesh, and with wild manic eyes. It is the head of a wolf, having burst free of her skull and shaped her very bones. There's a snarl from the beast as it shakes off the dregs of it's flesh-cocoon, and the scraps of clothing she had been wearing.
Brian gets a lead on the thing, steps falling under his feet as he charges up then, but the sound of paws against concrete, heavy breathing and a snarl chases after him!
Brian books it as fast as he can, putting everything he has into running. 'I hope all those hours in the gym pay off... and that I don't shit myself.' he thinks. Whatever is at the top of the stairs, a door, a guard... he will hit it at full speed, his only intent trying to get away from the wolf-thing 'Werewolf? They're real?' behind him.
Werewolves. They're real.
What a terrible, horrible thought. It's not enough that Brian has been drugged, and kidnapped, but now he's being chased down by a monster from myth and legends. What is it that stops a werewolf? Garlic? No, that's not right. It's silver, and unfortunately for Brian he doesn't seem like the sort of man to be wearing chains.
There's a door at the top of the stairs, yet another barrier between the man and freedom- though it falters beneath his shoulder, bursting open and throwing Brian right into the chaos of Temple Steel, the mill settled near the Franklin Bridge in the north of Haven. He stumbles, and thankfully so, for as Brian tries to regain his footing amongst the sudden light and noise of the machinery, the wolf goes sailing over his head, jaws snapping right where his skull was only moments earlier before it crashes into a humming piece of equipment, denting it.
Brian does not stop to look as he runs. Recognizing roughly where he is, he wastes no breath shouting as he heads west, trying to reach the street or the bridge, any place where there should be more lights, more people, perhaps even cars, and maybe, dare-to-dream, even a police car. He redoubles his efforts, the adrenaline surge pushing him faster than he thinks he's ever run before, and hopefully fast enough to outpace a werewolf.
Brian is quick, but the wolf is quicker yet. It shakes itself free from the concussive blow of it's crash, and then charges after the man. Every moment it gets closer and closer. He can hear the panting of it's breathing. Feel the heat of each expelled breath. It's large, larger than any wolf has any right to be- but just as it was preparing to launch upon him once more, it pauses, and snarls, and comes sliding to a stop- right as several cars pass by. As such Brian is able to escape across the street, while this barrier of traffic keeps the wolf at bay.
The beast paces back and forth several times, it's eyes alight as it follows Brian's movements, but- eventually- it gives up, stalking back into the dark of the Steel Mill and tending to whatever prey yet remains in it's lair.
Brian has escaped, for now.
Brian keeps running until he can't continue, then stops, hands on knees, doubled-over and panting. 'Could there have been other people there? Shit! I could have helped them... and if I had, I'd probably be dead.' He waits, in a brightly lit area, with traffic, until he catches his breath, and then heads back to the Antlers, constantly looking behind him along the way.