Encounterlogs
Cadences Odd Encounter Sr Siofra 250426
Cadence finds herself entangled in a peculiar night filled with introspection and the unexpected. Lying in an unfamiliar bed, she is more caught up in the banal drone of a YouTube motivational video than the potential stargazing the night could offer. Her solitude is abruptly interrupted by the persistent knocking at the door—a sound she disdains as an irksome echo in her already inconvenient day. With reluctance, Cadence answers, only to be met by an even more bizarre sight. An elderly woman, adorned in mismatched camouflage and war paint, confronts her at the doorway. Despite Cadence's attempt at evasion, the exchange between the two unfolds into an awkward and stilted conversation, hinting at the elder’s possibly supernatural origins.
The standoff ends as abruptly as it began, with Cadence fabricating a poor excuse to escape the interaction, a maneuver that only somewhat distances her from the peculiar visitor. The woman, revealed to be Miss Gloria Hughs—a ghost of vengeance from a bygone era—eventually shuffles away, leaving Cadence to her thoughts and the soggy remnants of her dinner. The encounter with Miss Hughs, a woman haunted by a quest for revenge against her late husband, underscores a night shadowed by themes of mortality, endings, and the mundanity enveloping them. As Cadence reflects on the disappointment of her chicken nuggets, paralleling her unsatisfying encounter, the story hints at a broader meditation on life’s anticlimactic moments and the devices, like air fryers, that promise solutions but often leave us stretching for more substantial resolutions.
(Cadence's odd encounter(SRSiofra):SRSiofra)
[Fri Apr 25 2025]
In A Blue Bedroom
This bedroom space has enough floor space to house an adult couple comfortably, and two or three sets of bunks somewhat cozily. The walls are painted slate blue and rathe sparse on decoration, but the finish looks new. A tall plywood closet occupies much of the northern wall.
It is night, about 60F(15C) degrees, There is a waning crescent moon.
(Your target and their allies are charged with tracking down a supernatural criminal on the run from the factions, what they do with them then is up to the players to decide.
)
Cadence lays in someone else's bed, staring at the ceiling, divining the dark space for the stars will never come. Very sad, introspective stuff. She's got her phone to her ear, listening to something on YouTube. It's a motivational video on how to get through procrastination, but it's just white noise to her. She isn't paying attention.
Time. Agency. Meaning.
Three characteristics not very important to Haven's recent list of events. The distant, strangely normalized patter of gunshots not even a (s)mile up the woods a marching lullaby that hopefully gets no closer. Mister Hayes' quarters behold, somewhere abouts them, a white lacy thong. They don't see to fit him, how queer.
From outside The Closing of Willow, the 35th to be exact, a knock that is at first lost to its casual brevity. And then a second, slightly more forceful- that's it, just like that.
*CLACK* *CLACK* *CLACK.* The ugly, insidious sound of a door-knocker in use- forgetful of the scrumptious delight of knuckles. It's nearly sacrilegious, but there it is.
The knocking strikes Cadence as horribly inconvenient. Her entire day was inconvenient. "I just wanna lay back and see if miss Black needs to hang out or some motivation." That thought must explain why she's listening to the drivel on YouTube. Maybe she wants to offer some inspirational words for a down on a down on her luck friend as none other than Concerned Friend #3 or #4. She waits a bit longer before she sits up, in the hopes that the chicken nuggets she was heating in the oven toaster were any close to being done. A minute, and no dice. Grumbling, she sits upright and pushes through the bedroom door and stalks to the front, peeping through the hole to see who's who.
A small woman, hunched by age and duel wielding walking canes like some four legged spider is parked at the entrance. She's wearing some woodland camo- the type an unfashionable chap with a too large pickup truck would take from a sporting goods and cease to blend in with the surroundings. Upon her face, however, is true war paint. A black thumb streak straight across the eyes and down both cheeks. She is hoodied in this woodland camo, Grey spew of curly hair trying to escape it like crawling fingers from the twitch of wind that hits it.
"Hello." It's the perfect timing. Too perfect. She must be of some degree of preternatural-
"Hello." The nasal voice strikes 'gain.
"Hello."
"...Hello."
Like a internet personality on their fourth take, but nothing changes from her projection. It seems, to her, that she must have found some perfection in her delivery.
"Hola. No habla ingles," Cadence says back, putting on her best facade at a Hispanic accent. It's not good at all. She should stick with German. "Housekeeping. Senor Declan is away. Goodbye." Then she starts backing away, hoping to God that the lady's gonna get out of her hair. As much as it pains her, she lingers by the doorway, sensing this might not be so easy to disentangle herself with.
"Wat?"
"Where is my-" a romantically rolled and yet still somehow flat r fades..
"..."
As Cadence gains distance, so does the voice grow more distant until the senile old woman is all but gone. Cadence would never see Miss Gloria Hughs again, the woman who has been on the run from Venice for swearing vengeance on her departed husband killed at a speakeasy 50-80 years ago, whenever that was. It was somewhere south, probably, if one had a compass set out in front of them and was forced by greed to elaborate in as long a way as possible where that is. Maybe north, sometimes and depending. Improv states that it's probably somewhere where people speak Spanish, as that's how she must have learned Spanish.
It was a hard life, but The Cancer comes for all mortal kind and as sure as the morning sun doth climb, Miss Hughs' life was bound to set. But people miss the beauty of such endings when it becomes mundanity. When death, escape, and the end are so prevalent they are not missed. What a good time to come to Haven, therefore, when no one can properly kick the bucket.
And so the stumbling, incongruent gate of a clattering of canes and legs begins to clack off down the road. Cadence returns for chicken nuggets that are probably about the soggy side of cooked. One is told that air fryers are the future and there was a bunch of frozen water in that package of processed 'food' that an air fryer would have better solved.
An air fryer is a little like a sunset until it isn't at all. A little like an ending when you have to reallly stttttttrrrrreeeeetttccccccchhh for it. Things can be a lot of things until things aren't maybe, is the moral here surely. That dichotomy one can comfortably sit on, in whichever subject, that conveniently sets them out of a targeted conversation. No one likes to talk in loops about nothing. Big a side, you damned centrist.
The standoff ends as abruptly as it began, with Cadence fabricating a poor excuse to escape the interaction, a maneuver that only somewhat distances her from the peculiar visitor. The woman, revealed to be Miss Gloria Hughs—a ghost of vengeance from a bygone era—eventually shuffles away, leaving Cadence to her thoughts and the soggy remnants of her dinner. The encounter with Miss Hughs, a woman haunted by a quest for revenge against her late husband, underscores a night shadowed by themes of mortality, endings, and the mundanity enveloping them. As Cadence reflects on the disappointment of her chicken nuggets, paralleling her unsatisfying encounter, the story hints at a broader meditation on life’s anticlimactic moments and the devices, like air fryers, that promise solutions but often leave us stretching for more substantial resolutions.
(Cadence's odd encounter(SRSiofra):SRSiofra)
[Fri Apr 25 2025]
In A Blue Bedroom
This bedroom space has enough floor space to house an adult couple comfortably, and two or three sets of bunks somewhat cozily. The walls are painted slate blue and rathe sparse on decoration, but the finish looks new. A tall plywood closet occupies much of the northern wall.
It is night, about 60F(15C) degrees, There is a waning crescent moon.
(Your target and their allies are charged with tracking down a supernatural criminal on the run from the factions, what they do with them then is up to the players to decide.
)
Cadence lays in someone else's bed, staring at the ceiling, divining the dark space for the stars will never come. Very sad, introspective stuff. She's got her phone to her ear, listening to something on YouTube. It's a motivational video on how to get through procrastination, but it's just white noise to her. She isn't paying attention.
Time. Agency. Meaning.
Three characteristics not very important to Haven's recent list of events. The distant, strangely normalized patter of gunshots not even a (s)mile up the woods a marching lullaby that hopefully gets no closer. Mister Hayes' quarters behold, somewhere abouts them, a white lacy thong. They don't see to fit him, how queer.
From outside The Closing of Willow, the 35th to be exact, a knock that is at first lost to its casual brevity. And then a second, slightly more forceful- that's it, just like that.
*CLACK* *CLACK* *CLACK.* The ugly, insidious sound of a door-knocker in use- forgetful of the scrumptious delight of knuckles. It's nearly sacrilegious, but there it is.
The knocking strikes Cadence as horribly inconvenient. Her entire day was inconvenient. "I just wanna lay back and see if miss Black needs to hang out or some motivation." That thought must explain why she's listening to the drivel on YouTube. Maybe she wants to offer some inspirational words for a down on a down on her luck friend as none other than Concerned Friend #3 or #4. She waits a bit longer before she sits up, in the hopes that the chicken nuggets she was heating in the oven toaster were any close to being done. A minute, and no dice. Grumbling, she sits upright and pushes through the bedroom door and stalks to the front, peeping through the hole to see who's who.
A small woman, hunched by age and duel wielding walking canes like some four legged spider is parked at the entrance. She's wearing some woodland camo- the type an unfashionable chap with a too large pickup truck would take from a sporting goods and cease to blend in with the surroundings. Upon her face, however, is true war paint. A black thumb streak straight across the eyes and down both cheeks. She is hoodied in this woodland camo, Grey spew of curly hair trying to escape it like crawling fingers from the twitch of wind that hits it.
"Hello." It's the perfect timing. Too perfect. She must be of some degree of preternatural-
"Hello." The nasal voice strikes 'gain.
"Hello."
"...Hello."
Like a internet personality on their fourth take, but nothing changes from her projection. It seems, to her, that she must have found some perfection in her delivery.
"Hola. No habla ingles," Cadence says back, putting on her best facade at a Hispanic accent. It's not good at all. She should stick with German. "Housekeeping. Senor Declan is away. Goodbye." Then she starts backing away, hoping to God that the lady's gonna get out of her hair. As much as it pains her, she lingers by the doorway, sensing this might not be so easy to disentangle herself with.
"Wat?"
"Where is my-" a romantically rolled and yet still somehow flat r fades..
"..."
As Cadence gains distance, so does the voice grow more distant until the senile old woman is all but gone. Cadence would never see Miss Gloria Hughs again, the woman who has been on the run from Venice for swearing vengeance on her departed husband killed at a speakeasy 50-80 years ago, whenever that was. It was somewhere south, probably, if one had a compass set out in front of them and was forced by greed to elaborate in as long a way as possible where that is. Maybe north, sometimes and depending. Improv states that it's probably somewhere where people speak Spanish, as that's how she must have learned Spanish.
It was a hard life, but The Cancer comes for all mortal kind and as sure as the morning sun doth climb, Miss Hughs' life was bound to set. But people miss the beauty of such endings when it becomes mundanity. When death, escape, and the end are so prevalent they are not missed. What a good time to come to Haven, therefore, when no one can properly kick the bucket.
And so the stumbling, incongruent gate of a clattering of canes and legs begins to clack off down the road. Cadence returns for chicken nuggets that are probably about the soggy side of cooked. One is told that air fryers are the future and there was a bunch of frozen water in that package of processed 'food' that an air fryer would have better solved.
An air fryer is a little like a sunset until it isn't at all. A little like an ending when you have to reallly stttttttrrrrreeeeetttccccccchhh for it. Things can be a lot of things until things aren't maybe, is the moral here surely. That dichotomy one can comfortably sit on, in whichever subject, that conveniently sets them out of a targeted conversation. No one likes to talk in loops about nothing. Big a side, you damned centrist.