Encounterlogs
Deacons Odd Encounter Sr Angelique 240121
Deacon's mundane morning routine is disrupted when the woman he knows as Angelique suddenly urges him to flee, her playful demeanor shifting into something dark and menacing. Despite her stark warning, Deacon addresses her confusion with concern rather than obedience. Her posture is unnaturally stiff and when she speaks, there’s an ominous tone to her voice. Deacon senses something is amiss and confronts the entity "behind the wheel," alluding to Angelique’s possible possession. As the conversation unfolds, it becomes apparent that a spirit from Angelique's past has taken hold of her, specifically aiming to deter Deacon from pursuing a connection with her. The spirit implies that getting involved with Angelique will lead to pain and suffering, a burden too heavy for any man to shoulder. However, Deacon confidently challenges the spirit, questioning its motives and pushing for reasons why he should heed its warnings.
In the bedroom of the lighthouse, Autumn faces a harrowing encounter with a decrepit old ghost driven mad by fragmented memories. Initially startled by a distorted reflection in her phone, Autumn soon senses the ghost's presence. The spirit demonstrates its discontent by causing poltergeist-like disturbances, shattering glass, and assaulting Autumn with the shards. Desperate to banish the intrusion, Autumn calls for assistance over her Order's communications. In the gruesome struggle, the spirit manifests physically, attacking Autumn with vicious cruelty as she tries to escape. Though her magic is weakening, she makes a last-ditch effort, summoning her strength to call for help, ultimately succeeding in banishing the ghost with the arrival of backup. After the ordeal, Autumn solemnly lies on the floor, bloodied but slowly healing from the monstrous attack.
(Deacon's odd encounter(SRAngelique):SRAngelique)
[Sat Jan 20 2024]
In a luxurious yet comfortable master bedroom
This beautiful bedroom is spacious and well-lit, with large windows that offer plenty of natural light during the day and a beautiful view of the night sky at night. The walls are painted in a warm peach that creates an atmosphere that reminds of an Italian villa. Two french doors featuring massive glass windows set into white wood sit under a beautiful wooden arch, providing access to a balcony facing the ocean and the beach.
There is a cozy reading nook in the north western corner of the room, with a chaise lounge, a small side table, and an elegant floor lamp. A bookshelf next to the reading nook are filled with books of all kinds, though notably featuring fantasy, history and classic literature.
There is an antique oaken-wood desk set against the south eastern corner of the room, the large window behind giving a beautiful ocean view, with a comfortable armchair facing the closed macbook on top.
A luxuriant queen sized bed sits against the north of the room, between the reading nook to the north west and a massive wardrobe built into the east side of the northern wall. Flanked by two antique night stands featuring remotes and piled high with fluffy pillows and a thick, soft duvet it practically screams comfort. It offers a beautiful view of the ocean to the south through the various massive windows and, should that view bore, a remote controls a flat screen television that slides up and down into the ceiling, tucked away when not in use.
It is night, about 17F(-8C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. There is a waxing gibbous moon.
(Your target encounters a ghost who's fixated on some past tragedy from their life, they need to either give the spirit some sense of closure, or send it on it's way through more violent means.
)
Lazily getting some clothing together, Deacon appears to be getting dressed in the most languid fashion imagineable. Eventually though, he will find himself clothed and covered, though he doesn't exactly seem sure why apart from it's something to do to get his day started.
Lazy or not, getting dressed is often the best way to get a day moving. In this case, the dark-haired vixen lounging in bed is all but ignoring him, aside from one amused and playful waggle of her eyebrows as he pulls his clothing on. "Guapo," she begins, her tone sharp and yet playful, likely hinting at some sort of affectionate insult to come, but then... then instead, she mutters a dark, low, "Get out. Before it's too late, get out!"
The danger doesn't really register with Deacon right away, and he's turning toward someone instead of heeding her advice. "Huh?" He grunting out in confusion as he turns his attention toward the woman half-curious as to what's going on. "What's going on?" He says after a beat, his ears picking up that shift in her tone and displaying an instant reaction of concern.
The danger doesn't really register with Deacon right away, and he's turning toward Angel instead of heeding her advice. "Huh?" He grunting out in confusion as he turns his attention toward the woman half-curious as to what's going on. "What's going on?" He says after a beat, his ears picking up that shift in her tone and displaying an instant reaction of concern.
The lights seem to flicker for a moment, but that could just be a cloud passing over the sun and causing a brief dimness. Nothing else seems changed, until a close look at the woman reveals a stiffness to her posture that's entirely unlike her. Even then, what does that mean? Her eyes narrow as Deacon steps toward her.
With the flick of her tongue across her lower lip in a sensual gesture she often employs, the dark-haired Spanish woman says, "She'll destroy your life too, si?" And then more derisively still, the word is muttered sotto voce: "... Idiota." Tossing back the comforter with which she's covered her legs and lap, she slips from the bed to stand in front of Deacon, the lace of the negilgee she wears flitting to fall about her thighs. "Fooled by all of this?" comes the supposition, next, as a hand drifts down that silken garment and the curves beneath.
His own eyes narrowing down a little bit, Deacon is watching the woman as she stands up but something already seems off about her to the man. He doesn't know her as intimately as he might like in the fullest extents, but he knows her well enough. "Something tells me we got company behind the wheel .." he mutters but loud enough for her to hear of course, within the confines of this bedroom. "You think I'm eyes wide shut, is that it?" He hasn't moved but he's watching her more cautiously and keeping himself in that neutral yet ready state that comes when he's uncertain what may come next. Clearly something's got his back up though, those hairs on his neck standing up and tingling the sixth sense many soldiers develop. "I wouldn't be so sure."
"When you trust her? That's when she works the hardest to destroy you, si? Idiota," sounds the voice Deacon knows so well, from the body of the woman he'd probably like to know better, but indeed, something about it all is wrong. The taunting, playful chiding is gone, and even when she -was- mad at him, this wasn't how she'd spoken, was it? Yet even for those keen, keen eyes, whatever is 'behind the wheel' as he's claimed it to be, isn't easily visible as a spirit or ghost.
But something's off, indeed.
"You think to play her game?" he's asked next. "To beat her at it? Do you think a woman like this can... love?" Every question asked suggests just what opinion is held of Deacon.
Suddenly, that brings a small, dark chuckle from the Cajun's lips. "Well, now. You're getting ahead of yourself maybe but but you don't know the first thing about me, spectre." Then he's tilting his head to narrow his eyes at her more suspiciously. More carefully, as he studies everything he can about the change to those mannerisms, the speech - everything. "You speak the language so you're from her past, non? But something different ...with no risk, there's no reward brujah." He takes a guess, "You don't live well if you live safely. What would you know about it, hrm? What's your grudge, to go to this length?" Now Deacon's trying to turn it around, probing blatently for information while he keeps himself a careful distance from the woman's figure now unsure exactly what he's dealing with. That he can't see the spirit sees to throw him off something fierce.
"You don't know? Por que no?" Comes the question, though there's something arch in the tone, something -almost- like Angelique in the way of asking it. There's no denying the suggestion of witchery at play, however. But then the question is dismissed; his concern is brushed aside for the moment at least. "We watch her, Deacon Herveaux, si? We watch her closely. We know what she's doing. What she's trying to get -you- to do..."
There's a long pause, though not quite long enough to give Deacon the idea that he could jump in to speak. "You'll regret it, if you do. So, so many people will regret it, if you do."
Through all this, there's a slightly vacant look in Angelique's eyes.
Nodding his head, something in that reply seems to give Deacon the confirmation he's looking for after all. "And why's that?" He tries instead. "She's not the first to live off the suffering of others, and she won't be the last. Or the worst. You watch her? But do you watch -me-? Hrm?" Something in that response also seems to put Deacon's back up because he's taking an arrogant step toward Angel now, in defiance. "What makes you think I give a lick of spit about what other people will regret? I don't see ME regretting much of anything, brujah. I don't do for regrets. Give me one good reason I should care to listen."
"You don"
Do 'they,' whomever they are, watch Deacon Isn't that already apparent in what they've said and how they've addressed him? But then again...
"You don't live for regrets, no. But when you've done everything she wants you to do and she moves on without thought for any of it... what then?" The question is coldly asked and a pause given afterwards.
"Or when her death comes? Which it will if she -doesn't- leave you," is the prediction to follow, equally heartless. "She's brought more pain than she's worth, Cajun. To many, not just to us. Do not help her untangle herself. Do not set -that- free."
"Then we'll both have gained something from the time together" Deacon says with a small smile of his own. "And who is -us-? Who are you that I should care?" Casually, Deacon is trying to reach into his pocket and thumb his phone. He doesn't want to bring attention to the motion but he's trying to thumb a text message by feel toward the Hand's back office. He can't see the spirit but he has to think it's something of that ilk and so he's trying to set something in motion that may trap the spirit here, or at least to banish it from his girlfriend's body! "I'll make it easy for you, oui? How is it profitable for me to keep her entrapped, under your juju? Why is it worth my while? You came here to convince me, no? Convince me."
(A ghost with only fragments of memory that have driven them near insane is attacking your target. They must either defeat it or find a way to calm it down.
)
Sitting on the bed, Autumn checking her phone with a upset look. "I'll make my magic stronger," she mutters to herself as she opens the Internet browser with a tap of her finger.
As Autumn looks at her phone, browsing the internet... the screen sort of just. Glitches out for a few moments, and it has a reflection. And that reflection, is not Autumn's own. It is a decrepit old woman's. Cracks on her skin. Hair grayed. Teeth not as healthy as they were once. But then it shifts back to normalcy in mere moments. A trick of the mind? Maybe Autumn is just tired?
Autumn squints her eyes towards the glitch and blinks a couple times. "The hell?" She begins to check her phone for any other problems, turning it around before looking back to the screen. "This better not be trick."
Autumn feels breathing on the back of her neck. It's very cold, as cold as death. When the breath hits her nostrils, it smells like death, too. Like something very old, and very musty is present. Right behind her.
Clenching her left hand, Autumn lowers her phone and slowly turns her head to look behind her. "Who is there?" She speaks, her eyes narrowed. "Show yourself."
The Presence does not show itself. The Presence remains quiet. Eerily quiet. But it's there. Autumn is pretty certain it is... there. The flames of the fireplace blaze, a bit out of control before sputtering out. Dying suddenly. The lamp brightens. And it brightens more and more until it gives off heat, before flickering, creating a strobing effect. And then the glass within shatters, killing the lights. Leaving Autumn alone in the dark. But she's not alone...
When she finds herself in the dark, Autumn hops out her bed and peers around, her left hand clenched into a fist. While she only sees a bit through the darkness, her runes on her hand bracelet starts to glow a warm red-orange, giving off a little light. "Who dares invade my home?" she says as she raises her hand upwards. "I will banish you if I have to, and I will."
The shattered glass lifts up for a bit, she can see the dull red-orange of her bracelet glimmering off of those pieces for a few moments. Before they launch themselves directly into Autumn. Several of them pierce into Autumn's flesh- but not deep. Not deep enough to hurt... a few more hits like that, though. Might be costly.
Autumn bellows in pain upon getting struck by the glass shards. "How dare you!" She seethes before she opens her hand. The bracelet grows brighter, her magic pulsing as she channels it along with her rage. "I will banish you and your soul will be sent to Hell!" She then turns around while the cuts on her skin slowly heals, and she holds her hands out across her room.
Autumn may rage and bellow all she wants. Her flesh may meld back together. Her chanting may banish the Presence. But that... that might take time. Time that she does not have. She feels the Presence wrap itself around the shards stuck in her flesh. Trying to wring some out.
Her chanting growing harsh, Autumn glances down at herself and staggers back, putting away her phone to free her right hand so she can tap on her earpiece. "This is Autumn Lynx speaking," she seethes into her Order comms. "I require ritualists for immediate assistance with evil presence inside lighthouse right now!"
Autumn feels the shards being ripped out of her body. Then they plunge back in- before being ripped out. And then in again. Over and over. Meanwhile... she hears cars screeching on their way to the lighthouse.
Autumn lets out a scream in pain and tries to get the shards out of her body. A glance towards the exit of the bedroom, she turns and proceeds to run out through the doorway, staggering with blood splattered onto her skin and clothes as she attempts to run outside. "Get away from me, you fiend!"
Autumn is almost there. She's right at the door. Before something grabs at her leg. Bringing her down to the floor. Fingers may scrape. She may claw. She may scream. But Autumn is just not close enough as she's dragged back to the glass that was discarded on the floor. One shard raises- and it's reflection she sees the Presence. A decrepit old woman, raggedy clothes. Skin stretched taut about her body, holding that shard. The blade comes down again. Meanwhile, people are hurrying up the stairs.
Clawing at the floor as she is pulled back, Autumn glances at the reflection and lifts her left hand out towards the floating shard. "Your soul will be damned to eternity," she speaks as her bracelet glows me. "I will not fall to you!" And then her magic, slowly weakening, pulses as she closes her hand.
The proverbial axe falls as Autumn taunts the creature. The shard of glass connecting with Autumn's forehead. It doesn't penetrate. Not yet. But it stings. It stings like a bitch- especially as the Presence drags the shard down across Autumn's face. It's at this point that Autumn sees a few more people join the fray. Brown-coats- they chant- and they send the creature careening off into the... whatever awaits it.
While Sanctuary is protecting her, Autumn still seethes in pain as her face is being cut and possibly ruined by the Presence's glass. Upon seeing the Brown-coats, she doesn't speak and with their aid, the Presence gets banished. Letting out a low sigh, she just lets herself fall and lie on the floor, bloodied with several cuts on her body and face slowly healing.
(Your target comes upon an NPC being targeted by a group of supernatural hunters or a lone vigilante. They need to try to keep them safe for long enough for help to arrive.
)
Recovering from a vicious spirit attack just earlier, Autumn is resting and sitting down outside near the lighthouse, using her cloak to keep her warm. While the cuts inflicted on her body being almost completely healed, she is looking down on her phone as she wipes some blood off her face.
High above, the lancing yellow beam of Haven's lighthouse sends out some illumination -- catching the edges of an offshore storm churns the ocean into a frenzy. Even though the rain has not yet reached the shore here, its power is carred in the surge of surf: Towering waves, dark and menacing, roll towards the rocky point with relentless force. As Autumn sits beneath the lighthouse, she can hear each wave crashing against the jagged rocks in a furious explosion of foam and spray, the sound a constant, thunderous roar. Above her, the lighthouse stands resolute, its beacon piercing through the mist of sea spray and rain, a steadfast sentinel amid the tempest. Saltwater mingles with the wild wind, drenching the landscape in a fine, cold mist. It's a moment of peace amidst the fury of the distant storm, before the communicator in her ear crackles.
It's some faded radio transmission, coming across Autumn's cult channel: "...Haven? Can you read? Anyone in service to our masters, can you read?"
Hearing her earpiece as it buzzes, Autumn stops what she's doing to tap on it. "Autumn Lynx speaking, I can hear you," she speaks into her cult comms. "How may I help you?" She slowly stands up to her feet while she speaks.
"Autumn Lynx," comes the crackling voice across the connection. It's a male voice, though it's hard to make out. "This is Yves Duclaire." French, from the sound of it, but Autumn doesn't recognize the name -- but the timing of the crackles gives her some hint of where it is coming from. She can see offshore, in the midst of the raging offshore storm, the distant lights of a freighter flickering like a mirage against the tumultuous backdrop of the sea. The vessel's lights blink hazily through the sheets of rain and mist, and the buzzing on the line in Autumn's ear seems to rise and fall with the surge. "I'm offshore," he says. "Fucking Malphites on me. I'm going to try to path to shore, but they gonna be after me." Malphites? Autumn's education in the politics of the hell is still imperfect.
As Autumn talks across the line, she can still see the ship's lights. They appear and disappear with the heaving of the waves, brief glimpses of safety and warmth amidst the overwhelming chaos, until suddenly she sees some new and different light: the arcing lines of tracer fire, like little dots of fire against the night. "FUCK!" comes Yves' voice across the comm. "Reach out with your mind -- I'm going to try to use you as a beacon!" Autumn can hear the panic, high and substantial, followed by a grunt of pain.
"On it," Autumn answers, nodding her head and she turns to face the light. Putting her phone away, she slowly closes her eyes and holds her hand out towards the sea. She doesn't make a sound as she starts to concentrate.
Off-shore, there is more of that tracer fire, but then it goes silent. It takes time to path, of course, and so Autumn is just left waiting: waiting, waiting, waiting, as the salt spray kicks up from the rocks beneath the Lighthouse. It stings her face, as a cold wind cuts in from the sea, almost freezing the spray of water before it hits her. Did Yves make it out in time? Or did the tracer fire cease because the Malphites, whoever they are, got to Autumn's unknown cult brother before he could step sideways into thin air? Moments stretch into anxious minutes, her comms silent.
The waiting is awful: Autumn can only look out to the sea. As the freighter confronts the full might of the storm, it begins to turn away from the shore, a strategic maneuver to face the tempest head-on. Its lights, steady beacons in the murky darkness, tilt and sway with the motion, reflecting the vessel's battle against the towering waves. The ship, a silhouette against the raging elements, pushes forward, its bow cutting through the swells with determined resolve. With each passing moment, the vessel seems to grow smaller, its lights dimmer, as it ventures deeper into the storm's furious embrace, a lone entity defying the might of the sea with some obscure and unknown intention.
Autumn still focuses, opening one eye while she awaits Yves' arrival. She purses her lips, her hand lowering down and she sees the freighter move away towards the storm. But she doesn't stop as she whispers silently under her breath.
Suddenly, the smell of ozone seems to surround Autumn, as the air splits and turns: the exit-point of someone pathing. Pathing is an inexact science, though: the door opening is opening in front of her, to be sure, but it is just a -little- too far, hanging off the edge of the cliff. If it is Yves, when he steps through it will be into the empty air, with rocks beneath him.
Seeing the door, Autumn opens her other eye and turns to run towards it. Once she is close, she stops before it to avoid falling off the cliff, and she reaches her hand out. "Jump when you reach destination," she calls out. "Grab my hand if you can."
Yves steps out of the air, and the look of relief on his voice is quickly conquered by panic. He begins to fall -- the air whipping behind him as he cries out for Autumn. "Help!" he shouts, his voice thickly-accented in French. He's wearing a suit, his shoulder bloodied from a bloodshot wound, and as he begins to fall he flails, reaching out to try to catch hold of the rocks. It's some miracle perhaps that he is able to catch hold: his suffering echoes through the psychic stratosphere, his pain giving Autumn some endorphin rush, along with his fear of falling to the death. Oh, and his fear of one other thing, too: the Malphites pathing in behind him. They started chanting as he slipped into the wood between the worlds. He reaches up for Autumn's offered hand; when she grabs hold of him, she can feel his weight, along with a wince. "They're after me," he tells her. "Help me up -- please."
Struggling to pull Yves up with what strength she has, Autumn glances down at him and looks back to the opening. "You said to use my mind as beacon," she speaks towards Yves, lifting her other hand. "What if we make our minds silent? Or is there way to disrupt path from here?"
With his arm wounded, Yves struggles to climb up, looking at Autumn thankfully. Behind him is the storm, now in its full, furious majesty, as it begins to lash against the towering cliffs with unbridled ferocity. The sky, a tumultuous canvas of roiling clouds, unleashes torrential rain that merges sea and air into one indistinguishable maelstrom. Each thunderous crash of the waves against the cliff face sends shudders through the rock, a primal battle between earth and sea. The wind howls with a banshee's wail, whipping the coastal foliage into a frenzied dance of survival. Lightning streaks across the darkened sky, momentarily illuminating the ragged edges of the cliffs in stark, eerie relief. The sea, a churning cauldron of frothy waves, assaults the land with relentless, pounding waves, each surge higher and more powerful than the last. The cliffs, though steadfast, bear the scars of this timeless conflict, their surfaces worn and battered by the ceaseless onslaught. Amidst this chaos, the storm's energy seems almost tangible, a living force of nature that asserts its dominance over the landscape. Even the hardiest of coastal birds have sought refuge, leaving the cliffs and skies to the storm's wrath. Yves looks at Autumn "They on my trail," he says. "We just gotta be fucking ready." He coughs up a little blood, digging a black iron ritual dagger out of his suit jacket. "They killed my familiar," he tells Autumn. "But I got this." The dagger gleams in his hand. "Valefar be praised, I stole it from them. One of them is wounded," he says. "The other will be a fight."
"Shit, my gear is back in lighthouse," Autumn mutters with a glance at the iron. "But I'll summon Ifrit for aid. Not sure if it'll be strong enough, though I was considering training him to be stronger before improving fire magic. With her right hand, she digs into one of her pockets and pulls out her black folding karambit, while she chants words of power to call upon her salamander familiar."
"Shit, my gear is back in lighthouse," Autumn mutters with a glance at the iron. "But I'll summon Ifrit for aid. Not sure if it'll be strong enough, though I was considering training him to be stronger before improving fire magic."With her right hand, she digs into one of her pockets and pulls out her black folding karambit, while she chants words of power to call upon her salamander familiar. (fix)
"We in for it, then," Yves tells Autumn -- and in fact they are. With his hand clasped in Autumn's, he summits the edge of the cliff just as magic crackles through the air.@line someone the chaos of the storm, atop the windswept cliff, two figures materialize as if conjured from the very air. They are clad in red robes, their garments whipping violently in the tempest, saturated by the relentless rain. One of the figures is clearly wounded; he leans heavily on his companion, his movements labored and pained. Despite the ferocity of the storm, they are resolute, their expressions set with a grim determination that speaks of urgent purpose. Clutched in their hands are compact submachine guns, incongruous with their archaic attire, the modern, sleek design of the weapons starkly contrasting with the flowing fabric of their robes. These guns, unmistakably of Israeli make, gleam dully in the sporadic lightning flashes, ready for use despite the elemental fury surrounding them. The wounded figure's labored breathing is almost lost in the howl of the wind. They look at Autumn and someone the wounded one raises his submachine gun as the other begins to chant, even as the night is lit up by the sudden burning fire of Autumn's salamander being summoned from the night.
"We in for it, then," Yves tells Autumn -- and in fact they are. With his hand clasped in Autumn's, he summits the edge of the cliff just as magic crackles through the air.@line
Amidst the chaos of the storm, atop the windswept cliff, two figures materialize as if conjured from the very air. They are clad in red robes, their garments whipping violently in the tempest, saturated by the relentless rain. One of the figures is clearly wounded; he leans heavily on his companion, his movements labored and pained. Despite the ferocity of the storm, they are resolute, their expressions set with a grim determination that speaks of urgent purpose. Clutched in their hands are compact submachine guns, incongruous with their archaic attire, the modern, sleek design of the weapons starkly contrasting with the flowing fabric of their robes. These guns, unmistakably of Israeli make, gleam dully in the sporadic lightning flashes, ready for use despite the elemental fury surrounding them. The wounded figure's labored breathing is almost lost in the howl of the wind. They look at Autumn and someone the wounded one raises his submachine gun as the other begins to chant, even as the night is lit up by the sudden burning fire of Autumn's salamander being summoned from the night.
"We in for it, then," Yves tells Autumn -- and in fact they are. With his hand clasped in Autumn's, he summits the edge of the cliff just as magic crackles through the air.@line
Amidst the chaos of the storm, atop the windswept cliff, two figures materialize as if conjured from the very air. They are clad in red robes, their garments whipping violently in the tempest, saturated by the relentless rain. One of the figures is clearly wounded; he leans heavily on his companion, his movements labored and pained. Despite the ferocity of the storm, they are resolute, their expressions set with a grim determination that speaks of urgent purpose. Clutched in their hands are compact submachine guns, incongruous with their archaic attire, the modern, sleek design of the weapons starkly contrasting with the flowing fabric of their robes. These guns, unmistakably of Israeli make, gleam dully in the sporadic lightning flashes, ready for use despite the elemental fury surrounding them. The wounded figure's labored breathing is almost lost in the howl of the wind. They look at Autumn and Yves: the wounded one raises his submachine gun as the other begins to chant, even as the night is lit up by the sudden burning fire of Autumn's salamander being summoned from the night.
(fix) "We in for it, then," Yves tells Autumn -- and in fact they are. With his hand clasped in Autumn's, he summits the edge of the cliff just as magic crackles through the air.
Amidst the chaos of the storm, atop the windswept cliff, two figures materialize as if conjured from the very air. They are clad in red robes, their garments whipping violently in the tempest, saturated by the relentless rain. One of the figures is clearly wounded; he leans heavily on his companion, his movements labored and pained. Despite the ferocity of the storm, they are resolute, their expressions set with a grim determination that speaks of urgent purpose. Clutched in their hands are compact submachine guns, incongruous with their archaic attire, the modern, sleek design of the weapons starkly contrasting with the flowing fabric of their robes. These guns, unmistakably of Israeli make, gleam dully in the sporadic lightning flashes, ready for use despite the elemental fury surrounding them. The wounded figure's labored breathing is almost lost in the howl of the wind. They look at Autumn and Yves: the wounded one raises his submachine gun as the other begins to chant, even as the night is lit up by the sudden burning fire of Autumn's salamander being summoned from the night.
Once the puff of black smoke heralds Ifrit's arrival, Autumn points her blade towards the chanting Malphite and says, "Ifrit, take down that one." Looking at Yves, she tells him, "I doubt Sanctuary protects them here." And pointing at the wounded one next, the bracelet on her left hand starts to glow red-orange as she targets the figure's robe.
The salamander leaps: it is a coiling lizard-snake of fire, hurtling through the air at the chanting Malphite. Up close, Autumn can make them out. Both are bald men, their heads shaven, and they have pentacles tattooed across their bald pates. They're like the inverted pentacle of the Damned, but different, for in the center is an unfamiliar demonic sigil, like an upside down ankh. The Malphite screams when Ifrit hits him, his chanting disrupted, and a wicked ritual knife comes out, now rising and falling to stab at Autumn's familiar.
Meanwhile, the wounded Malphite has a machine gun. His robes are smoldering, to be sure, but he is also shooting: spitting fire in Autumn's direction. Near her, Yves is beginning his own chant, taking blood from his wounded shoulder to begin call down something from the storm clouds above.
As the red-robed cultist opens fire, the sound of gunfire erupts with a deafening intensity right next to Autumn's ears. Each shot rings out with a sharp, brutal crack that fractures the storm's howling symphony, sending a jarring shockwave through her senses. The rapid succession of blasts creates a disorienting cacophony, overwhelming and inescapable, as if the air itself is tearing apart. The noise is so close and so loud that it momentarily drowns out the storm, a piercing intrusion that rattles Autumn's eardrums. In the midst of this auditory assault, the whizzing of bullets as they zip past adds a terrifying realization of proximity and danger. The gun's mechanical roar, coupled with the cultist's relentless firing, forms a harrowing soundtrack to the scene on the cliff top.
Being too slow to dodge, Autumn yelps as the bullets graze her. "Not my lucky night," she seethes, channeling her rage before her bracelet glows once more. Unfolding her knife, the blade turns red hot as she then hurls it towards the wounded Malphite.
That thrown knife misses the wounded figure: Autumn is a sorceress, not a fighter, as he raises his gun to spray more bullets in her direction. Some salvation, though, as Yves finishes his chant: it seems the Malphite chose the wrong target, as the storm opens up above the tableau on the top of the cliff and lightning strikes down. It's a titanic blast, poorly aimed, and it sends all of the fighting figures to their backs, blowing them down with crackling electric fury.
Still: when the after-image of the lightning fades, there's one less Malphite: the once-wounded one smokes, a crisp char. Yves sags, though, his enegry drained, barely supported on his knees. On the ground, now, the unwounded Malphite is still fighting with the salamander, his ritual knife leaving trailing bloody fire as his robes smoke. It's possible he has the better of the familiar, however, and it lies now to Autumn to save her familiar and end the threat the remaining Malphite poses.
In the midst of a desperate and chaotic battle, a dramatic scene unfolds between that red-robed figure and Autumn's salamander familiar. The attacker, wielding a ritual knife, moves with a combination of rage and precision, stabbing down again and again into the fiery red flesh of the salamander. In turn, that hellish lizard-thing bites back, its mouth full of a thousand burning teeth, fastening its jaws tight on the arm of the cultist. The red-robed figure lets out a muffled cry, the sound drowned by the raging storm around them, as the scorching teeth of the salamander cuts through their defenses. The heat from the creature's jaws causes the wound to emit a faint, eerie sizzle, the smell of burning mingling with the salty sea air. In this violent exchange, the glowing demonic creature Autumn summoned not only inflicts a physical wound but also seems to burn with a metaphysical intensity, as if it's severing more than just corporeal ties. The red-robed figure staggers back, their movement hindered by the searing pain, a stark contrast to their previous imposing demeanor, now diminished by the unexpected ferocity of the salamander's assault even as the demon beast itself begins to bleed liquid fire.
Her knife now at the very edge of the cliff and herself blown to the ground, Autumn quickly gets herself up and runs to get the small blade before she charges towards the other Malphite. "Hold on, Ifrit!" She says, raising her blade in an attempt to strike at the remaining enemy.
Now Autumn is joining the fray. She is, all things considered, not very good with that blade, even as Yves slumps elsewhere. She could stand to train -- but the Malphite cultist is very much distracted by the burning salamander he is fighting. As Autumn stabs down, she can feel her ritual knife gain some purchase, as the red-robed figure cries out in pain. Again, again -- she is stabbing as the salamander bites, even as here, close up, she can hear Ifrit's cries of pain. The Malphite begins to convulse? Is he dead? Still stabbing at Ifrit? It's hard to know: and so it's best to stab again, and again, and again, a dozen times, two dozen, three dozen, as the red-robed figure continues to shake and some blood fury overcomes Autumn.
As Autumn continues to stab, the corpse of that red-robed figure lies sprawled on the storm-lashed ground beneath her. The fabric of the robe is soaked through, clinging to the lifeless form, its vibrant color dulled by the pooling rainwater. Despite the stillness that death ordinarily brings, there is an unsettling twitching in the corpse's limbs, sporadic and slight, as if residual energy or reflexes are yet to leave the body entirely. The harsh wind whips the robe around the figure, making it appear as though it is shuddering in response to the cold and the violence that befell it. Raindrops pelt the body unrelentingly, washing away any traces of the struggle, the red of the robe bleeding into the small rivulets that form around it. Nearby, Ifrit is panting, bleeding fire that steams as raindrops hit its skin, looking up at Autumn.
Through her fury, Autumn tries to pulls herself to stop stabbing and turns to grab Ifrit. While her rage starts to fade, she attempts to knock the Malphite's blade out of his hand before taking her familiar away from them, bearing some burns while carrying him as she looks back. "Ifrit, return home and recover."
Steam sizzles as Ifrit turns to Autumn, and there's a look: it bows its head, every raindrop boiling where it hits, and then it seems to curl in upon itself, disappearing into the night. Steam still rises around where it stood as Autumn at last ceases stabbing the twitching body, her own figure covered in blood. She's able to to knock his blade away -- there's no life there, not anymore, just twitching nerves.
Nearby, Yves is breathing hard, trying to stand. "We should -- we need to push the bodies over the cliff," he pants. "And then we need to --" His lips are flecked with blood. "We need to get into cover until I can catch my breath to path away from here." He looks at Autumn. "Thank you," he says. "Every dark power will bless you for this."
"Yeah," Autumn nods her head towards someone with a glance towards the bodies. "Oh, this is so going to end up on my record," she the grimaces before she walks towards one of the bodies. "It's self-defense, yes? Anyway, you can stay inside lighthouse once we're done here."
"Yeah," Autumn nods her head towards Yves with a glance towards the bodies. "Oh, this is so going to end up on my record," she the grimaces before she walks towards one of the bodies. "It's self-defense, yes? Anyway, you can stay inside lighthouse once we're done here."
Yves nods, exhausted, as he goes to help Autumn roll the bodies into the surf. The wind and water will wash away the blood, perhaps, as he goes to limp with Autumn into the lighthouse to recover.
In the bedroom of the lighthouse, Autumn faces a harrowing encounter with a decrepit old ghost driven mad by fragmented memories. Initially startled by a distorted reflection in her phone, Autumn soon senses the ghost's presence. The spirit demonstrates its discontent by causing poltergeist-like disturbances, shattering glass, and assaulting Autumn with the shards. Desperate to banish the intrusion, Autumn calls for assistance over her Order's communications. In the gruesome struggle, the spirit manifests physically, attacking Autumn with vicious cruelty as she tries to escape. Though her magic is weakening, she makes a last-ditch effort, summoning her strength to call for help, ultimately succeeding in banishing the ghost with the arrival of backup. After the ordeal, Autumn solemnly lies on the floor, bloodied but slowly healing from the monstrous attack.
(Deacon's odd encounter(SRAngelique):SRAngelique)
[Sat Jan 20 2024]
In a luxurious yet comfortable master bedroom
This beautiful bedroom is spacious and well-lit, with large windows that offer plenty of natural light during the day and a beautiful view of the night sky at night. The walls are painted in a warm peach that creates an atmosphere that reminds of an Italian villa. Two french doors featuring massive glass windows set into white wood sit under a beautiful wooden arch, providing access to a balcony facing the ocean and the beach.
There is a cozy reading nook in the north western corner of the room, with a chaise lounge, a small side table, and an elegant floor lamp. A bookshelf next to the reading nook are filled with books of all kinds, though notably featuring fantasy, history and classic literature.
There is an antique oaken-wood desk set against the south eastern corner of the room, the large window behind giving a beautiful ocean view, with a comfortable armchair facing the closed macbook on top.
A luxuriant queen sized bed sits against the north of the room, between the reading nook to the north west and a massive wardrobe built into the east side of the northern wall. Flanked by two antique night stands featuring remotes and piled high with fluffy pillows and a thick, soft duvet it practically screams comfort. It offers a beautiful view of the ocean to the south through the various massive windows and, should that view bore, a remote controls a flat screen television that slides up and down into the ceiling, tucked away when not in use.
It is night, about 17F(-8C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. There is a waxing gibbous moon.
(Your target encounters a ghost who's fixated on some past tragedy from their life, they need to either give the spirit some sense of closure, or send it on it's way through more violent means.
)
Lazily getting some clothing together, Deacon appears to be getting dressed in the most languid fashion imagineable. Eventually though, he will find himself clothed and covered, though he doesn't exactly seem sure why apart from it's something to do to get his day started.
Lazy or not, getting dressed is often the best way to get a day moving. In this case, the dark-haired vixen lounging in bed is all but ignoring him, aside from one amused and playful waggle of her eyebrows as he pulls his clothing on. "Guapo," she begins, her tone sharp and yet playful, likely hinting at some sort of affectionate insult to come, but then... then instead, she mutters a dark, low, "Get out. Before it's too late, get out!"
The danger doesn't really register with Deacon right away, and he's turning toward someone instead of heeding her advice. "Huh?" He grunting out in confusion as he turns his attention toward the woman half-curious as to what's going on. "What's going on?" He says after a beat, his ears picking up that shift in her tone and displaying an instant reaction of concern.
The danger doesn't really register with Deacon right away, and he's turning toward Angel instead of heeding her advice. "Huh?" He grunting out in confusion as he turns his attention toward the woman half-curious as to what's going on. "What's going on?" He says after a beat, his ears picking up that shift in her tone and displaying an instant reaction of concern.
The lights seem to flicker for a moment, but that could just be a cloud passing over the sun and causing a brief dimness. Nothing else seems changed, until a close look at the woman reveals a stiffness to her posture that's entirely unlike her. Even then, what does that mean? Her eyes narrow as Deacon steps toward her.
With the flick of her tongue across her lower lip in a sensual gesture she often employs, the dark-haired Spanish woman says, "She'll destroy your life too, si?" And then more derisively still, the word is muttered sotto voce: "... Idiota." Tossing back the comforter with which she's covered her legs and lap, she slips from the bed to stand in front of Deacon, the lace of the negilgee she wears flitting to fall about her thighs. "Fooled by all of this?" comes the supposition, next, as a hand drifts down that silken garment and the curves beneath.
His own eyes narrowing down a little bit, Deacon is watching the woman as she stands up but something already seems off about her to the man. He doesn't know her as intimately as he might like in the fullest extents, but he knows her well enough. "Something tells me we got company behind the wheel .." he mutters but loud enough for her to hear of course, within the confines of this bedroom. "You think I'm eyes wide shut, is that it?" He hasn't moved but he's watching her more cautiously and keeping himself in that neutral yet ready state that comes when he's uncertain what may come next. Clearly something's got his back up though, those hairs on his neck standing up and tingling the sixth sense many soldiers develop. "I wouldn't be so sure."
"When you trust her? That's when she works the hardest to destroy you, si? Idiota," sounds the voice Deacon knows so well, from the body of the woman he'd probably like to know better, but indeed, something about it all is wrong. The taunting, playful chiding is gone, and even when she -was- mad at him, this wasn't how she'd spoken, was it? Yet even for those keen, keen eyes, whatever is 'behind the wheel' as he's claimed it to be, isn't easily visible as a spirit or ghost.
But something's off, indeed.
"You think to play her game?" he's asked next. "To beat her at it? Do you think a woman like this can... love?" Every question asked suggests just what opinion is held of Deacon.
Suddenly, that brings a small, dark chuckle from the Cajun's lips. "Well, now. You're getting ahead of yourself maybe but but you don't know the first thing about me, spectre." Then he's tilting his head to narrow his eyes at her more suspiciously. More carefully, as he studies everything he can about the change to those mannerisms, the speech - everything. "You speak the language so you're from her past, non? But something different ...with no risk, there's no reward brujah." He takes a guess, "You don't live well if you live safely. What would you know about it, hrm? What's your grudge, to go to this length?" Now Deacon's trying to turn it around, probing blatently for information while he keeps himself a careful distance from the woman's figure now unsure exactly what he's dealing with. That he can't see the spirit sees to throw him off something fierce.
"You don't know? Por que no?" Comes the question, though there's something arch in the tone, something -almost- like Angelique in the way of asking it. There's no denying the suggestion of witchery at play, however. But then the question is dismissed; his concern is brushed aside for the moment at least. "We watch her, Deacon Herveaux, si? We watch her closely. We know what she's doing. What she's trying to get -you- to do..."
There's a long pause, though not quite long enough to give Deacon the idea that he could jump in to speak. "You'll regret it, if you do. So, so many people will regret it, if you do."
Through all this, there's a slightly vacant look in Angelique's eyes.
Nodding his head, something in that reply seems to give Deacon the confirmation he's looking for after all. "And why's that?" He tries instead. "She's not the first to live off the suffering of others, and she won't be the last. Or the worst. You watch her? But do you watch -me-? Hrm?" Something in that response also seems to put Deacon's back up because he's taking an arrogant step toward Angel now, in defiance. "What makes you think I give a lick of spit about what other people will regret? I don't see ME regretting much of anything, brujah. I don't do for regrets. Give me one good reason I should care to listen."
"You don"
Do 'they,' whomever they are, watch Deacon Isn't that already apparent in what they've said and how they've addressed him? But then again...
"You don't live for regrets, no. But when you've done everything she wants you to do and she moves on without thought for any of it... what then?" The question is coldly asked and a pause given afterwards.
"Or when her death comes? Which it will if she -doesn't- leave you," is the prediction to follow, equally heartless. "She's brought more pain than she's worth, Cajun. To many, not just to us. Do not help her untangle herself. Do not set -that- free."
"Then we'll both have gained something from the time together" Deacon says with a small smile of his own. "And who is -us-? Who are you that I should care?" Casually, Deacon is trying to reach into his pocket and thumb his phone. He doesn't want to bring attention to the motion but he's trying to thumb a text message by feel toward the Hand's back office. He can't see the spirit but he has to think it's something of that ilk and so he's trying to set something in motion that may trap the spirit here, or at least to banish it from his girlfriend's body! "I'll make it easy for you, oui? How is it profitable for me to keep her entrapped, under your juju? Why is it worth my while? You came here to convince me, no? Convince me."
(A ghost with only fragments of memory that have driven them near insane is attacking your target. They must either defeat it or find a way to calm it down.
)
Sitting on the bed, Autumn checking her phone with a upset look. "I'll make my magic stronger," she mutters to herself as she opens the Internet browser with a tap of her finger.
As Autumn looks at her phone, browsing the internet... the screen sort of just. Glitches out for a few moments, and it has a reflection. And that reflection, is not Autumn's own. It is a decrepit old woman's. Cracks on her skin. Hair grayed. Teeth not as healthy as they were once. But then it shifts back to normalcy in mere moments. A trick of the mind? Maybe Autumn is just tired?
Autumn squints her eyes towards the glitch and blinks a couple times. "The hell?" She begins to check her phone for any other problems, turning it around before looking back to the screen. "This better not be trick."
Autumn feels breathing on the back of her neck. It's very cold, as cold as death. When the breath hits her nostrils, it smells like death, too. Like something very old, and very musty is present. Right behind her.
Clenching her left hand, Autumn lowers her phone and slowly turns her head to look behind her. "Who is there?" She speaks, her eyes narrowed. "Show yourself."
The Presence does not show itself. The Presence remains quiet. Eerily quiet. But it's there. Autumn is pretty certain it is... there. The flames of the fireplace blaze, a bit out of control before sputtering out. Dying suddenly. The lamp brightens. And it brightens more and more until it gives off heat, before flickering, creating a strobing effect. And then the glass within shatters, killing the lights. Leaving Autumn alone in the dark. But she's not alone...
When she finds herself in the dark, Autumn hops out her bed and peers around, her left hand clenched into a fist. While she only sees a bit through the darkness, her runes on her hand bracelet starts to glow a warm red-orange, giving off a little light. "Who dares invade my home?" she says as she raises her hand upwards. "I will banish you if I have to, and I will."
The shattered glass lifts up for a bit, she can see the dull red-orange of her bracelet glimmering off of those pieces for a few moments. Before they launch themselves directly into Autumn. Several of them pierce into Autumn's flesh- but not deep. Not deep enough to hurt... a few more hits like that, though. Might be costly.
Autumn bellows in pain upon getting struck by the glass shards. "How dare you!" She seethes before she opens her hand. The bracelet grows brighter, her magic pulsing as she channels it along with her rage. "I will banish you and your soul will be sent to Hell!" She then turns around while the cuts on her skin slowly heals, and she holds her hands out across her room.
Autumn may rage and bellow all she wants. Her flesh may meld back together. Her chanting may banish the Presence. But that... that might take time. Time that she does not have. She feels the Presence wrap itself around the shards stuck in her flesh. Trying to wring some out.
Her chanting growing harsh, Autumn glances down at herself and staggers back, putting away her phone to free her right hand so she can tap on her earpiece. "This is Autumn Lynx speaking," she seethes into her Order comms. "I require ritualists for immediate assistance with evil presence inside lighthouse right now!"
Autumn feels the shards being ripped out of her body. Then they plunge back in- before being ripped out. And then in again. Over and over. Meanwhile... she hears cars screeching on their way to the lighthouse.
Autumn lets out a scream in pain and tries to get the shards out of her body. A glance towards the exit of the bedroom, she turns and proceeds to run out through the doorway, staggering with blood splattered onto her skin and clothes as she attempts to run outside. "Get away from me, you fiend!"
Autumn is almost there. She's right at the door. Before something grabs at her leg. Bringing her down to the floor. Fingers may scrape. She may claw. She may scream. But Autumn is just not close enough as she's dragged back to the glass that was discarded on the floor. One shard raises- and it's reflection she sees the Presence. A decrepit old woman, raggedy clothes. Skin stretched taut about her body, holding that shard. The blade comes down again. Meanwhile, people are hurrying up the stairs.
Clawing at the floor as she is pulled back, Autumn glances at the reflection and lifts her left hand out towards the floating shard. "Your soul will be damned to eternity," she speaks as her bracelet glows me. "I will not fall to you!" And then her magic, slowly weakening, pulses as she closes her hand.
The proverbial axe falls as Autumn taunts the creature. The shard of glass connecting with Autumn's forehead. It doesn't penetrate. Not yet. But it stings. It stings like a bitch- especially as the Presence drags the shard down across Autumn's face. It's at this point that Autumn sees a few more people join the fray. Brown-coats- they chant- and they send the creature careening off into the... whatever awaits it.
While Sanctuary is protecting her, Autumn still seethes in pain as her face is being cut and possibly ruined by the Presence's glass. Upon seeing the Brown-coats, she doesn't speak and with their aid, the Presence gets banished. Letting out a low sigh, she just lets herself fall and lie on the floor, bloodied with several cuts on her body and face slowly healing.
(Your target comes upon an NPC being targeted by a group of supernatural hunters or a lone vigilante. They need to try to keep them safe for long enough for help to arrive.
)
Recovering from a vicious spirit attack just earlier, Autumn is resting and sitting down outside near the lighthouse, using her cloak to keep her warm. While the cuts inflicted on her body being almost completely healed, she is looking down on her phone as she wipes some blood off her face.
High above, the lancing yellow beam of Haven's lighthouse sends out some illumination -- catching the edges of an offshore storm churns the ocean into a frenzy. Even though the rain has not yet reached the shore here, its power is carred in the surge of surf: Towering waves, dark and menacing, roll towards the rocky point with relentless force. As Autumn sits beneath the lighthouse, she can hear each wave crashing against the jagged rocks in a furious explosion of foam and spray, the sound a constant, thunderous roar. Above her, the lighthouse stands resolute, its beacon piercing through the mist of sea spray and rain, a steadfast sentinel amid the tempest. Saltwater mingles with the wild wind, drenching the landscape in a fine, cold mist. It's a moment of peace amidst the fury of the distant storm, before the communicator in her ear crackles.
It's some faded radio transmission, coming across Autumn's cult channel: "...Haven? Can you read? Anyone in service to our masters, can you read?"
Hearing her earpiece as it buzzes, Autumn stops what she's doing to tap on it. "Autumn Lynx speaking, I can hear you," she speaks into her cult comms. "How may I help you?" She slowly stands up to her feet while she speaks.
"Autumn Lynx," comes the crackling voice across the connection. It's a male voice, though it's hard to make out. "This is Yves Duclaire." French, from the sound of it, but Autumn doesn't recognize the name -- but the timing of the crackles gives her some hint of where it is coming from. She can see offshore, in the midst of the raging offshore storm, the distant lights of a freighter flickering like a mirage against the tumultuous backdrop of the sea. The vessel's lights blink hazily through the sheets of rain and mist, and the buzzing on the line in Autumn's ear seems to rise and fall with the surge. "I'm offshore," he says. "Fucking Malphites on me. I'm going to try to path to shore, but they gonna be after me." Malphites? Autumn's education in the politics of the hell is still imperfect.
As Autumn talks across the line, she can still see the ship's lights. They appear and disappear with the heaving of the waves, brief glimpses of safety and warmth amidst the overwhelming chaos, until suddenly she sees some new and different light: the arcing lines of tracer fire, like little dots of fire against the night. "FUCK!" comes Yves' voice across the comm. "Reach out with your mind -- I'm going to try to use you as a beacon!" Autumn can hear the panic, high and substantial, followed by a grunt of pain.
"On it," Autumn answers, nodding her head and she turns to face the light. Putting her phone away, she slowly closes her eyes and holds her hand out towards the sea. She doesn't make a sound as she starts to concentrate.
Off-shore, there is more of that tracer fire, but then it goes silent. It takes time to path, of course, and so Autumn is just left waiting: waiting, waiting, waiting, as the salt spray kicks up from the rocks beneath the Lighthouse. It stings her face, as a cold wind cuts in from the sea, almost freezing the spray of water before it hits her. Did Yves make it out in time? Or did the tracer fire cease because the Malphites, whoever they are, got to Autumn's unknown cult brother before he could step sideways into thin air? Moments stretch into anxious minutes, her comms silent.
The waiting is awful: Autumn can only look out to the sea. As the freighter confronts the full might of the storm, it begins to turn away from the shore, a strategic maneuver to face the tempest head-on. Its lights, steady beacons in the murky darkness, tilt and sway with the motion, reflecting the vessel's battle against the towering waves. The ship, a silhouette against the raging elements, pushes forward, its bow cutting through the swells with determined resolve. With each passing moment, the vessel seems to grow smaller, its lights dimmer, as it ventures deeper into the storm's furious embrace, a lone entity defying the might of the sea with some obscure and unknown intention.
Autumn still focuses, opening one eye while she awaits Yves' arrival. She purses her lips, her hand lowering down and she sees the freighter move away towards the storm. But she doesn't stop as she whispers silently under her breath.
Suddenly, the smell of ozone seems to surround Autumn, as the air splits and turns: the exit-point of someone pathing. Pathing is an inexact science, though: the door opening is opening in front of her, to be sure, but it is just a -little- too far, hanging off the edge of the cliff. If it is Yves, when he steps through it will be into the empty air, with rocks beneath him.
Seeing the door, Autumn opens her other eye and turns to run towards it. Once she is close, she stops before it to avoid falling off the cliff, and she reaches her hand out. "Jump when you reach destination," she calls out. "Grab my hand if you can."
Yves steps out of the air, and the look of relief on his voice is quickly conquered by panic. He begins to fall -- the air whipping behind him as he cries out for Autumn. "Help!" he shouts, his voice thickly-accented in French. He's wearing a suit, his shoulder bloodied from a bloodshot wound, and as he begins to fall he flails, reaching out to try to catch hold of the rocks. It's some miracle perhaps that he is able to catch hold: his suffering echoes through the psychic stratosphere, his pain giving Autumn some endorphin rush, along with his fear of falling to the death. Oh, and his fear of one other thing, too: the Malphites pathing in behind him. They started chanting as he slipped into the wood between the worlds. He reaches up for Autumn's offered hand; when she grabs hold of him, she can feel his weight, along with a wince. "They're after me," he tells her. "Help me up -- please."
Struggling to pull Yves up with what strength she has, Autumn glances down at him and looks back to the opening. "You said to use my mind as beacon," she speaks towards Yves, lifting her other hand. "What if we make our minds silent? Or is there way to disrupt path from here?"
With his arm wounded, Yves struggles to climb up, looking at Autumn thankfully. Behind him is the storm, now in its full, furious majesty, as it begins to lash against the towering cliffs with unbridled ferocity. The sky, a tumultuous canvas of roiling clouds, unleashes torrential rain that merges sea and air into one indistinguishable maelstrom. Each thunderous crash of the waves against the cliff face sends shudders through the rock, a primal battle between earth and sea. The wind howls with a banshee's wail, whipping the coastal foliage into a frenzied dance of survival. Lightning streaks across the darkened sky, momentarily illuminating the ragged edges of the cliffs in stark, eerie relief. The sea, a churning cauldron of frothy waves, assaults the land with relentless, pounding waves, each surge higher and more powerful than the last. The cliffs, though steadfast, bear the scars of this timeless conflict, their surfaces worn and battered by the ceaseless onslaught. Amidst this chaos, the storm's energy seems almost tangible, a living force of nature that asserts its dominance over the landscape. Even the hardiest of coastal birds have sought refuge, leaving the cliffs and skies to the storm's wrath. Yves looks at Autumn "They on my trail," he says. "We just gotta be fucking ready." He coughs up a little blood, digging a black iron ritual dagger out of his suit jacket. "They killed my familiar," he tells Autumn. "But I got this." The dagger gleams in his hand. "Valefar be praised, I stole it from them. One of them is wounded," he says. "The other will be a fight."
"Shit, my gear is back in lighthouse," Autumn mutters with a glance at the iron. "But I'll summon Ifrit for aid. Not sure if it'll be strong enough, though I was considering training him to be stronger before improving fire magic. With her right hand, she digs into one of her pockets and pulls out her black folding karambit, while she chants words of power to call upon her salamander familiar."
"Shit, my gear is back in lighthouse," Autumn mutters with a glance at the iron. "But I'll summon Ifrit for aid. Not sure if it'll be strong enough, though I was considering training him to be stronger before improving fire magic."With her right hand, she digs into one of her pockets and pulls out her black folding karambit, while she chants words of power to call upon her salamander familiar. (fix)
"We in for it, then," Yves tells Autumn -- and in fact they are. With his hand clasped in Autumn's, he summits the edge of the cliff just as magic crackles through the air.@line someone the chaos of the storm, atop the windswept cliff, two figures materialize as if conjured from the very air. They are clad in red robes, their garments whipping violently in the tempest, saturated by the relentless rain. One of the figures is clearly wounded; he leans heavily on his companion, his movements labored and pained. Despite the ferocity of the storm, they are resolute, their expressions set with a grim determination that speaks of urgent purpose. Clutched in their hands are compact submachine guns, incongruous with their archaic attire, the modern, sleek design of the weapons starkly contrasting with the flowing fabric of their robes. These guns, unmistakably of Israeli make, gleam dully in the sporadic lightning flashes, ready for use despite the elemental fury surrounding them. The wounded figure's labored breathing is almost lost in the howl of the wind. They look at Autumn and someone the wounded one raises his submachine gun as the other begins to chant, even as the night is lit up by the sudden burning fire of Autumn's salamander being summoned from the night.
"We in for it, then," Yves tells Autumn -- and in fact they are. With his hand clasped in Autumn's, he summits the edge of the cliff just as magic crackles through the air.@line
Amidst the chaos of the storm, atop the windswept cliff, two figures materialize as if conjured from the very air. They are clad in red robes, their garments whipping violently in the tempest, saturated by the relentless rain. One of the figures is clearly wounded; he leans heavily on his companion, his movements labored and pained. Despite the ferocity of the storm, they are resolute, their expressions set with a grim determination that speaks of urgent purpose. Clutched in their hands are compact submachine guns, incongruous with their archaic attire, the modern, sleek design of the weapons starkly contrasting with the flowing fabric of their robes. These guns, unmistakably of Israeli make, gleam dully in the sporadic lightning flashes, ready for use despite the elemental fury surrounding them. The wounded figure's labored breathing is almost lost in the howl of the wind. They look at Autumn and someone the wounded one raises his submachine gun as the other begins to chant, even as the night is lit up by the sudden burning fire of Autumn's salamander being summoned from the night.
"We in for it, then," Yves tells Autumn -- and in fact they are. With his hand clasped in Autumn's, he summits the edge of the cliff just as magic crackles through the air.@line
Amidst the chaos of the storm, atop the windswept cliff, two figures materialize as if conjured from the very air. They are clad in red robes, their garments whipping violently in the tempest, saturated by the relentless rain. One of the figures is clearly wounded; he leans heavily on his companion, his movements labored and pained. Despite the ferocity of the storm, they are resolute, their expressions set with a grim determination that speaks of urgent purpose. Clutched in their hands are compact submachine guns, incongruous with their archaic attire, the modern, sleek design of the weapons starkly contrasting with the flowing fabric of their robes. These guns, unmistakably of Israeli make, gleam dully in the sporadic lightning flashes, ready for use despite the elemental fury surrounding them. The wounded figure's labored breathing is almost lost in the howl of the wind. They look at Autumn and Yves: the wounded one raises his submachine gun as the other begins to chant, even as the night is lit up by the sudden burning fire of Autumn's salamander being summoned from the night.
(fix) "We in for it, then," Yves tells Autumn -- and in fact they are. With his hand clasped in Autumn's, he summits the edge of the cliff just as magic crackles through the air.
Amidst the chaos of the storm, atop the windswept cliff, two figures materialize as if conjured from the very air. They are clad in red robes, their garments whipping violently in the tempest, saturated by the relentless rain. One of the figures is clearly wounded; he leans heavily on his companion, his movements labored and pained. Despite the ferocity of the storm, they are resolute, their expressions set with a grim determination that speaks of urgent purpose. Clutched in their hands are compact submachine guns, incongruous with their archaic attire, the modern, sleek design of the weapons starkly contrasting with the flowing fabric of their robes. These guns, unmistakably of Israeli make, gleam dully in the sporadic lightning flashes, ready for use despite the elemental fury surrounding them. The wounded figure's labored breathing is almost lost in the howl of the wind. They look at Autumn and Yves: the wounded one raises his submachine gun as the other begins to chant, even as the night is lit up by the sudden burning fire of Autumn's salamander being summoned from the night.
Once the puff of black smoke heralds Ifrit's arrival, Autumn points her blade towards the chanting Malphite and says, "Ifrit, take down that one." Looking at Yves, she tells him, "I doubt Sanctuary protects them here." And pointing at the wounded one next, the bracelet on her left hand starts to glow red-orange as she targets the figure's robe.
The salamander leaps: it is a coiling lizard-snake of fire, hurtling through the air at the chanting Malphite. Up close, Autumn can make them out. Both are bald men, their heads shaven, and they have pentacles tattooed across their bald pates. They're like the inverted pentacle of the Damned, but different, for in the center is an unfamiliar demonic sigil, like an upside down ankh. The Malphite screams when Ifrit hits him, his chanting disrupted, and a wicked ritual knife comes out, now rising and falling to stab at Autumn's familiar.
Meanwhile, the wounded Malphite has a machine gun. His robes are smoldering, to be sure, but he is also shooting: spitting fire in Autumn's direction. Near her, Yves is beginning his own chant, taking blood from his wounded shoulder to begin call down something from the storm clouds above.
As the red-robed cultist opens fire, the sound of gunfire erupts with a deafening intensity right next to Autumn's ears. Each shot rings out with a sharp, brutal crack that fractures the storm's howling symphony, sending a jarring shockwave through her senses. The rapid succession of blasts creates a disorienting cacophony, overwhelming and inescapable, as if the air itself is tearing apart. The noise is so close and so loud that it momentarily drowns out the storm, a piercing intrusion that rattles Autumn's eardrums. In the midst of this auditory assault, the whizzing of bullets as they zip past adds a terrifying realization of proximity and danger. The gun's mechanical roar, coupled with the cultist's relentless firing, forms a harrowing soundtrack to the scene on the cliff top.
Being too slow to dodge, Autumn yelps as the bullets graze her. "Not my lucky night," she seethes, channeling her rage before her bracelet glows once more. Unfolding her knife, the blade turns red hot as she then hurls it towards the wounded Malphite.
That thrown knife misses the wounded figure: Autumn is a sorceress, not a fighter, as he raises his gun to spray more bullets in her direction. Some salvation, though, as Yves finishes his chant: it seems the Malphite chose the wrong target, as the storm opens up above the tableau on the top of the cliff and lightning strikes down. It's a titanic blast, poorly aimed, and it sends all of the fighting figures to their backs, blowing them down with crackling electric fury.
Still: when the after-image of the lightning fades, there's one less Malphite: the once-wounded one smokes, a crisp char. Yves sags, though, his enegry drained, barely supported on his knees. On the ground, now, the unwounded Malphite is still fighting with the salamander, his ritual knife leaving trailing bloody fire as his robes smoke. It's possible he has the better of the familiar, however, and it lies now to Autumn to save her familiar and end the threat the remaining Malphite poses.
In the midst of a desperate and chaotic battle, a dramatic scene unfolds between that red-robed figure and Autumn's salamander familiar. The attacker, wielding a ritual knife, moves with a combination of rage and precision, stabbing down again and again into the fiery red flesh of the salamander. In turn, that hellish lizard-thing bites back, its mouth full of a thousand burning teeth, fastening its jaws tight on the arm of the cultist. The red-robed figure lets out a muffled cry, the sound drowned by the raging storm around them, as the scorching teeth of the salamander cuts through their defenses. The heat from the creature's jaws causes the wound to emit a faint, eerie sizzle, the smell of burning mingling with the salty sea air. In this violent exchange, the glowing demonic creature Autumn summoned not only inflicts a physical wound but also seems to burn with a metaphysical intensity, as if it's severing more than just corporeal ties. The red-robed figure staggers back, their movement hindered by the searing pain, a stark contrast to their previous imposing demeanor, now diminished by the unexpected ferocity of the salamander's assault even as the demon beast itself begins to bleed liquid fire.
Her knife now at the very edge of the cliff and herself blown to the ground, Autumn quickly gets herself up and runs to get the small blade before she charges towards the other Malphite. "Hold on, Ifrit!" She says, raising her blade in an attempt to strike at the remaining enemy.
Now Autumn is joining the fray. She is, all things considered, not very good with that blade, even as Yves slumps elsewhere. She could stand to train -- but the Malphite cultist is very much distracted by the burning salamander he is fighting. As Autumn stabs down, she can feel her ritual knife gain some purchase, as the red-robed figure cries out in pain. Again, again -- she is stabbing as the salamander bites, even as here, close up, she can hear Ifrit's cries of pain. The Malphite begins to convulse? Is he dead? Still stabbing at Ifrit? It's hard to know: and so it's best to stab again, and again, and again, a dozen times, two dozen, three dozen, as the red-robed figure continues to shake and some blood fury overcomes Autumn.
As Autumn continues to stab, the corpse of that red-robed figure lies sprawled on the storm-lashed ground beneath her. The fabric of the robe is soaked through, clinging to the lifeless form, its vibrant color dulled by the pooling rainwater. Despite the stillness that death ordinarily brings, there is an unsettling twitching in the corpse's limbs, sporadic and slight, as if residual energy or reflexes are yet to leave the body entirely. The harsh wind whips the robe around the figure, making it appear as though it is shuddering in response to the cold and the violence that befell it. Raindrops pelt the body unrelentingly, washing away any traces of the struggle, the red of the robe bleeding into the small rivulets that form around it. Nearby, Ifrit is panting, bleeding fire that steams as raindrops hit its skin, looking up at Autumn.
Through her fury, Autumn tries to pulls herself to stop stabbing and turns to grab Ifrit. While her rage starts to fade, she attempts to knock the Malphite's blade out of his hand before taking her familiar away from them, bearing some burns while carrying him as she looks back. "Ifrit, return home and recover."
Steam sizzles as Ifrit turns to Autumn, and there's a look: it bows its head, every raindrop boiling where it hits, and then it seems to curl in upon itself, disappearing into the night. Steam still rises around where it stood as Autumn at last ceases stabbing the twitching body, her own figure covered in blood. She's able to to knock his blade away -- there's no life there, not anymore, just twitching nerves.
Nearby, Yves is breathing hard, trying to stand. "We should -- we need to push the bodies over the cliff," he pants. "And then we need to --" His lips are flecked with blood. "We need to get into cover until I can catch my breath to path away from here." He looks at Autumn. "Thank you," he says. "Every dark power will bless you for this."
"Yeah," Autumn nods her head towards someone with a glance towards the bodies. "Oh, this is so going to end up on my record," she the grimaces before she walks towards one of the bodies. "It's self-defense, yes? Anyway, you can stay inside lighthouse once we're done here."
"Yeah," Autumn nods her head towards Yves with a glance towards the bodies. "Oh, this is so going to end up on my record," she the grimaces before she walks towards one of the bodies. "It's self-defense, yes? Anyway, you can stay inside lighthouse once we're done here."
Yves nods, exhausted, as he goes to help Autumn roll the bodies into the surf. The wind and water will wash away the blood, perhaps, as he goes to limp with Autumn into the lighthouse to recover.