Encounterlogs
Deans Odd Encounter Sr Ash 240915
In the decaying streets of Magnolia Row, Dean's late-night solitude is disrupted by a desperate message from a man embroiled in the dangerous machinations of the Sapphire Martyrs. The Martyrs, a group bent on triggering cataclysmic destruction, have kidnapped the man, believing him essential to their apocalyptic ritual. Unfazed by the ominous surroundings and guided by the glowing moon, Dean heads into the forest, a place where the fabric of reality seems thin, and the air is thick with the scent of imminent danger. Inside the forsaken woods, he discovers an ancient ruin, a site humming with dark energy and whispers of past atrocities. The ruin marks the threshold to a challenge Dean must confront head-on, utilizing brute strength and animalistic fury to navigate through the Sapphire Martyrs' guarded secrets.
Forced to endure the psychological torment of the Hall of Reflection, Dean faces distorted visions and whispers meant to deter him. However, his resolve remains unshaken, and his primal rage only intensifies as he confronts these twisted reflections of his own darkness. The physical barriers before him crumble under the unstoppable force of his wrath, revealing the captor. Through sheer intimidation and a terrifying declaration of ownership, Dean secures the release of his man, warning the Martyrs of dire consequences should they cross him again. The aftermath of Dean's rescue mission sends shockwaves through the criminal underworld of Haven, reinforcing his fearsome reputation. The man he came to save mysteriously returns to his routine, oblivious to the night's events, while the town whispers of a ritual gone awry and a monster who walks among them, a predator to the predators, a guardian beast in the shadows of Haven.
(Dean's odd encounter(SRAsh):SRAsh)
[Sat Sep 14 2024]
On Magnolia Row
Cracked and pothole-ridden asphalt roads make up this part of town,
bordered on either side by poorly maintained cracked sidewalks. The
aluminum streetlights are painted a deep, chipped green and appear regularly
along the side, illuminating the street in spots of warm electric light when
it's dark. Where the street is widest small median islands appear with old
twisted trees planted in them. The buildings that line the street seem old
and poorly taken care of.
It is night, about 67F(19C) degrees, There is a waxing gibbous moon.
(Your target has been captured by the Sapphire Martyrs who believe they hold the key to accelerating their destructive plan. The target is kept in a secure hideout where they are to be sacrificed in a ritual believed to trigger the Earth's destruction. The target must either escape their captors or convince a Martyr of the futility of their plan. Their allies must navigate the Martyrs' labyrinthine hideout, filled with traps and guardians, to rescue the target before the ritual is completed. Unbeknownst to them, a double-agent in the Martyrs' ranks could be a potential ally, if they can be convinced to turn against the group.)
Outside, by the pot-hole ridden asphalt road and next to a lame, deadbeat looking trailer - Dean has pulled his bike up to rest it on a pedestal of some sort. He's there, working quietly on the thing. Some late night inspection, checking gears, oiling what needs to be oiled. It's quiet, thankless work - maintaining the beast that is his bike without much inflection his expression. Muted and drowned in as much silence as his surroundings are. There is nary a sound, this deep in the night, where just about every denizen of the Moore trailer park is deep asleep. But then, Dean keeps the strangest hours at the best of days - and tonight is not an exception. Time of day hardly matters, where green eyes reflect any light in uncanny, keen vision that peers through the veil of the night effortlessly without any external light necessary.
The phone buzzes in Dean's pocket, breaking the stillness of Magnolia Row. The street is quiet at this hour, save for the faint hum of the nearby ocean. It's a tired part of town, where the cracked asphalt looks like it hasn't seen repairs in decades, spiderwebbed with potholes that fill with rain whenever it storms. The sidewalks on either side of the street aren't any better -warped and broken by time, littered with scattered pieces of old glass and cigarette butts, as though no one cared enough to clean them up.
A pair of streetlights stands ahead, their chipped green paint flaking off in jagged strips, revealing rust beneath. The light they cast is weak, throwing pools of warm yellow onto the pavement in irregular spots. They flicker now and then, as if the bulbs are trying to decide whether to give up entirely. The shadows between them are long and deep, like dark patches where the night itself curls up to hide.
Small islands of green dot the center of the road, each containing a single, gnarled tree. They look ancient, twisted and bent as if shaped by years of wild animals fighting against them, their limbs broken and dead. There's a faint scent in the air - saltwater, carried inland from the coast, mingled with the damp smell of the cracked earth underfoot. The waves roll in from the sea nearby, the rhythmic crash audible in the stillness. It's close enough that the air has a constant dampness to it, heavy, but not uncomfortable.
To either side, the rows of trailers are just as run-down. Linoleum facades crumble at the edges, paint peeling from the rusted metal, some windows boarded up with cardboard and duct tape, others left open to the elements. They have the kind of neglected look that makes it seem like the street hasn't seen much life in years, despite the residents getting so... lively, ever month. Even the doors are worn, scuffed at the base where they've scraped the ground too many times. Every trailer has its story, but none of them are told out loud tonight.
Above, the waxing gibbous moon hangs heavy in the sky, casting a silvery glow over everything. It's bright enough to see by, but not so bright that it drowns out the stars, which glint like scattered shards of glass high above. There's a slight breeze, just enough to stir the air, making the leaves of the twisted trees rustle softly in the medians. It carries with it a hint of something metallic, sharp - oil, maybe, or rust from nearby vehicles untended as Dean's bike is. The kind of smell that gets into your clothes if you stay too long in the wrong part of town.
The sky is clear tonight, dark but deep, the horizon stretching out endlessly. The light from the moon shimmers on the water of the nearby pool, creating a carpet of the cosmos. The sound of the waves is steady, almost comforting, but beneath it is something else - a feeling. A tension that lingers in the air, like the city itself is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
Everything about this place feels old, worn down, like the weight of time has settled into every crack and corner, but beneath it all is something else. A quiet, almost imperceptible hum of danger, the kind that doesn't come from the streets or the broken-down trailers, but from the darkness that exists between things. The shadows here are long and deep, hiding secrets that have never seen the light. Darkness that lies within Dean.
A faint vibration pulses through the air again - a reminder of the message waiting on the screen. The punk from *The Alley*. The guy with the pompadour who cleaned the bowling shoes, tattooed from neck to knuckles, is begging for help. He'd gotten mixed up in something over his head. Kidnapped. Some nonsense about 'latent blood,' whatever that meant - in his words, anyways. But it didn't matter - if he was involved with the Sapphire Martyrs (Blue - Sapphire Saints, he said), it wasn't good.
The coordinates in the message point to somewhere outside the city. The woods. The night breeze carries a colder edge when it brushes past, as if it knows what lies beyond the city streets. The faint, sharp scent of pine and damp earth seems to mix with the ever-present brine from the sea.
Somewhere in the distance, an owl hoots, the sound haunting in the quiet night. The street stretches on, and at the far end, the city lights fade into the black, disappearing where the wilderness begins. The moon's glow outlines the trees in the distance, their silhouettes dark against the sky, as the world beyond Magnolia Row seems to beckon.
Out there, where the GPS pin leads, something dangerous waits. But is the danger the Martyrs, or is it Dean
Distraction, and distractions, yet Dean keeps tending to his steed without looking at his phone. It stays that way - for a long while, at that. He enjoys the false sense of security people harbor this close to the woods. Not to mention, the area they're in. It belongs to the Moore's. And Dean. Obviously. He's an usurper, a threat, and yet, he is kept from being the target of any territory wars - even to the point, any other wolf out there in the park sleeps soundly despite knowing he's out there, working the night away.
Maybe they sleep soundly *because* they know he's out there. Whatever it is, only once Dean has his bike settled on its wheels, gives the engine a delectable start that lets it roar and subsequently purr, that's when he deigns to check his phone. Green eyes are locked on the device, held within oil-stained hands. Soon to be wiped on his work-shirt, equally as stained as the rest of him with the black blood of a motorcycle. Whatever his thoughts may be upon what has just transpired to his employee, it doesn't reflect on his expression. Out here, alone, without the company of anyone - there is only the distant swirl of nightly hunger and wanton need for destruction roiling within. An abyssal void that can't be contained, yet worn like a mantle upon an uncaring, distant frame that even now shows nothing on his muted features.
Yet, the phone is slipped into his pocket- and the bike, he climbs on. Starts to pull out of his 'driveway', and get the engine roaring as he abruptly takes off. Cuts a straight path through the tall grass without a single care to leap his steed onto the main road and swerve across the asphalt. Head in the direction of that pin, wherever it may be.
A clearing in a dense forest
It is dark.
Eventually, the trees give way to a small clearing, the moonlight filtering through the canopy just enough to illuminate what lies ahead. At the far end of the clearing is the remains of an old, crumbling stone structure, half-hidden by ivy and moss. It looks like it might have been a small chapel or shrine at one point, though now it's little more than a ruin - its walls cracked and broken, with only part of the roof still intact. What remains of the stone is weathered and covered in lichen, the carvings on the walls so eroded they're nearly indecipherable, though faint symbols seem to linger in the stone, hints of some forgotten language or arcane mark. The stench is light, however... old.
The front of the ruin is open, its doorway long since collapsed, but something about the entrance feels wrong. It's too dark, too still - almost as if the shadows there are thicker than they should be, reluctant to let the moonlight penetrate. There's an unnatural silence here, too - the usual sounds of the forest have gone quiet, as if the wildlife knows better than to come too close. The stink of magic is stronger. But, there's a stronger scent in the trees all around.
The air here is colder still, with a faint metallic tang, like the scent of iron or blood. It clings to the back of the throat, mixing with the earthy smell of the woods. There's a sense of foreboding, an almost tangible weight in the air that makes the clearing feel smaller, the trees closing in around it.
[Acute Sight Only] To the side of the ruin, hidden among the twisted roots of a massive oak tree, is something much more subtle: a door. It's barely visible at first, blending seamlessly with the bark of the tree, the wood worn and weathered to match its surroundings. A closer look reveals the edges - a perfectly cut rectangle in the base of the tree, its surface carved with intricate patterns that resemble the veins of leaves, though they shift slightly if stared at for too long. The door has no handle, no visible way of opening it, but there's a faint groove in the center with a circle around it, shaped like a crescent moon, as if something is meant to fit there. One gets the impression that there's a mechanism in there, under the disk the groove is carved into.
It is night, about 65F(15C) degrees, There is a waxing gibbous moon.
The dense forest deepens as Dean pushes through the underbrush, the twisted trees above knitting together like a canopy, filtering the moonlight into pale, flickering beams. The path he follows - if it can even be called a path - is little more than a suggestion beneath the layers of damp leaves and twisted roots, occasionally revealing the cracked remnants of an ancient stone road. It seems nature itself has done its best to erase this place from memory, but some things refuse to be forgotten.
The air shifts as Dean moves further into the woods. It's colder here, with a bite that sinks into his bones, and a heavy, metallic tang lingers on the wind - the unmistakable scent of iron and decay. Each step feels heavier than the last, the oppressive silence amplifying every rustle of leaves and crack of branches beneath his boots. Even the forest creatures seem to avoid this place; there's no birdsong, no scurrying of animals. It's as though the land itself is holding its breath.
Eventually, the forest thins, and a small, overgrown clearing comes into view. The moon hangs low in the sky, its silvery light spilling unevenly across the scene, casting long, eerie shadows that seem to stretch and sway unnaturally. At the far end of the clearing stands what remains of an ancient ruin. The crumbling stone structure is overrun with ivy, its once-proud walls now slumping under the weight of centuries. The ruin might have been a shrine or a chapel long ago, but time has not been kind. Half the roof has caved in, and thick moss blankets the surviving stones, as though nature is trying to reclaim what was left behind.
The front of the ruin is a gaping maw of shadow, the entrance long collapsed, but the dark interior remains untouched by the moonlight. There's something off about it - an unnatural depth to the darkness that makes it seem more like a void than a simple shadow. It draws the eye, beckoning, yet at the same time warning. The ground near the ruin is scattered with fragments of stone, some bearing strange, half-eroded symbols that hint at something older and darker than mere history. Faint outlines of forgotten runes can be seen in the stone, their purpose lost to time, though they still seem to hum faintly with a forgotten power.
The clearing is thick with an unnatural tension. The silence presses in from all sides, wrapping around Dean like a shroud, broken only by the occasional groan of the ancient trees swaying in the wind. The smell of iron is stronger here, almost suffocating, mingling with the damp scent of the earth. He can feel it in the back of your throat, metallic and bitter, that familiar blood taste.
The ground beneath his feet is uneven, the stones of the old path crumbling and half-buried beneath moss and roots. Small, dark shapes litter the edges of the clearing - broken stones, fragments of statues, and the remains of what might once have been altars or pillars. Some of the stone pieces have strange, deep gouges in them, as if clawed by something not entirely human. A few are stained, dark patches visible even in the moonlight, old blood long dried but never truly washed away.
There's a chill to the air here that doesn't belong to the forest, a cold that seeps into your bones, the kind that comes from something unnatural. The ruin radiates an air of malevolence, as if the land itself remembers the rituals that were once performed here, and the sacrifices made.
It's not just a place - this is a threshold. Something dark lies beyond the door, waiting, watching. The air feels thick with expectation, like the forest itself is holding its breath, waiting for someone to step forward and unlock whatever has been sealed away for so long.
There's no sound but the slow, steady thrum of Dean's heartbeat, the quiet echo of his own breath in the stillness. The forest is silent, the clearing is empty, and yet there is a presence here - unseen, but undeniable. The feeling of being watched is impossible to shake.
Every step of the way, save for his footfalls, Dean is just as quiet as the forest. The downtrodden path, the ruins that he passes through - he pays none of it any mind while moving like he's on a mission. Although, eventually, that sense of detachment and distance breaks from his visage. It is lent into a cruel, harsh look - one that only increases with the twitch of his nose. Dean moves his boot - stares down at the dried patch of blood underfoot, one of many spots soiled, one of many iron remnants that currently plague the back of his throat. It's a taste that Dean doesn't mind. It's a taste that only fuels the hungry thing within.
Right before he crosses that treshold, Dean stops. Entirely, slowly. That sensation of something dangerous lying in wait finally lends some interest to that impassive countenance; a smirk. All fanged, sharp in display - and his eyes turn away. The stone pillar at his side, upon which he's placed his hand, is pushed forward and toppled effortlessly like he's knocking on the ground- to alert whoever or whatever waits. His own trajectory is simple, towards that door hidden in an oak's twisting root. He barely inspects it once - drags a finger over the surface of it, through thoe moving, intricate shapes while he's down on a single knee. Then, without further ado, Dean starts to pummel into it. Fist after fist after fist - molding the very essence of his strength into a wrecking ball of a strike in an attempt to get through.
The Sapphire Martyrs would be surprised to find out that someone coming to their prisoner's rescue would simply... break down the secret entrance, with its mechanical key system, and magic imbued into it... but then again, they're the same people that let their prisoner keep his phone. There's a bunch of scuffling, yelling... then silence. Well, but for the rhythm of destruction that Dean is beating into this drum.
The door crunches and gives way, revealing machinery, wood splinters, and the remnants of a stone inner wall with fragmented runes on it. Whatever those runes meant, they were clearly *not* for making the door invincible. Below, the steps wind down into the earth. Dirty, muddy stone... and after a few steps, there's a few drops of blood, and scuffled footprints, free from the debris Dean has created.
As Dean descends the narrow stone stairs - presumably, anyhow - the cold, damp air of the underground envelops him. Each step is slick with moisture, the walls pressing in on either side, the dim light from flickering sconces barely illuminating the way. The oppressive silence grows heavier with each step, and the scent of iron and old stone lingers in the air.
The Hall of Reflection,
This vast chamber feels strangely oppressive, with walls of shimmering sapphire crystal reflecting distorted images of anyone who steps inside. The floor is a mosaic of broken mirrors, and the air hums with quiet whispers that seem to come from the reflections themselves. It is almost as if the room wants to trap your soul, making it difficult to look away from the twisted versions of yourself staring back. The Martyrs believe this chamber cleanses the unworthy, but it feels more like a psychological trap.
It is night, about 63F(17C) degrees, There is a waxing gibbous moon.
Extra: An undead Dean, A failed Dean, A misshapen Dean, A crying Dean, A weak Dean
At the bottom, the stairway opens into the Hall of Reflection - a vast, echoing chamber lined with towering, warped mirrors of polished sapphire. These mirrors reflect distorted, unsettling versions of Dean, their surfaces rippling as if alive. Monstrous beasts, some, but many of them show him emaciated. Or twisted, malformed, crippled and weak. Some show his face wet with tears, others hold a trail of dead bodies behind him... wolves, slowly transforming back into their former selves. His wolves.
The dim light from floating orbs casts eerie shadows that shift unnaturally across the cold, stained stone floor. The hall feels thick with tension, as though something unseen is watching. Every reflection seems to move a fraction too slow, lingering just behind you, as if waiting for you to falter. The stillness is suffocating, the mirrors a constant, unsettling presence, hinting at the ancient, dark power that lingers in this forsaken place.
A voice comes through, declaring in a reedy voice, "Welcome to the Hall of Reflection... Dean. This chamber cleanses the unworthy... will you past the test? Or try to smash your way through, failing to rescue your man. That'd a poor mark of leadership, wouldn't it be?" They laugh - but perhaps there's a nervousness to it? No... no evil soliloquist would dare let fear show.
An undead Dean
Dean's appearance has taken on an eerie, vampiric quality, his once imposing frame now gaunt and emaciated. His skin is pallid, almost translucent, stretched tight over his bones, giving him an otherworldly, spectral appearance. His eyes, once vibrant moss-green, are now sunken and hollow, glowing with a ghostly red luminescence that hints at the thirst for something more than mere blood. His raven hair, lank and greasy, falls around his face in dark, unkempt strands, framing his sharp, angular features that seem more like a mask of hunger and despair. His lips, now thin and almost colorless, reveal elongated, pointed canines that glint faintly in the dim light. Dean's clothes cling to his skeletal frame, tattered and worn, adding to the impression that he has become a shadow of his former self - a pale, ravenous specter haunting the night.
A failed Dean
Dean stands amidst a nightmarish tableau of half-transformed werewolves, their bodies frozen in grotesque, unfinished states. The creatures are sprawled around him, their forms caught between human and beast - a tangle of fur, claws, and human limbs, their familiar faces twisted in silent, agonized snarls. Some are missing limbs, others have limbs elongated into misshapen, clawed appendages, and their eyes, wide and glassy, reflect a final, agonizing terror. Dean himself appears small and diminished against this grim scene, his own features marked by a haunted look. His clothes are torn, stained with blood and the dark, viscous fluid of the half-transformed bodies around him. The air is thick with the stench of death and decay, and the eerie silence is only broken by the occasional drip of blood pooling on the ground. Dean's expression is one of despondence and disbelief, his face pale and eyes a different sort of hollow, as he stands frozen amidst the chaos of the failed transformations.
A misshapen Dean
Dean's once powerful form is unsettlingly distorted, as if nature itself had faltered in shaping him. His limbs are uneven, one arm slightly longer than the other, his broad shoulders sloping at awkward angles, creating a sense of imbalance in his frame. His back is hunched, the curve unnatural, causing him to walk with a crooked gait that speaks of pain endured over years. His face is the most striking, marred by an asymmetry that draws the eye - a jaw too sharp on one side, too soft on the other, his nose slightly twisted, and one moss-green eye set higher than the other beneath uneven brows. The scars and bruises that once spoke of strength now seem exaggerated by his misshapen body, as if they're carved into a canvas that was flawed from the start. His presence, once commanding, now feels disjointed and wrong, like a shadow of what he was meant to be.
A crying Dean
Dean's usual stoic composure has crumbled, his sharp, moss-green eyes now rimmed red and glistening with unshed tears. His breath comes in shaky, uneven gasps as tears slip down his rugged, scarred cheeks, tracing the lines of old bruises. His raven hair clings damply to his face, and his strong jaw quivers as he struggles to hold back the sobs that threaten to break through. His broad shoulders are hunched, and his hands, normally so steady, cover his face in a futile attempt to hide the vulnerability overtaking him. The sight of him crying might evoke a feeling like watching something unbreakable shatter.
A weak Dean
Dean's once imposing figure now looks diminished, his tall, lean frame appearing gaunt and drained of its usual vitality. His raven hair, once wild and unkempt, hangs limply around his pale face, and the sharp intensity in his moss-green eyes has dulled, replaced by a tired, haunted look. The bruises and scars that used to speak of his resilience now seem to weigh heavily on him, his chiseled jawline tense with exhaustion. His clothes, once fitting snugly, now seem loose on his weakened body, and his calloused hands tremble faintly, a far cry from their former strength.
Had it been a truly intricate, stalwart puzzle in his way - it is very likely that Dean would have been stalled. Not only that, outright failed. His forte laid in brute force, of overwhelming power and prowess. An unbridled rage. Puzzles- not so much. And so, the hole he's made is widened. Spread open like he's carving his way in, remnants thrown over his shoulder, pieces scattered haphazard and uncared for. The descent, is just as vehement. The scent of blood no doubt draws him like a shark- the worst parts enhanced. The moon, as gibbous as it is, delivers the inkling, the beginning of a lunacy gripping into his very being.
It is embraced - Dean is ravenous within, and now, the closer he gets in his descent, it shows in the off-glint of his eyes. They're wide - too wide, and as his hand glides upon the smooth stone wall while he walks, at first nothing happens. Then sparks. Claws slowly jutting out from each digit, through a hand cracking, bones breaking - it is the herald of a transformation that's bound to erupt depending on how this goes - and it doesn't look like he cares in the slightest about bringing the whole place down.
When he's met with that expanse of a room, his eyes travel at the sight. The reflections, the creatures within - him and not, one and yet separate. Some starved, looking like rabid dogs, others, a myriad of creatures. One of them, in a distant mirror, catches his eye at once despite how unassuming it looks. It's a broken wolf, its maw split in half - by force from the look of it, torn by a cruel hand as it sputters blood, trying to stand like the rest, like him, but failing. That wipes any remnant sign or hint of mirth from his face, leaves it barren, devoid of anything but the look of a creature that smolders like wrath incaarnate. "Kill him if you want," The distance, the uncaring sound of his voice echoes. "It isn't about the guy - it's about the principle." The next set of words, they're a barely withheld, yet all the more fierce growl. "No one takes what's mine."
If not for his acute hearing, he'd be met by silence - then whispers. Whispers that all whisper things like "Help me, Dean!" or "Dean, no!" Some whisper, pathetically, "I trusted you...." Others are like faded screams, barely heard as words like "I loved you," tear from a great distance. One voice, cocky, whispers, "It's just business," while another, feminine one laughs, saying with cruelty, "Like. A. Dog."
The whispers tug and tear at him, pinching and jabbing. He can't punch words, he can't claw them, he can't tear them with his maw. The owners, yes, but here? Here, there are only voices, and they scrabble at him like hundreds of seeking, clawing hands. From tingling at his scalp to a heavy burden on his shoulders, down to scraty, grating whispers that slash at him in cold waves that he can feel down to his toes.
But through them, there's another whisper - this one isn't after him. He can't make it out... it's behind layers of stone - or gemstone. Only words come out, but they are truly delicious words. "...kill me... no, I'm not... him, let me... Joker. He's strong... busy?! Hey, where... hello? ...damn it all!" Frustration, pleading, compromise, anger, and then... ah, yes, despair. Despair, tainted with fear.
The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, but it comes into this room from an adjacent one. That much is clear.
No more words leave Dean - he's frozen in his tracks. Silenced, almost, with the assault of the echoes, the voices that burrow through his ear, under his skin. Dean's eyes actually close for once. That widened, wildened stare subdued in stillness, and an unforgiving stance that he takes. Without moving at all, not an inch. He's listening - to all the voices, to every word, and yet, it looks like he's searching a particular one. A crucial one. It isn't there. It can't be there. No, then, these are not his monsters.
Despite the onslaught, the frigid cold that seeps into his skin, Dean starts to smile. What follows is a radiance of emotion, a cascade of it. Wrathful fury, spreading its wicked tendrils through anything, everything, in cruel intent to seek, claim, wrap around like a wisp of a whisper that instills forceful trepidation to anything, anyone in the vicinity of him, if they're even there to watch their metal attack-- Something that, admittedly, Dean is very weak to.
That radiated, bonechilling horror - not of his own but drawn out of the very firmament that makes anything who they are.
He walks with the burden of everything seeping beneath his mask - and starts to speak. "I killed my first vampire with my bare hands when I was twelve." The first mirror then. He brings a hand to it, curls his fingers in, feels the weight of each digit digging in and spreading sprinkling scars and a spiderweb of cracks across the whole thing set where it is, until the jagged pieces begin to fall on their own. The words he spoke are clear; there were more - many, many more. In the turn of his head, despite hearing the voices from an adjacent room, he focuses on the next mirror - the one that cries. His words are snarled through a mouthful of oversized canids, words an echo. "Fucking pathethic. Do you think I'm human enough to be this miserable?"
Perhaps this was all a masterful trick, a puzzle. Perhaps they expected to keep him guessing, to break his bone on the gemstones, to make him bleed, to tire him out, to make him give up and go home. Or maybe they were clever, hoping to gain insight on his inner workings. As he faced each of these versions of him, would he share his secrets? Would he break down? Would he fail, his fist trembling, as the mirror captures what is left in his heart?
Maybe... but whether Dean figured out the puzzle, or whether he was lucky, it doesn't matter - the first one was the door. Your dark reflection, the one thing you are not, cannot be. The thing that is the most un*you* is the door that you must embrace. The vampire... and it falls to reveal a dark room, and within it - the smell of piss. Yes, urine, fresh - the man in there, that fearful voice, the nameless grunt left to guard the room - he's pissing his pants. How can he not? He's seen Dean, and he's *felt* that furious rage beating down on him, promising his doom, and has been baptised anew in the fear it laid upon him, born into terror. He knows that he's been *abandoned* here, and no one is coming to save him. And this? This is not someone's gangster boyfriend coming to save them - it's not even your every day Havenite super, embracing their blood for the first time in these streets.
No, this is a monster - a *true* monster. And this nameless fool knows it. He shoots, a pistol in shaking hands as he tries to put bullets - not even silver, the pathetic man - into Dean. He doesn't believe that they'll hit. But he at least has it in him to *try* to *shoot*, to keep his blood inside as he leans against a metal door.
There's a keypad besides it, but the light on it is blinking a dull red. Dean can read it just fine, with his vision - LOCKOUT PROCEDURE INITIATED. NO ENTRY.
Truly? Dean hadn't expected that. Puzzles are *not* his forte. He was really just going to go around smashing through every single reflection before breaking the walls, and the ceiling too until he got whoever was behind this. Save his man? Why the fuck would Dean care when the man isn't even another wolf. So, he's there, just by the new 'door' that opened up beneath shattered glass, with the Martyr inside quivering at a glimpse of the raw emotion that swims underneath Dean's skin. Green eyes turn slowly- and that gun shoots.
The bullet pierces the skin, Dean does bleed. And yet, it is a shallow, faint wound that he's inflicted with. Metal of the spent missile clatters to the floor from his shoulder and onto the floor. Then, that maw- mouth. His mouth splits open, a smile, sharp, keen, *eager*. Dean's hand finds their assaialant immediately by the scruff of his neck to pull him out, throw him to the floor onto the scattered pile of glass, and his boot falls above in the next breath. Set right at the nape of the man's neck, shoving his face into the ground- possibly even into the sharp pieces. "Where is he." There is nothing beyond a demand. Just the anticipated, certain knowledge of doom that'll befall his now-captive, previously-captor. Whether he complies, or not. Only thing that he offers leniency on is the severity; quick, or painful?
The man lies face down on the cold, shard-strewn floor of the chamber, his body shaking with fear and pain. Agony His breaths come in rapid, shallow gasps between bellowing screams, the breaths barely audible over the oppressive silence as the whispers fall silent. His fingers scrabble at the floor as if it might offer some solace, but instead, his palms are slick with sweat, leaving dark smudges on the ground - quickly joined with blood as his pawing rewards him with cuts and splinters.
His shoulders are hunched beneath Dean's boot, his back rigid with tension, and every muscle in his body trembles uncontrollably. His once-defiant posture in the face is now a crumpled reflection of his inner turmoil and terror. A low, guttural whimper escapes his lips, betraying the depth of his fear and desperation, and they turn to sobs. His face, pressed against the floor, is flushed with agony - the shards have gotten into his eyes, and he's writhing now, yet is trapped horizontally. His breaths come in ragged, uneven bursts, each one a reminder of the panic clawing at his chest, rising.
The room around him seems to reverberate with each scream, the shadows cast by the flickering light orbs stretching and shifting in a grotesque dance. The atmosphere is seems to beat, pulse, with every scream, and every sound - every sob, every whimper - feels amplified, as if built to amplify this man's dying scene.
As he struggles to respond, his voice cracks under the weight of his fear, barely more than a strained whisper. His attempts to speak are punctuated by moments of silence, where his body shakes with the effort to maintain any semblance of control. His resolve is crumbling, the last vestiges of his defiance slipping away as his mind battles with the overwhelming sensation of dread. "I can't - my duty. My martyr... I'm meant to - FUCK! I meant to die... but... not like this... not... please, the last chamber. The ritual hall - left, then right... please, just let me go...."
He begs for a life of blindness, and fear - no doubt on the run from the Martyrs for being a failure who could not manage the one thing the group is known for. He's a coward.
Dean's answer to all of that is simple. The tension upon the poor man's back relents as he peels his boot off of him and stands properly at the sobbing mess he's made. His smile has disappeared now - glaring at the man with the sheer intensity of his rage, contained, yet felt all the same in palpable fear bubbling out and frothing from within his victim. Slowly, Dean begins to crouch. Next to his target, that poor, poor martry now blinded. His fingers find his hair, curl in - pull. Elevate his face off the floor to stare at his face.
"I don't care if it is you, or someone else that does it. When the sun comes up, I want that man back at his station, working as he did - all limbs intact." His nose twitches beside the man's neck, then the cruel grasp ends. He's dropped back onto the floor, upon the jagged shards while Dean rises. "I have your scent." It's a laconic threat. That he can, and that he will find him - to do what's done to his employee tenfold, if not more. "Small price for your life." An angled kick with his boot strikes the Martyr on his side, flips him over to land his back on the ground instead - spare him the pain of enduring sharp pieces in his face for much longer. "If you and your lot fuck with me again, I'm going to uproot every single Martyr in Haven."
Dean says nothing else. Does nothing else. Power is shown in dominance - and he inflicts it cruelly. The act of forcing them to return what's his is just as much of a play, despite the thing inside that howls at him. Desperate to tear through the man, devour him whole - literally. Dean fights that will, the corrupter side of him. Pays it little mind in some distraction, while he starts to walk away - leave the way he came with his footsteps echoing away, further and further away every time with due diligence in his distant disinterest returning to replace the genuine mask of rage with its mask of aloof nonchalance.
Dean will never know how the man did it - after all, a man so lowly as to be locked alone against Dean surely does not have much sway... and yet, the next time Dean comes into The Alley - given some hours, at least - he's back to work. He's been in an accident, he feels... he doesn't even remember getting out of the hospital. He has some bruises, but his wounds are stitched, his memories erased, and his body cleansed of any trace of offending scents. At least, they try.
That man, eyes pulled from his skull, is found later. Perhaps Dean comes across it himself, the corpse staked in the Moore woods near the trailer park - not a warning, but an offering. Or perhaps he sees it on the news, as he drinks in the bar. Along with several missing names and faces... it seems that more than one person was needed for this ritual - and yet, it must not have been successful, for the sun has risen in Haven, and it will set - just as it was meant to. People are taken, people are killed. There's horror aplenty, and people die. This is, after all, Haven.
And yet, Dean's mark is felt on the town. The people who go missing tend to not go to - or be kidnapped from - the Alley. The path he leaves in his wake - blood, destruction, bruises, fear - also opens his path before him. Slow. Unyielding. Unstoppable. Inevitable.
Only one of these is untrue, but that's a tale for another day, another dark Haven night.
Forced to endure the psychological torment of the Hall of Reflection, Dean faces distorted visions and whispers meant to deter him. However, his resolve remains unshaken, and his primal rage only intensifies as he confronts these twisted reflections of his own darkness. The physical barriers before him crumble under the unstoppable force of his wrath, revealing the captor. Through sheer intimidation and a terrifying declaration of ownership, Dean secures the release of his man, warning the Martyrs of dire consequences should they cross him again. The aftermath of Dean's rescue mission sends shockwaves through the criminal underworld of Haven, reinforcing his fearsome reputation. The man he came to save mysteriously returns to his routine, oblivious to the night's events, while the town whispers of a ritual gone awry and a monster who walks among them, a predator to the predators, a guardian beast in the shadows of Haven.
(Dean's odd encounter(SRAsh):SRAsh)
[Sat Sep 14 2024]
On Magnolia Row
Cracked and pothole-ridden asphalt roads make up this part of town,
bordered on either side by poorly maintained cracked sidewalks. The
aluminum streetlights are painted a deep, chipped green and appear regularly
along the side, illuminating the street in spots of warm electric light when
it's dark. Where the street is widest small median islands appear with old
twisted trees planted in them. The buildings that line the street seem old
and poorly taken care of.
It is night, about 67F(19C) degrees, There is a waxing gibbous moon.
(Your target has been captured by the Sapphire Martyrs who believe they hold the key to accelerating their destructive plan. The target is kept in a secure hideout where they are to be sacrificed in a ritual believed to trigger the Earth's destruction. The target must either escape their captors or convince a Martyr of the futility of their plan. Their allies must navigate the Martyrs' labyrinthine hideout, filled with traps and guardians, to rescue the target before the ritual is completed. Unbeknownst to them, a double-agent in the Martyrs' ranks could be a potential ally, if they can be convinced to turn against the group.)
Outside, by the pot-hole ridden asphalt road and next to a lame, deadbeat looking trailer - Dean has pulled his bike up to rest it on a pedestal of some sort. He's there, working quietly on the thing. Some late night inspection, checking gears, oiling what needs to be oiled. It's quiet, thankless work - maintaining the beast that is his bike without much inflection his expression. Muted and drowned in as much silence as his surroundings are. There is nary a sound, this deep in the night, where just about every denizen of the Moore trailer park is deep asleep. But then, Dean keeps the strangest hours at the best of days - and tonight is not an exception. Time of day hardly matters, where green eyes reflect any light in uncanny, keen vision that peers through the veil of the night effortlessly without any external light necessary.
The phone buzzes in Dean's pocket, breaking the stillness of Magnolia Row. The street is quiet at this hour, save for the faint hum of the nearby ocean. It's a tired part of town, where the cracked asphalt looks like it hasn't seen repairs in decades, spiderwebbed with potholes that fill with rain whenever it storms. The sidewalks on either side of the street aren't any better -warped and broken by time, littered with scattered pieces of old glass and cigarette butts, as though no one cared enough to clean them up.
A pair of streetlights stands ahead, their chipped green paint flaking off in jagged strips, revealing rust beneath. The light they cast is weak, throwing pools of warm yellow onto the pavement in irregular spots. They flicker now and then, as if the bulbs are trying to decide whether to give up entirely. The shadows between them are long and deep, like dark patches where the night itself curls up to hide.
Small islands of green dot the center of the road, each containing a single, gnarled tree. They look ancient, twisted and bent as if shaped by years of wild animals fighting against them, their limbs broken and dead. There's a faint scent in the air - saltwater, carried inland from the coast, mingled with the damp smell of the cracked earth underfoot. The waves roll in from the sea nearby, the rhythmic crash audible in the stillness. It's close enough that the air has a constant dampness to it, heavy, but not uncomfortable.
To either side, the rows of trailers are just as run-down. Linoleum facades crumble at the edges, paint peeling from the rusted metal, some windows boarded up with cardboard and duct tape, others left open to the elements. They have the kind of neglected look that makes it seem like the street hasn't seen much life in years, despite the residents getting so... lively, ever month. Even the doors are worn, scuffed at the base where they've scraped the ground too many times. Every trailer has its story, but none of them are told out loud tonight.
Above, the waxing gibbous moon hangs heavy in the sky, casting a silvery glow over everything. It's bright enough to see by, but not so bright that it drowns out the stars, which glint like scattered shards of glass high above. There's a slight breeze, just enough to stir the air, making the leaves of the twisted trees rustle softly in the medians. It carries with it a hint of something metallic, sharp - oil, maybe, or rust from nearby vehicles untended as Dean's bike is. The kind of smell that gets into your clothes if you stay too long in the wrong part of town.
The sky is clear tonight, dark but deep, the horizon stretching out endlessly. The light from the moon shimmers on the water of the nearby pool, creating a carpet of the cosmos. The sound of the waves is steady, almost comforting, but beneath it is something else - a feeling. A tension that lingers in the air, like the city itself is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
Everything about this place feels old, worn down, like the weight of time has settled into every crack and corner, but beneath it all is something else. A quiet, almost imperceptible hum of danger, the kind that doesn't come from the streets or the broken-down trailers, but from the darkness that exists between things. The shadows here are long and deep, hiding secrets that have never seen the light. Darkness that lies within Dean.
A faint vibration pulses through the air again - a reminder of the message waiting on the screen. The punk from *The Alley*. The guy with the pompadour who cleaned the bowling shoes, tattooed from neck to knuckles, is begging for help. He'd gotten mixed up in something over his head. Kidnapped. Some nonsense about 'latent blood,' whatever that meant - in his words, anyways. But it didn't matter - if he was involved with the Sapphire Martyrs (Blue - Sapphire Saints, he said), it wasn't good.
The coordinates in the message point to somewhere outside the city. The woods. The night breeze carries a colder edge when it brushes past, as if it knows what lies beyond the city streets. The faint, sharp scent of pine and damp earth seems to mix with the ever-present brine from the sea.
Somewhere in the distance, an owl hoots, the sound haunting in the quiet night. The street stretches on, and at the far end, the city lights fade into the black, disappearing where the wilderness begins. The moon's glow outlines the trees in the distance, their silhouettes dark against the sky, as the world beyond Magnolia Row seems to beckon.
Out there, where the GPS pin leads, something dangerous waits. But is the danger the Martyrs, or is it Dean
Distraction, and distractions, yet Dean keeps tending to his steed without looking at his phone. It stays that way - for a long while, at that. He enjoys the false sense of security people harbor this close to the woods. Not to mention, the area they're in. It belongs to the Moore's. And Dean. Obviously. He's an usurper, a threat, and yet, he is kept from being the target of any territory wars - even to the point, any other wolf out there in the park sleeps soundly despite knowing he's out there, working the night away.
Maybe they sleep soundly *because* they know he's out there. Whatever it is, only once Dean has his bike settled on its wheels, gives the engine a delectable start that lets it roar and subsequently purr, that's when he deigns to check his phone. Green eyes are locked on the device, held within oil-stained hands. Soon to be wiped on his work-shirt, equally as stained as the rest of him with the black blood of a motorcycle. Whatever his thoughts may be upon what has just transpired to his employee, it doesn't reflect on his expression. Out here, alone, without the company of anyone - there is only the distant swirl of nightly hunger and wanton need for destruction roiling within. An abyssal void that can't be contained, yet worn like a mantle upon an uncaring, distant frame that even now shows nothing on his muted features.
Yet, the phone is slipped into his pocket- and the bike, he climbs on. Starts to pull out of his 'driveway', and get the engine roaring as he abruptly takes off. Cuts a straight path through the tall grass without a single care to leap his steed onto the main road and swerve across the asphalt. Head in the direction of that pin, wherever it may be.
A clearing in a dense forest
It is dark.
Eventually, the trees give way to a small clearing, the moonlight filtering through the canopy just enough to illuminate what lies ahead. At the far end of the clearing is the remains of an old, crumbling stone structure, half-hidden by ivy and moss. It looks like it might have been a small chapel or shrine at one point, though now it's little more than a ruin - its walls cracked and broken, with only part of the roof still intact. What remains of the stone is weathered and covered in lichen, the carvings on the walls so eroded they're nearly indecipherable, though faint symbols seem to linger in the stone, hints of some forgotten language or arcane mark. The stench is light, however... old.
The front of the ruin is open, its doorway long since collapsed, but something about the entrance feels wrong. It's too dark, too still - almost as if the shadows there are thicker than they should be, reluctant to let the moonlight penetrate. There's an unnatural silence here, too - the usual sounds of the forest have gone quiet, as if the wildlife knows better than to come too close. The stink of magic is stronger. But, there's a stronger scent in the trees all around.
The air here is colder still, with a faint metallic tang, like the scent of iron or blood. It clings to the back of the throat, mixing with the earthy smell of the woods. There's a sense of foreboding, an almost tangible weight in the air that makes the clearing feel smaller, the trees closing in around it.
[Acute Sight Only] To the side of the ruin, hidden among the twisted roots of a massive oak tree, is something much more subtle: a door. It's barely visible at first, blending seamlessly with the bark of the tree, the wood worn and weathered to match its surroundings. A closer look reveals the edges - a perfectly cut rectangle in the base of the tree, its surface carved with intricate patterns that resemble the veins of leaves, though they shift slightly if stared at for too long. The door has no handle, no visible way of opening it, but there's a faint groove in the center with a circle around it, shaped like a crescent moon, as if something is meant to fit there. One gets the impression that there's a mechanism in there, under the disk the groove is carved into.
It is night, about 65F(15C) degrees, There is a waxing gibbous moon.
The dense forest deepens as Dean pushes through the underbrush, the twisted trees above knitting together like a canopy, filtering the moonlight into pale, flickering beams. The path he follows - if it can even be called a path - is little more than a suggestion beneath the layers of damp leaves and twisted roots, occasionally revealing the cracked remnants of an ancient stone road. It seems nature itself has done its best to erase this place from memory, but some things refuse to be forgotten.
The air shifts as Dean moves further into the woods. It's colder here, with a bite that sinks into his bones, and a heavy, metallic tang lingers on the wind - the unmistakable scent of iron and decay. Each step feels heavier than the last, the oppressive silence amplifying every rustle of leaves and crack of branches beneath his boots. Even the forest creatures seem to avoid this place; there's no birdsong, no scurrying of animals. It's as though the land itself is holding its breath.
Eventually, the forest thins, and a small, overgrown clearing comes into view. The moon hangs low in the sky, its silvery light spilling unevenly across the scene, casting long, eerie shadows that seem to stretch and sway unnaturally. At the far end of the clearing stands what remains of an ancient ruin. The crumbling stone structure is overrun with ivy, its once-proud walls now slumping under the weight of centuries. The ruin might have been a shrine or a chapel long ago, but time has not been kind. Half the roof has caved in, and thick moss blankets the surviving stones, as though nature is trying to reclaim what was left behind.
The front of the ruin is a gaping maw of shadow, the entrance long collapsed, but the dark interior remains untouched by the moonlight. There's something off about it - an unnatural depth to the darkness that makes it seem more like a void than a simple shadow. It draws the eye, beckoning, yet at the same time warning. The ground near the ruin is scattered with fragments of stone, some bearing strange, half-eroded symbols that hint at something older and darker than mere history. Faint outlines of forgotten runes can be seen in the stone, their purpose lost to time, though they still seem to hum faintly with a forgotten power.
The clearing is thick with an unnatural tension. The silence presses in from all sides, wrapping around Dean like a shroud, broken only by the occasional groan of the ancient trees swaying in the wind. The smell of iron is stronger here, almost suffocating, mingling with the damp scent of the earth. He can feel it in the back of your throat, metallic and bitter, that familiar blood taste.
The ground beneath his feet is uneven, the stones of the old path crumbling and half-buried beneath moss and roots. Small, dark shapes litter the edges of the clearing - broken stones, fragments of statues, and the remains of what might once have been altars or pillars. Some of the stone pieces have strange, deep gouges in them, as if clawed by something not entirely human. A few are stained, dark patches visible even in the moonlight, old blood long dried but never truly washed away.
There's a chill to the air here that doesn't belong to the forest, a cold that seeps into your bones, the kind that comes from something unnatural. The ruin radiates an air of malevolence, as if the land itself remembers the rituals that were once performed here, and the sacrifices made.
It's not just a place - this is a threshold. Something dark lies beyond the door, waiting, watching. The air feels thick with expectation, like the forest itself is holding its breath, waiting for someone to step forward and unlock whatever has been sealed away for so long.
There's no sound but the slow, steady thrum of Dean's heartbeat, the quiet echo of his own breath in the stillness. The forest is silent, the clearing is empty, and yet there is a presence here - unseen, but undeniable. The feeling of being watched is impossible to shake.
Every step of the way, save for his footfalls, Dean is just as quiet as the forest. The downtrodden path, the ruins that he passes through - he pays none of it any mind while moving like he's on a mission. Although, eventually, that sense of detachment and distance breaks from his visage. It is lent into a cruel, harsh look - one that only increases with the twitch of his nose. Dean moves his boot - stares down at the dried patch of blood underfoot, one of many spots soiled, one of many iron remnants that currently plague the back of his throat. It's a taste that Dean doesn't mind. It's a taste that only fuels the hungry thing within.
Right before he crosses that treshold, Dean stops. Entirely, slowly. That sensation of something dangerous lying in wait finally lends some interest to that impassive countenance; a smirk. All fanged, sharp in display - and his eyes turn away. The stone pillar at his side, upon which he's placed his hand, is pushed forward and toppled effortlessly like he's knocking on the ground- to alert whoever or whatever waits. His own trajectory is simple, towards that door hidden in an oak's twisting root. He barely inspects it once - drags a finger over the surface of it, through thoe moving, intricate shapes while he's down on a single knee. Then, without further ado, Dean starts to pummel into it. Fist after fist after fist - molding the very essence of his strength into a wrecking ball of a strike in an attempt to get through.
The Sapphire Martyrs would be surprised to find out that someone coming to their prisoner's rescue would simply... break down the secret entrance, with its mechanical key system, and magic imbued into it... but then again, they're the same people that let their prisoner keep his phone. There's a bunch of scuffling, yelling... then silence. Well, but for the rhythm of destruction that Dean is beating into this drum.
The door crunches and gives way, revealing machinery, wood splinters, and the remnants of a stone inner wall with fragmented runes on it. Whatever those runes meant, they were clearly *not* for making the door invincible. Below, the steps wind down into the earth. Dirty, muddy stone... and after a few steps, there's a few drops of blood, and scuffled footprints, free from the debris Dean has created.
As Dean descends the narrow stone stairs - presumably, anyhow - the cold, damp air of the underground envelops him. Each step is slick with moisture, the walls pressing in on either side, the dim light from flickering sconces barely illuminating the way. The oppressive silence grows heavier with each step, and the scent of iron and old stone lingers in the air.
The Hall of Reflection,
This vast chamber feels strangely oppressive, with walls of shimmering sapphire crystal reflecting distorted images of anyone who steps inside. The floor is a mosaic of broken mirrors, and the air hums with quiet whispers that seem to come from the reflections themselves. It is almost as if the room wants to trap your soul, making it difficult to look away from the twisted versions of yourself staring back. The Martyrs believe this chamber cleanses the unworthy, but it feels more like a psychological trap.
It is night, about 63F(17C) degrees, There is a waxing gibbous moon.
Extra: An undead Dean, A failed Dean, A misshapen Dean, A crying Dean, A weak Dean
At the bottom, the stairway opens into the Hall of Reflection - a vast, echoing chamber lined with towering, warped mirrors of polished sapphire. These mirrors reflect distorted, unsettling versions of Dean, their surfaces rippling as if alive. Monstrous beasts, some, but many of them show him emaciated. Or twisted, malformed, crippled and weak. Some show his face wet with tears, others hold a trail of dead bodies behind him... wolves, slowly transforming back into their former selves. His wolves.
The dim light from floating orbs casts eerie shadows that shift unnaturally across the cold, stained stone floor. The hall feels thick with tension, as though something unseen is watching. Every reflection seems to move a fraction too slow, lingering just behind you, as if waiting for you to falter. The stillness is suffocating, the mirrors a constant, unsettling presence, hinting at the ancient, dark power that lingers in this forsaken place.
A voice comes through, declaring in a reedy voice, "Welcome to the Hall of Reflection... Dean. This chamber cleanses the unworthy... will you past the test? Or try to smash your way through, failing to rescue your man. That'd a poor mark of leadership, wouldn't it be?" They laugh - but perhaps there's a nervousness to it? No... no evil soliloquist would dare let fear show.
An undead Dean
Dean's appearance has taken on an eerie, vampiric quality, his once imposing frame now gaunt and emaciated. His skin is pallid, almost translucent, stretched tight over his bones, giving him an otherworldly, spectral appearance. His eyes, once vibrant moss-green, are now sunken and hollow, glowing with a ghostly red luminescence that hints at the thirst for something more than mere blood. His raven hair, lank and greasy, falls around his face in dark, unkempt strands, framing his sharp, angular features that seem more like a mask of hunger and despair. His lips, now thin and almost colorless, reveal elongated, pointed canines that glint faintly in the dim light. Dean's clothes cling to his skeletal frame, tattered and worn, adding to the impression that he has become a shadow of his former self - a pale, ravenous specter haunting the night.
A failed Dean
Dean stands amidst a nightmarish tableau of half-transformed werewolves, their bodies frozen in grotesque, unfinished states. The creatures are sprawled around him, their forms caught between human and beast - a tangle of fur, claws, and human limbs, their familiar faces twisted in silent, agonized snarls. Some are missing limbs, others have limbs elongated into misshapen, clawed appendages, and their eyes, wide and glassy, reflect a final, agonizing terror. Dean himself appears small and diminished against this grim scene, his own features marked by a haunted look. His clothes are torn, stained with blood and the dark, viscous fluid of the half-transformed bodies around him. The air is thick with the stench of death and decay, and the eerie silence is only broken by the occasional drip of blood pooling on the ground. Dean's expression is one of despondence and disbelief, his face pale and eyes a different sort of hollow, as he stands frozen amidst the chaos of the failed transformations.
A misshapen Dean
Dean's once powerful form is unsettlingly distorted, as if nature itself had faltered in shaping him. His limbs are uneven, one arm slightly longer than the other, his broad shoulders sloping at awkward angles, creating a sense of imbalance in his frame. His back is hunched, the curve unnatural, causing him to walk with a crooked gait that speaks of pain endured over years. His face is the most striking, marred by an asymmetry that draws the eye - a jaw too sharp on one side, too soft on the other, his nose slightly twisted, and one moss-green eye set higher than the other beneath uneven brows. The scars and bruises that once spoke of strength now seem exaggerated by his misshapen body, as if they're carved into a canvas that was flawed from the start. His presence, once commanding, now feels disjointed and wrong, like a shadow of what he was meant to be.
A crying Dean
Dean's usual stoic composure has crumbled, his sharp, moss-green eyes now rimmed red and glistening with unshed tears. His breath comes in shaky, uneven gasps as tears slip down his rugged, scarred cheeks, tracing the lines of old bruises. His raven hair clings damply to his face, and his strong jaw quivers as he struggles to hold back the sobs that threaten to break through. His broad shoulders are hunched, and his hands, normally so steady, cover his face in a futile attempt to hide the vulnerability overtaking him. The sight of him crying might evoke a feeling like watching something unbreakable shatter.
A weak Dean
Dean's once imposing figure now looks diminished, his tall, lean frame appearing gaunt and drained of its usual vitality. His raven hair, once wild and unkempt, hangs limply around his pale face, and the sharp intensity in his moss-green eyes has dulled, replaced by a tired, haunted look. The bruises and scars that used to speak of his resilience now seem to weigh heavily on him, his chiseled jawline tense with exhaustion. His clothes, once fitting snugly, now seem loose on his weakened body, and his calloused hands tremble faintly, a far cry from their former strength.
Had it been a truly intricate, stalwart puzzle in his way - it is very likely that Dean would have been stalled. Not only that, outright failed. His forte laid in brute force, of overwhelming power and prowess. An unbridled rage. Puzzles- not so much. And so, the hole he's made is widened. Spread open like he's carving his way in, remnants thrown over his shoulder, pieces scattered haphazard and uncared for. The descent, is just as vehement. The scent of blood no doubt draws him like a shark- the worst parts enhanced. The moon, as gibbous as it is, delivers the inkling, the beginning of a lunacy gripping into his very being.
It is embraced - Dean is ravenous within, and now, the closer he gets in his descent, it shows in the off-glint of his eyes. They're wide - too wide, and as his hand glides upon the smooth stone wall while he walks, at first nothing happens. Then sparks. Claws slowly jutting out from each digit, through a hand cracking, bones breaking - it is the herald of a transformation that's bound to erupt depending on how this goes - and it doesn't look like he cares in the slightest about bringing the whole place down.
When he's met with that expanse of a room, his eyes travel at the sight. The reflections, the creatures within - him and not, one and yet separate. Some starved, looking like rabid dogs, others, a myriad of creatures. One of them, in a distant mirror, catches his eye at once despite how unassuming it looks. It's a broken wolf, its maw split in half - by force from the look of it, torn by a cruel hand as it sputters blood, trying to stand like the rest, like him, but failing. That wipes any remnant sign or hint of mirth from his face, leaves it barren, devoid of anything but the look of a creature that smolders like wrath incaarnate. "Kill him if you want," The distance, the uncaring sound of his voice echoes. "It isn't about the guy - it's about the principle." The next set of words, they're a barely withheld, yet all the more fierce growl. "No one takes what's mine."
If not for his acute hearing, he'd be met by silence - then whispers. Whispers that all whisper things like "Help me, Dean!" or "Dean, no!" Some whisper, pathetically, "I trusted you...." Others are like faded screams, barely heard as words like "I loved you," tear from a great distance. One voice, cocky, whispers, "It's just business," while another, feminine one laughs, saying with cruelty, "Like. A. Dog."
The whispers tug and tear at him, pinching and jabbing. He can't punch words, he can't claw them, he can't tear them with his maw. The owners, yes, but here? Here, there are only voices, and they scrabble at him like hundreds of seeking, clawing hands. From tingling at his scalp to a heavy burden on his shoulders, down to scraty, grating whispers that slash at him in cold waves that he can feel down to his toes.
But through them, there's another whisper - this one isn't after him. He can't make it out... it's behind layers of stone - or gemstone. Only words come out, but they are truly delicious words. "...kill me... no, I'm not... him, let me... Joker. He's strong... busy?! Hey, where... hello? ...damn it all!" Frustration, pleading, compromise, anger, and then... ah, yes, despair. Despair, tainted with fear.
The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, but it comes into this room from an adjacent one. That much is clear.
No more words leave Dean - he's frozen in his tracks. Silenced, almost, with the assault of the echoes, the voices that burrow through his ear, under his skin. Dean's eyes actually close for once. That widened, wildened stare subdued in stillness, and an unforgiving stance that he takes. Without moving at all, not an inch. He's listening - to all the voices, to every word, and yet, it looks like he's searching a particular one. A crucial one. It isn't there. It can't be there. No, then, these are not his monsters.
Despite the onslaught, the frigid cold that seeps into his skin, Dean starts to smile. What follows is a radiance of emotion, a cascade of it. Wrathful fury, spreading its wicked tendrils through anything, everything, in cruel intent to seek, claim, wrap around like a wisp of a whisper that instills forceful trepidation to anything, anyone in the vicinity of him, if they're even there to watch their metal attack-- Something that, admittedly, Dean is very weak to.
That radiated, bonechilling horror - not of his own but drawn out of the very firmament that makes anything who they are.
He walks with the burden of everything seeping beneath his mask - and starts to speak. "I killed my first vampire with my bare hands when I was twelve." The first mirror then. He brings a hand to it, curls his fingers in, feels the weight of each digit digging in and spreading sprinkling scars and a spiderweb of cracks across the whole thing set where it is, until the jagged pieces begin to fall on their own. The words he spoke are clear; there were more - many, many more. In the turn of his head, despite hearing the voices from an adjacent room, he focuses on the next mirror - the one that cries. His words are snarled through a mouthful of oversized canids, words an echo. "Fucking pathethic. Do you think I'm human enough to be this miserable?"
Perhaps this was all a masterful trick, a puzzle. Perhaps they expected to keep him guessing, to break his bone on the gemstones, to make him bleed, to tire him out, to make him give up and go home. Or maybe they were clever, hoping to gain insight on his inner workings. As he faced each of these versions of him, would he share his secrets? Would he break down? Would he fail, his fist trembling, as the mirror captures what is left in his heart?
Maybe... but whether Dean figured out the puzzle, or whether he was lucky, it doesn't matter - the first one was the door. Your dark reflection, the one thing you are not, cannot be. The thing that is the most un*you* is the door that you must embrace. The vampire... and it falls to reveal a dark room, and within it - the smell of piss. Yes, urine, fresh - the man in there, that fearful voice, the nameless grunt left to guard the room - he's pissing his pants. How can he not? He's seen Dean, and he's *felt* that furious rage beating down on him, promising his doom, and has been baptised anew in the fear it laid upon him, born into terror. He knows that he's been *abandoned* here, and no one is coming to save him. And this? This is not someone's gangster boyfriend coming to save them - it's not even your every day Havenite super, embracing their blood for the first time in these streets.
No, this is a monster - a *true* monster. And this nameless fool knows it. He shoots, a pistol in shaking hands as he tries to put bullets - not even silver, the pathetic man - into Dean. He doesn't believe that they'll hit. But he at least has it in him to *try* to *shoot*, to keep his blood inside as he leans against a metal door.
There's a keypad besides it, but the light on it is blinking a dull red. Dean can read it just fine, with his vision - LOCKOUT PROCEDURE INITIATED. NO ENTRY.
Truly? Dean hadn't expected that. Puzzles are *not* his forte. He was really just going to go around smashing through every single reflection before breaking the walls, and the ceiling too until he got whoever was behind this. Save his man? Why the fuck would Dean care when the man isn't even another wolf. So, he's there, just by the new 'door' that opened up beneath shattered glass, with the Martyr inside quivering at a glimpse of the raw emotion that swims underneath Dean's skin. Green eyes turn slowly- and that gun shoots.
The bullet pierces the skin, Dean does bleed. And yet, it is a shallow, faint wound that he's inflicted with. Metal of the spent missile clatters to the floor from his shoulder and onto the floor. Then, that maw- mouth. His mouth splits open, a smile, sharp, keen, *eager*. Dean's hand finds their assaialant immediately by the scruff of his neck to pull him out, throw him to the floor onto the scattered pile of glass, and his boot falls above in the next breath. Set right at the nape of the man's neck, shoving his face into the ground- possibly even into the sharp pieces. "Where is he." There is nothing beyond a demand. Just the anticipated, certain knowledge of doom that'll befall his now-captive, previously-captor. Whether he complies, or not. Only thing that he offers leniency on is the severity; quick, or painful?
The man lies face down on the cold, shard-strewn floor of the chamber, his body shaking with fear and pain. Agony His breaths come in rapid, shallow gasps between bellowing screams, the breaths barely audible over the oppressive silence as the whispers fall silent. His fingers scrabble at the floor as if it might offer some solace, but instead, his palms are slick with sweat, leaving dark smudges on the ground - quickly joined with blood as his pawing rewards him with cuts and splinters.
His shoulders are hunched beneath Dean's boot, his back rigid with tension, and every muscle in his body trembles uncontrollably. His once-defiant posture in the face is now a crumpled reflection of his inner turmoil and terror. A low, guttural whimper escapes his lips, betraying the depth of his fear and desperation, and they turn to sobs. His face, pressed against the floor, is flushed with agony - the shards have gotten into his eyes, and he's writhing now, yet is trapped horizontally. His breaths come in ragged, uneven bursts, each one a reminder of the panic clawing at his chest, rising.
The room around him seems to reverberate with each scream, the shadows cast by the flickering light orbs stretching and shifting in a grotesque dance. The atmosphere is seems to beat, pulse, with every scream, and every sound - every sob, every whimper - feels amplified, as if built to amplify this man's dying scene.
As he struggles to respond, his voice cracks under the weight of his fear, barely more than a strained whisper. His attempts to speak are punctuated by moments of silence, where his body shakes with the effort to maintain any semblance of control. His resolve is crumbling, the last vestiges of his defiance slipping away as his mind battles with the overwhelming sensation of dread. "I can't - my duty. My martyr... I'm meant to - FUCK! I meant to die... but... not like this... not... please, the last chamber. The ritual hall - left, then right... please, just let me go...."
He begs for a life of blindness, and fear - no doubt on the run from the Martyrs for being a failure who could not manage the one thing the group is known for. He's a coward.
Dean's answer to all of that is simple. The tension upon the poor man's back relents as he peels his boot off of him and stands properly at the sobbing mess he's made. His smile has disappeared now - glaring at the man with the sheer intensity of his rage, contained, yet felt all the same in palpable fear bubbling out and frothing from within his victim. Slowly, Dean begins to crouch. Next to his target, that poor, poor martry now blinded. His fingers find his hair, curl in - pull. Elevate his face off the floor to stare at his face.
"I don't care if it is you, or someone else that does it. When the sun comes up, I want that man back at his station, working as he did - all limbs intact." His nose twitches beside the man's neck, then the cruel grasp ends. He's dropped back onto the floor, upon the jagged shards while Dean rises. "I have your scent." It's a laconic threat. That he can, and that he will find him - to do what's done to his employee tenfold, if not more. "Small price for your life." An angled kick with his boot strikes the Martyr on his side, flips him over to land his back on the ground instead - spare him the pain of enduring sharp pieces in his face for much longer. "If you and your lot fuck with me again, I'm going to uproot every single Martyr in Haven."
Dean says nothing else. Does nothing else. Power is shown in dominance - and he inflicts it cruelly. The act of forcing them to return what's his is just as much of a play, despite the thing inside that howls at him. Desperate to tear through the man, devour him whole - literally. Dean fights that will, the corrupter side of him. Pays it little mind in some distraction, while he starts to walk away - leave the way he came with his footsteps echoing away, further and further away every time with due diligence in his distant disinterest returning to replace the genuine mask of rage with its mask of aloof nonchalance.
Dean will never know how the man did it - after all, a man so lowly as to be locked alone against Dean surely does not have much sway... and yet, the next time Dean comes into The Alley - given some hours, at least - he's back to work. He's been in an accident, he feels... he doesn't even remember getting out of the hospital. He has some bruises, but his wounds are stitched, his memories erased, and his body cleansed of any trace of offending scents. At least, they try.
That man, eyes pulled from his skull, is found later. Perhaps Dean comes across it himself, the corpse staked in the Moore woods near the trailer park - not a warning, but an offering. Or perhaps he sees it on the news, as he drinks in the bar. Along with several missing names and faces... it seems that more than one person was needed for this ritual - and yet, it must not have been successful, for the sun has risen in Haven, and it will set - just as it was meant to. People are taken, people are killed. There's horror aplenty, and people die. This is, after all, Haven.
And yet, Dean's mark is felt on the town. The people who go missing tend to not go to - or be kidnapped from - the Alley. The path he leaves in his wake - blood, destruction, bruises, fear - also opens his path before him. Slow. Unyielding. Unstoppable. Inevitable.
Only one of these is untrue, but that's a tale for another day, another dark Haven night.