Encounterlogs
Elijahs Odd Encounter Sr Raina 250419
The small, utilitarian cabin serves as the backdrop for Elijah's unexpected involvement in a supernatural occurrence. Amidst a convergence of characters ranging from the sardonic Sylas, a military veteran, to the disheveled Poppy, and the wind-tossed Loralia, a ghostly figure manifesting as an elderly man initiates a peculiar session of storytelling and counseling. The man reveals a poignant regret over his inability to aid his granddaughter during a crucial time in her life, seeking solace or perhaps forgiveness from the group of strangers. Despite the varying degrees of skepticism and blunt advice offered by each individual, it becomes apparent that this spectral visitor seeks not only to unburden his sorrow but also to impart a lesson on the living.
The narrative concludes as the ghostly figure finds a measure of peace through the group's responses, however unorthodox they may be. The barriers of isolation, both physical and metaphysical, dissolve, leaving the participants to reflect on the encounter. The figure’s disappearance brings an end to the supernatural lockdown, offering everyone a chance to return to their lives, albeit slightly altered by the experience. This odd encounter within the cabin punctuates a moment of introspection among the characters, challenging them to consider the weight of regrets, the importance of facing one's shortcomings, and the unexpected moments of connection that can emerge in the most unusual circumstances.
(Elijah's odd encounter(SRRaina):SRRaina)
[Fri Apr 18 2025]
In A Sleek, Modern Cabin.
This utilitarian cabin has been outfitted with dark wooden panelling and a lush, crimson-patterned carpet, adorned with swirls and thorns. To the northern wall is a simple, compact kitchenette, complete with a fridge, hob-topped oven and sink. Just off to the side is a single-person table and stool, a little bare for eating.
At the southern wall is a clusterfuck of a workshop. A mixture of tailoring needles, machines and material is divided on one side. The other is a variety of reloading equipment, gun-maintenance tools and magazines, contrasting the bright, vibrant hues of the clothier's things.
The eastern wall is what little of a living area as you could. A dark-leather corner-couch dominates most of the space, centred with a coffee table and draped with a few crocheted blankets. And above that is what looks like to be the top half of a bunk, nailed to the wall. Overall, the space in this cabin has been min-maxed to what could be considered some sort of 'perfection'. A living space for one without much claustrophobia.
It is morning, about 53F(11C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by grey clouds.
(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.
)
Poppy paused in their banter at the sound of his name. "Silas? I knew a guy with that name before, asshole is in the military now though," she huffs as if it's not a pleasant thought. "Listen copper, just cause swallowing is your hobby doesnt mean I want to hear about it."
The wind had been murmuring warnings for days, but now it screamed. It came in great howling gusts, flinging itself between the trees like a furious beast, yanking at shutters, snapping lines, rattling every pane of glass it could reach. The sky, once heavy with an unbroken grey, had descended into a chaotic maelstrom-clouds torn like gauze, bruised with green and yellow undertones that whispered of worse to come. The rain no longer fell but blasted sideways in sheets, riding the storms breath, stinging against windows and siding like a barrage of needles. Somewhere, a screen door banged furiously, refusing to be silenced.
The town had been quiet in the days leading up to the storm. Too quiet. No birds. No crickets. Even the dogs seemed to know. The air had thickened, soupy with pressure, the scent of ozone and salt hanging like a promise in every breath. When the sky finally cracked open, it was not with thunder but with a long, groaning exhale-as though the world itself were bracing for what would come next.
The streets, slick with early rain, had been stripped of their casual order. Flowerpots lay shattered on porches, their contents flung across railings and steps. Yard decorations spun wildly or simply vanished. Garbage cans rattled and tipped, rolling along driveways, spilling their guts into puddles. Leaves and branches formed chaotic spirals along the roads, as if some erratic artist had taken to the asphalt with a brush dipped in wet green and brown. The trees-great, aged things-bent under the weight of the wind, their roots groaning in protest. A few succumbed, crashing sideways into fences or across seldom-used paths, their ancient limbs torn open like wounds.
Power flickered all morning. By afternoon it was gone entirely, and with it went the hum of life that often hides beneath silence. No refrigerators murmuring. No televisions flickering. Just the steady pulse of the storm outside, and the nervous shifting of houses creaking on their foundations. Generators coughed to life in some homes, their low rumbles fighting for dominance with the wind, but even they sounded reluctant-mechanical beasts afraid of the fury outside.
Roof shingles flew like confetti. Some tore free with a violent clatter, others vanished without ceremony, carried away by invisible hands. Gutters overflowed, spilling water in chaotic waterfalls that battered down shrubs and turned tidy paths into muddy trenches. At one corner, an old wooden sign wobbled, swung, then split in half with a hollow crack, one side landing flat in a rain-slicked lawn, the other flying somewhere unseen.
The ocean, never far from the towns edge, had risen in indignation. Though it did not breach its boundaries in great catastrophic waves, it pushed its fingers forward with every gust-licking at the base of coastal trees, flooding small wooden docks, and hurling brackish water up the storm drains. The harbor had become a warzone of mooring lines and bobbing hulls, small boats straining desperately against their bonds. A few, untethered, had already vanished into the storms embrace.
Overhead, the streetlights flickered once, twice, then gave up. The world slipped into a premature twilight, lit only by the occasional flash of lightning-stark, sharp, revealing the skeletons of the trees and the bones of buildings stripped bare by the wind. Each bolt seemed to stop time. In those moments, the town looked ancient and unfamiliar, like something from a black-and-white photograph, a moment caught in a nightmare.
Sirens wailed in the distance, but they sounded muted, swallowed by the wind. Whether they marked danger or assistance was unclear, and maybe it didnt matter. Everyone was already inside. Doors bolted. Windows taped. Radios chattering between stations. Somewhere beneath the thunder and the rain, a car alarm cried out like a wounded animal, its voice rising and falling in a hopeless loop until silence devoured it again.
Yards that had once been neatly trimmed and lined now resembled wild patches of forest. Hedges had been stripped to their branches, fences had toppled in domino-like lines, and the scattered remnants of patio furniture lay embedded in gardens, their forms twisted and contorted like metal sculptures made in a fit of rage. A plastic childs toy car bobbed in the rising water of a roadside ditch, its bright red shell dulled by rain, as if trying to escape the scene altogether.
The storm did not let up. It pressed down on the town with a terrible patience, as if determined to take its time. The wind howled not just through trees and wires but through chimneys and attics, finding its way inside like an uninvited guest. Every rattle, every bang, every thud from outside became a test of nerve. Was that just a branch? Was that the roof? A doorframe groaned as if answering, wood bending slightly, nails popping in protest.
Rain pooled along the flat roofs, poured in torrents off pitched ones, and began seeping into cracks long ignored. Basements, dark and cold, began to fill with trickling water, the kind that whispered rather than roared-sneaky, persistent. Buckets and towels were deployed with frantic energy, but still the water came. From below, from the sides, from within. No one was entirely dry anymore.
Somewhere in the center of town, a row of planters had been flung across a parking lot, their contents smeared in wide brown arcs. Trees along the main drag had dropped their lesser limbs, but a few held on stubbornly, swinging their heavy branches like fists. A stop sign twisted on its post, no longer facing the road but turned toward the wind, as if offering some silent challenge. In an alley, an umbrella turned inside out lay crumpled like a dead insect.
The grocery store had closed early, its windows boarded in haste, but the awning still fluttered wildly, one corner t
Sylas stands up and begins to crack his knuckles and rolling that neck, "Was, I was in the Military you sassy karen."
Elijah makes his way into into the sleepy dragon web cafe (Where this is actually taking place, ignore the room name), hands hooked into the lapels of his puffy "POLICE" stenciled jacket. "Sylas" The man greets Sylas in a professional voice, his face almost entirely hidden by his big bushy chevron mustache, and the large aviators on his face. He eyes the chaos gremlin Sylas was talking to for a moment, or at least you would assume he was, his eyes were, still, hidden by those aviators. "Friend of yours?" Elijah asks Sylas, still looking at Poppy
Poppy tilts her head. "No fucking way- Silas?! You're a fucking pig now?" she gasps, as if this was a horror scene. "It's Poppy! What, do you not recognize me or something?" she pops out of her seat waving her hands. Obviously she looked different now. The sweet girl of the past was disheveled, a hint of nonsense in her aura. Poppy flickers her gaze to Elijah as well. "Ew. There's more of you."
Sylas saunters over towards Elijah like he owns not just this place but the whole fuckin town, he gives him a familiar up nod, adjusting those MIB stylized shades, while pulling on his shirt that was loud and proud, "Nope, just a battle-axe that won't shut the fuck up." Clearly this man used curse words as sentence enhancers.
mostly to take shelter from the infernal wind, Loralia wanders into the cafe in a cloud of dust, wind, and debris. cursing colorfully, the woman takes in the others at a glance, before sauntering over to an unoccupied booth.
There might of been a hint of recognition in the man's face as Poppy reveals her name "Hey, it's that, uh-" He pauses for a moment trying to remember the name he'd just been told as he taps the back of his knuckles against the man's chest and then gestures to the girl with the same hand "-that poppy kid. We knew her before we left for boot." Elijah tells him, looking back over to Poppy with a frown hidden mostly by the 'stache "... You sure look different now, what happened to ya kid?" Elijah asks. A glance is given over his shoulder at the chaos Loralia was bringing in with her. "You alright, sweetheart?" The man asks in a proffesional voice, holding out a hand hold her upper arm for a moment to steady her from her stumbling
somewhere in haven, there is always odd happenings going on within this place, apparently supernatural things happen within this place every now and again, with a group slowly gathering at one of these rather odd supernatural happenings, at a cafe everything seems rather idyllic, even if the place is currently empty due to how early it opened but as the air suddenly dropped a few degrees, the doors violently shut and the window blinds shutters shut and candles no before seen lit up, a lone person unidentifiable sat there on the dining table, their hands placed ontop of the table in a relaxed manner, looks up at the group and simply said "do sit, the doors are locked shut, i just want to talk for a moment if possible..." they seem to address the group who has gathered here today, maybe best that the group heed its instructions and get comfortable or the might not be able to leave, still the being is patiently waiting, it isnt demanding anything of them yet.
"Ready for this bullshit to end already." Loralia sighs, straightening. there a quick nod of thanks shot to Elijah, while the woman attempts to straighten her disheveled appearance the best she is able. "Oh for fuck's...." she trails off, before taking a seat, eyes on the recently materialized figure. "Very dramatic." she adds, mostly as an afterthought.
Sylas shoves his hands into his pockets and quirks an eyebrow, giving Poppy a good once over, his gaze which was hidden behind polarized lenses lingering a bit too long on her rack, before he gives a simple, "Huh," that rocks his chest as if to reject the idea, "Yeah right, Poppy was ban-gable, you, you look like a rat crawled out a dumpster." He bluntly states as if giving the obvious a proper throttle, only to have his attention drawn to the voice, "Yeah, what's got you itchen for a convo? Need a friend, lonely, can't get it up? I'm not help line, let a lone an escort, but I'll hear you out. I've got about this much time." He makes a circular motion and takes a sit near the man.
"Not a kid, just a partially functioning member of society. Not surprised this fucktard has a bad memory. Probably got a few boots to the face- hey-" Poppy attempts to tug her grabbed arm free from Elijah. "I don't help from badge boys. You'll probably try to trick me into confessing stuff- that I totally didn't do- oh hey look over at that weird stranger," she quickly points, taking the weird lights and man as an escape plan.
"Poppy ... That's ..." Elijah grumbles under his breath, but doesn't seem to find the right words. He looks over as the strange man appears, and noting Sylas's sass he softly reminds the man "It's our job to protect and serve." under his breath as he walks past the man to pull out a chair at the table and sitting down next to Loralia who had already sat down down. "What's troubling you, sir?" Elijah greets the man professionally, lacing his hands in front of him on the table and sitting up straight. "Do you have something to report?" Elijah asks the man
Poppy slides her eyes back to Sylas, pointing to Elijah. "Who is thay guy anyways? I don't recall a knowing a dude with a mustache." she quips.
Poppy flinches from such an uncovering. "What? How'd he become such a stick in the mud?" she practically complains, fidgeting with her bag. "Hm.. you know. This might work in my benefit actually. Everyone knoes police play by favoritism rules... yesss..."
"indeed i am quite dramatic miss..." the figure said with a slight smile at Loralia as she sat down, it seems the being rather appreciated that, looking around to Sylas who also sat down and actually seems to want to talk to the figure also made the figure smile a little "correct mr, i am quite lonely i do not have much friends to listen to me anymore afterall..." it said to Sylas as it, seems to shuffle around on its seat to get a little bit more comfortable...even if no one can actually see their face in this dim lighting, nor discern their voice at all, they look at Poppy and just beckons them to sit "do take a seat, it wont be long miss, listen to this old persons story for a bit" they said in a kind somewhat frail tone, possibly a bit disappointed that Poppy wanted to leave so soon then finally they look at Elijah and smiled, finally their features becomes more and more clear an older gentleman likely in his sixties sat at the table with them, he replied to Elijah who seems to be asking if he is in any trouble as such "i am not here to report much of anything, other than for someone to hear out my woes a little bit, if you all do not mind will you listen to this old mans story and give him some advice?" he said, as he didnt wait for much of a reply "i...had a grand daughter, a sweet child, really she would be about your age now if she was still around, i want to ask if it was right of me, to give up on her during her hour of need, when i was unable to support myself during that time...was it correct of me, to leave her to her fate while i dealt with my issues, which in hindsight was not such a huge problem compared to her life?"
"Justice is blind." Elijah tells Poppy, looking at her behind aviators so dark he probably was blind himself too. As Elijah looks at the man's features coming in detail he visibly stiffens up just a little. As always, no expression visible on his steely face "... I'm sorry for your loss." Elijah tells the man, though there's no discernible emotion in his voice, the professional distance he was keeping perhaps a little cold for this context. "I can't talk not knowing the context though, sir." Elijah refuses to comment, how boring
"Uhh." Loralia blinks over to the man several times, before blue eyes take in the other 3 occupants. she shrugs her shoulders as she returns to the man. "It's happened, What're you gonna do bout it? People fuck each other over a lot anyway."
"Aaah.. what the hell. The door are locked, might as well hear some old people wisdom," Poppy shrugs, coming closer to the weird figure that's apparently taken all of us hostage. "Eh, are you guys even listening? Obviously man you already know the right answer here, you stink of regret. Just own it, instead of asking strangers to confirm it for you. Atone for you sins or some shit like that"
Sylas turns to face Poppy, hands splayed on the counter, as he wretches back and scoffs, "And when did you become such a mega bitch?" He question short lived as he looks back to the elderly 'thing' and focuses his attention, "You gonna get to the point grampa, grandma? I can't really tell. Either way, Elijah and I can help if you've got a complaint, if not enjoy Haven, it's storms are to die for..." He quips only to settle his eyes on Loralia and wiggles those brows.
without missing a beat, Loralia flips Sylas the bird for the storms are to die for comment, the woman still having not managed to get much dust or debris out of her clothing. she returns to the spirit however. a certain frankness to the woman's expression despite the rather blunt words.
"the context huh, well i suppose it would be right to tell you since you are listening to my story, you see she has gotten herself into trouble, some sort of debt to someone, at the time i didnt particularly understand why she was so desperate to need money so quickly but i turned her away, promising to help her later because of my own problems dealing with someone who wanted my house sold to them, it was rather shortsighted of me, but that house held sentimental value to me and i was blinded by that...by the time i had done settling matters on that end, it was too late and the rest was history" the old man said, he gave Elijah the context and turned to look at the rest from their replies "correct, we do 'fuck eachother over' but i am unable to accept that as an answer truly...atleast not for the moment" he replied to Loralia patiently, seems to be understanding that he is actually holding them all hostage to listen to his woes possibly why nothing else is happening right now other than the slight chilly air and dim lightning, he turns to look at poppy and with a tired smile "if i could, i already would, but the old and withered will never truly make their regrets...go away" and finally Sylas "old man would be fitting mr, as for complaints...well it is too late to give any, other than do clean up the streets some more if you can" he said and looks at the group again "well i would love to hear a proper answer, if any, i will not hold you all hostage here for any longer seeing as all of you have lives to live..."
Elijah watches the interaction between Loralia and Sylas with all the humor off a sack of dirt before looking back to the man as he continues to talk. "I'm not certified to give legal advice, sir." Elijah cuts in as the man starts talking about house and money topics "If you want professional advice, I would suggest you solicit a lawyer or a financial expert with the relevant qualifications." Elijah tells the man, face steely and unfeeling, almost entirely hidden behind the aviators and the mustache both.
Sylas crosses his arms and waves his hand in protest at the old man's suggestion of cleaning up the streets, he just looks to Elijah and offers him a half hearted shrug, seemingly having nothing to left say, and just waiting out the nightmare outside of piss, flying objects, and being blown around like some tumble weed.
"Not a bitch Silas, it's called being realistic. That old man is drowning, and if I learned anything from forced community therapy the first step in facing your fears is robbing them, or something like that," Poppy explains clearly. She leans in to clasp the old man on the shoulder. "Some people just suck, and that's okay. If you surround yourself with people that suck more than you, your regret will feel so minor in comparison. It's all about perspective," she gives some solid advice.
lets her gaze drift to the locked door, the woman attempting to determine if it can be worked, but at the spirit's words, she returns to them. Her shoulders lift. "The Officer had the right of it. If ya can't, move on." the words are as gentle as the brusk new yorker drawl can allow Loralia.
"hmm ahahaha...well i supose all of you have a point, you are free to leave, though the dead cant really get lawyers or be around people any longer, do take care of yourself youngsters, afterall unlike me you have more life in all of you" saying that the man slowly dissipates into nothingness, it seems he is placated maybe he just wanted someone to listen to his woes or maybe he just needed to hear out some advice, either way the shutters open and the mysterious candles disappear with him, along with the doors being unlocked, everyone can go do their daily lives again, whatever may that be and thus ends the odd encounter with a supernatural incident.
(Your target is abducted in their sleep, waking up alone in a locked room. They need to either escape or draw attention to them so their allies can come and provide assistance.
)
Idly flips through channels upon the flat screen, while shooting the ocasional glance to the window. the apartment is quiet, too quiet, for Loralia's preference, subconsciously, she finds herself tensing, yet cannot explain why. muttering something about paranoia being a bitch, she deliberately lets herself relax, and attempt to focus on
The howling of wind and sharp slap of rain outside on the windows creating a rhythmic thundering background, and the low hum from the kitchen nearby serve as a droning ambience for the small apartment. Static blurs the TV occasionally, sound spurting out like the last gushes of blood from a dying man's body. The room is lit by the occasional flash of lightning, the drumroll of thunder briefly eclipsing every other sound every now and again. Its warm inside, without the biting cold of the wrathful winds just on the other side of the apartment walls. A book, left out at some point, lies forgotten and abandoned on the table, open to a page displaying a glorious knight engaged in a chivalrous duel with another armor clad figure. More and more static flickers across the TV, a sharp voice cutting the air as the TV settles for a moment. "Reports of nine dead and fifteen wounded..." Next channel. Static. Next channel. "We're on to the road to Rhode Island..." That one sung by a football headed baby and a dog, how strange. Next channel. "One of the last.... piece... we... ssssssss." The last bit dissolves into sudden static, even worse then before, and then... The TV has gone completely black. In the flash of another lightning bolt outside, something flickers across the screen. A shadow, there and gone again before Loralia can get a good look... a person, maybe? But its gone now, leaving just the blank screen in its wake, a line wavering across it as it tries to regain a connection. A gust of wind strikes Loralia as the door is slammed shut by the storm outside. How did it get open? Loralia is sure she closed it... right? The apartment, her home, once safe and comfortable now feels somehow... off. Its like Loralia is standing at the edge of a pit of angry vipers... and the bridge she's about to walk onto is not there. A thump, quiet, quick. A footstep? But if Loralia were to turn... nothing but the silent apartment. Is the storm getting to her? Maybe. But... what if its not? What if? What if? What... if... Another shadow flickers across the screen, and this time, its a clear reflection of a tall, spindly figure looming behind Loralia. But again... when Loralia turns, as an immediate reaction to this strange thing that a normal person might have... nothing. Just the apartment. Just jumping at shadows. Just... Just... And then... A sharp pain stabs into Loralia's neck. Over her stands a towering shadow, at least 7... 8... 9... is it growing? It must be... so tired... so... very... tired... A raspy voice speaks, as if from underwater as Loralia's consciousness begins to fade. "Another Angel. Perfect pickins." The rough laugh that follows is distorted. Everything is simultaneously so close, and yet... so far away... Loralia is falling... falling... falling... ... ... Then... The harsh lighting is the first thing Loralia sees when her eyes reopen. The faint crackling hum of them a grating roar in Loralia's ears. Everything feels so fuzzy. Foggy. Loralia is still groggy, but by now lucid enough to look around if she wishes to. Underneath her, the hard floor is made of bare concrete. Loralia is tied down with very flimsy looking zip ties. The room she's in appears to be a large box, cubed, with lights crackling away and blinding Loralia with their glare above. Metal rings, inset into the ground, hold anchors for the ties that bind Loralia. Set into each corner, the blinking lights of cameras are aimed straight down at Loralia, and above, a speaker is set into the center of the ceiling. On one wall stands a large, reinforced metal door with a keypad next to it. At Loralia's feet, is a small box. As Loralia begins to awaken, the speaker crackles to life... "Wakey wakey little birdie!" The raspy voice from before blares out from the speaker in a singsongy tone. "Welcome to your new home. Unless, of course, you can win my little game, my beautiful little bird." There's a manical, broken laugh that grinds against Loralia's eardrums before the voice continues. "At your feet is a box. Inside, there is something that will help you get out of here alive. If you can find it... I'll let you fly free, little bird. If you fail... Well, I'm told Angels sell for a pretty penny in all sorts of trafficking organizations. Slaves... feeding dolls... pleasure servants..." A pause. "Or I could keep you for my own devices, little birdie. You may begin when your ready, my pretty bird. Good luck. Your gonna need it! Hehehahehahehaheheheha!!!" The last bit trails off into cackling, insane laughter...
not to panic is the first lesson learnt within the mob. eyes narrowed to slits against the harsh glare, Loralia takes in her surroundings as best she can, while a flex of her hands test the zip ties binding her hands. "ya need better technology, asshole." she mutters, her own voice sounding far away. First thing, Invintory. Loralia doesn't have much on her that would be considered important, but for her phone and katar. she pouts up in the camera's general direction. "ya call it a game, and don't even mention rules? c'mon, ya can do better than that?" austensibly, the woman attempts to keep the watcher's attention upon her face, her visible right hand as she attempts to wiggle out of her ties. meanwhile, her left hand attempts to locate the Katar at the side of her pants.
The narrative concludes as the ghostly figure finds a measure of peace through the group's responses, however unorthodox they may be. The barriers of isolation, both physical and metaphysical, dissolve, leaving the participants to reflect on the encounter. The figure’s disappearance brings an end to the supernatural lockdown, offering everyone a chance to return to their lives, albeit slightly altered by the experience. This odd encounter within the cabin punctuates a moment of introspection among the characters, challenging them to consider the weight of regrets, the importance of facing one's shortcomings, and the unexpected moments of connection that can emerge in the most unusual circumstances.
(Elijah's odd encounter(SRRaina):SRRaina)
[Fri Apr 18 2025]
In A Sleek, Modern Cabin.
This utilitarian cabin has been outfitted with dark wooden panelling and a lush, crimson-patterned carpet, adorned with swirls and thorns. To the northern wall is a simple, compact kitchenette, complete with a fridge, hob-topped oven and sink. Just off to the side is a single-person table and stool, a little bare for eating.
At the southern wall is a clusterfuck of a workshop. A mixture of tailoring needles, machines and material is divided on one side. The other is a variety of reloading equipment, gun-maintenance tools and magazines, contrasting the bright, vibrant hues of the clothier's things.
The eastern wall is what little of a living area as you could. A dark-leather corner-couch dominates most of the space, centred with a coffee table and draped with a few crocheted blankets. And above that is what looks like to be the top half of a bunk, nailed to the wall. Overall, the space in this cabin has been min-maxed to what could be considered some sort of 'perfection'. A living space for one without much claustrophobia.
It is morning, about 53F(11C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by grey clouds.
(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.
)
Poppy paused in their banter at the sound of his name. "Silas? I knew a guy with that name before, asshole is in the military now though," she huffs as if it's not a pleasant thought. "Listen copper, just cause swallowing is your hobby doesnt mean I want to hear about it."
The wind had been murmuring warnings for days, but now it screamed. It came in great howling gusts, flinging itself between the trees like a furious beast, yanking at shutters, snapping lines, rattling every pane of glass it could reach. The sky, once heavy with an unbroken grey, had descended into a chaotic maelstrom-clouds torn like gauze, bruised with green and yellow undertones that whispered of worse to come. The rain no longer fell but blasted sideways in sheets, riding the storms breath, stinging against windows and siding like a barrage of needles. Somewhere, a screen door banged furiously, refusing to be silenced.
The town had been quiet in the days leading up to the storm. Too quiet. No birds. No crickets. Even the dogs seemed to know. The air had thickened, soupy with pressure, the scent of ozone and salt hanging like a promise in every breath. When the sky finally cracked open, it was not with thunder but with a long, groaning exhale-as though the world itself were bracing for what would come next.
The streets, slick with early rain, had been stripped of their casual order. Flowerpots lay shattered on porches, their contents flung across railings and steps. Yard decorations spun wildly or simply vanished. Garbage cans rattled and tipped, rolling along driveways, spilling their guts into puddles. Leaves and branches formed chaotic spirals along the roads, as if some erratic artist had taken to the asphalt with a brush dipped in wet green and brown. The trees-great, aged things-bent under the weight of the wind, their roots groaning in protest. A few succumbed, crashing sideways into fences or across seldom-used paths, their ancient limbs torn open like wounds.
Power flickered all morning. By afternoon it was gone entirely, and with it went the hum of life that often hides beneath silence. No refrigerators murmuring. No televisions flickering. Just the steady pulse of the storm outside, and the nervous shifting of houses creaking on their foundations. Generators coughed to life in some homes, their low rumbles fighting for dominance with the wind, but even they sounded reluctant-mechanical beasts afraid of the fury outside.
Roof shingles flew like confetti. Some tore free with a violent clatter, others vanished without ceremony, carried away by invisible hands. Gutters overflowed, spilling water in chaotic waterfalls that battered down shrubs and turned tidy paths into muddy trenches. At one corner, an old wooden sign wobbled, swung, then split in half with a hollow crack, one side landing flat in a rain-slicked lawn, the other flying somewhere unseen.
The ocean, never far from the towns edge, had risen in indignation. Though it did not breach its boundaries in great catastrophic waves, it pushed its fingers forward with every gust-licking at the base of coastal trees, flooding small wooden docks, and hurling brackish water up the storm drains. The harbor had become a warzone of mooring lines and bobbing hulls, small boats straining desperately against their bonds. A few, untethered, had already vanished into the storms embrace.
Overhead, the streetlights flickered once, twice, then gave up. The world slipped into a premature twilight, lit only by the occasional flash of lightning-stark, sharp, revealing the skeletons of the trees and the bones of buildings stripped bare by the wind. Each bolt seemed to stop time. In those moments, the town looked ancient and unfamiliar, like something from a black-and-white photograph, a moment caught in a nightmare.
Sirens wailed in the distance, but they sounded muted, swallowed by the wind. Whether they marked danger or assistance was unclear, and maybe it didnt matter. Everyone was already inside. Doors bolted. Windows taped. Radios chattering between stations. Somewhere beneath the thunder and the rain, a car alarm cried out like a wounded animal, its voice rising and falling in a hopeless loop until silence devoured it again.
Yards that had once been neatly trimmed and lined now resembled wild patches of forest. Hedges had been stripped to their branches, fences had toppled in domino-like lines, and the scattered remnants of patio furniture lay embedded in gardens, their forms twisted and contorted like metal sculptures made in a fit of rage. A plastic childs toy car bobbed in the rising water of a roadside ditch, its bright red shell dulled by rain, as if trying to escape the scene altogether.
The storm did not let up. It pressed down on the town with a terrible patience, as if determined to take its time. The wind howled not just through trees and wires but through chimneys and attics, finding its way inside like an uninvited guest. Every rattle, every bang, every thud from outside became a test of nerve. Was that just a branch? Was that the roof? A doorframe groaned as if answering, wood bending slightly, nails popping in protest.
Rain pooled along the flat roofs, poured in torrents off pitched ones, and began seeping into cracks long ignored. Basements, dark and cold, began to fill with trickling water, the kind that whispered rather than roared-sneaky, persistent. Buckets and towels were deployed with frantic energy, but still the water came. From below, from the sides, from within. No one was entirely dry anymore.
Somewhere in the center of town, a row of planters had been flung across a parking lot, their contents smeared in wide brown arcs. Trees along the main drag had dropped their lesser limbs, but a few held on stubbornly, swinging their heavy branches like fists. A stop sign twisted on its post, no longer facing the road but turned toward the wind, as if offering some silent challenge. In an alley, an umbrella turned inside out lay crumpled like a dead insect.
The grocery store had closed early, its windows boarded in haste, but the awning still fluttered wildly, one corner t
Sylas stands up and begins to crack his knuckles and rolling that neck, "Was, I was in the Military you sassy karen."
Elijah makes his way into into the sleepy dragon web cafe (Where this is actually taking place, ignore the room name), hands hooked into the lapels of his puffy "POLICE" stenciled jacket. "Sylas" The man greets Sylas in a professional voice, his face almost entirely hidden by his big bushy chevron mustache, and the large aviators on his face. He eyes the chaos gremlin Sylas was talking to for a moment, or at least you would assume he was, his eyes were, still, hidden by those aviators. "Friend of yours?" Elijah asks Sylas, still looking at Poppy
Poppy tilts her head. "No fucking way- Silas?! You're a fucking pig now?" she gasps, as if this was a horror scene. "It's Poppy! What, do you not recognize me or something?" she pops out of her seat waving her hands. Obviously she looked different now. The sweet girl of the past was disheveled, a hint of nonsense in her aura. Poppy flickers her gaze to Elijah as well. "Ew. There's more of you."
Sylas saunters over towards Elijah like he owns not just this place but the whole fuckin town, he gives him a familiar up nod, adjusting those MIB stylized shades, while pulling on his shirt that was loud and proud, "Nope, just a battle-axe that won't shut the fuck up." Clearly this man used curse words as sentence enhancers.
mostly to take shelter from the infernal wind, Loralia wanders into the cafe in a cloud of dust, wind, and debris. cursing colorfully, the woman takes in the others at a glance, before sauntering over to an unoccupied booth.
There might of been a hint of recognition in the man's face as Poppy reveals her name "Hey, it's that, uh-" He pauses for a moment trying to remember the name he'd just been told as he taps the back of his knuckles against the man's chest and then gestures to the girl with the same hand "-that poppy kid. We knew her before we left for boot." Elijah tells him, looking back over to Poppy with a frown hidden mostly by the 'stache "... You sure look different now, what happened to ya kid?" Elijah asks. A glance is given over his shoulder at the chaos Loralia was bringing in with her. "You alright, sweetheart?" The man asks in a proffesional voice, holding out a hand hold her upper arm for a moment to steady her from her stumbling
somewhere in haven, there is always odd happenings going on within this place, apparently supernatural things happen within this place every now and again, with a group slowly gathering at one of these rather odd supernatural happenings, at a cafe everything seems rather idyllic, even if the place is currently empty due to how early it opened but as the air suddenly dropped a few degrees, the doors violently shut and the window blinds shutters shut and candles no before seen lit up, a lone person unidentifiable sat there on the dining table, their hands placed ontop of the table in a relaxed manner, looks up at the group and simply said "do sit, the doors are locked shut, i just want to talk for a moment if possible..." they seem to address the group who has gathered here today, maybe best that the group heed its instructions and get comfortable or the might not be able to leave, still the being is patiently waiting, it isnt demanding anything of them yet.
"Ready for this bullshit to end already." Loralia sighs, straightening. there a quick nod of thanks shot to Elijah, while the woman attempts to straighten her disheveled appearance the best she is able. "Oh for fuck's...." she trails off, before taking a seat, eyes on the recently materialized figure. "Very dramatic." she adds, mostly as an afterthought.
Sylas shoves his hands into his pockets and quirks an eyebrow, giving Poppy a good once over, his gaze which was hidden behind polarized lenses lingering a bit too long on her rack, before he gives a simple, "Huh," that rocks his chest as if to reject the idea, "Yeah right, Poppy was ban-gable, you, you look like a rat crawled out a dumpster." He bluntly states as if giving the obvious a proper throttle, only to have his attention drawn to the voice, "Yeah, what's got you itchen for a convo? Need a friend, lonely, can't get it up? I'm not help line, let a lone an escort, but I'll hear you out. I've got about this much time." He makes a circular motion and takes a sit near the man.
"Not a kid, just a partially functioning member of society. Not surprised this fucktard has a bad memory. Probably got a few boots to the face- hey-" Poppy attempts to tug her grabbed arm free from Elijah. "I don't help from badge boys. You'll probably try to trick me into confessing stuff- that I totally didn't do- oh hey look over at that weird stranger," she quickly points, taking the weird lights and man as an escape plan.
"Poppy ... That's ..." Elijah grumbles under his breath, but doesn't seem to find the right words. He looks over as the strange man appears, and noting Sylas's sass he softly reminds the man "It's our job to protect and serve." under his breath as he walks past the man to pull out a chair at the table and sitting down next to Loralia who had already sat down down. "What's troubling you, sir?" Elijah greets the man professionally, lacing his hands in front of him on the table and sitting up straight. "Do you have something to report?" Elijah asks the man
Poppy slides her eyes back to Sylas, pointing to Elijah. "Who is thay guy anyways? I don't recall a knowing a dude with a mustache." she quips.
Poppy flinches from such an uncovering. "What? How'd he become such a stick in the mud?" she practically complains, fidgeting with her bag. "Hm.. you know. This might work in my benefit actually. Everyone knoes police play by favoritism rules... yesss..."
"indeed i am quite dramatic miss..." the figure said with a slight smile at Loralia as she sat down, it seems the being rather appreciated that, looking around to Sylas who also sat down and actually seems to want to talk to the figure also made the figure smile a little "correct mr, i am quite lonely i do not have much friends to listen to me anymore afterall..." it said to Sylas as it, seems to shuffle around on its seat to get a little bit more comfortable...even if no one can actually see their face in this dim lighting, nor discern their voice at all, they look at Poppy and just beckons them to sit "do take a seat, it wont be long miss, listen to this old persons story for a bit" they said in a kind somewhat frail tone, possibly a bit disappointed that Poppy wanted to leave so soon then finally they look at Elijah and smiled, finally their features becomes more and more clear an older gentleman likely in his sixties sat at the table with them, he replied to Elijah who seems to be asking if he is in any trouble as such "i am not here to report much of anything, other than for someone to hear out my woes a little bit, if you all do not mind will you listen to this old mans story and give him some advice?" he said, as he didnt wait for much of a reply "i...had a grand daughter, a sweet child, really she would be about your age now if she was still around, i want to ask if it was right of me, to give up on her during her hour of need, when i was unable to support myself during that time...was it correct of me, to leave her to her fate while i dealt with my issues, which in hindsight was not such a huge problem compared to her life?"
"Justice is blind." Elijah tells Poppy, looking at her behind aviators so dark he probably was blind himself too. As Elijah looks at the man's features coming in detail he visibly stiffens up just a little. As always, no expression visible on his steely face "... I'm sorry for your loss." Elijah tells the man, though there's no discernible emotion in his voice, the professional distance he was keeping perhaps a little cold for this context. "I can't talk not knowing the context though, sir." Elijah refuses to comment, how boring
"Uhh." Loralia blinks over to the man several times, before blue eyes take in the other 3 occupants. she shrugs her shoulders as she returns to the man. "It's happened, What're you gonna do bout it? People fuck each other over a lot anyway."
"Aaah.. what the hell. The door are locked, might as well hear some old people wisdom," Poppy shrugs, coming closer to the weird figure that's apparently taken all of us hostage. "Eh, are you guys even listening? Obviously man you already know the right answer here, you stink of regret. Just own it, instead of asking strangers to confirm it for you. Atone for you sins or some shit like that"
Sylas turns to face Poppy, hands splayed on the counter, as he wretches back and scoffs, "And when did you become such a mega bitch?" He question short lived as he looks back to the elderly 'thing' and focuses his attention, "You gonna get to the point grampa, grandma? I can't really tell. Either way, Elijah and I can help if you've got a complaint, if not enjoy Haven, it's storms are to die for..." He quips only to settle his eyes on Loralia and wiggles those brows.
without missing a beat, Loralia flips Sylas the bird for the storms are to die for comment, the woman still having not managed to get much dust or debris out of her clothing. she returns to the spirit however. a certain frankness to the woman's expression despite the rather blunt words.
"the context huh, well i suppose it would be right to tell you since you are listening to my story, you see she has gotten herself into trouble, some sort of debt to someone, at the time i didnt particularly understand why she was so desperate to need money so quickly but i turned her away, promising to help her later because of my own problems dealing with someone who wanted my house sold to them, it was rather shortsighted of me, but that house held sentimental value to me and i was blinded by that...by the time i had done settling matters on that end, it was too late and the rest was history" the old man said, he gave Elijah the context and turned to look at the rest from their replies "correct, we do 'fuck eachother over' but i am unable to accept that as an answer truly...atleast not for the moment" he replied to Loralia patiently, seems to be understanding that he is actually holding them all hostage to listen to his woes possibly why nothing else is happening right now other than the slight chilly air and dim lightning, he turns to look at poppy and with a tired smile "if i could, i already would, but the old and withered will never truly make their regrets...go away" and finally Sylas "old man would be fitting mr, as for complaints...well it is too late to give any, other than do clean up the streets some more if you can" he said and looks at the group again "well i would love to hear a proper answer, if any, i will not hold you all hostage here for any longer seeing as all of you have lives to live..."
Elijah watches the interaction between Loralia and Sylas with all the humor off a sack of dirt before looking back to the man as he continues to talk. "I'm not certified to give legal advice, sir." Elijah cuts in as the man starts talking about house and money topics "If you want professional advice, I would suggest you solicit a lawyer or a financial expert with the relevant qualifications." Elijah tells the man, face steely and unfeeling, almost entirely hidden behind the aviators and the mustache both.
Sylas crosses his arms and waves his hand in protest at the old man's suggestion of cleaning up the streets, he just looks to Elijah and offers him a half hearted shrug, seemingly having nothing to left say, and just waiting out the nightmare outside of piss, flying objects, and being blown around like some tumble weed.
"Not a bitch Silas, it's called being realistic. That old man is drowning, and if I learned anything from forced community therapy the first step in facing your fears is robbing them, or something like that," Poppy explains clearly. She leans in to clasp the old man on the shoulder. "Some people just suck, and that's okay. If you surround yourself with people that suck more than you, your regret will feel so minor in comparison. It's all about perspective," she gives some solid advice.
lets her gaze drift to the locked door, the woman attempting to determine if it can be worked, but at the spirit's words, she returns to them. Her shoulders lift. "The Officer had the right of it. If ya can't, move on." the words are as gentle as the brusk new yorker drawl can allow Loralia.
"hmm ahahaha...well i supose all of you have a point, you are free to leave, though the dead cant really get lawyers or be around people any longer, do take care of yourself youngsters, afterall unlike me you have more life in all of you" saying that the man slowly dissipates into nothingness, it seems he is placated maybe he just wanted someone to listen to his woes or maybe he just needed to hear out some advice, either way the shutters open and the mysterious candles disappear with him, along with the doors being unlocked, everyone can go do their daily lives again, whatever may that be and thus ends the odd encounter with a supernatural incident.
(Your target is abducted in their sleep, waking up alone in a locked room. They need to either escape or draw attention to them so their allies can come and provide assistance.
)
Idly flips through channels upon the flat screen, while shooting the ocasional glance to the window. the apartment is quiet, too quiet, for Loralia's preference, subconsciously, she finds herself tensing, yet cannot explain why. muttering something about paranoia being a bitch, she deliberately lets herself relax, and attempt to focus on
The howling of wind and sharp slap of rain outside on the windows creating a rhythmic thundering background, and the low hum from the kitchen nearby serve as a droning ambience for the small apartment. Static blurs the TV occasionally, sound spurting out like the last gushes of blood from a dying man's body. The room is lit by the occasional flash of lightning, the drumroll of thunder briefly eclipsing every other sound every now and again. Its warm inside, without the biting cold of the wrathful winds just on the other side of the apartment walls. A book, left out at some point, lies forgotten and abandoned on the table, open to a page displaying a glorious knight engaged in a chivalrous duel with another armor clad figure. More and more static flickers across the TV, a sharp voice cutting the air as the TV settles for a moment. "Reports of nine dead and fifteen wounded..." Next channel. Static. Next channel. "We're on to the road to Rhode Island..." That one sung by a football headed baby and a dog, how strange. Next channel. "One of the last.... piece... we... ssssssss." The last bit dissolves into sudden static, even worse then before, and then... The TV has gone completely black. In the flash of another lightning bolt outside, something flickers across the screen. A shadow, there and gone again before Loralia can get a good look... a person, maybe? But its gone now, leaving just the blank screen in its wake, a line wavering across it as it tries to regain a connection. A gust of wind strikes Loralia as the door is slammed shut by the storm outside. How did it get open? Loralia is sure she closed it... right? The apartment, her home, once safe and comfortable now feels somehow... off. Its like Loralia is standing at the edge of a pit of angry vipers... and the bridge she's about to walk onto is not there. A thump, quiet, quick. A footstep? But if Loralia were to turn... nothing but the silent apartment. Is the storm getting to her? Maybe. But... what if its not? What if? What if? What... if... Another shadow flickers across the screen, and this time, its a clear reflection of a tall, spindly figure looming behind Loralia. But again... when Loralia turns, as an immediate reaction to this strange thing that a normal person might have... nothing. Just the apartment. Just jumping at shadows. Just... Just... And then... A sharp pain stabs into Loralia's neck. Over her stands a towering shadow, at least 7... 8... 9... is it growing? It must be... so tired... so... very... tired... A raspy voice speaks, as if from underwater as Loralia's consciousness begins to fade. "Another Angel. Perfect pickins." The rough laugh that follows is distorted. Everything is simultaneously so close, and yet... so far away... Loralia is falling... falling... falling... ... ... Then... The harsh lighting is the first thing Loralia sees when her eyes reopen. The faint crackling hum of them a grating roar in Loralia's ears. Everything feels so fuzzy. Foggy. Loralia is still groggy, but by now lucid enough to look around if she wishes to. Underneath her, the hard floor is made of bare concrete. Loralia is tied down with very flimsy looking zip ties. The room she's in appears to be a large box, cubed, with lights crackling away and blinding Loralia with their glare above. Metal rings, inset into the ground, hold anchors for the ties that bind Loralia. Set into each corner, the blinking lights of cameras are aimed straight down at Loralia, and above, a speaker is set into the center of the ceiling. On one wall stands a large, reinforced metal door with a keypad next to it. At Loralia's feet, is a small box. As Loralia begins to awaken, the speaker crackles to life... "Wakey wakey little birdie!" The raspy voice from before blares out from the speaker in a singsongy tone. "Welcome to your new home. Unless, of course, you can win my little game, my beautiful little bird." There's a manical, broken laugh that grinds against Loralia's eardrums before the voice continues. "At your feet is a box. Inside, there is something that will help you get out of here alive. If you can find it... I'll let you fly free, little bird. If you fail... Well, I'm told Angels sell for a pretty penny in all sorts of trafficking organizations. Slaves... feeding dolls... pleasure servants..." A pause. "Or I could keep you for my own devices, little birdie. You may begin when your ready, my pretty bird. Good luck. Your gonna need it! Hehehahehahehaheheheha!!!" The last bit trails off into cackling, insane laughter...
not to panic is the first lesson learnt within the mob. eyes narrowed to slits against the harsh glare, Loralia takes in her surroundings as best she can, while a flex of her hands test the zip ties binding her hands. "ya need better technology, asshole." she mutters, her own voice sounding far away. First thing, Invintory. Loralia doesn't have much on her that would be considered important, but for her phone and katar. she pouts up in the camera's general direction. "ya call it a game, and don't even mention rules? c'mon, ya can do better than that?" austensibly, the woman attempts to keep the watcher's attention upon her face, her visible right hand as she attempts to wiggle out of her ties. meanwhile, her left hand attempts to locate the Katar at the side of her pants.