Encounterlogs
Eloras Odd Encounter Sr Kah 241114
In the rain-soaked streets of Paine Avenue, amidst a backdrop of stormy night skies, Elora and her apprentice, Isolde, find themselves drawn towards an abandoned church harboring an ancient and unholy secret. The discovery of the Demon's Tear, a black obsidian amulet with the power to open portals to the demon realm, sets a heavy choice before them: to steal, destroy, or exploit the artifact's potential. Wrestling with moral complexities and the weight of their decision, the pair venture into the church's forsaken depths, guided by an unsettling magical pull.
Their investigation leads them to a concealed basement, where the amulet rests protected by arcane runes. Despite the initial hesitation, they sift through the remnants of the church's past, uncovering a grim journal hinting at a ritual tied to the upcoming lunar eclipse. Determined to outwit the plot of The Destined Host, Elora and Isolde plot to abscond with the amulet. Their plan evolves into using deception and manipulation, intending to find "fools" to take the fall for their actions, ensuring the original owners find closure through a scapegoat rather than regaining the powerful artifact. With the eclipse as their deadline, the duo embarks on a dangerous game of magic, shadows, and deceit, the outcome of which could alter the very fabric of their reality.
(Elora's odd encounter(SRKah):SRKah)
[Wed Nov 13 2024]
On Paine Avenue
It is night, about 49F(9C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It's raining. There is a waxing gibbous moon.
(Your target and their allies uncover an unholy ritual site of The Destined Host in the basement of an abandoned church. Here, they find an artifact known as the Demon's Tear - a black, obsidian amulet reputed to have the ability to open a portal to the demon realm. The Destined Host plans to use this artifact in a ritual during the upcoming lunar eclipse to summon a powerful demon. The characters must decide if they will try to steal the artifact, destroy it, or perhaps use it to their own advantage in some way.)
Isolde blinks.
Isolde says "It gets complicated."
rubs the side of her head, holding her arms together as the rain pours. 'Rough week' in Haven has the earnest measurement of number of missing/faulty organs. As such, Isolde looks swell. Tired and wet enough to milkshake into something deranged enough to gossip about prophetic dreams.
Elora was standing on Paine Avenue talking with Isolde. Just outside her non-descript van, where she kept her armor and weapons as well as her apprentice's armor and weapons. The smell of alcohol hung on Elora's beath as she talked with the other woman in a low voice of her future studies.
"But, yes. Some woman likes to put people in little categories because she has a dog fetish." Isolde 's arms spread out helplessly. "Do those names mean anything to you?"
"The more you speak, apprentice, mine, the less I understand," Elora complains. "I think I was less confused when you were telling me you put a girl's head in a toilet then I am now."
Isolde says "Really? You told me to write them down."
Isolde pats around the interior of the van- the glove box, under the seat- for something to write with.
"I really don't know what you're talking about?" Elora says, lilting out slowly in an English accent.
Isolde says "Dream? Vision?"
Elora has her eyes widening in realization. "Oh, are you trying to say you saw these people in a dream?"
Isolde nods with enough movement to rock her chair.
Isolde says "I don't recall wishing to be invited to their mean-bitch sexual fantasies."
Isolde says "But... That-is-where-I-am-at."
The day surrenders to the embrace of night, Paine Avenue transforms into a realm of shadows and soft, silvery light. The once-bustling street now lies in a hushed stillness, its usual hum of activity replaced by ominous quiet and the distant calls of nocturnal creatures. Streetlights, spaced at regular intervals, cast pools of warm, amber light that mingle with the cool glow of the moon, creating a patchwork of light and shadow that dances across the pavement. The air is cold and crisp, carrying the subtle fragrance of autumn leaves and damp earth. A slight breeze whispers through the trees lining the avenue to bring a chill, their branches swaying gently and creating a creaking sound. The occasional flutter of a bird taking flight or the soft scurrying of small animals adds to the nights tranquil ambiance, painting a picture of serene isolation.
Along Paine Avenue, the old-fashioned lamp posts stand like silent sentinels, their glass panes slightly fogged with the chill of the night. The sky itself is a deep canvas of midnight blue, dotted with countless stars that seem to shimmer with a life of their own. The moon, waxing and bright, bathes the entire scene in its gentle light, casting a serene glow over everything it touches. Yet, amidst this tranquil setting, an undercurrent of something unusual begins to stir. It starts as a faint, almost imperceptible sensation a slight tingling in the air, a whisper of energy that feels both ancient and terrible. The breeze picks up ever so slightly, carrying with it the faint scent of something otherworldly, like the fragrance of night-blooming flowers mixed with a touch of ozone.
The feeling intensifies slowly, a gentle but undeniable pull that seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. Its as if the very fabric of reality is being subtly tugged at, drawing attention to something hidden just beyond the veil of the mundane. This magical pull is soft yet insistent, urging those sensitive to its presence to follow its lead, to seek out the source of this otherworldly allure.
sticks a palm out on the dash to steady herself, "E-elora?" Isolde calls, the voice slightly fainter than it resounds in her ears.
Nothing seems to coming out or about from the Shadow ofthe Nightmare this time. It's more like something pulls at the metaphysical senses, especially those honed by Elora, and the apprentice Isolde. If magic had a smell it would be pulling at the senses and the curiosity like bacon to a begging dog. It draws ... westward.
"Caitlyn," Elora chides, giving Isolde an annoyed glance. "And we're going to investigate this. Get in the van, apprentice, mine. Seat belt on, what with the mists. We will want to be careful not to crash."
Isolde hops in with a relative expediance- one that crosses over the van to open the driver side door for Elora first.
Then, Isolde returns to shotgun with a hushed and hurried pace.
Elora waits patiently, smugly, even, for Isolde to the door for her. Only once its open does she clamber -- she's small, so its a climb into the van -- up into her seat. She gets buckled in, letting Isolde close her door, turning the key in the ignition. to get the van humming to life.
"What?!" Elora asks. "No?" She shakes her head. "Be serious, please. This could be quite dangerous. You should grab your bag."
Isolde does not have her bag. It has disappeared with the ether.
Elora carefully drives toward through the mists towards the source of the things she senses.
With that pull leading them westward, Elora and Isolde will find themselves clambered into the van and once off, they're off! Westward down Paine leads toward the campus of course, but that doesn't seem to be where this subtle and sometimes not-so-subtle sense of pull seems to be leading the Arcanist and her apprentice. Now - As they approach the intersection that would them there, it's southward they'll be lead. Further south, and southward still until they're moving westward again. UP ahead in the distance will be something that after a time, can become almost a familiar sight out here in the somewhat strange and misty woods that surround the small town of Haven ... [OOC: Any Action will be RP anyway just make a note in emote of what you have]
[The Following is an Overview Entire of the Scene Ahead]
Standing on the outskirts of town, north past the vast acreage of the campus, the skeletal frame of an abandoned church looms like a spectral sentinel against the twilight sky. Its once-proud structure is now a haunting relic of its former glory, draped in shadows and silence. The exterior, weathered by years of neglect, is a crumbling edifice of dark stone, its surface mottled with creeping ivy and patches of moss that cling to the ancient walls as if seeking to reclaim the building for nature. The towering steeple, which once reached confidently towards the heavens, now stands partially collapsed, its jagged silhouette cutting a forlorn figure against the dimming light. The bell within, long since fallen silent, hangs crookedly, swaying gently in the wind and occasionally emitting a ghostly creak that echoes through the empty air. The large wooden doors at the entrance are weather-beaten and partially ajar, revealing a glimpse of the darkness within.@line
Entering the church, one is immediately struck by the pervasive sense of abandonment and decay. The air inside is heavy and musty, carrying the faint, acrid scent of mold and damp. Cobwebs hang like ghostly drapes from the high, vaulted ceilings, their intricate patterns torn and ripped, what's left of them glistening faintly in the sparse light that filters through broken stained-glass windows. These windows, once vibrant with colorful depictions of saints and biblical scenes, are now shattered, their fragments littering the stone floor like forgotten jewels. The pews, lined up in silent rows, are cloaked in dust and decay. Many are broken or overturned, their wooden surfaces scarred by time and the elements. The altar, once the focal point of reverent gatherings, now stands desolate and forlorn. The ornate carvings that adorned it have faded, and the once-polished surface is marred with cracks and layers of grime. A tattered, moth-eaten cloth hangs limply over the altar, its original colors long since drained away. At the far end of the church, the pulpit rises like a dark monolith, its steps worn smooth by countless feet. The lectern, which once held the sacred texts, is empty, and the sound of the wind whistling through the cracks in the walls creates an eerie, whispering echo. The silence within the church is profound, broken only by the occasional drip of water from the leaking roof and the faint rustling of unseen creatures that have made this forsaken place their home.@line
The graveyard surrounding the church is equally unsettling. Tombstones, many of them leaning or toppled, stand as grim reminders of those who once worshipped here. The inscriptions, worn by time, are barely legible, and the ground is uneven, covered with tangled weeds and wild grasses. A sense of melancholy hangs heavy in the air, as if the spirits of the departed linger still, tethered to this place by the weight of forgotten memories. In the fading light, the church and its surroundings take on an even more haunting aspect. Shadows stretch long and deep, and the sense of abandonment is almost palpable. The moon, rising above the horizon, casts a cold, silvery light that enhances the spectral quality of the scene. It is a place where the past and present seem to blur, where the echoes of old prayers and hymns can almost be heard if one listens closely enough. The abandoned church, with its haunting beauty and quiet desolation, stands as a testament to the passage of time and the enduring mystery of forgotten places.
fails.
[FIX] Standing on the outskirts of town, north past the vast acreage of the campus, the skeletal frame of an abandoned church looms like a spectral sentinel against the twilight sky. Its once-proud structure is now a haunting relic of its former glory, draped in shadows and silence. The exterior, weathered by years of neglect, is a crumbling edifice of dark stone, its surface mottled with creeping ivy and patches of moss that cling to the ancient walls as if seeking to reclaim the building for nature. The towering steeple, which once reached confidently towards the heavens, now stands partially collapsed, its jagged silhouette cutting a forlorn figure against the dimming light. The bell within, long since fallen silent, hangs crookedly, swaying gently in the wind and occasionally emitting a ghostly creak that echoes through the empty air. The large wooden doors at the entrance are weather-beaten and partially ajar, revealing a glimpse of the darkness within.
Entering the church, one is immediately struck by the pervasive sense of abandonment and decay. The air inside is heavy and musty, carrying the faint, acrid scent of mold and damp. Cobwebs hang like ghostly drapes from the high, vaulted ceilings, their intricate patterns torn and ripped, what's left of them glistening faintly in the sparse light that filters through broken stained-glass windows. These windows, once vibrant with colorful depictions of saints and biblical scenes, are now shattered, their fragments littering the stone floor like forgotten jewels. The pews, lined up in silent rows, are cloaked in dust and decay. Many are broken or overturned, their wooden surfaces scarred by time and the elements. The altar, once the focal point of reverent gatherings, now stands desolate and forlorn. The ornate carvings that adorned it have faded, and the once-polished surface is marred with cracks and layers of grime. A tattered, moth-eaten cloth hangs limply over the altar, its original colors long since drained away. At the far end of the church, the pulpit rises like a dark monolith, its steps worn smooth by countless feet. The lectern, which once held the sacred texts, is empty, and the sound of the wind whistling through the cracks in the walls creates an eerie, whispering echo. The silence within the church is profound, broken only by the occasional drip of water from the leaking roof and the faint rustling of unseen creatures that have made this forsaken place their home.
The graveyard surrounding the church is equally unsettling. Tombstones, many of them leaning or toppled, stand as grim reminders of those who once worshipped here. The inscriptions, worn by time, are barely legible, and the ground is uneven, covered with tangled weeds and wild grasses. A sense of melancholy hangs heavy in the air, as if the spirits of the departed linger still, tethered to this place by the weight of forgotten memories. In the fading light, the church and its surroundings take on an even more haunting aspect. Shadows stretch long and deep, and the sense of abandonment is almost palpable. The moon, rising above the horizon, casts a cold, silvery light that enhances the spectral quality of the scene. It is a place where the past and present seem to blur, where the echoes of old prayers and hymns can almost be heard if one listens closely enough. The abandoned church, with its haunting beauty and quiet desolation, stands as a testament to the passage of time and the enduring mystery of forgotten places.
Abandoned buildings like these are a sight often seen among the deeper boughs of the woods, as well. This isn't the only forgotten church in these parts, and it won't be the last.
Isolde had a metallic bag, at some point, with a rifle. But the nature of personal belonings are strange and prone finding themselves anywhere at all- which, is perfect for loaded firearms to end up. After a brief account of inventory...
Isolde is armed with; A mobile phone, a bag of blood, and a single white rose.
Elora keeps a duffel bag with expensive armor and weapons mostly acquired from the Other flea market. These include a set of chainmail armor, a silvery rapier, and a compound bow of more modern make. Beyond that she has a ceremonial dagger. Less meant for fighting, more for cutting her own flesh, or more commonly as of late, the flesh of her apprentice, in order to offer up life force in various rituals.
Isolde throws the gesture of the cross- Christ's most infamous gang sign- as she stares at the decay. One can suppose prayer is a weapon, though often a fallible one
Isolde finds a rifle in the trunk. It's poorly cared for and has been marinated in rust the color of vintage vomit, but it stands to reason it fires.
Elora is, to put it lightly, an exceedingly paranoid and skittish person. So as she approaches she does not immediately rush in with weapons and armor. Instead she does a more cautious thing. She wraps herself in a glamour. The cool wintery light echoes from her choker as she parks the van and then does what she most often does: hide.
Isolde feeling like fodder, decides to act like it. She raises the rifle in an arc that gun safety would qualify as a, 'career end,' and marches informally into the church.
Arming themselves, Elora and Isolde will find themselves ready to head into the potentially dangerous abandoned building. One never knows out here. Elora lets her instincts take precedent, cautiously choosing to take an observant approach for a time and nothing seems to be out of place. Watching the graveyard, it eventually occurs that any church that deals with the burial of the dead almost certainly had catacombs beneath the ground. Perhaps it's something down there that draws the attention so easily. When they're ready to step in, the pair of them will find things as they are, the air too still and too quiet even for the forest out here. Faded glass leaves a bloody tint to the faint bits of moonlight that do stream through, blended with the light that shines through the empty spaces in window panes where glass used to be. The smell of mildew, mold, and just neglect chokes the air.
Elora in put upon manner, sighs, moving into the back and getting her chainmail on. The entire time she mutters to herself. "Oh, get someone in debt will you. Have a helper. Bloody mushroom patches."
Isolde walks deeper into the church, allowing noise through movement now before a vehicle is to arrive.
Isolde mouths, "Mot-or cy-cle!"
Isolde doesn't have the lips for it, really.
Elora would eventually and cautiously make her way down beneath the church. Along the way, she would double back, sniffing with acute senses, checking for a scent trail that ight be following her.
Isolde bites her lip enough to bleed, looking at the thin cooridors.
Once Elora is certain she doesn't have anyone following her, she and her apprentice will begin to explore, and look for their way down. Behind the grand, decaying altar of the abandoned church lies a secret that has remained hidden, veiled by the passage of time and layers of grime. The altar, an imposing structure of dark, cracked marble, bears the scars of neglect and the elements, its once-polished surface now dull and chipped. Intricate carvings of biblical scenes and mystical symbols are barely discernible beneath the dust and cobwebs that cling to every crevice. With a careful push on one of the ornate panels, a hidden mechanism clicks into place, and the altar shifts slightly, revealing a narrow, concealed door. The door itself is made of heavy, ancient wood, its surface worn smooth by the hands of those who knew of its existence. Hinges creak and groan as the door swings open, revealing a set of stairs descending into the dark unknown. The stairway is narrow and steep, the steps carved from the same dark stone as the churchs exterior. Each step is worn from use, bearing the marks of countless feet that have trodden this secret path over the ages. The walls of the stairwell are cold and damp, the stone slick with moisture and covered in patches of moss and lichen. Torch sconces line the wall, the torches in them long dead. As one descends, the air grows cooler and heavier, carrying a faint, metallic scent that mingles with the musty odor of old stone and forgotten secrets. The stairs spiral downward, leading deeper into the bowels of the church, the silence only broken by the occasional drip of water echoing through the narrow space.
At the bottom of the stairway, the path opens into a vast, gothic basement, a hidden chamber that defies the modest size of the church above. The basement is a marvel of dark, foreboding beauty, its architecture a testament to the macabre and the mysterious. Tall, pointed arches frame the space, their shadows forming a latticework of darkness against the dim, flickering light of the torches. The walls are lined with shelves filled with rusted iron sconces that hold more torches, their light casting a sickly glow over the room as they still burn. Along one wall, a series of old, wooden chests and crates lie stacked haphazardly, their contents unknown but hinting at long-forgotten treasures and relics. In the center of the basement, a large, stone pedestal rises from the floor, its surface covered in intricate carvings and strange symbols that pulse faintly with an eerie, ethereal light. The pedestal is surrounded by a circle of runes etched into the stone floor, their presence adding to the sense of ancient magic and foreboding that permeates the room. Protection runes, they seem to either keep people away from what lies on the pedestal, or keep it inside the circle. One way or the other. On the center of the column rests a velvet cushion and atop that, an amulet. A shiny chain necklace attached so gleaming it couldn't possibly be natural, and the pendant itself is something else. Dead, light-sucking black Obsidian, it's glossy yet not reflective but for the very center which holds a deep-hued blood red color.
Isolde's black irises stare into black, black staring back a pace and a throw away from the amulet. Her eyes trim over the symbols like a confused barber, combing them for the vaguest arcane suggestion. The metal in her hands clicks as she gestures the barrel towards the wards, silent in word if not presence.
Elora gazes with greedy eyes at the various chests and at the artifact.
Isolde takes a knee.
Isolde scoffs without the smile.
Isolde's leg taps in her kneel as she stares forward. Neither the stare of greed nor the lips of gluttony curl on her face. She is simply forelorn.
Isolde says "Would you like me to grab it, and suffers its repercussions on you behalf?"
Isolde answers with action. She moves over to the boxes at the side of the room with a helpless sigh. She begins, as ordered- by opening chests. If and when they are locked, a silent concession is made on behalf of her competency- and she sets them aside to perhaps fire at the locks later.
Elora huffs quietly to herself, draws turquoise and neon hair from her face, and focuses on the runes trying to understand their likely purpose.
Most of the chests seem locked, but they're also half-rotted away and and dilapidated anyhow. Securing what is available through these isn't that hard overall for Isolde and she'll end up carting off some supplies that may look useful either in their own endeavours or as mentioned by shuffling them off to the Goblin Market. Now, studying the runes on the ground, #@elora will find them a little more concerning. Her knowledge isn't VAST but she can determine these are heavy-handed protection runes. Once more it's hard to say if they keep people out or the amulet in but what is certain is that crossing them wont' be an easy task. While Elora discerns her options, one of the things that Isolde will find ... is a book. A journal of sorts, that might be worth flipping through.
Isolde pockets a strange statue of an ugly baby with angel wings. She taps the leather for the satisfaction of a minor cruelty against the old, feeble, and forgotten- and pretends she'll never be any of those things as she flips it open.
Isolde turns over her shoulder at Elora.
Isolde may find something interesting in the book she flips through, now. Elora will study those runes but nothing much else will come to her for now. The instinct in her gut says they may be too powerful for her to bring down on her own just now, though perhaps with help. But what to do about this amulet in the meantime? Who's to say. It does seem left here, all alone and abandoned. But SOMEONE had to put those protection runes in place. And they did it for some reason, known or unknown.
Isolde eideticizes a few notable things, then beckons someone with an annoying tap of her foot. It generates just a little bit too much noise for the nerves- like a washing machine in a quiet alley.
Isolde eideticizes a few notable things, then beckons Elora with an annoying tap of her foot. It generates just a little bit too much noise for the nerves- like a washing machine in a quiet alley.
Isolde extends the journal.
Elora accepts the journal and begins paging through it, trying to understand what her apprentice might see in the pages that would provoke her to bring it to her.
Isolde rubs her temple.
Isolde bows her head in submission- it's more eastern than it is sexual, "I will leave it to your discretion."
Indeed, the information concerning the lunar eclipse seems far more interesting than the runes themselves, only noting that someone's 'best' ritualist took the care to lay them down. However the book is old, so there's no telling how long it's been here. But for the date in the journal. That's an upcoming eclipse, not one long past. This subtle clue gives lead to the idea that Someone will probably be coming back for what's here, eventually. NO later say .. than March fourteenth. However, it leaves a window of opportunity for Elora and Isolde both, to snatch something powerful out from the jaws of the mighty.
OOC: Thank you both for participating this evening! I've added this encounter to my Storyline because it involved an eclipse I decided I'm going to run out a full blown plot on this specific little blurb. Please feel free to continue Rp and I will provide reponse when needed, otherwise you are welcome to make your way down at your leisure. Ask if you require a summon!
Isolde raises her head and looks to the exit.
Isolde cocks her head.
"Different perfumes on the way out from the way in," Elora states. "And we shall be finding some fools to brainwash and send here to cover our theft, so that the owners may have explanation for their loss, even if not recovery of it."
Elora meant to do subtle.
SRKah says "Closest cross on Paine for you?"
Isolde accepts this from the lingering spirit, perhaps?
SRKah says "Where on Paine I mean. "
SRKah says "DOn't give me anything I can't give it back! "
Their investigation leads them to a concealed basement, where the amulet rests protected by arcane runes. Despite the initial hesitation, they sift through the remnants of the church's past, uncovering a grim journal hinting at a ritual tied to the upcoming lunar eclipse. Determined to outwit the plot of The Destined Host, Elora and Isolde plot to abscond with the amulet. Their plan evolves into using deception and manipulation, intending to find "fools" to take the fall for their actions, ensuring the original owners find closure through a scapegoat rather than regaining the powerful artifact. With the eclipse as their deadline, the duo embarks on a dangerous game of magic, shadows, and deceit, the outcome of which could alter the very fabric of their reality.
(Elora's odd encounter(SRKah):SRKah)
[Wed Nov 13 2024]
On Paine Avenue
It is night, about 49F(9C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It's raining. There is a waxing gibbous moon.
(Your target and their allies uncover an unholy ritual site of The Destined Host in the basement of an abandoned church. Here, they find an artifact known as the Demon's Tear - a black, obsidian amulet reputed to have the ability to open a portal to the demon realm. The Destined Host plans to use this artifact in a ritual during the upcoming lunar eclipse to summon a powerful demon. The characters must decide if they will try to steal the artifact, destroy it, or perhaps use it to their own advantage in some way.)
Isolde blinks.
Isolde says "It gets complicated."
rubs the side of her head, holding her arms together as the rain pours. 'Rough week' in Haven has the earnest measurement of number of missing/faulty organs. As such, Isolde looks swell. Tired and wet enough to milkshake into something deranged enough to gossip about prophetic dreams.
Elora was standing on Paine Avenue talking with Isolde. Just outside her non-descript van, where she kept her armor and weapons as well as her apprentice's armor and weapons. The smell of alcohol hung on Elora's beath as she talked with the other woman in a low voice of her future studies.
"But, yes. Some woman likes to put people in little categories because she has a dog fetish." Isolde 's arms spread out helplessly. "Do those names mean anything to you?"
"The more you speak, apprentice, mine, the less I understand," Elora complains. "I think I was less confused when you were telling me you put a girl's head in a toilet then I am now."
Isolde says "Really? You told me to write them down."
Isolde pats around the interior of the van- the glove box, under the seat- for something to write with.
"I really don't know what you're talking about?" Elora says, lilting out slowly in an English accent.
Isolde says "Dream? Vision?"
Elora has her eyes widening in realization. "Oh, are you trying to say you saw these people in a dream?"
Isolde nods with enough movement to rock her chair.
Isolde says "I don't recall wishing to be invited to their mean-bitch sexual fantasies."
Isolde says "But... That-is-where-I-am-at."
The day surrenders to the embrace of night, Paine Avenue transforms into a realm of shadows and soft, silvery light. The once-bustling street now lies in a hushed stillness, its usual hum of activity replaced by ominous quiet and the distant calls of nocturnal creatures. Streetlights, spaced at regular intervals, cast pools of warm, amber light that mingle with the cool glow of the moon, creating a patchwork of light and shadow that dances across the pavement. The air is cold and crisp, carrying the subtle fragrance of autumn leaves and damp earth. A slight breeze whispers through the trees lining the avenue to bring a chill, their branches swaying gently and creating a creaking sound. The occasional flutter of a bird taking flight or the soft scurrying of small animals adds to the nights tranquil ambiance, painting a picture of serene isolation.
Along Paine Avenue, the old-fashioned lamp posts stand like silent sentinels, their glass panes slightly fogged with the chill of the night. The sky itself is a deep canvas of midnight blue, dotted with countless stars that seem to shimmer with a life of their own. The moon, waxing and bright, bathes the entire scene in its gentle light, casting a serene glow over everything it touches. Yet, amidst this tranquil setting, an undercurrent of something unusual begins to stir. It starts as a faint, almost imperceptible sensation a slight tingling in the air, a whisper of energy that feels both ancient and terrible. The breeze picks up ever so slightly, carrying with it the faint scent of something otherworldly, like the fragrance of night-blooming flowers mixed with a touch of ozone.
The feeling intensifies slowly, a gentle but undeniable pull that seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. Its as if the very fabric of reality is being subtly tugged at, drawing attention to something hidden just beyond the veil of the mundane. This magical pull is soft yet insistent, urging those sensitive to its presence to follow its lead, to seek out the source of this otherworldly allure.
sticks a palm out on the dash to steady herself, "E-elora?" Isolde calls, the voice slightly fainter than it resounds in her ears.
Nothing seems to coming out or about from the Shadow ofthe Nightmare this time. It's more like something pulls at the metaphysical senses, especially those honed by Elora, and the apprentice Isolde. If magic had a smell it would be pulling at the senses and the curiosity like bacon to a begging dog. It draws ... westward.
"Caitlyn," Elora chides, giving Isolde an annoyed glance. "And we're going to investigate this. Get in the van, apprentice, mine. Seat belt on, what with the mists. We will want to be careful not to crash."
Isolde hops in with a relative expediance- one that crosses over the van to open the driver side door for Elora first.
Then, Isolde returns to shotgun with a hushed and hurried pace.
Elora waits patiently, smugly, even, for Isolde to the door for her. Only once its open does she clamber -- she's small, so its a climb into the van -- up into her seat. She gets buckled in, letting Isolde close her door, turning the key in the ignition. to get the van humming to life.
"What?!" Elora asks. "No?" She shakes her head. "Be serious, please. This could be quite dangerous. You should grab your bag."
Isolde does not have her bag. It has disappeared with the ether.
Elora carefully drives toward through the mists towards the source of the things she senses.
With that pull leading them westward, Elora and Isolde will find themselves clambered into the van and once off, they're off! Westward down Paine leads toward the campus of course, but that doesn't seem to be where this subtle and sometimes not-so-subtle sense of pull seems to be leading the Arcanist and her apprentice. Now - As they approach the intersection that would them there, it's southward they'll be lead. Further south, and southward still until they're moving westward again. UP ahead in the distance will be something that after a time, can become almost a familiar sight out here in the somewhat strange and misty woods that surround the small town of Haven ... [OOC: Any Action will be RP anyway just make a note in emote of what you have]
[The Following is an Overview Entire of the Scene Ahead]
Standing on the outskirts of town, north past the vast acreage of the campus, the skeletal frame of an abandoned church looms like a spectral sentinel against the twilight sky. Its once-proud structure is now a haunting relic of its former glory, draped in shadows and silence. The exterior, weathered by years of neglect, is a crumbling edifice of dark stone, its surface mottled with creeping ivy and patches of moss that cling to the ancient walls as if seeking to reclaim the building for nature. The towering steeple, which once reached confidently towards the heavens, now stands partially collapsed, its jagged silhouette cutting a forlorn figure against the dimming light. The bell within, long since fallen silent, hangs crookedly, swaying gently in the wind and occasionally emitting a ghostly creak that echoes through the empty air. The large wooden doors at the entrance are weather-beaten and partially ajar, revealing a glimpse of the darkness within.@line
Entering the church, one is immediately struck by the pervasive sense of abandonment and decay. The air inside is heavy and musty, carrying the faint, acrid scent of mold and damp. Cobwebs hang like ghostly drapes from the high, vaulted ceilings, their intricate patterns torn and ripped, what's left of them glistening faintly in the sparse light that filters through broken stained-glass windows. These windows, once vibrant with colorful depictions of saints and biblical scenes, are now shattered, their fragments littering the stone floor like forgotten jewels. The pews, lined up in silent rows, are cloaked in dust and decay. Many are broken or overturned, their wooden surfaces scarred by time and the elements. The altar, once the focal point of reverent gatherings, now stands desolate and forlorn. The ornate carvings that adorned it have faded, and the once-polished surface is marred with cracks and layers of grime. A tattered, moth-eaten cloth hangs limply over the altar, its original colors long since drained away. At the far end of the church, the pulpit rises like a dark monolith, its steps worn smooth by countless feet. The lectern, which once held the sacred texts, is empty, and the sound of the wind whistling through the cracks in the walls creates an eerie, whispering echo. The silence within the church is profound, broken only by the occasional drip of water from the leaking roof and the faint rustling of unseen creatures that have made this forsaken place their home.@line
The graveyard surrounding the church is equally unsettling. Tombstones, many of them leaning or toppled, stand as grim reminders of those who once worshipped here. The inscriptions, worn by time, are barely legible, and the ground is uneven, covered with tangled weeds and wild grasses. A sense of melancholy hangs heavy in the air, as if the spirits of the departed linger still, tethered to this place by the weight of forgotten memories. In the fading light, the church and its surroundings take on an even more haunting aspect. Shadows stretch long and deep, and the sense of abandonment is almost palpable. The moon, rising above the horizon, casts a cold, silvery light that enhances the spectral quality of the scene. It is a place where the past and present seem to blur, where the echoes of old prayers and hymns can almost be heard if one listens closely enough. The abandoned church, with its haunting beauty and quiet desolation, stands as a testament to the passage of time and the enduring mystery of forgotten places.
fails.
[FIX] Standing on the outskirts of town, north past the vast acreage of the campus, the skeletal frame of an abandoned church looms like a spectral sentinel against the twilight sky. Its once-proud structure is now a haunting relic of its former glory, draped in shadows and silence. The exterior, weathered by years of neglect, is a crumbling edifice of dark stone, its surface mottled with creeping ivy and patches of moss that cling to the ancient walls as if seeking to reclaim the building for nature. The towering steeple, which once reached confidently towards the heavens, now stands partially collapsed, its jagged silhouette cutting a forlorn figure against the dimming light. The bell within, long since fallen silent, hangs crookedly, swaying gently in the wind and occasionally emitting a ghostly creak that echoes through the empty air. The large wooden doors at the entrance are weather-beaten and partially ajar, revealing a glimpse of the darkness within.
Entering the church, one is immediately struck by the pervasive sense of abandonment and decay. The air inside is heavy and musty, carrying the faint, acrid scent of mold and damp. Cobwebs hang like ghostly drapes from the high, vaulted ceilings, their intricate patterns torn and ripped, what's left of them glistening faintly in the sparse light that filters through broken stained-glass windows. These windows, once vibrant with colorful depictions of saints and biblical scenes, are now shattered, their fragments littering the stone floor like forgotten jewels. The pews, lined up in silent rows, are cloaked in dust and decay. Many are broken or overturned, their wooden surfaces scarred by time and the elements. The altar, once the focal point of reverent gatherings, now stands desolate and forlorn. The ornate carvings that adorned it have faded, and the once-polished surface is marred with cracks and layers of grime. A tattered, moth-eaten cloth hangs limply over the altar, its original colors long since drained away. At the far end of the church, the pulpit rises like a dark monolith, its steps worn smooth by countless feet. The lectern, which once held the sacred texts, is empty, and the sound of the wind whistling through the cracks in the walls creates an eerie, whispering echo. The silence within the church is profound, broken only by the occasional drip of water from the leaking roof and the faint rustling of unseen creatures that have made this forsaken place their home.
The graveyard surrounding the church is equally unsettling. Tombstones, many of them leaning or toppled, stand as grim reminders of those who once worshipped here. The inscriptions, worn by time, are barely legible, and the ground is uneven, covered with tangled weeds and wild grasses. A sense of melancholy hangs heavy in the air, as if the spirits of the departed linger still, tethered to this place by the weight of forgotten memories. In the fading light, the church and its surroundings take on an even more haunting aspect. Shadows stretch long and deep, and the sense of abandonment is almost palpable. The moon, rising above the horizon, casts a cold, silvery light that enhances the spectral quality of the scene. It is a place where the past and present seem to blur, where the echoes of old prayers and hymns can almost be heard if one listens closely enough. The abandoned church, with its haunting beauty and quiet desolation, stands as a testament to the passage of time and the enduring mystery of forgotten places.
Abandoned buildings like these are a sight often seen among the deeper boughs of the woods, as well. This isn't the only forgotten church in these parts, and it won't be the last.
Isolde had a metallic bag, at some point, with a rifle. But the nature of personal belonings are strange and prone finding themselves anywhere at all- which, is perfect for loaded firearms to end up. After a brief account of inventory...
Isolde is armed with; A mobile phone, a bag of blood, and a single white rose.
Elora keeps a duffel bag with expensive armor and weapons mostly acquired from the Other flea market. These include a set of chainmail armor, a silvery rapier, and a compound bow of more modern make. Beyond that she has a ceremonial dagger. Less meant for fighting, more for cutting her own flesh, or more commonly as of late, the flesh of her apprentice, in order to offer up life force in various rituals.
Isolde throws the gesture of the cross- Christ's most infamous gang sign- as she stares at the decay. One can suppose prayer is a weapon, though often a fallible one
Isolde finds a rifle in the trunk. It's poorly cared for and has been marinated in rust the color of vintage vomit, but it stands to reason it fires.
Elora is, to put it lightly, an exceedingly paranoid and skittish person. So as she approaches she does not immediately rush in with weapons and armor. Instead she does a more cautious thing. She wraps herself in a glamour. The cool wintery light echoes from her choker as she parks the van and then does what she most often does: hide.
Isolde feeling like fodder, decides to act like it. She raises the rifle in an arc that gun safety would qualify as a, 'career end,' and marches informally into the church.
Arming themselves, Elora and Isolde will find themselves ready to head into the potentially dangerous abandoned building. One never knows out here. Elora lets her instincts take precedent, cautiously choosing to take an observant approach for a time and nothing seems to be out of place. Watching the graveyard, it eventually occurs that any church that deals with the burial of the dead almost certainly had catacombs beneath the ground. Perhaps it's something down there that draws the attention so easily. When they're ready to step in, the pair of them will find things as they are, the air too still and too quiet even for the forest out here. Faded glass leaves a bloody tint to the faint bits of moonlight that do stream through, blended with the light that shines through the empty spaces in window panes where glass used to be. The smell of mildew, mold, and just neglect chokes the air.
Elora in put upon manner, sighs, moving into the back and getting her chainmail on. The entire time she mutters to herself. "Oh, get someone in debt will you. Have a helper. Bloody mushroom patches."
Isolde walks deeper into the church, allowing noise through movement now before a vehicle is to arrive.
Isolde mouths, "Mot-or cy-cle!"
Isolde doesn't have the lips for it, really.
Elora would eventually and cautiously make her way down beneath the church. Along the way, she would double back, sniffing with acute senses, checking for a scent trail that ight be following her.
Isolde bites her lip enough to bleed, looking at the thin cooridors.
Once Elora is certain she doesn't have anyone following her, she and her apprentice will begin to explore, and look for their way down. Behind the grand, decaying altar of the abandoned church lies a secret that has remained hidden, veiled by the passage of time and layers of grime. The altar, an imposing structure of dark, cracked marble, bears the scars of neglect and the elements, its once-polished surface now dull and chipped. Intricate carvings of biblical scenes and mystical symbols are barely discernible beneath the dust and cobwebs that cling to every crevice. With a careful push on one of the ornate panels, a hidden mechanism clicks into place, and the altar shifts slightly, revealing a narrow, concealed door. The door itself is made of heavy, ancient wood, its surface worn smooth by the hands of those who knew of its existence. Hinges creak and groan as the door swings open, revealing a set of stairs descending into the dark unknown. The stairway is narrow and steep, the steps carved from the same dark stone as the churchs exterior. Each step is worn from use, bearing the marks of countless feet that have trodden this secret path over the ages. The walls of the stairwell are cold and damp, the stone slick with moisture and covered in patches of moss and lichen. Torch sconces line the wall, the torches in them long dead. As one descends, the air grows cooler and heavier, carrying a faint, metallic scent that mingles with the musty odor of old stone and forgotten secrets. The stairs spiral downward, leading deeper into the bowels of the church, the silence only broken by the occasional drip of water echoing through the narrow space.
At the bottom of the stairway, the path opens into a vast, gothic basement, a hidden chamber that defies the modest size of the church above. The basement is a marvel of dark, foreboding beauty, its architecture a testament to the macabre and the mysterious. Tall, pointed arches frame the space, their shadows forming a latticework of darkness against the dim, flickering light of the torches. The walls are lined with shelves filled with rusted iron sconces that hold more torches, their light casting a sickly glow over the room as they still burn. Along one wall, a series of old, wooden chests and crates lie stacked haphazardly, their contents unknown but hinting at long-forgotten treasures and relics. In the center of the basement, a large, stone pedestal rises from the floor, its surface covered in intricate carvings and strange symbols that pulse faintly with an eerie, ethereal light. The pedestal is surrounded by a circle of runes etched into the stone floor, their presence adding to the sense of ancient magic and foreboding that permeates the room. Protection runes, they seem to either keep people away from what lies on the pedestal, or keep it inside the circle. One way or the other. On the center of the column rests a velvet cushion and atop that, an amulet. A shiny chain necklace attached so gleaming it couldn't possibly be natural, and the pendant itself is something else. Dead, light-sucking black Obsidian, it's glossy yet not reflective but for the very center which holds a deep-hued blood red color.
Isolde's black irises stare into black, black staring back a pace and a throw away from the amulet. Her eyes trim over the symbols like a confused barber, combing them for the vaguest arcane suggestion. The metal in her hands clicks as she gestures the barrel towards the wards, silent in word if not presence.
Elora gazes with greedy eyes at the various chests and at the artifact.
Isolde takes a knee.
Isolde scoffs without the smile.
Isolde's leg taps in her kneel as she stares forward. Neither the stare of greed nor the lips of gluttony curl on her face. She is simply forelorn.
Isolde says "Would you like me to grab it, and suffers its repercussions on you behalf?"
Isolde answers with action. She moves over to the boxes at the side of the room with a helpless sigh. She begins, as ordered- by opening chests. If and when they are locked, a silent concession is made on behalf of her competency- and she sets them aside to perhaps fire at the locks later.
Elora huffs quietly to herself, draws turquoise and neon hair from her face, and focuses on the runes trying to understand their likely purpose.
Most of the chests seem locked, but they're also half-rotted away and and dilapidated anyhow. Securing what is available through these isn't that hard overall for Isolde and she'll end up carting off some supplies that may look useful either in their own endeavours or as mentioned by shuffling them off to the Goblin Market. Now, studying the runes on the ground, #@elora will find them a little more concerning. Her knowledge isn't VAST but she can determine these are heavy-handed protection runes. Once more it's hard to say if they keep people out or the amulet in but what is certain is that crossing them wont' be an easy task. While Elora discerns her options, one of the things that Isolde will find ... is a book. A journal of sorts, that might be worth flipping through.
Isolde pockets a strange statue of an ugly baby with angel wings. She taps the leather for the satisfaction of a minor cruelty against the old, feeble, and forgotten- and pretends she'll never be any of those things as she flips it open.
Isolde turns over her shoulder at Elora.
Isolde may find something interesting in the book she flips through, now. Elora will study those runes but nothing much else will come to her for now. The instinct in her gut says they may be too powerful for her to bring down on her own just now, though perhaps with help. But what to do about this amulet in the meantime? Who's to say. It does seem left here, all alone and abandoned. But SOMEONE had to put those protection runes in place. And they did it for some reason, known or unknown.
Isolde eideticizes a few notable things, then beckons someone with an annoying tap of her foot. It generates just a little bit too much noise for the nerves- like a washing machine in a quiet alley.
Isolde eideticizes a few notable things, then beckons Elora with an annoying tap of her foot. It generates just a little bit too much noise for the nerves- like a washing machine in a quiet alley.
Isolde extends the journal.
Elora accepts the journal and begins paging through it, trying to understand what her apprentice might see in the pages that would provoke her to bring it to her.
Isolde rubs her temple.
Isolde bows her head in submission- it's more eastern than it is sexual, "I will leave it to your discretion."
Indeed, the information concerning the lunar eclipse seems far more interesting than the runes themselves, only noting that someone's 'best' ritualist took the care to lay them down. However the book is old, so there's no telling how long it's been here. But for the date in the journal. That's an upcoming eclipse, not one long past. This subtle clue gives lead to the idea that Someone will probably be coming back for what's here, eventually. NO later say .. than March fourteenth. However, it leaves a window of opportunity for Elora and Isolde both, to snatch something powerful out from the jaws of the mighty.
OOC: Thank you both for participating this evening! I've added this encounter to my Storyline because it involved an eclipse I decided I'm going to run out a full blown plot on this specific little blurb. Please feel free to continue Rp and I will provide reponse when needed, otherwise you are welcome to make your way down at your leisure. Ask if you require a summon!
Isolde raises her head and looks to the exit.
Isolde cocks her head.
"Different perfumes on the way out from the way in," Elora states. "And we shall be finding some fools to brainwash and send here to cover our theft, so that the owners may have explanation for their loss, even if not recovery of it."
Elora meant to do subtle.
SRKah says "Closest cross on Paine for you?"
Isolde accepts this from the lingering spirit, perhaps?
SRKah says "Where on Paine I mean. "
SRKah says "DOn't give me anything I can't give it back! "