Encounterlogs
Erics Odd Encounter Sr Illyana 241116
During an early morning at Haven's morgue, Victor, a seasoned medical examiner, experiences a series of unsettling supernatural incidents while preparing to conduct an autopsy on a female corpse. Initially focused on his work amidst the chilling environment, Victor's routine is abruptly interrupted by sudden, inexplicable chills and an eerie voice claiming "He killed me…" emanating from nowhere, yet seemingly linked to the cadaver he is about to examine. Despite the corpse having undergone a prior examination, signs of imperfection in the stitching and an unsettling atmosphere pique Victor's interest, prompting a deeper investigation into the woman’s death, which remains shrouded in mystery.
As Victor's examination unfolds, the situation escalates dramatically. The corpse briefly animates, expressing sorrow and confusion about her murder, before collapsing again. Victor, battling against an unseen force manipulating his actions, finds himself compelled to resume the autopsy, scalpel in hand, under the corpse's eerie influence. Struggling with the intrusion and his own disdain for engaging with the supernatural, he grudgingly acknowledges the gravity of the cause – deciphering the truth behind the woman's untimely demise to potentially bring her assailant to justice. Amidst his reluctant compliance, Victor's professional detachment gives way to a personal conflict as he confronts the spectral plea for help, setting the stage for a deeper descent into the night's dark, supernatural mysteries.
(Eric's odd encounter(SRIllyana):SRIllyana)
[Fri Nov 15 2024]
At The Trove Barcade
This room is dominated by a sprawling, weathered bar. The bar's surface, polished to a high sheen, is inlaid with a mosaic of colorful sea glass, glinting in the dim, lantern-like lighting.
The walls, painted a deep, oceanic blue, are adorned with an eclectic assortment of nautical paraphernalia. Aged maps, and faded flags are interspersed with vintage arcade game marquees. The ceiling, draped with tattered sails and thick, knotted ropes, gives the impression of being below deck on a ship.
In the corners of the room, clusters of arcade games flicker and beep, their colorful screens casting a kaleidoscope of light onto the wooden floorboards. The air is filled with the clatter of pinball machines, the electronic melodies of video games, and the occasional thud of an axe hitting its target.
Behind the bar, a vast array of bottles is displayed, their contents ranging from craft beers to exotic rums. The bartenders, dressed in pirate garb, deftly mix cocktails, their movements punctuated by the clink of glass and the hiss of a freshly opened beer.
North/South: Restrooms
Northeast: Games
East: Axe Throwing
Southeast: Competitive Games
Down: Laser Tag
It is before dawn, about 30F(-1C) degrees, and the sky is covered by thin white clouds. There is a full moon.
(Your target has been cursed with persecution, it is up to them to survive a world suddenly turned hostile until their allies can come and help get them to safety or deal with the curse.
)
Sam stands behind the bar, looking at the new arrivals, glass in hand, and dingy washcloth in another. "Ey! Welcome to the Trove, what can I getcha to get the games started, eh?" A well practiced line.
Eric is a recent arrival at the barcade, if something of a regular really. He has in his right hand, of all things, a juicebox. A nice bit of orange juice that, for whatever reason, has him regard Sam with very real amusement just for having it present in his hand.
Ritsuka is not actually at the Trove at all, and she's never visited the place, but she promised a friend to go out sometime over the weekend, and though she's definitely not on the legal drinking age side of it, she still makes her way around. She drives her sportsbike, is beautifully dressed and just outside the business, putting her sportsbike on lock and removing the key. She removes her helm, this she will need to continue carrying around, but it is something she's plain been used to doing by now.
It is early morning in Haven's township, and though the north side is likely less flooded with night life, the south certainly is not. It's rougher- Some might say historical, quaint, though for those in the know, the correct word might be more playing to the tune of sinister, malicious or haunting. -- Winter is coming, and the temperature is dropping, and the Trove Barcade is an old establishment, and so the chill is easily felt here. Sam is working on updating it for its new audience, though of course, these things take time, permits must be filed with the town hall, and of course... Certain amenities must be observed, as those awake to the supernatural must be accommodated for on the down low, with bribes, the factions and even the founding families each having a finger in this secretive, underground pie. -- It's silent then, save for the rare howl of wolves, though this is to be expected; Many of Haven's werewolf population are known to make their homes in the trailor park which is not far from here, to say little of stalking the Moore woods or the heights. To the south, that ever encroaching forest lingers, a daunting, pervasive reminder of those things that go bump in the night. Those who would have been axe-throwing have left for the night, and Eric is one of the rare few left in the bar propper. Though one late night visitor has come in in the form of Ritsuka A change in the monotomy of the early morning drunks, blue-collar workers and delinquent students from the White Oak institute to the north of town. -- And yet, how curious? The shadows seem deeper tonight, and those early drinkers, unbothered by the meaniality of curfew- Or with no other place to be are tugging their collars up, and gathering their coats close. The frost is gathering, cold, insidious and grimly attentive as it wraps itself through the shadows, the loitering men and women- Few though they are gathering for warmth as each seem to feel the sensation of eyes on them. Though upon turning, they see... Nothing. -- Unusual though, for of course, the sun is beginning to rise, so those shadows-- Those darker supernatural influences should be returning to slumber from wence they came- The day is a time for mundanity, not monsters. -- Eric though feels eyes on him more than anyone else. Nothing yet, though if he were to check, he would note that every single person is watching him from the corner of their eyes. And Sam and Ritsuka arn't exempt from this, though what they feel is... A slowly building, superlative rage towards Eric. But why? He's done nothing. Still, the chaotic feeling banks gradually upwards, the patrons in the bar beginning to mutter between themselves as they leave a wide area around Eric and the bar.
A subtle shift in Sam's posture is immediately visible. One hand goes up to briefly finger the human bone on that silver chain on his neck. He doesn't however pull it out just yet. The squeaky polishing of the glass has stopped, leaving Sam in a very out-of-sorts silence as he narrows his eyes at Eric. He doesn't speak, but that hand with the glass in it is lowered, just slightly. His eyes are cold, and his nostrils flare as he lets out a soft, hissing breath of air, conversation silenced in the back of his throat.
Eric is a good zoomer, and taps at his phone a bunch while also looking around. A bunch of random people avoiding him and a bunch of nobodies casting him looks doesn't even register. He's just busy scrolling away, texting people, and so on. It's Sam that really draws his attention once he gets the particular look cast his way, which earns Sam a strange expression and a bunch of thin, slender fingers pointed right at his own sternum. "Fam, what's up?" He's quite oblivious really, brow perking up a bunch. "You good?" Someone his size scowling at you is enough, for Eric at least, to be really quite apprehensive
Ritsuka does open the door and step into the establishment - and it doesn't take much to realize one thing in particular. She's gorgeous and too rich looking to fit into here. Hair sticks that hold gems, an expensive dress, this is not her space, but she still takes a few cautious steps in, heels making soft clacks muffled on soft and light steps. She looks around the room, and then to Eric and her eyes stop over Sam and then go back to Eric. There is an odd sparkle that fills her eyes, and she looks at him oddly, interested, even a note sensual? Playful but not quite like a partner would, more like someone who's found a target - prey. And this is only further underlined by a confused look that subtly grows onto her expression.
Eric's obliviousness may in fact be just what is needed. Though he is focused on Sam here, it's clear to anyone else that that illusion of being seen-- Watched-- Observed, is growing. The shadows deepen, slithering around the edges of the room, almost serpentine in their dance across the walls, their motions unnatural and slinking, dancing... Charming, in a way. And though they move, they always remain behind the patrons, the dim light of the barcade and the motions of the gathered pub-goers and revelers guarding them from Eric. Those of a supernatural mien however might notice something else; For yes, that rage builds. There's a steadily glowing knot of violence building, and though Sam and Ritsuka are able to control themselves, the patrons might not. The Trove's ambiance grows that bit more chill, and from the edges of the bar, where the shadows should, but don't quite lay, there are eyes in that supernal gloaming. They are slitted, yellow and intent. On what? Why, Eric of course. Though be this external or internal is yet to be seen. Still, One shadow is isolated. It lingers unseen, though there is nothing to cause it, and if one were perceptive enough, they might see the half-formed form of a figure with a cobra's head in that gathering gloom. That though is not all. Sam can tell, even through his building umbridge that there is something cunning here. A macarbe game of sorts and all focused towards Eric. -- Ritsuka's wrath is likewise steadily growing here, though it's Sam that notes the impromptue weapons braught to hand as the patrons look between each other and Eric. Then too, Eric sees that curious shift. -- Sam knows that /something/ is happening. It's twisted, it's warped, but he notes the circle of space. This is specific to him: The shadows, the gloom, the being watched- The serpentine shifting of unnatural umbra. There is a ritual taking place here, and it's one of Apep's devising.
A subtle shift in Sam's posture is immediately visible. He looks between Eric and Ritsuka, that glass put down onto the bar with some force, enough to cause the slightest of cracks on the bottom. He does not seem concerned, however. He looks between eric and Ritsuka.
"Can I help ya?" He glares at the new arrival.
"Kid, respectfully, shut the FUCK up." Way more anger in that tone than called for. His eyes dart between Ritsuka and Eric now, his hand actually going to that pendant, pulling it out from under his jacket, runes on it glowing angrily.
A soft hiss escapes his mouth as he looks to Ritsuka, coldly. His head tilts aside, and he smiles a broad grin. "Here to throw another fit, Ritsuka?" He nods to the bartender. "Take fifteen. NOW." His eyes glare at that man.
Eric had been curious for an answer for Sam, and with a duck of the head and an immediate grimace instead looks far more startled and affected instead. He throws up a hand as if to ward Sam off, as if that were in the cards, and he grimaces all the deeper, just mouthing a quiet "A-alright, I- y-yeah." The sense of shadows on the walls only has him feel worse, just increases the acute sense of malice and danger about himself. Making a noise, and shutting up all the more, he simply tries just to keep himself very, very small - a tough feat for someone his size - and look at nobody in particular, as if Sam's presence of shutting up, and some blind faith, perhaps, are going to be enough against whatever may be transpiring here.
Ritsuka makes her way towards the bar, and her gaze settles immediately onto Sam "First. How do you know my name? Second. Who is talking shit behind my back? I have never been here before and I am the last... to ever get angry." This is true, and it is what has her turn her gaze around now, first settling onto Eric and then further around the place, and then back to Eric. She reaches around herself and places a hand near a concealed sheath. "Tell me what you see, she asks the two. Go behind the bar and duck down, will you? Don't be seen."
At Sam's instruction, the bartender does not obey; He too is staring at Eric, and there is a shifting, dancing, twist to his shadow, too. From where he stands, Sam notes that he is reaching for the emergency shotgun kept behind the bar and his expression, the same as those of everyone around is hostile, and just as with Sam and Eric, that hostility is leveled on Eric. The need to harm him builds, and there's a subtle shift; Those impromptue weapons-- And a number of knives flicker into view, as as one, the early patrons take a single step forward. The air shimmers with magic and Ritsuka and Sam are drawn to it: Drawn to harm Eric, though Eric, right at the center of this entire mess is not phased in the least by what ever this is. He is a bastion of normality a drift in a sea of chaos-- A chaos that Sam knows to be Apep's entire reason for being. -- No violence yet. This is a small fortune, and yet... There is something about the atmosphere that suggests that carnage could break out at any moment if Ritsuka, Eric and Sam don't recognize the problem-- Then it hits, Sam remembers first, then Ritsuka. This feeling-- This anger directed and focused with evil intent is squarely directed at Eric. This is the building portent of a ritual of persecution. -- Far too late to not be seen, Ritsuka and Sam feel that shuddering of someone's pathway opening, the mind-bending clawing of the air as it starts to rip open to reveal that dark forest from which one must never leave the path. It is not open yet, but it will, soon. -- The shadow on the wall paints an image dark and small, but Eric, Sam and Ritsuka arn't sure at all it's a shadowed reflection. And then, fantasy becomes reality as a figure steps forth, its form darkly skinned, african and heavily muscled. Holding a snake-headed staff with glowing red eyes in its right hand and an ankh in the other, its head is serpentine; A cobra, darkly scaled, and its tongue flickers in and out as it tastes the air. -- Fleshformedand titanic, it closes its path before Eric, looking him over with a long, lingering expression that is all too alien. -- Sam knows that this is not Apep; How could it be, though of course, it is likely someone-- Something in the god's service, and the gladiator sandals and egyption shendyte only lends credence to that truth. It does nothing more, simply watching-- observing, though none of the mundanes apparently see it. Though it is of the guard realm, of course.
Leaning into that power just a little, Sam rides that energy of chaos as he draws a bowie knife from a sheath on his belt. Openly carried, albeit subtly so.
"Kid, yer hand. NOW." He grabs hold of Eric's hand, and slices that blade across it, before repeating the gesture at his own palm. A quick glance is given to the civilians. A problem for cleanup, later.
Slowly, he extends his blood-coated blade towards Ritsuka, speaking in a sharp, almost commanding voice towards someone. "By my blood, in the name of Apep, may ya bathe in Isfet." He smirks, and closes his eyes, his free hand firmly around that finger-bone. He mutters. "Ain't nuthing personal." A soft chuckle escapes his lips as he lets out a dark, gutteral hiss. "Get the fuck out of my bar." It's unclear if he directs that hatred, that anger towards Eric or Ritsuka.
Eric might have been trying to keep it together, to trust in Sam to do whatever, and in Ritsuka to - hopefully, really - not be a paragon of terrible news.. But when the magic goes from implied, ominous, and disturbing, to actively having such a terrifying figure march on through, the young man really does lose his cool. Eric lets out what is a distinctly un-masculine scream, and already rising from the bar has him try to leap behind it, just to get all the more terrified once he takes note of the assistant barkeep reaching for an actual shotgun. "No- don't- please- NO!!" Even shutting up is too much, and he ends up ducking as best he can, knees bending all the way so he can hide behind the bar's surface. Not merely from the great crowd of people, but also from the literal gun, and the man holds up two hands in an attempt to cower from what violence he surely, sincerely, does not have a hope at defending himself from
Leaning into that power just a little, Sam rides that energy of chaos as he draws a bowie knife from a sheath on his belt. Openly carried, albeit subtly so.
"Kid, yer hand. NOW." He grabs hold of Eric's hand, and slices that blade across it, before repeating the gesture at his own palm. A quick glance is given to the civilians. A problem for cleanup, later.
Slowly, he extends his blood-coated blade towards Ritsuka, speaking in a sharp, almost commanding voice towards Ritsuka. "By my blood, in the name of Apep, may ya bathe in Isfet." He smirks, and closes his eyes, his free hand firmly around that finger-bone. He mutters. "Ain't nuthing personal." A soft chuckle escapes his lips as he lets out a dark, gutteral hiss. "Get the fuck out of my bar." It's unclear if he directs that hatred, that anger towards Eric or Ritsuka.
Ritsuka is trying at an attempt emote, but it is not working.
Ritsuka test
"This city is not for you to have, you can take your arena games and go and die with them," Ritsuka hisses to the monster, the artificial anger turning and directing away from Eric, though still because of Eric by ritual, now to the monster. But she knows this is a monster, and she possesses not the strength to fight it. Not on her own, and there is no Order to call now to aid with this. But she was one of her own, an enemy to the evil, corruption and the chaos here. And then, Sam actually reveals himself to be a servant of Apep, the one of evil and she jumps over the bar and tries to grab for Eric, drag him and turn to the entrance, intending to leave - she could feel the dark ritual starting to form, the corruption spreading from whatever Sam was starting to cast. "Come with me. This place is not safe for you - it will only get worse."
There's a rentching of magic, but it's not from where one might expect. It's as though Sam's attempt to redirect using blood magic smashes what ever barrier remained, as slowly, like zombies, the patrons- Openly carrying their impromptue weapons now, begin to move in. The barman grabs the gun, chambers a round and aims directly at Eric. Sam and Ritsuka feel their hate towards Eric rising and that figure, so intently observing Eric speaks; Its voice is serene, lethargic, tonally void, as though speaking from rit. "I am Apon Ra-Tep of the House of Ra- Servant of He who is trapped beyond. This is your only test. You are to prove your worth, banish my trivial hex upon your property and you will prove yourself, Sam of the blood of Apophys- He who is Apep. And in doing so, you will prove to me, your worth to contend in the great working that must return the banished bringer of chaos to the House of Ra once more. So it is spoken. So it shall be." Locking eyes with Eric cowering behind the bar now, Apon Ra-Tep takes up his staff, hammering its tip ritualisticly against the floor thrice, his other hand gesturing with his ankh. -- This done, the flesh formed abomination makes no further move, allowing the on-coming small mob to try to invade Sam's bar space- A test devised of only the god of darkness and chaos, surely- And the competative nature; Surely, a question for later. But now, Sam, Eric and Ritsuka must find a way to perform a curse removal under the watchful gaze of what appears to be a servant of the God Houses of the Guard Realm, even as they are attacked by innocents-- Surely, this wont be a pboblem in the least...
The moment that Sam tries anything, Ritsuka's own defenses pop up to make whatever he intends to do - harder. Her eyes flash golden.
Step by step the mob nears, though they are closing fast. Sam's ritual banishment for Eric's safety will need to be quick and dirty, but with as many shadows as there are lingering in the Trove, and with blood having already been let, it's possible. It's likely that Apep doesn't want Sam to fail- Especially if Apon Ra-Tep is correct, truthful and certain of his purpose in having Sam aid the servants of Apophys in attempting to reverse the banishment upon the snake deity. -- Fortunately for Eric, the round chambered was a jammed cartrage, so he is granted a few more seconds, yet longer with Ritsuka's intervention, though getting to the door will not be easy; The bar is now a circle of flickering light. Enshrouded within a wall of roiling blackness, they can see the walls slithering closer and closer by the second.
There will be no escape to the forest. There is no escape but to work together, and this squabbling between the god kin, Sam and Ritsuka, has Apon Ra-Tep hiss with distaste. The ritual must be done here, before the darkness-- And the mob reach Eric. And that fighting allows one man to leap over the bar, a smashed bottle in hand. Ritsuka is forced to let go of Eric to fend off Sam, and Eric is free to move as he wills.
Sam steps forward, an unnatural quickness to his own movement, though it is raw physical strength that he uses to, almost like a rag-doll, toss Eric onto the floor. He looks down at Eric, and nods. "Y'know what to do, kid." He puts his bloodied palm against the floor, and draws a triangular shape in blood on the bar-room floor.
"Oi, frost-lady." He nods to Ritsuka. "I need a third. We can fight about alla this later. Git." He looks at Ritsuka, Eric at one point of that triangle, as Sam lowers himself to the floor at another. He gestures to Ritsuka, the jock aimign all of that malice, all of that hate, at the magic around him. He speaks low. "Apon Ra-Tep, by His Will.... Yer magic... IS DEAD!" He glares at Eric. surely that idiot could follow instructions, right? Malice shines in the jock's eyes.
Eric is caught between two people stronger than him, by far, telling him deeply contradictory things he cannot quite hope to both go for. "I- HEY- I'm trying- PLEASE!" He tries to do his part with Sam, with that now-familiar triangle, with something he's been a part of a couple more times than a healthy man quite should, perhaps.. And given that, the arrival of a distraction for much more impressive people is perhaps a relief, of some kind, a means for him to join Sam, a hope at not freedom, but merely purity, a life without being hounded by such a curse. "SAM!" The man deeply feels a need to rush him. "It's- GAH!" He drops to a knee, and stays very much in his spot on the impromptu ritual site, anything to hopefully make the magic work properly
Ritsuka's light fends off the shadows enough for Sam to complete this blood ritual. It's something that Ritsuka who supports Bastet, and Sam will be at odds with, so it is only natural that this conflict takes place, and yet- Sam proves his determination and that triangle breaks the hex. The shadows slither back to Apon Ra-Tep, who nods, and as one, like puppets with their strings cut, the mob drop unconscious where they stand, smashing glass and broken amenities falling around them. Eric is free of the curse, the darkness is thwarted by light, and Apon Ra-Tep simply waits to see what Ritsuka and Sam will do to resolve their emulation of the age old conflict of light and night.
Ritsuka draws the blade from its concealed sheath finally. But even she understands that the situation is dire - but this does not mean that the Heavenly court she descends from will permit it to be done without a price. Dark ritual magic is still evil, and perhaps one of the most evil forms as far as one in the Japanese angle would perceive, and so - she makes to lean down, take and put some of Sam's blood over her blade, and at this point, her radiance protecting Eric is more coincidental and though she hopes for the best for Eric, she cannot be part of this, and it's clear that further meddling with this will only be bad - and so - she simply makes to leave.
Sam straightens up some, and presses a hand against this earpiece. "Yo! Sam phisher, Haven branch. Cleanup at the Trove, please." He gives a little wave to Ritsuka, flicking his tongue out at her. "Peassse!"
"You aight?" He turns to Eric now, before finally straightening up, and glaring at that flesh-formed male. "Leave." A simple word, spoken with some tiredness as the ritual magic exacts it's toll. He waits a moment, standing there with trembling hands, the wounds slowly starting to grow shut already.
Though the ritual is concluded, it was tainted by light. Sam was successful, he and Eric know this, but so too was Ritsuka. Though hers is perhapse something more malicious; She has some of Sam and Eric's blood on her blade. She may use this later with the aid ot Alabaster. This is conflict for another day, when Apep and Bastet will clash, and so, a potential enemy has been forged on either side. So what remains? Eric and Sam, now left by Ritsuka will have to clean up. The cleanup crew from the Whispers and Shadows soon shows and the innocents are returned to their usual oblivious lives and Sam and Eric are left with Apon Ra-Tep, who all through this was unseen except by the supernaturals. -- Only a single nod is given- Approving. Seemingly this test was passed, and the godling paths back to its home in the Guard Realm- Not because Sam demands it, but simply because its job is done.
Eric slumps down, a bit, easing back, grimacing, relaxing only very gradually as the ritual comes to a close and the curse manages to lift off his shoulders. "F-fuck, man." He exhales, and rubs a hand at his face, already quite tired despite the morning not even being done. "Fuck, I- god- damnit.."
The upcoming plot The call of Apophys will explain more of these mysterious happenings.
(Your target is possessed by an angry spirit that is forcing them to act out and putting themselves and/or others at risk. They must either defeat it or find a way to calm it down.
)
A chilly morning made even chillier by the cold of the morgue, dead bodies in cold storage as much as the living who examine them. The air is low enough in temperature to raise goosebumps upon the flesh, and yet not quite in the degree range for the fogging of breath. Victor stands vigil amongst the deceased, a discerning eye to their demises, untimely or otherwise. The bell tolls for most of us eventually, save for the rare member of society whose supernatural capabilities have grown to the point where they simply do not age, and do not die.
Gray-blue eyes find themselves growing misty rather suddenly, though that soon passes, like a brief cloud of mist had wandered past the man's gaze- strange, but not uncommon, for the air conditioning to puff out the odd fog of ice crystals into the air in order to maintain the integrity of the cadavers. Still, it is odd enough that perhaps it draws him from the midst of whatever reverie he may or may not find himself in. The loss of time, of space, of purpose, passing in the blink of an eye, appearing and disappearing in the same span of a breath before his next is drawn in. The clocktower chimes on twelve, a rousing call to the town that lunch, and high noon, is upon Haven- but then, everything seems to stop, and much like the deceased, perhaps Victor too feels as though he is lost in time.
Blissfully unaware, blissfully absorbed in work, catalouging the deceased- Victor is busy with a stack of papers laid on a clipboard on his arm. He scribbles on endlessly, trying to fix together absent reports that desperately needs a technician's autopsy. After some hefty paperwork, while he's completely nonplussed by the corpses laid around him, Victor moves on to one of the corpses that need extensive examination. She's hefted out of the push-in drawer's seat she was resting within, a two-man job done by one, and laid on a wheeled stretcher so Victor can haul her to his office.
Even if his eyes are growing misty, something that's likely attributed to the scenery, Victor wipes them quickly with the back of his hand, clears his throat and endures his silence and near respectful, orderly work attitude to push his cart out through the doors. A wandering mass of doctors, technicians, scientist and the like are passed through without much regard save for a polite dipping of his head before he turns for the forensic wing, then again, to his office. Fleeing the cadaver's dome of sleep to the much more palatabl enclosure of his own sanctuary. His stack of papers are flung on his desk, and his boot kicks the door shut in his wake, and he nears the autopsy table at the center from one end while the dissassociative sensation of a lacking perception in time gnaws at the back of his mind. His office is just as cold as the morgue, just as spartan and clinical, heavy with the scent of antisetpic.
Without much more ado, the corpse is hefted once more to be laid on the examination desks, where she'll remain, and Victor turns for the washbowl and sink to replace his gloves. They're slipped off, slid into a nearby trashbin opened with a step without moving, and much sanitizer and soap is wasted to achieve clinical sanitation - at least as much as is necessary to handle a corpse. Another set of gloves are pulled over his hands, and in that kept silence, Victor returns to his examination area with the corpse to his back so he can start searching through the very varied list of utensils set upon a waist-high, metal table.
A simple task for a practiced man in this field- finding the right equipment for the job. Victor may seek to explore the chest cavity, something itching at the back of his mind that the answers he seeks lie within. This, of course, spites the fact that it seems she has been examined already- the chest has been sawed open, and stitched back together with near-perfection, but 'near' is the key word here, the staples slightly off, slightly crooked, the carving not quite a straight line.
Another chill comes, though this room should not be so- it is his office, not the freezer, and yet that same puff of wispy vapor floats in front of his gaze- and then settles deep within his chest. Now he is chilled to the bone, if only for the briefest of moments before that cold becomes a cool, and his mind begins to work, going for the bone saw before his wrist spasms, fingers bending at awkward angles, and then readjusting before sloppily slapping a hand down upon the scalpel and struggling to grip it in hand.
The call of a feminine voice fills the room, everywhere, and yet sourcing from nowhere- at least at first. The corpse shudders behind the Italian man, fingers twitching, and then the subtle spasm of the heart as it beats, then stills, perhaps some postmortum twitch, or muscle tensing, nothing to be concerned about in the face of Victor's loss of control of his arm, surely. "He killed me..."
His immediate reaction is a visceral one, as it should be. "Cazzo!" Victor hisses out and takes a step away from his tools- nearly bumps his back to the autopsy desk while his fingers spasm in loose grip that can't find purchase on one hand. His other works to try and alleviate it, hold his hand at the wrist while his breath mists by his face. The sound, then, has him turn again near immediately- specially when it comes from everywhere and nowhere, but particularly something afoul of the corpse laid at the center of his office. His next bump is against the table and its tray, sending an array of tools scattering across the floor in a haphazard spray.
"Vai a fare in culo," He continues to hiss out- and then promptly begins to backtrack away towards his desk as if it'll provide some modicum of barrier between what is going on here. Though, he's no regular man. Certainly not /unaware/, hence his next set of words in plain, slightly accented English delivered to the ether. "Puttana, I'm going to kill you a second time if you don't leave me alone!" On the side, his one good hand is dropped on his desk, sliding for the drawers searchingly for something, anything.
The corpse sits up, a slow tension of the abdominal muscles that drag her upper body into an upright position. Her arms hang limply at her sides as her dead eyes stare straight ahead. For the moment, Victor finds relief in the way that his arm is his again, or at the very least no longer numb. "He killed me..." Those words drip from the cadaver's lips as much as the tears of blood that suddenly plip plop from her eyes, streaking her cheeks, then falling to rest on the veil that once enshrouded her. "I... Can't remember who he is.."
Suddenly, her head twists in a single motion to stare at Victor, sunken eyes latching onto him without seeing, and yet they do see him. "Mi corazone..." says the Spanish-heritage'd woman softly, her mouth forming the words in an oddly numb fashion before her back collapses onto her table once more, a thud of flesh upon surgical steel as she falls still again. Unfortunately for Victor, his reprieve lasts for only a moment before there is a tugging at his scalpel-wielding arm again, the instrument itself seeming to guide him back to his examination of the body, begging, pleading. Her cause of death is unknown besides the idea that she was murdered- which means that her murderer is still out there somewhere, free, living without consequences.
Even while the corpse rises, Victor is collected enough in his attempt at his drawers. She's stared at in much the same way she stare at him- except with contempt. A heavy tone of dislike in the man's brow, his oft amicable, even kind expression turned away in favor of something cold and reserved that's just as numbed as the frost licking up his arm in a freezed limb. He barely manages to yank open the drawer, the sight of a pistol within, but before he can do anything like reach for it, he's yanked forward and head out of his own will. Legs commandeered.
He hadn't taken a scalpel to hand- but as it were, there is one now firmly grasped in his digits. Held like a blade to stab someone rather than a tool of medical form. "Damn pest.." Victor manages to mutter out, and sigh a heavy sound of resignation by the time he's made to stand by the operating table and stare down at the corpse that thudded back down. "I don't help your kind, sorella, I end them." His words are forced, heavy with some underlaid fury in opposition to the supernatural manifestation. "God, I'm speaking to a corpse." Self-chastisment, aside, he casts a look down at the body once again, inspecting more than before, searching with his eyes whatever ails the dead woman's sorry state. The scalpel in his knife-grip is brought up too, held atop the body. "This is so out of order, God damnit." The likely gruesome idea of an autopsy on an unprepared corpse clearly flashes before his eyes.
As Victor's examination unfolds, the situation escalates dramatically. The corpse briefly animates, expressing sorrow and confusion about her murder, before collapsing again. Victor, battling against an unseen force manipulating his actions, finds himself compelled to resume the autopsy, scalpel in hand, under the corpse's eerie influence. Struggling with the intrusion and his own disdain for engaging with the supernatural, he grudgingly acknowledges the gravity of the cause – deciphering the truth behind the woman's untimely demise to potentially bring her assailant to justice. Amidst his reluctant compliance, Victor's professional detachment gives way to a personal conflict as he confronts the spectral plea for help, setting the stage for a deeper descent into the night's dark, supernatural mysteries.
(Eric's odd encounter(SRIllyana):SRIllyana)
[Fri Nov 15 2024]
At The Trove Barcade
This room is dominated by a sprawling, weathered bar. The bar's surface, polished to a high sheen, is inlaid with a mosaic of colorful sea glass, glinting in the dim, lantern-like lighting.
The walls, painted a deep, oceanic blue, are adorned with an eclectic assortment of nautical paraphernalia. Aged maps, and faded flags are interspersed with vintage arcade game marquees. The ceiling, draped with tattered sails and thick, knotted ropes, gives the impression of being below deck on a ship.
In the corners of the room, clusters of arcade games flicker and beep, their colorful screens casting a kaleidoscope of light onto the wooden floorboards. The air is filled with the clatter of pinball machines, the electronic melodies of video games, and the occasional thud of an axe hitting its target.
Behind the bar, a vast array of bottles is displayed, their contents ranging from craft beers to exotic rums. The bartenders, dressed in pirate garb, deftly mix cocktails, their movements punctuated by the clink of glass and the hiss of a freshly opened beer.
North/South: Restrooms
Northeast: Games
East: Axe Throwing
Southeast: Competitive Games
Down: Laser Tag
It is before dawn, about 30F(-1C) degrees, and the sky is covered by thin white clouds. There is a full moon.
(Your target has been cursed with persecution, it is up to them to survive a world suddenly turned hostile until their allies can come and help get them to safety or deal with the curse.
)
Sam stands behind the bar, looking at the new arrivals, glass in hand, and dingy washcloth in another. "Ey! Welcome to the Trove, what can I getcha to get the games started, eh?" A well practiced line.
Eric is a recent arrival at the barcade, if something of a regular really. He has in his right hand, of all things, a juicebox. A nice bit of orange juice that, for whatever reason, has him regard Sam with very real amusement just for having it present in his hand.
Ritsuka is not actually at the Trove at all, and she's never visited the place, but she promised a friend to go out sometime over the weekend, and though she's definitely not on the legal drinking age side of it, she still makes her way around. She drives her sportsbike, is beautifully dressed and just outside the business, putting her sportsbike on lock and removing the key. She removes her helm, this she will need to continue carrying around, but it is something she's plain been used to doing by now.
It is early morning in Haven's township, and though the north side is likely less flooded with night life, the south certainly is not. It's rougher- Some might say historical, quaint, though for those in the know, the correct word might be more playing to the tune of sinister, malicious or haunting. -- Winter is coming, and the temperature is dropping, and the Trove Barcade is an old establishment, and so the chill is easily felt here. Sam is working on updating it for its new audience, though of course, these things take time, permits must be filed with the town hall, and of course... Certain amenities must be observed, as those awake to the supernatural must be accommodated for on the down low, with bribes, the factions and even the founding families each having a finger in this secretive, underground pie. -- It's silent then, save for the rare howl of wolves, though this is to be expected; Many of Haven's werewolf population are known to make their homes in the trailor park which is not far from here, to say little of stalking the Moore woods or the heights. To the south, that ever encroaching forest lingers, a daunting, pervasive reminder of those things that go bump in the night. Those who would have been axe-throwing have left for the night, and Eric is one of the rare few left in the bar propper. Though one late night visitor has come in in the form of Ritsuka A change in the monotomy of the early morning drunks, blue-collar workers and delinquent students from the White Oak institute to the north of town. -- And yet, how curious? The shadows seem deeper tonight, and those early drinkers, unbothered by the meaniality of curfew- Or with no other place to be are tugging their collars up, and gathering their coats close. The frost is gathering, cold, insidious and grimly attentive as it wraps itself through the shadows, the loitering men and women- Few though they are gathering for warmth as each seem to feel the sensation of eyes on them. Though upon turning, they see... Nothing. -- Unusual though, for of course, the sun is beginning to rise, so those shadows-- Those darker supernatural influences should be returning to slumber from wence they came- The day is a time for mundanity, not monsters. -- Eric though feels eyes on him more than anyone else. Nothing yet, though if he were to check, he would note that every single person is watching him from the corner of their eyes. And Sam and Ritsuka arn't exempt from this, though what they feel is... A slowly building, superlative rage towards Eric. But why? He's done nothing. Still, the chaotic feeling banks gradually upwards, the patrons in the bar beginning to mutter between themselves as they leave a wide area around Eric and the bar.
A subtle shift in Sam's posture is immediately visible. One hand goes up to briefly finger the human bone on that silver chain on his neck. He doesn't however pull it out just yet. The squeaky polishing of the glass has stopped, leaving Sam in a very out-of-sorts silence as he narrows his eyes at Eric. He doesn't speak, but that hand with the glass in it is lowered, just slightly. His eyes are cold, and his nostrils flare as he lets out a soft, hissing breath of air, conversation silenced in the back of his throat.
Eric is a good zoomer, and taps at his phone a bunch while also looking around. A bunch of random people avoiding him and a bunch of nobodies casting him looks doesn't even register. He's just busy scrolling away, texting people, and so on. It's Sam that really draws his attention once he gets the particular look cast his way, which earns Sam a strange expression and a bunch of thin, slender fingers pointed right at his own sternum. "Fam, what's up?" He's quite oblivious really, brow perking up a bunch. "You good?" Someone his size scowling at you is enough, for Eric at least, to be really quite apprehensive
Ritsuka does open the door and step into the establishment - and it doesn't take much to realize one thing in particular. She's gorgeous and too rich looking to fit into here. Hair sticks that hold gems, an expensive dress, this is not her space, but she still takes a few cautious steps in, heels making soft clacks muffled on soft and light steps. She looks around the room, and then to Eric and her eyes stop over Sam and then go back to Eric. There is an odd sparkle that fills her eyes, and she looks at him oddly, interested, even a note sensual? Playful but not quite like a partner would, more like someone who's found a target - prey. And this is only further underlined by a confused look that subtly grows onto her expression.
Eric's obliviousness may in fact be just what is needed. Though he is focused on Sam here, it's clear to anyone else that that illusion of being seen-- Watched-- Observed, is growing. The shadows deepen, slithering around the edges of the room, almost serpentine in their dance across the walls, their motions unnatural and slinking, dancing... Charming, in a way. And though they move, they always remain behind the patrons, the dim light of the barcade and the motions of the gathered pub-goers and revelers guarding them from Eric. Those of a supernatural mien however might notice something else; For yes, that rage builds. There's a steadily glowing knot of violence building, and though Sam and Ritsuka are able to control themselves, the patrons might not. The Trove's ambiance grows that bit more chill, and from the edges of the bar, where the shadows should, but don't quite lay, there are eyes in that supernal gloaming. They are slitted, yellow and intent. On what? Why, Eric of course. Though be this external or internal is yet to be seen. Still, One shadow is isolated. It lingers unseen, though there is nothing to cause it, and if one were perceptive enough, they might see the half-formed form of a figure with a cobra's head in that gathering gloom. That though is not all. Sam can tell, even through his building umbridge that there is something cunning here. A macarbe game of sorts and all focused towards Eric. -- Ritsuka's wrath is likewise steadily growing here, though it's Sam that notes the impromptue weapons braught to hand as the patrons look between each other and Eric. Then too, Eric sees that curious shift. -- Sam knows that /something/ is happening. It's twisted, it's warped, but he notes the circle of space. This is specific to him: The shadows, the gloom, the being watched- The serpentine shifting of unnatural umbra. There is a ritual taking place here, and it's one of Apep's devising.
A subtle shift in Sam's posture is immediately visible. He looks between Eric and Ritsuka, that glass put down onto the bar with some force, enough to cause the slightest of cracks on the bottom. He does not seem concerned, however. He looks between eric and Ritsuka.
"Can I help ya?" He glares at the new arrival.
"Kid, respectfully, shut the FUCK up." Way more anger in that tone than called for. His eyes dart between Ritsuka and Eric now, his hand actually going to that pendant, pulling it out from under his jacket, runes on it glowing angrily.
A soft hiss escapes his mouth as he looks to Ritsuka, coldly. His head tilts aside, and he smiles a broad grin. "Here to throw another fit, Ritsuka?" He nods to the bartender. "Take fifteen. NOW." His eyes glare at that man.
Eric had been curious for an answer for Sam, and with a duck of the head and an immediate grimace instead looks far more startled and affected instead. He throws up a hand as if to ward Sam off, as if that were in the cards, and he grimaces all the deeper, just mouthing a quiet "A-alright, I- y-yeah." The sense of shadows on the walls only has him feel worse, just increases the acute sense of malice and danger about himself. Making a noise, and shutting up all the more, he simply tries just to keep himself very, very small - a tough feat for someone his size - and look at nobody in particular, as if Sam's presence of shutting up, and some blind faith, perhaps, are going to be enough against whatever may be transpiring here.
Ritsuka makes her way towards the bar, and her gaze settles immediately onto Sam "First. How do you know my name? Second. Who is talking shit behind my back? I have never been here before and I am the last... to ever get angry." This is true, and it is what has her turn her gaze around now, first settling onto Eric and then further around the place, and then back to Eric. She reaches around herself and places a hand near a concealed sheath. "Tell me what you see, she asks the two. Go behind the bar and duck down, will you? Don't be seen."
At Sam's instruction, the bartender does not obey; He too is staring at Eric, and there is a shifting, dancing, twist to his shadow, too. From where he stands, Sam notes that he is reaching for the emergency shotgun kept behind the bar and his expression, the same as those of everyone around is hostile, and just as with Sam and Eric, that hostility is leveled on Eric. The need to harm him builds, and there's a subtle shift; Those impromptue weapons-- And a number of knives flicker into view, as as one, the early patrons take a single step forward. The air shimmers with magic and Ritsuka and Sam are drawn to it: Drawn to harm Eric, though Eric, right at the center of this entire mess is not phased in the least by what ever this is. He is a bastion of normality a drift in a sea of chaos-- A chaos that Sam knows to be Apep's entire reason for being. -- No violence yet. This is a small fortune, and yet... There is something about the atmosphere that suggests that carnage could break out at any moment if Ritsuka, Eric and Sam don't recognize the problem-- Then it hits, Sam remembers first, then Ritsuka. This feeling-- This anger directed and focused with evil intent is squarely directed at Eric. This is the building portent of a ritual of persecution. -- Far too late to not be seen, Ritsuka and Sam feel that shuddering of someone's pathway opening, the mind-bending clawing of the air as it starts to rip open to reveal that dark forest from which one must never leave the path. It is not open yet, but it will, soon. -- The shadow on the wall paints an image dark and small, but Eric, Sam and Ritsuka arn't sure at all it's a shadowed reflection. And then, fantasy becomes reality as a figure steps forth, its form darkly skinned, african and heavily muscled. Holding a snake-headed staff with glowing red eyes in its right hand and an ankh in the other, its head is serpentine; A cobra, darkly scaled, and its tongue flickers in and out as it tastes the air. -- Fleshformedand titanic, it closes its path before Eric, looking him over with a long, lingering expression that is all too alien. -- Sam knows that this is not Apep; How could it be, though of course, it is likely someone-- Something in the god's service, and the gladiator sandals and egyption shendyte only lends credence to that truth. It does nothing more, simply watching-- observing, though none of the mundanes apparently see it. Though it is of the guard realm, of course.
Leaning into that power just a little, Sam rides that energy of chaos as he draws a bowie knife from a sheath on his belt. Openly carried, albeit subtly so.
"Kid, yer hand. NOW." He grabs hold of Eric's hand, and slices that blade across it, before repeating the gesture at his own palm. A quick glance is given to the civilians. A problem for cleanup, later.
Slowly, he extends his blood-coated blade towards Ritsuka, speaking in a sharp, almost commanding voice towards someone. "By my blood, in the name of Apep, may ya bathe in Isfet." He smirks, and closes his eyes, his free hand firmly around that finger-bone. He mutters. "Ain't nuthing personal." A soft chuckle escapes his lips as he lets out a dark, gutteral hiss. "Get the fuck out of my bar." It's unclear if he directs that hatred, that anger towards Eric or Ritsuka.
Eric might have been trying to keep it together, to trust in Sam to do whatever, and in Ritsuka to - hopefully, really - not be a paragon of terrible news.. But when the magic goes from implied, ominous, and disturbing, to actively having such a terrifying figure march on through, the young man really does lose his cool. Eric lets out what is a distinctly un-masculine scream, and already rising from the bar has him try to leap behind it, just to get all the more terrified once he takes note of the assistant barkeep reaching for an actual shotgun. "No- don't- please- NO!!" Even shutting up is too much, and he ends up ducking as best he can, knees bending all the way so he can hide behind the bar's surface. Not merely from the great crowd of people, but also from the literal gun, and the man holds up two hands in an attempt to cower from what violence he surely, sincerely, does not have a hope at defending himself from
Leaning into that power just a little, Sam rides that energy of chaos as he draws a bowie knife from a sheath on his belt. Openly carried, albeit subtly so.
"Kid, yer hand. NOW." He grabs hold of Eric's hand, and slices that blade across it, before repeating the gesture at his own palm. A quick glance is given to the civilians. A problem for cleanup, later.
Slowly, he extends his blood-coated blade towards Ritsuka, speaking in a sharp, almost commanding voice towards Ritsuka. "By my blood, in the name of Apep, may ya bathe in Isfet." He smirks, and closes his eyes, his free hand firmly around that finger-bone. He mutters. "Ain't nuthing personal." A soft chuckle escapes his lips as he lets out a dark, gutteral hiss. "Get the fuck out of my bar." It's unclear if he directs that hatred, that anger towards Eric or Ritsuka.
Ritsuka is trying at an attempt emote, but it is not working.
Ritsuka test
"This city is not for you to have, you can take your arena games and go and die with them," Ritsuka hisses to the monster, the artificial anger turning and directing away from Eric, though still because of Eric by ritual, now to the monster. But she knows this is a monster, and she possesses not the strength to fight it. Not on her own, and there is no Order to call now to aid with this. But she was one of her own, an enemy to the evil, corruption and the chaos here. And then, Sam actually reveals himself to be a servant of Apep, the one of evil and she jumps over the bar and tries to grab for Eric, drag him and turn to the entrance, intending to leave - she could feel the dark ritual starting to form, the corruption spreading from whatever Sam was starting to cast. "Come with me. This place is not safe for you - it will only get worse."
There's a rentching of magic, but it's not from where one might expect. It's as though Sam's attempt to redirect using blood magic smashes what ever barrier remained, as slowly, like zombies, the patrons- Openly carrying their impromptue weapons now, begin to move in. The barman grabs the gun, chambers a round and aims directly at Eric. Sam and Ritsuka feel their hate towards Eric rising and that figure, so intently observing Eric speaks; Its voice is serene, lethargic, tonally void, as though speaking from rit. "I am Apon Ra-Tep of the House of Ra- Servant of He who is trapped beyond. This is your only test. You are to prove your worth, banish my trivial hex upon your property and you will prove yourself, Sam of the blood of Apophys- He who is Apep. And in doing so, you will prove to me, your worth to contend in the great working that must return the banished bringer of chaos to the House of Ra once more. So it is spoken. So it shall be." Locking eyes with Eric cowering behind the bar now, Apon Ra-Tep takes up his staff, hammering its tip ritualisticly against the floor thrice, his other hand gesturing with his ankh. -- This done, the flesh formed abomination makes no further move, allowing the on-coming small mob to try to invade Sam's bar space- A test devised of only the god of darkness and chaos, surely- And the competative nature; Surely, a question for later. But now, Sam, Eric and Ritsuka must find a way to perform a curse removal under the watchful gaze of what appears to be a servant of the God Houses of the Guard Realm, even as they are attacked by innocents-- Surely, this wont be a pboblem in the least...
The moment that Sam tries anything, Ritsuka's own defenses pop up to make whatever he intends to do - harder. Her eyes flash golden.
Step by step the mob nears, though they are closing fast. Sam's ritual banishment for Eric's safety will need to be quick and dirty, but with as many shadows as there are lingering in the Trove, and with blood having already been let, it's possible. It's likely that Apep doesn't want Sam to fail- Especially if Apon Ra-Tep is correct, truthful and certain of his purpose in having Sam aid the servants of Apophys in attempting to reverse the banishment upon the snake deity. -- Fortunately for Eric, the round chambered was a jammed cartrage, so he is granted a few more seconds, yet longer with Ritsuka's intervention, though getting to the door will not be easy; The bar is now a circle of flickering light. Enshrouded within a wall of roiling blackness, they can see the walls slithering closer and closer by the second.
There will be no escape to the forest. There is no escape but to work together, and this squabbling between the god kin, Sam and Ritsuka, has Apon Ra-Tep hiss with distaste. The ritual must be done here, before the darkness-- And the mob reach Eric. And that fighting allows one man to leap over the bar, a smashed bottle in hand. Ritsuka is forced to let go of Eric to fend off Sam, and Eric is free to move as he wills.
Sam steps forward, an unnatural quickness to his own movement, though it is raw physical strength that he uses to, almost like a rag-doll, toss Eric onto the floor. He looks down at Eric, and nods. "Y'know what to do, kid." He puts his bloodied palm against the floor, and draws a triangular shape in blood on the bar-room floor.
"Oi, frost-lady." He nods to Ritsuka. "I need a third. We can fight about alla this later. Git." He looks at Ritsuka, Eric at one point of that triangle, as Sam lowers himself to the floor at another. He gestures to Ritsuka, the jock aimign all of that malice, all of that hate, at the magic around him. He speaks low. "Apon Ra-Tep, by His Will.... Yer magic... IS DEAD!" He glares at Eric. surely that idiot could follow instructions, right? Malice shines in the jock's eyes.
Eric is caught between two people stronger than him, by far, telling him deeply contradictory things he cannot quite hope to both go for. "I- HEY- I'm trying- PLEASE!" He tries to do his part with Sam, with that now-familiar triangle, with something he's been a part of a couple more times than a healthy man quite should, perhaps.. And given that, the arrival of a distraction for much more impressive people is perhaps a relief, of some kind, a means for him to join Sam, a hope at not freedom, but merely purity, a life without being hounded by such a curse. "SAM!" The man deeply feels a need to rush him. "It's- GAH!" He drops to a knee, and stays very much in his spot on the impromptu ritual site, anything to hopefully make the magic work properly
Ritsuka's light fends off the shadows enough for Sam to complete this blood ritual. It's something that Ritsuka who supports Bastet, and Sam will be at odds with, so it is only natural that this conflict takes place, and yet- Sam proves his determination and that triangle breaks the hex. The shadows slither back to Apon Ra-Tep, who nods, and as one, like puppets with their strings cut, the mob drop unconscious where they stand, smashing glass and broken amenities falling around them. Eric is free of the curse, the darkness is thwarted by light, and Apon Ra-Tep simply waits to see what Ritsuka and Sam will do to resolve their emulation of the age old conflict of light and night.
Ritsuka draws the blade from its concealed sheath finally. But even she understands that the situation is dire - but this does not mean that the Heavenly court she descends from will permit it to be done without a price. Dark ritual magic is still evil, and perhaps one of the most evil forms as far as one in the Japanese angle would perceive, and so - she makes to lean down, take and put some of Sam's blood over her blade, and at this point, her radiance protecting Eric is more coincidental and though she hopes for the best for Eric, she cannot be part of this, and it's clear that further meddling with this will only be bad - and so - she simply makes to leave.
Sam straightens up some, and presses a hand against this earpiece. "Yo! Sam phisher, Haven branch. Cleanup at the Trove, please." He gives a little wave to Ritsuka, flicking his tongue out at her. "Peassse!"
"You aight?" He turns to Eric now, before finally straightening up, and glaring at that flesh-formed male. "Leave." A simple word, spoken with some tiredness as the ritual magic exacts it's toll. He waits a moment, standing there with trembling hands, the wounds slowly starting to grow shut already.
Though the ritual is concluded, it was tainted by light. Sam was successful, he and Eric know this, but so too was Ritsuka. Though hers is perhapse something more malicious; She has some of Sam and Eric's blood on her blade. She may use this later with the aid ot Alabaster. This is conflict for another day, when Apep and Bastet will clash, and so, a potential enemy has been forged on either side. So what remains? Eric and Sam, now left by Ritsuka will have to clean up. The cleanup crew from the Whispers and Shadows soon shows and the innocents are returned to their usual oblivious lives and Sam and Eric are left with Apon Ra-Tep, who all through this was unseen except by the supernaturals. -- Only a single nod is given- Approving. Seemingly this test was passed, and the godling paths back to its home in the Guard Realm- Not because Sam demands it, but simply because its job is done.
Eric slumps down, a bit, easing back, grimacing, relaxing only very gradually as the ritual comes to a close and the curse manages to lift off his shoulders. "F-fuck, man." He exhales, and rubs a hand at his face, already quite tired despite the morning not even being done. "Fuck, I- god- damnit.."
The upcoming plot The call of Apophys will explain more of these mysterious happenings.
(Your target is possessed by an angry spirit that is forcing them to act out and putting themselves and/or others at risk. They must either defeat it or find a way to calm it down.
)
A chilly morning made even chillier by the cold of the morgue, dead bodies in cold storage as much as the living who examine them. The air is low enough in temperature to raise goosebumps upon the flesh, and yet not quite in the degree range for the fogging of breath. Victor stands vigil amongst the deceased, a discerning eye to their demises, untimely or otherwise. The bell tolls for most of us eventually, save for the rare member of society whose supernatural capabilities have grown to the point where they simply do not age, and do not die.
Gray-blue eyes find themselves growing misty rather suddenly, though that soon passes, like a brief cloud of mist had wandered past the man's gaze- strange, but not uncommon, for the air conditioning to puff out the odd fog of ice crystals into the air in order to maintain the integrity of the cadavers. Still, it is odd enough that perhaps it draws him from the midst of whatever reverie he may or may not find himself in. The loss of time, of space, of purpose, passing in the blink of an eye, appearing and disappearing in the same span of a breath before his next is drawn in. The clocktower chimes on twelve, a rousing call to the town that lunch, and high noon, is upon Haven- but then, everything seems to stop, and much like the deceased, perhaps Victor too feels as though he is lost in time.
Blissfully unaware, blissfully absorbed in work, catalouging the deceased- Victor is busy with a stack of papers laid on a clipboard on his arm. He scribbles on endlessly, trying to fix together absent reports that desperately needs a technician's autopsy. After some hefty paperwork, while he's completely nonplussed by the corpses laid around him, Victor moves on to one of the corpses that need extensive examination. She's hefted out of the push-in drawer's seat she was resting within, a two-man job done by one, and laid on a wheeled stretcher so Victor can haul her to his office.
Even if his eyes are growing misty, something that's likely attributed to the scenery, Victor wipes them quickly with the back of his hand, clears his throat and endures his silence and near respectful, orderly work attitude to push his cart out through the doors. A wandering mass of doctors, technicians, scientist and the like are passed through without much regard save for a polite dipping of his head before he turns for the forensic wing, then again, to his office. Fleeing the cadaver's dome of sleep to the much more palatabl enclosure of his own sanctuary. His stack of papers are flung on his desk, and his boot kicks the door shut in his wake, and he nears the autopsy table at the center from one end while the dissassociative sensation of a lacking perception in time gnaws at the back of his mind. His office is just as cold as the morgue, just as spartan and clinical, heavy with the scent of antisetpic.
Without much more ado, the corpse is hefted once more to be laid on the examination desks, where she'll remain, and Victor turns for the washbowl and sink to replace his gloves. They're slipped off, slid into a nearby trashbin opened with a step without moving, and much sanitizer and soap is wasted to achieve clinical sanitation - at least as much as is necessary to handle a corpse. Another set of gloves are pulled over his hands, and in that kept silence, Victor returns to his examination area with the corpse to his back so he can start searching through the very varied list of utensils set upon a waist-high, metal table.
A simple task for a practiced man in this field- finding the right equipment for the job. Victor may seek to explore the chest cavity, something itching at the back of his mind that the answers he seeks lie within. This, of course, spites the fact that it seems she has been examined already- the chest has been sawed open, and stitched back together with near-perfection, but 'near' is the key word here, the staples slightly off, slightly crooked, the carving not quite a straight line.
Another chill comes, though this room should not be so- it is his office, not the freezer, and yet that same puff of wispy vapor floats in front of his gaze- and then settles deep within his chest. Now he is chilled to the bone, if only for the briefest of moments before that cold becomes a cool, and his mind begins to work, going for the bone saw before his wrist spasms, fingers bending at awkward angles, and then readjusting before sloppily slapping a hand down upon the scalpel and struggling to grip it in hand.
The call of a feminine voice fills the room, everywhere, and yet sourcing from nowhere- at least at first. The corpse shudders behind the Italian man, fingers twitching, and then the subtle spasm of the heart as it beats, then stills, perhaps some postmortum twitch, or muscle tensing, nothing to be concerned about in the face of Victor's loss of control of his arm, surely. "He killed me..."
His immediate reaction is a visceral one, as it should be. "Cazzo!" Victor hisses out and takes a step away from his tools- nearly bumps his back to the autopsy desk while his fingers spasm in loose grip that can't find purchase on one hand. His other works to try and alleviate it, hold his hand at the wrist while his breath mists by his face. The sound, then, has him turn again near immediately- specially when it comes from everywhere and nowhere, but particularly something afoul of the corpse laid at the center of his office. His next bump is against the table and its tray, sending an array of tools scattering across the floor in a haphazard spray.
"Vai a fare in culo," He continues to hiss out- and then promptly begins to backtrack away towards his desk as if it'll provide some modicum of barrier between what is going on here. Though, he's no regular man. Certainly not /unaware/, hence his next set of words in plain, slightly accented English delivered to the ether. "Puttana, I'm going to kill you a second time if you don't leave me alone!" On the side, his one good hand is dropped on his desk, sliding for the drawers searchingly for something, anything.
The corpse sits up, a slow tension of the abdominal muscles that drag her upper body into an upright position. Her arms hang limply at her sides as her dead eyes stare straight ahead. For the moment, Victor finds relief in the way that his arm is his again, or at the very least no longer numb. "He killed me..." Those words drip from the cadaver's lips as much as the tears of blood that suddenly plip plop from her eyes, streaking her cheeks, then falling to rest on the veil that once enshrouded her. "I... Can't remember who he is.."
Suddenly, her head twists in a single motion to stare at Victor, sunken eyes latching onto him without seeing, and yet they do see him. "Mi corazone..." says the Spanish-heritage'd woman softly, her mouth forming the words in an oddly numb fashion before her back collapses onto her table once more, a thud of flesh upon surgical steel as she falls still again. Unfortunately for Victor, his reprieve lasts for only a moment before there is a tugging at his scalpel-wielding arm again, the instrument itself seeming to guide him back to his examination of the body, begging, pleading. Her cause of death is unknown besides the idea that she was murdered- which means that her murderer is still out there somewhere, free, living without consequences.
Even while the corpse rises, Victor is collected enough in his attempt at his drawers. She's stared at in much the same way she stare at him- except with contempt. A heavy tone of dislike in the man's brow, his oft amicable, even kind expression turned away in favor of something cold and reserved that's just as numbed as the frost licking up his arm in a freezed limb. He barely manages to yank open the drawer, the sight of a pistol within, but before he can do anything like reach for it, he's yanked forward and head out of his own will. Legs commandeered.
He hadn't taken a scalpel to hand- but as it were, there is one now firmly grasped in his digits. Held like a blade to stab someone rather than a tool of medical form. "Damn pest.." Victor manages to mutter out, and sigh a heavy sound of resignation by the time he's made to stand by the operating table and stare down at the corpse that thudded back down. "I don't help your kind, sorella, I end them." His words are forced, heavy with some underlaid fury in opposition to the supernatural manifestation. "God, I'm speaking to a corpse." Self-chastisment, aside, he casts a look down at the body once again, inspecting more than before, searching with his eyes whatever ails the dead woman's sorry state. The scalpel in his knife-grip is brought up too, held atop the body. "This is so out of order, God damnit." The likely gruesome idea of an autopsy on an unprepared corpse clearly flashes before his eyes.