Encounterlogs
Erics Odd Encounter Sr Victor 241124
In a dimly lit barcade nestled in the heart of a New England town, Eric encounters an odd and terrifying situation. The bar, filled with the lively ambiance of arcade games and chatter, quickly becomes the setting for a curse-induced nightmare. Patrons, who were once engrossed in their own merriment, turn their attention toward Eric with an unexplained hostility. Whispers and stares soon escalate into overt aggression. A couple's evening sours as they glare at Eric, a group of college students halt their laughter to join in the hostility, and even the bartender and others in the bar show signs of animosity. Surrounded by a growing circle of aggression, Eric realizes the gravity of his situation. He attempts to leave, hoping to escape the sudden vitriol, but finds his path blocked by a menacing figure, leading to an even more harrowing realization of the bar's collective intent to harm him.
In the midst of escalating violence, a well-dressed man with demonic features offers Eric a chance for escape, albeit with a vague promise of a future payment. This man, exuding an aura of power and command, manages to temporarily hold back the enraged crowd with a mere snap of his fingers. Hinting at a connection with the otherworldly, the demonic figure encourages Eric to consider what he holds most valuable for a future bargain. With a mix of relief and dread, Eric accepts the ambiguous rescue, fleeing into the night as chaos erupts behind him. His escape from immediate danger leaves him with the lingering reality of the curse and the ominous assurance of a future encounter with the demonic rescuer. Eric's night at the barcade concludes with more questions than answers, and a newfound wariness of the thin veil between the mundane and the magical realms.
(Eric's odd encounter(SRVictor):SRVictor)
[Sat Nov 23 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 night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. There is a waning crescent 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.
)
Eric lounges idly in the dimly lit barcade nestled in the heart of that small New England town, where its cobblestone streets and aged architecture are a bigger relic of the centuries past. Despite the town's vintage charm, the barcade exudes a neon glow, a beacon of modern nostalgia in a place where the veil between the mundane and the magical seems thin.
Inside, the young man leans back on a retro-style barstool, the vinyl seat creaking faintly under his weight. He's dressed in clothes to weather the cold quite well, and seems to be there by himself, somewhere between bored and comfortable, really quite at home in the place of games, drinks, and fun, lanky arms spread to lean himself back against the bar while looking about just some
The Trove Barcade thrummed with life, its warmth a welcome refuge from the crisp chill of the evening outside. Dim lantern-like lights cast a golden glow across the bar's sea-glass surface, where beads of condensation from freshly poured drinks reflected the soft hues of blue, green, and amber. Patrons leaned on the polished wood, chatting in clusters or nursing their drinks in comfortable solitude.
Overhead, the tattered sails swayed gently with each draft that snuck in through the doors, their shadows playing against the ocean-blue walls. Nautical relics and vintage game marquees gleamed faintly in the light, the aged flags trembling slightly like they were caught in a phantom breeze.
The rhythmic clatter of pinball machines and the cheerful, nostalgic chimes of old arcade games formed a symphony of chaos that blended with laughter, shouts of triumph, and the unmistakable thunk of an axe hitting its mark.
In one corner, a group erupted in cheers as someone claimed a high score, their victory dance illuminated by the flickering screens. At the bar, the pirate-garbed bartenders worked with practiced ease, the clink of bottles and ice punctuating their quick, cheerful banter. A row of vibrant cocktails lined the counter, colors swirling in glasses like captured fragments of a stormy sea.
The scent of craft beer, tangy citrus, and faint wood polish filled the air, wrapping around the room like a comforting embrace. It was an evening alive with camaraderie and the shared joy of escape, the kind of night where time slipped away unnoticed amidst the laughter and the glow of neon. At the center of it all is Eric. There isn't quite anything amiss as is, the world simply goes on around him.
Some couple are having the evening of their lives, enamored with one another, while a ragtag group of college students continue to make loud noises. Strangely, however, there is the odd glance spent on Eric. Some subtly stares, a few looks and whispers something to whomever they're with- he's being talked about, but it isn't easy to tell if it is in a good light or not, but the weight of eyes all around slowly, subtly becomes harder and harder to ignore.
Eric is a good zoomer, if only because not being spoken to has him peruse his phone a bunch. Still he occasionally looks up, if just to see if anyone he knows walks up; the first time has him roll his eyes.. But when he sees people point, sees more than one person gesture for him, he just frowns a bit more instead. "Ought to tell Sam not to let in rude people so much," he murmurs to himself, not yet suspecting anything. The disapproving stares people leave things at, for now, just have him roll his eyes. It's really easy enough to ignore as yet
Easy to ignore or not, things are afoot. Not necessarily nice things, mind. The couple's evening looks like its soured. Their adoring expression is now turned to one another with a look of agreement, and mutual discontent - about who knows what. It may be a hint, when they both look upon Eric with narrowed glares over their shoulders and grip their tankard of drinks tighter.
Off on the side, the rowdy chatter of college-goers have not only dimmed but entirely shut off. They're staring at Eric as well, all six of them, together. They're not the only ones. The whole barcade has grown silent, save for the music. It persists for a while longer while every single eye in the area has suddenly turned upon Eric to stare him down into the ground.
A record scratch sound follows the wake of the music's turning off, and then everything is truly quiet when even the bartender now wrings his hands together then cracks his knuckles behind his counter, and sets a pair of furious eyes on Eric, too. Just like the rest, just like everyone. Not a muscle moves in that uncanny moment, under the collective weight of a bar-full of eyes pointing directly at Eric.
Someone finally stands up- It's the couple, the man to be exact. He assures his beau to be calm, pats her hand and kisses her fingers before leaving her side to stride forward- towards Eric. It's the first match to ignite the room- The rest slowly starts to follow suit. A lot of them remain seated, but the man and the group of college frayboys that have also risen as his entourage begin their approach to move in on Eric's table, circle around like a wall of meat and flesh.
The first man, a young one in his late twenties, sets his hands on the edge of Eric's table, leans forward to set harsh, brown eyes on him with a look of utter disdain. "Hey, prick." His words have a biting quality, accusatory, vehement, vitriolic. "Don't you see you're making everyone uncomfortable?" It's like a scene from some introverts worst nightmare, coming to life. "You're ruining the evening for everyone, asshole." Another one, one of the fratboys calls out.
Eric very definitely does more than merely lounge about the place as people, one by one, do more than just stare. When he sees couples care more about him than about each other, when aggressive frat kids, varsity jackets and all, filter in to shout insults his way and loom on over, perhaps not as tall but easily twice his width, things click very, very quickly. Whiting out if but for realising that this will not easily go away, that it'll merely be worse, Eric bolts off his barstool, phone held tight in hand. "You're- yeah! You're right! I'll- go. Go skip TOWN, right away, OUT- yes!" Maybe it'll even work; they surely won't take offence at him just up and exiling himself, right? Right? Desperately ducking his head, and very hopefully pacing for the exit like the anxious man he's suddenly become, he opts to find the one person to count on perhaps, Sam, to punch in his number and furiously text that other man: "IT'S GOING DOWN AGAIN FAM PEOPLE BOUTTA LYNCH ME NO CAP BARCADE PLS HELP I CAN'T FIX THIS MYSELF" someone someone Maybe it'll even arrive in time for him to see it. As-is, Eric just does what he can to be anywhere, at all, that no crowds full of angry people can hurt him at - perhaps.
Eric very definitely does more than merely lounge about the place as people, one by one, do more than just stare. When he sees couples care more about him than about each other, when aggressive frat kids, varsity jackets and all, filter in to shout insults his way and loom on over, perhaps not as tall but easily twice his width, things click very, very quickly. Whiting out if but for realising that this will not easily go away, that it'll merely be worse, Eric bolts off his barstool, phone held tight in hand. "You're- yeah! You're right! I'll- go. Go skip TOWN, right away, OUT- yes!" Maybe it'll even work; they surely won't take offence at him just up and exiling himself, right? Right? Desperately ducking his head, and very hopefully pacing for the exit like the anxious man he's suddenly become, he opts to find the one person to count on perhaps, Sam, to punch in his number and furiously text that other man: "IT'S GOING DOWN AGAIN FAM PEOPLE BOUTTA LYNCH ME NO CAP BARCADE PLS HELP I CAN'T FIX THIS MYSELF"
Maybe it'll even arrive in time for him to see it. As-is, Eric just does what he can to be anywhere, at all, that no crowds full of angry people can hurt him at - perhaps.
Still as uncanny as when it all began, that some twelve set of eyes crowding Eric turn on him in silence, watch him stand and bolt with only the movement of their heads and the track of their unblinking, hatred filled eyes. There is, of course, no immediate resistance to him starting to leave.
Until he reaches the door with the phone in his hand. That's when a burly, large hand slams over Eric's shoulder and shoves the door shut before he can reach it, as well as trap him there against the hardwood with mere presence alone. Towering high, some gonk of a Russian, bald-headed and grim with scars holding a snarl with drawn back, cut lips to show yellowed-teeth.
"Not so fast, little man." Predators flock to the weak, and this is Haven, the realm of those things. That sign of fleeing was enough to spark further aggression from the more wrathful, corrupt of the bunch. One such man is there, now, looming upon Eric. He goes as far as plucking the phone out of his hand effortlessly, and chuck it over his shoulder into the crowd that also has left the vicinity of his table and moved at the Russian's flank.
They don't heckle, they merely stare, like a pack of creatures with their worst sides amplified, drool running the edges of their mouth, salivating visibly with wide-and-unblinking eyes. This hostile take-over is a dangerous one, and they seem like they might devour Eric alive, literally.
Yet, in the cacophony of violence, there is one man unaffected. Too well-dressed, wearing shades even inside and at night, sitting at the bar and not at all watching the ensuing sitch, but visibly amused nonetheless while he entertains a glass of his choice of alcohol. A cigarette smokes its trails upward above his hand held aloft the rim of his glass, swirled with the motion of his hand pressing it down on the counter. Is he the source of this, or something else? Who could tell.
Eric yelps and reaches after his phone, but seems more than aware of the sheer disparity in size and weight between him and those people menacing him. He doesn't even try to get it back- not yet, anyway. The first priority is to make it out alive, to get- somewhere, anywhere, at all, to not have anyone quite so large and nasty even looking at him. This is much tougher than he'd prefer given his current situation, and he ends up backing up a bunch then, from the door, from that bald-headed sorts, eventually landing on the one person, the single one person, who looks more amused than affected by the curse put upon him.
"Please!" It is the one word to reach for, calling right out for that stranger. "Please- I don't- I'm just a GUY I don't know what happened here, please- do something! I'm TOAST if nobody-" Eric recoils, heckled from his side, people at his back, everywhere, in any place at once. There's a hopeless brand of fear on his face, and he seems painfully well aware that this can only get worse, that there is nowhere to go, no way out but to pray, in some manner, for salvation. There's just nothing else to do.
The word of 'please' hangs the man back. His head turns slowly to look up across the room at Eric, but the shades over his eyes veil nothing as he lifts his cigarette as well to take a long drag. The smoke is hissed out, at one and sharply off to the side in a gout of cindering ash that leaves embers scattering across the wooden surface. It's an immediate tell to someone as minorly versed in the arcane as Eric is- The scent of sulphur is another. Hellfire, straight from the lungs.
His grin is an almost enchanting sort, like the whole of him, from the disarray of his hair to the sharp cut of his mien is made to impress- this well-dressed, young man is far from what he looks to be, and in the entanglement of the situation, with the whole bar afoot with foul curse, there is little reason to uphold any masquerade. He tilts his sunglasses down to reveal eyes of brimstone, fire and red. Too red, gleaming, piercing. He holds a hatred far worse than anything collected here, and it makes his smile seem wry.
"Why?"
It's a simple question as he lounges back, and rests an elbow on the counter and begins to drum his fingers. A snap on the other reins the Russian back in immediately, but not before the hulking mass huffs in discontent at Eric before retreating to the man of clearly demonic origin. He doesn't seem happy, but not about to speak over his order, either.
"What'll you give in return?" Fluent, but with a purposeful slip of a Russian accent himself, the man poses his question post another drag of his cigarette and all smoke rides on the notes of his words, trailing high to the ceiling with amber spots scattered within its dark-gray. While he doesn't do anything, the whole barcade seems to have paused in motion, too. Everyone is still full of hate, but they wait, simply stare at Eric as if frozen.
Eric hadn't lied; he really is, in fact, just a guy. The lack of immediate threats, the stalling of people about to tear him to shreds offers some visceral relief. Of course, taking good note of that man, very much seeing just how demonic he is and adding things together a bunch is reason for a whole new brand of worries and doubts. "I am. Just. A -guy-." He repeats this as if it wouldn't be evident to the stranger. "No ancient magics to offer, deep fucking secrets.. I'm- I'm terrified as can be. I can hurt. The ONE thing I know of is Sam's fucking Apep dealings- you don't even gotta ask.."
There's an ugly, deep grimace on Eric's features as he admits this; even the demon's question really wasn't very necessary. ".. You don't even gotta ask. Just tell me, and I don't know that I'll get to refuse." Still the grimace, still the intense discomfort, the dread, the fear. It may even sustain a man such as he quite well, though Eric has no way to object or do anything of this; he just hunches on over, as if ducking away from the crowds at bay still, too tall to become very small, yet every bit thin and frail enough not to be very threatening
Of course he knows. Of course its guy a game. It's shown in his smile, the sight of canine teeth too sharp and stark. Red eyes full of a hellish inferno pointed and just as unblinking as the rest of the people in here pierce ahead. Yet, he doesn't shy away from taking another, final drag of his cigarette. The smoke is kept in his lungs, and he doesn't bother with an ash tray. Snuffs it out on the counter top before leaving his seat.
The Russian man is his tail, moving when his demonic owner does. A hand-print covering his bulky, broad throat blazes at a constant as if to make him suffer, to which the Russian doesn't budge, doesn't show the limit of his endurance. It's clear, though, that his owner is going to lengths to keep him obedient under this curse- which hints that he is not the cause of it. "Everyone has something valuable with which to pay." The words, simply wise, arrive behind Eric. It isn't clear when, in what blink, in what moment- but the only person unaffected in the barcade, even when he was being looked at, is suddenly towering behind Eric. Lips right over his ear, whispering his words quietly.
His hands are on his shoulders next, curling for hold, keeping him still with some uncanny amount of strength-- but all he does is turn Eric, face him towards the door. "I want you to think very, very carefully, young man, of what's important to you in your heart." A light push in a pat, and he's moved towards the door. "I'm sure we'll meet again - and then, you can pay, da?"
There is a snap of fingers behind Eric after he's made to turn away- followed by a disgusting crunch when the Russian slams his fist into the nearest, aggressive bar-goer's nose. A brawl erupts, and its chaos, with screams and cries, of pleas and worst of all, an ignorance to all of it. Eric's demonic assistance only bids him farewell, "I'd go right home if I were you, and sleep until this is over."
Eric cringes, very much so, at being handled by the shoulders and toyed with physically next. The lanklet isn't used at all to people being tall enough to loom over him, and his posture is a bad hunch, his expression's a deep grimace, his hands fidget, his legs shuffle him ahead only once he's told to just go - the one thing he can quite hope to do unassisted, perhaps. "Okay- alright- yeah, I'll.. Yes. -Yes-. Yes I will." What else can he hope to say? Hope to do, in fact? As soon as he's sure he'll not be dragged away, not be attacked, and even notes the presence of a particularly loud brawl behind him, he stumbles right for the door if just to be freed from demons' hands and instead quite eager to be anywhere else. "Yes- yes okay! Thanks!" It's probably not warranted, but he says so. "Next time- maybe- sure, I'm- bye!" With a whited-out face and a push at the door, Eric makes himself scarce. He doesn't look back to the venue and does his best to get out as quickly as can be done, scampering away from the barcade with his hide - blessedly - still intact
There are red eyes agleam at Eric's back. A wintry smile, that's sure to collect. Eager to. The last sign behind the doors before they shut is the Russian looming over all and barreling into the whole of the college football team to rake them through the proverbial mud. The sound is muffled thereafter, with Eric gone. The violence persists, its all very loud after all, but elsewhere now from him. Wrathful and fulfilling. Outside is nothing but cold air, and possiblity. A night still young to some, just starting for others, deep for most. He's free to go where he wishes - but the cruel curse is upon him. Not extracted or ended - so he better head home from here, lest he's the target of worse creatures that are less interested or amused by his dread.
Just another night in Haven.
In the midst of escalating violence, a well-dressed man with demonic features offers Eric a chance for escape, albeit with a vague promise of a future payment. This man, exuding an aura of power and command, manages to temporarily hold back the enraged crowd with a mere snap of his fingers. Hinting at a connection with the otherworldly, the demonic figure encourages Eric to consider what he holds most valuable for a future bargain. With a mix of relief and dread, Eric accepts the ambiguous rescue, fleeing into the night as chaos erupts behind him. His escape from immediate danger leaves him with the lingering reality of the curse and the ominous assurance of a future encounter with the demonic rescuer. Eric's night at the barcade concludes with more questions than answers, and a newfound wariness of the thin veil between the mundane and the magical realms.
(Eric's odd encounter(SRVictor):SRVictor)
[Sat Nov 23 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 night, about 55F(12C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. There is a waning crescent 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.
)
Eric lounges idly in the dimly lit barcade nestled in the heart of that small New England town, where its cobblestone streets and aged architecture are a bigger relic of the centuries past. Despite the town's vintage charm, the barcade exudes a neon glow, a beacon of modern nostalgia in a place where the veil between the mundane and the magical seems thin.
Inside, the young man leans back on a retro-style barstool, the vinyl seat creaking faintly under his weight. He's dressed in clothes to weather the cold quite well, and seems to be there by himself, somewhere between bored and comfortable, really quite at home in the place of games, drinks, and fun, lanky arms spread to lean himself back against the bar while looking about just some
The Trove Barcade thrummed with life, its warmth a welcome refuge from the crisp chill of the evening outside. Dim lantern-like lights cast a golden glow across the bar's sea-glass surface, where beads of condensation from freshly poured drinks reflected the soft hues of blue, green, and amber. Patrons leaned on the polished wood, chatting in clusters or nursing their drinks in comfortable solitude.
Overhead, the tattered sails swayed gently with each draft that snuck in through the doors, their shadows playing against the ocean-blue walls. Nautical relics and vintage game marquees gleamed faintly in the light, the aged flags trembling slightly like they were caught in a phantom breeze.
The rhythmic clatter of pinball machines and the cheerful, nostalgic chimes of old arcade games formed a symphony of chaos that blended with laughter, shouts of triumph, and the unmistakable thunk of an axe hitting its mark.
In one corner, a group erupted in cheers as someone claimed a high score, their victory dance illuminated by the flickering screens. At the bar, the pirate-garbed bartenders worked with practiced ease, the clink of bottles and ice punctuating their quick, cheerful banter. A row of vibrant cocktails lined the counter, colors swirling in glasses like captured fragments of a stormy sea.
The scent of craft beer, tangy citrus, and faint wood polish filled the air, wrapping around the room like a comforting embrace. It was an evening alive with camaraderie and the shared joy of escape, the kind of night where time slipped away unnoticed amidst the laughter and the glow of neon. At the center of it all is Eric. There isn't quite anything amiss as is, the world simply goes on around him.
Some couple are having the evening of their lives, enamored with one another, while a ragtag group of college students continue to make loud noises. Strangely, however, there is the odd glance spent on Eric. Some subtly stares, a few looks and whispers something to whomever they're with- he's being talked about, but it isn't easy to tell if it is in a good light or not, but the weight of eyes all around slowly, subtly becomes harder and harder to ignore.
Eric is a good zoomer, if only because not being spoken to has him peruse his phone a bunch. Still he occasionally looks up, if just to see if anyone he knows walks up; the first time has him roll his eyes.. But when he sees people point, sees more than one person gesture for him, he just frowns a bit more instead. "Ought to tell Sam not to let in rude people so much," he murmurs to himself, not yet suspecting anything. The disapproving stares people leave things at, for now, just have him roll his eyes. It's really easy enough to ignore as yet
Easy to ignore or not, things are afoot. Not necessarily nice things, mind. The couple's evening looks like its soured. Their adoring expression is now turned to one another with a look of agreement, and mutual discontent - about who knows what. It may be a hint, when they both look upon Eric with narrowed glares over their shoulders and grip their tankard of drinks tighter.
Off on the side, the rowdy chatter of college-goers have not only dimmed but entirely shut off. They're staring at Eric as well, all six of them, together. They're not the only ones. The whole barcade has grown silent, save for the music. It persists for a while longer while every single eye in the area has suddenly turned upon Eric to stare him down into the ground.
A record scratch sound follows the wake of the music's turning off, and then everything is truly quiet when even the bartender now wrings his hands together then cracks his knuckles behind his counter, and sets a pair of furious eyes on Eric, too. Just like the rest, just like everyone. Not a muscle moves in that uncanny moment, under the collective weight of a bar-full of eyes pointing directly at Eric.
Someone finally stands up- It's the couple, the man to be exact. He assures his beau to be calm, pats her hand and kisses her fingers before leaving her side to stride forward- towards Eric. It's the first match to ignite the room- The rest slowly starts to follow suit. A lot of them remain seated, but the man and the group of college frayboys that have also risen as his entourage begin their approach to move in on Eric's table, circle around like a wall of meat and flesh.
The first man, a young one in his late twenties, sets his hands on the edge of Eric's table, leans forward to set harsh, brown eyes on him with a look of utter disdain. "Hey, prick." His words have a biting quality, accusatory, vehement, vitriolic. "Don't you see you're making everyone uncomfortable?" It's like a scene from some introverts worst nightmare, coming to life. "You're ruining the evening for everyone, asshole." Another one, one of the fratboys calls out.
Eric very definitely does more than merely lounge about the place as people, one by one, do more than just stare. When he sees couples care more about him than about each other, when aggressive frat kids, varsity jackets and all, filter in to shout insults his way and loom on over, perhaps not as tall but easily twice his width, things click very, very quickly. Whiting out if but for realising that this will not easily go away, that it'll merely be worse, Eric bolts off his barstool, phone held tight in hand. "You're- yeah! You're right! I'll- go. Go skip TOWN, right away, OUT- yes!" Maybe it'll even work; they surely won't take offence at him just up and exiling himself, right? Right? Desperately ducking his head, and very hopefully pacing for the exit like the anxious man he's suddenly become, he opts to find the one person to count on perhaps, Sam, to punch in his number and furiously text that other man: "IT'S GOING DOWN AGAIN FAM PEOPLE BOUTTA LYNCH ME NO CAP BARCADE PLS HELP I CAN'T FIX THIS MYSELF" someone someone Maybe it'll even arrive in time for him to see it. As-is, Eric just does what he can to be anywhere, at all, that no crowds full of angry people can hurt him at - perhaps.
Eric very definitely does more than merely lounge about the place as people, one by one, do more than just stare. When he sees couples care more about him than about each other, when aggressive frat kids, varsity jackets and all, filter in to shout insults his way and loom on over, perhaps not as tall but easily twice his width, things click very, very quickly. Whiting out if but for realising that this will not easily go away, that it'll merely be worse, Eric bolts off his barstool, phone held tight in hand. "You're- yeah! You're right! I'll- go. Go skip TOWN, right away, OUT- yes!" Maybe it'll even work; they surely won't take offence at him just up and exiling himself, right? Right? Desperately ducking his head, and very hopefully pacing for the exit like the anxious man he's suddenly become, he opts to find the one person to count on perhaps, Sam, to punch in his number and furiously text that other man: "IT'S GOING DOWN AGAIN FAM PEOPLE BOUTTA LYNCH ME NO CAP BARCADE PLS HELP I CAN'T FIX THIS MYSELF"
Maybe it'll even arrive in time for him to see it. As-is, Eric just does what he can to be anywhere, at all, that no crowds full of angry people can hurt him at - perhaps.
Still as uncanny as when it all began, that some twelve set of eyes crowding Eric turn on him in silence, watch him stand and bolt with only the movement of their heads and the track of their unblinking, hatred filled eyes. There is, of course, no immediate resistance to him starting to leave.
Until he reaches the door with the phone in his hand. That's when a burly, large hand slams over Eric's shoulder and shoves the door shut before he can reach it, as well as trap him there against the hardwood with mere presence alone. Towering high, some gonk of a Russian, bald-headed and grim with scars holding a snarl with drawn back, cut lips to show yellowed-teeth.
"Not so fast, little man." Predators flock to the weak, and this is Haven, the realm of those things. That sign of fleeing was enough to spark further aggression from the more wrathful, corrupt of the bunch. One such man is there, now, looming upon Eric. He goes as far as plucking the phone out of his hand effortlessly, and chuck it over his shoulder into the crowd that also has left the vicinity of his table and moved at the Russian's flank.
They don't heckle, they merely stare, like a pack of creatures with their worst sides amplified, drool running the edges of their mouth, salivating visibly with wide-and-unblinking eyes. This hostile take-over is a dangerous one, and they seem like they might devour Eric alive, literally.
Yet, in the cacophony of violence, there is one man unaffected. Too well-dressed, wearing shades even inside and at night, sitting at the bar and not at all watching the ensuing sitch, but visibly amused nonetheless while he entertains a glass of his choice of alcohol. A cigarette smokes its trails upward above his hand held aloft the rim of his glass, swirled with the motion of his hand pressing it down on the counter. Is he the source of this, or something else? Who could tell.
Eric yelps and reaches after his phone, but seems more than aware of the sheer disparity in size and weight between him and those people menacing him. He doesn't even try to get it back- not yet, anyway. The first priority is to make it out alive, to get- somewhere, anywhere, at all, to not have anyone quite so large and nasty even looking at him. This is much tougher than he'd prefer given his current situation, and he ends up backing up a bunch then, from the door, from that bald-headed sorts, eventually landing on the one person, the single one person, who looks more amused than affected by the curse put upon him.
"Please!" It is the one word to reach for, calling right out for that stranger. "Please- I don't- I'm just a GUY I don't know what happened here, please- do something! I'm TOAST if nobody-" Eric recoils, heckled from his side, people at his back, everywhere, in any place at once. There's a hopeless brand of fear on his face, and he seems painfully well aware that this can only get worse, that there is nowhere to go, no way out but to pray, in some manner, for salvation. There's just nothing else to do.
The word of 'please' hangs the man back. His head turns slowly to look up across the room at Eric, but the shades over his eyes veil nothing as he lifts his cigarette as well to take a long drag. The smoke is hissed out, at one and sharply off to the side in a gout of cindering ash that leaves embers scattering across the wooden surface. It's an immediate tell to someone as minorly versed in the arcane as Eric is- The scent of sulphur is another. Hellfire, straight from the lungs.
His grin is an almost enchanting sort, like the whole of him, from the disarray of his hair to the sharp cut of his mien is made to impress- this well-dressed, young man is far from what he looks to be, and in the entanglement of the situation, with the whole bar afoot with foul curse, there is little reason to uphold any masquerade. He tilts his sunglasses down to reveal eyes of brimstone, fire and red. Too red, gleaming, piercing. He holds a hatred far worse than anything collected here, and it makes his smile seem wry.
"Why?"
It's a simple question as he lounges back, and rests an elbow on the counter and begins to drum his fingers. A snap on the other reins the Russian back in immediately, but not before the hulking mass huffs in discontent at Eric before retreating to the man of clearly demonic origin. He doesn't seem happy, but not about to speak over his order, either.
"What'll you give in return?" Fluent, but with a purposeful slip of a Russian accent himself, the man poses his question post another drag of his cigarette and all smoke rides on the notes of his words, trailing high to the ceiling with amber spots scattered within its dark-gray. While he doesn't do anything, the whole barcade seems to have paused in motion, too. Everyone is still full of hate, but they wait, simply stare at Eric as if frozen.
Eric hadn't lied; he really is, in fact, just a guy. The lack of immediate threats, the stalling of people about to tear him to shreds offers some visceral relief. Of course, taking good note of that man, very much seeing just how demonic he is and adding things together a bunch is reason for a whole new brand of worries and doubts. "I am. Just. A -guy-." He repeats this as if it wouldn't be evident to the stranger. "No ancient magics to offer, deep fucking secrets.. I'm- I'm terrified as can be. I can hurt. The ONE thing I know of is Sam's fucking Apep dealings- you don't even gotta ask.."
There's an ugly, deep grimace on Eric's features as he admits this; even the demon's question really wasn't very necessary. ".. You don't even gotta ask. Just tell me, and I don't know that I'll get to refuse." Still the grimace, still the intense discomfort, the dread, the fear. It may even sustain a man such as he quite well, though Eric has no way to object or do anything of this; he just hunches on over, as if ducking away from the crowds at bay still, too tall to become very small, yet every bit thin and frail enough not to be very threatening
Of course he knows. Of course its guy a game. It's shown in his smile, the sight of canine teeth too sharp and stark. Red eyes full of a hellish inferno pointed and just as unblinking as the rest of the people in here pierce ahead. Yet, he doesn't shy away from taking another, final drag of his cigarette. The smoke is kept in his lungs, and he doesn't bother with an ash tray. Snuffs it out on the counter top before leaving his seat.
The Russian man is his tail, moving when his demonic owner does. A hand-print covering his bulky, broad throat blazes at a constant as if to make him suffer, to which the Russian doesn't budge, doesn't show the limit of his endurance. It's clear, though, that his owner is going to lengths to keep him obedient under this curse- which hints that he is not the cause of it. "Everyone has something valuable with which to pay." The words, simply wise, arrive behind Eric. It isn't clear when, in what blink, in what moment- but the only person unaffected in the barcade, even when he was being looked at, is suddenly towering behind Eric. Lips right over his ear, whispering his words quietly.
His hands are on his shoulders next, curling for hold, keeping him still with some uncanny amount of strength-- but all he does is turn Eric, face him towards the door. "I want you to think very, very carefully, young man, of what's important to you in your heart." A light push in a pat, and he's moved towards the door. "I'm sure we'll meet again - and then, you can pay, da?"
There is a snap of fingers behind Eric after he's made to turn away- followed by a disgusting crunch when the Russian slams his fist into the nearest, aggressive bar-goer's nose. A brawl erupts, and its chaos, with screams and cries, of pleas and worst of all, an ignorance to all of it. Eric's demonic assistance only bids him farewell, "I'd go right home if I were you, and sleep until this is over."
Eric cringes, very much so, at being handled by the shoulders and toyed with physically next. The lanklet isn't used at all to people being tall enough to loom over him, and his posture is a bad hunch, his expression's a deep grimace, his hands fidget, his legs shuffle him ahead only once he's told to just go - the one thing he can quite hope to do unassisted, perhaps. "Okay- alright- yeah, I'll.. Yes. -Yes-. Yes I will." What else can he hope to say? Hope to do, in fact? As soon as he's sure he'll not be dragged away, not be attacked, and even notes the presence of a particularly loud brawl behind him, he stumbles right for the door if just to be freed from demons' hands and instead quite eager to be anywhere else. "Yes- yes okay! Thanks!" It's probably not warranted, but he says so. "Next time- maybe- sure, I'm- bye!" With a whited-out face and a push at the door, Eric makes himself scarce. He doesn't look back to the venue and does his best to get out as quickly as can be done, scampering away from the barcade with his hide - blessedly - still intact
There are red eyes agleam at Eric's back. A wintry smile, that's sure to collect. Eager to. The last sign behind the doors before they shut is the Russian looming over all and barreling into the whole of the college football team to rake them through the proverbial mud. The sound is muffled thereafter, with Eric gone. The violence persists, its all very loud after all, but elsewhere now from him. Wrathful and fulfilling. Outside is nothing but cold air, and possiblity. A night still young to some, just starting for others, deep for most. He's free to go where he wishes - but the cruel curse is upon him. Not extracted or ended - so he better head home from here, lest he's the target of worse creatures that are less interested or amused by his dread.
Just another night in Haven.