Encounterlogs
Freyas Odd Encounter Sr Dean 240807
In the eerie early hours at Sidney Beach, Freya finds herself amidst a powerful storm, drawn towards a hidden cavern marked by sinister magic and dark intent. Inside, she confronts a cult performing a ritual to open a doorway into the void for eldritch horrors. The Black Flame cult, determined to see their mission through, battles Freya in a clash of arcane energy and primordial might. Freya's initial assault is met with a swift retaliation, as the cultists unleash a sorcerous attack that leaves her injured. However, tapping into a rage and power deep within, Freya transforms into a massive wolf, her fury unleashed upon the cultists with brutal force. One by one, she decimates them, their chants and spells no match for her primal savagery. As the final cultist falls, Freya stands victorious amidst the chaos of the shattered ritual, the once-threatening magic dissipated, her own wounds mysteriously healed as though the battle had never occurred.
Meanwhile, Ariel, walking home through a trailer park in Haven, experiences a distortion of reality triggered by music playing over the park's speaker system. As the mist thickens and the surroundings grow unnaturally large, Ariel's transformation into a chipmunk completes the surreal nightmare. Lost and confused, Ariel finds himself in a world where he has shrunk, stripped of his human belongings and identity. The voice over the speakers announces a permanent transformation for the inhabitants of Haven, leaving Ariel and others in a desperate search for answers and a way to restore themselves. Despite the initial fear and disorientation, Ariel's resolve solidifies as he explores his new form, driven by a determination to overcome the curse and rally the transformed residents of Haven against their unseen adversary.
(Freya's odd encounter(SRDean):SRDean)
[Tue Aug 6 2024]
At Sidney Beach
It is dawn, about 77F(25C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It's raining.
(Your target and their allies have discovered that a recent string of bizarre occurrences and terrifying hallucinations plaguing the town of Haven are linked to The Black Flame. A member of this cult has been conducting rituals in secret, attempting to open a doorway into the void for the eldritch horrors they worship. The characters must find a way to stop the ritual and prevent the arrival of the horrors, while also dealing with the cult member who would stop at nothing to see their mission through. This might involve a fight, a chase, a tense negotiation, or a combination of all three.)
The storm rolls in with an almost preternatural speed, dark clouds swirling ominously above the once serene Sidney Beach. The Atlantic Ocean, typically a shimmering expanse of blue, transforms into a churning cauldron of furious waves, crashing against the shore with an almost deafening roar. The beach, now deserted, lies under a blanket of torrential rain, the sand dark and wet, pocked with the relentless fall of raindrops. Lightning crackles across the sky, illuminating the scene in brief, staccato bursts of blinding white light.
Far off the beach, nestled in the rocky cliffs that line the shoreline, a cavern lurks in shadows. The entrance to the cavern gapes like a monstrous maw, partially obscured by jagged rocks and overhanging vegetation that sway violently in the storm's fierce winds. The path leading to the cavern is treacherous, slick with rain and strewn with loose rocks that shift precariously underfoot, creating a perilous journey.
Within the cavern, the air is thick with the acrid scent of burning incense mixed with something far more sinister - a coppery tang that hints at blood and sacrifice. Flickering torches cast long, dancing shadows on the walls, their feeble light barely penetrating the oppressive darkness that seems to pulse and breathe with a life of its own. Strange symbols, scrawled in a dark, viscous substance, adorn the cavern walls, their cryptic meaning lost to all but the most learned of occult scholars.
In the deepest recesses of the cavern, an ancient stone altar dominates the space. The air around it shimmers with an unnatural energy, an almost tangible force that feels both magnetic and repulsive. A low, droning hum reverberates through the cavern, growing louder and more insistent with each passing moment, as if the very stones themselves are chanting in unison.
Outside the cavern, the storm rages on, a fitting backdrop for the impending clash. The wind howls like a living entity, whipping through the trees and tearing at the vegetation clinging to the cliffs. Waves crash against the rocky shoreline with violent intensity, sending sprays of salty water high into the air. The sky is a tapestry of swirling black and gray, punctuated by the bright, ephemeral brilliance of lightning that cuts through the darkness. Thunder rumbles in the distance, a deep, resonant sound that seems to shake the very earth.
This cavern, of course, is seen easily by none other than Freya, who is watching the storm unfold before her. The wast entry far in the distance that leads through jagged rocks jutting out like blades is an eager invitation with the flickering candlelight and the near putrid scent of magic that spills through it - to such a level that she can not only smell it, but taste it at the back of her throat like some kind of bile burning an ache deep in her lungs. It isn't anything like any magic she has ever chanced upon to bear its scent. It is hungry, vile, dangerous - and repulsive. No doubt relative to the dark world of empty nothing that it originates from, the well of arcane that only a certain group of people in Haven are foolish enough to worship or utilize, at the risk and detriment of anything and everything to invite the danger that lies within the Void.
The very aid holds its breath, waiting on her, while shadows stretch far and wide all around in some strange hallucination that tries its hardest to root itself into even her mind, but fail inexplicably.
Freya HAD been enjoying the storm. Feeling the way the wind whipped through her hair, the chilling rain pelting against her skin. She had been enjoying the clensing. The furor of mother nature. There was something, something else driving her that night. That made it hard for her to grip sanity despite the crescent of the moon in the sky and more often then not, as the lightning forks down into the ocean and the deafening crack of thunder follows, she throws back her head to howl, howl at the storm, the sky, the world. A human's voice box couldn't quite howl as loud as a wolves. But she still could tilt her head back, expose her throat in a long clean line with droplets of water clinging to it as she howled. The eastern sky probably should be dawning by now. But the black mass of clouds make it hard to see. She was enjoying the fresh ocean scents. The smell of petrichor in the air until.... The smell of magic hits her nose. It drives a snarl from her immediately, teal eyes turning towards the cave. Her head lifts as she sniffs the air and growls again. She was on a very short leash that night. Her hand drops the handful of sand she had been holding, letting the grains run through her fingers as she turns towards the cave and stalks towards it. Her hair whips behind her as she walks, the wet strands gleaming a dark silver, occasionally lit up in brilliant metallic colours everytime the lightning flashes down from the sky.
Outside, that show of natural force reigns supreme, unrelenting. The wind howls, whipping through the trees and tearing at the vegetation clinging to the cliffs. Waves crash against the rocky shoreline with violent intensity, sending sprays of salty water high into the air. The sky is a tapestry of swirling black and gray, punctuated by the bright, ephemeral brilliance of lightning that cuts through the darkness again and again with wrathful fury, just as thunder rumbles in the distance, a deep, resonant sound that seems to shake the very earth. The once serene Sidney Beach is a maelstrom of nature's anger, with sand dark and wet, pocked by the relentless fall of raindrops.
The path to the cavern is treacherous. Slick with rain, it is strewn with loose rocks that have been thrown into the sand from the cliffs overhead that shift precariously underfoot, while the air is thick with the scent of salt and petrichor, mingling with the faint, metallic tang of magic. The vegetation sways violently in the storm's fierce winds, the far few and few in between grasses that jut out the sand, wet leaves brushing against the skin. But the entrance to the cavern, that gaping maw, partially obscured by jagged rocks and overhanging vegetation, its path leading to it is narrow and winding, carved into the cliffside by years of relentless waves. As the entrance looms closer, the air grows colder, and the acrid scent of burning incense mingles with the other scents, adding a new, unsettling layer to the sensory overload.
Inside the cavern, the air is thick and oppressive. The acrid scent of burning incense is stronger here, almost overwhelming, mixed with a coppery tang that hints at blood and sacrifice. Flickering torches cast long, dancing shadows on the walls, their feeble light barely penetrating the darkness that seems to pulse and breathe with a life of its own. Strange symbols, scrawled in a dark, viscous substance, adorn the cavern walls are now in sight of her, every which way that Freya looks at. The low, droning hum reverberates through the cavern, growing louder and more insistent with each step, as if the very stones themselves are chanting in unison.
The cavern floor is uneven, slick with moisture and littered with loose rocks. The air is colder here, the dampness seeping through clothing and chilling to the bone. The smell of magic is almost tangible now, a sharp, electric scent that cuts through the incense and blood. The ancient stone altar dominates the deepest recesses of the cavern, its surface glistening with an unnatural sheen. The air around it shimmers with an otherworldly energy, an almost tangible force that feels both magnetic and repulsive.
The flickering torchlight, placed down across what it appears to be a manmade yet still rocky and natural hallway, casts eerie shadows on the cavern walls, creating the illusion of movement where there is none. The symbols on the walls seem to writhe and twist in the uncertain light, adding to the unsettling atmosphere. The hum grows louder, more insistent, as if urging forward, deeper into the cavern, toward the source of the unnatural energy.
The cavern is alive with sound and scent, a symphony of chaos and darkness that engulfs the senses. The storm outside is a distant roar, muffled by the thick stone walls, but still present, a constant reminder of the fury of nature that rages just beyond the entrance. The smell of salt and petrichor mingles with the acrid incense and metallic tang of magic, creating a heady, almost nauseating mix.
The air grows colder still, the dampness seeping into bones and sapping warmth. The flickering torchlight and writhing shadows create a disorienting, almost hypnotic effect. The hum reaches a fever pitch, a throbbing, insistent pulse that seems to echo through the very stones of the cavern. The ancient altar, with its shimmering, unnatural energy, looms ahead, the focal point of the oppressive atmosphere... And it all stops. One could hear the drop of a pin in the sudden silence that overtakes the place while the source of all the chanting - the group of five situation at the edge of a pentacle star turns their attention upon Freya and only Freya. Their hands remain stretched high in prayer, palm open in deference to what is a crack at the center of the altar, suspended midair, shimmering like broken glass with a myriad lack of abudance, drawing the very color around it into itself with eagerness to devour everything.
At the entrance of the cave, light by the backdrop of the storm, Freya stood. A low rumbling growl fills that cave where all one can hear is the pitter patter of rain outside and lightning forks the sky behind her, lighting her up as she growls at the five cultists. She takes a step into the cave, walking through the sheet like rain until she stands, dripping in the mouth of the cave. Her teal eyes glance up to judge the top of the cave an another low snarl leaves her lips as she stares at the ritual that is occuring. Water runs off of her body, droplets clinging to her face, her skin as she slowly takes a step forward, then another. Her hands are empty - she's unarmed, unarmoured but those hands are curled inwards like talons as step by step she makes her way towards the arcanists. "Explain. You have 5 seconds before you all die." She snarls as she leans forward, eyes fixed on the first arcanist that is closest to her.
The five cultists pause in their chant, the eerie hum of their ritual faltering as Freya's words echo through the cavern. The flickering torchlight casts their hooded faces into sharp relief, their eyes wide with a mix of fear and determination. The acrid scent of incense and the coppery tang of blood hang heavy in the air, almost palpable in the oppressive darkness.
The closest arcanist, a gaunt figure with eyes that glint unnervingly in the dim light, takes a hesitant step forward. His voice, trembling yet defiant, breaks the silence. "You do not understand the forces at play here," he begins, his gaze flicking nervously between Freya and the altar behind him. "We seek to open the doorway to the void, to summon forth the eldritch powers that will remake this world."
A surge of energy ripples through the cavern as he speaks, the symbols on the walls seeming to writhe and twist in response. The air around the altar shimmers with an unnatural light, the low hum growing louder and more insistent. The storm outside rages on, its fury mirrored by the escalating tension within the cave.Another cultist, taller and more imposing, steps forward with an expression of contempt. "Silence, fool!" he snaps, dismissing the first cultist with a wave of his hand. His eyes lock onto Freya, filled with malevolent intent. "Enough! How dare you interrupt a ritual for the Great Old Ones!"
With a swift, fluid motion, he raises his hand towards the portal. A bolt of arcane energy, jagged and sharp like a torn piece of glass as large as a torso, shoots forth from the swirling void. The air hums with raw power as the bolt hurtles toward Freya, striking her with immense force. The impact sends her flying backward, slamming her into the cavern wall. The jagged energy tears through her, leaving a trail of blood and searing pain. She crumples to the ground, hurt and bleeding, the acrid scent of burnt flesh mingling with the other oppressive odors in the cave. The cultists return to their chant, their confidence bolstered as they continue their dark ritual, the hum growing louder, the portal's energy pulsating with renewed vigor.
There is a growl in return to the arcanists words and she stalks forward, leaving a trail of dripping water behind her as she makes her way deeper into the cave. She was making her way towards the arcanist, presumably to do something terrible to him when the arcane energy hits her, sends her careening into the wall. She crumbles to the ground for a moment, blood running down the back of her neck from her head, hot, fresh. It fills the room with the smell of blood. And very soon.. A low rumbling growl. The growl grows, seeming to fill the entire cave as Freya starts to grow in size. The shadows cast on the side of the wall grow and increase as the sound of snapping bones, stretching skin fill the cavern and soon, there is no where to run, no where to hide as the wolf that takes up almost the entire height of the cave, snarls at the arcanists and reads forward to grab the first one that had pointed at her.. had dared and crunches down in a brilliant splatter of blood that paints her pristine white fur crimson.
The remaining cultists recoil in horror, their eyes wide with terror as they witness the brutal transformation and swift vengeance. The chanting ceases, replaced by frantic whispers and panicked glances. The cavern, once filled with the steady hum of ritual, now echoes with the sound of their fear. One cultist, a wiry figure with a desperate look in his eyes, raises his hands and begins to mutter an incantation, hoping to summon a barrier or perhaps another bolt of energy. His voice trembles, the words faltering as he struggles to maintain focus under the wolfs menacing glare.
Another cultist, clutching a ceremonial dagger, steps back towards the altar, his eyes darting between Freya and the portal. "We must finish the ritual!" he shouts to the others, his voice edged with desperation. "The doorway must be opened!" A third cultist, younger and visibly shaking, drops to his knees, seemingly paralyzed by fear. He clutches a talisman to his chest, muttering prayers under his breath, hoping for protection from the eldritch powers they had sought to summon.
The tallest cultist, a woman with sharp features and a steely gaze, takes charge. She steps forward, placing herself between Freya and the others, her hands crackling with arcane energy. "Hold your ground!" she commands. "We are the Black Flame. We do not falter!" Her voice carries an air of authority, but even she cannot hide the flicker of doubt in her eyes as she faces the massive wolf. someone growl deepens, a sound that reverberates through the cavern and sends shivers down their spines. The cultists exchange fearful glances, their once unified front now splintering under the weight of her fury. The air is thick with tension, the smell of blood and fear mingling as the storm outside continues to rage, a fitting backdrop to the chaos within the cave.
The remaining cultists recoil in horror, their eyes wide with terror as they witness the brutal transformation and swift vengeance. The chanting ceases, replaced by frantic whispers and panicked glances. The cavern, once filled with the steady hum of ritual, now echoes with the sound of their fear. One cultist, a wiry figure with a desperate look in his eyes, raises his hands and begins to mutter an incantation, hoping to summon a barrier or perhaps another bolt of energy. His voice trembles, the words faltering as he struggles to maintain focus under the wolfs menacing glare.
Another cultist, clutching a ceremonial dagger, steps back towards the altar, his eyes darting between Freya and the portal. "We must finish the ritual!" he shouts to the others, his voice edged with desperation. "The doorway must be opened!" A third cultist, younger and visibly shaking, drops to his knees, seemingly paralyzed by fear. He clutches a talisman to his chest, muttering prayers under his breath, hoping for protection from the eldritch powers they had sought to summon.
The tallest cultist, a woman with sharp features and a steely gaze, takes charge. She steps forward, placing herself between Freya and the others, her hands crackling with arcane energy. "Hold your ground!" she commands. "We are the Black Flame. We do not falter!" Her voice carries an air of authority, but even she cannot hide the flicker of doubt in her eyes as she faces the massive wolf. Freya's growl deepens, a sound that reverberates through the cavern and sends shivers down their spines. The cultists exchange fearful glances, their once unified front now splintering under the weight of her fury. The air is thick with tension, the smell of blood and fear mingling as the storm outside continues to rage, a fitting backdrop to the chaos within the cave.
Crunch crunch crunch. The sound of bone crunching fills the cavern as the arcanists react. The two halves of the body of the first cultist fall to the ground on either side of Freya's mouth. Blood pours down from Freya's muzzle as she growls at the next nearest arcanist - the woman telling people to hold their ground. Her paw digs into the stone, leaving gauges into the sedimentary rock before she lunges forward. Her paws catch the woman, squash her underfoot as her jaws go for the one with the dagger, biting the man's arm clean off before chucking it into the fire in the middle. She lifts her head to howl, blood pouring down her body, half her snow white pelt red now as those teal eyes stare out from a face of red towards the remaining arcanists. More bones crunch underneath her paw as her weight crushes the woman behind her and she growls as she drops down low, her tail squishing from side to side, her eyes affixed to the man already wounded.
Everything erupts into chaos. The remaining cultists stumble back in horror and disbelief as Freya's savage display continues. The woman crushed underfoot lets out a muffled scream before succumbing to the weight and ferocity of the massive wolf. The air fills with the stench of blood, the acrid scent from the bleeding arm, and the fear of the surviving arcanists. The cultist with the ceremonial dagger, now missing an arm and bleeding profusely, scrambles away, his face pale with terror. He drops to his knees, clutching the bloody stump, and tries to drag himself toward the altar, desperation in his eyes. The flames from the fire crackle ominously, casting flickering shadows that dance across the cavern walls.
The young cultist who had been praying earlier now scrambles to his feet, his wide eyes locked on Freya. He stumbles backward, knocking over a nearby torch, which rolls and spills fire across the stone floor, adding to the chaos. His trembling hands fumble with a small, glowing talisman, and he mutters frantic incantations, hoping to invoke a protective spell or summon a last-ditch defense. The tall cultist, the woman who had attempted to rally the group, stands firm despite the fear in her eyes. She raises her hands, channeling arcane energy with a determined but wavering expression. She unleashes a barrage of magical projectiles, each crackling with a menacing glow, aiming to drive Freya back and give her fellow cultists a chance to regroup. Her voice, though authoritative, betrays a hint of desperation. "Hold the line! We cannot let her destroy everything weve worked for!"
The air in the cavern is thick with tension, the mix of magic and blood creating a palpable sense of dread. Freya, with her snow-white fur now streaked with crimson, stands as a formidable figure of primal rage. Her eyes, a vivid teal amidst the bloodied mess of her face, lock onto the remaining cultists, her growl a constant, ominous rumble that reverberates through the stone walls. The altar, bathed in the flickering firelight, becomes the focal point of the rituals waning energy. The symbols on the walls pulse erratically, as if sensing the disruption, their dark glow flickering in response to the chaos. The storm outside continues its relentless assault, its roars echoing through the cavern, a fitting accompaniment to the violent scene unfolding within.
A snarl fills the cavern as the arcane projectiles race towards Freya and there is an arc of blood that covers the runes on the wall as she turns around to allow the projectiles to hit her butt and wolf tail, sweeping them to the side. Her head turns back, teal blue eyes in a sea of red fur as she turns back her paw stepping off of the woman she had popped like a juice pop. Blood covers both her paws, spilling upwards towards her legs as she shoves forward into the remaining cultists. The woman sending the barrage gets shoved by Freya's head, trying to smash into the back wall. She ignores the young one that set the fire for now, low growls filling the chamber as she advances on the man with the stump and leans down. Her teeth closes around the man's waist, his head firmly in her mouth as she tilts her head up and chomps down. Blood spills out around her, pouring over her white fur until almost all of it is stained a brilliant dripping crimson. The man's body falls to the floor aftwards - still in one piece but with giant gauges through it rapidly draining the man of blood as she turns those wolfish eyes towards the last two still remaining.
A thoroughly chaotic scene unfolds as Freya, drenched in blood, continues her relentless assault. The arcane projectiles strike her rear and tail, their energy dissipating harmlessly as she swats them aside with a brutal sweep. Blood arcs across the runes on the walls, darkening the ancient symbols as she turns to face her remaining adversaries.
The woman who had launched the barrage is caught off guard by Freyas powerful shove. She is slammed into the cavern wall, the impact causing her to cry out in pain as she slumps to the ground, dazed and disoriented. The air is thick with the smell of blood and fear, the storm outside seeming to intensify in response to the violence within the cave. The young cultist, still clutching his talisman and frantic with fear, continues to mumble desperate incantations. His eyes dart around wildly, but he makes no move to defend himself, paralyzed by terror as he watches the carnage unfold. The fire he had started continues to spread slowly, adding to the chaos but providing little actual threat to Freya's fury.
Freya's attention locks onto the man with the severed arm, who is still bleeding heavily. She leans down, her jaws closing around his waist with terrifying precision. As she tilts her head up and bites down, blood gushes from the massive wound she has inflicted, staining her fur even more deeply. The mans body, now grotesquely punctured and drained, falls heavily to the ground, a pool of blood forming around him. With the remaining two cultists now facing the full force of Freyas wrath, the cavern's atmosphere becomes suffused with palpable dread. The storm outside rages on, its roars echoing through the cavern, enhancing the sense of foreboding.
The young cultist, shaking uncontrollably, finally breaks into a full-on panic. He scrambles to his feet and tries to flee, his cries of terror mingling with the howling wind outside. He darts toward the cavern entrance, slipping and stumbling on the blood-slicked floor. The tall woman, who had been attempting to hold her ground, rises unsteadily, her face a mask of grim determination. Her hands are now empty, having expended her last magical defenses. She stands between Freya and the fleeing young cultist, desperately searching for a way to salvage the situation or perhaps buy enough time for the remaining rituals to complete. Her gaze meets Freya's, a mix of defiance and desperation in her eyes, knowing that survival hinges on either stopping Freya or escaping the carnage.
As Freya's eyes lock onto the last two cultists, the air in the cavern seems to hold its breath, waiting for what cruelty she may inflict upon them.
Freya feeds on the fear. Luxuriates in as she paws at the ground. The man's corpse is shoved into the fire, to allow the blood seeping from him to put it out, lest the cavern fill with stinky smoke. She advances on the last two remaining, her paw reaching out to bat the altar, take off chunks of it and allow it to crumble to the ground in just a casual, sideswipe as she advances. Every part of her is now covered in blood. Only teal stares out of the crimson which dyes her pristine white much more effectively than it would say on a darker pelt and each step she takes the blood of others drips down. Her own wounds, long healed by the amount of fear she was feeding on don't even contribute as she lunges forward to knock the woman out of the way before pinning the boy to the wall of the cave with the side of her muzzle. Her low growl transmits through his body as she keeps him pinned there, against the wall, feeding slowly on his fear.
Her pristine white fur, now a canvas of crimson, glistens ominously in the flickering light. Only her teal eyes pierce through the bloodstained chaos, the vibrant color stark against the sea of red. Each step she takes is heavy with the weight of her carnage, the blood of her victims dripping down and marking her path. The remaining cultists, now in a state of utter despair, are left with no illusions of escape. The tall woman, her authority shattered, is barely able to stand. She watches in stunned silence as Freya approaches her with a menacing, deliberate pace. Her attempts to rally strength fall flat as she sees her fellow cultists fates unfolding before her.
Freya lunges forward, her massive body crashing into the tall woman with a powerful impact. The woman is knocked aside, her scream of pain and fear mingling with the storm's fury that threatens to crash in even this deep beneath the ground. When her attention turns away from the woman she dismissed with the back of a paw, and onto the boy - it is evident to her that he's soiled himself. With a low, rumbling growl that reverberates through the cave, Freya pins the boy against the wall with the side of her muzzle. His eyes widen in terror, his body trembling under the crushing pressure. The fear radiates off him in waves, feeding Freya's insatiable hunger. The low growl that emanates from her throat is a constant, oppressive vibration, a reminder of the predators dominance.
As Freya maintains her grip, her gaze remains fixed on the boy, her teal eyes reflecting the dark satisfaction of her dominance. The young cultists pleas for mercy are drowned out - Freya is barely perceptive to them over the raw, sheer feeling of satisfaction that fills and disturbs every single one of her senses with the supernatural feeding that takes place while his fear becomes her mirth.
She blinks.
It's all gone.
Whatever fury she was inflicting in blood and misery boundless - it comes to a standstill while Freya comes to herself. Whereas she was a wolf, majestic and violent, she is still herself - and the scent of magic is thick in the air. It fills her senses as much as the false pleasure of her feeding had, and she's sitting exactly where she would be, against the cracked, blood-stricken wall of the cavern- where she had hit earlier. It had been but a blink, and what actually transpired is hard to recall - it had felt so real, so tangible, yet now she sits still in a cave that clearly hadn't seen human use in a long time.
The altar ahead of her thrums with power - the swirling, crackling apex of power floating midair has grown fragile, far weaker than the illusion she had endured like the rest of the town, and she may realize, in her lonesome absent of any cultists, there are vague but impressive claw marks all across the altar, where it seeps a black liquid down in rivulets. They meld into the ground, sizzle and disappear into thin streams of smoke -- and the cracking splinter of reality suspended in the air dissipated with a 'pop'.
Freya staggers to her feet with a groan, rubbing the bakc of her head as she looks at the altar instead of her. Had it all been a dream? It had been so real... Her grip on sanity seemed back though and she looks down at her hands for a moment, as if expecting to see them with blood. When she doesn't, she sighs out a breath heads towards the altar. She kicks at it with her formidable strength, trying to see if she can knock it down.
For all that effort, the altar persists. Freya's kick, however mighty, doesn't budge it - but the scent of magic is gone now, its indicative that she had made in inert somehow - even irrepairable with how broken it looks. It seeps that black, sizzling liquid from inside of it. Maybe it was real, maybe it had been a ritual of a different sort happening beyond the scope of reality that she somehow stumbled on in her lunacy. There are a lot of questions without answers, but one thing is for certain, and it is that she has done some good, whether she wanted to or not. The entire cave, the path leading into it -- which seems to be far, far shorter than it was - absent of torches and even pathways, just nature-made rock passages that leads straight out after a single bend, remain open for her to leave at her leisure. Even more strangely, though there is her blood at the back of her skull, where it mats her hair, there is no injury to be found. Either she spent long enough down here that her healing factor cleared the evidence, or even that didn't happen - despite the remnant red on her silvered locks. Although, it is still early morning, outside, with an unchanged, stormy weather, too.
(Your target has been hexed and transformed into an animal against their will. Unable to turn back they need to try to find allies who can understand their problem and find a way to undo the curse.
)
A peaceful walk, as peaceful as one can be, when in the local trailer park. It boasts a combination of trailers, some more trashy than others. Down Rose Lane there is a house with a beautiful assortment of hedged bushes with blooming flowers, and directly across the road is a worn-down trailer of similar design, junk collected in the overgrown lawn. The pool here might be very tempting were it not for the rain that falls from overhead. Dreary, misty, but peaceful- until the park's speaker system starts to crackle, perhaps heralding a soon-to-be announcement.
Ariel was fresh out of work! And luck it seemed, finding himself walking under the rain with no umbrella, the young man wasn't accustomed to nature's caprices in this particular town, and now he has to pay the price, which might just turn out to be more than he expected.
His attention was taken away by the house full of flora, being someone who's particularly knowledgeable in flowers, he found great joy not just in watching them... But also conjuring vivid imagery, made from symbolism of any particular flower that he decides to fancy.
As the park's speaker system crackles with static and the like, the man would lift his head, but shrug it off with a smile that permeated his expression.
"Just what can go wrong on a day like this?" He mumbled under his breath.
The flowers are quite lovely- roses, carnations, camellias, hydrangeas, some boasting an odd mutation where two female flowers grow from the same seed pod- one might wonder what the end result of the seeds might be once pollinated, if anything. The crackling continues, as though someone on the other side of the microphone hadn't gotten everything together before they made their announcement. It takes a while to realize, but eventually it becomes apparent: the crackling isn't the sound of unpreparedness, but the sound of perhaps a record player as a vinyl is settled in and the needle is adjusted to a specific point.
Eventually, music starts... It's an old country song, familiar and yet not depending on upbringing. The deep bass of Josh Turner, but... Warped. Twisted somehow.. Springs to life on the intercom. "Baby, lock them doors and turn the lights down low.." he sings with erratic static crackling his voice and distorting it in an eerie fashion.
Ariel was entirely charmed. Watching the patches with a bright glint of life, he needed not much in order to enjoy his life, even something as simple as a walk could keep him in high-spirits. He could not say the same about most of the town's residents, not that he minded.. Everyone was different.
His train of thoughts is derailed by constant crackling, making the young man sigh and turn his full attention to the speakers, his expression is less than thrilled once he hears the song, he knows it in fact, and it is the same reason why he is unsettled by how warped and twisted the bass and voice is.
A gaze to the left and to the right, Ariel didn't feel comfortable one bit, so he decided to start getting a move on. "They need to learn that music through speakers doesn't work well at all." He says to himself, his tone shaking. Yet not to the point of outright fear.
Ariel was entirely charmed. Watching the patches with a bright glint of life, he needed not much in order to enjoy his life, even something as simple as a walk could keep him in high-spirits. He could not say the same about most of the town's residents, not that he minded.. Everyone was different.
His train of thoughts is derailed by constant crackling, making the young man sigh and turn his full attention to the speakers, his expression is less than thrilled once he hears the song, he knows it in fact, and it is the same reason why he is unsettled by how warped and twisted the bass and voice is.
A gaze to the left and to the right, Ariel didn't feel comfortable one bit, so he decided to start getting a move on. "They need to learn that music through speakers doesn't work well at all." He says to himself, his tone shaking. Yet not to the point of outright fear.
The mist. This town is known for its mist, and yet the way it pools around Ariel's feet is almost unnatural. Like creeping fingers that grasp loosely at his ankles, it winds its way up the man's calves, like wading in milky white water. It even ebbs and flows, lapping at the knees like ocean waves on a calm day. That voice on the intercom continues. "Put some m-m-muuUUUUsic-ic-ic-ic-ic on that's soft and s-s-s-s-s-s-slow."
Strange. The flowers seem to be changing colors, growing larger, their bushes growing taller as the music continues and the mist wreathing the area grows thicker and thicker, higher and higher. "Baby, we ain't got no place to go- no place to go- no place to go- no place to go- no place to go-" It's skipping, and now it's stuck, the singer's voice repeating that same eerie verse over and over again, the sound becoming more distorted by the second.
Ariel blinks, and when he opens his eyes, the mist has already started to envelop the area. This, coupled with the fact that area around him started to change shape made the young man have a loss of breath, his discomfort elevated to a string of anxiety and fear which were pulled upon, much like the melody he was listening to.
A part of him wanted to scream as loud as he could, hoping that if he threw his voice far enough then it'd pierce the mist, the other wanted to linger and see what would happen. Indecision made his legs shake, his whole being tremble.
Yet he eventually decides on a course of action proper, he breaks off into a sprint away from the flowers and bushes, as well as the speaker. They couldn't reach him if he ran away, right? Where was he even running? He couldn't tell, his heartbeat was racing, and survival instincts did the work of navigation - a poor one indeed.
It's hard to tell where you are when the mist is this thick, but especially when everything around you is so giant. Ariel dashes past giant trailers that are as tall as skyscrapers and around Dogwood trees that would find home in the redwood forest until something in the mist appears faster than he has time to stop. The man finds himself bouncing off of a giant black wall with odd ridges, stinking of lightly-burnt rubber. The sudden stop coupled with his momentum causes Ariel to stumble backwards onto his ass on the rain-slicked road. Gazing up, he would make a horrid realization: this is a parked car with a chrome bumper, and his reflection isn't what it's supposed to be. Where once there was pretty blue eyes and a relatively handsome face, there is now the light-brown face of a common chipmunk. Big glossy black eyes gaze into their reflection, and due to fear, the ears are pinned back against the skull as the creature trembles from fright.
"I hope you understand," says the speakers. "I've been thinking about this all day long..."
Ariel ran, and ran... Trying his best to avoid confronting the mist, choosing to avoid it instead... It appears like he was making some progress, but-
line BUMP!
Ariel is sent tumbling down on the ground, grasping onto his stomach and coughing. Pain was substituded with adrenaline for time being. Giving the man the energy he needed to get back up, even with some clear struggle, breathing in and out anxiously.
Flight hasn't seemed to work, and so, taking a few steps back... Digits dig into the pocket, grasping onto a snubnose revolver found within.
He takes a deep breath, seeing himself devolved into chimpunk seemed to be the last straw, for better or worse. "Come on..." He'd say out loud, either to whatever is out there or himself, that'd remain to be seen.
Pockets? How amusing. Why would a chipmunk need pockets? Ariel goes to grasp for his gun, but all he finds in his searching hands are rolls of chubby skin an fluffy, black-striped fur. He even manages to scratch himself a bit on those sharp claws he has now. No, this is very real, his clothing lost somewhere in the mist as perhaps the realization dawns on the man: The world around him didn't grow: he shrank. That giant chipmunk reflected in the chrome fender of a vehicle too large to even identify? It's his reflection. There's no gun, no clothes, no hope in sight, only an aching hunger in the pit of his stomach to collect. To hoard food. Even with that strong desire pressing at his mind, the man-turned-chipmunk still finds most of his thoughts and sense of self intact. He's not wholly and animal; not yet. There's still time.
a faint chuckle emits from the loudspeakers, crackling with amusement. "Gooooooood morning low-class scum of Haven! This is your Captain speaking- if you look to your left, then your right, you might see a few things have changed about you all. Don't panic- this effect is entirely permanent, so you can feel free to thank me. No more bills, no more jobs, no more high gas prices."
Ariel reaches out for his gun, taking it out, ready to heorically take on the darkness!-
...oh...
He is no hero, no knight in the shining armor, none of that, he is a victim. A victim of forces beyond his understanding, like many people before and after him, something which he did not know, yet was slowly starting to realize that thigns are not as they are- not just in relation to his current state either.
"Where is this voice coming from, even?" The chipmunk blinks, and decides to scale the parked car, perhaps, get a better idea of it's surroundings, slowly, Ariel was recovering from fear, or rather- he was putting that fear into something more productive - trying to save the others and himself from the cruel fate of being a midget for the rest of their lives. "I hate this voice..." He'd comment out loud, grumbling.
Meanwhile, Ariel, walking home through a trailer park in Haven, experiences a distortion of reality triggered by music playing over the park's speaker system. As the mist thickens and the surroundings grow unnaturally large, Ariel's transformation into a chipmunk completes the surreal nightmare. Lost and confused, Ariel finds himself in a world where he has shrunk, stripped of his human belongings and identity. The voice over the speakers announces a permanent transformation for the inhabitants of Haven, leaving Ariel and others in a desperate search for answers and a way to restore themselves. Despite the initial fear and disorientation, Ariel's resolve solidifies as he explores his new form, driven by a determination to overcome the curse and rally the transformed residents of Haven against their unseen adversary.
(Freya's odd encounter(SRDean):SRDean)
[Tue Aug 6 2024]
At Sidney Beach
It is dawn, about 77F(25C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It's raining.
(Your target and their allies have discovered that a recent string of bizarre occurrences and terrifying hallucinations plaguing the town of Haven are linked to The Black Flame. A member of this cult has been conducting rituals in secret, attempting to open a doorway into the void for the eldritch horrors they worship. The characters must find a way to stop the ritual and prevent the arrival of the horrors, while also dealing with the cult member who would stop at nothing to see their mission through. This might involve a fight, a chase, a tense negotiation, or a combination of all three.)
The storm rolls in with an almost preternatural speed, dark clouds swirling ominously above the once serene Sidney Beach. The Atlantic Ocean, typically a shimmering expanse of blue, transforms into a churning cauldron of furious waves, crashing against the shore with an almost deafening roar. The beach, now deserted, lies under a blanket of torrential rain, the sand dark and wet, pocked with the relentless fall of raindrops. Lightning crackles across the sky, illuminating the scene in brief, staccato bursts of blinding white light.
Far off the beach, nestled in the rocky cliffs that line the shoreline, a cavern lurks in shadows. The entrance to the cavern gapes like a monstrous maw, partially obscured by jagged rocks and overhanging vegetation that sway violently in the storm's fierce winds. The path leading to the cavern is treacherous, slick with rain and strewn with loose rocks that shift precariously underfoot, creating a perilous journey.
Within the cavern, the air is thick with the acrid scent of burning incense mixed with something far more sinister - a coppery tang that hints at blood and sacrifice. Flickering torches cast long, dancing shadows on the walls, their feeble light barely penetrating the oppressive darkness that seems to pulse and breathe with a life of its own. Strange symbols, scrawled in a dark, viscous substance, adorn the cavern walls, their cryptic meaning lost to all but the most learned of occult scholars.
In the deepest recesses of the cavern, an ancient stone altar dominates the space. The air around it shimmers with an unnatural energy, an almost tangible force that feels both magnetic and repulsive. A low, droning hum reverberates through the cavern, growing louder and more insistent with each passing moment, as if the very stones themselves are chanting in unison.
Outside the cavern, the storm rages on, a fitting backdrop for the impending clash. The wind howls like a living entity, whipping through the trees and tearing at the vegetation clinging to the cliffs. Waves crash against the rocky shoreline with violent intensity, sending sprays of salty water high into the air. The sky is a tapestry of swirling black and gray, punctuated by the bright, ephemeral brilliance of lightning that cuts through the darkness. Thunder rumbles in the distance, a deep, resonant sound that seems to shake the very earth.
This cavern, of course, is seen easily by none other than Freya, who is watching the storm unfold before her. The wast entry far in the distance that leads through jagged rocks jutting out like blades is an eager invitation with the flickering candlelight and the near putrid scent of magic that spills through it - to such a level that she can not only smell it, but taste it at the back of her throat like some kind of bile burning an ache deep in her lungs. It isn't anything like any magic she has ever chanced upon to bear its scent. It is hungry, vile, dangerous - and repulsive. No doubt relative to the dark world of empty nothing that it originates from, the well of arcane that only a certain group of people in Haven are foolish enough to worship or utilize, at the risk and detriment of anything and everything to invite the danger that lies within the Void.
The very aid holds its breath, waiting on her, while shadows stretch far and wide all around in some strange hallucination that tries its hardest to root itself into even her mind, but fail inexplicably.
Freya HAD been enjoying the storm. Feeling the way the wind whipped through her hair, the chilling rain pelting against her skin. She had been enjoying the clensing. The furor of mother nature. There was something, something else driving her that night. That made it hard for her to grip sanity despite the crescent of the moon in the sky and more often then not, as the lightning forks down into the ocean and the deafening crack of thunder follows, she throws back her head to howl, howl at the storm, the sky, the world. A human's voice box couldn't quite howl as loud as a wolves. But she still could tilt her head back, expose her throat in a long clean line with droplets of water clinging to it as she howled. The eastern sky probably should be dawning by now. But the black mass of clouds make it hard to see. She was enjoying the fresh ocean scents. The smell of petrichor in the air until.... The smell of magic hits her nose. It drives a snarl from her immediately, teal eyes turning towards the cave. Her head lifts as she sniffs the air and growls again. She was on a very short leash that night. Her hand drops the handful of sand she had been holding, letting the grains run through her fingers as she turns towards the cave and stalks towards it. Her hair whips behind her as she walks, the wet strands gleaming a dark silver, occasionally lit up in brilliant metallic colours everytime the lightning flashes down from the sky.
Outside, that show of natural force reigns supreme, unrelenting. The wind howls, whipping through the trees and tearing at the vegetation clinging to the cliffs. Waves crash against the rocky shoreline with violent intensity, sending sprays of salty water high into the air. The sky is a tapestry of swirling black and gray, punctuated by the bright, ephemeral brilliance of lightning that cuts through the darkness again and again with wrathful fury, just as thunder rumbles in the distance, a deep, resonant sound that seems to shake the very earth. The once serene Sidney Beach is a maelstrom of nature's anger, with sand dark and wet, pocked by the relentless fall of raindrops.
The path to the cavern is treacherous. Slick with rain, it is strewn with loose rocks that have been thrown into the sand from the cliffs overhead that shift precariously underfoot, while the air is thick with the scent of salt and petrichor, mingling with the faint, metallic tang of magic. The vegetation sways violently in the storm's fierce winds, the far few and few in between grasses that jut out the sand, wet leaves brushing against the skin. But the entrance to the cavern, that gaping maw, partially obscured by jagged rocks and overhanging vegetation, its path leading to it is narrow and winding, carved into the cliffside by years of relentless waves. As the entrance looms closer, the air grows colder, and the acrid scent of burning incense mingles with the other scents, adding a new, unsettling layer to the sensory overload.
Inside the cavern, the air is thick and oppressive. The acrid scent of burning incense is stronger here, almost overwhelming, mixed with a coppery tang that hints at blood and sacrifice. Flickering torches cast long, dancing shadows on the walls, their feeble light barely penetrating the darkness that seems to pulse and breathe with a life of its own. Strange symbols, scrawled in a dark, viscous substance, adorn the cavern walls are now in sight of her, every which way that Freya looks at. The low, droning hum reverberates through the cavern, growing louder and more insistent with each step, as if the very stones themselves are chanting in unison.
The cavern floor is uneven, slick with moisture and littered with loose rocks. The air is colder here, the dampness seeping through clothing and chilling to the bone. The smell of magic is almost tangible now, a sharp, electric scent that cuts through the incense and blood. The ancient stone altar dominates the deepest recesses of the cavern, its surface glistening with an unnatural sheen. The air around it shimmers with an otherworldly energy, an almost tangible force that feels both magnetic and repulsive.
The flickering torchlight, placed down across what it appears to be a manmade yet still rocky and natural hallway, casts eerie shadows on the cavern walls, creating the illusion of movement where there is none. The symbols on the walls seem to writhe and twist in the uncertain light, adding to the unsettling atmosphere. The hum grows louder, more insistent, as if urging forward, deeper into the cavern, toward the source of the unnatural energy.
The cavern is alive with sound and scent, a symphony of chaos and darkness that engulfs the senses. The storm outside is a distant roar, muffled by the thick stone walls, but still present, a constant reminder of the fury of nature that rages just beyond the entrance. The smell of salt and petrichor mingles with the acrid incense and metallic tang of magic, creating a heady, almost nauseating mix.
The air grows colder still, the dampness seeping into bones and sapping warmth. The flickering torchlight and writhing shadows create a disorienting, almost hypnotic effect. The hum reaches a fever pitch, a throbbing, insistent pulse that seems to echo through the very stones of the cavern. The ancient altar, with its shimmering, unnatural energy, looms ahead, the focal point of the oppressive atmosphere... And it all stops. One could hear the drop of a pin in the sudden silence that overtakes the place while the source of all the chanting - the group of five situation at the edge of a pentacle star turns their attention upon Freya and only Freya. Their hands remain stretched high in prayer, palm open in deference to what is a crack at the center of the altar, suspended midair, shimmering like broken glass with a myriad lack of abudance, drawing the very color around it into itself with eagerness to devour everything.
At the entrance of the cave, light by the backdrop of the storm, Freya stood. A low rumbling growl fills that cave where all one can hear is the pitter patter of rain outside and lightning forks the sky behind her, lighting her up as she growls at the five cultists. She takes a step into the cave, walking through the sheet like rain until she stands, dripping in the mouth of the cave. Her teal eyes glance up to judge the top of the cave an another low snarl leaves her lips as she stares at the ritual that is occuring. Water runs off of her body, droplets clinging to her face, her skin as she slowly takes a step forward, then another. Her hands are empty - she's unarmed, unarmoured but those hands are curled inwards like talons as step by step she makes her way towards the arcanists. "Explain. You have 5 seconds before you all die." She snarls as she leans forward, eyes fixed on the first arcanist that is closest to her.
The five cultists pause in their chant, the eerie hum of their ritual faltering as Freya's words echo through the cavern. The flickering torchlight casts their hooded faces into sharp relief, their eyes wide with a mix of fear and determination. The acrid scent of incense and the coppery tang of blood hang heavy in the air, almost palpable in the oppressive darkness.
The closest arcanist, a gaunt figure with eyes that glint unnervingly in the dim light, takes a hesitant step forward. His voice, trembling yet defiant, breaks the silence. "You do not understand the forces at play here," he begins, his gaze flicking nervously between Freya and the altar behind him. "We seek to open the doorway to the void, to summon forth the eldritch powers that will remake this world."
A surge of energy ripples through the cavern as he speaks, the symbols on the walls seeming to writhe and twist in response. The air around the altar shimmers with an unnatural light, the low hum growing louder and more insistent. The storm outside rages on, its fury mirrored by the escalating tension within the cave.Another cultist, taller and more imposing, steps forward with an expression of contempt. "Silence, fool!" he snaps, dismissing the first cultist with a wave of his hand. His eyes lock onto Freya, filled with malevolent intent. "Enough! How dare you interrupt a ritual for the Great Old Ones!"
With a swift, fluid motion, he raises his hand towards the portal. A bolt of arcane energy, jagged and sharp like a torn piece of glass as large as a torso, shoots forth from the swirling void. The air hums with raw power as the bolt hurtles toward Freya, striking her with immense force. The impact sends her flying backward, slamming her into the cavern wall. The jagged energy tears through her, leaving a trail of blood and searing pain. She crumples to the ground, hurt and bleeding, the acrid scent of burnt flesh mingling with the other oppressive odors in the cave. The cultists return to their chant, their confidence bolstered as they continue their dark ritual, the hum growing louder, the portal's energy pulsating with renewed vigor.
There is a growl in return to the arcanists words and she stalks forward, leaving a trail of dripping water behind her as she makes her way deeper into the cave. She was making her way towards the arcanist, presumably to do something terrible to him when the arcane energy hits her, sends her careening into the wall. She crumbles to the ground for a moment, blood running down the back of her neck from her head, hot, fresh. It fills the room with the smell of blood. And very soon.. A low rumbling growl. The growl grows, seeming to fill the entire cave as Freya starts to grow in size. The shadows cast on the side of the wall grow and increase as the sound of snapping bones, stretching skin fill the cavern and soon, there is no where to run, no where to hide as the wolf that takes up almost the entire height of the cave, snarls at the arcanists and reads forward to grab the first one that had pointed at her.. had dared and crunches down in a brilliant splatter of blood that paints her pristine white fur crimson.
The remaining cultists recoil in horror, their eyes wide with terror as they witness the brutal transformation and swift vengeance. The chanting ceases, replaced by frantic whispers and panicked glances. The cavern, once filled with the steady hum of ritual, now echoes with the sound of their fear. One cultist, a wiry figure with a desperate look in his eyes, raises his hands and begins to mutter an incantation, hoping to summon a barrier or perhaps another bolt of energy. His voice trembles, the words faltering as he struggles to maintain focus under the wolfs menacing glare.
Another cultist, clutching a ceremonial dagger, steps back towards the altar, his eyes darting between Freya and the portal. "We must finish the ritual!" he shouts to the others, his voice edged with desperation. "The doorway must be opened!" A third cultist, younger and visibly shaking, drops to his knees, seemingly paralyzed by fear. He clutches a talisman to his chest, muttering prayers under his breath, hoping for protection from the eldritch powers they had sought to summon.
The tallest cultist, a woman with sharp features and a steely gaze, takes charge. She steps forward, placing herself between Freya and the others, her hands crackling with arcane energy. "Hold your ground!" she commands. "We are the Black Flame. We do not falter!" Her voice carries an air of authority, but even she cannot hide the flicker of doubt in her eyes as she faces the massive wolf. someone growl deepens, a sound that reverberates through the cavern and sends shivers down their spines. The cultists exchange fearful glances, their once unified front now splintering under the weight of her fury. The air is thick with tension, the smell of blood and fear mingling as the storm outside continues to rage, a fitting backdrop to the chaos within the cave.
The remaining cultists recoil in horror, their eyes wide with terror as they witness the brutal transformation and swift vengeance. The chanting ceases, replaced by frantic whispers and panicked glances. The cavern, once filled with the steady hum of ritual, now echoes with the sound of their fear. One cultist, a wiry figure with a desperate look in his eyes, raises his hands and begins to mutter an incantation, hoping to summon a barrier or perhaps another bolt of energy. His voice trembles, the words faltering as he struggles to maintain focus under the wolfs menacing glare.
Another cultist, clutching a ceremonial dagger, steps back towards the altar, his eyes darting between Freya and the portal. "We must finish the ritual!" he shouts to the others, his voice edged with desperation. "The doorway must be opened!" A third cultist, younger and visibly shaking, drops to his knees, seemingly paralyzed by fear. He clutches a talisman to his chest, muttering prayers under his breath, hoping for protection from the eldritch powers they had sought to summon.
The tallest cultist, a woman with sharp features and a steely gaze, takes charge. She steps forward, placing herself between Freya and the others, her hands crackling with arcane energy. "Hold your ground!" she commands. "We are the Black Flame. We do not falter!" Her voice carries an air of authority, but even she cannot hide the flicker of doubt in her eyes as she faces the massive wolf. Freya's growl deepens, a sound that reverberates through the cavern and sends shivers down their spines. The cultists exchange fearful glances, their once unified front now splintering under the weight of her fury. The air is thick with tension, the smell of blood and fear mingling as the storm outside continues to rage, a fitting backdrop to the chaos within the cave.
Crunch crunch crunch. The sound of bone crunching fills the cavern as the arcanists react. The two halves of the body of the first cultist fall to the ground on either side of Freya's mouth. Blood pours down from Freya's muzzle as she growls at the next nearest arcanist - the woman telling people to hold their ground. Her paw digs into the stone, leaving gauges into the sedimentary rock before she lunges forward. Her paws catch the woman, squash her underfoot as her jaws go for the one with the dagger, biting the man's arm clean off before chucking it into the fire in the middle. She lifts her head to howl, blood pouring down her body, half her snow white pelt red now as those teal eyes stare out from a face of red towards the remaining arcanists. More bones crunch underneath her paw as her weight crushes the woman behind her and she growls as she drops down low, her tail squishing from side to side, her eyes affixed to the man already wounded.
Everything erupts into chaos. The remaining cultists stumble back in horror and disbelief as Freya's savage display continues. The woman crushed underfoot lets out a muffled scream before succumbing to the weight and ferocity of the massive wolf. The air fills with the stench of blood, the acrid scent from the bleeding arm, and the fear of the surviving arcanists. The cultist with the ceremonial dagger, now missing an arm and bleeding profusely, scrambles away, his face pale with terror. He drops to his knees, clutching the bloody stump, and tries to drag himself toward the altar, desperation in his eyes. The flames from the fire crackle ominously, casting flickering shadows that dance across the cavern walls.
The young cultist who had been praying earlier now scrambles to his feet, his wide eyes locked on Freya. He stumbles backward, knocking over a nearby torch, which rolls and spills fire across the stone floor, adding to the chaos. His trembling hands fumble with a small, glowing talisman, and he mutters frantic incantations, hoping to invoke a protective spell or summon a last-ditch defense. The tall cultist, the woman who had attempted to rally the group, stands firm despite the fear in her eyes. She raises her hands, channeling arcane energy with a determined but wavering expression. She unleashes a barrage of magical projectiles, each crackling with a menacing glow, aiming to drive Freya back and give her fellow cultists a chance to regroup. Her voice, though authoritative, betrays a hint of desperation. "Hold the line! We cannot let her destroy everything weve worked for!"
The air in the cavern is thick with tension, the mix of magic and blood creating a palpable sense of dread. Freya, with her snow-white fur now streaked with crimson, stands as a formidable figure of primal rage. Her eyes, a vivid teal amidst the bloodied mess of her face, lock onto the remaining cultists, her growl a constant, ominous rumble that reverberates through the stone walls. The altar, bathed in the flickering firelight, becomes the focal point of the rituals waning energy. The symbols on the walls pulse erratically, as if sensing the disruption, their dark glow flickering in response to the chaos. The storm outside continues its relentless assault, its roars echoing through the cavern, a fitting accompaniment to the violent scene unfolding within.
A snarl fills the cavern as the arcane projectiles race towards Freya and there is an arc of blood that covers the runes on the wall as she turns around to allow the projectiles to hit her butt and wolf tail, sweeping them to the side. Her head turns back, teal blue eyes in a sea of red fur as she turns back her paw stepping off of the woman she had popped like a juice pop. Blood covers both her paws, spilling upwards towards her legs as she shoves forward into the remaining cultists. The woman sending the barrage gets shoved by Freya's head, trying to smash into the back wall. She ignores the young one that set the fire for now, low growls filling the chamber as she advances on the man with the stump and leans down. Her teeth closes around the man's waist, his head firmly in her mouth as she tilts her head up and chomps down. Blood spills out around her, pouring over her white fur until almost all of it is stained a brilliant dripping crimson. The man's body falls to the floor aftwards - still in one piece but with giant gauges through it rapidly draining the man of blood as she turns those wolfish eyes towards the last two still remaining.
A thoroughly chaotic scene unfolds as Freya, drenched in blood, continues her relentless assault. The arcane projectiles strike her rear and tail, their energy dissipating harmlessly as she swats them aside with a brutal sweep. Blood arcs across the runes on the walls, darkening the ancient symbols as she turns to face her remaining adversaries.
The woman who had launched the barrage is caught off guard by Freyas powerful shove. She is slammed into the cavern wall, the impact causing her to cry out in pain as she slumps to the ground, dazed and disoriented. The air is thick with the smell of blood and fear, the storm outside seeming to intensify in response to the violence within the cave. The young cultist, still clutching his talisman and frantic with fear, continues to mumble desperate incantations. His eyes dart around wildly, but he makes no move to defend himself, paralyzed by terror as he watches the carnage unfold. The fire he had started continues to spread slowly, adding to the chaos but providing little actual threat to Freya's fury.
Freya's attention locks onto the man with the severed arm, who is still bleeding heavily. She leans down, her jaws closing around his waist with terrifying precision. As she tilts her head up and bites down, blood gushes from the massive wound she has inflicted, staining her fur even more deeply. The mans body, now grotesquely punctured and drained, falls heavily to the ground, a pool of blood forming around him. With the remaining two cultists now facing the full force of Freyas wrath, the cavern's atmosphere becomes suffused with palpable dread. The storm outside rages on, its roars echoing through the cavern, enhancing the sense of foreboding.
The young cultist, shaking uncontrollably, finally breaks into a full-on panic. He scrambles to his feet and tries to flee, his cries of terror mingling with the howling wind outside. He darts toward the cavern entrance, slipping and stumbling on the blood-slicked floor. The tall woman, who had been attempting to hold her ground, rises unsteadily, her face a mask of grim determination. Her hands are now empty, having expended her last magical defenses. She stands between Freya and the fleeing young cultist, desperately searching for a way to salvage the situation or perhaps buy enough time for the remaining rituals to complete. Her gaze meets Freya's, a mix of defiance and desperation in her eyes, knowing that survival hinges on either stopping Freya or escaping the carnage.
As Freya's eyes lock onto the last two cultists, the air in the cavern seems to hold its breath, waiting for what cruelty she may inflict upon them.
Freya feeds on the fear. Luxuriates in as she paws at the ground. The man's corpse is shoved into the fire, to allow the blood seeping from him to put it out, lest the cavern fill with stinky smoke. She advances on the last two remaining, her paw reaching out to bat the altar, take off chunks of it and allow it to crumble to the ground in just a casual, sideswipe as she advances. Every part of her is now covered in blood. Only teal stares out of the crimson which dyes her pristine white much more effectively than it would say on a darker pelt and each step she takes the blood of others drips down. Her own wounds, long healed by the amount of fear she was feeding on don't even contribute as she lunges forward to knock the woman out of the way before pinning the boy to the wall of the cave with the side of her muzzle. Her low growl transmits through his body as she keeps him pinned there, against the wall, feeding slowly on his fear.
Her pristine white fur, now a canvas of crimson, glistens ominously in the flickering light. Only her teal eyes pierce through the bloodstained chaos, the vibrant color stark against the sea of red. Each step she takes is heavy with the weight of her carnage, the blood of her victims dripping down and marking her path. The remaining cultists, now in a state of utter despair, are left with no illusions of escape. The tall woman, her authority shattered, is barely able to stand. She watches in stunned silence as Freya approaches her with a menacing, deliberate pace. Her attempts to rally strength fall flat as she sees her fellow cultists fates unfolding before her.
Freya lunges forward, her massive body crashing into the tall woman with a powerful impact. The woman is knocked aside, her scream of pain and fear mingling with the storm's fury that threatens to crash in even this deep beneath the ground. When her attention turns away from the woman she dismissed with the back of a paw, and onto the boy - it is evident to her that he's soiled himself. With a low, rumbling growl that reverberates through the cave, Freya pins the boy against the wall with the side of her muzzle. His eyes widen in terror, his body trembling under the crushing pressure. The fear radiates off him in waves, feeding Freya's insatiable hunger. The low growl that emanates from her throat is a constant, oppressive vibration, a reminder of the predators dominance.
As Freya maintains her grip, her gaze remains fixed on the boy, her teal eyes reflecting the dark satisfaction of her dominance. The young cultists pleas for mercy are drowned out - Freya is barely perceptive to them over the raw, sheer feeling of satisfaction that fills and disturbs every single one of her senses with the supernatural feeding that takes place while his fear becomes her mirth.
She blinks.
It's all gone.
Whatever fury she was inflicting in blood and misery boundless - it comes to a standstill while Freya comes to herself. Whereas she was a wolf, majestic and violent, she is still herself - and the scent of magic is thick in the air. It fills her senses as much as the false pleasure of her feeding had, and she's sitting exactly where she would be, against the cracked, blood-stricken wall of the cavern- where she had hit earlier. It had been but a blink, and what actually transpired is hard to recall - it had felt so real, so tangible, yet now she sits still in a cave that clearly hadn't seen human use in a long time.
The altar ahead of her thrums with power - the swirling, crackling apex of power floating midair has grown fragile, far weaker than the illusion she had endured like the rest of the town, and she may realize, in her lonesome absent of any cultists, there are vague but impressive claw marks all across the altar, where it seeps a black liquid down in rivulets. They meld into the ground, sizzle and disappear into thin streams of smoke -- and the cracking splinter of reality suspended in the air dissipated with a 'pop'.
Freya staggers to her feet with a groan, rubbing the bakc of her head as she looks at the altar instead of her. Had it all been a dream? It had been so real... Her grip on sanity seemed back though and she looks down at her hands for a moment, as if expecting to see them with blood. When she doesn't, she sighs out a breath heads towards the altar. She kicks at it with her formidable strength, trying to see if she can knock it down.
For all that effort, the altar persists. Freya's kick, however mighty, doesn't budge it - but the scent of magic is gone now, its indicative that she had made in inert somehow - even irrepairable with how broken it looks. It seeps that black, sizzling liquid from inside of it. Maybe it was real, maybe it had been a ritual of a different sort happening beyond the scope of reality that she somehow stumbled on in her lunacy. There are a lot of questions without answers, but one thing is for certain, and it is that she has done some good, whether she wanted to or not. The entire cave, the path leading into it -- which seems to be far, far shorter than it was - absent of torches and even pathways, just nature-made rock passages that leads straight out after a single bend, remain open for her to leave at her leisure. Even more strangely, though there is her blood at the back of her skull, where it mats her hair, there is no injury to be found. Either she spent long enough down here that her healing factor cleared the evidence, or even that didn't happen - despite the remnant red on her silvered locks. Although, it is still early morning, outside, with an unchanged, stormy weather, too.
(Your target has been hexed and transformed into an animal against their will. Unable to turn back they need to try to find allies who can understand their problem and find a way to undo the curse.
)
A peaceful walk, as peaceful as one can be, when in the local trailer park. It boasts a combination of trailers, some more trashy than others. Down Rose Lane there is a house with a beautiful assortment of hedged bushes with blooming flowers, and directly across the road is a worn-down trailer of similar design, junk collected in the overgrown lawn. The pool here might be very tempting were it not for the rain that falls from overhead. Dreary, misty, but peaceful- until the park's speaker system starts to crackle, perhaps heralding a soon-to-be announcement.
Ariel was fresh out of work! And luck it seemed, finding himself walking under the rain with no umbrella, the young man wasn't accustomed to nature's caprices in this particular town, and now he has to pay the price, which might just turn out to be more than he expected.
His attention was taken away by the house full of flora, being someone who's particularly knowledgeable in flowers, he found great joy not just in watching them... But also conjuring vivid imagery, made from symbolism of any particular flower that he decides to fancy.
As the park's speaker system crackles with static and the like, the man would lift his head, but shrug it off with a smile that permeated his expression.
"Just what can go wrong on a day like this?" He mumbled under his breath.
The flowers are quite lovely- roses, carnations, camellias, hydrangeas, some boasting an odd mutation where two female flowers grow from the same seed pod- one might wonder what the end result of the seeds might be once pollinated, if anything. The crackling continues, as though someone on the other side of the microphone hadn't gotten everything together before they made their announcement. It takes a while to realize, but eventually it becomes apparent: the crackling isn't the sound of unpreparedness, but the sound of perhaps a record player as a vinyl is settled in and the needle is adjusted to a specific point.
Eventually, music starts... It's an old country song, familiar and yet not depending on upbringing. The deep bass of Josh Turner, but... Warped. Twisted somehow.. Springs to life on the intercom. "Baby, lock them doors and turn the lights down low.." he sings with erratic static crackling his voice and distorting it in an eerie fashion.
Ariel was entirely charmed. Watching the patches with a bright glint of life, he needed not much in order to enjoy his life, even something as simple as a walk could keep him in high-spirits. He could not say the same about most of the town's residents, not that he minded.. Everyone was different.
His train of thoughts is derailed by constant crackling, making the young man sigh and turn his full attention to the speakers, his expression is less than thrilled once he hears the song, he knows it in fact, and it is the same reason why he is unsettled by how warped and twisted the bass and voice is.
A gaze to the left and to the right, Ariel didn't feel comfortable one bit, so he decided to start getting a move on. "They need to learn that music through speakers doesn't work well at all." He says to himself, his tone shaking. Yet not to the point of outright fear.
Ariel was entirely charmed. Watching the patches with a bright glint of life, he needed not much in order to enjoy his life, even something as simple as a walk could keep him in high-spirits. He could not say the same about most of the town's residents, not that he minded.. Everyone was different.
His train of thoughts is derailed by constant crackling, making the young man sigh and turn his full attention to the speakers, his expression is less than thrilled once he hears the song, he knows it in fact, and it is the same reason why he is unsettled by how warped and twisted the bass and voice is.
A gaze to the left and to the right, Ariel didn't feel comfortable one bit, so he decided to start getting a move on. "They need to learn that music through speakers doesn't work well at all." He says to himself, his tone shaking. Yet not to the point of outright fear.
The mist. This town is known for its mist, and yet the way it pools around Ariel's feet is almost unnatural. Like creeping fingers that grasp loosely at his ankles, it winds its way up the man's calves, like wading in milky white water. It even ebbs and flows, lapping at the knees like ocean waves on a calm day. That voice on the intercom continues. "Put some m-m-muuUUUUsic-ic-ic-ic-ic on that's soft and s-s-s-s-s-s-slow."
Strange. The flowers seem to be changing colors, growing larger, their bushes growing taller as the music continues and the mist wreathing the area grows thicker and thicker, higher and higher. "Baby, we ain't got no place to go- no place to go- no place to go- no place to go- no place to go-" It's skipping, and now it's stuck, the singer's voice repeating that same eerie verse over and over again, the sound becoming more distorted by the second.
Ariel blinks, and when he opens his eyes, the mist has already started to envelop the area. This, coupled with the fact that area around him started to change shape made the young man have a loss of breath, his discomfort elevated to a string of anxiety and fear which were pulled upon, much like the melody he was listening to.
A part of him wanted to scream as loud as he could, hoping that if he threw his voice far enough then it'd pierce the mist, the other wanted to linger and see what would happen. Indecision made his legs shake, his whole being tremble.
Yet he eventually decides on a course of action proper, he breaks off into a sprint away from the flowers and bushes, as well as the speaker. They couldn't reach him if he ran away, right? Where was he even running? He couldn't tell, his heartbeat was racing, and survival instincts did the work of navigation - a poor one indeed.
It's hard to tell where you are when the mist is this thick, but especially when everything around you is so giant. Ariel dashes past giant trailers that are as tall as skyscrapers and around Dogwood trees that would find home in the redwood forest until something in the mist appears faster than he has time to stop. The man finds himself bouncing off of a giant black wall with odd ridges, stinking of lightly-burnt rubber. The sudden stop coupled with his momentum causes Ariel to stumble backwards onto his ass on the rain-slicked road. Gazing up, he would make a horrid realization: this is a parked car with a chrome bumper, and his reflection isn't what it's supposed to be. Where once there was pretty blue eyes and a relatively handsome face, there is now the light-brown face of a common chipmunk. Big glossy black eyes gaze into their reflection, and due to fear, the ears are pinned back against the skull as the creature trembles from fright.
"I hope you understand," says the speakers. "I've been thinking about this all day long..."
Ariel ran, and ran... Trying his best to avoid confronting the mist, choosing to avoid it instead... It appears like he was making some progress, but-
line BUMP!
Ariel is sent tumbling down on the ground, grasping onto his stomach and coughing. Pain was substituded with adrenaline for time being. Giving the man the energy he needed to get back up, even with some clear struggle, breathing in and out anxiously.
Flight hasn't seemed to work, and so, taking a few steps back... Digits dig into the pocket, grasping onto a snubnose revolver found within.
He takes a deep breath, seeing himself devolved into chimpunk seemed to be the last straw, for better or worse. "Come on..." He'd say out loud, either to whatever is out there or himself, that'd remain to be seen.
Pockets? How amusing. Why would a chipmunk need pockets? Ariel goes to grasp for his gun, but all he finds in his searching hands are rolls of chubby skin an fluffy, black-striped fur. He even manages to scratch himself a bit on those sharp claws he has now. No, this is very real, his clothing lost somewhere in the mist as perhaps the realization dawns on the man: The world around him didn't grow: he shrank. That giant chipmunk reflected in the chrome fender of a vehicle too large to even identify? It's his reflection. There's no gun, no clothes, no hope in sight, only an aching hunger in the pit of his stomach to collect. To hoard food. Even with that strong desire pressing at his mind, the man-turned-chipmunk still finds most of his thoughts and sense of self intact. He's not wholly and animal; not yet. There's still time.
a faint chuckle emits from the loudspeakers, crackling with amusement. "Gooooooood morning low-class scum of Haven! This is your Captain speaking- if you look to your left, then your right, you might see a few things have changed about you all. Don't panic- this effect is entirely permanent, so you can feel free to thank me. No more bills, no more jobs, no more high gas prices."
Ariel reaches out for his gun, taking it out, ready to heorically take on the darkness!-
...oh...
He is no hero, no knight in the shining armor, none of that, he is a victim. A victim of forces beyond his understanding, like many people before and after him, something which he did not know, yet was slowly starting to realize that thigns are not as they are- not just in relation to his current state either.
"Where is this voice coming from, even?" The chipmunk blinks, and decides to scale the parked car, perhaps, get a better idea of it's surroundings, slowly, Ariel was recovering from fear, or rather- he was putting that fear into something more productive - trying to save the others and himself from the cruel fate of being a midget for the rest of their lives. "I hate this voice..." He'd comment out loud, grumbling.