Encounterlogs
Illyanas Odd Encounter Sr Lance 241017
When Illyana receives a priority alert from the Hand's New York City branch about suspicious magical activities in the sewers of Haven, her initial reluctance is overridden by her savior complex, despite her self-aware acknowledgment of being the worst possible candidate for the job. Accompanied by her muscle, Bob Freeman, she ventures into the foul-smelling underworld, prepared to confront whatever threatens the city. They discover a ritual conducted by the Black Flame cult, attempting to summon an eldritch horror to bring about the end of the world. Opting for stealth, Illyana meticulously observes the cult's amateurish ritual, gathering crucial details before retreating to call for backup. The Hand responds by sending Antonio, an elder vampire from Boston, and his thralls to handle the situation. Illyana, driven by a need to quell her building frustrations through confrontation, eagerly joins the operation.
The operation against the Black Flame cult unfolds with brutal efficiency. Bob manages to take out one of the cultists with his rifle, marking the beginning of a swift and deadly assault. Illyana creates a chaotic diversion with her angel and demon hybrid abilities, enabling Antonio to execute the cult leader and disrupt the summoning ritual. This successful intervention not only averts the imminent threat but also potentially saves hundreds of lives. After reporting back to the Hand with an accurate account of the events, Illyana reflects on her actions, choosing to view herself as a hero despite the violence and alliances with the monstrous. Thus, she returns to her daily life in Haven, a town no stranger to supernatural occurrences and dark dealings. Meanwhile, in another part of Haven, Dahlia faces her own supernatural ordeal with a haunting spirit linked to the town's dark past, finding herself entangled in the legacy of Solomon Inigo and confronting the realities of her new home.
(Illyana's odd encounter(SRLance):SRLance)
[Wed Oct 16 2024]
In the Master Bedroom
This room is large and open plan, with very little extraineous space taken up; The owner is at home with open areas, or has little to fill it.
Dominated by a queen sized bed of solid oak, itself flanked by two bedside tables, the room lacks anything else save a single wardrobe by way of decoration past the cream painted walls and thick blue carpet.
It is night, about 46F(7C) degrees, and there are a few thin white clouds in the sky. There is a waxing gibbous moon.
(Your target and their allies stumble upon a ritual conducted by The Black Flame. The cult is trying to summon an eldritch horror, believing it will initiate the inevitable end of the world. The characters must disrupt the ritual and stop the summoning while dealing with the cult members who will violently defend their cause. The characters could utilize their knowledge of the supernatural, their combat skills or their ability to persuade or intimidate to prevent the ritual from being completed. The encounter could also provide further leads to the larger network of The Black Flame, setting up future encounters.)
Illyana is presumably at home when she gets a beep on her cell phone. The caller ID might not be immediately obvious, but if she's up on these things, she would likely recognize it as belonging to a senior office of the Hand's New York City branch. "WARNING," the text message indicates. "This is a priority alert. You are being contacted by our fast-action response system due to being the closest operative to the target area. Our seers have indicated a dangerous spike in magical energies in the sewers underneath haven. You are to find the nearest entrance and investigate immediately. Identify potential threats and report back to this number before taking action. We have additional assets en route."
Having woken early, as is her want and habit, Illyana has showered, dressed and is browsing on her phone when the notification comes through. Suspicious as she is though, Illyana calls it in, gets confirmation that it is who they say they are, and then very much deliberates if she shouldn't pass the buck onto someone else; Illyana is selfish at the end of the day. But the larger issue is, above all else, that in spite of sociopathic tendencies- And perhapse being the worst possible fit for the Hand, she is. And her very nature, along with her very abusable saviour complex leads her to the only possible conclusion... If Illyana doesn't do it, someone else might get hurt. And so, dressing for war with ballistic armor, clothing easy to run in and with weapons- Including the Seraphim weapon missing from White Oak, a demon killer, Illyana elects to handle the issue. There is however a larger problem here... Illyana hates filth. So before she does anything, she reaches out to a contact. Bob Freeman, who works for Illyana as muscle, and who is a /functioning/ by which Illyana means endoctrinated (though willing) servant to serve as guide into the sewers. And all the while, she wishes that she had any idea what so ever of how the dregs os society function as there is no way she's fitting in. No powers yet, of course. They arn't called for.
It is entirely that the out-of-town command structure doesn't have super-up-to-date granular information about who does what in Haven. But Illyana's affiliation appears to have been enough for her to receive the bulletin regardless. Perhaps they're just that desperate for a fast response: When she called in, there was an urgency and general sense of hustle. By the time Freeman arrives, not too much time has passed. The man gives her a stoic nod, not looking too pleased about the journey that's ahead of them, but the coordinates match what the Hand's leadership gave her. It's a pretty nondescript manhole--it takes a bit of elbow grease to get the thing popped off the ground. What it reveals is a ladder down into the foul-smelling sewers, terminating on a narrow stone walkway alongside the running filthy water.
It initially seems terribly dark and quiet in the subterranean reaches of Haven. But with the aid of supernatural senses--or even mortal senses -- it becomes clear that somewhere down around the next bend, there must be a source of light, because there's the faintest orange-tinted glow. And there's a sound, as well: Something droning, ominously similar to music, though it's so faint and hard to make out that it almost seems like a trick of the imagination.
Though Illyana could lift the manhole cover with ease, she doesn't; This is why she braught muscle. Not only is less interactivity pragmatic for her as a city girl with no desire to play with filth, it is for another reason entirely. If it's someone elses finger prints, Illyana wont be implicated. It's a tried and tested methodology that people still ignore, but not Illyana. She's the hands-off type of leadership who uses a pretty face and a (questionably) silver tongue do her talking for her. But it's also not the first time she's been in the sewers, either. The first time since her senses had been awakened though, so it does take a couple of minutes before Illyana is able to function again, a strangled yelp of disgust escaping her lips as she vertually choaks on everry sensation down here. Thankfully though, with angelic super jumping, she's not had to touch anything yet... Though these shoes gotta go. Then, she heads into the depths of Haven's underbelly. Thank god for having a paurper guide. The poor all know each other and all of the seedy aspects of the city. It's a natural, immutable fact- Or so Illyana has decided. Still, for now, she uses no perceptable power, though she's ready to rocket into action if it's needed. And so she creeps closer to that light in the distance; She wants to light the place up, but it's poor tactics to give yourself away in a project like this, so that is ready, but not active yet.
Illyana was today years old when learning that a natural archetype shows as 0 in stats
In Illyana and her goon's immediate vicinity, there's no sign of anything alive except a couple of rats, who scurry into the darker reaches of the sewers. Her stealthy approach serves her in good stead--it takes her around one corner, and then another, in search of the faint light.
As she approaches it, the sound of music grows louder. It appears to be some kind of chanting: There's a sense of the archaic about it; it's vaguely reminiscent of Latin, some kind of arcane invocation.
Eventually, Illyana can see human figures in the far distance, at the end of a storm drain overflow channel. Lanterns have been set on the floor around the room, flickering erratically from the influence of some unseen force. The room is much longer than the drain that feeds into it; it seems like someone has appropriated and enlarged some section of Haven's sewers. Perhaps half a dozen people are present within, five in a broad semicircle facing a single man who holds some kind of ritual staff on which are set a number of bells. Every now and then, he raps the base of it to the ground, causing them to chime. Her supernaturally acute vision reveals embroidery on the robes worn by the five men in the choir: An obsidian flame-wreathed globe, indicative of followers of the Black Flame. They're a group known to worship the entities of the Void, and have few friends in the supernatural world, thanks for their desire to bring about the annihilation of all things. Lovely people, really.
Of course it's the Black Flame. It's always the Black flame... And this time, she cant just use angel speed in order to shove them one by one into the warp they are using to summon forth the elder entity. How dare these cultists not be more proficient in their jobs? Or, Illyana supposes, they could be just starting; This would be idealistically better, of course, though Illyana doesn't see it that way. Six against two are not ideal odds. Illyana could likely manage three on one, she usually can, but Bob is only a squishy human, and in spite of her callousness in a lot of situations, she does care (likely more than she should) about the people she does value. The tactic then... She cant weaponize fire /yet/ and though she has weapons, letting these idiots know she's there right now is inadvisable. Still, she denotes the five around the edge of the room. She notes the robes, the room size, the location and the storm drain. She notes everything she can about the ritual they are using, which is, to be frank, amateur, though it's all filed away. Then, with as much equally amateur skill as she entered, she slinks off back into the tunnels with her muscle. Bodily picking the man up, she super jumps out of the manhole, covers it over herself (she must be worried) then places the man down, calls it in, gives a status report and enquires of an ETA and resources to hand.
The fine points of the ritual are unfortunately beyond Illyana's limited expertise, but she knows enough to pick up the basics of what's going on. They're definitely trying to summon a Void entity (always a bad idea), and it's still the early stages of the ritual. Perhaps they hoped to take advantage of the ongoing chaos up above with all of the pack animals to try and carry out their foolish summoning undisturbed. That is, of course, assuming that it will work. Their chanting provides the perfect auditory cover for Illyana and her follower to make their escape.
Soon enough they're back on the service. The voice on the line receives Illyana's report before responding in a clipped and precise feminine voice. "Excellent work. We've sent an elder vampire and two of his thralls from the Boston area. He should be manifesting by Path somewhere in Haven shortly. With the detailed information you've provided, he should be able to proceed directly to the scene. I'm sure he would appreciate your assistance--but if you'd rather sit this one out, we won't fault you."
Responds easily. She wont sit it out; She needs to get some stress out of her systom. There's a building headache because Illyana, as per usual, has been fighting the duality of her nature and today (or yesterday) hasn't layed into anyone with even the most half-assed of abuses. Instead, she's let it sit and now she needs to hurt someone. So Illyana responds with her location, awaits the elder vampire and gets ready to run these cultist's fades.
Some elder vampires appear as a cloud of mist, a disembodied will, or as a swarm of bats. This one walks out of a nearby alley like a normal person, wearing an immaculately pressed tailored suit with jeweled cufflinks that appear to be some kind of enchanted object. Behind him are two men much like Illyana's own loyal minion: Broad, wide, with shaved heads and government-agent-style earpieces. The Hand is living up to its reputation as a professional organization tonight. "Greetings," he introduces himself to Illyana, "You may call me Antonio. That is the only name you will need for the time being. We will kill these men if they can be killed, and take them if the Sanctuary protects them. Here is what I require of you." He's clearly used to giving orders. "Take the mortals present down and create a distraction that disrupts the ritual. I will Path in directly from above, and claim the master's head. A sensible enough plan, I think? If you have any modifications, tell me. Otherwise, let us take out the spiritual garbage."
"None what so ever." Illyana informs the master vampire. "Hybrid angel and demon with aggressive capabilities from each." The question itself is rude, but this is the Hand, and Illyana is an angelborn, so she doesn't even bother commenting on it. Distracting she can do well though, so once more, Illyana descends, drawing her bow in one hand, her sword in the other. And then she sneaks back in; Antonio will enter his own way, of course. And then, placed where she was, she begins to disrupt the ritual in the most brutal way she can think of. She employs chaos. The first few seconds hold nothing; It's perfectly quiet, then there's the rapid fire sheathing of her sword, the blinding, incandescent light of illumination magic and angelic protection as the bow- And the arrows that Illyana grips blaze with angelfire. Two arrows- One, then the next. One to the left, one to the right, and the incandescent light and the moment of shock allows Illyana to holster the bow, take up the stolen Seraphim blade, set it alight and leap into the melee with angelic speed. Enraged and blazing, Illyana bursts in. Hopefully the two arrows have done enough to account for the few seconds she needs to conclusively deal with one or two. Her fiery weapon sweeping out as if it weighed nothing in what on horseback would be considered a cavalric charge. And all the while counting down for Antonio's pathed enterence. -- As for Bob, he's used to Illyana's reckless antics by now, and remains at range, taking potshots with a rifle.
The first casualty is claimed, believe it or not, by Bob -- it looks like one of these apocalyptic folk is a new arrival to Haven, and unrecognized by the Sanctuary ritual. It becomes extremely obvious when a rifle round penetrates his torso and causes him to fall straight to the ground with a splatter of crimson gore. The others, still disoriented from the flash of light Illyana blasts into the room, some of them holding up their arms reflexively to protect against it. The arrows do a lot to further their disorientation, sticking into an arm and leg, respectively. The cultist furthest out to the left is the quickest to react--he pulls a pistol from within his robes and aims it at Illyana. Shots sear right past her cheek, but her supernatural swiftness brings her right to the man before he can pull the trigger a third time. A quick slash across his torso takes him out of the fight with a searing smolder of robe and flesh.
A sense of ominous pressure follows immediately thereafter--without the channeling and guiding force of the supplicant-participants, the energy collected thus far begins to grow out of control. The master of the ceremony holds up his staff, attempting to harness it. The smell of ozone fills the air, and a sort of metallic tang that is accompanied by a rapid drop in temperature. Not enough to open a portal to the void, but enough to push the ambient balance in its direction. The air itself feels like it is creaking--pale energy crackles about the tip of his staff--
And then, quite suddenly, the man's neck is sliced open, and Antonio is sating himself on the man's blood.
A brutally efficient operation carried out by the Hand's operatives, and probably hundreds of lives saved, if not more.
Reporting all of this to the President and the requisit adviser and interim subordinates, Illyana is sure to express all of the goings on with aplumb; After all, if she were to embellish, it's likely reports would conflict. Bob gets an entire fifty bucks for his good work and Illyana gets to play hero- Or at least, as the bodies pile up around her and the vampire feeds, that's what Illyana tells herself. Never mind the violent attacks or the literal undead nomming away on a cultist. Never mind the sewers arn't publicly recognized places within the city that should be accessed by citizens. Illyana is a hero, and that's the story she's happy with. And thus, she returns to her perfectly average life, in a city where nothing strange happens; Never mind the wild animals or the supernatural interactions, flurryof cultists, werewolf packs, the teleportation to other realms or even the curious weather. That's just Haven township.
Some of these people must have been locals: Three of them, including the leader of the band, didn't perish in the fight, despite the leader being left an ashen, partially exsanguinated heap. Antonio's goons take the survivors off for 'debrief,' which probably means a very unpleasant interrogation. It's easy enough for Illyana to rationalize herself as a hero: No matter how nasty or monstrous your allies, the group that wants to rule the world beats the groups who want to annihilate it every day of the week. Lucky for Illyana, the packs of rabid animals pretty much leave her alone on her way back home. Probably busy eating someone else.
--Fin--
Dahlia is getting an early start on some commission work, prepping some materials for painting.
(A ghost with only fragments of memory that have driven them near insane is attacking your target. They must either defeat it or find a way to calm it down.
)
Whether she realises this or not, Dahlia's home once belonged to another rather prominent member of Haven's aware community. This building has seen many terrible deeds performed within it's walls as a consequence of this. Perhaps this is why, in the early morning, the mist that so often clings and haunts the forests of the seaside town find themselves oozing into the converted windmill, bleeding through the walls, and windows, and smothering the light within as Dahlia gets off to an early start on her day.
It's a strange thing, for certain, as the colours that she prepares for painting seem to lose their vibrancy, slowly but surely.
Dahlia glances out the window near the easels with a touch of concern. The mist is higher today than it has been. Maybe the result of the full moon? She'll never know. It does make her concerned for Silas, not sure if he actually made it back home yet or not. Her train of thought starts to drift and then snaps back to her paints as she's getting her palette ready with a small frown. She checks her bottles to make sure she didn't mix the wrong things but no, everything looked right. "What the hell?" She mumbled, a hint of confusion and then concern bleeding in to her expression as she witnesses finally with her own eyes some of that vibrancy fading. Just enough to make her question things. She's pretty sure paint isn't supposed to do that.
Paint certainly isn't supposed to do that. The mist outside seemed to creep closer, almost sentient in the way it pressed against the windows, swirling in strange patterns as though it sought to infiltrate the very walls of the windmill. As Dahlia frowned over her fading paints, a deep creaking sound echoed through the room, like the timbers themselves were groaning in protest of some unseen force. The windmill, for all its artistic charm, had grown unnaturally quiet, as if the entire building held its breath. A sudden movement flickered just beyond the window-a brief shadow shifting through the mist, too indistinct to identify. But it was there, moving, watching. The mist itself seemed thicker near the door leading outside, swirling more chaotically as though agitated by something within.
The temperature dropped sharply, and a faint, almost imperceptible whisper touched the edges of Dahlia's awareness, like someone-or something-trying to reach out from across an unseen divide.
"This is for you.." The whispered words are hissed, like they had once been screamed, but struggle to be as strong here, and now.
Dahlia felt her blood run cold as she took in the silence of the Windmill and looked up from her palatte to see the movement in the mist. Ever since the first time she walked in to this place, especially that upstairs study...she -knew- something bad had happened here. She'd been willing to get past it though, because this place was perfect otherwise.
The hissed words startle Dahlia enough to drop the paint palatte, causing a little paint to splatter on the carpet and some to get on her hands. Her head whipped toward the front door, a shiver running through her in spite of her sweater, left fingers gripping for the worry bracelet on her right wrist. "Y-you're not welcome here!" She tries to say with some convinction.
Something bad had happened here? No, not quite. Somethings, rather.
The mist churned more violently now, as if in response to her words. It pressed harder against the windows, slithering along the seams of the door, hungry to invade. The whispering grew louder, a disjointed series of half-formed words, grunts and screams that came and went like forgotten memories. Each syllable was barely a breath, yet they clawed at the air with a palpable sense of dread. A low, guttural sound reverberated from somewhere deep within the walls, as though the very structure of the windmill itself had come alive with the weight of its tragic history. The light, already dimmed, flickered, casting erratic shadows that danced along the walls.
Suddenly, the front door rattled violently as if something on the other side had thrown itself against it. The mist curled through the gaps around the frame, seeping in like dark tendrils. Another whisper, clearer this time: "This is for you.. Solomon.. Inigo!"
The door shuddered again, the sound of scratching following it, something desperate trying to break through.
Dahlia screamed as everything started to ramp up, crouching down and clutching at her head. Was it actually going to protect her for anything? No. This isn't a protective crouch. This is a 'I've been fooling myself that I could have a shred of normalcy in this godforsaken town without getting punished for it' kind of crouch. She huddles in on herself, trying not to panic as that door shuddered again. Who the fuck was Solomon Inigo? Was that who lived here before?
"Go away!" She shouted. God she really was unprepared for this. She might not be moving to let whatever the hell is outside, inside - she's seen enough horror movies to know what that would do - but that door isn't the sturdiest. Another rattle or two like that would send the door flying open all on it's own.
"They aren't here!"
Who is Solomon Inigo? A monster. A master. A dark-haired devil, and schemer. Worse yet, a lawyer, but ultimately? A dead man.
The windmill seemed to tremble under the weight of Dahlia's panic, the mist thickening as if it were feeding on her fear. The door rattled again, harder this time, and a deep, resonant thud shook the frame, sending small flecks of dust drifting from the ceiling. The voice outside, distorted and filled with agony, hissed again, "Solomon.." The name hung in the air like a bitter echo, the mention of Solomon Inigo cutting through the rising chaos.
The wind outside howled, and the mist clawed at the windows with renewed fury, as though the name had awoken something far older than Dahlia's fears. For a brief, terrifying moment, the door stilled, as if whatever force was out there had paused, considering. Then came a low groaning noise, not from the door but from the windmill itself, as though the building remembered something-a shadow of the terrible deeds that had once stained these walls.
The scratching on the door resumed, more deliberate now, with slow, rhythmic strokes that seemed almost calculated. "They aren't here.." the voice repeated, mocking Dahlia's words, though it carried a strange undertone of sadness, as though the speaker were bound to its suffering. "We /are/ here.." A beat, "This is for you, Solomon.."
In that suffocating moment, the truth became clear-this was no random spirit. Whatever haunted this windmill had a connection to Solomon Inigo, to the legacy of violence and despair that had soaked into the very bones of the building. The ghost was hunting, drawn to this place like a moth to the flame of unfinished business. And Dahlia, whether she liked it or not, was now tangled in that web. It's in this most, and this revelation, that the figure begins to press and push through the very physical barrier of the door, a tall, lanky looking man with a revolver held in his hands, and mania in his expression. He's difficult to look at, not because of his appearance, but because he stands on the very barrier between reality, and the ever after.
She had asked for this, hadn't she? Buying that Ouija board and using it in that room upstairs. That room so clearly dedicated to occult shit that she had no business trying to understand. Dahlia clutches at her head tighter as the windmill trembles and the spirit, spirits?, taunt her. The ghosts finding more strength. She had to do -something-. She couldn't stay helpless. She couldn't relay on other people to save her, she had to try and save herself.
Dahlia breathes in sharply, trembling as she starts to unfurl herself, watching that manic ghost walking through the front door. Did ghost guns hurt like real ones? Was this...was it in the nightmare? Could you talk down a ghost with a gun? She gets to her feet on shaking knees with the aid of one of the stools. Dahlia averts her gaze, searching for-backpack. There it is. She keeps it close, at the ready just in case she needs to bring a knife to a gunfight again.
"Who -are- you." Dahlia demands of the ghost, trying to keep her voice steady. It's not working very well. "What do you want?"
"Who /are/ you?" The skittering, slinking, and spooky form of the spirit wonders of Dahlia in turn, looking at her now much as she had looked at it. As a stranger, and invader, in their home. He staggers forward, shifting closer and closer toward her now, raising the revolver and gesturing about him as he laughs, manically, "This is.." Yes, we've heard it. This is for you.
"Who.. who am I? This question falters the ghost-man somewhat, dressed in his business wear. It fits like a stall fits a horse. Which is to say, very loosely. The revolver is raised, and rubs at his brow as he tries to remember, tries to recall. Who is he? Where is he? Why is he? His form flickers, and falters, and he lets out a sob, tears spring to his eyes. Dahlia can near feel his pain, his loss. Feel a ball of nothingness forming in the pit of her stomach as it's emotions bleed through the room and woman both."
Dahlia can feel the tears welling up almost as a reflexive response to the ghosts' own. To that pit in her stomach. The emotions flooding her from it. "Did He make you this way?" She asks, taking a cautious step forward. "Did Solomon do this to you?" Her voice wavers, less with fear and more thick with the influenced emotional state. "Let me -help- you." How? Dahlia has no idea, but she knows she needs to end this somehow.
There's flashes then, as Dahlia moves closer yet, stolen memories and feelings that flood through the ghost, and into her. A stolen love. A man turned into little more than an animal. Blood, and pain, and agony. His very soul being fed into a furnace to empower the man of the hour. Pain, and agony, as they're used as a battery. To empower the previous owner of this very windmill. There are even brief images of people that Dahlia may very well know, a redhead with oceanic eyes, another with green. A dusky skinned femme. A dark-haired woman. A young woman, turned cold and cruel. All of these flash through, and with each the ghost grows more and more frantic.
"Get out!" They scream at Dahlia, another image flashing through her mind, that of her roommate standing beside a dark-haired man. A schemer. A red-eyed devil. "Get out of-" His voice is raising in pitch, as a crescendo, and he staggers forward, hitting himself with the gun, over and over.
"Run, please. Run." There's a moment of clarity, like the eye of a storm, as they catch Dahlia's gaze, warning her about a threat that no longer exists, but still ripples through the township. They stagger closer to the easel, and press the revolver to their temple, "This is for you, Solomon Inigo" They scream. There's a flash. Thankfully, Dahlia is spared the grisly details of what happens next, as the spectre explodes outwards with the crack, and a wave of force splatters against the canvas upon the easel - painting it in ash, and burns marks, and creating a terrible haunting image.
A figure of ash, and smoke, and brimstone. Red eyes in dark fog. An eidolon.
Dahlia grimaces as her mental eye is assaulted by flashes of vaguely familiar faces and more familiar ones. Silas. Is that his uncle? Her mind is scattered, thoughts disjointed as she tries fight through layers of panic and pain, agony and utter desperation. She takes another step toward the ghost but falls back to her knees. In the moment that their eyes meet and Dahlia sees that clarity? She knows there's truth to that warning, whether past or present in the ghost's mind. Running far and clear from this town is probably the safest thing anyone could do. For just a moment. Dahlia looks sincerely sad as she whispers, "There's nowhere to run to."
She reaches out a hand as the ghost stumbles toward the easel, "Please there has-" It's too late. Dahlia quickly averts her eyes, covering her hands with her face as the spectre explodes. She waits for several long seconds in the silence before hesitantly lifting her head and looking toward the canvas and the haunting figure the explosion has produced upon it. Fear and uncertainty well up anew at the sight, frozen in her spot on the floor.
With the crack of the gunfire, and the resulting explosion, surely but slowly, colour begins to bleed back into Dahlia's reality, and her home. The fog slowly begins to receed. Despite this, despite the haunting largely being over now, that stain remains upon this home. Upon this place. If Dahlia intends to have something to say about it? It will take work, and time - but she is an artist, is she not? Work, and time are part and parcel to her world.
As things begin to settle, color and vibrancy beginning to return, Dahlia 's eyes stayed glued on the painting for a little longer. The vibration of her phone seems to fully bring her back into the present and she draws in a gasping breath that she hadn't even realized she'd been holding in, hand trembling as she started fumbling for the phone to call Silas. This was one way to start a morning, and she was sure as hell not going to have it become a regular occurrence.
The painting remains, and it damn near seems like it is staring back at Dahlia as well. Those terrible red eyes. The hunger in them.
The face of Legion.
The operation against the Black Flame cult unfolds with brutal efficiency. Bob manages to take out one of the cultists with his rifle, marking the beginning of a swift and deadly assault. Illyana creates a chaotic diversion with her angel and demon hybrid abilities, enabling Antonio to execute the cult leader and disrupt the summoning ritual. This successful intervention not only averts the imminent threat but also potentially saves hundreds of lives. After reporting back to the Hand with an accurate account of the events, Illyana reflects on her actions, choosing to view herself as a hero despite the violence and alliances with the monstrous. Thus, she returns to her daily life in Haven, a town no stranger to supernatural occurrences and dark dealings. Meanwhile, in another part of Haven, Dahlia faces her own supernatural ordeal with a haunting spirit linked to the town's dark past, finding herself entangled in the legacy of Solomon Inigo and confronting the realities of her new home.
(Illyana's odd encounter(SRLance):SRLance)
[Wed Oct 16 2024]
In the Master Bedroom
This room is large and open plan, with very little extraineous space taken up; The owner is at home with open areas, or has little to fill it.
Dominated by a queen sized bed of solid oak, itself flanked by two bedside tables, the room lacks anything else save a single wardrobe by way of decoration past the cream painted walls and thick blue carpet.
It is night, about 46F(7C) degrees, and there are a few thin white clouds in the sky. There is a waxing gibbous moon.
(Your target and their allies stumble upon a ritual conducted by The Black Flame. The cult is trying to summon an eldritch horror, believing it will initiate the inevitable end of the world. The characters must disrupt the ritual and stop the summoning while dealing with the cult members who will violently defend their cause. The characters could utilize their knowledge of the supernatural, their combat skills or their ability to persuade or intimidate to prevent the ritual from being completed. The encounter could also provide further leads to the larger network of The Black Flame, setting up future encounters.)
Illyana is presumably at home when she gets a beep on her cell phone. The caller ID might not be immediately obvious, but if she's up on these things, she would likely recognize it as belonging to a senior office of the Hand's New York City branch. "WARNING," the text message indicates. "This is a priority alert. You are being contacted by our fast-action response system due to being the closest operative to the target area. Our seers have indicated a dangerous spike in magical energies in the sewers underneath haven. You are to find the nearest entrance and investigate immediately. Identify potential threats and report back to this number before taking action. We have additional assets en route."
Having woken early, as is her want and habit, Illyana has showered, dressed and is browsing on her phone when the notification comes through. Suspicious as she is though, Illyana calls it in, gets confirmation that it is who they say they are, and then very much deliberates if she shouldn't pass the buck onto someone else; Illyana is selfish at the end of the day. But the larger issue is, above all else, that in spite of sociopathic tendencies- And perhapse being the worst possible fit for the Hand, she is. And her very nature, along with her very abusable saviour complex leads her to the only possible conclusion... If Illyana doesn't do it, someone else might get hurt. And so, dressing for war with ballistic armor, clothing easy to run in and with weapons- Including the Seraphim weapon missing from White Oak, a demon killer, Illyana elects to handle the issue. There is however a larger problem here... Illyana hates filth. So before she does anything, she reaches out to a contact. Bob Freeman, who works for Illyana as muscle, and who is a /functioning/ by which Illyana means endoctrinated (though willing) servant to serve as guide into the sewers. And all the while, she wishes that she had any idea what so ever of how the dregs os society function as there is no way she's fitting in. No powers yet, of course. They arn't called for.
It is entirely that the out-of-town command structure doesn't have super-up-to-date granular information about who does what in Haven. But Illyana's affiliation appears to have been enough for her to receive the bulletin regardless. Perhaps they're just that desperate for a fast response: When she called in, there was an urgency and general sense of hustle. By the time Freeman arrives, not too much time has passed. The man gives her a stoic nod, not looking too pleased about the journey that's ahead of them, but the coordinates match what the Hand's leadership gave her. It's a pretty nondescript manhole--it takes a bit of elbow grease to get the thing popped off the ground. What it reveals is a ladder down into the foul-smelling sewers, terminating on a narrow stone walkway alongside the running filthy water.
It initially seems terribly dark and quiet in the subterranean reaches of Haven. But with the aid of supernatural senses--or even mortal senses -- it becomes clear that somewhere down around the next bend, there must be a source of light, because there's the faintest orange-tinted glow. And there's a sound, as well: Something droning, ominously similar to music, though it's so faint and hard to make out that it almost seems like a trick of the imagination.
Though Illyana could lift the manhole cover with ease, she doesn't; This is why she braught muscle. Not only is less interactivity pragmatic for her as a city girl with no desire to play with filth, it is for another reason entirely. If it's someone elses finger prints, Illyana wont be implicated. It's a tried and tested methodology that people still ignore, but not Illyana. She's the hands-off type of leadership who uses a pretty face and a (questionably) silver tongue do her talking for her. But it's also not the first time she's been in the sewers, either. The first time since her senses had been awakened though, so it does take a couple of minutes before Illyana is able to function again, a strangled yelp of disgust escaping her lips as she vertually choaks on everry sensation down here. Thankfully though, with angelic super jumping, she's not had to touch anything yet... Though these shoes gotta go. Then, she heads into the depths of Haven's underbelly. Thank god for having a paurper guide. The poor all know each other and all of the seedy aspects of the city. It's a natural, immutable fact- Or so Illyana has decided. Still, for now, she uses no perceptable power, though she's ready to rocket into action if it's needed. And so she creeps closer to that light in the distance; She wants to light the place up, but it's poor tactics to give yourself away in a project like this, so that is ready, but not active yet.
Illyana was today years old when learning that a natural archetype shows as 0 in stats
In Illyana and her goon's immediate vicinity, there's no sign of anything alive except a couple of rats, who scurry into the darker reaches of the sewers. Her stealthy approach serves her in good stead--it takes her around one corner, and then another, in search of the faint light.
As she approaches it, the sound of music grows louder. It appears to be some kind of chanting: There's a sense of the archaic about it; it's vaguely reminiscent of Latin, some kind of arcane invocation.
Eventually, Illyana can see human figures in the far distance, at the end of a storm drain overflow channel. Lanterns have been set on the floor around the room, flickering erratically from the influence of some unseen force. The room is much longer than the drain that feeds into it; it seems like someone has appropriated and enlarged some section of Haven's sewers. Perhaps half a dozen people are present within, five in a broad semicircle facing a single man who holds some kind of ritual staff on which are set a number of bells. Every now and then, he raps the base of it to the ground, causing them to chime. Her supernaturally acute vision reveals embroidery on the robes worn by the five men in the choir: An obsidian flame-wreathed globe, indicative of followers of the Black Flame. They're a group known to worship the entities of the Void, and have few friends in the supernatural world, thanks for their desire to bring about the annihilation of all things. Lovely people, really.
Of course it's the Black Flame. It's always the Black flame... And this time, she cant just use angel speed in order to shove them one by one into the warp they are using to summon forth the elder entity. How dare these cultists not be more proficient in their jobs? Or, Illyana supposes, they could be just starting; This would be idealistically better, of course, though Illyana doesn't see it that way. Six against two are not ideal odds. Illyana could likely manage three on one, she usually can, but Bob is only a squishy human, and in spite of her callousness in a lot of situations, she does care (likely more than she should) about the people she does value. The tactic then... She cant weaponize fire /yet/ and though she has weapons, letting these idiots know she's there right now is inadvisable. Still, she denotes the five around the edge of the room. She notes the robes, the room size, the location and the storm drain. She notes everything she can about the ritual they are using, which is, to be frank, amateur, though it's all filed away. Then, with as much equally amateur skill as she entered, she slinks off back into the tunnels with her muscle. Bodily picking the man up, she super jumps out of the manhole, covers it over herself (she must be worried) then places the man down, calls it in, gives a status report and enquires of an ETA and resources to hand.
The fine points of the ritual are unfortunately beyond Illyana's limited expertise, but she knows enough to pick up the basics of what's going on. They're definitely trying to summon a Void entity (always a bad idea), and it's still the early stages of the ritual. Perhaps they hoped to take advantage of the ongoing chaos up above with all of the pack animals to try and carry out their foolish summoning undisturbed. That is, of course, assuming that it will work. Their chanting provides the perfect auditory cover for Illyana and her follower to make their escape.
Soon enough they're back on the service. The voice on the line receives Illyana's report before responding in a clipped and precise feminine voice. "Excellent work. We've sent an elder vampire and two of his thralls from the Boston area. He should be manifesting by Path somewhere in Haven shortly. With the detailed information you've provided, he should be able to proceed directly to the scene. I'm sure he would appreciate your assistance--but if you'd rather sit this one out, we won't fault you."
Responds easily. She wont sit it out; She needs to get some stress out of her systom. There's a building headache because Illyana, as per usual, has been fighting the duality of her nature and today (or yesterday) hasn't layed into anyone with even the most half-assed of abuses. Instead, she's let it sit and now she needs to hurt someone. So Illyana responds with her location, awaits the elder vampire and gets ready to run these cultist's fades.
Some elder vampires appear as a cloud of mist, a disembodied will, or as a swarm of bats. This one walks out of a nearby alley like a normal person, wearing an immaculately pressed tailored suit with jeweled cufflinks that appear to be some kind of enchanted object. Behind him are two men much like Illyana's own loyal minion: Broad, wide, with shaved heads and government-agent-style earpieces. The Hand is living up to its reputation as a professional organization tonight. "Greetings," he introduces himself to Illyana, "You may call me Antonio. That is the only name you will need for the time being. We will kill these men if they can be killed, and take them if the Sanctuary protects them. Here is what I require of you." He's clearly used to giving orders. "Take the mortals present down and create a distraction that disrupts the ritual. I will Path in directly from above, and claim the master's head. A sensible enough plan, I think? If you have any modifications, tell me. Otherwise, let us take out the spiritual garbage."
"None what so ever." Illyana informs the master vampire. "Hybrid angel and demon with aggressive capabilities from each." The question itself is rude, but this is the Hand, and Illyana is an angelborn, so she doesn't even bother commenting on it. Distracting she can do well though, so once more, Illyana descends, drawing her bow in one hand, her sword in the other. And then she sneaks back in; Antonio will enter his own way, of course. And then, placed where she was, she begins to disrupt the ritual in the most brutal way she can think of. She employs chaos. The first few seconds hold nothing; It's perfectly quiet, then there's the rapid fire sheathing of her sword, the blinding, incandescent light of illumination magic and angelic protection as the bow- And the arrows that Illyana grips blaze with angelfire. Two arrows- One, then the next. One to the left, one to the right, and the incandescent light and the moment of shock allows Illyana to holster the bow, take up the stolen Seraphim blade, set it alight and leap into the melee with angelic speed. Enraged and blazing, Illyana bursts in. Hopefully the two arrows have done enough to account for the few seconds she needs to conclusively deal with one or two. Her fiery weapon sweeping out as if it weighed nothing in what on horseback would be considered a cavalric charge. And all the while counting down for Antonio's pathed enterence. -- As for Bob, he's used to Illyana's reckless antics by now, and remains at range, taking potshots with a rifle.
The first casualty is claimed, believe it or not, by Bob -- it looks like one of these apocalyptic folk is a new arrival to Haven, and unrecognized by the Sanctuary ritual. It becomes extremely obvious when a rifle round penetrates his torso and causes him to fall straight to the ground with a splatter of crimson gore. The others, still disoriented from the flash of light Illyana blasts into the room, some of them holding up their arms reflexively to protect against it. The arrows do a lot to further their disorientation, sticking into an arm and leg, respectively. The cultist furthest out to the left is the quickest to react--he pulls a pistol from within his robes and aims it at Illyana. Shots sear right past her cheek, but her supernatural swiftness brings her right to the man before he can pull the trigger a third time. A quick slash across his torso takes him out of the fight with a searing smolder of robe and flesh.
A sense of ominous pressure follows immediately thereafter--without the channeling and guiding force of the supplicant-participants, the energy collected thus far begins to grow out of control. The master of the ceremony holds up his staff, attempting to harness it. The smell of ozone fills the air, and a sort of metallic tang that is accompanied by a rapid drop in temperature. Not enough to open a portal to the void, but enough to push the ambient balance in its direction. The air itself feels like it is creaking--pale energy crackles about the tip of his staff--
And then, quite suddenly, the man's neck is sliced open, and Antonio is sating himself on the man's blood.
A brutally efficient operation carried out by the Hand's operatives, and probably hundreds of lives saved, if not more.
Reporting all of this to the President and the requisit adviser and interim subordinates, Illyana is sure to express all of the goings on with aplumb; After all, if she were to embellish, it's likely reports would conflict. Bob gets an entire fifty bucks for his good work and Illyana gets to play hero- Or at least, as the bodies pile up around her and the vampire feeds, that's what Illyana tells herself. Never mind the violent attacks or the literal undead nomming away on a cultist. Never mind the sewers arn't publicly recognized places within the city that should be accessed by citizens. Illyana is a hero, and that's the story she's happy with. And thus, she returns to her perfectly average life, in a city where nothing strange happens; Never mind the wild animals or the supernatural interactions, flurryof cultists, werewolf packs, the teleportation to other realms or even the curious weather. That's just Haven township.
Some of these people must have been locals: Three of them, including the leader of the band, didn't perish in the fight, despite the leader being left an ashen, partially exsanguinated heap. Antonio's goons take the survivors off for 'debrief,' which probably means a very unpleasant interrogation. It's easy enough for Illyana to rationalize herself as a hero: No matter how nasty or monstrous your allies, the group that wants to rule the world beats the groups who want to annihilate it every day of the week. Lucky for Illyana, the packs of rabid animals pretty much leave her alone on her way back home. Probably busy eating someone else.
--Fin--
Dahlia is getting an early start on some commission work, prepping some materials for painting.
(A ghost with only fragments of memory that have driven them near insane is attacking your target. They must either defeat it or find a way to calm it down.
)
Whether she realises this or not, Dahlia's home once belonged to another rather prominent member of Haven's aware community. This building has seen many terrible deeds performed within it's walls as a consequence of this. Perhaps this is why, in the early morning, the mist that so often clings and haunts the forests of the seaside town find themselves oozing into the converted windmill, bleeding through the walls, and windows, and smothering the light within as Dahlia gets off to an early start on her day.
It's a strange thing, for certain, as the colours that she prepares for painting seem to lose their vibrancy, slowly but surely.
Dahlia glances out the window near the easels with a touch of concern. The mist is higher today than it has been. Maybe the result of the full moon? She'll never know. It does make her concerned for Silas, not sure if he actually made it back home yet or not. Her train of thought starts to drift and then snaps back to her paints as she's getting her palette ready with a small frown. She checks her bottles to make sure she didn't mix the wrong things but no, everything looked right. "What the hell?" She mumbled, a hint of confusion and then concern bleeding in to her expression as she witnesses finally with her own eyes some of that vibrancy fading. Just enough to make her question things. She's pretty sure paint isn't supposed to do that.
Paint certainly isn't supposed to do that. The mist outside seemed to creep closer, almost sentient in the way it pressed against the windows, swirling in strange patterns as though it sought to infiltrate the very walls of the windmill. As Dahlia frowned over her fading paints, a deep creaking sound echoed through the room, like the timbers themselves were groaning in protest of some unseen force. The windmill, for all its artistic charm, had grown unnaturally quiet, as if the entire building held its breath. A sudden movement flickered just beyond the window-a brief shadow shifting through the mist, too indistinct to identify. But it was there, moving, watching. The mist itself seemed thicker near the door leading outside, swirling more chaotically as though agitated by something within.
The temperature dropped sharply, and a faint, almost imperceptible whisper touched the edges of Dahlia's awareness, like someone-or something-trying to reach out from across an unseen divide.
"This is for you.." The whispered words are hissed, like they had once been screamed, but struggle to be as strong here, and now.
Dahlia felt her blood run cold as she took in the silence of the Windmill and looked up from her palatte to see the movement in the mist. Ever since the first time she walked in to this place, especially that upstairs study...she -knew- something bad had happened here. She'd been willing to get past it though, because this place was perfect otherwise.
The hissed words startle Dahlia enough to drop the paint palatte, causing a little paint to splatter on the carpet and some to get on her hands. Her head whipped toward the front door, a shiver running through her in spite of her sweater, left fingers gripping for the worry bracelet on her right wrist. "Y-you're not welcome here!" She tries to say with some convinction.
Something bad had happened here? No, not quite. Somethings, rather.
The mist churned more violently now, as if in response to her words. It pressed harder against the windows, slithering along the seams of the door, hungry to invade. The whispering grew louder, a disjointed series of half-formed words, grunts and screams that came and went like forgotten memories. Each syllable was barely a breath, yet they clawed at the air with a palpable sense of dread. A low, guttural sound reverberated from somewhere deep within the walls, as though the very structure of the windmill itself had come alive with the weight of its tragic history. The light, already dimmed, flickered, casting erratic shadows that danced along the walls.
Suddenly, the front door rattled violently as if something on the other side had thrown itself against it. The mist curled through the gaps around the frame, seeping in like dark tendrils. Another whisper, clearer this time: "This is for you.. Solomon.. Inigo!"
The door shuddered again, the sound of scratching following it, something desperate trying to break through.
Dahlia screamed as everything started to ramp up, crouching down and clutching at her head. Was it actually going to protect her for anything? No. This isn't a protective crouch. This is a 'I've been fooling myself that I could have a shred of normalcy in this godforsaken town without getting punished for it' kind of crouch. She huddles in on herself, trying not to panic as that door shuddered again. Who the fuck was Solomon Inigo? Was that who lived here before?
"Go away!" She shouted. God she really was unprepared for this. She might not be moving to let whatever the hell is outside, inside - she's seen enough horror movies to know what that would do - but that door isn't the sturdiest. Another rattle or two like that would send the door flying open all on it's own.
"They aren't here!"
Who is Solomon Inigo? A monster. A master. A dark-haired devil, and schemer. Worse yet, a lawyer, but ultimately? A dead man.
The windmill seemed to tremble under the weight of Dahlia's panic, the mist thickening as if it were feeding on her fear. The door rattled again, harder this time, and a deep, resonant thud shook the frame, sending small flecks of dust drifting from the ceiling. The voice outside, distorted and filled with agony, hissed again, "Solomon.." The name hung in the air like a bitter echo, the mention of Solomon Inigo cutting through the rising chaos.
The wind outside howled, and the mist clawed at the windows with renewed fury, as though the name had awoken something far older than Dahlia's fears. For a brief, terrifying moment, the door stilled, as if whatever force was out there had paused, considering. Then came a low groaning noise, not from the door but from the windmill itself, as though the building remembered something-a shadow of the terrible deeds that had once stained these walls.
The scratching on the door resumed, more deliberate now, with slow, rhythmic strokes that seemed almost calculated. "They aren't here.." the voice repeated, mocking Dahlia's words, though it carried a strange undertone of sadness, as though the speaker were bound to its suffering. "We /are/ here.." A beat, "This is for you, Solomon.."
In that suffocating moment, the truth became clear-this was no random spirit. Whatever haunted this windmill had a connection to Solomon Inigo, to the legacy of violence and despair that had soaked into the very bones of the building. The ghost was hunting, drawn to this place like a moth to the flame of unfinished business. And Dahlia, whether she liked it or not, was now tangled in that web. It's in this most, and this revelation, that the figure begins to press and push through the very physical barrier of the door, a tall, lanky looking man with a revolver held in his hands, and mania in his expression. He's difficult to look at, not because of his appearance, but because he stands on the very barrier between reality, and the ever after.
She had asked for this, hadn't she? Buying that Ouija board and using it in that room upstairs. That room so clearly dedicated to occult shit that she had no business trying to understand. Dahlia clutches at her head tighter as the windmill trembles and the spirit, spirits?, taunt her. The ghosts finding more strength. She had to do -something-. She couldn't stay helpless. She couldn't relay on other people to save her, she had to try and save herself.
Dahlia breathes in sharply, trembling as she starts to unfurl herself, watching that manic ghost walking through the front door. Did ghost guns hurt like real ones? Was this...was it in the nightmare? Could you talk down a ghost with a gun? She gets to her feet on shaking knees with the aid of one of the stools. Dahlia averts her gaze, searching for-backpack. There it is. She keeps it close, at the ready just in case she needs to bring a knife to a gunfight again.
"Who -are- you." Dahlia demands of the ghost, trying to keep her voice steady. It's not working very well. "What do you want?"
"Who /are/ you?" The skittering, slinking, and spooky form of the spirit wonders of Dahlia in turn, looking at her now much as she had looked at it. As a stranger, and invader, in their home. He staggers forward, shifting closer and closer toward her now, raising the revolver and gesturing about him as he laughs, manically, "This is.." Yes, we've heard it. This is for you.
"Who.. who am I? This question falters the ghost-man somewhat, dressed in his business wear. It fits like a stall fits a horse. Which is to say, very loosely. The revolver is raised, and rubs at his brow as he tries to remember, tries to recall. Who is he? Where is he? Why is he? His form flickers, and falters, and he lets out a sob, tears spring to his eyes. Dahlia can near feel his pain, his loss. Feel a ball of nothingness forming in the pit of her stomach as it's emotions bleed through the room and woman both."
Dahlia can feel the tears welling up almost as a reflexive response to the ghosts' own. To that pit in her stomach. The emotions flooding her from it. "Did He make you this way?" She asks, taking a cautious step forward. "Did Solomon do this to you?" Her voice wavers, less with fear and more thick with the influenced emotional state. "Let me -help- you." How? Dahlia has no idea, but she knows she needs to end this somehow.
There's flashes then, as Dahlia moves closer yet, stolen memories and feelings that flood through the ghost, and into her. A stolen love. A man turned into little more than an animal. Blood, and pain, and agony. His very soul being fed into a furnace to empower the man of the hour. Pain, and agony, as they're used as a battery. To empower the previous owner of this very windmill. There are even brief images of people that Dahlia may very well know, a redhead with oceanic eyes, another with green. A dusky skinned femme. A dark-haired woman. A young woman, turned cold and cruel. All of these flash through, and with each the ghost grows more and more frantic.
"Get out!" They scream at Dahlia, another image flashing through her mind, that of her roommate standing beside a dark-haired man. A schemer. A red-eyed devil. "Get out of-" His voice is raising in pitch, as a crescendo, and he staggers forward, hitting himself with the gun, over and over.
"Run, please. Run." There's a moment of clarity, like the eye of a storm, as they catch Dahlia's gaze, warning her about a threat that no longer exists, but still ripples through the township. They stagger closer to the easel, and press the revolver to their temple, "This is for you, Solomon Inigo" They scream. There's a flash. Thankfully, Dahlia is spared the grisly details of what happens next, as the spectre explodes outwards with the crack, and a wave of force splatters against the canvas upon the easel - painting it in ash, and burns marks, and creating a terrible haunting image.
A figure of ash, and smoke, and brimstone. Red eyes in dark fog. An eidolon.
Dahlia grimaces as her mental eye is assaulted by flashes of vaguely familiar faces and more familiar ones. Silas. Is that his uncle? Her mind is scattered, thoughts disjointed as she tries fight through layers of panic and pain, agony and utter desperation. She takes another step toward the ghost but falls back to her knees. In the moment that their eyes meet and Dahlia sees that clarity? She knows there's truth to that warning, whether past or present in the ghost's mind. Running far and clear from this town is probably the safest thing anyone could do. For just a moment. Dahlia looks sincerely sad as she whispers, "There's nowhere to run to."
She reaches out a hand as the ghost stumbles toward the easel, "Please there has-" It's too late. Dahlia quickly averts her eyes, covering her hands with her face as the spectre explodes. She waits for several long seconds in the silence before hesitantly lifting her head and looking toward the canvas and the haunting figure the explosion has produced upon it. Fear and uncertainty well up anew at the sight, frozen in her spot on the floor.
With the crack of the gunfire, and the resulting explosion, surely but slowly, colour begins to bleed back into Dahlia's reality, and her home. The fog slowly begins to receed. Despite this, despite the haunting largely being over now, that stain remains upon this home. Upon this place. If Dahlia intends to have something to say about it? It will take work, and time - but she is an artist, is she not? Work, and time are part and parcel to her world.
As things begin to settle, color and vibrancy beginning to return, Dahlia 's eyes stayed glued on the painting for a little longer. The vibration of her phone seems to fully bring her back into the present and she draws in a gasping breath that she hadn't even realized she'd been holding in, hand trembling as she started fumbling for the phone to call Silas. This was one way to start a morning, and she was sure as hell not going to have it become a regular occurrence.
The painting remains, and it damn near seems like it is staring back at Dahlia as well. Those terrible red eyes. The hunger in them.
The face of Legion.