Encounterlogs
Iriss Odd Encounter Sr Toro 241120
Iris's day begins with an aggressive knock at her door, leading her to cautiously approach and find a cryptic invitation after the mysterious disappearance of the visitor into an unfathomable darkness. The card, marked only with the word 'Church' and a set of directions, piques Iris's curiosity despite the eerie context. Opting to investigate, armed and alert, she ventures into the night towards this so-called church, undeterred by the unusual and desolate atmosphere of Haven. Her journey through the deserted streets, underlined by a sense of isolation and unease, culminates at an old, neglected building that stands as a stark contrast to the life she has known. Iris's fearless entrance, marked by her kicking open the church doors, is just the beginning of her odd encounter.
Inside, she meets a John Doe whose average appearance belies the grave illness consuming him. As they converse, a crowd gathers, filling the church with an air of anticipation for the bizarre film screening that is about to begin. The film, a shocking and apocalyptic vision of Haven's future, captivates the audience, including the ever-diverse crowd ranging from the mundane to the peculiar, all united in bizarre tranquility. The John Doe, revealing his affiliation with The Black Flame, imparts his nihilistic philosophy - embracing the inevitable end and discarding the fear of death. He extends an invitation to Iris to join their ranks, hoping to recruit her into their esoteric fold. The surreal experience, underscored by the eerie film of a decaying world and the congregation's odd serenity, leaves Iris with a choice to make. She responds with a cryptic acknowledgment of the futile resistance against the inevitable, standing as a lone figure among the resigned.
(Iris's odd encounter(SRToro):SRToro)
[Tue Nov 19 2024]
In a slowly coming together bedroom
This bedroom has a tasteful off-white paintjob on the walls that compliment the delicate blue carpeting throughout the space. It's clear that it's new occupant is still in the process of moving it and settling down. Rather than bedside tables, the dark frame of the bed is flanked by two unpacked boxes. To the right side of the room is a small door leading to a shallow closet containing a steel rod that spans the walls, and a good number of clothes hanging upon it. The room itself is still rather sparse and lacking some personality
It is night, about 37F(2C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. There is a waning gibbous moon.
(Your target has been identified by The Black Flame as a potential recruit or sacrifice for their upcoming ritual. The character starts receiving cryptic messages and symbols related to the cult, leading them to investigate the cult's activities in Haven. While exploring an abandoned church, they encounter a member of the cult who tries to convince them to join their cause. If they refuse, they're attacked by a group of cultists. The character must either fight their way out or try to disrupt the ritual to buy time for their allies to arrive. The encounter ends with the character learning more about The Black Flame's plans and the impending arrival of an eldritch horror.)
Iris yawns loudly, scratching her side and jumping out of bed, ready for another bright, great day in the town of Haven.
Three knocks rap against the front door. Knock, knock, knock. Whoever is on the other side must be impatient, because not a second later three more come, louder, aggressive, near threatening to knock down the door and demanding a level of urgency uncommon to a door-to-door salesmen or Mormon missionaries.
The door knocking sure sounded insistent and triggered a few memories of rather dangerous folks back in Detroit doing this. Approaching the door, Iris set her foot to block any attempt to open it too much and cracked it open to peer at anyone outside. "Who's this?" She asked, one hand on the door handle and another concealing her firearm against the door's frame.
There's a notable lack of light seeping from the hallway, through the crack beneath the door. Whoever was there no longer is and, as Iris peeks through the smidge of space opened, she saw less than just a lack of lighting in the hallway, less than the missing buzz of flickering bulbs and poor maintenance, but a darkness that was more than lack but instead had been given shape.
The lights, without explanation, turn back on, the inky shadows vanishing in an instant, as if they were never there to begin with. Maybe they were a stain of a sleepy mind? Whatever the case, the only evidence that someone had been there and not the product of near-sleep hallucination was a card that had been stuck to her door.
On its back is a black smudge, the sort you might expect from smacking a piece of charcoal on paper, the front brought with it a message: 'Church', followed by a set of directions.
Those Mormons sure were becoming stranger by the day, but what can you do about it, right? Iris peeked about after fully opening the door, her hand concealing the firearm behind her back like some parent holding up a surprise for their offspring. Night shifts must've gotten to her, she thought, but then a card was spotted and subsequently picked up. "Huh, might as well." She said upon reading the instructions, a foot raised forward as the directions were followed to head to whatever place this must've been.
With her firearm in her workbag, Iris set out towards this 'church', wondering if she'll see any couches there.
The night felt darker and more desolate than usual. It was late enough that the usual hubbub of night life already couldn't be counted on, but even the homeless or corner workers... must've all chosen to take the day off, as even their presence failed to materialize and give Iris any sense of security by way of witnesses.
It's a bit of a walk, having to walk all the way to and past the Historic District of Haven, amidst the trees that served to conceal the shadows that could better be described now by what they were rather than what they weren't.
It might've been a bit worrisome and Iris may have even started asking herself if there was a church to begin with. And yet, eventually, an old, abandoned building, white paint beyond peeled and the bell within its tower having long been removed, emerges out of the corner of her eyes.
Steady down the road Iris marched still. Working the night shift for most of her life removed any kind of monophobia or nyctophobia from the woman, with the usual 3AM patrol turning out more dead than the surface of Mercury. To add a bit of ambiance to her little walk, Iris started to hum the intro theme to the hit show The Sopranos, even mouthing off "Woke up this mornin', got a blue moon in your eyes.", which was fitting given it was currently down.
Presented with an old building, Iris did the best thing one could do and positioned herself at the main entrance. Body reels back, knees are bent and then it comes: a kick straight to the doors to bust them open and allow her entry, even if they were unlocked or partially open.
Doors swing open, buckling easily under Iris booted kick. It was the one thing that wasn't boarded up in a place forgotten by the Almighty.
The first thing to hit Iris is the dust, undisturbed for so long, and rises from the rude awakening, seeking a tribute of coughs and teary eyes; the second is that damp scent of mold and decay. So fragile was this place that it was a miracle the door found itself shoved open, as opposed to collapsing around the force and leading to a stuck leg.
The Church was forgotten, but is not abandoned. Inside it, sitting at the front row of pews, is a man dressed out of time. The man, nondescript beyond his swarthyness and lankiness and smile which stretches too wide, glances over his shoulder and with his full hand adjusted his trilby.
"Come. Join me. I was beginning to worry that you might miss the picture show." His voice is hoarse, with each word accompanied by a breathy, pained whine.
Plenty of dust flew into Iris' face, bringing out a hacking, customary cough into the back of her hand. All throughout this time, the woman didn't halt her humming "Your momma always said you'd be the chosen one, got that shotgun shine." being the words that saw her march forth into the church and towards the front pews. Iris' hands did not sit idle however doing exactly what a jaded protagonist would do when passing by a set of pews: tap each of them with a couple of fingers.
"That's the eight time I heard that said to me this month, Friar Tuck, but I'll bite, let's hear it." came out as Iris continued to approach the front pews and take a better look at the seated individual.
Iris is faced with a John Doe. Beyond that swarthy skin and his long-limbedness, his features are all so unnaturally average. Height, eye distance, nose; average, average, average. But then, a cough, brief and painful, breaks his smile and with it emerges a feature that had somehow gone unnoticed: he's gaunt, his cheeks having receded inward so heavily that if he's not already dead, he might not have much longer in him.
The John Doe removes his trilby and sets it upon his well-dressed, black slacks. Beads of sweat that line his forehead are patted away with a piece of cloth. "You've been invited to watch a picture show eight times in a month? You must be a popular woman. I can imagine why. Come now, sit with me: the show should be starting any second now."
The noise of people chattering and approaching make their way in through the main entrance, they get louder, closer, until their source, a real crowd, make their way inside, wearing their best Sunday clothes. The venture in in two rows and break off at different pews, sitting down. Each and every seat is filled, except for the John Doe's pew, left unoccupied beyond him.
Average was the note of the day, it appears and the person before her looked like a well done steak with the works, but Iris didn't care much. This town showed her that freaks exist in all shapes and sizes, this one just appeared a little bit more normal. There wasn't a response to the comment about the invitation, but there was one once people started to pour in. "Talk about popular, you're drawing a fucking crowd here, Smoker. So what's the deal?"
Iris sat down alright, but did so in an aggressive manner, one hand on her knee and the other to her bag as if seated in an Eastern European train. "This some form of ambush? Am I about to get whacked? We about to watch someone get gutted?"
"Never smoked a day in my life," the John Doe punctuates, maybe purposefully, with a cough. "Stage four mesothelioma." He gives Iris a resigned shrug, clicking his tongue. "What can you do?"
Iris's question is ignored but no unanswered. At the very back of the crowd, two bigger boned men, come in with a small, bedside table, and the other an old-timey projector. It's set down, wound up, the films are set in and, after shushing the noisy crowd who immediately go silent, the film begins.
To no one's surprise, it's silent and coloured in stereotypical black-and-white. The whole crowd is smiling and oddly at peace, while a few wipe nostalgic tears from their eyes. The shot is of Haven forgotten to time, its residences and businesses as dilapidated as the church. The trees are dead and leafless and the concrete roads are cracked and covered in an ever-present ash that falls from a clear, sickly sky. A circle lazily makes its way across the horizon, one that might be easily, at first, confused with for the Moon. It's the Sun, cold and lifeless.
The man leans over toward Iris, whispering to her like anyone might to a friend in any, ordinary, packed cinema. "Beautiful, isn't it? I can only wonder what the cameraman's thoughts were when planning this shot."
The usual cold, uncaring look on Iris' face turned sour if only for a moment upon hearing that her host had stage four cancer, returning back to the regularly scheduled sarcastic neutrality after. Once the movie from the projector started, Iris raised an eyebrow at the scenery looking like a sad Wes Anderson movie, the hand that rested on her knee now scratching at her cheek.
"Loneliness? Depression? What are watching, some apocalyptic display of what the world will look like without people?" She asked, taking a quick look at few of the other 'guests'.
The guests, entranced by the shot, are unlike the John Doe. They come in all shapes and sizes and display a variety of mannerisms, they dress differently. One looks like the first thing someone imagines when they hear the words 'fat, hillbilly cousin', the man next to him is still in his office job clothing, and the woman next to him is in the second trimester of her pregnancy despite being in her forties. There's no single, defining characteristic of the people that have filled the pews beyond their mood toward the apocalyptic sight.
"It's Haven. In a few decades, if we're unlucky, a few years if we're luckier." The John Doe turns, fully now, toward Iris. "This is the inevitable most people fight to delay," his smile shortens, its unnatural width, forced, now earnest and his pained voice gains an infectious enthusiasm despite the continued wheezing and coughing, "Why go through years of painful treatments when you could choose to spend the little time you have, we all have, with who we love?" Behind Iris, a young junkie shushes the John Doe who shuts his eyes with embarrassment and hastily apologizes.
The Sun's dipping beneath the horizon now and that monochrome visage of a promised future grows dark, darker than any night, darker than the deepest corners of Earth's pores. "We waste so much energy kicking and screaming," he whispers, trying to avoid disturbing the rest. He folds on leg over the other and reaches into his breast pocket. A card, laminated, ivory white, is held out to Iris. There's a logo on it: a black, burning circle. That's it.
"Others call us the Black Flame. I like to think of ourselves as the sanest of the insane. It'd make me glad if you were to seek us out and include yourself among our ranks." The Sun is gone now and, as the projection threatens to let that all-encompassing entropy leak into the physical world, the shot ends, and the crowd applauds, fueled by romanticism.
Chewing on the side of her cheek, Iris turns back to the 'movie' depicting what Haven might look in the future these decrepit bastards wished for. Neutral, bored lips parted for a moment to talk while watching what was on the screen "You're right, it's such a waste of energy to kick and scream like a child in a pram, afraid of what life will be when it grows up." A few nods come along from Iris as she turns towards her John Doe host.
Iris' tired eyes meet with the man's even more tired eyes as Iris asks "The world is going to inevitably end, right?" Iris stand up and takes a stand before the cancer-ridden man "After all, only a fool dreads the Sun's dawn when he's found at midnight, right?"
Inside, she meets a John Doe whose average appearance belies the grave illness consuming him. As they converse, a crowd gathers, filling the church with an air of anticipation for the bizarre film screening that is about to begin. The film, a shocking and apocalyptic vision of Haven's future, captivates the audience, including the ever-diverse crowd ranging from the mundane to the peculiar, all united in bizarre tranquility. The John Doe, revealing his affiliation with The Black Flame, imparts his nihilistic philosophy - embracing the inevitable end and discarding the fear of death. He extends an invitation to Iris to join their ranks, hoping to recruit her into their esoteric fold. The surreal experience, underscored by the eerie film of a decaying world and the congregation's odd serenity, leaves Iris with a choice to make. She responds with a cryptic acknowledgment of the futile resistance against the inevitable, standing as a lone figure among the resigned.
(Iris's odd encounter(SRToro):SRToro)
[Tue Nov 19 2024]
In a slowly coming together bedroom
This bedroom has a tasteful off-white paintjob on the walls that compliment the delicate blue carpeting throughout the space. It's clear that it's new occupant is still in the process of moving it and settling down. Rather than bedside tables, the dark frame of the bed is flanked by two unpacked boxes. To the right side of the room is a small door leading to a shallow closet containing a steel rod that spans the walls, and a good number of clothes hanging upon it. The room itself is still rather sparse and lacking some personality
It is night, about 37F(2C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. There is a waning gibbous moon.
(Your target has been identified by The Black Flame as a potential recruit or sacrifice for their upcoming ritual. The character starts receiving cryptic messages and symbols related to the cult, leading them to investigate the cult's activities in Haven. While exploring an abandoned church, they encounter a member of the cult who tries to convince them to join their cause. If they refuse, they're attacked by a group of cultists. The character must either fight their way out or try to disrupt the ritual to buy time for their allies to arrive. The encounter ends with the character learning more about The Black Flame's plans and the impending arrival of an eldritch horror.)
Iris yawns loudly, scratching her side and jumping out of bed, ready for another bright, great day in the town of Haven.
Three knocks rap against the front door. Knock, knock, knock. Whoever is on the other side must be impatient, because not a second later three more come, louder, aggressive, near threatening to knock down the door and demanding a level of urgency uncommon to a door-to-door salesmen or Mormon missionaries.
The door knocking sure sounded insistent and triggered a few memories of rather dangerous folks back in Detroit doing this. Approaching the door, Iris set her foot to block any attempt to open it too much and cracked it open to peer at anyone outside. "Who's this?" She asked, one hand on the door handle and another concealing her firearm against the door's frame.
There's a notable lack of light seeping from the hallway, through the crack beneath the door. Whoever was there no longer is and, as Iris peeks through the smidge of space opened, she saw less than just a lack of lighting in the hallway, less than the missing buzz of flickering bulbs and poor maintenance, but a darkness that was more than lack but instead had been given shape.
The lights, without explanation, turn back on, the inky shadows vanishing in an instant, as if they were never there to begin with. Maybe they were a stain of a sleepy mind? Whatever the case, the only evidence that someone had been there and not the product of near-sleep hallucination was a card that had been stuck to her door.
On its back is a black smudge, the sort you might expect from smacking a piece of charcoal on paper, the front brought with it a message: 'Church', followed by a set of directions.
Those Mormons sure were becoming stranger by the day, but what can you do about it, right? Iris peeked about after fully opening the door, her hand concealing the firearm behind her back like some parent holding up a surprise for their offspring. Night shifts must've gotten to her, she thought, but then a card was spotted and subsequently picked up. "Huh, might as well." She said upon reading the instructions, a foot raised forward as the directions were followed to head to whatever place this must've been.
With her firearm in her workbag, Iris set out towards this 'church', wondering if she'll see any couches there.
The night felt darker and more desolate than usual. It was late enough that the usual hubbub of night life already couldn't be counted on, but even the homeless or corner workers... must've all chosen to take the day off, as even their presence failed to materialize and give Iris any sense of security by way of witnesses.
It's a bit of a walk, having to walk all the way to and past the Historic District of Haven, amidst the trees that served to conceal the shadows that could better be described now by what they were rather than what they weren't.
It might've been a bit worrisome and Iris may have even started asking herself if there was a church to begin with. And yet, eventually, an old, abandoned building, white paint beyond peeled and the bell within its tower having long been removed, emerges out of the corner of her eyes.
Steady down the road Iris marched still. Working the night shift for most of her life removed any kind of monophobia or nyctophobia from the woman, with the usual 3AM patrol turning out more dead than the surface of Mercury. To add a bit of ambiance to her little walk, Iris started to hum the intro theme to the hit show The Sopranos, even mouthing off "Woke up this mornin', got a blue moon in your eyes.", which was fitting given it was currently down.
Presented with an old building, Iris did the best thing one could do and positioned herself at the main entrance. Body reels back, knees are bent and then it comes: a kick straight to the doors to bust them open and allow her entry, even if they were unlocked or partially open.
Doors swing open, buckling easily under Iris booted kick. It was the one thing that wasn't boarded up in a place forgotten by the Almighty.
The first thing to hit Iris is the dust, undisturbed for so long, and rises from the rude awakening, seeking a tribute of coughs and teary eyes; the second is that damp scent of mold and decay. So fragile was this place that it was a miracle the door found itself shoved open, as opposed to collapsing around the force and leading to a stuck leg.
The Church was forgotten, but is not abandoned. Inside it, sitting at the front row of pews, is a man dressed out of time. The man, nondescript beyond his swarthyness and lankiness and smile which stretches too wide, glances over his shoulder and with his full hand adjusted his trilby.
"Come. Join me. I was beginning to worry that you might miss the picture show." His voice is hoarse, with each word accompanied by a breathy, pained whine.
Plenty of dust flew into Iris' face, bringing out a hacking, customary cough into the back of her hand. All throughout this time, the woman didn't halt her humming "Your momma always said you'd be the chosen one, got that shotgun shine." being the words that saw her march forth into the church and towards the front pews. Iris' hands did not sit idle however doing exactly what a jaded protagonist would do when passing by a set of pews: tap each of them with a couple of fingers.
"That's the eight time I heard that said to me this month, Friar Tuck, but I'll bite, let's hear it." came out as Iris continued to approach the front pews and take a better look at the seated individual.
Iris is faced with a John Doe. Beyond that swarthy skin and his long-limbedness, his features are all so unnaturally average. Height, eye distance, nose; average, average, average. But then, a cough, brief and painful, breaks his smile and with it emerges a feature that had somehow gone unnoticed: he's gaunt, his cheeks having receded inward so heavily that if he's not already dead, he might not have much longer in him.
The John Doe removes his trilby and sets it upon his well-dressed, black slacks. Beads of sweat that line his forehead are patted away with a piece of cloth. "You've been invited to watch a picture show eight times in a month? You must be a popular woman. I can imagine why. Come now, sit with me: the show should be starting any second now."
The noise of people chattering and approaching make their way in through the main entrance, they get louder, closer, until their source, a real crowd, make their way inside, wearing their best Sunday clothes. The venture in in two rows and break off at different pews, sitting down. Each and every seat is filled, except for the John Doe's pew, left unoccupied beyond him.
Average was the note of the day, it appears and the person before her looked like a well done steak with the works, but Iris didn't care much. This town showed her that freaks exist in all shapes and sizes, this one just appeared a little bit more normal. There wasn't a response to the comment about the invitation, but there was one once people started to pour in. "Talk about popular, you're drawing a fucking crowd here, Smoker. So what's the deal?"
Iris sat down alright, but did so in an aggressive manner, one hand on her knee and the other to her bag as if seated in an Eastern European train. "This some form of ambush? Am I about to get whacked? We about to watch someone get gutted?"
"Never smoked a day in my life," the John Doe punctuates, maybe purposefully, with a cough. "Stage four mesothelioma." He gives Iris a resigned shrug, clicking his tongue. "What can you do?"
Iris's question is ignored but no unanswered. At the very back of the crowd, two bigger boned men, come in with a small, bedside table, and the other an old-timey projector. It's set down, wound up, the films are set in and, after shushing the noisy crowd who immediately go silent, the film begins.
To no one's surprise, it's silent and coloured in stereotypical black-and-white. The whole crowd is smiling and oddly at peace, while a few wipe nostalgic tears from their eyes. The shot is of Haven forgotten to time, its residences and businesses as dilapidated as the church. The trees are dead and leafless and the concrete roads are cracked and covered in an ever-present ash that falls from a clear, sickly sky. A circle lazily makes its way across the horizon, one that might be easily, at first, confused with for the Moon. It's the Sun, cold and lifeless.
The man leans over toward Iris, whispering to her like anyone might to a friend in any, ordinary, packed cinema. "Beautiful, isn't it? I can only wonder what the cameraman's thoughts were when planning this shot."
The usual cold, uncaring look on Iris' face turned sour if only for a moment upon hearing that her host had stage four cancer, returning back to the regularly scheduled sarcastic neutrality after. Once the movie from the projector started, Iris raised an eyebrow at the scenery looking like a sad Wes Anderson movie, the hand that rested on her knee now scratching at her cheek.
"Loneliness? Depression? What are watching, some apocalyptic display of what the world will look like without people?" She asked, taking a quick look at few of the other 'guests'.
The guests, entranced by the shot, are unlike the John Doe. They come in all shapes and sizes and display a variety of mannerisms, they dress differently. One looks like the first thing someone imagines when they hear the words 'fat, hillbilly cousin', the man next to him is still in his office job clothing, and the woman next to him is in the second trimester of her pregnancy despite being in her forties. There's no single, defining characteristic of the people that have filled the pews beyond their mood toward the apocalyptic sight.
"It's Haven. In a few decades, if we're unlucky, a few years if we're luckier." The John Doe turns, fully now, toward Iris. "This is the inevitable most people fight to delay," his smile shortens, its unnatural width, forced, now earnest and his pained voice gains an infectious enthusiasm despite the continued wheezing and coughing, "Why go through years of painful treatments when you could choose to spend the little time you have, we all have, with who we love?" Behind Iris, a young junkie shushes the John Doe who shuts his eyes with embarrassment and hastily apologizes.
The Sun's dipping beneath the horizon now and that monochrome visage of a promised future grows dark, darker than any night, darker than the deepest corners of Earth's pores. "We waste so much energy kicking and screaming," he whispers, trying to avoid disturbing the rest. He folds on leg over the other and reaches into his breast pocket. A card, laminated, ivory white, is held out to Iris. There's a logo on it: a black, burning circle. That's it.
"Others call us the Black Flame. I like to think of ourselves as the sanest of the insane. It'd make me glad if you were to seek us out and include yourself among our ranks." The Sun is gone now and, as the projection threatens to let that all-encompassing entropy leak into the physical world, the shot ends, and the crowd applauds, fueled by romanticism.
Chewing on the side of her cheek, Iris turns back to the 'movie' depicting what Haven might look in the future these decrepit bastards wished for. Neutral, bored lips parted for a moment to talk while watching what was on the screen "You're right, it's such a waste of energy to kick and scream like a child in a pram, afraid of what life will be when it grows up." A few nods come along from Iris as she turns towards her John Doe host.
Iris' tired eyes meet with the man's even more tired eyes as Iris asks "The world is going to inevitably end, right?" Iris stand up and takes a stand before the cancer-ridden man "After all, only a fool dreads the Sun's dawn when he's found at midnight, right?"