Encounterlogs
Isoldes Odd Encounter Sr Novel 241127
Isolde, while steeped in introspection and despair, encounters an unexpected stranger outside the Starlight Lounge amidst her contemplation of isolation and a disjointed call to her mother. Despite the typical bustle of the city and its indifference, her solitude is shattered by a near-miss with an oncoming vehicle, from which she is rescued by a softly-spoken man in a lab coat adorned with a sapphire pin. The man, revealing himself as a member of The Sapphire Martyrs, extends an invitation to Isolde under the guise of shared suffering and understanding, leading her away from the sidewalk's peril and towards a seemingly innocuous meeting of like-minded individuals sharing their woes.
The slow seduction of vulnerability unfolds as the man leads Isolde to a meeting of the Sapphire Martyrs, a group presenting itself as a sanctuary for the afflicted. Isolde, with both skepticism and curiosity, engages with the man's narrative, navigating the delicate dance of persuasion and resistance. The man's gentle insistence and the group's offering of communal solace draw Isolde deeper into their fold, hinting at her potential involvement with a group that masks its darker intentions with the guise of empathy and support. As she steps into the room filled with the group's members, each bearing their own scars and stories, Isolde finds herself at a crossroads between her own despair and the lure of belonging, setting the stage for a story of manipulation, identity, and the search for meaning amidst pain.
(Isolde's odd encounter(SRNovel):SRNovel)
[Tue Nov 26 2024]
At the sidewalk in front of Starlight Lounge
The Starlight Lounge rises up ahead of you at the end of the sidewalk. The sign above the door baring the name of the establishment has a nebula of stars circling the lounge's name.
It is afternoon, about 50F(10C) degrees, and there are a few grey clouds in the sky.
(Your target has been identified by The Sapphire Martyrs as a potential recruit. One of their members, a charismatic individual with a chilling serenity, approaches your target under the guise of a friendly encounter. They subtly try to gauge the target's worldview, looking for signs of despair or disillusionment. If they find what they're looking for, they slowly start to introduce the ideology of the Sapphire Martyrs, painting their catastrophic mission in a light of tragic necessity and profound love. Your target must navigate this encounter carefully, as showing too much resistance might turn them into an enemy of the Sapphire Martyrs, while showing too much interest might lead them down a dark and dangerous path.)
stares at the second hand motorcycle in front of her. "I'll kill you." Isolde tests. The motocicleta doesn't speak English, and says nothing.
Isolde makes a phone call to an overseas number that will never pick up.
Isolde hits voicemail. "Hey mom. It's not Ji-ae. but... Well- I am hoping you are like I remember you sometimes." She swallows, "A month ago I thought I had really grown up- I don't live in Guryong anymore."
Despite Isolde's internal dialogue and misery, there's nothing abnormal about this crisp winter day in Haven. People are driving too quickly, or walking swiftly down the sidewalk, bundled up in warm clothes except for the occasional maniac in shorts, t-shirts, and sandals wich socks as they move with immunity (or uncaring) about winter's hold upon the land. An unfairness about how little they are affected with things. October colors are up, there are signs for where to get Thanksgiving turkeys, and people are excitedly chattering about their families and friendly gatherings and plans. Around them they leave Isolde alone to her isolating silence. And then...
@isolde gets little warning. There is just the sudden HOOOOOOOOOOOONK of a noisy vehicle barreling down towards then a grasp of a hand around the wrist of her uninjured arm, yanking Isolde right out of the way and off the street onto the sidewalk proper in that vice. Painful, nevertheless.
"Whoa! Are you okay?" Says the gentle, soft voice. Masculine. The grip quickly loosening after and the soft-spoke and soft-featured black haired man in a white labcoat, slightly shorter then she with baby blue eyes and gentle smile. "You shouldn't just walk out into traffic pointlessly."
Isolde doesn't jerk, but she looks up from her phone call. A leg finally finds a scattered placement underneath her that one leg hops to manage. Straightening, she lowers her phone and ends the call. "I shouldn't. You're right." She takes out a second phone, a flip phone, and throws it into the middle of the street.
Isolde says "Hey. I'm not really feeling healthy. Could you get that for me?"
A release of Isolde's limb, a subtle frown crossing the man's features - beneath his coat, wool slacks and a button-up, the pocket pinned with a cracked blue sapphire. His hands sliding into his pocket and then, sharing a gaze, turning to watch the phone as it slides into the middle of the street. There's a long heartbeat. And then there's a sickening CRUNCH as the phone is run over by a passing SUV, on the way to elsewhere. His gaze wanders back over to Isolde. He produces a lengthy exhale as his hands slide into his pocket. "I don't think that was necessary." He pauses. "Inevitable, but not necessary, for now." He shakes his head in clear dismay, taking one step - and then another - clearly attempting to create breathing room between himself and the woman he just saved.
Though his expression is lined with concern. "Are you all right?"
Isolde's tongue fumbles around her mouth, the appendage trying to repair whatever the *CRACK* that echoes in her head broke. She returns a stare not of the blind, but of the deaf before she begins, "No.. No, I've been hurt. I've been hurt in places I can't touch and I think I want to hurt you."
Isolde says "You should take off your coat. It's nice outside."
Isolde, it's freezing.
The labcoated man raises a brow at Isolde's words. "I could loan you my labcoat, if you're cold." And then he notes the jacket, the sliding on of it, the shaking his head and gentle smile coming with. "But it seems you already have. And I understand hurt. We've all been hurt, in many ways." His voice is soft - and somewhat hunted. "There's so much that has come down on us. Following us, from inside our own heads. I understand. And it's fine if you want to hurt me. Do you want to go somewhere and talk about it? We have a group - we come together, and speak our woes." His voice is soft and posture nonthreatening, his gaze steady upon Isolde's face.
Isolde tilts her head up, far enough for the sun to cast to her face and beyond the brim. It's a face that begs attention, it's broken- look at it, you can put it back together. Meanwhile, she waggles a foot into her own shadow, seeing if it takes. It does by a centimeter. She pulls her head down, blinking as she holds the brim to shadow her face in contrast. "Sure. Okay. People always know where I am though, and I'm just terrible at screaming under torture."
"No-one's going to torture you." Says reassuring voice. His own eyes reflecting a certain amount of pain, a tightening of concerned expression as Isolde mentions torture. "We're going to share our stories, and then we want you to share your own. No-one's going to hurt you. The world does that to all of us enough." His mouth, briefly flicking into a frown, a low, slow exhale and then a slight shake of his head.
An equally reassuring hand, pale and small, is offered up for Isolde's grip, under patient gaze.
Isolde makes an 'X' with two pointer fingers, "I'll just follow you." She starts sweetly, "Where are we going?"
Isolde begins to follow in the fashion of footsteps in new shoes.
lowers the hand, turning away, the thump of heavy, warm boots as the man stuffs his hands into the labcoat. "We have a meeting place we go to - a conference room we all like to meet in in the second floor of a rental. We and the alcoholics anonymous group share it... We have warm coffee and chairs and we sit in a circle and we all talk." He explains with burgeoning warmth as he describes something completely innocuous as he leads the way across cracked concrete and past gardens and trees, heading towards one of the local urban districts and parking lots - all different, yet all like.
"We're called the Sapphire Martyrs. We just try to... help, people, show them a way to continue."
Isolde'Ahhhhs.' She crosses her arms behind her back. "I've heard of this. You don't take pleasure in these great, twelve years?" She pats her pockets, producing the Bible with a saleswoman display. "Rapture without heaven, mm?"
Far from being displeased, his voice perks up. Delight, at Isolde's response. "You have? Oh, good. And no. It's a terrible thing, isn't it?" He says, with weary pity. "Families, and their children, and their hopes, and futures, and dreams - it's up to us to make sure they have what they need, so they do not fall with us during the inevitable. Necessary and important." He leads the way inside through the front door of the office. Across soft, albeit dusty carpet. A heading up stairs. Avoiding the elevator. Into warmth, indoors. Thump, thump, thump.
Isolde scuffs her shoes a space, kicking up dust on shoes destined for dirt and death. She paints them, imagining the final portrait they'll show as they're discarded. "I've been trying to get someone to give up recently. It isn't going so well- I think it's the approach. She lived in the Other for awhile, right? I actually visited! Lovely entrance, great to bring young meals or your children. -But I don't know! It's not so different from Rapture, is it?"
Isolde says "Well, the Inevitable- not the Other. I was told by a man that met Moses and we agreed Yahweh has a slightly different image. "
Slight intake of breath. The man is listening to her as he leads Isolde down an identical hallway. He knocks, first, pausing a heartbeat before grasping the doorknob - unlocked - and pushing it open. A room. The soft susurration of conversation, of clothes, of jackets being pulled off. Voices talking. Indistinct. But his cuts above the crowd, people getting coffee, gradually sitting down. "Really? And, ah," A hesitation on his face as she talks about meals and children. "Well... maybe not." Comes the concession.
"But we're all trying to make it, not god."
Disaffected. Some clearly homeless. Some sporting wounds on the neck, strange injuries, even those darkly skin showing a weakness and a paleness from sickness and suffering. Coughing, clearing throats, people gradually settling.
The man before her doesn't sit down.
He Listens.
The slow seduction of vulnerability unfolds as the man leads Isolde to a meeting of the Sapphire Martyrs, a group presenting itself as a sanctuary for the afflicted. Isolde, with both skepticism and curiosity, engages with the man's narrative, navigating the delicate dance of persuasion and resistance. The man's gentle insistence and the group's offering of communal solace draw Isolde deeper into their fold, hinting at her potential involvement with a group that masks its darker intentions with the guise of empathy and support. As she steps into the room filled with the group's members, each bearing their own scars and stories, Isolde finds herself at a crossroads between her own despair and the lure of belonging, setting the stage for a story of manipulation, identity, and the search for meaning amidst pain.
(Isolde's odd encounter(SRNovel):SRNovel)
[Tue Nov 26 2024]
At the sidewalk in front of Starlight Lounge
The Starlight Lounge rises up ahead of you at the end of the sidewalk. The sign above the door baring the name of the establishment has a nebula of stars circling the lounge's name.
It is afternoon, about 50F(10C) degrees, and there are a few grey clouds in the sky.
(Your target has been identified by The Sapphire Martyrs as a potential recruit. One of their members, a charismatic individual with a chilling serenity, approaches your target under the guise of a friendly encounter. They subtly try to gauge the target's worldview, looking for signs of despair or disillusionment. If they find what they're looking for, they slowly start to introduce the ideology of the Sapphire Martyrs, painting their catastrophic mission in a light of tragic necessity and profound love. Your target must navigate this encounter carefully, as showing too much resistance might turn them into an enemy of the Sapphire Martyrs, while showing too much interest might lead them down a dark and dangerous path.)
stares at the second hand motorcycle in front of her. "I'll kill you." Isolde tests. The motocicleta doesn't speak English, and says nothing.
Isolde makes a phone call to an overseas number that will never pick up.
Isolde hits voicemail. "Hey mom. It's not Ji-ae. but... Well- I am hoping you are like I remember you sometimes." She swallows, "A month ago I thought I had really grown up- I don't live in Guryong anymore."
Despite Isolde's internal dialogue and misery, there's nothing abnormal about this crisp winter day in Haven. People are driving too quickly, or walking swiftly down the sidewalk, bundled up in warm clothes except for the occasional maniac in shorts, t-shirts, and sandals wich socks as they move with immunity (or uncaring) about winter's hold upon the land. An unfairness about how little they are affected with things. October colors are up, there are signs for where to get Thanksgiving turkeys, and people are excitedly chattering about their families and friendly gatherings and plans. Around them they leave Isolde alone to her isolating silence. And then...
@isolde gets little warning. There is just the sudden HOOOOOOOOOOOONK of a noisy vehicle barreling down towards then a grasp of a hand around the wrist of her uninjured arm, yanking Isolde right out of the way and off the street onto the sidewalk proper in that vice. Painful, nevertheless.
"Whoa! Are you okay?" Says the gentle, soft voice. Masculine. The grip quickly loosening after and the soft-spoke and soft-featured black haired man in a white labcoat, slightly shorter then she with baby blue eyes and gentle smile. "You shouldn't just walk out into traffic pointlessly."
Isolde doesn't jerk, but she looks up from her phone call. A leg finally finds a scattered placement underneath her that one leg hops to manage. Straightening, she lowers her phone and ends the call. "I shouldn't. You're right." She takes out a second phone, a flip phone, and throws it into the middle of the street.
Isolde says "Hey. I'm not really feeling healthy. Could you get that for me?"
A release of Isolde's limb, a subtle frown crossing the man's features - beneath his coat, wool slacks and a button-up, the pocket pinned with a cracked blue sapphire. His hands sliding into his pocket and then, sharing a gaze, turning to watch the phone as it slides into the middle of the street. There's a long heartbeat. And then there's a sickening CRUNCH as the phone is run over by a passing SUV, on the way to elsewhere. His gaze wanders back over to Isolde. He produces a lengthy exhale as his hands slide into his pocket. "I don't think that was necessary." He pauses. "Inevitable, but not necessary, for now." He shakes his head in clear dismay, taking one step - and then another - clearly attempting to create breathing room between himself and the woman he just saved.
Though his expression is lined with concern. "Are you all right?"
Isolde's tongue fumbles around her mouth, the appendage trying to repair whatever the *CRACK* that echoes in her head broke. She returns a stare not of the blind, but of the deaf before she begins, "No.. No, I've been hurt. I've been hurt in places I can't touch and I think I want to hurt you."
Isolde says "You should take off your coat. It's nice outside."
Isolde, it's freezing.
The labcoated man raises a brow at Isolde's words. "I could loan you my labcoat, if you're cold." And then he notes the jacket, the sliding on of it, the shaking his head and gentle smile coming with. "But it seems you already have. And I understand hurt. We've all been hurt, in many ways." His voice is soft - and somewhat hunted. "There's so much that has come down on us. Following us, from inside our own heads. I understand. And it's fine if you want to hurt me. Do you want to go somewhere and talk about it? We have a group - we come together, and speak our woes." His voice is soft and posture nonthreatening, his gaze steady upon Isolde's face.
Isolde tilts her head up, far enough for the sun to cast to her face and beyond the brim. It's a face that begs attention, it's broken- look at it, you can put it back together. Meanwhile, she waggles a foot into her own shadow, seeing if it takes. It does by a centimeter. She pulls her head down, blinking as she holds the brim to shadow her face in contrast. "Sure. Okay. People always know where I am though, and I'm just terrible at screaming under torture."
"No-one's going to torture you." Says reassuring voice. His own eyes reflecting a certain amount of pain, a tightening of concerned expression as Isolde mentions torture. "We're going to share our stories, and then we want you to share your own. No-one's going to hurt you. The world does that to all of us enough." His mouth, briefly flicking into a frown, a low, slow exhale and then a slight shake of his head.
An equally reassuring hand, pale and small, is offered up for Isolde's grip, under patient gaze.
Isolde makes an 'X' with two pointer fingers, "I'll just follow you." She starts sweetly, "Where are we going?"
Isolde begins to follow in the fashion of footsteps in new shoes.
lowers the hand, turning away, the thump of heavy, warm boots as the man stuffs his hands into the labcoat. "We have a meeting place we go to - a conference room we all like to meet in in the second floor of a rental. We and the alcoholics anonymous group share it... We have warm coffee and chairs and we sit in a circle and we all talk." He explains with burgeoning warmth as he describes something completely innocuous as he leads the way across cracked concrete and past gardens and trees, heading towards one of the local urban districts and parking lots - all different, yet all like.
"We're called the Sapphire Martyrs. We just try to... help, people, show them a way to continue."
Isolde'Ahhhhs.' She crosses her arms behind her back. "I've heard of this. You don't take pleasure in these great, twelve years?" She pats her pockets, producing the Bible with a saleswoman display. "Rapture without heaven, mm?"
Far from being displeased, his voice perks up. Delight, at Isolde's response. "You have? Oh, good. And no. It's a terrible thing, isn't it?" He says, with weary pity. "Families, and their children, and their hopes, and futures, and dreams - it's up to us to make sure they have what they need, so they do not fall with us during the inevitable. Necessary and important." He leads the way inside through the front door of the office. Across soft, albeit dusty carpet. A heading up stairs. Avoiding the elevator. Into warmth, indoors. Thump, thump, thump.
Isolde scuffs her shoes a space, kicking up dust on shoes destined for dirt and death. She paints them, imagining the final portrait they'll show as they're discarded. "I've been trying to get someone to give up recently. It isn't going so well- I think it's the approach. She lived in the Other for awhile, right? I actually visited! Lovely entrance, great to bring young meals or your children. -But I don't know! It's not so different from Rapture, is it?"
Isolde says "Well, the Inevitable- not the Other. I was told by a man that met Moses and we agreed Yahweh has a slightly different image. "
Slight intake of breath. The man is listening to her as he leads Isolde down an identical hallway. He knocks, first, pausing a heartbeat before grasping the doorknob - unlocked - and pushing it open. A room. The soft susurration of conversation, of clothes, of jackets being pulled off. Voices talking. Indistinct. But his cuts above the crowd, people getting coffee, gradually sitting down. "Really? And, ah," A hesitation on his face as she talks about meals and children. "Well... maybe not." Comes the concession.
"But we're all trying to make it, not god."
Disaffected. Some clearly homeless. Some sporting wounds on the neck, strange injuries, even those darkly skin showing a weakness and a paleness from sickness and suffering. Coughing, clearing throats, people gradually settling.
The man before her doesn't sit down.
He Listens.