Encounterlogs
Isoldes Odd Encounter Sr Novel 241216
Isolde finds herself in an unusual situation when she receives a communication instructing her to apprehend a supernatural criminal who has brazenly breached the "Understanding" in front of cameras, causing a stir. This criminal, described with specific features and a torn-up shoulder, is attempting to flee after his actions have caught the attention of unseen forces that monitor such breaches. Isolde, well-prepared yet reluctant, equips herself from her vehicle with a suspiciously equipped gym bag and embarks on a chase that leads her into an alley. There, she confronts the man, now revealed to be dabbling in dangerous, supernatural attempts to create a portal. With a decisive yet non-lethal shot, Isolde incapacitates the man, thus preventing further chaos. Her actions culminate in the criminal's capture, underscored by the arrival of sirens and the indirect involvement of law enforcement, believed to be orchestrated by Isolde's associates to clean up the scene discreetly.
Meanwhile, Emil's quiet morning is shattered by a supernatural encounter of his own. Hailstones break through his window, melting into a sinister, inky puddle from which a creature emerges, claiming to be a messenger of Leviathan, seeking to enlist Emil's services. The creature, revealing its once human nature and subsequent fall into demonic ranks, appeals to Emil's darker instincts and his alleged lineage that ties him to Leviathan himself. Despite Emil's initial resistance, he finds himself drawn to the creature's proposal, enticed by the visions of chaos and the promise of fulfilling some grander, malevolent plan. Emil's decision to hear out the creature, coupled with his readiness to align with the ominous goals presented to him, hints at a deeper, darker connection to the supernatural realm, setting the stage for his potential descent into infernal affairs. This enigmatic exchange between Emil and the creature not only solidifies his path of malevolence but also hints at the ever-present, intricate balance between human actions and supernatural machinations.
(Isolde's odd encounter(SRNovel):SRNovel)
[Sun Dec 15 2024]
In the Jewelry section
Standing just inside the entrance, the jewelry counter curves gracefully into a half-circle, like a crescent moon welcoming all who enter. Its sleek glass display forms a seamless arc, the surface clear and pristine, capturing the ambient light and reflecting it in subtle rainbows. Beneath the curved glass, velvet compartments in rich shades of deep wine and sapphire cradle the jewelry, each piece resting like a treasured secret waiting to be unveiled.
The display is divided into sections by thin, polished dividers of brass, each compartment showcasing a curated selection of necklaces, rings, earrings, and bracelets. The light filtering through the boutique is augmented by soft, embedded LEDs beneath the counter, casting each gem and metal in a warm, flattering glow. Diamonds glitter like shards of sunlight, rubies burn with an inner fire, and sapphires glow like frozen twilight.
The base of the counter is a work of art in itself, constructed from smooth alabaster stone with veins of gold running through it like living threads. Along the edge of the half-circle, a subtle brass railing outlines the glass, offering a tactile contrast to the cool, transparent top.
[NW] Stairs
[N] Women's Uppers
[E] Order Pickup/Manager's Office
[S] Men's Uppers
[SW] Stairs (Out of Order)
It is morning, about 22F(-5C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds.
(Your target and their allies are charged with tracking down a supernatural criminal on the run from the factions, what they do with them then is up to the players to decide.
)
Isolde expose neck
Isolde picks at her scarf, pulling it down. It yields to her only slightly, and not without making her exert herself into a hotter situation than she begun. Threatening her lip between canine's, she stops abruptly.
A quarter-life crises stands in the middle of the self-made Dillard's, or perhaps a Kohl's, hackles raised at a male mannequin in a slouching pose with its hands in its pockets. It thinks it's so cool but it's not. It's self-depressive, insecure, attention-seeking, recovering suicide addict.
"Tch." Isolde tics.
During Isolde's more normal day - well, normal. The shoppers are still mutters and there's an edge to the discussion and the movements with the murder that happened recently just in the front of the store, an old lady brought down by a sudden attack of wild dog. People are declaiming it and it's the talk of the town, a buzz carrying through, though nobody's quiet yet figure out a culprit or found the animal.
Because of such people talk quietly, keep to groups in warmly-bundled scarves and beanies and coat and Isolde is no exception, bundled up as she is to fortify against the freezing temperatures and the surprisingly icy indoors in this gloomy morning alongside other people. With the exception being she is a woman and alone, but in modern eras that has become more common as things have supposedly become more... safe.
Isolde suddenly has her comms beep. An insistent thing, a rising chorus among the normal chaotic call of other news and back and forth that cuts in sharp and directly through. A message. "Look a-live. Someone's broken the Understanding directly in front of some rolling cameras. We're handling the panicking clubbers but the dude's coming you're way - five foot five, brown hair, blue eyes, flannel, shoulder torn up. Moving north across the street. Try to grab him while he comes your way before he causes anymore trouble, yeah?" And then Isolde's left in blissful silence, communication cut.
reels a hand back to her full wing span with an open palm... And flops her hand back to her side with the tired nasal gag daughters give to their chores.
"Oh-kay." Isolde mutters, index and middle finger pushed to her ear. She steps out of the store in a stride, re-wrapping her scarf for the comfortable cold.
Isolde steps outside, and searches for the man- looking to entrances of where he may run from out the open- or dare hide.
Crowds. People. Business as usual, folks traveling swift, the bored attendant dressed in scars and apron having replaced the kindly old grandmother, only half-paying attention and on his phone. Youthful belief in immortality or simply not caring? Either way, that leaves Isolde on the wind-swept streets, peering down the road. People are taking cars or bustling along, not lingering as the weather drives most indoors and to quicker steps. And here he is. There he is. The man. Isolde's man, huffing and puffing, clutching his left shoulder, dressed in red-and-black flannel and fleece lined pants, face scrunched up in agony as he staggers his way down the road straight towards Isolde and the college - and then seeming to see the latter, twisting suddenly on heel, ducking towards the space between Vow & Vogue and the building south, angling away from both structures to find somewhere to escape, untied laces on heavy boots flapping along as the pudgy, americanized man does his best to get away from things, causing a ripple of disturbed folks on his path on through.
Isolde takes her time on this portion, and in doing so, still works up a pant by the time she's reached the alleyway. The hand keyfob of the luxury Hyundai is tapped, and the vehicle screams a short response as it opens the back end. She retrieves a gym bag with an entirely too suspicious 'hollow metal pipe' jutting from the side and begins to head into the alley. At the approach, she sniffs the air.
Man's taken up a moment, leaning and panting in the alleyway before Isolde, resting there in the dimness between trashcans and those rats still enterprising enough to brave this weather. He lowers his hand, revealing the blood. And more. The crimson glow that slowly blossoms outwards that isn't visible to most but indicates the dropping of sanctuary to Isolde, his back turned to the woman as he stands there, huffing, great steaming clouds pouring off the points of moisture encountering chill while he stands there, shaking, starting to trace something upon the wall with a bloodied finger. A symbol. He's intending to open a portal, to elsewhere, to get away from this town.
Isolde sniffles as she unzips her back. The former is muffled behind her scarf, but the latter is loud from the mouth of the alley. With a glow from the black bracelet around her wrist, oxygen and carbon freeze around his shoulder - freeze the ink pot. "Hmhmp, yuguou-" She pulls down her scarf with her free hand, "Hey, like, we are going to talk and come to a decision, okay?"
Isolde unzips her baaag*
A chunking, a hardening of the shoulder, the man clasping with a wince over that frozen hand and a huff - a stiffening and fleshing and muscle and blood that is not entirely readily visible. He glances around, quickly, then turns as he sees Isolde, eyes widening in terror and horror as he sees her calling out and standing there before he turns: Leaving the half-drawn symbol on the wall and then moving to stagger away.
lets the stagger take him some distance as she grasps onto the stock of the rifle and lets the bag drop. There is no safety to flip, nor bullet to load. No one has taught Isolde gun safety and she has yet to make the mistake or acquaintance to teach her to learn. She elevates the gun as he gains the right distance, stops the inner contemplation with a cold blue from her bracelet, and aims.
Isolde tilts the gun down from the man's midsection and at his leg. Just as the rifle bumps against her shoulder, she raises her hand to her ear piece. "I've shot him. He won't move faster. Treat as gang violence."
Sharp crack of the rifle, noisy and echoing in the cold air. Not a completely unfamiliar sound with the Sheriff's department nearby, and the necessity of practice and requirement. A single shot doesn't get called out, and curious onlookers are currently being pushed away - through arcane or mundane means. There's the blaring of a siren quickly rising. "Cool. There's already coming by to pick him up. Quick job, Isolde." And then all there's left is the cleanup, the emotional impact, the shaking of leaving a man who falls, his blood spilling upon the white-dusted ground from the earlier hail and snow, a mess.
He's not getting up anytime soon, shock and pain doing its business.
(A demon from hell has become interested in your target, they decide to see if they can tempt them into becoming one of their instruments on earth.
)
Idly resting on the side of the bed, Emil lets out a shallow yawn into the back of his hand.
It is is a crisp winter morning in Haven. A layer of snow covers the ground outside of the cabin, seen through a frost covered window. Not entirely early in the day,
It is is a crisp winter morning in Haven. A layer of snow covers the ground outside of the cabin, seen through a frost covered window. Not entirely early in the day, Emil lounges within the small confines of his bedroom, the laziness of a Sunday morning affecting his desire to get from his bed. The room is dark, made darker no doubt from the sunglasses he dons. It is a peaceful moment in his life, and when it comes to Haven, it is a rarity to have. And like Haven, it does not last as long as one may want. The frost on the window pane starts to grow, drawing icy snowflakes along it.
The icy snowflakes start to disappear as large hailstones, gold size begin to pelt against Emil's cabin, a few crashing againt the window and threatening to break the pane.
With an audible 'oomf', Emil sets his right hand against his knee and uses his cane to help himself stand up from the bed: it's about time to start off the day. But oh boy, did the day seem like it didn't want to start. The eyes behind those sunglasses stared at the glaze forming across his window pane, shrouding the outside world in a foggy effect. He just got to Haven but a couple of days and the weather's already trying its best to send him out.
A particular hailstone crashes against the windowpane, fracturing it. The line of breakage splinters and creates a new pattern. It looks unlike any snowflake, despite how no two are alike, that Emil's ever seen. The next stone crashes in the same spot, and shatters the glass. It slowly begins to melt into a puddle.
Hoisting up his right hand to shield his face for a moment, Emil takes a couple of steps away to avoid any kind of shards from the incoming snowstorm, a grumbling noise heard at the resulting mess.
Mess, indeed! More hailstones are thrust through the window, the shards of glass broken in unusual shapes and sizes on the ground, pebbled with water. Black water. Each individual hailstone, as it melts with the changes between temperatures, start to coalesce into one growing, moving, inky puddle.
What initially started off as annoyance at the newly formed puddle messing up his hardwood floor turned into curiosity, with Emil taking a few steps back and reaching for a pack of cigarettes on his little desk. One of those imported tobacco products was fished out of its German-writing-riddled packaging and stuffed into his mouth, his concern now moving towards trying to light it up rather than cleaning up the mess.
The inky blob could be oil. With as much industrialization in the world, it would not be so surprising that these types of particles would be collected into the atmosphere and freeze. But it could be just airplane waste. Perhaps setting such things on fire would be detrimental? But, something should happen. From the inky puddle, as if reaching from the bowels of the earth, something comes. Perhaps it is a trick of the eye, but does Emil see the squirm of a tentacle?
And just like that, Emil manages to light up his cigarette, which is what he was actually trying to light it appears, taking a long drag from it. Where fear would normally take someone, the man instead simply watches with the kind of curiosity one would expect of some cat observing a new object in their home.
The tentacle creeps from the puddle, then another, and another. Slowly they crawl from an abyss, flopping and curling in and about each other. The body of this creature begins to squeeze from the small puddle, as creatures like octopi can, until it has now joined its eight friends on the hardwood floor. The being begins to slink its way toward Emil, leaving a trail of viscous water or slime. "Emil," it burbles. The beak does not move. The word seems to be in the man's head.
Following his new guest with his eyes, Emil takes another drag of his cigarette, blowing out one hell of a plume of smoke towards the blown out window. Turns out this was a good opportunity to smoke indoors without stinking the place up. There wasn't a response from him for the time being, at least no audible one.
"I am a messenger of Leviathan." the creature responds. "One of his many soldiers of his many legions. We have been watching you." It flips and flops over its boneless self, one single tentacle attempting to slither itself toward Emil and wrap itself about his ankle.
Emil holds his eyes glued to the creature that wrapped its tentacle around his ankle. Depending on which leg it was, the tentalce would either feel normal flesh or a very thin limb with almost no meat to it: straight bone. Seems this would be one of those conversations.
"We know," the creatures telepaths to Emil. "We watch from below. I have come to you on Leviathan's request. To bring you to our army." The tentacle draws back toward the boneless body, seeking to take his leg out from under him. That thin, meatless thing.
Almost used to that leg giving out, Emil catches himself and falls over without really hurting himself, sliding down to the floor yet bringing his cane's tip to prod at the creature's body.
Emil finally speaks out "I'm a bit keen on remaining on this plane of existence for now."
The beak opens to catch Emil's cane to try and rip it from the man's grasp and toss it feet away from him. "We understand your time is not done here, but Leviathan does not want you to join us below..." Yet, it continues to try to drag Emil to the puddle whence the primordial beast had crawled from. "Yet."
Dragged across the floor while idly wrestling the cane back and forth like someone playing tug-of-war with their dog, Emil calls out "I'll hear them out then." Emil conceded, letting himself be whisked away with less resistance. "Won't be the first time I'm offered this."
Other tentacles begin to wrap about Emil, their suction cups clinging to pieces of him like kisses from the damned. Surely to leave their mark, for at least a short while. He is maneuvered to face that inky puddle on his floor. The black pool seeming bottomless. Within, things move and shift. "You have the blood of my King. We know of your deeds. We approve. We wish ..." Then there is nothing rattling in Emil's head, but a vision in the pool. Of chaos.
Glancing down into the pool from behind his sunglasses, Emil seems quite fine with being dragged into or even falling into such a puddle, peeling off an arm to try and pull his cigarette off, letting out a puff of smoke once more. "Sadly I think my blood's a bit more murky than most of his spawn, I've heard that before." he commented.
"That murkiness is the result of living with humans; we understand. It was not long ago that I was human..." The inky pool displays to Emil a story of this being. Of human folly and unsurity, of love and of friendship, of deceit, of abandonment, of murder, of a fall. The visions return to the torture of souls within the levels of Hell. Perhaps it is all show, based upon the structure of Biblical lessons, but the outcome is still the very same. "We simply ask.." A tentacle wraps around Emil's neck, the suctions shlurping against the flesh, "You sow the seeds of discontent, to help open the portal for Him. And to strengthen what was Sirenia. To help bring back the old ways."
Emil brought up his hand to his eyes now, removing his sunglasses to gaze across the portrayal of pain and suffering before him. Emil takes in the kind of breath that threatened to make his buttons pop out of his shirt, apparently enjoying the view like a glass of water when thirsty. His eyes were as ardent as phosphorous, a painfully red pair of irises darting across what was shown. "That was part of the plan already." he answered with a smile.
"We will be in contact with you again. We have requests and goals to achieve. You are our conduit. You will be rewarded by Leviathan when we come to collect." The beast begins to remove it's tentacles from about Emil in the many locations in which it had grasped and carressed. Then they resume their sticky grip, and begin to drag Emil into the inky pool with it. Though --- perhaps that is just a vision, too. Yet down he sinks into a void of black, with the screams of those he's tortured through out the years and those of others filling his ears and heart and joy.
Meanwhile, Emil's quiet morning is shattered by a supernatural encounter of his own. Hailstones break through his window, melting into a sinister, inky puddle from which a creature emerges, claiming to be a messenger of Leviathan, seeking to enlist Emil's services. The creature, revealing its once human nature and subsequent fall into demonic ranks, appeals to Emil's darker instincts and his alleged lineage that ties him to Leviathan himself. Despite Emil's initial resistance, he finds himself drawn to the creature's proposal, enticed by the visions of chaos and the promise of fulfilling some grander, malevolent plan. Emil's decision to hear out the creature, coupled with his readiness to align with the ominous goals presented to him, hints at a deeper, darker connection to the supernatural realm, setting the stage for his potential descent into infernal affairs. This enigmatic exchange between Emil and the creature not only solidifies his path of malevolence but also hints at the ever-present, intricate balance between human actions and supernatural machinations.
(Isolde's odd encounter(SRNovel):SRNovel)
[Sun Dec 15 2024]
In the Jewelry section
Standing just inside the entrance, the jewelry counter curves gracefully into a half-circle, like a crescent moon welcoming all who enter. Its sleek glass display forms a seamless arc, the surface clear and pristine, capturing the ambient light and reflecting it in subtle rainbows. Beneath the curved glass, velvet compartments in rich shades of deep wine and sapphire cradle the jewelry, each piece resting like a treasured secret waiting to be unveiled.
The display is divided into sections by thin, polished dividers of brass, each compartment showcasing a curated selection of necklaces, rings, earrings, and bracelets. The light filtering through the boutique is augmented by soft, embedded LEDs beneath the counter, casting each gem and metal in a warm, flattering glow. Diamonds glitter like shards of sunlight, rubies burn with an inner fire, and sapphires glow like frozen twilight.
The base of the counter is a work of art in itself, constructed from smooth alabaster stone with veins of gold running through it like living threads. Along the edge of the half-circle, a subtle brass railing outlines the glass, offering a tactile contrast to the cool, transparent top.
[NW] Stairs
[N] Women's Uppers
[E] Order Pickup/Manager's Office
[S] Men's Uppers
[SW] Stairs (Out of Order)
It is morning, about 22F(-5C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds.
(Your target and their allies are charged with tracking down a supernatural criminal on the run from the factions, what they do with them then is up to the players to decide.
)
Isolde expose neck
Isolde picks at her scarf, pulling it down. It yields to her only slightly, and not without making her exert herself into a hotter situation than she begun. Threatening her lip between canine's, she stops abruptly.
A quarter-life crises stands in the middle of the self-made Dillard's, or perhaps a Kohl's, hackles raised at a male mannequin in a slouching pose with its hands in its pockets. It thinks it's so cool but it's not. It's self-depressive, insecure, attention-seeking, recovering suicide addict.
"Tch." Isolde tics.
During Isolde's more normal day - well, normal. The shoppers are still mutters and there's an edge to the discussion and the movements with the murder that happened recently just in the front of the store, an old lady brought down by a sudden attack of wild dog. People are declaiming it and it's the talk of the town, a buzz carrying through, though nobody's quiet yet figure out a culprit or found the animal.
Because of such people talk quietly, keep to groups in warmly-bundled scarves and beanies and coat and Isolde is no exception, bundled up as she is to fortify against the freezing temperatures and the surprisingly icy indoors in this gloomy morning alongside other people. With the exception being she is a woman and alone, but in modern eras that has become more common as things have supposedly become more... safe.
Isolde suddenly has her comms beep. An insistent thing, a rising chorus among the normal chaotic call of other news and back and forth that cuts in sharp and directly through. A message. "Look a-live. Someone's broken the Understanding directly in front of some rolling cameras. We're handling the panicking clubbers but the dude's coming you're way - five foot five, brown hair, blue eyes, flannel, shoulder torn up. Moving north across the street. Try to grab him while he comes your way before he causes anymore trouble, yeah?" And then Isolde's left in blissful silence, communication cut.
reels a hand back to her full wing span with an open palm... And flops her hand back to her side with the tired nasal gag daughters give to their chores.
"Oh-kay." Isolde mutters, index and middle finger pushed to her ear. She steps out of the store in a stride, re-wrapping her scarf for the comfortable cold.
Isolde steps outside, and searches for the man- looking to entrances of where he may run from out the open- or dare hide.
Crowds. People. Business as usual, folks traveling swift, the bored attendant dressed in scars and apron having replaced the kindly old grandmother, only half-paying attention and on his phone. Youthful belief in immortality or simply not caring? Either way, that leaves Isolde on the wind-swept streets, peering down the road. People are taking cars or bustling along, not lingering as the weather drives most indoors and to quicker steps. And here he is. There he is. The man. Isolde's man, huffing and puffing, clutching his left shoulder, dressed in red-and-black flannel and fleece lined pants, face scrunched up in agony as he staggers his way down the road straight towards Isolde and the college - and then seeming to see the latter, twisting suddenly on heel, ducking towards the space between Vow & Vogue and the building south, angling away from both structures to find somewhere to escape, untied laces on heavy boots flapping along as the pudgy, americanized man does his best to get away from things, causing a ripple of disturbed folks on his path on through.
Isolde takes her time on this portion, and in doing so, still works up a pant by the time she's reached the alleyway. The hand keyfob of the luxury Hyundai is tapped, and the vehicle screams a short response as it opens the back end. She retrieves a gym bag with an entirely too suspicious 'hollow metal pipe' jutting from the side and begins to head into the alley. At the approach, she sniffs the air.
Man's taken up a moment, leaning and panting in the alleyway before Isolde, resting there in the dimness between trashcans and those rats still enterprising enough to brave this weather. He lowers his hand, revealing the blood. And more. The crimson glow that slowly blossoms outwards that isn't visible to most but indicates the dropping of sanctuary to Isolde, his back turned to the woman as he stands there, huffing, great steaming clouds pouring off the points of moisture encountering chill while he stands there, shaking, starting to trace something upon the wall with a bloodied finger. A symbol. He's intending to open a portal, to elsewhere, to get away from this town.
Isolde sniffles as she unzips her back. The former is muffled behind her scarf, but the latter is loud from the mouth of the alley. With a glow from the black bracelet around her wrist, oxygen and carbon freeze around his shoulder - freeze the ink pot. "Hmhmp, yuguou-" She pulls down her scarf with her free hand, "Hey, like, we are going to talk and come to a decision, okay?"
Isolde unzips her baaag*
A chunking, a hardening of the shoulder, the man clasping with a wince over that frozen hand and a huff - a stiffening and fleshing and muscle and blood that is not entirely readily visible. He glances around, quickly, then turns as he sees Isolde, eyes widening in terror and horror as he sees her calling out and standing there before he turns: Leaving the half-drawn symbol on the wall and then moving to stagger away.
lets the stagger take him some distance as she grasps onto the stock of the rifle and lets the bag drop. There is no safety to flip, nor bullet to load. No one has taught Isolde gun safety and she has yet to make the mistake or acquaintance to teach her to learn. She elevates the gun as he gains the right distance, stops the inner contemplation with a cold blue from her bracelet, and aims.
Isolde tilts the gun down from the man's midsection and at his leg. Just as the rifle bumps against her shoulder, she raises her hand to her ear piece. "I've shot him. He won't move faster. Treat as gang violence."
Sharp crack of the rifle, noisy and echoing in the cold air. Not a completely unfamiliar sound with the Sheriff's department nearby, and the necessity of practice and requirement. A single shot doesn't get called out, and curious onlookers are currently being pushed away - through arcane or mundane means. There's the blaring of a siren quickly rising. "Cool. There's already coming by to pick him up. Quick job, Isolde." And then all there's left is the cleanup, the emotional impact, the shaking of leaving a man who falls, his blood spilling upon the white-dusted ground from the earlier hail and snow, a mess.
He's not getting up anytime soon, shock and pain doing its business.
(A demon from hell has become interested in your target, they decide to see if they can tempt them into becoming one of their instruments on earth.
)
Idly resting on the side of the bed, Emil lets out a shallow yawn into the back of his hand.
It is is a crisp winter morning in Haven. A layer of snow covers the ground outside of the cabin, seen through a frost covered window. Not entirely early in the day,
It is is a crisp winter morning in Haven. A layer of snow covers the ground outside of the cabin, seen through a frost covered window. Not entirely early in the day, Emil lounges within the small confines of his bedroom, the laziness of a Sunday morning affecting his desire to get from his bed. The room is dark, made darker no doubt from the sunglasses he dons. It is a peaceful moment in his life, and when it comes to Haven, it is a rarity to have. And like Haven, it does not last as long as one may want. The frost on the window pane starts to grow, drawing icy snowflakes along it.
The icy snowflakes start to disappear as large hailstones, gold size begin to pelt against Emil's cabin, a few crashing againt the window and threatening to break the pane.
With an audible 'oomf', Emil sets his right hand against his knee and uses his cane to help himself stand up from the bed: it's about time to start off the day. But oh boy, did the day seem like it didn't want to start. The eyes behind those sunglasses stared at the glaze forming across his window pane, shrouding the outside world in a foggy effect. He just got to Haven but a couple of days and the weather's already trying its best to send him out.
A particular hailstone crashes against the windowpane, fracturing it. The line of breakage splinters and creates a new pattern. It looks unlike any snowflake, despite how no two are alike, that Emil's ever seen. The next stone crashes in the same spot, and shatters the glass. It slowly begins to melt into a puddle.
Hoisting up his right hand to shield his face for a moment, Emil takes a couple of steps away to avoid any kind of shards from the incoming snowstorm, a grumbling noise heard at the resulting mess.
Mess, indeed! More hailstones are thrust through the window, the shards of glass broken in unusual shapes and sizes on the ground, pebbled with water. Black water. Each individual hailstone, as it melts with the changes between temperatures, start to coalesce into one growing, moving, inky puddle.
What initially started off as annoyance at the newly formed puddle messing up his hardwood floor turned into curiosity, with Emil taking a few steps back and reaching for a pack of cigarettes on his little desk. One of those imported tobacco products was fished out of its German-writing-riddled packaging and stuffed into his mouth, his concern now moving towards trying to light it up rather than cleaning up the mess.
The inky blob could be oil. With as much industrialization in the world, it would not be so surprising that these types of particles would be collected into the atmosphere and freeze. But it could be just airplane waste. Perhaps setting such things on fire would be detrimental? But, something should happen. From the inky puddle, as if reaching from the bowels of the earth, something comes. Perhaps it is a trick of the eye, but does Emil see the squirm of a tentacle?
And just like that, Emil manages to light up his cigarette, which is what he was actually trying to light it appears, taking a long drag from it. Where fear would normally take someone, the man instead simply watches with the kind of curiosity one would expect of some cat observing a new object in their home.
The tentacle creeps from the puddle, then another, and another. Slowly they crawl from an abyss, flopping and curling in and about each other. The body of this creature begins to squeeze from the small puddle, as creatures like octopi can, until it has now joined its eight friends on the hardwood floor. The being begins to slink its way toward Emil, leaving a trail of viscous water or slime. "Emil," it burbles. The beak does not move. The word seems to be in the man's head.
Following his new guest with his eyes, Emil takes another drag of his cigarette, blowing out one hell of a plume of smoke towards the blown out window. Turns out this was a good opportunity to smoke indoors without stinking the place up. There wasn't a response from him for the time being, at least no audible one.
"I am a messenger of Leviathan." the creature responds. "One of his many soldiers of his many legions. We have been watching you." It flips and flops over its boneless self, one single tentacle attempting to slither itself toward Emil and wrap itself about his ankle.
Emil holds his eyes glued to the creature that wrapped its tentacle around his ankle. Depending on which leg it was, the tentalce would either feel normal flesh or a very thin limb with almost no meat to it: straight bone. Seems this would be one of those conversations.
"We know," the creatures telepaths to Emil. "We watch from below. I have come to you on Leviathan's request. To bring you to our army." The tentacle draws back toward the boneless body, seeking to take his leg out from under him. That thin, meatless thing.
Almost used to that leg giving out, Emil catches himself and falls over without really hurting himself, sliding down to the floor yet bringing his cane's tip to prod at the creature's body.
Emil finally speaks out "I'm a bit keen on remaining on this plane of existence for now."
The beak opens to catch Emil's cane to try and rip it from the man's grasp and toss it feet away from him. "We understand your time is not done here, but Leviathan does not want you to join us below..." Yet, it continues to try to drag Emil to the puddle whence the primordial beast had crawled from. "Yet."
Dragged across the floor while idly wrestling the cane back and forth like someone playing tug-of-war with their dog, Emil calls out "I'll hear them out then." Emil conceded, letting himself be whisked away with less resistance. "Won't be the first time I'm offered this."
Other tentacles begin to wrap about Emil, their suction cups clinging to pieces of him like kisses from the damned. Surely to leave their mark, for at least a short while. He is maneuvered to face that inky puddle on his floor. The black pool seeming bottomless. Within, things move and shift. "You have the blood of my King. We know of your deeds. We approve. We wish ..." Then there is nothing rattling in Emil's head, but a vision in the pool. Of chaos.
Glancing down into the pool from behind his sunglasses, Emil seems quite fine with being dragged into or even falling into such a puddle, peeling off an arm to try and pull his cigarette off, letting out a puff of smoke once more. "Sadly I think my blood's a bit more murky than most of his spawn, I've heard that before." he commented.
"That murkiness is the result of living with humans; we understand. It was not long ago that I was human..." The inky pool displays to Emil a story of this being. Of human folly and unsurity, of love and of friendship, of deceit, of abandonment, of murder, of a fall. The visions return to the torture of souls within the levels of Hell. Perhaps it is all show, based upon the structure of Biblical lessons, but the outcome is still the very same. "We simply ask.." A tentacle wraps around Emil's neck, the suctions shlurping against the flesh, "You sow the seeds of discontent, to help open the portal for Him. And to strengthen what was Sirenia. To help bring back the old ways."
Emil brought up his hand to his eyes now, removing his sunglasses to gaze across the portrayal of pain and suffering before him. Emil takes in the kind of breath that threatened to make his buttons pop out of his shirt, apparently enjoying the view like a glass of water when thirsty. His eyes were as ardent as phosphorous, a painfully red pair of irises darting across what was shown. "That was part of the plan already." he answered with a smile.
"We will be in contact with you again. We have requests and goals to achieve. You are our conduit. You will be rewarded by Leviathan when we come to collect." The beast begins to remove it's tentacles from about Emil in the many locations in which it had grasped and carressed. Then they resume their sticky grip, and begin to drag Emil into the inky pool with it. Though --- perhaps that is just a vision, too. Yet down he sinks into a void of black, with the screams of those he's tortured through out the years and those of others filling his ears and heart and joy.