Encounterlogs
Jacks Odd Encounter Sr Klara
Jack's peaceful evening at the parsonage takes a supernatural turn when he finds a seemingly cursed scarab hidden away. Recognizing it as a relic from a past adventure in Egypt, he's suddenly forced into confrontation with his greatest fears as the creature latches onto him. The scarab, buzzing with angry energy, assaults him with intense visions of Hell, a reflection of Jack's deepest anxieties about his own damnation. His nightmares come alive with imagery of a desolate, fiery hellscape, filled with the sounds of suffering and the oppressive weight of eternal despair. Every aspect of this terrifying vision is excruciatingly vivid, the atmosphere rife with wickedness and torment. Jack, overwhelmed, falls to his knees as he prays for salvation and peace, consumed by his fear of eternal punishment and the unrelenting heaviness of a soul perceived as damned.
As Jack knees in desperate prayer, he's caught between the nightmarish dreamscape and the stinging reality of the creature's hold. His prayers intensify, and he grips onto the scarab with a hopeful desperation, wrestling with the power it wields over him. Struggling through the paralyzing sensations of his foreseen descent into Hell, Jack's resolve solidifies. Channeling his faith and determination, he eventually succeeds in tearing the creature away, and just like that, the ghastly visions dissipate. Gasping for breath and grounding himself back in his bathroom, Jack is left to process the chaotic onslaught of his fears and the puzzling relic before him. With a wry remark, he acknowledges the unwelcome surprise, a stark reminder of the dangers and darknesses that his adventures can unleash.
(Jack's odd encounter(SRKlara):SRKlara)
[Fri Dec 22 2023]
In the bathroom of a Small Parsonage at the Old White Oak Annex
The bathroom in the parsonage is compact and efficiently designed, with a stand-up shower, toilet, and a sink with a small mirror. All arranged to make the most of the limited space, with wooden paneling over the stone walls behind. No art is on the walls, but a crucifix has been hung up next to the mirror.
It is night, about 35F(1C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. There is a waxing gibbous moon.
(Your target comes across a cursed object that brings their darkest fear to life. They must confront and overcome their fear, find a way to return the object, or find a way to break the curse.)
In the quiet solitude of his small parish house, Jack stumbled upon an unexpected mystery hidden within the mundane confines of his bathroom. As he moved aside an old, rarely used cabinet for cleaning, a small, ancient-looking box tumbled out, coated in a thick layer of dust. His hands trembled with a mix of curiosity and reverence as he carefully opened the box, revealing a relic that seemed out of place amidst the modern toiletries: a beautifully crafted, yet worn, silver cross, adorned with intricate engravings. His heart raced with excitement and wonder; where had this come from?
Jack reacts with surprise, bending to get the box. He's been on a great many adventures: perhaps this is a relic of one of them. Opening it carefully, he peers inside.
Yes: this is some curio from one of Jack's adventures. The wooden box contains a small scarab, and when Jack opens it, it begins to fly out. The priest might remember it, an adventure in the desert sands, where tall pyramids and palm trees swayed. As Jack looks at it, it begins to buzz, flying up and into his face.
Immediately, the priest steps back, full of surprised stagger. He tries to bat at the scarab, cursing in Latin. Jack begins a low prayer, starting to try to find some vehicle to banish the curse.
As he does, Jack reaches for the crucifix around his neck, beginning his incantation.
The insect buzzles angrily around Jack's head, the scarab - carved of lapis lazuli - buzzing. It can hear Jack's prayer, the latin rising, and it seems to agitate the the scarab. Then the creature flies straight for Jack, it is like the insect hits his face, some sort face-hugger alien attaching with sudden vigor. Immediately, terrifying thoughts fill the priest's head, as he begins to see his nightmares.
Nightmares. Jack has plenty: the streets of Lisbon, when he sacrified a prostitute for power, or killing a colleague beneath Paris when he was given to far to the dark. Fighting with other priests in the Vatican, screaming and shouting, but if he was to summon on one nightmare? It's the thought of his own damnation. The pit looms in front of his eyes, full of fear.
Jack's nightmares begin to focus: Hell. He's afraid of Hell, and so as the Scarab sits on his face, it is Hell that he starts to envision.
In Jack's visions, a hellscape. The hellscape stretched out in a vista of desolation and torment, a land where hope seemed to wither and die. The sky, a tumultuous cauldron of dark, roiling clouds, was intermittently lit by jagged forks of crimson lightning, casting an eerie, blood-red glow over the landscape. Below, vast plains of cracked, scorched earth spread out, interrupted only by jagged peaks and chasms belching sulfurous smoke and flames. Rivers of molten lava snaked through the terrain, their fiery flow illuminating the twisted, grotesque forms of petrified trees and remnants of what might once have been structures. The air was thick with the stench of brimstone and the anguished wails of unseen creatures, echoing in the oppressive heat. Ominous, shadowy figures lurked in the distance, their shapes shifting and contorting in ways that defied natural law. Occasional bursts of scalding wind carried with them a rain of ash and embers, painting everything in a layer of grim soot. In the heart of this nightmarish landscape stood a towering citadel, its walls adorned with menacing spikes and gargoyles, emanating an aura of malevolent power. The ground itself seemed alive, pulsating with a maleficent energy, as if the very soul of the hellscape was corrupt and suffering. Above all, there was an oppressive sense of despair, a palpable weight that crushed the spirit and smothered all thoughts of escape or respite.
Jack cries out. "God forgive me!" he says. He falls to his knees in the hellscape, seeing that citadel in the distance, and he begins to pray. "Our father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven..." He's skipping words, trying to focus. "God give me peace," he says. "Here, I know I have served thee. I have served thee forever and ever, throughout my life."
The crushing weight of feeling damned is an overwhelming, suffocating force, enveloping the soul in a shroud of despair. Each day dawns not with hope, but with the bleak certainty of unending torment, a relentless reminder of an irredeemable fate. The mind becomes a prison of its own making, replaying past mistakes and missed opportunities like a never-ending, torturous loop. The heart, once a source of warmth and love, now feels cold and numb, as if encased in an impenetrable shell of remorse and regret. Social interactions turn hollow, the laughter and joy of others sounding distant and foreign, a cruel echo of a life once lived. Dreams and aspirations, once bright beacons of potential, now appear as mocking mirages, forever out of reach in a desert of desolation. The soul feels shackled, trapped in an abyss from which escape seems impossible, each attempt at redemption feeling more futile than the last. The world around fades to a monochrome shadow of its former vibrancy, with every color and sound muted by the pervasive sense of doom. Even the simplest acts of self-care or routine become Herculean tasks, weighed down by the burden of perceived damnation. In this state, time loses meaning, each moment an eternity of suffering, a relentless tide of despair washing over any remnants of hope or solace.
Above the hellscape, the sky was a canvas of nightmarish beauty, a swirling maelstrom of darkness and fire. Angry clouds, heavy and ominous, roiled in shades of black and deep crimson, as if bleeding into the very air. Intermittent flashes of red lightning forked violently across the sky, illuminating the hellish landscape below in brief, startling glimpses. The sun, a distant, blurred orb, hung low and dim, its light struggling to penetrate the suffocating gloom that blanketed the realm. At night, the stars were obscured, hidden behind the thick, smoky veil that shrouded the heavens, leaving the world below in an unrelenting darkness. Occasionally, fiery comets streaked across the sky, leaving behind trails of smoldering embers, as though the very heavens were burning. The air was thick and heavy, filled with the acrid scent of sulfur and the ominous rumble of distant thunder, echoing the unrest below. This sky, devoid of any hint of celestial grace or hope, loomed over the hellscape like a relentless, ever-watchful sentinel.
Living with the feeling of being damned is like wandering through a relentless storm of despair, where each step forward feels heavier than the last. The mind becomes a relentless critic, replaying every failure and flaw in an endless, unforgiving loop. Relationships, once a source of joy and comfort, now feel like distant memories, tainted by the belief of being unworthy of love or forgiveness. The world outside appears distorted, as if seen through a lens of negativity, where every smile seems insincere and every kind word feels like a lie. Nights are the longest, filled with restless thoughts and the haunting specter of past deeds, leaving sleep elusive and unrefreshing. Laughter and happiness in others evoke a deep sense of alienation, reinforcing the belief of being fundamentally different and irreparably broken. Future plans and dreams dissolve into the ether, replaced by a resignation to a fate that feels both inescapable and deserved. Even in moments of potential joy, there's an underlying current of sadness, a reminder that this darkness is a constant companion. The concept of redemption seems like a cruel joke, a distant, unattainable fantasy that only deepens the sense of hopelessness. In this state, each day is not about living but merely existing, enduring the burden of a soul marred by the unshakeable feeling of damnation.
In the dreamscape, Jack can only feel that way: but in real life, perhaps he can feel the scarab digging into his flesh.
It's hard to make sense of that feeling for Jack, that feeling of damnation, but then he finds some tenuous connection to his body. He reaches up, looking for the Scarab, and then he starts to pray again, low Latin words full of desire and power. He prays -- prays to God -- as he tries to yank back on the Scarab.
And then it's off! As Jack pulls the scarab off, the visions fade, and he is back in his bathroom again.
Looking up, Jack looks around. "Well," he says. "I do not remember that from Egypt."
As Jack knees in desperate prayer, he's caught between the nightmarish dreamscape and the stinging reality of the creature's hold. His prayers intensify, and he grips onto the scarab with a hopeful desperation, wrestling with the power it wields over him. Struggling through the paralyzing sensations of his foreseen descent into Hell, Jack's resolve solidifies. Channeling his faith and determination, he eventually succeeds in tearing the creature away, and just like that, the ghastly visions dissipate. Gasping for breath and grounding himself back in his bathroom, Jack is left to process the chaotic onslaught of his fears and the puzzling relic before him. With a wry remark, he acknowledges the unwelcome surprise, a stark reminder of the dangers and darknesses that his adventures can unleash.
(Jack's odd encounter(SRKlara):SRKlara)
[Fri Dec 22 2023]
In the bathroom of a Small Parsonage at the Old White Oak Annex
The bathroom in the parsonage is compact and efficiently designed, with a stand-up shower, toilet, and a sink with a small mirror. All arranged to make the most of the limited space, with wooden paneling over the stone walls behind. No art is on the walls, but a crucifix has been hung up next to the mirror.
It is night, about 35F(1C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. There is a waxing gibbous moon.
(Your target comes across a cursed object that brings their darkest fear to life. They must confront and overcome their fear, find a way to return the object, or find a way to break the curse.)
In the quiet solitude of his small parish house, Jack stumbled upon an unexpected mystery hidden within the mundane confines of his bathroom. As he moved aside an old, rarely used cabinet for cleaning, a small, ancient-looking box tumbled out, coated in a thick layer of dust. His hands trembled with a mix of curiosity and reverence as he carefully opened the box, revealing a relic that seemed out of place amidst the modern toiletries: a beautifully crafted, yet worn, silver cross, adorned with intricate engravings. His heart raced with excitement and wonder; where had this come from?
Jack reacts with surprise, bending to get the box. He's been on a great many adventures: perhaps this is a relic of one of them. Opening it carefully, he peers inside.
Yes: this is some curio from one of Jack's adventures. The wooden box contains a small scarab, and when Jack opens it, it begins to fly out. The priest might remember it, an adventure in the desert sands, where tall pyramids and palm trees swayed. As Jack looks at it, it begins to buzz, flying up and into his face.
Immediately, the priest steps back, full of surprised stagger. He tries to bat at the scarab, cursing in Latin. Jack begins a low prayer, starting to try to find some vehicle to banish the curse.
As he does, Jack reaches for the crucifix around his neck, beginning his incantation.
The insect buzzles angrily around Jack's head, the scarab - carved of lapis lazuli - buzzing. It can hear Jack's prayer, the latin rising, and it seems to agitate the the scarab. Then the creature flies straight for Jack, it is like the insect hits his face, some sort face-hugger alien attaching with sudden vigor. Immediately, terrifying thoughts fill the priest's head, as he begins to see his nightmares.
Nightmares. Jack has plenty: the streets of Lisbon, when he sacrified a prostitute for power, or killing a colleague beneath Paris when he was given to far to the dark. Fighting with other priests in the Vatican, screaming and shouting, but if he was to summon on one nightmare? It's the thought of his own damnation. The pit looms in front of his eyes, full of fear.
Jack's nightmares begin to focus: Hell. He's afraid of Hell, and so as the Scarab sits on his face, it is Hell that he starts to envision.
In Jack's visions, a hellscape. The hellscape stretched out in a vista of desolation and torment, a land where hope seemed to wither and die. The sky, a tumultuous cauldron of dark, roiling clouds, was intermittently lit by jagged forks of crimson lightning, casting an eerie, blood-red glow over the landscape. Below, vast plains of cracked, scorched earth spread out, interrupted only by jagged peaks and chasms belching sulfurous smoke and flames. Rivers of molten lava snaked through the terrain, their fiery flow illuminating the twisted, grotesque forms of petrified trees and remnants of what might once have been structures. The air was thick with the stench of brimstone and the anguished wails of unseen creatures, echoing in the oppressive heat. Ominous, shadowy figures lurked in the distance, their shapes shifting and contorting in ways that defied natural law. Occasional bursts of scalding wind carried with them a rain of ash and embers, painting everything in a layer of grim soot. In the heart of this nightmarish landscape stood a towering citadel, its walls adorned with menacing spikes and gargoyles, emanating an aura of malevolent power. The ground itself seemed alive, pulsating with a maleficent energy, as if the very soul of the hellscape was corrupt and suffering. Above all, there was an oppressive sense of despair, a palpable weight that crushed the spirit and smothered all thoughts of escape or respite.
Jack cries out. "God forgive me!" he says. He falls to his knees in the hellscape, seeing that citadel in the distance, and he begins to pray. "Our father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven..." He's skipping words, trying to focus. "God give me peace," he says. "Here, I know I have served thee. I have served thee forever and ever, throughout my life."
The crushing weight of feeling damned is an overwhelming, suffocating force, enveloping the soul in a shroud of despair. Each day dawns not with hope, but with the bleak certainty of unending torment, a relentless reminder of an irredeemable fate. The mind becomes a prison of its own making, replaying past mistakes and missed opportunities like a never-ending, torturous loop. The heart, once a source of warmth and love, now feels cold and numb, as if encased in an impenetrable shell of remorse and regret. Social interactions turn hollow, the laughter and joy of others sounding distant and foreign, a cruel echo of a life once lived. Dreams and aspirations, once bright beacons of potential, now appear as mocking mirages, forever out of reach in a desert of desolation. The soul feels shackled, trapped in an abyss from which escape seems impossible, each attempt at redemption feeling more futile than the last. The world around fades to a monochrome shadow of its former vibrancy, with every color and sound muted by the pervasive sense of doom. Even the simplest acts of self-care or routine become Herculean tasks, weighed down by the burden of perceived damnation. In this state, time loses meaning, each moment an eternity of suffering, a relentless tide of despair washing over any remnants of hope or solace.
Above the hellscape, the sky was a canvas of nightmarish beauty, a swirling maelstrom of darkness and fire. Angry clouds, heavy and ominous, roiled in shades of black and deep crimson, as if bleeding into the very air. Intermittent flashes of red lightning forked violently across the sky, illuminating the hellish landscape below in brief, startling glimpses. The sun, a distant, blurred orb, hung low and dim, its light struggling to penetrate the suffocating gloom that blanketed the realm. At night, the stars were obscured, hidden behind the thick, smoky veil that shrouded the heavens, leaving the world below in an unrelenting darkness. Occasionally, fiery comets streaked across the sky, leaving behind trails of smoldering embers, as though the very heavens were burning. The air was thick and heavy, filled with the acrid scent of sulfur and the ominous rumble of distant thunder, echoing the unrest below. This sky, devoid of any hint of celestial grace or hope, loomed over the hellscape like a relentless, ever-watchful sentinel.
Living with the feeling of being damned is like wandering through a relentless storm of despair, where each step forward feels heavier than the last. The mind becomes a relentless critic, replaying every failure and flaw in an endless, unforgiving loop. Relationships, once a source of joy and comfort, now feel like distant memories, tainted by the belief of being unworthy of love or forgiveness. The world outside appears distorted, as if seen through a lens of negativity, where every smile seems insincere and every kind word feels like a lie. Nights are the longest, filled with restless thoughts and the haunting specter of past deeds, leaving sleep elusive and unrefreshing. Laughter and happiness in others evoke a deep sense of alienation, reinforcing the belief of being fundamentally different and irreparably broken. Future plans and dreams dissolve into the ether, replaced by a resignation to a fate that feels both inescapable and deserved. Even in moments of potential joy, there's an underlying current of sadness, a reminder that this darkness is a constant companion. The concept of redemption seems like a cruel joke, a distant, unattainable fantasy that only deepens the sense of hopelessness. In this state, each day is not about living but merely existing, enduring the burden of a soul marred by the unshakeable feeling of damnation.
In the dreamscape, Jack can only feel that way: but in real life, perhaps he can feel the scarab digging into his flesh.
It's hard to make sense of that feeling for Jack, that feeling of damnation, but then he finds some tenuous connection to his body. He reaches up, looking for the Scarab, and then he starts to pray again, low Latin words full of desire and power. He prays -- prays to God -- as he tries to yank back on the Scarab.
And then it's off! As Jack pulls the scarab off, the visions fade, and he is back in his bathroom again.
Looking up, Jack looks around. "Well," he says. "I do not remember that from Egypt."