Encounterlogs
Jacks Odd Encounter Sr Marcus 240128
In the parlor of a quaint parsonage, Father Jack faces the daunting presence of a spectral apparition amidst a striking snowstorm. The entity, feverishly spewing a flurry of Latin invectives, challenges the priest's conviction, questioning his sacrifices and suggesting his damnation. It accuses him of arrogant self-martyrdom, yet Jack remains undeterred. He methodically circles the ghost with salt, entrapping it while it desperately attempts to finish its incantation. Unfazed, Jack confronts the specter with his own incantation, resolute in his faith and duty, commanding the entity to depart and deliver a message to the Devil.
The specter's strength ebbs as its form withers with each cast of salt -- its luminous presence flickering out until nothing but the still, warm parlor remains. It imparts a parting shot, insinuating that Father Jack is gripped by hopelessness, referencing a plea for redemption from biblical scripture. Then, silence reigns. With the ominous encounter behind him, Jack, drained of energy, conceals his implements of power and leans heavily on his cane, contemplating the emptied space. As he resettles by the fire, haunted by visions of infernal flames, Jack appears caught in a somber internal struggle, his facade of stoicism concealing the tumultuous emotions within.
(Jack's odd encounter(SRMarcus):SRMarcus)
[Sat Jan 27 2024]
In the parlor of a Small Parsonage
The parlor of this small stone building is a cozy, multi-functional space. It features a wood stove in one corner, providing warmth and a rustic charm. The room is furnished with comfortable seating -- a sofa and a couple of armchairs, arranged around the stove for warmth and conversation. Adjacent to this area is an efficiency kitchen, compact and well-organized, with essential appliances and a small counter for meal preparation. The decor is simple and homely, with some high cabinets for storage as well as a cross hung prominently on the wall.
A sliding door to the west leads out to a wooden deck, while a door to the east leads to the bedroom.
It is night, about 34F(1C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It's snowing outside. Waist high mist flows through the area. There is a waning gibbous moon.
A terrible sound rises from the flaming core of the apparition, and from it spills many Latin words in strange and unearthly harmoines:
ARROGANTIA TUA PERMANET. ADHUC PUTAS TUUM SACRIFICIUM PROFUNDIUS SECARE QUAM DOMINI NOSTRI. ADHUC INSISTIS TE ESSE INFERNO DESTINATUM, CUM REVERA SIT ITER, LICET LONGUM, AD REGNUM DEI. FALSUM MESSIAM DE TE FACIS. SI DAMNATUS ES, HOC EST CUR. HOC SOLUM EST CUR.
It seems to be trying to rush the words out before the ritual is done, before the salt is fully cast around it. It raises its arms, the kilns in its eyes flare white, but still it is pressed helplessly against the wall, and dwindles with every handful of salt.
A cast of salt, again, and again, and again: Jack hears the words, but he has righteousness at his left hand and hubris at his right. The semi-circle is completed. "Go thee hence," he hisses to the spirit. "Go, and tell the Devil he must wait longer." Then the words -- that quick-spoken incantation to banish a ghost.
"QUID DAMNATIONEM QUERIS? SED SI HOC EST VOLUNTAS TUA, FIAT CONCESSUM. SIC DIXIT DOMINUS NOSTER. FLAMMAE INFERI SUPERBIAM TUAM ULTERIUS TUMEFACiant...
These are the words that the spectre manages to utter, but all the while they shrink in power, until they dwindle off at the end. Similarly, the apparition itself fades little by little, its unnatural phosphorescence flickering and fading and dying into nothing. One last whisper is carried on the wind:
Your hopelessness is your own, Father Jack. Then he said, I pray thee therefore, father, that thou wouldest send him to my father's house...
And then...nothing. Neither sight nor sound nor any sensation at all. The cozy warmth of the parsonage returns, though its comforts be temporary and worldly."
QUID DAMNATIONEM QUERIS? SED SI HOC EST VOLUNTAS TUA, FIAT CONCESSUM. SIC DIXIT DOMINUS NOSTER. FLAMMAE INFERI SUPERBIAM TUAM ULTERIUS TUMEFACiant...
These are the words that the spectre manages to utter, but all the while they shrink in power, until they dwindle off at the end. Similarly, the apparition itself fades little by little, its unnatural phosphorescence flickering and fading and dying into nothing. One last whisper is carried on the wind:
Your hopelessness is your own, Father Jack. Then he said, I pray thee therefore, father, that thou wouldest send him to my father's house...
And then...nothing. Neither sight nor sound nor any sensation at all. The cozy warmth of the parsonage returns, though its comforts be temporary and worldly.
There is a heavy, low sigh, as Jack's stolen panoply of power is tucked back inside his shirt. He leans on his cane -- looks at the spot where the specter haunted -- and then turns away, leaning on his cane. There's a moment, low, as he tilts his head just to the side, and then reaches up to brush at the corner of his eye. His breathing is uncertain, and when he looks to the fire again, to limp back to his spot, it is to see Hell in the flames.
The specter's strength ebbs as its form withers with each cast of salt -- its luminous presence flickering out until nothing but the still, warm parlor remains. It imparts a parting shot, insinuating that Father Jack is gripped by hopelessness, referencing a plea for redemption from biblical scripture. Then, silence reigns. With the ominous encounter behind him, Jack, drained of energy, conceals his implements of power and leans heavily on his cane, contemplating the emptied space. As he resettles by the fire, haunted by visions of infernal flames, Jack appears caught in a somber internal struggle, his facade of stoicism concealing the tumultuous emotions within.
(Jack's odd encounter(SRMarcus):SRMarcus)
[Sat Jan 27 2024]
In the parlor of a Small Parsonage
The parlor of this small stone building is a cozy, multi-functional space. It features a wood stove in one corner, providing warmth and a rustic charm. The room is furnished with comfortable seating -- a sofa and a couple of armchairs, arranged around the stove for warmth and conversation. Adjacent to this area is an efficiency kitchen, compact and well-organized, with essential appliances and a small counter for meal preparation. The decor is simple and homely, with some high cabinets for storage as well as a cross hung prominently on the wall.
A sliding door to the west leads out to a wooden deck, while a door to the east leads to the bedroom.
It is night, about 34F(1C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It's snowing outside. Waist high mist flows through the area. There is a waning gibbous moon.
A terrible sound rises from the flaming core of the apparition, and from it spills many Latin words in strange and unearthly harmoines:
ARROGANTIA TUA PERMANET. ADHUC PUTAS TUUM SACRIFICIUM PROFUNDIUS SECARE QUAM DOMINI NOSTRI. ADHUC INSISTIS TE ESSE INFERNO DESTINATUM, CUM REVERA SIT ITER, LICET LONGUM, AD REGNUM DEI. FALSUM MESSIAM DE TE FACIS. SI DAMNATUS ES, HOC EST CUR. HOC SOLUM EST CUR.
It seems to be trying to rush the words out before the ritual is done, before the salt is fully cast around it. It raises its arms, the kilns in its eyes flare white, but still it is pressed helplessly against the wall, and dwindles with every handful of salt.
A cast of salt, again, and again, and again: Jack hears the words, but he has righteousness at his left hand and hubris at his right. The semi-circle is completed. "Go thee hence," he hisses to the spirit. "Go, and tell the Devil he must wait longer." Then the words -- that quick-spoken incantation to banish a ghost.
"QUID DAMNATIONEM QUERIS? SED SI HOC EST VOLUNTAS TUA, FIAT CONCESSUM. SIC DIXIT DOMINUS NOSTER. FLAMMAE INFERI SUPERBIAM TUAM ULTERIUS TUMEFACiant...
These are the words that the spectre manages to utter, but all the while they shrink in power, until they dwindle off at the end. Similarly, the apparition itself fades little by little, its unnatural phosphorescence flickering and fading and dying into nothing. One last whisper is carried on the wind:
Your hopelessness is your own, Father Jack. Then he said, I pray thee therefore, father, that thou wouldest send him to my father's house...
And then...nothing. Neither sight nor sound nor any sensation at all. The cozy warmth of the parsonage returns, though its comforts be temporary and worldly."
QUID DAMNATIONEM QUERIS? SED SI HOC EST VOLUNTAS TUA, FIAT CONCESSUM. SIC DIXIT DOMINUS NOSTER. FLAMMAE INFERI SUPERBIAM TUAM ULTERIUS TUMEFACiant...
These are the words that the spectre manages to utter, but all the while they shrink in power, until they dwindle off at the end. Similarly, the apparition itself fades little by little, its unnatural phosphorescence flickering and fading and dying into nothing. One last whisper is carried on the wind:
Your hopelessness is your own, Father Jack. Then he said, I pray thee therefore, father, that thou wouldest send him to my father's house...
And then...nothing. Neither sight nor sound nor any sensation at all. The cozy warmth of the parsonage returns, though its comforts be temporary and worldly.
There is a heavy, low sigh, as Jack's stolen panoply of power is tucked back inside his shirt. He leans on his cane -- looks at the spot where the specter haunted -- and then turns away, leaning on his cane. There's a moment, low, as he tilts his head just to the side, and then reaches up to brush at the corner of his eye. His breathing is uncertain, and when he looks to the fire again, to limp back to his spot, it is to see Hell in the flames.