Encounterlogs
Lanaeiss Odd Encounter Sr Elias 240828
In a quaint, well-maintained part of town called Warden's Way, Lanaeis encounters a world suddenly turned hostile towards him, a phenomenon spawned by a curse that turns even ordinary passersby into vehement adversaries. This escalation is evidenced by a series of encounters, starting with a child's insult and escalating to a businessman's scorn, a woman's disdain, and finally, legal intervention by a deputy inclined to violence rather than understanding. Despite Lanaeis's attempts to defuse the situation through calm dialogue, the deputy, egged on by the businessman, threatens physical harm. The confrontation peaks with Lanaeis defending himself with a swift, incapacitating punch to the deputy and a drawn knife to ward off further aggression, leading to a hasty retreat when a mysterious van arrives to whisk Lanaeis away to safety.
Inside the van, Lanaeis learns he has been the victim of a persecution ritual, with the intervention orchestrated by "The Order," a group dedicated to helping those afflicted by supernatural afflictions. Sarah, his rescuer, explains the nature of the curse—that it incites hatred in anyone who lays eyes on him—and assures him that their specialists are working to break the curse. With the curse finally lifted, Lanaeis grapples with the reality of his unknown enemy and the implications of the power struggles within his town. The episode concludes with Lanaeis, still human at heart despite the inhuman ordeal, expressing gratitude to Sarah and The Order for their intervention, and the reminder that amidst the hidden battles, acts of kindness maintain the world's balance.
(Lanaeis's odd encounter(SRElias):SRElias)
[Sun Aug 18 2024]
On Warden's Way
Smooth asphalt roads continue through this part of town, bordered on either side by well maintained concrete sidewalks. Where the street is widest small median islands appear with old twisted trees planted in them. The buildings that line the street seem quaint, but well maintained.
It is morning, about 73F(22C) degrees,
(Your target has been cursed with persecution, it is up to them to survive a world suddenly turned hostile until their allies can come and help get them to safety or deal with the curse.
)
Lanaeis lifts his eyes from his phone, giving a wave and warm smile to the man as he passes.
It is a nice morning in Haven, the sun only being up for a few hours after a long night under the Full Moon. After those nights, it is like coming up for a touch of fresh air after the tensions it can cause for the residents of Haven. This morning is no different. Lanaeis, as he is leaning up against his car, a kid about ten years old points at him and laughs, "Hey Ugly face!" And he throws a rock at Lanaeis.
And the dodge fails. Not that it really hurts since it just hits Lanaeis in the chest and bounces off. It really was a bit larger than a marble and his clothing functioned well enough as armor against such a low velocity object.
Lanaeis lifts an eyebrow. "Not very nice." He mutters under his breath.
Lanaeis slips his phone in his pocket, looking around.
Sometimes kids are cruel, but whatever the reason he chose someone, it remains unseen. A man wearing a suit, likely some kind of business man, talking on his cellphone. He hangs up his call as he spots Lanaeis and mentions, "Oh look. A piece of trailer trash just strolling around town like he belongs here." The business man states rudely, only adding to the insult by flipping off Lanaeis.
Sometimes kids are cruel, but whatever the reason he chose Lanaeis, it remains unseen. A man wearing a suit, likely some kind of business man, talking on his cellphone. He hangs up his call as he spots Lanaeis and mentions, "Oh look. A piece of trailer trash just strolling around town like he belongs here." The business man states rudely, only adding to the insult by flipping off Lanaeis.
Lanaeis stares at the man, then down at his clothing, then at the man. "Pardon me? Sir, I mean no disrespect, but please refrain from insulting me without cause."
"Without cause? Who do you think you are even talking back to your betters?" The businessman yells out at Lanaeis with growing rage. To all appearance, it seems very personal. Does this guy know Lanaeis somehow? There is no familiarity with the mans appearance that Lanaeis would be able to tell. It seems like a complete stranger. The businessman continues, "I should kick your ass, but then I would trailer trash blood on my suit." And the man's bird reappears as he swears under his breath.
Lanaeis shakes his head. "I am sorry that you feel that way sir, but I do not know you. If there is any way I can help with your problem with me, please tell me."
A blond lady comes up the sideway with a baby swaddled in her arms catches glimpse of Lanaeis and the business man. A look of raw distain appears on her face as she looks upon Lanaeis, "This neighborhood has really gotten worse. I should call the police." And the business man continues to scream at Lanaeis "You could just fucking die and give the world a break!" Every look that is cast upon Lanaeis seems to be of hate and distain. Was there some meeting to coordinate this? Maybe a news report? No. It is likely something else that is very weird that is going on.
Lanaeis stares at the man unblinkingly. "I will ask you once to appolagize." His voice is chillingly calm.
Then walking up the sidewalk is a Sheriff Deputy. Thank goodness, this chaos can end right? Wrong. The Deputy directly heads to Lanaeis with purpose, "Look at what we got here, a thug harassing the good citizens of this town." He says, but there is obvious bitterness in his voice as he says this. The business man mutters, "About time the law arrived to take care of this piece of trash." And the blond woman says with obvious relief, "I hope they never let him back out on the street."
Lanaeis shakes his head. "Officer. If I may have a moment of your time, these two are needlessly harassing me. If it is no trouble, I would like it to stop. I am just trying to go about my day."
The deputy pulls out his handcuffs off his belt, "Hey shitbag, you probably use be exercising your right to remain silent before I exercise it for you." He says, as his free hand reaches for his nightstick. The businessman starts clapping at the Deputy's actions and the lady starts wandering off, seeming content how everything is playing out.
Lanaeis stays perfectly still. "I am sorry Officer? I truly do appolagize, but you have no reason to arrest me. I have done nothing wrong."
"Alright, we will do it your way." And the Deputy pulls out his nightstick, looking like he is preparing to beat down the poor Angelborn. The business man asks to the Deputy, "Can I get a few swings in too?" The deputy nods to the business man. The suit clad man balls up his fists, advancing on Lanaeis as well.
Lanaeis waits for half a second longer, then uncoils.
And indeed, Lanaeis's fist meets asshole deputy face. Down goes the deputy as he falls down on the ground, his nightstick sliding across the paved sidewalk. This punch seems to give the businessman pause though in the process. The deputy reaches to his radio, calling into it, "Deputy down, just off Warden's Way. Need backup. Suspect is armed and dangerous." The deputy obviously lies into the radio.
Lanaeis looks down at his sheathed knife, shrugs. "Eh, might as well if your going to lie." and draws the blade. "Please step back, or I will kick your ass. Politely of course."
The sounds of sirens can be heard in the distance and the deputy goes for his firearm on his belt as he crawls backward along the sidewalk. The businessman puts his hands out in front of him, "Hey crazy, just back off. I am stepping away." And the businessman grumbles about Lanaeis, "What a dick. He is going to get someone killed." Obviously blaming Lanaeis for how this whole thing is turning out, even though any rational person would see it as Lanaeis being a victim in all of this, but somehow the buisness man is acting like he is the victim.
Lanaeis launches for the deputy.
While there is no clear restraining of the Deputy, it does become a struggle for the gun though, but it seems the two are pretty even up when it comes to strength and power. The sirens in the distance seem to be getting closer. Squealing tires can be heard whipping around a corner and a white van pulls up quickly. The door slides open and someone wearing a bandana over their mouth and a beanie cap which largely conceals their identity, beyond being a woman. Holding in her hand it seems like some kind of gun. She fires a shot into the businessman and the business man goes down. There is another shot and one sinks into the deputy under Lanaeis. It is clear it is some kind of dart. She then calls out to Lanaeis, "Get in the van, before more come!"
Lanaeis sprints to the van, diving in.
Lanaeis slides his knife into his sheath as he dives into the van.
The van door slides shut as the woman climbs in. The driver peels out and takes off down the street. The amount of force from the acceleration sends Lanaeis falling to the floor as his reflexes don't grab on to anything in time, but they are whisked away in short order, the sirens growing more and more distant. The woman pulls off the bandana covering her mouth, glancing out the window. Her attention returns to Lanaeis, "Alright, you are probably confused on what is going on. My name is Sarah and I am with a group known as the Order. We really just try to help people." She clarifies.
Lanaeis says "The Order? What the hell is going on?"
"Well, it seems like you have an enemy. Someone performed a ritual on you. Who you might ask? But I do not know of it. What was going on came over the dispatch channel and we had to look into it." The Orderite explains to Lanaeis, "Our ritualists are working to negotiate it as we speak. What it is, anyone that looks upon you, it generates a great hate in them and those feelings are directed towards you. It is called a persecution ritual." She explains.
Lanaeis nods slowly. "And you are unaffected?"
The woman pulls off her beanie cap, leaving messy red shoulder length hair pouring out as she clarifies, "Not naturally, no. We were warded before showing up or we would have been joining the deputy there. Your friends, family, pretty much anyone become enemies when you are under that ritual." Running her fingers through her hair, trying to clean it up. She reaches up to touch an earlink communication device, listening for a minute. She looks back to Lanaeis and states, "Alright, the ritual has been broken. You should be safe to go back into public. Do you have any questions?"
Lanaeis nods, hand flickering with light as he rests his hand on his knee. "How can I find out who cast that ritual on me?"
Sighing, The woman offers to Lanaeis, "That is a good question. Typically, you can trace a ritual, but for this one for some reason, we can't. Who ever did it, they seem to be powerful enough to hide their presence for now. It could be some kind of Fae just playing a prank or maybe you have some powerful enemies you are unaware of. I don't know."
Lanaeis hums. "Alright. Is there anything else I should be aware of?"
"I do not believe so. Just be careful. This town is where many different powerful groups meet to fight over control of the gates. There are more powerful monsters that only see you as food around here." The Orderite warns, "Do not give in to that same monstrous urges, but something better than they are." She says probably a bit preachy, but it isn't unheard of from someone in the Order.
Lanaeis laughs slightly, hand pressing to a particular spot on his stomach. "I am not much more than human to be honest, so no worry about that." He smiles warmly at the woman. "Thank you for the help."
Lanaeis says "I don't particularly want to know how that would have ended without your interference."
Sarah inspects her dart pistol as she states to Lanaeis, "Well, those things can go badly at times. For now, you are likely protected with sanctuary, so I doubt any serious injury would have happened. Haven Sheriffs Department would have probably sorted it out, but that isn't clear. All I will ask of you for it all is just pass it forward. It is small deeds of us helping each other out that makes the world worth living in."
Lanaeis smiles again. "Nothing truer. Thank you again."
(A group of supernatural hunters is out to get your target. Maybe for sport, maybe from ideology, in either case they need to survive for long enough that their allies can come and help them deal with the threat.
)
The early afternoon sun hangs high overhead Beacon point, casting its warming rays down upon Dean where he sits on the pier. The ocean breeze is enough to cool the worst of the summer heat while providing a pleasant crisp scent. The waves are visible beneath the patchwork mishmash of old planks hammered into place along the pier's walkway, swaying the pier as a while almost imperceptibly along with the rhythm of the tides, the great vertical posts creaking and groaning in place like the aching joints of an old sailor. The further out one walks, the sorrier a sight this relic of the past becomes, each step more treacherous than the last. An inopportune place for Dean to be sat right now, especially considering how open a position it is, also.
The Lighthouse towers overhead like a great brick finger pointed skywards in defiance of the waves and the winds, its luminous eye glowing out to sea in warning to any vessels that might stray to close on a foggy night on their way to the shipping yards further south. For now, the scene is tranquil, the great roaring of the ocean tides so cacophonous as to become a constant distant groan that soothes the ear without drawing attention. Any moisture in Dean's wetsuit dries off quickly, cooling his body but never so chill as to be uncomfortable beneath the warmth of the sun.
In the distance an aged sailing boat glides by across the horizon, borne on the winds by its yellowed canvas sails, a picturesque sight with its peeling brightly-painted hull and turquoise lacquered guardrails. A few figures - specks to Dean's eye at this distance - busy themselves handling the rigging. To and fro, to and fro, from jib to mainsail amongst the rigging, ducking beneath the boom as it swings when the crew turns across the breeze and tacks into the wind. Closer in, a pair of teenagers enjoy the sun and no doubt the fruits of their parents' labours atop two waterskis. They skim across the surface, their boisterous laughter catching on the wind and carrying over to where Dean sits whenever the breeze dips enough to permit it. Far to the right (the southeast) a cargo ship makes its way out of port carrying the products of Temple Steel beneath its great metal decks, sounding a rattling foghorn that resounds along the bay, announcing its exit to all those nearing the mouth of Haven's bay.
A pair of eyes remains locked on Dean from above, belonging to a woman in tourist garb. She carries a fisherman's rod bag, but conspicuously to any in the know she lacks any kind of bait box, stool, or net. After a crackling "In position" transmitted by radio to a small transceiver hooked into the front of her polo shirt, she moves forwards and kneels atop the rocky outcropping by the lighthouse, unzipping her bag. She draws a long pipe from within, then a gunstock, and a receiver with attached grip. Together, screwed and pinned in place, the components assemble to a lengthy dart gun. Capped then with a telescopic sight from within the bag, the weapon is ready. "Locust, this is Stickbug, in position", the woman drawls in a southern US accent, "Long shot, I aint thinkin' we gun get 'im but it's worth tryin'. Won't git a better chance."
Down in the eastern reaches of Haven, close to lookout point, a trio of bulky thugs clad in unremarkable beige combat pants and green activewear jackets prepare themselves in the back of an unmarked white Mercedes Sprinter van. The reply comes through from the woman on the rock, the middle-sized of the three men having awaited it with radio in hand. He replies with a glance to the others in a smooth midwestern rumble, "Understood. On my go." The three men gird themselves, strapping on stab vests and covering them again with their jackets, holstering tasers and pistols at their hips as well as a tranquiliser dart pistol each. They are ready for a small supernatural war it would seam, and on a screen of a laptop set open in the back of the van with them is a picture of Dean illuminated in the dark. Next to him is the shoulder of a woman, her face cut off by the edge of the picture.
Sliding the van door open, the men descend and creep forward, the last closing up their vehicle. They creep about the last row of buildings, making it to the edges of the sands before taking a knee with Dean visible on the pier beyond.
"Make the shot", the leader calls at a murmur, voice just softer than the beeping of his radio sounding out the start of his transmission. No response comes via radio, but Dean certainly notices it. With a whistle in the distance, he is able to hear the impending projectile, maybe giving him enough notice to lurch aside and avoid the powerful tranquiliser sent his way. Perhaps it was just the distance of the shot, and the breeze carrying it stray.
With an explosion of movement at the edge of the cover nearby, and the sound of boots and sandy gravel, the trio move in with tranquilisers drawn. "Shit! A miss! Get him!", the woman crackles on the net.
Unbeknownst to it all, all of it - or so it would seem, Dean remains seated on the pouch like he just doesn't care. He's here to fish, he's here for his daily ritual, of calming and centering. A necessity in this time of the month, what the moon so high. Already violent and aggressive, Dean is absorbed in his method. The speargun over his legs, crossed at the knees as they are hanging off the edge of the wobbly pier, is being tended to. The wire spooled and affixed where it ought to be. Maybe even humorously, while someone is preparing a gun to set it on him, he's preparing a harpoon to set on fish.
Except, just how attentive he is of the world becomes clear near immediately, when the whistle rips through the air, and the firm back of him shown to the world tilts without moving or breaking his comfort - he avoids the trajectory as if expecting it. He really doesn't have a lot of places to run- the thugs already flnk him, nearly upon the beginning of the decrepit porch that would possibly have a hard time carrying the weight of all of them. But even then, he remains sitting with his back upon the threat. At least, that's how it seems.
Green eyes turn over his shoulder to look at the trio - flit between them in their approach, tranquilisers drawn and everything. Then, the tip of the speargun jutting out right under his elbow, hidden but facing them, fires with the pneumatic piston erupting with a hiss to shoot the nearest, right through the thigh. The thin, barbed metal lodged in is meant to stay, and the hard wire is built for him to give chase to open-sea fish. This is no common fisherman -- and the threat therein lies when he slowly lifts the mask hanging at his neck up over his face, and slinks right into ocean, underwater.
The wire twitches once -- then it starts being yanked, tugging, hard.
The men hurtle forwards, weapons rising as the round on Dean. Their ragged breaths are audible to the sharp-eared werewolf; by excitement alone finding themselves breathing more heavily as they near their prize. Perhaps, however, these fellows chose the wrong wolf the mess with.
SHLINK, the spear finds its mark.
"FHAAAAAAACCKK!", the largest of the men roars. His size and power gave him the edge on approaching the target, closing the distance first. With a hiss, his tranquiliser discharges at a skyward angle and his dart sails out of view. His compatriots don't spare him so much as a glance, even as the push forwards, though the shortest of the trio DOES look aside as he hears the screaming redouble.
Clawing at the ground, rending deep gouges with his fingertips as he howls in pain, the sanctuaryless newcomer with a spear-skewered leg feels the wire go -tight- and heave him across the ground. With a ripping of flesh, his artery tears open and he begins to bleed like a stuck pig as he flies forwards a good two metres, spattering the ground beneath in a grisly trail. Before he can continue his wailing and risk drawing attention, the man's voice catches in his throat as he goes into shock and looses a hoarse gurgling instead, his arms flailing like the marrionette of some drunk puppeteer.
The other two, to their credit, remain sharp. They're in the thick of it now; their only way out alive is forwards to victory. With a pair of hissing pneumatic discharges, each loose their darts at Dean, threatening to clip him if he doesn't make a move quickly on the rickety bridge, both of them easily whipping by if he does. They drop the dart launchers, the both of them drawing tasers smoothly and spreading to the left and right to circle in on Dean and flank him, preparing to deliver a stunning shock.
High on the rock above, the woman continues her work. She swallows a whimper at the sight of the first man falling, hissing; "I'll skin you, mutt". With a smooth motion, another dart is chambered and she looses it. By luck, this one finds its mark, catching Dean in the thigh.
Dean's senses dull a degree almost immediately but his sheer supernatural vitality does much to fight the onset of the benzo's effects, his vision starting to swim mildly and his coordination ailed somewhat but not nearly enough to give the two remaining abductors an easy target.
Dulling what senses Dean has, on the day of a blooming moon, gives its way only to further aggression where calculation, assessment had been. He has missed the first two darts by virtue of being underwater, but the sharpshooter giving him almost nearly as he took - it makes him snarl a low sound in his ascent out again. He doesn't fully embrace the landlubber doctrine of putting his feet on solid ground - not yet, not while the edge of the porch he's holding splints under his grasp. He dives once more, again - with another splinter following that no doubt signifies he intends to break the supports of it apart..
But Dean isn't there. The two men are left to search for the enigma, as to why the breaking suddenly stopped. Maybe Dean had even succumbded to their attempt at capture? But no - he is too sly, too cunning. Too monstrously efficient. As soon as he was out of sight, a drifting hue of mist filters in behind on the top of the lighthouse where the false tourist had taken her perch - and before she can even utter anything, make a single sound, Dean's neoprane clad fingers curl in around her throat. The smirk he reveals when he tugs his mask down is accompanied by the satisfying crunch of finding prey that doesn't have sanctuary to resist, and he abuses it wholly to murder one already. Off in the water, only Dean's flippers surface above the water, and high up, here, Dean now sits on a knee, next to a corpse, quiet as a mouse while he takes her rifle, and lays it out on her perch to align his shot. He's definitely not a great rifleman - a poor one at that, built more for the draw of a bow or the harpoon, but how different could it truly be, while he takes aim with his usurped tranquiliser? Right on the back of another man's skull.
Inside the van, Lanaeis learns he has been the victim of a persecution ritual, with the intervention orchestrated by "The Order," a group dedicated to helping those afflicted by supernatural afflictions. Sarah, his rescuer, explains the nature of the curse—that it incites hatred in anyone who lays eyes on him—and assures him that their specialists are working to break the curse. With the curse finally lifted, Lanaeis grapples with the reality of his unknown enemy and the implications of the power struggles within his town. The episode concludes with Lanaeis, still human at heart despite the inhuman ordeal, expressing gratitude to Sarah and The Order for their intervention, and the reminder that amidst the hidden battles, acts of kindness maintain the world's balance.
(Lanaeis's odd encounter(SRElias):SRElias)
[Sun Aug 18 2024]
On Warden's Way
Smooth asphalt roads continue through this part of town, bordered on either side by well maintained concrete sidewalks. Where the street is widest small median islands appear with old twisted trees planted in them. The buildings that line the street seem quaint, but well maintained.
It is morning, about 73F(22C) degrees,
(Your target has been cursed with persecution, it is up to them to survive a world suddenly turned hostile until their allies can come and help get them to safety or deal with the curse.
)
Lanaeis lifts his eyes from his phone, giving a wave and warm smile to the man as he passes.
It is a nice morning in Haven, the sun only being up for a few hours after a long night under the Full Moon. After those nights, it is like coming up for a touch of fresh air after the tensions it can cause for the residents of Haven. This morning is no different. Lanaeis, as he is leaning up against his car, a kid about ten years old points at him and laughs, "Hey Ugly face!" And he throws a rock at Lanaeis.
And the dodge fails. Not that it really hurts since it just hits Lanaeis in the chest and bounces off. It really was a bit larger than a marble and his clothing functioned well enough as armor against such a low velocity object.
Lanaeis lifts an eyebrow. "Not very nice." He mutters under his breath.
Lanaeis slips his phone in his pocket, looking around.
Sometimes kids are cruel, but whatever the reason he chose someone, it remains unseen. A man wearing a suit, likely some kind of business man, talking on his cellphone. He hangs up his call as he spots Lanaeis and mentions, "Oh look. A piece of trailer trash just strolling around town like he belongs here." The business man states rudely, only adding to the insult by flipping off Lanaeis.
Sometimes kids are cruel, but whatever the reason he chose Lanaeis, it remains unseen. A man wearing a suit, likely some kind of business man, talking on his cellphone. He hangs up his call as he spots Lanaeis and mentions, "Oh look. A piece of trailer trash just strolling around town like he belongs here." The business man states rudely, only adding to the insult by flipping off Lanaeis.
Lanaeis stares at the man, then down at his clothing, then at the man. "Pardon me? Sir, I mean no disrespect, but please refrain from insulting me without cause."
"Without cause? Who do you think you are even talking back to your betters?" The businessman yells out at Lanaeis with growing rage. To all appearance, it seems very personal. Does this guy know Lanaeis somehow? There is no familiarity with the mans appearance that Lanaeis would be able to tell. It seems like a complete stranger. The businessman continues, "I should kick your ass, but then I would trailer trash blood on my suit." And the man's bird reappears as he swears under his breath.
Lanaeis shakes his head. "I am sorry that you feel that way sir, but I do not know you. If there is any way I can help with your problem with me, please tell me."
A blond lady comes up the sideway with a baby swaddled in her arms catches glimpse of Lanaeis and the business man. A look of raw distain appears on her face as she looks upon Lanaeis, "This neighborhood has really gotten worse. I should call the police." And the business man continues to scream at Lanaeis "You could just fucking die and give the world a break!" Every look that is cast upon Lanaeis seems to be of hate and distain. Was there some meeting to coordinate this? Maybe a news report? No. It is likely something else that is very weird that is going on.
Lanaeis stares at the man unblinkingly. "I will ask you once to appolagize." His voice is chillingly calm.
Then walking up the sidewalk is a Sheriff Deputy. Thank goodness, this chaos can end right? Wrong. The Deputy directly heads to Lanaeis with purpose, "Look at what we got here, a thug harassing the good citizens of this town." He says, but there is obvious bitterness in his voice as he says this. The business man mutters, "About time the law arrived to take care of this piece of trash." And the blond woman says with obvious relief, "I hope they never let him back out on the street."
Lanaeis shakes his head. "Officer. If I may have a moment of your time, these two are needlessly harassing me. If it is no trouble, I would like it to stop. I am just trying to go about my day."
The deputy pulls out his handcuffs off his belt, "Hey shitbag, you probably use be exercising your right to remain silent before I exercise it for you." He says, as his free hand reaches for his nightstick. The businessman starts clapping at the Deputy's actions and the lady starts wandering off, seeming content how everything is playing out.
Lanaeis stays perfectly still. "I am sorry Officer? I truly do appolagize, but you have no reason to arrest me. I have done nothing wrong."
"Alright, we will do it your way." And the Deputy pulls out his nightstick, looking like he is preparing to beat down the poor Angelborn. The business man asks to the Deputy, "Can I get a few swings in too?" The deputy nods to the business man. The suit clad man balls up his fists, advancing on Lanaeis as well.
Lanaeis waits for half a second longer, then uncoils.
And indeed, Lanaeis's fist meets asshole deputy face. Down goes the deputy as he falls down on the ground, his nightstick sliding across the paved sidewalk. This punch seems to give the businessman pause though in the process. The deputy reaches to his radio, calling into it, "Deputy down, just off Warden's Way. Need backup. Suspect is armed and dangerous." The deputy obviously lies into the radio.
Lanaeis looks down at his sheathed knife, shrugs. "Eh, might as well if your going to lie." and draws the blade. "Please step back, or I will kick your ass. Politely of course."
The sounds of sirens can be heard in the distance and the deputy goes for his firearm on his belt as he crawls backward along the sidewalk. The businessman puts his hands out in front of him, "Hey crazy, just back off. I am stepping away." And the businessman grumbles about Lanaeis, "What a dick. He is going to get someone killed." Obviously blaming Lanaeis for how this whole thing is turning out, even though any rational person would see it as Lanaeis being a victim in all of this, but somehow the buisness man is acting like he is the victim.
Lanaeis launches for the deputy.
While there is no clear restraining of the Deputy, it does become a struggle for the gun though, but it seems the two are pretty even up when it comes to strength and power. The sirens in the distance seem to be getting closer. Squealing tires can be heard whipping around a corner and a white van pulls up quickly. The door slides open and someone wearing a bandana over their mouth and a beanie cap which largely conceals their identity, beyond being a woman. Holding in her hand it seems like some kind of gun. She fires a shot into the businessman and the business man goes down. There is another shot and one sinks into the deputy under Lanaeis. It is clear it is some kind of dart. She then calls out to Lanaeis, "Get in the van, before more come!"
Lanaeis sprints to the van, diving in.
Lanaeis slides his knife into his sheath as he dives into the van.
The van door slides shut as the woman climbs in. The driver peels out and takes off down the street. The amount of force from the acceleration sends Lanaeis falling to the floor as his reflexes don't grab on to anything in time, but they are whisked away in short order, the sirens growing more and more distant. The woman pulls off the bandana covering her mouth, glancing out the window. Her attention returns to Lanaeis, "Alright, you are probably confused on what is going on. My name is Sarah and I am with a group known as the Order. We really just try to help people." She clarifies.
Lanaeis says "The Order? What the hell is going on?"
"Well, it seems like you have an enemy. Someone performed a ritual on you. Who you might ask? But I do not know of it. What was going on came over the dispatch channel and we had to look into it." The Orderite explains to Lanaeis, "Our ritualists are working to negotiate it as we speak. What it is, anyone that looks upon you, it generates a great hate in them and those feelings are directed towards you. It is called a persecution ritual." She explains.
Lanaeis nods slowly. "And you are unaffected?"
The woman pulls off her beanie cap, leaving messy red shoulder length hair pouring out as she clarifies, "Not naturally, no. We were warded before showing up or we would have been joining the deputy there. Your friends, family, pretty much anyone become enemies when you are under that ritual." Running her fingers through her hair, trying to clean it up. She reaches up to touch an earlink communication device, listening for a minute. She looks back to Lanaeis and states, "Alright, the ritual has been broken. You should be safe to go back into public. Do you have any questions?"
Lanaeis nods, hand flickering with light as he rests his hand on his knee. "How can I find out who cast that ritual on me?"
Sighing, The woman offers to Lanaeis, "That is a good question. Typically, you can trace a ritual, but for this one for some reason, we can't. Who ever did it, they seem to be powerful enough to hide their presence for now. It could be some kind of Fae just playing a prank or maybe you have some powerful enemies you are unaware of. I don't know."
Lanaeis hums. "Alright. Is there anything else I should be aware of?"
"I do not believe so. Just be careful. This town is where many different powerful groups meet to fight over control of the gates. There are more powerful monsters that only see you as food around here." The Orderite warns, "Do not give in to that same monstrous urges, but something better than they are." She says probably a bit preachy, but it isn't unheard of from someone in the Order.
Lanaeis laughs slightly, hand pressing to a particular spot on his stomach. "I am not much more than human to be honest, so no worry about that." He smiles warmly at the woman. "Thank you for the help."
Lanaeis says "I don't particularly want to know how that would have ended without your interference."
Sarah inspects her dart pistol as she states to Lanaeis, "Well, those things can go badly at times. For now, you are likely protected with sanctuary, so I doubt any serious injury would have happened. Haven Sheriffs Department would have probably sorted it out, but that isn't clear. All I will ask of you for it all is just pass it forward. It is small deeds of us helping each other out that makes the world worth living in."
Lanaeis smiles again. "Nothing truer. Thank you again."
(A group of supernatural hunters is out to get your target. Maybe for sport, maybe from ideology, in either case they need to survive for long enough that their allies can come and help them deal with the threat.
)
The early afternoon sun hangs high overhead Beacon point, casting its warming rays down upon Dean where he sits on the pier. The ocean breeze is enough to cool the worst of the summer heat while providing a pleasant crisp scent. The waves are visible beneath the patchwork mishmash of old planks hammered into place along the pier's walkway, swaying the pier as a while almost imperceptibly along with the rhythm of the tides, the great vertical posts creaking and groaning in place like the aching joints of an old sailor. The further out one walks, the sorrier a sight this relic of the past becomes, each step more treacherous than the last. An inopportune place for Dean to be sat right now, especially considering how open a position it is, also.
The Lighthouse towers overhead like a great brick finger pointed skywards in defiance of the waves and the winds, its luminous eye glowing out to sea in warning to any vessels that might stray to close on a foggy night on their way to the shipping yards further south. For now, the scene is tranquil, the great roaring of the ocean tides so cacophonous as to become a constant distant groan that soothes the ear without drawing attention. Any moisture in Dean's wetsuit dries off quickly, cooling his body but never so chill as to be uncomfortable beneath the warmth of the sun.
In the distance an aged sailing boat glides by across the horizon, borne on the winds by its yellowed canvas sails, a picturesque sight with its peeling brightly-painted hull and turquoise lacquered guardrails. A few figures - specks to Dean's eye at this distance - busy themselves handling the rigging. To and fro, to and fro, from jib to mainsail amongst the rigging, ducking beneath the boom as it swings when the crew turns across the breeze and tacks into the wind. Closer in, a pair of teenagers enjoy the sun and no doubt the fruits of their parents' labours atop two waterskis. They skim across the surface, their boisterous laughter catching on the wind and carrying over to where Dean sits whenever the breeze dips enough to permit it. Far to the right (the southeast) a cargo ship makes its way out of port carrying the products of Temple Steel beneath its great metal decks, sounding a rattling foghorn that resounds along the bay, announcing its exit to all those nearing the mouth of Haven's bay.
A pair of eyes remains locked on Dean from above, belonging to a woman in tourist garb. She carries a fisherman's rod bag, but conspicuously to any in the know she lacks any kind of bait box, stool, or net. After a crackling "In position" transmitted by radio to a small transceiver hooked into the front of her polo shirt, she moves forwards and kneels atop the rocky outcropping by the lighthouse, unzipping her bag. She draws a long pipe from within, then a gunstock, and a receiver with attached grip. Together, screwed and pinned in place, the components assemble to a lengthy dart gun. Capped then with a telescopic sight from within the bag, the weapon is ready. "Locust, this is Stickbug, in position", the woman drawls in a southern US accent, "Long shot, I aint thinkin' we gun get 'im but it's worth tryin'. Won't git a better chance."
Down in the eastern reaches of Haven, close to lookout point, a trio of bulky thugs clad in unremarkable beige combat pants and green activewear jackets prepare themselves in the back of an unmarked white Mercedes Sprinter van. The reply comes through from the woman on the rock, the middle-sized of the three men having awaited it with radio in hand. He replies with a glance to the others in a smooth midwestern rumble, "Understood. On my go." The three men gird themselves, strapping on stab vests and covering them again with their jackets, holstering tasers and pistols at their hips as well as a tranquiliser dart pistol each. They are ready for a small supernatural war it would seam, and on a screen of a laptop set open in the back of the van with them is a picture of Dean illuminated in the dark. Next to him is the shoulder of a woman, her face cut off by the edge of the picture.
Sliding the van door open, the men descend and creep forward, the last closing up their vehicle. They creep about the last row of buildings, making it to the edges of the sands before taking a knee with Dean visible on the pier beyond.
"Make the shot", the leader calls at a murmur, voice just softer than the beeping of his radio sounding out the start of his transmission. No response comes via radio, but Dean certainly notices it. With a whistle in the distance, he is able to hear the impending projectile, maybe giving him enough notice to lurch aside and avoid the powerful tranquiliser sent his way. Perhaps it was just the distance of the shot, and the breeze carrying it stray.
With an explosion of movement at the edge of the cover nearby, and the sound of boots and sandy gravel, the trio move in with tranquilisers drawn. "Shit! A miss! Get him!", the woman crackles on the net.
Unbeknownst to it all, all of it - or so it would seem, Dean remains seated on the pouch like he just doesn't care. He's here to fish, he's here for his daily ritual, of calming and centering. A necessity in this time of the month, what the moon so high. Already violent and aggressive, Dean is absorbed in his method. The speargun over his legs, crossed at the knees as they are hanging off the edge of the wobbly pier, is being tended to. The wire spooled and affixed where it ought to be. Maybe even humorously, while someone is preparing a gun to set it on him, he's preparing a harpoon to set on fish.
Except, just how attentive he is of the world becomes clear near immediately, when the whistle rips through the air, and the firm back of him shown to the world tilts without moving or breaking his comfort - he avoids the trajectory as if expecting it. He really doesn't have a lot of places to run- the thugs already flnk him, nearly upon the beginning of the decrepit porch that would possibly have a hard time carrying the weight of all of them. But even then, he remains sitting with his back upon the threat. At least, that's how it seems.
Green eyes turn over his shoulder to look at the trio - flit between them in their approach, tranquilisers drawn and everything. Then, the tip of the speargun jutting out right under his elbow, hidden but facing them, fires with the pneumatic piston erupting with a hiss to shoot the nearest, right through the thigh. The thin, barbed metal lodged in is meant to stay, and the hard wire is built for him to give chase to open-sea fish. This is no common fisherman -- and the threat therein lies when he slowly lifts the mask hanging at his neck up over his face, and slinks right into ocean, underwater.
The wire twitches once -- then it starts being yanked, tugging, hard.
The men hurtle forwards, weapons rising as the round on Dean. Their ragged breaths are audible to the sharp-eared werewolf; by excitement alone finding themselves breathing more heavily as they near their prize. Perhaps, however, these fellows chose the wrong wolf the mess with.
SHLINK, the spear finds its mark.
"FHAAAAAAACCKK!", the largest of the men roars. His size and power gave him the edge on approaching the target, closing the distance first. With a hiss, his tranquiliser discharges at a skyward angle and his dart sails out of view. His compatriots don't spare him so much as a glance, even as the push forwards, though the shortest of the trio DOES look aside as he hears the screaming redouble.
Clawing at the ground, rending deep gouges with his fingertips as he howls in pain, the sanctuaryless newcomer with a spear-skewered leg feels the wire go -tight- and heave him across the ground. With a ripping of flesh, his artery tears open and he begins to bleed like a stuck pig as he flies forwards a good two metres, spattering the ground beneath in a grisly trail. Before he can continue his wailing and risk drawing attention, the man's voice catches in his throat as he goes into shock and looses a hoarse gurgling instead, his arms flailing like the marrionette of some drunk puppeteer.
The other two, to their credit, remain sharp. They're in the thick of it now; their only way out alive is forwards to victory. With a pair of hissing pneumatic discharges, each loose their darts at Dean, threatening to clip him if he doesn't make a move quickly on the rickety bridge, both of them easily whipping by if he does. They drop the dart launchers, the both of them drawing tasers smoothly and spreading to the left and right to circle in on Dean and flank him, preparing to deliver a stunning shock.
High on the rock above, the woman continues her work. She swallows a whimper at the sight of the first man falling, hissing; "I'll skin you, mutt". With a smooth motion, another dart is chambered and she looses it. By luck, this one finds its mark, catching Dean in the thigh.
Dean's senses dull a degree almost immediately but his sheer supernatural vitality does much to fight the onset of the benzo's effects, his vision starting to swim mildly and his coordination ailed somewhat but not nearly enough to give the two remaining abductors an easy target.
Dulling what senses Dean has, on the day of a blooming moon, gives its way only to further aggression where calculation, assessment had been. He has missed the first two darts by virtue of being underwater, but the sharpshooter giving him almost nearly as he took - it makes him snarl a low sound in his ascent out again. He doesn't fully embrace the landlubber doctrine of putting his feet on solid ground - not yet, not while the edge of the porch he's holding splints under his grasp. He dives once more, again - with another splinter following that no doubt signifies he intends to break the supports of it apart..
But Dean isn't there. The two men are left to search for the enigma, as to why the breaking suddenly stopped. Maybe Dean had even succumbded to their attempt at capture? But no - he is too sly, too cunning. Too monstrously efficient. As soon as he was out of sight, a drifting hue of mist filters in behind on the top of the lighthouse where the false tourist had taken her perch - and before she can even utter anything, make a single sound, Dean's neoprane clad fingers curl in around her throat. The smirk he reveals when he tugs his mask down is accompanied by the satisfying crunch of finding prey that doesn't have sanctuary to resist, and he abuses it wholly to murder one already. Off in the water, only Dean's flippers surface above the water, and high up, here, Dean now sits on a knee, next to a corpse, quiet as a mouse while he takes her rifle, and lays it out on her perch to align his shot. He's definitely not a great rifleman - a poor one at that, built more for the draw of a bow or the harpoon, but how different could it truly be, while he takes aim with his usurped tranquiliser? Right on the back of another man's skull.