Encounterlogs
Laurens Odd Encounter Sr Avriel 240508
Lauren awakens from a haunting nightmare to find herself in a distressing reality: captured and locked in a cement room, stark with its minimal furnishing and a heavy steel door that securely bars her freedom. Her initial exploration reveals the grim history of her confines through the ambiguous stains and scratches that adorn its surfaces. Despite being physically battered and confronted by the psychological warfare of her captor's cruel taunts over a PA system, she retains her wit and calm, recognizing her predicament as more than a simple kidnapping. Her captor, communicating through distorted, mocking tones, hints at a deeper game afoot, one that Lauren is now an unwilling participant in. Their exchange reveals not just the captor's sadistic amusement but also Lauren's resilience and sharp mind, leveraging her faeborn nature and skills in an attempt to understand and possibly outmaneuver her situation.
As the story unfolds, Lauren employs both her supernatural abilities and instincts to seek an escape, only to find that her captor is steps ahead, anticipating her moves. Her situation grows increasingly dire as she faces the tangible threat of hybrid creatures, a testament to the sinister forces at play. Despite the claustrophobic and unnerving setting of her captivity, Lauren's spirit remains undaunted. She exhibits remarkable adaptability, from attempting to communicate with her captors to exploring her grim surroundings for any advantage. The moment of potential escape becomes a palpable tension point, showcasing her quick thinking and determination. Ultimately, Lauren's encounter transcends mere physical containment, delving into a chilling confrontation with the otherworldly and unknown, leaving a lingering question of her fate in this high-stakes game of survival and wits.
(Lauren's odd encounter(SRAvriel):SRAvriel)
[Tue May 7 2024]
In Living Room
The living room is a warm and inviting space, with plush, comfortable
furniture arranged in a cozy seating area. A large, ornate fireplace
dominates the southern wall, its marble mantelpiece adorned with intricate
carvings and a large, gilded mirror. The fireplace is flanked by built-in
bookshelves, filled with a variety of books and decorative objects. The walls
are painted a rich, warm color, with artwork and family portraits hung
throughout the space. The floor is covered in hardwood, with a large,
intricately patterned rug anchoring the seating area. The furniture includes
a large, overstuffed sofa and several armchairs, upholstered in a soft,
textured fabric. A coffee table sits at the center of the seating area, its
surface adorned with a vase of fresh flowers and several books. The room is
illuminated by a combination of natural light from the tall windows and the
warm glow of several table lamps scattered throughout the space. The overall
effect is one of comfort and relaxation, creating a perfect spot for family
gatherings or quiet evenings spent reading by the fire.
It is night, about 62F(16C) degrees, There is a waning crescent moon.
(Your target is abducted in their sleep, waking up alone in a locked room. They need to either escape or draw attention to them so their allies can come and provide assistance.
)
A dense mist hangs thick in the airs of Lauren's sleeping mind. Little can be seen in any direction behind a scant few feet, with her surroundings cloaked by a mild, diffuse glow - one that serves only to heighten the opaque dog that swirls around her. The mist curls and swirls around her, casting strange, shifting shadows that dance hypnotically on the ground.
As Lauren wanders further into the luminous mists, faint whispers prickle against the edges of her awareness; seeming to echo from nowhere and all directions at once. Still, they're elusive - barely audible, carrying fragments of broken conversations and half-formed phrases, too quiet for the pierced faeborn to grab onto.
There's a soft, snuffling sound, then, like the sniffing around of some wet-nosed beast - and then, once it fixes on Lauren, a deep and reptilian growling, low in the throat. The mists eddy and swirl around the prowling of the circling dream-predator, but Lauren's understanding of it remains only academic. Her heart does not flutter in her chest, nor does her breath catch in her throat. Then - it pounces, razor claws tearing through faeborn flesh like hot knives through soft butter - and Lauren awakes with a start, sweat-soaked and blood-stained, on a stained mattress in an unfamiliar room.
The mattress' springs creak out in rusty protest once Lauren manages to get herself moving again, which is some of the only characterisation the room has to offer. She's caught in some structure made primarily of cement, ugly but strong. Given the ambiguous stains on the linoleum flooring and the scratches on the walls, it seems unlikely she's the first prisoner to have been kept here. There are no windows, and only one door... which appears to be some form of heavy-duty steel security door, at that. Shit.
(fix, sorry) A dense mist hangs thick in the airs of Lauren's sleeping mind. Little can be seen in any direction behind a scant few feet, with her surroundings cloaked by a mild, diffuse glow - one that serves only to heighten the opacity of the fog that swirls around her. The mist curls and swirls around her, casting strange, shifting shadows that dance hypnotically on the ground.
As Lauren wanders further into the luminous mists, faint whispers prickle against the edges of her awareness; seeming to echo from nowhere and all directions at once. Still, they're elusive - barely audible, carrying fragments of broken conversations and half-formed phrases, too quiet for the pierced faeborn to grab onto.
There's a soft, snuffling sound, then, like the sniffing around of some wet-nosed beast - and then, once it fixes on Lauren, a deep and reptilian growling, low in the throat. The mists eddy and swirl around the prowling of the circling dream-predator, but Lauren's understanding of it remains only academic. Her heart does not flutter in her chest, nor does her breath catch in her throat. Then - it pounces, razor claws tearing through faeborn flesh like hot knives through soft butter - and Lauren awakes with a start, sweat-soaked and blood-stained, on a stained mattress in an unfamiliar room.
The mattress' springs creak out in rusty protest once Lauren manages to get herself moving again, which is some of the only characterisation the room has to offer. She's caught in some structure made primarily of cement, ugly but strong. Given the ambiguous stains on the linoleum flooring and the scratches on the walls, it seems unlikely she's the first prisoner to have been kept here. There are no windows, and only one door... which appears to be some form of heavy-duty steel security door, at that. Shit.
Lauren jerks to alertness unpleasantly, a hand reaching immediately to her chest to calm the frantic thumping beneath. She's no stranger to nightmares, but it's not often one wakes with the stench of blood in their nostrils after a dream like that, and she gives herself a little pat-down, attempting to figure out if the blood's come from her. "What the fuck..." comes the little mumble under her breath - she doesn't dare be too loud in such ominous surrounds, and there's a glance around to see if she can pick up any other details of note in her surroundings.
Slowly, she climbs to her feet to walk over to the door, trying to see if she can pull it open, in case someone forgot to lock it. Unlikely, but she can try her luck, right?
It's... not /likely/ the blood is hers, at least - though Lauren does find she's a bit scraped up, as if she'd been dragged along a less-than-smooth surface. Still... taking full account of the stains would suggest that it's been spread by some bloody hands, carrying her - mostly around her ankles, her wrists, and her midsection. She would probably have to visit a professional laundry to save her poor clothes. Sadly, the door is very much locked, as well - and heavy. She still has her nightmare charm, too - so her captors are either professional enough to have a warded holding cell, or completely unaware of the supernatural. This close, a small PA system can be seen installed above the doorway, utilising what appears to be a couple of bluetooth speakers secured to the wall. They're not playing anything right now... but they might have microphones. Maybe. There doesn't seem to be a camera, at least.
She's fine with a little bit of scraped-uppedness, as long as her piercings and her focus are all in place. Lauren does reach up to check, just to be sure, her fingers closing around the amethyst suspended from her pendant, and there's an annoyed little huff when she finds the door locked. "Rude, honestly," comes the mumble, entirely to herself, as though locking the door is the rudest thing they could've done, instead of, well, kidnapping her. She's not too worried though. Not a lot to be worried about, yet, considering sanctuary. She attempts a venture into the nightmare - if it's warded, she's got ways around it, assuming nobody checks in on her in the next half an hour or so.
Warded, indeed - there's a frisson of gleeful, cruel laughter that ripples up Lauren's skin the moment she tries. It's very brief, and ultimately harmless... but the feeling of brushing up against madness remains very unpleasant. A minute or so later, there's the soft tone of the speakers connecting, and then a voice is transmitted through the room, scornful and shrill and coming across vaguely like an Irish accent combined with a speech impediment.
"I fookin' felt that, you geebag," whispers the voice. The tone would suggest that a 'geebag' is not a nice thing to be called. "Mind yer fookin' manners, love, or we'll put you back to sleep. Thought you moight loike ta have a stretch, get your body moving. Ya've been oot for a whoile." Christ. Is it being put on? If it's not inauthentic, then the speaker might be fucking brain damaged. There's a pause, then: "Th' moike's listening. Say hello."
Oh, she didn't like that. Lauren shudders, rubbing her arms up and down with her hands, and then she's distracted by the voice that's sounding through the speakers - if nothing else, it's good to have confirmation that she's definitely being watched. "Oh, hey," she's trying to sound all casual and unaffected as she strolls back over to the mattress, taking a seat. Wouldn't do to expose whoever's on the other end of the speaker to her usual charms, when she doesn't know what else they've got ready for her. "Thanks for that, I appreciate it. What's, uhhh, what's up, what's going on? You having a good day?"
The speakers squawk with a grating, half-human laugh, and the voice replies, "Fookin' beautiful, love. /Beautiful/ day. Really noice, yeah." There's a clattering sound as whoever-it-is handles something near the microphone, and just enough background noise to suggest they might be humming along as they do... whatever it is that they're doing. "Roight!" the voice - male, nominally, but high-pitched and flawed enough to keep things ambiguous - calls. "You get three guesses as to what situation' ya got yaself into, roight? If you can't get it in three, then you gotta play a penalty game and we'll get things started. Go ahead and make your guesses, lass. Fuckin' wagon that y'are."
Lauren blanches just faintly at the implication that it was somehow she who'd gotten herself into a situation of any sort, her nose wrinkling up. The insults are shrugged off with more ease - she can estimate what a wagon is in this context, but what's a geebag supposed to be anyway? She doesn't say anything out loud regarding either of those things though, just tilting her head faintly to a side while she listens to the voice. "Oh, a guessing game," she says, leaning back on her hands where she sits upon the mattress. "What do I get for winning?" she doesn't start guessing yet.
"You get to avoid the penalties!" insists the shrill, disembodied voice. "And I'm coontin' that as a guess. You have two tries left! Or you can waste your chance askin' me silly questions, whatever you like." The smirk is audible in his - their? - voice, but... he's hardly worked himself into a froth over all of this. He seems too familiar, or just at-ease, for this to not be an operation he's run before. "Go on. Get to it. Let's not waste each oother's time."
"That's not a /guess/," Lauren frowns, but, well, point made, and then, "I mean, we wouldn't have to waste each other's times if you didn't kidnap me 'cause you're a bored Fae with too much time on your hands so you can feed me to your pet nightmare monster or something. /That's/ a guess." She pauses to consider it for a second longer, "Not super entertaining to have someone locked in an empty room though, so I'm assuming the game's really just a farce so you can go ahead with your thing anyway 'cause I got some slight detail wrong here or there, right?"
There's a snort over the intercom, then a pause as something or other gets shuffled around. Then: "I already told you - this is just to avoid a certain penalty before we move on to the main event! Fookin' hell." There's a loud, exaggerated sigh, then - "And did you call me a fookin' Fae? Like, with the capital F an' everything? You must be fuckin' thick if you think you could talk to one of /them/ like this. Jaysus. Right, that's two guesses and some pointless conjecture I will graciously not count as a third guess!" A faint tapping sounds out from the speakers - the quiet thudding of a fingertip on a tabletop, still managing to be transmitted nonetheless.
Lauren exhales out a sigh, leaning even further backwards as she stares up at the ceiling. "I didn't mean a /Fae/ Fae, just more of a wannabe. Somewhere down the line, probably, unless you're a fucking Leprechaun or some shit," she clarifies, rolling her eyes at the last part. "Thank you, gracious overlord, your mercy is truly unmatched and undeserved," comes the sarcastic little mumble, hopefully not to be picked up by whatever mic's in the room transmitting her voice back. A clearing of her throat, and she moves on, "That's my third guess, actually: leprechaun gone evil 'cause someone stole your lucky clover or drank the last of your whiskey or something. We can just go get a drink instead of all these theatrics, you know?"
"Oh, the Irish faeborn has to be a leprechaun, huh?" There's a bitter, derisive bark of laughter over the microphone. "Wrong on all counts, but you did get close! That doesn't mean you aren't going to play the penalty game, but maybe it'll make ya feel better. Roight! Stand back from the door, please." There's a chunky metal sound as the door unlocks - a chance, maybe, for Lauren to escape - but someone or someones are on their way. It's only brief, but Lauren does get a few moments to act, here - between being antagonised by spooky voices on the speaker and whatever might be happening next.
Spooky voices on the speaker may be annoying and ear-grating, but they can't actually hurt her like the someone or the someones on the way may be able to. Lauren stands up from her backwards lean at the sound of the door, eyes fixed upon it, though obviously she feels the need to snark first: "A whole 'please'? Are you feeling okay?" she asks sarcastically, and then she's moving over to the door anyway - speaker-person can't stop her from all the way over in wherever-they-are, so she pushes it open, the usual illusions ready at her fingertips depending on what she sees next.
Well, first, it would appear that Lauren's door opens inwards rather than outwards - in total defiance of safety guidelines and construction laws - but once she does get out there, it doesn't take super hearing to pick up the sounds of booted feet on cold concrete. The linoleum is gone, alas. Friends are coming to make her feel better, clearly, and there's definitely more than one. In fact, /with/ Lauren's super hearing, she can hear that a few of these gaits are a little uneven, with one big bounding fellow, and a couple of smaller people with an uneven pace. It's not normal... and the sharp sounds of their footsteps can't be entirely attributed to boots, either.
Ahead of Lauren is a wide hallway with doors much like her own spaced evenly throughout. This is some form of compound, or something. The hallway veers off sharply to the right, which is where the footsteps are coming from. It's hard to tell which of the other doors are locked, as well - there are seven of them, and trying to open a locked door would waste precious time.
(OOC: If you would like to open a door at random, feel free to pick by number. Otherwise, feel free to be creative in figuring out your escape!)
Whatever may be going on here, going /towards/ the footsteps doesn't seem like the right choice to make here, especially since it means she can't go completely invisible for multiple people with her powers, like originally planned. After a second of thought, she closes the door behind her and moves to the left with a hastened pace, away from the approaching footsteps, heart beating a little faster - is that the sound of a quadrupedal gait? Is that what's going on here?
One, two, three, four - that's the one she goes with. Four is her lucky number, of course. It would never let her down. Lauren, more wizened of the ways of the world now, tries to push the door open instead of pulling it.
Door four's a good guess. It's just as heavy as Lauren's had been, sure, but it slides smoothly open on well-oiled bearings, then closes itself without fuss and latches shut behind her. No ker-chunk sound - it didn't lock itself. The new room's no prettier, though, and just about the same as hers had been. No furniture but a mattress, solid concrete walls, single shitty light that hums, intercom system... but this room has a window. There's a security grille and it's barred, but if Lauren has a way to take advantage of that, she might be out of here in no time. The mattress also has a shoddy Dora the Explorer blanket, where hers had no blanket. This must be the VIP suite. There's a fuzzing sound, muted behind two sets of solid metal doors - probably the man on the intercom trying to talk to her. How long before he noticed she wasn't there? And why didn't they have cameras?
Lauren had totally been under the assumption that they definitely had cameras watching her, so the fact that the person on the speakers doesn't seem to have figured it out yet is reassuring. She reaches over to grab the Dora the Explorer blanket first of all - yoink, hers now, draped over her arm - and then moves over to peer out the window through the grille and bars and whatnot - what do her elf eyes see?
It looks like Lauren's underground - the window just barely peeks over a grassy carpet of earth, and that's with her having to tiptoe to get level with it in the first place. She's in a forest of some sort - bright and colourful and sun-shiney, like Disney-affiliated songbirds were about to burst from the trees in a rush of colour and music to engage Lauren in the musical she was always meant to star in. After a moment, though, and owing entirely to Lauren's familiarity with illusions and glamour, she discerns the truth - these are still the woods surrounding Haven. There's a little of the mist creeping along the forest floor, not quite hidden by whoever conjured up the illusion in the first place. What an amateur.
There's a banging as one of the other doors is forced open across the hall. Angry, twisted voices mutter between themselves, shaped by inhuman mouths. Lauren doesn't have long before she's found.
"Ooh, an underground bunker. Fancy." Lauren mumbles to herself, impressed as if this was the last thing needed to turn the place from 'creepy' to 'cool'. Her musings and examination of what she can find outside the window is cut short by the noise of doors banging and the voices coming closer. She pauses, pondering - on one hand, she should really be getting out of here. On the other hand, she really needs to know what's going on here - her curiosity has been piqued, and it's unlikely to unpique itself without seeing what the strange people look like. And so she finds herself in the corner of the room, standing very still and conjuring up an illusion of the drab walls of the cells before her - nothing to see here, just the wall. If the room looks a little smaller than normal, that's surely just a trick of the light or something.
And then she waits. And then, once she's caught a glimpse of what she's up against, she's going to do what she could certainly have done from the start since they didn't have her tied up at all, and shadowwalk back away to her home.
BANG! Lauren's door flies open and a couple of thugs rush in, dressed in mixed attire, but both of them armed. Worse... They're both animal hybrids. One has the head of a dobermann, the other some less distinct land mammal - or maybe something not native to Earth. Unfortunately, Dogface doesn't give much of a shit about visual illusions; not when he can smell Lauren there in the corner, not when he can hear her heart beating in her chest, not when he's one of the Gamemasters, heavily versed in illusory magic. "C'mere," scowls the black-and-tan canine. No Irish accent on this one, though. He moves for Lauren blindly, reaching out to grab her while the other thug stands in the door to prevent her from rushing out. There are more of them, besides. "Nearly made it out," he says. "We'd have let you go if you'd managed it. Poor girl. Froze up and choked, huh?" His voice, at least, is passably human - his mouth most closely resembles a chimp's.
Oh, hell. Lauren's eyes are wide when she catches sight of the men - the creatures, more like - and she /does/ freeze up, for just a minute. She exhales a shuddery breath, which would be enough to give away her position from hearing alone if her heartbeat wasn't enough to do that already, but she wisely doesn't respond out loud and fuck it up more for herself. No, instead she just takes a step back further into the shadows, and attempts to step through them.
As the story unfolds, Lauren employs both her supernatural abilities and instincts to seek an escape, only to find that her captor is steps ahead, anticipating her moves. Her situation grows increasingly dire as she faces the tangible threat of hybrid creatures, a testament to the sinister forces at play. Despite the claustrophobic and unnerving setting of her captivity, Lauren's spirit remains undaunted. She exhibits remarkable adaptability, from attempting to communicate with her captors to exploring her grim surroundings for any advantage. The moment of potential escape becomes a palpable tension point, showcasing her quick thinking and determination. Ultimately, Lauren's encounter transcends mere physical containment, delving into a chilling confrontation with the otherworldly and unknown, leaving a lingering question of her fate in this high-stakes game of survival and wits.
(Lauren's odd encounter(SRAvriel):SRAvriel)
[Tue May 7 2024]
In Living Room
The living room is a warm and inviting space, with plush, comfortable
furniture arranged in a cozy seating area. A large, ornate fireplace
dominates the southern wall, its marble mantelpiece adorned with intricate
carvings and a large, gilded mirror. The fireplace is flanked by built-in
bookshelves, filled with a variety of books and decorative objects. The walls
are painted a rich, warm color, with artwork and family portraits hung
throughout the space. The floor is covered in hardwood, with a large,
intricately patterned rug anchoring the seating area. The furniture includes
a large, overstuffed sofa and several armchairs, upholstered in a soft,
textured fabric. A coffee table sits at the center of the seating area, its
surface adorned with a vase of fresh flowers and several books. The room is
illuminated by a combination of natural light from the tall windows and the
warm glow of several table lamps scattered throughout the space. The overall
effect is one of comfort and relaxation, creating a perfect spot for family
gatherings or quiet evenings spent reading by the fire.
It is night, about 62F(16C) degrees, There is a waning crescent moon.
(Your target is abducted in their sleep, waking up alone in a locked room. They need to either escape or draw attention to them so their allies can come and provide assistance.
)
A dense mist hangs thick in the airs of Lauren's sleeping mind. Little can be seen in any direction behind a scant few feet, with her surroundings cloaked by a mild, diffuse glow - one that serves only to heighten the opaque dog that swirls around her. The mist curls and swirls around her, casting strange, shifting shadows that dance hypnotically on the ground.
As Lauren wanders further into the luminous mists, faint whispers prickle against the edges of her awareness; seeming to echo from nowhere and all directions at once. Still, they're elusive - barely audible, carrying fragments of broken conversations and half-formed phrases, too quiet for the pierced faeborn to grab onto.
There's a soft, snuffling sound, then, like the sniffing around of some wet-nosed beast - and then, once it fixes on Lauren, a deep and reptilian growling, low in the throat. The mists eddy and swirl around the prowling of the circling dream-predator, but Lauren's understanding of it remains only academic. Her heart does not flutter in her chest, nor does her breath catch in her throat. Then - it pounces, razor claws tearing through faeborn flesh like hot knives through soft butter - and Lauren awakes with a start, sweat-soaked and blood-stained, on a stained mattress in an unfamiliar room.
The mattress' springs creak out in rusty protest once Lauren manages to get herself moving again, which is some of the only characterisation the room has to offer. She's caught in some structure made primarily of cement, ugly but strong. Given the ambiguous stains on the linoleum flooring and the scratches on the walls, it seems unlikely she's the first prisoner to have been kept here. There are no windows, and only one door... which appears to be some form of heavy-duty steel security door, at that. Shit.
(fix, sorry) A dense mist hangs thick in the airs of Lauren's sleeping mind. Little can be seen in any direction behind a scant few feet, with her surroundings cloaked by a mild, diffuse glow - one that serves only to heighten the opacity of the fog that swirls around her. The mist curls and swirls around her, casting strange, shifting shadows that dance hypnotically on the ground.
As Lauren wanders further into the luminous mists, faint whispers prickle against the edges of her awareness; seeming to echo from nowhere and all directions at once. Still, they're elusive - barely audible, carrying fragments of broken conversations and half-formed phrases, too quiet for the pierced faeborn to grab onto.
There's a soft, snuffling sound, then, like the sniffing around of some wet-nosed beast - and then, once it fixes on Lauren, a deep and reptilian growling, low in the throat. The mists eddy and swirl around the prowling of the circling dream-predator, but Lauren's understanding of it remains only academic. Her heart does not flutter in her chest, nor does her breath catch in her throat. Then - it pounces, razor claws tearing through faeborn flesh like hot knives through soft butter - and Lauren awakes with a start, sweat-soaked and blood-stained, on a stained mattress in an unfamiliar room.
The mattress' springs creak out in rusty protest once Lauren manages to get herself moving again, which is some of the only characterisation the room has to offer. She's caught in some structure made primarily of cement, ugly but strong. Given the ambiguous stains on the linoleum flooring and the scratches on the walls, it seems unlikely she's the first prisoner to have been kept here. There are no windows, and only one door... which appears to be some form of heavy-duty steel security door, at that. Shit.
Lauren jerks to alertness unpleasantly, a hand reaching immediately to her chest to calm the frantic thumping beneath. She's no stranger to nightmares, but it's not often one wakes with the stench of blood in their nostrils after a dream like that, and she gives herself a little pat-down, attempting to figure out if the blood's come from her. "What the fuck..." comes the little mumble under her breath - she doesn't dare be too loud in such ominous surrounds, and there's a glance around to see if she can pick up any other details of note in her surroundings.
Slowly, she climbs to her feet to walk over to the door, trying to see if she can pull it open, in case someone forgot to lock it. Unlikely, but she can try her luck, right?
It's... not /likely/ the blood is hers, at least - though Lauren does find she's a bit scraped up, as if she'd been dragged along a less-than-smooth surface. Still... taking full account of the stains would suggest that it's been spread by some bloody hands, carrying her - mostly around her ankles, her wrists, and her midsection. She would probably have to visit a professional laundry to save her poor clothes. Sadly, the door is very much locked, as well - and heavy. She still has her nightmare charm, too - so her captors are either professional enough to have a warded holding cell, or completely unaware of the supernatural. This close, a small PA system can be seen installed above the doorway, utilising what appears to be a couple of bluetooth speakers secured to the wall. They're not playing anything right now... but they might have microphones. Maybe. There doesn't seem to be a camera, at least.
She's fine with a little bit of scraped-uppedness, as long as her piercings and her focus are all in place. Lauren does reach up to check, just to be sure, her fingers closing around the amethyst suspended from her pendant, and there's an annoyed little huff when she finds the door locked. "Rude, honestly," comes the mumble, entirely to herself, as though locking the door is the rudest thing they could've done, instead of, well, kidnapping her. She's not too worried though. Not a lot to be worried about, yet, considering sanctuary. She attempts a venture into the nightmare - if it's warded, she's got ways around it, assuming nobody checks in on her in the next half an hour or so.
Warded, indeed - there's a frisson of gleeful, cruel laughter that ripples up Lauren's skin the moment she tries. It's very brief, and ultimately harmless... but the feeling of brushing up against madness remains very unpleasant. A minute or so later, there's the soft tone of the speakers connecting, and then a voice is transmitted through the room, scornful and shrill and coming across vaguely like an Irish accent combined with a speech impediment.
"I fookin' felt that, you geebag," whispers the voice. The tone would suggest that a 'geebag' is not a nice thing to be called. "Mind yer fookin' manners, love, or we'll put you back to sleep. Thought you moight loike ta have a stretch, get your body moving. Ya've been oot for a whoile." Christ. Is it being put on? If it's not inauthentic, then the speaker might be fucking brain damaged. There's a pause, then: "Th' moike's listening. Say hello."
Oh, she didn't like that. Lauren shudders, rubbing her arms up and down with her hands, and then she's distracted by the voice that's sounding through the speakers - if nothing else, it's good to have confirmation that she's definitely being watched. "Oh, hey," she's trying to sound all casual and unaffected as she strolls back over to the mattress, taking a seat. Wouldn't do to expose whoever's on the other end of the speaker to her usual charms, when she doesn't know what else they've got ready for her. "Thanks for that, I appreciate it. What's, uhhh, what's up, what's going on? You having a good day?"
The speakers squawk with a grating, half-human laugh, and the voice replies, "Fookin' beautiful, love. /Beautiful/ day. Really noice, yeah." There's a clattering sound as whoever-it-is handles something near the microphone, and just enough background noise to suggest they might be humming along as they do... whatever it is that they're doing. "Roight!" the voice - male, nominally, but high-pitched and flawed enough to keep things ambiguous - calls. "You get three guesses as to what situation' ya got yaself into, roight? If you can't get it in three, then you gotta play a penalty game and we'll get things started. Go ahead and make your guesses, lass. Fuckin' wagon that y'are."
Lauren blanches just faintly at the implication that it was somehow she who'd gotten herself into a situation of any sort, her nose wrinkling up. The insults are shrugged off with more ease - she can estimate what a wagon is in this context, but what's a geebag supposed to be anyway? She doesn't say anything out loud regarding either of those things though, just tilting her head faintly to a side while she listens to the voice. "Oh, a guessing game," she says, leaning back on her hands where she sits upon the mattress. "What do I get for winning?" she doesn't start guessing yet.
"You get to avoid the penalties!" insists the shrill, disembodied voice. "And I'm coontin' that as a guess. You have two tries left! Or you can waste your chance askin' me silly questions, whatever you like." The smirk is audible in his - their? - voice, but... he's hardly worked himself into a froth over all of this. He seems too familiar, or just at-ease, for this to not be an operation he's run before. "Go on. Get to it. Let's not waste each oother's time."
"That's not a /guess/," Lauren frowns, but, well, point made, and then, "I mean, we wouldn't have to waste each other's times if you didn't kidnap me 'cause you're a bored Fae with too much time on your hands so you can feed me to your pet nightmare monster or something. /That's/ a guess." She pauses to consider it for a second longer, "Not super entertaining to have someone locked in an empty room though, so I'm assuming the game's really just a farce so you can go ahead with your thing anyway 'cause I got some slight detail wrong here or there, right?"
There's a snort over the intercom, then a pause as something or other gets shuffled around. Then: "I already told you - this is just to avoid a certain penalty before we move on to the main event! Fookin' hell." There's a loud, exaggerated sigh, then - "And did you call me a fookin' Fae? Like, with the capital F an' everything? You must be fuckin' thick if you think you could talk to one of /them/ like this. Jaysus. Right, that's two guesses and some pointless conjecture I will graciously not count as a third guess!" A faint tapping sounds out from the speakers - the quiet thudding of a fingertip on a tabletop, still managing to be transmitted nonetheless.
Lauren exhales out a sigh, leaning even further backwards as she stares up at the ceiling. "I didn't mean a /Fae/ Fae, just more of a wannabe. Somewhere down the line, probably, unless you're a fucking Leprechaun or some shit," she clarifies, rolling her eyes at the last part. "Thank you, gracious overlord, your mercy is truly unmatched and undeserved," comes the sarcastic little mumble, hopefully not to be picked up by whatever mic's in the room transmitting her voice back. A clearing of her throat, and she moves on, "That's my third guess, actually: leprechaun gone evil 'cause someone stole your lucky clover or drank the last of your whiskey or something. We can just go get a drink instead of all these theatrics, you know?"
"Oh, the Irish faeborn has to be a leprechaun, huh?" There's a bitter, derisive bark of laughter over the microphone. "Wrong on all counts, but you did get close! That doesn't mean you aren't going to play the penalty game, but maybe it'll make ya feel better. Roight! Stand back from the door, please." There's a chunky metal sound as the door unlocks - a chance, maybe, for Lauren to escape - but someone or someones are on their way. It's only brief, but Lauren does get a few moments to act, here - between being antagonised by spooky voices on the speaker and whatever might be happening next.
Spooky voices on the speaker may be annoying and ear-grating, but they can't actually hurt her like the someone or the someones on the way may be able to. Lauren stands up from her backwards lean at the sound of the door, eyes fixed upon it, though obviously she feels the need to snark first: "A whole 'please'? Are you feeling okay?" she asks sarcastically, and then she's moving over to the door anyway - speaker-person can't stop her from all the way over in wherever-they-are, so she pushes it open, the usual illusions ready at her fingertips depending on what she sees next.
Well, first, it would appear that Lauren's door opens inwards rather than outwards - in total defiance of safety guidelines and construction laws - but once she does get out there, it doesn't take super hearing to pick up the sounds of booted feet on cold concrete. The linoleum is gone, alas. Friends are coming to make her feel better, clearly, and there's definitely more than one. In fact, /with/ Lauren's super hearing, she can hear that a few of these gaits are a little uneven, with one big bounding fellow, and a couple of smaller people with an uneven pace. It's not normal... and the sharp sounds of their footsteps can't be entirely attributed to boots, either.
Ahead of Lauren is a wide hallway with doors much like her own spaced evenly throughout. This is some form of compound, or something. The hallway veers off sharply to the right, which is where the footsteps are coming from. It's hard to tell which of the other doors are locked, as well - there are seven of them, and trying to open a locked door would waste precious time.
(OOC: If you would like to open a door at random, feel free to pick by number. Otherwise, feel free to be creative in figuring out your escape!)
Whatever may be going on here, going /towards/ the footsteps doesn't seem like the right choice to make here, especially since it means she can't go completely invisible for multiple people with her powers, like originally planned. After a second of thought, she closes the door behind her and moves to the left with a hastened pace, away from the approaching footsteps, heart beating a little faster - is that the sound of a quadrupedal gait? Is that what's going on here?
One, two, three, four - that's the one she goes with. Four is her lucky number, of course. It would never let her down. Lauren, more wizened of the ways of the world now, tries to push the door open instead of pulling it.
Door four's a good guess. It's just as heavy as Lauren's had been, sure, but it slides smoothly open on well-oiled bearings, then closes itself without fuss and latches shut behind her. No ker-chunk sound - it didn't lock itself. The new room's no prettier, though, and just about the same as hers had been. No furniture but a mattress, solid concrete walls, single shitty light that hums, intercom system... but this room has a window. There's a security grille and it's barred, but if Lauren has a way to take advantage of that, she might be out of here in no time. The mattress also has a shoddy Dora the Explorer blanket, where hers had no blanket. This must be the VIP suite. There's a fuzzing sound, muted behind two sets of solid metal doors - probably the man on the intercom trying to talk to her. How long before he noticed she wasn't there? And why didn't they have cameras?
Lauren had totally been under the assumption that they definitely had cameras watching her, so the fact that the person on the speakers doesn't seem to have figured it out yet is reassuring. She reaches over to grab the Dora the Explorer blanket first of all - yoink, hers now, draped over her arm - and then moves over to peer out the window through the grille and bars and whatnot - what do her elf eyes see?
It looks like Lauren's underground - the window just barely peeks over a grassy carpet of earth, and that's with her having to tiptoe to get level with it in the first place. She's in a forest of some sort - bright and colourful and sun-shiney, like Disney-affiliated songbirds were about to burst from the trees in a rush of colour and music to engage Lauren in the musical she was always meant to star in. After a moment, though, and owing entirely to Lauren's familiarity with illusions and glamour, she discerns the truth - these are still the woods surrounding Haven. There's a little of the mist creeping along the forest floor, not quite hidden by whoever conjured up the illusion in the first place. What an amateur.
There's a banging as one of the other doors is forced open across the hall. Angry, twisted voices mutter between themselves, shaped by inhuman mouths. Lauren doesn't have long before she's found.
"Ooh, an underground bunker. Fancy." Lauren mumbles to herself, impressed as if this was the last thing needed to turn the place from 'creepy' to 'cool'. Her musings and examination of what she can find outside the window is cut short by the noise of doors banging and the voices coming closer. She pauses, pondering - on one hand, she should really be getting out of here. On the other hand, she really needs to know what's going on here - her curiosity has been piqued, and it's unlikely to unpique itself without seeing what the strange people look like. And so she finds herself in the corner of the room, standing very still and conjuring up an illusion of the drab walls of the cells before her - nothing to see here, just the wall. If the room looks a little smaller than normal, that's surely just a trick of the light or something.
And then she waits. And then, once she's caught a glimpse of what she's up against, she's going to do what she could certainly have done from the start since they didn't have her tied up at all, and shadowwalk back away to her home.
BANG! Lauren's door flies open and a couple of thugs rush in, dressed in mixed attire, but both of them armed. Worse... They're both animal hybrids. One has the head of a dobermann, the other some less distinct land mammal - or maybe something not native to Earth. Unfortunately, Dogface doesn't give much of a shit about visual illusions; not when he can smell Lauren there in the corner, not when he can hear her heart beating in her chest, not when he's one of the Gamemasters, heavily versed in illusory magic. "C'mere," scowls the black-and-tan canine. No Irish accent on this one, though. He moves for Lauren blindly, reaching out to grab her while the other thug stands in the door to prevent her from rushing out. There are more of them, besides. "Nearly made it out," he says. "We'd have let you go if you'd managed it. Poor girl. Froze up and choked, huh?" His voice, at least, is passably human - his mouth most closely resembles a chimp's.
Oh, hell. Lauren's eyes are wide when she catches sight of the men - the creatures, more like - and she /does/ freeze up, for just a minute. She exhales a shuddery breath, which would be enough to give away her position from hearing alone if her heartbeat wasn't enough to do that already, but she wisely doesn't respond out loud and fuck it up more for herself. No, instead she just takes a step back further into the shadows, and attempts to step through them.