Encounterlogs
Laurens Odd Encounter Sr Rachel 240512
Lauren, a regular customer at Rude Dogg's, finds herself in an odd encounter with a pasty white man sporting an electric blue jumpsuit and a heavy accent behind the counter. He mistakenly accuses Lauren of being involved in illegal activities related to distributing drugs laced with vampire blood . Despite Lauren's attempts to correct the misconception, the man insists on her involvement and indirectly threatens her. He sets a supernatural ultimatum for her to uncover the real culprit behind the drug dealings by May 18 to avoid severe consequences. The situation escalates as Lauren humorously tries to navigate the misunderstanding while the man hints at a deeper and more dangerous connection to vampire affairs. Lauren, out of her depth but still spirited, plans to tackle the accusation head-on, albeit unsure of how to proceed against the supernatural trial that awaits her.
In another part of the story, Harriet, with her esteemed reputation for aiding those in trouble, receives a message about a friend involved in a dangerous summoning ritual led by The Black Flame cult. Upon arriving at the specified warehouse, she confronts the leader, SRAlexander, and his followers who are moments away from igniting a catastrophic ceremony aimed at ending the world. With unyielding calmness and authority, Harriet appeals to their sense of reason, urging them to reconsider the ramifications of their actions. The encounter turns dire as SRAlexander draws a gun and commands his followers to proceed. Harriet, unfazed, continues to persuade the group with a blend of logic and emotional appeal, emphasizing the power of hope and the potential for change over destruction. The narrative concludes with the group hesitating, showing the beginnings of doubt and reconsideration, all thanks to Harriet's intervenience.
(Lauren's odd encounter(SRRachel):SRRachel)
[Sat May 11 2024]
At the glass-barriered counter of Rude Dogg's
Right away as this store is entered are you bombarded with loud
rap, hip-hop. G-House, or phonk music, and the darkness indoors is
something to have to adjust to. There is only faint light offered
in neon-bright red, green, and yellow tints, pouring out from some
of the signs at or behind its counter, or some fluorescent ceiling
lights, dangling above a cluster of tables where riff-raff mingles
with junkies, where gangs of individuals not predisposed to let an
unknown face so much as come near their conversations, and where a
lot of conversations happen in Papiamentu, Swahili, gang-slang, or
thickly Jamaican-accented English - some convos more easily joined
than others. Between the sitting area and the counter however, not
a single bit of comfort or utility to find, excluding a worn-down
vending machine that, if it feels like it, can spit out lighters
or rolling papers, blunt wraps, and other smoking essentials.
This counter, as wide as the northern wall itself, is manned by
three people always, occupying a contrastingly decked-out booth, a
barrier of bulletproof glass between them and their clients. There
are two sliding hatches in this glass barrier, through which money
and purchased products can be exchanged, with a crackling intercom
system used to make exchanging orders and prices a bit more easily
against that backdrop of - what would by some perceived as - that
obnoxiously loud music they wield full, and proud, control over.
It is morning, about 65F(18C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey clouds.
(Your target has been accused of a crime they did not commit, and must prove their innocence within a very short amount of time, or be subject to a supernatural trial where they will likely be found guilty and severely punished.)
Early morning, and already the floor thumps with heavy bass from big, obnoxious speakers. It's dark in here, but even so, it's clear that grime clings to hard-to-reach corners, with dust and dirt perpetual between floorboard cracks. The party's going. All sorts of seedy folk are in here, some of them buzzed, and the rest well on their way. Among them is, of course, Lauren.
The guy behind the counter today isn't someone that Lauren would recognize, if she's been in here before. He's tall and pasty white, wearing an electric blue jump suit, striped sneakers, and a gold chain. It's like someone tore a page out of 'Drug Dealers 2024' and copy / pasted onto him, no originality to be found.
"You gonna buy something, little lady?"
His accent, too, is a little much. It's got the sort of heavy drawl that makes you wait, but brooks none of the same slowness in return.
"Or-- hey." He squints at Lauren. "What's your name again?"
There may be partygoers and morning drinkers present already, and sure, maybe Lauren's been known to indulge in a drink or a smoke or two in the early morning, but not this day, no. She's just here to stock up on her supply of weed, and she /has/, in fact, been here often enough to recognize that the man behind the counter isn't one she recognizes - and she would know, considering her tendencies to start chatting about the most random of things with whoever's unlucky enough to be forced to spend time in her presence due to workplace obligations. "Heya," she tells him, peering right back with a look of mild chagrin - she's obviously buying something, sheesh, just give her a second - before she brings over a baggie or two of Ghost Train Haze, plopping them on the counter in front of the guy. "Hi, Lauren, you can call me Lauren or Laurie or Ren or Lau or nothing or whatever as long as it's not weird," she answers while reaching for her wallet, not making anything of that 'again' though she's pretty sure she's never seen this guy before. "Anton not in today? He sick or something?"
"He's outta town for a while." The guy nods at Lauren's wallet. "ID." She looks her age, with time pushing and pulling at her skin, but hey, young folks today are packing plenty of stress. Possible that she's a heavily burdened teenager.
While he waits for her, he rings up the total: $24.00, plus another $4.80 in sales tax. "Wanna bag?" He's still eying her, not yet handing over the goods. "Your last name Foster, by any chance?" He'd find out soon enough, anyway, if he waited for Lauren to fork over her card.
A kid to the right of the counter has the daring to pocket a colorful tie-dye pipe, furtive as can be. "Fuckin' drop it. I'm watchin' you." He's immediately regretful, just a gangly thing, probably just out of braces. Back the pipe goes. Next to him, his friend whispers, loud enough for Lauren to hear: "Are you kidding me right now?"
Attention on Lauren again, he says, "Anton told me you'd be droppin' in."
The look Lauren shoots the guy is entirely unimpressed, and there's a grumble of 'since when did these guys start caring about ID' while she finishes up the search for money, placing a couple crumpled up bills upon the counter, and starts up the search for her ID. It's definitely somewhere in here, amidst all these cards to various fast food franchises, if she can just find it...
Lauren lets out a little 'ahuh' at the question, distracted, and then she stops entirely in her search to look back up at the dude, immediately suspicious at the last line. "Did he? How the fuck does Anton know when I'll be stopping by, I don't even have his number." It's mostly rhetorical, the sort of thing that catches her attention and then refuses to leave. To the guy, she asks, "Is he stalking me or something, do you think? Maybe I should plant cameras around my room..."
"Aw, you can drop the act." The man leans, forearms braced, against the counter. The gold chain swings. "He said you had a new shipment for him. You leave it outside, or we gotta pick it up?" He's big. The kind of big that doesn't show in flashy, gym-honed muscle.
"He told me all about your side hustle. Been cutting drugs with a little vee and reselling, right?" He tones his voice into menacing quiet. "I'm not gonna tell anyone." The gold chain swings back. He's upright again, flashing a toothy smile her way. His canines are a little longer than usual.
He's still got her weed hostage, off to the side and left unbagged. "I'm just s'pposed to get the trade done, yeah? So tell me where, I'll pay ya, and you can go on your merry way."
All of that sure would be great if Lauren had any vee-laced drugs to sell. Her eyebrows arch high, and she blurts out, before she can think about it any more than a spilt second, "You think I'm my dealer's dealer? There's some sort of dealerception going on here?" She lifts her hands in the air, mildly exasperated, and then tells the guy, "Look, I'm just here for my weed. If you can just get that done sometime soon, that'll be great." And look, there's her ID too, finally. She flashes it at the man, doesn't let it leave her hand. "Think you've got me confused with some other Foster who's got Anton's number. You should call him and ask."
"You think in this town there's *more* than one woman who fits your profile?" He cuts Lauren a look. The accent's gone, just like that. It's vaguely American, but a little off. It almost sounds like he's British. Where 'r's would be dropped, he keeps them. "Look," he says, here stepping around the counter. "I'll level with you." He won't. He's got about a half foot on Lauren, even with her heels on.
"I don't work here. Anton--" He aims a thin-lipped smile down Lauren's way. "Was smart enough to take a nice week-long vacation. You're smart too, aren't you? You know that selling to the average, brick stupid human is a no-no."
"Especially," he says. And here, he has the audacity to tilt Lauren's chin up toward him with a finger. "When they figure out what's what and start hunting *my kind* for extra supply."
"Tell me where you're keeping it and you get to keep all those pretty fingers, yeah?"
"Yeah, I'm pretty sure I saw this one blonde with like a billion piercings, more than I have, even, in that tattoo shop near here, if we're talking about profiles. It was like... three weeks ago. Somewhere around there." Lauren never learned to keep her mouth shut, even when she's being threatened with defingerification. Or maybe it's /because/ of the looming threat of defingerification that makes her mouthier. "Maybe she's your woman. Lot more tattooed than I am too. Pretty easy to tell us apart when you know what you're looking for, really. Plus I'd never do my hair like that."
A pause follows, wherein Lauren /really/ lets the gravity of the situation, and all the threats put forward sink in. There's a glance down at her fingers, and her eyes don't lift up towards the man again even if her chin remain tilted upward. No eye contact, nope. Not here, especially not when he's revealed what he is. She swallows, just the once, and then speaks up again, quieter, "I don't sell drugs. Especially not vee. I don't have what you're looking for. I give you my Venetian word and all that."
"Mm." He tilts Lauren's chin to the side, hard enough that if he put just a little more force into it...
If she weren't protected, here in Haven...
He might be able to snap her neck. "Alright." She doesn't need to see to hear the amusement in his voice.
His hands are in his pockets, and he a few steps back. It happened quick enough; his advance, should he need to make it again, would be equally as quick.
"How about this, then?" He checks his phone. "It's May 11. Let's say we give you until May 18 to find me whoever's dealing. If you get me my gal, then hey, that proves you're innocent."
And if she doesn't?
With his superhuman senses, he can probably hear the way Lauren's heart flutters in her chest, refusing to slow even after the man lets go and steps away. "Ei incumbit probatio qui dicit," she grumbles under her breath, but she's still weedless and not quite feeling brave enough to push her luck any further. It's looking up to be a bad luck sort of day. Maybe she should've just stayed in bed.
"Fine," she breathes out, glancing over at the counter and yoinking the buds she's picked out. Hers now. He doesn't even work here, like he said, so she can check herself out - she'd already paid, after all. It doesn't take her very long at all to go back to her usual self: "If Anton set you on me, should be as easy as just going over to wherever he lives and fucking him up, right?" Lauren is definitely not above a bit of breaking and entry, and she's eying the door behind the counter leading into the office as though she's going to try her luck at combing through the employee files for his address. "Shouldn't be that hard. Honestly, dunno why you're going on /me/ instead of him, what happened to shooting the messengers the good old fashioned way?"
"See, the thing is..." Sometime during their little chat, the riffraff cleared out. The intercom's gone near-silent, with just an ambient crackle. "You're assuming it's you *or* Anton." In the distance, behind Lauren, someone flashes their headlights. He looks past Lauren and nods in acknowledgment. His smile is so frequent, now, that it seems a fixture on his face. "I'm thinking that Anton's description of his connect was a little lacking. Maybe he's tired from all these long shifts, mm? Maybe we take a nice long drive out of Haven. Get the blood going to his head again. He deserves a nice vacation -- and I don't particularly need him anymore when I've got someone *competent* as a replacement."
He takes a step toward the door. His hand finds Lauren's shoulder, on the way out. "I'll be seeing you."
Lauren's face scrunches. She's reading between the lines, and between the lines say Anton's blood is going to go to his head and also to his upholstery, and she's morally opposed to murder. In fact, she's just gonna say that out loud, "I'm morally opposed to murder." There. now everyone knows - especially the vampire walking out. And then she shoots him a casual little wave, "Seeya. Good luck. I'll be, uh... around." She's definitely not planning on changing her entire identity and moving across the country instead of dealing with this, no. Definitely not.
(Your target stumbles upon a member of The Black Flame who is in the middle of a ritual designed to summon an eldritch horror. The cultist believes the creature will bring about the world's end, and it's clear they don't understand the full extent of what they're summoning. The target must intervene to stop the ritual, and may have to deal with the partially summoned horror if they fail to stop it in time.)
Harriet is in her kitchen. It's a beautiful, lavish kitchen, and she's putting a very expensive bottle of wine onto a modular rack. As she slides it into place, she looks a bit puzzled, and asks no one at all, aside from herself aloud, "Do we think it is poisoned?" about the mysteriously gifted bottle. Her lips purse, and after a sharp inhale that causes her nostrils to pinch some, she steps back and continues on with her day, wiping down the counter near the sink before heading out into the gardens of the manor. She enjoys the fine weather, heading towards the back of the property that backs into the thick forest.
There's little answer at the gift. Perhaps the thought arises of people whom Harriet could test the wine with? Surely there's no end to the Maven's willing poison testers. Not to mention half the town who would drink something simply because it might be curious and there's no end to risk adventure seeking types within the boundaries of Haven. Then again, who else would choose to live in a place like this?
It's a peaceful day, at least at the moment. The sun is hidden behind some dark clouds, a little overcast, but it's still warm despite the picking wind. The smell of the garden greets her, rich earthy scents. Perhaps some pride, in having such a quaint lovely little space to call her own? Not that she's any stranger to the pleasures of wealth.
Her phone buzzes, as if often does. One person or another whom has learned Harriet helps people, looking for help. It's usually errant questions, where's the school, hey is my teacher allowed to strap students? That machine in the back does WHAT!? And the like. This one, while no less common perhaps catches her attention.
[May 11 14:52] someone um, i think my friend might be in trouble.
There's little answer at the gift. Perhaps the thought arises of people whom Harriet could test the wine with? Surely there's no end to the Maven's willing poison testers. Not to mention half the town who would drink something simply because it might be curious and there's no end to risk adventure seeking types within the boundaries of Haven. Then again, who else would choose to live in a place like this?
It's a peaceful day, at least at the moment. The sun is hidden behind some dark clouds, a little overcast, but it's still warm despite the picking wind. The smell of the garden greets her, rich earthy scents. Perhaps some pride, in having such a quaint lovely little space to call her own? Not that she's any stranger to the pleasures of wealth.
Her phone buzzes, as if often does. One person or another whom has learned Harriet helps people, looking for help. It's usually errant questions, where's the school, hey is my teacher allowed to strap students? That machine in the back does WHAT!? And the like. This one, while no less common perhaps catches her attention.
[May 11 14:52] crispnessday: um, i think my friend might be in trouble.
Harriet already has a murder wine tester arranged for the evening, actually, which should not come as a surprise at all. There are many brave souls willing to make great sacrifices for this tall brunette, and since she has no other plans apart from that intended adventure for later tonight, she's out enjoying her very expansive and beautiful back yard. She passes by the fountain and the inground pool, weaves along the path that leads through all of the English shrubbery and flowers, and then she feels that electronic device vibrating in her hand. The screen gets unlocked and she reads over the text, then she is swiping out a reply that reads, 'All right. Where is your friend and how can I help?'
Harriet is of course, a well respected and well guarded. The natural reflex and response flies out and the response is written and deleted and written and then...flat. A minute passes, then a response appears on the screen.
[May 11 15:00] crispnessday: he's um, i think he made some friends and they're doing some kind of summoning ritual, and i think he's in trouble. it's just not like him. he's not here, I don't know where he's gone, i think he left his phone.
Peering about her property while she waits for the text, Harriet shifts her weight from one boot to the other, and then as another vibrating text alert happens, she returns her attention to the phone. "Hmm," gets hummed out in a thoughtful manner as she reads over the second message. Texting back, she sends, 'I cannot help you without any information in regards to where he is, especially if he does not have his phone. You may need to reach out to someone who has better tracking abilities than I do.' Her head tilts back and she gazes up at the sky. "I'm not an arcanist," is expressed to the air.
She does employ them, if that helps her. Perhaps not in this moment, a pain it can be to mobilize in a timeline. There's another series of written and erased messages while the person flounders on the other end, one might assume. A few minutes pass, allowing Harriet to maybe enjoy her garden? But any such enjoyment if it can be found is short lived.
[May 11 15:08] Um, okay, there's a warehouse. 37 Temple Steel. Something about a beckoning of a black flame, that's bad news right? This isn't just a rave? I didn't hear of any raves...
Harriet even dates one, but alas. She really is enjoying her garden after such a long and demanding week. The weekend, she was intending, was going to be lazy and relaxing, gathering some flowers to fashion a bouquet for her lover before taking her out later on a date, but now it seems she'll be busy yet again. As the next text arrives, she frowns a bit, debating something or other before replying. 'I'll be there,' gets sent and she walks around the vast property to get back to her Aston Martin out front. The drive to the warehouse is a casual one, and every traffic law is obeyed perfectly. Once she's arrived at the given address, she grabs her gear from the trunk, wearing her vest and making sure her gun is in her purse. With a small sigh, she heads over to the entrance and tries to get inside.
It's the personal touch of the Maven to go herself. Harriet is nothing if not a hands on leader. Perhaps that's why she has so many poison taste testers? An army of people who would fight for her, she insists on being on the front of it. Still, some might see a weariness there. A kind of annoyance of having even the simplest of plans for her day get upended by one request or another from some other lost soul who has decided she is their only life line. But then, often times, she is.
It's not a long drive from her place, especially in the Aston Martin, despite even her own grandmotherly driving sunday to church driving style. The gun in her purse is surely not some massive rifle, yet, she is famed for using such a thing. One most simply intuit the purse is larger on the inside.
The air around the Warehouse is tense. She picks up on scents, people, and then some tell tale signs of anxiety, fear. This won't be the first time someone used these Warehouses for some inane purpose. One might assume they're more frequently rented out to hide nefarious deeds rather than to store goods, and they'd be right. No less than the dock containers and what they find themselves used for.
She finds a door unlocked, a wooden wedge keeping it open, for easier smoke breaks? She may not be dealing with professionals here.
Harriet has but a small gun in her purse. There is no long rifle sticking up along her side, nor the handle of her heavy warhammer. Not today. A quick surveying of the area is performed via hazel eyes and then she cautiously pulls open the door a bit wider, taking a peek about before stepping inside. The confidence she has is palpable, and she looks like she belongs there, striding in and listening for where others may be.
It's a ring of a half dozen people, adorned in robes. Some of them look a little makeshift, blazened flamed symbols exposing them, looking hand stitched on a few. It's a mix of men and women, entirely within the college age. Probably students of white oaks. The smell of fear, tension, excitement are all in the air. The ritual they are performing looks pretty straight forward. A massive pile of wood, doused thick with gasoline, an effigy of the virgin Mary. Harriet opts to stride in without a sense of hesitation. This has a two-fold effect.
On the downside, everyone turns and stares at her, mouths agape in various looks of fear and concern and uncertainty. On the up side, nobody has lit a match.
Stepping confidently into the charged atmosphere, Harriet clears her throat gently, capturing the attention of the startled group with her calm and yet commanding presence. Her voice, always rich with a refined British accent, carries smoothly to the group, "My young friends, good afternoon." She begins with that greeting and it has warmth and firm authority all mixed into her delivery. "It seems I have stumbled upon quite the gathering, and your creativity here is striking." Hazel eyes flick over the robes and the elaborate setup. "However," gets continued as she seeks to make eye contact with each individual, one after the other, like a professional public speaker. "I implore you to consider the repercussions of your intended actions today. Who is in charge here?"
The gaggle of kids, certainly only a smattering legal to drink in the United States stare at Harriet with an entirely mix of fear and awe. There's shock there, uncertainty. Many eyes flick to each other, until a man with a dark gaze stands out. He's been watching Harriet with a steely gaze since she arrived. Slightly older than the others, his ornamentation a little bit better present. Harriet gets the sense that he's tried to...class down his attire, perhaps to fit in.
A mix of fearful looks and quite whispers are interrupted by the man who speaks out loudly. "The reprecussions are the point!" And his voice echoes off the metallic structure some. "The Black Flame is not to be trifled with. Turn around and leave us." For the moment it seems like he is able to rally the students.
Maintaining her composure, Harriet's stand is unwavering as she meets the dark eyed man's steely gaze with a level and unflinching one of her own. Conviction weighs heavily upon her tone as she begins to address him in return, "Sir, I fully respect the passion and the depth of commitment you have, but true power and wisdom do not lie in destructive acts, but in the understanding of the force behind what drives us to such extremes." She takes measured steps forward, closing the space slowly between herself and the leader. The robes are easily discernable, and so she says, "The Black Flame," in addressing the group. "By lighting this fire, you will unleash a force that you are perhaps prepared to meet, but not all share your readiness." Her gaze sweeps across the faces of the younger people. "Are you prepared for destruction? You are helping to usher in the end of the world. Are you willing and ready to die?" she wonders. "I can offer a perspective that broadens your path forward without bloodshed or regret. We can make this world a better place. We do not have to end it. It is not too far gone," is insisted to the group who is regularly trying to ensure an earlier end to Earth.
SRAlexander narrows a gaze towards Harriet. "The Earth?" he laughs. "This world is damned by people just like you, too even handed to ever take the wheel to adjust the course as needed. It ends in flames, we just prefer it to be ours!" He shots, and from his robes he pulls a gun aimed towards her! "Light the flame!" He commands, but nobody moves, all of them stand uncertainly, staring at Harriet, fearful. Perhaps of her, or the reality of the situation. He turns his gaze. "Did you truly come this far to balk at petty words by a single woman!?" He bellows, and that seems to make one person fumble in his robes, perhaps for a light?
The man narrows a gaze towards Harriet. "The Earth?" he laughs. "This world is damned by people just like you, too even handed to ever take the wheel to adjust the course as needed. It ends in flames, we just prefer it to be ours!" He shots, and from his robes he pulls a gun aimed towards her! "Light the flame!" He commands, but nobody moves, all of them stand uncertainly, staring at Harriet, fearful. Perhaps of her, or the reality of the situation. He turns his gaze. "Did you truly come this far to balk at petty words by a single woman!?" He bellows, and that seems to make one person fumble in his robes, perhaps for a light?
Harriet is unfazed by the gun that is pointed at her, and in fact a small, almost imperceptible smile graces her lips. Her voice remains steady and clear, easily heard over the murmurs of uncertainty from the group of youngsters. "Ah, sir, it appears theres been a slight misunderstanding in your otherwise commendable narrative," she begins as her gaze flickers momentarily towards the firearm with a dismissive elegance, all while she is far /too/ literal in her understanding of what the leader of this small group had said to her. "You see, I am hardly a 'single woman' as you've so quaintly put it. I am, in fact, quite splendidly claimed -- heart, mind, and soul, by the most incredible woman I have ever come across." After making it very clear she is taken, and not 'single' at all, she continues on with, "There is a flame that is far more powerful than the one you seek to light here today. This flame, is the flame of change and of hope for a future that does not have to end in ashes. I call upon you to choose to be the change. Choose to be the generation that seeks to heal, not to end. You each have so much to offer. I believe each of you has been born for such a time as this, to bring your talents forward and to put them to great use... but not to destroy all of mankind, including yourselves."
In another part of the story, Harriet, with her esteemed reputation for aiding those in trouble, receives a message about a friend involved in a dangerous summoning ritual led by The Black Flame cult. Upon arriving at the specified warehouse, she confronts the leader, SRAlexander, and his followers who are moments away from igniting a catastrophic ceremony aimed at ending the world. With unyielding calmness and authority, Harriet appeals to their sense of reason, urging them to reconsider the ramifications of their actions. The encounter turns dire as SRAlexander draws a gun and commands his followers to proceed. Harriet, unfazed, continues to persuade the group with a blend of logic and emotional appeal, emphasizing the power of hope and the potential for change over destruction. The narrative concludes with the group hesitating, showing the beginnings of doubt and reconsideration, all thanks to Harriet's intervenience.
(Lauren's odd encounter(SRRachel):SRRachel)
[Sat May 11 2024]
At the glass-barriered counter of Rude Dogg's
Right away as this store is entered are you bombarded with loud
rap, hip-hop. G-House, or phonk music, and the darkness indoors is
something to have to adjust to. There is only faint light offered
in neon-bright red, green, and yellow tints, pouring out from some
of the signs at or behind its counter, or some fluorescent ceiling
lights, dangling above a cluster of tables where riff-raff mingles
with junkies, where gangs of individuals not predisposed to let an
unknown face so much as come near their conversations, and where a
lot of conversations happen in Papiamentu, Swahili, gang-slang, or
thickly Jamaican-accented English - some convos more easily joined
than others. Between the sitting area and the counter however, not
a single bit of comfort or utility to find, excluding a worn-down
vending machine that, if it feels like it, can spit out lighters
or rolling papers, blunt wraps, and other smoking essentials.
This counter, as wide as the northern wall itself, is manned by
three people always, occupying a contrastingly decked-out booth, a
barrier of bulletproof glass between them and their clients. There
are two sliding hatches in this glass barrier, through which money
and purchased products can be exchanged, with a crackling intercom
system used to make exchanging orders and prices a bit more easily
against that backdrop of - what would by some perceived as - that
obnoxiously loud music they wield full, and proud, control over.
It is morning, about 65F(18C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey clouds.
(Your target has been accused of a crime they did not commit, and must prove their innocence within a very short amount of time, or be subject to a supernatural trial where they will likely be found guilty and severely punished.)
Early morning, and already the floor thumps with heavy bass from big, obnoxious speakers. It's dark in here, but even so, it's clear that grime clings to hard-to-reach corners, with dust and dirt perpetual between floorboard cracks. The party's going. All sorts of seedy folk are in here, some of them buzzed, and the rest well on their way. Among them is, of course, Lauren.
The guy behind the counter today isn't someone that Lauren would recognize, if she's been in here before. He's tall and pasty white, wearing an electric blue jump suit, striped sneakers, and a gold chain. It's like someone tore a page out of 'Drug Dealers 2024' and copy / pasted onto him, no originality to be found.
"You gonna buy something, little lady?"
His accent, too, is a little much. It's got the sort of heavy drawl that makes you wait, but brooks none of the same slowness in return.
"Or-- hey." He squints at Lauren. "What's your name again?"
There may be partygoers and morning drinkers present already, and sure, maybe Lauren's been known to indulge in a drink or a smoke or two in the early morning, but not this day, no. She's just here to stock up on her supply of weed, and she /has/, in fact, been here often enough to recognize that the man behind the counter isn't one she recognizes - and she would know, considering her tendencies to start chatting about the most random of things with whoever's unlucky enough to be forced to spend time in her presence due to workplace obligations. "Heya," she tells him, peering right back with a look of mild chagrin - she's obviously buying something, sheesh, just give her a second - before she brings over a baggie or two of Ghost Train Haze, plopping them on the counter in front of the guy. "Hi, Lauren, you can call me Lauren or Laurie or Ren or Lau or nothing or whatever as long as it's not weird," she answers while reaching for her wallet, not making anything of that 'again' though she's pretty sure she's never seen this guy before. "Anton not in today? He sick or something?"
"He's outta town for a while." The guy nods at Lauren's wallet. "ID." She looks her age, with time pushing and pulling at her skin, but hey, young folks today are packing plenty of stress. Possible that she's a heavily burdened teenager.
While he waits for her, he rings up the total: $24.00, plus another $4.80 in sales tax. "Wanna bag?" He's still eying her, not yet handing over the goods. "Your last name Foster, by any chance?" He'd find out soon enough, anyway, if he waited for Lauren to fork over her card.
A kid to the right of the counter has the daring to pocket a colorful tie-dye pipe, furtive as can be. "Fuckin' drop it. I'm watchin' you." He's immediately regretful, just a gangly thing, probably just out of braces. Back the pipe goes. Next to him, his friend whispers, loud enough for Lauren to hear: "Are you kidding me right now?"
Attention on Lauren again, he says, "Anton told me you'd be droppin' in."
The look Lauren shoots the guy is entirely unimpressed, and there's a grumble of 'since when did these guys start caring about ID' while she finishes up the search for money, placing a couple crumpled up bills upon the counter, and starts up the search for her ID. It's definitely somewhere in here, amidst all these cards to various fast food franchises, if she can just find it...
Lauren lets out a little 'ahuh' at the question, distracted, and then she stops entirely in her search to look back up at the dude, immediately suspicious at the last line. "Did he? How the fuck does Anton know when I'll be stopping by, I don't even have his number." It's mostly rhetorical, the sort of thing that catches her attention and then refuses to leave. To the guy, she asks, "Is he stalking me or something, do you think? Maybe I should plant cameras around my room..."
"Aw, you can drop the act." The man leans, forearms braced, against the counter. The gold chain swings. "He said you had a new shipment for him. You leave it outside, or we gotta pick it up?" He's big. The kind of big that doesn't show in flashy, gym-honed muscle.
"He told me all about your side hustle. Been cutting drugs with a little vee and reselling, right?" He tones his voice into menacing quiet. "I'm not gonna tell anyone." The gold chain swings back. He's upright again, flashing a toothy smile her way. His canines are a little longer than usual.
He's still got her weed hostage, off to the side and left unbagged. "I'm just s'pposed to get the trade done, yeah? So tell me where, I'll pay ya, and you can go on your merry way."
All of that sure would be great if Lauren had any vee-laced drugs to sell. Her eyebrows arch high, and she blurts out, before she can think about it any more than a spilt second, "You think I'm my dealer's dealer? There's some sort of dealerception going on here?" She lifts her hands in the air, mildly exasperated, and then tells the guy, "Look, I'm just here for my weed. If you can just get that done sometime soon, that'll be great." And look, there's her ID too, finally. She flashes it at the man, doesn't let it leave her hand. "Think you've got me confused with some other Foster who's got Anton's number. You should call him and ask."
"You think in this town there's *more* than one woman who fits your profile?" He cuts Lauren a look. The accent's gone, just like that. It's vaguely American, but a little off. It almost sounds like he's British. Where 'r's would be dropped, he keeps them. "Look," he says, here stepping around the counter. "I'll level with you." He won't. He's got about a half foot on Lauren, even with her heels on.
"I don't work here. Anton--" He aims a thin-lipped smile down Lauren's way. "Was smart enough to take a nice week-long vacation. You're smart too, aren't you? You know that selling to the average, brick stupid human is a no-no."
"Especially," he says. And here, he has the audacity to tilt Lauren's chin up toward him with a finger. "When they figure out what's what and start hunting *my kind* for extra supply."
"Tell me where you're keeping it and you get to keep all those pretty fingers, yeah?"
"Yeah, I'm pretty sure I saw this one blonde with like a billion piercings, more than I have, even, in that tattoo shop near here, if we're talking about profiles. It was like... three weeks ago. Somewhere around there." Lauren never learned to keep her mouth shut, even when she's being threatened with defingerification. Or maybe it's /because/ of the looming threat of defingerification that makes her mouthier. "Maybe she's your woman. Lot more tattooed than I am too. Pretty easy to tell us apart when you know what you're looking for, really. Plus I'd never do my hair like that."
A pause follows, wherein Lauren /really/ lets the gravity of the situation, and all the threats put forward sink in. There's a glance down at her fingers, and her eyes don't lift up towards the man again even if her chin remain tilted upward. No eye contact, nope. Not here, especially not when he's revealed what he is. She swallows, just the once, and then speaks up again, quieter, "I don't sell drugs. Especially not vee. I don't have what you're looking for. I give you my Venetian word and all that."
"Mm." He tilts Lauren's chin to the side, hard enough that if he put just a little more force into it...
If she weren't protected, here in Haven...
He might be able to snap her neck. "Alright." She doesn't need to see to hear the amusement in his voice.
His hands are in his pockets, and he a few steps back. It happened quick enough; his advance, should he need to make it again, would be equally as quick.
"How about this, then?" He checks his phone. "It's May 11. Let's say we give you until May 18 to find me whoever's dealing. If you get me my gal, then hey, that proves you're innocent."
And if she doesn't?
With his superhuman senses, he can probably hear the way Lauren's heart flutters in her chest, refusing to slow even after the man lets go and steps away. "Ei incumbit probatio qui dicit," she grumbles under her breath, but she's still weedless and not quite feeling brave enough to push her luck any further. It's looking up to be a bad luck sort of day. Maybe she should've just stayed in bed.
"Fine," she breathes out, glancing over at the counter and yoinking the buds she's picked out. Hers now. He doesn't even work here, like he said, so she can check herself out - she'd already paid, after all. It doesn't take her very long at all to go back to her usual self: "If Anton set you on me, should be as easy as just going over to wherever he lives and fucking him up, right?" Lauren is definitely not above a bit of breaking and entry, and she's eying the door behind the counter leading into the office as though she's going to try her luck at combing through the employee files for his address. "Shouldn't be that hard. Honestly, dunno why you're going on /me/ instead of him, what happened to shooting the messengers the good old fashioned way?"
"See, the thing is..." Sometime during their little chat, the riffraff cleared out. The intercom's gone near-silent, with just an ambient crackle. "You're assuming it's you *or* Anton." In the distance, behind Lauren, someone flashes their headlights. He looks past Lauren and nods in acknowledgment. His smile is so frequent, now, that it seems a fixture on his face. "I'm thinking that Anton's description of his connect was a little lacking. Maybe he's tired from all these long shifts, mm? Maybe we take a nice long drive out of Haven. Get the blood going to his head again. He deserves a nice vacation -- and I don't particularly need him anymore when I've got someone *competent* as a replacement."
He takes a step toward the door. His hand finds Lauren's shoulder, on the way out. "I'll be seeing you."
Lauren's face scrunches. She's reading between the lines, and between the lines say Anton's blood is going to go to his head and also to his upholstery, and she's morally opposed to murder. In fact, she's just gonna say that out loud, "I'm morally opposed to murder." There. now everyone knows - especially the vampire walking out. And then she shoots him a casual little wave, "Seeya. Good luck. I'll be, uh... around." She's definitely not planning on changing her entire identity and moving across the country instead of dealing with this, no. Definitely not.
(Your target stumbles upon a member of The Black Flame who is in the middle of a ritual designed to summon an eldritch horror. The cultist believes the creature will bring about the world's end, and it's clear they don't understand the full extent of what they're summoning. The target must intervene to stop the ritual, and may have to deal with the partially summoned horror if they fail to stop it in time.)
Harriet is in her kitchen. It's a beautiful, lavish kitchen, and she's putting a very expensive bottle of wine onto a modular rack. As she slides it into place, she looks a bit puzzled, and asks no one at all, aside from herself aloud, "Do we think it is poisoned?" about the mysteriously gifted bottle. Her lips purse, and after a sharp inhale that causes her nostrils to pinch some, she steps back and continues on with her day, wiping down the counter near the sink before heading out into the gardens of the manor. She enjoys the fine weather, heading towards the back of the property that backs into the thick forest.
There's little answer at the gift. Perhaps the thought arises of people whom Harriet could test the wine with? Surely there's no end to the Maven's willing poison testers. Not to mention half the town who would drink something simply because it might be curious and there's no end to risk adventure seeking types within the boundaries of Haven. Then again, who else would choose to live in a place like this?
It's a peaceful day, at least at the moment. The sun is hidden behind some dark clouds, a little overcast, but it's still warm despite the picking wind. The smell of the garden greets her, rich earthy scents. Perhaps some pride, in having such a quaint lovely little space to call her own? Not that she's any stranger to the pleasures of wealth.
Her phone buzzes, as if often does. One person or another whom has learned Harriet helps people, looking for help. It's usually errant questions, where's the school, hey is my teacher allowed to strap students? That machine in the back does WHAT!? And the like. This one, while no less common perhaps catches her attention.
[May 11 14:52] someone um, i think my friend might be in trouble.
There's little answer at the gift. Perhaps the thought arises of people whom Harriet could test the wine with? Surely there's no end to the Maven's willing poison testers. Not to mention half the town who would drink something simply because it might be curious and there's no end to risk adventure seeking types within the boundaries of Haven. Then again, who else would choose to live in a place like this?
It's a peaceful day, at least at the moment. The sun is hidden behind some dark clouds, a little overcast, but it's still warm despite the picking wind. The smell of the garden greets her, rich earthy scents. Perhaps some pride, in having such a quaint lovely little space to call her own? Not that she's any stranger to the pleasures of wealth.
Her phone buzzes, as if often does. One person or another whom has learned Harriet helps people, looking for help. It's usually errant questions, where's the school, hey is my teacher allowed to strap students? That machine in the back does WHAT!? And the like. This one, while no less common perhaps catches her attention.
[May 11 14:52] crispnessday: um, i think my friend might be in trouble.
Harriet already has a murder wine tester arranged for the evening, actually, which should not come as a surprise at all. There are many brave souls willing to make great sacrifices for this tall brunette, and since she has no other plans apart from that intended adventure for later tonight, she's out enjoying her very expansive and beautiful back yard. She passes by the fountain and the inground pool, weaves along the path that leads through all of the English shrubbery and flowers, and then she feels that electronic device vibrating in her hand. The screen gets unlocked and she reads over the text, then she is swiping out a reply that reads, 'All right. Where is your friend and how can I help?'
Harriet is of course, a well respected and well guarded. The natural reflex and response flies out and the response is written and deleted and written and then...flat. A minute passes, then a response appears on the screen.
[May 11 15:00] crispnessday: he's um, i think he made some friends and they're doing some kind of summoning ritual, and i think he's in trouble. it's just not like him. he's not here, I don't know where he's gone, i think he left his phone.
Peering about her property while she waits for the text, Harriet shifts her weight from one boot to the other, and then as another vibrating text alert happens, she returns her attention to the phone. "Hmm," gets hummed out in a thoughtful manner as she reads over the second message. Texting back, she sends, 'I cannot help you without any information in regards to where he is, especially if he does not have his phone. You may need to reach out to someone who has better tracking abilities than I do.' Her head tilts back and she gazes up at the sky. "I'm not an arcanist," is expressed to the air.
She does employ them, if that helps her. Perhaps not in this moment, a pain it can be to mobilize in a timeline. There's another series of written and erased messages while the person flounders on the other end, one might assume. A few minutes pass, allowing Harriet to maybe enjoy her garden? But any such enjoyment if it can be found is short lived.
[May 11 15:08] Um, okay, there's a warehouse. 37 Temple Steel. Something about a beckoning of a black flame, that's bad news right? This isn't just a rave? I didn't hear of any raves...
Harriet even dates one, but alas. She really is enjoying her garden after such a long and demanding week. The weekend, she was intending, was going to be lazy and relaxing, gathering some flowers to fashion a bouquet for her lover before taking her out later on a date, but now it seems she'll be busy yet again. As the next text arrives, she frowns a bit, debating something or other before replying. 'I'll be there,' gets sent and she walks around the vast property to get back to her Aston Martin out front. The drive to the warehouse is a casual one, and every traffic law is obeyed perfectly. Once she's arrived at the given address, she grabs her gear from the trunk, wearing her vest and making sure her gun is in her purse. With a small sigh, she heads over to the entrance and tries to get inside.
It's the personal touch of the Maven to go herself. Harriet is nothing if not a hands on leader. Perhaps that's why she has so many poison taste testers? An army of people who would fight for her, she insists on being on the front of it. Still, some might see a weariness there. A kind of annoyance of having even the simplest of plans for her day get upended by one request or another from some other lost soul who has decided she is their only life line. But then, often times, she is.
It's not a long drive from her place, especially in the Aston Martin, despite even her own grandmotherly driving sunday to church driving style. The gun in her purse is surely not some massive rifle, yet, she is famed for using such a thing. One most simply intuit the purse is larger on the inside.
The air around the Warehouse is tense. She picks up on scents, people, and then some tell tale signs of anxiety, fear. This won't be the first time someone used these Warehouses for some inane purpose. One might assume they're more frequently rented out to hide nefarious deeds rather than to store goods, and they'd be right. No less than the dock containers and what they find themselves used for.
She finds a door unlocked, a wooden wedge keeping it open, for easier smoke breaks? She may not be dealing with professionals here.
Harriet has but a small gun in her purse. There is no long rifle sticking up along her side, nor the handle of her heavy warhammer. Not today. A quick surveying of the area is performed via hazel eyes and then she cautiously pulls open the door a bit wider, taking a peek about before stepping inside. The confidence she has is palpable, and she looks like she belongs there, striding in and listening for where others may be.
It's a ring of a half dozen people, adorned in robes. Some of them look a little makeshift, blazened flamed symbols exposing them, looking hand stitched on a few. It's a mix of men and women, entirely within the college age. Probably students of white oaks. The smell of fear, tension, excitement are all in the air. The ritual they are performing looks pretty straight forward. A massive pile of wood, doused thick with gasoline, an effigy of the virgin Mary. Harriet opts to stride in without a sense of hesitation. This has a two-fold effect.
On the downside, everyone turns and stares at her, mouths agape in various looks of fear and concern and uncertainty. On the up side, nobody has lit a match.
Stepping confidently into the charged atmosphere, Harriet clears her throat gently, capturing the attention of the startled group with her calm and yet commanding presence. Her voice, always rich with a refined British accent, carries smoothly to the group, "My young friends, good afternoon." She begins with that greeting and it has warmth and firm authority all mixed into her delivery. "It seems I have stumbled upon quite the gathering, and your creativity here is striking." Hazel eyes flick over the robes and the elaborate setup. "However," gets continued as she seeks to make eye contact with each individual, one after the other, like a professional public speaker. "I implore you to consider the repercussions of your intended actions today. Who is in charge here?"
The gaggle of kids, certainly only a smattering legal to drink in the United States stare at Harriet with an entirely mix of fear and awe. There's shock there, uncertainty. Many eyes flick to each other, until a man with a dark gaze stands out. He's been watching Harriet with a steely gaze since she arrived. Slightly older than the others, his ornamentation a little bit better present. Harriet gets the sense that he's tried to...class down his attire, perhaps to fit in.
A mix of fearful looks and quite whispers are interrupted by the man who speaks out loudly. "The reprecussions are the point!" And his voice echoes off the metallic structure some. "The Black Flame is not to be trifled with. Turn around and leave us." For the moment it seems like he is able to rally the students.
Maintaining her composure, Harriet's stand is unwavering as she meets the dark eyed man's steely gaze with a level and unflinching one of her own. Conviction weighs heavily upon her tone as she begins to address him in return, "Sir, I fully respect the passion and the depth of commitment you have, but true power and wisdom do not lie in destructive acts, but in the understanding of the force behind what drives us to such extremes." She takes measured steps forward, closing the space slowly between herself and the leader. The robes are easily discernable, and so she says, "The Black Flame," in addressing the group. "By lighting this fire, you will unleash a force that you are perhaps prepared to meet, but not all share your readiness." Her gaze sweeps across the faces of the younger people. "Are you prepared for destruction? You are helping to usher in the end of the world. Are you willing and ready to die?" she wonders. "I can offer a perspective that broadens your path forward without bloodshed or regret. We can make this world a better place. We do not have to end it. It is not too far gone," is insisted to the group who is regularly trying to ensure an earlier end to Earth.
SRAlexander narrows a gaze towards Harriet. "The Earth?" he laughs. "This world is damned by people just like you, too even handed to ever take the wheel to adjust the course as needed. It ends in flames, we just prefer it to be ours!" He shots, and from his robes he pulls a gun aimed towards her! "Light the flame!" He commands, but nobody moves, all of them stand uncertainly, staring at Harriet, fearful. Perhaps of her, or the reality of the situation. He turns his gaze. "Did you truly come this far to balk at petty words by a single woman!?" He bellows, and that seems to make one person fumble in his robes, perhaps for a light?
The man narrows a gaze towards Harriet. "The Earth?" he laughs. "This world is damned by people just like you, too even handed to ever take the wheel to adjust the course as needed. It ends in flames, we just prefer it to be ours!" He shots, and from his robes he pulls a gun aimed towards her! "Light the flame!" He commands, but nobody moves, all of them stand uncertainly, staring at Harriet, fearful. Perhaps of her, or the reality of the situation. He turns his gaze. "Did you truly come this far to balk at petty words by a single woman!?" He bellows, and that seems to make one person fumble in his robes, perhaps for a light?
Harriet is unfazed by the gun that is pointed at her, and in fact a small, almost imperceptible smile graces her lips. Her voice remains steady and clear, easily heard over the murmurs of uncertainty from the group of youngsters. "Ah, sir, it appears theres been a slight misunderstanding in your otherwise commendable narrative," she begins as her gaze flickers momentarily towards the firearm with a dismissive elegance, all while she is far /too/ literal in her understanding of what the leader of this small group had said to her. "You see, I am hardly a 'single woman' as you've so quaintly put it. I am, in fact, quite splendidly claimed -- heart, mind, and soul, by the most incredible woman I have ever come across." After making it very clear she is taken, and not 'single' at all, she continues on with, "There is a flame that is far more powerful than the one you seek to light here today. This flame, is the flame of change and of hope for a future that does not have to end in ashes. I call upon you to choose to be the change. Choose to be the generation that seeks to heal, not to end. You each have so much to offer. I believe each of you has been born for such a time as this, to bring your talents forward and to put them to great use... but not to destroy all of mankind, including yourselves."