Encounterlogs
Liesls Odd Encounter Sr Justin 250409
In the heart of the lively, incense-tinted atmosphere of the Great News Community Center's bookstore, Liesl delves into the pages of various philosophical and self-help books, seeking answers to deeply buried questions. Amid the bustle of students and seekers, a mysterious, cloaked figure enters unnoticed by all but Liesl. This shadowy visitor, after lingering around Liesl and causing a minor disturbance, slips away into a restricted area of the bookstore. Faced with curiosity, Liesl puts aside a captivating novel and embarks on a journey following the stranger, which leads her through an industrial door and into the stockroom. There she overhears a cryptic conversation, hinting at her being spotted by the cult, and encounters a mirror that serves as a portal into the Nightmare, pulling her into a world shaped by the malignant influence of The Black Flame cult.
Propelled into the surreal and alarming domain of the cult's making, Liesl confronts the chilling sight of normal people unknowingly ensnared by corrupting scriptures. She finds herself in the middle of a ritual, targeted for erasure of her memory by the cult's sinister plans. However, as Roderick, the cultist, attempts to strike her, the very fabric of the Nightmare retaliates, disarming him and spiraling the situation out of his control. Liesl, seizing the moment of chaos, clings to her trinkets and her resolve, finding her way back through the mirror to the stockroom of the bookstore. The ordeal ends with an evacuation due to a supposed gas leak, leaving Liesl amongst other bewildered patrons on the street, pondering the night's surreal experiences and the lurking presence of The Black Flame in Haven, with only the memory of a novel hidden away and the echoes of a corrupted world lingering in her mind.
(Liesl's odd encounter(SRJustin):SRJustin)
[Sun Apr 6 2025]
In the bookstore of Great News Community Center
The religious bookstore buzzes with a lively blend of spirituality and college spirit. Shelves packed with religious texts from foundational scriptures to modern commentaries crisscross the space, alongside vibrant displays of apparel from the nearby religious college. The air, tinged with the faint scent of incense, carries the excited chatter of students debating theological concepts or showing off their latest hoodie emblazoned with the college logo. In one corner, religious music plays, adding to the store's energetic vibe. Amidst this bustling atmosphere, visitors navigate a colorful maze of spiritual literature and collegiate pride, the space a dynamic reflection of faith meeting youthful energy and community identity.
It is after dusk, about 67F(19C) degrees, There is a waxing gibbous moon.
(Your target has stumbled upon a hidden ritual site of The Black Flame cult. They must either infiltrate the site to gather information about their sinister plans or try to disrupt the ritual without bringing the wrath of the cult upon themselves. The encounter could involve stealth elements, combat against cult members, or a race against time to stop the ritual from being completed.)
Liesl has retreated within the bookstore of Great News Community center, standing between two tables piled with a bunch of used and old books. All hand-me-downs mostly of the self-help and motivational books to get one out of their funk. She's rummaging through them, taking her time and going through each title and synopsis one by one. In her hands, each book has the same ending: Turned over, studying the illustrations on the back, then moving on to the next one.
In a time where the world's end is on the horizon, the anodyne of religious literature is held close to the heart. Particularly on this Sunday evening, Liesl's explorations of different philosophies may be flanked by other seekers: those that, too, are window-shopping for the solution for their problems. However, through the haze of incense and the chatter of New Age solutions, an oddity induces from the street -- a feminine figure, drabbed in a cloak of all black, moving skittishly into the Community Center - with dusk on her heels. Far be it from the other patrons to recognize her entry, it's as if they cannot perceive her; and even so, she moves with the certainty that they cannot perceive her in turn. Her gaze lingers on a spare patron, then the cashier; and then, on Liesl. Looking over her shoulder, like a ghost.
Part of Liesl's conundrum is identifying what the problem she has in the first place. Everyone infers there's something up, but she can't quite figure it out yet. Consulting the books here in the community center bears no answer either, but she finds comfort in flipping through slightly aged and worn paperback books all the same. The hardcover books are far too bulky and clumsy to her liking, so she stays clear of those. Sometimes she'll come across fictional novels, and those hold her interest the most. Inquisitive at heart, every new arrival here in the bookstore catches her attention too, even the one that drifts in like a spirit. She sights the newest newcomer with a slight shift in her stance, half-minding the novel about an adventuring party, and half on the lady.
The tract in Liesl's hand bares some realization from the interloper -- how her pensive expression turns to a smirk underneath the heavy drape of her deep hood. However, the hair-raising consequence of Liesl's attention scarcely focusing upon her: it is enough to cause the hooded figure to scatter, to flee, to duck behind the many different translations of holy books held for sale in the Center. There is a clatter on the far side of the shelf, as someone is thrown to the ground in a commotion against a display: how to find balance in life. "Oh my Gods, are you alright?" is heard, as a good Samaritan moves to assist. "I'm sorry, I just-- it felt like someone bumped into me..." .... Around the corner, the hooded figure continues her egress: heading for the backroom.
Liesl looks between the book in her hand, and to the commotion where someone left in a hurry. The swivel of her head repeats enough times to indicate she might be trying to cross the street, and as her gaze lingers on the high fantasy novel by Terry Brooks, she exhales a soft sigh. It took a whole seven minutes and forty nine seconds for her to find something that was of interest to her here in the used bookstore. But she wants to know what's what, and who's who today. Turning about, she buries the book under a pile of other uninteresting (to her) paperbacks, like a hound burying a bone for safekeeping. She'll be back.
That task finished, she moves on to pass by the fallen fellow and good Samaritan, pausing to give them a quick look see before she moves on, trailing after the strange lady acting like the evasive street rat. Maybe she wants to let her know about an updated terms of service.
This special novel is buried like a seed in the shelves; whether it will be in bloom when Liesl returns to it, remains to be seen.
In the act of following, Liesl would come unto an industrial firedoor: heading back into the stockroom, of course. Its alarm wires short-circuited by some nebulous manipulation on the side, allowing for clandestine comings and goings behind the bookstacks. On the precipice of pursuit, muffled voices sound about the corner. They echo to Liesl's ears.
"Shit, someone saw me." The report of the ghost.
"Come here, to the mirror." A stranger, male, perturbed.
Shadows flicker, and light flees from the stockroom: it's as if Liesl blinked her eyes unconsciously. Where there were two presences, now none remain. The Nightmare has opened to them - the other side of the silvered reflection, in which Liesl can see herself in that mirror.
Liesl treks through a corridor, pushing past the firedoor. Seeking to find her bearings, she sets a palm against a wall, bidding it to be her guiding light as she slowly hounds after the fleeing ghost, digging into the tiny back pocket of her denims. A quarter has been kept waiting there, and she's decided this will be key to telling her story when any questions should come her way.
The voices are just what she needs to keep the trail fresh. Coming from the stockroom, that's naturally where she finds herself headed, not bothering to knock, she opens the door and peeks inside, blonde head poking in. Only to find that mirror. She pauses there, befuddled by her appearance, her eyebrows tensing at what she sees. She has her Nightmare charm, but she hesitates.
"Should I?" she asks the reflection.
"Should I?" echoes Liesl's reflection in the mirror. Hesitation hangs heavy in the stockroom -- boxes, some sealed, some cut open and half-dispersed. Dust stirred into the rays cast down from old, humming light tubes. In this room are a thousand different answers to that question, penned and printed to infinitum by publishing houses: either seeking to get their message to as many souls as possible, or seeking to take the money of as many souls as possible. It may come down to the coinflip. The quarter, a fair risk -- to go or not to go. And if Liesl were to flip it, best to decide what side means which - before the coin falls as it may. Else, it would be cheating.
Liesl breathes a breathy breath, fingers clasping tight to the quarter growing sweaty in her clutch. Something about her reflection brings her mild discomfort, but she stares back at her doppleganger all the same, brow furrowing with determination. "Heads. I go inside. Tails, I go get my book and see my sister," she tells Lisa two. Twisting her hand, she uncurls her fingers, palms facing the ceiling. Then with a flick of her wrist, sends George Washington and the American Eagle on the other side up up and away, waiting for fate to decide her lot tonight.
With a flick of the thumb, George goes up into a tumble -- catching the light, as the coin twirls in the air. Unfortunately, Liesl will not be around to catch it.
With the whiplash of a car collision, Liesl is ripped into the Nightmare. The stomach churning, flipping once over, as proportion and scenery overgrow. She is in the belly of the beast; or, some synthesis of unknowable flesh that oozes and ripples along the walls of the community center - some ill reflection of an abomination, larger than even Good News.
Three figures stand to greet her. Two are in shock; the other, drawing down on her with some manner of ceremonial saber. "Roderick, no!" cries the ghost, aghast. But Roderick, an enigma underneath his robe save for his sneer, insists on keeping Liesl at swordpoint. "This is the one who saw you?" he asks over his shoulder, to cultish company. "Well, well. I'll just have to cut out her good eye."
The quarter lands in the Real: heads up.
Liesl emerges in a posture fit for a superhero flick: she's on a knee, and rises slowly, meeting the saber pointed at her coolly. "Hello," she greets as cordially as one with a dead, detached voice such as hers can. "You. Dropped something," she levels at the ghost, whilst keeping her gaze locked on the figure holding her at swordpoint. She makes no sudden movements, only one defensive step back, nice and slow, wanting to distance herself from the sharp end of a pointy blade if she could help it. All the while, her left hand's fingers twitch, growing restless, wanting to go for her six shooter.
Roderick throws back his hood, showing the mania on his plucked brow. Simply a normal guy, if spotted outside of the old regalia of ceremonial acolyte robes. The tension could be cut with his saber; save, for the grumbling and bellyaching of the being they are within. Wisps of flesh and shadow spin and writhe at the edges of the stockroom, growing agitated - angered, trespassed upon. "You must be one of those ... yes, yes," he schemes, meaning to bring the saber to Liesl's chin: passive pressure to lift her up from her feet, with razor against neck.
"Let your curiosity get the better of you."
Another, "Roderick, no!" from the ghost; but her objections are being hushed by the third party, confiding something in her ear. Would Liesl be guided out as hostage - for the moment - or, would she make her objection known?
Liesl flattens herself against the wall at her back, little it'd to to protect her against the blade, but maybe she's just trying to avoid a close shave from its sharp edge. Studying the saber levied at her, she presses her lips together contemplatively. Identifying its make. "Guilty as charged," she agrees to the assumption, exhaling softly. She looks to be stuck between a rock and a sharp place. "Is this the end of me/" she asks, not directed at anyone. It's like she were breaking the fourth wall at that point. It could be some sort of coping mechanism when the going gets rough. Or to needle out some sympathy for her cause.
"No... no. It is not the end, not yet," sayeth Liesl's captor. He would gently guide his hostage, at blade-point, back to the religious scriptures of Good News. As the hallucinations of the Nightmare are made apparent to the physical eye, Liesl would behold...
The same people that she had shared the space before with - some new had come, others had gone in the late hour -- meandering through literature that is sullied, soiled, corroded, defiled by the ichor of whatever master these cultists serve. Where a wounded heart would come to seek wisdom, they open a book and find the maddening whispers spoken to their subconscious. These psychically illuminated, tainted scriptures - they are the uneasy construction of the trio of cultists. And judging from the sickness apparent in the Nightmare, they are quite good at it.
Now, it is the third party's turn to speak: he levies an idea to Liesl with the charisma of an evangelist. "Have you ever felt lost, in life? As if the world was coming to an end?" The sentiment can hardly escape his lips without his hiccup of glee to the notion. "The world is busy serving masters that will pass away -- that will go with the world, when it ends. Why wouldn't you build your foundation on something that will survive the oncoming end?"
Metaphorical tendrils pollute the minds of innocent shoppers of literature, as Liesl beholds the corruption before her very eyes.
Liesl finds herself where she was a moment ago. Transitioning through the Nightmare always made her feel queasy, and the sense of deja vu doesn't help one bit. She looks unsteady, and holds a hand to her head, looking a touch perturbed. It's difficult to tell whether she's actually there or not, but the distortions help bring context, and she knows she's still somewhere that's both here and there.
"Sure do," she answers forthrightly and honestly. She's always been lost. Like many others. And found herself in Haven. What the man speaks is something shes heard time and time again. Same deal, different voice. She plays along though. Maybe the insight he offers will be different from the rest. "Tell me more," she says, to the tune of being suspiciously rehearse to buy some time.
"You can already see through the trick of the unknown," hums the third party - he is an advocate on Liesl's behalf to Roderick, who is still in the smiting mood. "That is the first obstacle, and you've passed it without even trying. Next comes the death of the ego... Souls will not survive the exchange from this reality to the next, so, you must be rid of it." He is a true believer. "I have some literature that will prepare you for the--"
"Shhh!" claims the ghost, her paranoid eyes flickering about to the phantasms and shadows in the store. "You'll speak too loud, they can't hear the message." She hovers over the shoulder of another woman -- just as she had over Liesl's, before the masquerade was shattered. Regardless of whatever truth this poor seeker was pursuing, her forehead creases with the migraine of inexpressible frustrations. Illness, leaping from the pages of self-help - corrupted, stained, bloody like red meat. The beast they are within shudders with inexplicable emotion.
"Sure. I-" Liesl would have liked to say more, but the interjection from the ghost derails her train of thought. She tears her eyes from the images of a bookstore past, lending an eye at the collection of souls, on her best behavior. The sword kept pointed at her imperiously keeps her on their good side, though she's not nearly as impulsive enough to do anything dramatic. She does not like that tremor of emotion, and hugs at her sides, growing quiet.
"It is a lost cause," Roderick has judged Liesl, in spite of the third party's defenses: "It's jeopardized our work here. We will have to make her forget."
The attending duo shrink away from the saber-wielder's ultimatum, seeming reluctant to put their neck out on Liesl's behalf. And with a cruel skill, Roderick flips his blade to the flat-end-- aligning it with Liesl's temple, making ready to strike her with a blunted end. A skull crack, maybe. "When you wake up, you won't remember anything. Especially how you went blind." Here's the wind up...
Liesl clasps her hands over her waist, taking a deep breath, seemingly resigned to her fate. Her eyes follow the length of the blade, all the way to its tip, then all eyes are on for the hot-blooded Roderick, giving him a nod of affirmation, reading out like, 'Do it'. Like Catherine of Howard, Lady Jane Grey, and Anne Boleyn of Bologna, she seems ready to accept her fate stoically and on her terms, with a dignified front. "Do your worst then," she says, tempting fate.
... And the strike swings towards Liesl's skull -- however! The metal in Roderick's blade betrays him: ripping itself out of his hands, and careening through the shimmers of projections in the Real. His saber finds itself embedded in the ooze of whatever living muck corrodes this place -- was nurtured, by these three occult. And the Nightmare begins to tremble, as its projection shifts.
"Shit, shit shit!" cries the ghost, ducking for cover behind the bookstacks. "People aren't just normal here, Roderick!" she wails; meanwhile, the third party is scrambling away through the nearby wall. Roderick fumbles off after his blade, but the belly of the beast begins to turn over itself. It feels as though ... something is being unwound. How would Liesl ride this psychic wave?
Liesl clutches at her head, growing woozy. She looks mildly uncomfortable now, and red begins to bead down her left nostril that came after the onset of this commotion. Roderick goes this way, she slips the other way, lowering her head and clasping her charm tucked against the beltloop next to her precious tamagotchi, feeling around with her free hand, looking for an out herself.
Just as those in the Nightmare would feel shaken by the psychic shrug of the Presence there, the people within the religious bookstore also tremble-- the flicker of lights, the chill of goose-bumps up the small hairs on the back of the neck. These shudders betray the calamity in the Dream, as Liesl seeks a way out. She finds her reflection once more in the stockroom, the mirror not yet consumed by the ichorous malaise. And with a sudden -jaunt-, the curious is back where she started.
Her quarter, lies at her feet. Heads.
A fire alarm is tripped and blaring, but there is no smoke. The heady murmurs of sick people are filing out to the street. "It must be a gas leak," Liesl would hear one of them say. It's one of the only logical explanations for a room full of people to all grow ill at the same time.
Liesl finds herself staring at her reflection again. Except this time she's tumbled onto her rear, looking a little worse for wear. She rubs at her nostrils when she sees the blood dripping down her lip, and the mirror image does the same, completely in sync. She mumbles to herself and ponderously pushes herself to her feet, pausing when she sees that quarter. In the end, she decides to leave it there. She has a better coin at home. Far luckier. When she tries to return to the bookstore for the novel that caught her interest, she is likely turned away to evacuate to the street with the others.
It seems that the novel that Liesl buried will remain underneath its fertile soil; though, whether those tomes are tainted by the illness of the cult remain to be seen. Images of a world inferno, burning to obsidian - these haunt Liesl's mind's eye for hours to come. The Black Flame -- here, in Haven? Where else would they be, if not here also?
At least, the night air is refreshing. It would siphon away the phantom traces of ichor and brimstone that still haunt the senses.
Propelled into the surreal and alarming domain of the cult's making, Liesl confronts the chilling sight of normal people unknowingly ensnared by corrupting scriptures. She finds herself in the middle of a ritual, targeted for erasure of her memory by the cult's sinister plans. However, as Roderick, the cultist, attempts to strike her, the very fabric of the Nightmare retaliates, disarming him and spiraling the situation out of his control. Liesl, seizing the moment of chaos, clings to her trinkets and her resolve, finding her way back through the mirror to the stockroom of the bookstore. The ordeal ends with an evacuation due to a supposed gas leak, leaving Liesl amongst other bewildered patrons on the street, pondering the night's surreal experiences and the lurking presence of The Black Flame in Haven, with only the memory of a novel hidden away and the echoes of a corrupted world lingering in her mind.
(Liesl's odd encounter(SRJustin):SRJustin)
[Sun Apr 6 2025]
In the bookstore of Great News Community Center
The religious bookstore buzzes with a lively blend of spirituality and college spirit. Shelves packed with religious texts from foundational scriptures to modern commentaries crisscross the space, alongside vibrant displays of apparel from the nearby religious college. The air, tinged with the faint scent of incense, carries the excited chatter of students debating theological concepts or showing off their latest hoodie emblazoned with the college logo. In one corner, religious music plays, adding to the store's energetic vibe. Amidst this bustling atmosphere, visitors navigate a colorful maze of spiritual literature and collegiate pride, the space a dynamic reflection of faith meeting youthful energy and community identity.
It is after dusk, about 67F(19C) degrees, There is a waxing gibbous moon.
(Your target has stumbled upon a hidden ritual site of The Black Flame cult. They must either infiltrate the site to gather information about their sinister plans or try to disrupt the ritual without bringing the wrath of the cult upon themselves. The encounter could involve stealth elements, combat against cult members, or a race against time to stop the ritual from being completed.)
Liesl has retreated within the bookstore of Great News Community center, standing between two tables piled with a bunch of used and old books. All hand-me-downs mostly of the self-help and motivational books to get one out of their funk. She's rummaging through them, taking her time and going through each title and synopsis one by one. In her hands, each book has the same ending: Turned over, studying the illustrations on the back, then moving on to the next one.
In a time where the world's end is on the horizon, the anodyne of religious literature is held close to the heart. Particularly on this Sunday evening, Liesl's explorations of different philosophies may be flanked by other seekers: those that, too, are window-shopping for the solution for their problems. However, through the haze of incense and the chatter of New Age solutions, an oddity induces from the street -- a feminine figure, drabbed in a cloak of all black, moving skittishly into the Community Center - with dusk on her heels. Far be it from the other patrons to recognize her entry, it's as if they cannot perceive her; and even so, she moves with the certainty that they cannot perceive her in turn. Her gaze lingers on a spare patron, then the cashier; and then, on Liesl. Looking over her shoulder, like a ghost.
Part of Liesl's conundrum is identifying what the problem she has in the first place. Everyone infers there's something up, but she can't quite figure it out yet. Consulting the books here in the community center bears no answer either, but she finds comfort in flipping through slightly aged and worn paperback books all the same. The hardcover books are far too bulky and clumsy to her liking, so she stays clear of those. Sometimes she'll come across fictional novels, and those hold her interest the most. Inquisitive at heart, every new arrival here in the bookstore catches her attention too, even the one that drifts in like a spirit. She sights the newest newcomer with a slight shift in her stance, half-minding the novel about an adventuring party, and half on the lady.
The tract in Liesl's hand bares some realization from the interloper -- how her pensive expression turns to a smirk underneath the heavy drape of her deep hood. However, the hair-raising consequence of Liesl's attention scarcely focusing upon her: it is enough to cause the hooded figure to scatter, to flee, to duck behind the many different translations of holy books held for sale in the Center. There is a clatter on the far side of the shelf, as someone is thrown to the ground in a commotion against a display: how to find balance in life. "Oh my Gods, are you alright?" is heard, as a good Samaritan moves to assist. "I'm sorry, I just-- it felt like someone bumped into me..." .... Around the corner, the hooded figure continues her egress: heading for the backroom.
Liesl looks between the book in her hand, and to the commotion where someone left in a hurry. The swivel of her head repeats enough times to indicate she might be trying to cross the street, and as her gaze lingers on the high fantasy novel by Terry Brooks, she exhales a soft sigh. It took a whole seven minutes and forty nine seconds for her to find something that was of interest to her here in the used bookstore. But she wants to know what's what, and who's who today. Turning about, she buries the book under a pile of other uninteresting (to her) paperbacks, like a hound burying a bone for safekeeping. She'll be back.
That task finished, she moves on to pass by the fallen fellow and good Samaritan, pausing to give them a quick look see before she moves on, trailing after the strange lady acting like the evasive street rat. Maybe she wants to let her know about an updated terms of service.
This special novel is buried like a seed in the shelves; whether it will be in bloom when Liesl returns to it, remains to be seen.
In the act of following, Liesl would come unto an industrial firedoor: heading back into the stockroom, of course. Its alarm wires short-circuited by some nebulous manipulation on the side, allowing for clandestine comings and goings behind the bookstacks. On the precipice of pursuit, muffled voices sound about the corner. They echo to Liesl's ears.
"Shit, someone saw me." The report of the ghost.
"Come here, to the mirror." A stranger, male, perturbed.
Shadows flicker, and light flees from the stockroom: it's as if Liesl blinked her eyes unconsciously. Where there were two presences, now none remain. The Nightmare has opened to them - the other side of the silvered reflection, in which Liesl can see herself in that mirror.
Liesl treks through a corridor, pushing past the firedoor. Seeking to find her bearings, she sets a palm against a wall, bidding it to be her guiding light as she slowly hounds after the fleeing ghost, digging into the tiny back pocket of her denims. A quarter has been kept waiting there, and she's decided this will be key to telling her story when any questions should come her way.
The voices are just what she needs to keep the trail fresh. Coming from the stockroom, that's naturally where she finds herself headed, not bothering to knock, she opens the door and peeks inside, blonde head poking in. Only to find that mirror. She pauses there, befuddled by her appearance, her eyebrows tensing at what she sees. She has her Nightmare charm, but she hesitates.
"Should I?" she asks the reflection.
"Should I?" echoes Liesl's reflection in the mirror. Hesitation hangs heavy in the stockroom -- boxes, some sealed, some cut open and half-dispersed. Dust stirred into the rays cast down from old, humming light tubes. In this room are a thousand different answers to that question, penned and printed to infinitum by publishing houses: either seeking to get their message to as many souls as possible, or seeking to take the money of as many souls as possible. It may come down to the coinflip. The quarter, a fair risk -- to go or not to go. And if Liesl were to flip it, best to decide what side means which - before the coin falls as it may. Else, it would be cheating.
Liesl breathes a breathy breath, fingers clasping tight to the quarter growing sweaty in her clutch. Something about her reflection brings her mild discomfort, but she stares back at her doppleganger all the same, brow furrowing with determination. "Heads. I go inside. Tails, I go get my book and see my sister," she tells Lisa two. Twisting her hand, she uncurls her fingers, palms facing the ceiling. Then with a flick of her wrist, sends George Washington and the American Eagle on the other side up up and away, waiting for fate to decide her lot tonight.
With a flick of the thumb, George goes up into a tumble -- catching the light, as the coin twirls in the air. Unfortunately, Liesl will not be around to catch it.
With the whiplash of a car collision, Liesl is ripped into the Nightmare. The stomach churning, flipping once over, as proportion and scenery overgrow. She is in the belly of the beast; or, some synthesis of unknowable flesh that oozes and ripples along the walls of the community center - some ill reflection of an abomination, larger than even Good News.
Three figures stand to greet her. Two are in shock; the other, drawing down on her with some manner of ceremonial saber. "Roderick, no!" cries the ghost, aghast. But Roderick, an enigma underneath his robe save for his sneer, insists on keeping Liesl at swordpoint. "This is the one who saw you?" he asks over his shoulder, to cultish company. "Well, well. I'll just have to cut out her good eye."
The quarter lands in the Real: heads up.
Liesl emerges in a posture fit for a superhero flick: she's on a knee, and rises slowly, meeting the saber pointed at her coolly. "Hello," she greets as cordially as one with a dead, detached voice such as hers can. "You. Dropped something," she levels at the ghost, whilst keeping her gaze locked on the figure holding her at swordpoint. She makes no sudden movements, only one defensive step back, nice and slow, wanting to distance herself from the sharp end of a pointy blade if she could help it. All the while, her left hand's fingers twitch, growing restless, wanting to go for her six shooter.
Roderick throws back his hood, showing the mania on his plucked brow. Simply a normal guy, if spotted outside of the old regalia of ceremonial acolyte robes. The tension could be cut with his saber; save, for the grumbling and bellyaching of the being they are within. Wisps of flesh and shadow spin and writhe at the edges of the stockroom, growing agitated - angered, trespassed upon. "You must be one of those ... yes, yes," he schemes, meaning to bring the saber to Liesl's chin: passive pressure to lift her up from her feet, with razor against neck.
"Let your curiosity get the better of you."
Another, "Roderick, no!" from the ghost; but her objections are being hushed by the third party, confiding something in her ear. Would Liesl be guided out as hostage - for the moment - or, would she make her objection known?
Liesl flattens herself against the wall at her back, little it'd to to protect her against the blade, but maybe she's just trying to avoid a close shave from its sharp edge. Studying the saber levied at her, she presses her lips together contemplatively. Identifying its make. "Guilty as charged," she agrees to the assumption, exhaling softly. She looks to be stuck between a rock and a sharp place. "Is this the end of me/" she asks, not directed at anyone. It's like she were breaking the fourth wall at that point. It could be some sort of coping mechanism when the going gets rough. Or to needle out some sympathy for her cause.
"No... no. It is not the end, not yet," sayeth Liesl's captor. He would gently guide his hostage, at blade-point, back to the religious scriptures of Good News. As the hallucinations of the Nightmare are made apparent to the physical eye, Liesl would behold...
The same people that she had shared the space before with - some new had come, others had gone in the late hour -- meandering through literature that is sullied, soiled, corroded, defiled by the ichor of whatever master these cultists serve. Where a wounded heart would come to seek wisdom, they open a book and find the maddening whispers spoken to their subconscious. These psychically illuminated, tainted scriptures - they are the uneasy construction of the trio of cultists. And judging from the sickness apparent in the Nightmare, they are quite good at it.
Now, it is the third party's turn to speak: he levies an idea to Liesl with the charisma of an evangelist. "Have you ever felt lost, in life? As if the world was coming to an end?" The sentiment can hardly escape his lips without his hiccup of glee to the notion. "The world is busy serving masters that will pass away -- that will go with the world, when it ends. Why wouldn't you build your foundation on something that will survive the oncoming end?"
Metaphorical tendrils pollute the minds of innocent shoppers of literature, as Liesl beholds the corruption before her very eyes.
Liesl finds herself where she was a moment ago. Transitioning through the Nightmare always made her feel queasy, and the sense of deja vu doesn't help one bit. She looks unsteady, and holds a hand to her head, looking a touch perturbed. It's difficult to tell whether she's actually there or not, but the distortions help bring context, and she knows she's still somewhere that's both here and there.
"Sure do," she answers forthrightly and honestly. She's always been lost. Like many others. And found herself in Haven. What the man speaks is something shes heard time and time again. Same deal, different voice. She plays along though. Maybe the insight he offers will be different from the rest. "Tell me more," she says, to the tune of being suspiciously rehearse to buy some time.
"You can already see through the trick of the unknown," hums the third party - he is an advocate on Liesl's behalf to Roderick, who is still in the smiting mood. "That is the first obstacle, and you've passed it without even trying. Next comes the death of the ego... Souls will not survive the exchange from this reality to the next, so, you must be rid of it." He is a true believer. "I have some literature that will prepare you for the--"
"Shhh!" claims the ghost, her paranoid eyes flickering about to the phantasms and shadows in the store. "You'll speak too loud, they can't hear the message." She hovers over the shoulder of another woman -- just as she had over Liesl's, before the masquerade was shattered. Regardless of whatever truth this poor seeker was pursuing, her forehead creases with the migraine of inexpressible frustrations. Illness, leaping from the pages of self-help - corrupted, stained, bloody like red meat. The beast they are within shudders with inexplicable emotion.
"Sure. I-" Liesl would have liked to say more, but the interjection from the ghost derails her train of thought. She tears her eyes from the images of a bookstore past, lending an eye at the collection of souls, on her best behavior. The sword kept pointed at her imperiously keeps her on their good side, though she's not nearly as impulsive enough to do anything dramatic. She does not like that tremor of emotion, and hugs at her sides, growing quiet.
"It is a lost cause," Roderick has judged Liesl, in spite of the third party's defenses: "It's jeopardized our work here. We will have to make her forget."
The attending duo shrink away from the saber-wielder's ultimatum, seeming reluctant to put their neck out on Liesl's behalf. And with a cruel skill, Roderick flips his blade to the flat-end-- aligning it with Liesl's temple, making ready to strike her with a blunted end. A skull crack, maybe. "When you wake up, you won't remember anything. Especially how you went blind." Here's the wind up...
Liesl clasps her hands over her waist, taking a deep breath, seemingly resigned to her fate. Her eyes follow the length of the blade, all the way to its tip, then all eyes are on for the hot-blooded Roderick, giving him a nod of affirmation, reading out like, 'Do it'. Like Catherine of Howard, Lady Jane Grey, and Anne Boleyn of Bologna, she seems ready to accept her fate stoically and on her terms, with a dignified front. "Do your worst then," she says, tempting fate.
... And the strike swings towards Liesl's skull -- however! The metal in Roderick's blade betrays him: ripping itself out of his hands, and careening through the shimmers of projections in the Real. His saber finds itself embedded in the ooze of whatever living muck corrodes this place -- was nurtured, by these three occult. And the Nightmare begins to tremble, as its projection shifts.
"Shit, shit shit!" cries the ghost, ducking for cover behind the bookstacks. "People aren't just normal here, Roderick!" she wails; meanwhile, the third party is scrambling away through the nearby wall. Roderick fumbles off after his blade, but the belly of the beast begins to turn over itself. It feels as though ... something is being unwound. How would Liesl ride this psychic wave?
Liesl clutches at her head, growing woozy. She looks mildly uncomfortable now, and red begins to bead down her left nostril that came after the onset of this commotion. Roderick goes this way, she slips the other way, lowering her head and clasping her charm tucked against the beltloop next to her precious tamagotchi, feeling around with her free hand, looking for an out herself.
Just as those in the Nightmare would feel shaken by the psychic shrug of the Presence there, the people within the religious bookstore also tremble-- the flicker of lights, the chill of goose-bumps up the small hairs on the back of the neck. These shudders betray the calamity in the Dream, as Liesl seeks a way out. She finds her reflection once more in the stockroom, the mirror not yet consumed by the ichorous malaise. And with a sudden -jaunt-, the curious is back where she started.
Her quarter, lies at her feet. Heads.
A fire alarm is tripped and blaring, but there is no smoke. The heady murmurs of sick people are filing out to the street. "It must be a gas leak," Liesl would hear one of them say. It's one of the only logical explanations for a room full of people to all grow ill at the same time.
Liesl finds herself staring at her reflection again. Except this time she's tumbled onto her rear, looking a little worse for wear. She rubs at her nostrils when she sees the blood dripping down her lip, and the mirror image does the same, completely in sync. She mumbles to herself and ponderously pushes herself to her feet, pausing when she sees that quarter. In the end, she decides to leave it there. She has a better coin at home. Far luckier. When she tries to return to the bookstore for the novel that caught her interest, she is likely turned away to evacuate to the street with the others.
It seems that the novel that Liesl buried will remain underneath its fertile soil; though, whether those tomes are tainted by the illness of the cult remain to be seen. Images of a world inferno, burning to obsidian - these haunt Liesl's mind's eye for hours to come. The Black Flame -- here, in Haven? Where else would they be, if not here also?
At least, the night air is refreshing. It would siphon away the phantom traces of ichor and brimstone that still haunt the senses.