Encounterlogs
Lorenzos Odd Encounter Sr Ruprecht 250402
Lorenzo finds himself in an eerily transformed club, the atmosphere saturated with a thick mist and an oppressive sense of foreboding. The patrons move in an unnaturally synchronized dance, controlled by a mysterious woman in red, hinting at a ritualistic purpose behind their actions. Despite the bustling crowd, an ominous stillness pervades, signaling that something far from ordinary is taking place. As the night progresses, the sinister nature of the event becomes clear—a ritual is being performed to summon something powerful and malevolent. The woman in red, central to the orchestration of this ritual, extends a chilling invitation to Lorenzo, who realizes he's embroiled in a scenario far beyond mere human revelry. The club’s atmosphere, filled with the scents of sulfur and the sights of grotesque acts, culminates in a tangible anticipation of something about to "say hello."
The climax unfolds with a palpable shift in reality, as if the fabric of existence is being torn apart to welcome an unknown entity. Amidst this chaos, Lorenzo experiences fleeting moments of lucidity, witnessing the depths of human depravity acted out in the club's macabre dance. Then, as swiftly as it began, the anomaly ceases, leaving Lorenzo in a suddenly normalized setting that feels hollow and insipid compared to the intense fervor he just endured. The experience leaves him questioning the nature of reality, haunted by the Latin whisper that sin is born in all. Despite the return to normalcy, a lingering unease persists, suggesting the presence of the summoned entity in the mundane world. As Lorenzo exits the club, he carries with him the heavy knowledge of what transpired, the event's surreal horror etched into his memory, and the unsettling awareness that the "guest of honor" might still be lurking, unseen but ominously present.
(Lorenzo's odd encounter(SRRuprecht):SRRuprecht)
[Fri Mar 21 2025]
In the Bedroom of Room 102 at Hotel Antlers
Though the thrum of club music greets visitors fresh in the door, the
sound is muted in this front partition bar, granting space for
conversational drinks and a place to request bottle service. The building
itself is a converted club warehouse, design sleek with the flash of modern
club setting and new renovation. Floating shelves with LED accent lighting
and a lit glass back drop lays scene for a multitude of liquor bottles
behind the bar, ranging from well club swills and beer displays to premium
bottles with prettier and pricier labels. The bar itself is long and topped
with smoked, sheened glass on the top surface, space for standing lounge
available toward the ends, past the available line of seating. A few pieces
of lounge furniture is on the other side of the room for more intimate
gathering away from the music and a smoking patio is visible through the
front doors when they open.
The bar area extends into a wide open dance floor ahead with waitress
service and wall lounge seating, the energy of the dance and trap music
compelling movement.
It is night, about 49F(9C) degrees, and there are a few thin white clouds in the sky. There is a waning crescent moon.
(Your target gets wind of a ritual being performed by The Destined Host. The ritual, if completed, will open a portal allowing a powerful demon to enter this world. Your target and their allies must interrupt the ritual, either by stealth or direct confrontation. They will have to deal with the members of the Host, their demonic allies, and potentially a very angry demon if they don't stop the ritual in time.)
The mist is thick this evening, even as early as it is, only about twenty to ten in the evening that wanes, but seems like it's just begun breathing. The bodies are moving in a writhing mass and the waitresses seem almost asleep, robotic - handing out thing after thing, without thought one or thought two, again, and again. It's a bit like a ritualistic circle of depraved positrive feedback loops. One after another. Lorenzo has had enough time being watched to know what it feels like, to some degree, and it seems like this very moment might be one of *those* moments. The sort've moments where someone's noticed his presence as the unexpected factor. The mists grow thick again, not the first time Lorenzo has noticed it. But this time, it seems like he's the only one to realize it swirling around the room with coordination to the wind draft. It's congealing, or at least it looks like it is. Getting thicker...
Lorenzo exhales slowly, the air thick with something more than just mistit clings, coils, as if tasting him. The mass of bodies around him undulates in its rhythm, oblivious to the shifting air, to the way the mist pulses, reacting. His fingers tighten around the sweating glass in his grip. Hes been watched before. He knows the weight of a gaze, the sharp edge of unseen eyes carving into his periphery. But thisthis is different.
Lorenzo exhales slowly, the air thick with something more than just mistit clings, coils, as if tasting him. The mass of bodies around him undulates in its rhythm, oblivious to the shifting air, to the way the mist pulses, reacting. His fingers tighten around the sweating glass in his grip. Hes been watched before. He knows the weight of a gaze, the sharp edge of unseen eyes carving into his periphery. But this-this is different. someone mist doesnt just gather. It moves. someone winds between the tables, curling around the ankles of the sleepwalking waitresses, brushing against the oblivious dancers. And yet, it does not touch Lorenzo. No. It circles him, hesitant, like an animal testing the scent of something unfamiliar. someone lights flicker. A shudder runs through the roomnot the people, but the space itself. Lorenzo shifts his posture, casual on the surface, every muscle tight beneath it. someone he sees it. A figure, or the absence of one, just beyond the veil of mist. Watching. Waiting. He let's out an audible -gulp-.
Lorenzo exhales slowly, the air thick with something more than just mistit clings, coils, as if tasting him. The mass of bodies around him undulates in its rhythm, oblivious to the shifting air, to the way the mist pulses, reacting. His fingers tighten around the sweating glass in his grip. Hes been watched before. He knows the weight of a gaze, the sharp edge of unseen eyes carving into his periphery. But this-this is different. The mist doesnt just gather. It moves. It winds between the tables, curling around the ankles of the sleepwalking waitresses, brushing against the oblivious dancers. And yet, it does not touch Lorenzo. No. It circles him, hesitant, like an animal testing the scent of something unfamiliar. The lights flicker. A shudder runs through the roomnot the people, but the space itself. Lorenzo shifts his posture, casual on the surface, every muscle tight beneath it. Then he sees it. A figure, or the absence of one, just beyond the veil of mist. Watching. Waiting. He let's out an audible -gulp-. (edit)
The club is alive with a pulse, the bass rattling through the floor, mingling with the thick fog that has begun to settle, curling at the edges of the bar and dancing like fingers on the necks of patrons. The air is dense tonight, heavier than it should be, as if the very walls are breathing in rhythm with the crowd. Theres an eerie glow to the lights, refracted through the haze, casting shadows that seem to twist unnaturally. The usual buzz of conversation and clinking glasses has dulled, replaced by an oppressive quiet, as if something unseen is listening, waiting.
Lorenzo, if watching the dancers move like marionettes, would notice their motions too synchronized, too fluid, as if they're all connected by invisible threads. Somethings off. Theyre not moving with the music anymore. Theyre moving as though the music is moving them. Their eyes, glazed. Empty. Like the serving girls. Like the bartender.
He might've been considering the possibility for a while now, and he knows. Its subtle at first, the way people dont seem to care when they brush up against him, the way no one acknowledges his presence. But the mists are coiling now, wrapping themselves around the beams, seeping into the cracks in the floor, pooling in the corners like some kind of ancient fluid. Not natural.
A figure near the sound control catches his attentiona woman with long dark hair, her face obscured by the shadows of the club, but her movements are unmistakable. Shes leading the dance. Its her, hes sure of it. And the rest of the crowd, theyre following, all moving in unison, like they're being drawn into her orbit. Shes the anchor, the one controlling this... thing.
Lorenzo feels a prickle on the back of his neck. Something ancient is stirring here, and its not just the fog or the sound. Its the scent of something foul on the air, too. That faint sulfur, that rot, just under the music. His pulse quickens, a gnawing feeling deep in his stomach. Hes standing on the edge of a precipice, and the only way off is to stop whatevers about to happen.
The woman turns her head sharply, as if she feels his gaze, her eyes flicking to him in the dim light. Her lips curl into a smile that doesnt reach her eyes, but theres something behind that smile - recognition.
Lorenzo doesnt move. Doesnt blink. The air is thick with something wrong, something old. The bass hums through his bones, but it isnt the music that has his breath shallow, his fingers twitching at his side. Its her.
She stands at the control panel like a conductor before an orchestra, and the crowdslack-jawed, vacant-eyedmoves to her unseen strings. Every step, every sway, perfectly timed. A ritual disguised as revelry.
The mist coils tighter, no longer drifting but slithering, sentient. It presses against him, cold and cloying, tasting him. The scent of rot thickens. Lorenzo swallows back the bitter taste rising in his throat.
Then she turns.
Her gaze locks onto his, sharp as a blade. That smiletoo knowing, too pleased. Hes been seen before, watched, but this is different. This is a challenge. A dare.
The music shifts, a low, keening note threading through the beat, and the dancers shudder. One by one, they snap their heads toward him, empty stares boring into his skin.
Lorenzo exhales slowly. Hes not just watching anymore.
Hes been invited.
Old mix with young through the Succubus - an aptly named little hole in the wall, right now. She moves into the mist for but a moment... and disappears. Lorenzo loses track, not because his eyes couldn't follow, but because the miasma's mixture seems to have... swallowed her whole. Then...
She's right in front of Lorenzo, a dainty arm extended, red nails offered. She'd ask to dance. Lorenzo finds himself remembering a funny reel of things that he might not often think about. It would be easy to blame the smell. It's nostalgic, where sweat and dreams meet sulfur and confusion. The mist is moving to the ceiling now, snake-like tendrils meeting in what looks to be a greater symbol on the ceiling. A circle... and then - within that circle, lines begin to grow. The song switches all the sudden. Just like that. Lorenzo might be the only one that even notices outright. From EDM, to something somehow more hallucinogenic and technically flawless.
The floor is hard to see, only maintained by the fact that your feet are on it. The smell is sick. The noise is overpowering and causes stress.
It's as though the senses are being devoured at once. In the writhing bodies of the macabre dance, all the moreso.
It's then, deep in thought, that Lorenzo thinks he sees one strange cheerleader-age girl bite another. There's a scream.
Was that real?
Lorenzo's breath comes slow, measured-controlled-even as his pulse betrays him. The womans red nails gleam in the shifting light, her hand outstretched like an invitation, like a promise. The mist curls, thick and knowing, its tendrils drawn to the ceiling in careful, deliberate design. A sigil forming above. A summoning.
someone music shifts. The rhythm isnt just sound-its pressure, pressing against his skull, drilling into his ribs. Every beat pulses behind his eyes, a soundless whisper threading through his thoughts. He should step back. He should leave.
someone he doesnt.
someone, he watches. Watches as the writhing mass moves as one, a grotesque ballet of hunger and surrender. The sickly-sweet scent of sweat and sulfur makes his stomach turn.
someone scream. Sharp. Real.
someone gaze snaps to the girl-young, too young-her mouth dark with something wet. The one in her grasp spasms, fingers clawing at the air, at nothing. The bodies around them dont stop moving. They don't even see.
Lorenzo exhales.
someone seen enough to know.
someone dance isnt just for pleasure. Its a feast.
Lorenzo's breath comes slow, measured-controlled-even as his pulse betrays him. The womans red nails gleam in the shifting light, her hand outstretched like an invitation, like a promise. The mist curls, thick and knowing, its tendrils drawn to the ceiling in careful, deliberate design. A sigil forming above. A summoning.
The music shifts. The rhythm isnt just sound-its pressure, pressing against his skull, drilling into his ribs. Every beat pulses behind his eyes, a soundless whisper threading through his thoughts. He should step back. He should leave.
But he doesnt.
Instead, he watches. Watches as the writhing mass moves as one, a grotesque ballet of hunger and surrender. The sickly-sweet scent of sweat and sulfur makes his stomach turn.
someone scream. Sharp. Real.
His gaze snaps to the girl-young, too young-her mouth dark with something wet. The one in her grasp spasms, fingers clawing at the air, at nothing. The bodies around them dont stop moving. They don't even see.
Lorenzo exhales.
Hes seen enough to know.
This dance isnt just for pleasure. Its a feast.
Lorenzo's breath comes slow, measured-controlled-even as his pulse betrays him. The womans red nails gleam in the shifting light, her hand outstretched like an invitation, like a promise. The mist curls, thick and knowing, its tendrils drawn to the ceiling in careful, deliberate design. A sigil forming above. A summoning. The music shifts. The rhythm isnt just sound-its pressure, pressing against his skull, drilling into his ribs. Every beat pulses behind his eyes, a soundless whisper threading through his thoughts. He should step back. He should leave. But he doesnt. Instead, he watches. Watches as the writhing mass moves as one, a grotesque ballet of hunger and surrender. The sickly-sweet scent of sweat and sulfur makes his stomach turn. Then-A scream. Sharp. Real. His gaze snaps to the girl-young, too young-her mouth dark with something wet. The one in her grasp spasms, fingers clawing at the air, at nothing. The bodies around them dont stop moving. They don't even see. He exhales. Hes seen enough to know. This dance isnt just for pleasure. Its a feast.
They all should. But them, they're alive -- at least the grand majority of them. Lorenzo sees through more of the mirage offered by the oasis of liquor and seduction than any of the rest, but what would he do about it? She beckons an offering from across the room - first in one corner, then seated at a table. From the door, where she'd made conversation with a doorman only moments ago.
That's the secret. She's everywhere. Right now. In front of Lorenzo - behind him. Reality is melting like wax down a sun-set canvas covered in Crayola slop. "Why don't you dance?" He'd hear, in a sickly-sweet tone that soothes and discomforts simultaneously. "Come, you're no different..."
But he is. The certain lack of a constant, forced pulse. That's the difference. The hearts of these young minds, the cores of their bodies, are the stop-watches keeping them in tune to the song. Lorenzo's dissociation comes from a certain uncanny valley between what his mind should perceive, and his body does.
A fight starts between two jocks, quickly escalating to brutality. No cops are coming. No report's been made.
A searing sensation fills the forehead. Blinding agony for one second, and euphoria the next.
The star on the ceiling has come to pass. Seven points, not the usual five -- and each with incomprehensible madness to fill symbology of each 'intersection' between lines.
Something's almost ready to say hello.
Lorenzo doesnt move. Doesnt turn. He knows better. Shes everywhere. Her voice seeps into his skull, honeyed and rotting, wrapping around his thoughts like ivy. -Why dont you dance?-@line@line The music pulses. A command. A whisper. A lure.
He watches the jocks tear into each other, fists shattering cartilage, flesh splitting like overripe fruit. No one stops them. No one even cares. The rhythm of their violence matches the beatdeliberate, orchestrated. The dance of the damned.
The star above burns into his senses. Not just seen-felt. Seven points, twisting, writhing, breathing. The lines dont just intersect; they connect. A gate. An invitation.
Lorenzo staggers, hand flying to his forehead, but theres nothing there. No wound, no mark. Just the searing, the flood of unbearable, beautiful agony that gives way to something worse-pleasure. A moment of raw, aching euphoria that almost pulls him under.
Almost.
He exhales sharply, gritting his teeth, grounding himself in the reality thats slipping between his fingers.
Something is coming.
No.
Something is already here.
"Oh, come, that's no fun, sweetheart. Surely you're not so different from the rest of us," The ethereal woman in her sequinned red dress speaks with an emotionless saccharine, sure to bring goosebumps to the nethers of the lesser men. It's not all just violence. The innocent writhing masses expend their energy on all the sin that's to be- he can spot a cheerleading recital operated by only one girl. Two bros fighting to figure out who can chug the most Jim Beam before a swift death. Lorenzo can see that the bodies grind together in ways that should be behind doors. He can smell the blood of the ones just bitten. Bitten by bare human teeth, by people so hungry they can't compose themselves.
These people are wasting away. Their sin, the fuel of the fire, born of all desire. The pattern on the ceiling continues to grow more advanced. Lorenzo finds it harder to stay put - any one given urge, at any one given time, is fine enough. Such overwhelming carnal darkness, however...
And then it goes black, for a split second. Like Lorenzo just got knocked out. Or blinked -- a moment too long, against his own will.
The bodies have stopped moving. Stopped bleeding. The smells have stopped smelling of anything at all. As if even the air is frozen. The blood on the girl's shoulder joints, frozen.
Disembodies screams replace the music. Latin. Oh, goodie.
"Peccatum originale in omnibus nascitur."
"Peccatum originale in omnibus nascitur."
. . .
Lorenzo's breath drags through his teeth, slow and deliberate, as if controlling it might keep him separate from the weight pressing in around him. The woman in red - everywhere at once, whispering, taunting - knows something he doesnt. But he knows enough.
Sin feeds this place. Fuels it.
He clenches his fists, grounding himself in sensation as the world shiftswrong. A forced blink. A cut in the reel.
Then-stillness.
Frozen bodies, suspended mid-motion like grotesque mannequins. The smell of sweat, blood, sex-gone. The air itself feels hollow, stripped bare. Something else is here now.
And the screaming.
Latin, rolling through the space, not from mouths but from the walls, the floor, the very fabric of reality unraveling.
Lorenzo doesnt need a translation to feel the meaning. Sin is born in all. This isnt about indulgence. Its about origin.
His forehead still burns from the unseen mark. The lines on the ceiling - wriggling, changing - are no longer forming a sigil.
Theyre opening something.
The woman in red steps closer, her smile wider now, teeth too sharp in the dim light.
"Time to meet the guest of honor."
Lorenzo's perceptions are flushed like sewage down a drainwater system. The clockwork machinations of the sigils high above in the writhing mist so thick that two feet is a far-sight continue to writhe. Pulsating. There's a shaking in the ground. Not like an earthquake, but as though the fundamental building blocks of reality itself are grinding against one another in an ethereal tectonic rumble. It comes.
But what?
Vomiting jocks, and screaming cheerleaders -- begging for attention. Men doing lines off the bar, heating up spoons. That hungry girl -- the biter, would be witnessed eating a dead friend off the floor like some sort've rabid PCP-influenced tragedy.
Lorenzo might even manage to feel like he's sweating. He isn't. But the delusion is so feverish -- so real, that the mind simply can't compensate.
It's almost like feeling alive again. To realize the heat of the moment like this. Then there's song.
Like the coming of an angel.
And everything is back to normal. The scenery just as Lorenzo had 'left' it before his wits left him. The doorman, the jocks, the girls. All simply chatting along.
The song is even the same as it started.
Is any of it any more real than it was just moments ago? It feels... colorless, in comparison. Empty. Like going from ambrosia, back to normal food. This reality tastes of sawdust. It's not nearly as intense. As exhilirating.
But at least, here, drowning in reality, one can propose to be sane.
Maybe Lorenzo was followed. The guest of honor might not be so proud as the rituals involved in its arrival.
Lorenzo staggers, breath shallow, mind reeling. The heat, the pressure, the stench of excess - its all gone. Swallowed in an instant. Now, everything is normal. Too normal.
The doorman nods, indifferent. The jocks laugh, clink glasses. The cheerleaders gossip in their perfect, plastic smiles. The music loops back, seamless.
But Lorenzo knows.
His skin prickles with the aftershock of something colossal, something wrong, something watching. He glances to the ceilingno sigil. Just beams and lights, static and plain. The mist? Gone.
His fingers twitch. His body hums with the ghost of an exhilaration that wasnt his, a high that never should have been.
Then - A whisper. Not in his ears, but in his bones. "Peccatum originale in omnibus nascitur."
His stomach knots. He turns-sees nothing. No red dress. No wide, sharp smile. But he doesnt need to. He feels it, knows it. He is not alone.
His feet move before his mind decides. Out the door, into the night air that doesnt feel like relief. The guest might not be proud, but its coming.
And Lorenzo?
Lorenzo is leaving.
The climax unfolds with a palpable shift in reality, as if the fabric of existence is being torn apart to welcome an unknown entity. Amidst this chaos, Lorenzo experiences fleeting moments of lucidity, witnessing the depths of human depravity acted out in the club's macabre dance. Then, as swiftly as it began, the anomaly ceases, leaving Lorenzo in a suddenly normalized setting that feels hollow and insipid compared to the intense fervor he just endured. The experience leaves him questioning the nature of reality, haunted by the Latin whisper that sin is born in all. Despite the return to normalcy, a lingering unease persists, suggesting the presence of the summoned entity in the mundane world. As Lorenzo exits the club, he carries with him the heavy knowledge of what transpired, the event's surreal horror etched into his memory, and the unsettling awareness that the "guest of honor" might still be lurking, unseen but ominously present.
(Lorenzo's odd encounter(SRRuprecht):SRRuprecht)
[Fri Mar 21 2025]
In the Bedroom of Room 102 at Hotel Antlers
Though the thrum of club music greets visitors fresh in the door, the
sound is muted in this front partition bar, granting space for
conversational drinks and a place to request bottle service. The building
itself is a converted club warehouse, design sleek with the flash of modern
club setting and new renovation. Floating shelves with LED accent lighting
and a lit glass back drop lays scene for a multitude of liquor bottles
behind the bar, ranging from well club swills and beer displays to premium
bottles with prettier and pricier labels. The bar itself is long and topped
with smoked, sheened glass on the top surface, space for standing lounge
available toward the ends, past the available line of seating. A few pieces
of lounge furniture is on the other side of the room for more intimate
gathering away from the music and a smoking patio is visible through the
front doors when they open.
The bar area extends into a wide open dance floor ahead with waitress
service and wall lounge seating, the energy of the dance and trap music
compelling movement.
It is night, about 49F(9C) degrees, and there are a few thin white clouds in the sky. There is a waning crescent moon.
(Your target gets wind of a ritual being performed by The Destined Host. The ritual, if completed, will open a portal allowing a powerful demon to enter this world. Your target and their allies must interrupt the ritual, either by stealth or direct confrontation. They will have to deal with the members of the Host, their demonic allies, and potentially a very angry demon if they don't stop the ritual in time.)
The mist is thick this evening, even as early as it is, only about twenty to ten in the evening that wanes, but seems like it's just begun breathing. The bodies are moving in a writhing mass and the waitresses seem almost asleep, robotic - handing out thing after thing, without thought one or thought two, again, and again. It's a bit like a ritualistic circle of depraved positrive feedback loops. One after another. Lorenzo has had enough time being watched to know what it feels like, to some degree, and it seems like this very moment might be one of *those* moments. The sort've moments where someone's noticed his presence as the unexpected factor. The mists grow thick again, not the first time Lorenzo has noticed it. But this time, it seems like he's the only one to realize it swirling around the room with coordination to the wind draft. It's congealing, or at least it looks like it is. Getting thicker...
Lorenzo exhales slowly, the air thick with something more than just mistit clings, coils, as if tasting him. The mass of bodies around him undulates in its rhythm, oblivious to the shifting air, to the way the mist pulses, reacting. His fingers tighten around the sweating glass in his grip. Hes been watched before. He knows the weight of a gaze, the sharp edge of unseen eyes carving into his periphery. But thisthis is different.
Lorenzo exhales slowly, the air thick with something more than just mistit clings, coils, as if tasting him. The mass of bodies around him undulates in its rhythm, oblivious to the shifting air, to the way the mist pulses, reacting. His fingers tighten around the sweating glass in his grip. Hes been watched before. He knows the weight of a gaze, the sharp edge of unseen eyes carving into his periphery. But this-this is different. someone mist doesnt just gather. It moves. someone winds between the tables, curling around the ankles of the sleepwalking waitresses, brushing against the oblivious dancers. And yet, it does not touch Lorenzo. No. It circles him, hesitant, like an animal testing the scent of something unfamiliar. someone lights flicker. A shudder runs through the roomnot the people, but the space itself. Lorenzo shifts his posture, casual on the surface, every muscle tight beneath it. someone he sees it. A figure, or the absence of one, just beyond the veil of mist. Watching. Waiting. He let's out an audible -gulp-.
Lorenzo exhales slowly, the air thick with something more than just mistit clings, coils, as if tasting him. The mass of bodies around him undulates in its rhythm, oblivious to the shifting air, to the way the mist pulses, reacting. His fingers tighten around the sweating glass in his grip. Hes been watched before. He knows the weight of a gaze, the sharp edge of unseen eyes carving into his periphery. But this-this is different. The mist doesnt just gather. It moves. It winds between the tables, curling around the ankles of the sleepwalking waitresses, brushing against the oblivious dancers. And yet, it does not touch Lorenzo. No. It circles him, hesitant, like an animal testing the scent of something unfamiliar. The lights flicker. A shudder runs through the roomnot the people, but the space itself. Lorenzo shifts his posture, casual on the surface, every muscle tight beneath it. Then he sees it. A figure, or the absence of one, just beyond the veil of mist. Watching. Waiting. He let's out an audible -gulp-. (edit)
The club is alive with a pulse, the bass rattling through the floor, mingling with the thick fog that has begun to settle, curling at the edges of the bar and dancing like fingers on the necks of patrons. The air is dense tonight, heavier than it should be, as if the very walls are breathing in rhythm with the crowd. Theres an eerie glow to the lights, refracted through the haze, casting shadows that seem to twist unnaturally. The usual buzz of conversation and clinking glasses has dulled, replaced by an oppressive quiet, as if something unseen is listening, waiting.
Lorenzo, if watching the dancers move like marionettes, would notice their motions too synchronized, too fluid, as if they're all connected by invisible threads. Somethings off. Theyre not moving with the music anymore. Theyre moving as though the music is moving them. Their eyes, glazed. Empty. Like the serving girls. Like the bartender.
He might've been considering the possibility for a while now, and he knows. Its subtle at first, the way people dont seem to care when they brush up against him, the way no one acknowledges his presence. But the mists are coiling now, wrapping themselves around the beams, seeping into the cracks in the floor, pooling in the corners like some kind of ancient fluid. Not natural.
A figure near the sound control catches his attentiona woman with long dark hair, her face obscured by the shadows of the club, but her movements are unmistakable. Shes leading the dance. Its her, hes sure of it. And the rest of the crowd, theyre following, all moving in unison, like they're being drawn into her orbit. Shes the anchor, the one controlling this... thing.
Lorenzo feels a prickle on the back of his neck. Something ancient is stirring here, and its not just the fog or the sound. Its the scent of something foul on the air, too. That faint sulfur, that rot, just under the music. His pulse quickens, a gnawing feeling deep in his stomach. Hes standing on the edge of a precipice, and the only way off is to stop whatevers about to happen.
The woman turns her head sharply, as if she feels his gaze, her eyes flicking to him in the dim light. Her lips curl into a smile that doesnt reach her eyes, but theres something behind that smile - recognition.
Lorenzo doesnt move. Doesnt blink. The air is thick with something wrong, something old. The bass hums through his bones, but it isnt the music that has his breath shallow, his fingers twitching at his side. Its her.
She stands at the control panel like a conductor before an orchestra, and the crowdslack-jawed, vacant-eyedmoves to her unseen strings. Every step, every sway, perfectly timed. A ritual disguised as revelry.
The mist coils tighter, no longer drifting but slithering, sentient. It presses against him, cold and cloying, tasting him. The scent of rot thickens. Lorenzo swallows back the bitter taste rising in his throat.
Then she turns.
Her gaze locks onto his, sharp as a blade. That smiletoo knowing, too pleased. Hes been seen before, watched, but this is different. This is a challenge. A dare.
The music shifts, a low, keening note threading through the beat, and the dancers shudder. One by one, they snap their heads toward him, empty stares boring into his skin.
Lorenzo exhales slowly. Hes not just watching anymore.
Hes been invited.
Old mix with young through the Succubus - an aptly named little hole in the wall, right now. She moves into the mist for but a moment... and disappears. Lorenzo loses track, not because his eyes couldn't follow, but because the miasma's mixture seems to have... swallowed her whole. Then...
She's right in front of Lorenzo, a dainty arm extended, red nails offered. She'd ask to dance. Lorenzo finds himself remembering a funny reel of things that he might not often think about. It would be easy to blame the smell. It's nostalgic, where sweat and dreams meet sulfur and confusion. The mist is moving to the ceiling now, snake-like tendrils meeting in what looks to be a greater symbol on the ceiling. A circle... and then - within that circle, lines begin to grow. The song switches all the sudden. Just like that. Lorenzo might be the only one that even notices outright. From EDM, to something somehow more hallucinogenic and technically flawless.
The floor is hard to see, only maintained by the fact that your feet are on it. The smell is sick. The noise is overpowering and causes stress.
It's as though the senses are being devoured at once. In the writhing bodies of the macabre dance, all the moreso.
It's then, deep in thought, that Lorenzo thinks he sees one strange cheerleader-age girl bite another. There's a scream.
Was that real?
Lorenzo's breath comes slow, measured-controlled-even as his pulse betrays him. The womans red nails gleam in the shifting light, her hand outstretched like an invitation, like a promise. The mist curls, thick and knowing, its tendrils drawn to the ceiling in careful, deliberate design. A sigil forming above. A summoning.
someone music shifts. The rhythm isnt just sound-its pressure, pressing against his skull, drilling into his ribs. Every beat pulses behind his eyes, a soundless whisper threading through his thoughts. He should step back. He should leave.
someone he doesnt.
someone, he watches. Watches as the writhing mass moves as one, a grotesque ballet of hunger and surrender. The sickly-sweet scent of sweat and sulfur makes his stomach turn.
someone scream. Sharp. Real.
someone gaze snaps to the girl-young, too young-her mouth dark with something wet. The one in her grasp spasms, fingers clawing at the air, at nothing. The bodies around them dont stop moving. They don't even see.
Lorenzo exhales.
someone seen enough to know.
someone dance isnt just for pleasure. Its a feast.
Lorenzo's breath comes slow, measured-controlled-even as his pulse betrays him. The womans red nails gleam in the shifting light, her hand outstretched like an invitation, like a promise. The mist curls, thick and knowing, its tendrils drawn to the ceiling in careful, deliberate design. A sigil forming above. A summoning.
The music shifts. The rhythm isnt just sound-its pressure, pressing against his skull, drilling into his ribs. Every beat pulses behind his eyes, a soundless whisper threading through his thoughts. He should step back. He should leave.
But he doesnt.
Instead, he watches. Watches as the writhing mass moves as one, a grotesque ballet of hunger and surrender. The sickly-sweet scent of sweat and sulfur makes his stomach turn.
someone scream. Sharp. Real.
His gaze snaps to the girl-young, too young-her mouth dark with something wet. The one in her grasp spasms, fingers clawing at the air, at nothing. The bodies around them dont stop moving. They don't even see.
Lorenzo exhales.
Hes seen enough to know.
This dance isnt just for pleasure. Its a feast.
Lorenzo's breath comes slow, measured-controlled-even as his pulse betrays him. The womans red nails gleam in the shifting light, her hand outstretched like an invitation, like a promise. The mist curls, thick and knowing, its tendrils drawn to the ceiling in careful, deliberate design. A sigil forming above. A summoning. The music shifts. The rhythm isnt just sound-its pressure, pressing against his skull, drilling into his ribs. Every beat pulses behind his eyes, a soundless whisper threading through his thoughts. He should step back. He should leave. But he doesnt. Instead, he watches. Watches as the writhing mass moves as one, a grotesque ballet of hunger and surrender. The sickly-sweet scent of sweat and sulfur makes his stomach turn. Then-A scream. Sharp. Real. His gaze snaps to the girl-young, too young-her mouth dark with something wet. The one in her grasp spasms, fingers clawing at the air, at nothing. The bodies around them dont stop moving. They don't even see. He exhales. Hes seen enough to know. This dance isnt just for pleasure. Its a feast.
They all should. But them, they're alive -- at least the grand majority of them. Lorenzo sees through more of the mirage offered by the oasis of liquor and seduction than any of the rest, but what would he do about it? She beckons an offering from across the room - first in one corner, then seated at a table. From the door, where she'd made conversation with a doorman only moments ago.
That's the secret. She's everywhere. Right now. In front of Lorenzo - behind him. Reality is melting like wax down a sun-set canvas covered in Crayola slop. "Why don't you dance?" He'd hear, in a sickly-sweet tone that soothes and discomforts simultaneously. "Come, you're no different..."
But he is. The certain lack of a constant, forced pulse. That's the difference. The hearts of these young minds, the cores of their bodies, are the stop-watches keeping them in tune to the song. Lorenzo's dissociation comes from a certain uncanny valley between what his mind should perceive, and his body does.
A fight starts between two jocks, quickly escalating to brutality. No cops are coming. No report's been made.
A searing sensation fills the forehead. Blinding agony for one second, and euphoria the next.
The star on the ceiling has come to pass. Seven points, not the usual five -- and each with incomprehensible madness to fill symbology of each 'intersection' between lines.
Something's almost ready to say hello.
Lorenzo doesnt move. Doesnt turn. He knows better. Shes everywhere. Her voice seeps into his skull, honeyed and rotting, wrapping around his thoughts like ivy. -Why dont you dance?-@line@line The music pulses. A command. A whisper. A lure.
He watches the jocks tear into each other, fists shattering cartilage, flesh splitting like overripe fruit. No one stops them. No one even cares. The rhythm of their violence matches the beatdeliberate, orchestrated. The dance of the damned.
The star above burns into his senses. Not just seen-felt. Seven points, twisting, writhing, breathing. The lines dont just intersect; they connect. A gate. An invitation.
Lorenzo staggers, hand flying to his forehead, but theres nothing there. No wound, no mark. Just the searing, the flood of unbearable, beautiful agony that gives way to something worse-pleasure. A moment of raw, aching euphoria that almost pulls him under.
Almost.
He exhales sharply, gritting his teeth, grounding himself in the reality thats slipping between his fingers.
Something is coming.
No.
Something is already here.
"Oh, come, that's no fun, sweetheart. Surely you're not so different from the rest of us," The ethereal woman in her sequinned red dress speaks with an emotionless saccharine, sure to bring goosebumps to the nethers of the lesser men. It's not all just violence. The innocent writhing masses expend their energy on all the sin that's to be- he can spot a cheerleading recital operated by only one girl. Two bros fighting to figure out who can chug the most Jim Beam before a swift death. Lorenzo can see that the bodies grind together in ways that should be behind doors. He can smell the blood of the ones just bitten. Bitten by bare human teeth, by people so hungry they can't compose themselves.
These people are wasting away. Their sin, the fuel of the fire, born of all desire. The pattern on the ceiling continues to grow more advanced. Lorenzo finds it harder to stay put - any one given urge, at any one given time, is fine enough. Such overwhelming carnal darkness, however...
And then it goes black, for a split second. Like Lorenzo just got knocked out. Or blinked -- a moment too long, against his own will.
The bodies have stopped moving. Stopped bleeding. The smells have stopped smelling of anything at all. As if even the air is frozen. The blood on the girl's shoulder joints, frozen.
Disembodies screams replace the music. Latin. Oh, goodie.
"Peccatum originale in omnibus nascitur."
"Peccatum originale in omnibus nascitur."
. . .
Lorenzo's breath drags through his teeth, slow and deliberate, as if controlling it might keep him separate from the weight pressing in around him. The woman in red - everywhere at once, whispering, taunting - knows something he doesnt. But he knows enough.
Sin feeds this place. Fuels it.
He clenches his fists, grounding himself in sensation as the world shiftswrong. A forced blink. A cut in the reel.
Then-stillness.
Frozen bodies, suspended mid-motion like grotesque mannequins. The smell of sweat, blood, sex-gone. The air itself feels hollow, stripped bare. Something else is here now.
And the screaming.
Latin, rolling through the space, not from mouths but from the walls, the floor, the very fabric of reality unraveling.
Lorenzo doesnt need a translation to feel the meaning. Sin is born in all. This isnt about indulgence. Its about origin.
His forehead still burns from the unseen mark. The lines on the ceiling - wriggling, changing - are no longer forming a sigil.
Theyre opening something.
The woman in red steps closer, her smile wider now, teeth too sharp in the dim light.
"Time to meet the guest of honor."
Lorenzo's perceptions are flushed like sewage down a drainwater system. The clockwork machinations of the sigils high above in the writhing mist so thick that two feet is a far-sight continue to writhe. Pulsating. There's a shaking in the ground. Not like an earthquake, but as though the fundamental building blocks of reality itself are grinding against one another in an ethereal tectonic rumble. It comes.
But what?
Vomiting jocks, and screaming cheerleaders -- begging for attention. Men doing lines off the bar, heating up spoons. That hungry girl -- the biter, would be witnessed eating a dead friend off the floor like some sort've rabid PCP-influenced tragedy.
Lorenzo might even manage to feel like he's sweating. He isn't. But the delusion is so feverish -- so real, that the mind simply can't compensate.
It's almost like feeling alive again. To realize the heat of the moment like this. Then there's song.
Like the coming of an angel.
And everything is back to normal. The scenery just as Lorenzo had 'left' it before his wits left him. The doorman, the jocks, the girls. All simply chatting along.
The song is even the same as it started.
Is any of it any more real than it was just moments ago? It feels... colorless, in comparison. Empty. Like going from ambrosia, back to normal food. This reality tastes of sawdust. It's not nearly as intense. As exhilirating.
But at least, here, drowning in reality, one can propose to be sane.
Maybe Lorenzo was followed. The guest of honor might not be so proud as the rituals involved in its arrival.
Lorenzo staggers, breath shallow, mind reeling. The heat, the pressure, the stench of excess - its all gone. Swallowed in an instant. Now, everything is normal. Too normal.
The doorman nods, indifferent. The jocks laugh, clink glasses. The cheerleaders gossip in their perfect, plastic smiles. The music loops back, seamless.
But Lorenzo knows.
His skin prickles with the aftershock of something colossal, something wrong, something watching. He glances to the ceilingno sigil. Just beams and lights, static and plain. The mist? Gone.
His fingers twitch. His body hums with the ghost of an exhilaration that wasnt his, a high that never should have been.
Then - A whisper. Not in his ears, but in his bones. "Peccatum originale in omnibus nascitur."
His stomach knots. He turns-sees nothing. No red dress. No wide, sharp smile. But he doesnt need to. He feels it, knows it. He is not alone.
His feet move before his mind decides. Out the door, into the night air that doesnt feel like relief. The guest might not be proud, but its coming.
And Lorenzo?
Lorenzo is leaving.