Encounterlogs
Lynettes Odd Encounter Sr Takeshi 250402
In the flooded and eerie streets of Haven, a city grappling with the aftermath of a natural disaster that left its communities submerged and its citizens besieged by a growing sense of supernatural dread, Lynette, a social media influencer known for her engaging content, encountered a distressed young woman on her morning run. The woman, found wandering in the Tsubaki District, exhibited clear signs of panic and trauma, including disheveled attire and evident fear. The Tsubaki guards, recognizing the urgency of the situation yet unable to intervene directly, signaled to Lynette, hoping she would assist. Despite her reluctance, Lynette approached the woman, driven by a mix of altruistic impulse and the potential for online acclaim. As she closed the distance, she noticed two bleeding puncture wounds on the woman's neck, hinting at an encounter far more sinister than mere distress.
The conversation between Lynette and the frightened woman quickly revealed a deep-seated fear of someone, or something, that had inflicted harm upon her. Despite Lynette's brusque attempt to offer help, her mention of "territory" only served to amplify the woman's fear, prompting her to flee desperately. Lynette's effort to capture the interaction for social media ultimately fell flat, as she decided against recording the woman's injuries, an act that may have violated the unspoken ethics of her online persona. The botched rescue attempt ended with the woman escaping Lynette's grasp, and a collective disappointment from the onlookers, including the Tsubaki guards and local residents, leaving Lynette to disengage from the situation and retreat to the comfort of her routine, all the while deleting the failed attempt at heroism from her phone.
(Lynette's odd encounter(SRTakeshi):SRTakeshi)
[Tue Apr 1 2025]
In A bedroom in a Shrine-Home
The room is bathed in soft, natural light that filters through tall shoji screens that cast patterns on the wooden floor. The scent of fresh cedar and tatami mats permeates the air, mingling with the faint aroma of incense lingering from the Heart below.
At the center of the room sits a large bed raised on a dark wooden frame, its headboard carved with flowing patterns that mimic the gentle curves of nature. The bed, though modern in its design, is draped with soft linen sheets and thick, plush pillows.
At the far side of the room, near a large window that overlooks the garden, sits a small, low wooden table with zabuton cushions arranged around it.
Along one wall, a wooden wardrobe stands, its sliding doors made of smooth, dark wood. Above the wardrobe, a simple scroll painting hangs, depicting an elegant crane in flight over still waters and a small alcove to the side holds a flower arrangement in a simple vase.
It is morning, about 20F(-6C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
(Someone in Haven has found out about the supernatural and is freaking out about it. They're at risk of exposing the secret, hurting themselves, or hurting others. Your target and their allies are tasked with containing the situation.
)
Water. Everywhere. FUCK. Its getting into everything. Into your shoes, into your socks, into your living room. It seeps into the cracks of your walls, curls under doors, soaks into carpets that will never dry properly again. Have you ever prepared breakfast in floodwater ankle-deep? The quiet sloshing of water as you shift from counter to counter, the unsettling coolness creeping up your legs, the sickly realization that every surface you touch has, at some point, been tainted by filth.
The outdoors is supposed to be outside the doors of your home, but for many in Haven, that is not a privilege they still enjoy. Streets have become canals, living rooms shallow ponds. The lucky ones had the foresight-or the means-to flee to higher ground before the worst of it hit, but many did not. Some couldnt. They stayed behind, watching as the water crawled up their doorsteps and slithered inside. Theres a helplessness to it, a resignation. What can you do when the very ground beneath you is swallowed whole? When the walls of your home, meant to protect you, are reduced to damp, rotting wood?
And then, the secondary concerns begin to set in. The quite reasonable fear of Leptospirosis aside, mold will quickly become an issue. Fungi bloom where the water lingers, creeping up walls, filling the air with a musk that settles deep into the lungs. Water damage eats away at the foundation of homes, wooden supports weakening, ceilings sagging under the weight of absorption. The sound of distant crashes in the night could mean another building has given in. The kind of rot that takes hold here doesnt go away when the waters recede. It lingers.
For those who couldnt flee, who dont have the luxury of a second floor, there is little to do but adapt. Keep valuables elevated, ration clean water, avoid stepping into the murky depths where sharp debris, unseen holes, or worse might wait. The water is not just water. It carries the refuse of the streets, the waste of the sewers, the remnants of things better left undisturbed. Even after it leaves, it will never truly be gone.
Sad-looking government workers in orange high-vis stand at roads waving flags to direct traffic around hazards hidden beneath the water. Some sections are impassable, entire roads turned into rivers. Those that can still be used require careful navigation, guided by the weary gestures of men and women who know the futility of their task but do it anyway. Behind them, workers busy themselves with the Sisyphean effort of keeping the streets clear enough to avoid catastrophe. The water is not rising anymore, but that does not mean it has receded.
It seems like every other power line pole has a duo of tired-looking men perched in the buckets of cherry pickers, hard hats reflecting the dull glow of work lights. They tinker away at burnt transformers, trying to restore power to homes that have been dark for days. They universally look exhausted, as if they are reaching the midpoints of work shifts that have already lasted twelve hours. Some have. The work never ends, only continues, dragging on because the alternative is leaving the city in darkness. And they cannot let that happen.
And yet, worse than the flood, worse than the sickness and disrepair and looming presence of ruin, were the ghosts.
Or, what might seem like ghosts if such things were real. Whether genuine supernatural phenomena or just the mind playing cruel tricks, it hardly matters. The effect is the same. Flickers of movement in the corners of your eyes. A presence felt but never seen. The way the water ripples ever so slightly when nothing should be disturbing it.
Long, melancholic tones heard over the horizon, rising and falling in unnatural patterns. Sometimes they sound like the wind. Sometimes they sound like voices. And sometimes, they sound like something in between.
Shadows linger where they shouldnt. The streets should be empty at this hour, yet there are figures-distant, barely-there shapes standing motionless in the mist. Watch them long enough and they seem to move. Look away, and they disappear.
But the worst are the reflections. The water turns the city into a broken mirror, every street a surface that distorts and warps. At first, it seems harmless. Your own reflection, stretched by ripples. The shapes of buildings, flickering in the dim glow of emergency lights. But then, sometimes, things appear in the reflections that shouldnt be there. An extra shape standing beside you. A hand reaching up from below the surface. A face, watching. And yet, when you look up-nothing.
There are stories, now. Whispers among those still trapped in the flood zone. Some people have seen figures that dont move like people should. Others swear theyve heard voices whispering their names in the dark. A man tried to wade through knee-high water last night and claimed something grabbed him, something cold and unseen. He left bruises on his arms trying to pry invisible fingers off of him. The next morning, no one could find him.
The air feels heavier. The nights feel longer. There is something deeply wrong with Haven, something that goes beyond the tragedy of natural disaster. And it is growing.
Some claim the city is cursed, that so much suffering has soaked into the streets that the ground itself is rejecting the living. Others insist that there is something in the water, something ancient and patient and waiting. Some believe the flood itself is a symptom, not a disaster, but a sign of something far worse coming. They speak in hushed tones of omens and portents, of how the drowned streets whisper when the wind is still.
Lynette whilst out on her 2 minute morning run (Just long enough to take pictures of herself in yoga pants for her instagram) would spot someone making their way through the Tsubaki District. It was a young lady, looking distraught and panicked. Wide eyes and shaking shoulders she clutches her hands to her chest as he makes her way through the Tsubaki District looking around as if panicked.
Shaking steps, flickering eyes, her clothes were disheveled and it seems she hadn't thought to fix them up properly yet after whatever it was that had happened to her.
The guards of the Tsubaki were eyeing her with concern, japanese whispers happening between them. The eyes of the guards would eventually land on Lynette, four different guards in this part of the district in fact, all of them staring at Lynette as if they had all universally decided that she would be the one to be a good agent of the Tsubaki no Tetsu today. One of them, making direct eye contact with Lynette, flicks her head in the girl's direction.
Lynette was looking extremely cute this morning as usual, tight yoga pants and a sports top that was closer to a bra than a shirt. She'd pose in the light of golden hour, getting content for her social media page within the grounds of Tsubaki. Apparently her followers loved the Asian styled content. The only negative part was the intense flooding, getting her shoes all wet.
While scrolling through the online positive engagement a figure would come into view. A very uneasy looking woman would give Lynette flashbacks to the other day, where she assisted another similar looking lady in distress. Her nose wrinkles with annoyance and she was just about to turn away when four of the guards turned to look at the girl expectantly. "Come on..." Lynette groans, making direct eye contact with one of them. "Fine, you fuckers owe me," Lynette casually slips her phone into a narrow front pocket of her yoga pants so she could record the interaction. She might as well get interent praise for her good deeds after all.
Lynette would approach the woman in a way one would try not to scare off a wild animal. "You've wandered into Tsubaki no Tetsu territory, do you need help with something?" Lynette would start the conversation.
There's a flashed sequence of hand gestures from the guard who was looking at her, something akin to modern military hand signals. It wasn't clear exactly what they meant since Lynette is not educated on such matters, but the communication behind them was clear. Go now, fucker.
The woman is warily eyeing Lynette as she approaches and jumps like a deer as she becomes so bold as to actually talk to her. She looks over her shoulder, as if checking her escape route in case she needed to bolt. As she does so, Lynette would get a good look at the girl's neck, and the two openly bleeding puncture wounds side by side on it. Better not record that. Looking back her face goes white as she mentions scary words like 'territory' "Oh ... I'm so sorry ... I'll be on my way as quick as I can!" She promises Lynette, trying to turn and leave.
Upon noticing the puncture wounds, Lynette covers her phone and turns it off. Supernatural risks always ruining good content. "Don't go so soon. We're like, pro woman here and stuff. You look to be in distress so we can help you out," Lynette continues, her eyes scanning over the girl's apperance. "Who hurt you?"
The woman stumbles, only just about managing to stay on her feet as Lynette tries to continue the interaction. The girl looks over towards Lynette again, still fearful, not seeming comforted by the catty woman's meager efforts. "It was ... " She begins before her eyes open a little wider "Wait, you're with him? Aren't you?!" The woman gasps, her frame starting to shake, his feet shifting on the ground, her legs tensing up, getting ready to bolt.
"Him huh? A man getting a girl like you down... typical, come with me. We're going to clean you up," it seemed Lynette had a very little patience for comforting victims, perhaps due to the hours she spent on someone else recently.
Lynette grabs the girl by the wrist and starts dragging her towards the shrine. "We'll clean your wounds and... I dont know. Give you some tea or something," she shrugs.
The girl pulls out of Lynette 's grip and bolts! The guard who'd sent Lynette over to the girl facepalms. The three other girls facepalm. An old lady doing her grocery shopping who'd been watching the whole thing face palms. "Real smooth, gaijin" The armed woman sighs as she sets off after the girl in a light jog, seeming to have realized she was going to need to take care of this herself.
Lynette shrugs. "She's overreacting. Can't help someone who doesnt want to be help," Lynette huffs, pulling out her phone to delete the secret footage as she heads off to take a bath.
The conversation between Lynette and the frightened woman quickly revealed a deep-seated fear of someone, or something, that had inflicted harm upon her. Despite Lynette's brusque attempt to offer help, her mention of "territory" only served to amplify the woman's fear, prompting her to flee desperately. Lynette's effort to capture the interaction for social media ultimately fell flat, as she decided against recording the woman's injuries, an act that may have violated the unspoken ethics of her online persona. The botched rescue attempt ended with the woman escaping Lynette's grasp, and a collective disappointment from the onlookers, including the Tsubaki guards and local residents, leaving Lynette to disengage from the situation and retreat to the comfort of her routine, all the while deleting the failed attempt at heroism from her phone.
(Lynette's odd encounter(SRTakeshi):SRTakeshi)
[Tue Apr 1 2025]
In A bedroom in a Shrine-Home
The room is bathed in soft, natural light that filters through tall shoji screens that cast patterns on the wooden floor. The scent of fresh cedar and tatami mats permeates the air, mingling with the faint aroma of incense lingering from the Heart below.
At the center of the room sits a large bed raised on a dark wooden frame, its headboard carved with flowing patterns that mimic the gentle curves of nature. The bed, though modern in its design, is draped with soft linen sheets and thick, plush pillows.
At the far side of the room, near a large window that overlooks the garden, sits a small, low wooden table with zabuton cushions arranged around it.
Along one wall, a wooden wardrobe stands, its sliding doors made of smooth, dark wood. Above the wardrobe, a simple scroll painting hangs, depicting an elegant crane in flight over still waters and a small alcove to the side holds a flower arrangement in a simple vase.
It is morning, about 20F(-6C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
(Someone in Haven has found out about the supernatural and is freaking out about it. They're at risk of exposing the secret, hurting themselves, or hurting others. Your target and their allies are tasked with containing the situation.
)
Water. Everywhere. FUCK. Its getting into everything. Into your shoes, into your socks, into your living room. It seeps into the cracks of your walls, curls under doors, soaks into carpets that will never dry properly again. Have you ever prepared breakfast in floodwater ankle-deep? The quiet sloshing of water as you shift from counter to counter, the unsettling coolness creeping up your legs, the sickly realization that every surface you touch has, at some point, been tainted by filth.
The outdoors is supposed to be outside the doors of your home, but for many in Haven, that is not a privilege they still enjoy. Streets have become canals, living rooms shallow ponds. The lucky ones had the foresight-or the means-to flee to higher ground before the worst of it hit, but many did not. Some couldnt. They stayed behind, watching as the water crawled up their doorsteps and slithered inside. Theres a helplessness to it, a resignation. What can you do when the very ground beneath you is swallowed whole? When the walls of your home, meant to protect you, are reduced to damp, rotting wood?
And then, the secondary concerns begin to set in. The quite reasonable fear of Leptospirosis aside, mold will quickly become an issue. Fungi bloom where the water lingers, creeping up walls, filling the air with a musk that settles deep into the lungs. Water damage eats away at the foundation of homes, wooden supports weakening, ceilings sagging under the weight of absorption. The sound of distant crashes in the night could mean another building has given in. The kind of rot that takes hold here doesnt go away when the waters recede. It lingers.
For those who couldnt flee, who dont have the luxury of a second floor, there is little to do but adapt. Keep valuables elevated, ration clean water, avoid stepping into the murky depths where sharp debris, unseen holes, or worse might wait. The water is not just water. It carries the refuse of the streets, the waste of the sewers, the remnants of things better left undisturbed. Even after it leaves, it will never truly be gone.
Sad-looking government workers in orange high-vis stand at roads waving flags to direct traffic around hazards hidden beneath the water. Some sections are impassable, entire roads turned into rivers. Those that can still be used require careful navigation, guided by the weary gestures of men and women who know the futility of their task but do it anyway. Behind them, workers busy themselves with the Sisyphean effort of keeping the streets clear enough to avoid catastrophe. The water is not rising anymore, but that does not mean it has receded.
It seems like every other power line pole has a duo of tired-looking men perched in the buckets of cherry pickers, hard hats reflecting the dull glow of work lights. They tinker away at burnt transformers, trying to restore power to homes that have been dark for days. They universally look exhausted, as if they are reaching the midpoints of work shifts that have already lasted twelve hours. Some have. The work never ends, only continues, dragging on because the alternative is leaving the city in darkness. And they cannot let that happen.
And yet, worse than the flood, worse than the sickness and disrepair and looming presence of ruin, were the ghosts.
Or, what might seem like ghosts if such things were real. Whether genuine supernatural phenomena or just the mind playing cruel tricks, it hardly matters. The effect is the same. Flickers of movement in the corners of your eyes. A presence felt but never seen. The way the water ripples ever so slightly when nothing should be disturbing it.
Long, melancholic tones heard over the horizon, rising and falling in unnatural patterns. Sometimes they sound like the wind. Sometimes they sound like voices. And sometimes, they sound like something in between.
Shadows linger where they shouldnt. The streets should be empty at this hour, yet there are figures-distant, barely-there shapes standing motionless in the mist. Watch them long enough and they seem to move. Look away, and they disappear.
But the worst are the reflections. The water turns the city into a broken mirror, every street a surface that distorts and warps. At first, it seems harmless. Your own reflection, stretched by ripples. The shapes of buildings, flickering in the dim glow of emergency lights. But then, sometimes, things appear in the reflections that shouldnt be there. An extra shape standing beside you. A hand reaching up from below the surface. A face, watching. And yet, when you look up-nothing.
There are stories, now. Whispers among those still trapped in the flood zone. Some people have seen figures that dont move like people should. Others swear theyve heard voices whispering their names in the dark. A man tried to wade through knee-high water last night and claimed something grabbed him, something cold and unseen. He left bruises on his arms trying to pry invisible fingers off of him. The next morning, no one could find him.
The air feels heavier. The nights feel longer. There is something deeply wrong with Haven, something that goes beyond the tragedy of natural disaster. And it is growing.
Some claim the city is cursed, that so much suffering has soaked into the streets that the ground itself is rejecting the living. Others insist that there is something in the water, something ancient and patient and waiting. Some believe the flood itself is a symptom, not a disaster, but a sign of something far worse coming. They speak in hushed tones of omens and portents, of how the drowned streets whisper when the wind is still.
Lynette whilst out on her 2 minute morning run (Just long enough to take pictures of herself in yoga pants for her instagram) would spot someone making their way through the Tsubaki District. It was a young lady, looking distraught and panicked. Wide eyes and shaking shoulders she clutches her hands to her chest as he makes her way through the Tsubaki District looking around as if panicked.
Shaking steps, flickering eyes, her clothes were disheveled and it seems she hadn't thought to fix them up properly yet after whatever it was that had happened to her.
The guards of the Tsubaki were eyeing her with concern, japanese whispers happening between them. The eyes of the guards would eventually land on Lynette, four different guards in this part of the district in fact, all of them staring at Lynette as if they had all universally decided that she would be the one to be a good agent of the Tsubaki no Tetsu today. One of them, making direct eye contact with Lynette, flicks her head in the girl's direction.
Lynette was looking extremely cute this morning as usual, tight yoga pants and a sports top that was closer to a bra than a shirt. She'd pose in the light of golden hour, getting content for her social media page within the grounds of Tsubaki. Apparently her followers loved the Asian styled content. The only negative part was the intense flooding, getting her shoes all wet.
While scrolling through the online positive engagement a figure would come into view. A very uneasy looking woman would give Lynette flashbacks to the other day, where she assisted another similar looking lady in distress. Her nose wrinkles with annoyance and she was just about to turn away when four of the guards turned to look at the girl expectantly. "Come on..." Lynette groans, making direct eye contact with one of them. "Fine, you fuckers owe me," Lynette casually slips her phone into a narrow front pocket of her yoga pants so she could record the interaction. She might as well get interent praise for her good deeds after all.
Lynette would approach the woman in a way one would try not to scare off a wild animal. "You've wandered into Tsubaki no Tetsu territory, do you need help with something?" Lynette would start the conversation.
There's a flashed sequence of hand gestures from the guard who was looking at her, something akin to modern military hand signals. It wasn't clear exactly what they meant since Lynette is not educated on such matters, but the communication behind them was clear. Go now, fucker.
The woman is warily eyeing Lynette as she approaches and jumps like a deer as she becomes so bold as to actually talk to her. She looks over her shoulder, as if checking her escape route in case she needed to bolt. As she does so, Lynette would get a good look at the girl's neck, and the two openly bleeding puncture wounds side by side on it. Better not record that. Looking back her face goes white as she mentions scary words like 'territory' "Oh ... I'm so sorry ... I'll be on my way as quick as I can!" She promises Lynette, trying to turn and leave.
Upon noticing the puncture wounds, Lynette covers her phone and turns it off. Supernatural risks always ruining good content. "Don't go so soon. We're like, pro woman here and stuff. You look to be in distress so we can help you out," Lynette continues, her eyes scanning over the girl's apperance. "Who hurt you?"
The woman stumbles, only just about managing to stay on her feet as Lynette tries to continue the interaction. The girl looks over towards Lynette again, still fearful, not seeming comforted by the catty woman's meager efforts. "It was ... " She begins before her eyes open a little wider "Wait, you're with him? Aren't you?!" The woman gasps, her frame starting to shake, his feet shifting on the ground, her legs tensing up, getting ready to bolt.
"Him huh? A man getting a girl like you down... typical, come with me. We're going to clean you up," it seemed Lynette had a very little patience for comforting victims, perhaps due to the hours she spent on someone else recently.
Lynette grabs the girl by the wrist and starts dragging her towards the shrine. "We'll clean your wounds and... I dont know. Give you some tea or something," she shrugs.
The girl pulls out of Lynette 's grip and bolts! The guard who'd sent Lynette over to the girl facepalms. The three other girls facepalm. An old lady doing her grocery shopping who'd been watching the whole thing face palms. "Real smooth, gaijin" The armed woman sighs as she sets off after the girl in a light jog, seeming to have realized she was going to need to take care of this herself.
Lynette shrugs. "She's overreacting. Can't help someone who doesnt want to be help," Lynette huffs, pulling out her phone to delete the secret footage as she heads off to take a bath.