Encounterlogs
Mikhaels Odd Encounter Sr Elanora 240602
The early hours at White Oak College, a reputed educational institution shrouded in dense mists, served as the unlikely backdrop for a harrowing rescue mission. The protagonist, Mikhael, found himself drawn into the depths of a rumored demonic cult operating within the college. After receiving a distressing message about one of his operatives potentially being sacrificed, Mikhael made his way through the obscured paths of Haven, a town draped in an eerie silence accentuated by the fog. His journey led him directly to the front of the college, despite an attempt to navigate through the surrounding woodlands, showcasing the mist's disorienting effects. Upon arrival, Mikhael prepared himself with an array of weaponry, highlighting the seriousness of the task at hand.
Inside the biodome, Mikhael discovered a grim ritual in progress. A circle of robed figures chanted around a bloodied young woman shackled to a dead tree, an apparent sacrifice to the demon Asmodeus. Without hesitation and with precise, silent movements, Mikhael used his composite bow to launch a volley of arrows, targeting the cult members. His actions disrupted the ritual, demonstrating a decisive and lethal approach to halting the sacrifice. The detailed preparation and execution of his plan underlined the gravity of the supernatural undercurrents within Haven. Mikhael's intervention not only showcased his adeptness and resourcefulness but also underscored the persistent battle against the dark forces lurking within the seemingly tranquil town.
(Mikhael's odd encounter(SRElanora):SRElanora)
[Sat Jun 1 2024]
At an alley
It is dawn, about 61F(16C) degrees, Ankle high mist flows through the area.
(The local school is suspected of being a front for a demonic cult. The players must infiltrate the school, find evidence of the cult's activities, and expose them without alerting the town to the supernatural world.)
It was the early hours of the night over the sleepy or not so sleepy town of Haven. The mists are riding high tonight... tendrils of it curling into the roads... Wrapping around unsuspecting houses set at the edges of town. Grey, foggy, it resists the headlights of the few cars that are traversing the streets likely up to no good. There might be a few unfortunate straggers in the town, people who have to rise early to commute to their jobs who would find their morning trip all the more quiet. All the more deadly.
The moon, full only a few nights ago, wanes towards becoming a crescent slowly, her feeble rays unable to penetrate the darkness that smothers the town.
A few strands of moonlight however... do fall upon the biodome at the local White Oak College. Protected from the mists by tall walls and moats abound, only thin tendrils of mist creep along the corridors of the local school.
The moon light falls upon a dead tree whose branches reach for the ceiling. It's bark bare stripped bare is scarred and blackened as if the tree were hit by lightning over and over. It sits in the hushed darkness of the part aviary, part green house that occupies a not insignificant portion of the college's lands.
Shackles hang from the trunk, embeded into the wood and although likely often cleaned, tonight the shackles were annointed by blood. Blood dripping from the wrist of the young sacrificial teen shackled to the tree. Matted blonde hair, tacky with blood is the only covering the girl had been allowed and it falls over her bare nubile body. Likely in her late teens or early twenties, the girl's skin is otherwise flawless, not yet harmed by the implements laid out on a table set somewhat off in the distance. Gleaming instruments of torture glitter in the moonlight. A stunning 6 foot whip in the design of an oxtail. A paddle embeded with spikes. A cat of nine tails with metal at the end of each tail. A box of needles. In the center of it all, a ritual dagger rested, set on a wooden pedestal.
Wether it is by lucky coinsidence or by use of other means, the girl is currently unconcious as the shadows in the aviary move and shift. Robed figures slowly break out from amongst the trees, one by one walking up to form a circle around the tree. The circle is not yet complete.
"How many are we waiting for?" A man's rough voice huffs out, "Dawn will be here soon."
"Patience. There are 4 more to arrive. And then we can begin." A woman this time, her voice authoritative and soft, with a touch of a french accent.
Meanwhile, not too far from the school, in a dark alley next to the most popular and only apartment complex in the entirity of Haven, a message pops up on Mikhael's phone. The glow lights up the dark alleyway covered in rubbish and cars that look they belong locked up in a garage rather then parked haphazardly out in the streets.
"Urgent: Intel that one of your operatives might be sacrficed tonight at the White Oak College. Sacrifice due to start at or shortly after Dawn. Location within college unknown. - Pavlov."
A cloud drifts over the waning moon, casting the alleyway into shadow and the town into shadow as the mists reach even Mikhael's doorstep, curling around his ankles to soften the footfalls that are to follow.
For once, Mikhael had stepped out to have his smoke. Enjoy the dawning light of the sun that is far from its zenith. The wafting mist was a fine distraction and obstruction, deafening nearly everything and anything in their surroundings. He was just about to throw his cigarette to the ground and make for his car for a spot of early breakfast from one of those diners that are persistantly open at all times of the day, and he only stops at the buzz from his phone. Not the usual one, but a burner in a different pocket. That stills every attempt to drive elsewhere yet, and he reaches for it.
The text is perused quietly. Operatives. The word he mouths quietly, as if raking his brain for anyone of his that is dumb enough to fall for it before he clicks his tongue. "Boris, the hell are you talking about." Maybe there is a mistake there, but he doesn't reply. The phone is turned of after the text, as is customary. He drop it, crushes it under his boot before stretching his neck from side to side. "I hate that fucking place, too." After English, he peppers his next set of words under his breath with a few Russian expletives, and opens the door to his car. The push-start engine clicks awake near instantly, and he slowly buckles himself in.
There is no rush, none at all while he leaves the alley behind, taking a leisurely pace to drive through the very early, still dark morning to his destination that is the Institute. It's right around the corner, and it is totally overkill that he opts to drive there - and instead of pulling up by the front entry, he directs his vehicle off-road, straight through the woods surrounding the college and the clinic to approach from the north-side, the clinic portion, the nameless graveyard situated there, and park somewhere in the shade of the trees, crushing shrubbery under his wheels to create a hiding spot for his vehicle.
The mists are so thick Mikhael loses track of the path as soon as he drives off the road. His car bumps against things. There's a screech sounding like the bumper took some damage and as the mists part slightly due to the streetlights - he finds himself at the front of the college anyways, having made a giant loop through the mists. His car bumps into something else parked - invisible in the thick mist to the point where one could lose one's hand outstretched infront of them if they weren't squinting.
Shadows lurk darkly in the mists as waiting for a single mistep. There is almost no one out infront of the international bazaar and the sign that indicates one is normally nearing the school is not even sparred by the thick fog. 'Weapons beyond this point' are the only words that make it through on the sign, the rest of it obsecured by mist.
Tendrils of it curl around Mikhael's ankles as he makes his way down the path towards the college and the twisted trees that make up the median islands in Warden's way look gnarly as they claw up towards the sky.
A single crows cry- Caw, Caw, Caw is the only noise that makes it through the mists that morning.
Caw, caw, caw. The noise follows Mikhael as he makes his way up the stairs to the Reception of the White Oak Union.
someone line It is too early in the morning for the reception to even be staffed. Although given it is Haven mayhaps it is more of an oddity that there is no one standing behind the reception desk that night. The corridors leading off into the school seem extra dark tonight, the shadows reaching down and overlapping, hiding the secrets of the school.
There is a noise, a rustle out in the corridors out of the reception and if one had keen vision and night sight, one might notice the back of a hooded figure, hurrying away into the mists.
The mists are so thick Mikhael loses track of the path as soon as he drives off the road. His car bumps against things. There's a screech sounding like the bumper took some damage and as the mists part slightly due to the streetlights - he finds himself at the front of the college anyways, having made a giant loop through the mists. His car bumps into something else parked - invisible in the thick mist to the point where one could lose one's hand outstretched infront of them if they weren't squinting.
Shadows lurk darkly in the mists as waiting for a single mistep. There is almost no one out infront of the international bazaar and the sign that indicates one is normally nearing the school is not even sparred by the thick fog. 'Weapons beyond this point' are the only words that make it through on the sign, the rest of it obsecured by mist.
Tendrils of it curl around Mikhael's ankles as he makes his way down the path towards the college and the twisted trees that make up the median islands in Warden's way look gnarly as they claw up towards the sky.
A single crows cry- Caw, Caw, Caw is the only noise that makes it through the mists that morning.
Caw, caw, caw. The noise follows Mikhael as he makes his way up the stairs to the Reception of the White Oak Union.
It is too early in the morning for the reception to even be staffed. Although given it is Haven mayhaps it is more of an oddity that there is no one standing behind the reception desk that night. The corridors leading off into the school seem extra dark tonight, the shadows reaching down and overlapping, hiding the secrets of the school.
There is a noise, a rustle out in the corridors out of the reception and if one had keen vision and night sight, one might notice the back of a hooded figure, hurrying away into the mists.
Derailed of his path, but undeterred. Mikhael doesn't care of the other vehicles that he slammed into, apparently. Some poor student, no doubt - but having failed to navigate where he intended, this is prefarable to crashing the vehicle. Who knows the rate of his insurance - it probably wouldn't be the same compared to anyone who he hit. He paces through in relative silence, slips out a business card from his pocket to flick it at the front window of the car he rear ended.
Then he rebounds, circles back to his vehicle to get to the trunk. Every movement is methodical while he takes off his top and flicks it inside under the watchful eye of the crows that no doubt give him looks as if he's a walking, delectable corpse, but he spares no time in retrieving a set of ballistic armor more art and fury than protection. A full body suit that he begins to strap his torso in, legs left bereft of any plating for ease of motion, but his arms aren't. It's sleek, coffin-esque, leaving nothing barred and protecting up in pyramidion plates up to his throat. What he intends is probably a grave offense and against the law, but anyone would be hard pressed to know when he exactly cared for such things. He picks out a composite bow and a small quiver, one slung over his shoulder, the other strapped to behind at his waist - and the crown jewel is left to last. A decrepit looking black sword possibly centuries old and on the edge of breaking apart. That goes between his shoulderblades, hung upon a strap meant specifically for it, and the attire, combined with the rest of him, at least gives him a modicum of obscurity in the darkness.
After a few nondescript pipe-like objects strapped to his thigh, he shuts the trunk, and starts to make his way in. Not an ounce of stealth in how he breaches the sanctity of the Institute, even if his steps are relatively light and efforted to be quiet. The empty reception is passed without chagrin, but he has neither a keen vision nor an apt ability to see in the darkness. The man ahead isn't seen, even if he trails forward in that direction still, keeping relatively near to the walls and listening attentively towards his seemingly unknown destination
The mists make everything seem muted and the world grey as Mikhael ventures out into the courtyard. The cobblestone pathway underneath is almost completely hidden in the gray with the occasional border appearing as one kicks their way through the mists. Centry old oaks trees drape their branches down into the mists, creating shadows that shift as if alive.
Caw, caw, caw. The mists hide the sound of the wings of the raven but the loudness of it implies that it seems to be no further from Mikhael than when he was on the other side of the building. The sanctity of the school would not protect him it seems.
There is movement in the shadows dead ahead of Mikhael and the figure slowly comes into focus even as the mists obsecure the noises of footsteps.
"Oh for fucks sake." There is a swear that makes it through the muffled noise of the mists and the figure seems to be trying to squint at the fourway crossing sign in the middle of the pathway. There seems to be some issue with both looking up while wearing a long hooded cloak and there is a bit of a struggle as the figure lifts it's hands up to it's head to tug back the hood.
The hood falls back to reveal a young woman - simply a student of the school perhaps? Almond shaped wide brown eyes stare out from the bone structure of someone from southeast asia. Japanese perhaps with a cupid bow painted on her lips. A bit early to be wearing lipstick at dawn but it brings her prominent lower lip to attention, advertising how kissable it was. There is also blush applied to her cheeks to give it a bit of colour although there was more than enough of that at that moment. Black locks of hair, the colour of the night is tied up in two pigtails on either side of her head. Her eyebrows are knit as she waves her hand in the air, as if she would be successful in wafting away the mists. Her attempt seems at least.. partially successful because she only stares up at the sign for a few more moments before continuing on her way towards the west.
As soon as Mikhael hears a voice echo through the mist, he puts his shoulder to the wall, sinks forward and grows still. Long enough to wait, long enough to observe from his relative distance ducked half-way to the ground. The reveal of one of the figures has his pause lengthen, if only for a few more breaths, just until they start moving again - but he tacks onto their trail, begins to follow them in the next breath when they've begun to walk again.
The figure continues to walk slowly through the mists. Easily trailable. The double pigtails bounce as they walk, having not bothered pulling back up the obsecuring cloak that was still trailing slowly behind them. They reach the end of the corridor and skid to a stop right before topping into the mermaid pool. Who designed such a thing? A corridor that drops straight into a deep pool? The head infront of him shakes and she turns to her right, hurrying her way towards a building that looms out through the mists with a circular roof up above them.
He rebounds through corridor after corridor, it seems, swings through past the mermaid pool as opposed to continuing through it like a madman. A close call, because he nearly topples into it. Saved by the grace of being light on his feet. Through the mist, Mikhael keeps a closer pace to the figure ahead, now, step after step matching the footfalls of the other to avoid echoing the sound of his bootss needlessly.
The hooded figure leads him through the corridors all the way in one direction until she comes upon a door. Her head turns, looking this way and that, not that she should've bothered with how thick the mist was and pushes the door open silently disappearing within.
Within the dome there is soft chanting as the robe figures surround the stark tree that juts up through all the vegetation. There must be at a dozen people, standing at various locations around the tree, ultimately forming a circle. The girl rushes forward, hastily pulling up her hood as she finds her spot in the circle.
Up on the tree, the naked girl stirs, making a soft moan as her lashes flutter over her eyes. Her head lifts, showing eyes the colour of emeralds. Her lashes blink over her eyes a few more times as she realizes where she is. Her arms are bound above her head in the shackles. A cloth gag is shoved in her mouth. Her feet don't even touch the ground, the shackles at the base of the tree set so high she's dangling from her wrists, allowing the metal shackles to cut into her as they carry her weight.
Muffled screams are shouted from behind the gag and the person standing infront of the table of implements lifts the 6 foot long whip and cracks it through the air. The tip cracks just infront of the girl, igniting a even louder scream.
"Silence!" The french woman commands. "We are here to sacrfice you and your pain to the great demon Asmodeus!"
"Hear our plea Asmodeus!" The group chants after the demon's name. "Accept our sacrifice!"
The biodome accepts this unwanted visitor. Mikhael remains quiet, he doesn't go the rest of the way to catch up to his initial, uninformed guide that takes place in the circle of chanters that clearly intend to sacrifice a girl. The act alone has his lips curl into a smirk, narrowing, red eyes, pinpricks of violence are humored within the mist as he begins to trail away, begin to circle around the lot of them. The supposed, would be arcanists are given a curious, cautious look - and while the chant begins, Mikhael finds a proper position, sunken down on a single knee.
The bow slung over his shoulder is pulled down, notched with not one but two arrows that he lifts, and draws it up to his cheek. It creaks slightly, but not with struggle, but the raw power pulling it - and he aligns it. There are no recognition to his eyes, nor any intention to bring these people to light. They had, evidently now, wanted to summon a demon - and they had, though there was no circle to bind him. The arrow is let loose, two for a pair, and before their chanting is properly interruppted, he notches another two, aligns them proper without looking to his initial targets whether they've fallen. Arrow after arrow, let loose in quick succession to cull at the very least half the group - if he can manage that before they're alerted.
Inside the biodome, Mikhael discovered a grim ritual in progress. A circle of robed figures chanted around a bloodied young woman shackled to a dead tree, an apparent sacrifice to the demon Asmodeus. Without hesitation and with precise, silent movements, Mikhael used his composite bow to launch a volley of arrows, targeting the cult members. His actions disrupted the ritual, demonstrating a decisive and lethal approach to halting the sacrifice. The detailed preparation and execution of his plan underlined the gravity of the supernatural undercurrents within Haven. Mikhael's intervention not only showcased his adeptness and resourcefulness but also underscored the persistent battle against the dark forces lurking within the seemingly tranquil town.
(Mikhael's odd encounter(SRElanora):SRElanora)
[Sat Jun 1 2024]
At an alley
It is dawn, about 61F(16C) degrees, Ankle high mist flows through the area.
(The local school is suspected of being a front for a demonic cult. The players must infiltrate the school, find evidence of the cult's activities, and expose them without alerting the town to the supernatural world.)
It was the early hours of the night over the sleepy or not so sleepy town of Haven. The mists are riding high tonight... tendrils of it curling into the roads... Wrapping around unsuspecting houses set at the edges of town. Grey, foggy, it resists the headlights of the few cars that are traversing the streets likely up to no good. There might be a few unfortunate straggers in the town, people who have to rise early to commute to their jobs who would find their morning trip all the more quiet. All the more deadly.
The moon, full only a few nights ago, wanes towards becoming a crescent slowly, her feeble rays unable to penetrate the darkness that smothers the town.
A few strands of moonlight however... do fall upon the biodome at the local White Oak College. Protected from the mists by tall walls and moats abound, only thin tendrils of mist creep along the corridors of the local school.
The moon light falls upon a dead tree whose branches reach for the ceiling. It's bark bare stripped bare is scarred and blackened as if the tree were hit by lightning over and over. It sits in the hushed darkness of the part aviary, part green house that occupies a not insignificant portion of the college's lands.
Shackles hang from the trunk, embeded into the wood and although likely often cleaned, tonight the shackles were annointed by blood. Blood dripping from the wrist of the young sacrificial teen shackled to the tree. Matted blonde hair, tacky with blood is the only covering the girl had been allowed and it falls over her bare nubile body. Likely in her late teens or early twenties, the girl's skin is otherwise flawless, not yet harmed by the implements laid out on a table set somewhat off in the distance. Gleaming instruments of torture glitter in the moonlight. A stunning 6 foot whip in the design of an oxtail. A paddle embeded with spikes. A cat of nine tails with metal at the end of each tail. A box of needles. In the center of it all, a ritual dagger rested, set on a wooden pedestal.
Wether it is by lucky coinsidence or by use of other means, the girl is currently unconcious as the shadows in the aviary move and shift. Robed figures slowly break out from amongst the trees, one by one walking up to form a circle around the tree. The circle is not yet complete.
"How many are we waiting for?" A man's rough voice huffs out, "Dawn will be here soon."
"Patience. There are 4 more to arrive. And then we can begin." A woman this time, her voice authoritative and soft, with a touch of a french accent.
Meanwhile, not too far from the school, in a dark alley next to the most popular and only apartment complex in the entirity of Haven, a message pops up on Mikhael's phone. The glow lights up the dark alleyway covered in rubbish and cars that look they belong locked up in a garage rather then parked haphazardly out in the streets.
"Urgent: Intel that one of your operatives might be sacrficed tonight at the White Oak College. Sacrifice due to start at or shortly after Dawn. Location within college unknown. - Pavlov."
A cloud drifts over the waning moon, casting the alleyway into shadow and the town into shadow as the mists reach even Mikhael's doorstep, curling around his ankles to soften the footfalls that are to follow.
For once, Mikhael had stepped out to have his smoke. Enjoy the dawning light of the sun that is far from its zenith. The wafting mist was a fine distraction and obstruction, deafening nearly everything and anything in their surroundings. He was just about to throw his cigarette to the ground and make for his car for a spot of early breakfast from one of those diners that are persistantly open at all times of the day, and he only stops at the buzz from his phone. Not the usual one, but a burner in a different pocket. That stills every attempt to drive elsewhere yet, and he reaches for it.
The text is perused quietly. Operatives. The word he mouths quietly, as if raking his brain for anyone of his that is dumb enough to fall for it before he clicks his tongue. "Boris, the hell are you talking about." Maybe there is a mistake there, but he doesn't reply. The phone is turned of after the text, as is customary. He drop it, crushes it under his boot before stretching his neck from side to side. "I hate that fucking place, too." After English, he peppers his next set of words under his breath with a few Russian expletives, and opens the door to his car. The push-start engine clicks awake near instantly, and he slowly buckles himself in.
There is no rush, none at all while he leaves the alley behind, taking a leisurely pace to drive through the very early, still dark morning to his destination that is the Institute. It's right around the corner, and it is totally overkill that he opts to drive there - and instead of pulling up by the front entry, he directs his vehicle off-road, straight through the woods surrounding the college and the clinic to approach from the north-side, the clinic portion, the nameless graveyard situated there, and park somewhere in the shade of the trees, crushing shrubbery under his wheels to create a hiding spot for his vehicle.
The mists are so thick Mikhael loses track of the path as soon as he drives off the road. His car bumps against things. There's a screech sounding like the bumper took some damage and as the mists part slightly due to the streetlights - he finds himself at the front of the college anyways, having made a giant loop through the mists. His car bumps into something else parked - invisible in the thick mist to the point where one could lose one's hand outstretched infront of them if they weren't squinting.
Shadows lurk darkly in the mists as waiting for a single mistep. There is almost no one out infront of the international bazaar and the sign that indicates one is normally nearing the school is not even sparred by the thick fog. 'Weapons beyond this point' are the only words that make it through on the sign, the rest of it obsecured by mist.
Tendrils of it curl around Mikhael's ankles as he makes his way down the path towards the college and the twisted trees that make up the median islands in Warden's way look gnarly as they claw up towards the sky.
A single crows cry- Caw, Caw, Caw is the only noise that makes it through the mists that morning.
Caw, caw, caw. The noise follows Mikhael as he makes his way up the stairs to the Reception of the White Oak Union.
someone line It is too early in the morning for the reception to even be staffed. Although given it is Haven mayhaps it is more of an oddity that there is no one standing behind the reception desk that night. The corridors leading off into the school seem extra dark tonight, the shadows reaching down and overlapping, hiding the secrets of the school.
There is a noise, a rustle out in the corridors out of the reception and if one had keen vision and night sight, one might notice the back of a hooded figure, hurrying away into the mists.
The mists are so thick Mikhael loses track of the path as soon as he drives off the road. His car bumps against things. There's a screech sounding like the bumper took some damage and as the mists part slightly due to the streetlights - he finds himself at the front of the college anyways, having made a giant loop through the mists. His car bumps into something else parked - invisible in the thick mist to the point where one could lose one's hand outstretched infront of them if they weren't squinting.
Shadows lurk darkly in the mists as waiting for a single mistep. There is almost no one out infront of the international bazaar and the sign that indicates one is normally nearing the school is not even sparred by the thick fog. 'Weapons beyond this point' are the only words that make it through on the sign, the rest of it obsecured by mist.
Tendrils of it curl around Mikhael's ankles as he makes his way down the path towards the college and the twisted trees that make up the median islands in Warden's way look gnarly as they claw up towards the sky.
A single crows cry- Caw, Caw, Caw is the only noise that makes it through the mists that morning.
Caw, caw, caw. The noise follows Mikhael as he makes his way up the stairs to the Reception of the White Oak Union.
It is too early in the morning for the reception to even be staffed. Although given it is Haven mayhaps it is more of an oddity that there is no one standing behind the reception desk that night. The corridors leading off into the school seem extra dark tonight, the shadows reaching down and overlapping, hiding the secrets of the school.
There is a noise, a rustle out in the corridors out of the reception and if one had keen vision and night sight, one might notice the back of a hooded figure, hurrying away into the mists.
Derailed of his path, but undeterred. Mikhael doesn't care of the other vehicles that he slammed into, apparently. Some poor student, no doubt - but having failed to navigate where he intended, this is prefarable to crashing the vehicle. Who knows the rate of his insurance - it probably wouldn't be the same compared to anyone who he hit. He paces through in relative silence, slips out a business card from his pocket to flick it at the front window of the car he rear ended.
Then he rebounds, circles back to his vehicle to get to the trunk. Every movement is methodical while he takes off his top and flicks it inside under the watchful eye of the crows that no doubt give him looks as if he's a walking, delectable corpse, but he spares no time in retrieving a set of ballistic armor more art and fury than protection. A full body suit that he begins to strap his torso in, legs left bereft of any plating for ease of motion, but his arms aren't. It's sleek, coffin-esque, leaving nothing barred and protecting up in pyramidion plates up to his throat. What he intends is probably a grave offense and against the law, but anyone would be hard pressed to know when he exactly cared for such things. He picks out a composite bow and a small quiver, one slung over his shoulder, the other strapped to behind at his waist - and the crown jewel is left to last. A decrepit looking black sword possibly centuries old and on the edge of breaking apart. That goes between his shoulderblades, hung upon a strap meant specifically for it, and the attire, combined with the rest of him, at least gives him a modicum of obscurity in the darkness.
After a few nondescript pipe-like objects strapped to his thigh, he shuts the trunk, and starts to make his way in. Not an ounce of stealth in how he breaches the sanctity of the Institute, even if his steps are relatively light and efforted to be quiet. The empty reception is passed without chagrin, but he has neither a keen vision nor an apt ability to see in the darkness. The man ahead isn't seen, even if he trails forward in that direction still, keeping relatively near to the walls and listening attentively towards his seemingly unknown destination
The mists make everything seem muted and the world grey as Mikhael ventures out into the courtyard. The cobblestone pathway underneath is almost completely hidden in the gray with the occasional border appearing as one kicks their way through the mists. Centry old oaks trees drape their branches down into the mists, creating shadows that shift as if alive.
Caw, caw, caw. The mists hide the sound of the wings of the raven but the loudness of it implies that it seems to be no further from Mikhael than when he was on the other side of the building. The sanctity of the school would not protect him it seems.
There is movement in the shadows dead ahead of Mikhael and the figure slowly comes into focus even as the mists obsecure the noises of footsteps.
"Oh for fucks sake." There is a swear that makes it through the muffled noise of the mists and the figure seems to be trying to squint at the fourway crossing sign in the middle of the pathway. There seems to be some issue with both looking up while wearing a long hooded cloak and there is a bit of a struggle as the figure lifts it's hands up to it's head to tug back the hood.
The hood falls back to reveal a young woman - simply a student of the school perhaps? Almond shaped wide brown eyes stare out from the bone structure of someone from southeast asia. Japanese perhaps with a cupid bow painted on her lips. A bit early to be wearing lipstick at dawn but it brings her prominent lower lip to attention, advertising how kissable it was. There is also blush applied to her cheeks to give it a bit of colour although there was more than enough of that at that moment. Black locks of hair, the colour of the night is tied up in two pigtails on either side of her head. Her eyebrows are knit as she waves her hand in the air, as if she would be successful in wafting away the mists. Her attempt seems at least.. partially successful because she only stares up at the sign for a few more moments before continuing on her way towards the west.
As soon as Mikhael hears a voice echo through the mist, he puts his shoulder to the wall, sinks forward and grows still. Long enough to wait, long enough to observe from his relative distance ducked half-way to the ground. The reveal of one of the figures has his pause lengthen, if only for a few more breaths, just until they start moving again - but he tacks onto their trail, begins to follow them in the next breath when they've begun to walk again.
The figure continues to walk slowly through the mists. Easily trailable. The double pigtails bounce as they walk, having not bothered pulling back up the obsecuring cloak that was still trailing slowly behind them. They reach the end of the corridor and skid to a stop right before topping into the mermaid pool. Who designed such a thing? A corridor that drops straight into a deep pool? The head infront of him shakes and she turns to her right, hurrying her way towards a building that looms out through the mists with a circular roof up above them.
He rebounds through corridor after corridor, it seems, swings through past the mermaid pool as opposed to continuing through it like a madman. A close call, because he nearly topples into it. Saved by the grace of being light on his feet. Through the mist, Mikhael keeps a closer pace to the figure ahead, now, step after step matching the footfalls of the other to avoid echoing the sound of his bootss needlessly.
The hooded figure leads him through the corridors all the way in one direction until she comes upon a door. Her head turns, looking this way and that, not that she should've bothered with how thick the mist was and pushes the door open silently disappearing within.
Within the dome there is soft chanting as the robe figures surround the stark tree that juts up through all the vegetation. There must be at a dozen people, standing at various locations around the tree, ultimately forming a circle. The girl rushes forward, hastily pulling up her hood as she finds her spot in the circle.
Up on the tree, the naked girl stirs, making a soft moan as her lashes flutter over her eyes. Her head lifts, showing eyes the colour of emeralds. Her lashes blink over her eyes a few more times as she realizes where she is. Her arms are bound above her head in the shackles. A cloth gag is shoved in her mouth. Her feet don't even touch the ground, the shackles at the base of the tree set so high she's dangling from her wrists, allowing the metal shackles to cut into her as they carry her weight.
Muffled screams are shouted from behind the gag and the person standing infront of the table of implements lifts the 6 foot long whip and cracks it through the air. The tip cracks just infront of the girl, igniting a even louder scream.
"Silence!" The french woman commands. "We are here to sacrfice you and your pain to the great demon Asmodeus!"
"Hear our plea Asmodeus!" The group chants after the demon's name. "Accept our sacrifice!"
The biodome accepts this unwanted visitor. Mikhael remains quiet, he doesn't go the rest of the way to catch up to his initial, uninformed guide that takes place in the circle of chanters that clearly intend to sacrifice a girl. The act alone has his lips curl into a smirk, narrowing, red eyes, pinpricks of violence are humored within the mist as he begins to trail away, begin to circle around the lot of them. The supposed, would be arcanists are given a curious, cautious look - and while the chant begins, Mikhael finds a proper position, sunken down on a single knee.
The bow slung over his shoulder is pulled down, notched with not one but two arrows that he lifts, and draws it up to his cheek. It creaks slightly, but not with struggle, but the raw power pulling it - and he aligns it. There are no recognition to his eyes, nor any intention to bring these people to light. They had, evidently now, wanted to summon a demon - and they had, though there was no circle to bind him. The arrow is let loose, two for a pair, and before their chanting is properly interruppted, he notches another two, aligns them proper without looking to his initial targets whether they've fallen. Arrow after arrow, let loose in quick succession to cull at the very least half the group - if he can manage that before they're alerted.