Encounterlogs
Mikhaels Odd Encounter Sr Elanora 240614
In the early hours within the unsettling calm of Haven, a tale of desperate measures unfolds. Mikhael, known ominously as the Barghast, is tasked with extracting critical information from Oleen Doyle, a captive woman with connections to temple intelligence. Oleen, steadfast and resilient despite her dire predicament, is subjected to a chilling encounter in a decrepit basement, lit only by a swinging bare bulb that does little to ease the tense atmosphere. Her captor, a menacing figure with fangs and a taste for cruelty, fails to break Oleen's resolve. She defiantly withholds the location of a bomb set to disrupt the Hand unit in San Francisco. Despite threats of prolonged captivity and torture that include invoking the dread of the Barghast and hints at starvation, Oleen remains unyielding, taunting her captor with her steadfast resolve and the certainty that her allies will come for her.
The narrative shifts as Mikhael, opting for a direct approach, arrives at the bleak scene. The Barghast's personal involvement signifies the gravity of the situation. He employs methods that blend psychological warfare with physical intimidation, aiming to exploit Oleen's fears without violating the sanctity of sanctuary—a unique, albeit twisted, honor code among rival factions. The tension escalates as Mikhael, undeterred by Oleen's sneers and defiance, administers a calculated campaign of torment. His actions, marked by a disturbing calmness, demonstrate a chilling expertise in extracting information through pain without leaving lasting damage, a testament to his ominous reputation. Oleen's resolve is tested to its breaking point by this relentless assault, her spirit unbroken but her situation increasingly desperate.
The climax of this harrowing encounter arrives in a manifestation of dire consequences and bargaining. Oleen, pushed to the limits of human endurance, reveals the bomb's location—Knob Hill—in a desperate bid to extinguish the literal and figurative flames encircling her. This moment of capitulation, coerced through fear and pain, marks a dark victory for Mikhael but leaves the ultimate success of his mission—an evocation of fear and the prevention of the bombing—shrouded in uncertainty. The outcome of this brutal exchange, while immediately resolving the crisis at hand, leaves lingering questions about the lengths to which individuals will go to protect their own, and the moral cost of such victories in the shadowy conflict that envelops Haven.
(Mikhael's odd encounter(SRElanora):SRElanora)
[Thu Jun 13 2024]
In a Spacious, Suave Living Space with View of the Bay
This formal living room is spacious, a blend of modern luxury and historic tranquility. Dark wallpaper with swirling silver patterns adorns the walls, adding a touch of sophistication to the space, creating an illusion of expansiveness, serving as a central point in the penthouse, seamlessly connecting the hallways and foyer. Strategically placed indoor plants breathe life into the space, harmonizing with the abstract, refined decor.
Black, hard marble floors stretch elegantly throughout the apartment, lending an airy feel to the residence. The high ceiling, painted in a shadowy darkness, is adorned with clouded figures and warped shades blending seamlessly in a foreboding visual illuminated by a minimalist chandelier with cascading glass orbs that bathe the room in soft, ambient glow.
A glass balcony nestled between broad windows offers a scenic view towards the east, showcasing Haven's Bay framed by hazy blurs of old-growth forest. In the distance, the tempestuous Atlantic Ocean captivates with its restless waves, shifting from stony depths in colder seasons to coastal blues in warmer ones. Despite the open floor plan, the space exudes a sense of elevation, with steps on either side of the connecting hallway adding to its grandeur.
It is before dawn, about 71F(21C) degrees, There is a waxing crescent moon.
(Your target and their allies have been tasked with extracting a piece of information from a member of an opposing faction or subfaction but they cannot break the understanding to do so.
)
The morning was young or the night was old in Haven as the first rays of the sun barely touch the horizon. Fluffy clouds drift over the night sky, obsecuring some stars and the waxing crescent in the sky glows, surrounded by a halo in testiment of the wind that blows through the sleepy town. Today the summer wind was unforgiving, howling outside of buildings, rattling glass panels and shaking the trees. It keeps people huddled under their blankets, pressing pillows to their ears as they try not to be woken by the vicious gusts. If one were to find a tree or two toppled over that morning blocking the early morning, one would not be surprised.
At the shoreline, the waves dash into the rocks, tossed by the wind creating giant surfs many meters high - no doubt the summer attraction that brings people from New York and Boston down to this sleepy town that otherwise no one remembers.
Deep in the bowels of a building in the dodgier part of town where the strip clubs and the drug dealers are doing their best work, a girl was imprisoned in a darkly lit basement.
It was lit by a single bare light bulb, hanging from a ceiling, covered in dust and it swung slowly back and forth in the dimness that would strain a humans eyes but perhaps not those that hunt in the night.
Likely in her last twenties, the woman was currently hanging from chains that were shackled around her wrists and were anchored to the ceiling. It was likely she had been in that position for a while from the way the shackles cut into her wrists, letting a slow drip of blood fall down her arm.
She was dressed for business - a navy blue suit, a delicate white lace blouse as well as a matching pencil skirt that hugged her hips. Sheer pantyhose and shoes that were not inappropriate for business but were more suited to a decked out secretory who never had to walk made her standing on the stark concrete even harder. Black pumps with 3inch stilettos were set shoulderwidth apart but if their owner felt any hint of pain from being in those stilettos, it didn't show in her hazel eyes and the stubborn set of her jaw.
A single pendant, a stylized sun hung over her blouse.
"Fuck off. You're not going to learn anything from me." Her lips - covered in blood red lipstick parts to spit on the ground as her hazel eyes stare forward into the darkness. "I know you're just a shitty hand lacky. Unable to do anything. Either let me go or face the consequences." Her chin lifts as the person she was talking to walks out from the darkness.
Also another woman, this particular person was dressed almost in the same style of her captive. Business attire, sensible and modest covers the woman. Her lips are made up with a shade of red that reminds one of something darker than just blood. They part to show fangs, fangs that may have already tasted the captive infront of her if the two bite marks on the other woman's neck meant anything.
"It's a pity... I .. don't like to get my hands dirty." The woman in the shadow's voice was soft with a slight french accent, "But I do have contacts in this town. People who I am sure are intersted in the knowledge you have. Are you sure you don't want to tell me, before I call in.. The barghast?"
The woman hanging by her wrists blanches slightly at the name but spits again, "He can't break the understanding. So I doubt he'll be able to do much better than you. My people will come looking for me and they'll pull your fangs out with pliers you little bitch."
"That's not very nice. Do the temple even know we have connections in this building? I highly doubt." The french vampire laughs softly, "It will be a loooong time before anyone comes to get you here. Did you know that humans can survive for over a month without food as long as they have water? We can just inject the water directly into your veins... So really we can gag you for a whole month."
The prisoner makes to go spit again - then seems to think better of it. Mayhaps it'll be best for her to conserve some water. Instead of her hazel eyes just stare at the other woman, "It won't matter anyways." She finally sneers, "In 5 hours it'll be done."
"Well then.... I suppose I will have to make the call to get in someone who will be... faster at persuading you to tell us where the bomb is."
Further away, in a penthouse across the town, the Barghast's mobile buzzes. The sun was only just starting to trickle in through his balcony windows and lighting up the macabre artworks that were strewn about the penthouse.
"Hello.... This is Eva. We have a woman here.. Someone who works for temple intelligence. She has time sensitive information. Would you be able to send an extractor? I've done my best... but she's stubborn. I will send the address."
The morning was young or the night was old in Haven as the first rays of the sun barely touch the horizon. Fluffy clouds drift over the night sky, obsecuring some stars and the waxing crescent in the sky glows, surrounded by a halo in testiment of the wind that blows through the sleepy town. Today the summer wind was unforgiving, howling outside of buildings, rattling glass panels and shaking the trees. It keeps people huddled under their blankets, pressing pillows to their ears as they try not to be woken by the vicious gusts. If one were to find a tree or two toppled over that morning blocking the early morning, one would not be surprised.
At the shoreline, the waves dash into the rocks, tossed by the wind creating giant surfs many meters high - no doubt the summer attraction that brings people from New York and Boston down to this sleepy town that otherwise no one remembers.
Deep in the bowels of a building in the dodgier part of town where the strip clubs and the drug dealers are doing their best work, a girl was imprisoned in a darkly lit basement.
It was lit by a single bare light bulb, hanging from a ceiling, covered in dust and it swung slowly back and forth in the dimness that would strain a humans eyes but perhaps not those that hunt in the night.
Likely in her last twenties, the woman was currently hanging from chains that were shackled around her wrists and were anchored to the ceiling. It was likely she had been in that position for a while from the way the shackles cut into her wrists, letting a slow drip of blood fall down her arm.
She was dressed for business - a navy blue suit, a delicate white lace blouse as well as a matching pencil skirt that hugged her hips. Sheer pantyhose and shoes that were not inappropriate for business but were more suited to a decked out secretory who never had to walk made her standing on the stark concrete even harder. Black pumps with 3inch stilettos were set shoulderwidth apart but if their owner felt any hint of pain from being in those stilettos, it didn't show in her hazel eyes and the stubborn set of her jaw.
A single pendant, a stylized sun hung over her blouse.
"Fuck off. You're not going to learn anything from me." Her lips - covered in blood red lipstick parts to spit on the ground as her hazel eyes stare forward into the darkness. "I know you're just a shitty hand lacky. Unable to do anything. Either let me go or face the consequences." Her chin lifts as the person she was talking to walks out from the darkness.
Also another woman, this particular person was dressed almost in the same style of her captive. Business attire, sensible and modest covers the woman. Her lips are made up with a shade of red that reminds one of something darker than just blood. They part to show fangs, fangs that may have already tasted the captive infront of her if the two bite marks on the other woman's neck meant anything.
"It's a pity... I .. don't like to get my hands dirty." The woman in the shadow's voice was soft with a slight french accent, "But I do have contacts in this town. People who I am sure are intersted in the knowledge you have. Are you sure you don't want to tell me, before I call in.. The barghast?"
The woman hanging by her wrists blanches slightly at the name but spits again, "He can't break the understanding. So I doubt he'll be able to do much better than you. My people will come looking for me and they'll pull your fangs out with pliers you little bitch."
"That's not very nice. Do the temple even know we have connections in this building? I highly doubt." The french vampire laughs softly, "It will be a loooong time before anyone comes to get you here. Did you know that humans can survive for over a month without food as long as they have water? We can just inject the water directly into your veins... So really we can gag you for a whole month."
The prisoner makes to go spit again - then seems to think better of it. Mayhaps it'll be best for her to conserve some water. Instead of her hazel eyes just stare at the other woman, "It won't matter anyways." She finally sneers, "In 5 hours it'll be done."
"Well then.... I suppose I will have to make the call to get in someone who will be... faster at persuading you to tell us where the bomb is."
Further away, in a penthouse across the town, the Barghast's mobile buzzes. The sun was only just starting to trickle in through his balcony windows and lighting up the macabre artworks that were strewn about the penthouse.
"Hello.... This is Eva. We have a woman here.. Someone who works for temple intelligence. She has time sensitive information. Would you be able to send an extractor? I've done my best... but she's stubborn. I will send the address."
In that oppressive night, deep in contemplation, Mikhael was seated on his couch. A woman, who happened to be sleeping there, rests over his lap - yet the phone, ever on silent, is picked up before it has a chance to wake anyone. He doesn't speak, no words reply yet in that while he strokes through crimson red locks with his other hand, tangles them around a digit in his silent observation of the darkened living room. "I could send Boris." His knife-edge silence is eventually broken while he speaks to the phone, but a look cast down has him state, simply, another notion. "But I'll be there personally. Fill me in on the target, send me the address, I'll be there in five." And the phone is shut without another word. His assistant wouldn't call him for no reason at all - and that was enough. The woman on his lap finds that the he is replaced by a pillow as discreetly, silently as possible - and he picks up his jacket off the back of the sofa on his quiet exit - presumably to his car, and off to the location that'll surely appear in his phone in the next second or two.
The location that appears on Mikhael's phone is easily inserted into the GPS of his porche. The black car gleams darkly in the morning sunlight, looking like a shadow out on the prowl. For once such a vehicle has advantages over it's much bigger brothers the SUV - the howl wind that blows across Haven barely affects him while he drives past a few SUV's in danger of tipping over from going around a corner just slighly too fast on the empty streets. The drive wasn't particularly far or hard. Down Elm. Down to Dreadwood, past the striptease which was still under construction with heavy construction machinery being moved in as he passed it, past the dodgy piercing shop where one could buy all the drugs one wanted to space out to their hearts desire and then the Succubus which was pulsing with activity and light even at this time of the day. The street he continues on becomes quieter as they get away from the dodgy businesses until he comes to a small set of very old apartment blocks. Surely built pre war era, their bricks are covered in vines and from the trash stashed infront, it looks like the building's either in disuse or part of some drug den. someone someone His assistant greets him from the shadows of the building as he steps out and hands him a folder. "Oleen Doyle. She's temple intelligence. They've apparently targeted the Hand unit down in San fransico currently and supposedly there will be a bombing today to take out a high ranking person's house. Only we don't know which house. We've already asked everyone to evacuate but there are quite a few who make their home in the city and it would be.. Disruptive for a bomb to go off in downtown San fransico." The french woman's voice was quiet as she leads Mikhael down into the basement where the other woman awaits. "I'll leave you to it. Unless there's anything else you need?" The french woman asks softly as the single bulb in the basement continues to swing just slightly from the drafty wind coming in through no doubt many holes in the walls in this place.
In the middle of the basement hazel eyes lift to meet Mikhael's and a sneer is shown as the burnette infront of him deliberately turns her eyes to the vampire, "Should've sent someone scarier."
The location that appears on Mikhael's phone is easily inserted into the GPS of his porche. The black car gleams darkly in the morning sunlight, looking like a shadow out on the prowl. For once such a vehicle has advantages over it's much bigger brothers the SUV - the howl wind that blows across Haven barely affects him while he drives past a few SUV's in danger of tipping over from going around a corner just slighly too fast on the empty streets. The drive wasn't particularly far or hard. Down Elm. Down to Dreadwood, past the striptease which was still under construction with heavy construction machinery being moved in as he passed it, past the dodgy piercing shop where one could buy all the drugs one wanted to space out to their hearts desire and then the Succubus which was pulsing with activity and light even at this time of the day. The street he continues on becomes quieter as they get away from the dodgy businesses until he comes to a small set of very old apartment blocks. Surely built pre war era, their bricks are covered in vines and from the trash stashed infront, it looks like the building's either in disuse or part of some drug den.
His assistant greets him from the shadows of the building as he steps out and hands him a folder. "Oleen Doyle. She's temple intelligence. They've apparently targeted the Hand unit down in San fransico currently and supposedly there will be a bombing today to take out a high ranking person's house. Only we don't know which house. We've already asked everyone to evacuate but there are quite a few who make their home in the city and it would be.. Disruptive for a bomb to go off in downtown San fransico." The french woman's voice was quiet as she leads Mikhael down into the basement where the other woman awaits. "I'll leave you to it. Unless there's anything else you need?" The french woman asks softly as the single bulb in the basement continues to swing just slightly from the drafty wind coming in through no doubt many holes in the walls in this place.
In the middle of the basement hazel eyes lift to meet Mikhael's and a sneer is shown as the burnette infront of him deliberately turns her eyes to the vampire, "Should've sent someone scarier."
Exhaustion is evident. Mikhael shows it, everyone knows it. Sleepless nights pondering and calculating had kept him awake, and he still offers nothing to his assistant that guides him through to the recesses of the brken down building. Past the treshold, where their captive is kept, Mikhael waves over his shoulder. Dismissive, almost, but not done in a demeaning manner while he yawns into the back of his other hand. His jaw snaps shut like a beast, before he deigns to speak. "You've done well." And another glance, at the captive's neck, he notes, "Too well. Wait in the car and call the clean-up crew, I don't imagine this will take long." Even then, their target is spoken as if they aren't really here, sitting tied up in front of them - but Mikhael approches, closes in the distance while removing his jacket, his sunglasses after, and they're hung up on a jutting piece of metal from a rotten support beam. When he stands in front of the woman, all he does is stare down with an impassive face, and unbutton his wristcuffs to start rolling up his dress shirt's sleeves all the way to his elbows.
The brunettes wrists were shackled together, high above her head. The chain leading from the shackles had been passed over a beam that was surprisingly not yet rotting and fastened down to the handrail of the stairs. It kept her standing on those 3 inch stilettos that she readjusts every now and then like she does now as she stares at Mikhael. Behind him, his assistant dips her head and walks back out, the sound of her own heels disappearing from the basement at rapid pace.
"Well.. The barghast himself... I'm honoured." The brunette had a faint southern accent and had a way with enounciating her words. "But you're not getting any information from me." She laughs softly and shakes her head.
"Ah," Mikhael pauses, stares up at the woman's eyes as opposed to inspecting her as a whole. Then, quietly, he starts to pace around her. "I'm not here to get information." Circling behind her, those red eyes as bright as hellfire continue to inspect, scale the woman high and low as if thinking what it is he can truly do to someone in such a situation. "I have some frustrations to blow out, too much on my mind." Then he gets closer - far too close for comfort, but his gaze remains angled low while he kicks her feet, one by own, dislodging her heels, casting them away from underneath her so she has to remain suspended on the tip of her toes at best, or take her whole weight to her arms at worst. "I didn't listen to my assistant, you see. I don't even know what we're looking for, so.. I think I'm going to make you miserable until you satisfy me. If that happens to be telling me what she wants, then maybe we'll come to some terms."
Mikhael can see the woman tensing as he moves behind her. The brunette's hair fell in messy disarray to her shoulders and her suit top was torn and bloodied in a few spots already. She just grunts as Mikhael kicks out her heels out from underneath her, revealing toes socked in the sheer pantyhose she wore. Her toes flex in those pantyhose as she finds the floot with just the tip of her toes. "Well that's going to make my job even easier than Barghast.. Isn't it?" The woman laughs softly, "Poor Barghast has some issues? R and R not to his standard? You know each time you hurt... you maim .. you kill.. you taunt your soul. I hear you have a woman now. How tainted a soul will she accept?" Her cackling laughter fills the little basement as the wind outside howls some more. "I didn't even know you were in the business of hurting women. Isn't that.... unmanly?"
"If you know this much, you should know the things I've done." Modulated, quiet, Mikhael speaks calmly, yet, it is foreboding. Something worse than his anger. He begins to pace once more around her. "You say that name, but do you even know why they called me Barghest?" He is surely not going to explain, not while he stops behind the woman, reaches up to the seams of her dress and starts to undo it, button by button, and tugs it low to expose only her back and nothing more. "There are a lot of restrictions here, but don't you worry. You'll want me to satify you, by the time I'm done." And once more in front of her. He's like a hound, circling his prey like he seeks what is the best path to the jugular. "Now, everyone has someone they care about outside Haven. Here, you're protected, to an extent. Out there, they are not. Are you familiar with how North Korea punishes misdeed? The three-generation extention? It would take only a phone call to find out, but it would be too easy.." His continued tone of disinterested distaste, nonchalance, continues. "I can't give you any injuries that'll last more than a few days to recover. But count yourself unlucky." Both hands now rise to cup the woman's face, tilt her head up. Red eyes scan her, assess her, search almost for any hint - before he asks bluntly. "Are you scientifically or chemically augmented? I know that is very common for your ilk, in the Temple."
As Mikhael buttons the business womans - now dress- he finds that she has tattoos everywhere from shoulder up. A rising sun on her left shoulder, a crescent moon in counter balance on the right. A set of scales dipping in the middle. Her hazel eyes don't give up a single note of information to the man infront of her and she smiles slowly, showing her teeth. "Sorry maybe you should've paid attention to your little fang friend. Or asked that. I'm certainly not telling you." With him standing close enough to cup her face, he can see the bruise on her temple where they must've knocked her out can see the thick lashes of her eyes - even as she takes her own weight on her wrist and swings forward, trying to knee or kick Mikhael in the groin.
"I don't need you to tell me." Mikhael informs her - even as he slapss the back of his hand down on her knee, and throws her whole balance off while the knee goes amiss. All that keeps her from swingingly wildly is Mikhael's other hand, shot up to catch her by the throat, squeeze her in place and even lift her up - The tension of her whole body nestled just beneath her jaw, with the cruel force he inflicts, is enough to cut breath and word. "Those things usually leave marks." He pays no heed to the tattoos, but his hands grace her bare arms, shoulders - upper chest. Search for any jutting thing that is not meant to be there, affixed to bone or vein, mechanical - and failing that, his thumb presses below her neck for any exessive use of needles for any chemical augmentation along the arteries of her throat, her wrists, the inside of her elbows. "If you are, I'll know you won't break easily."
The woman chained infront of him swings wildly as he slaps her knee -or she would if he hadn't grabbed her by the throat. Mikhael can feel her suffer in the way only the demonborn can - a uptick in his mood. She grunts as his hand grips her throat and her jaw tightens as he forces her to hang there, with her whole body weight dangling. In Mikhael's keen observation, he would notice that there are a few needle marks on the inside of her elbow that haven't quite healed yet. She seems to try to talk but finds herself unable to as her hazel eyes simply glare across the space at Mikhael.
"Good girl. I knew you wouldn't be so simple." Mikhael speaks quietly as soon as he notes the pinprick marks of needles. His fingers suddenly squeeze harder, disallow any breath to enter her lungs while he increases the tension on her throat by lifting her higher. "Clench your teeth, you can take me." He meet her glare with a vicious smile, a keenly disturbing, wild glint in his gaze -- then the arm searching her body releases in favor of a punch straight into her abdomen to knock the wind out of her -- or rather, fold her in pain because the wind has nowhere to go with the obtruction of his fingers pressing down on her windpipe, while he uses the poor woman as a punching bag.
The woman's lips curl as Mikhael squeezes harder on her throat and she stares at him, defiant, even as he punches her in the stomach. Her body curls up in pain and she would wheeze if she could - if any air could pass through her throat but it can't. Her legs draw up and despite her futile situation, she tries to kick at him again. The angle is awkward though and he's a bit too close for her to do much damage, even if she did land the kick. The chain above her rattles as she tries to pull herself up higher from his hand - but there is no escaping a grip on one's throat even if one could get higher. Lashes flutter over her hazel eyes as she starts to lose conciousness.
Right before she does lose conciousness - Mikhael relents. His hands leave her throat, and her flailing kicks find absolutely nothing as he starts to pace once more. Slowly, around the woman without caring of how much she'll be gulping air in futility. At her back, there is only the sound of steel being drawn. Something from his pockets, perhaps a hidden sheath - and his body presses onto her own to prevent her swinging wildly, but doesn't serve as a form of pillar for her to lean on. What she may try to say, what she may try to scream or draw in air - they're all interrupted, for one of his hands snake around from under her uplifted arm and capture her neck just to keep her in place, not let her suffocate again. "One or two papercuts, I'm sure will be fine. Let's see how many I can draw on you before your sanctuary stops me, yes?" From the other side, his arm wraps around her waist, a slender, silver dagger angled up to her midsection, and its tapered tip clearly meant for puncturing begins to draw a fine, thin line acros her abdomen -- and again, right above, almost tightly knit together. "Don't change your mind about speaking, yet."
As soon as Mikhael's hand leaves the woman's throat, she gasps for air before coughing a few times. The dark basement is just filled with the noise of her breathing to suck in breath big breaths of air as Mikhael circles around her and he is rewarded with her gasp as he grabs her from behind. Her body thrashed against him, but, hindered as she was by the chain holding her arms up, there is very little she can do. She grits her teeth as Mikhael's forearm snakes around her neck again, not hard enough to cut off her air and her breath snorts from her nose for a moment. "Fuck.... you..." She grits out even as his dagger sets into her skin and she thrashes wildly through the cutting, trying to make his lines jagged to deprive him of the satisfaction. Meanwhile his mood elevates significantly.
The dagger may as well be a scalpel, and Mikhael very experienced in his utensils. Every trashing movement is met with a twist in in the opposite to keep his lines as straight forward as it can be. "Why did they catch /you/ anyway?" Mikhael speaks to her ear, his head over her shoulder, gaze cast down to inspect his handiwork. Above the two lines he drew on her abdoment, right above them on her stomach he carves out a very thin depiction again. This time, of a stylized sun. However shallow his expertly delivered cuts are, they still seep blood, they still sting - maybe worse than a deeper cut because of how shallow and sensitive it is that he glides right above the nerve endings until every stroke of that large stylized sun of the Temple is embedded onto her skin. "A bomb, or whatever. Tell me, I get bored in silence.. and you don't want me to entertain myself." The knife climbs higher, drags lines to outline every rib of her on display. The thin stream of blood get soaked by her blouse hanging around her waist. "Just so you know what to expect, when I've cut you enough.. I'm going to rub that into your wounds." Ever calm, his weapon of choice tilts away from her, goads her eyes to follow to a decrepit corner beneath a rotten, moldly pipe and points the stale, polluted water dripping onto a patch of soil.
Every line drawn elevates the demonborns mood as with every sharp gasped inhale of pain as that dagger draws it's way over her skin. "First you tell me to not change my mind about speaking... Now you want me to entertain you.. Are you bipolar?" There's a harsh laugh as the woman jerks in her chains against the front of his body that's keeping her still for him. She obviously cannot see the motif he cuts into her very well, but blood does slowly start to taint the white blouse she's wearing a deep blood red. "And antibiotics exist these days fucker. And I'm up to date with my tetanus shots. So who the fuck are you scaring?" There's more laughter but there is a hint of pain in the stoic woman's voice now, "Alright... I'll tell you.... Come.. a bit closer...."
"Sure they exist, if you can get to them." Mikhael offers bluntly, her comment about his state of mind goes amiss. Mikhael is not in the right state of mind, as things were - elevated, amused, her pain, his mirth. Where it should turn him lax, all it does is invigorate the need for more of her suffering. The aligns the flat of the dagger up on her neck, then traces across her skin. "Don't give me theatrics, these won't kill you." Not individually, maybe, but death from a thousand cuts? He drags the dagger on the entire length of her collarbone from one shoulder to the other, lets the thin wound bleed out down her body in rivulets. "You think sanctuary is limitless. We both know without it the Temple would've been devoured already here in Haven. I think I'm in the mood to give you a good, well punch. I /believe/ you can take it." Another whisper, right into her ear. "If your jaw breaks, so be it.. Last chance, before you start drinking from a straw for the rest of your life."
"The fact that you think I'll be drinking through a straw means sanctuary won't let you punch me." There is convinction in the woman's voice. She has to believe that. Must. Otherwise the monster standing behind her would get his wish." There is a flaring of her nostrils as he cuts the other line across her collarbones, the skin wound stinging beyond belief. "Grr... Fine It's knob hill! Oh wait no it's College Hill! Or maybe.. Anza hill." She starts to laugh, almost hyterically, "Too bad fucking san fransico is full of hills!" Her cackles fill the small basement as her body slowly drips blood from every cut infront of him."
A chuckle joins her own cackle, and before long, Mikhael is laughing along with her. A harmonized sound that mingles well into her own, until her laugher is interrupted and only his own remains, when his fingers slip into her hair from behind and starts to put tension, lift up the brunette by her locks alone, well enough that she'd feel the pain on her scalp. The end of his own mirth is fleeting, like it was never genuine in the first place. And, a snap. A purple-dark flame erupts, scalds the ground, spreads in a grim circle right underneath her. An undying fire, straight from hell, licking upwaards, its heat inadvertantly catching onto her pantyhose clad feet. "Good luck to your sanctuary protecting you from yourself." And he releases her, to let her fall into the shallow flame that threatens to devour while he walks away from the bound woman. For how long she can endure the fire, he doesn't care at all, it seems, because he's reserved to simply make his way now to the entrance, give his back to the wall next to it, and watch her try to bounce around to avoid catching on fire.
Hazel eyes turn to watch him as her own laughter fades as the madman behind her joins in. She grunts as he lifts her by her hair, her body twisting side by side as he threatens to tear her hair out by the roots. Still that doesn't seem to phase the woman but the fire.. The dark purple fire he lights underneath her surprises her. "What?? You can't.. What the fuck???" Yelling fills the basement even as Mikhael walks away and she screams as she jerks her legs up, letting herself hang by the wrists voluntarily. "You can't fucking do that!" She calls out as she feels the heat of the flames lick at her from below. "Fuuuuck you!" There is more yelling and curses as she keeps her legs curled but being human... there is only so long one can keep ones muscles in place...
"I just set the floor on fire," Mikhael explains lazily, and from folded arms, he shrugs one shoulder. There is a dangerous glint in his eyes watching her anyhow, mirthless even in spite of her suffering. It burrows into the sight of her, and for once, the cascading crimson pales in comparison to the rising purple-black color of hellfire. "It's all on you if you get hurt, indirectly. No one told you to get tied up above my fire, right?" And he pushes away, turns to the exit proper to leave in the wake of her curses and screams. "Don't worry, the fire won't hurt, much.. Your clothes melting on you, on the other hand.." This is clearly her last chance to talk, because whether he gets what he came for or not, Mikhael is reserved to leave, now.
Mikhael can feel the woman infront of him dreading being caught on fire. Dreading the flames licking up by body. Dreading the wrath of the other templars if she told him what he wanted to know. Still the threat of being literally set on fire is no small incentive and she finally screams out just as Mikhael opens the door, "Knob hill! It's on Knob hill! Fuck turn this fire offf!!" Her legs were starting to tire and dip closer to the fire. Was what she yelled accurate? Who knows...
The narrative shifts as Mikhael, opting for a direct approach, arrives at the bleak scene. The Barghast's personal involvement signifies the gravity of the situation. He employs methods that blend psychological warfare with physical intimidation, aiming to exploit Oleen's fears without violating the sanctity of sanctuary—a unique, albeit twisted, honor code among rival factions. The tension escalates as Mikhael, undeterred by Oleen's sneers and defiance, administers a calculated campaign of torment. His actions, marked by a disturbing calmness, demonstrate a chilling expertise in extracting information through pain without leaving lasting damage, a testament to his ominous reputation. Oleen's resolve is tested to its breaking point by this relentless assault, her spirit unbroken but her situation increasingly desperate.
The climax of this harrowing encounter arrives in a manifestation of dire consequences and bargaining. Oleen, pushed to the limits of human endurance, reveals the bomb's location—Knob Hill—in a desperate bid to extinguish the literal and figurative flames encircling her. This moment of capitulation, coerced through fear and pain, marks a dark victory for Mikhael but leaves the ultimate success of his mission—an evocation of fear and the prevention of the bombing—shrouded in uncertainty. The outcome of this brutal exchange, while immediately resolving the crisis at hand, leaves lingering questions about the lengths to which individuals will go to protect their own, and the moral cost of such victories in the shadowy conflict that envelops Haven.
(Mikhael's odd encounter(SRElanora):SRElanora)
[Thu Jun 13 2024]
In a Spacious, Suave Living Space with View of the Bay
This formal living room is spacious, a blend of modern luxury and historic tranquility. Dark wallpaper with swirling silver patterns adorns the walls, adding a touch of sophistication to the space, creating an illusion of expansiveness, serving as a central point in the penthouse, seamlessly connecting the hallways and foyer. Strategically placed indoor plants breathe life into the space, harmonizing with the abstract, refined decor.
Black, hard marble floors stretch elegantly throughout the apartment, lending an airy feel to the residence. The high ceiling, painted in a shadowy darkness, is adorned with clouded figures and warped shades blending seamlessly in a foreboding visual illuminated by a minimalist chandelier with cascading glass orbs that bathe the room in soft, ambient glow.
A glass balcony nestled between broad windows offers a scenic view towards the east, showcasing Haven's Bay framed by hazy blurs of old-growth forest. In the distance, the tempestuous Atlantic Ocean captivates with its restless waves, shifting from stony depths in colder seasons to coastal blues in warmer ones. Despite the open floor plan, the space exudes a sense of elevation, with steps on either side of the connecting hallway adding to its grandeur.
It is before dawn, about 71F(21C) degrees, There is a waxing crescent moon.
(Your target and their allies have been tasked with extracting a piece of information from a member of an opposing faction or subfaction but they cannot break the understanding to do so.
)
The morning was young or the night was old in Haven as the first rays of the sun barely touch the horizon. Fluffy clouds drift over the night sky, obsecuring some stars and the waxing crescent in the sky glows, surrounded by a halo in testiment of the wind that blows through the sleepy town. Today the summer wind was unforgiving, howling outside of buildings, rattling glass panels and shaking the trees. It keeps people huddled under their blankets, pressing pillows to their ears as they try not to be woken by the vicious gusts. If one were to find a tree or two toppled over that morning blocking the early morning, one would not be surprised.
At the shoreline, the waves dash into the rocks, tossed by the wind creating giant surfs many meters high - no doubt the summer attraction that brings people from New York and Boston down to this sleepy town that otherwise no one remembers.
Deep in the bowels of a building in the dodgier part of town where the strip clubs and the drug dealers are doing their best work, a girl was imprisoned in a darkly lit basement.
It was lit by a single bare light bulb, hanging from a ceiling, covered in dust and it swung slowly back and forth in the dimness that would strain a humans eyes but perhaps not those that hunt in the night.
Likely in her last twenties, the woman was currently hanging from chains that were shackled around her wrists and were anchored to the ceiling. It was likely she had been in that position for a while from the way the shackles cut into her wrists, letting a slow drip of blood fall down her arm.
She was dressed for business - a navy blue suit, a delicate white lace blouse as well as a matching pencil skirt that hugged her hips. Sheer pantyhose and shoes that were not inappropriate for business but were more suited to a decked out secretory who never had to walk made her standing on the stark concrete even harder. Black pumps with 3inch stilettos were set shoulderwidth apart but if their owner felt any hint of pain from being in those stilettos, it didn't show in her hazel eyes and the stubborn set of her jaw.
A single pendant, a stylized sun hung over her blouse.
"Fuck off. You're not going to learn anything from me." Her lips - covered in blood red lipstick parts to spit on the ground as her hazel eyes stare forward into the darkness. "I know you're just a shitty hand lacky. Unable to do anything. Either let me go or face the consequences." Her chin lifts as the person she was talking to walks out from the darkness.
Also another woman, this particular person was dressed almost in the same style of her captive. Business attire, sensible and modest covers the woman. Her lips are made up with a shade of red that reminds one of something darker than just blood. They part to show fangs, fangs that may have already tasted the captive infront of her if the two bite marks on the other woman's neck meant anything.
"It's a pity... I .. don't like to get my hands dirty." The woman in the shadow's voice was soft with a slight french accent, "But I do have contacts in this town. People who I am sure are intersted in the knowledge you have. Are you sure you don't want to tell me, before I call in.. The barghast?"
The woman hanging by her wrists blanches slightly at the name but spits again, "He can't break the understanding. So I doubt he'll be able to do much better than you. My people will come looking for me and they'll pull your fangs out with pliers you little bitch."
"That's not very nice. Do the temple even know we have connections in this building? I highly doubt." The french vampire laughs softly, "It will be a loooong time before anyone comes to get you here. Did you know that humans can survive for over a month without food as long as they have water? We can just inject the water directly into your veins... So really we can gag you for a whole month."
The prisoner makes to go spit again - then seems to think better of it. Mayhaps it'll be best for her to conserve some water. Instead of her hazel eyes just stare at the other woman, "It won't matter anyways." She finally sneers, "In 5 hours it'll be done."
"Well then.... I suppose I will have to make the call to get in someone who will be... faster at persuading you to tell us where the bomb is."
Further away, in a penthouse across the town, the Barghast's mobile buzzes. The sun was only just starting to trickle in through his balcony windows and lighting up the macabre artworks that were strewn about the penthouse.
"Hello.... This is Eva. We have a woman here.. Someone who works for temple intelligence. She has time sensitive information. Would you be able to send an extractor? I've done my best... but she's stubborn. I will send the address."
The morning was young or the night was old in Haven as the first rays of the sun barely touch the horizon. Fluffy clouds drift over the night sky, obsecuring some stars and the waxing crescent in the sky glows, surrounded by a halo in testiment of the wind that blows through the sleepy town. Today the summer wind was unforgiving, howling outside of buildings, rattling glass panels and shaking the trees. It keeps people huddled under their blankets, pressing pillows to their ears as they try not to be woken by the vicious gusts. If one were to find a tree or two toppled over that morning blocking the early morning, one would not be surprised.
At the shoreline, the waves dash into the rocks, tossed by the wind creating giant surfs many meters high - no doubt the summer attraction that brings people from New York and Boston down to this sleepy town that otherwise no one remembers.
Deep in the bowels of a building in the dodgier part of town where the strip clubs and the drug dealers are doing their best work, a girl was imprisoned in a darkly lit basement.
It was lit by a single bare light bulb, hanging from a ceiling, covered in dust and it swung slowly back and forth in the dimness that would strain a humans eyes but perhaps not those that hunt in the night.
Likely in her last twenties, the woman was currently hanging from chains that were shackled around her wrists and were anchored to the ceiling. It was likely she had been in that position for a while from the way the shackles cut into her wrists, letting a slow drip of blood fall down her arm.
She was dressed for business - a navy blue suit, a delicate white lace blouse as well as a matching pencil skirt that hugged her hips. Sheer pantyhose and shoes that were not inappropriate for business but were more suited to a decked out secretory who never had to walk made her standing on the stark concrete even harder. Black pumps with 3inch stilettos were set shoulderwidth apart but if their owner felt any hint of pain from being in those stilettos, it didn't show in her hazel eyes and the stubborn set of her jaw.
A single pendant, a stylized sun hung over her blouse.
"Fuck off. You're not going to learn anything from me." Her lips - covered in blood red lipstick parts to spit on the ground as her hazel eyes stare forward into the darkness. "I know you're just a shitty hand lacky. Unable to do anything. Either let me go or face the consequences." Her chin lifts as the person she was talking to walks out from the darkness.
Also another woman, this particular person was dressed almost in the same style of her captive. Business attire, sensible and modest covers the woman. Her lips are made up with a shade of red that reminds one of something darker than just blood. They part to show fangs, fangs that may have already tasted the captive infront of her if the two bite marks on the other woman's neck meant anything.
"It's a pity... I .. don't like to get my hands dirty." The woman in the shadow's voice was soft with a slight french accent, "But I do have contacts in this town. People who I am sure are intersted in the knowledge you have. Are you sure you don't want to tell me, before I call in.. The barghast?"
The woman hanging by her wrists blanches slightly at the name but spits again, "He can't break the understanding. So I doubt he'll be able to do much better than you. My people will come looking for me and they'll pull your fangs out with pliers you little bitch."
"That's not very nice. Do the temple even know we have connections in this building? I highly doubt." The french vampire laughs softly, "It will be a loooong time before anyone comes to get you here. Did you know that humans can survive for over a month without food as long as they have water? We can just inject the water directly into your veins... So really we can gag you for a whole month."
The prisoner makes to go spit again - then seems to think better of it. Mayhaps it'll be best for her to conserve some water. Instead of her hazel eyes just stare at the other woman, "It won't matter anyways." She finally sneers, "In 5 hours it'll be done."
"Well then.... I suppose I will have to make the call to get in someone who will be... faster at persuading you to tell us where the bomb is."
Further away, in a penthouse across the town, the Barghast's mobile buzzes. The sun was only just starting to trickle in through his balcony windows and lighting up the macabre artworks that were strewn about the penthouse.
"Hello.... This is Eva. We have a woman here.. Someone who works for temple intelligence. She has time sensitive information. Would you be able to send an extractor? I've done my best... but she's stubborn. I will send the address."
In that oppressive night, deep in contemplation, Mikhael was seated on his couch. A woman, who happened to be sleeping there, rests over his lap - yet the phone, ever on silent, is picked up before it has a chance to wake anyone. He doesn't speak, no words reply yet in that while he strokes through crimson red locks with his other hand, tangles them around a digit in his silent observation of the darkened living room. "I could send Boris." His knife-edge silence is eventually broken while he speaks to the phone, but a look cast down has him state, simply, another notion. "But I'll be there personally. Fill me in on the target, send me the address, I'll be there in five." And the phone is shut without another word. His assistant wouldn't call him for no reason at all - and that was enough. The woman on his lap finds that the he is replaced by a pillow as discreetly, silently as possible - and he picks up his jacket off the back of the sofa on his quiet exit - presumably to his car, and off to the location that'll surely appear in his phone in the next second or two.
The location that appears on Mikhael's phone is easily inserted into the GPS of his porche. The black car gleams darkly in the morning sunlight, looking like a shadow out on the prowl. For once such a vehicle has advantages over it's much bigger brothers the SUV - the howl wind that blows across Haven barely affects him while he drives past a few SUV's in danger of tipping over from going around a corner just slighly too fast on the empty streets. The drive wasn't particularly far or hard. Down Elm. Down to Dreadwood, past the striptease which was still under construction with heavy construction machinery being moved in as he passed it, past the dodgy piercing shop where one could buy all the drugs one wanted to space out to their hearts desire and then the Succubus which was pulsing with activity and light even at this time of the day. The street he continues on becomes quieter as they get away from the dodgy businesses until he comes to a small set of very old apartment blocks. Surely built pre war era, their bricks are covered in vines and from the trash stashed infront, it looks like the building's either in disuse or part of some drug den. someone someone His assistant greets him from the shadows of the building as he steps out and hands him a folder. "Oleen Doyle. She's temple intelligence. They've apparently targeted the Hand unit down in San fransico currently and supposedly there will be a bombing today to take out a high ranking person's house. Only we don't know which house. We've already asked everyone to evacuate but there are quite a few who make their home in the city and it would be.. Disruptive for a bomb to go off in downtown San fransico." The french woman's voice was quiet as she leads Mikhael down into the basement where the other woman awaits. "I'll leave you to it. Unless there's anything else you need?" The french woman asks softly as the single bulb in the basement continues to swing just slightly from the drafty wind coming in through no doubt many holes in the walls in this place.
In the middle of the basement hazel eyes lift to meet Mikhael's and a sneer is shown as the burnette infront of him deliberately turns her eyes to the vampire, "Should've sent someone scarier."
The location that appears on Mikhael's phone is easily inserted into the GPS of his porche. The black car gleams darkly in the morning sunlight, looking like a shadow out on the prowl. For once such a vehicle has advantages over it's much bigger brothers the SUV - the howl wind that blows across Haven barely affects him while he drives past a few SUV's in danger of tipping over from going around a corner just slighly too fast on the empty streets. The drive wasn't particularly far or hard. Down Elm. Down to Dreadwood, past the striptease which was still under construction with heavy construction machinery being moved in as he passed it, past the dodgy piercing shop where one could buy all the drugs one wanted to space out to their hearts desire and then the Succubus which was pulsing with activity and light even at this time of the day. The street he continues on becomes quieter as they get away from the dodgy businesses until he comes to a small set of very old apartment blocks. Surely built pre war era, their bricks are covered in vines and from the trash stashed infront, it looks like the building's either in disuse or part of some drug den.
His assistant greets him from the shadows of the building as he steps out and hands him a folder. "Oleen Doyle. She's temple intelligence. They've apparently targeted the Hand unit down in San fransico currently and supposedly there will be a bombing today to take out a high ranking person's house. Only we don't know which house. We've already asked everyone to evacuate but there are quite a few who make their home in the city and it would be.. Disruptive for a bomb to go off in downtown San fransico." The french woman's voice was quiet as she leads Mikhael down into the basement where the other woman awaits. "I'll leave you to it. Unless there's anything else you need?" The french woman asks softly as the single bulb in the basement continues to swing just slightly from the drafty wind coming in through no doubt many holes in the walls in this place.
In the middle of the basement hazel eyes lift to meet Mikhael's and a sneer is shown as the burnette infront of him deliberately turns her eyes to the vampire, "Should've sent someone scarier."
Exhaustion is evident. Mikhael shows it, everyone knows it. Sleepless nights pondering and calculating had kept him awake, and he still offers nothing to his assistant that guides him through to the recesses of the brken down building. Past the treshold, where their captive is kept, Mikhael waves over his shoulder. Dismissive, almost, but not done in a demeaning manner while he yawns into the back of his other hand. His jaw snaps shut like a beast, before he deigns to speak. "You've done well." And another glance, at the captive's neck, he notes, "Too well. Wait in the car and call the clean-up crew, I don't imagine this will take long." Even then, their target is spoken as if they aren't really here, sitting tied up in front of them - but Mikhael approches, closes in the distance while removing his jacket, his sunglasses after, and they're hung up on a jutting piece of metal from a rotten support beam. When he stands in front of the woman, all he does is stare down with an impassive face, and unbutton his wristcuffs to start rolling up his dress shirt's sleeves all the way to his elbows.
The brunettes wrists were shackled together, high above her head. The chain leading from the shackles had been passed over a beam that was surprisingly not yet rotting and fastened down to the handrail of the stairs. It kept her standing on those 3 inch stilettos that she readjusts every now and then like she does now as she stares at Mikhael. Behind him, his assistant dips her head and walks back out, the sound of her own heels disappearing from the basement at rapid pace.
"Well.. The barghast himself... I'm honoured." The brunette had a faint southern accent and had a way with enounciating her words. "But you're not getting any information from me." She laughs softly and shakes her head.
"Ah," Mikhael pauses, stares up at the woman's eyes as opposed to inspecting her as a whole. Then, quietly, he starts to pace around her. "I'm not here to get information." Circling behind her, those red eyes as bright as hellfire continue to inspect, scale the woman high and low as if thinking what it is he can truly do to someone in such a situation. "I have some frustrations to blow out, too much on my mind." Then he gets closer - far too close for comfort, but his gaze remains angled low while he kicks her feet, one by own, dislodging her heels, casting them away from underneath her so she has to remain suspended on the tip of her toes at best, or take her whole weight to her arms at worst. "I didn't listen to my assistant, you see. I don't even know what we're looking for, so.. I think I'm going to make you miserable until you satisfy me. If that happens to be telling me what she wants, then maybe we'll come to some terms."
Mikhael can see the woman tensing as he moves behind her. The brunette's hair fell in messy disarray to her shoulders and her suit top was torn and bloodied in a few spots already. She just grunts as Mikhael kicks out her heels out from underneath her, revealing toes socked in the sheer pantyhose she wore. Her toes flex in those pantyhose as she finds the floot with just the tip of her toes. "Well that's going to make my job even easier than Barghast.. Isn't it?" The woman laughs softly, "Poor Barghast has some issues? R and R not to his standard? You know each time you hurt... you maim .. you kill.. you taunt your soul. I hear you have a woman now. How tainted a soul will she accept?" Her cackling laughter fills the little basement as the wind outside howls some more. "I didn't even know you were in the business of hurting women. Isn't that.... unmanly?"
"If you know this much, you should know the things I've done." Modulated, quiet, Mikhael speaks calmly, yet, it is foreboding. Something worse than his anger. He begins to pace once more around her. "You say that name, but do you even know why they called me Barghest?" He is surely not going to explain, not while he stops behind the woman, reaches up to the seams of her dress and starts to undo it, button by button, and tugs it low to expose only her back and nothing more. "There are a lot of restrictions here, but don't you worry. You'll want me to satify you, by the time I'm done." And once more in front of her. He's like a hound, circling his prey like he seeks what is the best path to the jugular. "Now, everyone has someone they care about outside Haven. Here, you're protected, to an extent. Out there, they are not. Are you familiar with how North Korea punishes misdeed? The three-generation extention? It would take only a phone call to find out, but it would be too easy.." His continued tone of disinterested distaste, nonchalance, continues. "I can't give you any injuries that'll last more than a few days to recover. But count yourself unlucky." Both hands now rise to cup the woman's face, tilt her head up. Red eyes scan her, assess her, search almost for any hint - before he asks bluntly. "Are you scientifically or chemically augmented? I know that is very common for your ilk, in the Temple."
As Mikhael buttons the business womans - now dress- he finds that she has tattoos everywhere from shoulder up. A rising sun on her left shoulder, a crescent moon in counter balance on the right. A set of scales dipping in the middle. Her hazel eyes don't give up a single note of information to the man infront of her and she smiles slowly, showing her teeth. "Sorry maybe you should've paid attention to your little fang friend. Or asked that. I'm certainly not telling you." With him standing close enough to cup her face, he can see the bruise on her temple where they must've knocked her out can see the thick lashes of her eyes - even as she takes her own weight on her wrist and swings forward, trying to knee or kick Mikhael in the groin.
"I don't need you to tell me." Mikhael informs her - even as he slapss the back of his hand down on her knee, and throws her whole balance off while the knee goes amiss. All that keeps her from swingingly wildly is Mikhael's other hand, shot up to catch her by the throat, squeeze her in place and even lift her up - The tension of her whole body nestled just beneath her jaw, with the cruel force he inflicts, is enough to cut breath and word. "Those things usually leave marks." He pays no heed to the tattoos, but his hands grace her bare arms, shoulders - upper chest. Search for any jutting thing that is not meant to be there, affixed to bone or vein, mechanical - and failing that, his thumb presses below her neck for any exessive use of needles for any chemical augmentation along the arteries of her throat, her wrists, the inside of her elbows. "If you are, I'll know you won't break easily."
The woman chained infront of him swings wildly as he slaps her knee -or she would if he hadn't grabbed her by the throat. Mikhael can feel her suffer in the way only the demonborn can - a uptick in his mood. She grunts as his hand grips her throat and her jaw tightens as he forces her to hang there, with her whole body weight dangling. In Mikhael's keen observation, he would notice that there are a few needle marks on the inside of her elbow that haven't quite healed yet. She seems to try to talk but finds herself unable to as her hazel eyes simply glare across the space at Mikhael.
"Good girl. I knew you wouldn't be so simple." Mikhael speaks quietly as soon as he notes the pinprick marks of needles. His fingers suddenly squeeze harder, disallow any breath to enter her lungs while he increases the tension on her throat by lifting her higher. "Clench your teeth, you can take me." He meet her glare with a vicious smile, a keenly disturbing, wild glint in his gaze -- then the arm searching her body releases in favor of a punch straight into her abdomen to knock the wind out of her -- or rather, fold her in pain because the wind has nowhere to go with the obtruction of his fingers pressing down on her windpipe, while he uses the poor woman as a punching bag.
The woman's lips curl as Mikhael squeezes harder on her throat and she stares at him, defiant, even as he punches her in the stomach. Her body curls up in pain and she would wheeze if she could - if any air could pass through her throat but it can't. Her legs draw up and despite her futile situation, she tries to kick at him again. The angle is awkward though and he's a bit too close for her to do much damage, even if she did land the kick. The chain above her rattles as she tries to pull herself up higher from his hand - but there is no escaping a grip on one's throat even if one could get higher. Lashes flutter over her hazel eyes as she starts to lose conciousness.
Right before she does lose conciousness - Mikhael relents. His hands leave her throat, and her flailing kicks find absolutely nothing as he starts to pace once more. Slowly, around the woman without caring of how much she'll be gulping air in futility. At her back, there is only the sound of steel being drawn. Something from his pockets, perhaps a hidden sheath - and his body presses onto her own to prevent her swinging wildly, but doesn't serve as a form of pillar for her to lean on. What she may try to say, what she may try to scream or draw in air - they're all interrupted, for one of his hands snake around from under her uplifted arm and capture her neck just to keep her in place, not let her suffocate again. "One or two papercuts, I'm sure will be fine. Let's see how many I can draw on you before your sanctuary stops me, yes?" From the other side, his arm wraps around her waist, a slender, silver dagger angled up to her midsection, and its tapered tip clearly meant for puncturing begins to draw a fine, thin line acros her abdomen -- and again, right above, almost tightly knit together. "Don't change your mind about speaking, yet."
As soon as Mikhael's hand leaves the woman's throat, she gasps for air before coughing a few times. The dark basement is just filled with the noise of her breathing to suck in breath big breaths of air as Mikhael circles around her and he is rewarded with her gasp as he grabs her from behind. Her body thrashed against him, but, hindered as she was by the chain holding her arms up, there is very little she can do. She grits her teeth as Mikhael's forearm snakes around her neck again, not hard enough to cut off her air and her breath snorts from her nose for a moment. "Fuck.... you..." She grits out even as his dagger sets into her skin and she thrashes wildly through the cutting, trying to make his lines jagged to deprive him of the satisfaction. Meanwhile his mood elevates significantly.
The dagger may as well be a scalpel, and Mikhael very experienced in his utensils. Every trashing movement is met with a twist in in the opposite to keep his lines as straight forward as it can be. "Why did they catch /you/ anyway?" Mikhael speaks to her ear, his head over her shoulder, gaze cast down to inspect his handiwork. Above the two lines he drew on her abdoment, right above them on her stomach he carves out a very thin depiction again. This time, of a stylized sun. However shallow his expertly delivered cuts are, they still seep blood, they still sting - maybe worse than a deeper cut because of how shallow and sensitive it is that he glides right above the nerve endings until every stroke of that large stylized sun of the Temple is embedded onto her skin. "A bomb, or whatever. Tell me, I get bored in silence.. and you don't want me to entertain myself." The knife climbs higher, drags lines to outline every rib of her on display. The thin stream of blood get soaked by her blouse hanging around her waist. "Just so you know what to expect, when I've cut you enough.. I'm going to rub that into your wounds." Ever calm, his weapon of choice tilts away from her, goads her eyes to follow to a decrepit corner beneath a rotten, moldly pipe and points the stale, polluted water dripping onto a patch of soil.
Every line drawn elevates the demonborns mood as with every sharp gasped inhale of pain as that dagger draws it's way over her skin. "First you tell me to not change my mind about speaking... Now you want me to entertain you.. Are you bipolar?" There's a harsh laugh as the woman jerks in her chains against the front of his body that's keeping her still for him. She obviously cannot see the motif he cuts into her very well, but blood does slowly start to taint the white blouse she's wearing a deep blood red. "And antibiotics exist these days fucker. And I'm up to date with my tetanus shots. So who the fuck are you scaring?" There's more laughter but there is a hint of pain in the stoic woman's voice now, "Alright... I'll tell you.... Come.. a bit closer...."
"Sure they exist, if you can get to them." Mikhael offers bluntly, her comment about his state of mind goes amiss. Mikhael is not in the right state of mind, as things were - elevated, amused, her pain, his mirth. Where it should turn him lax, all it does is invigorate the need for more of her suffering. The aligns the flat of the dagger up on her neck, then traces across her skin. "Don't give me theatrics, these won't kill you." Not individually, maybe, but death from a thousand cuts? He drags the dagger on the entire length of her collarbone from one shoulder to the other, lets the thin wound bleed out down her body in rivulets. "You think sanctuary is limitless. We both know without it the Temple would've been devoured already here in Haven. I think I'm in the mood to give you a good, well punch. I /believe/ you can take it." Another whisper, right into her ear. "If your jaw breaks, so be it.. Last chance, before you start drinking from a straw for the rest of your life."
"The fact that you think I'll be drinking through a straw means sanctuary won't let you punch me." There is convinction in the woman's voice. She has to believe that. Must. Otherwise the monster standing behind her would get his wish." There is a flaring of her nostrils as he cuts the other line across her collarbones, the skin wound stinging beyond belief. "Grr... Fine It's knob hill! Oh wait no it's College Hill! Or maybe.. Anza hill." She starts to laugh, almost hyterically, "Too bad fucking san fransico is full of hills!" Her cackles fill the small basement as her body slowly drips blood from every cut infront of him."
A chuckle joins her own cackle, and before long, Mikhael is laughing along with her. A harmonized sound that mingles well into her own, until her laugher is interrupted and only his own remains, when his fingers slip into her hair from behind and starts to put tension, lift up the brunette by her locks alone, well enough that she'd feel the pain on her scalp. The end of his own mirth is fleeting, like it was never genuine in the first place. And, a snap. A purple-dark flame erupts, scalds the ground, spreads in a grim circle right underneath her. An undying fire, straight from hell, licking upwaards, its heat inadvertantly catching onto her pantyhose clad feet. "Good luck to your sanctuary protecting you from yourself." And he releases her, to let her fall into the shallow flame that threatens to devour while he walks away from the bound woman. For how long she can endure the fire, he doesn't care at all, it seems, because he's reserved to simply make his way now to the entrance, give his back to the wall next to it, and watch her try to bounce around to avoid catching on fire.
Hazel eyes turn to watch him as her own laughter fades as the madman behind her joins in. She grunts as he lifts her by her hair, her body twisting side by side as he threatens to tear her hair out by the roots. Still that doesn't seem to phase the woman but the fire.. The dark purple fire he lights underneath her surprises her. "What?? You can't.. What the fuck???" Yelling fills the basement even as Mikhael walks away and she screams as she jerks her legs up, letting herself hang by the wrists voluntarily. "You can't fucking do that!" She calls out as she feels the heat of the flames lick at her from below. "Fuuuuck you!" There is more yelling and curses as she keeps her legs curled but being human... there is only so long one can keep ones muscles in place...
"I just set the floor on fire," Mikhael explains lazily, and from folded arms, he shrugs one shoulder. There is a dangerous glint in his eyes watching her anyhow, mirthless even in spite of her suffering. It burrows into the sight of her, and for once, the cascading crimson pales in comparison to the rising purple-black color of hellfire. "It's all on you if you get hurt, indirectly. No one told you to get tied up above my fire, right?" And he pushes away, turns to the exit proper to leave in the wake of her curses and screams. "Don't worry, the fire won't hurt, much.. Your clothes melting on you, on the other hand.." This is clearly her last chance to talk, because whether he gets what he came for or not, Mikhael is reserved to leave, now.
Mikhael can feel the woman infront of him dreading being caught on fire. Dreading the flames licking up by body. Dreading the wrath of the other templars if she told him what he wanted to know. Still the threat of being literally set on fire is no small incentive and she finally screams out just as Mikhael opens the door, "Knob hill! It's on Knob hill! Fuck turn this fire offf!!" Her legs were starting to tire and dip closer to the fire. Was what she yelled accurate? Who knows...