Encounterlogs
Nehas Odd Encounter Sr Rogier 241102
An odd encounter in room 118 of the Clinician Wing unfolds as Neha, a doctor and recent arrival in a bustling clinic, finds herself the target of a supernatural criminal from the Syndicate. After a long and exhausting day, Neha's brief moment of peace is shattered when a Syndicate member, ingeniously hidden within her office, incapacitates her with a syringe. She awakens bound in a dark room, the details of her abduction slowly dawning on her as she realizes she's been kidnapped for leverage or as a shield against hostile factions. Despite attempts at reasoning with her captors, including invoking her profession's protection, Neha finds herself unwittingly at the center of a bidding war among factions apparently unbothered by her affiliations or desperate situation.
The story transitions to an elaborate rescue, not by friendly forces, but through an auction won by a mysterious Tamil man named Taj, working for the House of Vishu. Neha, though initially unaware of her rescuer's intentions, is released from her bindings and somewhat coldly informed of her inadvertent indebtedness to the House of Vishnu. The encounter underscores Neha's vulnerability and the unexpected complexities of Sanctuary's underworld. Mirroring this encounter, another storyline emerges around Emily, a local resident experiencing a haunting in her secluded cabin. A ghost, tormented and fractured from its past life, attacks, compelling Emily and her unexpected visitor, Elora, to confront it. Elora, revealing proficiency in arcane practices, binds the ghost while instructing a visibly frightened Emily in the grim realities of their supernatural town. Elora's actions, particularly her preparation for a ritual involving the bound ghost, lay bare the darker aspects of power dynamics in a world where the boundaries between life, death, and eternal torment blur. The intersection of personal ethics with the supernatural elements in play highlights a complex narrative of survival, power acquisition, and the often-overlooked costs of security within Sanctuary.
(Neha's odd encounter(SRRogier):SRRogier)
[Thu Oct 31 2024]
In room 118, Clinician Wing
Bookcases line the walls of the office, with texts covering many branches of
medicine stuffing their shelves. A full-sized skeleton with simplified internal
organs stands on display in one corner. The room is small but well-lit, the
scent of clean linen and lavender providing a soothing touch.
It is night, about 53F(11C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. There is a waning crescent moon.
(Your target has been abducted and is being held hostage by a supernatural criminal out to trade them for something or just use them as a shield against the factions. Your target must attempt to find a way to escape, or simply survive until they can be rescued by their allies.
)
Finally. A moment for Neha to have to themselves. It's been a fairly crowded day, hasn't it? But now, in the latest hours of the evening, the hustle and the bustle of the clinic has receded, and the Faculty can relax - a little.
The Syndicate member that'd been hidden in the legspace of her desk like a goddamned contortionist appreciates that, too, and celebrates by sticking a syringe in the doctor's neck. If there was any transition between him being stuck in there and actually moving around, she hadn't seen it. Those goddamned Syndicate guys are really good. That very much might be the last thought to filter through Neha's mind before darkness takes her.
She awakens with a gritty, grainy feeling in the backs of her eyelids, and a piquant, coppery taste coats her throat in the wake of whatever drug that was leaching out of her system. There's no foggy mindedness, at least. She's sharp, and aware... and all trussed up like a Christmas goose. She's been bound at the wrists and ankles with simple zip ties, and left in a sealed dark room. There only sound - beyond what she herself makes - comes muffled through a door she can just barely make out in the low light. It sounds like it might be a TV, or a radio..?
The clinic is still hustling and bustling, unfortunately, and Neha's got a headache pulsing at her temples from the lack of sleep she's managed lately; not a new thing at all for a resident, but it's been a hectic few days of moving in to her new apartment between work shifts that never really ease up, trying to meet the locals, and planning one of the few classes she'd been contracted for.
All that to say, the darkness might just be a blessed thing when it meets Neha, a faint moment of panic like a flickering candle flame before she loses consciousness entirely and slumps to the ground. The rest is much-needed.
When she comes to, it's with a soft groan at the back of her throat, and a wiggle just to test her bindings before Neha slumps against the ground, resigned to whatever fate awaits her. There's a blink of her eyes in the darkness, waiting for them to adjust in hopes of her figuring something out here, and then she calls out, voice scratchy, "Hey, I'm awake." May as well get this over with, right? She doesn't have money, or whatever they're looking for, and she's only here because of that fight with her parents, so there's no way in hell they're going to pay anything to get her free. She can just... explain all that, and be on her merry way. Surely. /Surely/.
There's no immediate response forthcoming. Neha might not've been heard at all - then, wait, no, that television-radio-whatever's being turned up loudly enough that it filters much more audibly through the door. Maybe they're very conscientious and had it turned down so that she wouldn't be disturbed from what little sleep they could get.
"She's Institute Faculty?" comes a querying, slightly muffled voice. "We're not buying. Societies don't fuck with the Institute. No deal."
"I'll bid one thousand," a different voice says, a little smarmier, as if to rub it in that society guy's face that /they/ will do as they please. It's hard to pick male from female, and not just because of the door: whatever's transmitting their voice is modulating them, too, disguising the identities of the speakers.
"Twelve hundred," another voice chimes. It's a bidding war. No prizes for guessing who they're bidding over, here.
Neha groans out loud, just out of sheer what the fuckery this time instead of the headache that may have improved from her little impromptu nap, and tilts her head back against the floor, wriggling some more. She's not the biggest woman, and she's /definitely/ not the strongest woman, and really, her talents certainly don't include Houdini-ing her way out of hogties.
"I'm a doctor!" she calls out into the darkness, towards wherever that radio-TV-whatever noises come from. "I don't think you're supposed to hurt doctors." And then flop, back against the ground. She tries to snail her way closer to the door, slowly.
Alas - whichever minder is seated outside the door doesn't seem inclined towards following the Geneva Suggestion or any such limitations... or really interacting very much at all. Neha's doctorhood nets her nothing but continued silence from them. Then, a new voice speaks, precipitating a hush from the other bidders.
"Saar, I will pay you five thousand for the girl," he says, and it is undoubtedly a he - the modulator cannot disguise the masculine, Tamil tones laced through the man's voice. The auctioneer's own words aren't being trans, but none of the other bidders seem to be willing to put that much money up - and eventually, that smarmier voice, the first bidder, speaks up.
"Whatever. I'm not putting that much money on someone under Sanctuary. Fuckin' have her." There's the sounds of a couple footsteps before things get too quiet to be transmitted, and after a moment, the door's opened by a man dressed all in black, with a tactical turtleneck and a beanie and gloves and all.
"Lie still, doctor," the man says, and steps over to haul Neha up over a shoulder. "If you give me any trouble, I'm going to drug you again. Be quiet and be still and you can be awake for the drive. If you have any questions, keep them to yourself."
The auctioneer's words aren't being TRANSMITTED, apologies, no bigotry intended.
Neha has met another man with a voice laced with Tamil tones very recently, and her ears prick at the sound of his voice, attempting to figure out if she recognizes it. It's hard to tell, what with the modulation and all that; certainly not conducive towards a girl's efforts to figure out who her kidnappers might be. She exhales out a short, annoyed breath again, attempting to keep her breathing under control. There's no sense in panicking, even if her heart drums a little faster in her chest with every moment that passes.
The Indian doctor looks up sharply at the sound of the door, her mouth opening to begin asking questions immediately and then shutting with only a squeak escaping her when she's hauled over a shoulder. An involuntary "oof" escapes her, but she takes the suggestion and remains quiet, blinking slowly at the light now filtering in through the open door. She nods in response. Questions can wait. She'd rather just wait and see where she's being taken to, so she can hopefully find a way back. It's too late for the 'never go to a second location' tip anyway. Far too late for that one.
Even the fireman carry the Syndicate Man has her in is fairly smooth. It must've taken a lot of practice to get the bumpiness out of his stride. He's a real professional, doing his best to make things as comfortable as he can without going far enough to appear he gives a shit about Neha. She's taken to a van in a spacious, underground depot of some sort - then gets the ol' bag over the head treatment once she's sat inside.
"Policy," the Syndicateer grunts. "Keeps our workplace private. We'll give your phone back when the drop-off is done." And so the doctor is driven away from whatever holding compound she'd been dragged off to. Eventually, they must be in Southside, because any Havenite should be able to recognise the smell of Rosie's as they pass it on the street, and then the Japanese place that'd been locked up for a while but still carried a mild fragrance of its own, even closed. They're on Main Street - and the van stops.
Neha's unbagged, shoulder-hauled once more, and delivered to one of those fancy Main Street places, outside of which stands a drop-dead gorgeous Indian man.
Tall, muscular, relatively fair-skinned, assuredly high caste just from appearances alone... nice hair, dreamy eyes, a perfect smirk on his lips... The man offers a wordless nod to the retreating delivery driver, who drives off down the street.
"Good evening, Doctor," he says, leaning down to gently slice Neha's bindings through with a pocket knife. Without the electrical alteration of his voice, he sounds even more masculine. And even more Tamil, too. It's definitely /not/ that other Tamil guy. "I am named Taj," he says. "I work for the House of Vishnu. Please come inside."
Well, goddammit. There goes Neha's attempts to figure out where she's being taken to, but it's fine - she's got the security of knowing she can't be taken outside the town, at least. Unfortunately, she's not quite a Havenite yet, having been here for all of two days, and so the smell of Rosie's and That One Japanese Place both go unappreciated during the passage, even if her stomach grumbles a little now that the adrenaline rush is calming some. There's not a lot going on to keep her on edge, and the tiredness settles in again.
The car comes to a halt. Neha jerks back to attention once more, and she waits for her phone to be handed back to her - that's important, dammit, that phone's been with her for ages - before she's dropped outside the Main Street place with the Tamil man.
And goddamn, what a man he is. Neha is momentarily brought to silence, blinking at him with wide eyes behind her glasses - also blessedly safe, thankfully - before that mention of the House of Vishnu. Neha's shoulders stiffen.
"I do not have any business with the House of Vishnu," she claims immediately, jerking her gaze away from the man and rubbing at her wrists once they're freed. "Thank you for freeing me. I would like to go home." There's an attempt to look unfazed even if her heart pounds in her chest, chin held high.
"Of course," replies the gorgeous rescuer, a slow and suave smile passing his lips. "Getting you home was the point, girl. But remember that we have our own eyes on this place, and yaar, we would like you to stay in contact. You don't owe us anything. Just remember that the House of Vishnu did you a favour." He reaches up to give Neha's shoulder a little squeeze, even if it's not the most welcome gesture, but there's nothing worse than that.
"It's always useful to have our own people in town."
He doesn't offer to drive Neha back to the clinic, if if she'd have felt safe during such a ride. It's not such a bad walk, either, even this late at night - it's not as if anyone could hurt her too badly. Still, the night has been a reminder - Haven has Sanctuary, but it's absolutely stuffed full of the power she'd been denied her whole life. Maybe the twins should've come here instead of her.
(A ghost with only fragments of memory that have driven them near insane is attacking your target. They must either defeat it or find a way to calm it down.
)
Emily's cabin unfolds like a quiet secret whispered among the trees, a seamless blend of rustic charm and understated luxury. In one corner, a glass-enclosed shower stands like a crystal sanctuary, its rainfall showerhead promising a cascade as gentle as summer rain. Across the way, a sleek kitchenette with marble countertops invites the crafting of meals both simple and sublime. Exposed wooden beams stretch overhead, from which designer electric lanterns hang like captured stars, casting a warm, ambient glow over polished hardwood floors. As Emily moves through her 'morning' routine, the serene ambiance of the cabin wraps around her like a comforting embrace. She stands in the elegant living area, adjusting the polished pine furnishings; a wardrobe and a desk that stand with quiet dignity, adding touches of classic refinement. The tasteful decor and rich textures create a haven where the burdens of the world melt away. Yet, today, there is an unsettling undercurrent in the air, a faint chill that seems to seep through the walls despite the warm glow of the lanterns. There's a pause in the air, a subtle shift in the atmosphere. The soft hum of the electric lanterns seems to waver, casting fleeting, elongated shadows that twist and dance across the walls. She shakes off the feeling, attributing it to her imagination, and continues to prepare for work. But as she steps into the kitchenette, she notices the faintest breath of cold air, a whisper of something that sends a shiver down her spine. The cabin, her sanctuary, feels different, haunted by an intangible presence that lingers just out of sight.
The glass-enclosed shower, once a crystal sanctuary, now reflects a distorted image of the room, as if the very essence of the cabin is warping under the weight of an unseen force. The woman's brown eyes catch the flicker of a shadow in the corner of her vision. She turns, but there is nothing there, only the empty space where the shadow had danced. The gentle luxury of the cabin becomes a backdrop to an eerie, almost suffocating tension. As Emily reaches for the doorknob to leave, she hesitates, feeling the weight of the unseen presence pressing down on her, a silent reminder that the peace of her haven is but a fragile illusion. If she has any experience with this town, or the things that happen in it, she can be sure that something other than herself has descended upon this place for better or worse.
Emily's breath catches in her throat as she stands there indecisively. Her gaze on the door as if she wants to flee. After a few moments she turns around and furrows her brow. "Kat?", she calls out into the room, already knowing that she won't get an answer. Or perhaps not the answer she is hoping for. Slowly, hesitantly she steps towards the shower corner, muscles tensing as she approaches the mirror, as if some bad memory came floodig up at the sight of it.
Elora please emote an arrival!
Elora is heralded by the sound of an engine coming from outside on Guardian Lane, a rumbling. There is the clunk of a van door closing. Then utter silence as she moves softly through the cool night. Coming around to the newly installed door, on the forest side now, rather than the road, there is the light jingling of a keychain with multiple keys on it. Then the door handle is turning, opening, creaking. In the doorway is a woman wearing a blue dress, hair turquoise and neon. Teal eyes are furious and cold and as she stalks in, Her choker lights up as she enters runes etched along it glowing and then from one moment to the next she is gone, though the soft sounds of her steps are there as she stalks into the room.
Elora the colds wraps around her likely a friendly cloak as she walks in without shutting the door, bolstering her.
The ghost appears as a fragmented specter, its form a haunting blend of translucence and eerie luminescence. Once human, its features are now warped by the passage of time and the erosion of memories, creating an unsettling visage that flickers like a dying flame. The ghosts face is a mask of anguish, with hollow eyes that flicker with a dim, otherworldly light. These eyes seem to see both everything and nothing, reflecting the torment of a mind trapped in an endless cycle of confusion and despair. The ghosts body is ethereal and insubstantial, its outline blurred and ever-shifting, as if it is perpetually caught between this world and the next. The remnants of what might have been clothing hang in tattered, spectral shreds from its form, fluttering in an unseen breeze. These spectral garments seem to flicker in and out of existence, further emphasizing the ghosts fragmented state. Its hands, skeletal and elongated, reach out with a desperate yearning, grasping at memories that are just out of reach.
As the ghost moves, it does so with an erratic, jerky motion, each step a struggle against the madness that gnaws at its mind. It seems to glide rather than walk, its feet never quite touching the ground. The air around it grows cold, the temperature dropping noticeably as it passes, a chilling reminder of the ghosts otherworldly nature. Whispers of forgotten words and half-remembered songs trail in its wake, a disjointed cacophony that hints at the fragments of its lost past. The ghosts voice, when it speaks, is a hollow, echoing wail, filled with the anguish of countless forgotten years. Its speech is fragmented, broken by pauses and stutters, as if it is struggling to piece together coherent thoughts from the shattered remnants of its mind. Words of sorrow, anger, and despair spill forth, painting a picture of a once-vibrant soul now trapped in a torment of its own making. "Where? ... Wh .. ere?"
In moments of stillness, the ghosts form flickers and shifts, its features contorting as memories surface and then fade away. It is a being caught in an eternal struggle, fighting to remember who it once was while being consumed by the madness of its current existence. The longer one gazes upon this spectral figure, the more evident it becomes that the ghost is a tragic remnant of a life that has been lost to time and the ravages of memory. Its eyes, though hollow and vacant, sometimes flash with fleeting images of faces and places long gone, only to fade away just as quickly. The torment of not being able to hold onto these memories gnaws at the ghost's sanity, driving it further into the abyss of madness. Its spectral form occasionally solidifies into more recognizable shapes, but these moments are brief and ephemeral, like shadows cast by a flickering flame. "Where?!" The air around the ghost is thick with an unnatural chill, a cold that seeps into the bones of anyone who dares to draw near. This chill is not just a physical sensation but an emotional one as well, a palpable sense of despair that clings to the spirit. The whispers that follow the ghost are a disjointed mix of pleas for help, cries of anguish, and fragments of forgotten conversations. These sounds create a haunting symphony that serves as a constant reminder of the ghost's lost humanity.
The ghost's presence is both mesmerizing and terrifying. It seems to hover on the edge of reality, a being caught between two worlds. Its movements are erratic and unpredictable, driven by the whims of a fractured mind. There are moments when it appears almost lucid, its form becoming more defined as it reaches out for something or someone from its past. But these moments are fleeting, quickly giving way to the chaotic, unfocused motions of a being driven mad by the loss of its identity. The ghost's torment is made even more poignant by the occasional glimpse of its former self. In rare moments of clarity, the specter may speak a coherent sentence or perform a familiar gesture, providing a heartbreaking reminder of the person it once was. But these moments are always short-lived, swallowed up by the overwhelming madness that defines its existence. The ghost is a tragic figure, a remnant of a life that has been consumed by the relentless march of time and the cruelty of forgotten memories. It's possible this spirit has been summoned by the thoughts and memories of those lost by Emily, though it's impossible to truly say. As someone arrives she won't be affected by the cold that will seep into the other woman's veins, due to the wrap about her with her own spiritual energy. She'll be able to see the spectre though, same as Emily.
The ghost appears as a fragmented specter, its form a haunting blend of translucence and eerie luminescence. Once human, its features are now warped by the passage of time and the erosion of memories, creating an unsettling visage that flickers like a dying flame. The ghosts face is a mask of anguish, with hollow eyes that flicker with a dim, otherworldly light. These eyes seem to see both everything and nothing, reflecting the torment of a mind trapped in an endless cycle of confusion and despair. The ghosts body is ethereal and insubstantial, its outline blurred and ever-shifting, as if it is perpetually caught between this world and the next. The remnants of what might have been clothing hang in tattered, spectral shreds from its form, fluttering in an unseen breeze. These spectral garments seem to flicker in and out of existence, further emphasizing the ghosts fragmented state. Its hands, skeletal and elongated, reach out with a desperate yearning, grasping at memories that are just out of reach.
As the ghost moves, it does so with an erratic, jerky motion, each step a struggle against the madness that gnaws at its mind. It seems to glide rather than walk, its feet never quite touching the ground. The air around it grows cold, the temperature dropping noticeably as it passes, a chilling reminder of the ghosts otherworldly nature. Whispers of forgotten words and half-remembered songs trail in its wake, a disjointed cacophony that hints at the fragments of its lost past. The ghosts voice, when it speaks, is a hollow, echoing wail, filled with the anguish of countless forgotten years. Its speech is fragmented, broken by pauses and stutters, as if it is struggling to piece together coherent thoughts from the shattered remnants of its mind. Words of sorrow, anger, and despair spill forth, painting a picture of a once-vibrant soul now trapped in a torment of its own making. "Where? ... Wh .. ere?"
In moments of stillness, the ghosts form flickers and shifts, its features contorting as memories surface and then fade away. It is a being caught in an eternal struggle, fighting to remember who it once was while being consumed by the madness of its current existence. The longer one gazes upon this spectral figure, the more evident it becomes that the ghost is a tragic remnant of a life that has been lost to time and the ravages of memory. Its eyes, though hollow and vacant, sometimes flash with fleeting images of faces and places long gone, only to fade away just as quickly. The torment of not being able to hold onto these memories gnaws at the ghost's sanity, driving it further into the abyss of madness. Its spectral form occasionally solidifies into more recognizable shapes, but these moments are brief and ephemeral, like shadows cast by a flickering flame. "Where?!" The air around the ghost is thick with an unnatural chill, a cold that seeps into the bones of anyone who dares to draw near. This chill is not just a physical sensation but an emotional one as well, a palpable sense of despair that clings to the spirit. The whispers that follow the ghost are a disjointed mix of pleas for help, cries of anguish, and fragments of forgotten conversations. These sounds create a haunting symphony that serves as a constant reminder of the ghost's lost humanity.
The ghost's presence is both mesmerizing and terrifying. It seems to hover on the edge of reality, a being caught between two worlds. Its movements are erratic and unpredictable, driven by the whims of a fractured mind. There are moments when it appears almost lucid, its form becoming more defined as it reaches out for something or someone from its past. But these moments are fleeting, quickly giving way to the chaotic, unfocused motions of a being driven mad by the loss of its identity. The ghost's torment is made even more poignant by the occasional glimpse of its former self. In rare moments of clarity, the specter may speak a coherent sentence or perform a familiar gesture, providing a heartbreaking reminder of the person it once was. But these moments are always short-lived, swallowed up by the overwhelming madness that defines its existence. The ghost is a tragic figure, a remnant of a life that has been consumed by the relentless march of time and the cruelty of forgotten memories. It's possible this spirit has been summoned by the thoughts and memories of those lost by Emily, though it's impossible to truly say. As Elora arrives she won't be affected by the cold that will seep into the other woman's veins, due to the wrap about her with her own spiritual energy. She'll be able to see the spectre though, same as Emily.
Emily seems to look a little relieved as she hears the rumbling car and the sounds of the door getting unlocked. Her gaze darts to the door, but before she sees it open, she catches sight of -it-, of the spectre floating through the room. She freezes, eyes going wide. A cry of terror wells up in her but it is stifled by the chill that creeps through her bones. "F-fuck...", comes over her lips and she stumbles backwards a step, two and falls, continuing to creep away on her back and seemingly entirely unaware of Elora's presence. "Stay away!", her voice is small and fearful. "Stay the fuck away!"
Elora moves with grim purpose to a table by the bed, crossing the distance while under the obscuring cloak of illusion which, she hopes, might hide her from the sight of the spirit. She grabs chalk. Then she moves to a portion of the room which is dirtier than the rest, burnt out remnants of past rituals on the floor. She eyes the broken spirit. Then she begins to draw, forming a circle upon the ground with the chalk. She moves with some skill, in a practiced way, as she draws out a perfect circle, beginning to work, not on a banishing ritual, but a binding ritual. She means to keep the spirit here, not to send it away. Teal eyes regard the panicking, terror struck girl.
Elora says "Feet are better, if you are trying to move."
The ghost's form flickers as it hovers in the center of the room, its translucent figure wavering like a mirage caught in an eternal struggle. Its hollow, dim eyes dart around, desperately seeking anchors to its lost memories. The air around the ghost thickens with an oppressive, chilling energy as it reaches out with skeletal hands, grasping at the remnants of its fragmented past. Each attempt to seize a memory is met with failure, and the ghost's anguish manifests in a series of mournful, echoing wails that reverberate through the room. The ghost moves erratically, its form distorting and elongating with each fruitless grasp. Shadows deepen and twist around it, creating an eerie dance of light and darkness that adds to the palpable sense of sorrow and rage. The spectral figure stumbles through the space, its movements growing increasingly frantic. Every brush against the room's objects leaves an icy trail, as if the very air itself is weeping in sympathy with the ghost's plight.
Its voice, a hollow and disjointed wail, fills the room with a cacophony of fragmented thoughts and half-remembered phrases. "Who am I? Where... why?" The questions hang in the air, unanswered and echoing with the weight of centuries. The ghost's form flickers violently, its torment escalating as it collides with the walls, causing the torches' flames to sputter and die. The room plunges into near darkness, lit only by the ghost's eerie luminescence. In a moment of clarity, the ghost focuses on an old, tattered book lying on a nearby table. It drifts toward the book, reaching out with trembling hands, hoping to find some shred of its past within its pages. As the ghost touches the book, it disintegrates into dust, leaving the specter clutching at empty air. The ghost's frustration erupts in a haunting cry, the sound resonating through the very walls of the room, causing the stone and wood to creak and groan.
The ghost's desperation grows as it turns its attention to a faded portrait on the wall. The figure in the painting is blurred and indistinct, but there is something painfully familiar about it. The ghost approaches the portrait, its eyes wide with longing, but as it tries to connect with the image, the painting warps and fades, leaving a blank canvas behind. The ghost recoils, its anguish intensifying. The room quivers with its sorrow, the very air charged with the spirit's unending torment. "I remember ..." but what the spirit remembers remains to be seen. Whispers of forgotten melodies drift through the room, ghostly echoes of songs long forgotten. The ghost tries to latch onto these sounds, hoping to piece together a coherent memory. But each melody twists into a dissonant cacophony, slipping through the ghost's grasp like sand through fingers. Its form becomes more unstable, flickering wildly as it lashes out in a futile attempt to hold onto somethinganythingof its former self.
The ghost's movements become more erratic, the room around it responding to its turmoil. Objects tremble and shift, books fly off shelves, and the air grows colder, almost suffocating. The once serene space is now a tempest of spectral rage and sorrow, the ghost's anguish painting the room with an invisible, yet overwhelming, sense of despair. Its cries echo endlessly, a reminder of the endless torment that comes from losing oneself entirely. The ghost, a tragic remnant of a life shattered by forgotten memories, continues to struggle against the abyss of its own mind. Each attempt to reclaim its past only deepens its despair, driving it further into madness. The room bears silent witness to its suffering, the walls echoing with the ghostly manifestations of sorrow and rage. This specter, caught in an unending cycle of torment, remains a haunting presence, forever reaching for a past that is forever out of reach. It doesn't seem to recognize the actions taken by Elora, who's experience and practice far exceed that of Emily's it would seem. They approach the circumstance with quick thinking and the lack of any immediate panic. It may be that the other woman will find some sense of stability in this, but who's to say?
[FIX REPOST] The ghost's form flickers as it hovers in the center of the room, its translucent figure wavering like a mirage caught in an eternal struggle. Its hollow, dim eyes dart around, desperately seeking anchors to its lost memories. The air around the ghost thickens with an oppressive, chilling energy as it reaches out with skeletal hands, grasping at the remnants of its fragmented past. Each attempt to seize a memory is met with failure, and the ghost's anguish manifests in a series of mournful, echoing wails that reverberate through the room. The ghost moves erratically, its form distorting and elongating with each fruitless grasp. Shadows deepen and twist around it, creating an eerie dance of light and darkness that adds to the palpable sense of sorrow and rage. The spectral figure stumbles through the space, its movements growing increasingly frantic. Every brush against the room's objects leaves an icy trail, as if the very air itself is weeping in sympathy with the ghost's plight.
Its voice, a hollow and disjointed wail, fills the room with a cacophony of fragmented thoughts and half-remembered phrases. "Who am I? Where... why?" The questions hang in the air, unanswered and echoing with the weight of centuries. The ghost's form flickers violently, its torment escalating as it collides with the walls, causing the torches' flames to sputter and die. The room plunges into near darkness, lit only by the ghost's eerie luminescence. In a moment of clarity, the ghost focuses on an old, tattered book lying on a nearby table. It drifts toward the book, reaching out with trembling hands, hoping to find some shred of its past within its pages. As the ghost touches the book, it disintegrates into dust, leaving the specter clutching at empty air. The ghost's frustration erupts in a haunting cry, the sound resonating through the very walls of the room, causing the stone and wood to creak and groan.
The ghost's desperation grows as it turns its attention to a faded portrait on the wall. The figure in the painting is blurred and indistinct, but there is something painfully familiar about it. The ghost approaches the portrait, its eyes wide with longing, but as it tries to connect with the image, the painting warps and fades, leaving a blank canvas behind. The ghost recoils, its anguish intensifying. The room quivers with its sorrow, the very air charged with the spirit's unending torment. "I remember ..." but what the spirit remembers remains to be seen. Whispers of forgotten melodies drift through the room, ghostly echoes of songs long forgotten. The ghost tries to latch onto these sounds, hoping to piece together a coherent memory. But each melody twists into a dissonant cacophony, slipping through the ghost's grasp like sand through fingers. Its form becomes more unstable, flickering wildly as it lashes out in a futile attempt to hold onto somethinganythingof its former self.
"YOU!" The ghost's movements become more erratic, the room around it responding to its turmoil as it mistakes the two women for whatever trauma it experienced in life. Objects tremble and shift, books fly off shelves, and the air grows colder, almost suffocating. The once serene space is now a tempest of spectral rage and sorrow, the ghost's anguish painting the room with an invisible, yet overwhelming, sense of despair. Its cries echo endlessly, a reminder of the endless torment that comes from losing oneself entirely. The ghost, a tragic remnant of a life shattered by forgotten memories, continues to struggle against the abyss of its own mind. Each attempt to reclaim its past only deepens its despair, driving it further into madness. The room bears silent witness to its suffering, the walls echoing with the ghostly manifestations of sorrow and rage. This specter, caught in an unending cycle of torment, remains a haunting presence, forever reaching for a past that is forever out of reach. It doesn't seem to recognize the actions taken by Elora, who's experience and practice far exceed that of Emily's it would seem. They approach the circumstance with quick thinking and the lack of any immediate panic. It may be that the other woman will find some sense of stability in this, but who's to say?
Elora has a choker glowing with wintery light as her chalking hand moves, drawing sigils upon the floor. Angry teal eyes might seem to morph to the casual observer. And some might recognize, a bit later, that she can sense dread and suffering, though she can't, in truth, do so. Its a psychic trick, face stealing and mimicing, but its one she has.
Elora lilts out, "Who are you? You are doomed-"
Emily visibly calms at the sound of someone' voice, enough to scramble to her feet, but the terror is still present in her eyes and she moves away from the spectre, arms hugged to herself, goosebumps forming on her exposed skin and her body shuddering in the chill of the ghostly and ghastly presence. "Kath! Thank God ya are here...", she squeals, "...what IS this thing?!" A question whose answer seems obvious.
Emily visibly calms at the sound of Elora's voice, enough to scramble to her feet, but the terror is still present in her eyes and she moves away from the spectre, arms hugged to herself, goosebumps forming on her exposed skin and her body shuddering in the chill of the ghostly and ghastly presence. "Kath! Thank God ya are here...", she squeals, "...what IS this thing?!" A question whose answer seems obvious.
The ghost hovers above the intricately drawn binding circle, its ethereal form flickering and pulsing with a desperate energy. The circle, inscribed with chalk and infused with ancient symbols of power, glows faintly, trapping the spirit within its confines. The air is thick with the scent of the faint, metallic tang of blood; common tools in witchcraft rituals. The flickering candlelight casts eerie shadows that dance around the room, adding to the sense of dread. As the ghost lashes out against the invisible barriers of the circle, a flood of fragmented memories surges through its fractured mind. The spirit recalls a time when it was solid and real, a construction worker who spent long hours building structures from the ground up. Images of towering cranes, the smell of fresh concrete, and the sound of hammers striking nails flash through its consciousness. The ghost remembers the satisfaction of a job well done, the camaraderie of fellow workers, and the pride of creating something lasting. But these memories are fleeting, drowned out by the overpowering sense of confinement and the relentless pull of the binding circle. The ghost's anger and frustration build, manifesting as a chilling wind that swirls within the circle, causing the candles to sputter and nearly extinguish. The spirit's form flickers more violently, its once hollow eyes now burning with a fierce determination to break free from the magical prison.
The symbols etched into the circle's perimeter pulse with a rhythm that seems to resonate with the ghost's own flickering essence. Each pulse feels like a tightening noose, reinforcing the invisible chains that hold the spirit captive. The ghost reaches out with skeletal hands, trying to disrupt the runes, but the powerful wards repulse each attempt, sending shockwaves of energy through its form. The ghost's wails of frustration echo through the room, a haunting melody of sorrow and rage. Drawing upon the remnants of its once-human ingenuity, the ghost seeks to exploit any weakness in the circle's design. It focuses on a single symbol that appears slightly smudged, pouring its remaining energy into disrupting the delicate balance of the spell. The ghost's hands pass over the mark repeatedly, its movements growing more frenzied with each failed attempt. The air crackles with tension, the oppressive atmosphere thickening as the spirit's desperation mounts. The strength and practice of Elora's spellcraft is too much, however. For a brief, shining moment, the ghost feels a flicker of hope as the smudged symbol begins to fade. The oppressive force of the binding spell seems to waver, and the spirit presses its advantage, channeling all its rage and sorrow into one final, desperate push. The room grows colder, the shadows deepening as the ghost's energy builds to a crescendo. But just as it seems the circle might break, the symbols flare with renewed intensity, the spell's power reasserting itself. The ghost collapses inward, its form dimming and flickering weakly. The binding circle holds firm, its ancient power unyielding in the face of the spirit's fury. The ghost's wails soften to a mournful whisper, the last vestiges of its strength spent in the futile struggle. Trapped within the circle, the spirit's memories of its past life begin to fade once more, replaced by the crushing weight of its eternal confinement. The spirit is now held Firm.
"A ghost," Elora hisses. "A doomed ghost. It should not have come here. We shall be binding it here." She looks to Emily. "Can you use your phone to see if we can get a delivery. I wish have a fox delivered here. Or rather, the parts of one. I shan't be moving from this place for a time, but you can and you shall be my hands and arms to get all that is necessary. We shall be doing a bloody work this night. Assuming we can reach a fleshcrafter."
[REPOST FOR EMILY] The strength and practice of Elora's spellcraft is too much, however. For a brief, shining moment, the ghost feels a flicker of hope as the smudged symbol begins to fade. The oppressive force of the binding spell seems to waver, and the spirit presses its advantage, channeling all its rage and sorrow into one final, desperate push. The room grows colder, the shadows deepening as the ghost's energy builds to a crescendo. But just as it seems the circle might break, the symbols flare with renewed intensity, the spell's power reasserting itself. The ghost collapses inward, its form dimming and flickering weakly. The binding circle holds firm, its ancient power unyielding in the face of the spirit's fury. The ghost's wails soften to a mournful whisper, the last vestiges of its strength spent in the futile struggle. Trapped within the circle, the spirit's memories of its past life begin to fade once more, replaced by the crushing weight of its eternal confinement. The spirit is now held Firm.
Emily blinks at Elora in apparently confusion, still scared and cold and shivering at the far end of the cabin, opposite the ritual circle. "A fox?! Ya mean Envy is here?!", she doesn't seem to fully grasp Elora's words, but moves towards the door regardless, eyes affixed to the trapped ghost in barely veiled terror.
Envy, is not, a pretty fox. Its sleek, russet fur marred by patches of unnatural gray, as though death itself has begun to claim it. Its once vibrant eyes are now hollow, sunken pits of darkness, betraying the malevolent spirit that lurks within. There is no trace of the fox's former cunning or playfulness; instead, a cold intelligence gleams in the abyss of its gaze, far older and far more dangerous than any mere animal. When it snarls, the sound is low, gutturala rasping noise that echoes the spirit's hateful whispers. Its teeth, unnaturally sharp and too long for its mouth, gleam like polished bone. There is a predatory hunger in the way it watches, a dark promise of violence.
This is Elora real Envy. And it is the Emily would find waiting for her in the van.
Emily does not seem to wait for an answer from Elora, simply rushing out the still open door towards the van to open the back with trembling hands. A shrill shriek, not unlike the one she let loose when she first laid eyes at the spectre in her home. "Aaaaah.... what the FUCK?!", a casual curse and the sound of the van door being slammed close.
It will be a frantic rush for Emily, the cold air from outside rushing in to breeze across her skin and raise goose-flesh along her exposed areas while she rushes out to that van. There's a shuddered moment for the woman as she'll find what amounts to a semi-taxidermied corpse of a fox in the back of this van? In any case, she'll bring it back to Elora post haste as they come through and try to keep their cool while not succedding very well. The panic and the fear inherint from those past memories root deeply within Emily, driving the instincts and thoughts that discern her actions and motions right now. In contrast, Elora continues to approach this task with more sense of control or calm as they continue to regard the spirit. It mutters to iself with bated breath, panicked and uncertain of exactly why it cannot flee now. Small spurts of lucidity flash across the ghost's eyes but they are few and far between. Still, the manifestation of the spirit shows a certain stregnth, a certain potency in the spirit and will of this construction worker who likely died too soon.
"Do you know what torments await you, pet?" Elora coos to the spirit trapped in the circle. "Let me show you. Perhaps you can recall a bit of what I need from you." Her choker glows once more with the winter light.
Emily deposits the fox corpse next to Elora and steps away, trying to keep a distance of several arm's lengths between herself and the trapped ghost. "W-why... why d-did it e-e-even come here?!", she mutters with clattering teeth.
Elora smiling to herself at something, still looking as if a clone of Emily, from stealing her face, begins to chalk out the next circle for the soon to be returned pet. "Some things have very ill luck around me," Elora muses. "Very very ill luck."
"I've been wanting one. Waiting for it. A shame you got caught in the cross fire," Elora tells Emily.
The spirit doesn't seem fixated on Emily's visage, and so it won't be too confused with the duplicate features but the binding circle continues to provide the spirit a sense of confusion. Too gone from the loss of its conscious mind, it cannot seem to find a reasonable place to put itself as it continues to barrage agaisnt the power of the binding circle. Elora's magic has potency though, and despite the strength of the spirit, it cannot hold against the barrier that keeps it imprisoned now. The world for the spirit only exiists inside that circle now, as it wails against the illusion provided by the will of Elora's magics as Emily cowers back from the experience, driven by fear of past experience and the pressure those memories bring.
"Could you make us an evening meal," Elora asks Emily. She pauses in her sigilwork to look at Emily with a frown. "And no stale bread this time."
Emily rubs her hands over her exposed arms and gives Elora an incredulous look. "My h-h-h-home is a M-MESS and y-you brought a v-v-vengeful spirit here! And n-n-ow you want ta... eat?!" Despite her protest she moves towards the kitchenette. "Was this... a... p-p-person?!"
Elora says "It isn't like this is an ancient werewolf Emily. Be reasonble. You can pick all this later."
Elora says, fixed, "It isn't like this is an ancient werewolf Emily. Be reasonble. You can pickup all this later. "
Elora continues to Emily. "I think it was a human, yes. Not for much longer though."
"We're going to be feeding Envy," Elora lilts.
As the spirit continues to be bound, it would seem Elora's intention will be seen to fruition. WIth a slow but steady intent, it seems the Arcanist will be ready to start siphoning out the strength of the spirt that she's bound here. Calling the spirit that manifests her own minion once the corpse has been brought to her, Elora will find it easy enough to set her own compelled spirit to start feeding off of the other. For Emily, it's a rare sight to see, the physical manifestation of a spirit without the specific trainign to see such things as well as the way the other spirit once summoned will begin to feed and siphon that very strength and will of this construction worker's will. There's no sugar-coating what happens here; Emily will have no choice but to see the truth for what it is. Whateve this spirit's trauma is? Elora is going to feed it to her own spirit.
OOC: This is essentially the point where the Encounter Prompt has been met! You can continue the scene until you are satisfied, and then step down when you are ready! I will teleport / summon if it does not drop you close to where you need to be! I will continue to provide reply as needed.
Elora stands and walks to the kitchen drawers, drawing free a knife, then returns to her sigil work and cuts open her own hand to spill blood`X onto the circle to empower it with her life force, splattering it. The cirle glows and Elora smiles, wicked teal eyes excited as she watches the trapped spirits terror.
Emily rummamges around the kitchenette and pulls out an apple from the fridge, doing her best to cut it up into neat slices with a knife, her fingers cold and stiff. She tries her best to ignore the sight at the binding circle, visibly uncomfortable not only from the chill but also from the implication. "Kath...", she mumbles out as she walks up to Elora with the prepared apple, visibly recoiling. "If this was a h-h-human... shouldn't we..."
Elora in the ensuing moments her little fox begins to twitch and thrash on the ground as the circle blazes all the brighter, casting a pale glow through the room.
Elora looks to Emily a bloody knife in one hand, her other hand, dripping, dripping, dripping.
Elora grimaces in pain. "This is the best use for it. I need to be stronger Emily. There are things in this world much more dangerous than me. One cannot always run and hide."
Elora offers Emily the bloody knife. "Wash this," she demands.
Wether Emily knows of him or not, this comment from Elora brings to mind a perfect example. Perhaps one to learn from, but not less dangerous than she speaks of. An ancient man with white hair, and a calm and control that belies the nature of his being. "NO! NOO!" The suffering of the spirit is evident as that corpse begins to thrash and twitch and move, metaphysically beginning to abosrb the very essense of this spirit. There's no softening what happens here, in front of Emily. But in the words that hang heavy in the air, noone ever did anything epic in the history books ... without doing some questionable things to make it happen. This displays Elora's dedication to her own rise in power.
Elora speaking over the sound of the denial, louder, firm, "Emily... Wash. This."
Emily nods with gritted teeth and offers up the plate she has draped the apple slices on before taking the bloody knife, visibly recoiling at the sight of red, her already pale cheeks growing even paler and she quickly closes her eyes as if the sight of blood made her ill. "But...B-but...", her protest is weak, powerless.
Elora takes slow deep breaths. Then, feigning a calm, she bites into the apple with the hand not dripping onto the cabin floor.
This is to fix an accidental color code mis-cap!
Emily takes a deep breath, eyes still closed and steps back to the kitchenette, almost stumbling over the mess that is strewn about as she makes her way blindly, tossing the knife into the sink and turning on the water, turning it to hot.
as Emily takes that knife, dripping with her master's blood, there's no denying what occurs before her. While she takes the time to pursue the intent of her master's wishes, there's a sense of loss. She watches while one soul devours the essence of another. No matter her denial, there will be something of her own soul ... lost. Given, to accept what must be done in her presence.
The fox on the floor begins to morph, a second tail forming. Not just a fox, any longer. Not something so simple and normal. A kistune, apparently. A fox with two tails. Tricksters, in some legends. Elora smiles, not so much a happy smile, as a relieved smile. "Its working..." she breathes.
"We're really doing it," Elora tells Emily, forcing her into the moment, giving partial credit.
Emily drops the knife after having cleaned it and steps closer to Elora, a single hesitant step as if trying to keep away from the circle and the fox. "It... i-t was ...g-gone already, r-right? N-nothing we could have done? R-RIGHT?!", the last word is a scream for help, a plea to be asolved of whatever terrible thing she witnessed and let happen. Aided. Been accomplice to.
It's not so much the corpse animated by magic that changes, but rather the soul that is bound to it. Through her own clairvoyance, Elora will watch in full as the spirit of the fox slowly siphons that energy from the soul bound by the circle provided by its master. For Emily, it's less of a sight, only the sight of the spirit slowly being drained of it's essence and potency to be seen from her perspective. "NOOO!" The wails of pain continue, tugging at heartstrings that may have been warded against such a plea.
Elora reaches up a hand, the bloody hand, the dripping hand, placing it against Emily's cheek, forcing the girl to look at her. She doesn't lie to the woman. "It helps, to focus on the practical matters. You are cold. Get something from the wardrobe in addition to what you have now. Put it on. It will help. And close the door, so the chill does not seep in more than necessary. I do not the strength of winter at this point. It is only a matter of time, now." She has a lilting voice. Lyrical. Tone, rising and falling. There is a horror behind her eyes, but a resolve there too. She will not end this. Not until every scrap of that thing is taken from it and made hers.
Emily trembles in chill and terror, the anguish of the spirit resonating within her own soul. She winces as she feels the warm blood on her cheek, but brown eyes seek Elora's and the hand she reaches towards Elora and rests on her arm is not a gesture of holding her back, however symbolic - it is a gesture of support, of reassurance. Her mouth opens, but no words come from it, her expression one of inner turmoil.
Elora stares needily into Emily's eyes.
Elora whispers, voice faintly horrified, "We did it."
And so the reality of how power and strength ebbs and flows will come to a point here tonight, for the senses of Elora and Emily as the latter continue their pursuit of claiming this spirit's power. Trapping it, siphoning it ... there's something alluring about the way the Elora matter-of-factly proceeds about this. A sense of morbid safetyl, perhaps. Soon the sight of the spirit floats and fades away fro msight as it's strength is leeched minute by minute, until it is no more.
Elora forces herself to smile
Emily closes her mouth again in silence and opens it to take a deep breath. "I-it... it's okay, Kath...", she mumbles, "...w-we... y-you... you...", a subtle shift in her body, her eyes affixed to Elora's as if wanting to avoid the sight of the spirit. "...delivered it... f-from... it's... t-torment..." Her voice is halting and insecure as if she barely believed her own words.
It's not so much the corpse animated by magic that changes, but rather the soul that is bound to it. Through her own clairvoyance, Elora will watch in full as the spirit of the fox slowly siphons that energy from the soul bound by the circle provided by its master. Emily can put her own logic behind these words, jusitfying for herslef why this might be acceptable. Acceptable or not, the fading sight of the spirit is evidence enough until it's gone entirely All that remains is the vigourous form of that Minion spirit; the fox seeming to be in curiousity mode as it becomes aware of it's new tail.
"Time for your combat training, pets," Elora suggests. "Come."
Emily gives the woman a defeated nod and follows, pointedly avoiding looking at the spot of the ritual circle or the fox.
The story transitions to an elaborate rescue, not by friendly forces, but through an auction won by a mysterious Tamil man named Taj, working for the House of Vishu. Neha, though initially unaware of her rescuer's intentions, is released from her bindings and somewhat coldly informed of her inadvertent indebtedness to the House of Vishnu. The encounter underscores Neha's vulnerability and the unexpected complexities of Sanctuary's underworld. Mirroring this encounter, another storyline emerges around Emily, a local resident experiencing a haunting in her secluded cabin. A ghost, tormented and fractured from its past life, attacks, compelling Emily and her unexpected visitor, Elora, to confront it. Elora, revealing proficiency in arcane practices, binds the ghost while instructing a visibly frightened Emily in the grim realities of their supernatural town. Elora's actions, particularly her preparation for a ritual involving the bound ghost, lay bare the darker aspects of power dynamics in a world where the boundaries between life, death, and eternal torment blur. The intersection of personal ethics with the supernatural elements in play highlights a complex narrative of survival, power acquisition, and the often-overlooked costs of security within Sanctuary.
(Neha's odd encounter(SRRogier):SRRogier)
[Thu Oct 31 2024]
In room 118, Clinician Wing
Bookcases line the walls of the office, with texts covering many branches of
medicine stuffing their shelves. A full-sized skeleton with simplified internal
organs stands on display in one corner. The room is small but well-lit, the
scent of clean linen and lavender providing a soothing touch.
It is night, about 53F(11C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. There is a waning crescent moon.
(Your target has been abducted and is being held hostage by a supernatural criminal out to trade them for something or just use them as a shield against the factions. Your target must attempt to find a way to escape, or simply survive until they can be rescued by their allies.
)
Finally. A moment for Neha to have to themselves. It's been a fairly crowded day, hasn't it? But now, in the latest hours of the evening, the hustle and the bustle of the clinic has receded, and the Faculty can relax - a little.
The Syndicate member that'd been hidden in the legspace of her desk like a goddamned contortionist appreciates that, too, and celebrates by sticking a syringe in the doctor's neck. If there was any transition between him being stuck in there and actually moving around, she hadn't seen it. Those goddamned Syndicate guys are really good. That very much might be the last thought to filter through Neha's mind before darkness takes her.
She awakens with a gritty, grainy feeling in the backs of her eyelids, and a piquant, coppery taste coats her throat in the wake of whatever drug that was leaching out of her system. There's no foggy mindedness, at least. She's sharp, and aware... and all trussed up like a Christmas goose. She's been bound at the wrists and ankles with simple zip ties, and left in a sealed dark room. There only sound - beyond what she herself makes - comes muffled through a door she can just barely make out in the low light. It sounds like it might be a TV, or a radio..?
The clinic is still hustling and bustling, unfortunately, and Neha's got a headache pulsing at her temples from the lack of sleep she's managed lately; not a new thing at all for a resident, but it's been a hectic few days of moving in to her new apartment between work shifts that never really ease up, trying to meet the locals, and planning one of the few classes she'd been contracted for.
All that to say, the darkness might just be a blessed thing when it meets Neha, a faint moment of panic like a flickering candle flame before she loses consciousness entirely and slumps to the ground. The rest is much-needed.
When she comes to, it's with a soft groan at the back of her throat, and a wiggle just to test her bindings before Neha slumps against the ground, resigned to whatever fate awaits her. There's a blink of her eyes in the darkness, waiting for them to adjust in hopes of her figuring something out here, and then she calls out, voice scratchy, "Hey, I'm awake." May as well get this over with, right? She doesn't have money, or whatever they're looking for, and she's only here because of that fight with her parents, so there's no way in hell they're going to pay anything to get her free. She can just... explain all that, and be on her merry way. Surely. /Surely/.
There's no immediate response forthcoming. Neha might not've been heard at all - then, wait, no, that television-radio-whatever's being turned up loudly enough that it filters much more audibly through the door. Maybe they're very conscientious and had it turned down so that she wouldn't be disturbed from what little sleep they could get.
"She's Institute Faculty?" comes a querying, slightly muffled voice. "We're not buying. Societies don't fuck with the Institute. No deal."
"I'll bid one thousand," a different voice says, a little smarmier, as if to rub it in that society guy's face that /they/ will do as they please. It's hard to pick male from female, and not just because of the door: whatever's transmitting their voice is modulating them, too, disguising the identities of the speakers.
"Twelve hundred," another voice chimes. It's a bidding war. No prizes for guessing who they're bidding over, here.
Neha groans out loud, just out of sheer what the fuckery this time instead of the headache that may have improved from her little impromptu nap, and tilts her head back against the floor, wriggling some more. She's not the biggest woman, and she's /definitely/ not the strongest woman, and really, her talents certainly don't include Houdini-ing her way out of hogties.
"I'm a doctor!" she calls out into the darkness, towards wherever that radio-TV-whatever noises come from. "I don't think you're supposed to hurt doctors." And then flop, back against the ground. She tries to snail her way closer to the door, slowly.
Alas - whichever minder is seated outside the door doesn't seem inclined towards following the Geneva Suggestion or any such limitations... or really interacting very much at all. Neha's doctorhood nets her nothing but continued silence from them. Then, a new voice speaks, precipitating a hush from the other bidders.
"Saar, I will pay you five thousand for the girl," he says, and it is undoubtedly a he - the modulator cannot disguise the masculine, Tamil tones laced through the man's voice. The auctioneer's own words aren't being trans, but none of the other bidders seem to be willing to put that much money up - and eventually, that smarmier voice, the first bidder, speaks up.
"Whatever. I'm not putting that much money on someone under Sanctuary. Fuckin' have her." There's the sounds of a couple footsteps before things get too quiet to be transmitted, and after a moment, the door's opened by a man dressed all in black, with a tactical turtleneck and a beanie and gloves and all.
"Lie still, doctor," the man says, and steps over to haul Neha up over a shoulder. "If you give me any trouble, I'm going to drug you again. Be quiet and be still and you can be awake for the drive. If you have any questions, keep them to yourself."
The auctioneer's words aren't being TRANSMITTED, apologies, no bigotry intended.
Neha has met another man with a voice laced with Tamil tones very recently, and her ears prick at the sound of his voice, attempting to figure out if she recognizes it. It's hard to tell, what with the modulation and all that; certainly not conducive towards a girl's efforts to figure out who her kidnappers might be. She exhales out a short, annoyed breath again, attempting to keep her breathing under control. There's no sense in panicking, even if her heart drums a little faster in her chest with every moment that passes.
The Indian doctor looks up sharply at the sound of the door, her mouth opening to begin asking questions immediately and then shutting with only a squeak escaping her when she's hauled over a shoulder. An involuntary "oof" escapes her, but she takes the suggestion and remains quiet, blinking slowly at the light now filtering in through the open door. She nods in response. Questions can wait. She'd rather just wait and see where she's being taken to, so she can hopefully find a way back. It's too late for the 'never go to a second location' tip anyway. Far too late for that one.
Even the fireman carry the Syndicate Man has her in is fairly smooth. It must've taken a lot of practice to get the bumpiness out of his stride. He's a real professional, doing his best to make things as comfortable as he can without going far enough to appear he gives a shit about Neha. She's taken to a van in a spacious, underground depot of some sort - then gets the ol' bag over the head treatment once she's sat inside.
"Policy," the Syndicateer grunts. "Keeps our workplace private. We'll give your phone back when the drop-off is done." And so the doctor is driven away from whatever holding compound she'd been dragged off to. Eventually, they must be in Southside, because any Havenite should be able to recognise the smell of Rosie's as they pass it on the street, and then the Japanese place that'd been locked up for a while but still carried a mild fragrance of its own, even closed. They're on Main Street - and the van stops.
Neha's unbagged, shoulder-hauled once more, and delivered to one of those fancy Main Street places, outside of which stands a drop-dead gorgeous Indian man.
Tall, muscular, relatively fair-skinned, assuredly high caste just from appearances alone... nice hair, dreamy eyes, a perfect smirk on his lips... The man offers a wordless nod to the retreating delivery driver, who drives off down the street.
"Good evening, Doctor," he says, leaning down to gently slice Neha's bindings through with a pocket knife. Without the electrical alteration of his voice, he sounds even more masculine. And even more Tamil, too. It's definitely /not/ that other Tamil guy. "I am named Taj," he says. "I work for the House of Vishnu. Please come inside."
Well, goddammit. There goes Neha's attempts to figure out where she's being taken to, but it's fine - she's got the security of knowing she can't be taken outside the town, at least. Unfortunately, she's not quite a Havenite yet, having been here for all of two days, and so the smell of Rosie's and That One Japanese Place both go unappreciated during the passage, even if her stomach grumbles a little now that the adrenaline rush is calming some. There's not a lot going on to keep her on edge, and the tiredness settles in again.
The car comes to a halt. Neha jerks back to attention once more, and she waits for her phone to be handed back to her - that's important, dammit, that phone's been with her for ages - before she's dropped outside the Main Street place with the Tamil man.
And goddamn, what a man he is. Neha is momentarily brought to silence, blinking at him with wide eyes behind her glasses - also blessedly safe, thankfully - before that mention of the House of Vishnu. Neha's shoulders stiffen.
"I do not have any business with the House of Vishnu," she claims immediately, jerking her gaze away from the man and rubbing at her wrists once they're freed. "Thank you for freeing me. I would like to go home." There's an attempt to look unfazed even if her heart pounds in her chest, chin held high.
"Of course," replies the gorgeous rescuer, a slow and suave smile passing his lips. "Getting you home was the point, girl. But remember that we have our own eyes on this place, and yaar, we would like you to stay in contact. You don't owe us anything. Just remember that the House of Vishnu did you a favour." He reaches up to give Neha's shoulder a little squeeze, even if it's not the most welcome gesture, but there's nothing worse than that.
"It's always useful to have our own people in town."
He doesn't offer to drive Neha back to the clinic, if if she'd have felt safe during such a ride. It's not such a bad walk, either, even this late at night - it's not as if anyone could hurt her too badly. Still, the night has been a reminder - Haven has Sanctuary, but it's absolutely stuffed full of the power she'd been denied her whole life. Maybe the twins should've come here instead of her.
(A ghost with only fragments of memory that have driven them near insane is attacking your target. They must either defeat it or find a way to calm it down.
)
Emily's cabin unfolds like a quiet secret whispered among the trees, a seamless blend of rustic charm and understated luxury. In one corner, a glass-enclosed shower stands like a crystal sanctuary, its rainfall showerhead promising a cascade as gentle as summer rain. Across the way, a sleek kitchenette with marble countertops invites the crafting of meals both simple and sublime. Exposed wooden beams stretch overhead, from which designer electric lanterns hang like captured stars, casting a warm, ambient glow over polished hardwood floors. As Emily moves through her 'morning' routine, the serene ambiance of the cabin wraps around her like a comforting embrace. She stands in the elegant living area, adjusting the polished pine furnishings; a wardrobe and a desk that stand with quiet dignity, adding touches of classic refinement. The tasteful decor and rich textures create a haven where the burdens of the world melt away. Yet, today, there is an unsettling undercurrent in the air, a faint chill that seems to seep through the walls despite the warm glow of the lanterns. There's a pause in the air, a subtle shift in the atmosphere. The soft hum of the electric lanterns seems to waver, casting fleeting, elongated shadows that twist and dance across the walls. She shakes off the feeling, attributing it to her imagination, and continues to prepare for work. But as she steps into the kitchenette, she notices the faintest breath of cold air, a whisper of something that sends a shiver down her spine. The cabin, her sanctuary, feels different, haunted by an intangible presence that lingers just out of sight.
The glass-enclosed shower, once a crystal sanctuary, now reflects a distorted image of the room, as if the very essence of the cabin is warping under the weight of an unseen force. The woman's brown eyes catch the flicker of a shadow in the corner of her vision. She turns, but there is nothing there, only the empty space where the shadow had danced. The gentle luxury of the cabin becomes a backdrop to an eerie, almost suffocating tension. As Emily reaches for the doorknob to leave, she hesitates, feeling the weight of the unseen presence pressing down on her, a silent reminder that the peace of her haven is but a fragile illusion. If she has any experience with this town, or the things that happen in it, she can be sure that something other than herself has descended upon this place for better or worse.
Emily's breath catches in her throat as she stands there indecisively. Her gaze on the door as if she wants to flee. After a few moments she turns around and furrows her brow. "Kat?", she calls out into the room, already knowing that she won't get an answer. Or perhaps not the answer she is hoping for. Slowly, hesitantly she steps towards the shower corner, muscles tensing as she approaches the mirror, as if some bad memory came floodig up at the sight of it.
Elora please emote an arrival!
Elora is heralded by the sound of an engine coming from outside on Guardian Lane, a rumbling. There is the clunk of a van door closing. Then utter silence as she moves softly through the cool night. Coming around to the newly installed door, on the forest side now, rather than the road, there is the light jingling of a keychain with multiple keys on it. Then the door handle is turning, opening, creaking. In the doorway is a woman wearing a blue dress, hair turquoise and neon. Teal eyes are furious and cold and as she stalks in, Her choker lights up as she enters runes etched along it glowing and then from one moment to the next she is gone, though the soft sounds of her steps are there as she stalks into the room.
Elora the colds wraps around her likely a friendly cloak as she walks in without shutting the door, bolstering her.
The ghost appears as a fragmented specter, its form a haunting blend of translucence and eerie luminescence. Once human, its features are now warped by the passage of time and the erosion of memories, creating an unsettling visage that flickers like a dying flame. The ghosts face is a mask of anguish, with hollow eyes that flicker with a dim, otherworldly light. These eyes seem to see both everything and nothing, reflecting the torment of a mind trapped in an endless cycle of confusion and despair. The ghosts body is ethereal and insubstantial, its outline blurred and ever-shifting, as if it is perpetually caught between this world and the next. The remnants of what might have been clothing hang in tattered, spectral shreds from its form, fluttering in an unseen breeze. These spectral garments seem to flicker in and out of existence, further emphasizing the ghosts fragmented state. Its hands, skeletal and elongated, reach out with a desperate yearning, grasping at memories that are just out of reach.
As the ghost moves, it does so with an erratic, jerky motion, each step a struggle against the madness that gnaws at its mind. It seems to glide rather than walk, its feet never quite touching the ground. The air around it grows cold, the temperature dropping noticeably as it passes, a chilling reminder of the ghosts otherworldly nature. Whispers of forgotten words and half-remembered songs trail in its wake, a disjointed cacophony that hints at the fragments of its lost past. The ghosts voice, when it speaks, is a hollow, echoing wail, filled with the anguish of countless forgotten years. Its speech is fragmented, broken by pauses and stutters, as if it is struggling to piece together coherent thoughts from the shattered remnants of its mind. Words of sorrow, anger, and despair spill forth, painting a picture of a once-vibrant soul now trapped in a torment of its own making. "Where? ... Wh .. ere?"
In moments of stillness, the ghosts form flickers and shifts, its features contorting as memories surface and then fade away. It is a being caught in an eternal struggle, fighting to remember who it once was while being consumed by the madness of its current existence. The longer one gazes upon this spectral figure, the more evident it becomes that the ghost is a tragic remnant of a life that has been lost to time and the ravages of memory. Its eyes, though hollow and vacant, sometimes flash with fleeting images of faces and places long gone, only to fade away just as quickly. The torment of not being able to hold onto these memories gnaws at the ghost's sanity, driving it further into the abyss of madness. Its spectral form occasionally solidifies into more recognizable shapes, but these moments are brief and ephemeral, like shadows cast by a flickering flame. "Where?!" The air around the ghost is thick with an unnatural chill, a cold that seeps into the bones of anyone who dares to draw near. This chill is not just a physical sensation but an emotional one as well, a palpable sense of despair that clings to the spirit. The whispers that follow the ghost are a disjointed mix of pleas for help, cries of anguish, and fragments of forgotten conversations. These sounds create a haunting symphony that serves as a constant reminder of the ghost's lost humanity.
The ghost's presence is both mesmerizing and terrifying. It seems to hover on the edge of reality, a being caught between two worlds. Its movements are erratic and unpredictable, driven by the whims of a fractured mind. There are moments when it appears almost lucid, its form becoming more defined as it reaches out for something or someone from its past. But these moments are fleeting, quickly giving way to the chaotic, unfocused motions of a being driven mad by the loss of its identity. The ghost's torment is made even more poignant by the occasional glimpse of its former self. In rare moments of clarity, the specter may speak a coherent sentence or perform a familiar gesture, providing a heartbreaking reminder of the person it once was. But these moments are always short-lived, swallowed up by the overwhelming madness that defines its existence. The ghost is a tragic figure, a remnant of a life that has been consumed by the relentless march of time and the cruelty of forgotten memories. It's possible this spirit has been summoned by the thoughts and memories of those lost by Emily, though it's impossible to truly say. As someone arrives she won't be affected by the cold that will seep into the other woman's veins, due to the wrap about her with her own spiritual energy. She'll be able to see the spectre though, same as Emily.
The ghost appears as a fragmented specter, its form a haunting blend of translucence and eerie luminescence. Once human, its features are now warped by the passage of time and the erosion of memories, creating an unsettling visage that flickers like a dying flame. The ghosts face is a mask of anguish, with hollow eyes that flicker with a dim, otherworldly light. These eyes seem to see both everything and nothing, reflecting the torment of a mind trapped in an endless cycle of confusion and despair. The ghosts body is ethereal and insubstantial, its outline blurred and ever-shifting, as if it is perpetually caught between this world and the next. The remnants of what might have been clothing hang in tattered, spectral shreds from its form, fluttering in an unseen breeze. These spectral garments seem to flicker in and out of existence, further emphasizing the ghosts fragmented state. Its hands, skeletal and elongated, reach out with a desperate yearning, grasping at memories that are just out of reach.
As the ghost moves, it does so with an erratic, jerky motion, each step a struggle against the madness that gnaws at its mind. It seems to glide rather than walk, its feet never quite touching the ground. The air around it grows cold, the temperature dropping noticeably as it passes, a chilling reminder of the ghosts otherworldly nature. Whispers of forgotten words and half-remembered songs trail in its wake, a disjointed cacophony that hints at the fragments of its lost past. The ghosts voice, when it speaks, is a hollow, echoing wail, filled with the anguish of countless forgotten years. Its speech is fragmented, broken by pauses and stutters, as if it is struggling to piece together coherent thoughts from the shattered remnants of its mind. Words of sorrow, anger, and despair spill forth, painting a picture of a once-vibrant soul now trapped in a torment of its own making. "Where? ... Wh .. ere?"
In moments of stillness, the ghosts form flickers and shifts, its features contorting as memories surface and then fade away. It is a being caught in an eternal struggle, fighting to remember who it once was while being consumed by the madness of its current existence. The longer one gazes upon this spectral figure, the more evident it becomes that the ghost is a tragic remnant of a life that has been lost to time and the ravages of memory. Its eyes, though hollow and vacant, sometimes flash with fleeting images of faces and places long gone, only to fade away just as quickly. The torment of not being able to hold onto these memories gnaws at the ghost's sanity, driving it further into the abyss of madness. Its spectral form occasionally solidifies into more recognizable shapes, but these moments are brief and ephemeral, like shadows cast by a flickering flame. "Where?!" The air around the ghost is thick with an unnatural chill, a cold that seeps into the bones of anyone who dares to draw near. This chill is not just a physical sensation but an emotional one as well, a palpable sense of despair that clings to the spirit. The whispers that follow the ghost are a disjointed mix of pleas for help, cries of anguish, and fragments of forgotten conversations. These sounds create a haunting symphony that serves as a constant reminder of the ghost's lost humanity.
The ghost's presence is both mesmerizing and terrifying. It seems to hover on the edge of reality, a being caught between two worlds. Its movements are erratic and unpredictable, driven by the whims of a fractured mind. There are moments when it appears almost lucid, its form becoming more defined as it reaches out for something or someone from its past. But these moments are fleeting, quickly giving way to the chaotic, unfocused motions of a being driven mad by the loss of its identity. The ghost's torment is made even more poignant by the occasional glimpse of its former self. In rare moments of clarity, the specter may speak a coherent sentence or perform a familiar gesture, providing a heartbreaking reminder of the person it once was. But these moments are always short-lived, swallowed up by the overwhelming madness that defines its existence. The ghost is a tragic figure, a remnant of a life that has been consumed by the relentless march of time and the cruelty of forgotten memories. It's possible this spirit has been summoned by the thoughts and memories of those lost by Emily, though it's impossible to truly say. As Elora arrives she won't be affected by the cold that will seep into the other woman's veins, due to the wrap about her with her own spiritual energy. She'll be able to see the spectre though, same as Emily.
Emily seems to look a little relieved as she hears the rumbling car and the sounds of the door getting unlocked. Her gaze darts to the door, but before she sees it open, she catches sight of -it-, of the spectre floating through the room. She freezes, eyes going wide. A cry of terror wells up in her but it is stifled by the chill that creeps through her bones. "F-fuck...", comes over her lips and she stumbles backwards a step, two and falls, continuing to creep away on her back and seemingly entirely unaware of Elora's presence. "Stay away!", her voice is small and fearful. "Stay the fuck away!"
Elora moves with grim purpose to a table by the bed, crossing the distance while under the obscuring cloak of illusion which, she hopes, might hide her from the sight of the spirit. She grabs chalk. Then she moves to a portion of the room which is dirtier than the rest, burnt out remnants of past rituals on the floor. She eyes the broken spirit. Then she begins to draw, forming a circle upon the ground with the chalk. She moves with some skill, in a practiced way, as she draws out a perfect circle, beginning to work, not on a banishing ritual, but a binding ritual. She means to keep the spirit here, not to send it away. Teal eyes regard the panicking, terror struck girl.
Elora says "Feet are better, if you are trying to move."
The ghost's form flickers as it hovers in the center of the room, its translucent figure wavering like a mirage caught in an eternal struggle. Its hollow, dim eyes dart around, desperately seeking anchors to its lost memories. The air around the ghost thickens with an oppressive, chilling energy as it reaches out with skeletal hands, grasping at the remnants of its fragmented past. Each attempt to seize a memory is met with failure, and the ghost's anguish manifests in a series of mournful, echoing wails that reverberate through the room. The ghost moves erratically, its form distorting and elongating with each fruitless grasp. Shadows deepen and twist around it, creating an eerie dance of light and darkness that adds to the palpable sense of sorrow and rage. The spectral figure stumbles through the space, its movements growing increasingly frantic. Every brush against the room's objects leaves an icy trail, as if the very air itself is weeping in sympathy with the ghost's plight.
Its voice, a hollow and disjointed wail, fills the room with a cacophony of fragmented thoughts and half-remembered phrases. "Who am I? Where... why?" The questions hang in the air, unanswered and echoing with the weight of centuries. The ghost's form flickers violently, its torment escalating as it collides with the walls, causing the torches' flames to sputter and die. The room plunges into near darkness, lit only by the ghost's eerie luminescence. In a moment of clarity, the ghost focuses on an old, tattered book lying on a nearby table. It drifts toward the book, reaching out with trembling hands, hoping to find some shred of its past within its pages. As the ghost touches the book, it disintegrates into dust, leaving the specter clutching at empty air. The ghost's frustration erupts in a haunting cry, the sound resonating through the very walls of the room, causing the stone and wood to creak and groan.
The ghost's desperation grows as it turns its attention to a faded portrait on the wall. The figure in the painting is blurred and indistinct, but there is something painfully familiar about it. The ghost approaches the portrait, its eyes wide with longing, but as it tries to connect with the image, the painting warps and fades, leaving a blank canvas behind. The ghost recoils, its anguish intensifying. The room quivers with its sorrow, the very air charged with the spirit's unending torment. "I remember ..." but what the spirit remembers remains to be seen. Whispers of forgotten melodies drift through the room, ghostly echoes of songs long forgotten. The ghost tries to latch onto these sounds, hoping to piece together a coherent memory. But each melody twists into a dissonant cacophony, slipping through the ghost's grasp like sand through fingers. Its form becomes more unstable, flickering wildly as it lashes out in a futile attempt to hold onto somethinganythingof its former self.
The ghost's movements become more erratic, the room around it responding to its turmoil. Objects tremble and shift, books fly off shelves, and the air grows colder, almost suffocating. The once serene space is now a tempest of spectral rage and sorrow, the ghost's anguish painting the room with an invisible, yet overwhelming, sense of despair. Its cries echo endlessly, a reminder of the endless torment that comes from losing oneself entirely. The ghost, a tragic remnant of a life shattered by forgotten memories, continues to struggle against the abyss of its own mind. Each attempt to reclaim its past only deepens its despair, driving it further into madness. The room bears silent witness to its suffering, the walls echoing with the ghostly manifestations of sorrow and rage. This specter, caught in an unending cycle of torment, remains a haunting presence, forever reaching for a past that is forever out of reach. It doesn't seem to recognize the actions taken by Elora, who's experience and practice far exceed that of Emily's it would seem. They approach the circumstance with quick thinking and the lack of any immediate panic. It may be that the other woman will find some sense of stability in this, but who's to say?
[FIX REPOST] The ghost's form flickers as it hovers in the center of the room, its translucent figure wavering like a mirage caught in an eternal struggle. Its hollow, dim eyes dart around, desperately seeking anchors to its lost memories. The air around the ghost thickens with an oppressive, chilling energy as it reaches out with skeletal hands, grasping at the remnants of its fragmented past. Each attempt to seize a memory is met with failure, and the ghost's anguish manifests in a series of mournful, echoing wails that reverberate through the room. The ghost moves erratically, its form distorting and elongating with each fruitless grasp. Shadows deepen and twist around it, creating an eerie dance of light and darkness that adds to the palpable sense of sorrow and rage. The spectral figure stumbles through the space, its movements growing increasingly frantic. Every brush against the room's objects leaves an icy trail, as if the very air itself is weeping in sympathy with the ghost's plight.
Its voice, a hollow and disjointed wail, fills the room with a cacophony of fragmented thoughts and half-remembered phrases. "Who am I? Where... why?" The questions hang in the air, unanswered and echoing with the weight of centuries. The ghost's form flickers violently, its torment escalating as it collides with the walls, causing the torches' flames to sputter and die. The room plunges into near darkness, lit only by the ghost's eerie luminescence. In a moment of clarity, the ghost focuses on an old, tattered book lying on a nearby table. It drifts toward the book, reaching out with trembling hands, hoping to find some shred of its past within its pages. As the ghost touches the book, it disintegrates into dust, leaving the specter clutching at empty air. The ghost's frustration erupts in a haunting cry, the sound resonating through the very walls of the room, causing the stone and wood to creak and groan.
The ghost's desperation grows as it turns its attention to a faded portrait on the wall. The figure in the painting is blurred and indistinct, but there is something painfully familiar about it. The ghost approaches the portrait, its eyes wide with longing, but as it tries to connect with the image, the painting warps and fades, leaving a blank canvas behind. The ghost recoils, its anguish intensifying. The room quivers with its sorrow, the very air charged with the spirit's unending torment. "I remember ..." but what the spirit remembers remains to be seen. Whispers of forgotten melodies drift through the room, ghostly echoes of songs long forgotten. The ghost tries to latch onto these sounds, hoping to piece together a coherent memory. But each melody twists into a dissonant cacophony, slipping through the ghost's grasp like sand through fingers. Its form becomes more unstable, flickering wildly as it lashes out in a futile attempt to hold onto somethinganythingof its former self.
"YOU!" The ghost's movements become more erratic, the room around it responding to its turmoil as it mistakes the two women for whatever trauma it experienced in life. Objects tremble and shift, books fly off shelves, and the air grows colder, almost suffocating. The once serene space is now a tempest of spectral rage and sorrow, the ghost's anguish painting the room with an invisible, yet overwhelming, sense of despair. Its cries echo endlessly, a reminder of the endless torment that comes from losing oneself entirely. The ghost, a tragic remnant of a life shattered by forgotten memories, continues to struggle against the abyss of its own mind. Each attempt to reclaim its past only deepens its despair, driving it further into madness. The room bears silent witness to its suffering, the walls echoing with the ghostly manifestations of sorrow and rage. This specter, caught in an unending cycle of torment, remains a haunting presence, forever reaching for a past that is forever out of reach. It doesn't seem to recognize the actions taken by Elora, who's experience and practice far exceed that of Emily's it would seem. They approach the circumstance with quick thinking and the lack of any immediate panic. It may be that the other woman will find some sense of stability in this, but who's to say?
Elora has a choker glowing with wintery light as her chalking hand moves, drawing sigils upon the floor. Angry teal eyes might seem to morph to the casual observer. And some might recognize, a bit later, that she can sense dread and suffering, though she can't, in truth, do so. Its a psychic trick, face stealing and mimicing, but its one she has.
Elora lilts out, "Who are you? You are doomed-"
Emily visibly calms at the sound of someone' voice, enough to scramble to her feet, but the terror is still present in her eyes and she moves away from the spectre, arms hugged to herself, goosebumps forming on her exposed skin and her body shuddering in the chill of the ghostly and ghastly presence. "Kath! Thank God ya are here...", she squeals, "...what IS this thing?!" A question whose answer seems obvious.
Emily visibly calms at the sound of Elora's voice, enough to scramble to her feet, but the terror is still present in her eyes and she moves away from the spectre, arms hugged to herself, goosebumps forming on her exposed skin and her body shuddering in the chill of the ghostly and ghastly presence. "Kath! Thank God ya are here...", she squeals, "...what IS this thing?!" A question whose answer seems obvious.
The ghost hovers above the intricately drawn binding circle, its ethereal form flickering and pulsing with a desperate energy. The circle, inscribed with chalk and infused with ancient symbols of power, glows faintly, trapping the spirit within its confines. The air is thick with the scent of the faint, metallic tang of blood; common tools in witchcraft rituals. The flickering candlelight casts eerie shadows that dance around the room, adding to the sense of dread. As the ghost lashes out against the invisible barriers of the circle, a flood of fragmented memories surges through its fractured mind. The spirit recalls a time when it was solid and real, a construction worker who spent long hours building structures from the ground up. Images of towering cranes, the smell of fresh concrete, and the sound of hammers striking nails flash through its consciousness. The ghost remembers the satisfaction of a job well done, the camaraderie of fellow workers, and the pride of creating something lasting. But these memories are fleeting, drowned out by the overpowering sense of confinement and the relentless pull of the binding circle. The ghost's anger and frustration build, manifesting as a chilling wind that swirls within the circle, causing the candles to sputter and nearly extinguish. The spirit's form flickers more violently, its once hollow eyes now burning with a fierce determination to break free from the magical prison.
The symbols etched into the circle's perimeter pulse with a rhythm that seems to resonate with the ghost's own flickering essence. Each pulse feels like a tightening noose, reinforcing the invisible chains that hold the spirit captive. The ghost reaches out with skeletal hands, trying to disrupt the runes, but the powerful wards repulse each attempt, sending shockwaves of energy through its form. The ghost's wails of frustration echo through the room, a haunting melody of sorrow and rage. Drawing upon the remnants of its once-human ingenuity, the ghost seeks to exploit any weakness in the circle's design. It focuses on a single symbol that appears slightly smudged, pouring its remaining energy into disrupting the delicate balance of the spell. The ghost's hands pass over the mark repeatedly, its movements growing more frenzied with each failed attempt. The air crackles with tension, the oppressive atmosphere thickening as the spirit's desperation mounts. The strength and practice of Elora's spellcraft is too much, however. For a brief, shining moment, the ghost feels a flicker of hope as the smudged symbol begins to fade. The oppressive force of the binding spell seems to waver, and the spirit presses its advantage, channeling all its rage and sorrow into one final, desperate push. The room grows colder, the shadows deepening as the ghost's energy builds to a crescendo. But just as it seems the circle might break, the symbols flare with renewed intensity, the spell's power reasserting itself. The ghost collapses inward, its form dimming and flickering weakly. The binding circle holds firm, its ancient power unyielding in the face of the spirit's fury. The ghost's wails soften to a mournful whisper, the last vestiges of its strength spent in the futile struggle. Trapped within the circle, the spirit's memories of its past life begin to fade once more, replaced by the crushing weight of its eternal confinement. The spirit is now held Firm.
"A ghost," Elora hisses. "A doomed ghost. It should not have come here. We shall be binding it here." She looks to Emily. "Can you use your phone to see if we can get a delivery. I wish have a fox delivered here. Or rather, the parts of one. I shan't be moving from this place for a time, but you can and you shall be my hands and arms to get all that is necessary. We shall be doing a bloody work this night. Assuming we can reach a fleshcrafter."
[REPOST FOR EMILY] The strength and practice of Elora's spellcraft is too much, however. For a brief, shining moment, the ghost feels a flicker of hope as the smudged symbol begins to fade. The oppressive force of the binding spell seems to waver, and the spirit presses its advantage, channeling all its rage and sorrow into one final, desperate push. The room grows colder, the shadows deepening as the ghost's energy builds to a crescendo. But just as it seems the circle might break, the symbols flare with renewed intensity, the spell's power reasserting itself. The ghost collapses inward, its form dimming and flickering weakly. The binding circle holds firm, its ancient power unyielding in the face of the spirit's fury. The ghost's wails soften to a mournful whisper, the last vestiges of its strength spent in the futile struggle. Trapped within the circle, the spirit's memories of its past life begin to fade once more, replaced by the crushing weight of its eternal confinement. The spirit is now held Firm.
Emily blinks at Elora in apparently confusion, still scared and cold and shivering at the far end of the cabin, opposite the ritual circle. "A fox?! Ya mean Envy is here?!", she doesn't seem to fully grasp Elora's words, but moves towards the door regardless, eyes affixed to the trapped ghost in barely veiled terror.
Envy, is not, a pretty fox. Its sleek, russet fur marred by patches of unnatural gray, as though death itself has begun to claim it. Its once vibrant eyes are now hollow, sunken pits of darkness, betraying the malevolent spirit that lurks within. There is no trace of the fox's former cunning or playfulness; instead, a cold intelligence gleams in the abyss of its gaze, far older and far more dangerous than any mere animal. When it snarls, the sound is low, gutturala rasping noise that echoes the spirit's hateful whispers. Its teeth, unnaturally sharp and too long for its mouth, gleam like polished bone. There is a predatory hunger in the way it watches, a dark promise of violence.
This is Elora real Envy. And it is the Emily would find waiting for her in the van.
Emily does not seem to wait for an answer from Elora, simply rushing out the still open door towards the van to open the back with trembling hands. A shrill shriek, not unlike the one she let loose when she first laid eyes at the spectre in her home. "Aaaaah.... what the FUCK?!", a casual curse and the sound of the van door being slammed close.
It will be a frantic rush for Emily, the cold air from outside rushing in to breeze across her skin and raise goose-flesh along her exposed areas while she rushes out to that van. There's a shuddered moment for the woman as she'll find what amounts to a semi-taxidermied corpse of a fox in the back of this van? In any case, she'll bring it back to Elora post haste as they come through and try to keep their cool while not succedding very well. The panic and the fear inherint from those past memories root deeply within Emily, driving the instincts and thoughts that discern her actions and motions right now. In contrast, Elora continues to approach this task with more sense of control or calm as they continue to regard the spirit. It mutters to iself with bated breath, panicked and uncertain of exactly why it cannot flee now. Small spurts of lucidity flash across the ghost's eyes but they are few and far between. Still, the manifestation of the spirit shows a certain stregnth, a certain potency in the spirit and will of this construction worker who likely died too soon.
"Do you know what torments await you, pet?" Elora coos to the spirit trapped in the circle. "Let me show you. Perhaps you can recall a bit of what I need from you." Her choker glows once more with the winter light.
Emily deposits the fox corpse next to Elora and steps away, trying to keep a distance of several arm's lengths between herself and the trapped ghost. "W-why... why d-did it e-e-even come here?!", she mutters with clattering teeth.
Elora smiling to herself at something, still looking as if a clone of Emily, from stealing her face, begins to chalk out the next circle for the soon to be returned pet. "Some things have very ill luck around me," Elora muses. "Very very ill luck."
"I've been wanting one. Waiting for it. A shame you got caught in the cross fire," Elora tells Emily.
The spirit doesn't seem fixated on Emily's visage, and so it won't be too confused with the duplicate features but the binding circle continues to provide the spirit a sense of confusion. Too gone from the loss of its conscious mind, it cannot seem to find a reasonable place to put itself as it continues to barrage agaisnt the power of the binding circle. Elora's magic has potency though, and despite the strength of the spirit, it cannot hold against the barrier that keeps it imprisoned now. The world for the spirit only exiists inside that circle now, as it wails against the illusion provided by the will of Elora's magics as Emily cowers back from the experience, driven by fear of past experience and the pressure those memories bring.
"Could you make us an evening meal," Elora asks Emily. She pauses in her sigilwork to look at Emily with a frown. "And no stale bread this time."
Emily rubs her hands over her exposed arms and gives Elora an incredulous look. "My h-h-h-home is a M-MESS and y-you brought a v-v-vengeful spirit here! And n-n-ow you want ta... eat?!" Despite her protest she moves towards the kitchenette. "Was this... a... p-p-person?!"
Elora says "It isn't like this is an ancient werewolf Emily. Be reasonble. You can pick all this later."
Elora says, fixed, "It isn't like this is an ancient werewolf Emily. Be reasonble. You can pickup all this later. "
Elora continues to Emily. "I think it was a human, yes. Not for much longer though."
"We're going to be feeding Envy," Elora lilts.
As the spirit continues to be bound, it would seem Elora's intention will be seen to fruition. WIth a slow but steady intent, it seems the Arcanist will be ready to start siphoning out the strength of the spirt that she's bound here. Calling the spirit that manifests her own minion once the corpse has been brought to her, Elora will find it easy enough to set her own compelled spirit to start feeding off of the other. For Emily, it's a rare sight to see, the physical manifestation of a spirit without the specific trainign to see such things as well as the way the other spirit once summoned will begin to feed and siphon that very strength and will of this construction worker's will. There's no sugar-coating what happens here; Emily will have no choice but to see the truth for what it is. Whateve this spirit's trauma is? Elora is going to feed it to her own spirit.
OOC: This is essentially the point where the Encounter Prompt has been met! You can continue the scene until you are satisfied, and then step down when you are ready! I will teleport / summon if it does not drop you close to where you need to be! I will continue to provide reply as needed.
Elora stands and walks to the kitchen drawers, drawing free a knife, then returns to her sigil work and cuts open her own hand to spill blood`X onto the circle to empower it with her life force, splattering it. The cirle glows and Elora smiles, wicked teal eyes excited as she watches the trapped spirits terror.
Emily rummamges around the kitchenette and pulls out an apple from the fridge, doing her best to cut it up into neat slices with a knife, her fingers cold and stiff. She tries her best to ignore the sight at the binding circle, visibly uncomfortable not only from the chill but also from the implication. "Kath...", she mumbles out as she walks up to Elora with the prepared apple, visibly recoiling. "If this was a h-h-human... shouldn't we..."
Elora in the ensuing moments her little fox begins to twitch and thrash on the ground as the circle blazes all the brighter, casting a pale glow through the room.
Elora looks to Emily a bloody knife in one hand, her other hand, dripping, dripping, dripping.
Elora grimaces in pain. "This is the best use for it. I need to be stronger Emily. There are things in this world much more dangerous than me. One cannot always run and hide."
Elora offers Emily the bloody knife. "Wash this," she demands.
Wether Emily knows of him or not, this comment from Elora brings to mind a perfect example. Perhaps one to learn from, but not less dangerous than she speaks of. An ancient man with white hair, and a calm and control that belies the nature of his being. "NO! NOO!" The suffering of the spirit is evident as that corpse begins to thrash and twitch and move, metaphysically beginning to abosrb the very essense of this spirit. There's no softening what happens here, in front of Emily. But in the words that hang heavy in the air, noone ever did anything epic in the history books ... without doing some questionable things to make it happen. This displays Elora's dedication to her own rise in power.
Elora speaking over the sound of the denial, louder, firm, "Emily... Wash. This."
Emily nods with gritted teeth and offers up the plate she has draped the apple slices on before taking the bloody knife, visibly recoiling at the sight of red, her already pale cheeks growing even paler and she quickly closes her eyes as if the sight of blood made her ill. "But...B-but...", her protest is weak, powerless.
Elora takes slow deep breaths. Then, feigning a calm, she bites into the apple with the hand not dripping onto the cabin floor.
This is to fix an accidental color code mis-cap!
Emily takes a deep breath, eyes still closed and steps back to the kitchenette, almost stumbling over the mess that is strewn about as she makes her way blindly, tossing the knife into the sink and turning on the water, turning it to hot.
as Emily takes that knife, dripping with her master's blood, there's no denying what occurs before her. While she takes the time to pursue the intent of her master's wishes, there's a sense of loss. She watches while one soul devours the essence of another. No matter her denial, there will be something of her own soul ... lost. Given, to accept what must be done in her presence.
The fox on the floor begins to morph, a second tail forming. Not just a fox, any longer. Not something so simple and normal. A kistune, apparently. A fox with two tails. Tricksters, in some legends. Elora smiles, not so much a happy smile, as a relieved smile. "Its working..." she breathes.
"We're really doing it," Elora tells Emily, forcing her into the moment, giving partial credit.
Emily drops the knife after having cleaned it and steps closer to Elora, a single hesitant step as if trying to keep away from the circle and the fox. "It... i-t was ...g-gone already, r-right? N-nothing we could have done? R-RIGHT?!", the last word is a scream for help, a plea to be asolved of whatever terrible thing she witnessed and let happen. Aided. Been accomplice to.
It's not so much the corpse animated by magic that changes, but rather the soul that is bound to it. Through her own clairvoyance, Elora will watch in full as the spirit of the fox slowly siphons that energy from the soul bound by the circle provided by its master. For Emily, it's less of a sight, only the sight of the spirit slowly being drained of it's essence and potency to be seen from her perspective. "NOOO!" The wails of pain continue, tugging at heartstrings that may have been warded against such a plea.
Elora reaches up a hand, the bloody hand, the dripping hand, placing it against Emily's cheek, forcing the girl to look at her. She doesn't lie to the woman. "It helps, to focus on the practical matters. You are cold. Get something from the wardrobe in addition to what you have now. Put it on. It will help. And close the door, so the chill does not seep in more than necessary. I do not the strength of winter at this point. It is only a matter of time, now." She has a lilting voice. Lyrical. Tone, rising and falling. There is a horror behind her eyes, but a resolve there too. She will not end this. Not until every scrap of that thing is taken from it and made hers.
Emily trembles in chill and terror, the anguish of the spirit resonating within her own soul. She winces as she feels the warm blood on her cheek, but brown eyes seek Elora's and the hand she reaches towards Elora and rests on her arm is not a gesture of holding her back, however symbolic - it is a gesture of support, of reassurance. Her mouth opens, but no words come from it, her expression one of inner turmoil.
Elora stares needily into Emily's eyes.
Elora whispers, voice faintly horrified, "We did it."
And so the reality of how power and strength ebbs and flows will come to a point here tonight, for the senses of Elora and Emily as the latter continue their pursuit of claiming this spirit's power. Trapping it, siphoning it ... there's something alluring about the way the Elora matter-of-factly proceeds about this. A sense of morbid safetyl, perhaps. Soon the sight of the spirit floats and fades away fro msight as it's strength is leeched minute by minute, until it is no more.
Elora forces herself to smile
Emily closes her mouth again in silence and opens it to take a deep breath. "I-it... it's okay, Kath...", she mumbles, "...w-we... y-you... you...", a subtle shift in her body, her eyes affixed to Elora's as if wanting to avoid the sight of the spirit. "...delivered it... f-from... it's... t-torment..." Her voice is halting and insecure as if she barely believed her own words.
It's not so much the corpse animated by magic that changes, but rather the soul that is bound to it. Through her own clairvoyance, Elora will watch in full as the spirit of the fox slowly siphons that energy from the soul bound by the circle provided by its master. Emily can put her own logic behind these words, jusitfying for herslef why this might be acceptable. Acceptable or not, the fading sight of the spirit is evidence enough until it's gone entirely All that remains is the vigourous form of that Minion spirit; the fox seeming to be in curiousity mode as it becomes aware of it's new tail.
"Time for your combat training, pets," Elora suggests. "Come."
Emily gives the woman a defeated nod and follows, pointedly avoiding looking at the spot of the ritual circle or the fox.