Encounterlogs
Novels Odd Encounter Sr Illyana 240903
In the eerie confines of Arkwright Cemetery, the air a blend of cold mists and the aftermath of demonic battles, Novel encounters an oddity that strikes a chord of defiance within him. Amidst the solemn busts of tombstones and the whispering veil of the night, a ghost, fragmented and driven by incomprehensible rage, heralds a challenge. Novel, a man not unfamiliar with the allure of violence and the seductive tune of danger, initially confronts this spectral adversary with a blend of contempt and readiness to engage in yet another dance with death. The ghost, wielding aggression as its language, attempts to ensnare Novel in a psychological and physical skirmish, teasing and goading him into a frenzy of bloodlust that mirrors its own dark desires. As the situation escalates, Novel, guided by an instinct to survive and conquer, counters the ghost's malicious overtures with a violence that's brewing within, a tempest of fury ready to be unleashed.
However, as the confrontation unfolds, Novel recognizes the trap laid out by the entity: a cage of perpetual anger and destruction meant to imprison him within an endless cycle of rage. In a moment of lucidity amidst the chaos, he discerns the spirit's true intent - to replace him, to consume his essence with its own insatiable hunger for violence. The realization sparks a fierce resistance within Novel, propelling him to act with a ferocity that's both a declaration of defiance and a testament to his own indomitable will. In a climactic struggle that blurs the lines between hunter and prey, Novel and the ghost engage in a visceral showdown, each matched in their capacity for destruction. The fight reaches a fever pitch, embodying the very essence of suffering and rage that the ghost sought to exploit.
Ultimately, it is Novel's unwavering determination to assert his identity and sovereignty over his own fate that prevails. With a decisive act of violence, he repudiates the ghost's attempt at subjugation, breaking free from the spectral cage and leaving the entity to dissipate in the growing light of dawn. Bloodied but unbowed, Novel emerges from the encounter not just as a survivor, but as a man who has stared into the abyss of his own darkness and refused to let it define him. As he discards the remnant symbols of temptation and stands alone amidst the serenity of the cemetery, the rising sun heralds not just a new day, but a reaffirmation of Novel's resilience and autonomy in the face of the night's darkest horrors.
(Novel's odd encounter(SRIllyana):SRIllyana)
[Mon Sep 2 2024]
At Arkwright Cemetery
It is night, about 67F(19C) degrees, There is a waning crescent moon.
(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.
)
"Awwh, magic's great. A bit of fight to get excitement up, but it leaves me all fucking wound up with nowhere to go, right? There's no blood or screams," The man's covered in small monkeybites, rocking his head back and forth and sort of unwinding himself up. "I dunno, because you're fucking stupid? Cut the skin between your fingers next time without cutting the tendons. Hurts a lot fucking less. Fingertips hurt the -most-." Novel rolls his eyes at the other man as he walks off, taking a moment to just lean against a tombstone and catch a breather.
He reaches for a packet of cigarettes - and then he regards the sealed thing with open disgust for a moment. "Oh. Right. I should stop smoking this fucking trash." And hucks it over a shoulder behind him.
Cold, dark and remorseless, the cemetary now stands quiet. It's chilling; Why wouldn't it be? The landscape is mist-coated and the ambiance is, after all, voided of anything that could soothe. All is quiet. All is calm, though the sensation of the breeze on the back of your neck is telling. This is a place of grand suffering, and none so much as the onslaught from demonic forces now vanquished. Spirits linger here, lost and alone. Telling, that. For a cemetary should be a place of peace. And once more and once again, this is Haven, where nightmares manifest. Where agony is common place, and where reason is tested. So then, as Novel stands here, there is lingering. The activity is high. That's not in question, but all should be calm, should it not? The demonic spirits are now vanquished back to the nightmare, or beyond, where ever things go... However, what should be, and what is are two very different things. The sealed packet is thrown, the thing flies, that tombstone is cold and solid, the perfect place to rest after such a harrowing ordeal. But where there should be a clatter or snap. Where there should be a soft rustle, there is nothing, And as Novel rests, recovering his sense of self, something smacks him in the back of the head.
Novel starts to rise in suspicion, his brow creasing, the hamsters running up as they start to put all those details together. His form feels alert before he does, the hairs on his body standing up as he builds to high alert. And then he receives a hard WHACK. Well, it truly depends on how hard is hard. Were they trying to get his attention? Knock him out? Were they thinking they were smacking a normal human? Regardless the invisible shield that's surrounding the man, the crackle of energy that sparks and shines provides a certain tactile resistance against a weapon, dragging it and slowing it down. But depending on the blow he might still drop instantly. Or he might stagger forwards, momentarily disoriented, his own hand dragging down slowly to grip the blade he always keeps hidden at his side, to draw and whirl.
It all really depends.
Rising, whirling, hairs standing on end, you find nothing... It's curious; you are still alone. The damage remains within the cemetery from the previous combat and the mist swirls around your feet. The sensation of being watched, the curious ennui of serenity one might find in a graveyard is intact, and still, the suffering. Such grand, glorious, uproariously powerful suffering. It's violent, painful, forceful, agonizingly clawing in how demanding it is for Novel's attention. It's visceral, putrescent, as cold as the deepest winters, or the chilling burn of a fire so hot it's pervasive flickering tendrils melt flesh and bone. The breeze though is gentle, a soft counterpoint, at once aggressive and uncomfortably warmingly tender. But there is attention here. There is something with thoughts and feelings, and those are wrathful things that Novel feels compelled to know more of. He is drawnto it like a tether has him around the heart. Like a fist, it squeezes, and Novel's breath is visible. It puffs out in whistling frost vapour, and Novel feels the temperature plummet. But still... What hit him? What was it? The hammering was... Nothing! Could it be? The cigarette packet lays there. It's not open. It's still sealed, but it looks crumpled, as though inexperienced fingers had tried to remove the plastic wrapping from around it. More telling though is where it sits, for it is, like the inexorable guide; A draw and invitation both. It cajoles and it taunts at Novel by its very existance, and it would be so easy to pick it up... But the mists. But where it lays. And that would be a patch of grass that is curiously undamaged, untouched and unaffected by the combat that regularly takes place here in Arkwright cemetery. The headstone is broken, certainly, the name is weathered and unreadable, the wind-torn, age battered cursive rendered illegible, but Novel, irreverent as he is is still compelled to stand atop the grave. He is tempted by how comforting it would be to sit and smoke. He feels a need to stand within that glacial unknowable fire of invisible intent, to bathe in it, to have a cigarette. What a simple thing. It's not coke. It's not alcohol, but doesn't he deserve this? Doesn't he deserve to sit and smoke? He's just faced phantasmal demons. Geists and ghouls. Creatures from hell. So to simply sit and enjoy a smoke is perfect. Isn't it?
Novel stands there, awash in strange feelings and emotions that he finds vaguely puzzling and completely alien to him from his interior. Suffering, now. A taste of that, a drizzle of it here, or maybe poured in glorious awash excess all over the scenery of existence. Something to really sink your TEETH into. But instead it's just vapors. Illusions. But a clever man he is not. "Alright, fuckface," He addresses the air. "You better fucking run." He comes to a very different conclusion than spookiness as his bowie knife reappears in his hand.
When in doubt, default to violence, and ignore the lulling call of other nonsense. If something seems weird it's probably some asshole on the line trying to pull one on you.
He would know. He's one of those assholes, and he's gotten things pulled - and has pulled - things in the past. Instead he hunts. His body and mind immediately alert and on guard, but shifting to enjoyment. For, the smokes are for an aftertaste, to still twitching muscles and to focus the mind. Sharpen it. Sharpening it, for this, as the mostly-man, partly-demon relies on sharp senses and sharper blade to begin prowling the dark graveyard. Stealth? Invisibility? Someone being coy with a remote controlled drone? An object or person to destroy, as he starts to hunt.
Destroy, rend, obliterate, crush. Annihilate, atomise, burn, bludgeon, stab! These thoughts are enhanced past what Novel is likely used to. It's nearly orgasmic in its way and though the mist lingers; The temptation remains, the need to sit and revel in the calming sensation -should- influence him, he is demonborn. Novel knows suffering. He understands it, he lives it. He is the embodyment of it, so not only does his denial of this temptation bring him satisfaction, but so too does revocation of his own wants and wishes. The breeze picks up- It's arctic, and ever dropping and Novel feels crystalline shards of ice form on his hand, the blade, in his hair. His breath is visible and his heart pounds. That grip upon it squeezes, tugs, rips spite-filled nails through the flesh, but still, Novel hunts. He wanders the markers. He travels across the sprawling hills and around him, the day slowly begins to manifest. It's early. The sun is not up yet, but even so, it shouldn't be this dark, should it? Or is it that this darkness... this sensation is centered on Novel There are things grasping at him. They flood through his thoughts and they whisper in his ears. They tempt, they threaten and still... That cold burning inferno rises. It's a pire, mysterious and evanescent. It flames uncontrollably, but still withheld under some haunting law of its own. And Novel sees eyes in the darkness. They glow, they glitter, and more manifest around him. The voices grow and the sensation of being watched doubles, redoubles and keeps growing. He is being watched. But Novel still cant find anyone else around. He looks though, and even though he isn't perceptive, Novel still notices that he's passing the same markers over and over and over again. It's like the demonborn is trapped within a bubble. A dome, like that old Steven King book? Groundhog day? Or is it more malicious? This is certainly not natural- Or if it is, it's a very good technological trick. But even in 2024 holograms aren't this good... Are they? Then the man spots a figure to the south. He knows he could hunt it. He wants to hunt it. He wants to stab and rend, and claw and break it. It needs to die and Novel desires homicide. But there's something that gives Novel pause. Is that what it wants? How does it know? What does it want? Unimportant. Kill!!! But Novel's knife is freezing to his hand. He knows it will take skin when he drops it, and his teeth begin to chatter. And even for Novel, there is fear. Bone chilling fear- Which likely pisses him off all the more. How dare this... What ever it is... make him, the instrument of violence feel what he should, by all rights make others feel! This is unnatural. It is wrong! It is not Novel. And he hunts. He hunts and he prowls. He circles and gets no further. He, the preditor is seemingly prey, and that, more than anything else hammers into Novel's thoughts like a Michael Bey explosion. Something is toying with Novel.
This cage, is it so bad? There's air and grass, and all the sky for Novel to use to calm. He can rage himself out. He can destroy. He can scream and tantrum and lose himself in the anger until he's ready to sleep. He could hiss and scream and fall into depravity, and all from a place of safety. The chilling fire claws its way deeper. It's pain. It's fury and it's agony. It's almost like Novel in fact. Homicide. Violence. Anger. Inflict ruin. It wants what Novel wants. It wants to rip the legs off of flies. It wants to boil ants under a magnifier. It wants to set a person on fire ant watch them turn to jelly. It wants to rip bones out of its victims and to put them back in. It wants to drain the blood and paint with it, to use their entrails to create the most perfect art. It wants to sink its teeth into the flesh of anyone in reach, and Novel could help. Why not? The thoughts are nothing Novel hasn't had before? But it's a prison-- Is it Novel's prison, or is it this spirit's? It's standing before Novel now. It's staring. It holds up a knife that's very much like someone. but bigger and more threatening. It's rusted and could deal more damage. What a bastard. It's trying to replace him... And the clarity... It's trying to replace him... Why? What does it want? Is that important? It's trying to replace him! And it's feeding from him and his rage-- That's Novel's fury it's using. And it's trying to replace him!!! It wants him to do what it wants, not what Novel wants. It's taunting him. It's toying with him. It's trying to replace him!!!
This cage, is it so bad? There's air and grass, and all the sky for Novel to use to calm. He can rage himself out. He can destroy. He can scream and tantrum and lose himself in the anger until he's ready to sleep. He could hiss and scream and fall into depravity, and all from a place of safety. The chilling fire claws its way deeper. It's pain. It's fury and it's agony. It's almost like Novel in fact. Homicide. Violence. Anger. Inflict ruin. It wants what Novel wants. It wants to rip the legs off of flies. It wants to boil ants under a magnifier. It wants to set a person on fire ant watch them turn to jelly. It wants to rip bones out of its victims and to put them back in. It wants to drain the blood and paint with it, to use their entrails to create the most perfect art. It wants to sink its teeth into the flesh of anyone in reach, and Novel could help. Why not? The thoughts are nothing Novel hasn't had before? But it's a prison-- Is it Novel's prison, or is it this spirit's? It's standing before Novel now. It's staring. It holds up a knife that's very much like Novel's. but bigger and more threatening. It's rusted and could deal more damage. What a bastard. It's trying to replace him... And the clarity... It's trying to replace him... Why? What does it want? Is that important? It's trying to replace him! And it's feeding from him and his rage-- That's Novel's fury it's using. And it's trying to replace him!!! It wants him to do what it wants, not what Novel wants. It's taunting him. It's toying with him. It's trying to replace him!!!
The figure steps from the mist. It's slow, fraught with lethargy. It's non-corporial. A thing of cold and smoke. It's not even human... Novel can see that this creature is dead. It looks burned and blackened. Its limbs look frost-bitten. Its eyes are gone, its skin is nawed at and its clothing is nothing but rags. It's a phantom. A lost thing that hasn't passed, but still, it wields so many weapons. It is covered in them, coated in blood and that drips. It's scarred, pitted and it drips with violence. Those grim wells, where once eyes resided now shows a soul as black as Novel's own. It's a thing from hell, if anything. A demonborn, like Novel. A demonborn who wants Novel to continue its beautiful, nefarious work. To destroy. To bring pain. And Novel's rage fuels it. It is maleficent, unquestionably a poltergeist and it is beyond redemption. It is a thing of madness and it wants Novel to join it in that dancing kaleidoscopic melee of thought and action. It needs to harm all about it and is willing to free Novel if only he is willing to let it. Novel doesn't need it. It doesn't need Novel, but such things it has to show. Such deliverances it could bring with Novel's hands. And it could show him. It just needs to get close enough to do so, and it has the ability. And Novel has those cigarettes. Just... sit on the tombstone. Take the time to reflect. LET IT IN!
The thing-- the phantom reaches out. It doesn't touch. It doesn't come close. Novel is a supernatural in his own right, and it simply cant let itself in as it wants. It's rage. Its fury. It's need to destroy builds, and its inability to join Novel leaves it no choice but to torture him. And then Novel knows. Novel understands. This is an illusion. An illusion born of madness and pain. It tempts to draw victims close. It howls and screams and delights in the pain to let the malice build. It feeds and it draws off of it, but it also fills the cemetery with its hostility. Novel just happened upon it, and the battle with the demons simply happened to break it free. Unforgivable. It uses Novel. It treats Novel like a tool. It wants him to feel those things it wants- And by extention, what Novel wants. The deliverance of fury. The delicious sensation of crunching bone and blackened skin as it is torn- ripped- carved from the muscle. It demands to feel what it's like to rip nails from their base, to stick needles through eyes, to use a spoon to remove someone's liver. It demands Novel's body to do so. And Novel could help. Novel doesn't need to help, he can suffer, but the geist would let Novel enjoy it with him... wouldn't it?
Novel doesn't realize what he's doing. Or perhaps he does. He looks upon the entity, his own annoyance and malice creeping up, his annoyance and bile bringing up, a dragon who had his own use. Of hunger, of fire, of desire, and how he works for something else. Somewhere else. A place that demands a ripping of freedom. His hand and arms move forwards. The hand that still has a grip around the handle, that slams forwards in an attempt to pierce where that entity's heart may be. "Ah." He murmurs when he realizes his body's moved unbidden in violent stab.
The arm draws back - thrusts in. A raising, a repeated movement of violence. Perhaps this is the way it gets to see, view, to feel.
The creature-- for it cant be human with such sensation thundering off of it like a roiling pyre of malice, does nothing. It stands there as Novel moves. It smiles-- Is it a smile? The fire builds. The fury boils and Novel is driven to ecstasy. Novel is shown such delicious agonies. Each stab, each tare. Each splatter of blood; It feels them-- Novel understands this. Novel feels its suffering. Novel revels in it and it too is inhuman. It's so supernatural. It's beautiful and horrific, and poison in and of itself. The blood spills, and Novel can continue to stab. The chill builds. Novel is caged, yes, but it's welcome. And as it seems that Novel will freeze solid, the heat begins to build. It's like coming in out of a blizard. One moment, Novel is chilled. His teeth chattering, his heart about to stop. He is filled with fear and self-loathing. Novel knows himself to be less than a worm- Less than even Gonthorian thought of him. But in the next, such suffering. A dread that must be manifested... The spirit thinks Novel wont understand. It thinks Novel wont help it. It thinks Novel wont harm it like it would Novel, and then, it gets its deep seeded desire. Those cold wells of inevitability blaze to life with a sickly phagelight. It's yellow in only the way of hell. Jaundiced and blood shot. It's poison. It's fire. It's fury and rage, and an impitus. Novel is nothing. But Novel is everything. And with each stab, each thrust. Each rending of flesh, the spirit takes form. Skin grows across bone. The skull head smile is covered by flesh that begins as thin as parchment, but soon takes on form. Novel can see the organs take shape. He can watch the heart pump, the muscles grow, and more stabs. The blood pumps. The hot iron scent of it fills the air, and the burning... Oh that chilling burning that contradicts itself by its very existance continues to flow. The blood thunders through Novel's ears. His heart speeds up, and he sees what could almost be himself. And it sees Novel, and it brings its knife around. Then, both stab. Both rend. Both draw blood and both savage each other. It's frenzied, brutal, painful bliss.
"Okay, Frenchie was fucking right. Fuck this town sometimes," Novel notes with aggressive annoyance as blood begins to boil from the wound that sprouts from his own form, the spark and grunt of thaumaturgical protection that warps around him when his own blade withdraws with finality - first his head comes down in violent slam and a boot comes up instead. A kick, a shoving away, using the event and energy to shove it towards a gravestone and to stagger off and away, limping his way out of the graveyard and leaving debris and blood behind, fist gripped tight around his bowie knife. He's done worse, and felt better, and what he craves is something a lot harder than a pack of cigs. Violence always provides A way out, against the self or otherwise. But it's not always the best way out. And he's not unfamiliar from turning tail and fleeing.
Cowardice? Indeed. But survivability rises, and one lives to fight another day.
The ice cracks, the fire grows steady, retreats, dims, flows into the cold. The mist bucks and tugs. It flows like fog and it obscures Novel and the restless spirit. Novel begins to feel like himself again; HOMICIDE! But it's his feelings. His sensations. His mind. The blood pumps slower. The pain retracts. The wounds heal. The cage is gone. It was never there. The darkness is gone- It was never there. The eyes have vanished- They were never there. Novel is alone. The spirit is gone. The blood is gone, the fury is gone. Novel waves to the frenchman, calling over his shoulder. He leans on the headstone to rest. He looks at, then discards the cigarettes. It is quiet. The mist is gone. The peace has returned. The sun is rising. The scents of fresh cut grass and a brisk breeze filters through Novel's senses. There's nothing there. Just... nothing... and he's holding his knife... Why? Why is this town so fucking strange. Novel was running. He knows it was wise to do so, but he also knows that somehow-- Some way, he has succeeded. But can that be the case? Can it be that this spirit simply wanted death? Did it want to die again, or simply visit pain on someone else? Is it now within Novel That is simply Haven, after all. And Haven is a city of monsters. He stands, alone in a cemetery after banishing demonic spirits and the sun rises. For now, it's a place of mortals and normality. It's a world where birds call and the sun shines down. It's a landscape of capitalism where the rich oppress the poor. Where the powerful throw down the weak, but it's still a world. And Novel has survived another night. But that nightmare still hides within the shadows. It waits for the sun to fall behind the skyline-- the horizon, where once more, the monsters will awaken, and the night's comforting blackness will be pierced by the lantern bright light of cruel eyes in the darkness. For this is only a reprieve, and the monsters will stalk the night once more.
However, as the confrontation unfolds, Novel recognizes the trap laid out by the entity: a cage of perpetual anger and destruction meant to imprison him within an endless cycle of rage. In a moment of lucidity amidst the chaos, he discerns the spirit's true intent - to replace him, to consume his essence with its own insatiable hunger for violence. The realization sparks a fierce resistance within Novel, propelling him to act with a ferocity that's both a declaration of defiance and a testament to his own indomitable will. In a climactic struggle that blurs the lines between hunter and prey, Novel and the ghost engage in a visceral showdown, each matched in their capacity for destruction. The fight reaches a fever pitch, embodying the very essence of suffering and rage that the ghost sought to exploit.
Ultimately, it is Novel's unwavering determination to assert his identity and sovereignty over his own fate that prevails. With a decisive act of violence, he repudiates the ghost's attempt at subjugation, breaking free from the spectral cage and leaving the entity to dissipate in the growing light of dawn. Bloodied but unbowed, Novel emerges from the encounter not just as a survivor, but as a man who has stared into the abyss of his own darkness and refused to let it define him. As he discards the remnant symbols of temptation and stands alone amidst the serenity of the cemetery, the rising sun heralds not just a new day, but a reaffirmation of Novel's resilience and autonomy in the face of the night's darkest horrors.
(Novel's odd encounter(SRIllyana):SRIllyana)
[Mon Sep 2 2024]
At Arkwright Cemetery
It is night, about 67F(19C) degrees, There is a waning crescent moon.
(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.
)
"Awwh, magic's great. A bit of fight to get excitement up, but it leaves me all fucking wound up with nowhere to go, right? There's no blood or screams," The man's covered in small monkeybites, rocking his head back and forth and sort of unwinding himself up. "I dunno, because you're fucking stupid? Cut the skin between your fingers next time without cutting the tendons. Hurts a lot fucking less. Fingertips hurt the -most-." Novel rolls his eyes at the other man as he walks off, taking a moment to just lean against a tombstone and catch a breather.
He reaches for a packet of cigarettes - and then he regards the sealed thing with open disgust for a moment. "Oh. Right. I should stop smoking this fucking trash." And hucks it over a shoulder behind him.
Cold, dark and remorseless, the cemetary now stands quiet. It's chilling; Why wouldn't it be? The landscape is mist-coated and the ambiance is, after all, voided of anything that could soothe. All is quiet. All is calm, though the sensation of the breeze on the back of your neck is telling. This is a place of grand suffering, and none so much as the onslaught from demonic forces now vanquished. Spirits linger here, lost and alone. Telling, that. For a cemetary should be a place of peace. And once more and once again, this is Haven, where nightmares manifest. Where agony is common place, and where reason is tested. So then, as Novel stands here, there is lingering. The activity is high. That's not in question, but all should be calm, should it not? The demonic spirits are now vanquished back to the nightmare, or beyond, where ever things go... However, what should be, and what is are two very different things. The sealed packet is thrown, the thing flies, that tombstone is cold and solid, the perfect place to rest after such a harrowing ordeal. But where there should be a clatter or snap. Where there should be a soft rustle, there is nothing, And as Novel rests, recovering his sense of self, something smacks him in the back of the head.
Novel starts to rise in suspicion, his brow creasing, the hamsters running up as they start to put all those details together. His form feels alert before he does, the hairs on his body standing up as he builds to high alert. And then he receives a hard WHACK. Well, it truly depends on how hard is hard. Were they trying to get his attention? Knock him out? Were they thinking they were smacking a normal human? Regardless the invisible shield that's surrounding the man, the crackle of energy that sparks and shines provides a certain tactile resistance against a weapon, dragging it and slowing it down. But depending on the blow he might still drop instantly. Or he might stagger forwards, momentarily disoriented, his own hand dragging down slowly to grip the blade he always keeps hidden at his side, to draw and whirl.
It all really depends.
Rising, whirling, hairs standing on end, you find nothing... It's curious; you are still alone. The damage remains within the cemetery from the previous combat and the mist swirls around your feet. The sensation of being watched, the curious ennui of serenity one might find in a graveyard is intact, and still, the suffering. Such grand, glorious, uproariously powerful suffering. It's violent, painful, forceful, agonizingly clawing in how demanding it is for Novel's attention. It's visceral, putrescent, as cold as the deepest winters, or the chilling burn of a fire so hot it's pervasive flickering tendrils melt flesh and bone. The breeze though is gentle, a soft counterpoint, at once aggressive and uncomfortably warmingly tender. But there is attention here. There is something with thoughts and feelings, and those are wrathful things that Novel feels compelled to know more of. He is drawnto it like a tether has him around the heart. Like a fist, it squeezes, and Novel's breath is visible. It puffs out in whistling frost vapour, and Novel feels the temperature plummet. But still... What hit him? What was it? The hammering was... Nothing! Could it be? The cigarette packet lays there. It's not open. It's still sealed, but it looks crumpled, as though inexperienced fingers had tried to remove the plastic wrapping from around it. More telling though is where it sits, for it is, like the inexorable guide; A draw and invitation both. It cajoles and it taunts at Novel by its very existance, and it would be so easy to pick it up... But the mists. But where it lays. And that would be a patch of grass that is curiously undamaged, untouched and unaffected by the combat that regularly takes place here in Arkwright cemetery. The headstone is broken, certainly, the name is weathered and unreadable, the wind-torn, age battered cursive rendered illegible, but Novel, irreverent as he is is still compelled to stand atop the grave. He is tempted by how comforting it would be to sit and smoke. He feels a need to stand within that glacial unknowable fire of invisible intent, to bathe in it, to have a cigarette. What a simple thing. It's not coke. It's not alcohol, but doesn't he deserve this? Doesn't he deserve to sit and smoke? He's just faced phantasmal demons. Geists and ghouls. Creatures from hell. So to simply sit and enjoy a smoke is perfect. Isn't it?
Novel stands there, awash in strange feelings and emotions that he finds vaguely puzzling and completely alien to him from his interior. Suffering, now. A taste of that, a drizzle of it here, or maybe poured in glorious awash excess all over the scenery of existence. Something to really sink your TEETH into. But instead it's just vapors. Illusions. But a clever man he is not. "Alright, fuckface," He addresses the air. "You better fucking run." He comes to a very different conclusion than spookiness as his bowie knife reappears in his hand.
When in doubt, default to violence, and ignore the lulling call of other nonsense. If something seems weird it's probably some asshole on the line trying to pull one on you.
He would know. He's one of those assholes, and he's gotten things pulled - and has pulled - things in the past. Instead he hunts. His body and mind immediately alert and on guard, but shifting to enjoyment. For, the smokes are for an aftertaste, to still twitching muscles and to focus the mind. Sharpen it. Sharpening it, for this, as the mostly-man, partly-demon relies on sharp senses and sharper blade to begin prowling the dark graveyard. Stealth? Invisibility? Someone being coy with a remote controlled drone? An object or person to destroy, as he starts to hunt.
Destroy, rend, obliterate, crush. Annihilate, atomise, burn, bludgeon, stab! These thoughts are enhanced past what Novel is likely used to. It's nearly orgasmic in its way and though the mist lingers; The temptation remains, the need to sit and revel in the calming sensation -should- influence him, he is demonborn. Novel knows suffering. He understands it, he lives it. He is the embodyment of it, so not only does his denial of this temptation bring him satisfaction, but so too does revocation of his own wants and wishes. The breeze picks up- It's arctic, and ever dropping and Novel feels crystalline shards of ice form on his hand, the blade, in his hair. His breath is visible and his heart pounds. That grip upon it squeezes, tugs, rips spite-filled nails through the flesh, but still, Novel hunts. He wanders the markers. He travels across the sprawling hills and around him, the day slowly begins to manifest. It's early. The sun is not up yet, but even so, it shouldn't be this dark, should it? Or is it that this darkness... this sensation is centered on Novel There are things grasping at him. They flood through his thoughts and they whisper in his ears. They tempt, they threaten and still... That cold burning inferno rises. It's a pire, mysterious and evanescent. It flames uncontrollably, but still withheld under some haunting law of its own. And Novel sees eyes in the darkness. They glow, they glitter, and more manifest around him. The voices grow and the sensation of being watched doubles, redoubles and keeps growing. He is being watched. But Novel still cant find anyone else around. He looks though, and even though he isn't perceptive, Novel still notices that he's passing the same markers over and over and over again. It's like the demonborn is trapped within a bubble. A dome, like that old Steven King book? Groundhog day? Or is it more malicious? This is certainly not natural- Or if it is, it's a very good technological trick. But even in 2024 holograms aren't this good... Are they? Then the man spots a figure to the south. He knows he could hunt it. He wants to hunt it. He wants to stab and rend, and claw and break it. It needs to die and Novel desires homicide. But there's something that gives Novel pause. Is that what it wants? How does it know? What does it want? Unimportant. Kill!!! But Novel's knife is freezing to his hand. He knows it will take skin when he drops it, and his teeth begin to chatter. And even for Novel, there is fear. Bone chilling fear- Which likely pisses him off all the more. How dare this... What ever it is... make him, the instrument of violence feel what he should, by all rights make others feel! This is unnatural. It is wrong! It is not Novel. And he hunts. He hunts and he prowls. He circles and gets no further. He, the preditor is seemingly prey, and that, more than anything else hammers into Novel's thoughts like a Michael Bey explosion. Something is toying with Novel.
This cage, is it so bad? There's air and grass, and all the sky for Novel to use to calm. He can rage himself out. He can destroy. He can scream and tantrum and lose himself in the anger until he's ready to sleep. He could hiss and scream and fall into depravity, and all from a place of safety. The chilling fire claws its way deeper. It's pain. It's fury and it's agony. It's almost like Novel in fact. Homicide. Violence. Anger. Inflict ruin. It wants what Novel wants. It wants to rip the legs off of flies. It wants to boil ants under a magnifier. It wants to set a person on fire ant watch them turn to jelly. It wants to rip bones out of its victims and to put them back in. It wants to drain the blood and paint with it, to use their entrails to create the most perfect art. It wants to sink its teeth into the flesh of anyone in reach, and Novel could help. Why not? The thoughts are nothing Novel hasn't had before? But it's a prison-- Is it Novel's prison, or is it this spirit's? It's standing before Novel now. It's staring. It holds up a knife that's very much like someone. but bigger and more threatening. It's rusted and could deal more damage. What a bastard. It's trying to replace him... And the clarity... It's trying to replace him... Why? What does it want? Is that important? It's trying to replace him! And it's feeding from him and his rage-- That's Novel's fury it's using. And it's trying to replace him!!! It wants him to do what it wants, not what Novel wants. It's taunting him. It's toying with him. It's trying to replace him!!!
This cage, is it so bad? There's air and grass, and all the sky for Novel to use to calm. He can rage himself out. He can destroy. He can scream and tantrum and lose himself in the anger until he's ready to sleep. He could hiss and scream and fall into depravity, and all from a place of safety. The chilling fire claws its way deeper. It's pain. It's fury and it's agony. It's almost like Novel in fact. Homicide. Violence. Anger. Inflict ruin. It wants what Novel wants. It wants to rip the legs off of flies. It wants to boil ants under a magnifier. It wants to set a person on fire ant watch them turn to jelly. It wants to rip bones out of its victims and to put them back in. It wants to drain the blood and paint with it, to use their entrails to create the most perfect art. It wants to sink its teeth into the flesh of anyone in reach, and Novel could help. Why not? The thoughts are nothing Novel hasn't had before? But it's a prison-- Is it Novel's prison, or is it this spirit's? It's standing before Novel now. It's staring. It holds up a knife that's very much like Novel's. but bigger and more threatening. It's rusted and could deal more damage. What a bastard. It's trying to replace him... And the clarity... It's trying to replace him... Why? What does it want? Is that important? It's trying to replace him! And it's feeding from him and his rage-- That's Novel's fury it's using. And it's trying to replace him!!! It wants him to do what it wants, not what Novel wants. It's taunting him. It's toying with him. It's trying to replace him!!!
The figure steps from the mist. It's slow, fraught with lethargy. It's non-corporial. A thing of cold and smoke. It's not even human... Novel can see that this creature is dead. It looks burned and blackened. Its limbs look frost-bitten. Its eyes are gone, its skin is nawed at and its clothing is nothing but rags. It's a phantom. A lost thing that hasn't passed, but still, it wields so many weapons. It is covered in them, coated in blood and that drips. It's scarred, pitted and it drips with violence. Those grim wells, where once eyes resided now shows a soul as black as Novel's own. It's a thing from hell, if anything. A demonborn, like Novel. A demonborn who wants Novel to continue its beautiful, nefarious work. To destroy. To bring pain. And Novel's rage fuels it. It is maleficent, unquestionably a poltergeist and it is beyond redemption. It is a thing of madness and it wants Novel to join it in that dancing kaleidoscopic melee of thought and action. It needs to harm all about it and is willing to free Novel if only he is willing to let it. Novel doesn't need it. It doesn't need Novel, but such things it has to show. Such deliverances it could bring with Novel's hands. And it could show him. It just needs to get close enough to do so, and it has the ability. And Novel has those cigarettes. Just... sit on the tombstone. Take the time to reflect. LET IT IN!
The thing-- the phantom reaches out. It doesn't touch. It doesn't come close. Novel is a supernatural in his own right, and it simply cant let itself in as it wants. It's rage. Its fury. It's need to destroy builds, and its inability to join Novel leaves it no choice but to torture him. And then Novel knows. Novel understands. This is an illusion. An illusion born of madness and pain. It tempts to draw victims close. It howls and screams and delights in the pain to let the malice build. It feeds and it draws off of it, but it also fills the cemetery with its hostility. Novel just happened upon it, and the battle with the demons simply happened to break it free. Unforgivable. It uses Novel. It treats Novel like a tool. It wants him to feel those things it wants- And by extention, what Novel wants. The deliverance of fury. The delicious sensation of crunching bone and blackened skin as it is torn- ripped- carved from the muscle. It demands to feel what it's like to rip nails from their base, to stick needles through eyes, to use a spoon to remove someone's liver. It demands Novel's body to do so. And Novel could help. Novel doesn't need to help, he can suffer, but the geist would let Novel enjoy it with him... wouldn't it?
Novel doesn't realize what he's doing. Or perhaps he does. He looks upon the entity, his own annoyance and malice creeping up, his annoyance and bile bringing up, a dragon who had his own use. Of hunger, of fire, of desire, and how he works for something else. Somewhere else. A place that demands a ripping of freedom. His hand and arms move forwards. The hand that still has a grip around the handle, that slams forwards in an attempt to pierce where that entity's heart may be. "Ah." He murmurs when he realizes his body's moved unbidden in violent stab.
The arm draws back - thrusts in. A raising, a repeated movement of violence. Perhaps this is the way it gets to see, view, to feel.
The creature-- for it cant be human with such sensation thundering off of it like a roiling pyre of malice, does nothing. It stands there as Novel moves. It smiles-- Is it a smile? The fire builds. The fury boils and Novel is driven to ecstasy. Novel is shown such delicious agonies. Each stab, each tare. Each splatter of blood; It feels them-- Novel understands this. Novel feels its suffering. Novel revels in it and it too is inhuman. It's so supernatural. It's beautiful and horrific, and poison in and of itself. The blood spills, and Novel can continue to stab. The chill builds. Novel is caged, yes, but it's welcome. And as it seems that Novel will freeze solid, the heat begins to build. It's like coming in out of a blizard. One moment, Novel is chilled. His teeth chattering, his heart about to stop. He is filled with fear and self-loathing. Novel knows himself to be less than a worm- Less than even Gonthorian thought of him. But in the next, such suffering. A dread that must be manifested... The spirit thinks Novel wont understand. It thinks Novel wont help it. It thinks Novel wont harm it like it would Novel, and then, it gets its deep seeded desire. Those cold wells of inevitability blaze to life with a sickly phagelight. It's yellow in only the way of hell. Jaundiced and blood shot. It's poison. It's fire. It's fury and rage, and an impitus. Novel is nothing. But Novel is everything. And with each stab, each thrust. Each rending of flesh, the spirit takes form. Skin grows across bone. The skull head smile is covered by flesh that begins as thin as parchment, but soon takes on form. Novel can see the organs take shape. He can watch the heart pump, the muscles grow, and more stabs. The blood pumps. The hot iron scent of it fills the air, and the burning... Oh that chilling burning that contradicts itself by its very existance continues to flow. The blood thunders through Novel's ears. His heart speeds up, and he sees what could almost be himself. And it sees Novel, and it brings its knife around. Then, both stab. Both rend. Both draw blood and both savage each other. It's frenzied, brutal, painful bliss.
"Okay, Frenchie was fucking right. Fuck this town sometimes," Novel notes with aggressive annoyance as blood begins to boil from the wound that sprouts from his own form, the spark and grunt of thaumaturgical protection that warps around him when his own blade withdraws with finality - first his head comes down in violent slam and a boot comes up instead. A kick, a shoving away, using the event and energy to shove it towards a gravestone and to stagger off and away, limping his way out of the graveyard and leaving debris and blood behind, fist gripped tight around his bowie knife. He's done worse, and felt better, and what he craves is something a lot harder than a pack of cigs. Violence always provides A way out, against the self or otherwise. But it's not always the best way out. And he's not unfamiliar from turning tail and fleeing.
Cowardice? Indeed. But survivability rises, and one lives to fight another day.
The ice cracks, the fire grows steady, retreats, dims, flows into the cold. The mist bucks and tugs. It flows like fog and it obscures Novel and the restless spirit. Novel begins to feel like himself again; HOMICIDE! But it's his feelings. His sensations. His mind. The blood pumps slower. The pain retracts. The wounds heal. The cage is gone. It was never there. The darkness is gone- It was never there. The eyes have vanished- They were never there. Novel is alone. The spirit is gone. The blood is gone, the fury is gone. Novel waves to the frenchman, calling over his shoulder. He leans on the headstone to rest. He looks at, then discards the cigarettes. It is quiet. The mist is gone. The peace has returned. The sun is rising. The scents of fresh cut grass and a brisk breeze filters through Novel's senses. There's nothing there. Just... nothing... and he's holding his knife... Why? Why is this town so fucking strange. Novel was running. He knows it was wise to do so, but he also knows that somehow-- Some way, he has succeeded. But can that be the case? Can it be that this spirit simply wanted death? Did it want to die again, or simply visit pain on someone else? Is it now within Novel That is simply Haven, after all. And Haven is a city of monsters. He stands, alone in a cemetery after banishing demonic spirits and the sun rises. For now, it's a place of mortals and normality. It's a world where birds call and the sun shines down. It's a landscape of capitalism where the rich oppress the poor. Where the powerful throw down the weak, but it's still a world. And Novel has survived another night. But that nightmare still hides within the shadows. It waits for the sun to fall behind the skyline-- the horizon, where once more, the monsters will awaken, and the night's comforting blackness will be pierced by the lantern bright light of cruel eyes in the darkness. For this is only a reprieve, and the monsters will stalk the night once more.