Encounterlogs
Novels Odd Encounter Sr Saoirse 240828
In a well-lit bar scene that feels torn from a nightmare, Novel and Fayad concoct a devious plan involving bedbugs and the unfortunate room of an unspecified adversary, illustrating their penchant for mischief and dark humor. Their conversation, rife with plans of chaos and a disdain for the mundane reality, slips into the depths of a shared hallucination, leading them into a surreal realm where things seem more like shadows than substance. As they navigate this abstract dreamscape, they encounter a figure out of place – a man trapped in this nightmarish world, desperate for escape. Fayad, with his wizard-like knowledge, and Novel, ever the eager participant in chaos, decide to lead the man towards what they hope could be a way out. Their journey through the delusional city, a place that rebuilds and destructs itself, starkly mirrors the chaos they enjoy creating in reality. They ponder over the existence of this dreamland, its eerie reflection of societal failures, and the possibility of finding an exit within the chaotic confluence of collapsing buildings and phantom urban dwellers.
As the narrative thickens, the trio stumbles upon an alley that promises solace from the madness, only to find themselves in a nightmarish club filled with distorted music and grotesque revelry. Here, Novel embraces the chaos with a sense of belonging, while Fayad focuses on carving out an escape route through his arcane knowledge. The mysterious bartender, an entity of static and sinister politeness, presents them with an exit – a moment that Novel greets with hostile relish. Through the maelstrom of sounds and visions that suffocate senses and sanity alike, Fayad's attempt to create a doorway to return to Haven underscores a vital theme: even in the depths of a nightmare, the need to return to some semblance of normalcy prevails. As the story concludes, the stark contrast between their eerie surroundings and the allure of Haven's flawed reality prompts a deeper reflection on where one truly belongs, bridging the gap between dreams and waking nightmares with a thin, fragile line.
(Novel's odd encounter(SRSaoirse):SRSaoirse)
[Wed Aug 14 2024]
At the bar
This well lit area is home to a long, polished bar that stretches from
west to east along the centermost portion of the northern wall. A number of
refrigerators and shelves within have been filled with various drinks and
town memorabilia for display, but the large head of a black bear mounted
higher on the wall attracts more attention. Food for the bar is prepared on
a cast iron cooking surface behind the bar, but well within sight of
patrons. It's so large that several different meals can all be cooked at
the same time.
Starting to the side of the Lodge's entrance to the north, several booths
follow the old hardwood walls and wrap around the pool tables to the east.
Their sequence is only interrupted there by the exit to the courtyard in the
distance.
A small HD flatscreen television hangs in the southwestern corner, open to
sight for all of those at the bar.
It is afternoon, about 87F(30C) degrees,
(Your target encounters a human who's become stuck in the nightmare, lost and frightened.
)
Novel squints at someone, "What? Huh? No. Nothing like fucking that, I was gonna suggest we take like, some of the homeless that visit our shelter, get their lice, dump it all over his room."
Novel squints at someone who isn't there, "What? Huh? No. Nothing like fucking that, I was gonna suggest we take like, some of the homeless that visit our shelter, get their lice, dump it all over his room."
Novel squints at Fayad, "What? Huh? No. Nothing like fucking that, I was gonna suggest we take like, some of the homeless that visit our shelter, get their lice, dump it all over his room."
Novel says "Bedbugs and shit. You know, fuck with him."
Fayad puts a hand to his chin, considering that thoughtfully. "You have some very fucked up ideas," he admits to Novel. "I like it."
Novel grins hugely at Fayad's compliment, leaning against the counter, "Fuck man you haven't seen the -half- of it I got so many fucking plans, awright, I'll start scraping them and you can find out where he lives and we'll just dump a jarful of the shit. Any luck he brings his girl over gets on her too"
Novel gives a furtive glance around, "I also got a plan to get everyone in town attacking each other but that'll be you know, later, uh, oh right, the fuucking... Hand was having an op today or some shit I considered going in just to try stabbing a few of them but doubt it woulda done anything. Should I have just gone anyway?"
A bleakness comes over you, shadows in the normally friendly confines of the lodge's bar lengthening, shivering, extending outwards with fingers and tendrils that draw you in; deeper, deeper yet still. What is familiar changes into something utterly foreign, as reality seems to bend into a state that does not conform to any that makes sense to the waking mind.
You are not awake anymore.
Fayad nods. "You should have gone anyway, because even if you fail, it inspires people to donate to the cause. Or something."
Fayad says "What...ah, shit.."
Novel nods back to Fayad, acknowledging, "Oh fuck yeah definitely go next time and get fucked up, was still weaning off my daily mor-" and then he crashes out, only to find himself horizontal and lying on the floor in a new place. Eventually, he says, "What the fuck, Fayad, I thought you said this place was fucking safe." He rolls over, putting his hands under him, and shoving himself up, bouncing right up to his feet.
Novel absent-mindedly brushes himself off, as if to get rid of specks of dust and gravel - and frowns, tilting his head to one side and frowning. He sniffs again.
Fayad scowls. "It is safe," he mutters. "We're probably unconscious in the bar. Tangled up in something. The nightmare. It's difficult to explain, but I'm confident we won't be getting hurt. Physically, anyway." He gets to his feet, likewise patting himself down as he looks first one way, then the other down the road, focusing on the city in the distance. "That's weird," he comments.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
A figure appears, out of the malaise, out of the haze, walking towards you with unsteady footing. The figure's mannerisms, what little you can make out of them, are desperate; Fayad recognizes them well, the tell-tale signs of a vagabond, one of many that comes to the Good News Community Center. A face without a name, an opportunity without a cause, someone clearly lost here.
And he sees you too. The crunching of worn, beaten up sneakers against gravel speeds up as the figure starts to jog your way.
Novel smacks his lips a few times, taking in deep huffing breaths as the figure and Fayad talk, swallowing, getting big mouthfuls and using his advanced senses to reach out. And his head, tilting to one side. Eventually, he concludes, "Music not bad. Could just be a factory." He drops the things right out of his mind through his mouth before it has a chance to disappear from his brain, nodding at Fayad's words. "OK cool." And then he whirls, facing the vagabond - pausing, straightening up.
Fayad hesitates, raising his hand towards the figure uneasily. He's uncertain about this. Usually hobos aren't capable of dream-snaring you. A fellow victim, or something worse..?""
"Holy shit, holy shit, is that -people-?! HEY!" The man calls out to the two of them in a hoarse voice, half-delirious with desperation. A hand raises from him, waving frantically to the two of them as he continues to jog. Crunch-crunch-crunch-crunch. "HEEEEY!" The man trips over something. Nothing. It was hard to tell in this place. Still the rhythmic thudding sounded in the background, far-off, distinct. Somewhere in the distance, that overwhelming city looks like it grows another inch. Or perhaps a mile.
The man gives out a loud anguished groan after he face-plants into the ground, slowly starting to try to raise himself up to his feet.
Fayad directs his hand out towards the man with a gesture. "Novel, go get him," he commands, ordering Novel around almost like he'd command an attacking hound. Naturally, this meant Novel would be in danger if the man turned out to be hostile. "I mean pick him up and bring him to me," he clarifies, suddenly uncertain as to whether Novel would interpret the command as stabbing him to death.
"Yeah you dumbfuck we're people who are you and where are we?" Novel moves, if somewhat automatically, as soon as Fayad. "Oh shit okay boss," He says with cheer as he steps over to the man, his face breaking out into a huge, horrible grin, reaching into his pants pocket, and then makes a crestfallen 'Awwwwh' at the second command from the petite pyromancer and his hand comes back empty. "Fine, fine, fuck," As he picks up the pace to stride over to the homeless person(?).
"H-Hey..." The guy was sprawled out on the gravel, scrambling to get back to his feet. He smells of cheap rotgut, stale cigarettes, and washed up dreams. One of millions, some dreg of society that just happens to be stuck in the same place, the same position, as Fayad and Novel were. "G... Gimme a hand here, are you stuck here too? It's been fuckin' -days- man, I... I thought I was trippin' -balls- at first."
Novel doesn't give the guy an option as to 'on his feet' or not, aiming to squat down and scoop the man right up under his arms, putting his subtly enhanced strength to lever him up as he aims to literally complete the task and haul him back up before Fayad. "I mean fuck you still might be, you gotta be careful with those pills and syringes sometimes they cut them with really bad shit like asbestos or drain cleaner, you shoot up beforehand?"
Fayad closes his eyes for a long moment before opening them. "Alright. Sometimes this happens. People get stuck in the nightmare. Usually they can find their way out since it's....where the FUCK are we," he sighs. "We need to find a mirror if we're going to get out, and since we're not going to find a mirror in the middle of some gravel road, it means we're gonna have to head towards that city and see if we can find a bathroom or something," he instructs, largely for Novel's benefit.
With a groan, the man is hoisted up into a standing position, still unsteady on his feet. The city looms behind them, warm static sky glimmering with the pinpricks of a billion stars, winking in and out of existence. "Whoah, yeah, I know dude, but it ain't ever been like this before, yknow...?" The man blinks at the two of them, still seeming uncertain if they were real or not. "... What city?" For whatever reason, the man in front of them couldn't see it; perhaps the two would have to guide him. If they wanted to, of course.
Fayad narrows his eyes and begins the trek. "You got him fine?", he asks Novel, making sure the demonborn was alright with the homeless man's weight.
"Faaaay-aad, if this is such a common goddamn problem why don't we just carry around some fucking hand mirror or some shit? Save all this goddamn rigmarole." Novel roughly brushes off the man with a wide palm, the thump thump thump of a warm, human hand. Also feeling him up for hidden knives, weapons, or prison shanks in that scruffy clothing of his. "Yeah it's usually like, wolves or hounds, or you think spiders are crawling out of your eyes. The worst one was when everything turned into a huge field of flaming obsidian that wasn't a good day." He rambles on, his mouth running twenty miles a minute. "Yeah, sure, boss, he's a stick. Place is all weird. There's no taste in the air."
Fayad snorts, laughing. "You want to try fitting through a hand mirror?", he asks Novel. "I want to see you crawl through a fucking hole that's smaller than the head of your dick."
Fayad says "We got to bloody mary this shit."
Novel responds to Fayad with, "Fuck you! Fuuuuck, hasn't anyone figgured out to make full-sized collapsible mirror or some shit."
The man didn't seem to have anything on him. Maybe a bottle or two clinking around in his pockets, some loose change or garbage rattling around in the guy's possessions. This guy was definitely the lowest of the low; pure bred gutter trash. Both of them likely knew the type. "Oh yeah, def my dude, I've had the spiders one... You ever have the, uh... Shit, what did it do... It like, worms and shit. Shit just collapsed into worms. Nothin' but worms, man, nothin' but worms." He shuddered, gravel falling with a hiss to the road below. Even still, the city loomed, far in the distance.
Fayad puts his hands into his pockets, his dragonscale necklace bouncing against his chest as he quietly heads off towards the horizon, eyes fixed on the city ahead.
Novel sets the man down after the brief physical inspection and shaking him out a little with his other arm - a friendly gesture as he nudges him forwards. "Yeah I know the fucking one where everyones fulla worms and then even gravity itself is worms. No up, no down, no thought. Worm." He agrees with physical familiarity and sympathy. "Don't try and eat your way out it don't work. Awright c'mon we're gonna see if we can get out of here," As he takes the step to follow the leader, pushing the hobo in front of him as they walk.
"Worms." He nods sagely in agreement, before nodding even more fervently at Novel's suggestion. "Oh yeah, hell yeah brother, let's get the fuck outta here." As the three of them face the city, the man's eyes go bug-eyed. "What the fuck... Why didn't I see that before...? Uuuugh, bad trip, man, bad trip..."
Now isn't that something; as the three walk along the gravel road, the city loomed larger and larger, far faster than if they were simply walking towards it. Almost as if it was coming to them, from the indistinct haze that surrounded. The low thudding was slowly joined by the grinding of gears, the gravel underfoot having changed, imperceptibly, into pavement, marked with obtuse road markings that made no discernible sense, be it for pedestrian or driver. Not that there seemed to be anyone on the road anyways.
Buildings rose up around them, but not in the sense of them getting closer; instead, they seemed to be built, pieces slapped together rough-shod into the shape of concrete and steel brutalist structures. Even when they seemed to be done, they kept building upwards, as if in a frantic hurry, before bits and pieces of them began to collapse and crumble away into nothing, before being built by invisible forces once again.
The cycle continues, the cycle continues.
Fayad grows more and more uneasy as more and more things click into place. "This is fucked up. I think this might be a... I'll have to create a door if we don't find any mirrors, but that process sucks ass.", he complains. "Clearly this isn't, like, a real city, right? You see that?"
Novel remains silent, his head twisting this way and that before eventually answering, "I 'unno looks like it might not have been around before, you remember where you came from to get in" He asks the homeless person at the cycling, crashing, building, tilting his head up and scanning around, and then back down to Fayad. "Yeah no shit, I can try a path, but that don't work in la-la land as far as I know. Who's -building- all this shit?"
Novel says "Or what, I guess."
Novel is going to ignore the phone and comms under the presumption this is a dreamland.
Nothing was building all this shit. Nothing that they could perceive, at least. The buildings seem to be doing it of their own accord, rebar reaching like fingers clawing at something distinct in the dead-static sky. The thudding rumbled and rippled around them, the grinding of gears under their feet echoing in every footfall they took upon the scrawled, savaged pavement.
"What the fuuuuck... This reminds me of Baltimore, dude... You ever been to Baltimore? Just like this man, just like this." The hobo shakes his head sadly. The state of things, how terrible.
A few fading figures flickered in and out of view, people in suits, seeming to dart to-and-fro from building to building; no one had time for them, though, it seemed. They actively avoided the three in their scurrying, endlessly running about in some miserable rat race that defied comprehension. Their faces, alike, were bands of static, unviewable, but in turn, they too couldn't be perceived. They were merely visitors, shadows. Guests.
Fayad knows for a damn fact this is a dreamland after observing that. "Well, that's a pain in the ass," he observes. "We're going to have to build a door. It'll take me like fifteen minutes to scribe the right sigils but it should take us back to Haven fine. But I've never read any documentation of a collective unconscious like this... depressing, really," he comments, squinting up at the tallest of the brutalist structures before it's torn down.
"Nah but it sounds like fucking Tallahassee, twenty goddamn people to a room or an empty hole that's rotting to pieces. This place's all dry." Novel looks down as he feels and hears the rumble, his gaze searching. Then up again. He's not touching the man, his hands are in his pockets, fingering the knife in there. Somehow he still has that. "I mean shit man, Fayad, there's more poor people then rich people. This sorta shit makes me want to burn it all down. Give 'em a way out."
Fayad nods solemnly in agreement to that. "Gonthorian likes to say something about a bunch of ants being able to kill a lion with enough bites. That the normal people are the most un-used resource on Earth."
The scurrying continues for a moment, before something akin to a warbled train whistle sounds from multiple buildings nearby, the keening wail near deafening in its intensity, before the fading figures rush out of the buildings in a hurry, to and fro once again, though this time they seemed to be darting away from the buildings, as if they were running for their lives from them. The buildings groaned, grinded, and collapsed, rebuilding themselves anew again. Some of the figures are caught in the collapse, ground to nothing but a hazy ephemerality, akin to the mist that they first witnessed when they emerged within this place, but others manage to make it to some kind of safety, scurrying to alleyways that revealed themselves amidst the collapsing.
The hobo is not taking this well, shivering and shaking and giving a soft moan of despair at the whistling of the train, like a last stop for mankind. He is clearly shaking in his sneakers, visibly upset at the surreal space and its various manifestations.
line Within a nearby alleyway, however, there seems to be a distinctly different thudding, a faint cacophony sounding, and the flash of monochromatic light, as if something awaited them within.
Fayad likewise cringes at the massive whistling noise, and he winces as he observes the denizens crushed underneath the weight of the self-constructing city. "...Maybe in there. Important places don't generally shift.", he comments. "We might get crushed standing out here." He heads inside, bringing a piece of chalk to his fingers as if to prepare to do Wizard Shit.
"Yeah most lions won't sit fucking still long enough and poor people are used -all the time-. Caught in goddamn wheels and chains of paperwork working for fucking paper and promises," Novel half-rants at Fayad before the fuckery of the dreamworld presents itself in horror. He starts to perspire and his hand clenches on the blade and suddenly he has it out as he turns towards the alley. He seems to remember himself. "Fucking -" The man always seems to have something sharp on hand, and a grimace splays across his features. "Yeah no shit? Awright." He takes point this time, stepping forwards.
The three of them approach the alleyway, flashing lights emanating in staccato bursts, as the thudding cacophony begins to become more audible, more present amidst the crashing and crumbling of the city around them. The alleyway led to an open doorway, from which the flickering light shines. Within, contorting forms writhe and squirm around a cruel mockery of a dance floor, figures laughing and cursing alike around tables and bar counters. Within blares from endless walls of speakers the worst fucking music you've ever heard in your life, like razorblades on your ears.
"Oh hey, I've been to a place like this in Temecula, dude... Hey, did I ever tell you that Temecula's the place to fight, man? If you wanna fight, you go to Temecula." The hobo quips besides them, seeming to just head right on into that den of iniquity, that den of escape.
"Fuck!" Novel intelligently swears, the agony doubling and redoubling to his acute hearing, his knuckles going white around the knife as he claws with a free hand at one of those auditory organs. Bracing for the pain and madness for a moment, his teeth clenched in a snarl. He twitches a moment - slamming the blade back home and opting to claw at his bag for a pill. It gets popped. "Fuck, yeah? Might have to go there fucking later! Work off some of this bullshit!"
Fayad grunts. "PLace where everyone's suffering like this I'm surprised you're not in a better mood," he half-chuckles, but he's barely audible over the noise. He tries to find a bathroom..
Novel follows in a moment after, calling after Fayad over the noise, "It doesn't have any goddamn taste! It's like fucking having your nose crammed up against a fucking bakery and not being able to taste anything inside!" He groans at the man.
Novel seems to have no issues hearing Fayad. Or shouting.
The hobo seems content to join in the dancing and drinking, seeming to get distracted by the promise of some kind of good time amidst the fuckery that he had been through for.... However long he had been here. There was someone tending bar, clearly, but there didn't seem to be any doorways leading to a bathroom. Or even a doorway leading out of this place, anymore, all of it swallowed up by swirling concrete and writhing rebar.
Fayad swallows that up and just goes to draw on a wall, creating arcane sigils and glyphs as best as he can, focusing. He's perspiring, the strain of being in such a shitty place getting to him as he takes a break to wipe at his forehead.
Novel shoves as Fayad starts to get to work. He's not gentle. If someone gets too close they're getting the boot or a shoulder-check when he finally realizes what the man is doing, getting increasingly incensed and his feet drumming against the floor - pacing, angrily, the suddenly loss of exits squeezing out a frustrated, agonized hiss. The hand goes to the knife again.
"Wha-wha-whatcha lookin' for, buckos?" The bar extends, warps, contorts in inhuman angles, stretching around, the bartender stretching with it, before it came next to them, the voice sizzling out from the bartender's mouth like the static that roared over head. His mouth didn't move, stretched as it was in a rictus grin, a cigarette burning hazy smoke up into the air above. His eyes are covered by a set of sunglasses that burned with the same warm static that filled the sky overhead, not that it was visible at the moment. The teeth within the grin, too, shared that same staticy tinge. Somewhere along the line, the hobo had vanished with the crowd, and this was the only thing in this place that seemed to acknowledge them at all.
Fayad tersely remarks, "We need to get the fuck out of here, Novel. If it does anything, stab it.", he comments, not having much care for existing in a dreamworld as his Raw Ass Human Self at the moment. Especially one as visibly fucked as this.
"Fucking FINALLY," Novel answers Fayad with a certain amount of relish and relief, the statement being the only thing he's genuinely enjoying as he whirls, turning towards the bartender and pulling the knife. "Fucking way out, fucko," He addresses the being directly. with his shoulders squared and bunched up. "This noise all your bullshit? Where's all the substance?" There's an inch of something strange in his tone. Offense.
A-A-A-A-AWESOME! Radical, tubular, stupendous! Truly, I can see you're a bunch of radical thinkers, ready to shake up the paradigm, get things m-m-m-m-moving." His hand stretched from a place unknown, from a place not cognizantly recognizable as belonging to a man at all, pointing to a hitherto unknown corner of the room, warm static oozing out of a doorway that seemed to emerge from nowhere at all. "Looking for the e-e-e-e-xit?""
Fayad pauses to appraise the doorway.
("The Golden Auction")
Ash is standing by the sidewalk with a redheaded man, having an intimate conversation. Ash grumbles to Isaiah, "You're just going to text and leave me hanging? Fine, fine... I wanted to call you to tell you that... I've basically already been referring to you as such...." They glance at Isaiah, then back down, adding, "I've just been fighting the inevitable on principle... but since I'm already bragging, I figured it's time to say... no... ask you... beg, even...." They smirk, then stand up straight, grinning, asking Isaiah, "W-will... will you be my boyfriend, Jay?"
Isaiah is still for a moment as Ash asks that question, and for a time it looks like the redhead isn't sure how to answer it. Perhaps he thought he'd be the one to do it- another option is that he changed his mind. His expression betrays nothing on /why/ it is the way it is. Almost solemn, unnervingly so. "If you can come to terms with my commitments," he says, his voice stern, but also caring as he watches the androgyn, smiling faintly at their shy, nervous behavior here. "If you can respect my loyalty to my Pack, my feelings, and my heart- /everyone/ that I hold in my heart," he goes on, "Then... Yes. I will be your boyfriend, Ash... If you'll have me." He grins down at them, perfectly white teeth flashed in a show of admiration. "Though.. We still haven't discussed that secret of yours. Are you sure it won't change things once I know?"
Ash holds their breath, waiting with anticipation, struggling not to look away as they wait. When he *does* speak, they hang on his words like they're the only branch keeping them above a pit. They nod, saying, "I can respect that... I have my people, too... and I'd expect the same thing. And..." They glance to the side, saying, "I don't think the secret will change things with *you*... I worry about *Dean*. I... if you know, eventually, he'll need to know, if things go... go well. And I want him to know. But... one thing at a time. Will you... make that oath?"
Ash frowns, then looks Isaiah in the eyes as they say, "I do want to be clear... I chose to walk the path that I'm on. I accepted its costs. If it causes problems with Dean... I'm going to step out. I don't want to get between you two. Especially over something that you had nothing to do with. I want... I want... you to understand that. I don't want to bring trouble into what you're already doing." They speak firmly, their gaze like iron. "I mean, we can talk it out, work it out, hopefully. But, that's my nuclear option."
The late-night town of Haven street stretches out under a sky that seems too dark for comfort, the inky blackness pressing down on the dimly lit road below - the waxing gibbous moon is the greatest lantern there could ever be, witnessing Ash and Isaiah below. The street is sparsely populated, a few lone figures shuffling along the cracked sidewalk. The flickering streetlights cast weak pools of yellow light that dance uncertainly in the slight breeze. Shadows stretch and contract with each flicker, playing tricks on the eyes, making the empty spaces between buildings seem deeper, more ominous despite the strangely, purposefully peaceful mien of the street.
The road itself, a strip of faded asphalt, it has seen better days despite being one of the most trodden through roads in Town. It winds through like a forgotten artery tonight, the surface marred by years of neglect. Only the occasional car passes by, its engine a distant hum that quickly fades into silence behind their conversation. The buildings lining the street, once proud and bustling, now stand quiet and empty, their windows darkened, their facades showing signs of wear where there was none. Everything feels old, distant. As if time itself was shifting, if the shops that are open 24/7 are closed now are any indiction.
As the minutes pass, the few people on the street seem to vanish, one by one, as if swallowed by the shadows. The faint sound of footsteps fades into nothingness, leaving only the rustling of leaves and the occasional creak of a rusty sign swinging in the wind. Even the crickets and birds, so often the background chorus of the night, fall silent, their absence creating a void that feels unsettlingly vast. And soon, now at the apex of a confession, the street is deserted, the silence so complete that it feels as though the world itself is holding its breath. The streetlights continue to flicker, their light and delight growing dimmer, as if the night is slowly consuming them. The wind dies down, and even the air seems to still.
It is then a sudden, abrupt interruption finds the two. Right there, on the southern wall of the Antler between two hedges. The building, with its faded grandeur and weathered bricks, has stood sentinel over this town for decades in many shapes and forms, but now, something strange begins to happen. The surface of the wall ripples like water disturbed by a breeze, and lines of golden light begin to trace themselves across the bricks. The lines move with purpose, intricate and deliberate, as if guided by an invisible hand.
Slowly, the lines form an elaborate design, curving and intertwining with a delicate precision. The golden light brightens, illuminating the wall with a soft, ethereal glow that stands in stark contrast to the dim streetlights. The design coalesces into the shape of a door - tall, ornate, and impossibly beautiful. The frame is adorned with intricate carvings of vines and flowers, each petal and leaf rendered in stunning detail. The door itself is a deep, rich wood, polished to a sheen that reflects the golden light with a warm, inviting glow, yet an undeertone of a strange, decadent red that spills from beneath softly where it makes its presence known without a single sound despite the spectacle of a glow. As the final lines of the design complete themselves, the door seems to shimmer, solidifying into something real, something tangible. It stands there, perfectly set into the brick wall where there had been nothing moments before. The golden light pulses softly, as if the door is alive, waiting patiently for someone to notice, to dare approach. For them.
The silence deepens, the world around the door seemingly holding its breath. No sound breaks the stillness - no cars, no footsteps, no rustling leaves. The street, now utterly empty, feels like a forgotten place, a moment suspended in time. And in this suspended moment, something waits for Isaiah and Ash, its golden handle bobbing up and down silently like a dog would wagging its tail waiting for the hand that would grace it, an invitation or perhaps a challenge, daring anyone brave enough to cross its threshold.
Ash looks from Isaiah, their focus keeping them from noticing the silence until it had already consumed them whole. Belatedly, they glance around, to realize that no one is there, no one but their boyfriend and that door, waiting. They frown at it, their mind working. Common sense wars with curiosity, surely the deadliest of emotion. They look to Isaiah, but it's evident in their expression what they expect. The way their eyebrows are raised, the hint of a smile, but they don't move, not yet. They know that his next words likely have some weight to them.
"Dean is my Alpha," Isaiah reminds Ash with a twist of his lips when that oath is brought up again, and ultimately, the redhead shakes.. Well.. His red head. "I'm not going to keep anything from him, especially if it pertains to him. He's also my best friend. You know this. So if part of that oath is lying to him, or withholding information, I'm sorry, but I can't make it," he says, no room for argument in his tone as he stares into Ash's eyes, leaning back against his Harley then, perhaps about to speak more, but something odd catches his eye. He turns, glancing back towards the buildings that he and Ash had been speaking in front of, towards those hedges, and then towards the wall where ripples form, as though a small fish were swimming under the surface of a pond.
His ginger brows furrow, and he pulls himself out of that lean against his bike to take a better assessment of the situation. "The Hell.." he says, his voice low and curious. "Ash.. Do you see this?" he asks, attempting to snap the androgyn's attention towards the space where he is looking. He watches the door form like something right out of a Disney movie, half enchanted and half wary of this town's magic, and even takes a step back away from it, cautious- perhaps too cautious for his own good. Or maybe just cautious enough.
There is almost, almost something amused at the door bewitching the two of their eyes away from one another, their thoughts from their conversation. It seems interested, somehow, the leaves upon it bristle and vibrantly shimmer in motion without any sound at all -- but the handle? The handle wiggles. It almost looks like it tries to open itself to no avail, but beckons for some hand to do it for it. Up, down, up down -- but the gentleness and playfulness evident in it slowly becomes fervent, feverish. Whereas there were no sounds at all before, the golden metal jiggles rapidly now with an insistant, incessant grind. Up-down-up-down-updownupdownupdown.
Ash shakes their head, saying, "Then we need to talk with him, see if we can work it out. Of course, I can just... not share...." They say it distractedly, and holds a hand out to Isaiah. "I'm surprised. I thought you would go straight for it." They give him a grin, adding, "I figured I'd be the cautious one. But, instead, I'm justifying it in my head. We're already caught, we're already trapped. The sounds are gone, the people are gone... we're not in a normal space right now." They suddenly dance in front of Isaiah, between him and the door. They hold out their hands more insisitently. "They're just being polite, Jay. But what happens if a fae - and it seems like a fae - invites you to a game and you *refuse* to play it? Hmm? I hear they hate the impolite." Something about this door is energizing them, tickling them - one might not believe they've been up all night with nightmares with the way they present themself now.
And Ash would be right - in that they are not in a normal space at all. There is magic in the air, thickly so, something sinful and drawing the senses with an energizing luster and a rich scent similarly. Almost as if in agreement, and to convey a message, the shapes molded in molten gold upon the door awaiting starts to shift. A space is made at the center piece, at the top portion, and the canvas becomes an embossing of a perfectly one to one clock depicting the time in Haven. It ticks, and tocks, but among the notches denoting minutes, there is a thickly red line appearing just a few ticks away. It bleeds that colour in a single droplet down the whole surface of the golden entry. Either something starts then, or something ends. A prickling sensation on the nape of their neck raising the hair may suggest that it may be them - but who knows, in Haven? Things are never as they seem.
As the narrative thickens, the trio stumbles upon an alley that promises solace from the madness, only to find themselves in a nightmarish club filled with distorted music and grotesque revelry. Here, Novel embraces the chaos with a sense of belonging, while Fayad focuses on carving out an escape route through his arcane knowledge. The mysterious bartender, an entity of static and sinister politeness, presents them with an exit – a moment that Novel greets with hostile relish. Through the maelstrom of sounds and visions that suffocate senses and sanity alike, Fayad's attempt to create a doorway to return to Haven underscores a vital theme: even in the depths of a nightmare, the need to return to some semblance of normalcy prevails. As the story concludes, the stark contrast between their eerie surroundings and the allure of Haven's flawed reality prompts a deeper reflection on where one truly belongs, bridging the gap between dreams and waking nightmares with a thin, fragile line.
(Novel's odd encounter(SRSaoirse):SRSaoirse)
[Wed Aug 14 2024]
At the bar
This well lit area is home to a long, polished bar that stretches from
west to east along the centermost portion of the northern wall. A number of
refrigerators and shelves within have been filled with various drinks and
town memorabilia for display, but the large head of a black bear mounted
higher on the wall attracts more attention. Food for the bar is prepared on
a cast iron cooking surface behind the bar, but well within sight of
patrons. It's so large that several different meals can all be cooked at
the same time.
Starting to the side of the Lodge's entrance to the north, several booths
follow the old hardwood walls and wrap around the pool tables to the east.
Their sequence is only interrupted there by the exit to the courtyard in the
distance.
A small HD flatscreen television hangs in the southwestern corner, open to
sight for all of those at the bar.
It is afternoon, about 87F(30C) degrees,
(Your target encounters a human who's become stuck in the nightmare, lost and frightened.
)
Novel squints at someone, "What? Huh? No. Nothing like fucking that, I was gonna suggest we take like, some of the homeless that visit our shelter, get their lice, dump it all over his room."
Novel squints at someone who isn't there, "What? Huh? No. Nothing like fucking that, I was gonna suggest we take like, some of the homeless that visit our shelter, get their lice, dump it all over his room."
Novel squints at Fayad, "What? Huh? No. Nothing like fucking that, I was gonna suggest we take like, some of the homeless that visit our shelter, get their lice, dump it all over his room."
Novel says "Bedbugs and shit. You know, fuck with him."
Fayad puts a hand to his chin, considering that thoughtfully. "You have some very fucked up ideas," he admits to Novel. "I like it."
Novel grins hugely at Fayad's compliment, leaning against the counter, "Fuck man you haven't seen the -half- of it I got so many fucking plans, awright, I'll start scraping them and you can find out where he lives and we'll just dump a jarful of the shit. Any luck he brings his girl over gets on her too"
Novel gives a furtive glance around, "I also got a plan to get everyone in town attacking each other but that'll be you know, later, uh, oh right, the fuucking... Hand was having an op today or some shit I considered going in just to try stabbing a few of them but doubt it woulda done anything. Should I have just gone anyway?"
A bleakness comes over you, shadows in the normally friendly confines of the lodge's bar lengthening, shivering, extending outwards with fingers and tendrils that draw you in; deeper, deeper yet still. What is familiar changes into something utterly foreign, as reality seems to bend into a state that does not conform to any that makes sense to the waking mind.
You are not awake anymore.
Fayad nods. "You should have gone anyway, because even if you fail, it inspires people to donate to the cause. Or something."
Fayad says "What...ah, shit.."
Novel nods back to Fayad, acknowledging, "Oh fuck yeah definitely go next time and get fucked up, was still weaning off my daily mor-" and then he crashes out, only to find himself horizontal and lying on the floor in a new place. Eventually, he says, "What the fuck, Fayad, I thought you said this place was fucking safe." He rolls over, putting his hands under him, and shoving himself up, bouncing right up to his feet.
Novel absent-mindedly brushes himself off, as if to get rid of specks of dust and gravel - and frowns, tilting his head to one side and frowning. He sniffs again.
Fayad scowls. "It is safe," he mutters. "We're probably unconscious in the bar. Tangled up in something. The nightmare. It's difficult to explain, but I'm confident we won't be getting hurt. Physically, anyway." He gets to his feet, likewise patting himself down as he looks first one way, then the other down the road, focusing on the city in the distance. "That's weird," he comments.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
A figure appears, out of the malaise, out of the haze, walking towards you with unsteady footing. The figure's mannerisms, what little you can make out of them, are desperate; Fayad recognizes them well, the tell-tale signs of a vagabond, one of many that comes to the Good News Community Center. A face without a name, an opportunity without a cause, someone clearly lost here.
And he sees you too. The crunching of worn, beaten up sneakers against gravel speeds up as the figure starts to jog your way.
Novel smacks his lips a few times, taking in deep huffing breaths as the figure and Fayad talk, swallowing, getting big mouthfuls and using his advanced senses to reach out. And his head, tilting to one side. Eventually, he concludes, "Music not bad. Could just be a factory." He drops the things right out of his mind through his mouth before it has a chance to disappear from his brain, nodding at Fayad's words. "OK cool." And then he whirls, facing the vagabond - pausing, straightening up.
Fayad hesitates, raising his hand towards the figure uneasily. He's uncertain about this. Usually hobos aren't capable of dream-snaring you. A fellow victim, or something worse..?""
"Holy shit, holy shit, is that -people-?! HEY!" The man calls out to the two of them in a hoarse voice, half-delirious with desperation. A hand raises from him, waving frantically to the two of them as he continues to jog. Crunch-crunch-crunch-crunch. "HEEEEY!" The man trips over something. Nothing. It was hard to tell in this place. Still the rhythmic thudding sounded in the background, far-off, distinct. Somewhere in the distance, that overwhelming city looks like it grows another inch. Or perhaps a mile.
The man gives out a loud anguished groan after he face-plants into the ground, slowly starting to try to raise himself up to his feet.
Fayad directs his hand out towards the man with a gesture. "Novel, go get him," he commands, ordering Novel around almost like he'd command an attacking hound. Naturally, this meant Novel would be in danger if the man turned out to be hostile. "I mean pick him up and bring him to me," he clarifies, suddenly uncertain as to whether Novel would interpret the command as stabbing him to death.
"Yeah you dumbfuck we're people who are you and where are we?" Novel moves, if somewhat automatically, as soon as Fayad. "Oh shit okay boss," He says with cheer as he steps over to the man, his face breaking out into a huge, horrible grin, reaching into his pants pocket, and then makes a crestfallen 'Awwwwh' at the second command from the petite pyromancer and his hand comes back empty. "Fine, fine, fuck," As he picks up the pace to stride over to the homeless person(?).
"H-Hey..." The guy was sprawled out on the gravel, scrambling to get back to his feet. He smells of cheap rotgut, stale cigarettes, and washed up dreams. One of millions, some dreg of society that just happens to be stuck in the same place, the same position, as Fayad and Novel were. "G... Gimme a hand here, are you stuck here too? It's been fuckin' -days- man, I... I thought I was trippin' -balls- at first."
Novel doesn't give the guy an option as to 'on his feet' or not, aiming to squat down and scoop the man right up under his arms, putting his subtly enhanced strength to lever him up as he aims to literally complete the task and haul him back up before Fayad. "I mean fuck you still might be, you gotta be careful with those pills and syringes sometimes they cut them with really bad shit like asbestos or drain cleaner, you shoot up beforehand?"
Fayad closes his eyes for a long moment before opening them. "Alright. Sometimes this happens. People get stuck in the nightmare. Usually they can find their way out since it's....where the FUCK are we," he sighs. "We need to find a mirror if we're going to get out, and since we're not going to find a mirror in the middle of some gravel road, it means we're gonna have to head towards that city and see if we can find a bathroom or something," he instructs, largely for Novel's benefit.
With a groan, the man is hoisted up into a standing position, still unsteady on his feet. The city looms behind them, warm static sky glimmering with the pinpricks of a billion stars, winking in and out of existence. "Whoah, yeah, I know dude, but it ain't ever been like this before, yknow...?" The man blinks at the two of them, still seeming uncertain if they were real or not. "... What city?" For whatever reason, the man in front of them couldn't see it; perhaps the two would have to guide him. If they wanted to, of course.
Fayad narrows his eyes and begins the trek. "You got him fine?", he asks Novel, making sure the demonborn was alright with the homeless man's weight.
"Faaaay-aad, if this is such a common goddamn problem why don't we just carry around some fucking hand mirror or some shit? Save all this goddamn rigmarole." Novel roughly brushes off the man with a wide palm, the thump thump thump of a warm, human hand. Also feeling him up for hidden knives, weapons, or prison shanks in that scruffy clothing of his. "Yeah it's usually like, wolves or hounds, or you think spiders are crawling out of your eyes. The worst one was when everything turned into a huge field of flaming obsidian that wasn't a good day." He rambles on, his mouth running twenty miles a minute. "Yeah, sure, boss, he's a stick. Place is all weird. There's no taste in the air."
Fayad snorts, laughing. "You want to try fitting through a hand mirror?", he asks Novel. "I want to see you crawl through a fucking hole that's smaller than the head of your dick."
Fayad says "We got to bloody mary this shit."
Novel responds to Fayad with, "Fuck you! Fuuuuck, hasn't anyone figgured out to make full-sized collapsible mirror or some shit."
The man didn't seem to have anything on him. Maybe a bottle or two clinking around in his pockets, some loose change or garbage rattling around in the guy's possessions. This guy was definitely the lowest of the low; pure bred gutter trash. Both of them likely knew the type. "Oh yeah, def my dude, I've had the spiders one... You ever have the, uh... Shit, what did it do... It like, worms and shit. Shit just collapsed into worms. Nothin' but worms, man, nothin' but worms." He shuddered, gravel falling with a hiss to the road below. Even still, the city loomed, far in the distance.
Fayad puts his hands into his pockets, his dragonscale necklace bouncing against his chest as he quietly heads off towards the horizon, eyes fixed on the city ahead.
Novel sets the man down after the brief physical inspection and shaking him out a little with his other arm - a friendly gesture as he nudges him forwards. "Yeah I know the fucking one where everyones fulla worms and then even gravity itself is worms. No up, no down, no thought. Worm." He agrees with physical familiarity and sympathy. "Don't try and eat your way out it don't work. Awright c'mon we're gonna see if we can get out of here," As he takes the step to follow the leader, pushing the hobo in front of him as they walk.
"Worms." He nods sagely in agreement, before nodding even more fervently at Novel's suggestion. "Oh yeah, hell yeah brother, let's get the fuck outta here." As the three of them face the city, the man's eyes go bug-eyed. "What the fuck... Why didn't I see that before...? Uuuugh, bad trip, man, bad trip..."
Now isn't that something; as the three walk along the gravel road, the city loomed larger and larger, far faster than if they were simply walking towards it. Almost as if it was coming to them, from the indistinct haze that surrounded. The low thudding was slowly joined by the grinding of gears, the gravel underfoot having changed, imperceptibly, into pavement, marked with obtuse road markings that made no discernible sense, be it for pedestrian or driver. Not that there seemed to be anyone on the road anyways.
Buildings rose up around them, but not in the sense of them getting closer; instead, they seemed to be built, pieces slapped together rough-shod into the shape of concrete and steel brutalist structures. Even when they seemed to be done, they kept building upwards, as if in a frantic hurry, before bits and pieces of them began to collapse and crumble away into nothing, before being built by invisible forces once again.
The cycle continues, the cycle continues.
Fayad grows more and more uneasy as more and more things click into place. "This is fucked up. I think this might be a... I'll have to create a door if we don't find any mirrors, but that process sucks ass.", he complains. "Clearly this isn't, like, a real city, right? You see that?"
Novel remains silent, his head twisting this way and that before eventually answering, "I 'unno looks like it might not have been around before, you remember where you came from to get in" He asks the homeless person at the cycling, crashing, building, tilting his head up and scanning around, and then back down to Fayad. "Yeah no shit, I can try a path, but that don't work in la-la land as far as I know. Who's -building- all this shit?"
Novel says "Or what, I guess."
Novel is going to ignore the phone and comms under the presumption this is a dreamland.
Nothing was building all this shit. Nothing that they could perceive, at least. The buildings seem to be doing it of their own accord, rebar reaching like fingers clawing at something distinct in the dead-static sky. The thudding rumbled and rippled around them, the grinding of gears under their feet echoing in every footfall they took upon the scrawled, savaged pavement.
"What the fuuuuck... This reminds me of Baltimore, dude... You ever been to Baltimore? Just like this man, just like this." The hobo shakes his head sadly. The state of things, how terrible.
A few fading figures flickered in and out of view, people in suits, seeming to dart to-and-fro from building to building; no one had time for them, though, it seemed. They actively avoided the three in their scurrying, endlessly running about in some miserable rat race that defied comprehension. Their faces, alike, were bands of static, unviewable, but in turn, they too couldn't be perceived. They were merely visitors, shadows. Guests.
Fayad knows for a damn fact this is a dreamland after observing that. "Well, that's a pain in the ass," he observes. "We're going to have to build a door. It'll take me like fifteen minutes to scribe the right sigils but it should take us back to Haven fine. But I've never read any documentation of a collective unconscious like this... depressing, really," he comments, squinting up at the tallest of the brutalist structures before it's torn down.
"Nah but it sounds like fucking Tallahassee, twenty goddamn people to a room or an empty hole that's rotting to pieces. This place's all dry." Novel looks down as he feels and hears the rumble, his gaze searching. Then up again. He's not touching the man, his hands are in his pockets, fingering the knife in there. Somehow he still has that. "I mean shit man, Fayad, there's more poor people then rich people. This sorta shit makes me want to burn it all down. Give 'em a way out."
Fayad nods solemnly in agreement to that. "Gonthorian likes to say something about a bunch of ants being able to kill a lion with enough bites. That the normal people are the most un-used resource on Earth."
The scurrying continues for a moment, before something akin to a warbled train whistle sounds from multiple buildings nearby, the keening wail near deafening in its intensity, before the fading figures rush out of the buildings in a hurry, to and fro once again, though this time they seemed to be darting away from the buildings, as if they were running for their lives from them. The buildings groaned, grinded, and collapsed, rebuilding themselves anew again. Some of the figures are caught in the collapse, ground to nothing but a hazy ephemerality, akin to the mist that they first witnessed when they emerged within this place, but others manage to make it to some kind of safety, scurrying to alleyways that revealed themselves amidst the collapsing.
The hobo is not taking this well, shivering and shaking and giving a soft moan of despair at the whistling of the train, like a last stop for mankind. He is clearly shaking in his sneakers, visibly upset at the surreal space and its various manifestations.
line Within a nearby alleyway, however, there seems to be a distinctly different thudding, a faint cacophony sounding, and the flash of monochromatic light, as if something awaited them within.
Fayad likewise cringes at the massive whistling noise, and he winces as he observes the denizens crushed underneath the weight of the self-constructing city. "...Maybe in there. Important places don't generally shift.", he comments. "We might get crushed standing out here." He heads inside, bringing a piece of chalk to his fingers as if to prepare to do Wizard Shit.
"Yeah most lions won't sit fucking still long enough and poor people are used -all the time-. Caught in goddamn wheels and chains of paperwork working for fucking paper and promises," Novel half-rants at Fayad before the fuckery of the dreamworld presents itself in horror. He starts to perspire and his hand clenches on the blade and suddenly he has it out as he turns towards the alley. He seems to remember himself. "Fucking -" The man always seems to have something sharp on hand, and a grimace splays across his features. "Yeah no shit? Awright." He takes point this time, stepping forwards.
The three of them approach the alleyway, flashing lights emanating in staccato bursts, as the thudding cacophony begins to become more audible, more present amidst the crashing and crumbling of the city around them. The alleyway led to an open doorway, from which the flickering light shines. Within, contorting forms writhe and squirm around a cruel mockery of a dance floor, figures laughing and cursing alike around tables and bar counters. Within blares from endless walls of speakers the worst fucking music you've ever heard in your life, like razorblades on your ears.
"Oh hey, I've been to a place like this in Temecula, dude... Hey, did I ever tell you that Temecula's the place to fight, man? If you wanna fight, you go to Temecula." The hobo quips besides them, seeming to just head right on into that den of iniquity, that den of escape.
"Fuck!" Novel intelligently swears, the agony doubling and redoubling to his acute hearing, his knuckles going white around the knife as he claws with a free hand at one of those auditory organs. Bracing for the pain and madness for a moment, his teeth clenched in a snarl. He twitches a moment - slamming the blade back home and opting to claw at his bag for a pill. It gets popped. "Fuck, yeah? Might have to go there fucking later! Work off some of this bullshit!"
Fayad grunts. "PLace where everyone's suffering like this I'm surprised you're not in a better mood," he half-chuckles, but he's barely audible over the noise. He tries to find a bathroom..
Novel follows in a moment after, calling after Fayad over the noise, "It doesn't have any goddamn taste! It's like fucking having your nose crammed up against a fucking bakery and not being able to taste anything inside!" He groans at the man.
Novel seems to have no issues hearing Fayad. Or shouting.
The hobo seems content to join in the dancing and drinking, seeming to get distracted by the promise of some kind of good time amidst the fuckery that he had been through for.... However long he had been here. There was someone tending bar, clearly, but there didn't seem to be any doorways leading to a bathroom. Or even a doorway leading out of this place, anymore, all of it swallowed up by swirling concrete and writhing rebar.
Fayad swallows that up and just goes to draw on a wall, creating arcane sigils and glyphs as best as he can, focusing. He's perspiring, the strain of being in such a shitty place getting to him as he takes a break to wipe at his forehead.
Novel shoves as Fayad starts to get to work. He's not gentle. If someone gets too close they're getting the boot or a shoulder-check when he finally realizes what the man is doing, getting increasingly incensed and his feet drumming against the floor - pacing, angrily, the suddenly loss of exits squeezing out a frustrated, agonized hiss. The hand goes to the knife again.
"Wha-wha-whatcha lookin' for, buckos?" The bar extends, warps, contorts in inhuman angles, stretching around, the bartender stretching with it, before it came next to them, the voice sizzling out from the bartender's mouth like the static that roared over head. His mouth didn't move, stretched as it was in a rictus grin, a cigarette burning hazy smoke up into the air above. His eyes are covered by a set of sunglasses that burned with the same warm static that filled the sky overhead, not that it was visible at the moment. The teeth within the grin, too, shared that same staticy tinge. Somewhere along the line, the hobo had vanished with the crowd, and this was the only thing in this place that seemed to acknowledge them at all.
Fayad tersely remarks, "We need to get the fuck out of here, Novel. If it does anything, stab it.", he comments, not having much care for existing in a dreamworld as his Raw Ass Human Self at the moment. Especially one as visibly fucked as this.
"Fucking FINALLY," Novel answers Fayad with a certain amount of relish and relief, the statement being the only thing he's genuinely enjoying as he whirls, turning towards the bartender and pulling the knife. "Fucking way out, fucko," He addresses the being directly. with his shoulders squared and bunched up. "This noise all your bullshit? Where's all the substance?" There's an inch of something strange in his tone. Offense.
A-A-A-A-AWESOME! Radical, tubular, stupendous! Truly, I can see you're a bunch of radical thinkers, ready to shake up the paradigm, get things m-m-m-m-moving." His hand stretched from a place unknown, from a place not cognizantly recognizable as belonging to a man at all, pointing to a hitherto unknown corner of the room, warm static oozing out of a doorway that seemed to emerge from nowhere at all. "Looking for the e-e-e-e-xit?""
Fayad pauses to appraise the doorway.
("The Golden Auction")
Ash is standing by the sidewalk with a redheaded man, having an intimate conversation. Ash grumbles to Isaiah, "You're just going to text and leave me hanging? Fine, fine... I wanted to call you to tell you that... I've basically already been referring to you as such...." They glance at Isaiah, then back down, adding, "I've just been fighting the inevitable on principle... but since I'm already bragging, I figured it's time to say... no... ask you... beg, even...." They smirk, then stand up straight, grinning, asking Isaiah, "W-will... will you be my boyfriend, Jay?"
Isaiah is still for a moment as Ash asks that question, and for a time it looks like the redhead isn't sure how to answer it. Perhaps he thought he'd be the one to do it- another option is that he changed his mind. His expression betrays nothing on /why/ it is the way it is. Almost solemn, unnervingly so. "If you can come to terms with my commitments," he says, his voice stern, but also caring as he watches the androgyn, smiling faintly at their shy, nervous behavior here. "If you can respect my loyalty to my Pack, my feelings, and my heart- /everyone/ that I hold in my heart," he goes on, "Then... Yes. I will be your boyfriend, Ash... If you'll have me." He grins down at them, perfectly white teeth flashed in a show of admiration. "Though.. We still haven't discussed that secret of yours. Are you sure it won't change things once I know?"
Ash holds their breath, waiting with anticipation, struggling not to look away as they wait. When he *does* speak, they hang on his words like they're the only branch keeping them above a pit. They nod, saying, "I can respect that... I have my people, too... and I'd expect the same thing. And..." They glance to the side, saying, "I don't think the secret will change things with *you*... I worry about *Dean*. I... if you know, eventually, he'll need to know, if things go... go well. And I want him to know. But... one thing at a time. Will you... make that oath?"
Ash frowns, then looks Isaiah in the eyes as they say, "I do want to be clear... I chose to walk the path that I'm on. I accepted its costs. If it causes problems with Dean... I'm going to step out. I don't want to get between you two. Especially over something that you had nothing to do with. I want... I want... you to understand that. I don't want to bring trouble into what you're already doing." They speak firmly, their gaze like iron. "I mean, we can talk it out, work it out, hopefully. But, that's my nuclear option."
The late-night town of Haven street stretches out under a sky that seems too dark for comfort, the inky blackness pressing down on the dimly lit road below - the waxing gibbous moon is the greatest lantern there could ever be, witnessing Ash and Isaiah below. The street is sparsely populated, a few lone figures shuffling along the cracked sidewalk. The flickering streetlights cast weak pools of yellow light that dance uncertainly in the slight breeze. Shadows stretch and contract with each flicker, playing tricks on the eyes, making the empty spaces between buildings seem deeper, more ominous despite the strangely, purposefully peaceful mien of the street.
The road itself, a strip of faded asphalt, it has seen better days despite being one of the most trodden through roads in Town. It winds through like a forgotten artery tonight, the surface marred by years of neglect. Only the occasional car passes by, its engine a distant hum that quickly fades into silence behind their conversation. The buildings lining the street, once proud and bustling, now stand quiet and empty, their windows darkened, their facades showing signs of wear where there was none. Everything feels old, distant. As if time itself was shifting, if the shops that are open 24/7 are closed now are any indiction.
As the minutes pass, the few people on the street seem to vanish, one by one, as if swallowed by the shadows. The faint sound of footsteps fades into nothingness, leaving only the rustling of leaves and the occasional creak of a rusty sign swinging in the wind. Even the crickets and birds, so often the background chorus of the night, fall silent, their absence creating a void that feels unsettlingly vast. And soon, now at the apex of a confession, the street is deserted, the silence so complete that it feels as though the world itself is holding its breath. The streetlights continue to flicker, their light and delight growing dimmer, as if the night is slowly consuming them. The wind dies down, and even the air seems to still.
It is then a sudden, abrupt interruption finds the two. Right there, on the southern wall of the Antler between two hedges. The building, with its faded grandeur and weathered bricks, has stood sentinel over this town for decades in many shapes and forms, but now, something strange begins to happen. The surface of the wall ripples like water disturbed by a breeze, and lines of golden light begin to trace themselves across the bricks. The lines move with purpose, intricate and deliberate, as if guided by an invisible hand.
Slowly, the lines form an elaborate design, curving and intertwining with a delicate precision. The golden light brightens, illuminating the wall with a soft, ethereal glow that stands in stark contrast to the dim streetlights. The design coalesces into the shape of a door - tall, ornate, and impossibly beautiful. The frame is adorned with intricate carvings of vines and flowers, each petal and leaf rendered in stunning detail. The door itself is a deep, rich wood, polished to a sheen that reflects the golden light with a warm, inviting glow, yet an undeertone of a strange, decadent red that spills from beneath softly where it makes its presence known without a single sound despite the spectacle of a glow. As the final lines of the design complete themselves, the door seems to shimmer, solidifying into something real, something tangible. It stands there, perfectly set into the brick wall where there had been nothing moments before. The golden light pulses softly, as if the door is alive, waiting patiently for someone to notice, to dare approach. For them.
The silence deepens, the world around the door seemingly holding its breath. No sound breaks the stillness - no cars, no footsteps, no rustling leaves. The street, now utterly empty, feels like a forgotten place, a moment suspended in time. And in this suspended moment, something waits for Isaiah and Ash, its golden handle bobbing up and down silently like a dog would wagging its tail waiting for the hand that would grace it, an invitation or perhaps a challenge, daring anyone brave enough to cross its threshold.
Ash looks from Isaiah, their focus keeping them from noticing the silence until it had already consumed them whole. Belatedly, they glance around, to realize that no one is there, no one but their boyfriend and that door, waiting. They frown at it, their mind working. Common sense wars with curiosity, surely the deadliest of emotion. They look to Isaiah, but it's evident in their expression what they expect. The way their eyebrows are raised, the hint of a smile, but they don't move, not yet. They know that his next words likely have some weight to them.
"Dean is my Alpha," Isaiah reminds Ash with a twist of his lips when that oath is brought up again, and ultimately, the redhead shakes.. Well.. His red head. "I'm not going to keep anything from him, especially if it pertains to him. He's also my best friend. You know this. So if part of that oath is lying to him, or withholding information, I'm sorry, but I can't make it," he says, no room for argument in his tone as he stares into Ash's eyes, leaning back against his Harley then, perhaps about to speak more, but something odd catches his eye. He turns, glancing back towards the buildings that he and Ash had been speaking in front of, towards those hedges, and then towards the wall where ripples form, as though a small fish were swimming under the surface of a pond.
His ginger brows furrow, and he pulls himself out of that lean against his bike to take a better assessment of the situation. "The Hell.." he says, his voice low and curious. "Ash.. Do you see this?" he asks, attempting to snap the androgyn's attention towards the space where he is looking. He watches the door form like something right out of a Disney movie, half enchanted and half wary of this town's magic, and even takes a step back away from it, cautious- perhaps too cautious for his own good. Or maybe just cautious enough.
There is almost, almost something amused at the door bewitching the two of their eyes away from one another, their thoughts from their conversation. It seems interested, somehow, the leaves upon it bristle and vibrantly shimmer in motion without any sound at all -- but the handle? The handle wiggles. It almost looks like it tries to open itself to no avail, but beckons for some hand to do it for it. Up, down, up down -- but the gentleness and playfulness evident in it slowly becomes fervent, feverish. Whereas there were no sounds at all before, the golden metal jiggles rapidly now with an insistant, incessant grind. Up-down-up-down-updownupdownupdown.
Ash shakes their head, saying, "Then we need to talk with him, see if we can work it out. Of course, I can just... not share...." They say it distractedly, and holds a hand out to Isaiah. "I'm surprised. I thought you would go straight for it." They give him a grin, adding, "I figured I'd be the cautious one. But, instead, I'm justifying it in my head. We're already caught, we're already trapped. The sounds are gone, the people are gone... we're not in a normal space right now." They suddenly dance in front of Isaiah, between him and the door. They hold out their hands more insisitently. "They're just being polite, Jay. But what happens if a fae - and it seems like a fae - invites you to a game and you *refuse* to play it? Hmm? I hear they hate the impolite." Something about this door is energizing them, tickling them - one might not believe they've been up all night with nightmares with the way they present themself now.
And Ash would be right - in that they are not in a normal space at all. There is magic in the air, thickly so, something sinful and drawing the senses with an energizing luster and a rich scent similarly. Almost as if in agreement, and to convey a message, the shapes molded in molten gold upon the door awaiting starts to shift. A space is made at the center piece, at the top portion, and the canvas becomes an embossing of a perfectly one to one clock depicting the time in Haven. It ticks, and tocks, but among the notches denoting minutes, there is a thickly red line appearing just a few ticks away. It bleeds that colour in a single droplet down the whole surface of the golden entry. Either something starts then, or something ends. A prickling sensation on the nape of their neck raising the hair may suggest that it may be them - but who knows, in Haven? Things are never as they seem.