Encounterlogs
Novels Odd Encounter Sr Wren 240907
In a chaotic blend of reality and nightmare, Novel finds himself ensnared in a dream stalker's trap, an entity that feasts on the energies of its victims while they're distracted by their deepest fantasies. For Novel, the dream morphs his freshly cleaned and somewhat disordered apartment into a battlefield of anarchy and violence, a realm where his darkest desires and instincts are encouraged to run rampant. Empowered by the illusion of a world succumbing to mayhem, Novel embarks on a destructive spree, wielding his sword with a mixture of delight and purpose, fully immersed in the dream's seductive pull. The dream stalker's influence is so powerful that Novel's surroundings respond with eerie precision, painting a vivid picture of chaos that feeds directly into Novel's yearning for violence and destruction. However, as the dream progresses, hints of unease begin to surface, suggesting that this vivid hallucination might be costing Novel more than he realizes.
Meanwhile, Roselyn encounters a different sort of trap laid by the same entity, one that preys on her vampire nature and past. She's transported to a luxurious estate, confronted with a scenario that tempts her with blood - the essence of her survival and power. A mysterious woman, embodying both servitude and temptation, offers her an endless supply of what she craves most, challenging Roselyn's self-imposed restrictions and morality. Unlike Novel, Roselyn begins to question the authenticity of the dream earlier on, driven by discrepancies and an overwhelming sense that something isn't right. Her resistance against the dream's seductions strengthens as she clings to a symbol of her past, a ring, which serves as a beacon of reality amidst the swirling illusion. Ultimately, her refusal to succumb to the dream's enticements breaks the nightmare's hold, snapping her back to the safety of her apartment, though shaken by the experience. Both characters' encounters with the dream stalker highlight their inner conflicts and the power of their personal demons, wrapped in an enigmatic struggle for control over their own minds.
(Novel's odd encounter(SRWren):SRWren)
[Fri Sep 6 2024]
In a Homely Living Room
The tranquil living room has floor-to-ceiling walls lined in light-colored handmade Danish bricks, pale polished concrete floors and Douglas fir timber ceilings, and is furnished with a monumental black leather sectional and low slung birch wooden table to keep the focus on the wrap-around views. The designer clad the walls flanking the fireplace in black painted wood slats, leaving one wall blank and adding black floating shelves to the other to provide space for a few carefully curated decorative objects. Layered rugs define the seating area, twin floor lamps add symmetry and ambient lighting, and the rest of the decor is kept minimal to keep the focus on the architecture of the room. The eastern wall has been painted a nice, even terracotta hue.
There's cleaning supplies everywhere and all the furniture is pushed to the center of the room - it looks like someone recently moved in.
It is after dusk, about 75F(23C) degrees, There is a waxing crescent moon.
(Your target is attacked by a dream stalker who subjects them to their greatest fantasies in the dream world in order to keep their body passive while it's energies are fed upon. They need to, possibly with the help of allies entering their dreams, resist the temptation long enough for other allies to find them or for them to wake up.
)
OOC: Welcome! Feel free to TELL me anything you'd like in particular for this encounter or prompt, or anything that would be necessary for me to know about Novel. How short or long would you like this to be? Please let me know.
OOC: If you prefer, you can give me your TRUST LEVEL (Help Trust) so that I know what your limitations are.
Novel is currently in the midst of cleaning up his apartment after what looks like a giant animal tore through. He's sweeping up shattered pieces of television and couch into a bag, muttering something about stupid fucking cats and stupid fucking couches and an equally lazy ass maid, though from the way he moves his mood is generally good considering he just got back from beating the hell out of someone in a spar at the gym. He's still wearing his somewhat sweaty clothes, admittedly.
There is an uneasy humidity to the apartment, through Novel's toil to ensure that the apartment looks less like a war zone and more like a home. Even with the man in sweaty clothes, the heat along the terracotta walls seems to cling like yesterday's gym socks, or the slick of blood along a scab unhealed, prodded, and picked through. The brick doesn't do any favors and retains that wealth of warmth throughout the room. But it seems that throughout his clean-up session, the area gradually descends into temperatures more pleasant for habitation.
There is a drowsiness in the air, that comes with the twilight of the day. A soft mist moves across the windowless walls from the outside, and moisture comes in and drips across the well-stained timber ceilings.
Everything seems to be, mostly, for Novel, in this organized chaos, the couch has deep claw-like rips across it but seems passable enough if he makes it into a conversation piece for his visitors. Points taken against his maid though, this place is entirely as if someone came in like a wrecking ball, and left a twister.
Hours pass in this cleansing phase and the more dusk seems to harbor along the air, there is an eerie silence that cradles the apartment. The birds outside cease to sing, the sounds of traffic all but muted, and the normal hums and buzzes of appliances, and electricity are also painfully absent. Whether or not Novel notices, is another thing entirely.
Novel twists his gaze up to the ceiling of the apartment complex, issuing a lengthy sigh between pursed lips and a disgusted roll of his eyes. Yet ANOTHER thing to speak to the complex manager about - these inner rooms shouldn't be getting water damage like this. Not that he's fucking surprised, considering the door locks went out more than once when he was trying to get them fixed, or the blood stains or the fire damage (the latter of which is in other rooms that hasn't been straightened out).
There isn't much couch LEFT. Half of it's shattered remains are out in the hallway where someone - not naming names - may have used it as a projectile weapon for some reason. Yes. Anyway. By the time the evening comes to a close everything's in bags and he's fired off a orders to local furniture dealers to get something else in it's place.
And you know how things are. One things lead to another, the walls and bricks are scrubbed, the fireplace is cleared out, and eventually the hours have ticked by and he's resting his weary butt on the glass-topped low table, the only piece that has survived.
That glass-top table is getting more comfortable by the second, as that mist continues to drip down. Drip. Drop. Drip, down the sides of the walls, and then eventually spatter Novel right on his forehead. How annoying, how very...But it could start feeling rather nice, because it just keeps going, and the moisture is rather cold and soothing against a violently sweaty brow anyway. Management is going to have a fit about this one, at least everything is clean now, right? That's good, really good, and suddenly there is nothing to worry about. The table is grounded and solid underneath him until the whole world turns. Drip. Drop. Drip, goes the moisture down his face, soothing, rhythmic, softly cajoling, and peaceful, the world is just so very serene -- and he's never tranquil like this, probably, not even when he's trying to get himself to come down or shut his peepers.
A sudden, ravenous, hungry urge flashes for an instant in his gut, traveling along his thighs, and his chest, and then, nothing. Just nothing, it could've been something but it's gone now. Maybe his balance felt a little off after working so hard to get the apartment clean, just for a moment, but the world rights itself, Novel is just hanging out, at first, with his spine to the table. Did he pass out?
Novel initial and immediate normal reaction, much like to most of the things that happen in his life, is rage. Who likes getting spritzed in the face with water? People don't. Cats don't. Plants do! But, Novel's not a plant. "Those mother FUCKERS," he swears as if the leakage is a personal offense to his existence as he moves to get up and violently beat faces in - his favorite activity!
He's tranquil all the time! Once you're done killing people, it's deeply satisfying and everything is quiet and covered in a lovely shade of red after. Then you can go to the next killing. It's true, though, as water splatters against him and his default attitude pushes back.
And next thing he knows he's on his back staring at the ceiling. "Great. Those cunts sold me a bad dose. AGAIN." As he comes to the conclusion that this is just another side effect of yet another drug binge as he reaches up to wipe water spray off his face and reach for his bag. "I'm gonna go beat their stupid heads in."
The scent of smoke trickles through the cracks in the walls, and the joints in the doors, seeping in like a good memory of a campfire long ago - if Novel had one, so very long ago. Something has started to burn, in the distance, but within his apartment, there is no orange glow to witness. Should that excite him? Over a few seconds, people are rushing by his apartment door, banging it hard as a gavel; the sound of whooping and cheering -- broken glass shatters out like a flute ripping dark tinny notes high into out-of-tune ranges. That's a familiar sound! That's anarchy! Destruction! No need to go beat someone's head in, brute, go join the party, go witness what's all out there being torn down, taken down. The man won't hold you back now!
The rattling of bars, doors, and car horns start registering in sharp blares of warning outside, something, or someone in a whole host is taking to the outside. To the streets. To the very buildings nearby. Suddenly it is a war zone, a beautiful suffering symphony that must await him outside as a rumbling crash of an explosion riles the skin and stirs the blood. Ah, paradise, wondrous Eden, it waits for Novel, and it waits for all of them.
The soft beat of wings thunders along the rooftops of the apartment, and something crumbles and crashes to the ground, shaking the walls of the man's just-cleaned domicile. Oh well, all's fair in violence and impulse.
Someone then pulls the fire alarm! Hahaha, HAHAHAHA, yes -- this is it, the moment Novel surely has been awaiting all this time. Everything is beginning to burn.
Novel has far, far, more recent memories of fire. Of an entire forest, caught up in accelerant and gasoline that burns twenty-four seven, it's denizens and the things he did there that lingers in his dreams and nightmares. The echoes of an angry dragon of flames. The way that he smells of it constantly. To the way he uses fire on the regular, to cook, or the smoke that is the compliment to the club he works. There's no unfamiliarity.
But he pauses at the shattering, the breaking, the rattling and his teeth clench and a slow exhale. And then he draws the blade, pulling it from his bag, a slow sweep of his sword swinging through the air, a click and clack of his jaw. "Great. This fucking bullshit again," as he comes to the most obvious conclusion: He's either lying on the ground somewhere, twitching and spazzing out, or he's stumbling around while high as a kite.
Still, there's the allure of just savaging and breaking everything, the potential promise that the whole bureaucratic edifice of existence is grinding, crumbling. And, well. He's still got his sword.
Novel steps over towards the door, with intentness and delight on his features, ready to step out and join or become the mayhem.
emote Oh baby, this is the real deal right here. The real deal. This is no trip, at least, not to his recollection -- spasms? They're cool, but they're not really what's going on here as he slams out of the door ready to rock. On the door someone has spray-painted the words "HELL IS HERE," in manic cross and downstrokes, if he were an expert in using his eyes he'd know more. There is a strange, misty haze across the hallway and it makes it a thick sort of soup. More smoke, more that billows high and even low throughout the reaches of the pathway. Punks dressed in leathers, recognizable as being allies of the Scions are already bashing ahead, head long into disaster. Go join them, dude! It's all good, see there bats, their bludgeons, their pistol? It's that time. And that sweet perfume of destruction takes on more of the qualities of acridity, burning chemicals, and heat. This is nothing Smokey the Bear could handle, and it's nothing like that forest fire. One nearby apartment is already in flames and about to destroy Novel's deposit.
There is that ravenous pit of hunger in Novel's stomach again, gnawing like the angry demon and demanding the force of his familiar demon warrior companion. This feels good, right, peaceful -- serene as he is swept up in the motley of disorder. To become ash and cinder, he must be ready. Was he ever not? We're about to take the jungle (lane) motherfuckers, and get every bit of treasure of pain, agony, and drill out the milk of human kindness from the smoldering world. Wee-woo-wee-woo, there go the emergency vehicles, the sound is splitting by, searing like a transient light as accident after accident occurs on the road nearby. Mayhem unmanaged, ready to get fucking started. Let's go, let's go! No mom to stop him here. This is the greatest high, the greatest gift he will ever receive, this truth that the world is coming to an end and he made it happen, he's going to make it happen right here. Right now and --
Woozy. Dizzy? This normal? Another snake and serpent fangs in the pit of Novel's stomach, and should he dare step through the hallway, and make it outside, well, he might just tip over. But is the adrenaline running, pumping high? That sword looks sharp, deadly, shiny, against the smoke, ready to slice and gut people, take their blood, and teeth into their hearts. He feels someone behind him, but maybe that's just the flames pushing him out of the apartment, they've always been there, inside, stirring, restless, manic. Let them go, let them be free...
This is more his style. Novel takes in a deep breath. Savoring it. Awh, yeah. Violence and suffering, Blood and gore. Mayhem and violence. This is his jam. This is how things should be. "And here I was worried this whole trip wasn't going to be about shit," He growls out in delight." It feels great. It feels like things are ready to go. But...
Wrinkles his nose up. Fire. ... The kitchen? Did he leave something in the oven? In the chemical-soaked addled parts of his brain, nudging about more mundane things. Well, it still revolves around fire. But he'd rather not lose the kitchen. Or anything he made in there. Two desires war, demon and human, which are naturally in full lock step step after step. He doesn't really think too hard. The blade's already there. And there's someone behind him.
He jerks his arm out, aiming to cut down someone, anyone, sweeping through the air in front, into that crowd, and then thrusting behind, in bloody, violent mayhem as his feet turns towards the kitchen.
It's probably a good thing he lives alone."
Should Novel look down then up, probably to check where he's going (if he even cares), he might notice that dimensionally the world is sort of a construct. Well, it's always been, but even more so now. His sword hand looks sunken in, the skin drawn and withered tight like a raisin as if someone had stuck a straw in it and sucked down his blood, and all of his will through that invisible tunnel to make some tasty brutish treat. This isn't vampirism, there's no skin broken. But hey, he might have a bunch going on with his hands anyway, pugilist and brawler that he is. Something is beginning to take its heavy toll on Novel, and finding the well dry, and possibly, well, a bit poisoned too -- mentally. Not that this stops. Making it down the hall starts to become a Herculean trial, but when he /slashes/ his sword through the air he gets a better picture at.
Ha, nothing, nothing that he can see. Wait no, yes, someone in front. It's a woman just trying to get her groceries in her apartment, and finding herself trapped between fire and Novel. The grocery bags tumble to the floor and her astoundingly blond hair spills across some of the fruits that jumble down to the ground. When he swipes behind, psyche, there's nothing for real this time, but the fire that was burning in the nearby apartment is suddenly absent. Where's the smoke coming from now? They're in the hallway, and it suddenly seems narrower. His vision begins to swim, and -- drip. Drop. Drip. Drop. Drip -- Is that the fire retardant maintenance for the apartments? A flicker of something unusual, but the door to exit the apartments is flung wide into a scouring pitch of street lamps, buzzing, and getting tipped over the crowd of punks. They're chanting something, ritualistic, and dark, but Novel can't hear them. Gradually, he begins to weaken, the more he turns to delicious, gleeful thoughts of violence. The world is ending, and he's going to bring it about, just a few more steps, and he's out there, with them.
A draconic, ear-splitting shriek snaps across the air like an arrow fired by a bow that is drawn back so far that it screams for the breaking, and suddenly, very suddenly sparks crumble and fly across Novel's vision. His mind is throbbing, painfully, deafened, and psychically attacked by an errant, destructive, but careless calling down of the arcane. But is he sure?
Novel pauses for a moment, his expression wobbling alongside his body, as something pushes into his brain - he still has most of his senses. The blade, cold and demanding, is in his hands, his fingers tightening across it. The intimately familiar feel of one of his many stints of being homeless. Perhaps he never stopped being homeless. Perhaps his most recent and exciting adventures were never real to begin with, and he's in an alley, juiced up with so much and tweaking out. But there's a blonde woman, ready to be abused. Is she real?
Is he real?
Did he die at some point? Well.
His gaze drifts back down to his arm. The weapon, as his eyes begin to distort. The fire deep in his lungs, burning himself up. Burning. Demanding he reach out and consume and then a grotesque grimace across his features - as he staggers from the noise. The familiar noise. Memories of savage pain, of an icicle through the chest coming through it.
Ah. Yes. Drugs are for escaping the pain. Pain is, unfortunately, dreadfully, very real. He turns back towards it. His own, personal agonies, even as he finds himself slowly crouching down to the floor, a palm splayed across it to keep from falling down.
Whatever it is that pulls on Novel will never reveal itself, but we'd like to think that it may have found some entertainment in the venture. Laughter is ringing around him, all of a sudden. Is it the punks? Have they surrounded him? He'll never see it now. Drip. Drop. Drip...Drop goes something trickling, sanguine down to hit the concrete hallway from his nostrils. No escape from this. He's so hungry, still, so very hungry, and those empty spaces of the man whether emotionally, or mentally can never truly be filled even as that laughter grows, more hoarse, raspy, chilled it consumes his focus entirely. Frozen, not serene, the world turns again. And his cold, clammy form begins to creep into painful awareness, his skin husk-like and weathered as if he had aged forward ten or so years should he peer into being more self-aware. Something drew so hard upon him, and with no mercy. No recompense, save, for the fantasy, the dream, of destruction and a dance of death's determination. It's destination, plunging swiftly, darkly, to his end. A shitty cost, for so little time. He was only, dreaming.
Only, dreaming.
Yet.
(Your target is attacked by a dream stalker who subjects them to their greatest fantasies in the dream world in order to keep their body passive while it's energies are fed upon. They need to, possibly with the help of allies entering their dreams, resist the temptation long enough for other allies to find them or for them to wake up.
)
Inside a bedroom that is in some constant struggle of disrepair and a uniform state, is a vampire who's stopped concentrating on what makes her at least /look/ alive. Roselyn is sat on the edge of the bedroom's title object: A bed. A bed that's obviously a bunk bed taken apart. Two sleeping figures are on the bed beside the watchful vampire.
as Roselyn sits on the edge of the bed, the rooms seems to dim. The shadows growing creeping in as the dim light flickers above. The darkness depends. Not from the seemingly failing lightbulb but from her own vision blurring at the edges, as if the weight of her eyelids. Her eyelids that seems so heavy was dragging the room into a haze. The faint hum of calmness, a fatigue seems to settle over Roselyn.
"Huh, this is..." Roselyn murmurs to herself, eyes blinking slowly as she accustoms to that sudden weight. She reaches up, feeling at her face as she stirs... And falls back against the bed. Cuddle pile, nice.
Everything feels muted, blurred at the edges, as if the world outside these sheets no longer matter right now. A comfortable numbness settling over her as her eyelids just struggle to stay shut. But beneath the calm, theres something else. A subtle shift thats almost imperceptible at first. The air thickens, and presses down on her like a nice blanket. Not entirely unpleasant but strange, like sinking slowly into deep water. The shadows seems to grow denser, pulling her further into a languid, drowsy state. Its soothing but theres a faint, nagging sensation that tugs at the back of her mind, a tiny flicker of awareness that something isnt quite right as sleep just sounds so good to her right now
Cuddle pile? Totally a cuddle pile now as Roselyn finds herself drifting off, tilting her head gently to the side to lay against one of the others in the bed. She returns to her 'natural state'. That being of a corpse. Her skin loses color, muscles growing tense.
as Roselyn drifts off she comes to find herself in a luxurious room with a very plush and comfy bed. The room seems both oddly familiar but strange. But nothing she can quite put her finger on. Everything she looks as just.. doesn't seem to fully come into focus. Suddenly theres a knock on the door.
Dark lashes are aflutter twice. Once, when Roselyn awakens in this not-a-dream and the second time, when that knock is given. She reaches up to straighten her sundress, because she fell asleep in her day clothes like a heathen. "Ah... Come in!" Her voice is sounded, lifting a little in pitch just in case.
the door slowly opens and a figure steps in, abit blurry at first but as Roselyn focuses it seems to be a scantily clad woman wearing nothing but a set of lingerie as she steps in "Ah, Mistress! I hope I did not wake you. I came to serve you dinner and keep you company tonight." the woman flashing a smile over to Roselyn as she slowly walks over to the bed. The smile seems very nice. Abit too nice, something just.. doesn't feel right about it.
Roselyn crosses her legs at the knees as she settles a perplexed expression upon this woman. "Mistress?" Is the first question that leaves the vampiress and then with a little shake of her head, she asks, "Dinner? Company? Who are you again?"
The woman takes a seat on the edge of the bed looking over to Roselyn with that damn smile again. "Why yes. Mistress Lahaye. Mistress of this home! I was hired to keep you comfortable." she says as she scoots just abit closer to Roselyn "And to make sure that you can have fulfill that thirst of yours whenever you want. With a nice hot drink." she says as he flips her hair to expose her slender neck tilting it to allow Roselyn a full view of its umblemished surface.
There's a wrinkle of Roselyn's nose as she eyes the maid to her mistress. "Hired?" She asks, trying to keep her composure in this super-real-thing. Though, her composure is broken just slightly as she spies that exposed neck. The corners of her lips curl up, briefly, a small twitch of motion. "Dinner... Mm- I see."
the womans gives that smile again as her eyes look over to Roselyn. A intense gaze as she keeps her neck tilted "However much you want-." she says with a sultry tone as she scoots abit closer to Roselyn she just seems to take every chance to get closer "And after that, whatever you want to do."
as Roselyn curls her lips the womans gives that smile again as her eyes look over to Roselyn. A intense gaze as she keeps her neck tilted "However much you want-." she says with a sultry tone as she scoots abit closer to Roselyn she just seems to take every chance to get closer "And after that, whatever you want to do." -fixed-
Roselyn's breath catches. Did she have that breath before? She certainly wasn't in any sort of mood to be able to concentrate on reactivating the required functions to breathe. "However much?" She echoes, licking her lips as she starts to lose herself within the temptations of this dream. "Even if it were to kill you?"
the woman chuckles abit at the question as though it was obvious, her gaze remaining on her. As they stare you realize you cant quite tell what color her eyes are. They stay in pleasant and calming colors but never seem to settle. And she is keeping that smile up as she scoots ever closer "I did say however much you want. My purpose in life is to serve you however you see fit."
"Serve... Me?" Roselyn asks with a soft blink. She pulls away from the woman with furrowed brows, lips drawing into a faint line- A soft pout. "No- No, that's not me. Where am I?" She asks, blues darting about the room she's woken up in. She's started to question her surroundings, all because of the word 'serve'.
her smile drops very fast turning into a worried looking frown "What ever do you mean Mistress? You are at your estate in France. Are you feeling well?" she scoots closer trying to lay a hand on Roselyn's shoulder. Wherever Roselyn looks it just never seems to fully settled into place. There seems to be a haze of some sort over everything that is just barely there but just enough for Roselyn to notice
"I... Do not- Did not own an estate back home. Non, he and I did not stay in one place- He-" Roselyn cuts her growing rant off, eyes widening a touch as she pulls back just a little more from this maid. A hand dips along her form, searching for a specific object. Perhaps something relating to this 'he'.
the womans form seems to be the only place that seems to not have a subtle haze over it. But even then her features feel off. Her body is just -perfect- in every way Roselyn would want. But there is nothing on her that she might be looking for. Just a pair of crimson red lingerie. The woman halts her hand her expression slightly angry and annoyed before it quickly turns back to concern "What are you talking about? If you do not have a estate.. then what about this room? Please calm down." she urges Roselyn her gaze a intense stare of shifting colors.
Roselyn settles her gaze upon the woman before giving a little shake of her head. "Non- This room is... Not real. Or you are someone- Something messing with me. You are not..." She gestures to the woman, a woman very familiar to the vampiress. "I ask you treat me like this no longer."
her expression falters just a moment "Wh-what ever do you mean?" She says as she moves closer "Surely you want a drink hm?" she offers a glass of red liquid. Where did that come from. Roselyn can smell the iron in the air as she offers it. But as Roselyn seems to get more alert of what is happening the surroundings seem to distort more and more and the woman for once gets abit blurrier, her gaze is not pleasant but predatory a look of frustration just below her worrying demeanor
Roselyn finally finds what she looking for, a golden rink inscribed with French lettering. She holds it up, as if it might ward this temptress away and keep the vampiress safe. "No. I do not... Have... Permission. I cannot..." She trails off, forcing herself to say the words, to keep her away from what she wants.
a growl sounds through the air with no visible source as the womans form turns more and more horrific. A dark predatory gaze and a mouth of sharp teeth as her form seems to waver. She thrusts the glass in Roselyn's face. She can feel the warmth radiating off it as it miraculously does not seem to spill "DRINK IT." she all but screams. Her voice distorted and no longer sultry but demanding as everything seems ready to collapse at a moments notice
"N-Non! I cannot!" Roselyn shouts at the apparition, scrambling off of the bed to put some distance between herself and that offered glass full of desires. She clutches that golden ring close to her chest, eyes shuttering as if it'd help her get free of this place.
as Roselyn scrambles off the bed the apparation gives a scream of frustration looking over to Roselyn before giving a scream of rage as she lunges forward, her hands. Her hands that seem made of knives like a rip off Freddy Kreuger ready to impale her. Then suddenly its gone. And she is back in her apartment
Roselyn pants heavily as she looks around, pulling herself from the cuddle pile and looking down at her hands. A pair of very shaky hands. "This... Is why I do not sleep around people," she murmurs, eyes shuttering once again.
Meanwhile, Roselyn encounters a different sort of trap laid by the same entity, one that preys on her vampire nature and past. She's transported to a luxurious estate, confronted with a scenario that tempts her with blood - the essence of her survival and power. A mysterious woman, embodying both servitude and temptation, offers her an endless supply of what she craves most, challenging Roselyn's self-imposed restrictions and morality. Unlike Novel, Roselyn begins to question the authenticity of the dream earlier on, driven by discrepancies and an overwhelming sense that something isn't right. Her resistance against the dream's seductions strengthens as she clings to a symbol of her past, a ring, which serves as a beacon of reality amidst the swirling illusion. Ultimately, her refusal to succumb to the dream's enticements breaks the nightmare's hold, snapping her back to the safety of her apartment, though shaken by the experience. Both characters' encounters with the dream stalker highlight their inner conflicts and the power of their personal demons, wrapped in an enigmatic struggle for control over their own minds.
(Novel's odd encounter(SRWren):SRWren)
[Fri Sep 6 2024]
In a Homely Living Room
The tranquil living room has floor-to-ceiling walls lined in light-colored handmade Danish bricks, pale polished concrete floors and Douglas fir timber ceilings, and is furnished with a monumental black leather sectional and low slung birch wooden table to keep the focus on the wrap-around views. The designer clad the walls flanking the fireplace in black painted wood slats, leaving one wall blank and adding black floating shelves to the other to provide space for a few carefully curated decorative objects. Layered rugs define the seating area, twin floor lamps add symmetry and ambient lighting, and the rest of the decor is kept minimal to keep the focus on the architecture of the room. The eastern wall has been painted a nice, even terracotta hue.
There's cleaning supplies everywhere and all the furniture is pushed to the center of the room - it looks like someone recently moved in.
It is after dusk, about 75F(23C) degrees, There is a waxing crescent moon.
(Your target is attacked by a dream stalker who subjects them to their greatest fantasies in the dream world in order to keep their body passive while it's energies are fed upon. They need to, possibly with the help of allies entering their dreams, resist the temptation long enough for other allies to find them or for them to wake up.
)
OOC: Welcome! Feel free to TELL me anything you'd like in particular for this encounter or prompt, or anything that would be necessary for me to know about Novel. How short or long would you like this to be? Please let me know.
OOC: If you prefer, you can give me your TRUST LEVEL (Help Trust) so that I know what your limitations are.
Novel is currently in the midst of cleaning up his apartment after what looks like a giant animal tore through. He's sweeping up shattered pieces of television and couch into a bag, muttering something about stupid fucking cats and stupid fucking couches and an equally lazy ass maid, though from the way he moves his mood is generally good considering he just got back from beating the hell out of someone in a spar at the gym. He's still wearing his somewhat sweaty clothes, admittedly.
There is an uneasy humidity to the apartment, through Novel's toil to ensure that the apartment looks less like a war zone and more like a home. Even with the man in sweaty clothes, the heat along the terracotta walls seems to cling like yesterday's gym socks, or the slick of blood along a scab unhealed, prodded, and picked through. The brick doesn't do any favors and retains that wealth of warmth throughout the room. But it seems that throughout his clean-up session, the area gradually descends into temperatures more pleasant for habitation.
There is a drowsiness in the air, that comes with the twilight of the day. A soft mist moves across the windowless walls from the outside, and moisture comes in and drips across the well-stained timber ceilings.
Everything seems to be, mostly, for Novel, in this organized chaos, the couch has deep claw-like rips across it but seems passable enough if he makes it into a conversation piece for his visitors. Points taken against his maid though, this place is entirely as if someone came in like a wrecking ball, and left a twister.
Hours pass in this cleansing phase and the more dusk seems to harbor along the air, there is an eerie silence that cradles the apartment. The birds outside cease to sing, the sounds of traffic all but muted, and the normal hums and buzzes of appliances, and electricity are also painfully absent. Whether or not Novel notices, is another thing entirely.
Novel twists his gaze up to the ceiling of the apartment complex, issuing a lengthy sigh between pursed lips and a disgusted roll of his eyes. Yet ANOTHER thing to speak to the complex manager about - these inner rooms shouldn't be getting water damage like this. Not that he's fucking surprised, considering the door locks went out more than once when he was trying to get them fixed, or the blood stains or the fire damage (the latter of which is in other rooms that hasn't been straightened out).
There isn't much couch LEFT. Half of it's shattered remains are out in the hallway where someone - not naming names - may have used it as a projectile weapon for some reason. Yes. Anyway. By the time the evening comes to a close everything's in bags and he's fired off a orders to local furniture dealers to get something else in it's place.
And you know how things are. One things lead to another, the walls and bricks are scrubbed, the fireplace is cleared out, and eventually the hours have ticked by and he's resting his weary butt on the glass-topped low table, the only piece that has survived.
That glass-top table is getting more comfortable by the second, as that mist continues to drip down. Drip. Drop. Drip, down the sides of the walls, and then eventually spatter Novel right on his forehead. How annoying, how very...But it could start feeling rather nice, because it just keeps going, and the moisture is rather cold and soothing against a violently sweaty brow anyway. Management is going to have a fit about this one, at least everything is clean now, right? That's good, really good, and suddenly there is nothing to worry about. The table is grounded and solid underneath him until the whole world turns. Drip. Drop. Drip, goes the moisture down his face, soothing, rhythmic, softly cajoling, and peaceful, the world is just so very serene -- and he's never tranquil like this, probably, not even when he's trying to get himself to come down or shut his peepers.
A sudden, ravenous, hungry urge flashes for an instant in his gut, traveling along his thighs, and his chest, and then, nothing. Just nothing, it could've been something but it's gone now. Maybe his balance felt a little off after working so hard to get the apartment clean, just for a moment, but the world rights itself, Novel is just hanging out, at first, with his spine to the table. Did he pass out?
Novel initial and immediate normal reaction, much like to most of the things that happen in his life, is rage. Who likes getting spritzed in the face with water? People don't. Cats don't. Plants do! But, Novel's not a plant. "Those mother FUCKERS," he swears as if the leakage is a personal offense to his existence as he moves to get up and violently beat faces in - his favorite activity!
He's tranquil all the time! Once you're done killing people, it's deeply satisfying and everything is quiet and covered in a lovely shade of red after. Then you can go to the next killing. It's true, though, as water splatters against him and his default attitude pushes back.
And next thing he knows he's on his back staring at the ceiling. "Great. Those cunts sold me a bad dose. AGAIN." As he comes to the conclusion that this is just another side effect of yet another drug binge as he reaches up to wipe water spray off his face and reach for his bag. "I'm gonna go beat their stupid heads in."
The scent of smoke trickles through the cracks in the walls, and the joints in the doors, seeping in like a good memory of a campfire long ago - if Novel had one, so very long ago. Something has started to burn, in the distance, but within his apartment, there is no orange glow to witness. Should that excite him? Over a few seconds, people are rushing by his apartment door, banging it hard as a gavel; the sound of whooping and cheering -- broken glass shatters out like a flute ripping dark tinny notes high into out-of-tune ranges. That's a familiar sound! That's anarchy! Destruction! No need to go beat someone's head in, brute, go join the party, go witness what's all out there being torn down, taken down. The man won't hold you back now!
The rattling of bars, doors, and car horns start registering in sharp blares of warning outside, something, or someone in a whole host is taking to the outside. To the streets. To the very buildings nearby. Suddenly it is a war zone, a beautiful suffering symphony that must await him outside as a rumbling crash of an explosion riles the skin and stirs the blood. Ah, paradise, wondrous Eden, it waits for Novel, and it waits for all of them.
The soft beat of wings thunders along the rooftops of the apartment, and something crumbles and crashes to the ground, shaking the walls of the man's just-cleaned domicile. Oh well, all's fair in violence and impulse.
Someone then pulls the fire alarm! Hahaha, HAHAHAHA, yes -- this is it, the moment Novel surely has been awaiting all this time. Everything is beginning to burn.
Novel has far, far, more recent memories of fire. Of an entire forest, caught up in accelerant and gasoline that burns twenty-four seven, it's denizens and the things he did there that lingers in his dreams and nightmares. The echoes of an angry dragon of flames. The way that he smells of it constantly. To the way he uses fire on the regular, to cook, or the smoke that is the compliment to the club he works. There's no unfamiliarity.
But he pauses at the shattering, the breaking, the rattling and his teeth clench and a slow exhale. And then he draws the blade, pulling it from his bag, a slow sweep of his sword swinging through the air, a click and clack of his jaw. "Great. This fucking bullshit again," as he comes to the most obvious conclusion: He's either lying on the ground somewhere, twitching and spazzing out, or he's stumbling around while high as a kite.
Still, there's the allure of just savaging and breaking everything, the potential promise that the whole bureaucratic edifice of existence is grinding, crumbling. And, well. He's still got his sword.
Novel steps over towards the door, with intentness and delight on his features, ready to step out and join or become the mayhem.
emote Oh baby, this is the real deal right here. The real deal. This is no trip, at least, not to his recollection -- spasms? They're cool, but they're not really what's going on here as he slams out of the door ready to rock. On the door someone has spray-painted the words "HELL IS HERE," in manic cross and downstrokes, if he were an expert in using his eyes he'd know more. There is a strange, misty haze across the hallway and it makes it a thick sort of soup. More smoke, more that billows high and even low throughout the reaches of the pathway. Punks dressed in leathers, recognizable as being allies of the Scions are already bashing ahead, head long into disaster. Go join them, dude! It's all good, see there bats, their bludgeons, their pistol? It's that time. And that sweet perfume of destruction takes on more of the qualities of acridity, burning chemicals, and heat. This is nothing Smokey the Bear could handle, and it's nothing like that forest fire. One nearby apartment is already in flames and about to destroy Novel's deposit.
There is that ravenous pit of hunger in Novel's stomach again, gnawing like the angry demon and demanding the force of his familiar demon warrior companion. This feels good, right, peaceful -- serene as he is swept up in the motley of disorder. To become ash and cinder, he must be ready. Was he ever not? We're about to take the jungle (lane) motherfuckers, and get every bit of treasure of pain, agony, and drill out the milk of human kindness from the smoldering world. Wee-woo-wee-woo, there go the emergency vehicles, the sound is splitting by, searing like a transient light as accident after accident occurs on the road nearby. Mayhem unmanaged, ready to get fucking started. Let's go, let's go! No mom to stop him here. This is the greatest high, the greatest gift he will ever receive, this truth that the world is coming to an end and he made it happen, he's going to make it happen right here. Right now and --
Woozy. Dizzy? This normal? Another snake and serpent fangs in the pit of Novel's stomach, and should he dare step through the hallway, and make it outside, well, he might just tip over. But is the adrenaline running, pumping high? That sword looks sharp, deadly, shiny, against the smoke, ready to slice and gut people, take their blood, and teeth into their hearts. He feels someone behind him, but maybe that's just the flames pushing him out of the apartment, they've always been there, inside, stirring, restless, manic. Let them go, let them be free...
This is more his style. Novel takes in a deep breath. Savoring it. Awh, yeah. Violence and suffering, Blood and gore. Mayhem and violence. This is his jam. This is how things should be. "And here I was worried this whole trip wasn't going to be about shit," He growls out in delight." It feels great. It feels like things are ready to go. But...
Wrinkles his nose up. Fire. ... The kitchen? Did he leave something in the oven? In the chemical-soaked addled parts of his brain, nudging about more mundane things. Well, it still revolves around fire. But he'd rather not lose the kitchen. Or anything he made in there. Two desires war, demon and human, which are naturally in full lock step step after step. He doesn't really think too hard. The blade's already there. And there's someone behind him.
He jerks his arm out, aiming to cut down someone, anyone, sweeping through the air in front, into that crowd, and then thrusting behind, in bloody, violent mayhem as his feet turns towards the kitchen.
It's probably a good thing he lives alone."
Should Novel look down then up, probably to check where he's going (if he even cares), he might notice that dimensionally the world is sort of a construct. Well, it's always been, but even more so now. His sword hand looks sunken in, the skin drawn and withered tight like a raisin as if someone had stuck a straw in it and sucked down his blood, and all of his will through that invisible tunnel to make some tasty brutish treat. This isn't vampirism, there's no skin broken. But hey, he might have a bunch going on with his hands anyway, pugilist and brawler that he is. Something is beginning to take its heavy toll on Novel, and finding the well dry, and possibly, well, a bit poisoned too -- mentally. Not that this stops. Making it down the hall starts to become a Herculean trial, but when he /slashes/ his sword through the air he gets a better picture at.
Ha, nothing, nothing that he can see. Wait no, yes, someone in front. It's a woman just trying to get her groceries in her apartment, and finding herself trapped between fire and Novel. The grocery bags tumble to the floor and her astoundingly blond hair spills across some of the fruits that jumble down to the ground. When he swipes behind, psyche, there's nothing for real this time, but the fire that was burning in the nearby apartment is suddenly absent. Where's the smoke coming from now? They're in the hallway, and it suddenly seems narrower. His vision begins to swim, and -- drip. Drop. Drip. Drop. Drip -- Is that the fire retardant maintenance for the apartments? A flicker of something unusual, but the door to exit the apartments is flung wide into a scouring pitch of street lamps, buzzing, and getting tipped over the crowd of punks. They're chanting something, ritualistic, and dark, but Novel can't hear them. Gradually, he begins to weaken, the more he turns to delicious, gleeful thoughts of violence. The world is ending, and he's going to bring it about, just a few more steps, and he's out there, with them.
A draconic, ear-splitting shriek snaps across the air like an arrow fired by a bow that is drawn back so far that it screams for the breaking, and suddenly, very suddenly sparks crumble and fly across Novel's vision. His mind is throbbing, painfully, deafened, and psychically attacked by an errant, destructive, but careless calling down of the arcane. But is he sure?
Novel pauses for a moment, his expression wobbling alongside his body, as something pushes into his brain - he still has most of his senses. The blade, cold and demanding, is in his hands, his fingers tightening across it. The intimately familiar feel of one of his many stints of being homeless. Perhaps he never stopped being homeless. Perhaps his most recent and exciting adventures were never real to begin with, and he's in an alley, juiced up with so much and tweaking out. But there's a blonde woman, ready to be abused. Is she real?
Is he real?
Did he die at some point? Well.
His gaze drifts back down to his arm. The weapon, as his eyes begin to distort. The fire deep in his lungs, burning himself up. Burning. Demanding he reach out and consume and then a grotesque grimace across his features - as he staggers from the noise. The familiar noise. Memories of savage pain, of an icicle through the chest coming through it.
Ah. Yes. Drugs are for escaping the pain. Pain is, unfortunately, dreadfully, very real. He turns back towards it. His own, personal agonies, even as he finds himself slowly crouching down to the floor, a palm splayed across it to keep from falling down.
Whatever it is that pulls on Novel will never reveal itself, but we'd like to think that it may have found some entertainment in the venture. Laughter is ringing around him, all of a sudden. Is it the punks? Have they surrounded him? He'll never see it now. Drip. Drop. Drip...Drop goes something trickling, sanguine down to hit the concrete hallway from his nostrils. No escape from this. He's so hungry, still, so very hungry, and those empty spaces of the man whether emotionally, or mentally can never truly be filled even as that laughter grows, more hoarse, raspy, chilled it consumes his focus entirely. Frozen, not serene, the world turns again. And his cold, clammy form begins to creep into painful awareness, his skin husk-like and weathered as if he had aged forward ten or so years should he peer into being more self-aware. Something drew so hard upon him, and with no mercy. No recompense, save, for the fantasy, the dream, of destruction and a dance of death's determination. It's destination, plunging swiftly, darkly, to his end. A shitty cost, for so little time. He was only, dreaming.
Only, dreaming.
Yet.
(Your target is attacked by a dream stalker who subjects them to their greatest fantasies in the dream world in order to keep their body passive while it's energies are fed upon. They need to, possibly with the help of allies entering their dreams, resist the temptation long enough for other allies to find them or for them to wake up.
)
Inside a bedroom that is in some constant struggle of disrepair and a uniform state, is a vampire who's stopped concentrating on what makes her at least /look/ alive. Roselyn is sat on the edge of the bedroom's title object: A bed. A bed that's obviously a bunk bed taken apart. Two sleeping figures are on the bed beside the watchful vampire.
as Roselyn sits on the edge of the bed, the rooms seems to dim. The shadows growing creeping in as the dim light flickers above. The darkness depends. Not from the seemingly failing lightbulb but from her own vision blurring at the edges, as if the weight of her eyelids. Her eyelids that seems so heavy was dragging the room into a haze. The faint hum of calmness, a fatigue seems to settle over Roselyn.
"Huh, this is..." Roselyn murmurs to herself, eyes blinking slowly as she accustoms to that sudden weight. She reaches up, feeling at her face as she stirs... And falls back against the bed. Cuddle pile, nice.
Everything feels muted, blurred at the edges, as if the world outside these sheets no longer matter right now. A comfortable numbness settling over her as her eyelids just struggle to stay shut. But beneath the calm, theres something else. A subtle shift thats almost imperceptible at first. The air thickens, and presses down on her like a nice blanket. Not entirely unpleasant but strange, like sinking slowly into deep water. The shadows seems to grow denser, pulling her further into a languid, drowsy state. Its soothing but theres a faint, nagging sensation that tugs at the back of her mind, a tiny flicker of awareness that something isnt quite right as sleep just sounds so good to her right now
Cuddle pile? Totally a cuddle pile now as Roselyn finds herself drifting off, tilting her head gently to the side to lay against one of the others in the bed. She returns to her 'natural state'. That being of a corpse. Her skin loses color, muscles growing tense.
as Roselyn drifts off she comes to find herself in a luxurious room with a very plush and comfy bed. The room seems both oddly familiar but strange. But nothing she can quite put her finger on. Everything she looks as just.. doesn't seem to fully come into focus. Suddenly theres a knock on the door.
Dark lashes are aflutter twice. Once, when Roselyn awakens in this not-a-dream and the second time, when that knock is given. She reaches up to straighten her sundress, because she fell asleep in her day clothes like a heathen. "Ah... Come in!" Her voice is sounded, lifting a little in pitch just in case.
the door slowly opens and a figure steps in, abit blurry at first but as Roselyn focuses it seems to be a scantily clad woman wearing nothing but a set of lingerie as she steps in "Ah, Mistress! I hope I did not wake you. I came to serve you dinner and keep you company tonight." the woman flashing a smile over to Roselyn as she slowly walks over to the bed. The smile seems very nice. Abit too nice, something just.. doesn't feel right about it.
Roselyn crosses her legs at the knees as she settles a perplexed expression upon this woman. "Mistress?" Is the first question that leaves the vampiress and then with a little shake of her head, she asks, "Dinner? Company? Who are you again?"
The woman takes a seat on the edge of the bed looking over to Roselyn with that damn smile again. "Why yes. Mistress Lahaye. Mistress of this home! I was hired to keep you comfortable." she says as she scoots just abit closer to Roselyn "And to make sure that you can have fulfill that thirst of yours whenever you want. With a nice hot drink." she says as he flips her hair to expose her slender neck tilting it to allow Roselyn a full view of its umblemished surface.
There's a wrinkle of Roselyn's nose as she eyes the maid to her mistress. "Hired?" She asks, trying to keep her composure in this super-real-thing. Though, her composure is broken just slightly as she spies that exposed neck. The corners of her lips curl up, briefly, a small twitch of motion. "Dinner... Mm- I see."
the womans gives that smile again as her eyes look over to Roselyn. A intense gaze as she keeps her neck tilted "However much you want-." she says with a sultry tone as she scoots abit closer to Roselyn she just seems to take every chance to get closer "And after that, whatever you want to do."
as Roselyn curls her lips the womans gives that smile again as her eyes look over to Roselyn. A intense gaze as she keeps her neck tilted "However much you want-." she says with a sultry tone as she scoots abit closer to Roselyn she just seems to take every chance to get closer "And after that, whatever you want to do." -fixed-
Roselyn's breath catches. Did she have that breath before? She certainly wasn't in any sort of mood to be able to concentrate on reactivating the required functions to breathe. "However much?" She echoes, licking her lips as she starts to lose herself within the temptations of this dream. "Even if it were to kill you?"
the woman chuckles abit at the question as though it was obvious, her gaze remaining on her. As they stare you realize you cant quite tell what color her eyes are. They stay in pleasant and calming colors but never seem to settle. And she is keeping that smile up as she scoots ever closer "I did say however much you want. My purpose in life is to serve you however you see fit."
"Serve... Me?" Roselyn asks with a soft blink. She pulls away from the woman with furrowed brows, lips drawing into a faint line- A soft pout. "No- No, that's not me. Where am I?" She asks, blues darting about the room she's woken up in. She's started to question her surroundings, all because of the word 'serve'.
her smile drops very fast turning into a worried looking frown "What ever do you mean Mistress? You are at your estate in France. Are you feeling well?" she scoots closer trying to lay a hand on Roselyn's shoulder. Wherever Roselyn looks it just never seems to fully settled into place. There seems to be a haze of some sort over everything that is just barely there but just enough for Roselyn to notice
"I... Do not- Did not own an estate back home. Non, he and I did not stay in one place- He-" Roselyn cuts her growing rant off, eyes widening a touch as she pulls back just a little more from this maid. A hand dips along her form, searching for a specific object. Perhaps something relating to this 'he'.
the womans form seems to be the only place that seems to not have a subtle haze over it. But even then her features feel off. Her body is just -perfect- in every way Roselyn would want. But there is nothing on her that she might be looking for. Just a pair of crimson red lingerie. The woman halts her hand her expression slightly angry and annoyed before it quickly turns back to concern "What are you talking about? If you do not have a estate.. then what about this room? Please calm down." she urges Roselyn her gaze a intense stare of shifting colors.
Roselyn settles her gaze upon the woman before giving a little shake of her head. "Non- This room is... Not real. Or you are someone- Something messing with me. You are not..." She gestures to the woman, a woman very familiar to the vampiress. "I ask you treat me like this no longer."
her expression falters just a moment "Wh-what ever do you mean?" She says as she moves closer "Surely you want a drink hm?" she offers a glass of red liquid. Where did that come from. Roselyn can smell the iron in the air as she offers it. But as Roselyn seems to get more alert of what is happening the surroundings seem to distort more and more and the woman for once gets abit blurrier, her gaze is not pleasant but predatory a look of frustration just below her worrying demeanor
Roselyn finally finds what she looking for, a golden rink inscribed with French lettering. She holds it up, as if it might ward this temptress away and keep the vampiress safe. "No. I do not... Have... Permission. I cannot..." She trails off, forcing herself to say the words, to keep her away from what she wants.
a growl sounds through the air with no visible source as the womans form turns more and more horrific. A dark predatory gaze and a mouth of sharp teeth as her form seems to waver. She thrusts the glass in Roselyn's face. She can feel the warmth radiating off it as it miraculously does not seem to spill "DRINK IT." she all but screams. Her voice distorted and no longer sultry but demanding as everything seems ready to collapse at a moments notice
"N-Non! I cannot!" Roselyn shouts at the apparition, scrambling off of the bed to put some distance between herself and that offered glass full of desires. She clutches that golden ring close to her chest, eyes shuttering as if it'd help her get free of this place.
as Roselyn scrambles off the bed the apparation gives a scream of frustration looking over to Roselyn before giving a scream of rage as she lunges forward, her hands. Her hands that seem made of knives like a rip off Freddy Kreuger ready to impale her. Then suddenly its gone. And she is back in her apartment
Roselyn pants heavily as she looks around, pulling herself from the cuddle pile and looking down at her hands. A pair of very shaky hands. "This... Is why I do not sleep around people," she murmurs, eyes shuttering once again.