Encounterlogs
Rachels Odd Encounter Sr Yasmin
Rachel wakes up disoriented and trapped in an unfamiliar and luxurious room, far more opulent than her own dorm room. She's clad in plush, silken crimson sheets, the room is silent except for the ticking of a clock, and it slowly dawns on her that she has been kidnapped. The room's details—a towering bed, the excessive carpet, the sheer curtains—are all wrong. Instead of a door to the bathroom, she finds herself locked inside this mysterious chamber. Her attempts at finding a typical escape route are futile as there is no door to the bathroom for her to brush her teeth, and the main door out of the room is locked. She tries to interpret her odd surroundings and contemplates the severity of her situation, struck with the realistic notion that someone may still be lurking nearby.
As Rachel's desperation grows, she searches the room for useful tools and discovers a small key among locked drawers filled with mundane items and a leather-bound diary. She quickly sets to work, utilizing a letter opener to jimmy the door lock open, but just as she's about to escape, the distant sound of footsteps approaching fills her with dread. With little time to act, Rachel chooses to smash the room's window using inkwells, hoping to alert someone to her captivity or potentially escape. The window gives way just as her captor struggles with the door lock, ironically locking it by mistake. Panic-stricken by the sight of the drop below, Rachel has a moment of hesitation, knowing that the choice to leap might be her only shot at freedom, despite the danger it poses.
(Rachel's odd encounter(SRYasmin):SRYasmin)
[Wed Nov 22 2023]
In a cozy, corner to corner nerd-dom
This room is an exercise in organized chaos. Cardboard boxes are scattered across the floor, each one carefully labeled with subjects like "Psychology Textbooks" and "Plushie Collectibles." The walls are bare, save for a white poster that carries farewell notes, hand-drawn images, and signatures, supposedly from the "Thomas Jefferson High School Pokemon Go Team." A sturdy bookshelf segments the room, waiting to be filled with evidence of academic rigor. On the smaller half of the room, there is a twin-size bed covered in mismatched blue-and-green sheets; on the larger half of the room, a wood desk with plenty of drawers, sure to play host to unnecessary knick-knacks. There is the persistent hum of a gaming rig - sometimes, a vintage Gamecube, others a monstrous multi-monitor setup.
It is about 50F(10C) degrees.
(Your target is abducted in their sleep, waking up alone in a locked room. They need to either escape or draw attention to them so their allies can come and provide assistance.
)
Where Rachel had gone to sleep is certainly not where she wakes up; it's a slow, slow waking, accompanied by a pounding in her head and a dryness in her mouth. At least the bed beneath her is soft. Maybe much too soft, even. Her dorm room's bedsheets don't have half the thread count of these silken, crimson sheets beneath her, even before considering the heavy drape of curtains hanging from the bedposts, or the comfortable, just-right temperature of the surroundings. There's nobody else in the room, only her and pervasive silence, other than the sound of a clock slowly tick-tock-tick-tocking in the background.
Rachel's is a slow waking. The sun hasn't even risen yet. She pulls the covers over her head in a bid to return to sleep; something in the feel of it, yes, is wrong. Eventually, up off the bed she goes, bleary-eyed, balled fist rubbing away drowsiness. Her legs swing over the side of the bed, and she marches herself off to brush her teeth in the bathroom in the next roo-- her hand twists nothing, when it should've reached a doorknob. What the hell?
Dim, golden light fills the room from the crystal chandelier that hangs overhead, casting a warm glow across the place. It shouldn't be that hard for Rachel to see where she's going - assuming her eyes would stop being so blurry. The bed being way too high should have been the first clue, the carpet under her feet the next of many. It's a way-too-fancy carpet too, the softness pleasant, saving her from the otherwise cold tile there could have been. It's not a bad room to wake up to, as far as it goes. Assuming she doesn't trip over the curtains that drape off the bed in her drowsiness.
And no, there's no door to the bathroom here. Brushing her teeth will have to wait. At least someone had the sense to place her boots in the corner of the room though, in case she wants to find her way back into them.
Not a bad room to wake up to, if it were hers. Panic registers on Rachel's face. Rachel doesn't need to say anything for her thoughts to be plainly read: the only explanation's kidnap. And if that's the case, she's watched too many horror movies to spend time rooting around the room for clues. Whomever moved her could still be lurking. She's desperately quiet, tiptoeing - and here that rug provides assistance, muting footfall - all the way to the corner of the room. Rather than pull her boots on, she retrieves them, hugging them against her chest as she peers outside. Maybe she's gotten lucky; maybe no one's home.
If whomever moved her was indeed lurking, Rachel's tiptoeing across the room would be a dead giveaway of her waking regardless; there's no cameras visibly obvious in the room though - someone was really going for a 1800s look. Nothing comes out at her though, no spooky scary monster out the shadows to jumpscare her. It seems whoever left her here wasn't betting on her waking up so soon. Or maybe they're just really confident in her being trapped here that they've dared to leave her alone.
There's little 'peering outside' to be had through the door; it's closed and locked solid, and a glance through the keyhole would expose little of use. There's a window set into the western wall, though, large and grand, even if the view it offers is abysmal, the five-in-the-morning darkness pervading. There's the treeline in the distance, barely able to be made out, and Rachel can tell she's on the second, if not the third floor of what can only be a mansion. Whoever lived here didn't care too much for outdoor lighting.
Rachel does try the door first. Her pushing and pulling becomes more and more frantic when it becomes clear that the door won't yield, its lock firmly engaged. She lets out a little, stifled cry; the disappointment's devastating. She doesn't have another option, then. It's time to play sleuth. Following a deep, calming breath, she goes to the window, examining its make - is it single pane? Double?
The desk - the desk has to have something she can use. The inkwell's picked up. She wiiiiiiinds her arm back, as if to throw it at the window, to body her way out, if she has to. A pause. That notion's discarded, as quickly as it was formed. It's too noisy.
Back to the desk. She goes for the drawers, seeing if any of them will allow her entrance. If the rest of the mansion is of the 1800s, perhaps its security is, too. Maybe she can jimmy the door open.
The windows are single-pane, which makes sense given the archaic everything else in the building; they'd be easily smashed, if Rachel decided to try for such a thing. She doesn't for now, though. Maybe a good thing? Or maybe the longer she lingers, the more chance there is of her captive - or captives - coming to check on her. Time will tell, surely.
The drawers are locked, but just a quick look upon or around the stash of papers on the desk would reveal a small key that can be used to slide them open - they really weren't taking their security seriously around here. The contents inside are expected; some more inkpots, quills, and parchment, candles and a lighter, a letter opener, a pair of sunglasses, for whatever reason, really everything anyone would need here. Beneath it all rests a small diary, bound in leather and clasped shut.
Rachel isn't careful about her investigative process. The papers are hastily shoved away, the key picked up with trembling fingers. In her haste, she misses the lock a couple of times before, at last, managing to open a drawer. All of its contents are removed and set on the desk for good measure. An inkpot. Two inkpots. Three inkpots. How many inkpots does one person need? The quill, the parchment, the candles, the glasses, the lighter are all added in short measure. What's left: the letter opener. Thank God - the blade looks slim enough.
Her boots and that letter opener both are carried to the door, the former set down so she has free rein to slide the letter opener in the crack between the door and the wall. "C'mon, open up," she whispers to it, as if it could be commanded.
Unfortunately for Rachel, the door doesn't actually work off voice-command. The blade is thin enough to slide in the small crack, but given her experience with unlocking closed doors with letter openers is likely zero, unless she's secretly some sort of letter-opener-door-opening bandit, and the metal meets resistance from the lock, seeming like a futile effort. Until...
Click.
The lock clicks open, one turning of the handle away from... maybe not freedom, but one step closer to it anyway.
Just in time to hear the footsteps coming down the hall, boots clicking against marbled floor. The rest of the house doesn't get the same carpeted experience, it would seem. Probably to Rachel's advantage.
Yes! Rachel pulls the door open and is about to duck into the hallway when... Clomp. Clomp clomp. Her eyes shut; her jaw clenches. Thwarted again. The thump of her heart becomes a persistent patter. Down to her second - and last - option, then. All of those inkwells are pulled into her arms - the diary, too, for good measure. Maybe it contains information on her attacker; if she's fortunate enough to escape, she'll be able to hand it over to the Sheriff's office. someone someone With a last, wary glance at the door, she uses all of her inconsiderable strength to hurl one inkwell after another at the window. Damn, her aim isn't great. One hits the wall. The rest, though, make impact with the glass.
Yes! Rachel pulls the door open and is about to duck into the hallway when... Clomp. Clomp clomp. Her eyes shut; her jaw clenches. Thwarted again. The thump of her heart becomes a persistent patter. Down to her second - and last - option, then. All of those inkwells are pulled into her arms - the diary, too, for good measure. Maybe it contains information on her attacker; if she's fortunate enough to escape, she'll be able to hand it over to the Sheriff's office.
With a last, wary glance at the door, she uses all of her inconsiderable strength to hurl one inkwell after another at the window. Damn, her aim isn't great. One hits the wall. The rest, though, make impact with the glass.
The ink from the first pot that smashes against the wall spills bloody upon the carpet, red bleeding into red, hues of slit-throat crimson flowing free of the glass. Is it just her, or is there the sharp tang of iron that accompanies it?
Rachel's given no time to ponder it - the footsteps are worryingly close now, and the rest of the pots are aimed true; the first smacks off with a small crack, the next widens it into a spiderweb of cracks, and the window stands no chance by the third. Maybe she could have muffled the crash of glass against the carpet if she'd been more meticulous about it; it's much too late for that now. The entire window comes crashing down, and there's a muffled, "What is going on in there?!" from behind the door - masculine, perplexed, maybe a little angry? Whoever it is has made the rookie mistake of trying to unlock the already-unlocked door without trying it first, and ends up locking it again instead. Whoops. That does buy her a precious few more seconds though.
... but maybe she shouldn't try to risk stepping on glass - and then stepping on whatever's out there barefoot.
Or should she? Time's running out.
Adrenaline distracts from pain - and so Rachel walks clear across the glass, no time devoted to collecting her boots. She pulls her jacket sleeve lower down the length of her arm, so it covers the heel of her palm, and uses the material to swipe the last, dangerous shards of glass away from the window frame.
She's got one leg out, straddling the line between indoors and out before she makes a critical mistake. Her gaze goes not just outward, but down. It's a steep drop to the ground below. There's hesitation; it's no logical calculation. Whoever's beyond the door likely poses greater danger than a crippling drop, but...
A precious second passes. Her indecision might cost her.
As Rachel's desperation grows, she searches the room for useful tools and discovers a small key among locked drawers filled with mundane items and a leather-bound diary. She quickly sets to work, utilizing a letter opener to jimmy the door lock open, but just as she's about to escape, the distant sound of footsteps approaching fills her with dread. With little time to act, Rachel chooses to smash the room's window using inkwells, hoping to alert someone to her captivity or potentially escape. The window gives way just as her captor struggles with the door lock, ironically locking it by mistake. Panic-stricken by the sight of the drop below, Rachel has a moment of hesitation, knowing that the choice to leap might be her only shot at freedom, despite the danger it poses.
(Rachel's odd encounter(SRYasmin):SRYasmin)
[Wed Nov 22 2023]
In a cozy, corner to corner nerd-dom
This room is an exercise in organized chaos. Cardboard boxes are scattered across the floor, each one carefully labeled with subjects like "Psychology Textbooks" and "Plushie Collectibles." The walls are bare, save for a white poster that carries farewell notes, hand-drawn images, and signatures, supposedly from the "Thomas Jefferson High School Pokemon Go Team." A sturdy bookshelf segments the room, waiting to be filled with evidence of academic rigor. On the smaller half of the room, there is a twin-size bed covered in mismatched blue-and-green sheets; on the larger half of the room, a wood desk with plenty of drawers, sure to play host to unnecessary knick-knacks. There is the persistent hum of a gaming rig - sometimes, a vintage Gamecube, others a monstrous multi-monitor setup.
It is about 50F(10C) degrees.
(Your target is abducted in their sleep, waking up alone in a locked room. They need to either escape or draw attention to them so their allies can come and provide assistance.
)
Where Rachel had gone to sleep is certainly not where she wakes up; it's a slow, slow waking, accompanied by a pounding in her head and a dryness in her mouth. At least the bed beneath her is soft. Maybe much too soft, even. Her dorm room's bedsheets don't have half the thread count of these silken, crimson sheets beneath her, even before considering the heavy drape of curtains hanging from the bedposts, or the comfortable, just-right temperature of the surroundings. There's nobody else in the room, only her and pervasive silence, other than the sound of a clock slowly tick-tock-tick-tocking in the background.
Rachel's is a slow waking. The sun hasn't even risen yet. She pulls the covers over her head in a bid to return to sleep; something in the feel of it, yes, is wrong. Eventually, up off the bed she goes, bleary-eyed, balled fist rubbing away drowsiness. Her legs swing over the side of the bed, and she marches herself off to brush her teeth in the bathroom in the next roo-- her hand twists nothing, when it should've reached a doorknob. What the hell?
Dim, golden light fills the room from the crystal chandelier that hangs overhead, casting a warm glow across the place. It shouldn't be that hard for Rachel to see where she's going - assuming her eyes would stop being so blurry. The bed being way too high should have been the first clue, the carpet under her feet the next of many. It's a way-too-fancy carpet too, the softness pleasant, saving her from the otherwise cold tile there could have been. It's not a bad room to wake up to, as far as it goes. Assuming she doesn't trip over the curtains that drape off the bed in her drowsiness.
And no, there's no door to the bathroom here. Brushing her teeth will have to wait. At least someone had the sense to place her boots in the corner of the room though, in case she wants to find her way back into them.
Not a bad room to wake up to, if it were hers. Panic registers on Rachel's face. Rachel doesn't need to say anything for her thoughts to be plainly read: the only explanation's kidnap. And if that's the case, she's watched too many horror movies to spend time rooting around the room for clues. Whomever moved her could still be lurking. She's desperately quiet, tiptoeing - and here that rug provides assistance, muting footfall - all the way to the corner of the room. Rather than pull her boots on, she retrieves them, hugging them against her chest as she peers outside. Maybe she's gotten lucky; maybe no one's home.
If whomever moved her was indeed lurking, Rachel's tiptoeing across the room would be a dead giveaway of her waking regardless; there's no cameras visibly obvious in the room though - someone was really going for a 1800s look. Nothing comes out at her though, no spooky scary monster out the shadows to jumpscare her. It seems whoever left her here wasn't betting on her waking up so soon. Or maybe they're just really confident in her being trapped here that they've dared to leave her alone.
There's little 'peering outside' to be had through the door; it's closed and locked solid, and a glance through the keyhole would expose little of use. There's a window set into the western wall, though, large and grand, even if the view it offers is abysmal, the five-in-the-morning darkness pervading. There's the treeline in the distance, barely able to be made out, and Rachel can tell she's on the second, if not the third floor of what can only be a mansion. Whoever lived here didn't care too much for outdoor lighting.
Rachel does try the door first. Her pushing and pulling becomes more and more frantic when it becomes clear that the door won't yield, its lock firmly engaged. She lets out a little, stifled cry; the disappointment's devastating. She doesn't have another option, then. It's time to play sleuth. Following a deep, calming breath, she goes to the window, examining its make - is it single pane? Double?
The desk - the desk has to have something she can use. The inkwell's picked up. She wiiiiiiinds her arm back, as if to throw it at the window, to body her way out, if she has to. A pause. That notion's discarded, as quickly as it was formed. It's too noisy.
Back to the desk. She goes for the drawers, seeing if any of them will allow her entrance. If the rest of the mansion is of the 1800s, perhaps its security is, too. Maybe she can jimmy the door open.
The windows are single-pane, which makes sense given the archaic everything else in the building; they'd be easily smashed, if Rachel decided to try for such a thing. She doesn't for now, though. Maybe a good thing? Or maybe the longer she lingers, the more chance there is of her captive - or captives - coming to check on her. Time will tell, surely.
The drawers are locked, but just a quick look upon or around the stash of papers on the desk would reveal a small key that can be used to slide them open - they really weren't taking their security seriously around here. The contents inside are expected; some more inkpots, quills, and parchment, candles and a lighter, a letter opener, a pair of sunglasses, for whatever reason, really everything anyone would need here. Beneath it all rests a small diary, bound in leather and clasped shut.
Rachel isn't careful about her investigative process. The papers are hastily shoved away, the key picked up with trembling fingers. In her haste, she misses the lock a couple of times before, at last, managing to open a drawer. All of its contents are removed and set on the desk for good measure. An inkpot. Two inkpots. Three inkpots. How many inkpots does one person need? The quill, the parchment, the candles, the glasses, the lighter are all added in short measure. What's left: the letter opener. Thank God - the blade looks slim enough.
Her boots and that letter opener both are carried to the door, the former set down so she has free rein to slide the letter opener in the crack between the door and the wall. "C'mon, open up," she whispers to it, as if it could be commanded.
Unfortunately for Rachel, the door doesn't actually work off voice-command. The blade is thin enough to slide in the small crack, but given her experience with unlocking closed doors with letter openers is likely zero, unless she's secretly some sort of letter-opener-door-opening bandit, and the metal meets resistance from the lock, seeming like a futile effort. Until...
Click.
The lock clicks open, one turning of the handle away from... maybe not freedom, but one step closer to it anyway.
Just in time to hear the footsteps coming down the hall, boots clicking against marbled floor. The rest of the house doesn't get the same carpeted experience, it would seem. Probably to Rachel's advantage.
Yes! Rachel pulls the door open and is about to duck into the hallway when... Clomp. Clomp clomp. Her eyes shut; her jaw clenches. Thwarted again. The thump of her heart becomes a persistent patter. Down to her second - and last - option, then. All of those inkwells are pulled into her arms - the diary, too, for good measure. Maybe it contains information on her attacker; if she's fortunate enough to escape, she'll be able to hand it over to the Sheriff's office. someone someone With a last, wary glance at the door, she uses all of her inconsiderable strength to hurl one inkwell after another at the window. Damn, her aim isn't great. One hits the wall. The rest, though, make impact with the glass.
Yes! Rachel pulls the door open and is about to duck into the hallway when... Clomp. Clomp clomp. Her eyes shut; her jaw clenches. Thwarted again. The thump of her heart becomes a persistent patter. Down to her second - and last - option, then. All of those inkwells are pulled into her arms - the diary, too, for good measure. Maybe it contains information on her attacker; if she's fortunate enough to escape, she'll be able to hand it over to the Sheriff's office.
With a last, wary glance at the door, she uses all of her inconsiderable strength to hurl one inkwell after another at the window. Damn, her aim isn't great. One hits the wall. The rest, though, make impact with the glass.
The ink from the first pot that smashes against the wall spills bloody upon the carpet, red bleeding into red, hues of slit-throat crimson flowing free of the glass. Is it just her, or is there the sharp tang of iron that accompanies it?
Rachel's given no time to ponder it - the footsteps are worryingly close now, and the rest of the pots are aimed true; the first smacks off with a small crack, the next widens it into a spiderweb of cracks, and the window stands no chance by the third. Maybe she could have muffled the crash of glass against the carpet if she'd been more meticulous about it; it's much too late for that now. The entire window comes crashing down, and there's a muffled, "What is going on in there?!" from behind the door - masculine, perplexed, maybe a little angry? Whoever it is has made the rookie mistake of trying to unlock the already-unlocked door without trying it first, and ends up locking it again instead. Whoops. That does buy her a precious few more seconds though.
... but maybe she shouldn't try to risk stepping on glass - and then stepping on whatever's out there barefoot.
Or should she? Time's running out.
Adrenaline distracts from pain - and so Rachel walks clear across the glass, no time devoted to collecting her boots. She pulls her jacket sleeve lower down the length of her arm, so it covers the heel of her palm, and uses the material to swipe the last, dangerous shards of glass away from the window frame.
She's got one leg out, straddling the line between indoors and out before she makes a critical mistake. Her gaze goes not just outward, but down. It's a steep drop to the ground below. There's hesitation; it's no logical calculation. Whoever's beyond the door likely poses greater danger than a crippling drop, but...
A precious second passes. Her indecision might cost her.