Encounterlogs
Rashids Odd Encounter Sr Lucy 241227
In an eerie episode within the disquieting confines of the Bear's Cave, Rashid found himself embroiled in a chilling confrontation with a ghost emanating from a mysterious trunk. The spectral presence, consumed by anger and sorrow over a past tragedy, accused Rashid of abandonment leading to her death. Despite Rashid's confusion and attempts to communicate through his "magical brick" for translation, the ghost's fury only escalated. Enraged by what she interpreted as Rashid's mockery and lies, she launched a barrage of physical and spectral attacks against him. Rashid, bewildered and unable to understand the ghost's accusations, attempted to defend himself and retaliate. His panic and desperation led him to recklessly smash into the trunk that he believed was the source of the ghostly intrusion, ultimately causing the spirit to disintegrate into a burst of light and curses, leaving behind a room scattered with debris and evidence of the supernatural altercation.
Meanwhile, in a warmer but no less unsettling setting, Emmelline was approached by Maggie, a distressed waitress at Rosie's Diner, concerned about their mutual acquaintance, Clara. Clara, known for her vibrant personality, had been exhibiting strange and distant behavior, engaging in ominous rituals involving symbols and candles in the dead of night. Reluctantly, Emmelline agreed to investigate, driven more by exasperation than altruism. Upon entering Clara's trailer, she was met with a disturbing scene: a chaotic mess of ritualistic paraphernalia encircling Clara, who lay unconscious among symbols drawn in blood. Quickly assessing the severity of Clara's involvement in dark and possibly dangerous supernatural activities, Emmelline made the responsible decision to call both the White Oak Institute and the police, thus ensuring Clara's actions were addressed by professionals equipped to handle such precarious situations. Emmelline's swift response underscored the gravity of meddling with the unknown and reaffirmed the community's unspoken boundaries between the natural and supernatural realms.
(Rashid's odd encounter(SRLucy):SRLucy)
[Thu Dec 26 2024]
In Bear's Cave
This room is taken up mostly by the bunks, stacked two beds high and
pushed up against the split-log walls. They partially obscure the window
that serves as the rooms only source of light. The beds are unmade, wooden
boards without mattresses on which campers can lay futons or sleeping bags.
A pair of trunks is provided at the base of each which may be locked, but
only if the resident supplies the means to do so.
It is noon, about 25F(-3C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
(Your target encounters a ghost who's fixated on some past tragedy from their life, they need to either give the spirit some sense of closure, or send it on it's way through more violent means.
)
The bear's cave was steeped in an unnatural chill, the air colder than it had any right to be. A faint, rhythmic tapping emanates from nowhere in particular, too steady to be the settling of wood and too deliberate to be ignored. Then, suddenly, from one of the trunks came a sudden, muffled thump, the sound quick and insistent before fading into silence.
Blearily, Rashid has been sending messages on his phone, scrawling in Arabic to translate his messages, seemingly to English, and then translating these English messages he receives, back to Arabic. When he skims over a particular message, his eyes suddenly lift as the Andalusian hears the trunk move. Then, an instinctual roll is made, off the bed, on to the floor, crouched and ready, peering at the trunk that thumps.
Rashid says "Who's there?"
The thumping ceases as abruptly as it had begun, leaving the room swaddled in a tense, unnatural silence. The trunk sat perfectly still, it's scratched surface and tarnished hinges betraying no signs of movement. Then, a slow, agonizing creak broke the stillness as the lid began to lift by no visible hand. A faint glow spilled from within, flickering like the light of a guttering candle, casting long, distorted shadows across the rough-hewn walls. From the depths of the trunk came a whisper, low and mournful, speaking no language but resonating with a raw, universal sorrow. The air thickened, heavy with the scent of decayed flowers, as the ghostly form of a woman began to rise from the trunk, it's translucent eyes fixed not on the room, but on something far beyond Rashid, "You!" her voice pierces the air, high and trembling with anger and despair, "Why did you leave me? Why didn't you come back?" As her presence solidifies, the room begins to shift. The bunks groan as their wooden slats quivered, trunks scrape against the floor, and objects lift into the air as if held by invisible hands.
That thumping ceases as abruptly as it had begun, leaving the room swaddled in a tense, unnatural silence. The trunk sat perfectly still, it's scratched surface and tarnished hinges betraying no signs of movement. Then, a slow, agonizing creak broke the stillness as the lid began to lift by no visible hand. A faint glow spilled from within, flickering like the light of a guttering candle, casting long, distorted shadows across the rough-hewn walls. From the depths of the trunk came a whisper, low and mournful, speaking no language but resonating with a raw, universal sorrow. The air thickened, heavy with the scent of decayed flowers, as the ghostly form of a woman began to rise from the trunk, it's translucent eyes fixed not on the room, but on something far beyond Rashid, "You!" her voice pierces the air, high and trembling with anger and despair, "Why did you leave me? Why didn't you come back?" As her presence solidifies, the room begins to shift. The bunks groan as their wooden slats quivered, trunks scrape against the floor, and objects lift into the air as if held by invisible hands.
This is perhaps the worst scenario for a language barrier to occur, but, it's there regardless, as Rashid tilts his head, to and for, like some sort of dog. It becomes increasingly obvious that he has no clue what's going on, and as soon as the ghost appears, he dodges left, shouting, "Jinn!" before scurrying upright, rising with himself prepared for hand-to-hand combat. That nose of his is sniffling up a storm, eyes slanted at the ghost as he tilts his head, dog-like, again, blankly, blearily blinking at the ghost. "I don't understand what you are saying, Jinn. Speak into the magical brick, it translates."
"You mock me?" The ghostly woman shrieks, her voice rising to a piercing wail that reverberates through the cramped space. The ghosts form crackles with a cold, unnatural light, her once flickering outline now surging with intensity. Her translucent face twists into a snarl, a mix of disbelief and fury at Rashid's confusion. The objects in the room spin faster, the air filled with the groaning of strained wood and the metallic clang of trunks slamming open and shut, "You dare dismiss my pain with your games? You left me to die!" The room trembled as her rage grew, the walls seeming to bow inward, the split-log edges grinding against each other as though her anger threatened to tear the structure apart. Her spectral form surged toward him, face mere inches from his, her hollow, glowing eyes boring into Rashid's own, "You will feel what I felt! You will know my torment!"
Of course, this is all said in english. Probably helping to clarify nothing for poor Rashid.
Rashid, being absolutely oblivious and confused, gently raises his hands and lowers it, as if to mime out being calm. And to the ghost, he chuffs and points to his tongue and ears, miming out his lack of understanding. "I do not understand you, jinn. You seem angry though. Speak to me." That coarse Arabic of his is strangely littered with stresses on the vowels, not exactly equal to traditional Arabic. Latin adjacent words are used. It's almost as if two languages had almost mixed together and formed a lingua franca, almost. Regardless, his stormy grey eyes show a lack of understanding, for the ghost, blank, bleary, puzzled. Anger is an easy thing to get, and with time, he scoots a little on his feet, backing away from the Jinn.
Palable fury swells like a tempest, her ghostly form flickering with sharp bursts of light that made the shadows in the room twist and lurch unnaturally. The objects spinning in the air abruptly halt, hovering for a heartbeat, before hurling themselves toward Rashid with a violent force. A wooden board from an unmade bunk splinters as it slams into the wall beside Rashid, missing him by inches, while a trunk lid snapped open and shut like a steel trap, it's jagged sound echoing through the room,
"Mockery! Lies!" The ghost screeches, her voice layered with unnatural echoes that made the words almost unbearable to hear. Her hands, translucent but claw-like, extended toward Rashid as she surges forward. The ghost's hands plunge into Rashid's chest with an icy, unnatural force, her touch bypassing flesh and bone as though they didn't exist. A paralyzing cold radiates from the point of contact, spreading through Rashid's body like tendrils of frost. For a fleeting, harrowing moment, his heart ceases it's rhythm, a dead, hollow silence replacing the steady thrum of life. As the grip on Rashid's heart eases and life jolted back into Rashid's veins, the ghost recoils slightly, but only to coil herself again, her spectral form flickering with renewed, violent intent, "Feel it!" she hisses, her voice a whisper, "Feel the emptiness! Feel the end you brought me!"
The air around the trunk seemed heavier, pulling faintly, as if it were not just open but hungry. This was where the ghost had emerged, and perhaps, where it could be forced to return. If the trunk could be sealed, the bridge between worlds might close, breaking the spirit's hold on this reality.
Rashid scrambles out of the way, immediately, as things are tossed at him. Most certainly screaming curses in Arabic. And the moment those ghastly talons enter his chest and leave him, he lashes out, throwing his own fists in a growing rage. He doesn't understand the shrieking woman, but he very well understands violence and a lack of peace. Sadly, his hands are more than likely to just move through the woman. "May you taste Allah's justice, jinn," he roars, staring at the trunk, seemingly, with all intent to smash it into splinters. And that's what he attempts, suddenly shifting and slamming his heavy ass body into it.
Rashid(wolf) scrambles out of the way, immediately, as things are tossed at him. Most certainly screaming curses in Arabic. And the moment those ghastly talons enter his chest and leave him, he lashes out, throwing his own fists in a growing rage. He doesn't understand the shrieking woman, but he very well understands violence and a lack of peace. Sadly, his hands are more than likely to just move through the woman. "May you taste Allah's justice, jinn," he roars, staring at the trunk, seemingly, with all intent to smash it into splinters. And that's what he attempts, suddenly shifting and slamming his heavy body into it. (re)
Rashid(wolf)'s body collides with the trunk in a forceful, desperate charge, the splintering of wood echoing through the room as he slams into it. His heavy frame hit the makeshift portal with a sickening crack, and the trunk shatters apart under his assault, scattering remnants of the wood in all directions.
Then, the ghost's wail tore through the stillness. Her form twisted and writhes, angry, vengeful eyes locking onto Rashid(wolf)'s, filled with a fury that burned hotter than any fire, "This is the second time you have killed me!" she screams, her voice breaking as her figure begins to flicker violently, like a candle fighting to stay lit in a storm, "You are nothing but a cursed soul! I will never be free!" The words twist and distort, her voice no longer just a scream but a distorted hiss, as her form fading in a final, violent burst of light, her curses echoing in the air as she vanishes from this world.
The room, now suddenly quiet, held only the scattered debris of the shattered trunk and the mess of proof as to what had transpired.
(Your target and their allies come across a local Haven resident who has started acting strangely, becoming distant from their friends and family, and exhibiting signs of being involved in dark and forbidden rituals. )
Emmelline is sitting at the counter, sighing occasionally and looking at thigs idly on her phone. She looks rather bored, and fed up with life as a whole currently.
Late afternoon sunlight poured through the wide windows of Rosie's Diner, casting long, warm beams that danced over the checkerboard tile floor, the warmth of it a welcome blessing in this painfully cold winter day. Even with the doors shut the room was nearly freezing with everyone bundled up and tearing into the warm breakfasts and coffee on offer during this lunch rush, the occasional children waddling around after their parents.
It would be noisier, but everyone's still filled with that lingering Christmas cheer, leading to flushed faces and the faint hum of conversation with the gentle clinking of dishes filled the air, providing a soothing soundtrack to someone' day, strengthening both the ennui and the boredom.
Just small town things.
It was then that Maggie, one of the waitresses and a familiar face, approached someone' table. Maggie's usual brisk skating was more hesitant today with the clack-clack of her feets lifted and set down instead of gliding, and her characteristically bright smile was noticeably absent from her cherub freckled face. A shadow that seemed to weigh on her usual carefree demeanor and flouncing brown curls. Someone who's lived in this town all their life - not Aware, but not not Aware, given the common goings-on of this town.
Maggie shifted nervously on her feet, clutching her order pad tightly. Her hazel eyes darted around the diner as though she feared someone might overhear their conversation. She finally leaned over the counter across from @Emmelline, her voice dropping into a quiet susurration.
"Em, I I need your help. And I know this might sound crazy, but something's wrong with Clara." Clara. Another name of the waitresses who, now that she's brought up, hasn't been starkly visible as she usually has for a few weeks. She had been working at Rosie's for years. She was known for her quick wit and infectious laugh, always ready with a clever retort or a kind word for the regulars, tall and thin and cheerful with sunny smile. Her hands tremble slightly as she leans in closer, her voice faint in someone' ear.
"She's been acting strange lately. Real strange. She's always been a bit quirky, you know, but this is different. She's distant. Distracted. And I swear, Em, I've seen her sneaking off at odd hours. Last night, I caught her in the alley out back, muttering to herself. She was drawing something on the ground. Symbols. Weird ones. And I figure you know... stuff. Do you think you could look into it?"
Late afternoon sunlight poured through the wide windows of Rosie's Diner, casting long, warm beams that danced over the checkerboard tile floor, the warmth of it a welcome blessing in this painfully cold winter day. Even with the doors shut the room was nearly freezing with everyone bundled up and tearing into the warm breakfasts and coffee on offer during this lunch rush, the occasional children waddling around after their parents.
It would be noisier, but everyone's still filled with that lingering Christmas cheer, leading to flushed faces and the faint hum of conversation with the gentle clinking of dishes filled the air, providing a soothing soundtrack to Emmelline's day, strengthening both the ennui and the boredom.
Just small town things.
It was then that Maggie, one of the waitresses and a familiar face, approached Emmelline's table. Maggie's usual brisk skating was more hesitant today with the clack-clack of her feets lifted and set down instead of gliding, and her characteristically bright smile was noticeably absent from her cherub freckled face. A shadow that seemed to weigh on her usual carefree demeanor and flouncing brown curls. Someone who's lived in this town all their life - not Aware, but not not Aware, given the common goings-on of this town.
Maggie shifted nervously on her feet, clutching her order pad tightly. Her hazel eyes darted around the diner as though she feared someone might overhear their conversation. She finally leaned over the counter across from @Emmelline, her voice dropping into a quiet susurration.
"Em, I I need your help. And I know this might sound crazy, but something's wrong with Clara." Clara. Another name of the waitresses who, now that she's brought up, hasn't been starkly visible as she usually has for a few weeks. She had been working at Rosie's for years. She was known for her quick wit and infectious laugh, always ready with a clever retort or a kind word for the regulars, tall and thin and cheerful with sunny smile. Her hands tremble slightly as she leans in closer, her voice faint in Emmelline's ear.
"She's been acting strange lately. Real strange. She's always been a bit quirky, you know, but this is different. She's distant. Distracted. And I swear, Em, I've seen her sneaking off at odd hours. Last night, I caught her in the alley out back, muttering to herself. She was drawing something on the ground. Symbols. Weird ones. And I figure you know... stuff. Do you think you could look into it?"
Unfortunately for the poor soul of Maggie, Emmelline is generally not in a good mood. "Clara's always been strange mate," she tells Maggie with a soft sigh. "Why is this any different?" Then Maggie mentions the alley and drawing things. "Weird," she says with a shrug. "Look mate, if you're that concerned, you could I don't know, report it to the police. That or ask her to seek therapy at white oak. is that where she's at now?," she asks. "Outside? Drawing things?"
"Not weird in THIS way," Maggie weakly protests, drawing back. "And she's not really doing anything illegal... she had candles and around a chalk circle set up, chanting, and then light started flickering. I got out of there before she saw but she's stopped returning calls. Talking to people... and, and, after I did closing, I heard noises coming from her locker. But when I opened it there was nothing in there except her coat and bag." Her expression is woeful and those eyes large and lips pouty. "Please? I'll owe you. And she doesn't work at White Oak, she's got a small trailer." Her voice is still soft, hands wringing together, her tone filled with a sense of worry and urgency.
"Oh fuck my life," Emmelline says with a soft sigh as she very reluctantly rises to her feet. though she doesn't look too happy to be doing it. "Fuck my life so hard," she says once more. "is she at home now? do you know? Because I'm not wandering around town looking for her. Not in this cold. Not happening mate."
Maggie suddenly stutters at Emmelline's abrupt turnaround. "Uh-m-mh, I thi-nk, hold on," She grabs for her notebook and pen from apron pocket - retro, in these days! - and quickly scribbles out an address before tearing it off and sliding it over to someone. "Yeah, I think she's there. Wouldn't be anywhere else? She should be sleeping off a long shift."
Maggie suddenly stutters at Emmelline's abrupt turnaround. "Uh-m-mh, I thi-nk, hold on," She grabs for her notebook and pen from apron pocket - retro, in these days! - and quickly scribbles out an address before tearing it off and sliding it over to someone. "Yeah, I think she's there. Wouldn't be anywhere else? She should be sleeping off a long shift."
Maggie suddenly stutters at Emmelline's abrupt turnaround. "Uh-m-mh, I thi-nk, hold on," She grabs for her notebook and pen from apron pocket - retro, in these days! - and quickly scribbles out an address before tearing it off and sliding it over to Emmelline. "Yeah, I think she's there. Wouldn't be anywhere else? She should be sleeping off a long shift."
'Yeah okay," Emmelline says with a nod to the woma, before she grabs her coat and heads out. "I hate my life so hard right now," she's heard muttering as she exits the diner and into the bitter cold, presumably headed for the address scribbled on the paper."
Wind cuts into someone like a knife in unpleasant, freezing, sub-zero temperatures. At least it's not snowing or raining... right now, but the crunch of it beneath her feet reminds that it could start up again at any moment - thankfully, it isn't too long a drive. Or walk, depending on what someone' using. Haven isn't the biggest town, and it isn't long before she pulls up to a ratty, run-down trailer that looks like all the other ratty, run-down trailers if she continues pursuing this.
Wind cuts into Emmelline like a knife in unpleasant, freezing, sub-zero temperatures. At least it's not snowing or raining... right now, but the crunch of it beneath her feet reminds that it could start up again at any moment - thankfully, it isn't too long a drive. Or walk, depending on what Emmelline's using. Haven isn't the biggest town, and it isn't long before she pulls up to a ratty, run-down trailer that looks like all the other ratty, run-down trailers if she continues pursuing this.
Emmelline sighs as she pulls her car up to the address. "I hate my life," she says to no one in particular, as she cuts the ignition and gets out of the warmth of her car back in to the bitter cold. She walks over to the trailer and knocks on the door. "Clara!," she calls, not sounding too happy to be doing this, "Clara mate, maggie wanted me to check on you. You okay in there?"
It's a misery to get out of the nice cozy warm box and out into the biting cold. It's quiet, here. There's no chirp of birds. Just the distant electrical hum from the transformer wrapped around a pole up above. Emmelline's knuckle comes down on the trailer door - and then it swings open at the lightest pressure. The lock is broken, and the scent inside is -
Foul is not quite the right word. /Wrong/. The scent of festering and rot, yes, but overlain atop that is stranger still. Plants that are foreign, the echoes of colors that slide into the nose, memories of distant, bleak alien vistas under a strange sun that someone has never seen.
The light slants inside. The room is a mess. Discarded boxes of food, cheap things, laundry and debris spread every which way, and a circle in the center in chalk scrawled with symbols and blood, but broken. And there's Clara, in her ragged clothes, unwashed, lying sprawled in the middle as the candles gutter out.
It seems someone has been getting 'help', if the obsidian globe etched with flames clenched in her hand is any indication.
It's a misery to get out of the nice cozy warm box and out into the biting cold. It's quiet, here. There's no chirp of birds. Just the distant electrical hum from the transformer wrapped around a pole up above. Emmelline's knuckle comes down on the trailer door - and then it swings open at the lightest pressure. The lock is broken, and the scent inside is -
Foul is not quite the right word. /Wrong/. The scent of festering and rot, yes, but overlain atop that is stranger still. Plants that are foreign, the echoes of colors that slide into the nose, memories of distant, bleak alien vistas under a strange sun that someone has never seen.
The light slants inside. The room is a mess. Discarded boxes of food, cheap things, laundry and debris spread every which way, and a circle in the center in chalk scrawled with symbols and blood, but broken. And there's Clara, in her ragged clothes, unwashed, lying sprawled in the middle as the candles gutter out.
It seems someone has been getting 'help', if the obsidian globe etched with flames clenched in her hand is any indication.
It's a misery to get out of the nice cozy warm box and out into the biting cold. It's quiet, here. There's no chirp of birds. Just the distant electrical hum from the transformer wrapped around a pole up above. Emmelline's knuckle comes down on the trailer door - and then it swings open at the lightest pressure. The lock is broken, and the scent inside is -
Foul is not quite the right word. /Wrong/. The scent of festering and rot, yes, but overlain atop that is stranger still. Plants that are foreign, the echoes of colors that slide into the nose, memories of distant, bleak alien vistas under a strange sun that Emmelline has never seen.
The light slants inside. The room is a mess. Discarded boxes of food, cheap things, laundry and debris spread every which way, and a circle in the center in chalk scrawled with symbols and blood, but broken. And there's Clara, in her ragged clothes, unwashed, lying sprawled in the middle as the candles gutter out.
It seems someone has been getting 'help', if the obsidian globe etched with flames clenched in her hand is any indication.
'Oh fuck no," Emmelline says with a shake of her head, as she withdraws from the trailer, leaving everything just as she found it. She first places a call to the white oak institute, medical division, letting them know what she's found with explicit details. Including the bit about the possible involvement of the black flame. Then she places a call to the police. After all, they're meant to keep naturals from being aware of the supernatural, and what she saw in there was definitely supernatural. Both phone calls placed, and her job done, she hops back into her car and drives off. Sending a quick text to her coworker saying, 'She's into some super deep shite. Not getting involved mate. Called the institute and the police. They can sort it out. Sorry."
A breath of relief - and sort of a choked off sob. "All right. Alright, thank you for looking," There's an efficiency to it, a briskness - a cleanup, a crew to pick her up and pull her to the hospital. Perhaps she'll be enrolled, learning new things. Perhaps she'll just have her memory put back together and put right back as she was, blissfully unaware and just having gone through a goth 'phase'. Either way, Emmelline's duty is done, and snipping a possible cultist's acts off at the bud.
Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year.
Meanwhile, in a warmer but no less unsettling setting, Emmelline was approached by Maggie, a distressed waitress at Rosie's Diner, concerned about their mutual acquaintance, Clara. Clara, known for her vibrant personality, had been exhibiting strange and distant behavior, engaging in ominous rituals involving symbols and candles in the dead of night. Reluctantly, Emmelline agreed to investigate, driven more by exasperation than altruism. Upon entering Clara's trailer, she was met with a disturbing scene: a chaotic mess of ritualistic paraphernalia encircling Clara, who lay unconscious among symbols drawn in blood. Quickly assessing the severity of Clara's involvement in dark and possibly dangerous supernatural activities, Emmelline made the responsible decision to call both the White Oak Institute and the police, thus ensuring Clara's actions were addressed by professionals equipped to handle such precarious situations. Emmelline's swift response underscored the gravity of meddling with the unknown and reaffirmed the community's unspoken boundaries between the natural and supernatural realms.
(Rashid's odd encounter(SRLucy):SRLucy)
[Thu Dec 26 2024]
In Bear's Cave
This room is taken up mostly by the bunks, stacked two beds high and
pushed up against the split-log walls. They partially obscure the window
that serves as the rooms only source of light. The beds are unmade, wooden
boards without mattresses on which campers can lay futons or sleeping bags.
A pair of trunks is provided at the base of each which may be locked, but
only if the resident supplies the means to do so.
It is noon, about 25F(-3C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
(Your target encounters a ghost who's fixated on some past tragedy from their life, they need to either give the spirit some sense of closure, or send it on it's way through more violent means.
)
The bear's cave was steeped in an unnatural chill, the air colder than it had any right to be. A faint, rhythmic tapping emanates from nowhere in particular, too steady to be the settling of wood and too deliberate to be ignored. Then, suddenly, from one of the trunks came a sudden, muffled thump, the sound quick and insistent before fading into silence.
Blearily, Rashid has been sending messages on his phone, scrawling in Arabic to translate his messages, seemingly to English, and then translating these English messages he receives, back to Arabic. When he skims over a particular message, his eyes suddenly lift as the Andalusian hears the trunk move. Then, an instinctual roll is made, off the bed, on to the floor, crouched and ready, peering at the trunk that thumps.
Rashid says "Who's there?"
The thumping ceases as abruptly as it had begun, leaving the room swaddled in a tense, unnatural silence. The trunk sat perfectly still, it's scratched surface and tarnished hinges betraying no signs of movement. Then, a slow, agonizing creak broke the stillness as the lid began to lift by no visible hand. A faint glow spilled from within, flickering like the light of a guttering candle, casting long, distorted shadows across the rough-hewn walls. From the depths of the trunk came a whisper, low and mournful, speaking no language but resonating with a raw, universal sorrow. The air thickened, heavy with the scent of decayed flowers, as the ghostly form of a woman began to rise from the trunk, it's translucent eyes fixed not on the room, but on something far beyond Rashid, "You!" her voice pierces the air, high and trembling with anger and despair, "Why did you leave me? Why didn't you come back?" As her presence solidifies, the room begins to shift. The bunks groan as their wooden slats quivered, trunks scrape against the floor, and objects lift into the air as if held by invisible hands.
That thumping ceases as abruptly as it had begun, leaving the room swaddled in a tense, unnatural silence. The trunk sat perfectly still, it's scratched surface and tarnished hinges betraying no signs of movement. Then, a slow, agonizing creak broke the stillness as the lid began to lift by no visible hand. A faint glow spilled from within, flickering like the light of a guttering candle, casting long, distorted shadows across the rough-hewn walls. From the depths of the trunk came a whisper, low and mournful, speaking no language but resonating with a raw, universal sorrow. The air thickened, heavy with the scent of decayed flowers, as the ghostly form of a woman began to rise from the trunk, it's translucent eyes fixed not on the room, but on something far beyond Rashid, "You!" her voice pierces the air, high and trembling with anger and despair, "Why did you leave me? Why didn't you come back?" As her presence solidifies, the room begins to shift. The bunks groan as their wooden slats quivered, trunks scrape against the floor, and objects lift into the air as if held by invisible hands.
This is perhaps the worst scenario for a language barrier to occur, but, it's there regardless, as Rashid tilts his head, to and for, like some sort of dog. It becomes increasingly obvious that he has no clue what's going on, and as soon as the ghost appears, he dodges left, shouting, "Jinn!" before scurrying upright, rising with himself prepared for hand-to-hand combat. That nose of his is sniffling up a storm, eyes slanted at the ghost as he tilts his head, dog-like, again, blankly, blearily blinking at the ghost. "I don't understand what you are saying, Jinn. Speak into the magical brick, it translates."
"You mock me?" The ghostly woman shrieks, her voice rising to a piercing wail that reverberates through the cramped space. The ghosts form crackles with a cold, unnatural light, her once flickering outline now surging with intensity. Her translucent face twists into a snarl, a mix of disbelief and fury at Rashid's confusion. The objects in the room spin faster, the air filled with the groaning of strained wood and the metallic clang of trunks slamming open and shut, "You dare dismiss my pain with your games? You left me to die!" The room trembled as her rage grew, the walls seeming to bow inward, the split-log edges grinding against each other as though her anger threatened to tear the structure apart. Her spectral form surged toward him, face mere inches from his, her hollow, glowing eyes boring into Rashid's own, "You will feel what I felt! You will know my torment!"
Of course, this is all said in english. Probably helping to clarify nothing for poor Rashid.
Rashid, being absolutely oblivious and confused, gently raises his hands and lowers it, as if to mime out being calm. And to the ghost, he chuffs and points to his tongue and ears, miming out his lack of understanding. "I do not understand you, jinn. You seem angry though. Speak to me." That coarse Arabic of his is strangely littered with stresses on the vowels, not exactly equal to traditional Arabic. Latin adjacent words are used. It's almost as if two languages had almost mixed together and formed a lingua franca, almost. Regardless, his stormy grey eyes show a lack of understanding, for the ghost, blank, bleary, puzzled. Anger is an easy thing to get, and with time, he scoots a little on his feet, backing away from the Jinn.
Palable fury swells like a tempest, her ghostly form flickering with sharp bursts of light that made the shadows in the room twist and lurch unnaturally. The objects spinning in the air abruptly halt, hovering for a heartbeat, before hurling themselves toward Rashid with a violent force. A wooden board from an unmade bunk splinters as it slams into the wall beside Rashid, missing him by inches, while a trunk lid snapped open and shut like a steel trap, it's jagged sound echoing through the room,
"Mockery! Lies!" The ghost screeches, her voice layered with unnatural echoes that made the words almost unbearable to hear. Her hands, translucent but claw-like, extended toward Rashid as she surges forward. The ghost's hands plunge into Rashid's chest with an icy, unnatural force, her touch bypassing flesh and bone as though they didn't exist. A paralyzing cold radiates from the point of contact, spreading through Rashid's body like tendrils of frost. For a fleeting, harrowing moment, his heart ceases it's rhythm, a dead, hollow silence replacing the steady thrum of life. As the grip on Rashid's heart eases and life jolted back into Rashid's veins, the ghost recoils slightly, but only to coil herself again, her spectral form flickering with renewed, violent intent, "Feel it!" she hisses, her voice a whisper, "Feel the emptiness! Feel the end you brought me!"
The air around the trunk seemed heavier, pulling faintly, as if it were not just open but hungry. This was where the ghost had emerged, and perhaps, where it could be forced to return. If the trunk could be sealed, the bridge between worlds might close, breaking the spirit's hold on this reality.
Rashid scrambles out of the way, immediately, as things are tossed at him. Most certainly screaming curses in Arabic. And the moment those ghastly talons enter his chest and leave him, he lashes out, throwing his own fists in a growing rage. He doesn't understand the shrieking woman, but he very well understands violence and a lack of peace. Sadly, his hands are more than likely to just move through the woman. "May you taste Allah's justice, jinn," he roars, staring at the trunk, seemingly, with all intent to smash it into splinters. And that's what he attempts, suddenly shifting and slamming his heavy ass body into it.
Rashid(wolf) scrambles out of the way, immediately, as things are tossed at him. Most certainly screaming curses in Arabic. And the moment those ghastly talons enter his chest and leave him, he lashes out, throwing his own fists in a growing rage. He doesn't understand the shrieking woman, but he very well understands violence and a lack of peace. Sadly, his hands are more than likely to just move through the woman. "May you taste Allah's justice, jinn," he roars, staring at the trunk, seemingly, with all intent to smash it into splinters. And that's what he attempts, suddenly shifting and slamming his heavy body into it. (re)
Rashid(wolf)'s body collides with the trunk in a forceful, desperate charge, the splintering of wood echoing through the room as he slams into it. His heavy frame hit the makeshift portal with a sickening crack, and the trunk shatters apart under his assault, scattering remnants of the wood in all directions.
Then, the ghost's wail tore through the stillness. Her form twisted and writhes, angry, vengeful eyes locking onto Rashid(wolf)'s, filled with a fury that burned hotter than any fire, "This is the second time you have killed me!" she screams, her voice breaking as her figure begins to flicker violently, like a candle fighting to stay lit in a storm, "You are nothing but a cursed soul! I will never be free!" The words twist and distort, her voice no longer just a scream but a distorted hiss, as her form fading in a final, violent burst of light, her curses echoing in the air as she vanishes from this world.
The room, now suddenly quiet, held only the scattered debris of the shattered trunk and the mess of proof as to what had transpired.
(Your target and their allies come across a local Haven resident who has started acting strangely, becoming distant from their friends and family, and exhibiting signs of being involved in dark and forbidden rituals. )
Emmelline is sitting at the counter, sighing occasionally and looking at thigs idly on her phone. She looks rather bored, and fed up with life as a whole currently.
Late afternoon sunlight poured through the wide windows of Rosie's Diner, casting long, warm beams that danced over the checkerboard tile floor, the warmth of it a welcome blessing in this painfully cold winter day. Even with the doors shut the room was nearly freezing with everyone bundled up and tearing into the warm breakfasts and coffee on offer during this lunch rush, the occasional children waddling around after their parents.
It would be noisier, but everyone's still filled with that lingering Christmas cheer, leading to flushed faces and the faint hum of conversation with the gentle clinking of dishes filled the air, providing a soothing soundtrack to someone' day, strengthening both the ennui and the boredom.
Just small town things.
It was then that Maggie, one of the waitresses and a familiar face, approached someone' table. Maggie's usual brisk skating was more hesitant today with the clack-clack of her feets lifted and set down instead of gliding, and her characteristically bright smile was noticeably absent from her cherub freckled face. A shadow that seemed to weigh on her usual carefree demeanor and flouncing brown curls. Someone who's lived in this town all their life - not Aware, but not not Aware, given the common goings-on of this town.
Maggie shifted nervously on her feet, clutching her order pad tightly. Her hazel eyes darted around the diner as though she feared someone might overhear their conversation. She finally leaned over the counter across from @Emmelline, her voice dropping into a quiet susurration.
"Em, I I need your help. And I know this might sound crazy, but something's wrong with Clara." Clara. Another name of the waitresses who, now that she's brought up, hasn't been starkly visible as she usually has for a few weeks. She had been working at Rosie's for years. She was known for her quick wit and infectious laugh, always ready with a clever retort or a kind word for the regulars, tall and thin and cheerful with sunny smile. Her hands tremble slightly as she leans in closer, her voice faint in someone' ear.
"She's been acting strange lately. Real strange. She's always been a bit quirky, you know, but this is different. She's distant. Distracted. And I swear, Em, I've seen her sneaking off at odd hours. Last night, I caught her in the alley out back, muttering to herself. She was drawing something on the ground. Symbols. Weird ones. And I figure you know... stuff. Do you think you could look into it?"
Late afternoon sunlight poured through the wide windows of Rosie's Diner, casting long, warm beams that danced over the checkerboard tile floor, the warmth of it a welcome blessing in this painfully cold winter day. Even with the doors shut the room was nearly freezing with everyone bundled up and tearing into the warm breakfasts and coffee on offer during this lunch rush, the occasional children waddling around after their parents.
It would be noisier, but everyone's still filled with that lingering Christmas cheer, leading to flushed faces and the faint hum of conversation with the gentle clinking of dishes filled the air, providing a soothing soundtrack to Emmelline's day, strengthening both the ennui and the boredom.
Just small town things.
It was then that Maggie, one of the waitresses and a familiar face, approached Emmelline's table. Maggie's usual brisk skating was more hesitant today with the clack-clack of her feets lifted and set down instead of gliding, and her characteristically bright smile was noticeably absent from her cherub freckled face. A shadow that seemed to weigh on her usual carefree demeanor and flouncing brown curls. Someone who's lived in this town all their life - not Aware, but not not Aware, given the common goings-on of this town.
Maggie shifted nervously on her feet, clutching her order pad tightly. Her hazel eyes darted around the diner as though she feared someone might overhear their conversation. She finally leaned over the counter across from @Emmelline, her voice dropping into a quiet susurration.
"Em, I I need your help. And I know this might sound crazy, but something's wrong with Clara." Clara. Another name of the waitresses who, now that she's brought up, hasn't been starkly visible as she usually has for a few weeks. She had been working at Rosie's for years. She was known for her quick wit and infectious laugh, always ready with a clever retort or a kind word for the regulars, tall and thin and cheerful with sunny smile. Her hands tremble slightly as she leans in closer, her voice faint in Emmelline's ear.
"She's been acting strange lately. Real strange. She's always been a bit quirky, you know, but this is different. She's distant. Distracted. And I swear, Em, I've seen her sneaking off at odd hours. Last night, I caught her in the alley out back, muttering to herself. She was drawing something on the ground. Symbols. Weird ones. And I figure you know... stuff. Do you think you could look into it?"
Unfortunately for the poor soul of Maggie, Emmelline is generally not in a good mood. "Clara's always been strange mate," she tells Maggie with a soft sigh. "Why is this any different?" Then Maggie mentions the alley and drawing things. "Weird," she says with a shrug. "Look mate, if you're that concerned, you could I don't know, report it to the police. That or ask her to seek therapy at white oak. is that where she's at now?," she asks. "Outside? Drawing things?"
"Not weird in THIS way," Maggie weakly protests, drawing back. "And she's not really doing anything illegal... she had candles and around a chalk circle set up, chanting, and then light started flickering. I got out of there before she saw but she's stopped returning calls. Talking to people... and, and, after I did closing, I heard noises coming from her locker. But when I opened it there was nothing in there except her coat and bag." Her expression is woeful and those eyes large and lips pouty. "Please? I'll owe you. And she doesn't work at White Oak, she's got a small trailer." Her voice is still soft, hands wringing together, her tone filled with a sense of worry and urgency.
"Oh fuck my life," Emmelline says with a soft sigh as she very reluctantly rises to her feet. though she doesn't look too happy to be doing it. "Fuck my life so hard," she says once more. "is she at home now? do you know? Because I'm not wandering around town looking for her. Not in this cold. Not happening mate."
Maggie suddenly stutters at Emmelline's abrupt turnaround. "Uh-m-mh, I thi-nk, hold on," She grabs for her notebook and pen from apron pocket - retro, in these days! - and quickly scribbles out an address before tearing it off and sliding it over to someone. "Yeah, I think she's there. Wouldn't be anywhere else? She should be sleeping off a long shift."
Maggie suddenly stutters at Emmelline's abrupt turnaround. "Uh-m-mh, I thi-nk, hold on," She grabs for her notebook and pen from apron pocket - retro, in these days! - and quickly scribbles out an address before tearing it off and sliding it over to someone. "Yeah, I think she's there. Wouldn't be anywhere else? She should be sleeping off a long shift."
Maggie suddenly stutters at Emmelline's abrupt turnaround. "Uh-m-mh, I thi-nk, hold on," She grabs for her notebook and pen from apron pocket - retro, in these days! - and quickly scribbles out an address before tearing it off and sliding it over to Emmelline. "Yeah, I think she's there. Wouldn't be anywhere else? She should be sleeping off a long shift."
'Yeah okay," Emmelline says with a nod to the woma, before she grabs her coat and heads out. "I hate my life so hard right now," she's heard muttering as she exits the diner and into the bitter cold, presumably headed for the address scribbled on the paper."
Wind cuts into someone like a knife in unpleasant, freezing, sub-zero temperatures. At least it's not snowing or raining... right now, but the crunch of it beneath her feet reminds that it could start up again at any moment - thankfully, it isn't too long a drive. Or walk, depending on what someone' using. Haven isn't the biggest town, and it isn't long before she pulls up to a ratty, run-down trailer that looks like all the other ratty, run-down trailers if she continues pursuing this.
Wind cuts into Emmelline like a knife in unpleasant, freezing, sub-zero temperatures. At least it's not snowing or raining... right now, but the crunch of it beneath her feet reminds that it could start up again at any moment - thankfully, it isn't too long a drive. Or walk, depending on what Emmelline's using. Haven isn't the biggest town, and it isn't long before she pulls up to a ratty, run-down trailer that looks like all the other ratty, run-down trailers if she continues pursuing this.
Emmelline sighs as she pulls her car up to the address. "I hate my life," she says to no one in particular, as she cuts the ignition and gets out of the warmth of her car back in to the bitter cold. She walks over to the trailer and knocks on the door. "Clara!," she calls, not sounding too happy to be doing this, "Clara mate, maggie wanted me to check on you. You okay in there?"
It's a misery to get out of the nice cozy warm box and out into the biting cold. It's quiet, here. There's no chirp of birds. Just the distant electrical hum from the transformer wrapped around a pole up above. Emmelline's knuckle comes down on the trailer door - and then it swings open at the lightest pressure. The lock is broken, and the scent inside is -
Foul is not quite the right word. /Wrong/. The scent of festering and rot, yes, but overlain atop that is stranger still. Plants that are foreign, the echoes of colors that slide into the nose, memories of distant, bleak alien vistas under a strange sun that someone has never seen.
The light slants inside. The room is a mess. Discarded boxes of food, cheap things, laundry and debris spread every which way, and a circle in the center in chalk scrawled with symbols and blood, but broken. And there's Clara, in her ragged clothes, unwashed, lying sprawled in the middle as the candles gutter out.
It seems someone has been getting 'help', if the obsidian globe etched with flames clenched in her hand is any indication.
It's a misery to get out of the nice cozy warm box and out into the biting cold. It's quiet, here. There's no chirp of birds. Just the distant electrical hum from the transformer wrapped around a pole up above. Emmelline's knuckle comes down on the trailer door - and then it swings open at the lightest pressure. The lock is broken, and the scent inside is -
Foul is not quite the right word. /Wrong/. The scent of festering and rot, yes, but overlain atop that is stranger still. Plants that are foreign, the echoes of colors that slide into the nose, memories of distant, bleak alien vistas under a strange sun that someone has never seen.
The light slants inside. The room is a mess. Discarded boxes of food, cheap things, laundry and debris spread every which way, and a circle in the center in chalk scrawled with symbols and blood, but broken. And there's Clara, in her ragged clothes, unwashed, lying sprawled in the middle as the candles gutter out.
It seems someone has been getting 'help', if the obsidian globe etched with flames clenched in her hand is any indication.
It's a misery to get out of the nice cozy warm box and out into the biting cold. It's quiet, here. There's no chirp of birds. Just the distant electrical hum from the transformer wrapped around a pole up above. Emmelline's knuckle comes down on the trailer door - and then it swings open at the lightest pressure. The lock is broken, and the scent inside is -
Foul is not quite the right word. /Wrong/. The scent of festering and rot, yes, but overlain atop that is stranger still. Plants that are foreign, the echoes of colors that slide into the nose, memories of distant, bleak alien vistas under a strange sun that Emmelline has never seen.
The light slants inside. The room is a mess. Discarded boxes of food, cheap things, laundry and debris spread every which way, and a circle in the center in chalk scrawled with symbols and blood, but broken. And there's Clara, in her ragged clothes, unwashed, lying sprawled in the middle as the candles gutter out.
It seems someone has been getting 'help', if the obsidian globe etched with flames clenched in her hand is any indication.
'Oh fuck no," Emmelline says with a shake of her head, as she withdraws from the trailer, leaving everything just as she found it. She first places a call to the white oak institute, medical division, letting them know what she's found with explicit details. Including the bit about the possible involvement of the black flame. Then she places a call to the police. After all, they're meant to keep naturals from being aware of the supernatural, and what she saw in there was definitely supernatural. Both phone calls placed, and her job done, she hops back into her car and drives off. Sending a quick text to her coworker saying, 'She's into some super deep shite. Not getting involved mate. Called the institute and the police. They can sort it out. Sorry."
A breath of relief - and sort of a choked off sob. "All right. Alright, thank you for looking," There's an efficiency to it, a briskness - a cleanup, a crew to pick her up and pull her to the hospital. Perhaps she'll be enrolled, learning new things. Perhaps she'll just have her memory put back together and put right back as she was, blissfully unaware and just having gone through a goth 'phase'. Either way, Emmelline's duty is done, and snipping a possible cultist's acts off at the bud.
Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year.