Encounterlogs
Ronans Odd Encounter Sr Legion 240201
Ronan's evening took a turn for the bizarre when he discovered a brass chain in the snow while moving his motorcycle on a misty night. As he picked up the chain, a feeling of overwhelming sloth and apathy washed over him, rendering his usual tasks and concerns insignificant. Fighting off the urge to sleep, Ronan's inner wolf helped him muster enough energy to stab himself with a knife for a dose of adrenaline. He stumbled towards the northern forest, transforming fully into his wolf form, but even that primal state was not immune to the chain's curse, making him succumb to lethargy once again.
In the depths of the forest, the sinister source of Ronan's lethargy revealed itself—a shadowy figure in the mist, a malevolent spirit that made him an ominous offer: to mark the highest point in Haven with a symbol, an upside-down burning cross. With little choice and seeking to escape the crippling sloth, Ronan reluctantly agreed, hoping to regain his strength and be free of the spirit's grip. The spirit vanished, and the silence of the snowy forest enveloped Ronan, allowing him to be himself again, though possibly forever changed by the strange and unsettling encounter.
(Ronan's odd encounter(SRLegion):SRLegion)
[Wed Jan 31 2024]
On Sidney Way
It is night, about 19F(-7C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. Waist high mist flows through the area. There is a last quarter moon.
(A malevolent spirit has possessed an object within your target's possession, causing it to behave unpredictably or dangerously. They must figure out how to exorcise the spirit with the help of their allies.)
Ronan is just getting his motorcycle out of a patch of snow. Nothing too interesting going on here.
There's a glint, then, of something in the snow -- a chain. It's brass, lying there in the moonlight as Ronan moves his bike. Something about it seems to draw his eye; it's odd, really, that he hadn't noticed it before, but then odds things happen when the mists are high, don't there?
Indeed, right now, the mists are coiling: seeping like dark smoke through the snow-covered woods.
Ronan cocks his head ever so slightly to the side, when he catches something glinting in his eye. He pauses for a few moments. Waiting to see if anyone else spotted the chain and is making a claim for it. Assuming, and when, nobody does- he reaches over to pluck it up. "Huh." Says the man, licking a canine. "Let's get you turned into the lost and found." The mist doesn't seem to effect Ronan that much. He's a Moore, after all. Haven bred and raised.
Bothered or not, an eerie black mist creeps through the snow-covered forest, weaving between the stark, white trunks of slumbering trees. It moved with a purposeful, silent grace, blanketing the ground in a shadowy veil that seemed to swallow light whole. The contrast between the pure white snow and the dark, swirling fog creates a surreal landscape, as if the forest had been dipped in ink. Each breath of wind causes the mist to dance and twirl, casting ghostly shapes that flickered in and out of existence. The usual sounds of the forest are muffled, replaced by a heavy silence that hangs in the air as thick as the fog itself. The deeper the mist winds through the forest, the more the familiar became foreign, transforming the landscape into a scene from a forgotten dream. Trees appeared as mere silhouettes, their branches reaching out like fingers trying to grasp at the elusive fog.
When Ronan seizes the necklace, there's something comfortable that rushes through his body: an easy, lazy, relaxed feeling. Moving his bike? Unimportant. Getting out the cold? Unimportant. It's not exactly that he's sleepy: it's that suddenly, every task seems to just slip away into a low, pulsing desire to just -chill-.
The mist is of no concern to Ronan it's the necklace. There's a beat. And then he yawns. "Yeaah... maybe I'll hand you over to the HSD later." He leans into his motorcycle and just. Stands like that for a little bit, eventually deciding to just, lay on the ground, back against the motorcycle, arms crossed. He could doze off here, if he really wanted to. Ronan lets out another yawn.
Leaning against his motorcycle in the chill, Ronan finds an unexpected laziness seeping into his bones, making the very idea of movement seem almost foreign. The cold metal of the bike presses through his clothes, grounding him, discouraging any attempts to kickstart the engine and venture into the crisp air. His breath forms lazy clouds that drift away slowly, a visible testament to his inertia. The icy breeze bites at any exposed skin, yet this discomfort is not enough to shake him from his static state. There's an odd comfort in this stillness, with the surrounding world feeling muted, as if he and the motorcycle exist in a bubble of time. The thrill of the ride, the anticipation of the engine's roar, and the embrace of the wind now feel like distant concepts, too demanding to pursue. The prospect of the journey ahead, once a source of excitement, now looms as an overwhelming task, easily deferred.
That sheer relaxed apathy -- that sloth -- seems so perfectly comfortable with the necklace in his hand, but even as it seeps into his bones the moon above seems to twinkle with some concern. Some part of Ronan's mind is in a panic: whatever this is, it isn't right.
Ronan closes his eyes for a few moments. He almost... falls asleep. Head dipping. At least. For a minute. But then that annoying voice starts screeching in his head: wake up, asshole. Then the beast caged within the prison of Ronan's fleshy cell starts pacing. Rattling against the bars. Howling. Snarling. And Ronan jolts himself awake with a blink. "Huh, wha- th'fuck?"
As he leans against his motorcycle, the cold around Ronan takes on a sinister quality, coalescing into eerie, misty figures that emerge from the swirling snow. These ghostly apparitions, with their indistinct and shifting forms, circle him slowly, exuding an aura of foreboding. Their movements are silent but deliberate, like predators stalking their prey, each step measured and haunting. The figures seem to be carved from the night itself, their outlines barely visible against the snow, yet unmistakably present and unsettling.
Even with that blink, it seems extremely hard to focus. The mist, though: those figures, like leering faces, likes eyes... A blink again: like silent figures in the woods, watching Ronan, and then they're gone. That panic seems to subside, but inside Ronan, the beast paces. The -wolf- in him is untouched by whatever this is, but it's as if that casual laziness is cutting off the part of Ronan that is wolf. Even as the thing inside him howls, it's becoming harder and harder not to fall asleep.
Ronan pulls out his knife and he stabs himself in the leg for a shot of adrenaline, letting out a loud yell. Probably garnering a few concerned looks from passerby- not that laying down on his motorcycle didn't. If the adrenaline is enough... Ronan would half-stumble his way towards the safety of the northern forest. At that point- he'd unlock the cage, human flesh giving way to fur and fang, primal ferocity.
Now it is Ronan(wolf) -- a black wolf -- that seems to slump, its massive form a study in slothful repose. Each breath he takes is slow and measured, fogging up the chilly air as he exhales with a deep, contented sigh. His heavy eyelids droop lazily over amber eyes, reflecting a serene disinterest in the world around him. The usual sharpness and agility that define his kind seem to have been momentarily set aside, replaced by an overwhelming sense of lethargy. Even the rustle of small creatures in the underbrush, which would typically ignite a spark of predatory interest, now barely elicits a flicker of recognition. The feeling seems to increase, as the man inside him is now trapped: afraid, since with the wolf's adrenaline lost to the curse the man has much less control.
With little to no skills to deal with this sort of thing, Ronan(wolf) just... gives in.
What a feeling, that is, to just give in to sloth. Ronan(wolf) just drifts there -- the wolf slumbering, now, as it slowly descends into sleep. As the great beast seems to stagger to the side and collapse next to the motorcycle, the man - Ronan(wolf) paces inside his own body. It's in his mind, the person-dream that the figure appears, a mist-shadowed man. "Why," comes its voice, like a thousand whispers. "Are you having a nice rest?"
Here, in the forest, the towns of the sound seem distant -- what a feeling to just give in to sloth. Ronan(wolf) just drifts there -- the wolf slumbering, now, as it slowly descends into sleep. As the great beast seems to stagger to the side and collapse next to one black-branched tree, the man - Ronan(wolf) paces inside his own body. It's in his mind, the person-dream that the figure appears, a mist-shadowed man. "Why," comes its voice, like a thousand whispers. "Are you having a nice rest?"
Ronan(wolf) cracks an eye open as the mist coalesces into a... vague. Human shape. He cracks the other eye open... then his bones break and and rearrange themselves. Flesh warping as he returns. Groggily, he says. "Buzz off. Can't you see I'm a little busy here?"
Ronan cracks an eye open as the mist coalesces into a... vague. Human shape. He cracks the other eye open... then his bones break and and rearrange themselves. Flesh warping as he returns. Groggily, he says. "Buzz off. Can't you see I'm a little busy here?"
"It's rather that you aren't busy," comes the sibilant whisper from the shape in the mist. "You're just -- laying around, aren't you?" Humor from the shape. It seems to drift, here and there. "Eventually, you know, the cold will kill you," the shape says. "But it doesn't seem like a big deal, does it?" It doesn't, really.
"No. It doesn't." Ronan agrees with the laziest of grins. There's a beat. And it falters, an inked hand waving. "If the cold gets too much, I'll just shift back into my wolf form and dig myself a den. ...A den sounds nice. Thanks for the idea, buddy."
"Even wolves' hearts need to beat," the thing in the mist whispers to Ronan. "But -- let me make you an offer." He pauses. "A bargain, and you can find your strength again, find your way out of the cold." It seems to drift: it doesn't walk, it just waves forward, moving like rippling smoke in the cold. It's hard even to pay attention. "How does that sound?" the whisper asks. "A simple service, and I will let you go free."
"Yes. And wolves hearts beat in the cold. By having dens to curl up in." Ronan tells the thing. There's another sigh, Ronan blinking. "Fine... sure. Figment of my tired mind. WHatever it is. I'll take it, just buzz off and let me get some shut eye."
In the heart of this cold, dense forest, Ronan is enveloped by an almost palpable silence, the kind that seems to amplify the smallest sounds?a distant crack of a branch, the soft thud of snow falling from a laden pine. The trees, towering and ancient, form a cathedral of evergreens, their needles frosted with a delicate layer of snow, casting intricate shadows on the ground. The chill in the air is biting, seeping through his clothing and nipping at any exposed skin with invisible teeth. Every breath he takes materializes in a cloud of vapor, hanging briefly before dissipating into the frigid atmosphere. The ground beneath his feet is a carpet of snow, undisturbed and pristine, except for the path he has carved behind him.
"I need you to mark a place for me," the mists whisper to Ronan. "I need you to go to the highest point in your town -- in Haven -- and make my mark." There's a motion towards the snow, and then lines of fire illuminate a burning cross, upside-down.
There's a moment while in the heart of this cold, dense forest, Ronan is enveloped by an almost palpable silence, the kind that seems to amplify the smallest sounds?a distant crack of a branch, the soft thud of snow falling from a laden pine. The trees, towering and ancient, form a cathedral of evergreens, their needles frosted with a delicate layer of snow, casting intricate shadows on the ground. The chill in the air is biting, seeping through his clothing and nipping at any exposed skin with invisible teeth. Every breath he takes materializes in a cloud of vapor, hanging briefly before dissipating into the frigid atmosphere. The ground beneath his feet is a carpet of snow, undisturbed and pristine, except for the path he has carved behind him.
"I need you to mark a place for me," the mists whisper to Ronan. "I need you to go to the highest point in your town -- in Haven -- and make my mark." There's a motion towards the snow, and then lines of fire illuminate a burning cross, upside-down. (re)
Eventually, agreement or not, that feeling of sloth departs: the thing in the mists vanishes, and then silence reigns, a thick, enveloping quiet that seems to absorb every sound. The trees, heavy with snow, stand like silent guardians, their branches interlocking to form a serene, unbroken canopy overhead. The soft carpet of snow beneath these towering sentinels muffles the world, making even the faintest footfall inaudible. Here, the stillness is so profound that time appears to stand still, with each snowflake hanging in the air like a suspended note in a paused symphony. This silent forest holds its breath, a tranquil haven untouched by the clamor of the outside world, a place where peace is woven into the very fabric of the air. Ronan can breathe again -- he is himself -- but he is perhaps changed.
In the depths of the forest, the sinister source of Ronan's lethargy revealed itself—a shadowy figure in the mist, a malevolent spirit that made him an ominous offer: to mark the highest point in Haven with a symbol, an upside-down burning cross. With little choice and seeking to escape the crippling sloth, Ronan reluctantly agreed, hoping to regain his strength and be free of the spirit's grip. The spirit vanished, and the silence of the snowy forest enveloped Ronan, allowing him to be himself again, though possibly forever changed by the strange and unsettling encounter.
(Ronan's odd encounter(SRLegion):SRLegion)
[Wed Jan 31 2024]
On Sidney Way
It is night, about 19F(-7C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. Waist high mist flows through the area. There is a last quarter moon.
(A malevolent spirit has possessed an object within your target's possession, causing it to behave unpredictably or dangerously. They must figure out how to exorcise the spirit with the help of their allies.)
Ronan is just getting his motorcycle out of a patch of snow. Nothing too interesting going on here.
There's a glint, then, of something in the snow -- a chain. It's brass, lying there in the moonlight as Ronan moves his bike. Something about it seems to draw his eye; it's odd, really, that he hadn't noticed it before, but then odds things happen when the mists are high, don't there?
Indeed, right now, the mists are coiling: seeping like dark smoke through the snow-covered woods.
Ronan cocks his head ever so slightly to the side, when he catches something glinting in his eye. He pauses for a few moments. Waiting to see if anyone else spotted the chain and is making a claim for it. Assuming, and when, nobody does- he reaches over to pluck it up. "Huh." Says the man, licking a canine. "Let's get you turned into the lost and found." The mist doesn't seem to effect Ronan that much. He's a Moore, after all. Haven bred and raised.
Bothered or not, an eerie black mist creeps through the snow-covered forest, weaving between the stark, white trunks of slumbering trees. It moved with a purposeful, silent grace, blanketing the ground in a shadowy veil that seemed to swallow light whole. The contrast between the pure white snow and the dark, swirling fog creates a surreal landscape, as if the forest had been dipped in ink. Each breath of wind causes the mist to dance and twirl, casting ghostly shapes that flickered in and out of existence. The usual sounds of the forest are muffled, replaced by a heavy silence that hangs in the air as thick as the fog itself. The deeper the mist winds through the forest, the more the familiar became foreign, transforming the landscape into a scene from a forgotten dream. Trees appeared as mere silhouettes, their branches reaching out like fingers trying to grasp at the elusive fog.
When Ronan seizes the necklace, there's something comfortable that rushes through his body: an easy, lazy, relaxed feeling. Moving his bike? Unimportant. Getting out the cold? Unimportant. It's not exactly that he's sleepy: it's that suddenly, every task seems to just slip away into a low, pulsing desire to just -chill-.
The mist is of no concern to Ronan it's the necklace. There's a beat. And then he yawns. "Yeaah... maybe I'll hand you over to the HSD later." He leans into his motorcycle and just. Stands like that for a little bit, eventually deciding to just, lay on the ground, back against the motorcycle, arms crossed. He could doze off here, if he really wanted to. Ronan lets out another yawn.
Leaning against his motorcycle in the chill, Ronan finds an unexpected laziness seeping into his bones, making the very idea of movement seem almost foreign. The cold metal of the bike presses through his clothes, grounding him, discouraging any attempts to kickstart the engine and venture into the crisp air. His breath forms lazy clouds that drift away slowly, a visible testament to his inertia. The icy breeze bites at any exposed skin, yet this discomfort is not enough to shake him from his static state. There's an odd comfort in this stillness, with the surrounding world feeling muted, as if he and the motorcycle exist in a bubble of time. The thrill of the ride, the anticipation of the engine's roar, and the embrace of the wind now feel like distant concepts, too demanding to pursue. The prospect of the journey ahead, once a source of excitement, now looms as an overwhelming task, easily deferred.
That sheer relaxed apathy -- that sloth -- seems so perfectly comfortable with the necklace in his hand, but even as it seeps into his bones the moon above seems to twinkle with some concern. Some part of Ronan's mind is in a panic: whatever this is, it isn't right.
Ronan closes his eyes for a few moments. He almost... falls asleep. Head dipping. At least. For a minute. But then that annoying voice starts screeching in his head: wake up, asshole. Then the beast caged within the prison of Ronan's fleshy cell starts pacing. Rattling against the bars. Howling. Snarling. And Ronan jolts himself awake with a blink. "Huh, wha- th'fuck?"
As he leans against his motorcycle, the cold around Ronan takes on a sinister quality, coalescing into eerie, misty figures that emerge from the swirling snow. These ghostly apparitions, with their indistinct and shifting forms, circle him slowly, exuding an aura of foreboding. Their movements are silent but deliberate, like predators stalking their prey, each step measured and haunting. The figures seem to be carved from the night itself, their outlines barely visible against the snow, yet unmistakably present and unsettling.
Even with that blink, it seems extremely hard to focus. The mist, though: those figures, like leering faces, likes eyes... A blink again: like silent figures in the woods, watching Ronan, and then they're gone. That panic seems to subside, but inside Ronan, the beast paces. The -wolf- in him is untouched by whatever this is, but it's as if that casual laziness is cutting off the part of Ronan that is wolf. Even as the thing inside him howls, it's becoming harder and harder not to fall asleep.
Ronan pulls out his knife and he stabs himself in the leg for a shot of adrenaline, letting out a loud yell. Probably garnering a few concerned looks from passerby- not that laying down on his motorcycle didn't. If the adrenaline is enough... Ronan would half-stumble his way towards the safety of the northern forest. At that point- he'd unlock the cage, human flesh giving way to fur and fang, primal ferocity.
Now it is Ronan(wolf) -- a black wolf -- that seems to slump, its massive form a study in slothful repose. Each breath he takes is slow and measured, fogging up the chilly air as he exhales with a deep, contented sigh. His heavy eyelids droop lazily over amber eyes, reflecting a serene disinterest in the world around him. The usual sharpness and agility that define his kind seem to have been momentarily set aside, replaced by an overwhelming sense of lethargy. Even the rustle of small creatures in the underbrush, which would typically ignite a spark of predatory interest, now barely elicits a flicker of recognition. The feeling seems to increase, as the man inside him is now trapped: afraid, since with the wolf's adrenaline lost to the curse the man has much less control.
With little to no skills to deal with this sort of thing, Ronan(wolf) just... gives in.
What a feeling, that is, to just give in to sloth. Ronan(wolf) just drifts there -- the wolf slumbering, now, as it slowly descends into sleep. As the great beast seems to stagger to the side and collapse next to the motorcycle, the man - Ronan(wolf) paces inside his own body. It's in his mind, the person-dream that the figure appears, a mist-shadowed man. "Why," comes its voice, like a thousand whispers. "Are you having a nice rest?"
Here, in the forest, the towns of the sound seem distant -- what a feeling to just give in to sloth. Ronan(wolf) just drifts there -- the wolf slumbering, now, as it slowly descends into sleep. As the great beast seems to stagger to the side and collapse next to one black-branched tree, the man - Ronan(wolf) paces inside his own body. It's in his mind, the person-dream that the figure appears, a mist-shadowed man. "Why," comes its voice, like a thousand whispers. "Are you having a nice rest?"
Ronan(wolf) cracks an eye open as the mist coalesces into a... vague. Human shape. He cracks the other eye open... then his bones break and and rearrange themselves. Flesh warping as he returns. Groggily, he says. "Buzz off. Can't you see I'm a little busy here?"
Ronan cracks an eye open as the mist coalesces into a... vague. Human shape. He cracks the other eye open... then his bones break and and rearrange themselves. Flesh warping as he returns. Groggily, he says. "Buzz off. Can't you see I'm a little busy here?"
"It's rather that you aren't busy," comes the sibilant whisper from the shape in the mist. "You're just -- laying around, aren't you?" Humor from the shape. It seems to drift, here and there. "Eventually, you know, the cold will kill you," the shape says. "But it doesn't seem like a big deal, does it?" It doesn't, really.
"No. It doesn't." Ronan agrees with the laziest of grins. There's a beat. And it falters, an inked hand waving. "If the cold gets too much, I'll just shift back into my wolf form and dig myself a den. ...A den sounds nice. Thanks for the idea, buddy."
"Even wolves' hearts need to beat," the thing in the mist whispers to Ronan. "But -- let me make you an offer." He pauses. "A bargain, and you can find your strength again, find your way out of the cold." It seems to drift: it doesn't walk, it just waves forward, moving like rippling smoke in the cold. It's hard even to pay attention. "How does that sound?" the whisper asks. "A simple service, and I will let you go free."
"Yes. And wolves hearts beat in the cold. By having dens to curl up in." Ronan tells the thing. There's another sigh, Ronan blinking. "Fine... sure. Figment of my tired mind. WHatever it is. I'll take it, just buzz off and let me get some shut eye."
In the heart of this cold, dense forest, Ronan is enveloped by an almost palpable silence, the kind that seems to amplify the smallest sounds?a distant crack of a branch, the soft thud of snow falling from a laden pine. The trees, towering and ancient, form a cathedral of evergreens, their needles frosted with a delicate layer of snow, casting intricate shadows on the ground. The chill in the air is biting, seeping through his clothing and nipping at any exposed skin with invisible teeth. Every breath he takes materializes in a cloud of vapor, hanging briefly before dissipating into the frigid atmosphere. The ground beneath his feet is a carpet of snow, undisturbed and pristine, except for the path he has carved behind him.
"I need you to mark a place for me," the mists whisper to Ronan. "I need you to go to the highest point in your town -- in Haven -- and make my mark." There's a motion towards the snow, and then lines of fire illuminate a burning cross, upside-down.
There's a moment while in the heart of this cold, dense forest, Ronan is enveloped by an almost palpable silence, the kind that seems to amplify the smallest sounds?a distant crack of a branch, the soft thud of snow falling from a laden pine. The trees, towering and ancient, form a cathedral of evergreens, their needles frosted with a delicate layer of snow, casting intricate shadows on the ground. The chill in the air is biting, seeping through his clothing and nipping at any exposed skin with invisible teeth. Every breath he takes materializes in a cloud of vapor, hanging briefly before dissipating into the frigid atmosphere. The ground beneath his feet is a carpet of snow, undisturbed and pristine, except for the path he has carved behind him.
"I need you to mark a place for me," the mists whisper to Ronan. "I need you to go to the highest point in your town -- in Haven -- and make my mark." There's a motion towards the snow, and then lines of fire illuminate a burning cross, upside-down. (re)
Eventually, agreement or not, that feeling of sloth departs: the thing in the mists vanishes, and then silence reigns, a thick, enveloping quiet that seems to absorb every sound. The trees, heavy with snow, stand like silent guardians, their branches interlocking to form a serene, unbroken canopy overhead. The soft carpet of snow beneath these towering sentinels muffles the world, making even the faintest footfall inaudible. Here, the stillness is so profound that time appears to stand still, with each snowflake hanging in the air like a suspended note in a paused symphony. This silent forest holds its breath, a tranquil haven untouched by the clamor of the outside world, a place where peace is woven into the very fabric of the air. Ronan can breathe again -- he is himself -- but he is perhaps changed.