Encounterlogs
Rowans Odd Encounter Sr Lucy 250107
In the quaint, mysterious town of Haven, on a particularly frosty afternoon, Rowan finds herself embroiled in an unsettling situation at the Haven National Bank. Initially intending to withdraw some cash, Rowan's presence quickly garners unwanted attention from the bank's employees. The staff, whispering and casting dubious glances in her direction, hint at a deeper issue at hand. This tension escalates when Howard, the bank manager, approaches Rowan, asking for a private discussion in the back, citing ambiguous "protocol" as the reason. Suspecting the worst but intrigued by the nature of this protocol, Rowan reluctantly follows Howard, setting the stage for an uncomfortable revelation.
The revelation, however, turns out to be a bizarre case of mistaken identity involving a "Wanted for Fraud" poster that bears a striking resemblance to Rowan. Despite the initial misunderstanding, Howard's demeanor changes when federal agents arrive, further intensifying the situation. After a tense inspection of Rowan's identification, the agents find no cause for concern, leaving as abruptly as they had arrived. With the air of suspicion somewhat cleared, Howard attempts to make amends for the misunderstanding by offering a token compensation for Rowan's trouble. Despite the resolution, the experience leaves Rowan disconcerted, reflecting the unpredictable nature of events in Haven and setting the tone for the eerie undercurrents that permeate even the most mundane activities in the town.
(Rowan's odd encounter(SRLucy):SRLucy)
[Mon Jan 6 2025]
In the entrance to Haven National Bank
The relatively conservative looking building of grey stone to the west
appears to be one of the older buildings in town and would be unidentifiable
were it not for the bold letters above it's entry way proudly proclaiming
itself as Haven National Bank. A series of old steps climb through four
classic columns to reach heavy steel doors.
The location has been retrofitted with some modern improvements however
including a drive-through on which blends in seamlessly on the western side
of the building.
It is afternoon, about 21F(-6C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It's snowing outside.
(Someone has sent the state police after your target. Perhaps they're a real criminal or perhaps they've been framed, in either case it's up to them to get their arrest warrant handled and removed.
)
The quiet hum of activity in the bank offered little distraction to Rowan as he went about his business. Yet, a prickling sensation crawled along the nape of his neck, an almost tangible sense of being watched hanging heavy. A subtle glance to the side confirmed it. A cluster of employees huddled near the teller counters. Though they made a half-hearted attempt to mask it, their darting eyes and occasional gestures in his direction gave them away, they were talking about Rowan.
Rowan enters the bank with her hands buried in the pockets of her coat. Her lips are pursed, and a gloominess hovers over her. Something has clearly recently soured her mood. Still, she's here for a reason. She takes a few striding steps in, and glances around for an ATM. A bank of all places surely has one. As her gaze searches, though, it eventually falls on the cluster of employees. She looks their way, brazenly, making no attempt to hide the way her attention has shifted, and notices after a short time that they're watching her, and talking about her too. She frowns and draws in a breath, but for the time being, ignores them, and continues her search.
Catching the stare, a few of the employees shift awkwardly, but the whispering doesn't stop. They huddle together like schoolchildren sharing a secret, glancing Rowan's way with barely contained whispers. Their heads leaned closer, and every so often, a poorly disguised gesture in her direction punctuates their murmured conversation. It wasn't long, however, before Rowan's peripheral awareness caught the hesitant shuffle of someone approaching. The man was small, balding, and visibly uncomfortable in his skin. His strained smile carried the desperation of someone attempting to smooth over a problem they'd rather not address, "Excuse me, miss.." he began, his voice unsteady but polished with professional varnish, "If I could trouble you for a moment... Would you mind coming with me to the back for a quick chat?" The faintest glisten of sweat dotted his brow, and his fidgeting hands betrayed a nervousness that hung in the air. He reeked of forced politeness, the kind that tried to conceal a conversation hed much rather avoid. He was wearing a crisp uniform and a neatly pinned name badge that identified him as part of the bank's management team.
Rowan eventually finds the ATM, and makes her way over towards it to stand in line and wait her turn to withdraw whatever cash she needs. The whispering strangers forgotten for the moment, she reaches from the pocket of her coat to the pocket of trousers, in the motion to withdraw a phone, but finding nothing, closes her eyes and lets out a weary sigh. Perhaps a lost phone is the source of her foul mood. Just as it comes her turn, the bank manager approaches, and she recalls the pointing and whispering employees. She turns and peers down at the man, a frown already present, which only deepens at his nervous request. "What is it?" she asks, there in the middle of the bank, in the midst of a number of strangers, "You can tell me here if there's a problem."
Rowan eventually finds the ATM, and makes her way over towards it to stand in line and wait her turn to withdraw whatever cash she needs. The whispering strangers forgotten for the moment, she reaches from the pocket of her coat to the pocket of trousers, in the motion to withdraw a phone, but finding nothing, closes her eyes and lets out a weary sigh. Perhaps a lost phone is the source of her foul mood. Just as it comes her turn, the bank manager approaches, and she recalls the pointing and whispering employees. She turns and peers down at the man, a frown already present, which only deepens at his nervous request. "What is it?" she asks, there in the middle of the bank, in the midst of a number of strangers, "You can tell me here if there's a problem."
The bank manager adjusted the lapel of his uniform as if the act could smooth out the tension etched into his features. His name badge, glinting faintly under the overhead lights, reads "Howard - Manager". Clearing his throat, he offers Rowan a practiced but strained smile, one that wavered under her unrelenting frown. "Miss, I understand this may seem unusual." He begins, his voice low and placating, barely concealing the tremor beneath it. His hands gesture vaguely toward the staff area, his movements stiff and uncertain, "But it would be best if we could have a quick chat in private. It's just... protocol, I assure you."
As he spoke, his eyes flicked briefly over his shoulder toward the group of employees. One of them was now on the phone, their expression taut with urgency as they murmur into the receiver. Howard's nervousness deepenes at the sight, and he turns back to Rowan, his polite mask slipping further, "It won't take long." he adds, his words hurried and softening into a nearly pleading tone, "It's just... a matter we'd prefer to handle discreetly."
Rowan stares down at the manager, or Howard, as she now notices, for a long, painful moment. Whatever this problem is, it doesn't take a genius to tell it's clearly nothing good. She considers simply leaving, but a glance over at the employees that were previously whispering about her reveals one is now on the phone. Knowing her luck today, it occurs to her that whatever this problem is, if she did just leave, it might be the police, and not a nervous bank manager, pursuing her. She closes her eyes and exhales a heavy sigh. "Fine" she acquiesces, "Show me the way."
Howard's relief at Rowan's agreement was palpable, his shoulders visibly relaxing as he gestured toward a door marked Staff only. "Thank you, miss. It won't take but a moment." He murmurs, his voice a little too bright with forced enthusiasm. He led the way, his steps quick and slightly uneven, the polished floor amplifying the nervous shuffle of his shoes.
Pushing open the staff room door, Howard motioned Rowan inside with a polite smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. The space was utilitarian, with beige walls, a small round table surrounded by mismatched chairs, and a corner counter housing a coffee machine and a clutter of mugs. He waved toward a chair.
"Please, have a seat," he offers, moving to the counter. "Coffee? Or tea? We've got, um, cream and sugar here somewhere..." His words trail off as he fusses with the coffee machine, the clink of a mug against the counter filling the room. Without waiting for her answer, he set a steaming cup of tea on the table infront of Rowan and took the seat opposite. His eyes flick up to meet Rowan's but didn't linger, skittering nervously toward the wall behind her, "The weather's been, ah, unpredictable lately, hasn't it? They said it might rain, but I think we've been lucky so far..." His words drift into the air, his small talk transparent in it's intent to stall.
The wall he looks toward has a laminated poster pinned to the noticeboard. It was a series of mugshots, each face accompanied by a bold caption reading "WANTED FOR FRAUD." One of the images stood out-a woman with a sharp, striking resemblance to Rowan. It wasn't Rowan, not exactly, but the resemblance was close enough to make Howard's reason for unease clear.
Rowan trudges along after Howard, ignoring the strange looks she gets from the other people visiting the bank, and the hushed whispers of the employees who pointed her out in the first place. She glances about as she enters the staff space. The atmosphere is corporate and oppressive, and she feels horrendously out of place. She takes the offered seat, lips pursed, and offers but a nod as the tea is placed in front of her, but makes no moves to drink it. She simply blinks as Howard begins to talk about the weather, looking down at him through narrowed eyes, until finally his gaze indicates the poster. She looks to it her eyes widen a little, before she rolls them up in her head, closes them, and lets out another heavy sigh. "I see" she says, "That looks a bit like me, yes, but it isn't me." She rises with a rustle of clothing and makes her way over to the notice board, standing beside the poster, "Look at us side by side."
Howard's hands rise instinctively in a placating gesture, "Oh, no, no, miss." he stammers, words tripping over themselves in an attempt to diffuse, "That's... not why I asked you to come back here. It's just... well, that's... quite the coincidence, isn't it?" His forced laugh was brittle, hanging awkwardly in the air. His eyes dart to the poster again, betraying the doubt swirling in his mind despite his reassurances, "It does look a /bit/ like you." he admits reluctantly, his hands twisting nervously in front of him, "But these things happen all the time, right? Just, uh, one of those strange... coincidences."
His gaze lingers on Rowan, dubious and uncertain, before flicking back to the door as it creaks open behind him. Relief washes over Howard's features as a pair of federal agents entered the room, led by one of the whispering employees. They were sharply dressed in dark suits, their expressions unreadable. Howard nearly sags in his seat, his professional mask slipping into something closer to outright gratitude at their arrival. His voice gains a touch of strength now that the burden of responsibility hads shifted, "Thank you for coming so quickly."
The taller of the two agents steps forward, their gaze appraising as it settles on Rowan. "Ma'am." He greets, tone clipped but polite, "Do you have any identification on you?"
Rowan looks back to the poster again, and then to Howard, her expression shifting from a displeased frown to one of confusion, "It's not?" she asks, "Then why-" However, her words are cut off as the door opens and the two agents step inside. Suddenly, she's the one tensing up. She looks them over for a moment before taking a hesitant step forward towards them, removing her hands from her pockets to show she's not armed, before they ask for identification, and she has to reach in again. "I have my driving license, hold on..." she replies, removing her wallet and rummaging around in it for a moment before she presents the card to them. "Here."
The taller of the two agents took Rowan's license with a measured nod, his hand turning the card over. He held it up to the light, tilting it slightly as if inspecting it's holograms. With deliberate care, he bent it gently. After a moment of silent scrutiny, the agent looked toward Howard. His head gave a subtle shake, a silent indication that there was no issue with the identification. he extends the license back to Rowan, his demeanor brisk, "Thank you, ma'am." He says simply, his voice even and calm. The agents exchanged a glance before turning toward the door, moving to leave the room without further explanation.
Howard exhales shakily, his earlier bravado completely deflated, "Oh, miss, I-I'm so sorry for the confusion." He stammers, his hands fluttering nervously, "This... this was all a misunderstanding, clearly. And, uh, of course, your time is valuable, so I'll, um, yes, I'll have your account credited with five dollars. A gesture of goodwill." He rises from his chair, motioning awkwardly toward the door as if eager to see Rowan leave and put this uncomfortable episode behind him. His smile was thin and uneasy, his discomfort all too apparent, "Again, our deepest apologies."
There's an incredibly tense moment that hangs in the air as the agent examines Rowan's license. That brief time, less than a minute, seems to stretch on for eternity, and the concern clearly shows in how Rowan stands and looks. Then, finally, she's handed the small card back, and she slips it back into her wallet, exhaling a small sigh of relief as the agents depart. Then, scowl returning, she turns her attention back on Howard. She considers letting him have a piece of her mind, but after a little consideration, settles simply on a brisk "Thank you" before turning to depart herself.
(Your target is possessed by an angry spirit that is forcing them to act out and putting themselves and/or others at risk. They must either defeat it or find a way to calm it down.
)
The night in Haven grows colder, as winter tightens its icy hold over the town. The temperatures continue to drop steadily, each gust of wind carrying with it the chill of the season. Even the forest, a place often shrouded in mystery, feels the weight of the cold. Snow falls gently, coating the trees and ground in a soft blanket of white, muffling the sounds of the world around.
On this particular evening, Juniper and Elias set out with a sense of anticipation, heading towards the home of a friend. They expect nothing more than a quiet, uneventful night perhaps some conversation, a shared meal, and the simple pleasure of each other's company. Yet, in Haven, nothing is ever quite as it seems. Theres always an underlying current of the unexpected, a lurking presence of the strange and the unexplained. Tonight, as with so many nights before, the ordinary takes on an eerie quality, and what begins as a normal outing is destined to unfold in ways they could never have imagined.
In the cozy living room, the warmth seems to radiate from more than just the shelter itself. The comforting heat of the room is also fueled by the assortment of bottles of spirits neatly arranged on the bar, their amber contents catching the flicker of the dim light. Yet, just as the chill seems ready to slip away, the room betrays them. The temperature drops suddenly, a sharp, almost unnatural cold sweeping through the space. The fires warmth seems to waver, and the lights overhead flicker once, then again. Perhaps its simply the weight of the snow accumulating outside, pressing against the walls of the house, or maybe, just maybe, something far less ordinary stirs in the air. The stillness that follows feels heavier, as if the room itself is holding its breath, waiting for what will come next.
Atop the bar, seemingly out of place, rests a black permanent marker beside a stapler. It's an odd combination, one that might easily be overlooked in the midst of the more intriguing bottles of spirits and the warmth of the firelight. Yet, something about the marker seems to draw attention, despite its simplicity.
Juniper, though likely unaware of the pull at first, feels an inexplicable urge to move toward it. It's as though the marker calls to her, its presence growing in significance with each passing second. The rest of the room fades slightly as she finds herself gravitating toward the bar, her steps slow and almost reluctant, yet entirely compelled. Theres no logical reason for her to approach it just an unsettling certainty that she must.
The revelation, however, turns out to be a bizarre case of mistaken identity involving a "Wanted for Fraud" poster that bears a striking resemblance to Rowan. Despite the initial misunderstanding, Howard's demeanor changes when federal agents arrive, further intensifying the situation. After a tense inspection of Rowan's identification, the agents find no cause for concern, leaving as abruptly as they had arrived. With the air of suspicion somewhat cleared, Howard attempts to make amends for the misunderstanding by offering a token compensation for Rowan's trouble. Despite the resolution, the experience leaves Rowan disconcerted, reflecting the unpredictable nature of events in Haven and setting the tone for the eerie undercurrents that permeate even the most mundane activities in the town.
(Rowan's odd encounter(SRLucy):SRLucy)
[Mon Jan 6 2025]
In the entrance to Haven National Bank
The relatively conservative looking building of grey stone to the west
appears to be one of the older buildings in town and would be unidentifiable
were it not for the bold letters above it's entry way proudly proclaiming
itself as Haven National Bank. A series of old steps climb through four
classic columns to reach heavy steel doors.
The location has been retrofitted with some modern improvements however
including a drive-through on which blends in seamlessly on the western side
of the building.
It is afternoon, about 21F(-6C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It's snowing outside.
(Someone has sent the state police after your target. Perhaps they're a real criminal or perhaps they've been framed, in either case it's up to them to get their arrest warrant handled and removed.
)
The quiet hum of activity in the bank offered little distraction to Rowan as he went about his business. Yet, a prickling sensation crawled along the nape of his neck, an almost tangible sense of being watched hanging heavy. A subtle glance to the side confirmed it. A cluster of employees huddled near the teller counters. Though they made a half-hearted attempt to mask it, their darting eyes and occasional gestures in his direction gave them away, they were talking about Rowan.
Rowan enters the bank with her hands buried in the pockets of her coat. Her lips are pursed, and a gloominess hovers over her. Something has clearly recently soured her mood. Still, she's here for a reason. She takes a few striding steps in, and glances around for an ATM. A bank of all places surely has one. As her gaze searches, though, it eventually falls on the cluster of employees. She looks their way, brazenly, making no attempt to hide the way her attention has shifted, and notices after a short time that they're watching her, and talking about her too. She frowns and draws in a breath, but for the time being, ignores them, and continues her search.
Catching the stare, a few of the employees shift awkwardly, but the whispering doesn't stop. They huddle together like schoolchildren sharing a secret, glancing Rowan's way with barely contained whispers. Their heads leaned closer, and every so often, a poorly disguised gesture in her direction punctuates their murmured conversation. It wasn't long, however, before Rowan's peripheral awareness caught the hesitant shuffle of someone approaching. The man was small, balding, and visibly uncomfortable in his skin. His strained smile carried the desperation of someone attempting to smooth over a problem they'd rather not address, "Excuse me, miss.." he began, his voice unsteady but polished with professional varnish, "If I could trouble you for a moment... Would you mind coming with me to the back for a quick chat?" The faintest glisten of sweat dotted his brow, and his fidgeting hands betrayed a nervousness that hung in the air. He reeked of forced politeness, the kind that tried to conceal a conversation hed much rather avoid. He was wearing a crisp uniform and a neatly pinned name badge that identified him as part of the bank's management team.
Rowan eventually finds the ATM, and makes her way over towards it to stand in line and wait her turn to withdraw whatever cash she needs. The whispering strangers forgotten for the moment, she reaches from the pocket of her coat to the pocket of trousers, in the motion to withdraw a phone, but finding nothing, closes her eyes and lets out a weary sigh. Perhaps a lost phone is the source of her foul mood. Just as it comes her turn, the bank manager approaches, and she recalls the pointing and whispering employees. She turns and peers down at the man, a frown already present, which only deepens at his nervous request. "What is it?" she asks, there in the middle of the bank, in the midst of a number of strangers, "You can tell me here if there's a problem."
Rowan eventually finds the ATM, and makes her way over towards it to stand in line and wait her turn to withdraw whatever cash she needs. The whispering strangers forgotten for the moment, she reaches from the pocket of her coat to the pocket of trousers, in the motion to withdraw a phone, but finding nothing, closes her eyes and lets out a weary sigh. Perhaps a lost phone is the source of her foul mood. Just as it comes her turn, the bank manager approaches, and she recalls the pointing and whispering employees. She turns and peers down at the man, a frown already present, which only deepens at his nervous request. "What is it?" she asks, there in the middle of the bank, in the midst of a number of strangers, "You can tell me here if there's a problem."
The bank manager adjusted the lapel of his uniform as if the act could smooth out the tension etched into his features. His name badge, glinting faintly under the overhead lights, reads "Howard - Manager". Clearing his throat, he offers Rowan a practiced but strained smile, one that wavered under her unrelenting frown. "Miss, I understand this may seem unusual." He begins, his voice low and placating, barely concealing the tremor beneath it. His hands gesture vaguely toward the staff area, his movements stiff and uncertain, "But it would be best if we could have a quick chat in private. It's just... protocol, I assure you."
As he spoke, his eyes flicked briefly over his shoulder toward the group of employees. One of them was now on the phone, their expression taut with urgency as they murmur into the receiver. Howard's nervousness deepenes at the sight, and he turns back to Rowan, his polite mask slipping further, "It won't take long." he adds, his words hurried and softening into a nearly pleading tone, "It's just... a matter we'd prefer to handle discreetly."
Rowan stares down at the manager, or Howard, as she now notices, for a long, painful moment. Whatever this problem is, it doesn't take a genius to tell it's clearly nothing good. She considers simply leaving, but a glance over at the employees that were previously whispering about her reveals one is now on the phone. Knowing her luck today, it occurs to her that whatever this problem is, if she did just leave, it might be the police, and not a nervous bank manager, pursuing her. She closes her eyes and exhales a heavy sigh. "Fine" she acquiesces, "Show me the way."
Howard's relief at Rowan's agreement was palpable, his shoulders visibly relaxing as he gestured toward a door marked Staff only. "Thank you, miss. It won't take but a moment." He murmurs, his voice a little too bright with forced enthusiasm. He led the way, his steps quick and slightly uneven, the polished floor amplifying the nervous shuffle of his shoes.
Pushing open the staff room door, Howard motioned Rowan inside with a polite smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. The space was utilitarian, with beige walls, a small round table surrounded by mismatched chairs, and a corner counter housing a coffee machine and a clutter of mugs. He waved toward a chair.
"Please, have a seat," he offers, moving to the counter. "Coffee? Or tea? We've got, um, cream and sugar here somewhere..." His words trail off as he fusses with the coffee machine, the clink of a mug against the counter filling the room. Without waiting for her answer, he set a steaming cup of tea on the table infront of Rowan and took the seat opposite. His eyes flick up to meet Rowan's but didn't linger, skittering nervously toward the wall behind her, "The weather's been, ah, unpredictable lately, hasn't it? They said it might rain, but I think we've been lucky so far..." His words drift into the air, his small talk transparent in it's intent to stall.
The wall he looks toward has a laminated poster pinned to the noticeboard. It was a series of mugshots, each face accompanied by a bold caption reading "WANTED FOR FRAUD." One of the images stood out-a woman with a sharp, striking resemblance to Rowan. It wasn't Rowan, not exactly, but the resemblance was close enough to make Howard's reason for unease clear.
Rowan trudges along after Howard, ignoring the strange looks she gets from the other people visiting the bank, and the hushed whispers of the employees who pointed her out in the first place. She glances about as she enters the staff space. The atmosphere is corporate and oppressive, and she feels horrendously out of place. She takes the offered seat, lips pursed, and offers but a nod as the tea is placed in front of her, but makes no moves to drink it. She simply blinks as Howard begins to talk about the weather, looking down at him through narrowed eyes, until finally his gaze indicates the poster. She looks to it her eyes widen a little, before she rolls them up in her head, closes them, and lets out another heavy sigh. "I see" she says, "That looks a bit like me, yes, but it isn't me." She rises with a rustle of clothing and makes her way over to the notice board, standing beside the poster, "Look at us side by side."
Howard's hands rise instinctively in a placating gesture, "Oh, no, no, miss." he stammers, words tripping over themselves in an attempt to diffuse, "That's... not why I asked you to come back here. It's just... well, that's... quite the coincidence, isn't it?" His forced laugh was brittle, hanging awkwardly in the air. His eyes dart to the poster again, betraying the doubt swirling in his mind despite his reassurances, "It does look a /bit/ like you." he admits reluctantly, his hands twisting nervously in front of him, "But these things happen all the time, right? Just, uh, one of those strange... coincidences."
His gaze lingers on Rowan, dubious and uncertain, before flicking back to the door as it creaks open behind him. Relief washes over Howard's features as a pair of federal agents entered the room, led by one of the whispering employees. They were sharply dressed in dark suits, their expressions unreadable. Howard nearly sags in his seat, his professional mask slipping into something closer to outright gratitude at their arrival. His voice gains a touch of strength now that the burden of responsibility hads shifted, "Thank you for coming so quickly."
The taller of the two agents steps forward, their gaze appraising as it settles on Rowan. "Ma'am." He greets, tone clipped but polite, "Do you have any identification on you?"
Rowan looks back to the poster again, and then to Howard, her expression shifting from a displeased frown to one of confusion, "It's not?" she asks, "Then why-" However, her words are cut off as the door opens and the two agents step inside. Suddenly, she's the one tensing up. She looks them over for a moment before taking a hesitant step forward towards them, removing her hands from her pockets to show she's not armed, before they ask for identification, and she has to reach in again. "I have my driving license, hold on..." she replies, removing her wallet and rummaging around in it for a moment before she presents the card to them. "Here."
The taller of the two agents took Rowan's license with a measured nod, his hand turning the card over. He held it up to the light, tilting it slightly as if inspecting it's holograms. With deliberate care, he bent it gently. After a moment of silent scrutiny, the agent looked toward Howard. His head gave a subtle shake, a silent indication that there was no issue with the identification. he extends the license back to Rowan, his demeanor brisk, "Thank you, ma'am." He says simply, his voice even and calm. The agents exchanged a glance before turning toward the door, moving to leave the room without further explanation.
Howard exhales shakily, his earlier bravado completely deflated, "Oh, miss, I-I'm so sorry for the confusion." He stammers, his hands fluttering nervously, "This... this was all a misunderstanding, clearly. And, uh, of course, your time is valuable, so I'll, um, yes, I'll have your account credited with five dollars. A gesture of goodwill." He rises from his chair, motioning awkwardly toward the door as if eager to see Rowan leave and put this uncomfortable episode behind him. His smile was thin and uneasy, his discomfort all too apparent, "Again, our deepest apologies."
There's an incredibly tense moment that hangs in the air as the agent examines Rowan's license. That brief time, less than a minute, seems to stretch on for eternity, and the concern clearly shows in how Rowan stands and looks. Then, finally, she's handed the small card back, and she slips it back into her wallet, exhaling a small sigh of relief as the agents depart. Then, scowl returning, she turns her attention back on Howard. She considers letting him have a piece of her mind, but after a little consideration, settles simply on a brisk "Thank you" before turning to depart herself.
(Your target is possessed by an angry spirit that is forcing them to act out and putting themselves and/or others at risk. They must either defeat it or find a way to calm it down.
)
The night in Haven grows colder, as winter tightens its icy hold over the town. The temperatures continue to drop steadily, each gust of wind carrying with it the chill of the season. Even the forest, a place often shrouded in mystery, feels the weight of the cold. Snow falls gently, coating the trees and ground in a soft blanket of white, muffling the sounds of the world around.
On this particular evening, Juniper and Elias set out with a sense of anticipation, heading towards the home of a friend. They expect nothing more than a quiet, uneventful night perhaps some conversation, a shared meal, and the simple pleasure of each other's company. Yet, in Haven, nothing is ever quite as it seems. Theres always an underlying current of the unexpected, a lurking presence of the strange and the unexplained. Tonight, as with so many nights before, the ordinary takes on an eerie quality, and what begins as a normal outing is destined to unfold in ways they could never have imagined.
In the cozy living room, the warmth seems to radiate from more than just the shelter itself. The comforting heat of the room is also fueled by the assortment of bottles of spirits neatly arranged on the bar, their amber contents catching the flicker of the dim light. Yet, just as the chill seems ready to slip away, the room betrays them. The temperature drops suddenly, a sharp, almost unnatural cold sweeping through the space. The fires warmth seems to waver, and the lights overhead flicker once, then again. Perhaps its simply the weight of the snow accumulating outside, pressing against the walls of the house, or maybe, just maybe, something far less ordinary stirs in the air. The stillness that follows feels heavier, as if the room itself is holding its breath, waiting for what will come next.
Atop the bar, seemingly out of place, rests a black permanent marker beside a stapler. It's an odd combination, one that might easily be overlooked in the midst of the more intriguing bottles of spirits and the warmth of the firelight. Yet, something about the marker seems to draw attention, despite its simplicity.
Juniper, though likely unaware of the pull at first, feels an inexplicable urge to move toward it. It's as though the marker calls to her, its presence growing in significance with each passing second. The rest of the room fades slightly as she finds herself gravitating toward the bar, her steps slow and almost reluctant, yet entirely compelled. Theres no logical reason for her to approach it just an unsettling certainty that she must.