Encounterlogs
Ruprechts Odd Encounter Sr Liesl 250409
The quiet of Liliane's room is breached not by a sound, but a presence, twisting her movements into an eerie dance of control. An otherworldly force wrestles for dominance, moving Liliane like a marionette, forcing odd angles and steps, her body a battleground for command. This sinister puppeteer seeks not just to manipulate her limbs but to express a vengeful desire, a hatred aimed vaguely at masculinity, at someone with too many smiles and too many teeth. Despite the invasion, Liliane retains a sliver of control, her struggle evident as she fights to reach out, to call for help through the grip that both physically and spiritually confines her. Her phone, an object of potential salvation, becomes a contested zone, responding to her frantic but thwarted attempts to dial for aid.
In a desperate act of defiance, Liliane's will begins to crystallize, her movements turning towards resistance rather than compliance. She challenges the invader, pushing against its forced guidance with a rage that mirrors yet opposes its own. The clash is intense, a turmoil of wills within the confines of a single body, with Liliane thrusting her shoulder against the door in a symbolic rejection of the spirit's control. This defiance seems to shake the spirit's hold, causing it to falter in confusion, its focus and imagery dissolving into a haze of fear and lost purpose. As the presence weakens, entangled in its own fading memories and fears of medical instruments, Liliane finds herself regaining control, standing alone in the aftermath of a deeply personal yet unseen battle.
(Ruprecht's odd encounter(SRLiesl):SRLiesl)
[Sat Apr 5 2025]
In a bathroom in the log cabin
Smooth, polished wooden floors offer a firm foundation underfoot, while the walls, crafted from rough-hewn logs, exude a comforting earthiness. A four-person jacuzzi hot tub, positioned beneath a skylight, beckons with promises of indulgent relaxation. A copper basin sink rests atop a weathered wooden vanity, its gleaming surface reflecting the soft light. Beside it, a hand-carved mirror adds a touch of old-world elegance. The air is infused with the scent of pine, carried in from the surrounding forest. Everywhere, the craftsmanship of the cabin's construction is evident, creating a harmonious blend of nature and luxury in this serene sanctuary.
It is morning, about 52F(11C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. Waist high mist flows through the area.
(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.
)
Ruprecht is having another one of those many, many bad days, one in a string of three hundred and sixty five to come, followed by three hundred and sixty four more behind him. At least he seems to be enjoying himself. He's working some kind've a chemical reaction in someone's bathroom. Autumn's, particularly, but he's not exactly a welcome visitor. A little hot plate on the sink sees him heating up a pot, face turned low, a cigarette gets stuck in his lip, and he's leaning on the wall. Why, why would a man need feel such anger?
Whatever Ruprecht could be doing inside of the bathroom in a quaint log cabin is abruptly interrupted with a series of loud, insistent knocks that come through the hollow space. It's a sharp unrelenting knock that hammers at the door - brisk and bold, refusing to be ignored, it's rhythm untold. They know someone's inside, and they wanna meet up and touch up. They come in trios, rap, rap, rap. Whoever is insisting on an early morning meet in the middle of nowhere otherwise does not announce themselves, but the blustery cough of what sounds like it's coming from a male sort breaks the tempo before those knocks on wood sound out impatiently. The guy just seems to like to make noise against the hard structure, it seems.
hatever Ruprecht could be doing inside of the bathroom in a quaint log cabin is abruptly interrupted with a series of loud, insistent knocks that come through the hollow space. It's a sharp unrelenting knock that hammers at the door - brisk and bold, refusing to be ignored, it's rhythm untold. They know someone's inside, and they wanna meet up and touch up. They come in trios, rap, rap, rap. Whoever is insisting on an early morning meet in the middle of nowhere otherwise does not announce themselves, but the blustery cough of what sounds like it's coming from a male sort breaks the tempo before those knocks on wood sound out impatiently. The guy just seems to like to make noise against the hard structure, it seems. (repeat for die newcomer)
And whatever Ruprecht could be doing inside of the bathroom in a quaint log cabin is abruptly interrupted with a series of loud, insistent knocks that come through the hollow space. It's a sharp unrelenting knock that hammers at the door - brisk and bold, refusing to be ignored, it's rhythm untold. They know someone's inside, and they wanna meet up and touch up. They come in trios, rap, rap, rap. Whoever is insisting on an early morning meet in the middle of nowhere otherwise does not announce themselves, but the blustery cough of what sounds like it's coming from a male sort breaks the tempo before those knocks on wood sound out impatiently. The guy just seems to like to make noise against the hard structure, it seems. (repeat for die newcomers!)
Ruprecht squawks as he hears the knocking, ash nearly falling right into his hot-plate based cooking pot. A sick ammonic smell fills the bathroom, windows open, ventilation kicked on if he had any option to do so. Clearly, this is something worth policing, but for whatever reason -- he thought he could cook here. Like he'd always get away with it somehow. He walks up to the door curiously, pot of boiling chemicals in hand, and knocks back. Three times.
It's not a friendly look in his eyes.
The bathroom's eastern door as Autumn comes out of her bedroom and closes the door behind her. She looks at Ruprecht, blinks a couple times, and slowly nods her head while she glances at her phone. "Morning," she greets, Justin also getting a glance as she rubs her eyes.
"Oh, good morning," Ruprecht puffs to someone with a haze of smoke. There's a casual nod, like he's not cooking down embalming fluid in someone else's legally owned home, and the cops AREN'T here.
"Oh, good morning," Ruprecht puffs to Autumn with a haze of smoke. There's a casual nod, like he's not cooking down embalming fluid in someone else's legally owned home, and the cops AREN'T here.
Justin had been monitoring the radio bands while he was burning gas driving around town that morning; and, with the delicate hook of a warrant being served up in the radio chatter, how could he resist? What else was he going to be doing with his morning? The self-styled bounty hunter *appearifies* from the Nightmare, having caught his own gaze in the mirror; and then leans against the wall, preemptively raising his hands -- lest he suddenly become the victim of that acidic cooking pot. "Hey. No worries, okay? They have to announce themselves," he recalls off the top of his head (speaking of company on the other side of the door): "And they have to have a warrant-- ah, fuck. This isn't your home?" He slaps his forehead with his palm. "Forget all that. New rules, new rules!"
Impatience begets even more impatience. Dull, plodding knocks become heavier, even more insistent than before. The person doing the knocking ups it an ante, starting to use his voice. "Hello? Boston police department." The good old BPD, wandering into Haven jurisdiction, what could bring that lot here? "Can you open up?" the voice politely requests, followed by another cavalcade of coughing. It's a terrible wretching sound. It takes precedence for what could be a pretty good, long, and uncomfortable duration. It goes on for so long that it might spark worry that he's not all okay out there. There's a heave for breath, and then a sputter before the guy harrumphs, like he's hyping himself up. Then the knocks start their tune again in quartets this time. A modest upgrade from the triple cadence coming from before. He knows there's someone inside now. "...open up."
"JEESUS CHRIST!" Ruprecht bawks as Justin appears before them all, jumping out've his skin like he's about to do the spooky-scary-skeleton dance on the spot. A little liquid sloshes out of the pot, landing on the floor with a 'pssttttt', sizzling down. Nonetheless, he seems to register Justin as something other than a foe. "YOU GOT A WARRANT?!" He shouts at the door, as if to take the man's advice.
Every knock seems to make an artery in his forehead swell up a little more. Eventually he just can't take it. He tries to open the door. By shoving a palm into the knob, that is, right as he twists it, as if to knock the whole door into someone's nose.
Once she's fully awake, Autumn notices the pot of chemicals in someone and then turns her head towards the voice outside the door. "What's with strange things in there in my own home?" She asks Ruprecht, lowering her voice as she frowns. "Can't have death room when I'm here." She then jumps a bit as she watches the door and the knocking.
Once she's fully awake, Autumn notices the pot of chemicals in Ruprecht and then turns her head towards the voice outside the door. "What's with strange things in there in my own home?" She asks Ruprecht, lowering her voice as she frowns. "Can't have death room when I'm here." She then jumps a bit as she watches the door and the knocking.
Justin begins to bob his head encouragingly, flashing Ruprecht a discrete thumbs-up. His suspicions flee to the condition of the hacklung on the other side of this grand barrier of American privacy -- the bathroom door. "Hold on a second- this is your home?" he inquires in low tone aside to Autumn, his gaze narrowing. "Can you try pulling the old... 'don't come in, I'm naked'?" He double-takes between Ruprecht and Autumn, making a safe bet-- at least, in his mind. "No amount of perp prep is going to be expecting -your- voice to come out of..." He levies a finger delicately towards Ruprecht. "That guy."
Something that sounds like a man clearing his throat and struggling with phlegm -- or heartburn resounds out in one old timer's answer to the outbursts within. He's huffing, and he's puffing, but he's probably not going to blow this house down. "Dang it. This is a wellness check. We've received very troubling reports. Open up, let me see if the girl's alright, and I can move on, alright?" The knocking and roughousing with the door has whoever is on the other side give pause. "What's going on in there? Ma'am? Hello? Are you alright in there?" he calls out, and like a reprimand for using his voice, the coughing fit returns. He sounds like he's the one that might need help. In all likelihood, this officer is way out of his league, following a scent trail and tipped off by a neighbor that has it out for the owner of this house, Autumn. "There a miss Autumn inside? We need to talk. Quick and easy." Like any good old officer of the law is wont to do, he starts jiggling at the doorknob, trying to work it open himself.
"Yeah, and I can," Autumn turns her head to nod towards Justin before she turns towards the door. "Don't come in, I'm super naked!" Autumn calls out towards the voice. "What do you want? I don't nothing wrong lately!"
Ruprecht throws his shoulder into the door this time, apparently growing impatient with the way they fight over that doorknob. The hot plate on the counter grows to a dull red heat, looking like the sort that a crackhead might've tried to sell on the street some twenty years ago. His intentions are, quite seemingly, a bit more reckless than the others'.
Likely no shock, considering he's half-mutedly gotten them into this whole ordeal. Ever a malignance.
Mister police officer from the other side of the portal grumbles and sighs. He's a little loud, or maybe there isn't very much insulation from sound out here. You can hear something clap against flesh, and the smack of lips. Eating something, perhaps. "Look. There's been complaints. No-" He feels the tension in the doorknob, and as if to prove himself to the world, tries to hold the thing down. If anyone's going to turn the knob in this cabin, it's gonna be he. He's the big dog cause he's got the badge, see? Ruprecht is damn strong for someone of his build, and the door gives in to his demands, the hinges going out and the door flinging open, right in the LEO's face. He staggers backwards with a yelp and falls right on his ass for a grand debut for the trio hunkering within the cabin.
Dude's clad somewhat snug in a uniform fit for the boys in blue. Seen its fair of donut crumbs and coffee stains, and there's wet stains under the guys's underarms too. His round belly juts out confidently, trying to withstand the force of the door hurtling his way. But his great girth doesn't hold to the combined might of one door and Ruprecht's strength. He's flat on his ass and reaching for something on his belt. The thick, walrus-like mustache dominating his face in salt and pepper hues tightens, he's ready for action now, despite being sprawled on the ground. "Gods damned it, stop resisting," he instinctively barks.
And for those in class who have their charms, the guy's red.
"Time to catch this abetting charge," Justin sighs from the back line. He pulls out his own piece -- the cold blued steel of a snub-nose revolver, that had been tucked away in the pocket of his jacket. Hopefully he can draw on the pig before that three point retention holster gives way of service weapon. "Chill out!" he's barking his own order, trying to peek past Autumn and Ruprecht. "You don't know what you're dealing with, here!" Words of wisdom from the third occupant of a bathroom.
"Why?! YOU came to ME, officeeeeerrr..." Ruprecht flits eyes between the man's aura and his badge, as if to see a name -- focused on the surname, no doubt, and then SQUINTS his eyes shut as hard as he can. A reflexive notion to the expectation of mace from the police officer's aerosol can. He stands still as a board now, posture perfect, cheeks dimpled with a serene smile. He's in his element here in the smog. The boiling liquid settles down to a simmer, but it seems to retain heat for an oddly long time.
That he acts without persuasions is purely born of selfishness, if not a hatred for law enforcement. His tongue's silvered when he wants it to be, but apparently it's more fun to him to spit bile. Justin does it for him, after all -- expressing his own opinions with succinct clarity and the steel of a handgun. It's followed up with a simple quip. "If Sherry made this man into a suit, I bet it could house four different people. What a specimen. True clay of man."
"I'm not one doing it," Autumn tells the officer(?) with her hands up. She looks between Ruprecht and his charm, before she warns the miscreant. "Don't go killing him." As she nods once more towards Justin, the woman looks back to the officer, saying, "I have been at home whole night after visit with brother. Nothing else. I am innocent, sir."
Ruprecht takes one tenuous step closer to the intruder, eyes still shut.
Like he'd take advantage of kicking someone while they're down. Or worse. He looks to Autumn without unopened eyes, and his smile lowers a bit. Just a bit. He doesn't like her suggestion one mite.
The man with a walrus mustache may be down, but he's not out. Despite his portly, rotund appearance, he's quick to act, but his love for the All American diet has left the dependability of his gear tenuous at best. It's the fit of his clothes, the belt, they don't sit on him well. The black and white bumble bee pattern of his taser skitters off to the side. He was reaching for it first, but it's quite out of his reach now. The white pepper spray lodged in one of his pocket is grabbed for next. He ponderously rose to a knee, but the effort to his knees to bring his grand, royal weight aloft burdens him now, and he stays in that pose when he sees the steel drawn, squinting at Justin, then at Autumn, the supposed maiden in distress. "Easy now," he says, starting to dial it down a notch. He's caught completely out in the open with no cover in sight.
And even if there was something nearby for him to dash for, could a fella like him make it in time? Most would bet against that. "...easy now," he stresses, forcing a smile. He's already sweating. Profusely at that. The blur of action that has him taking a knee before the trio has already exerted him. He's bidding on a second wind now. He tries to raise his hands up in a slow motion, but the gesture has him teetering off kilter, trouble keeping balance. He's top heavy, and not in the good way. "Look. You got complaints here and..." he can't help it but peer between the silhouettes beyond the threshold. "What the hell are you lot doing in there?" he's spotted whatever Ruprecht's been cooking, and his expression darkens.
"Complaints? Out here from town?" Autumn speaks towards the officer with a squint of her eyes. "Did that tower across here suddenly got residents now?" She eyes slowly turns towards the taser on the floor as she adds, "I do not have any idea. Unless you have legal warrant, you should leave now."
"Complaints, complaints -- someone's always complaining. But they didn't have the stones, did they, Cohen? No, no, you did. Took the long road all the way down -- or maybe you were already here. Like a tourist. Let me guess, boss. Devilwood?" He's shivering, like there's a certain specific blend of psychopathic rage performing a consistent feedback loop. He's about to fucking lose it, if Ruprecht's position of power over this clearly innocent individual remains unhindered.
Justin emerges from the bathroom in a slow strafe, approaching the officer's kneeling stance with a wood-creaking strafe underfoot. "Who put you up to this, guy? Your worst enemy?" And as the banter continues, he tries to buy some time for Autumn and Ruprecht over-shoulder; "There's a reason why you're supposed to leave this town to the Sheriff's Department -- it's for your own safety." He keeps his revolver trained on the officer's gun-arm, ready to give the man a shoulder surgery if he pulls his piece.
Officer Cohen wets his lips, breathing heavily. His dark, hazel eyes flit from one person to the next. Ruprecht, then Autumn, then Justin, and then back to Ruprecht, squinting his beady little eyes on the miscreant. He's fixating most of his ire on that one, even if it's Justin that has the gun drawn. As so stated succinctly by Justin, the portly man is way in over his head. All the assumptions levied at him turn out to be more like presumptions, given his status here. He's not supposed to be here. He's stepped way out of line. He swallows hard, gritting his teeth. There's one constant here. He keeps staring back at Autumn, unable to hide some of the desire in his gaze. The pistol leveled at him helps keep him honest. The shame that starts to write itself out on his blustering features is enough to confirm one thing. He's one of Haven's tourists looking for a good time. He's brought the badge to impress, but it's also his sobering downfall. The fingers of his good gun arm twitch, but he tries to stay as still as he can, his weight giving him some trouble with that affair. "I don't got any warrant," he finally starts to fess up, starting small, not wanting to admit he was here for a good time. Too many inconsistencies.
"Whoever brought you here is setting you up," Autumn tells the officer, watching him until he answers. "So you are trespassing. Leave now, and you won't get hurt." She then suddenly smiles during all this, as she continues speaking. "You do not have any real business here. So it'll be easy way, or hard way."
That shame hits Ruprecht like a good line of the perfectly scaled coke. He shivers. His shoulders roll in a wave, left to right, and he tapps his right foot twice to the floor. As soon as he says he doesn't have a warrant, even as Autumn asserts her dominance, he does what he's wanted to this whole time. The pot've chemical boil goes swung open-ended for the man's head, as if to -- quite simultaneously scald, and concuss.
The cogs in Justin's head begin to grind. Ever so subtly, his revolver falls a few degrees; flagging from the officer's shoulder, to the patch of pudge that expounds beneath the big boy's patrol armor. A gut shot, in store? Or something more-- but the thought evaporates with the vapors of Ruprecht's interesting chemistry sizzling in the air. Justin recoils in disgust, lifting the collar of his jacket - wary of splashback.
Looking far too well dressed for an encounter with Ruprecht, Takeshi is stomping through Haven when he spots the man dumping something on top of the cop's head through, uh, an open door way or something, we'll say. Leaning back to catch the aftermath, Takeshi takes a few steps to bring the cop back into view as a wide grin plasters over the teenager's face
"Josef, what that guy do to you!" Takeshi calls out to the man, his words barely audible between the terribly broken english and the loud, cackling laughter that further fractured his words. Takeshi makes his way over, letting himself into the building as he hops up onto the back of the toilet to slav squat and watch the events with an elevated view. "Kick him in nuts next" Takeshi recommends to Ruprecht
There is currently an officer standing one knee, his hands held up with Justin leveling a snub -nosed revolver at him. The officer is morbidly obese, and is sweating trying to maintain his stance made unbearably awkward thanks to his great girth. "Came here for a good time, simple as," he states gruffly, coughing, yet keeping his hands held in the air. "You let me go and I'll never show my fa-"
*THUNK*
A sickening sound as a pot collides with his skull. His eyes dim. The complexion on the side of his face hisses and bubbles, boils and welts forming in an instant. His voice hitches, but it's lights out for him, sparing the audience and Takeshi the sad screams and shrieks that could have happened if the pot of boiling chems was simply dumped on his head.
As if to showcase how impressive his weight is, his head turns one way with a jolt, but he remains stationary for a good five or six seconds before falling backwards in a heap. If he's not dead, it's lights out. Something similar to the sound of eggs sizzling on the pan hisses quietly, and the smell starts to become pretty rank. Like pork being seared.
Autumn steps back as the chemicals are dumped, until the arrival of Takeshi catches her attention. "I should be one to kick him since he broke into my home," she tells the Asian man. "Also, who even are you to come to my home?"
Ruprecht stands there still for a moment, watching as the crackling and popping of the basic formula renders skin into something much less. There's not a moment of shame, not a hint of empathy. He sighs, like something's been momentarily sated, but then he's right back to it. "Do we want me to dispose of this?" He would ask the class, as if offering something of a favor. "It would be, no burden. No burden at all."
"Don't say things like that so openly when that officer could be unaware," Autumn replies to Takeshi in a hushed voice. "Even demons have standards, like not breaking into homes." Turning towards Ruprecht, she answers with, "Take him to hospital and have him questioned. Then alter his memory of this as well."
"Fucking authority tourists," Justin spits, lowering his guard when the Bostonite's lights are cut out. He stows away his revolver; even in the wake of Takeshi's claims of daemonium. Ever so macabrely curious, Justin looms forward to inspect which degree burn Ruprecht's cookery placed on the officer's face. He grimaces in -- it's not empathy. Must be pity crunching his features so succinctly. "You done with him?" he prompts of Ruprecht. "Yeah, no: no disposal. No, buddy boy's got a family somewhere. Most likely." He coughs into his fist: "Shield bearer oath." As if that explains why he's preparing to kidnap the officer: how the tables have turned! "Have you ever seen someone arrest a policeman with his own handcuffs?" he asks the gathering, as he begins to secure the unconscious body.
"Never seen that before," Autumn shakes her head at Justin. "But yes, oath. Even in my house."
"Eh? Why need memory altered? It sad if he forget such beautiful experience" Takeshi laments at Autumn 's suggestion before looking over to her and grinning from ear to ear "Why not say? I want them to know. Everyone should know that Kurogane Yami stalks the night!" Takeshi announces in a very smug, self absorbed voice.
Looking over as Justin starts to secure the officer, the short man hops up off of his perch and over to the man, squatting next to the man's face now as he smacks it with the back of his hand a couple times "Ehhh, wake up piggy" Takeshi calls down to the man "We not done with you yet, I only just got here!"
"...No." Ruprecht offers to Autumn, moving to the counter to unplug his hot-plate. Then he walks back to the body, placing it right at the chest, iron-face-down, like it's some sort've life support system. Takeshi gets a glance as he passes by, a knowing grin -- even a wink. Sure, Justin can have him, but it won't be without damages, and Ruprecht doesn't plan on paying restitution. "Bag and tag'm, Old Boy," Claims the aristocratic reject with a blithe bitterness, a bare-footed heel with a tattooed hex pattern landing swiftly at the policeman's head as he walks away one last time. To join Takeshi in squatting, even to light a cigarette.
Something akin to a strangled cry leaves Officer Cohen's lips. Once his body has lurched backwards and landed on the grass, the pristine gleaming badge pinned to his chest tumbles off his body, the pin giving out from the monumental strain on his vest. The sound is pitiful, and its a resignation as he swims between the precipice of consciousness and a terrible experience within his head. The pain hounds him deep within the recess of his mind. Even if he were unaware, the man is unable to contribute, much less be unaware to the point he'd be able to cause any more trouble. He's taken the drugs, and not in a great way.
his cheek is a portfolio of welts and boils, seared to a nasty purplish colour. It seeps into his immaculately trimmed and groomed mustache that belongs to a walrus's facade. Naturally, he offers no resistance to being cuffed, whimpering pitifully in his fitful slumbering.
blinks to and fro out of consciousness with the help of Takeshi's whaps come slaps. He begins to cry, trying to scream hoarsely. But it's more of a weakened gurgle. He's roused by a foot belonging to Ruprecht. It activates him. The second wind surges through him, and now while he's cuffed, he's absolutely screaming hysterically. It's all coming down at him at once.
Cohen blinks to and fro out of consciousness with the help of Takeshi's whaps come slaps. He begins to cry, trying to scream hoarsely. But it's more of a weakened gurgle. He's roused by a foot belonging to Ruprecht. It activates him. The second wind surges through him, and now while he's cuffed, he's absolutely screaming hysterically. It's all coming down at him at once.
His eyebrows raise up as the man awakes, smiling excitedly as he sees the man isn't lost of them yet "He awake!" Takeshi cackles happily, taking a fistful of the man's hair to pull his head back, pinning the back of his skull to the ground before looking over to Autumn "Now your chance!" Takeshi calls out to the woman "In the nads! Quick! Before he sleep again!" Takeshi encourages the woman with gleefully squinted eyes, the lad just having a right good ol' time.
"Then that would risk violating Treaty if you talk about demon stuff like that around public," Autumn tells Takeshi. "Plus, he already suffered enough. Can't have more damage to my house." Turning away, she walks towards Cohen and crouches down before him. "I am going to ask you some questions. Who sent you here?"
"He's freaking out!" Justin alerts the room (as if they couldn't come to the conclusion on their own). Seeing how he makes to heft the portly policeman like a sack of flour, it's only a slight burden. In his most level and serious voice, Justin peeks over to Takeshi and advises: "Let's not turn this into a Venetian situation." Who would get custody of the pitiful man?
"Treaty? Vegetarian? You two are weird" Takeshi snips unhappily to Autumn and Justin both, letting out a sigh as they refuse to play his games with him. "Fine, fine. I do it myself." Takeshi adds with the tone of a man who felt the game was much less fun when he played it on his own. Clearly though he was more than happy to play it on his own despite that though as he hops up to his feet, cocks his heel all the way back like he's getting ready to punt a football ("soccer" ball for those who speak English wrong) and swings his foot full force between the downed man's legs!
His eyes are completely dilated, grown far wider than the beady little eyes would have had one expected. Cohen looks like someone's just walked over his grave. Spittle lines the corners of his mouth, teeth gritting as he tries to contain all of the pain that's been pent up within his very being for the short stint of being out cold. It was far too brief, leaving him as he was would have been a kindness. Now a trio of demons might get horrifically high off his agony. He kicks and bellows, going into overdrive. But his legs are too stubbly to be a threat, and he's too heavy to sit upright properly. He'd need help with that. He's fighting to survive though, coked up by whatever Ruprecht was cooking up back in someone bathroom.
It's in his system, and it bites, giving him a methhead's dogged will to... exist. He's crashing out, even trying to bite at Justin's hands, the muscles hiding under the flab of his biceps burgeoning with purpose. He just might break out before he starts to choke on his own spit and spasms against Takeshi's hold. Then the kick happens, spurring him to sing his swan song in a hapless gurgling of spit dribbling down his double chinny chin chin. With a shuddery wheeze that nears a falsetto, the life in his eyes goes out. He's no daisy. No daisy at all. The strain was just too much to bear. His heart was already working overtime with no pay save for the burden of his obesity. It's all caught up to him, and now he's truly out. Disposal service is, unfortunately now required.
His eyes are completely dilated, grown far wider than the beady little eyes would have had one expected. Cohen looks like someone's just walked over his grave. Spittle lines the corners of his mouth, teeth gritting as he tries to contain all of the pain that's been pent up within his very being for the short stint of being out cold. It was far too brief, leaving him as he was would have been a kindness. Now a trio of demons might get horrifically high off his agony. He kicks and bellows, going into overdrive. But his legs are too stubbly to be a threat, and he's too heavy to sit upright properly. He'd need help with that. He's fighting to survive though, coked up by whatever Ruprecht was cooking up back in Autumn's bathroom.
It's in his system, and it bites, giving him a methhead's dogged will to... exist. He's crashing out, even trying to bite at Justin's hands, the muscles hiding under the flab of his biceps burgeoning with purpose. He just might break out before he starts to choke on his own spit and spasms against Takeshi's hold. Then the kick happens, spurring him to sing his swan song in a hapless gurgling of spit dribbling down his double chinny chin chin. With a shuddery wheeze that nears a falsetto, the life in his eyes goes out. He's no daisy. No daisy at all. The strain was just too much to bear. His heart was already working overtime with no pay save for the burden of his obesity. It's all caught up to him, and now he's truly out. Disposal service is, unfortunately now required, but likely solves the issue with the Vegetarian Council.
"Someone should /really/ teach you about Venice," Autumn grumbles under her breath towards Takeshi, watching him groin kick the officer. "I'll sent him to officials, since this is /my/ house!" With a lift of her hand, she taps on her earpiece for assisance with sending the downed officer away. "Can't even believe this..."
Ruprecht doesn't even seem to want him so much. He took his price upfront, and now poor Cohen's fat rump is on the market block. Takeshi seems a likely bidder, one to pay in force rather than currency. He shivers in his squat, sweat flooding down his face in sheening rivers. This new struggle, though? That gets him back into it on the double. Gurgling and choking ends up met with truly unhinged laughter, starting at a chackle, and ending up more like whooping cough. He's dead. That hits the miscreant like a brick. He might've just caught a jolly off it.
But then the afterglow's gone. His pupils turn back to pins, rather than dimes. It's over. "That was fun," He claims without shame, as if this had been a party, and Cohen just received a very different kind've bang-up job. "Excellent, excellent... coming along swimmingly. I'm one step clooseeeeeer..." Whatever he's approaching closer to, it's not human.
"Eh? He dead already?" Takeshi frowns as he watches the man collapse onto the ground. There's a disappointed sigh, and his foot is raised up this time for a stomp to the man's ribs, this time out of frustration instead of play though. Ribs could be heard snapping and shattering under his sneakers. "I don't want to go to school, I already know everything I need to" Takeshi remarks to Autumn, spitting off to the side before he looks over to Ruprecht "You think you can, like, dissolve body in acid or something?" Takeshi asks the man "I saw that happen in TV show once."
Justin wrings his hands in ... some performatory anguish, head lowering in consideration. Some token gesture. He's heard death groans before. Maybe a few were as bad as this one. "Someone is going to teach you, one day..." he forecasts to Takeshi. "I don't have a classroom big enough." But with the grind of bones causing him to cringe away from the desecration of the dead man, Justin bids Autumn a soft exhale of, "Sorry it came to that." And then he's off -- walking out the front door.
Her hazel eyes narrowing, Autumn pulls out and unsheathes her knife and points the blade at Takeshi. "You are going to get us all in trouble," she seethes at the Asian man. "You..." She then points at Ruprecht. "And you. You two get the fuck out my house before I sic my salamander at you." She then turns her head towards someone while her knife's still pointed at the miscreant, telling him, "You, report to Harry and high-ups and seek assistance for body and clean-up."
Ruprecht says "One more martyr... I'll only need a few thousand."
Her hazel eyes narrowing, Autumn pulls out and unsheathes her knife and points the blade at Takeshi. "You are going to get us all in trouble," she seethes at the Asian man. "You..." She then points at Ruprecht. "And you. You two get the fuck out my house before I sic my salamander at you." She then turns her head towards the leaving man while her knife's still pointed at the miscreant, telling him, "You, report to Harry and high-ups and seek assistance for body and clean-up."
Ruprecht says "...Maybe a few... more.."
Autumn was one step ahead of the others when it came to getting the mess that was Officer Cohen cleaned up. The earpiece was consulted, and with a response time that many would be happy with, a team of Orderites come, complete with a representative from the HSD. It's going to be a whole ordeal for everyone here. A ton of paperwork to cover this mess up and one unhappy HSD officer. They'll have their hands full for the rest of the weekend.
Thank you all for writing with me. Let me know if there's somewhere I can drop you off, otherwise you're free to go!
Ruprecht tends to fight paperwork as violently as the law, but in the moment, he's content as any sheep. Happy to help. He got what he wanted, after all, and he can't risk the streak. Every once in a while Autumn gets one of those thoughtful looks.
The bad kind.
"You have a salamander?!" Takeshi was gobsmacked, jaw hanging open at the revelation, seeming to have already completely forgotten about the dead man his boot was still on top of. "Can I see him?!" Takeshi demands ... It seems Autumn had made the mistake of threatening this man with a good time.
Ruprecht says "Yes, yes, show us the lizard from the gizzard wizzard. Doit."
(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.
)
Curtains drawn and bedroom silent, Liliane sits upon her bed with phone in hand. Slowly scrolls through nonsense, she occasionally checking her text messages and finds them empty with a sigh each time. "Today has been... more slow than I expected," she mumbles entirely to herself, each movement of her thumb less energetic as she rereads posts she's read countless times before.
Alone and quiet, here, the air is heavier than it ought to be.
There's a subtle wrongness to it. Not immediately obvious - no chill, no theatrics - but there's a strangley oppressive sense of presence.
The stormclouds outside shift lazily, gray-bellied and bloated, casting long moments of transient shadow through the window beside Liliane's neatly made bed. The faint creak of the ceiling fan overhead ticks intermittently, a metallic heartbeat filling the otherwise stilled air.
All is as it should be - until suddenly Liliane has a sharp, sudden inhale, unbidden.
The sound isn't loud. But it is deliberate. Pulled through her throat like a string being yanked.
Liliane' left shoulder twitches upward without command. Then the right follows, a clumsy marionette movement. Her knees stiffen under the black jeans and wool of her tights. There's no subtlety here. A test of control.
Liliane's head lolls slowly to the left, chestnut waves of her shoulder-length hair sliding over the thick cable-knit of her dark red sweater. The angle is too sharp. Too exact. Not a head tilt of idle curiosity but of evaluation.
Of ownership.
Another pulse of unnatural motion rolls down her spine. Vertebrae shifting in stiff succession, as if she was trying to remember how a human body moves. Her feet, booted and heavy, shuffle a half-step forward without her volition. The faint drag of mountaineering soles across the dark grey carpet rasps through the quiet room.
Her reflection in the wall-mounted mirror catches the moment with stark clarity.
There's still some control. But the freckled cheeks and green eyes and mouth that stares back is contorted in utter fury, a straining across the features that makes the face tremble. Her lips stretch in a thin, grim little crescent, showing too much upper teeth. It lingers for a heartbeat too long. The line of her jaw strains with the effort of the puppetry.
"Revenge." It declares, with sudden husky hunger.
Liliane can feel it - flashing imagery of malice directed at a shadowy figure with a wide smile and too many bright, white teeth, a sort of hatred towards masculinity in general. But coming from outside her and not within.
It does not, appear, to have full control - a sort of awkwardness, struggling to make a fist, unable to drop the phone that Liliane wishes to hold.
emote The initial movement catches the green eyed girl off guard, the twitch of her shoulder, the movement of her head, each coming too swiftly at first for her to even recognize as not movements of her own. Then suddenly, resistance, the first step barely taken, the tug at her body both familiar and not as Liliane struggles back against movements she can tell are not her own.
Her teeth clench, arm struggling for control as she lifts the phone into view, trying to move her thumb to her speed dial but truly unsure of who to call, the moments hesitation giving whatever force is attempting to establish dominance over her a chance to deny her access to the outside.
Briefly, the grip slips.
It's not much. A staggered heartbeat. A stammer in the spirit's crude marionette hold upon her - but it's enough.
Liliane feels it. The brittle edge of control waver at the smallest task. Fine motor control escapes the thing's clumsy reach; brutish force comes easy, but finesse and fine dexterity is a troublesome thing.
Her thumb hovers and shakes suddenly, a fight starting against the stiff drag of foreign will.
"No," says the guttural rasp spills in her own voice from her own throat throat. Less the word itself, and the grunting, belly-originating noise that vibrates in her teeth: Alien, furious.
But it's strained and stretched far too thin.
Her phone remains stubbornly in Liliane's grip as he thumbs dances over it, random numbers and settings opening. There's confusion, too, as if whatever-it-is recognizes intent more than it does the strange oblong object in Liliane's hand, faint confusion.
Emergency contact for societies she might be a part of. The police. Voice command. Anything.
And then distraction. The grip on the thumb slips, going slack. Anger rises again. At laughter. At smiles. At grins full of teeth, at the shadowed man who promised and took. Who spoke soft and carried sharpened things behind his back.
There's a half-hearted lunge and stagger, taking away from the mirror to make in swaying motion towards the door, hand carelessly and painfully smacking against something as she's marched to fumble with the doorknob.
Someone more experienced may have taken the opportunity to call immediately but Liliane was too slow, too green to the world of the supernatural to capitalize on the force's weakness before it was too late. Her feet stomp heavily against the floorboards beneath, the movement off balance and resisted, a cry escaping her mouth as her hand bumps and the sensation of pain prompts her to act, to slam her shoulder into the door rather than grip the doorknob. An act of defiance and also one of blind rage as the anger of her possessor tugs at the edges of her own mind.
Her phone clatters to the floor, hand opened by the force of her shoulder check while her mind races, her defiance growing more organized. "Find... grr... Some...one... ELSE!" she cries through clenched teeth as she tries to take a step away from the door, a step closer to the bed that she hopes to follow with another.
There's an attempt. A pitted fight directly against Liliane, a battle of wills. At first there's a loss, a painful grinding of joints as that foot slowly, slowly stops. Starting to turn, a painful twist back towards the door. But then something deeper slips. A focus. A hatred directed elsewhere, dissolving and crumbling under the weight and familiarity Liliane has within her own body. Strange sorts of apathy and confusion, puzzlement as things are mingled up with Liliane's own life and memories.
And eventually confusion reigns, the imagery of that shadowy person fading, leaving only a lingering fear of scalpels and needles.
And Liliane is finally alone.
In a desperate act of defiance, Liliane's will begins to crystallize, her movements turning towards resistance rather than compliance. She challenges the invader, pushing against its forced guidance with a rage that mirrors yet opposes its own. The clash is intense, a turmoil of wills within the confines of a single body, with Liliane thrusting her shoulder against the door in a symbolic rejection of the spirit's control. This defiance seems to shake the spirit's hold, causing it to falter in confusion, its focus and imagery dissolving into a haze of fear and lost purpose. As the presence weakens, entangled in its own fading memories and fears of medical instruments, Liliane finds herself regaining control, standing alone in the aftermath of a deeply personal yet unseen battle.
(Ruprecht's odd encounter(SRLiesl):SRLiesl)
[Sat Apr 5 2025]
In a bathroom in the log cabin
Smooth, polished wooden floors offer a firm foundation underfoot, while the walls, crafted from rough-hewn logs, exude a comforting earthiness. A four-person jacuzzi hot tub, positioned beneath a skylight, beckons with promises of indulgent relaxation. A copper basin sink rests atop a weathered wooden vanity, its gleaming surface reflecting the soft light. Beside it, a hand-carved mirror adds a touch of old-world elegance. The air is infused with the scent of pine, carried in from the surrounding forest. Everywhere, the craftsmanship of the cabin's construction is evident, creating a harmonious blend of nature and luxury in this serene sanctuary.
It is morning, about 52F(11C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. Waist high mist flows through the area.
(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.
)
Ruprecht is having another one of those many, many bad days, one in a string of three hundred and sixty five to come, followed by three hundred and sixty four more behind him. At least he seems to be enjoying himself. He's working some kind've a chemical reaction in someone's bathroom. Autumn's, particularly, but he's not exactly a welcome visitor. A little hot plate on the sink sees him heating up a pot, face turned low, a cigarette gets stuck in his lip, and he's leaning on the wall. Why, why would a man need feel such anger?
Whatever Ruprecht could be doing inside of the bathroom in a quaint log cabin is abruptly interrupted with a series of loud, insistent knocks that come through the hollow space. It's a sharp unrelenting knock that hammers at the door - brisk and bold, refusing to be ignored, it's rhythm untold. They know someone's inside, and they wanna meet up and touch up. They come in trios, rap, rap, rap. Whoever is insisting on an early morning meet in the middle of nowhere otherwise does not announce themselves, but the blustery cough of what sounds like it's coming from a male sort breaks the tempo before those knocks on wood sound out impatiently. The guy just seems to like to make noise against the hard structure, it seems.
hatever Ruprecht could be doing inside of the bathroom in a quaint log cabin is abruptly interrupted with a series of loud, insistent knocks that come through the hollow space. It's a sharp unrelenting knock that hammers at the door - brisk and bold, refusing to be ignored, it's rhythm untold. They know someone's inside, and they wanna meet up and touch up. They come in trios, rap, rap, rap. Whoever is insisting on an early morning meet in the middle of nowhere otherwise does not announce themselves, but the blustery cough of what sounds like it's coming from a male sort breaks the tempo before those knocks on wood sound out impatiently. The guy just seems to like to make noise against the hard structure, it seems. (repeat for die newcomer)
And whatever Ruprecht could be doing inside of the bathroom in a quaint log cabin is abruptly interrupted with a series of loud, insistent knocks that come through the hollow space. It's a sharp unrelenting knock that hammers at the door - brisk and bold, refusing to be ignored, it's rhythm untold. They know someone's inside, and they wanna meet up and touch up. They come in trios, rap, rap, rap. Whoever is insisting on an early morning meet in the middle of nowhere otherwise does not announce themselves, but the blustery cough of what sounds like it's coming from a male sort breaks the tempo before those knocks on wood sound out impatiently. The guy just seems to like to make noise against the hard structure, it seems. (repeat for die newcomers!)
Ruprecht squawks as he hears the knocking, ash nearly falling right into his hot-plate based cooking pot. A sick ammonic smell fills the bathroom, windows open, ventilation kicked on if he had any option to do so. Clearly, this is something worth policing, but for whatever reason -- he thought he could cook here. Like he'd always get away with it somehow. He walks up to the door curiously, pot of boiling chemicals in hand, and knocks back. Three times.
It's not a friendly look in his eyes.
The bathroom's eastern door as Autumn comes out of her bedroom and closes the door behind her. She looks at Ruprecht, blinks a couple times, and slowly nods her head while she glances at her phone. "Morning," she greets, Justin also getting a glance as she rubs her eyes.
"Oh, good morning," Ruprecht puffs to someone with a haze of smoke. There's a casual nod, like he's not cooking down embalming fluid in someone else's legally owned home, and the cops AREN'T here.
"Oh, good morning," Ruprecht puffs to Autumn with a haze of smoke. There's a casual nod, like he's not cooking down embalming fluid in someone else's legally owned home, and the cops AREN'T here.
Justin had been monitoring the radio bands while he was burning gas driving around town that morning; and, with the delicate hook of a warrant being served up in the radio chatter, how could he resist? What else was he going to be doing with his morning? The self-styled bounty hunter *appearifies* from the Nightmare, having caught his own gaze in the mirror; and then leans against the wall, preemptively raising his hands -- lest he suddenly become the victim of that acidic cooking pot. "Hey. No worries, okay? They have to announce themselves," he recalls off the top of his head (speaking of company on the other side of the door): "And they have to have a warrant-- ah, fuck. This isn't your home?" He slaps his forehead with his palm. "Forget all that. New rules, new rules!"
Impatience begets even more impatience. Dull, plodding knocks become heavier, even more insistent than before. The person doing the knocking ups it an ante, starting to use his voice. "Hello? Boston police department." The good old BPD, wandering into Haven jurisdiction, what could bring that lot here? "Can you open up?" the voice politely requests, followed by another cavalcade of coughing. It's a terrible wretching sound. It takes precedence for what could be a pretty good, long, and uncomfortable duration. It goes on for so long that it might spark worry that he's not all okay out there. There's a heave for breath, and then a sputter before the guy harrumphs, like he's hyping himself up. Then the knocks start their tune again in quartets this time. A modest upgrade from the triple cadence coming from before. He knows there's someone inside now. "...open up."
"JEESUS CHRIST!" Ruprecht bawks as Justin appears before them all, jumping out've his skin like he's about to do the spooky-scary-skeleton dance on the spot. A little liquid sloshes out of the pot, landing on the floor with a 'pssttttt', sizzling down. Nonetheless, he seems to register Justin as something other than a foe. "YOU GOT A WARRANT?!" He shouts at the door, as if to take the man's advice.
Every knock seems to make an artery in his forehead swell up a little more. Eventually he just can't take it. He tries to open the door. By shoving a palm into the knob, that is, right as he twists it, as if to knock the whole door into someone's nose.
Once she's fully awake, Autumn notices the pot of chemicals in someone and then turns her head towards the voice outside the door. "What's with strange things in there in my own home?" She asks Ruprecht, lowering her voice as she frowns. "Can't have death room when I'm here." She then jumps a bit as she watches the door and the knocking.
Once she's fully awake, Autumn notices the pot of chemicals in Ruprecht and then turns her head towards the voice outside the door. "What's with strange things in there in my own home?" She asks Ruprecht, lowering her voice as she frowns. "Can't have death room when I'm here." She then jumps a bit as she watches the door and the knocking.
Justin begins to bob his head encouragingly, flashing Ruprecht a discrete thumbs-up. His suspicions flee to the condition of the hacklung on the other side of this grand barrier of American privacy -- the bathroom door. "Hold on a second- this is your home?" he inquires in low tone aside to Autumn, his gaze narrowing. "Can you try pulling the old... 'don't come in, I'm naked'?" He double-takes between Ruprecht and Autumn, making a safe bet-- at least, in his mind. "No amount of perp prep is going to be expecting -your- voice to come out of..." He levies a finger delicately towards Ruprecht. "That guy."
Something that sounds like a man clearing his throat and struggling with phlegm -- or heartburn resounds out in one old timer's answer to the outbursts within. He's huffing, and he's puffing, but he's probably not going to blow this house down. "Dang it. This is a wellness check. We've received very troubling reports. Open up, let me see if the girl's alright, and I can move on, alright?" The knocking and roughousing with the door has whoever is on the other side give pause. "What's going on in there? Ma'am? Hello? Are you alright in there?" he calls out, and like a reprimand for using his voice, the coughing fit returns. He sounds like he's the one that might need help. In all likelihood, this officer is way out of his league, following a scent trail and tipped off by a neighbor that has it out for the owner of this house, Autumn. "There a miss Autumn inside? We need to talk. Quick and easy." Like any good old officer of the law is wont to do, he starts jiggling at the doorknob, trying to work it open himself.
"Yeah, and I can," Autumn turns her head to nod towards Justin before she turns towards the door. "Don't come in, I'm super naked!" Autumn calls out towards the voice. "What do you want? I don't nothing wrong lately!"
Ruprecht throws his shoulder into the door this time, apparently growing impatient with the way they fight over that doorknob. The hot plate on the counter grows to a dull red heat, looking like the sort that a crackhead might've tried to sell on the street some twenty years ago. His intentions are, quite seemingly, a bit more reckless than the others'.
Likely no shock, considering he's half-mutedly gotten them into this whole ordeal. Ever a malignance.
Mister police officer from the other side of the portal grumbles and sighs. He's a little loud, or maybe there isn't very much insulation from sound out here. You can hear something clap against flesh, and the smack of lips. Eating something, perhaps. "Look. There's been complaints. No-" He feels the tension in the doorknob, and as if to prove himself to the world, tries to hold the thing down. If anyone's going to turn the knob in this cabin, it's gonna be he. He's the big dog cause he's got the badge, see? Ruprecht is damn strong for someone of his build, and the door gives in to his demands, the hinges going out and the door flinging open, right in the LEO's face. He staggers backwards with a yelp and falls right on his ass for a grand debut for the trio hunkering within the cabin.
Dude's clad somewhat snug in a uniform fit for the boys in blue. Seen its fair of donut crumbs and coffee stains, and there's wet stains under the guys's underarms too. His round belly juts out confidently, trying to withstand the force of the door hurtling his way. But his great girth doesn't hold to the combined might of one door and Ruprecht's strength. He's flat on his ass and reaching for something on his belt. The thick, walrus-like mustache dominating his face in salt and pepper hues tightens, he's ready for action now, despite being sprawled on the ground. "Gods damned it, stop resisting," he instinctively barks.
And for those in class who have their charms, the guy's red.
"Time to catch this abetting charge," Justin sighs from the back line. He pulls out his own piece -- the cold blued steel of a snub-nose revolver, that had been tucked away in the pocket of his jacket. Hopefully he can draw on the pig before that three point retention holster gives way of service weapon. "Chill out!" he's barking his own order, trying to peek past Autumn and Ruprecht. "You don't know what you're dealing with, here!" Words of wisdom from the third occupant of a bathroom.
"Why?! YOU came to ME, officeeeeerrr..." Ruprecht flits eyes between the man's aura and his badge, as if to see a name -- focused on the surname, no doubt, and then SQUINTS his eyes shut as hard as he can. A reflexive notion to the expectation of mace from the police officer's aerosol can. He stands still as a board now, posture perfect, cheeks dimpled with a serene smile. He's in his element here in the smog. The boiling liquid settles down to a simmer, but it seems to retain heat for an oddly long time.
That he acts without persuasions is purely born of selfishness, if not a hatred for law enforcement. His tongue's silvered when he wants it to be, but apparently it's more fun to him to spit bile. Justin does it for him, after all -- expressing his own opinions with succinct clarity and the steel of a handgun. It's followed up with a simple quip. "If Sherry made this man into a suit, I bet it could house four different people. What a specimen. True clay of man."
"I'm not one doing it," Autumn tells the officer(?) with her hands up. She looks between Ruprecht and his charm, before she warns the miscreant. "Don't go killing him." As she nods once more towards Justin, the woman looks back to the officer, saying, "I have been at home whole night after visit with brother. Nothing else. I am innocent, sir."
Ruprecht takes one tenuous step closer to the intruder, eyes still shut.
Like he'd take advantage of kicking someone while they're down. Or worse. He looks to Autumn without unopened eyes, and his smile lowers a bit. Just a bit. He doesn't like her suggestion one mite.
The man with a walrus mustache may be down, but he's not out. Despite his portly, rotund appearance, he's quick to act, but his love for the All American diet has left the dependability of his gear tenuous at best. It's the fit of his clothes, the belt, they don't sit on him well. The black and white bumble bee pattern of his taser skitters off to the side. He was reaching for it first, but it's quite out of his reach now. The white pepper spray lodged in one of his pocket is grabbed for next. He ponderously rose to a knee, but the effort to his knees to bring his grand, royal weight aloft burdens him now, and he stays in that pose when he sees the steel drawn, squinting at Justin, then at Autumn, the supposed maiden in distress. "Easy now," he says, starting to dial it down a notch. He's caught completely out in the open with no cover in sight.
And even if there was something nearby for him to dash for, could a fella like him make it in time? Most would bet against that. "...easy now," he stresses, forcing a smile. He's already sweating. Profusely at that. The blur of action that has him taking a knee before the trio has already exerted him. He's bidding on a second wind now. He tries to raise his hands up in a slow motion, but the gesture has him teetering off kilter, trouble keeping balance. He's top heavy, and not in the good way. "Look. You got complaints here and..." he can't help it but peer between the silhouettes beyond the threshold. "What the hell are you lot doing in there?" he's spotted whatever Ruprecht's been cooking, and his expression darkens.
"Complaints? Out here from town?" Autumn speaks towards the officer with a squint of her eyes. "Did that tower across here suddenly got residents now?" She eyes slowly turns towards the taser on the floor as she adds, "I do not have any idea. Unless you have legal warrant, you should leave now."
"Complaints, complaints -- someone's always complaining. But they didn't have the stones, did they, Cohen? No, no, you did. Took the long road all the way down -- or maybe you were already here. Like a tourist. Let me guess, boss. Devilwood?" He's shivering, like there's a certain specific blend of psychopathic rage performing a consistent feedback loop. He's about to fucking lose it, if Ruprecht's position of power over this clearly innocent individual remains unhindered.
Justin emerges from the bathroom in a slow strafe, approaching the officer's kneeling stance with a wood-creaking strafe underfoot. "Who put you up to this, guy? Your worst enemy?" And as the banter continues, he tries to buy some time for Autumn and Ruprecht over-shoulder; "There's a reason why you're supposed to leave this town to the Sheriff's Department -- it's for your own safety." He keeps his revolver trained on the officer's gun-arm, ready to give the man a shoulder surgery if he pulls his piece.
Officer Cohen wets his lips, breathing heavily. His dark, hazel eyes flit from one person to the next. Ruprecht, then Autumn, then Justin, and then back to Ruprecht, squinting his beady little eyes on the miscreant. He's fixating most of his ire on that one, even if it's Justin that has the gun drawn. As so stated succinctly by Justin, the portly man is way in over his head. All the assumptions levied at him turn out to be more like presumptions, given his status here. He's not supposed to be here. He's stepped way out of line. He swallows hard, gritting his teeth. There's one constant here. He keeps staring back at Autumn, unable to hide some of the desire in his gaze. The pistol leveled at him helps keep him honest. The shame that starts to write itself out on his blustering features is enough to confirm one thing. He's one of Haven's tourists looking for a good time. He's brought the badge to impress, but it's also his sobering downfall. The fingers of his good gun arm twitch, but he tries to stay as still as he can, his weight giving him some trouble with that affair. "I don't got any warrant," he finally starts to fess up, starting small, not wanting to admit he was here for a good time. Too many inconsistencies.
"Whoever brought you here is setting you up," Autumn tells the officer, watching him until he answers. "So you are trespassing. Leave now, and you won't get hurt." She then suddenly smiles during all this, as she continues speaking. "You do not have any real business here. So it'll be easy way, or hard way."
That shame hits Ruprecht like a good line of the perfectly scaled coke. He shivers. His shoulders roll in a wave, left to right, and he tapps his right foot twice to the floor. As soon as he says he doesn't have a warrant, even as Autumn asserts her dominance, he does what he's wanted to this whole time. The pot've chemical boil goes swung open-ended for the man's head, as if to -- quite simultaneously scald, and concuss.
The cogs in Justin's head begin to grind. Ever so subtly, his revolver falls a few degrees; flagging from the officer's shoulder, to the patch of pudge that expounds beneath the big boy's patrol armor. A gut shot, in store? Or something more-- but the thought evaporates with the vapors of Ruprecht's interesting chemistry sizzling in the air. Justin recoils in disgust, lifting the collar of his jacket - wary of splashback.
Looking far too well dressed for an encounter with Ruprecht, Takeshi is stomping through Haven when he spots the man dumping something on top of the cop's head through, uh, an open door way or something, we'll say. Leaning back to catch the aftermath, Takeshi takes a few steps to bring the cop back into view as a wide grin plasters over the teenager's face
"Josef, what that guy do to you!" Takeshi calls out to the man, his words barely audible between the terribly broken english and the loud, cackling laughter that further fractured his words. Takeshi makes his way over, letting himself into the building as he hops up onto the back of the toilet to slav squat and watch the events with an elevated view. "Kick him in nuts next" Takeshi recommends to Ruprecht
There is currently an officer standing one knee, his hands held up with Justin leveling a snub -nosed revolver at him. The officer is morbidly obese, and is sweating trying to maintain his stance made unbearably awkward thanks to his great girth. "Came here for a good time, simple as," he states gruffly, coughing, yet keeping his hands held in the air. "You let me go and I'll never show my fa-"
*THUNK*
A sickening sound as a pot collides with his skull. His eyes dim. The complexion on the side of his face hisses and bubbles, boils and welts forming in an instant. His voice hitches, but it's lights out for him, sparing the audience and Takeshi the sad screams and shrieks that could have happened if the pot of boiling chems was simply dumped on his head.
As if to showcase how impressive his weight is, his head turns one way with a jolt, but he remains stationary for a good five or six seconds before falling backwards in a heap. If he's not dead, it's lights out. Something similar to the sound of eggs sizzling on the pan hisses quietly, and the smell starts to become pretty rank. Like pork being seared.
Autumn steps back as the chemicals are dumped, until the arrival of Takeshi catches her attention. "I should be one to kick him since he broke into my home," she tells the Asian man. "Also, who even are you to come to my home?"
Ruprecht stands there still for a moment, watching as the crackling and popping of the basic formula renders skin into something much less. There's not a moment of shame, not a hint of empathy. He sighs, like something's been momentarily sated, but then he's right back to it. "Do we want me to dispose of this?" He would ask the class, as if offering something of a favor. "It would be, no burden. No burden at all."
"Don't say things like that so openly when that officer could be unaware," Autumn replies to Takeshi in a hushed voice. "Even demons have standards, like not breaking into homes." Turning towards Ruprecht, she answers with, "Take him to hospital and have him questioned. Then alter his memory of this as well."
"Fucking authority tourists," Justin spits, lowering his guard when the Bostonite's lights are cut out. He stows away his revolver; even in the wake of Takeshi's claims of daemonium. Ever so macabrely curious, Justin looms forward to inspect which degree burn Ruprecht's cookery placed on the officer's face. He grimaces in -- it's not empathy. Must be pity crunching his features so succinctly. "You done with him?" he prompts of Ruprecht. "Yeah, no: no disposal. No, buddy boy's got a family somewhere. Most likely." He coughs into his fist: "Shield bearer oath." As if that explains why he's preparing to kidnap the officer: how the tables have turned! "Have you ever seen someone arrest a policeman with his own handcuffs?" he asks the gathering, as he begins to secure the unconscious body.
"Never seen that before," Autumn shakes her head at Justin. "But yes, oath. Even in my house."
"Eh? Why need memory altered? It sad if he forget such beautiful experience" Takeshi laments at Autumn 's suggestion before looking over to her and grinning from ear to ear "Why not say? I want them to know. Everyone should know that Kurogane Yami stalks the night!" Takeshi announces in a very smug, self absorbed voice.
Looking over as Justin starts to secure the officer, the short man hops up off of his perch and over to the man, squatting next to the man's face now as he smacks it with the back of his hand a couple times "Ehhh, wake up piggy" Takeshi calls down to the man "We not done with you yet, I only just got here!"
"...No." Ruprecht offers to Autumn, moving to the counter to unplug his hot-plate. Then he walks back to the body, placing it right at the chest, iron-face-down, like it's some sort've life support system. Takeshi gets a glance as he passes by, a knowing grin -- even a wink. Sure, Justin can have him, but it won't be without damages, and Ruprecht doesn't plan on paying restitution. "Bag and tag'm, Old Boy," Claims the aristocratic reject with a blithe bitterness, a bare-footed heel with a tattooed hex pattern landing swiftly at the policeman's head as he walks away one last time. To join Takeshi in squatting, even to light a cigarette.
Something akin to a strangled cry leaves Officer Cohen's lips. Once his body has lurched backwards and landed on the grass, the pristine gleaming badge pinned to his chest tumbles off his body, the pin giving out from the monumental strain on his vest. The sound is pitiful, and its a resignation as he swims between the precipice of consciousness and a terrible experience within his head. The pain hounds him deep within the recess of his mind. Even if he were unaware, the man is unable to contribute, much less be unaware to the point he'd be able to cause any more trouble. He's taken the drugs, and not in a great way.
his cheek is a portfolio of welts and boils, seared to a nasty purplish colour. It seeps into his immaculately trimmed and groomed mustache that belongs to a walrus's facade. Naturally, he offers no resistance to being cuffed, whimpering pitifully in his fitful slumbering.
blinks to and fro out of consciousness with the help of Takeshi's whaps come slaps. He begins to cry, trying to scream hoarsely. But it's more of a weakened gurgle. He's roused by a foot belonging to Ruprecht. It activates him. The second wind surges through him, and now while he's cuffed, he's absolutely screaming hysterically. It's all coming down at him at once.
Cohen blinks to and fro out of consciousness with the help of Takeshi's whaps come slaps. He begins to cry, trying to scream hoarsely. But it's more of a weakened gurgle. He's roused by a foot belonging to Ruprecht. It activates him. The second wind surges through him, and now while he's cuffed, he's absolutely screaming hysterically. It's all coming down at him at once.
His eyebrows raise up as the man awakes, smiling excitedly as he sees the man isn't lost of them yet "He awake!" Takeshi cackles happily, taking a fistful of the man's hair to pull his head back, pinning the back of his skull to the ground before looking over to Autumn "Now your chance!" Takeshi calls out to the woman "In the nads! Quick! Before he sleep again!" Takeshi encourages the woman with gleefully squinted eyes, the lad just having a right good ol' time.
"Then that would risk violating Treaty if you talk about demon stuff like that around public," Autumn tells Takeshi. "Plus, he already suffered enough. Can't have more damage to my house." Turning away, she walks towards Cohen and crouches down before him. "I am going to ask you some questions. Who sent you here?"
"He's freaking out!" Justin alerts the room (as if they couldn't come to the conclusion on their own). Seeing how he makes to heft the portly policeman like a sack of flour, it's only a slight burden. In his most level and serious voice, Justin peeks over to Takeshi and advises: "Let's not turn this into a Venetian situation." Who would get custody of the pitiful man?
"Treaty? Vegetarian? You two are weird" Takeshi snips unhappily to Autumn and Justin both, letting out a sigh as they refuse to play his games with him. "Fine, fine. I do it myself." Takeshi adds with the tone of a man who felt the game was much less fun when he played it on his own. Clearly though he was more than happy to play it on his own despite that though as he hops up to his feet, cocks his heel all the way back like he's getting ready to punt a football ("soccer" ball for those who speak English wrong) and swings his foot full force between the downed man's legs!
His eyes are completely dilated, grown far wider than the beady little eyes would have had one expected. Cohen looks like someone's just walked over his grave. Spittle lines the corners of his mouth, teeth gritting as he tries to contain all of the pain that's been pent up within his very being for the short stint of being out cold. It was far too brief, leaving him as he was would have been a kindness. Now a trio of demons might get horrifically high off his agony. He kicks and bellows, going into overdrive. But his legs are too stubbly to be a threat, and he's too heavy to sit upright properly. He'd need help with that. He's fighting to survive though, coked up by whatever Ruprecht was cooking up back in someone bathroom.
It's in his system, and it bites, giving him a methhead's dogged will to... exist. He's crashing out, even trying to bite at Justin's hands, the muscles hiding under the flab of his biceps burgeoning with purpose. He just might break out before he starts to choke on his own spit and spasms against Takeshi's hold. Then the kick happens, spurring him to sing his swan song in a hapless gurgling of spit dribbling down his double chinny chin chin. With a shuddery wheeze that nears a falsetto, the life in his eyes goes out. He's no daisy. No daisy at all. The strain was just too much to bear. His heart was already working overtime with no pay save for the burden of his obesity. It's all caught up to him, and now he's truly out. Disposal service is, unfortunately now required.
His eyes are completely dilated, grown far wider than the beady little eyes would have had one expected. Cohen looks like someone's just walked over his grave. Spittle lines the corners of his mouth, teeth gritting as he tries to contain all of the pain that's been pent up within his very being for the short stint of being out cold. It was far too brief, leaving him as he was would have been a kindness. Now a trio of demons might get horrifically high off his agony. He kicks and bellows, going into overdrive. But his legs are too stubbly to be a threat, and he's too heavy to sit upright properly. He'd need help with that. He's fighting to survive though, coked up by whatever Ruprecht was cooking up back in Autumn's bathroom.
It's in his system, and it bites, giving him a methhead's dogged will to... exist. He's crashing out, even trying to bite at Justin's hands, the muscles hiding under the flab of his biceps burgeoning with purpose. He just might break out before he starts to choke on his own spit and spasms against Takeshi's hold. Then the kick happens, spurring him to sing his swan song in a hapless gurgling of spit dribbling down his double chinny chin chin. With a shuddery wheeze that nears a falsetto, the life in his eyes goes out. He's no daisy. No daisy at all. The strain was just too much to bear. His heart was already working overtime with no pay save for the burden of his obesity. It's all caught up to him, and now he's truly out. Disposal service is, unfortunately now required, but likely solves the issue with the Vegetarian Council.
"Someone should /really/ teach you about Venice," Autumn grumbles under her breath towards Takeshi, watching him groin kick the officer. "I'll sent him to officials, since this is /my/ house!" With a lift of her hand, she taps on her earpiece for assisance with sending the downed officer away. "Can't even believe this..."
Ruprecht doesn't even seem to want him so much. He took his price upfront, and now poor Cohen's fat rump is on the market block. Takeshi seems a likely bidder, one to pay in force rather than currency. He shivers in his squat, sweat flooding down his face in sheening rivers. This new struggle, though? That gets him back into it on the double. Gurgling and choking ends up met with truly unhinged laughter, starting at a chackle, and ending up more like whooping cough. He's dead. That hits the miscreant like a brick. He might've just caught a jolly off it.
But then the afterglow's gone. His pupils turn back to pins, rather than dimes. It's over. "That was fun," He claims without shame, as if this had been a party, and Cohen just received a very different kind've bang-up job. "Excellent, excellent... coming along swimmingly. I'm one step clooseeeeeer..." Whatever he's approaching closer to, it's not human.
"Eh? He dead already?" Takeshi frowns as he watches the man collapse onto the ground. There's a disappointed sigh, and his foot is raised up this time for a stomp to the man's ribs, this time out of frustration instead of play though. Ribs could be heard snapping and shattering under his sneakers. "I don't want to go to school, I already know everything I need to" Takeshi remarks to Autumn, spitting off to the side before he looks over to Ruprecht "You think you can, like, dissolve body in acid or something?" Takeshi asks the man "I saw that happen in TV show once."
Justin wrings his hands in ... some performatory anguish, head lowering in consideration. Some token gesture. He's heard death groans before. Maybe a few were as bad as this one. "Someone is going to teach you, one day..." he forecasts to Takeshi. "I don't have a classroom big enough." But with the grind of bones causing him to cringe away from the desecration of the dead man, Justin bids Autumn a soft exhale of, "Sorry it came to that." And then he's off -- walking out the front door.
Her hazel eyes narrowing, Autumn pulls out and unsheathes her knife and points the blade at Takeshi. "You are going to get us all in trouble," she seethes at the Asian man. "You..." She then points at Ruprecht. "And you. You two get the fuck out my house before I sic my salamander at you." She then turns her head towards someone while her knife's still pointed at the miscreant, telling him, "You, report to Harry and high-ups and seek assistance for body and clean-up."
Ruprecht says "One more martyr... I'll only need a few thousand."
Her hazel eyes narrowing, Autumn pulls out and unsheathes her knife and points the blade at Takeshi. "You are going to get us all in trouble," she seethes at the Asian man. "You..." She then points at Ruprecht. "And you. You two get the fuck out my house before I sic my salamander at you." She then turns her head towards the leaving man while her knife's still pointed at the miscreant, telling him, "You, report to Harry and high-ups and seek assistance for body and clean-up."
Ruprecht says "...Maybe a few... more.."
Autumn was one step ahead of the others when it came to getting the mess that was Officer Cohen cleaned up. The earpiece was consulted, and with a response time that many would be happy with, a team of Orderites come, complete with a representative from the HSD. It's going to be a whole ordeal for everyone here. A ton of paperwork to cover this mess up and one unhappy HSD officer. They'll have their hands full for the rest of the weekend.
Thank you all for writing with me. Let me know if there's somewhere I can drop you off, otherwise you're free to go!
Ruprecht tends to fight paperwork as violently as the law, but in the moment, he's content as any sheep. Happy to help. He got what he wanted, after all, and he can't risk the streak. Every once in a while Autumn gets one of those thoughtful looks.
The bad kind.
"You have a salamander?!" Takeshi was gobsmacked, jaw hanging open at the revelation, seeming to have already completely forgotten about the dead man his boot was still on top of. "Can I see him?!" Takeshi demands ... It seems Autumn had made the mistake of threatening this man with a good time.
Ruprecht says "Yes, yes, show us the lizard from the gizzard wizzard. Doit."
(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.
)
Curtains drawn and bedroom silent, Liliane sits upon her bed with phone in hand. Slowly scrolls through nonsense, she occasionally checking her text messages and finds them empty with a sigh each time. "Today has been... more slow than I expected," she mumbles entirely to herself, each movement of her thumb less energetic as she rereads posts she's read countless times before.
Alone and quiet, here, the air is heavier than it ought to be.
There's a subtle wrongness to it. Not immediately obvious - no chill, no theatrics - but there's a strangley oppressive sense of presence.
The stormclouds outside shift lazily, gray-bellied and bloated, casting long moments of transient shadow through the window beside Liliane's neatly made bed. The faint creak of the ceiling fan overhead ticks intermittently, a metallic heartbeat filling the otherwise stilled air.
All is as it should be - until suddenly Liliane has a sharp, sudden inhale, unbidden.
The sound isn't loud. But it is deliberate. Pulled through her throat like a string being yanked.
Liliane' left shoulder twitches upward without command. Then the right follows, a clumsy marionette movement. Her knees stiffen under the black jeans and wool of her tights. There's no subtlety here. A test of control.
Liliane's head lolls slowly to the left, chestnut waves of her shoulder-length hair sliding over the thick cable-knit of her dark red sweater. The angle is too sharp. Too exact. Not a head tilt of idle curiosity but of evaluation.
Of ownership.
Another pulse of unnatural motion rolls down her spine. Vertebrae shifting in stiff succession, as if she was trying to remember how a human body moves. Her feet, booted and heavy, shuffle a half-step forward without her volition. The faint drag of mountaineering soles across the dark grey carpet rasps through the quiet room.
Her reflection in the wall-mounted mirror catches the moment with stark clarity.
There's still some control. But the freckled cheeks and green eyes and mouth that stares back is contorted in utter fury, a straining across the features that makes the face tremble. Her lips stretch in a thin, grim little crescent, showing too much upper teeth. It lingers for a heartbeat too long. The line of her jaw strains with the effort of the puppetry.
"Revenge." It declares, with sudden husky hunger.
Liliane can feel it - flashing imagery of malice directed at a shadowy figure with a wide smile and too many bright, white teeth, a sort of hatred towards masculinity in general. But coming from outside her and not within.
It does not, appear, to have full control - a sort of awkwardness, struggling to make a fist, unable to drop the phone that Liliane wishes to hold.
emote The initial movement catches the green eyed girl off guard, the twitch of her shoulder, the movement of her head, each coming too swiftly at first for her to even recognize as not movements of her own. Then suddenly, resistance, the first step barely taken, the tug at her body both familiar and not as Liliane struggles back against movements she can tell are not her own.
Her teeth clench, arm struggling for control as she lifts the phone into view, trying to move her thumb to her speed dial but truly unsure of who to call, the moments hesitation giving whatever force is attempting to establish dominance over her a chance to deny her access to the outside.
Briefly, the grip slips.
It's not much. A staggered heartbeat. A stammer in the spirit's crude marionette hold upon her - but it's enough.
Liliane feels it. The brittle edge of control waver at the smallest task. Fine motor control escapes the thing's clumsy reach; brutish force comes easy, but finesse and fine dexterity is a troublesome thing.
Her thumb hovers and shakes suddenly, a fight starting against the stiff drag of foreign will.
"No," says the guttural rasp spills in her own voice from her own throat throat. Less the word itself, and the grunting, belly-originating noise that vibrates in her teeth: Alien, furious.
But it's strained and stretched far too thin.
Her phone remains stubbornly in Liliane's grip as he thumbs dances over it, random numbers and settings opening. There's confusion, too, as if whatever-it-is recognizes intent more than it does the strange oblong object in Liliane's hand, faint confusion.
Emergency contact for societies she might be a part of. The police. Voice command. Anything.
And then distraction. The grip on the thumb slips, going slack. Anger rises again. At laughter. At smiles. At grins full of teeth, at the shadowed man who promised and took. Who spoke soft and carried sharpened things behind his back.
There's a half-hearted lunge and stagger, taking away from the mirror to make in swaying motion towards the door, hand carelessly and painfully smacking against something as she's marched to fumble with the doorknob.
Someone more experienced may have taken the opportunity to call immediately but Liliane was too slow, too green to the world of the supernatural to capitalize on the force's weakness before it was too late. Her feet stomp heavily against the floorboards beneath, the movement off balance and resisted, a cry escaping her mouth as her hand bumps and the sensation of pain prompts her to act, to slam her shoulder into the door rather than grip the doorknob. An act of defiance and also one of blind rage as the anger of her possessor tugs at the edges of her own mind.
Her phone clatters to the floor, hand opened by the force of her shoulder check while her mind races, her defiance growing more organized. "Find... grr... Some...one... ELSE!" she cries through clenched teeth as she tries to take a step away from the door, a step closer to the bed that she hopes to follow with another.
There's an attempt. A pitted fight directly against Liliane, a battle of wills. At first there's a loss, a painful grinding of joints as that foot slowly, slowly stops. Starting to turn, a painful twist back towards the door. But then something deeper slips. A focus. A hatred directed elsewhere, dissolving and crumbling under the weight and familiarity Liliane has within her own body. Strange sorts of apathy and confusion, puzzlement as things are mingled up with Liliane's own life and memories.
And eventually confusion reigns, the imagery of that shadowy person fading, leaving only a lingering fear of scalpels and needles.
And Liliane is finally alone.