Encounterlogs
Ruprechts Odd Encounter Sr Lorenzo 250402
In the shadowed alleys of Haven, a newly turned vampire struggles with his identity and the insidious guidance of Ruprecht, who seems to manifest both as mentor and tormentor. Ruprecht's dialogue weaves through the narrative, echoing themes of predation, power dynamics, and the stark reality of their existence in a world where consumption dictates survival. The vampire's internal conflict is palpable as he grapples with the instinct to prey upon the innocent, a notion he resists despite the gnawing hunger that threatens to override his humanity. Ruprecht's advice, laced with cynicism and dark wisdom, attempts to mold the vampire's perception of his new life, suggesting an inevitability to his descent into predatorship.
The tension culminates as the vampire is confronted by his primal urges in the presence of an unsuspecting passerby, a moment that could define him as the monster Ruprecht expects him to become. In a defiant act of self-restraint, he refuses to surrender to the darkness, choosing instead to run from the immediate temptation. His escape, however, does not bring relief, as the hunger persists, a constant companion in his flight through the rain-slicked streets of Haven. Despite his physical departure from Ruprecht's presence, the latter's words linger, a haunting reminder of the continuous struggle the vampire faces in balancing his new existence with the remnants of his human morality. Ruprecht, unfazed and perhaps expecting this outcome, retreats into the mist, his own narrative unresolved, a figure of enigmatic influence in the vampire's tumultuous journey.
(Ruprecht's odd encounter(SRLorenzo):SRLorenzo)
[Sat Mar 22 2025]
In the Bedroom of Room 102 at Hotel Antlers
The brick and reclaimed wood from the outside continues to the inside, more polished here than the exterior. Tile flooring paves the way underfoot, and high ceilings with exposed beams make the building appear spacious without giving actual space. An ordering counter greets newcomers to the building with merchandise as well as baristas ready to take orders, signs posted behind it and above heads for easy viewing.
It is night, about 43F(6C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. There is a waning crescent moon.
"Perhaps your adrenaline core is still functioning. Or perhaps instead it's degrading as we speak, into adrenochrome. Either way..." Ruprecht waves another flourish, pulling out another cigarette and reaching out to offer one to his 'friend' of the moment. "It's not *pain* worth worrying about. Pain will, before long -- on your path, likely mean very little. It's what happens when you finally die again, that's worth fearing. A true end. Reduction to nothingness."
"You don't come back from that. Not now, not ever. This reality is one of consumption. You, have been promoted to predator. The only mistake is of your prey selection. There's sustenance, in me -- but for a first time? Find yourself a nice young redhead. Someone a little cleaner. I'm laced, dear boy,"
"If not to kneel as a slave, and if incapable of negotiation with what you know power to be..."
Ruprecht seems satisfied enough that the brick snapped everything into a swifter sensibility. "You walk the path of a tyrant, until one greater, or even worse -- a slave revolt -- or a negotiated coup -- brings you to the end you'd earn."
Ruprecht says "The flame that burns twice as bright, and all, you see?"
The city hums like something sick, something dying. Havens streets, slick with rain and filth, stretch out beyond the alley - an open maw waiting to swallow them whole. The air stinks of wet concrete, rotting trash, and something deeper, something wrong. The vampire.
He is wrong.
Ruprecht s voice drips into the wound of his thoughts, a slow, insidious seep.
-Perhaps your adrenaline core is still functioning. Or perhaps instead its degrading as we speak, into adrenochrome. Either way...-
As Ruprecht flourishes a cigarette between two fingers, offering it as though they were old friends sharing a quiet moment. Like this is just another night. Like he hasnt died.
He doesnt reach for it.
-It's not pain worth worrying about,- he continues, smooth, patient. A predator coaching its cub.
I dont want to be his cub. The vampire replies.
-Its what happens when you finally die again thats worth fearing. A true end. Reduction to nothingness.- Ruprecht s words playing over and over again like a broken record.
The words settle like ice in his chest.
I remember the moment I woke up. The confusion. The hunger. The sound of my own breath, too steady, too unnatural. But I dont remember before. Not clearly. What did I lose? What part of me stayed in death?
"You talk like you understand what I am," The vampire says, voice raw. "Like you know what I should do next."
The hunger curls inside him, a slow coil of something ancient. He knows. He sees it, chuckling, as mocked . Was he being tested?
His fingers twitch. The thought - to lunge, to take, to silence him - ripples through his muscles like an echo. But he doesnt move. Not yet.
"You think I dont see the game youre playing?" His voice is quieter now, but it doesnt shake. "You want me to break. You want to see how far Ill fall."
He steps back.
Not because hes weak. Not because hes won. Because he refuses to let Ruprecht write this story for him.
His amusement falters, just slightly.
"Maybe I dont care what power is supposed to be," He says. His heartbeat is a hammer in his chest, too loud in his ears. Still beating. Still mine.
Then he turns.
And runs.
"Everyone breaks eventually, but you have eternity ahead of you! The whole of it, at your very fingertips! Until some fuck cuts your wrists off and puts them in a cardboard box shipped to Tibet," Ruprecht doesn't run along, be doesn't chase - doesn't pull the five-seven out've his waistband to offer sentimental proof of immortality. "Of course I know what you do next." Comes an echo towards a likely-distant figure. "You need to go fix that headache up, don't you. The same stress headache I get, born of that imperative need."
The city is a blur.
The vampire doesnt remember deciding to run - only the sudden rush of movement, the sharp slap of his feet against wet pavement. Havens streets twist and sprawl ahead, dark arteries pulsing with neon-lit sickness. He doesnt think. He moves.
Behind him, Ruprecht doesnt chase.
-Everyone breaks eventually!- His voice follows, slipping between the alley walls like smoke. Mocking. Laughing. Watching.
-But you have eternity ahead of you! The whole of it, at your very fingertips! Until some fuck cuts your wrists off and puts them in a cardboard box shipped to Tibet.-
He keeps running.
The wind whips through me, but he barely feels it. His breath is steady - too steady. His legs dont burn. His heart still beats, but its wrong, sluggish, out of sync. His body is not his body anymore.
He ducks around a corner, nearly stumbling. The streets stretch, empty but not quiet - the hum of flickering signs, the murmur of unseen things pressing against the edges of awareness. He can hear everything. The rustle of rats in the gutters. The distant whisper of shoes scuffing concrete. His own pulse, a betrayer in his chest.
Ruprecht s voice lingers.
"Of course I know what you do next."
He swallows hard. His throat is dry - no, not dry. Hollow.
-You need to go fix that headache up, don't you? The same stress headache I get, born of that imperative need.- someone advice, warnings, wisdom on repeat time and again. His vision wavers. A dull, gnawing ache throbs behind his eyes, curling deep into his skull.
He knows what he means. He doesnt want to. He wont.
A figure steps onto the sidewalk ahead - just a man, just a stranger, wrapped in his own world. Breathing. A heartbeat, a rhythm. The scent of sweat, of blood, of life.
The vampires body hesitates. His teeth ache.
No.
He staggers past him, forcing his legs to move, forcing the hunger back down where it writhes like a dying animal. I wont give in. I wont. Havens shadows swallow him whole, but Ruprecht s words remain.
The city is a blur.
The vampire doesnt remember deciding to run - only the sudden rush of movement, the sharp slap of his feet against wet pavement. Havens streets twist and sprawl ahead, dark arteries pulsing with neon-lit sickness. He doesnt think. He moves.
Behind him, Ruprecht doesnt chase.
-Everyone breaks eventually!- His voice follows, slipping between the alley walls like smoke. Mocking. Laughing. Watching.
-But you have eternity ahead of you! The whole of it, at your very fingertips! Until some fuck cuts your wrists off and puts them in a cardboard box shipped to Tibet.-
He keeps running.
The wind whips through me, but he barely feels it. His breath is steady - too steady. His legs dont burn. His heart still beats, but its wrong, sluggish, out of sync. His body is not his body anymore.
He ducks around a corner, nearly stumbling. The streets stretch, empty but not quiet - the hum of flickering signs, the murmur of unseen things pressing against the edges of awareness. He can hear everything. The rustle of rats in the gutters. The distant whisper of shoes scuffing concrete. His own pulse, a betrayer in his chest.
Ruprecht s voice lingers.
"Of course I know what you do next."
He swallows hard. His throat is dry - no, not dry. Hollow.
-You need to go fix that headache up, don't you? The same stress headache I get, born of that imperative need.- Ruprecht s advice, warnings, wisdom on repeat time and again. His vision wavers. A dull, gnawing ache throbs behind his eyes, curling deep into his skull.
He knows what he means. He doesnt want to. He wont.
A figure steps onto the sidewalk ahead - just a man, just a stranger, wrapped in his own world. Breathing. A heartbeat, a rhythm. The scent of sweat, of blood, of life.
The vampires body hesitates. His teeth ache.
No.
He staggers past him, forcing his legs to move, forcing the hunger back down where it writhes like a dying animal. I wont give in. I wont. Havens shadows swallow him whole, but Ruprecht s words remain.
The vampire doesnt remember deciding to run - only the sudden rush of movement, the sharp slap of his feet against wet pavement. Havens streets twist and sprawl ahead, dark arteries pulsing with neon-lit sickness. He doesnt think. He moves.
Behind him, Ruprecht doesnt chase.
-Everyone breaks eventually!- His voice follows, slipping between the alley walls like smoke. Mocking. Laughing. Watching.
-But you have eternity ahead of you! The whole of it, at your very fingertips! Until some fuck cuts your wrists off and puts them in a cardboard box shipped to Tibet.-
He keeps running.
The wind whips through me, but he barely feels it. His breath is steady - too steady. His legs dont burn. His heart still beats, but its wrong, sluggish, out of sync. His body is not his body anymore.
He ducks around a corner, nearly stumbling. The streets stretch, empty but not quiet - the hum of flickering signs, the murmur of unseen things pressing against the edges of awareness. He can hear everything. The rustle of rats in the gutters. The distant whisper of shoes scuffing concrete. His own pulse, a betrayer in his chest.
Ruprecht s voice lingers.
"Of course I know what you do next."
He swallows hard. His throat is dry - no, not dry. Hollow.
-You need to go fix that headache up, don't you? The same stress headache I get, born of that imperative need.- Ruprecht s advice, warnings, wisdom on repeat time and again. His vision wavers. A dull, gnawing ache throbs behind his eyes, curling deep into his skull.
He knows what he means. He doesnt want to. He wont.
A figure steps onto the sidewalk ahead - just a man, just a stranger, wrapped in his own world. Breathing. A heartbeat, a rhythm. The scent of sweat, of blood, of life.
The vampires body hesitates. His teeth ache.
No.
He staggers past him, forcing his legs to move, forcing the hunger back down where it writhes like a dying animal. I wont give in. I wont. Havens shadows swallow him whole, but Ruprecht s words remain.
Ruprecht simply starts wandering back into the mist, as if to find someone more settled into the life. He still has that headache to deal with, after all. Another cigarette, started and finished.
(Your target has been mind controlled by another into acting as their agent in a crime, compelled to perform a robbery or assault for this other agent. It is up to their allies to arrive and stop the crime and try to uncover the criminal.
)
Cheyanne settles back in her chair watching the two speak for a moment, and looks down at the food in front of her and hmms "She?s not required to if she doesnt want to of course. Though I?m always studying people." she takes a sip of her drink, the conversation of psychology making her excited a bit. she smiles reassuringly at someone
It is a chilly spring evening in the New England town of Haven, although Cheyanne might have it easier in the hotel room in which she rests, mostly unaware of the goings outside. A few moments pass, then a few more, until she can perhaps hear a slight buzz, and feel a slight hum in the hair, along with a quiet, high-pitched noise clawing at the back of her mind. As the minutes pass, all of these effects grow, perhaps signaling to something that is not just happening in her head.
More and more moments pass as Cheyanne finds it harder and harder to keep a grasp on whatever she might have been thinking. First, the effect is subtle, focus becomes more difficult, thoughts in her mind begin to slip; begin to be forgotten, and any attempt to recall them fails spectacularly. Then, she might begin to feel numbers in her mind; remember them, think about them, those numbers, then, turn into barely coherent thoughts... this is at this moment she might realize something is going terribly wrong.
//(repost) More and more moments pass as Cheyanne finds it harder and harder to keep a grasp on whatever she might have been thinking. First, the effect is subtle, focus becomes more difficult, thoughts in her mind begin to slip; begin to be forgotten, and any attempt to recall them fails spectacularly. Then, she might begin to feel numbers in her mind; remember them, think about them, those numbers, then, turn into barely coherent thoughts... this is at this moment she might realize something is going terribly wrong.
(first ever sent) More and more moments pass as Cheyanne finds it harder and harder to keep a grasp on whatever she might have been thinking. First, the effect is subtle, focus becomes more difficult, thoughts in her mind begin to slip; begin to be forgotten, and any attempt to recall them fails spectacularly. Then, she might begin to feel numbers in her mind; remember them, think about them, those numbers, then, turn into barely coherent thoughts... this is at this moment she might realize something is going terribly wrong.
(first ever sent) It is a chilly spring evening in the New England town of Haven, although Cheyanne might have it easier in the hotel room in which she rests, mostly unaware of the goings outside. A few moments pass, then a few more, until she can perhaps hear a slight buzz, and feel a slight hum in the hair, along with a quiet, high-pitched noise clawing at the back of her mind. As the minutes pass, all of these effects grow, perhaps signaling to something that is not just happening in her head.
The tension culminates as the vampire is confronted by his primal urges in the presence of an unsuspecting passerby, a moment that could define him as the monster Ruprecht expects him to become. In a defiant act of self-restraint, he refuses to surrender to the darkness, choosing instead to run from the immediate temptation. His escape, however, does not bring relief, as the hunger persists, a constant companion in his flight through the rain-slicked streets of Haven. Despite his physical departure from Ruprecht's presence, the latter's words linger, a haunting reminder of the continuous struggle the vampire faces in balancing his new existence with the remnants of his human morality. Ruprecht, unfazed and perhaps expecting this outcome, retreats into the mist, his own narrative unresolved, a figure of enigmatic influence in the vampire's tumultuous journey.
(Ruprecht's odd encounter(SRLorenzo):SRLorenzo)
[Sat Mar 22 2025]
In the Bedroom of Room 102 at Hotel Antlers
The brick and reclaimed wood from the outside continues to the inside, more polished here than the exterior. Tile flooring paves the way underfoot, and high ceilings with exposed beams make the building appear spacious without giving actual space. An ordering counter greets newcomers to the building with merchandise as well as baristas ready to take orders, signs posted behind it and above heads for easy viewing.
It is night, about 43F(6C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. There is a waning crescent moon.
"Perhaps your adrenaline core is still functioning. Or perhaps instead it's degrading as we speak, into adrenochrome. Either way..." Ruprecht waves another flourish, pulling out another cigarette and reaching out to offer one to his 'friend' of the moment. "It's not *pain* worth worrying about. Pain will, before long -- on your path, likely mean very little. It's what happens when you finally die again, that's worth fearing. A true end. Reduction to nothingness."
"You don't come back from that. Not now, not ever. This reality is one of consumption. You, have been promoted to predator. The only mistake is of your prey selection. There's sustenance, in me -- but for a first time? Find yourself a nice young redhead. Someone a little cleaner. I'm laced, dear boy,"
"If not to kneel as a slave, and if incapable of negotiation with what you know power to be..."
Ruprecht seems satisfied enough that the brick snapped everything into a swifter sensibility. "You walk the path of a tyrant, until one greater, or even worse -- a slave revolt -- or a negotiated coup -- brings you to the end you'd earn."
Ruprecht says "The flame that burns twice as bright, and all, you see?"
The city hums like something sick, something dying. Havens streets, slick with rain and filth, stretch out beyond the alley - an open maw waiting to swallow them whole. The air stinks of wet concrete, rotting trash, and something deeper, something wrong. The vampire.
He is wrong.
Ruprecht s voice drips into the wound of his thoughts, a slow, insidious seep.
-Perhaps your adrenaline core is still functioning. Or perhaps instead its degrading as we speak, into adrenochrome. Either way...-
As Ruprecht flourishes a cigarette between two fingers, offering it as though they were old friends sharing a quiet moment. Like this is just another night. Like he hasnt died.
He doesnt reach for it.
-It's not pain worth worrying about,- he continues, smooth, patient. A predator coaching its cub.
I dont want to be his cub. The vampire replies.
-Its what happens when you finally die again thats worth fearing. A true end. Reduction to nothingness.- Ruprecht s words playing over and over again like a broken record.
The words settle like ice in his chest.
I remember the moment I woke up. The confusion. The hunger. The sound of my own breath, too steady, too unnatural. But I dont remember before. Not clearly. What did I lose? What part of me stayed in death?
"You talk like you understand what I am," The vampire says, voice raw. "Like you know what I should do next."
The hunger curls inside him, a slow coil of something ancient. He knows. He sees it, chuckling, as mocked . Was he being tested?
His fingers twitch. The thought - to lunge, to take, to silence him - ripples through his muscles like an echo. But he doesnt move. Not yet.
"You think I dont see the game youre playing?" His voice is quieter now, but it doesnt shake. "You want me to break. You want to see how far Ill fall."
He steps back.
Not because hes weak. Not because hes won. Because he refuses to let Ruprecht write this story for him.
His amusement falters, just slightly.
"Maybe I dont care what power is supposed to be," He says. His heartbeat is a hammer in his chest, too loud in his ears. Still beating. Still mine.
Then he turns.
And runs.
"Everyone breaks eventually, but you have eternity ahead of you! The whole of it, at your very fingertips! Until some fuck cuts your wrists off and puts them in a cardboard box shipped to Tibet," Ruprecht doesn't run along, be doesn't chase - doesn't pull the five-seven out've his waistband to offer sentimental proof of immortality. "Of course I know what you do next." Comes an echo towards a likely-distant figure. "You need to go fix that headache up, don't you. The same stress headache I get, born of that imperative need."
The city is a blur.
The vampire doesnt remember deciding to run - only the sudden rush of movement, the sharp slap of his feet against wet pavement. Havens streets twist and sprawl ahead, dark arteries pulsing with neon-lit sickness. He doesnt think. He moves.
Behind him, Ruprecht doesnt chase.
-Everyone breaks eventually!- His voice follows, slipping between the alley walls like smoke. Mocking. Laughing. Watching.
-But you have eternity ahead of you! The whole of it, at your very fingertips! Until some fuck cuts your wrists off and puts them in a cardboard box shipped to Tibet.-
He keeps running.
The wind whips through me, but he barely feels it. His breath is steady - too steady. His legs dont burn. His heart still beats, but its wrong, sluggish, out of sync. His body is not his body anymore.
He ducks around a corner, nearly stumbling. The streets stretch, empty but not quiet - the hum of flickering signs, the murmur of unseen things pressing against the edges of awareness. He can hear everything. The rustle of rats in the gutters. The distant whisper of shoes scuffing concrete. His own pulse, a betrayer in his chest.
Ruprecht s voice lingers.
"Of course I know what you do next."
He swallows hard. His throat is dry - no, not dry. Hollow.
-You need to go fix that headache up, don't you? The same stress headache I get, born of that imperative need.- someone advice, warnings, wisdom on repeat time and again. His vision wavers. A dull, gnawing ache throbs behind his eyes, curling deep into his skull.
He knows what he means. He doesnt want to. He wont.
A figure steps onto the sidewalk ahead - just a man, just a stranger, wrapped in his own world. Breathing. A heartbeat, a rhythm. The scent of sweat, of blood, of life.
The vampires body hesitates. His teeth ache.
No.
He staggers past him, forcing his legs to move, forcing the hunger back down where it writhes like a dying animal. I wont give in. I wont. Havens shadows swallow him whole, but Ruprecht s words remain.
The city is a blur.
The vampire doesnt remember deciding to run - only the sudden rush of movement, the sharp slap of his feet against wet pavement. Havens streets twist and sprawl ahead, dark arteries pulsing with neon-lit sickness. He doesnt think. He moves.
Behind him, Ruprecht doesnt chase.
-Everyone breaks eventually!- His voice follows, slipping between the alley walls like smoke. Mocking. Laughing. Watching.
-But you have eternity ahead of you! The whole of it, at your very fingertips! Until some fuck cuts your wrists off and puts them in a cardboard box shipped to Tibet.-
He keeps running.
The wind whips through me, but he barely feels it. His breath is steady - too steady. His legs dont burn. His heart still beats, but its wrong, sluggish, out of sync. His body is not his body anymore.
He ducks around a corner, nearly stumbling. The streets stretch, empty but not quiet - the hum of flickering signs, the murmur of unseen things pressing against the edges of awareness. He can hear everything. The rustle of rats in the gutters. The distant whisper of shoes scuffing concrete. His own pulse, a betrayer in his chest.
Ruprecht s voice lingers.
"Of course I know what you do next."
He swallows hard. His throat is dry - no, not dry. Hollow.
-You need to go fix that headache up, don't you? The same stress headache I get, born of that imperative need.- Ruprecht s advice, warnings, wisdom on repeat time and again. His vision wavers. A dull, gnawing ache throbs behind his eyes, curling deep into his skull.
He knows what he means. He doesnt want to. He wont.
A figure steps onto the sidewalk ahead - just a man, just a stranger, wrapped in his own world. Breathing. A heartbeat, a rhythm. The scent of sweat, of blood, of life.
The vampires body hesitates. His teeth ache.
No.
He staggers past him, forcing his legs to move, forcing the hunger back down where it writhes like a dying animal. I wont give in. I wont. Havens shadows swallow him whole, but Ruprecht s words remain.
The vampire doesnt remember deciding to run - only the sudden rush of movement, the sharp slap of his feet against wet pavement. Havens streets twist and sprawl ahead, dark arteries pulsing with neon-lit sickness. He doesnt think. He moves.
Behind him, Ruprecht doesnt chase.
-Everyone breaks eventually!- His voice follows, slipping between the alley walls like smoke. Mocking. Laughing. Watching.
-But you have eternity ahead of you! The whole of it, at your very fingertips! Until some fuck cuts your wrists off and puts them in a cardboard box shipped to Tibet.-
He keeps running.
The wind whips through me, but he barely feels it. His breath is steady - too steady. His legs dont burn. His heart still beats, but its wrong, sluggish, out of sync. His body is not his body anymore.
He ducks around a corner, nearly stumbling. The streets stretch, empty but not quiet - the hum of flickering signs, the murmur of unseen things pressing against the edges of awareness. He can hear everything. The rustle of rats in the gutters. The distant whisper of shoes scuffing concrete. His own pulse, a betrayer in his chest.
Ruprecht s voice lingers.
"Of course I know what you do next."
He swallows hard. His throat is dry - no, not dry. Hollow.
-You need to go fix that headache up, don't you? The same stress headache I get, born of that imperative need.- Ruprecht s advice, warnings, wisdom on repeat time and again. His vision wavers. A dull, gnawing ache throbs behind his eyes, curling deep into his skull.
He knows what he means. He doesnt want to. He wont.
A figure steps onto the sidewalk ahead - just a man, just a stranger, wrapped in his own world. Breathing. A heartbeat, a rhythm. The scent of sweat, of blood, of life.
The vampires body hesitates. His teeth ache.
No.
He staggers past him, forcing his legs to move, forcing the hunger back down where it writhes like a dying animal. I wont give in. I wont. Havens shadows swallow him whole, but Ruprecht s words remain.
Ruprecht simply starts wandering back into the mist, as if to find someone more settled into the life. He still has that headache to deal with, after all. Another cigarette, started and finished.
(Your target has been mind controlled by another into acting as their agent in a crime, compelled to perform a robbery or assault for this other agent. It is up to their allies to arrive and stop the crime and try to uncover the criminal.
)
Cheyanne settles back in her chair watching the two speak for a moment, and looks down at the food in front of her and hmms "She?s not required to if she doesnt want to of course. Though I?m always studying people." she takes a sip of her drink, the conversation of psychology making her excited a bit. she smiles reassuringly at someone
It is a chilly spring evening in the New England town of Haven, although Cheyanne might have it easier in the hotel room in which she rests, mostly unaware of the goings outside. A few moments pass, then a few more, until she can perhaps hear a slight buzz, and feel a slight hum in the hair, along with a quiet, high-pitched noise clawing at the back of her mind. As the minutes pass, all of these effects grow, perhaps signaling to something that is not just happening in her head.
More and more moments pass as Cheyanne finds it harder and harder to keep a grasp on whatever she might have been thinking. First, the effect is subtle, focus becomes more difficult, thoughts in her mind begin to slip; begin to be forgotten, and any attempt to recall them fails spectacularly. Then, she might begin to feel numbers in her mind; remember them, think about them, those numbers, then, turn into barely coherent thoughts... this is at this moment she might realize something is going terribly wrong.
//(repost) More and more moments pass as Cheyanne finds it harder and harder to keep a grasp on whatever she might have been thinking. First, the effect is subtle, focus becomes more difficult, thoughts in her mind begin to slip; begin to be forgotten, and any attempt to recall them fails spectacularly. Then, she might begin to feel numbers in her mind; remember them, think about them, those numbers, then, turn into barely coherent thoughts... this is at this moment she might realize something is going terribly wrong.
(first ever sent) More and more moments pass as Cheyanne finds it harder and harder to keep a grasp on whatever she might have been thinking. First, the effect is subtle, focus becomes more difficult, thoughts in her mind begin to slip; begin to be forgotten, and any attempt to recall them fails spectacularly. Then, she might begin to feel numbers in her mind; remember them, think about them, those numbers, then, turn into barely coherent thoughts... this is at this moment she might realize something is going terribly wrong.
(first ever sent) It is a chilly spring evening in the New England town of Haven, although Cheyanne might have it easier in the hotel room in which she rests, mostly unaware of the goings outside. A few moments pass, then a few more, until she can perhaps hear a slight buzz, and feel a slight hum in the hair, along with a quiet, high-pitched noise clawing at the back of her mind. As the minutes pass, all of these effects grow, perhaps signaling to something that is not just happening in her head.