Encounterlogs
Sams Odd Encounter Sr Brock 241112
In the dimly lit, nautical-themed Trove Barcade, Sam, a lively and energetic hype-man, enthuses patrons with offers of happy hour drinks amidst a background of arcade noises and the occasional thud of an axe hitting its target. However, his lively spirits are dampened when, upon taking a shot of tequila, he finds it tastes like briny seawater, and a sense of foreboding darkness envelops him. Disturbed, he discreetly checks a finger-bone under his jacket, hinting at his familiarity with the supernatural, and begins a cautious search for the source of his discomfort, his attention captured by a change in the bar's atmosphere as the normal sounds fade into the background, replaced by those of waves and a cold, salty air.
As the environment around him increasingly reflects a ghostly maritime scene, Sam prepares for a confrontation, armed with a hunting knife but hoping not to alarm the remaining patrons. He realizes too late that he is entirely alone, surrounded not by people but by the spectral remnants of a crew lost to the sea. A voice distinctly addresses him as "Brother," as a skeletal, decayed spirit appears, mirroring Sam's actions by picking up a shot of the now-transformed seawater. The room, once filled with the lively clatter of a modern barcade, now resonates with the ghostly whispers and chants of a drowned crew, drawing Sam into a confrontation with a tragedy from the past, seeking either closure for the restless spirits or a more confrontational end to their haunting.
(Sam's odd encounter(SRBrock):SRBrock)
[Mon Nov 11 2024]
At The Trove Barcade
This room is dominated by a sprawling, weathered bar. The bar's surface, polished to a high sheen, is inlaid with a mosaic of colorful sea glass, glinting in the dim, lantern-like lighting.
The walls, painted a deep, oceanic blue, are adorned with an eclectic assortment of nautical paraphernalia. Aged maps, and faded flags are interspersed with vintage arcade game marquees. The ceiling, draped with tattered sails and thick, knotted ropes, gives the impression of being below deck on a ship.
In the corners of the room, clusters of arcade games flicker and beep, their colorful screens casting a kaleidoscope of light onto the wooden floorboards. The air is filled with the clatter of pinball machines, the electronic melodies of video games, and the occasional thud of an axe hitting its target.
Behind the bar, a vast array of bottles is displayed, their contents ranging from craft beers to exotic rums. The bartenders, dressed in pirate garb, deftly mix cocktails, their movements punctuated by the clink of glass and the hiss of a freshly opened beer.
North/South: Restrooms
Northeast: Games
East: Axe Throwing
Southeast: Competitive Games
Down: Laser Tag
It is dusk, about 48F(8C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It's raining outside.
(Your target encounters a ghost who's fixated on some past tragedy from their life, they need to either give the spirit some sense of closure, or send it on it's way through more violent means.
)
Sam leans against the bar as he puts several shots of tequilla along it, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he shakes the rain from his jacket. "Come along people, happy hour, let's see some happy faces, and HIGH SCORES!"
He grins, nodding to the barman in approval as he proceeds to hype-man his own booze, projecting as much energy as one can.
Happy hour! Happy hour! Booze, booze! Axes, and fun! It's strange then, giving all this positive, frantic energy, that a sudden feeling comes upon Sam, like his stomach has been turned from the inside out, and the world grew all the more dark, and less friendly. It passes, of course, in a mere moment or two. It's like that feeling you get where a shiver works it's way up your spine for no apparent reason, what mundane people would suggest means that someone had stepped on your grave. How very strange.
Stranger yet? The next drink that Sam throws back isn't the bad-decision-making-juice often refered to as tequilla, but seems to be little more than briny, cold seawater.
Sam lets out a gagging sound, and spits out the shot of sea-water, blinking rapidly as he places a hand around the human finger-bone under his jacket, trying to make sure he does so without alerting any potential patrons. His eyes shoot around, looking for any drainage pipes or sewer exits.
"What the..." He mutters, under his breath.
Ew. Sam is just out here fingering bones in public? No, wait, it was a finger bone. That is slightly less gross. There is comfort to be found there, perhaps, and with his own darker senses aligned just right he may feel the press of an unseen, but apparently tasted force lingering in the space around him. Slowly, but surely, the sounds of the bar start to bleed, and fade away, like someone were adjusting the frequency knob on the dial of reality itself.
The sound of waves oozes into the space, as the lights dim, and the air around him grows colder, and saltier yet.
Sam pauses, looking around as he narrows his eyes. He steps aside, and sniffs the air. Something is approaching. Discreetly -don't want to alarm any lingering normals-, he puts a hand down on the hunting knife he has on his side, though he does not draw it just yet. He licks his lips slowly, quickly scanning for the presence of the mundane crowds. In terms of flight or fight? He's leaning fight. Perhaps pre-emptively.
It's important to keep the normals and mundanes nice and ignorant, isn't it? It's harder to keep the herd in control when they're panicked, after all. Though, it seems that Sam's wariness is for naught, for as he turns to glance around the space he finds himself well and truly alone. The people too, have bleed away. Leaving him by himself in this venue. The creak, and draw of the room changes, reality bleeding away to be replaced with the groans of wood, and the gentle splash of the ocean.
Show themselves they do, whatever it is that is currently haunting Sam. Whispers begin to bleed into this space, the low, thrumb of many voices, joined together as one, as they chant, and sing. The words are lost, thus far, but the sound remains - it drones, burrowing into Sam's skull, though flesh, and bone, and into his very grey matter. Even the light is different now, where it was once bright, and light, it is now dim, and blueish in nature.
"Brother," A voice, closer than the others, whispers into Sam's ear, as a figure of spirit, and shadow tumbles into sight beside him, leaning against the bar and plucking up one of the now briny, cold shots and throwing it back. They're skeletal in nature, rotted, and water-bloated, and their bulging eyes linger upon Sam.
As the environment around him increasingly reflects a ghostly maritime scene, Sam prepares for a confrontation, armed with a hunting knife but hoping not to alarm the remaining patrons. He realizes too late that he is entirely alone, surrounded not by people but by the spectral remnants of a crew lost to the sea. A voice distinctly addresses him as "Brother," as a skeletal, decayed spirit appears, mirroring Sam's actions by picking up a shot of the now-transformed seawater. The room, once filled with the lively clatter of a modern barcade, now resonates with the ghostly whispers and chants of a drowned crew, drawing Sam into a confrontation with a tragedy from the past, seeking either closure for the restless spirits or a more confrontational end to their haunting.
(Sam's odd encounter(SRBrock):SRBrock)
[Mon Nov 11 2024]
At The Trove Barcade
This room is dominated by a sprawling, weathered bar. The bar's surface, polished to a high sheen, is inlaid with a mosaic of colorful sea glass, glinting in the dim, lantern-like lighting.
The walls, painted a deep, oceanic blue, are adorned with an eclectic assortment of nautical paraphernalia. Aged maps, and faded flags are interspersed with vintage arcade game marquees. The ceiling, draped with tattered sails and thick, knotted ropes, gives the impression of being below deck on a ship.
In the corners of the room, clusters of arcade games flicker and beep, their colorful screens casting a kaleidoscope of light onto the wooden floorboards. The air is filled with the clatter of pinball machines, the electronic melodies of video games, and the occasional thud of an axe hitting its target.
Behind the bar, a vast array of bottles is displayed, their contents ranging from craft beers to exotic rums. The bartenders, dressed in pirate garb, deftly mix cocktails, their movements punctuated by the clink of glass and the hiss of a freshly opened beer.
North/South: Restrooms
Northeast: Games
East: Axe Throwing
Southeast: Competitive Games
Down: Laser Tag
It is dusk, about 48F(8C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It's raining outside.
(Your target encounters a ghost who's fixated on some past tragedy from their life, they need to either give the spirit some sense of closure, or send it on it's way through more violent means.
)
Sam leans against the bar as he puts several shots of tequilla along it, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he shakes the rain from his jacket. "Come along people, happy hour, let's see some happy faces, and HIGH SCORES!"
He grins, nodding to the barman in approval as he proceeds to hype-man his own booze, projecting as much energy as one can.
Happy hour! Happy hour! Booze, booze! Axes, and fun! It's strange then, giving all this positive, frantic energy, that a sudden feeling comes upon Sam, like his stomach has been turned from the inside out, and the world grew all the more dark, and less friendly. It passes, of course, in a mere moment or two. It's like that feeling you get where a shiver works it's way up your spine for no apparent reason, what mundane people would suggest means that someone had stepped on your grave. How very strange.
Stranger yet? The next drink that Sam throws back isn't the bad-decision-making-juice often refered to as tequilla, but seems to be little more than briny, cold seawater.
Sam lets out a gagging sound, and spits out the shot of sea-water, blinking rapidly as he places a hand around the human finger-bone under his jacket, trying to make sure he does so without alerting any potential patrons. His eyes shoot around, looking for any drainage pipes or sewer exits.
"What the..." He mutters, under his breath.
Ew. Sam is just out here fingering bones in public? No, wait, it was a finger bone. That is slightly less gross. There is comfort to be found there, perhaps, and with his own darker senses aligned just right he may feel the press of an unseen, but apparently tasted force lingering in the space around him. Slowly, but surely, the sounds of the bar start to bleed, and fade away, like someone were adjusting the frequency knob on the dial of reality itself.
The sound of waves oozes into the space, as the lights dim, and the air around him grows colder, and saltier yet.
Sam pauses, looking around as he narrows his eyes. He steps aside, and sniffs the air. Something is approaching. Discreetly -don't want to alarm any lingering normals-, he puts a hand down on the hunting knife he has on his side, though he does not draw it just yet. He licks his lips slowly, quickly scanning for the presence of the mundane crowds. In terms of flight or fight? He's leaning fight. Perhaps pre-emptively.
It's important to keep the normals and mundanes nice and ignorant, isn't it? It's harder to keep the herd in control when they're panicked, after all. Though, it seems that Sam's wariness is for naught, for as he turns to glance around the space he finds himself well and truly alone. The people too, have bleed away. Leaving him by himself in this venue. The creak, and draw of the room changes, reality bleeding away to be replaced with the groans of wood, and the gentle splash of the ocean.
Show themselves they do, whatever it is that is currently haunting Sam. Whispers begin to bleed into this space, the low, thrumb of many voices, joined together as one, as they chant, and sing. The words are lost, thus far, but the sound remains - it drones, burrowing into Sam's skull, though flesh, and bone, and into his very grey matter. Even the light is different now, where it was once bright, and light, it is now dim, and blueish in nature.
"Brother," A voice, closer than the others, whispers into Sam's ear, as a figure of spirit, and shadow tumbles into sight beside him, leaning against the bar and plucking up one of the now briny, cold shots and throwing it back. They're skeletal in nature, rotted, and water-bloated, and their bulging eyes linger upon Sam.