Encounterlogs
Sams Odd Encounter Sr Illyana 241121
In the dark and eerie realms of Sam's nightmare, a profound sense of being hunted envelops the atmosphere. Waking up in his unnervingly quiet and chilling bedroom, Sam realizes he's trapped within a dream, a nightmarish reality constructed by the dream stalker, Apep's, malevolent will. The room's ambiance, marked by dark, obsidian walls and subtle, indirect lighting, sets the stage for a deeply unsettling realization of isolation and premonition. A feeling of being watched and preyed upon encases Sam, driving him to arm himself with a human finger-bone amulet, embracing the eerie silence and the foreboding air that permeated his surroundings. His defensive stance, rooted in both cautious dread and a boxer's resolute determination, indicates the inception of a dire quest for survival within this dream-crafted labyrinth.
Sam's nightmare evolves into a perilous journey through an Egyptian pyramid, emblematic of his descent into Apep's sinister domain. Guided by instinct and an arcanist's command over magic, he navigates the sandstone corridors adorned with cryptic hieroglyphs. The dream landscape morphs, revealing a historical narrative wherein Sam identifies with a powerful sorcerer of ancient times, underlining the intricate ties between power, divinity, and the mortal peril that shadowed the quests for divine favour. The encounter with a heavily armed adversary, crafting a scenario of fight over flight, showcases Sam's struggle against forces beyond his comprehension. The skirmish culminates in a symbolic confrontation with a tablet depicting Apep, an embodiment of the void entity's malice and a relic tying the dreamer to his nightmarish ordeal. Sam's ordeal concludes as he awakens, sustained yet burdened with more questions and a lingering, inexplicable connection to Apon Ra-Tep, bridging the reality with the phantasmal echoes of his dream stalker's realm.
Simultaneously, Seth's reality distorts under the malevolent influence of a demon seeking to ensnare him through a series of manipulative and hallucinatory interactions. The demon's insidious temptation manifests in Seth’s apartment, transforming familiar comforts into a stage for psychological torment. As ephemeral visions and sinister whispers erode Seth's sense of safety, he's thrust into a confrontation with his deepest insecurities and unfulfilled desires. The demon's quest to turn Seth into an instrument on Earth is painted with a palette of emotional vulnerabilities, drawing out Seth's confession of loneliness and his yearning to be desired. The culmination of this macabre dance of manipulation and despair is Seth’s realization of his isolation, self-inflicted and yet achingly poignant. The closing scene, leaving Seth amidst the wreckage of his confrontation, hints at the lingering aftereffects of encounters with entities that feast on human frailties. Both narratives, interwoven through themes of darkness, challenge, and the quest for self-preservation, underscore the fine line between nightmare and reality, and the profound impact of supernatural entanglements on the human psyche.
(Sam's odd encounter(SRIllyana):SRIllyana)
[Wed Nov 20 2024]
In A black-painted bedroom
The walls of this room have been painted in a dark obsidian, making it somewhat hard to discern where the walls are.
No windows are present, and the lighting comes from for subtle spotlights in the corners of the room, casting only indirect light on the floor.
Around the bottom of the Northern, Southern, and Eastern wall, are a pair of simple green lines, breaking the dark gloom of the room somewhat.
Sprawling over the western wall, is a depiction of a large, bright green serpent, seemingly drawn like a cobra of sorts. It's maw is agape, and its fangs blinkering.
A Dark Red stain, roughly in the form of a triangle, sits in front of the circle, close to the western wall.
It is morning, about 32F(0C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey clouds in the sky.
(Your target has been singled out by a dream stalker who's invading their dreams. They cannot be woken, but their allies may be able to go into their dreams after them to help them fight off the invader and survive the nightmare.
)
Groggily, Sam opens his eyes, looking at the obsidian ceiling in the dark room. He pushes a button on his phone, and four spotlights in the corners of the room turn on. He fishes his phone from next to the matress, and checks his messages, yawning as he contemplates the day ahead, and perhaps which way is up. The Jock very clearly is not fully awake yet.
As Sam wakes, he finds that nothing has changed; He's in his bedroom-- where he should be. The area is dark, as one might expect, and the binding circle is empty. The blood working of the triangle is still there, it's active, the dark magic pervasively crawling around the room, its purpose all knowing and devised with the specific ritual style of the void entity Apep in mind. Indeed, though all is well, this morning is cold, and Sam can easily note what is out of place: It's quiet. It's too quiet, and as Sam recalls his previous day's activity, he finds himself confused. This is not entirely correct. The lighting is wrong, and though the air should be too thick to move in, Sam notes that he is within the nightmare. There are brass elevater doors popping in and out of existance, though what Sam would note more than anything else is that he is being watched. It's cold, too. This is Haven's winter, so that shouldn't be too strange. The ocean is near bye, so the chill air floats in to the sleepy township. But inside, it should not be quite so frosty- Sam shivers, and his breath mists before his eyes, bursts of puffed white smoke. Figures far off can be half-seen. They wander through the nightmare aimlessly, stalking what ever it is they seek, though the usual ghost activity is gone. It's as if it had never been-- Curious in and of itself. What does remain though is that slithering touch; Apep's direction and will made manifest, if only the sliver. That temptation- The hint at more far off in the gloom. And yet, Sam is not alone. He cant see it. He cant hear it. He cant smell it, but there is something. It's a feeling; Preservational and haunting, intimidating and sadistic. Sam knows that he is being stalked-- Hunted like a cat would a rat. (Though not one of Haven's rats. Those would eat any dog smaller than a werewolf)
As he gains his bearings, Sam jumps up, pulling out that human finger-bone around his neck, the runes on it glowing lightly. Sam crouches, carefully crossing the room, and going to stand near that ritual form. When in doubt, go on the defensive. A boxer's motto, but also one true when engaging in the Nightmare.
Sam's eyes dart around, carefully taking stock of the situation. He is not alone. But what, or who?
That's when Sam notes it. What ever this is, it's deep. Deep within the nightmare, where the faction war thrives, and why it's so confusing is that this is no operation. It's not a patrol or an invasion. It's not an assault- It's a hunt, and Sam is the target of said hunt. That feeling he has is of being hunted, most certainly. It's the dull thump-thump-thump of a heartbeat. It's the pounding of blood in the ears. It's the tention of muscles ready to spring into action. It's the breath on the back of the neck. And, of course, defensive measures are likely for the best. It's common knowledge after all that the nightmare is a realm from where monsters prey upon victims. But what exactly is happening here? It's confusion. It's unnatural and it's smooth. The oil slick slither of soft silken scales. Maybe... Just maybe... Sam is correct. Maybe this is a test. And that is of course when Sam senses the unusual. It's felt more than noticed, though there is some attention upon Sam. And illusion or not-- True or not-- Sam hears the sound of steady breaths. It's far off-- Or close by. Things are hard to identify in dreams. Reality is malliable, mutible and inscrutable in their lack of solid physical foundation. The metaphysical itself is a curious thing, and Sam knows this. He is an arcanist. And then, as if it were always going to happen, Sam slips-- He falls and he spirals. It's dream-like. It's unnatural and the world around him spins like a top, vision twisting in an uncomfortable kaleidoscoping of strobing sound and light...Then? Then what? The next thing Sam knows is that somehow, he is no longer in his room. He's somewhere far from it. The air is dry, and the weather is far from that chill of moments before. It's now stifling, and Sam is burdened with a soul crushing weight that squeezes him and twists him to face in a specific direction. Behind him, that breathing resumes, though it's closer now, and Sam feels the need to run through this now... Stone tomb? The walls are carved and painted with pictographs that look to be egyption in origin. The floor looks to be smooth sandstone, and then Sam knows where he is; He's within a pyramid. Fortunate then for his night vision, as there is no light, and anyone lesser would be blind as a bat.
Once he stops slipping, Sam takes a few moments to focus himself. He is no stranger to prophecy, and visions in his dreams, so he decides to follow it. His hand clasped around his focus, the jock moves along.
His lips move silently, muttering words of power into his clasped hand. His breathing matches that breath behind him, and he starts walking, slowly going into a sprint, his eyes barely registering the writing on the wall. He is fully riding this dream, allowing it to guide him, while still preparing for the prospect of danger.
Again, the world twists- shifts and contorts. Sam finds himself in the same place, though now, in that way of dreams, things have changed; Sam doesn't attend those pictographs, so they slip directly into his thoughts. The feeling isn't unlike being bombarded with hypnotic pressures, though here, Sam isn't even afforded the chance to resist. His motions are sluggish, drawn and feel as though they are being resisted, though strangely, there is nothing obstructing him. Sam hears the breathing again-- Notes the foot falls that echo, though looking back, he sees nothing: Only the blackness that stretches out. In his mind though is another matter-- Sam sees a vision. --- It's an average vista. The sand stretches in all directions and only those with power are stood here. Sam is not himself, but instead, he is another man. He is a sorcerer in truth. One of the true sorcerers of ancient times when gods were still rising. The sun beats down on Sam The sorcerer, and his desert robes hiss with a rasping serpentine sound that is, in itself, unnatural. He is power, and yet, this empty desert will be his undoing. He is exhausted. He has been walking for hours, and the reason is all consuming. His master-- His god summoned him. Sam pauses: He plucks up his water skin; There are only a hand full of mouthfulls left. He must find his objective soon, else he could die. He knows this, and as his tongue flicks out to taste the air, Sam stumbles. His slit eyes narrow and he is forced to plant his golden serpent staff in the sand. He pants, he drinks and he schemes. It must be around here. If not, the god was untruthful, and this must not be the case- It cant be. Sam is his most worthy follower. Then, he sees it. At first, he believes it to be an illusion. Those are common these days, especially with the adept sorcerers gaining in skill. But no. Not a mirage. It is true, just over the next dune is salvation. Over the next is a hollow-- Oh it's almost hidden under sand and time, but he sees it. He sees it, and he heads for it. -- The wind begins to whip; There will be a sandstorm soon, and he cant be caught in it. That would end him. -- Time passes. Sam finds himself over that dune. He begins to dig and-- Sam stands in what appears to be a tomb. It's constructed from sandstone. It has hieroglyphs over its walls. It descends, and he follows. Then, Sam sees it: He sees the stone monument. The tablet depicting Apep. If he can only smash it with his sorcery but no... Sam is too weak. The trek across the desert has ended him, and he falls to his knees at the last. --- And Sam blinks, and he runs. He descends deeper into the earth. The sandstone around him is ancient. The air is hot, and the air itself hisses with the impending understanding of a descending sandstorm.
Somewhat confused, Sam continues his trek into the monument. He shudders somewhat, his normal, demi-human body now feeling rather weak, compared to that rush of power of the vision before. Sam does not falter, however, his eyes narrowed in thought as he goes along with the vision, dogged determination filling his mind. He briefly considers he will likely wake up exhausted, but no matter. He's too far in to stop now.
As the thought passes through Sam's mind, he knows the purpose: The tablet was to seal Apep within the void. It wasn't the only one, of course. It was one of many around the world that would keep the void entity from entering, and there is all likelyhood that the Black Flame cultists, though dangerous and reckless would have information that could aid-- Or are they involved already? And then, the thickness of the air seems to part, and Sam continues running down- down- down, deep into the earth, the walls-- The hieroglyphs blurring. Sam hears it then, the crunch of a boot on sand, and Sam hears a whistle- An arrow narrowly misses Sam's ear, black and white fletching, a stone tip that burns with a putrid green light, an ashwood shaft. And even that most brief of brushes with it weakens Sam A bane. The arrow is radioactive.
Fight or flight takes over. Fight in particular. With a hiss, Sam turns around, drawing his knife, and in the same movement, raking it past his palm, pointing that blade at the darkness. He narrows his eyes, and his tongue flicks from his mouth as is trying to sense the shooter. Runes on that finger-bone glow angrily, as he waits to see who-so-ever shot at him. With the right sort of weapon, no less.
It's as if the shadows themselves are weighing down on Sam. It's not a figure that nears, but a mass of darkness. But surely, someone has to be within. And then, an arrow flies once more, and Sam is forced to duck- Thiss too is a bane. From within that gloom, emerges a voice; It's cold, distorted, malevolent. "My prey usually runs. You should do the same." And then Sam sees it: He sees the spear, and it too glows in the way of the radioactive rays fired by a gorgon's magic in the Guardrealm.
Smirking, the jock keeps his retort short and sweet. "Same." Sam draws his knife, and smirks, squaring his stance as he breathes in, then out, then just hurtles himself head-first into the darkness. The good thing about spears is that they are attached to someone holding it.
His knife goes up, hopefully deflecting that spear long enough to give the darkness a classic, jock special: Fist to the face.
That fist impacts /something/. The knife stops the spear so far, and the other thing about spears that Sam would note, is that they're not designed to be close quarters. Spears are mid ranged weapons and manoeuvring with them is terribly hard in close quarters, too. So the figure is forced to step back. Its retort is likewise short and sweet, "Very well." and the spear, where ever it is, vanishes, and Sam feels the touch of a radioactive blade on his knuckles. Deep within the shadows, Sam can see this figure. He's built strong, and is covered head to toe in form fitting power armor. Its eyes are covered, though they glow from within that dark mask that obscures his features. But more problematic, Sam notes that this figure is strapped down with gadgets and weapons a plenty. And then comes the pain, Sam is tripped. He feels poison burning him from within, and a fist hammers. Sam might be able to fight off this figure, but he's ready to hunt demigods, if Sam is any judge.
Landing on his ass, Sam growls. Flight might just be out of the question. He gnashes his teeth, and brings that focus of his up. "Lessee if ya have blood, shall we?" He tries to focus on the attacker's bloodflow, slowing it so that he might be able to make him falter.
He pants, realizing he's very much under-dressed for this. Eye dart around that armor, hoping to find some part exposed, or some kind of weak-spot as he scrambles to his feet, trying to maintain that spell, the creature's heart-rate slowing, if it is even living.
The armored man is apparently alive, and hadn't expected magic. That was his mistake, of course, but to Sam's benefit. The radioactive blade swings and nicks Sam again, but the poison that was coating it doesn't appear to take in this attack. Then, he stiffens. Sam can see it. His motions grow lethargic and his head shakes.
A smirk crosses Sam's face, and he starts absolutely wailing on the man's armor. The funny thing about armor is that while it protects against blades, it very much does not do the same for blunt trauma. While the man is distracted, Sam growls, and starts serving that man several knuckle sandwiches, likely damaging his own knuckles in the process.
Sam does indeed utterly reck this man. Blunt force is always a good methodology. It's best if your target is in classical armor, but there's frankly nothing to be done by a person on the back foot. So he does the one thing he can. There's the buzz from the mask. It's laughter, and Sam gets a "Well done. You win this round." before he pulls a cord and a timer begins to tick down. Sam hears the ping-ping-ping and knows this is going to hurt.
"SON OF A--" Sam scowls, trying to jump back, but well, he isn't very good at noticing things, so the ping-ping-ping takes a second to process. Perhaps too long. He hits the deck, hastily covering his face as he tries to at least weather the storm. His eyes seal shut, and he braces himself for a world of pain.
The world of pain comes. Weapons, munitions, grenades, tools all get consumed within that confligration, and Sam is peppered with shards of shrapnel, the burning roar of flame, and a spray of blood, along with the scent of burning meat. It goes on for a moment that feels like infinity, though Sam is able to regenerate, and he is naturally tough. Sam looses consciousness-- Or does he? Dreams and the nightmare are curious things. But now Sam sees it. He sees the tablet and it depicts a carved image of a snake-like aberation that can only be something from the void. He hears the sound of cheering- The roar of a croud, and far off, silhouetted by the flames is a snake-headed figure that Sam knows. It is Apon Ra-Tep... Though that is when Sam wakes, with more questions than he had before...
(A demon from hell has become interested in your target, they decide to see if they can tempt them into becoming one of their instruments on earth.
)
As the afternoon sun cast through the windows of Seth's living room, the shadows and reflections cast began to warp and shimmer. At first, it was just in the corner of his eye. A flicker here, a worble there. But, in the daze and intoxication of the alcohol, it would have just seemed as another quirk of his light-headedness.
But, as the minutes bled into hours, the light that streamed the window cascaded through the burning amber of dusk, the bluish noctern of midnight and back into the morning gaze of soft cinder. Seth wouldn't have noticed until a sudden midnight chime of a clock unseen filled the tight confines of his apartment.
At first, the air was still, something uncanny and 'off' tingling the twink's senses. A gaze with no source would run along his neck, coiling around in a faux suffocation until each breath was strained and choked. Then, finally, the inhuman hint of a visage reflected in the bottle that kept Seth company, vague and yet blatantly foreign. "What is it you want?" The words echoed in the man's mind as if it was his own thought. His lips were drawn, something tugging at them, his tongue begging to spill the first thing that comes to mind.
Seth lies back on the sofa, a bottle of half drunk vodka in one hand, his phone in the other. A pair of black earbuds trails from the circular jack to his ears, blasting rough, jagged sounding music, which bleeds from them to faintly fill the air around his head. He scrolls through text messages, occasionally typing out a slightly fumbling reply to this or that. He's not too drunk, yet, perhaps a little light-headed, only taking occasional, small sips. But steadily, over the hours, they add up. Enough that he doesn't notice the strange warping on the edge of his perception. Time passes, as it is wont to do, but he has spent so much time cooped up in his apartment, insulated from the outside world, that it barely registers.
The air becoming thicker, and the feeling of suffocation, -does- register, though, and a moment of panic ensues. Seth yanks his headphones out and tosses his phone down, feeling for his neck. A glance around in panic, and his gaze falls on the bottle gripped tightly in his hands, and the reflection in it. His eyes widen, and he brings it close to his face, his own reflection joining that of the strangers. He glances behind him, to seek the source, before he tries to speak. His throat feels dry and constricted, both from not speaking for a while, and the feeling coiling around his neck. "Who - who's there?" he manages to rasp, swinging his feet around and sitting up, and wrapping his other, free hand around the bottle as well. Then he closes his eyes for a moment, perhaps willing the vision and the sensation to go away, before he opens them again, and looks back.
Just as Seth pulls the bottle up, the reflection turns to normal as if nothing ever happened. Then, just as a whisper in his ear, it repeats, "What would you do for what you want?" The question elaborating, drilling into his mind as the words painted his vision. Scrawled upon the walls, wriggling on his skin, the text messages on his phone as it repeatedly 'dinged' with notifications, each one repeating the question over and over and over.
Even as panic began to set, the walls closed in, where he stood warped and sank, only to 'snap' back to how it was before. The sounds of birds outside, the idle chatter of the television, the music which was distant and set away at the ends of his earbuds. Yet, there was something nagging at the back of something, an intrusive thought, something on the tip of his tongue, a memory which had had forgotten.
As things settled, the words would pop up again and again. What were the lyrics to that song again? What did I just get texted? Was that reminder always on the calender. "What would you want if it could be anything?" The hushed, silvered whisper dangled at the edge of his consciousness before it repeated as if it was right behind him.
Soon enough, Seth is on his feet, standing between the coffee table and the sofa, eyes still wide with panic. His heart thumps loudly in his chest, and drums in his ears, and for a moment, he freezes. Then, as if it was suddenly burning him, he places the bottle of vodka down on the tables surface, and scrambles to pick up his phone, the headphones still dangling from it. The notifications scroll past, his lips slightly parted and breath heavy, as he tries to pull up a previous conversation and send a message to the outside world, but it's no use. Here, in the middle of town, there is suddenly no signal, and yet the ominous messages from an unknown source continue to come. He throws his phone down again, and as the voice seems to whisper from right behind him now, he rushes to get away from the apparent source, staggering and stumbling for a moment, perhaps from the mild intoxication, and perhaps also from the way the floor and walls seem to stretch and warp before him.
Barging through the door, Seth makes his way into the bathroom. He slams it closed behind him and fumbles for the light switch, squinting as his eyes adjust when its turned on. Then he falls on the sink, hands gripping it tight, knuckles white, and stares directly into his haggard reflection, jade eyes meeting jade eyes. His chest rises and falls with his ragged, panicked breaths, and sweat runs down his brow. "Stop it" he says, to the presence, "I don't know what you are, but stop it."
Just as he slams the bathroom door, the voice follows him. The reflection in the mirror shows the visage that he saw in the bottle, this time cast across his own face. What would be a window into the nightmare merely showed the same question scrawled upon the walls in blood and viscera. 'What do you want'. 'What would you want if it could be anything'. 'What would you do for what you want'. The words repeated, layering over and over across the walls, dripping downwards until they were completely ineligible and the viscous crimson pooled upon the bathroom tiles.
Reality flickered back and forth, one moment his face, fraught with anxiety and terror was shown, the previous visions a mere whisper of de-ja-vu that spirited him away to the hellscape that lived under the skin of his apartment. Then- As if it was always this way, the lights shunted off in a spark that gave the last glimmer of light. Seth was left alone with the mirror that stared back at him.
Seth felt it before he saw it. A hand, clawed and callous drew from his shoulder, dipping down his chest and clawing it's way through his clothing as if it was paper. The touch dove into his chest, freezing him in place as the tender squeeze of a possessive cage coiled around his heart. Once again, the word whispered into his ear, "What do you want?" It hissed, what once was a hush exploding in a deafening crescendo that left his minding echoing a maddening ringing.
Seth stares at the reflection in the mirror, heart slowly sinking at the sight of words appearing on the walls, lips slightly parted. Fear tears through his body, and for a moment he's frozen in place. Then, as the lights shut off, a moment of defiance overtakes him. He screams "No!" words ringing out in his empty apartment, and his fist collides with the mirror and shatters it, a cascade of scattered fragments explode out and tinkle to the floor, and his knuckles bleed as shards stick into his flesh, blood dripping into the sink. His hand shakes as he pulls it back, and he stares down at the sight of the wound he's created, words a whisper now as he repeats, "No..." Then, he screws his eyes shut and sets his jaw, "It's not real. They told you this would happen. It's -not- real. It's not real..."
Seth's self-assurances are not enough, though. That clawed hand still finds him, and wraps around his heart. He collapses to his knees, head hung and palms flat against the tiled floor. Tears well up in his eyes and fall in droplets, and he presses his forehead to the ground as his bloody hands come up in a fruitless attempt to shield his ears. "I want to stop being alone!" he says through gritted teeth, and then seems to weaken as the answer finally escapes him, "I want to stop being alone..."
Clattering along the floor, the shards only reflected the words dozens of times over. The eyes, lips and hissing tongue mirrored the speech that throbbed outwards from the hand that was plunged into his chest. "And what made you so alone? How /would/ you choose to note be alone." It whispered, deafening and yet caring. Malicious and yet empathetic. "What would you give to not be alone?" The questions continued, the grip around his heart tightening as it sought to squeeze the promises from him.
"To have someone warm your bed?" The musing voice swirled around him, each prod coming from a different direction. "To have someone share your feelings?" It murmured, a clawed hand tilting Seth's head upwards, only to gaze into the visages of past lovers and friends alike, each one snarled in a twisted expression of pity, "To seek you out when you want the attention?"
"I did..." Seth whispers breathlessly into the darkness, to the presence consuming him, all resistance, all fire and life, having fled him, leaving a pathetic, collapsing shell behind, freely giving in. "-I- made me alone... I was never good enough. I was never good enough for any of them. I was never enough." The grip tightening forces a ragged sob from his body, born of a soul-deep potent mixture of pain and grief.
Then, as Seth's head is tilted upwards, his eyes open again, wide and still dripping with tears. He sees his first love, from when he was 17, a brown haired boy covered in freckles with deep ocean-blue eyes, torn away from him by his father, and his exile from his home. He sees every fleeting lover he's had over the past eight years, from band-mates and once-friends, to strangers and people he barely remembers the faces of, and he sees Lexian Skyre, front and center, gaze bearing down upon him. "Yes... yes" he breathes, to them as much as the presence summoning their visages, "I want to be wanted. I would give it all."
Prodding and poking at every sensation, the presence's voice brews with delight as Seth collapses to his knees. "And why do you think you weren't wanted?" The words stab into his heart as the tone warps into the light cadence of Lexian's accent. "Were you not interesting?" It smiles, the joy that paints the mockery of his ex's face, "Did you not have anything to offer? Perhaps there was something someone could give him that you didn't even think of." The lines of dialogue continued, prying at any cracks in Seth's soul.
"But, that had to be someone's fault no?" What would be Lexian chuckles, hands now cupping Seth's cheeks in a gesture of cruel affection, "It's not like you did anything wrong... Did you deserve such a thing? You couldn't have." It draws closer, those sage-green eyes peering deep into his own, "You just wanted to be loved, and love is something everyone deserves, don't you think?"
Seth is limp, now, bloody hands dropped to his side to rest among the shards of shattered mirror glass on the tiled floor of his darkened bathroom. On his knees, with his head tilted up, he almost looks to be in a position of supplication or prayer. Tears continue to roll in salty rivulets down his pale cheeks, his wide eyes red and watery and fraught with cruel emotions. "I wasn't interesting enough. I was boring" he whispers raggedly to the phantom of Lexian, "I was -boring-. I was too new, too aimless, too lost in this new world..." he -laughs- then, a sad, bitter laugh, "I had nothing to offer, compared... compared. For all he told me he loved me, there were more exciting, engaging people out there. A more exciting, engaging person."
A grimace overtakes Seth's lips as those hands reach out to hold his cheeks, and he closes his eyes, letting out a shuddering, quivering breath. "I never... I didn't... Please" he begs, finding some semblance of resistance again, perhaps spurred by that touch, "Why are you doing this to me?"
The hands slipped down from their affectionate cupping of Seth's cheeks, instead coiling around his neck in a possessive squeeze, claws centred about his throat. "Because you know what you want, you merely wont admit it..." The mockery of Lexian whispers, holding a spite in his tone that the man had never heard before. "Yet despite this... You spend your time around Ash, coiled around the witchery of the fae, just as /I/ was." He sighs dramatically, applying pressure to Seth's throat.
"I'm doing this because you need this." The tone flattened, Lexian's expression cold and apathetic, "These things happen to you because you let them happen." Once again, a smile curls upon his lips, "But you don't have to. You can reach for power, the strength to get what you want..." It trails off, finally pulling away, "You know where to find me." The last words fade away as reality snaps back into place, the mirror still in shards across the tiled flooring and Seth's hands slicked in crimson vitae.
Seth opens his eyes again as those hands wrap around his throat, staring into Lexian's cruel, twisted visage. His lips part, but no words escape him. It's not until that phantom grip releases him that he breathes again, collapsing to the ground in a heap and sobbing openly. Then, after a silent, dark moment has passed, he scrambles for purchase against the glass shards, and pushes slowly to his feet. Even though reality has come back, and the presence has likely left, he asks the darkness, perhaps fruitlessly, "What are you? What... what were you?"
Even as things settle, the eeriness still lingers, the voice trails in Seth's mind. The question hangs in the air, no sound giving a direct answer, simply letting him dwell on it. After a few minutes, the feeling passes and he's left simply in a pile of his own emotions. The sight, the visage of what he experienced always in the corner of his eyes, always in every shadow and reflection as his left is smeared in the mirror that was smashed into the shards that lasts as a hazard on the bathroom floor.
If Seth finally rose, he'd notice that the shattered glass would spell out that question, the simple reminder. 'What do you want?' Proving that the entire experience was real, or perhaps merely an illusion? Seth could have only saw what he wished to see. After all, it's merely a pile of broken silica.
Sam's nightmare evolves into a perilous journey through an Egyptian pyramid, emblematic of his descent into Apep's sinister domain. Guided by instinct and an arcanist's command over magic, he navigates the sandstone corridors adorned with cryptic hieroglyphs. The dream landscape morphs, revealing a historical narrative wherein Sam identifies with a powerful sorcerer of ancient times, underlining the intricate ties between power, divinity, and the mortal peril that shadowed the quests for divine favour. The encounter with a heavily armed adversary, crafting a scenario of fight over flight, showcases Sam's struggle against forces beyond his comprehension. The skirmish culminates in a symbolic confrontation with a tablet depicting Apep, an embodiment of the void entity's malice and a relic tying the dreamer to his nightmarish ordeal. Sam's ordeal concludes as he awakens, sustained yet burdened with more questions and a lingering, inexplicable connection to Apon Ra-Tep, bridging the reality with the phantasmal echoes of his dream stalker's realm.
Simultaneously, Seth's reality distorts under the malevolent influence of a demon seeking to ensnare him through a series of manipulative and hallucinatory interactions. The demon's insidious temptation manifests in Seth’s apartment, transforming familiar comforts into a stage for psychological torment. As ephemeral visions and sinister whispers erode Seth's sense of safety, he's thrust into a confrontation with his deepest insecurities and unfulfilled desires. The demon's quest to turn Seth into an instrument on Earth is painted with a palette of emotional vulnerabilities, drawing out Seth's confession of loneliness and his yearning to be desired. The culmination of this macabre dance of manipulation and despair is Seth’s realization of his isolation, self-inflicted and yet achingly poignant. The closing scene, leaving Seth amidst the wreckage of his confrontation, hints at the lingering aftereffects of encounters with entities that feast on human frailties. Both narratives, interwoven through themes of darkness, challenge, and the quest for self-preservation, underscore the fine line between nightmare and reality, and the profound impact of supernatural entanglements on the human psyche.
(Sam's odd encounter(SRIllyana):SRIllyana)
[Wed Nov 20 2024]
In A black-painted bedroom
The walls of this room have been painted in a dark obsidian, making it somewhat hard to discern where the walls are.
No windows are present, and the lighting comes from for subtle spotlights in the corners of the room, casting only indirect light on the floor.
Around the bottom of the Northern, Southern, and Eastern wall, are a pair of simple green lines, breaking the dark gloom of the room somewhat.
Sprawling over the western wall, is a depiction of a large, bright green serpent, seemingly drawn like a cobra of sorts. It's maw is agape, and its fangs blinkering.
A Dark Red stain, roughly in the form of a triangle, sits in front of the circle, close to the western wall.
It is morning, about 32F(0C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey clouds in the sky.
(Your target has been singled out by a dream stalker who's invading their dreams. They cannot be woken, but their allies may be able to go into their dreams after them to help them fight off the invader and survive the nightmare.
)
Groggily, Sam opens his eyes, looking at the obsidian ceiling in the dark room. He pushes a button on his phone, and four spotlights in the corners of the room turn on. He fishes his phone from next to the matress, and checks his messages, yawning as he contemplates the day ahead, and perhaps which way is up. The Jock very clearly is not fully awake yet.
As Sam wakes, he finds that nothing has changed; He's in his bedroom-- where he should be. The area is dark, as one might expect, and the binding circle is empty. The blood working of the triangle is still there, it's active, the dark magic pervasively crawling around the room, its purpose all knowing and devised with the specific ritual style of the void entity Apep in mind. Indeed, though all is well, this morning is cold, and Sam can easily note what is out of place: It's quiet. It's too quiet, and as Sam recalls his previous day's activity, he finds himself confused. This is not entirely correct. The lighting is wrong, and though the air should be too thick to move in, Sam notes that he is within the nightmare. There are brass elevater doors popping in and out of existance, though what Sam would note more than anything else is that he is being watched. It's cold, too. This is Haven's winter, so that shouldn't be too strange. The ocean is near bye, so the chill air floats in to the sleepy township. But inside, it should not be quite so frosty- Sam shivers, and his breath mists before his eyes, bursts of puffed white smoke. Figures far off can be half-seen. They wander through the nightmare aimlessly, stalking what ever it is they seek, though the usual ghost activity is gone. It's as if it had never been-- Curious in and of itself. What does remain though is that slithering touch; Apep's direction and will made manifest, if only the sliver. That temptation- The hint at more far off in the gloom. And yet, Sam is not alone. He cant see it. He cant hear it. He cant smell it, but there is something. It's a feeling; Preservational and haunting, intimidating and sadistic. Sam knows that he is being stalked-- Hunted like a cat would a rat. (Though not one of Haven's rats. Those would eat any dog smaller than a werewolf)
As he gains his bearings, Sam jumps up, pulling out that human finger-bone around his neck, the runes on it glowing lightly. Sam crouches, carefully crossing the room, and going to stand near that ritual form. When in doubt, go on the defensive. A boxer's motto, but also one true when engaging in the Nightmare.
Sam's eyes dart around, carefully taking stock of the situation. He is not alone. But what, or who?
That's when Sam notes it. What ever this is, it's deep. Deep within the nightmare, where the faction war thrives, and why it's so confusing is that this is no operation. It's not a patrol or an invasion. It's not an assault- It's a hunt, and Sam is the target of said hunt. That feeling he has is of being hunted, most certainly. It's the dull thump-thump-thump of a heartbeat. It's the pounding of blood in the ears. It's the tention of muscles ready to spring into action. It's the breath on the back of the neck. And, of course, defensive measures are likely for the best. It's common knowledge after all that the nightmare is a realm from where monsters prey upon victims. But what exactly is happening here? It's confusion. It's unnatural and it's smooth. The oil slick slither of soft silken scales. Maybe... Just maybe... Sam is correct. Maybe this is a test. And that is of course when Sam senses the unusual. It's felt more than noticed, though there is some attention upon Sam. And illusion or not-- True or not-- Sam hears the sound of steady breaths. It's far off-- Or close by. Things are hard to identify in dreams. Reality is malliable, mutible and inscrutable in their lack of solid physical foundation. The metaphysical itself is a curious thing, and Sam knows this. He is an arcanist. And then, as if it were always going to happen, Sam slips-- He falls and he spirals. It's dream-like. It's unnatural and the world around him spins like a top, vision twisting in an uncomfortable kaleidoscoping of strobing sound and light...Then? Then what? The next thing Sam knows is that somehow, he is no longer in his room. He's somewhere far from it. The air is dry, and the weather is far from that chill of moments before. It's now stifling, and Sam is burdened with a soul crushing weight that squeezes him and twists him to face in a specific direction. Behind him, that breathing resumes, though it's closer now, and Sam feels the need to run through this now... Stone tomb? The walls are carved and painted with pictographs that look to be egyption in origin. The floor looks to be smooth sandstone, and then Sam knows where he is; He's within a pyramid. Fortunate then for his night vision, as there is no light, and anyone lesser would be blind as a bat.
Once he stops slipping, Sam takes a few moments to focus himself. He is no stranger to prophecy, and visions in his dreams, so he decides to follow it. His hand clasped around his focus, the jock moves along.
His lips move silently, muttering words of power into his clasped hand. His breathing matches that breath behind him, and he starts walking, slowly going into a sprint, his eyes barely registering the writing on the wall. He is fully riding this dream, allowing it to guide him, while still preparing for the prospect of danger.
Again, the world twists- shifts and contorts. Sam finds himself in the same place, though now, in that way of dreams, things have changed; Sam doesn't attend those pictographs, so they slip directly into his thoughts. The feeling isn't unlike being bombarded with hypnotic pressures, though here, Sam isn't even afforded the chance to resist. His motions are sluggish, drawn and feel as though they are being resisted, though strangely, there is nothing obstructing him. Sam hears the breathing again-- Notes the foot falls that echo, though looking back, he sees nothing: Only the blackness that stretches out. In his mind though is another matter-- Sam sees a vision. --- It's an average vista. The sand stretches in all directions and only those with power are stood here. Sam is not himself, but instead, he is another man. He is a sorcerer in truth. One of the true sorcerers of ancient times when gods were still rising. The sun beats down on Sam The sorcerer, and his desert robes hiss with a rasping serpentine sound that is, in itself, unnatural. He is power, and yet, this empty desert will be his undoing. He is exhausted. He has been walking for hours, and the reason is all consuming. His master-- His god summoned him. Sam pauses: He plucks up his water skin; There are only a hand full of mouthfulls left. He must find his objective soon, else he could die. He knows this, and as his tongue flicks out to taste the air, Sam stumbles. His slit eyes narrow and he is forced to plant his golden serpent staff in the sand. He pants, he drinks and he schemes. It must be around here. If not, the god was untruthful, and this must not be the case- It cant be. Sam is his most worthy follower. Then, he sees it. At first, he believes it to be an illusion. Those are common these days, especially with the adept sorcerers gaining in skill. But no. Not a mirage. It is true, just over the next dune is salvation. Over the next is a hollow-- Oh it's almost hidden under sand and time, but he sees it. He sees it, and he heads for it. -- The wind begins to whip; There will be a sandstorm soon, and he cant be caught in it. That would end him. -- Time passes. Sam finds himself over that dune. He begins to dig and-- Sam stands in what appears to be a tomb. It's constructed from sandstone. It has hieroglyphs over its walls. It descends, and he follows. Then, Sam sees it: He sees the stone monument. The tablet depicting Apep. If he can only smash it with his sorcery but no... Sam is too weak. The trek across the desert has ended him, and he falls to his knees at the last. --- And Sam blinks, and he runs. He descends deeper into the earth. The sandstone around him is ancient. The air is hot, and the air itself hisses with the impending understanding of a descending sandstorm.
Somewhat confused, Sam continues his trek into the monument. He shudders somewhat, his normal, demi-human body now feeling rather weak, compared to that rush of power of the vision before. Sam does not falter, however, his eyes narrowed in thought as he goes along with the vision, dogged determination filling his mind. He briefly considers he will likely wake up exhausted, but no matter. He's too far in to stop now.
As the thought passes through Sam's mind, he knows the purpose: The tablet was to seal Apep within the void. It wasn't the only one, of course. It was one of many around the world that would keep the void entity from entering, and there is all likelyhood that the Black Flame cultists, though dangerous and reckless would have information that could aid-- Or are they involved already? And then, the thickness of the air seems to part, and Sam continues running down- down- down, deep into the earth, the walls-- The hieroglyphs blurring. Sam hears it then, the crunch of a boot on sand, and Sam hears a whistle- An arrow narrowly misses Sam's ear, black and white fletching, a stone tip that burns with a putrid green light, an ashwood shaft. And even that most brief of brushes with it weakens Sam A bane. The arrow is radioactive.
Fight or flight takes over. Fight in particular. With a hiss, Sam turns around, drawing his knife, and in the same movement, raking it past his palm, pointing that blade at the darkness. He narrows his eyes, and his tongue flicks from his mouth as is trying to sense the shooter. Runes on that finger-bone glow angrily, as he waits to see who-so-ever shot at him. With the right sort of weapon, no less.
It's as if the shadows themselves are weighing down on Sam. It's not a figure that nears, but a mass of darkness. But surely, someone has to be within. And then, an arrow flies once more, and Sam is forced to duck- Thiss too is a bane. From within that gloom, emerges a voice; It's cold, distorted, malevolent. "My prey usually runs. You should do the same." And then Sam sees it: He sees the spear, and it too glows in the way of the radioactive rays fired by a gorgon's magic in the Guardrealm.
Smirking, the jock keeps his retort short and sweet. "Same." Sam draws his knife, and smirks, squaring his stance as he breathes in, then out, then just hurtles himself head-first into the darkness. The good thing about spears is that they are attached to someone holding it.
His knife goes up, hopefully deflecting that spear long enough to give the darkness a classic, jock special: Fist to the face.
That fist impacts /something/. The knife stops the spear so far, and the other thing about spears that Sam would note, is that they're not designed to be close quarters. Spears are mid ranged weapons and manoeuvring with them is terribly hard in close quarters, too. So the figure is forced to step back. Its retort is likewise short and sweet, "Very well." and the spear, where ever it is, vanishes, and Sam feels the touch of a radioactive blade on his knuckles. Deep within the shadows, Sam can see this figure. He's built strong, and is covered head to toe in form fitting power armor. Its eyes are covered, though they glow from within that dark mask that obscures his features. But more problematic, Sam notes that this figure is strapped down with gadgets and weapons a plenty. And then comes the pain, Sam is tripped. He feels poison burning him from within, and a fist hammers. Sam might be able to fight off this figure, but he's ready to hunt demigods, if Sam is any judge.
Landing on his ass, Sam growls. Flight might just be out of the question. He gnashes his teeth, and brings that focus of his up. "Lessee if ya have blood, shall we?" He tries to focus on the attacker's bloodflow, slowing it so that he might be able to make him falter.
He pants, realizing he's very much under-dressed for this. Eye dart around that armor, hoping to find some part exposed, or some kind of weak-spot as he scrambles to his feet, trying to maintain that spell, the creature's heart-rate slowing, if it is even living.
The armored man is apparently alive, and hadn't expected magic. That was his mistake, of course, but to Sam's benefit. The radioactive blade swings and nicks Sam again, but the poison that was coating it doesn't appear to take in this attack. Then, he stiffens. Sam can see it. His motions grow lethargic and his head shakes.
A smirk crosses Sam's face, and he starts absolutely wailing on the man's armor. The funny thing about armor is that while it protects against blades, it very much does not do the same for blunt trauma. While the man is distracted, Sam growls, and starts serving that man several knuckle sandwiches, likely damaging his own knuckles in the process.
Sam does indeed utterly reck this man. Blunt force is always a good methodology. It's best if your target is in classical armor, but there's frankly nothing to be done by a person on the back foot. So he does the one thing he can. There's the buzz from the mask. It's laughter, and Sam gets a "Well done. You win this round." before he pulls a cord and a timer begins to tick down. Sam hears the ping-ping-ping and knows this is going to hurt.
"SON OF A--" Sam scowls, trying to jump back, but well, he isn't very good at noticing things, so the ping-ping-ping takes a second to process. Perhaps too long. He hits the deck, hastily covering his face as he tries to at least weather the storm. His eyes seal shut, and he braces himself for a world of pain.
The world of pain comes. Weapons, munitions, grenades, tools all get consumed within that confligration, and Sam is peppered with shards of shrapnel, the burning roar of flame, and a spray of blood, along with the scent of burning meat. It goes on for a moment that feels like infinity, though Sam is able to regenerate, and he is naturally tough. Sam looses consciousness-- Or does he? Dreams and the nightmare are curious things. But now Sam sees it. He sees the tablet and it depicts a carved image of a snake-like aberation that can only be something from the void. He hears the sound of cheering- The roar of a croud, and far off, silhouetted by the flames is a snake-headed figure that Sam knows. It is Apon Ra-Tep... Though that is when Sam wakes, with more questions than he had before...
(A demon from hell has become interested in your target, they decide to see if they can tempt them into becoming one of their instruments on earth.
)
As the afternoon sun cast through the windows of Seth's living room, the shadows and reflections cast began to warp and shimmer. At first, it was just in the corner of his eye. A flicker here, a worble there. But, in the daze and intoxication of the alcohol, it would have just seemed as another quirk of his light-headedness.
But, as the minutes bled into hours, the light that streamed the window cascaded through the burning amber of dusk, the bluish noctern of midnight and back into the morning gaze of soft cinder. Seth wouldn't have noticed until a sudden midnight chime of a clock unseen filled the tight confines of his apartment.
At first, the air was still, something uncanny and 'off' tingling the twink's senses. A gaze with no source would run along his neck, coiling around in a faux suffocation until each breath was strained and choked. Then, finally, the inhuman hint of a visage reflected in the bottle that kept Seth company, vague and yet blatantly foreign. "What is it you want?" The words echoed in the man's mind as if it was his own thought. His lips were drawn, something tugging at them, his tongue begging to spill the first thing that comes to mind.
Seth lies back on the sofa, a bottle of half drunk vodka in one hand, his phone in the other. A pair of black earbuds trails from the circular jack to his ears, blasting rough, jagged sounding music, which bleeds from them to faintly fill the air around his head. He scrolls through text messages, occasionally typing out a slightly fumbling reply to this or that. He's not too drunk, yet, perhaps a little light-headed, only taking occasional, small sips. But steadily, over the hours, they add up. Enough that he doesn't notice the strange warping on the edge of his perception. Time passes, as it is wont to do, but he has spent so much time cooped up in his apartment, insulated from the outside world, that it barely registers.
The air becoming thicker, and the feeling of suffocation, -does- register, though, and a moment of panic ensues. Seth yanks his headphones out and tosses his phone down, feeling for his neck. A glance around in panic, and his gaze falls on the bottle gripped tightly in his hands, and the reflection in it. His eyes widen, and he brings it close to his face, his own reflection joining that of the strangers. He glances behind him, to seek the source, before he tries to speak. His throat feels dry and constricted, both from not speaking for a while, and the feeling coiling around his neck. "Who - who's there?" he manages to rasp, swinging his feet around and sitting up, and wrapping his other, free hand around the bottle as well. Then he closes his eyes for a moment, perhaps willing the vision and the sensation to go away, before he opens them again, and looks back.
Just as Seth pulls the bottle up, the reflection turns to normal as if nothing ever happened. Then, just as a whisper in his ear, it repeats, "What would you do for what you want?" The question elaborating, drilling into his mind as the words painted his vision. Scrawled upon the walls, wriggling on his skin, the text messages on his phone as it repeatedly 'dinged' with notifications, each one repeating the question over and over and over.
Even as panic began to set, the walls closed in, where he stood warped and sank, only to 'snap' back to how it was before. The sounds of birds outside, the idle chatter of the television, the music which was distant and set away at the ends of his earbuds. Yet, there was something nagging at the back of something, an intrusive thought, something on the tip of his tongue, a memory which had had forgotten.
As things settled, the words would pop up again and again. What were the lyrics to that song again? What did I just get texted? Was that reminder always on the calender. "What would you want if it could be anything?" The hushed, silvered whisper dangled at the edge of his consciousness before it repeated as if it was right behind him.
Soon enough, Seth is on his feet, standing between the coffee table and the sofa, eyes still wide with panic. His heart thumps loudly in his chest, and drums in his ears, and for a moment, he freezes. Then, as if it was suddenly burning him, he places the bottle of vodka down on the tables surface, and scrambles to pick up his phone, the headphones still dangling from it. The notifications scroll past, his lips slightly parted and breath heavy, as he tries to pull up a previous conversation and send a message to the outside world, but it's no use. Here, in the middle of town, there is suddenly no signal, and yet the ominous messages from an unknown source continue to come. He throws his phone down again, and as the voice seems to whisper from right behind him now, he rushes to get away from the apparent source, staggering and stumbling for a moment, perhaps from the mild intoxication, and perhaps also from the way the floor and walls seem to stretch and warp before him.
Barging through the door, Seth makes his way into the bathroom. He slams it closed behind him and fumbles for the light switch, squinting as his eyes adjust when its turned on. Then he falls on the sink, hands gripping it tight, knuckles white, and stares directly into his haggard reflection, jade eyes meeting jade eyes. His chest rises and falls with his ragged, panicked breaths, and sweat runs down his brow. "Stop it" he says, to the presence, "I don't know what you are, but stop it."
Just as he slams the bathroom door, the voice follows him. The reflection in the mirror shows the visage that he saw in the bottle, this time cast across his own face. What would be a window into the nightmare merely showed the same question scrawled upon the walls in blood and viscera. 'What do you want'. 'What would you want if it could be anything'. 'What would you do for what you want'. The words repeated, layering over and over across the walls, dripping downwards until they were completely ineligible and the viscous crimson pooled upon the bathroom tiles.
Reality flickered back and forth, one moment his face, fraught with anxiety and terror was shown, the previous visions a mere whisper of de-ja-vu that spirited him away to the hellscape that lived under the skin of his apartment. Then- As if it was always this way, the lights shunted off in a spark that gave the last glimmer of light. Seth was left alone with the mirror that stared back at him.
Seth felt it before he saw it. A hand, clawed and callous drew from his shoulder, dipping down his chest and clawing it's way through his clothing as if it was paper. The touch dove into his chest, freezing him in place as the tender squeeze of a possessive cage coiled around his heart. Once again, the word whispered into his ear, "What do you want?" It hissed, what once was a hush exploding in a deafening crescendo that left his minding echoing a maddening ringing.
Seth stares at the reflection in the mirror, heart slowly sinking at the sight of words appearing on the walls, lips slightly parted. Fear tears through his body, and for a moment he's frozen in place. Then, as the lights shut off, a moment of defiance overtakes him. He screams "No!" words ringing out in his empty apartment, and his fist collides with the mirror and shatters it, a cascade of scattered fragments explode out and tinkle to the floor, and his knuckles bleed as shards stick into his flesh, blood dripping into the sink. His hand shakes as he pulls it back, and he stares down at the sight of the wound he's created, words a whisper now as he repeats, "No..." Then, he screws his eyes shut and sets his jaw, "It's not real. They told you this would happen. It's -not- real. It's not real..."
Seth's self-assurances are not enough, though. That clawed hand still finds him, and wraps around his heart. He collapses to his knees, head hung and palms flat against the tiled floor. Tears well up in his eyes and fall in droplets, and he presses his forehead to the ground as his bloody hands come up in a fruitless attempt to shield his ears. "I want to stop being alone!" he says through gritted teeth, and then seems to weaken as the answer finally escapes him, "I want to stop being alone..."
Clattering along the floor, the shards only reflected the words dozens of times over. The eyes, lips and hissing tongue mirrored the speech that throbbed outwards from the hand that was plunged into his chest. "And what made you so alone? How /would/ you choose to note be alone." It whispered, deafening and yet caring. Malicious and yet empathetic. "What would you give to not be alone?" The questions continued, the grip around his heart tightening as it sought to squeeze the promises from him.
"To have someone warm your bed?" The musing voice swirled around him, each prod coming from a different direction. "To have someone share your feelings?" It murmured, a clawed hand tilting Seth's head upwards, only to gaze into the visages of past lovers and friends alike, each one snarled in a twisted expression of pity, "To seek you out when you want the attention?"
"I did..." Seth whispers breathlessly into the darkness, to the presence consuming him, all resistance, all fire and life, having fled him, leaving a pathetic, collapsing shell behind, freely giving in. "-I- made me alone... I was never good enough. I was never good enough for any of them. I was never enough." The grip tightening forces a ragged sob from his body, born of a soul-deep potent mixture of pain and grief.
Then, as Seth's head is tilted upwards, his eyes open again, wide and still dripping with tears. He sees his first love, from when he was 17, a brown haired boy covered in freckles with deep ocean-blue eyes, torn away from him by his father, and his exile from his home. He sees every fleeting lover he's had over the past eight years, from band-mates and once-friends, to strangers and people he barely remembers the faces of, and he sees Lexian Skyre, front and center, gaze bearing down upon him. "Yes... yes" he breathes, to them as much as the presence summoning their visages, "I want to be wanted. I would give it all."
Prodding and poking at every sensation, the presence's voice brews with delight as Seth collapses to his knees. "And why do you think you weren't wanted?" The words stab into his heart as the tone warps into the light cadence of Lexian's accent. "Were you not interesting?" It smiles, the joy that paints the mockery of his ex's face, "Did you not have anything to offer? Perhaps there was something someone could give him that you didn't even think of." The lines of dialogue continued, prying at any cracks in Seth's soul.
"But, that had to be someone's fault no?" What would be Lexian chuckles, hands now cupping Seth's cheeks in a gesture of cruel affection, "It's not like you did anything wrong... Did you deserve such a thing? You couldn't have." It draws closer, those sage-green eyes peering deep into his own, "You just wanted to be loved, and love is something everyone deserves, don't you think?"
Seth is limp, now, bloody hands dropped to his side to rest among the shards of shattered mirror glass on the tiled floor of his darkened bathroom. On his knees, with his head tilted up, he almost looks to be in a position of supplication or prayer. Tears continue to roll in salty rivulets down his pale cheeks, his wide eyes red and watery and fraught with cruel emotions. "I wasn't interesting enough. I was boring" he whispers raggedly to the phantom of Lexian, "I was -boring-. I was too new, too aimless, too lost in this new world..." he -laughs- then, a sad, bitter laugh, "I had nothing to offer, compared... compared. For all he told me he loved me, there were more exciting, engaging people out there. A more exciting, engaging person."
A grimace overtakes Seth's lips as those hands reach out to hold his cheeks, and he closes his eyes, letting out a shuddering, quivering breath. "I never... I didn't... Please" he begs, finding some semblance of resistance again, perhaps spurred by that touch, "Why are you doing this to me?"
The hands slipped down from their affectionate cupping of Seth's cheeks, instead coiling around his neck in a possessive squeeze, claws centred about his throat. "Because you know what you want, you merely wont admit it..." The mockery of Lexian whispers, holding a spite in his tone that the man had never heard before. "Yet despite this... You spend your time around Ash, coiled around the witchery of the fae, just as /I/ was." He sighs dramatically, applying pressure to Seth's throat.
"I'm doing this because you need this." The tone flattened, Lexian's expression cold and apathetic, "These things happen to you because you let them happen." Once again, a smile curls upon his lips, "But you don't have to. You can reach for power, the strength to get what you want..." It trails off, finally pulling away, "You know where to find me." The last words fade away as reality snaps back into place, the mirror still in shards across the tiled flooring and Seth's hands slicked in crimson vitae.
Seth opens his eyes again as those hands wrap around his throat, staring into Lexian's cruel, twisted visage. His lips part, but no words escape him. It's not until that phantom grip releases him that he breathes again, collapsing to the ground in a heap and sobbing openly. Then, after a silent, dark moment has passed, he scrambles for purchase against the glass shards, and pushes slowly to his feet. Even though reality has come back, and the presence has likely left, he asks the darkness, perhaps fruitlessly, "What are you? What... what were you?"
Even as things settle, the eeriness still lingers, the voice trails in Seth's mind. The question hangs in the air, no sound giving a direct answer, simply letting him dwell on it. After a few minutes, the feeling passes and he's left simply in a pile of his own emotions. The sight, the visage of what he experienced always in the corner of his eyes, always in every shadow and reflection as his left is smeared in the mirror that was smashed into the shards that lasts as a hazard on the bathroom floor.
If Seth finally rose, he'd notice that the shattered glass would spell out that question, the simple reminder. 'What do you want?' Proving that the entire experience was real, or perhaps merely an illusion? Seth could have only saw what he wished to see. After all, it's merely a pile of broken silica.