Encounterlogs
Sams Odd Encounter Sr Kah 241229
In the midst of the eclectic ambiance of The Trove Barcade, an ominous shift occurs as Sam, the bartender and de facto guardian of the premises, notices an unwelcome disruption. A shadowy figure makes an uninvited detour into the labyrinthine depths of the establishment, compelling Sam to investigate. This intrusion leads him to a clandestine gathering of the cult known as The Black Flame, caught in the act of summoning an eldritch horror with the intent to bring about apocalyptic change. Confronted with a dire choice, Sam opts to intervene, leveraging his arcane knowledge and the dark power of his affiliation with Apep, the Sun-Eater. In a dramatic confrontation, Sam succeeds in halting the ritual, his actions causing the dissolution of the cultists and dispelling the immediate threat, but leaving the lingering question of the long-term implications of his choices.
In another part of town, Trevor finds his night interrupted by an unexpected visitor, Harold, who entrusts him with a mysterious and ancient artifact sought after by The Black Flame. The presence of the artifact and Harold's desperate plea pull Trevor into a confrontation with members of the cult who arrive at his doorstep. Exhibiting quick thinking and leveraging his surroundings, Trevor manages to deflect their inquiries and protects Harold's identity, illustrating his resourcefulness and willingness to aid a stranger in distress despite the inherent risks. This encounter underscores the pervasive and insidious reach of The Black Flame and poses unresolved tensions about the fate of the artifact and the lengths to which the cult will go to reclaim it, setting the stage for further conflict and challenges that Trevor may face.
(Sam's odd encounter(SRKah):SRKah)
[Sat Dec 28 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 night, about 33F(0C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. There is a new moon.
(Your target and their allies stumble upon a ritual being conducted by The Black Flame. They are attempting to summon an eldritch horror to bring about the end of the world. The players must decide whether to try and stop the ritual, join in, or simply observe from the shadows. The decision they make could have far-reaching consequences.)
It's a quiet night for Sam, as he slowly cleans a few empty glasses off of the bar. The jock yawns into a fist, mostly regulars tonight. He looks to the door on occasion, then just leans against the stool behind the bar, stretching out languidly.
The Trove Barcade is a haven for those seeking a blend of nostalgia and nautical charm. Dominated by a sprawling, weathered bar, its surface polished to a high sheen and inlaid with a mosaic of colorful sea glass, the room sparkles in the dim, lantern-like lighting. The deep, oceanic blue walls are adorned with an eclectic assortment of nautical paraphernalia; aged maps and faded flags 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. Clusters of arcade games flicker and beep in the corners, 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 in a corner dedicated to more primal forms of entertainment. The lively atmosphere is enhanced by the constant hum of conversation and laughter from the patrons who fill the room.
Behind the bar, a vast array of bottles is displayed, their contents ranging from craft beers to exotic rums, each one promising a unique journey of flavors. The bartenders, dressed in pirate garb, deftly mix cocktails, their movements punctuated by the clink of glass and the hiss of freshly opened beers. Their playful banter adds to the bar's convivial atmosphere, making it a welcoming spot for regulars and newcomers alike. Amidst this lively scene, an unnoticed tension begins to build. Near the back of the bar, a shadowy figure slips through an unmarked door, disappearing into the depths of the building. This unnoticed event would seem inconsequential in the midst of the bar's boisterous activity, but for those attuned to the subtle shifts in the atmosphere, a sense of foreboding lingers in the air. Those like Sam, who run the bar, and maybe own the place? Somebody slipping into the areas of the building they don't belong probably won't go past his notice.
As that person disappears out of sight, the man behind the bar might even wonder exactly what the guy is doing, there? The door might lead to a supply closet or some back hallway - nothing special as far as Sam may know. It just doesn't make sense. On top of that, when he's gone the feel of the room seems to mellow out almost instantly, like his presence was causing some invisible cloud of worry and ominous intent hover over the room like a miasma. Even the tattoo that isn't that wraps about pieces of Sam, it will sense something amiss, a soft hiss coming from the thing in pure reflex.
"Okay, yeah, absolutely not." Sam reaches into a hidden holster, and puts one hand on the glock there. He immediately follows that person... being? The jock huffs, clasping his hand around the ring on his finger, arcane runes glowing up subtly as he prepares for possible problems. He pushes that door open, the blond indeed being the owner. "Hey buddy, imma need you to get out, or I'm calling the cops." He speaks with the authority of a barman who has dealt with drunk rants before.
A hidden door leads to a labyrinth of narrow corridors, dimly lit and lined with old crates and forgotten equipment. The faint sound of chanting can be heard, growing louder with each step taken deeper into the heart of the building. The air grows colder, and a strange, almost metallic scent begins to permeate the passageways. This ... wasn't here before. It's like the doorway to his back area has been transformed into a portal into somewhere else. As Sam follows him, he'll see that this place seems much larger than at first glance, as well. The man himself seems to be nowhere in sight and the man might flinch a little as his voice starts to echo down those labyrinthine corridors. The floor is covered with a faint layer of dust, undisturbed for who knows how long .. but for a single pair of footsteps that can be seen treading through it. Following the winding path, the corridors open up into a large, underground chamber. The room is illuminated by a circle of flickering torches, casting eerie shadows on the stone walls. At the center of the room, a group of robed figures stands around an intricate, glowing sigil inscribed on the floor. Their low, rhythmic chanting reverberates off the walls, filling the chamber with an unsettling resonance.
Approaching the large antechamber, Sam has time to crouch or hide himself as he decides what to do. The light from the torches and lanterns precede the chamber well ahead of itself as he continues to make his way through those twists and turns that lead him ... somewhere. That he's no longer in the back hall or even underneath the Trove is clear enough, the real question now is where exactly he IS. Or perhaps more importantly, as things continue to march toward that inevitable date in time where nothing can be seen .. it might be to Sam's best interests to see what these cultists now are up to. More and more, groups like this have grown more arrogant, more overt in the last months. Whatever this one is up, the feel on the air is no good and that presence that lies within Sam and with him - it knows it too. If nothing else ... there's only room for one Sun-eating deity in any Pantheon and whatever these guys are calling too ..doesn't feel like even that. Something from Outside this plane of existence ..
Ducking low, Sam narrows his eyes. He grabs his knife, an oily black thing. He ducks behind a crate for a few moments, closing his eyes and shuddering before the man looks around. He tries to follow the cultists, keeping a careful distance. The runes on that ring glow up some, and the arcanist quickly tries to find out what is going on, this particular type of ritual... familiar to the blond man.
The underground chamber is a stark contrast to the lively atmosphere of the Trove Barcade above (it's easier for the mind to think of it this way). The air is thick with the scent of burning incense and the faint, metallic tang of blood. Flickering torches cast long, dancing shadows on the stone walls, creating an eerie, almost hypnotic effect. The chamber is circular, with a high, vaulted ceiling that seems to disappear into darkness. The walls are adorned with ancient symbols and runes, their meanings lost to time but their power palpable. At the center of the chamber, a group of robed figures stands in a tight circle around an intricate, glowing sigil inscribed on the floor. The sigil pulses with a malevolent energy, its lines and curves shifting and writhing as if alive. The figures, members of the secretive cult known as The Black Flame, chant in a low, rhythmic cadence, their voices blending together to create a haunting, otherworldly melody. The leader of this cell of the cult, a tall figure with an menacing presence almost seems to bring a sense of recognition to Sam .. but he's not quite big enough. He has a similar way of commanding the room around him though, and he stands at the head of the circle, his hands raised high above his head. In one hand, he holds an ornate, obsidian dagger, its blade glinting ominously in the torchlight. It doesn't mark that oily quality like Sam's own, but it has its similarities as well.
The leader's voice rises above the others, his chant growing more fervent and intense. The sigil responds, its glow intensifying and casting an unnatural light that seems to bend and warp the very air around it. The other cultists follow suit, their voices rising in unison as they repeat the incantation. The air grows colder, and a palpable sense of dread fills the chamber, as if the very walls are closing in. The leader steps forward, his eyes fixed on the center of the sigil. With a swift, practiced motion, he plunges the dagger into the heart of the symbol. The ground trembles, and a low, rumbling sound echoes through the chamber. The sigil flares brightly, and a column of dark, swirling smoke rises from its center, reaching towards the ceiling like a grasping hand. The cultists fall silent, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear as they watch the ritual unfold. The column of smoke begins to take shape, coalescing into that hand-like shape that seems to defy true comprehension. To call it a hand is the only thing the mind can think of, for in truth it's something of Eldritch horror, something undescribeable. Slowly, white eyes begin to open all along the surface of the black smoke, peering and shifting in every direction like something out of the bowels of Hell itself, or beyond.
The cultists drop to their knees, their heads bowed in reverence and submission. The leader steps forward, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and triumph. "Great one," he intones, "we have opened a hole in the veil of this world, so that you can cleanse it of its impurities and usher in a new age of darkness." Dozens of those white eyes fix on the leader, spinning and shifting and rolling around to point in the man's direction. Sam can feel the absolute wrong-ness that comes from whatever this is. And so can the presence that lies with him. A dark and sinister urge wells within the man who serve Apep, Apophis the Sun-Eater. This being would eat ALL. It cannot be allowed to manifest into this world.
Now the chamber is filled with an oppressive silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of the torches and the low, rumbling growl of the eldritch horror. The air is thick with tension, and Sam knows time is running out. The cultists remain kneeling, their eyes fixed on the creature they have summoned, their fate now intertwined with the dark entity that stands before them. His presence goes unnoticed by the cultists, who are wholly absorbed in their ritual. The leader continues to speak, his voice a mixture of reverence and desperation. "We offer ourselves to you, great one," he says, his hands trembling as he raises the dagger once more. "Take us as your servants, and we shall do your bidding." The creature's eyes narrow, and it lets out a low, rumbling growl that reverberates through the chamber. The time is now. Will Sam step forward and attempt to stop the ritual, risking their lives to prevent the eldritch horror from being unleashed upon the world? Will they join the cultists, offering their allegiance to the dark entity in exchange for power and knowledge? Or will they remain hidden, observing from the shadows and waiting to see how the events unfold? The decision they make will have far-reaching consequences, shaping the future of the world and their place within it.
Stepping forward, Sam narrows his eyes. "Hey, is this god-damned amateur hour, or what?" Sam slices his knife across his hand, and intones, letting the blood fall onto the ground. He speaks quickly, the Jock having some experience with quickening his own rituals.
"By blood, Will and Devotion..." He speaks, invoking his own blood, the Will of Apep, and the Devotion of his cult, the jock growls, extending a fist with a charred ring, made like a dragon devouring it's own tail. "Behold." He speaks, his eyes glazing over as he twists his head like a snake, that ring glowing with energy. "This Ring was used to end Gonthorian, the firestarter!" He narrows his eyes. "The Sun-Eater claims this domain. You are not welcome, and you thwart his plans." He speaks, his voice a gutteral hiss. "DIE!" He speaks that word, and trembles, the jock barely able to remain standing as a familiar pain sears his body, which often happens when so directly invoking this power.
As Sam begins to cut into his palm, he can already feel the power being leeched from him. The words come but he has to force them out because that Diety that he seeks to unleash upon the world seems to be able to make some sense of use of that hole they've opened as well! The man can feel that searing pain as it roars through him, oily smoke begins to pour out from the wound he's opened and it gets sucked into the growing smoke-like hand entity like being sucked in by a tornado. But it's easy to tell them apart, the oily smoke stands out blacker and darker than the rest. Whenever it passes over the eyes that roam all over the smoke it leaves behind black flecks that spread and infect those eyes.
Welling up, the smoke begins to split into two as more and more of that black smoke gets absorbed now by the oily substance. The last of it seeps out of Sam and for a moment - he feels empty. Without. Something no longer with him and it may cause him something of a panic even in those few scant breaths. The oily smoke turns into a winding snake-like body that grows and coils until it's wreathed about the wrist and bulk of the hand and arm covered in eyes and it squeeeeeeezes. The head of the snake grows solid, TRULY solid and made of solid flint. IT's maw opens and a great and piercing hiss comes out that seems to pierce through the eardrums of everyone in the room including Sam in that moment who is without the presence and protection of hid God. His hearing goes, deafened and ruptured and then that smoke starts being sucked up, EATEN by the flint-head of the snake. Slowly but surely it will begin to devour the other creature, and the more that smoke gets eaten, the bodies underneath cultist robes begin to ... shrivel and whither to the fresh sound of screams and cries of pain.
Then all is silent. The room seems full of that blackened smoke, oily and choking so that Sam can't breathe, he can't see. He's drowning in tar, like some ancient sacrifice ... and then all is clear. The room lies before him. RObes surround the place where the shattered remains of an obsidian dagger lie plunged and half-melted into the concrete. Within the robes is nothing but rotting bones that look as though they've been lying there a hundred years and more. Once again Sam can feel the presence looming over his shoulder, watching and waiting. His hearing resotred. His pain gone.
You hear words hissed into your ear from everywhere and nowhere: The Right hand of Chaosssssssss ...
As the two energies duke it out, Sam falls to his knees, and presses his head to the floor. He's done his part, and that emptiness... briefly, it's comforting. Then it's back.
Slowly, Sam rises to his feet, grabbing what remains of that obsidian dagger. He carefully collects them, and puts it in a plastic bag to tuck away into his backpack. A bag normally used for blood samples. Well, if it works...
"That's what I fucking thought." Trembling, he turns, remembering he wasn't... exactly sure where he was. He sighs, and turns, spitting on the floor. His right hand presses to the place that sigil was, and, using that strange, oily kris knife, he carves an ourobouros in the center. "Thank you." He turns, and starts to make his way back to the bar.
There's no reply but Sam can feel a sense of satiation. Indeed, this thing will feed the belly of his beast.
SRKah says "If you find yourself far from the trove just gimme the closest cross and I will get you there. "
(Your target comes across an ancient artifact in the possession of a local antique dealer. The artifact, unbeknownst to its current owner, is a sacred object to The Black Flame. The cult has been searching for it for centuries and now, having finally tracked it to Haven, they are closing in. Your target must decide whether to protect the artifact, hand it over to the cult, or find a way to destroy it before the cult can use it to hasten the arrival of the eldritch horrors.)
Trevor is lying in his bed on his phone, scrolling the internet and texting away - wearing a pink Slowpoke onesie with a long tail.
It's an ungodly hour, but Trevor hears a knock at the front door, it sounds insistent, like maybe it's something important. It must be if someone's come all this way when it's so dark out on the new moon.
Trevor puts his phone down, looking over at his sleeping partner next to him. It's late, and Trevor probably shouldn't be answering doors, but when has ever Trevor done the smart thing? Not often.
Trevor stands from his bed, padding over to the bedroom door and creaks it open, then quietly shuts it behind him, stepping into the main living room of his house and walks to the door. "WHAT?" he yells through the door.
"I need help! Please! Max told me you could help!" The voice on the other side sounds like an older man, but that name has weight to it. Max. He must be referring to Max Blackburn. If Trevor's door has a peephole and he looks through it, he'll see a man in his late fifties to early sixties standing there, barely visible in the dark, holding on to some kind of box.
Trevor lets out a loud sigh, heavy, annoyed. "I'm really going to hate my goddamn life tonight, aren't I?" Out a hand goes, towards the lock of the door, and Trevor opens it, staring at the man on the other side.
Trevor just reaches out, grabs the man by the arm and just yanks him inside, shutting the door behind him and locking it. "Now," he begins, staring the man down. Which might not be the most intimidating sight, considering what Trevor is wearing. "Go sit on the sofa, and don't be loud. We'll talk there."
The man is clearly startled as he gets pulled inside by Trevor...and promptly very confused at the sight of Trevor. He clutches the box, nodding quickly. "Yes. Of course." His voice hoarse as he moves to the sofa and takes a seat. The box he holds looks like it could be made of wood. It's nearly obsdian in color with strange and intricate carvings on it. The man periodically glances over his shoulder like he's afraid of being followed. "My name is Harold." He says, looking back to Trevor. "I'm sorry for the late hour but I had no where else to turn. No other leads for help."
Trevor runs a hand through his hair, moving quietly to sit on the sofa across from this Harold fellow. "I was in bed," he says, noting the confusion in his face. "You know, relaxing?" Trevor just shakes his head, deciding not to continue pushing this line of thought. "I'm Trevor," he says to the man, now just introducing himself. "What is it you need help with, Harold?" Trevor's eyes dart to the box, locking in on whatever it is that's there.
Harold just stares a beat longer before the question startles him back to the present. "Yes, yes." He lifts the box. "I am a private antiques dealer here in town. I travel quite a bit, and I keep a low profile when in town." He explains, starting to open the box. "I came into possession of this at an auction in Italy last month. I've tried it ignore it, but strange things have been happening since I've had it. What really concerns me though, is that I've been being followed this last week or so. "
When the box is opened, it reveals an esoteric looking nautilus shell laying on a dark purple pillow of velvet. The shell is dark bluish green and practically seems to glow. Strange arcane runes cover it as well.
Trevor may not be the most occult inclined, but he can probably recognize some eldritch leaning markings when he sees them.
Trevor watches someone open the box with intense curiousity. Once it's revealed, and Trevor isn't super occulty, not a witch, a wizard, nor a warlock for that. None of the three big W's of magic, he frowns. He's clearly able to realize what /this/ thing in front of him is.
"Right," he says, "So you brought this shit into my house?" Trevor asks, with a sigh. "I don't know how you expect me to help you," he admits.
Trevor watches Harold open the box with intense curiousity. Once it's revealed, and Trevor isn't super occulty, not a witch, a wizard, nor a warlock for that. None of the three big W's of magic, he frowns. He's clearly able to realize what /this/ thing in front of him is.
"Right," he says, "So you brought this shit into my house?" Trevor asks, with a sigh. "I don't know how you expect me to help you," he admits.
"I couldn't leave it laying about. It has to stay with me!" Harold insisted, keeping his voice hushed as requested. "I voice my concerns to Max earlier this week, he mentioned your name, that you might be able to help with the people following me at least. Or know people who could help with this item." He closes the box quickly after Trevor gets a look.
Around this time Trevor will hear the sound of a car door closing nearby, audible footsteps crunching up the gravel. He's not an occultist, but he is a soldier. It wouldn't be hard to suspect this might just be someone (or someones?) related to Harold's being followed.
They don't barge in though. No. There's just a polite knocking at the door and Harold looking increasingly worried.
"Hold on," Trevor say to whoever is behind the door, "Gimme a sec, I'm coming." Trevor doesn't just immediately get up, and he instead just stares down Harold, his voice just dropping to a quiet whisper. "I don't know what the fuck you want from me here," he says to the man, words fast, rushed. "I'm not getting myself killed or beat up over you, I don't know you."
"Just...just make them go away! I don't know. Max said you could help so I came here!" Harold looks between him and the door.
There is quiet, before another round of knocking. This one with more purpose.
Harold tries to focus on Trevor again and stave off his increasing panic. "I'm sure they want the box and they can't have the box."
Trevor grunts a little, and the just waves to the bathroom. "Go and hide in there," he says, pointing in the direction towards the bathroom - which is in the north-eastern section of the house. "I'll go talk to them."
"Okay, okay," he says to the door now. "I was just getting out of the shower, I'm coming." Trevor stands up, padding across the door and hesitating for a minute, to perhaps let Harold scramble off.
Harry hurries to the bathroom as directed, closing the door just as Trevor opens the front door. Standing on the porch is a pair - one man and one woman. The light being let in from the doorway allows Trevor to catch a glimpse of the woman's necklace which holds a gold medallion with a globe wreathed in obsidian flames. A symbol of the Black Flame. "Good evening." The woman speaks up first. They are both clad in deep blackish purple pantsuits, elegant and refined.
The man smirks at Trevor's attire, trying to look past him while the woman continues speaking. "We're looking for something and we have it on very good authority it is currently here in your home." She looks less than thrilled to be standing here at this hour, in this weather.
Trevor looks at both the man and the woman in their fancy schmancy pantsuits. He gestures to himself, at his pink onesie. "It's just me out here," he says to the couple. "And I live out here, so I can wear what I want in peace," he replies, eying the smirking man. "Are you the fashion police?"
"I was just wondering where you procured such a masterpiece." The man says with some amusement. He's in a much better mood than the woman. She speaks up again. "It's no use ignoring me. You have what we want and we're going to leave with it, one way or another."
Trevor looks down at himself once again, "Yeah," he says. "Someone ordered it for me," he explains, shifting lightly in the doorframe to really block the view into his house. "This one's mine though," he says to her the woman now, just casually chatting away with the couple at this hour. He looks her up and down, "I could probably find you one though," he adds, "What's your size?"
Frustration etches the woman's features, exchanging a look with the man who gives her something akin to a warning look. Then he sighs and refocuses on Trevor. "She wouldn't appreciate it." He says. "My name is Abraham, this is Coraline." He finally introduces himself and his partner. "We've been tracking down something that was stolen from us. It's quite important and quite dangerous in the wrong hands."
The woman cuts in again, "We've tried approaching the man who has it but he's ill equipped to handle the item and it's starting to affect him. We only want to help."
Trevor pats himself a little bit, his chest, his hips, and then shrugs. "I have no idea who you're talking about," he says to both of them. "I told you already, I'm the only person who lives here. And I was just getting out of the shower when you knocked on my door." Trevor just gives them both a little annoyed look - clearly they're disturbing his obviously peaceful night.
Abraham gives Trevor a long look and then lets out a resigned sigh. "If you don't want to help us help him, then we'll simply have to wait for him out here." He takes a step back, starting to motion to Coraline, "Come, Coraline. Let us go back to the car."
Trevor shrugs at Abraham and Coraline, "Sorry," he says to them, and he does seem to be apologetic. "I wish I could help you," he says then. "Have a great night, the both of you!"
Abraham and Coraline leave, disappearing back into the darkness of the night, presumably back to their aforementioned car. There's the sound of doors opening and then closing, but no sound of an engine turning on.
"A-are they gone?" Harold calls from the bathroom shortly after the pair left the porch.
Trevor shuts the door behind the couple, and then locks it and wanders back to the house. "Sort of," he says to Harold. "They got in their car but they're not driving off." Trevor frowns, "I think they're just planning on waiting for you here."
Harold emerges from the bathroom, still clinging to the box, looking worried. "But I can't give them the box! I won't!" He holds it protectively. "Maybe...maybe I can trick them! Maybe I can give them a different box!" He starts looking around Trevor's living room. "Or maybe we can wait them out?" He looks pensive. "Why do they want my box?"
"I don't know," Trevor says to Harold in reply, running a hand through his hair as he does so. "They think it's affecting you," he continues, voice soft. "I don't really have another box that would look.." Trevor blinks at himself. "Oh," he says, "Stay here." And off Trevor marches, back towards his bedroom. He's quiet as he can be, opening the door, and Harold might hear a little bit of rummaging around before soon he'd see a pink silhouette highlight the frame of his bedroom door. It's once again closed softly, and Trevor comes out carrying a box that looks to be about a similiar size. "Had this when I got a present a while back," he says, tone casual. "Here."
Waiting with some anticipation, Harold looks pleased to see the box. "Yes, yes this will do nicely." He accepts the box, opening it up and placing the nautilus shell inside of it, closing the original box. "Perfect, perfect. Yes they will have no idea!" He mutters to himself. Once he has everything set up, he lifts both boxes, looking to Trevor with the utmost sincerity as he says, "You are a good man. Thank you for helping me, even at this hour. A stranger to you. Thank you."
Trevor opens his mouth to say something, but then just smiles. Perhaps letting some thought slide, "No worries," he says to Harold, padding over to the door and unlocking, opening the door for the man. "I hope you stay safe out there," he says to him, gesturing for him to follow and nicely, get the fuck out of his house. "Have a good night."
"I will endeavor to do my best." Harold follows Trevor back over to the door, stepping out on to the porch. "May we meet again under better circumstances." He disappears into the darkness just as Abraham and Coraline had. For better or for worse.
In another part of town, Trevor finds his night interrupted by an unexpected visitor, Harold, who entrusts him with a mysterious and ancient artifact sought after by The Black Flame. The presence of the artifact and Harold's desperate plea pull Trevor into a confrontation with members of the cult who arrive at his doorstep. Exhibiting quick thinking and leveraging his surroundings, Trevor manages to deflect their inquiries and protects Harold's identity, illustrating his resourcefulness and willingness to aid a stranger in distress despite the inherent risks. This encounter underscores the pervasive and insidious reach of The Black Flame and poses unresolved tensions about the fate of the artifact and the lengths to which the cult will go to reclaim it, setting the stage for further conflict and challenges that Trevor may face.
(Sam's odd encounter(SRKah):SRKah)
[Sat Dec 28 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 night, about 33F(0C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. There is a new moon.
(Your target and their allies stumble upon a ritual being conducted by The Black Flame. They are attempting to summon an eldritch horror to bring about the end of the world. The players must decide whether to try and stop the ritual, join in, or simply observe from the shadows. The decision they make could have far-reaching consequences.)
It's a quiet night for Sam, as he slowly cleans a few empty glasses off of the bar. The jock yawns into a fist, mostly regulars tonight. He looks to the door on occasion, then just leans against the stool behind the bar, stretching out languidly.
The Trove Barcade is a haven for those seeking a blend of nostalgia and nautical charm. Dominated by a sprawling, weathered bar, its surface polished to a high sheen and inlaid with a mosaic of colorful sea glass, the room sparkles in the dim, lantern-like lighting. The deep, oceanic blue walls are adorned with an eclectic assortment of nautical paraphernalia; aged maps and faded flags 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. Clusters of arcade games flicker and beep in the corners, 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 in a corner dedicated to more primal forms of entertainment. The lively atmosphere is enhanced by the constant hum of conversation and laughter from the patrons who fill the room.
Behind the bar, a vast array of bottles is displayed, their contents ranging from craft beers to exotic rums, each one promising a unique journey of flavors. The bartenders, dressed in pirate garb, deftly mix cocktails, their movements punctuated by the clink of glass and the hiss of freshly opened beers. Their playful banter adds to the bar's convivial atmosphere, making it a welcoming spot for regulars and newcomers alike. Amidst this lively scene, an unnoticed tension begins to build. Near the back of the bar, a shadowy figure slips through an unmarked door, disappearing into the depths of the building. This unnoticed event would seem inconsequential in the midst of the bar's boisterous activity, but for those attuned to the subtle shifts in the atmosphere, a sense of foreboding lingers in the air. Those like Sam, who run the bar, and maybe own the place? Somebody slipping into the areas of the building they don't belong probably won't go past his notice.
As that person disappears out of sight, the man behind the bar might even wonder exactly what the guy is doing, there? The door might lead to a supply closet or some back hallway - nothing special as far as Sam may know. It just doesn't make sense. On top of that, when he's gone the feel of the room seems to mellow out almost instantly, like his presence was causing some invisible cloud of worry and ominous intent hover over the room like a miasma. Even the tattoo that isn't that wraps about pieces of Sam, it will sense something amiss, a soft hiss coming from the thing in pure reflex.
"Okay, yeah, absolutely not." Sam reaches into a hidden holster, and puts one hand on the glock there. He immediately follows that person... being? The jock huffs, clasping his hand around the ring on his finger, arcane runes glowing up subtly as he prepares for possible problems. He pushes that door open, the blond indeed being the owner. "Hey buddy, imma need you to get out, or I'm calling the cops." He speaks with the authority of a barman who has dealt with drunk rants before.
A hidden door leads to a labyrinth of narrow corridors, dimly lit and lined with old crates and forgotten equipment. The faint sound of chanting can be heard, growing louder with each step taken deeper into the heart of the building. The air grows colder, and a strange, almost metallic scent begins to permeate the passageways. This ... wasn't here before. It's like the doorway to his back area has been transformed into a portal into somewhere else. As Sam follows him, he'll see that this place seems much larger than at first glance, as well. The man himself seems to be nowhere in sight and the man might flinch a little as his voice starts to echo down those labyrinthine corridors. The floor is covered with a faint layer of dust, undisturbed for who knows how long .. but for a single pair of footsteps that can be seen treading through it. Following the winding path, the corridors open up into a large, underground chamber. The room is illuminated by a circle of flickering torches, casting eerie shadows on the stone walls. At the center of the room, a group of robed figures stands around an intricate, glowing sigil inscribed on the floor. Their low, rhythmic chanting reverberates off the walls, filling the chamber with an unsettling resonance.
Approaching the large antechamber, Sam has time to crouch or hide himself as he decides what to do. The light from the torches and lanterns precede the chamber well ahead of itself as he continues to make his way through those twists and turns that lead him ... somewhere. That he's no longer in the back hall or even underneath the Trove is clear enough, the real question now is where exactly he IS. Or perhaps more importantly, as things continue to march toward that inevitable date in time where nothing can be seen .. it might be to Sam's best interests to see what these cultists now are up to. More and more, groups like this have grown more arrogant, more overt in the last months. Whatever this one is up, the feel on the air is no good and that presence that lies within Sam and with him - it knows it too. If nothing else ... there's only room for one Sun-eating deity in any Pantheon and whatever these guys are calling too ..doesn't feel like even that. Something from Outside this plane of existence ..
Ducking low, Sam narrows his eyes. He grabs his knife, an oily black thing. He ducks behind a crate for a few moments, closing his eyes and shuddering before the man looks around. He tries to follow the cultists, keeping a careful distance. The runes on that ring glow up some, and the arcanist quickly tries to find out what is going on, this particular type of ritual... familiar to the blond man.
The underground chamber is a stark contrast to the lively atmosphere of the Trove Barcade above (it's easier for the mind to think of it this way). The air is thick with the scent of burning incense and the faint, metallic tang of blood. Flickering torches cast long, dancing shadows on the stone walls, creating an eerie, almost hypnotic effect. The chamber is circular, with a high, vaulted ceiling that seems to disappear into darkness. The walls are adorned with ancient symbols and runes, their meanings lost to time but their power palpable. At the center of the chamber, a group of robed figures stands in a tight circle around an intricate, glowing sigil inscribed on the floor. The sigil pulses with a malevolent energy, its lines and curves shifting and writhing as if alive. The figures, members of the secretive cult known as The Black Flame, chant in a low, rhythmic cadence, their voices blending together to create a haunting, otherworldly melody. The leader of this cell of the cult, a tall figure with an menacing presence almost seems to bring a sense of recognition to Sam .. but he's not quite big enough. He has a similar way of commanding the room around him though, and he stands at the head of the circle, his hands raised high above his head. In one hand, he holds an ornate, obsidian dagger, its blade glinting ominously in the torchlight. It doesn't mark that oily quality like Sam's own, but it has its similarities as well.
The leader's voice rises above the others, his chant growing more fervent and intense. The sigil responds, its glow intensifying and casting an unnatural light that seems to bend and warp the very air around it. The other cultists follow suit, their voices rising in unison as they repeat the incantation. The air grows colder, and a palpable sense of dread fills the chamber, as if the very walls are closing in. The leader steps forward, his eyes fixed on the center of the sigil. With a swift, practiced motion, he plunges the dagger into the heart of the symbol. The ground trembles, and a low, rumbling sound echoes through the chamber. The sigil flares brightly, and a column of dark, swirling smoke rises from its center, reaching towards the ceiling like a grasping hand. The cultists fall silent, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear as they watch the ritual unfold. The column of smoke begins to take shape, coalescing into that hand-like shape that seems to defy true comprehension. To call it a hand is the only thing the mind can think of, for in truth it's something of Eldritch horror, something undescribeable. Slowly, white eyes begin to open all along the surface of the black smoke, peering and shifting in every direction like something out of the bowels of Hell itself, or beyond.
The cultists drop to their knees, their heads bowed in reverence and submission. The leader steps forward, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and triumph. "Great one," he intones, "we have opened a hole in the veil of this world, so that you can cleanse it of its impurities and usher in a new age of darkness." Dozens of those white eyes fix on the leader, spinning and shifting and rolling around to point in the man's direction. Sam can feel the absolute wrong-ness that comes from whatever this is. And so can the presence that lies with him. A dark and sinister urge wells within the man who serve Apep, Apophis the Sun-Eater. This being would eat ALL. It cannot be allowed to manifest into this world.
Now the chamber is filled with an oppressive silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of the torches and the low, rumbling growl of the eldritch horror. The air is thick with tension, and Sam knows time is running out. The cultists remain kneeling, their eyes fixed on the creature they have summoned, their fate now intertwined with the dark entity that stands before them. His presence goes unnoticed by the cultists, who are wholly absorbed in their ritual. The leader continues to speak, his voice a mixture of reverence and desperation. "We offer ourselves to you, great one," he says, his hands trembling as he raises the dagger once more. "Take us as your servants, and we shall do your bidding." The creature's eyes narrow, and it lets out a low, rumbling growl that reverberates through the chamber. The time is now. Will Sam step forward and attempt to stop the ritual, risking their lives to prevent the eldritch horror from being unleashed upon the world? Will they join the cultists, offering their allegiance to the dark entity in exchange for power and knowledge? Or will they remain hidden, observing from the shadows and waiting to see how the events unfold? The decision they make will have far-reaching consequences, shaping the future of the world and their place within it.
Stepping forward, Sam narrows his eyes. "Hey, is this god-damned amateur hour, or what?" Sam slices his knife across his hand, and intones, letting the blood fall onto the ground. He speaks quickly, the Jock having some experience with quickening his own rituals.
"By blood, Will and Devotion..." He speaks, invoking his own blood, the Will of Apep, and the Devotion of his cult, the jock growls, extending a fist with a charred ring, made like a dragon devouring it's own tail. "Behold." He speaks, his eyes glazing over as he twists his head like a snake, that ring glowing with energy. "This Ring was used to end Gonthorian, the firestarter!" He narrows his eyes. "The Sun-Eater claims this domain. You are not welcome, and you thwart his plans." He speaks, his voice a gutteral hiss. "DIE!" He speaks that word, and trembles, the jock barely able to remain standing as a familiar pain sears his body, which often happens when so directly invoking this power.
As Sam begins to cut into his palm, he can already feel the power being leeched from him. The words come but he has to force them out because that Diety that he seeks to unleash upon the world seems to be able to make some sense of use of that hole they've opened as well! The man can feel that searing pain as it roars through him, oily smoke begins to pour out from the wound he's opened and it gets sucked into the growing smoke-like hand entity like being sucked in by a tornado. But it's easy to tell them apart, the oily smoke stands out blacker and darker than the rest. Whenever it passes over the eyes that roam all over the smoke it leaves behind black flecks that spread and infect those eyes.
Welling up, the smoke begins to split into two as more and more of that black smoke gets absorbed now by the oily substance. The last of it seeps out of Sam and for a moment - he feels empty. Without. Something no longer with him and it may cause him something of a panic even in those few scant breaths. The oily smoke turns into a winding snake-like body that grows and coils until it's wreathed about the wrist and bulk of the hand and arm covered in eyes and it squeeeeeeezes. The head of the snake grows solid, TRULY solid and made of solid flint. IT's maw opens and a great and piercing hiss comes out that seems to pierce through the eardrums of everyone in the room including Sam in that moment who is without the presence and protection of hid God. His hearing goes, deafened and ruptured and then that smoke starts being sucked up, EATEN by the flint-head of the snake. Slowly but surely it will begin to devour the other creature, and the more that smoke gets eaten, the bodies underneath cultist robes begin to ... shrivel and whither to the fresh sound of screams and cries of pain.
Then all is silent. The room seems full of that blackened smoke, oily and choking so that Sam can't breathe, he can't see. He's drowning in tar, like some ancient sacrifice ... and then all is clear. The room lies before him. RObes surround the place where the shattered remains of an obsidian dagger lie plunged and half-melted into the concrete. Within the robes is nothing but rotting bones that look as though they've been lying there a hundred years and more. Once again Sam can feel the presence looming over his shoulder, watching and waiting. His hearing resotred. His pain gone.
You hear words hissed into your ear from everywhere and nowhere: The Right hand of Chaosssssssss ...
As the two energies duke it out, Sam falls to his knees, and presses his head to the floor. He's done his part, and that emptiness... briefly, it's comforting. Then it's back.
Slowly, Sam rises to his feet, grabbing what remains of that obsidian dagger. He carefully collects them, and puts it in a plastic bag to tuck away into his backpack. A bag normally used for blood samples. Well, if it works...
"That's what I fucking thought." Trembling, he turns, remembering he wasn't... exactly sure where he was. He sighs, and turns, spitting on the floor. His right hand presses to the place that sigil was, and, using that strange, oily kris knife, he carves an ourobouros in the center. "Thank you." He turns, and starts to make his way back to the bar.
There's no reply but Sam can feel a sense of satiation. Indeed, this thing will feed the belly of his beast.
SRKah says "If you find yourself far from the trove just gimme the closest cross and I will get you there. "
(Your target comes across an ancient artifact in the possession of a local antique dealer. The artifact, unbeknownst to its current owner, is a sacred object to The Black Flame. The cult has been searching for it for centuries and now, having finally tracked it to Haven, they are closing in. Your target must decide whether to protect the artifact, hand it over to the cult, or find a way to destroy it before the cult can use it to hasten the arrival of the eldritch horrors.)
Trevor is lying in his bed on his phone, scrolling the internet and texting away - wearing a pink Slowpoke onesie with a long tail.
It's an ungodly hour, but Trevor hears a knock at the front door, it sounds insistent, like maybe it's something important. It must be if someone's come all this way when it's so dark out on the new moon.
Trevor puts his phone down, looking over at his sleeping partner next to him. It's late, and Trevor probably shouldn't be answering doors, but when has ever Trevor done the smart thing? Not often.
Trevor stands from his bed, padding over to the bedroom door and creaks it open, then quietly shuts it behind him, stepping into the main living room of his house and walks to the door. "WHAT?" he yells through the door.
"I need help! Please! Max told me you could help!" The voice on the other side sounds like an older man, but that name has weight to it. Max. He must be referring to Max Blackburn. If Trevor's door has a peephole and he looks through it, he'll see a man in his late fifties to early sixties standing there, barely visible in the dark, holding on to some kind of box.
Trevor lets out a loud sigh, heavy, annoyed. "I'm really going to hate my goddamn life tonight, aren't I?" Out a hand goes, towards the lock of the door, and Trevor opens it, staring at the man on the other side.
Trevor just reaches out, grabs the man by the arm and just yanks him inside, shutting the door behind him and locking it. "Now," he begins, staring the man down. Which might not be the most intimidating sight, considering what Trevor is wearing. "Go sit on the sofa, and don't be loud. We'll talk there."
The man is clearly startled as he gets pulled inside by Trevor...and promptly very confused at the sight of Trevor. He clutches the box, nodding quickly. "Yes. Of course." His voice hoarse as he moves to the sofa and takes a seat. The box he holds looks like it could be made of wood. It's nearly obsdian in color with strange and intricate carvings on it. The man periodically glances over his shoulder like he's afraid of being followed. "My name is Harold." He says, looking back to Trevor. "I'm sorry for the late hour but I had no where else to turn. No other leads for help."
Trevor runs a hand through his hair, moving quietly to sit on the sofa across from this Harold fellow. "I was in bed," he says, noting the confusion in his face. "You know, relaxing?" Trevor just shakes his head, deciding not to continue pushing this line of thought. "I'm Trevor," he says to the man, now just introducing himself. "What is it you need help with, Harold?" Trevor's eyes dart to the box, locking in on whatever it is that's there.
Harold just stares a beat longer before the question startles him back to the present. "Yes, yes." He lifts the box. "I am a private antiques dealer here in town. I travel quite a bit, and I keep a low profile when in town." He explains, starting to open the box. "I came into possession of this at an auction in Italy last month. I've tried it ignore it, but strange things have been happening since I've had it. What really concerns me though, is that I've been being followed this last week or so. "
When the box is opened, it reveals an esoteric looking nautilus shell laying on a dark purple pillow of velvet. The shell is dark bluish green and practically seems to glow. Strange arcane runes cover it as well.
Trevor may not be the most occult inclined, but he can probably recognize some eldritch leaning markings when he sees them.
Trevor watches someone open the box with intense curiousity. Once it's revealed, and Trevor isn't super occulty, not a witch, a wizard, nor a warlock for that. None of the three big W's of magic, he frowns. He's clearly able to realize what /this/ thing in front of him is.
"Right," he says, "So you brought this shit into my house?" Trevor asks, with a sigh. "I don't know how you expect me to help you," he admits.
Trevor watches Harold open the box with intense curiousity. Once it's revealed, and Trevor isn't super occulty, not a witch, a wizard, nor a warlock for that. None of the three big W's of magic, he frowns. He's clearly able to realize what /this/ thing in front of him is.
"Right," he says, "So you brought this shit into my house?" Trevor asks, with a sigh. "I don't know how you expect me to help you," he admits.
"I couldn't leave it laying about. It has to stay with me!" Harold insisted, keeping his voice hushed as requested. "I voice my concerns to Max earlier this week, he mentioned your name, that you might be able to help with the people following me at least. Or know people who could help with this item." He closes the box quickly after Trevor gets a look.
Around this time Trevor will hear the sound of a car door closing nearby, audible footsteps crunching up the gravel. He's not an occultist, but he is a soldier. It wouldn't be hard to suspect this might just be someone (or someones?) related to Harold's being followed.
They don't barge in though. No. There's just a polite knocking at the door and Harold looking increasingly worried.
"Hold on," Trevor say to whoever is behind the door, "Gimme a sec, I'm coming." Trevor doesn't just immediately get up, and he instead just stares down Harold, his voice just dropping to a quiet whisper. "I don't know what the fuck you want from me here," he says to the man, words fast, rushed. "I'm not getting myself killed or beat up over you, I don't know you."
"Just...just make them go away! I don't know. Max said you could help so I came here!" Harold looks between him and the door.
There is quiet, before another round of knocking. This one with more purpose.
Harold tries to focus on Trevor again and stave off his increasing panic. "I'm sure they want the box and they can't have the box."
Trevor grunts a little, and the just waves to the bathroom. "Go and hide in there," he says, pointing in the direction towards the bathroom - which is in the north-eastern section of the house. "I'll go talk to them."
"Okay, okay," he says to the door now. "I was just getting out of the shower, I'm coming." Trevor stands up, padding across the door and hesitating for a minute, to perhaps let Harold scramble off.
Harry hurries to the bathroom as directed, closing the door just as Trevor opens the front door. Standing on the porch is a pair - one man and one woman. The light being let in from the doorway allows Trevor to catch a glimpse of the woman's necklace which holds a gold medallion with a globe wreathed in obsidian flames. A symbol of the Black Flame. "Good evening." The woman speaks up first. They are both clad in deep blackish purple pantsuits, elegant and refined.
The man smirks at Trevor's attire, trying to look past him while the woman continues speaking. "We're looking for something and we have it on very good authority it is currently here in your home." She looks less than thrilled to be standing here at this hour, in this weather.
Trevor looks at both the man and the woman in their fancy schmancy pantsuits. He gestures to himself, at his pink onesie. "It's just me out here," he says to the couple. "And I live out here, so I can wear what I want in peace," he replies, eying the smirking man. "Are you the fashion police?"
"I was just wondering where you procured such a masterpiece." The man says with some amusement. He's in a much better mood than the woman. She speaks up again. "It's no use ignoring me. You have what we want and we're going to leave with it, one way or another."
Trevor looks down at himself once again, "Yeah," he says. "Someone ordered it for me," he explains, shifting lightly in the doorframe to really block the view into his house. "This one's mine though," he says to her the woman now, just casually chatting away with the couple at this hour. He looks her up and down, "I could probably find you one though," he adds, "What's your size?"
Frustration etches the woman's features, exchanging a look with the man who gives her something akin to a warning look. Then he sighs and refocuses on Trevor. "She wouldn't appreciate it." He says. "My name is Abraham, this is Coraline." He finally introduces himself and his partner. "We've been tracking down something that was stolen from us. It's quite important and quite dangerous in the wrong hands."
The woman cuts in again, "We've tried approaching the man who has it but he's ill equipped to handle the item and it's starting to affect him. We only want to help."
Trevor pats himself a little bit, his chest, his hips, and then shrugs. "I have no idea who you're talking about," he says to both of them. "I told you already, I'm the only person who lives here. And I was just getting out of the shower when you knocked on my door." Trevor just gives them both a little annoyed look - clearly they're disturbing his obviously peaceful night.
Abraham gives Trevor a long look and then lets out a resigned sigh. "If you don't want to help us help him, then we'll simply have to wait for him out here." He takes a step back, starting to motion to Coraline, "Come, Coraline. Let us go back to the car."
Trevor shrugs at Abraham and Coraline, "Sorry," he says to them, and he does seem to be apologetic. "I wish I could help you," he says then. "Have a great night, the both of you!"
Abraham and Coraline leave, disappearing back into the darkness of the night, presumably back to their aforementioned car. There's the sound of doors opening and then closing, but no sound of an engine turning on.
"A-are they gone?" Harold calls from the bathroom shortly after the pair left the porch.
Trevor shuts the door behind the couple, and then locks it and wanders back to the house. "Sort of," he says to Harold. "They got in their car but they're not driving off." Trevor frowns, "I think they're just planning on waiting for you here."
Harold emerges from the bathroom, still clinging to the box, looking worried. "But I can't give them the box! I won't!" He holds it protectively. "Maybe...maybe I can trick them! Maybe I can give them a different box!" He starts looking around Trevor's living room. "Or maybe we can wait them out?" He looks pensive. "Why do they want my box?"
"I don't know," Trevor says to Harold in reply, running a hand through his hair as he does so. "They think it's affecting you," he continues, voice soft. "I don't really have another box that would look.." Trevor blinks at himself. "Oh," he says, "Stay here." And off Trevor marches, back towards his bedroom. He's quiet as he can be, opening the door, and Harold might hear a little bit of rummaging around before soon he'd see a pink silhouette highlight the frame of his bedroom door. It's once again closed softly, and Trevor comes out carrying a box that looks to be about a similiar size. "Had this when I got a present a while back," he says, tone casual. "Here."
Waiting with some anticipation, Harold looks pleased to see the box. "Yes, yes this will do nicely." He accepts the box, opening it up and placing the nautilus shell inside of it, closing the original box. "Perfect, perfect. Yes they will have no idea!" He mutters to himself. Once he has everything set up, he lifts both boxes, looking to Trevor with the utmost sincerity as he says, "You are a good man. Thank you for helping me, even at this hour. A stranger to you. Thank you."
Trevor opens his mouth to say something, but then just smiles. Perhaps letting some thought slide, "No worries," he says to Harold, padding over to the door and unlocking, opening the door for the man. "I hope you stay safe out there," he says to him, gesturing for him to follow and nicely, get the fuck out of his house. "Have a good night."
"I will endeavor to do my best." Harold follows Trevor back over to the door, stepping out on to the porch. "May we meet again under better circumstances." He disappears into the darkness just as Abraham and Coraline had. For better or for worse.