Encounterlogs
Saoirses Odd Encounter Sr Dean 240828
In a scenario fraught with danger and supernatural stakes, Saoirse, a practitioner of internal alchemy and combatant for the Temple, finds herself embroiled in a mission to retrieve a sacred artifact, The Yurei's Fang, stolen by a demonic cult known as The Destined Host. Her journey leads her to a clandestine lair where the artifact is being used in a dark ritual to channel the wrath of the dead, bolstering the cult's power with the lives of innocents. Despite the grisly scene and the formidable guardian, a monstrous abomination stitched from corpses, Saoirse's resolve remains unshaken. Guided by a desperate telepath's last words, she attempts to disrupt the ritual by targeting a swollen ceiling filled with blood, hoping to leverage her connection to water and blood to turn the tide in her favor.
The outcome, however, is a stark mix of failure and unexpected fortune. Saoirse's attempt to weaken the abomination and halt the ritual results in the unintended release of an overwhelming deluge of blood, washing away the ritual's participants and forcing the abomination into retreat. Although the cultist and the conduit for the ritual explode under the pressure of the unleashed power, rendering The Yurei's Fang lost in the depths of the lair, Saoirse narrowly survives the ordeal, carried to safety by the very blood she sought to use against her foes. As she emerges from the lair, battered but alive, the realization of her grim victory and the artifact's uncertain fate weigh heavily upon her. The dangers averted for now, the blood-stained warrior contemplates the consequences of her actions, the pervasive threat of the demonic, and her own resilience against the backdrop of a battle far from concluded.
(Saoirse's odd encounter(SRDean):SRDean)
[Wed Aug 21 2024]
In a luxurious cool-toned bedroom with a platform bed
In this sanctuary of sleep, the bedroom basks in cool-toned luxury. A centerpiece platform bed, low and sleek, anchors the space, adorned with linens in a palette of soft silver and tranquil blue. The walls, a soothing slate grey, serve as a serene canvas, complementing minimalist art pieces that whisper tales of abstract beauty.
The room glows softly under recessed lighting, while chrome-accented bedside lamps offer a focused luminescence. A grand window, dressed in sheer silvery curtains, invites daylight to dance on the polished hardwood floors and, by night, frames the starry sky, marrying the rooms elegance with the beauty of the natural world outside.
It is morning, about 73F(22C) degrees,
(A sacred artifact, believed to enhance demonic power, has been stolen from a local museum and signs point to The Destined Host being behind the theft. Your target and their allies must retrieve this artifact before The Destined Host can use it in one of their dark rituals to strengthen the demons' hold on the world. They must infiltrate the faction's secret lair, face the hostile members, and secure the artifact. Their decisions could lead to a confrontation with the demonic entities The Destined Host is allied with, or even a temporary alliance with the faction if they can be convinced that another, greater threat is looming.)
is quite busy at work. And by quite busy at work, she means professionally relaxing, and teaching others to do the same.
Sitting cross-legged and neatly in place atop the navy-blue cushion she favored for teaching her lessons from, Saoirse is currently instructing a few of the citizenry on the finer points of meditation according to her internal alchemy methodology; she doesn't have any greater students that have gotten nearly as far as she has with the techniques, however. A deep breath is drawn in, and then let out in a soothing rush, before she opens her eyes and nods to the group.
"Alright, thank you very much for coming in today, I'm glad we could have this moment of mindfulness and joy in your lives. Remember to keep the ocean within yourself, and keep practicing, so that you can have it present within you at any moment. Have a nice day, and be sure to check out the store on the way out!" She beams at whoever remained, before standing up and doing a few stretches in order to work the tightness out of her muscles. It always took a moment for her to limber up after some of the longer sessions; her body wants to go out and do things, and her mind wants to be restless, so taking a break from that makes her anxious, antsy. Perhaps something will come up that will stir the pot, so to speak, and give her an outlet for that energy.
emote Morning arrives gently in this sanctuary of relaxation, where luxury is hidden in every crevice of every nook and cranny. The centerpiece of the room, all those mats spread out evenly, rest low and inviting for all the denizens currently absorbed in their lecture. Their soft silver and tranquil blue material undisturbed, as if the session passed in silent contemplation for the most part without much jostling - even if from no one, at least one or two people to be certain. The air is cool, almost crisp, carrying the faintest hint of freshness from the world outside, yet the quiet carries an eerie weight, as if holding its breath.
The walls, painted in calming hues and elevating decor to avoid distraction, relent in the sense of stillness they've embodied up until now, and give the meditation center a livelier atmosphere. A calming music, subtle in its design, seem almost to blend into the background, an abstract beauty whispered too softly for most to hear, while the room is illuminated by recessed lighting, a gentle glow that caresses the edges of the space, while chrome-accented lamps stand ready to cast focused beams come the night - should the need arise. The light, though warm, feels subdued, as if reluctant to fully chase away the shadows that cling to the corners of this early morning day stretching to noon at a snail's pace.
A grand window dominates one wall near the entry, its sheer silvery curtains barely moving, and outside, the glass beyond reveals a world just beginning to stir by birds of a late feather, waking just now to start the second bout of commute for people that start their work somewhat later. The polished hardwood floor beneath the window catches this delicate light, reflecting it back in a dance of muted radiance. Yet, for all its elegance, the view outside seems oddly still. Today, for all of its mundane calm, seems eager for something. Some danger, or another, afoot and waiting with its open jaws, prepared, but for what, who could ever tell in Haven?
The silence is almost tangible to Saoirse, an ominous quiet that wraps itself around the meditation center like a second skin. The usual morning sounds - a distant car, a birds song, the rustle of leaves - they are all conspicuously absent, leaving only the soft, steady ticking of a clock somewhere in the background to mark the passage of time as people begin to give her their thanks and begin filing out one by one into the pleasant morning outside while the weather is still almost perfect and absent of the noon heat, but that unsettling stillness in the air, it is enough to raise the hair on the nape of her neck high with the anticipation of something. Her thoughts are disrupted with the clearing of a throat.
Three times, and that's it. Just enough to call her attention from the side as opposed to watching the rest pack their mats into a corner as is proper and begin their exit. If she were to turn, she'd be face to face with not one, but two people waiting for her. The people that didn't participate but viewed much of her lecture - for this chance alone. She'd recognize them, obviously, from their haggard looks to the glint in their eyes. All too aware that what they know, with her, might be another free meal or a few bills tucked into their pocket, and that's all they need - these jaded sort of folk; who are aware, who are the silent eyes and ears of a lot of people - but right now? They're Saorise's. They don't speak, but their furtive glances waiting for the place to be empty tells enough that they're waiting for her to give the 'go ahead' for them to tell her what they're here for.
Saoirse recognized this pair. She has dealt with them in the past, offering them a place to sleep on occasion when the shelters nearby had filled up too much, or perhaps they knew more of the Good News Center than most, and chose to go to a less proselytizing place, one less fiery in its doctrine. After all, her center was a place of mercy; it is understandable why those who come to her center do so. The modern world is in shambles, and a moment's respite from it was attractive even to the most hurried and dedicated priests to its rapid, golden order. Even if they went right back to their business and suffering, they carry a seed, something inside of themselves that could blossom into greater peace; perhaps they might realize the folly of their ways, and return.
She approaches, nodding to them both in turn, before going to a hot water kettle and pouring out a small cup of tea for each of them, handing them both one, before pouring herself one. "It's important to receive guests gracefully, I think. Now, let's go up." She gestures to the spiral staircase leading up behind the shop counter, and began to climb the stairs, before unlocking the door at the top and entering within.
As above, so below; a massive window was upon the eastern window, facing towards the dawning sun in the floor above; this place was a quiet, private sanctuary amidst the city, and on the southern wall lies a collection of three icons with prayer mats in front of them; icons dedicated to the Three Pure Ones. Cubbyholes carry nicknacks and other sundry trinkets along the northern wall, including several pots and containers with herbs and other strange unguents. She cultivates this environment for her own use, and none other. She settles neatly on the floor, not needing the cushion here, and nods to the two that came to her. "So, tell me what it is you have for me today."
Sufficiently tea'd up, the pair nods, first to Saoirse, in unison - then to each other when she's taken the path up ahead of them. Neither say anything, not yet, not while they could be eavesdropped - but in their ascent to the top, they eventually land in proximity of their benefactor - with one of them closing the door in her wake for the benefit of them all. While the initial one that was closest does take a seat, he's also ruffling through something under that heavy, out-of-season overcoat he has. Fingerless gloves deftly pick through for what he seeks.
The other, he's standing guard. By the door, between it and the window, standing like a hawk with stern blue eyes peering between the two, no doubt decades of hard-living had made him an expert of that if nothing else. He does, however, drink of the tea in his hands - while his compadre has left his on the floor in front of him for his endeavor that is now evidently pulling out folder after folder after folder.
Saoirse would find them laid out, shut, with an uplifted finger asking for a moment to pause - nonverbally tell her; not yet. Soon, but not yet. His last piece is a trio of photographs taken by a shaky, old polaroid, frayed and smudged at the edges of the image. One looks to have endured the harsh, putrid alleys because it looks totally repulsive to touch with its sogginess that the man's coat couldn't absorb. "There is talk down the grapevine about this - and.." Another look, between one another, before both men look upon her, now. "We thought you'd appreciate it." Appreciate. It almost sounds like they expect payment for it, somehow, someday.
Should Saoirse decide to take her attention down on what is presented, the pictures are all of the same object - set on a pedestal in what has to be a library, or an auction. A long, curved dagger with a blade forged from blackened steel sits atop, three pictures, three angles, same thing, almost like obsidian and gleaming. The hilt is wrapped in crimson silk and studded with small onyx stones, etched in tiny runic marks that would've certainly glow if she could look at it in person. "They call it The Yureis Fang. Some demonic cult frm the Heian period." Then, in a more hushed tone, giving space for Saoirse to absorb the information. "We heard, the Destined Host want it - somethin' about usin' it to.." He clears his throat for a mote of discomfort in revelation; "Channel the wrath of the dead - an' you know, they kill a lot of us for their rituals, we warn people not to go, but.." Cash is the answer. They obviously buy people under the false pretense of giving work, just to off them. Such an artifact, with how many people they kill? It would turn any formidable force into a legendary one.
Saoirse is patient. It is one of the prime reasons she cultivated the arts of motion and stillness; it is far easier to accept and do something about one's circumstances if one can wait and do what is needed -when- it is needed. She waits for them to lay out the photos and give more of the details. As they recount the details of it, her face slowly morphs into a scowl. Mercy is what she champions, and this is not mercy; this is wanton slaying to bolster ones ranks, ones power. Though she herself knows the use of such things, there is also the simple fact that doing this... It will result in them getting caught, sooner or later, and it is best that someone who knows how to deal in such things handles it rather than some irresponsible person.
"I thank you for bringing this to my attention." Her gaze flicks to the two men, nodding gently, before she rises from her seated position. "I'm curious if you know where they're gathering these people for this. It must be the same place they're offering people to come to for money, right?" Her head tilts, eyes shining with that bluer-than-blue, a calm serenity; a moment before a storm.
"'Course, you're good to us, and we.." The men look to one another again. The one by the door nods. Confirmation? Approval? The one closest to her speaks anyway. "We know you're connected, an' all that. Better in a friend's hand, y'know?" A bead of sweat rolls down the corner of his face, down to his chin. Dirty as he is, he only smears more of that dirt when he wipes it with the back of his gloved hand, and clears his throat to divulge more information - reach for one of the folders.
"We did some digging already. Followed them an' all that while some of us were being lead..." A heavy loss, it sounds like - because the unsaid here is those of them that were led did not return. It is confirming of someone' suspicions about it all. The first folder he opens, it talks about what the man says, "The dagger's gonna make any of your 'magic' much stronger, or so they were saying. It makes whoever holds it faster, stronger - a bunch of other shit - and it sounds t'me like there is no limit to it. More they kill, stronger it gets."
Second folder, he smudges the edge while opening it, lays out photos of a run-down door by some alley. There isn't anyone that stands guard, for secrecy sake, and so, the next few photos are of a deeper descent. Flights upon flights of stairs, and lastly, a large hallway leading to many, many doors of who knows where. "That's as far as we got. It's dug at the backside of a building behind the Elm's, forest side." The rest of the notes are everything one needs to get there, save for a gps and a vehicle. It looks like this pair did all the scouting - or maybe more of them were involved, too, but who's to say? The ball is in Saoirse's court, now.
"'Course, you're good to us, and we.." The men look to one another again. The one by the door nods. Confirmation? Approval? The one closest to her speaks anyway. "We know you're connected, an' all that. Better in a friend's hand, y'know?" A bead of sweat rolls down the corner of his face, down to his chin. Dirty as he is, he only smears more of that dirt when he wipes it with the back of his gloved hand, and clears his throat to divulge more information - reach for one of the folders.
"We did some digging already. Followed them an' all that while some of us were being lead..." A heavy loss, it sounds like - because the unsaid here is those of them that were led did not return. It is confirming of Saoirse's suspicions about it all. The first folder he opens, it talks about what the man says, "The dagger's gonna make any of your 'magic' much stronger, or so they were saying. It makes whoever holds it faster, stronger - a bunch of other shit - and it sounds t'me like there is no limit to it. More they kill, stronger it gets."
Second folder, he smudges the edge while opening it, lays out photos of a run-down door by some alley. There isn't anyone that stands guard, for secrecy sake, and so, the next few photos are of a deeper descent. Flights upon flights of stairs, and lastly, a large hallway leading to many, many doors of who knows where. "That's as far as we got. It's dug at the backside of a building behind the Elm's, forest side." The rest of the notes are everything one needs to get there, save for a gps and a vehicle. It looks like this pair did all the scouting - or maybe more of them were involved, too, but who's to say? The ball is in Saoirse's court, now.
So it was. "Of course I'm good to you. Others won't be. This is clear evidence of that." There was nothing but a placid calm with the way Saoirse spoke about this; perhaps some would find it comforting, perhaps some would find it chilling. The dagger has a number of interesting qualities about it, especially to her, in her role as a combatant for the Temple. But... The sheer fact that one had to take life to use it, that bothered her. Whether she chose to use it or not, she would report it to them; best for it not to exist, or if it had to exist, in the hands of those who could turn it to more useful purposes.
In the immediate moment, she gives each of them a crisp fifty dollar bill; the center manages to make quite a bit of money with its services, after all, and this was a paltry pittance. "If I am successful, there will be more rewards, of course. I trust you will kepe me in mind the next time anything of this nature comes up, mm?" Her head tilts, unblinking blue eyes staring each of them down, before she gathered a few things from a pack. A few... Heavy duty things. A sword in a scabbard, a heavy kevlar vest; these were the tools she was likely to need if she is going to breach this place, and even if it did come down to a more peaceful resolution, well...
It was best to be prepared.
After ushering the two out and seeing them on their way, she heads outside to her clapped out Miata; it was the type of car a reckless youth would joyride, and a reckless youth wasn't too far off from what Saoirse was, in the scheme of her lineage and the task she was about to undergo. She shifts it into first, pulling out with a whine of complaint from the overtaxed four-cylinder, before swinging the car around and heading towards the Elm's. Time to see what this was all about.
Her charity uplifts these two unfortunate souls near immediately. A fifty, for each? They surely had done far, far more work than that, but the promise for more, as well as enough to get by for handful of days- more if they pooled it together; that is enough. They do walk out with her, just to disappear down the road, on the opposite direction of Saoirse. What she may -not- see, while she's speeding off into the road, is that they disappear by an alley.
The money they had earned, it is all that is left on the sidewalk - and they don't even have time to scream with whatever that may have befallen them. It is something for her to discover later - perhaps after all that this is over. If instinct is a thing, the only thing clear here is they were followed - and perhaps their mysterious assailant(s) even knew of their meeting.
Unbeknownst and unaware, Saoirse easily finds the place past the junction on the road leading high north between two buildings in a different alley entirely beside the Apartments. Her only obstruction to get to that elusive, strange door at the far end of her current location is trash littering the garbage. There are marks of other things; however. Notably, a portion of the floor seems charred. Devastated by what could be a meteor - or a happy arson that used the secrecy of the alley for his nefarious enjoyment. To her right, the bricks of the opposing wall are jagged through by massive claws - like something, or somethings, propelled themselves up by using it as leverage. The sheer dent suggests something incredibly large, and the paw-print is twice the size of her torso.
All in all, very common sights in the unseen portions of Haven. Not so much as where she goes, where it is hidden only by the rats and the rat-like people that frequent these dim places. Nothing anyone high up in society would've noticed. It's a red door, rusted, sunken into the wall and unassuming. It creaks just by standing on its own - the handle feels like you'd need to take a tetanus shot just by being in its proximity.
Saoirse knows more than most who would tread a dangerous path like this; her senses are keen, her will resolute. Trash and garbage were one thing, but the marks were completely another. With a careful, discerning eye, she regards the char marks, as well as the claws, tilting her head, and looking for any residual thing that could give her a clue as to what this thing could possibly be. The paw-print alone gives her pause, but she was tougher and faster than most, in addition to having a measure of divine blood.
The door in sight, she moves to tug it open, trying to get within. It was likely safer inside of the door than out, especially if that thing was too large to fit the frame, as she is somewhat suspecting to be the case.
Whatever that threat might be; it isn't here. Her acute judgement tells her easily that, yes, whatever guards here might be a formidable creature -- and maybe even that is what killed off her poor helpers in this endeavor - but right now, it isn't here. These marks are old. The threat is ahead, on her way down. A stairway to neglect and decay, it all descends into darkness like the spine of some ancient, forgotten beast. Each step, worn and warped, seems to creak under the weight of time itself, the wood splintering and groaning as though it might crumble beneath the next footfall. The railing, once sturdy, is now little more than a series of jagged, rusted posts, barely clinging to the crumbling wall beside it. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and rot, mingling with a faint, acrid tang of rusted metal.
As the staircase winds deeper, the light from above fades, swallowed by the shadows that cling to the rough, stone walls. The walls themselves are slick with moisture, patches of dark mold creeping up from the base, their tendrils spreading like veins under the skin of some diseased creature. Faint traces of old, flaking paint cling to the walls in patches, the once vibrant colors now dulled and lifeless, consumed by the encroaching darkness.
The steps grow narrower and more uneven as the descent continues, the wood giving way to cold, jagged stone. Here and there, gaps yawn in the steps, revealing the void beneath, a blackness so profound it seems to devour the light before it can even reach the bottom. The air grows colder, more oppressive, the silence broken only by the distant, almost imperceptible drip of water somewhere below - and screams. Either far or very close, more felt than heard in blood curdling echoes.
At the bottom, if there is a bottom, the staircase disappears into the abyss, swallowed whole by the darkness. The final few steps seem to dissolve into the void, as if the staircase itself is unsure of whether it wishes to continue into whatever lies below. The darkness there is thick, almost tangible, a presence in itself, waiting with a breathless anticipation for those who would dare to venture down into its depths. Only for Saoirse to step into the damp floor of what had to be an old mineshaft. The only light here is northbound, far in a gaping hole that serves as a gateway to a man-made hallway of stone.
It's very similar to the descent, in how every doorway is covered and coated by moss, unused, forgotten. Damp beads roll in rivulets down the walls where they don't drip from the sagging ceiling that looks ready to collapse and discharge its payload of rainwater or sewage collected over decades - perhaps for as long as this town stood tall and mightly among the forests that battle its very existence with ruthless tenacity. Only one destination is a certain one for Saoirse, however. Not the doors, that would take a considerable amount of strength to budge open if she even tried to break through the rusted metal. Not the road back that's sunken into darkness - where even now she can hear the steps that led her here break and splinter.
But ahead, that tight hole that looks like she'd have to crawl through to pass. An illusion of distance, of course. She'd only have to duck her head to go through the opening that looks like it was made by an animal as opposed to the rest of her current location. The scent of blood is thick, sickening -- and if she can see even just a little in this overbearing darkness -she'd realize the drip drop of that viscous liquid coming down onto her is not water, nor sewage. It is blood, awaiting release in a sickly sweet smell of rot that has taken it.
At the very least, Saoirse is safe on the descent; she picks her way down the stairs with care trained from a hobby of hiking, full of finesse as she strides her way below. Though her eyes weren't as keen as some, she could at least make out the vagueness of the surroundings, clutching the jian sword close to her as she walked. It is a mercy she did not need a light; that would have made her a bright target amidst the overpowering darkness that surrounded and seems to pervade this place.
The dripping of water, however, causes her eyes to narrow, a look of understanding coming to them.
"A low place, where waters collect..." She takes in a deep breath, her free hand circling at something in front of her chest, before she grasps it, placing it gently to her forehead, a slow mantra issuing from her lips, as she deepens her connections to those waters. They, more than anything else, were her ally in this deep place, and if there was more below, then even moreso they would aid her in her struggle.
Blood is a form of water, right? It surely feels that way, because Saoirse's incantation brings a reinvigorating, albeit jaded and iron, resolution and sensation upon her. It washes through her with simplicity found in power, coarses through her veins like all the blood surrounding her tries to - and who knows, maybe it'd be her boon here in this place as dangerous as it is. Just up ahead, with each step, the light grows brighter and brighter. Now, something else join the sound of echoing screams that she hears first, then their echoes next with her closer proximity.
Just past the treshold, just through there -- and her surroundings widen. It is a vast expanse of what had to be an open hub for a mine shaft's starting zone. It certainl descends further and possibly deeper through several open holes beset on all sides upon the far walls - but she barely has any time to mull over those. They are the least of her concerns, least of anything when her senses are assaulted with every disgusting sensation associated with death encroaches upon her.
Whatever this place used to serve, every rooted object is gone, leaving only their evidence in lighter, soft dirt underneath that feels like mush beneath her boots. It's the blood that makes it muddy - but it is also the death happening around her. What must be dozens of ditches are dug, and above them, people are hung with stern, steel chains that keep them suspended as they gurgle through slit throats into their would-be graves. Their blood is drained, their essence is collected. Whatever operation takes place here, it is costly - especially here in Haven. The cost to arcanists alone to nullify so many people's sanctuary must be out of this world alone -- but then, she doesn't quite feel like she's on Haven, either.
Some sulphuric scent lingers in the air. An acrid smoke, a disturbing sensation of being watched. Through all the gore and decay, all the death that funnels blood to a centerpiece altar set upon the dead center of the hub - where the dagger is visibly held by a cloaked and garbed figure sitting with their legs cross and murmuring incantations over the weapon laid atop his lap -- her attention is drawn elsewhere. Up - right above her beside the entry. Something viscous and clear extends down onto her shoulder. Something is drooling, right there, in the darkness. Something incredibly massive -- and hidden in the veil of darkness.
A moment of disgust fills Saoirse, at the entrance to the main central area; a low point where waters collect, indeed. As water flows as a stream, so too does blood, a simple fact that bolsters her in this place. Rivers and lakes are still rivers and lakes, be they calamitous ichor or calm pure aqua. Then, the drool drips on her shoulder, evoking a shudder from her. She knows, for a fact, that whatever this creature is, it has designs on eating her. Thus, it was better to act first, to get away, instead of trying to immediately fight it, and the immediate target is the cloaked figure. If she could get to it, and then to the dagger it held, the odds would be considerably more in her favor.
She begins to sprint, launching from her position and running full-speed towards the garbed figure, blade at the ready, heedless of whatever was at her back. She would have to rely upon her toughness and the heavy-duty vest she wore to bear the brunt of the blows, if they come; slaying its caretaker, or even summoner, would weaken it immensely, if not completely dissipate it.
Run as she may, Saoirse is only human. The amount of Godblood in her surely counts for something, but here, against what rapidly spiders it way across the ceiling? It is a drop in the ocean. No blows hit her, nothing impedes her approach - not even that thing high above; but every step beckons the wielder of that infused blade to look up. A woman, young, enchanting, wreathed in locks of pure white spilling out beneath her hood, with eyes of a dark, deep red. She's as much of a demon as anything here - and of course, who else but something like her could be the conduit for that thing suspended and spinning on her lap, erupting in acrid smoke with the sheer power it drinks hungrily.
the soft mold of her features are broken by ritualistic lines drawn under her eyes like the paintwork of some voodoo artist, spread enough to veil her ancestry - beyond her demonic heritage. It all fades when the thing above drops in front of Saoirse, creates an obstacle -- and it is a sight.
A towering abomination is her foe; a grotesque mockery of the human form. Its pseudo-humanoid shape is twisted and perverse, the sheer size of the creature dwarfing all else in the vast expanse of this mining hub. The top half is a nightmarish patchwork of stitched-together body parts, mismatched limbs and torsos fused in a chaotic, abhorrent design. The flesh is pale and sickly, marred by ragged seams where coarse black thread barely holds the pieces together. The skin bulges grotesquely at the seams, as though the parts are fighting to tear themselves apart.
Where a face should be, there is only a massive, gaping mouth that dominates the creatures head, a maw that stretches from ear to ear - if it had ears. The mouth is filled with countless jagged, uneven teeth, each one sharp and gleaming with a sinister wetness. The lips are split and torn, revealing gums that pulse with an unnatural, reddish hue, as if the very flesh is raw and freshly wounded. The mouth seems almost too large for the head, with the edges curving up towards the scalp and down to where a chin should be, giving the impression of an eternal, monstrous grin. someone
The rest of its head is featureless - no eyes, no nose, no ears - just a smooth expanse of pale, mottled skin that tightens unnaturally around the horrific mouth. Veins, dark and pulsating, spiderweb across its forehead, throbbing with every breath the creature takes, wheezes out and draws within broken lungs that is evidently a cause for poor exertion. It breathes poorly, but it breathes.. Every now and then, the mouth twitches, as if savoring some unseen prey, a low, rumbling growl emanating from deep within its throat. She is the prey.
Its massive torso connects to a lower half that is a disturbing amalgamation of different creatures. The legs are a chaotic mixture of mismatched, monstrous limbs - one is thick and reptilian, covered in dark scales that shimmer in the dim light, ending in a clawed foot that gouges the ground with every step. The other is thin and sinewy, like that of a large bird, with talons that click against the ground, leaving deep, jagged scratches in its wake. The hips are fused with parts of various creatures - tufts of coarse fur sprout from one side, while patches of rough, leathery skin cover the other. Limbs and tails of various sizes and shapes hang limply from its body, some twitching with a life of their own, others clearly lifeless, mere remnants of the beings they once belonged.
It may become apparent what it seems about to do, this creature that she may connect the dots to - it is what caused those marks outside. From its gaping maw of a mouth, trails of burning viscera run in preparation for a gout of hellfire it brews within its throat. The skin lit, gives sight to the stuffed organs underneath it -- but it doesn't yet do anything, not without an order. In that pause, the break, someone would note something else. IN her mind, just at the back of her perception - a whisper. Something faint, something weak. It beckons her attention, if she were to look, to one of the poor, dying people. A young man, suspended over his own grave. A telepath, no doubt, because in its eyes there is desperation, and in the sight of her, some hope - there is no doubt it is his voice that she hears before it is drowned by his agony. A hint, and just that, before he's dead. Two words, and a sacrifice of his last energy to pass the torch along to Saoirse. If she had any time to look at all, she'd catch the dangling bit of jewelry under his neck. A stylized sun on a pendant. Poor guy's last words?
"Destroy... Ceiling."
Run as she may, Saoirse is only human. The amount of Godblood in her surely counts for something, but here, against what rapidly spiders it way across the ceiling? It is a drop in the ocean. No blows hit her, nothing impedes her approach - not even that thing high above; but every step beckons the wielder of that infused blade to look up. A woman, young, enchanting, wreathed in locks of pure white spilling out beneath her hood, with eyes of a dark, deep red. She's as much of a demon as anything here - and of course, who else but something like her could be the conduit for that thing suspended and spinning on her lap, erupting in acrid smoke with the sheer power it drinks hungrily.
the soft mold of her features are broken by ritualistic lines drawn under her eyes like the paintwork of some voodoo artist, spread enough to veil her ancestry - beyond her demonic heritage. It all fades when the thing above drops in front of Saoirse, creates an obstacle -- and it is a sight.
A towering abomination is her foe; a grotesque mockery of the human form. Its pseudo-humanoid shape is twisted and perverse, the sheer size of the creature dwarfing all else in the vast expanse of this mining hub. The top half is a nightmarish patchwork of stitched-together body parts, mismatched limbs and torsos fused in a chaotic, abhorrent design. The flesh is pale and sickly, marred by ragged seams where coarse black thread barely holds the pieces together. The skin bulges grotesquely at the seams, as though the parts are fighting to tear themselves apart.
Where a face should be, there is only a massive, gaping mouth that dominates the creatures head, a maw that stretches from ear to ear - if it had ears. The mouth is filled with countless jagged, uneven teeth, each one sharp and gleaming with a sinister wetness. The lips are split and torn, revealing gums that pulse with an unnatural, reddish hue, as if the very flesh is raw and freshly wounded. The mouth seems almost too large for the head, with the edges curving up towards the scalp and down to where a chin should be, giving the impression of an eternal, monstrous grin.
The rest of its head is featureless - no eyes, no nose, no ears - just a smooth expanse of pale, mottled skin that tightens unnaturally around the horrific mouth. Veins, dark and pulsating, spiderweb across its forehead, throbbing with every breath the creature takes, wheezes out and draws within broken lungs that is evidently a cause for poor exertion. It breathes poorly, but it breathes.. Every now and then, the mouth twitches, as if savoring some unseen prey, a low, rumbling growl emanating from deep within its throat. She is the prey.
Its massive torso connects to a lower half that is a disturbing amalgamation of different creatures. The legs are a chaotic mixture of mismatched, monstrous limbs - one is thick and reptilian, covered in dark scales that shimmer in the dim light, ending in a clawed foot that gouges the ground with every step. The other is thin and sinewy, like that of a large bird, with talons that click against the ground, leaving deep, jagged scratches in its wake. The hips are fused with parts of various creatures - tufts of coarse fur sprout from one side, while patches of rough, leathery skin cover the other. Limbs and tails of various sizes and shapes hang limply from its body, some twitching with a life of their own, others clearly lifeless, mere remnants of the beings they once belonged.
It may become apparent what it seems about to do, this creature that she may connect the dots to - it is what caused those marks outside. From its gaping maw of a mouth, trails of burning viscera run in preparation for a gout of hellfire it brews within its throat. The skin lit, gives sight to the stuffed organs underneath it -- but it doesn't yet do anything, not without an order. In that pause, the break, someone would note something else. IN her mind, just at the back of her perception - a whisper. Something faint, something weak. It beckons her attention, if she were to look, to one of the poor, dying people. A young man, suspended over his own grave. A telepath, no doubt, because in its eyes there is desperation, and in the sight of her, some hope - there is no doubt it is his voice that she hears before it is drowned by his agony. A hint, and just that, before he's dead. Two words, and a sacrifice of his last energy to pass the torch along to Saoirse. If she had any time to look at all, she'd catch the dangling bit of jewelry under his neck. A stylized sun on a pendant. Poor guy's last words?
"Destroy... Ceiling."
Run as she may, Saoirse is only human. The amount of Godblood in her surely counts for something, but here, against what rapidly spiders it way across the ceiling? It is a drop in the ocean. No blows hit her, nothing impedes her approach - not even that thing high above; but every step beckons the wielder of that infused blade to look up. A woman, young, enchanting, wreathed in locks of pure white spilling out beneath her hood, with eyes of a dark, deep red. She's as much of a demon as anything here - and of course, who else but something like her could be the conduit for that thing suspended and spinning on her lap, erupting in acrid smoke with the sheer power it drinks hungrily.
the soft mold of her features are broken by ritualistic lines drawn under her eyes like the paintwork of some voodoo artist, spread enough to veil her ancestry - beyond her demonic heritage. It all fades when the thing above drops in front of Saoirse, creates an obstacle -- and it is a sight.
A towering abomination is her foe; a grotesque mockery of the human form. Its pseudo-humanoid shape is twisted and perverse, the sheer size of the creature dwarfing all else in the vast expanse of this mining hub. The top half is a nightmarish patchwork of stitched-together body parts, mismatched limbs and torsos fused in a chaotic, abhorrent design. The flesh is pale and sickly, marred by ragged seams where coarse black thread barely holds the pieces together. The skin bulges grotesquely at the seams, as though the parts are fighting to tear themselves apart.
Where a face should be, there is only a massive, gaping mouth that dominates the creatures head, a maw that stretches from ear to ear - if it had ears. The mouth is filled with countless jagged, uneven teeth, each one sharp and gleaming with a sinister wetness. The lips are split and torn, revealing gums that pulse with an unnatural, reddish hue, as if the very flesh is raw and freshly wounded. The mouth seems almost too large for the head, with the edges curving up towards the scalp and down to where a chin should be, giving the impression of an eternal, monstrous grin.
The rest of its head is featureless - no eyes, no nose, no ears - just a smooth expanse of pale, mottled skin that tightens unnaturally around the horrific mouth. Veins, dark and pulsating, spiderweb across its forehead, throbbing with every breath the creature takes, wheezes out and draws within broken lungs that is evidently a cause for poor exertion. It breathes poorly, but it breathes.. Every now and then, the mouth twitches, as if savoring some unseen prey, a low, rumbling growl emanating from deep within its throat. She is the prey.
Its massive torso connects to a lower half that is a disturbing amalgamation of different creatures. The legs are a chaotic mixture of mismatched, monstrous limbs - one is thick and reptilian, covered in dark scales that shimmer in the dim light, ending in a clawed foot that gouges the ground with every step. The other is thin and sinewy, like that of a large bird, with talons that click against the ground, leaving deep, jagged scratches in its wake. The hips are fused with parts of various creatures - tufts of coarse fur sprout from one side, while patches of rough, leathery skin cover the other. Limbs and tails of various sizes and shapes hang limply from its body, some twitching with a life of their own, others clearly lifeless, mere remnants of the beings they once belonged.
It may become apparent what it seems about to do, this creature that she may connect the dots to - it is what caused those marks outside. From its gaping maw of a mouth, trails of burning viscera run in preparation for a gout of hellfire it brews within its throat. The skin lit, gives sight to the stuffed organs underneath it -- but it doesn't yet do anything, not without an order. In that pause, the break, Saoirse would note something else. IN her mind, just at the back of her perception - a whisper. Something faint, something weak. It beckons her attention, if she were to look, to one of the poor, dying people. A young man, suspended over his own grave. A telepath, no doubt, because in its eyes there is desperation, and in the sight of her, some hope - there is no doubt it is his voice that she hears before it is drowned by his agony. A hint, and just that, before he's dead. Two words, and a sacrifice of his last energy to pass the torch along to Saoirse. If she had any time to look at all, she'd catch the dangling bit of jewelry under his neck. A stylized sun on a pendant. Poor guy's last words?
"Destroy... Ceiling."
Saoirse sees the path in front of her; even if it is not quite a path she -wants- to take, it is still the only path she knows to take for survival. Burying the disgust, the loathing for the horrifying thing in front of her, she quickly lashes out with the jian sword, aiming to deliver a quick slash to some of the black threads binding one of the pieces of itself together. If it was, quite literally, bursting at the seams, then damaging these seams would, hopefully, at least distract it enough for her to get some movement going somewhere else. This light strike, however, was not the main focus of what she was trying to do. Looking at the bodies, she steps back neatly, pivoting about and sprinting towards one of them, trying to jump up on one and use the chain to climb upwards. If the thing followed her, it'd risk destroying the bodies that seemed to fuel whatever magic was sustaining this place; was this a risk that they'd be willing to take?
Time to find out.
A quiet laughter rings behind Saoirse. Of course her strike lands true - the creature is stock still, like a wicked statue that bars the path - save for its twitching, the foul blood that fuels its body, moving back and forth to grant motion to stiff, dead limbs. It doesn't even scream, not even a peep while the seams burst at the lightest touch - severs one of its many arms, and it is left on the floor. In its place, there is a gaping hole. Within that abyss inside of it, there are thousands of eyes of different shades and different colors that stare at her - watch while its master laughs - unaware of Saoirse's determined attempt to lunge for one of the corpses, and cause it to swing like a pendulum under her weight.
It swings once, then twice, and the cold corpse underneath is stiff and still again, where she has free access to climb for whatever she would do up there. Up close, it's easily seen, however. Her fallen bretheren that braved the dangers here before her gave her a solid direction, though to what end is curious. The ceiling here, just as it is in other places, is swollen. Like a bloating wound ready to be punctured and spill its bile - it hangs heavy overhead, drawn out further by all the chains hooked through it. Blood seeps out onto the steel of them from where they meet the soggy earth above, and while the cultist laughs, entertained by yet another futile attempt and more tinder for her ritualistic flame - she waits.
Saoirse didn't even pay the creature much mind at all, as she started to climb up one of the chains, hooking her legs around it and shimmying up, up, up towards the sagging, bulging ceiling. Something within her knew that there was more water - scratch that, fluid - in wait above, more than enough of it to satisfy her need for it to bolster her power in this place. If she is not stopped, she climbs all the way up, and begins to rock back and forth, back and forth, trying to swing on the chain to bring it closer and closer to the lowest point of the swelling, and hopefully right above the creature and its summoner.
Once she has gotten close enough to reach it, perhaps, with the jian sword, she lashes out with the keen blade, swinging towards the swelling in an aim to puncture it, to make it spill its contents below, whatever they might be. Hopefully the torrent would open up some kind of opening for her to approach the ritualist; she prepares herself to leap from the chain down below, eyes locked on the cultist.
Her plans are slightly altered. Saoirse would find the swelling above 'pops', and then it is all awash with blood. It's a current that grows, but she keeps her blade, even if she's sstrewn aside viciously through the haze of red. It's a sea that's falling from above - a simple show of just how many they had killed already - and how much effort the Destined Host efforted in bringing this artifact to its zenith. While the current carries Saoirse out southbound, nearly towards that hole drinking every drop of red towards the hallway she came from, the laughter is.. louder. Her one grace is that she can breathe underwater and hve all of her senses to be able to tell what transpires.
Behind her, it all glows - a dark swirl of energy that even with her less than keen magical attunement tells her something wrong just happened- and all the blood serves to empower the relic of her target. Up, up, and higher - to a level that is impossible to discern. Static floods her senses, skews her perception, stills her breathing and fuzzies her mind until everything suddenly descends to the blank recess of her own mind in consciousness that fades.
Maybe hours, maybe minutes.
When Saoirse wakes, it is by the stairwell again. High, high above, actually - set on a stone step that washes blood in ebbs and flows. It had carried her to safety up here, soaked her in its vile ichor, top to bottom - left her sore in everywhere, and if it had been anyone else, they'd surely be rife with injury and wounds from cuts and scraped but the liquid had preserved her. What happened becomes clear only when her vision, if she wipes blood off of her face, returns. With it comes rememberance - the act of absorbtion - and the fault that lied therein. The blade soaked all the power, surely, but the conduit? It was not prepared for all that it had consumed, not all at once. Where that cultist was, is now a puddle of blood lost among the veritable sea of all others in silence broken by groaning stone and wood all around her. The creature is nowhere to be seen, of course. Without its master, who could tell where it fled? What sort of mischief and evilry it seeks? But it is lost, deep in the caverns below where it had escaped. The dagger; nowhere to be found.
Maybe to resurface, one day.
Saoirse comes to, returned to consciousness, at the shores of the overwhelming torrent of blood. It is only due to the fact that her innate connection to the water sustained her within the seemingly endless ocean that she even survived to begin with; she coughs out what seems to be an endless spray of the stuff from her lungs and mouth, none of it her own. Shock lays itself clear upon her face, as she holds onto herself, shivering, by the edge of the bloody ocean.
Blood sustained her in this; that much was certain. Was she even really that much different than the vampires that feed off of such a vile ichor? She breathes it as easily as she does the currents of water, was kept alive by it... She shakes her head, trying to throw off the ruminations, and her...
Was it a failure? The cultist clearly had popped like a bad zit from the excess that she had to absorb, all at once; even if she has failed at retrieving the dagger, it was obvious that it would be difficult in the extreme to retrieve it from such a harrowing depth. With a sigh, she stands up, and wipes the fluid from herself as best as she was able, before making the long, long trek back to her car, and then back home.
One thing was for certain, she needs a shower.
In her slow, slippery ascent - things are still once again. An afternoon sun, so different than the early morning one that shone on her, greets her upon her eventual exit. Yet, far, far behind in the vile depths - in the source of her minute brush with corruption inhaling blood infused with the demonic, the stillness of the blood stirs. A ripple, and another, in lengthy intervals. A few bubbles, and then nothing. Something screams, deep below. Something, with a new weapon, bolstered by it, masterless - it hungers, constantly, and without the magic to sustain the small gap between this world and the next? It is trapped here, under all of that red ichor. It waits, to be unearthed, if it will even ever happen again.
Saoirse really needs a shower.
The outcome, however, is a stark mix of failure and unexpected fortune. Saoirse's attempt to weaken the abomination and halt the ritual results in the unintended release of an overwhelming deluge of blood, washing away the ritual's participants and forcing the abomination into retreat. Although the cultist and the conduit for the ritual explode under the pressure of the unleashed power, rendering The Yurei's Fang lost in the depths of the lair, Saoirse narrowly survives the ordeal, carried to safety by the very blood she sought to use against her foes. As she emerges from the lair, battered but alive, the realization of her grim victory and the artifact's uncertain fate weigh heavily upon her. The dangers averted for now, the blood-stained warrior contemplates the consequences of her actions, the pervasive threat of the demonic, and her own resilience against the backdrop of a battle far from concluded.
(Saoirse's odd encounter(SRDean):SRDean)
[Wed Aug 21 2024]
In a luxurious cool-toned bedroom with a platform bed
In this sanctuary of sleep, the bedroom basks in cool-toned luxury. A centerpiece platform bed, low and sleek, anchors the space, adorned with linens in a palette of soft silver and tranquil blue. The walls, a soothing slate grey, serve as a serene canvas, complementing minimalist art pieces that whisper tales of abstract beauty.
The room glows softly under recessed lighting, while chrome-accented bedside lamps offer a focused luminescence. A grand window, dressed in sheer silvery curtains, invites daylight to dance on the polished hardwood floors and, by night, frames the starry sky, marrying the rooms elegance with the beauty of the natural world outside.
It is morning, about 73F(22C) degrees,
(A sacred artifact, believed to enhance demonic power, has been stolen from a local museum and signs point to The Destined Host being behind the theft. Your target and their allies must retrieve this artifact before The Destined Host can use it in one of their dark rituals to strengthen the demons' hold on the world. They must infiltrate the faction's secret lair, face the hostile members, and secure the artifact. Their decisions could lead to a confrontation with the demonic entities The Destined Host is allied with, or even a temporary alliance with the faction if they can be convinced that another, greater threat is looming.)
is quite busy at work. And by quite busy at work, she means professionally relaxing, and teaching others to do the same.
Sitting cross-legged and neatly in place atop the navy-blue cushion she favored for teaching her lessons from, Saoirse is currently instructing a few of the citizenry on the finer points of meditation according to her internal alchemy methodology; she doesn't have any greater students that have gotten nearly as far as she has with the techniques, however. A deep breath is drawn in, and then let out in a soothing rush, before she opens her eyes and nods to the group.
"Alright, thank you very much for coming in today, I'm glad we could have this moment of mindfulness and joy in your lives. Remember to keep the ocean within yourself, and keep practicing, so that you can have it present within you at any moment. Have a nice day, and be sure to check out the store on the way out!" She beams at whoever remained, before standing up and doing a few stretches in order to work the tightness out of her muscles. It always took a moment for her to limber up after some of the longer sessions; her body wants to go out and do things, and her mind wants to be restless, so taking a break from that makes her anxious, antsy. Perhaps something will come up that will stir the pot, so to speak, and give her an outlet for that energy.
emote Morning arrives gently in this sanctuary of relaxation, where luxury is hidden in every crevice of every nook and cranny. The centerpiece of the room, all those mats spread out evenly, rest low and inviting for all the denizens currently absorbed in their lecture. Their soft silver and tranquil blue material undisturbed, as if the session passed in silent contemplation for the most part without much jostling - even if from no one, at least one or two people to be certain. The air is cool, almost crisp, carrying the faintest hint of freshness from the world outside, yet the quiet carries an eerie weight, as if holding its breath.
The walls, painted in calming hues and elevating decor to avoid distraction, relent in the sense of stillness they've embodied up until now, and give the meditation center a livelier atmosphere. A calming music, subtle in its design, seem almost to blend into the background, an abstract beauty whispered too softly for most to hear, while the room is illuminated by recessed lighting, a gentle glow that caresses the edges of the space, while chrome-accented lamps stand ready to cast focused beams come the night - should the need arise. The light, though warm, feels subdued, as if reluctant to fully chase away the shadows that cling to the corners of this early morning day stretching to noon at a snail's pace.
A grand window dominates one wall near the entry, its sheer silvery curtains barely moving, and outside, the glass beyond reveals a world just beginning to stir by birds of a late feather, waking just now to start the second bout of commute for people that start their work somewhat later. The polished hardwood floor beneath the window catches this delicate light, reflecting it back in a dance of muted radiance. Yet, for all its elegance, the view outside seems oddly still. Today, for all of its mundane calm, seems eager for something. Some danger, or another, afoot and waiting with its open jaws, prepared, but for what, who could ever tell in Haven?
The silence is almost tangible to Saoirse, an ominous quiet that wraps itself around the meditation center like a second skin. The usual morning sounds - a distant car, a birds song, the rustle of leaves - they are all conspicuously absent, leaving only the soft, steady ticking of a clock somewhere in the background to mark the passage of time as people begin to give her their thanks and begin filing out one by one into the pleasant morning outside while the weather is still almost perfect and absent of the noon heat, but that unsettling stillness in the air, it is enough to raise the hair on the nape of her neck high with the anticipation of something. Her thoughts are disrupted with the clearing of a throat.
Three times, and that's it. Just enough to call her attention from the side as opposed to watching the rest pack their mats into a corner as is proper and begin their exit. If she were to turn, she'd be face to face with not one, but two people waiting for her. The people that didn't participate but viewed much of her lecture - for this chance alone. She'd recognize them, obviously, from their haggard looks to the glint in their eyes. All too aware that what they know, with her, might be another free meal or a few bills tucked into their pocket, and that's all they need - these jaded sort of folk; who are aware, who are the silent eyes and ears of a lot of people - but right now? They're Saorise's. They don't speak, but their furtive glances waiting for the place to be empty tells enough that they're waiting for her to give the 'go ahead' for them to tell her what they're here for.
Saoirse recognized this pair. She has dealt with them in the past, offering them a place to sleep on occasion when the shelters nearby had filled up too much, or perhaps they knew more of the Good News Center than most, and chose to go to a less proselytizing place, one less fiery in its doctrine. After all, her center was a place of mercy; it is understandable why those who come to her center do so. The modern world is in shambles, and a moment's respite from it was attractive even to the most hurried and dedicated priests to its rapid, golden order. Even if they went right back to their business and suffering, they carry a seed, something inside of themselves that could blossom into greater peace; perhaps they might realize the folly of their ways, and return.
She approaches, nodding to them both in turn, before going to a hot water kettle and pouring out a small cup of tea for each of them, handing them both one, before pouring herself one. "It's important to receive guests gracefully, I think. Now, let's go up." She gestures to the spiral staircase leading up behind the shop counter, and began to climb the stairs, before unlocking the door at the top and entering within.
As above, so below; a massive window was upon the eastern window, facing towards the dawning sun in the floor above; this place was a quiet, private sanctuary amidst the city, and on the southern wall lies a collection of three icons with prayer mats in front of them; icons dedicated to the Three Pure Ones. Cubbyholes carry nicknacks and other sundry trinkets along the northern wall, including several pots and containers with herbs and other strange unguents. She cultivates this environment for her own use, and none other. She settles neatly on the floor, not needing the cushion here, and nods to the two that came to her. "So, tell me what it is you have for me today."
Sufficiently tea'd up, the pair nods, first to Saoirse, in unison - then to each other when she's taken the path up ahead of them. Neither say anything, not yet, not while they could be eavesdropped - but in their ascent to the top, they eventually land in proximity of their benefactor - with one of them closing the door in her wake for the benefit of them all. While the initial one that was closest does take a seat, he's also ruffling through something under that heavy, out-of-season overcoat he has. Fingerless gloves deftly pick through for what he seeks.
The other, he's standing guard. By the door, between it and the window, standing like a hawk with stern blue eyes peering between the two, no doubt decades of hard-living had made him an expert of that if nothing else. He does, however, drink of the tea in his hands - while his compadre has left his on the floor in front of him for his endeavor that is now evidently pulling out folder after folder after folder.
Saoirse would find them laid out, shut, with an uplifted finger asking for a moment to pause - nonverbally tell her; not yet. Soon, but not yet. His last piece is a trio of photographs taken by a shaky, old polaroid, frayed and smudged at the edges of the image. One looks to have endured the harsh, putrid alleys because it looks totally repulsive to touch with its sogginess that the man's coat couldn't absorb. "There is talk down the grapevine about this - and.." Another look, between one another, before both men look upon her, now. "We thought you'd appreciate it." Appreciate. It almost sounds like they expect payment for it, somehow, someday.
Should Saoirse decide to take her attention down on what is presented, the pictures are all of the same object - set on a pedestal in what has to be a library, or an auction. A long, curved dagger with a blade forged from blackened steel sits atop, three pictures, three angles, same thing, almost like obsidian and gleaming. The hilt is wrapped in crimson silk and studded with small onyx stones, etched in tiny runic marks that would've certainly glow if she could look at it in person. "They call it The Yureis Fang. Some demonic cult frm the Heian period." Then, in a more hushed tone, giving space for Saoirse to absorb the information. "We heard, the Destined Host want it - somethin' about usin' it to.." He clears his throat for a mote of discomfort in revelation; "Channel the wrath of the dead - an' you know, they kill a lot of us for their rituals, we warn people not to go, but.." Cash is the answer. They obviously buy people under the false pretense of giving work, just to off them. Such an artifact, with how many people they kill? It would turn any formidable force into a legendary one.
Saoirse is patient. It is one of the prime reasons she cultivated the arts of motion and stillness; it is far easier to accept and do something about one's circumstances if one can wait and do what is needed -when- it is needed. She waits for them to lay out the photos and give more of the details. As they recount the details of it, her face slowly morphs into a scowl. Mercy is what she champions, and this is not mercy; this is wanton slaying to bolster ones ranks, ones power. Though she herself knows the use of such things, there is also the simple fact that doing this... It will result in them getting caught, sooner or later, and it is best that someone who knows how to deal in such things handles it rather than some irresponsible person.
"I thank you for bringing this to my attention." Her gaze flicks to the two men, nodding gently, before she rises from her seated position. "I'm curious if you know where they're gathering these people for this. It must be the same place they're offering people to come to for money, right?" Her head tilts, eyes shining with that bluer-than-blue, a calm serenity; a moment before a storm.
"'Course, you're good to us, and we.." The men look to one another again. The one by the door nods. Confirmation? Approval? The one closest to her speaks anyway. "We know you're connected, an' all that. Better in a friend's hand, y'know?" A bead of sweat rolls down the corner of his face, down to his chin. Dirty as he is, he only smears more of that dirt when he wipes it with the back of his gloved hand, and clears his throat to divulge more information - reach for one of the folders.
"We did some digging already. Followed them an' all that while some of us were being lead..." A heavy loss, it sounds like - because the unsaid here is those of them that were led did not return. It is confirming of someone' suspicions about it all. The first folder he opens, it talks about what the man says, "The dagger's gonna make any of your 'magic' much stronger, or so they were saying. It makes whoever holds it faster, stronger - a bunch of other shit - and it sounds t'me like there is no limit to it. More they kill, stronger it gets."
Second folder, he smudges the edge while opening it, lays out photos of a run-down door by some alley. There isn't anyone that stands guard, for secrecy sake, and so, the next few photos are of a deeper descent. Flights upon flights of stairs, and lastly, a large hallway leading to many, many doors of who knows where. "That's as far as we got. It's dug at the backside of a building behind the Elm's, forest side." The rest of the notes are everything one needs to get there, save for a gps and a vehicle. It looks like this pair did all the scouting - or maybe more of them were involved, too, but who's to say? The ball is in Saoirse's court, now.
"'Course, you're good to us, and we.." The men look to one another again. The one by the door nods. Confirmation? Approval? The one closest to her speaks anyway. "We know you're connected, an' all that. Better in a friend's hand, y'know?" A bead of sweat rolls down the corner of his face, down to his chin. Dirty as he is, he only smears more of that dirt when he wipes it with the back of his gloved hand, and clears his throat to divulge more information - reach for one of the folders.
"We did some digging already. Followed them an' all that while some of us were being lead..." A heavy loss, it sounds like - because the unsaid here is those of them that were led did not return. It is confirming of Saoirse's suspicions about it all. The first folder he opens, it talks about what the man says, "The dagger's gonna make any of your 'magic' much stronger, or so they were saying. It makes whoever holds it faster, stronger - a bunch of other shit - and it sounds t'me like there is no limit to it. More they kill, stronger it gets."
Second folder, he smudges the edge while opening it, lays out photos of a run-down door by some alley. There isn't anyone that stands guard, for secrecy sake, and so, the next few photos are of a deeper descent. Flights upon flights of stairs, and lastly, a large hallway leading to many, many doors of who knows where. "That's as far as we got. It's dug at the backside of a building behind the Elm's, forest side." The rest of the notes are everything one needs to get there, save for a gps and a vehicle. It looks like this pair did all the scouting - or maybe more of them were involved, too, but who's to say? The ball is in Saoirse's court, now.
So it was. "Of course I'm good to you. Others won't be. This is clear evidence of that." There was nothing but a placid calm with the way Saoirse spoke about this; perhaps some would find it comforting, perhaps some would find it chilling. The dagger has a number of interesting qualities about it, especially to her, in her role as a combatant for the Temple. But... The sheer fact that one had to take life to use it, that bothered her. Whether she chose to use it or not, she would report it to them; best for it not to exist, or if it had to exist, in the hands of those who could turn it to more useful purposes.
In the immediate moment, she gives each of them a crisp fifty dollar bill; the center manages to make quite a bit of money with its services, after all, and this was a paltry pittance. "If I am successful, there will be more rewards, of course. I trust you will kepe me in mind the next time anything of this nature comes up, mm?" Her head tilts, unblinking blue eyes staring each of them down, before she gathered a few things from a pack. A few... Heavy duty things. A sword in a scabbard, a heavy kevlar vest; these were the tools she was likely to need if she is going to breach this place, and even if it did come down to a more peaceful resolution, well...
It was best to be prepared.
After ushering the two out and seeing them on their way, she heads outside to her clapped out Miata; it was the type of car a reckless youth would joyride, and a reckless youth wasn't too far off from what Saoirse was, in the scheme of her lineage and the task she was about to undergo. She shifts it into first, pulling out with a whine of complaint from the overtaxed four-cylinder, before swinging the car around and heading towards the Elm's. Time to see what this was all about.
Her charity uplifts these two unfortunate souls near immediately. A fifty, for each? They surely had done far, far more work than that, but the promise for more, as well as enough to get by for handful of days- more if they pooled it together; that is enough. They do walk out with her, just to disappear down the road, on the opposite direction of Saoirse. What she may -not- see, while she's speeding off into the road, is that they disappear by an alley.
The money they had earned, it is all that is left on the sidewalk - and they don't even have time to scream with whatever that may have befallen them. It is something for her to discover later - perhaps after all that this is over. If instinct is a thing, the only thing clear here is they were followed - and perhaps their mysterious assailant(s) even knew of their meeting.
Unbeknownst and unaware, Saoirse easily finds the place past the junction on the road leading high north between two buildings in a different alley entirely beside the Apartments. Her only obstruction to get to that elusive, strange door at the far end of her current location is trash littering the garbage. There are marks of other things; however. Notably, a portion of the floor seems charred. Devastated by what could be a meteor - or a happy arson that used the secrecy of the alley for his nefarious enjoyment. To her right, the bricks of the opposing wall are jagged through by massive claws - like something, or somethings, propelled themselves up by using it as leverage. The sheer dent suggests something incredibly large, and the paw-print is twice the size of her torso.
All in all, very common sights in the unseen portions of Haven. Not so much as where she goes, where it is hidden only by the rats and the rat-like people that frequent these dim places. Nothing anyone high up in society would've noticed. It's a red door, rusted, sunken into the wall and unassuming. It creaks just by standing on its own - the handle feels like you'd need to take a tetanus shot just by being in its proximity.
Saoirse knows more than most who would tread a dangerous path like this; her senses are keen, her will resolute. Trash and garbage were one thing, but the marks were completely another. With a careful, discerning eye, she regards the char marks, as well as the claws, tilting her head, and looking for any residual thing that could give her a clue as to what this thing could possibly be. The paw-print alone gives her pause, but she was tougher and faster than most, in addition to having a measure of divine blood.
The door in sight, she moves to tug it open, trying to get within. It was likely safer inside of the door than out, especially if that thing was too large to fit the frame, as she is somewhat suspecting to be the case.
Whatever that threat might be; it isn't here. Her acute judgement tells her easily that, yes, whatever guards here might be a formidable creature -- and maybe even that is what killed off her poor helpers in this endeavor - but right now, it isn't here. These marks are old. The threat is ahead, on her way down. A stairway to neglect and decay, it all descends into darkness like the spine of some ancient, forgotten beast. Each step, worn and warped, seems to creak under the weight of time itself, the wood splintering and groaning as though it might crumble beneath the next footfall. The railing, once sturdy, is now little more than a series of jagged, rusted posts, barely clinging to the crumbling wall beside it. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and rot, mingling with a faint, acrid tang of rusted metal.
As the staircase winds deeper, the light from above fades, swallowed by the shadows that cling to the rough, stone walls. The walls themselves are slick with moisture, patches of dark mold creeping up from the base, their tendrils spreading like veins under the skin of some diseased creature. Faint traces of old, flaking paint cling to the walls in patches, the once vibrant colors now dulled and lifeless, consumed by the encroaching darkness.
The steps grow narrower and more uneven as the descent continues, the wood giving way to cold, jagged stone. Here and there, gaps yawn in the steps, revealing the void beneath, a blackness so profound it seems to devour the light before it can even reach the bottom. The air grows colder, more oppressive, the silence broken only by the distant, almost imperceptible drip of water somewhere below - and screams. Either far or very close, more felt than heard in blood curdling echoes.
At the bottom, if there is a bottom, the staircase disappears into the abyss, swallowed whole by the darkness. The final few steps seem to dissolve into the void, as if the staircase itself is unsure of whether it wishes to continue into whatever lies below. The darkness there is thick, almost tangible, a presence in itself, waiting with a breathless anticipation for those who would dare to venture down into its depths. Only for Saoirse to step into the damp floor of what had to be an old mineshaft. The only light here is northbound, far in a gaping hole that serves as a gateway to a man-made hallway of stone.
It's very similar to the descent, in how every doorway is covered and coated by moss, unused, forgotten. Damp beads roll in rivulets down the walls where they don't drip from the sagging ceiling that looks ready to collapse and discharge its payload of rainwater or sewage collected over decades - perhaps for as long as this town stood tall and mightly among the forests that battle its very existence with ruthless tenacity. Only one destination is a certain one for Saoirse, however. Not the doors, that would take a considerable amount of strength to budge open if she even tried to break through the rusted metal. Not the road back that's sunken into darkness - where even now she can hear the steps that led her here break and splinter.
But ahead, that tight hole that looks like she'd have to crawl through to pass. An illusion of distance, of course. She'd only have to duck her head to go through the opening that looks like it was made by an animal as opposed to the rest of her current location. The scent of blood is thick, sickening -- and if she can see even just a little in this overbearing darkness -she'd realize the drip drop of that viscous liquid coming down onto her is not water, nor sewage. It is blood, awaiting release in a sickly sweet smell of rot that has taken it.
At the very least, Saoirse is safe on the descent; she picks her way down the stairs with care trained from a hobby of hiking, full of finesse as she strides her way below. Though her eyes weren't as keen as some, she could at least make out the vagueness of the surroundings, clutching the jian sword close to her as she walked. It is a mercy she did not need a light; that would have made her a bright target amidst the overpowering darkness that surrounded and seems to pervade this place.
The dripping of water, however, causes her eyes to narrow, a look of understanding coming to them.
"A low place, where waters collect..." She takes in a deep breath, her free hand circling at something in front of her chest, before she grasps it, placing it gently to her forehead, a slow mantra issuing from her lips, as she deepens her connections to those waters. They, more than anything else, were her ally in this deep place, and if there was more below, then even moreso they would aid her in her struggle.
Blood is a form of water, right? It surely feels that way, because Saoirse's incantation brings a reinvigorating, albeit jaded and iron, resolution and sensation upon her. It washes through her with simplicity found in power, coarses through her veins like all the blood surrounding her tries to - and who knows, maybe it'd be her boon here in this place as dangerous as it is. Just up ahead, with each step, the light grows brighter and brighter. Now, something else join the sound of echoing screams that she hears first, then their echoes next with her closer proximity.
Just past the treshold, just through there -- and her surroundings widen. It is a vast expanse of what had to be an open hub for a mine shaft's starting zone. It certainl descends further and possibly deeper through several open holes beset on all sides upon the far walls - but she barely has any time to mull over those. They are the least of her concerns, least of anything when her senses are assaulted with every disgusting sensation associated with death encroaches upon her.
Whatever this place used to serve, every rooted object is gone, leaving only their evidence in lighter, soft dirt underneath that feels like mush beneath her boots. It's the blood that makes it muddy - but it is also the death happening around her. What must be dozens of ditches are dug, and above them, people are hung with stern, steel chains that keep them suspended as they gurgle through slit throats into their would-be graves. Their blood is drained, their essence is collected. Whatever operation takes place here, it is costly - especially here in Haven. The cost to arcanists alone to nullify so many people's sanctuary must be out of this world alone -- but then, she doesn't quite feel like she's on Haven, either.
Some sulphuric scent lingers in the air. An acrid smoke, a disturbing sensation of being watched. Through all the gore and decay, all the death that funnels blood to a centerpiece altar set upon the dead center of the hub - where the dagger is visibly held by a cloaked and garbed figure sitting with their legs cross and murmuring incantations over the weapon laid atop his lap -- her attention is drawn elsewhere. Up - right above her beside the entry. Something viscous and clear extends down onto her shoulder. Something is drooling, right there, in the darkness. Something incredibly massive -- and hidden in the veil of darkness.
A moment of disgust fills Saoirse, at the entrance to the main central area; a low point where waters collect, indeed. As water flows as a stream, so too does blood, a simple fact that bolsters her in this place. Rivers and lakes are still rivers and lakes, be they calamitous ichor or calm pure aqua. Then, the drool drips on her shoulder, evoking a shudder from her. She knows, for a fact, that whatever this creature is, it has designs on eating her. Thus, it was better to act first, to get away, instead of trying to immediately fight it, and the immediate target is the cloaked figure. If she could get to it, and then to the dagger it held, the odds would be considerably more in her favor.
She begins to sprint, launching from her position and running full-speed towards the garbed figure, blade at the ready, heedless of whatever was at her back. She would have to rely upon her toughness and the heavy-duty vest she wore to bear the brunt of the blows, if they come; slaying its caretaker, or even summoner, would weaken it immensely, if not completely dissipate it.
Run as she may, Saoirse is only human. The amount of Godblood in her surely counts for something, but here, against what rapidly spiders it way across the ceiling? It is a drop in the ocean. No blows hit her, nothing impedes her approach - not even that thing high above; but every step beckons the wielder of that infused blade to look up. A woman, young, enchanting, wreathed in locks of pure white spilling out beneath her hood, with eyes of a dark, deep red. She's as much of a demon as anything here - and of course, who else but something like her could be the conduit for that thing suspended and spinning on her lap, erupting in acrid smoke with the sheer power it drinks hungrily.
the soft mold of her features are broken by ritualistic lines drawn under her eyes like the paintwork of some voodoo artist, spread enough to veil her ancestry - beyond her demonic heritage. It all fades when the thing above drops in front of Saoirse, creates an obstacle -- and it is a sight.
A towering abomination is her foe; a grotesque mockery of the human form. Its pseudo-humanoid shape is twisted and perverse, the sheer size of the creature dwarfing all else in the vast expanse of this mining hub. The top half is a nightmarish patchwork of stitched-together body parts, mismatched limbs and torsos fused in a chaotic, abhorrent design. The flesh is pale and sickly, marred by ragged seams where coarse black thread barely holds the pieces together. The skin bulges grotesquely at the seams, as though the parts are fighting to tear themselves apart.
Where a face should be, there is only a massive, gaping mouth that dominates the creatures head, a maw that stretches from ear to ear - if it had ears. The mouth is filled with countless jagged, uneven teeth, each one sharp and gleaming with a sinister wetness. The lips are split and torn, revealing gums that pulse with an unnatural, reddish hue, as if the very flesh is raw and freshly wounded. The mouth seems almost too large for the head, with the edges curving up towards the scalp and down to where a chin should be, giving the impression of an eternal, monstrous grin. someone
The rest of its head is featureless - no eyes, no nose, no ears - just a smooth expanse of pale, mottled skin that tightens unnaturally around the horrific mouth. Veins, dark and pulsating, spiderweb across its forehead, throbbing with every breath the creature takes, wheezes out and draws within broken lungs that is evidently a cause for poor exertion. It breathes poorly, but it breathes.. Every now and then, the mouth twitches, as if savoring some unseen prey, a low, rumbling growl emanating from deep within its throat. She is the prey.
Its massive torso connects to a lower half that is a disturbing amalgamation of different creatures. The legs are a chaotic mixture of mismatched, monstrous limbs - one is thick and reptilian, covered in dark scales that shimmer in the dim light, ending in a clawed foot that gouges the ground with every step. The other is thin and sinewy, like that of a large bird, with talons that click against the ground, leaving deep, jagged scratches in its wake. The hips are fused with parts of various creatures - tufts of coarse fur sprout from one side, while patches of rough, leathery skin cover the other. Limbs and tails of various sizes and shapes hang limply from its body, some twitching with a life of their own, others clearly lifeless, mere remnants of the beings they once belonged.
It may become apparent what it seems about to do, this creature that she may connect the dots to - it is what caused those marks outside. From its gaping maw of a mouth, trails of burning viscera run in preparation for a gout of hellfire it brews within its throat. The skin lit, gives sight to the stuffed organs underneath it -- but it doesn't yet do anything, not without an order. In that pause, the break, someone would note something else. IN her mind, just at the back of her perception - a whisper. Something faint, something weak. It beckons her attention, if she were to look, to one of the poor, dying people. A young man, suspended over his own grave. A telepath, no doubt, because in its eyes there is desperation, and in the sight of her, some hope - there is no doubt it is his voice that she hears before it is drowned by his agony. A hint, and just that, before he's dead. Two words, and a sacrifice of his last energy to pass the torch along to Saoirse. If she had any time to look at all, she'd catch the dangling bit of jewelry under his neck. A stylized sun on a pendant. Poor guy's last words?
"Destroy... Ceiling."
Run as she may, Saoirse is only human. The amount of Godblood in her surely counts for something, but here, against what rapidly spiders it way across the ceiling? It is a drop in the ocean. No blows hit her, nothing impedes her approach - not even that thing high above; but every step beckons the wielder of that infused blade to look up. A woman, young, enchanting, wreathed in locks of pure white spilling out beneath her hood, with eyes of a dark, deep red. She's as much of a demon as anything here - and of course, who else but something like her could be the conduit for that thing suspended and spinning on her lap, erupting in acrid smoke with the sheer power it drinks hungrily.
the soft mold of her features are broken by ritualistic lines drawn under her eyes like the paintwork of some voodoo artist, spread enough to veil her ancestry - beyond her demonic heritage. It all fades when the thing above drops in front of Saoirse, creates an obstacle -- and it is a sight.
A towering abomination is her foe; a grotesque mockery of the human form. Its pseudo-humanoid shape is twisted and perverse, the sheer size of the creature dwarfing all else in the vast expanse of this mining hub. The top half is a nightmarish patchwork of stitched-together body parts, mismatched limbs and torsos fused in a chaotic, abhorrent design. The flesh is pale and sickly, marred by ragged seams where coarse black thread barely holds the pieces together. The skin bulges grotesquely at the seams, as though the parts are fighting to tear themselves apart.
Where a face should be, there is only a massive, gaping mouth that dominates the creatures head, a maw that stretches from ear to ear - if it had ears. The mouth is filled with countless jagged, uneven teeth, each one sharp and gleaming with a sinister wetness. The lips are split and torn, revealing gums that pulse with an unnatural, reddish hue, as if the very flesh is raw and freshly wounded. The mouth seems almost too large for the head, with the edges curving up towards the scalp and down to where a chin should be, giving the impression of an eternal, monstrous grin.
The rest of its head is featureless - no eyes, no nose, no ears - just a smooth expanse of pale, mottled skin that tightens unnaturally around the horrific mouth. Veins, dark and pulsating, spiderweb across its forehead, throbbing with every breath the creature takes, wheezes out and draws within broken lungs that is evidently a cause for poor exertion. It breathes poorly, but it breathes.. Every now and then, the mouth twitches, as if savoring some unseen prey, a low, rumbling growl emanating from deep within its throat. She is the prey.
Its massive torso connects to a lower half that is a disturbing amalgamation of different creatures. The legs are a chaotic mixture of mismatched, monstrous limbs - one is thick and reptilian, covered in dark scales that shimmer in the dim light, ending in a clawed foot that gouges the ground with every step. The other is thin and sinewy, like that of a large bird, with talons that click against the ground, leaving deep, jagged scratches in its wake. The hips are fused with parts of various creatures - tufts of coarse fur sprout from one side, while patches of rough, leathery skin cover the other. Limbs and tails of various sizes and shapes hang limply from its body, some twitching with a life of their own, others clearly lifeless, mere remnants of the beings they once belonged.
It may become apparent what it seems about to do, this creature that she may connect the dots to - it is what caused those marks outside. From its gaping maw of a mouth, trails of burning viscera run in preparation for a gout of hellfire it brews within its throat. The skin lit, gives sight to the stuffed organs underneath it -- but it doesn't yet do anything, not without an order. In that pause, the break, someone would note something else. IN her mind, just at the back of her perception - a whisper. Something faint, something weak. It beckons her attention, if she were to look, to one of the poor, dying people. A young man, suspended over his own grave. A telepath, no doubt, because in its eyes there is desperation, and in the sight of her, some hope - there is no doubt it is his voice that she hears before it is drowned by his agony. A hint, and just that, before he's dead. Two words, and a sacrifice of his last energy to pass the torch along to Saoirse. If she had any time to look at all, she'd catch the dangling bit of jewelry under his neck. A stylized sun on a pendant. Poor guy's last words?
"Destroy... Ceiling."
Run as she may, Saoirse is only human. The amount of Godblood in her surely counts for something, but here, against what rapidly spiders it way across the ceiling? It is a drop in the ocean. No blows hit her, nothing impedes her approach - not even that thing high above; but every step beckons the wielder of that infused blade to look up. A woman, young, enchanting, wreathed in locks of pure white spilling out beneath her hood, with eyes of a dark, deep red. She's as much of a demon as anything here - and of course, who else but something like her could be the conduit for that thing suspended and spinning on her lap, erupting in acrid smoke with the sheer power it drinks hungrily.
the soft mold of her features are broken by ritualistic lines drawn under her eyes like the paintwork of some voodoo artist, spread enough to veil her ancestry - beyond her demonic heritage. It all fades when the thing above drops in front of Saoirse, creates an obstacle -- and it is a sight.
A towering abomination is her foe; a grotesque mockery of the human form. Its pseudo-humanoid shape is twisted and perverse, the sheer size of the creature dwarfing all else in the vast expanse of this mining hub. The top half is a nightmarish patchwork of stitched-together body parts, mismatched limbs and torsos fused in a chaotic, abhorrent design. The flesh is pale and sickly, marred by ragged seams where coarse black thread barely holds the pieces together. The skin bulges grotesquely at the seams, as though the parts are fighting to tear themselves apart.
Where a face should be, there is only a massive, gaping mouth that dominates the creatures head, a maw that stretches from ear to ear - if it had ears. The mouth is filled with countless jagged, uneven teeth, each one sharp and gleaming with a sinister wetness. The lips are split and torn, revealing gums that pulse with an unnatural, reddish hue, as if the very flesh is raw and freshly wounded. The mouth seems almost too large for the head, with the edges curving up towards the scalp and down to where a chin should be, giving the impression of an eternal, monstrous grin.
The rest of its head is featureless - no eyes, no nose, no ears - just a smooth expanse of pale, mottled skin that tightens unnaturally around the horrific mouth. Veins, dark and pulsating, spiderweb across its forehead, throbbing with every breath the creature takes, wheezes out and draws within broken lungs that is evidently a cause for poor exertion. It breathes poorly, but it breathes.. Every now and then, the mouth twitches, as if savoring some unseen prey, a low, rumbling growl emanating from deep within its throat. She is the prey.
Its massive torso connects to a lower half that is a disturbing amalgamation of different creatures. The legs are a chaotic mixture of mismatched, monstrous limbs - one is thick and reptilian, covered in dark scales that shimmer in the dim light, ending in a clawed foot that gouges the ground with every step. The other is thin and sinewy, like that of a large bird, with talons that click against the ground, leaving deep, jagged scratches in its wake. The hips are fused with parts of various creatures - tufts of coarse fur sprout from one side, while patches of rough, leathery skin cover the other. Limbs and tails of various sizes and shapes hang limply from its body, some twitching with a life of their own, others clearly lifeless, mere remnants of the beings they once belonged.
It may become apparent what it seems about to do, this creature that she may connect the dots to - it is what caused those marks outside. From its gaping maw of a mouth, trails of burning viscera run in preparation for a gout of hellfire it brews within its throat. The skin lit, gives sight to the stuffed organs underneath it -- but it doesn't yet do anything, not without an order. In that pause, the break, Saoirse would note something else. IN her mind, just at the back of her perception - a whisper. Something faint, something weak. It beckons her attention, if she were to look, to one of the poor, dying people. A young man, suspended over his own grave. A telepath, no doubt, because in its eyes there is desperation, and in the sight of her, some hope - there is no doubt it is his voice that she hears before it is drowned by his agony. A hint, and just that, before he's dead. Two words, and a sacrifice of his last energy to pass the torch along to Saoirse. If she had any time to look at all, she'd catch the dangling bit of jewelry under his neck. A stylized sun on a pendant. Poor guy's last words?
"Destroy... Ceiling."
Saoirse sees the path in front of her; even if it is not quite a path she -wants- to take, it is still the only path she knows to take for survival. Burying the disgust, the loathing for the horrifying thing in front of her, she quickly lashes out with the jian sword, aiming to deliver a quick slash to some of the black threads binding one of the pieces of itself together. If it was, quite literally, bursting at the seams, then damaging these seams would, hopefully, at least distract it enough for her to get some movement going somewhere else. This light strike, however, was not the main focus of what she was trying to do. Looking at the bodies, she steps back neatly, pivoting about and sprinting towards one of them, trying to jump up on one and use the chain to climb upwards. If the thing followed her, it'd risk destroying the bodies that seemed to fuel whatever magic was sustaining this place; was this a risk that they'd be willing to take?
Time to find out.
A quiet laughter rings behind Saoirse. Of course her strike lands true - the creature is stock still, like a wicked statue that bars the path - save for its twitching, the foul blood that fuels its body, moving back and forth to grant motion to stiff, dead limbs. It doesn't even scream, not even a peep while the seams burst at the lightest touch - severs one of its many arms, and it is left on the floor. In its place, there is a gaping hole. Within that abyss inside of it, there are thousands of eyes of different shades and different colors that stare at her - watch while its master laughs - unaware of Saoirse's determined attempt to lunge for one of the corpses, and cause it to swing like a pendulum under her weight.
It swings once, then twice, and the cold corpse underneath is stiff and still again, where she has free access to climb for whatever she would do up there. Up close, it's easily seen, however. Her fallen bretheren that braved the dangers here before her gave her a solid direction, though to what end is curious. The ceiling here, just as it is in other places, is swollen. Like a bloating wound ready to be punctured and spill its bile - it hangs heavy overhead, drawn out further by all the chains hooked through it. Blood seeps out onto the steel of them from where they meet the soggy earth above, and while the cultist laughs, entertained by yet another futile attempt and more tinder for her ritualistic flame - she waits.
Saoirse didn't even pay the creature much mind at all, as she started to climb up one of the chains, hooking her legs around it and shimmying up, up, up towards the sagging, bulging ceiling. Something within her knew that there was more water - scratch that, fluid - in wait above, more than enough of it to satisfy her need for it to bolster her power in this place. If she is not stopped, she climbs all the way up, and begins to rock back and forth, back and forth, trying to swing on the chain to bring it closer and closer to the lowest point of the swelling, and hopefully right above the creature and its summoner.
Once she has gotten close enough to reach it, perhaps, with the jian sword, she lashes out with the keen blade, swinging towards the swelling in an aim to puncture it, to make it spill its contents below, whatever they might be. Hopefully the torrent would open up some kind of opening for her to approach the ritualist; she prepares herself to leap from the chain down below, eyes locked on the cultist.
Her plans are slightly altered. Saoirse would find the swelling above 'pops', and then it is all awash with blood. It's a current that grows, but she keeps her blade, even if she's sstrewn aside viciously through the haze of red. It's a sea that's falling from above - a simple show of just how many they had killed already - and how much effort the Destined Host efforted in bringing this artifact to its zenith. While the current carries Saoirse out southbound, nearly towards that hole drinking every drop of red towards the hallway she came from, the laughter is.. louder. Her one grace is that she can breathe underwater and hve all of her senses to be able to tell what transpires.
Behind her, it all glows - a dark swirl of energy that even with her less than keen magical attunement tells her something wrong just happened- and all the blood serves to empower the relic of her target. Up, up, and higher - to a level that is impossible to discern. Static floods her senses, skews her perception, stills her breathing and fuzzies her mind until everything suddenly descends to the blank recess of her own mind in consciousness that fades.
Maybe hours, maybe minutes.
When Saoirse wakes, it is by the stairwell again. High, high above, actually - set on a stone step that washes blood in ebbs and flows. It had carried her to safety up here, soaked her in its vile ichor, top to bottom - left her sore in everywhere, and if it had been anyone else, they'd surely be rife with injury and wounds from cuts and scraped but the liquid had preserved her. What happened becomes clear only when her vision, if she wipes blood off of her face, returns. With it comes rememberance - the act of absorbtion - and the fault that lied therein. The blade soaked all the power, surely, but the conduit? It was not prepared for all that it had consumed, not all at once. Where that cultist was, is now a puddle of blood lost among the veritable sea of all others in silence broken by groaning stone and wood all around her. The creature is nowhere to be seen, of course. Without its master, who could tell where it fled? What sort of mischief and evilry it seeks? But it is lost, deep in the caverns below where it had escaped. The dagger; nowhere to be found.
Maybe to resurface, one day.
Saoirse comes to, returned to consciousness, at the shores of the overwhelming torrent of blood. It is only due to the fact that her innate connection to the water sustained her within the seemingly endless ocean that she even survived to begin with; she coughs out what seems to be an endless spray of the stuff from her lungs and mouth, none of it her own. Shock lays itself clear upon her face, as she holds onto herself, shivering, by the edge of the bloody ocean.
Blood sustained her in this; that much was certain. Was she even really that much different than the vampires that feed off of such a vile ichor? She breathes it as easily as she does the currents of water, was kept alive by it... She shakes her head, trying to throw off the ruminations, and her...
Was it a failure? The cultist clearly had popped like a bad zit from the excess that she had to absorb, all at once; even if she has failed at retrieving the dagger, it was obvious that it would be difficult in the extreme to retrieve it from such a harrowing depth. With a sigh, she stands up, and wipes the fluid from herself as best as she was able, before making the long, long trek back to her car, and then back home.
One thing was for certain, she needs a shower.
In her slow, slippery ascent - things are still once again. An afternoon sun, so different than the early morning one that shone on her, greets her upon her eventual exit. Yet, far, far behind in the vile depths - in the source of her minute brush with corruption inhaling blood infused with the demonic, the stillness of the blood stirs. A ripple, and another, in lengthy intervals. A few bubbles, and then nothing. Something screams, deep below. Something, with a new weapon, bolstered by it, masterless - it hungers, constantly, and without the magic to sustain the small gap between this world and the next? It is trapped here, under all of that red ichor. It waits, to be unearthed, if it will even ever happen again.
Saoirse really needs a shower.