Encounterlogs
Sophies Odd Encounter Sr Colton 241205
Sophie's serene morning in the opulent Gold Suite of the Hotel Antlers takes a nightmarish turn when she finds herself inexplicably standing in a damp, marshy graveyard, far removed from the comforts of her luxurious surroundings. An eerie, commanding voice in her head summons her, dragging her reluctantly towards the menacing Arkwright mausoleum. Despite her disorientation and fear, Sophie's resilience shines through; she attempts to negotiate with the unseen force, clinging onto the hope of finding a more cordial solution to her predicament. Her efforts to resist are thwarted by the relentless, invisible pull, guiding her with an unyielding grip towards an uncertain fate inside the mausoleum.
Inside the chilling embrace of the mausoleum, Sophie confronts a series of sinister tests. With dancer's grace, she navigates a perilous stone staircase leading deeper into a realm that defies her understanding of reality. The path, illuminated by candles made from human fat—a detail unbeknownst to her—leads her to an ancient sarcophagus. The voice, now more persuasive, offers temptations of eternal youth and power, preying on her deepest vanities. Yet, in this moment of ultimate choice, Sophie's inherent strength and wit emerge victorious. She rejects the seductive promises, recognizing her own worth and independence. With a defiant turn, she leaves the mausoleum behind, walking back into the unknown, unbound and untethered by the dark offer that sought to enslave her.
(Sophie's odd encounter(SRColton):SRColton)
[Wed Dec 4 2024]
In the Gold Suite of the Hotel Antlers
This bedroom emanates opulence through meticulous design choices, characterized by a sophisticated interplay of white and gold tones. Gilded sconces adorn the walls, casting a soft and luxurious glow, while a crystal chandelier provides a celestial effect throughout the entire room.
The wide bay window is draped in elegant folds of layered sheer white curtains that allow light inside while still affording occupants privacy, and the white carpet underfoot is lush and meticulously maintained.
The air carries a subtle fragrance, a blend of delicate mahonia and the understated richness of polished mahogany furniture.
It is morning, about 26F(-3C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
(Your target is attacked by a dream stalker who subjects them to their greatest fantasies in the dream world in order to keep their body passive while it's energies are fed upon. They need to, possibly with the help of allies entering their dreams, resist the temptation long enough for other allies to find them or for them to wake up.
)
It's a brisk morning. That cold front that'd swept in the day before has weakened some, but it's still chilly enough for dampness to be replaced by slippery frost. That's not a problem in the Hotel Antlers' most luxurious penthouse rooms, afforded only to the Havenite royalty comprised of the Founding Families. One supposes the Moores do technically count, barons of their little trailer park fiefdom. They're not troubling her Wilsonly highness right now, though; she's free to lounge in bed and think of nothing.
Or not. Alas, it's Haven, and moments of calm have a habit of getting cut short. In this case, Sophie's simply laying there, and then she is somewhere else entirely, and not quite sure of how she got there. She stands in her sinful little slip in a damp, marshy spot - the graveyard, disgustingly wet. The muddy dirt begins its work immediately, sucking her feet beneath its surface, squishing upwards through her toes, and doing its best to repulse and traumatise the poor woman for all that an inanimate feature of nature can. It's awful.
And then she feels a horrid, demanding tug, like some passing ship dropped anchor in her brain and suddenly is dragging her along.
'ATTEND ME,' commands a voice not heard by her ears. 'COME.'
There's another tug, trying to force her to stumble forwards into the cemetery. Seems she's needed.
Sophie was in the middle of chatting in the chatroom, as one does at 10 in the morning on a perfectly nice day, right up until the day stops being so nice. She had been surrounded by gold in the aptly named gold suite - no gold bars included - and huddled under the blankets, that perfect temperature of 'just cold enough to be warm and cozy tucked in', and then, well. Well.
Sophie shouldn't be out here with bare feet, is her first thought. She's a dancer; she has to protect her feet and not get them cut open upon some stray shard of glass littering the graveyard. Her second thought - how the hell did she get here - is cut short by the tug in her brain, her face immediately scrunching up with the unpleasant feeling. Her phone - does she have it on her? She can call Angela, the woman surely won't be too far. One press of a button and she'll be he...
Sophie steps towards the graveyard.
Her phone's on her, certainly. It won't switch on, though - even if she were to press and hold the unlock button to try and prompt a flat battery notice, there's nothing. That horrid tugging doesn't end, either - she's pulled forward like an animal getting its leash yanked, over and over and over again.
Come. Come. Come. Come. Come.
It might've sounded desperate if the words weren't spoken with such absolute, deadpan calm. It's not the fun kind of command, either; Sophie's bombarded with somebody else's lure, and soon enough she sees the Arkwright mausoleum lift out of the mist. That's where she's being pulled; there's something calling for her to enter. It does quieten as she nears it, at least... But where it was almost easy to get here due to the force being applied to her mind, there's nothing to stop her now from second-guessing what the fuck she's doing, or what she's going to do next.
Sophie is shivering in the cold, her scanty slip not quite able to keep her from freezing her tits off - maybe literally. Hopefully not literally. Her feet are going numb by now as she trudges along, pulled by the foreign presence, gritting her teeth and pressing the buttons on her phone with all the effort she can muster. "I am not a dog!" she snarls out loud at whoever's in her head. "You can just invite me cordially if you want to talk, you know." Of course they don't want to talk. That doesn't keep Sophie from hoping. "S-stop this. Out of my head. I'll come to you." Surely negotiations are worth a try.
No, whatever's in Sophie's head isn't something willing to negotiate. Maybe it doesn't even believe her. After all, she'd come when called, hadn't she? Instead, the doors to the mausoleum rattle violently against a gust of wind that paws hungrily at the young Wilson's nightwear, irreverent of personal modesty. The doors rattle still, locked shut... But Sophie's a Wilson, and if that's not enough, she knows her way around a lock. Surely she can get the door open, if she wanted to do as this thing tells her.
And it does tell her.
'COME!'
Sophie definitely didn't sign up for this, whatever this is. Is this her penance for posting that ad? Trying to celebrate the spirit of Christmas? Maybe the spooky ghost creature just hates Christmas. Sophie goes stumbling towards the door, letting out a little whimper of pain and reaching up to clutch at her head at the louder call now. She inhales slow, lets it out even slower, and, really, at this point, the inside of the Mausoleum sounds really nice if she can just get out of the freezing cold. Her trembling fingers reach out, fiddling at the lock until it clicks open.
Yes, good; the lock clicks open eagerly beneath Sophie's rightful fingers, and the great doors of the mausoleum yawn open, sucking in fresh air and tendrils of growing mist. Her slip flutters forward at her thighs, eager to journey on ahead of her. It's dark, though, and cold, and forbidding... and a staircase leads downwards which Sophie is quite sure does not exist. She's seen the mausoleum before; the younger Arkwrights love to throw private parties in it and pretend they're the first to ever have that idea. The stairway beckons, though, and once again, a voice calls, 'COME.'
It's still inside her head, though.
Sophie hates this, for the record, and the rapid beating of her heart is just out of fear and nothing else. There is no thrill involved. Shut up. She rubs at her arms with her hands as she's finally freed of the winds outside - though not of the strange, misty wind inside, apparently - in an attempt to warm herself up, just a little bit. It doesn't seem to be working so far, but that doesn't mean she can't try.
Her bare feet step with a dancer's grace across the cold stone floor, and onwards, and down. "I want to go back home after this," she mumbles. There's an 'or else' attached.
It's her dancer's grace, for the record, which keeps Sophie from slipping on the cold-slicked stone stairway on her way down. It's just about a death trap, but even though the Wilson's a mere human, she is a creature of singular poise, and that will suffice for a safe descent.
Well, safe from gravity, at least.
She alights upon a cobblestone landing, marked with a line of candles placed evenly along either side of her path. They burn brightly but smell... sour, almost, and fatty. Adipocere, one of her friends among the goths might inform her. Corpse wax. Human remains burnt as fuel for mere light - and a powerful reagent for necromancy.
Of course, Sophie may or may not actually know this. What she does know is that the candles guide her forward and forward, passing a doorway with no door into an almost empty room. Almost. The candles cease flanking Sophie's steps and stretch into a wide circle around a stone sarcophagus - and as it detects the Wilson's approach, that voice in her mind booms,
'OPEN!'
It's true, that does seem like the kind of thing Fiona would randomly know about. Sophie doesn't linger on it long - if it doesn't smell good, she's not interested. And no, she definitely doesn't know what they are. At least it should be warm in here, right?
Well. Up until they just stop burning. Very inconvenient, that.
She finds herself in the room with the sarcophagus, and there she halts, eying the thing with distrust. Certainly well-deserved distrust. Nothing good can live in here, when it smells so bad.
"I don't think that's a good idea," Sophie tells the voice politely. "I'll come back tomorrow with a friend." She turns away.
'Eternal youth,' it whispers in the back of her mind. 'Beauty that will never fade. The power to tread your own path.'
Its words hang in the empty air - a plain and undisguised lure, certainly, but clearly catered to Sophie specifically. It does not say anything else. It cannot keep her here.
It's not going to claw at her mind at push at her brain until she opens it up? Sophie pauses in her retreat, looking over her shoulder at the sarcophagus. "As a corpse?" she questions, already knowing the answer. She's not mad; in fact, there's an amused quirk to her lips, and she steps back closer to it, crouching just enough to speak directly to it, "Do you think I don't know others who would be more than willing to accept me into their covens, as one of theirs?" It's rhetorical. "There is a big difference between you and I, I think."
"You need me. I don't need you."
This time, when she makes to leave, she doesn't look back.
Inside the chilling embrace of the mausoleum, Sophie confronts a series of sinister tests. With dancer's grace, she navigates a perilous stone staircase leading deeper into a realm that defies her understanding of reality. The path, illuminated by candles made from human fat—a detail unbeknownst to her—leads her to an ancient sarcophagus. The voice, now more persuasive, offers temptations of eternal youth and power, preying on her deepest vanities. Yet, in this moment of ultimate choice, Sophie's inherent strength and wit emerge victorious. She rejects the seductive promises, recognizing her own worth and independence. With a defiant turn, she leaves the mausoleum behind, walking back into the unknown, unbound and untethered by the dark offer that sought to enslave her.
(Sophie's odd encounter(SRColton):SRColton)
[Wed Dec 4 2024]
In the Gold Suite of the Hotel Antlers
This bedroom emanates opulence through meticulous design choices, characterized by a sophisticated interplay of white and gold tones. Gilded sconces adorn the walls, casting a soft and luxurious glow, while a crystal chandelier provides a celestial effect throughout the entire room.
The wide bay window is draped in elegant folds of layered sheer white curtains that allow light inside while still affording occupants privacy, and the white carpet underfoot is lush and meticulously maintained.
The air carries a subtle fragrance, a blend of delicate mahonia and the understated richness of polished mahogany furniture.
It is morning, about 26F(-3C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
(Your target is attacked by a dream stalker who subjects them to their greatest fantasies in the dream world in order to keep their body passive while it's energies are fed upon. They need to, possibly with the help of allies entering their dreams, resist the temptation long enough for other allies to find them or for them to wake up.
)
It's a brisk morning. That cold front that'd swept in the day before has weakened some, but it's still chilly enough for dampness to be replaced by slippery frost. That's not a problem in the Hotel Antlers' most luxurious penthouse rooms, afforded only to the Havenite royalty comprised of the Founding Families. One supposes the Moores do technically count, barons of their little trailer park fiefdom. They're not troubling her Wilsonly highness right now, though; she's free to lounge in bed and think of nothing.
Or not. Alas, it's Haven, and moments of calm have a habit of getting cut short. In this case, Sophie's simply laying there, and then she is somewhere else entirely, and not quite sure of how she got there. She stands in her sinful little slip in a damp, marshy spot - the graveyard, disgustingly wet. The muddy dirt begins its work immediately, sucking her feet beneath its surface, squishing upwards through her toes, and doing its best to repulse and traumatise the poor woman for all that an inanimate feature of nature can. It's awful.
And then she feels a horrid, demanding tug, like some passing ship dropped anchor in her brain and suddenly is dragging her along.
'ATTEND ME,' commands a voice not heard by her ears. 'COME.'
There's another tug, trying to force her to stumble forwards into the cemetery. Seems she's needed.
Sophie was in the middle of chatting in the chatroom, as one does at 10 in the morning on a perfectly nice day, right up until the day stops being so nice. She had been surrounded by gold in the aptly named gold suite - no gold bars included - and huddled under the blankets, that perfect temperature of 'just cold enough to be warm and cozy tucked in', and then, well. Well.
Sophie shouldn't be out here with bare feet, is her first thought. She's a dancer; she has to protect her feet and not get them cut open upon some stray shard of glass littering the graveyard. Her second thought - how the hell did she get here - is cut short by the tug in her brain, her face immediately scrunching up with the unpleasant feeling. Her phone - does she have it on her? She can call Angela, the woman surely won't be too far. One press of a button and she'll be he...
Sophie steps towards the graveyard.
Her phone's on her, certainly. It won't switch on, though - even if she were to press and hold the unlock button to try and prompt a flat battery notice, there's nothing. That horrid tugging doesn't end, either - she's pulled forward like an animal getting its leash yanked, over and over and over again.
Come. Come. Come. Come. Come.
It might've sounded desperate if the words weren't spoken with such absolute, deadpan calm. It's not the fun kind of command, either; Sophie's bombarded with somebody else's lure, and soon enough she sees the Arkwright mausoleum lift out of the mist. That's where she's being pulled; there's something calling for her to enter. It does quieten as she nears it, at least... But where it was almost easy to get here due to the force being applied to her mind, there's nothing to stop her now from second-guessing what the fuck she's doing, or what she's going to do next.
Sophie is shivering in the cold, her scanty slip not quite able to keep her from freezing her tits off - maybe literally. Hopefully not literally. Her feet are going numb by now as she trudges along, pulled by the foreign presence, gritting her teeth and pressing the buttons on her phone with all the effort she can muster. "I am not a dog!" she snarls out loud at whoever's in her head. "You can just invite me cordially if you want to talk, you know." Of course they don't want to talk. That doesn't keep Sophie from hoping. "S-stop this. Out of my head. I'll come to you." Surely negotiations are worth a try.
No, whatever's in Sophie's head isn't something willing to negotiate. Maybe it doesn't even believe her. After all, she'd come when called, hadn't she? Instead, the doors to the mausoleum rattle violently against a gust of wind that paws hungrily at the young Wilson's nightwear, irreverent of personal modesty. The doors rattle still, locked shut... But Sophie's a Wilson, and if that's not enough, she knows her way around a lock. Surely she can get the door open, if she wanted to do as this thing tells her.
And it does tell her.
'COME!'
Sophie definitely didn't sign up for this, whatever this is. Is this her penance for posting that ad? Trying to celebrate the spirit of Christmas? Maybe the spooky ghost creature just hates Christmas. Sophie goes stumbling towards the door, letting out a little whimper of pain and reaching up to clutch at her head at the louder call now. She inhales slow, lets it out even slower, and, really, at this point, the inside of the Mausoleum sounds really nice if she can just get out of the freezing cold. Her trembling fingers reach out, fiddling at the lock until it clicks open.
Yes, good; the lock clicks open eagerly beneath Sophie's rightful fingers, and the great doors of the mausoleum yawn open, sucking in fresh air and tendrils of growing mist. Her slip flutters forward at her thighs, eager to journey on ahead of her. It's dark, though, and cold, and forbidding... and a staircase leads downwards which Sophie is quite sure does not exist. She's seen the mausoleum before; the younger Arkwrights love to throw private parties in it and pretend they're the first to ever have that idea. The stairway beckons, though, and once again, a voice calls, 'COME.'
It's still inside her head, though.
Sophie hates this, for the record, and the rapid beating of her heart is just out of fear and nothing else. There is no thrill involved. Shut up. She rubs at her arms with her hands as she's finally freed of the winds outside - though not of the strange, misty wind inside, apparently - in an attempt to warm herself up, just a little bit. It doesn't seem to be working so far, but that doesn't mean she can't try.
Her bare feet step with a dancer's grace across the cold stone floor, and onwards, and down. "I want to go back home after this," she mumbles. There's an 'or else' attached.
It's her dancer's grace, for the record, which keeps Sophie from slipping on the cold-slicked stone stairway on her way down. It's just about a death trap, but even though the Wilson's a mere human, she is a creature of singular poise, and that will suffice for a safe descent.
Well, safe from gravity, at least.
She alights upon a cobblestone landing, marked with a line of candles placed evenly along either side of her path. They burn brightly but smell... sour, almost, and fatty. Adipocere, one of her friends among the goths might inform her. Corpse wax. Human remains burnt as fuel for mere light - and a powerful reagent for necromancy.
Of course, Sophie may or may not actually know this. What she does know is that the candles guide her forward and forward, passing a doorway with no door into an almost empty room. Almost. The candles cease flanking Sophie's steps and stretch into a wide circle around a stone sarcophagus - and as it detects the Wilson's approach, that voice in her mind booms,
'OPEN!'
It's true, that does seem like the kind of thing Fiona would randomly know about. Sophie doesn't linger on it long - if it doesn't smell good, she's not interested. And no, she definitely doesn't know what they are. At least it should be warm in here, right?
Well. Up until they just stop burning. Very inconvenient, that.
She finds herself in the room with the sarcophagus, and there she halts, eying the thing with distrust. Certainly well-deserved distrust. Nothing good can live in here, when it smells so bad.
"I don't think that's a good idea," Sophie tells the voice politely. "I'll come back tomorrow with a friend." She turns away.
'Eternal youth,' it whispers in the back of her mind. 'Beauty that will never fade. The power to tread your own path.'
Its words hang in the empty air - a plain and undisguised lure, certainly, but clearly catered to Sophie specifically. It does not say anything else. It cannot keep her here.
It's not going to claw at her mind at push at her brain until she opens it up? Sophie pauses in her retreat, looking over her shoulder at the sarcophagus. "As a corpse?" she questions, already knowing the answer. She's not mad; in fact, there's an amused quirk to her lips, and she steps back closer to it, crouching just enough to speak directly to it, "Do you think I don't know others who would be more than willing to accept me into their covens, as one of theirs?" It's rhetorical. "There is a big difference between you and I, I think."
"You need me. I don't need you."
This time, when she makes to leave, she doesn't look back.