Encounterlogs
Toros Odd Encounter Sr Roger 241106
Toro's foray into the gritty underbelly of SLUDGEFUKK quickly escalates when an unseen assailant takes a violent interest in him amidst the chaos of the venue. Forced to defend himself with nothing but a smiley-faced umbrella and a wily spirit, he grapples physically and verbally with the hostile presence, all while navigating through the aggressive mosh pit rife with SLUDGEFUKK's patrons. Fueled by confusion and desperation, he resorts to scattering salt—a classic countermeasure against malevolent entities—yet the spirit's relentless accusations of murder and demands for revenge persist, revealing its nature as a vengeful ghost rather than an egregore, a collective thoughtform manifested from the venue's violent energy.
Determined to end the haunting, Toro improvises a plan to bind the spirit within the confines of the venue's restroom. With a quick incantation and a makeshift trap, he ingeniously utilizes the venue's chaotic attributes and his knowledge of the supernatural to confront the entity. The spectral figure's violent breach into the restroom culminates in a desperate attempt to break through Toro's defenses, only to be thwarted by the strategically placed salt barrier and a last-second escape into the shadows. Toro's quick thinking and willingness to engage with the unknown ultimately force the spirit into a temporary bind, allowing him a narrow window for a hasty retreat, leaving the aftermath of his encounter to blend seamlessly into the anarchic atmosphere of SLUDGEFUKK.
(Toro's odd encounter(SRRoger):SRRoger)
[Tue Nov 5 2024]
In the bowels of SLUDGEFUKK
Now you've done it.
Past the metal security door lies a dismal space, resembling some manner of basement more than an aboveground dwelling. The only light source seems to be from flickering aged fluorescent bulbs; they would make a grating hum, if it wasn't for the wall of noise that filled the space otherwise. On the right, entering in, is a bar made of scrap materials such as cinderblocks and cargo pallets. The majority of the space is taken up by a rather improvised dance floor, the black linoleum tiling worn away by the endless stomp of steel-toed boots into a ragged ocean of concrete underneath.
A wall of sound fills the entire area, regardless of whether a band is playing or not. A shitty PA system roars out tunes best described as abysmal and hostile to life as we know it; chugging guitars, screaming, growled vocals, and savage breakdowns punctuate every motion in the room in an endless repeat. It was nearly impossible to make out any noise -other- than that hellish cacophony; one has to yell to people standing right next to them in order to have a conversation. This is likely by design.
Ahead of the doorway, and past the mosh pit, is the main stage.
To the left of the doorway is a single door, labeled, "RESTRUM". A note tacked to the door reads, 'put your fuckin needles in the trash im done cleanin them up'. Lovely.
It is dusk, about 46F(7C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It's raining outside. Waist high mist flows through the area.
(A ghost with only fragments of memory that have driven them near insane is attacking your target. They must either defeat it or find a way to calm it down.
)
Failing to find a good place for the wet umbrella, Toro resigns himself to carrying it with. He makes his way through, skirting the edges of the mosh pit, then pauses and perks a brow, giving another glance across the aggressively moving bodies. Looking, searching, making a double take before shrugging whatever he might've felt off.
Aggressive is right. There's probably no other word that fully sums up SLUDGEFUKK and their clientelle than the word aggressive. Whether it's their attitude, or actions, or even the way they dress? This entire venue drips with the stuff. There's an energy here that goes beyond the pounding, screaming vocals and hammering base that echoes through the brain. A chaos that is being groomed, and grown by the building and those inside of it. Someone in that mosh pit is shoved backwards, arms out, and crash into Toro - before charging back in anew.
Toro finds himself distracted and a little on-guard. This wasn't the sort of place he typically inhabited, but he was nothing if not willing to explore new things and see new sights. Even when that involved someone slamming into him while his eyes were on the stage, and knocking him on his ass. He groans, pained, and presses a thumb knuckle into his forehead, annoyed. He doesn't dally, it was better to get back on his feet than have the same happen while he was vulnerable.
Poor fella. It's dangerous in SLUDGEFUKK at the best of times, that's for certain, but being on the floor? Near a mosh? Toro makes the right decision in scrambling back up to their feet. Though as they attempt to do just this, a force bears down upon them. Like a shove at their shoulders, pressing them back down toward the ground, "Do you think you can get away from me this time, you fucker?" A voice with no apparent source hisses out amidst the chaos and noise.
Toro grunts, feeling himself shoved back down, his back aching from unaccustomed violence. "Great," he hissed out through gritted teeth. Going down for a second time was bad enough, it was made all the worse by the rips he'd just noticed along his sleeves, they'd fallen prey to all the spread out safety hazards. It was his favourite hoodie, too.
With an uncharacteristic yell, he gives it another ago. As the old saying goes: third time's the charm. This time, despite not being dressed for the occasion--sticking out like a sore thumb--he lashes out, gripping the umbrella by its core, tightly enough that his knuckles go white. When in Rome; he swings at the voice, trying to dart toward the violence. "Who in Hell's unholy name?" He asks, trying to locate the source in total confusion.
The irony of using a smiley-faced umbrella for violence isn't lost on whomever had attacked Toro, even if that very dangerous, and deadly weapon fails to strike them. It bounces off of a few of the moshers, who only serve to give the fellow a bit of a look, before getting back to their moshing about.
"You-" The voice hisses once more, in someone' ear, closer than it'd make any sense. As if they were whispering right into their bones. "-You think you can just turn up here? Again?" Either there's a case of mistaken identity at work here, or Toro has spent far more time here than it might seem.
The irony of using a smiley-faced umbrella for violence isn't lost on whomever had attacked Toro, even if that very dangerous, and deadly weapon fails to strike them. It bounces off of a few of the moshers, who only serve to give the fellow a bit of a look, before getting back to their moshing about.
"You-" The voice hisses once more, in Toro's ear, closer than it'd make any sense. As if they were whispering right into their bones. "-You think you can just turn up here? Again?" Either there's a case of mistaken identity at work here, or Toro has spent far more time here than it might seem.
Even to a virgin mosher, the hyper aggression of the pit was far more favourable to Toro than the ongoing assault by the unseen. The opportunity does not go unused and he launches himself into the ocean of violence. Tackling and being tackled, pushing and being pushed, trying to sail the stormy seas of wanton self-destruction and just put distance between him and whatever was speaking.
It was talking, at the very least. "What do you mean turn up here 'again'? What did I do the last time I was here?" He asks and stuffs a hand into his bag. His voice is hoarse, unused to talking so loudly and, to beat the room shaking blasts for the stereos, he had to practically yell.
A cheap, plastic salt shaker is produced, nearly dropped as he tossed about by the pit's waves. A classic when dealing with entites of all sorts. It might not work, but it was worth a go. As he fights through, he shakes it, leaving a trail behind him, one that was doubtless to last as heavy feet slam around without pattern.
That ocean of violence tosses Toro this way and that, like a piece of flotsam thrown about in a storm. The tide ebs and flows, and soon enough there's enough method to the madness for the shorter fellow to make their way through the writhing, crashing forms of the bodies. There are a few errant elbows, and hips that bump into them as they work their way through the crowd.
All the while they can feel this other presence in pursuit, bearing down on them like a hound. Sounds of complaint, and surprise follow Toro, as others are briefly crashed by the strange spectre. "You know what you did!" The voice screams through the night, and the music, their distorted voice screeching through the speakers and buzzing with vocal fry. Then there's the salt, and a hiss, as flecks of the material burn and turn away the spectre. At first, at least, "Cheater. Murderer. Murderer!" The voice hisses as they bleed away, attempting another angle of attack as they end their pursuit for a few brief moments of respite.
Even for Toro, the intensity of the pit was beginning to weigh on him. There were the little scuffs and bruises, from bumps and knockins, but adrenaline kept their existence a temporary secret. More worrisome was the exhaustion and heat. How long had he been here? And how did some of these maniacs commit to this every night?
For once, his shorter stature was proving an advantage, a bit taller and he would've taken a fist to the face. As he mouses his way through, still letting salt trail and curving about the labyrinthine madness, he mumbles to himself, "Spirits, spirits," he shakes his head, trying to jumble ideas loose, nothing comes until. Bam. He runs into someone's arm, face first. Too hyped up, he keeps going, but the blow feels like what he needed. "Aggression, violence. An Egregore, maybe," he asserts from his limited knowledge. It's not enough for him to work on. "Individuation does not shut one out from the world, but gathers the world to oneself," the quoted words come just as he squinted gaze fixates on a part of the PA system.
"This is not a good plan," he tells himself, but it felt like the best he had. Darting toward the edge of the mosh, his eyes scan the walls, corners, for anything heavy. Heavy enough to cause damage, but light enough to be carried, thrown. Cinder blocks, extinguishers, anything. That PA system had to go!
Oh, this is SLUDGEFUKK baby. It's filled with debris, and detritus ready to be thrown at a moments notice. There's cinder blocks, extinguishers, bricks, bottles and all sorts of other rubbish strewn around the place. It's a violent place, filled with artifacts of violence, after all. As Toro squirms back out of the throng, and nearer the edge of the moss, they come face to face with the spirit haunting them.
Only this time? For a moment, in the flash of the lights, they're visible. A towering, seedy looking man covered in tattoos and blood, their eyes rotted away by death, and a large open wound in the back of their head. It oozes spectral blood over their broken body, as both hands dart out to try and grasp at Toro, choking them for the moment or two of manifestation they can manage before vanishing once more.
Toro is shaken. This wasn't the first time he's seen a haunt, it hopefully wouldn't be the last, but it was the first time one had projected themselves into the world so clearly, with such physicality that he could feel its cold, bone hands tighten around his throat, and to leave a bruise assuring him it'd truly just happen.
"Maybe not an Egregore..." he whispers, clutching his throat. It was gone, for now. Toro was no longer operating under the 'thoughtform theory'. A vengeful spirit, no doubt. A great time for a ritual, for protective circles of salt, for a tried and tested method in a semi-controlled environment. This place was anything but. The bathroom, maybe, but he had his doubts that even that would give him the time and environment necessary.
Figuring that, at worst, the place might quiet down a bit, the plan continues. Debris is taken and swung and thrown when he cannot reach, firealarms (if he saw any) were reached for and pulled, letting out any pent up aggression on the ear-splitting 'music' that screeched from the system.
"What is it you want?!" He yells at the top of his lungs.
It's crazy, really, because when Toro starts throwing shit around? A few other people join in! It's only when the firealarms are pulled that anyone really starts to react with anything close to concern. As a few of the less inhibited SLUDGEFUKKers start towards the exit. Several of the speakers are damaged, and crash down into the pit, and against the floor, and some of these are picked up and thrown at other people and other fixtures yet. There are even a few of the moshers who only serve to incorporate the terrible screech of the firealarm into their movements, commited as they are to the chaos.
The answer to their yelled question comes during these moments, as the spectral figure flashes before Toro once more, reaching and clutching for them, but not quite making it, "Revenge!" They snarl, and spit, blood oozing from their broken lips, "I'm going to kill you!"
"Definitely not an Egregore," Toro whispers and spits out. He had truly been hoping that would've solved things. It didn't. He glances across the remaining moshers, giving himself a second to breathe and stew in the confusion of witnessing their committed lack of self-preservation. "Vengeful spirit, then," he says with a sigh, that'd all but been confirmed at this point.
It wasn't all bad. With how unwavering the crowd was, even beneath the screeching of fire alarms and the partial destruction of the sound system, a thoughtform might've been more problematic.
"One last idea," he reassuringly tells himself, darting into the bathroom. Banishment was out of the question. It was too taxing. There were others, he knew by now, that could aid with that, and Toro had little interest in dying a hero. Shaking the last of the salt out of the storebrand shaker, he makes a line splitting the bathroom. And, next to a mirror, he draws his knife. A quick cuneiform is carved into it, as rustic and violent as this place felt. And with it there, he places his hand and waits for the entity to draw near.
Under his breath, he incants, stopping just before finishing, and does it again, repeatedly. He's preparing, in wait, ready to (hopefully) bind the vengeful entity here and to then make his escape!
With that trap laid, and Toro prepared, the expected outcome occurs in short time - the spirit bursts into the bathroom after them, blowing the door half off of it's hinges as it hisses, and spits toward them. It is beyond words now, judging by the murderous look in it's fleshless eyes. There's a hiss from the spectral creature then as it comes upon the salt, that barrier affording it pause for some small time. Long enough for Toro to trigger their trap card.
"I'm sorry. No one deserves to die," Toro is quick to tell the murderous spirit, regardless of if it is listening or could even understand him at this point.
Toro says "If the night washed over us, either I would stop his humming or just watch it wash us up. If the night silenced the arc of monotone music, we would go back to sleep."
Poetic words are incanted and, with the swift binding performed, Toro backsteps with haste, unsure how long a simple line of salt would withstand such murderous intent. He vanishes into a stall, and then, the grand getaway into the shadows themselves.
A scream echoes through the shadows, through the space between them, and into Toro's very soul as they escape from the murderous spirit. It claws, and crashes itself into the barrier of salt, tearing itself apart in it's dogged pursuit of it's apparent killer - and drags what remains through that space, and into the stall, both hands raising to claw at Toro, and only finding thin air.
Determined to end the haunting, Toro improvises a plan to bind the spirit within the confines of the venue's restroom. With a quick incantation and a makeshift trap, he ingeniously utilizes the venue's chaotic attributes and his knowledge of the supernatural to confront the entity. The spectral figure's violent breach into the restroom culminates in a desperate attempt to break through Toro's defenses, only to be thwarted by the strategically placed salt barrier and a last-second escape into the shadows. Toro's quick thinking and willingness to engage with the unknown ultimately force the spirit into a temporary bind, allowing him a narrow window for a hasty retreat, leaving the aftermath of his encounter to blend seamlessly into the anarchic atmosphere of SLUDGEFUKK.
(Toro's odd encounter(SRRoger):SRRoger)
[Tue Nov 5 2024]
In the bowels of SLUDGEFUKK
Now you've done it.
Past the metal security door lies a dismal space, resembling some manner of basement more than an aboveground dwelling. The only light source seems to be from flickering aged fluorescent bulbs; they would make a grating hum, if it wasn't for the wall of noise that filled the space otherwise. On the right, entering in, is a bar made of scrap materials such as cinderblocks and cargo pallets. The majority of the space is taken up by a rather improvised dance floor, the black linoleum tiling worn away by the endless stomp of steel-toed boots into a ragged ocean of concrete underneath.
A wall of sound fills the entire area, regardless of whether a band is playing or not. A shitty PA system roars out tunes best described as abysmal and hostile to life as we know it; chugging guitars, screaming, growled vocals, and savage breakdowns punctuate every motion in the room in an endless repeat. It was nearly impossible to make out any noise -other- than that hellish cacophony; one has to yell to people standing right next to them in order to have a conversation. This is likely by design.
Ahead of the doorway, and past the mosh pit, is the main stage.
To the left of the doorway is a single door, labeled, "RESTRUM". A note tacked to the door reads, 'put your fuckin needles in the trash im done cleanin them up'. Lovely.
It is dusk, about 46F(7C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It's raining outside. Waist high mist flows through the area.
(A ghost with only fragments of memory that have driven them near insane is attacking your target. They must either defeat it or find a way to calm it down.
)
Failing to find a good place for the wet umbrella, Toro resigns himself to carrying it with. He makes his way through, skirting the edges of the mosh pit, then pauses and perks a brow, giving another glance across the aggressively moving bodies. Looking, searching, making a double take before shrugging whatever he might've felt off.
Aggressive is right. There's probably no other word that fully sums up SLUDGEFUKK and their clientelle than the word aggressive. Whether it's their attitude, or actions, or even the way they dress? This entire venue drips with the stuff. There's an energy here that goes beyond the pounding, screaming vocals and hammering base that echoes through the brain. A chaos that is being groomed, and grown by the building and those inside of it. Someone in that mosh pit is shoved backwards, arms out, and crash into Toro - before charging back in anew.
Toro finds himself distracted and a little on-guard. This wasn't the sort of place he typically inhabited, but he was nothing if not willing to explore new things and see new sights. Even when that involved someone slamming into him while his eyes were on the stage, and knocking him on his ass. He groans, pained, and presses a thumb knuckle into his forehead, annoyed. He doesn't dally, it was better to get back on his feet than have the same happen while he was vulnerable.
Poor fella. It's dangerous in SLUDGEFUKK at the best of times, that's for certain, but being on the floor? Near a mosh? Toro makes the right decision in scrambling back up to their feet. Though as they attempt to do just this, a force bears down upon them. Like a shove at their shoulders, pressing them back down toward the ground, "Do you think you can get away from me this time, you fucker?" A voice with no apparent source hisses out amidst the chaos and noise.
Toro grunts, feeling himself shoved back down, his back aching from unaccustomed violence. "Great," he hissed out through gritted teeth. Going down for a second time was bad enough, it was made all the worse by the rips he'd just noticed along his sleeves, they'd fallen prey to all the spread out safety hazards. It was his favourite hoodie, too.
With an uncharacteristic yell, he gives it another ago. As the old saying goes: third time's the charm. This time, despite not being dressed for the occasion--sticking out like a sore thumb--he lashes out, gripping the umbrella by its core, tightly enough that his knuckles go white. When in Rome; he swings at the voice, trying to dart toward the violence. "Who in Hell's unholy name?" He asks, trying to locate the source in total confusion.
The irony of using a smiley-faced umbrella for violence isn't lost on whomever had attacked Toro, even if that very dangerous, and deadly weapon fails to strike them. It bounces off of a few of the moshers, who only serve to give the fellow a bit of a look, before getting back to their moshing about.
"You-" The voice hisses once more, in someone' ear, closer than it'd make any sense. As if they were whispering right into their bones. "-You think you can just turn up here? Again?" Either there's a case of mistaken identity at work here, or Toro has spent far more time here than it might seem.
The irony of using a smiley-faced umbrella for violence isn't lost on whomever had attacked Toro, even if that very dangerous, and deadly weapon fails to strike them. It bounces off of a few of the moshers, who only serve to give the fellow a bit of a look, before getting back to their moshing about.
"You-" The voice hisses once more, in Toro's ear, closer than it'd make any sense. As if they were whispering right into their bones. "-You think you can just turn up here? Again?" Either there's a case of mistaken identity at work here, or Toro has spent far more time here than it might seem.
Even to a virgin mosher, the hyper aggression of the pit was far more favourable to Toro than the ongoing assault by the unseen. The opportunity does not go unused and he launches himself into the ocean of violence. Tackling and being tackled, pushing and being pushed, trying to sail the stormy seas of wanton self-destruction and just put distance between him and whatever was speaking.
It was talking, at the very least. "What do you mean turn up here 'again'? What did I do the last time I was here?" He asks and stuffs a hand into his bag. His voice is hoarse, unused to talking so loudly and, to beat the room shaking blasts for the stereos, he had to practically yell.
A cheap, plastic salt shaker is produced, nearly dropped as he tossed about by the pit's waves. A classic when dealing with entites of all sorts. It might not work, but it was worth a go. As he fights through, he shakes it, leaving a trail behind him, one that was doubtless to last as heavy feet slam around without pattern.
That ocean of violence tosses Toro this way and that, like a piece of flotsam thrown about in a storm. The tide ebs and flows, and soon enough there's enough method to the madness for the shorter fellow to make their way through the writhing, crashing forms of the bodies. There are a few errant elbows, and hips that bump into them as they work their way through the crowd.
All the while they can feel this other presence in pursuit, bearing down on them like a hound. Sounds of complaint, and surprise follow Toro, as others are briefly crashed by the strange spectre. "You know what you did!" The voice screams through the night, and the music, their distorted voice screeching through the speakers and buzzing with vocal fry. Then there's the salt, and a hiss, as flecks of the material burn and turn away the spectre. At first, at least, "Cheater. Murderer. Murderer!" The voice hisses as they bleed away, attempting another angle of attack as they end their pursuit for a few brief moments of respite.
Even for Toro, the intensity of the pit was beginning to weigh on him. There were the little scuffs and bruises, from bumps and knockins, but adrenaline kept their existence a temporary secret. More worrisome was the exhaustion and heat. How long had he been here? And how did some of these maniacs commit to this every night?
For once, his shorter stature was proving an advantage, a bit taller and he would've taken a fist to the face. As he mouses his way through, still letting salt trail and curving about the labyrinthine madness, he mumbles to himself, "Spirits, spirits," he shakes his head, trying to jumble ideas loose, nothing comes until. Bam. He runs into someone's arm, face first. Too hyped up, he keeps going, but the blow feels like what he needed. "Aggression, violence. An Egregore, maybe," he asserts from his limited knowledge. It's not enough for him to work on. "Individuation does not shut one out from the world, but gathers the world to oneself," the quoted words come just as he squinted gaze fixates on a part of the PA system.
"This is not a good plan," he tells himself, but it felt like the best he had. Darting toward the edge of the mosh, his eyes scan the walls, corners, for anything heavy. Heavy enough to cause damage, but light enough to be carried, thrown. Cinder blocks, extinguishers, anything. That PA system had to go!
Oh, this is SLUDGEFUKK baby. It's filled with debris, and detritus ready to be thrown at a moments notice. There's cinder blocks, extinguishers, bricks, bottles and all sorts of other rubbish strewn around the place. It's a violent place, filled with artifacts of violence, after all. As Toro squirms back out of the throng, and nearer the edge of the moss, they come face to face with the spirit haunting them.
Only this time? For a moment, in the flash of the lights, they're visible. A towering, seedy looking man covered in tattoos and blood, their eyes rotted away by death, and a large open wound in the back of their head. It oozes spectral blood over their broken body, as both hands dart out to try and grasp at Toro, choking them for the moment or two of manifestation they can manage before vanishing once more.
Toro is shaken. This wasn't the first time he's seen a haunt, it hopefully wouldn't be the last, but it was the first time one had projected themselves into the world so clearly, with such physicality that he could feel its cold, bone hands tighten around his throat, and to leave a bruise assuring him it'd truly just happen.
"Maybe not an Egregore..." he whispers, clutching his throat. It was gone, for now. Toro was no longer operating under the 'thoughtform theory'. A vengeful spirit, no doubt. A great time for a ritual, for protective circles of salt, for a tried and tested method in a semi-controlled environment. This place was anything but. The bathroom, maybe, but he had his doubts that even that would give him the time and environment necessary.
Figuring that, at worst, the place might quiet down a bit, the plan continues. Debris is taken and swung and thrown when he cannot reach, firealarms (if he saw any) were reached for and pulled, letting out any pent up aggression on the ear-splitting 'music' that screeched from the system.
"What is it you want?!" He yells at the top of his lungs.
It's crazy, really, because when Toro starts throwing shit around? A few other people join in! It's only when the firealarms are pulled that anyone really starts to react with anything close to concern. As a few of the less inhibited SLUDGEFUKKers start towards the exit. Several of the speakers are damaged, and crash down into the pit, and against the floor, and some of these are picked up and thrown at other people and other fixtures yet. There are even a few of the moshers who only serve to incorporate the terrible screech of the firealarm into their movements, commited as they are to the chaos.
The answer to their yelled question comes during these moments, as the spectral figure flashes before Toro once more, reaching and clutching for them, but not quite making it, "Revenge!" They snarl, and spit, blood oozing from their broken lips, "I'm going to kill you!"
"Definitely not an Egregore," Toro whispers and spits out. He had truly been hoping that would've solved things. It didn't. He glances across the remaining moshers, giving himself a second to breathe and stew in the confusion of witnessing their committed lack of self-preservation. "Vengeful spirit, then," he says with a sigh, that'd all but been confirmed at this point.
It wasn't all bad. With how unwavering the crowd was, even beneath the screeching of fire alarms and the partial destruction of the sound system, a thoughtform might've been more problematic.
"One last idea," he reassuringly tells himself, darting into the bathroom. Banishment was out of the question. It was too taxing. There were others, he knew by now, that could aid with that, and Toro had little interest in dying a hero. Shaking the last of the salt out of the storebrand shaker, he makes a line splitting the bathroom. And, next to a mirror, he draws his knife. A quick cuneiform is carved into it, as rustic and violent as this place felt. And with it there, he places his hand and waits for the entity to draw near.
Under his breath, he incants, stopping just before finishing, and does it again, repeatedly. He's preparing, in wait, ready to (hopefully) bind the vengeful entity here and to then make his escape!
With that trap laid, and Toro prepared, the expected outcome occurs in short time - the spirit bursts into the bathroom after them, blowing the door half off of it's hinges as it hisses, and spits toward them. It is beyond words now, judging by the murderous look in it's fleshless eyes. There's a hiss from the spectral creature then as it comes upon the salt, that barrier affording it pause for some small time. Long enough for Toro to trigger their trap card.
"I'm sorry. No one deserves to die," Toro is quick to tell the murderous spirit, regardless of if it is listening or could even understand him at this point.
Toro says "If the night washed over us, either I would stop his humming or just watch it wash us up. If the night silenced the arc of monotone music, we would go back to sleep."
Poetic words are incanted and, with the swift binding performed, Toro backsteps with haste, unsure how long a simple line of salt would withstand such murderous intent. He vanishes into a stall, and then, the grand getaway into the shadows themselves.
A scream echoes through the shadows, through the space between them, and into Toro's very soul as they escape from the murderous spirit. It claws, and crashes itself into the barrier of salt, tearing itself apart in it's dogged pursuit of it's apparent killer - and drags what remains through that space, and into the stall, both hands raising to claw at Toro, and only finding thin air.