Encounterlogs
Victorias Odd Encounter Sr Castiel 250301
In the richly adorned ambiance of the Starlight Lounge, the night takes a sudden turn for Victoria when she becomes the target of a meticulously planned abduction. Despite the lounge's elegance, a group of humans harboring the belief that Victoria could transform them into supernatural beings manages to overpower her senses with a chemical, promptly rendering her unconscious. They whisk her away under the disguise of drunken clamor, unnoticed by the patrons still immersed in their conversations and the soothing tones of the jazz band. The carefully orchestrated snatch is swift, leaving behind only the faintest signs of a struggle—a tipped-over barstool and the slow spill of a drink.
Victoria awakens in a forsaken room, starkly contrasting the opulence of her last conscious memory. Chained and confronted by her captors—an emaciated man in ill-fitting attire, a brawny figure with a penchant for violence, and a distressingly ordinary-looking individual—she is propositioned with an unimaginable request: to bite them, thereby granting them supernatural strength and abandoning their humanity. Despite their initial intimidation and implied threats, Victoria's prospects begin to shift as her captors opt for a negotiation, hoping to persuade her into compliance. With a mix of defiance and ingenuity, she manages to turn the tables, seizing control of the situation. Yet, the tension remains palpable, a stark reflection of humanity's chaotic and unquenchable thirst for power, encapsulated in the confines of a dilapidated room far removed from the twinkling lights of the Starlight Lounge.
(Victoria's odd encounter(SRCastiel):SRCastiel)
[Fri Feb 28 2025]
At the main bar of Starlight Lounge
The ambience is defined by a celestial theme, with dimmed lighting that mimics the twinkling stars above. Delicate crystal chandeliers hang like constellations, casting a soft, inviting glow over plush velvet seating arrangements in rich hues of deep sapphire and emerald. Each corner of the lounge is adorned with tasteful art pieces that reflect the majesty of the night sky, including celestial maps and exquisite glass sculptures that refract light like starlight.
The centerpiece of the lounge is a stunning bar made of polished black granite, gleaming under the artistic play of light. Behind it, an extensive collection of premium spirits is showcased on backlit shelves. Lush ferns and cascading ivy frames the window, offering a breathtaking view of the manicured gardens outside. The atmosphere is one of refined luxury, where guests can unwind in style amidst a star-dappled oasis of carefully curated elegance.
It is afternoon, about 19F(-7C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds.
(Your target is abducted by humans who believe that the target can help make them supernatural. They need to either get out of the situation themselves, or stall for long enough for their allies to come save them.
)
The Starlight Lounge hums with a quiet sort of decadence, the kind of place where conversation is held in hushed, intimate tones over the rim of delicate glasses filled with aged spirits. The lighting is low, casting a golden haze over plush seating, and walls lined with soft reflections akin to that of hanging constellations. A jazz band plays from the corner this afternoon, just beginning their first rotation of song, and perhaps they are the initial reason of distraction; the upright bass plucking deep, resonant notes that sink into the air like a slow pulse beneath the murmur of voices. Outside, the afternoon is cold, burdened by the weight of a sky swollen with storm clouds, their dark bellies heavy with the promise of rain. Occasional flashes of distant lightning etch pale veins across the heavens, illuminating the townscape in brief, spectral glimpses.
At the bar, the world is measured in careful pours and the gentle clink of crystal. Liquors swirl beneath the precise flick of a wrist, blending into one another in streams of amber, vermilion, and deep lapis hues. Aromas of citrus zest and muddled herbs mix with the faint trace of expensive perfumes and cigar smoke, a cocktail of indulgence in itself. The glow of backlit bottles catches against glass surfaces, refracting in soft prisms that dance along the polished counter. The bartender's motions are seamless, each gesture a quiet symphony of efficiency, the creation of a drink an art form in itself.
Yet, within that elegance, the inevitable chaos of humanity simmers beneath the surface- hidden in the slight tremor of an unsteady hand lifting a glass, the barely perceptible glances exchanged between strangers who share more history than theyd admit. And some of them, tonight, are watching. Watching with too much intensity. They sip at their drinks, but do not taste them. Their conversation flickers, but does not hold weight. They are waiting.
The air shifts. The details do not change, but they feel different, charged with an odd dissonance. A slight lull in conversation. A disruption, so small at first that it barely registers. The presence of someone new- no, several- filtering through the room in a way that does not fit the atmosphere of the Starlight. Their suits are tailored, but the way they wear them lacks the ease of those who belong here. Their movements are rehearsed rather than natural, their casual postures just a bit too stiff, like actors in the wrong production. The illusion of normalcy is imperfect, fraying at the edges with every too-careful glance, every barely restrained shift of weight.
They position themselves near the exits. Unobtrusive. Intentional.
Then, it happens.
A presence at the bar- too close to Victoria. The kind of close that is felt before it is seen. A strangers arm, heavy where it shouldnt be, an intrusion into personal space under the pretense of drunken clumsiness. The scent of sweat and something sharp, chemical, medicinal. A whisper of fabric, the barest disturbance of the air behind. And then-
The world narrows.
The weight of another body presses in from the side to her, pinning limbs in a vice grip. The sensation of movement- fast, brutal. The barstool tips. A sharp sting at the base of the skull, a chemical bite flooding the senses. A tightening sensation at the throat, the air itself seeming to thin as strength falters in Victoria's very bones down to the marrow in the sudden intrusion that in hindsight shouldn't have happened with how keen her senses are, but it does, by luck or by virtue of a gathered group grim and determined to see their intent through.
The last thing seen before the dark rushes in is the glint of glass tipping over, liquid slipping in slow-motion toward polished granite. The murmur of conversation does not stop. The jazz band plays on. The world swallows the moment whole, as if it never happened at all.
The first thing to return is sensation. A raw, unfamiliar cold against her skin. The damp air clings with the scent of mold and decay, thick enough to taste. A distant rumble rolls through the air outside, low and restless, the prelude to an inevitable downpour. It hints that not much time, if any at all, has passed from then and now. Or maybe it did, but the town's chastisement beneath heavy storm yet remains with its curated wrath raining down.
Then, sound.
The steady, rhythmic drip of water somewhere distant. The creak of wood shifting, settling, breathing. The faint rustle of movement- not near, but not far. A single nail loosens from its place in the rafters, falling with a hollow clink against warped floorboards.
Then, sight.
The dim light filtering through boarded-up windows barely touches the rooms edges, casting long, jagged shadows that stretch unnaturally. The floorboards are uneven, marred by deep grooves and dark stains that have long since dried. The furniture- what little there is- remains overturned, abandoned to rot. Rusted metal chains dangle from a beam overhead, their purpose left unstated but unmistakable.
Beyond the doorway, a faint glow pulses in the distance, just out of reach. A lantern, perhaps. A flashlight. Something carried by someone who is waiting. Waiting for Victoria, as bound as she is by thick chains. Her legs are bent in a lotus beneath her, and she's left standing in spite of it all. It's a display of her raw prowess - that even in unconsciousness they couldn't bend her to their whims, but at least managed to tie her in a way that leaves the chains ever so present and tightening with each attempt to move them. Painfully digging into her skin should she resist.
Groaning, Victoria blinks, glancing around with an expression of concern. "What the hell," she mutters, struggling against the bindings with a hiss at their discomfort. Her eyes draw over the boarded up windows before falling to the glow in the distance, and she gives a measured exhale, drawing her tongue over her teeth. "Hey!" she calls out, annoyance lacing the word.
Their voices come before the figures.
A murmur, low and indistinct at first, shapes itself into words- fragments of conversation slipping through the damp air. The sound bounces against warped walls, curling around the edges of the room before their owners step into view.
Three figures.
The first is tall, gaunt in a way that suggests either illness or an unnatural refusal to eat. His skin is sallow under the weak light, stretched too tight over angular features. His hair, once dark, has thinned, revealing the uneven shine of scalp beneath. He wears a cheap black suit, the fabric ill-fitting and slightly wrinkled, as if hed borrowed it from someone else. He walks with a slow, deliberate grace, the kind that belongs to those who have lived on the edge of starvation for too long and have learned to make every movement count. His fingers twitch at his sides, the nails bitten down to uneven nubs. His eyes, deep-set and shadowed, flick to Victoria with a sharp, calculating intensity.
The second is shorter, broader, built like someone who has spent his life lifting things that dont belong to him. His beard is patchy, streaked with gray despite his otherwise youthful features, and his nose has the flattened, slightly crooked look of someone who has been punched too many times. He wears a leather jacket over a hoodie, the insignia on the chest worn away by time and neglect. He moves like a man who is used to fighting but prefers when the other person is already on the ground. When he speaks, his voice is a growl, thick and rough.
The third is the most unsettling of them all- not because of anything outwardly monstrous, but because of how at ease he looks. He is clean, his clothes neat, his posture casual as he leans against the doorframe. His face is unremarkable, pleasant in the way a face that blends into crowds is pleasant. He wears a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms lightly dusted with hair. His hands are clean, his nails trimmed, his expression unreadable save for the slight quirk at the edge of his mouth, as if he finds the entire situation mildly amusing.
They exchange glances, assessing her as if confirming that she is still whole, still worth what they risked to take. It is the gaunt man who speaks first, his voice dry, almost papery.
"Shes awake."
The broad man snorts. "Yeah, I got ears. She aint happy, either." He steps closer, arms crossed over his chest. "Good. Means shes got enough fight left in her to be useful." The one in the doorframe chuckles. "Shes got every right to be unhappy. We did take her, after all. But it was necessary. Youll see that soon enough, wont you?" His gaze flicks to Victoria, lingering. "You know what you are. And so do we."
The gaunt man tilts his head, his mouth pressing into something that might be a smile but fails to reach his eyes. "We want what you have. And youre going to give it to us." The wind outside rattles the loose boards against the windows, the storm clouds heavy with the promise of rain. The air in the room is thick with expectation, with something smells just shy of desperation to her heightened senses.
"Unhappy is an understatement." The words are practically spat at the three from Victoria, and her eyes narrow in an assessing sweep of all three. The gaunt figure speaking to her receives a snort, and a roll of her eyes. "What I have," she repeats, with a hint of confusion. "You look half dead, so I can't imagine what you might want unless it's food."
Some tension bears down in between all participants, the kind that thickens the air and weighs on the lungs. From the corner, the gaunt man tilts his head, his cheekbones casting deep shadows under the dim light. He smiles, but it is an unnatural thing, stretched too tight, revealing teeth that look too white against the rest of him.
"Oh, but you see," he murmurs, voice dry as dust, "it isn't sustenance we need. It's salvation. A chance to shed this- " he gestures vaguely to himself, fingers splaying as if repulsed by the sight of his own body, "this frail, failing shell. You know what I mean, don't you? You know the strength that lurks beneath your skin. Youve felt it. And we"
The broad man steps forward now, his heavy boots scuffing against the uneven floorboards. He is built like a laborer, thick arms crossed over his chest, a jagged scar cutting through the stubble on his jaw. "We need that. We need what you got," he rumbles, voice edged with frustration. "You dont get it, do you? What we have to live with. Being weak. Being just- " his lips curl in disgust, "ordinary. While people like you, you walk in the shadows of gods. It ain't fair."
The third, the nervous one, shifts his weight, rubbing a clammy palm against his thigh. His eyes dart between the other two, then to Victoria. He swallows. "Weve tried everything," he says, barely more than a whisper. "Magic, rituals, elixirs from charlatans who swore they had the answer. But none of it- none of it was real. None of it made us like you. But this..." He takes a step closer, feverish hope lighting his features. "This is real. You are real. And you can do it. We know how it works. You bite us, and we change. Thats all it takes. Thats all we need."
The broad man scoffs. "And you're gonna do it, one way or another. We aint leaving here until we walk out something more than what we were. So what'll it be?" The gaunt one exhales, amused. "Let's not be so crude," he chides. "We are men of reason, after all. Victoria, my dear, what would it take? What is your price?" He leans forward slightly, his skeletal fingers lifting, as if already reaching for an unspoken bargain. "We can offer you much. Money? Power? A debt repaid in blood? You name it, and it's yours."
The nervous man wrings his hands. "We dont want to hurt you, but if we have to" he trails off, his voice thin, uncertain. That gaunt man clicks his tongue. "Oh, don't be so dramatic. We are simply asking for a favor. A small, life-altering favor." His smile returns, predatory now, knowing. "And you are going to say yes. The question is, how long must we persuade you?"
"You never thought to just... buy a drink and ask?" Victoria asks dryly, looking entirely unamused. "You have no idea what you're asking for, of course. But..." Her arms strain against the bindings again, and her eyes narrow to slits. "You could help yourselves by giving a bit of trust and unchaining me." A sigh, coupled with an even look among each of the three. "Why this, out of anything you could become?"
Tallest of them exhales slowly, rubbing his face as though exhausted. "Look, were not here to fight you." His voice is hoarse, lined with the kind of weariness that settles deep into the bones. "We need this, but we need you to do it willingly."
The one closest to her crouches, gaze searching her face. His hands move to the chains, working the locks with slow, deliberate movements. The metal gives a reluctant groan as it loosens, falling away from her wrists and pooling against the damp wood. "Trust goes both ways," he murmurs, eyes flicking upward briefly before he stands. "So lets start there."
The third lingers near the doorway, arms crossed, fingers drumming against his sleeve. His jaw tightens. "You dont get it. We dont want anything else. We could be richer. We could be stronger. But none of that matters if we stay what we are. If we stay human." His voice strains on the last word, as if the very concept disgusts him. "We see what you are, and we see what we arent. Its not just about power. Its about being more."
The man who unlocked her bindings steps back, giving her space, but not too much. "We know what it costs," he continues. "We know what the change does. We accept that. But we cant take it. You have to give it."
The tallest one finally meets her gaze, expression unreadable beneath the dim, flickering light. "So tell us," he says, voice low, urgent. "What would it take?"
"Oh, well, if you're just asking," Victoria ponders, her voice light as she rubs her wrists, sighing in a bit of relief at the removed chains. She steps forward, nudging the chains away with one heel. "What would it take..." Her lips purse in thought.
And then, she moves. A bit too swiftly for them to apprehend, her hand darts out, grasping at the figure closest to her to spin them, put their back to her. Fingers flick, drawing one blade into her palm. "Trust should start with not poisoning me," she whispers into the ear of that figure, pressing the metal to his neck. "Now we can have a conversation." One shoulder lifts before dropping again in a small shrug. "Usually, it's a process," she explains. "Can't just run about biting people."
(Your target is approached by a member of the Sapphire Martyrs who, with a chilling serenity, tries to convince them of the "beauty" in their cause. They offer the target a chance to join them in their mission to save the other worlds. The target and their allies must navigate this tense situation, deciding whether to play along in order to learn more about their plans, to outright refuse, or to attempt to dissuade the member from their path. The encounter could evolve into a battle or a chase, or even a debate on the nature of sacrifice and salvation.)
Siofra sits next to the sleeping body of a blond woman, staring down with the contempt a mother might give to her child with her hands around the neck. The day has been idle, giving the resting heart rate of the black heart inside, and the general lethargy that drags one into the bed they have yet to leave.
The evening has begun in the early hours today, the sun already setting below the horizon as the temperature begins to drop below freezing outside. The sliver of moon in the night sky is obfuscated by the dark stormclouds up above and there's little to see that inspires one to get out of the bed for any real reason after all. But as these things often do, just when it seems like there couldn't possibly be anything to alieviate the boredom that threatens to spiral Siofra's state into oblivion there comes a soft beeping on whatever phone or communication device Siofra keeps about will draw her attention away from the thoughts that begin to clatter about inside of her mind. Beep. Beep. Beep. Insistent, and demanding. It must be something from the company, or one of the departments. A message, an invoice ... anything is better than nothing.
does not do this thing, though an outstretched hand and wide, madly passive eyes suggest that an attempt was close.
"Siofra or Dominooo-" Siofra hums into the speaker, voice at odds with her expression.
Well, it turns out to be a message versus a call - though it takes Siofra a moment to realize that still distracted with homicidal thoughts that come and go with the urges that accompany them. No voice returns the greeting from the woman, but when she pulls the phone away to see what the hell the problem is, she'll denote the message and be able to read it. /The Sapphire Martyrs are holding a small meeting not far from here, disguised as an AA gathering. Your job is to observe and report on their success with this endeavour and their recruitment methods./
Seeing the message, Siofra likely will feel a pang of annoyance. Her thoughts aren't so far from the truth. In the Corperate structure - the Intern gets the brunt of the workload because it always rolls downhill, doesn't it? In any event, the message seen she can't ignore it now (She could, but Big Brother is always watching) but at least it gives her something to do; and it might save her from idly choosing to murder her roommate in idle fashion with idle hands ...
Siofra takes a swig of blood, swishes it, and spits it all over the bed before she stands. A few droplets hit the window beyond- and what a beautiful reality this blood spatter could have been.
Like Lisa, it will remain a dream for now.
Wiping her mouth and swallowing the rest of the angelborn bitterly, making a face, she walks through the haunted Christmas mansion to the tune of a never-ending garbage disposal- a ghostly roommate waving her past.
And of course, with AA meetings come terrible coffee - which means only one place in town. The Lodge. And so this is where she'll ultimately be headed.
Siofra steps into her poor, poor Volkswagon Beetle, revs its v12 to make sure it still screams beautifully, then forces it down the road- road barely in sight behind the engine block.
Those thoughts do ring true, and when Siofra does eventually arrive (the trip's not that long after all) she'll find a small collection of local vehicles parked along the side of the road along Hart Avenue. The street in front of the Lodge and the Antlers Hotel is lined with those cars. Luckily, Siofra's little zombie-bug is an easy fit amongst the gaps and once parked she'll head inside. Not at the bar itself but past and toward the pool tables she'll find exactly what's expected. A ring of fold-out chairs, coffee supplied by the diner itself and the smell of sweat and desperate people. When Siofra walks in she can feel it right away, that suffering; it's easily distracting. Everyone here is struggling in some way. Struggling to keep sober, struggling not to give in. Every person suffers on some level with the grip that booze has on them here, or so it seems. The man sitting at the head of the circle such as it is, seems the most well-kept of the bunch, clean clothing and the distinct lack of ... poverty, about him.
Siofra looks down at her ring bearing the signet of the hand. That's a quick thing to slip into the pocket.
She gives a pleasant smile to everyone involved- which is easy, the local mood gives a bounce to her step as she takes a chair- happy alcoholic bloodfucker that she is. "Howya? I heard this were the place to see if yer liver's down on its fluttered arse?"
Finding a chair and sitting, Siofra will certainly garner some immediate attention with an introduction like that! The clean-looking man gives her a placating smile and a welcoming gesture. "Welcome, welcome. Please -" he's gesturing to the chair as if Siofra hadn't already taken one. "Welcome to our meeting. I'm Brad - and I'm an Alchoholic. It's nice to see newcomers always. Would you like to introduce yourself?" He gives a too-wide smile that doesn't touch his eyes, but it does bring a small bit of notice to a small lapel pin on the colar of his polo shirt. A little glittering sapphire.
"Rowan Ryan, absolute deadly irresponcible, even a mother!" Siofra gives a bow, right foot crossed behind the left with hands on a high curtsy. She looks around at the depressive state of withdraw around her, currently on her own high with a blank disconnect of empathy.
Siofra's butt lends itself back to the chair after her injection of energy into a lifeless discussion, causing it to lean back and wobble before the metal clacks back down.
Siofra pulls out her phone for a second to fire off a text; Oh, want to come to an AA meeting with me?'
Don't mind the blood spray on the window. I just swallowed some blood and spit it out to make things less comfortable. Siofra adds.
"Well Rowan Ryan, here we're all about trying to right those wrongs, and learn a little accountability, responsability. Welcome." He gives another of those smiles before he turns to the group. "And now that everyone seems ot be here for the night, let's go ahead and let people get a cup of joe, grab a doughnut and come on back alright! Two minutes!" The group at large begins to disperce with the well-practiced routine of people who've done this a thousand times. Good time for Siofra to try and single someone out or take the chance to try and get a bead on what might be going on underneath the scenes around here - if she even remembers! That high is coursing through her Demon-blooded veins and making her almost giddy. Hell, even the way the people seem to shuffle about only serves to cause little bubbles of laughter and good mirth to come rising up inside of her. And who wants to focus on the work to be done with that kind of sensation just over-flowing? In the meantime, This Brad fellow seems to be shifting through some papers, or perhaps organizing them. Next to him a small table setup that seems pretty standard. On it, two little stacks of pamphlets. One bears the large AA symbol, the other stack seems a little more obscure.
#808080It's at the lodge. I think that's at uhhh' I forget the road. It's across the street from Rosie's' Siofra finishes, slipping her phone into her trousers and and staring out from her metal thrown.
It's at the lodge. I think that's at uhhh' I forget the road. It's across the street from Rosie's' Siofra finishes, slipping her phone into her trousers and and staring out from her metal thrown.
Siofra tries not to let the Deamhan show too wide a smile, one must look adequately convicted of sadness- or try, at least. She takes a seat closes to Brad- man of the night that he is- oh, why, one may even paint it in his colors!
Taking a closer seat, the first thing Siofra can see is the logo on the other pamphlet. It's designed to look similar to the AA logo on purpose maybe, only this one is an S and an M molded together in the circle instead. The top reads simply "The Church of Sister Martyrdom". When she speaks over to the man in a low voice, his first reaction is a bit of a give-away. His eyes narrow suspiciously at Siofra for a moment before they slip back into that smiling facade that he wears on the outside. "Oh, of course miss Ryan! Please" he says, smoothly picking up one of each of the pamphlets and passing them along to the woman as she asks. "If you have any questions please feel free to ask! What did you say your friend's name was?" Again, that smile never quite reaches the eyes that look just a little bit beady here up this close.
"Lisa Henderson-" Siofra gives a conspiring hand over her mouth, "Tis a fake-name, sorry to admit. She says 'names are to be martyr'd to the cause." Siofra a genial, dimpled smile follow this statement- something that would follow a rational statement.
"Oh, well everyone has their secrets to keep I suppose. We try not to judge, we leave that to God. His plan for us all" he offers to Siofra, and then the group is coming back around to find their seats and settling in for the meeting. For the time being, Siofra is going to have to sit through this if she wants to try and get anything more out of Brad, who's going to spend the majority of the meeting running it exactly as one would expect. It's BORING. The only thing that keeps her sustained is the continued suffering of those true desperate souls that are here tonight. Some of them are here for the dougnuts and coffee, but many of them are in fact looking for some sense of salvation and that makes their suffering worse.
Siofra takes a moment to read both pamphlets, musing through them with low murmurs of ascent- miming the tone of the peanut gallery every time one of the lovely performs admits to a vicious car accident resulting in their who-cares number of years in prison and a dead child.
"Mmm. My child were kidnapped and died." She announces at some point after some manner of hope has bridged itself between webs of belonging between another- consolidating this meeting as a hopeless place.
Which, is probably what the pretty blue jewel keepers want.
"Because I was drunk." Siofra adds, as if to explain why she mentioned it.
Adding to the depressing vibe of the situation at hand, Siofra benefits from this as she feels that high flowing through her in fresh jolts and waves all throughout, but she also helps set the tone for this man here recruiting. Looking through the pamhlets, the first is your standard AA fare. Twelve steps, you have no power to help yourself, only God and blah blah blah ... the second one though; this one seems more interesting. A clear front for the Martyrs for those already in the know, it still does well at dressing it up. It's a small but vaguely uplifting doctrine describing their 'Church of the Siter Martyr' and it's principles. Helping those find hope again and all of the key points that are sure to lure in these people who want to find a new place to belong or change the world they live in to try and leave their old lives behind. Siofra can definitely assume that this is an entry point- a place to bring people to other meetings as they slowly slip other doctrines and awareness into these people's lives asd they try to entwine them into their schemes.
It's grand! Everyone in here is hurting. Siofra texts, doing the classic school trick of placing her phone over her textbook. Her lap makes a poor desk, however, and her textbook is a pamphlet.
Siofra frowns at her friend's reticence. Who would have thought mercilessly berating her companion for her lack of freedom of thought would make it harder to get her out of the house and around other people.
Siofra folds the Church's front- and the AA meeting as well- after all, studio-sized personal Hells suit her fairly well, into her lap and sets them neatly atop one another as she glances up. "So Brad, how did ya' manage to get off the drink?"
Whatever it is, Liesl arrives unfashionably late and makes her way right over to Siofra, expecting to walk into an AA meeting and support her pal.
Siofra is perhaps the only one here to smile. She is the star of warmth- hellishly so, in this little abyss of sadness. The rictus turns on Liesl as the woman enters, "Lisaaaaah!" She greets, turning the attention of the room stage left.
When Liesl arrives, she'll find her friend Siofra setting close to the man who seems to be leading the last vestiges of the meeting as she trails in late. A vague but not unattractive-looking man she's sitting next to looking smarmy by nature for some reason, dressed in a polo shirt and a fake smile. Everyone else at the meeting seems to carry the signs of their addicition or depression and it fills the air sweetly for those sensitive to the suffering of others as Siofra is. "Well, a lot of hard work, the help of the program, and my faith" this man replies smoothly to whatever question the woman's asked him but his answer is almost going on deaf ears because Siofra is turning to greet her friend a ltitle too loudly. At that, she gets the first frown out of Brad all evening, and he seems to decide it's a good time to conclude the meeting of a sort. "Thank you all for coming, and remember to persevere. The strength to change what you can!" He puts it on thick and as usual the gathered losers and dregs of society here break apart into groups and mingle about for awhile, finishing off the coffee and dougnuts. It gives Siofra time to question these people a little mroe directtly without Brad interfering maybe if they have a mind to.
Liesl doesn't wear any smiles, she makes her debut on stage cautiously, approaching Siofra like she were a wild animal. Their last meeting somewhere far far away didn't end as amenable as usual. So seeing Siofra in high spirits,and said spirits portioned for her is unexpected, but not quite unwelcome. "Hi, Domino," she greets, opting for the nickname than the real deal. A familiar moniker that reveals to one and all she is pretty cushy with dear Siofra. "This place lookslike the pity party," she remarks. It's more she can just feel it. Something about the place is like she's wading through sadness.
"Ahah-" is all Siofra can manage to respond with. Through the perverse sense of engagement with the pain around her, is, as well, her very own muddied behind an expression unchanging. Oh bother, oh no! If she can think about that, surely others aren't sufferinge enough.
"These happen, weekly, dear-" Siofra hisses, tucking two pamphlets under her arm. "c'mere to me-" She beckons with a finger.
Liesl slurps the rest of a can of Sprite with a red straw before dumping it in a trash bin. After that's all said and done, she trudges over to Siofra, studying the mysterious pamphlets tucked away. "Well. I hope this was productive. Whatever it was." She's clued in she missed in on most of the action, but doesn't seem too fussed about it. "Learn anything useful? Feel better?"
Siofra dismisses her own feelings with a flutter-wave into the distance. "Nothing, sure look. I showed up, showed off, now the shows over and you're here, bother-bother." She gives a glance to Braddington, whom is surely growing his own state of depression in a fungus jar housed deep within his soul.
Now that she's settled in, Liesl can see that it is indeed a bit of a pity party. There's an underlying theme of good here, but the intention and the reality have fallen far from each other. The other folks mingle about but there's no real sense of anyone being the first one to want to leave, and nobody seems overly eager to stay. A dead-lock of sorts as these people struggle.
SRKah says "Sorry about that. Phone call - please continue! I will try to add some flavour here for Liesl's arrival before all winds down! "
"Okay. Sure. I'm a Sapphire Martyr," Liesl freely agrees with Siofra, matching her hushed pitch in tone. She looks around for a target, or one of those tables with complementary snacks and drinks that usually are arranged somewhere here. If she's here she's going to get her time's worth. The game plan made and set, she otherwise waits patiently for anyone to approach so she can tell them who she is.
Siofra tugs Liesl up to Braddington. "This me pal, Lisa Bollockson."
Siofra chokes on her own smile.
Ahh, but looking around - Brad is nowhere to be found. Once the meeting ended, he was quick to slip past and away. Perhaps when Siofra was greeting her friend? Alas, he is one source of information that is no longer available.
Siofra immediately sniffs the air for evidence of his passing, but alas;
'It was self mastered.' Yes, a lack of proficiency, self mastered.
Siofra sours as she gets not but the clogged scent of blood ever erupting deep within the cavities of her elfin bridge.
Liesl looks around expectantly. There's no Braddington Boyo, but maybe Siofra can sniff out someone else. She's being led around the place, but her attention is sort of elsewhere. To Siofra, she meaningfully points to a table where she spies the last few plastic cups filled with what she presumes is juice. "Sure," she whispers back, jabbing her finger, indicating some spoils to be looted.
Siofra heads that way, graceless in step and oh- oh no! She's falling! She's falling and slamming her palms into the side of the table set out! Why, everything's gone everywhere!
/Oh/ no! With a 'stumble' Siofra sends cups of juice and coffee hald-drunk and now cold flying all over the place! Up into the air they go, and those watching can almost see it in slow motion as the mixture of stain-inducing juice and coffee all riddled with sugars sure to bind to cloth and clothing go splashing through the air ... the pool table in use gets covered; Siofra and Liesl get covered, as does the group around the table as they all exclaim and shout in surprise as the accident occurs. "Woah!" "OH!" "BRO!" Come three voices in unison.
"What the actual fuck" comes a voice from over by the pool tables, some scruffy-looking guy piping up. Not part of the group, though.
"Ahah- whoops! I'm drunk AND pregnant." Siofra delivers like an episode of Seinfeld, complete with hands on her hips and a look towards her co-star.
Looking past Siofra at that remark, one of the guys around the table looks to Liesl for the moment instead. "Man, your friend here has a bad sense of humor." Turning to her then, they add "This isn't the place for those kind of jokes, man. And if you're serious then you need more help than an AA meeting." Well isn't that Siofra's bad luck she's happened onto the one group here that might actually be looking for some real kind of help out of this kind of thing. Then again ... these are the people the Martyrs are really after, aren't they? Maybe they know something.
Liesl steps to the side to avoid a dreadful date with some juice on her clothes. It's far too late, and she is splashed with the sad state of affairs that was laid out on the table. "Oh well," she says, holding her hands up helplessly. She eyes Siofra dubiously, and almost believes that Siofra might have been pregnant and was hiding it from her til this very day. "She's very troubled," she says sadly, holding onto Siofra's arm protectively. "We need a lot of help."
Siofra combs a strand of coffee stained white out of her face, leaning into her juiced up companion. "Oh, my sincerest apologies- say, d'ya think the reason that God won't look at ya is because you don't deserve it?"
Oh, man. Just when Liesl might be making some headway, Siofra goes and puts her mouth right in it. With a look of offense, these guys stalk away from the pair of women muttering loudly with a nasty sense of tone. Soon enough, that sentiment seems to spread its way through the rest of the crowd little by little. It also makes the crowd disperse much more quickly than they might have. There's even a couple of doughnuts left. SOon though, it's one or two stragglers and Siofra and Liesl.
It does have the desired side-effect though, those sharp spikes of enjoyment rocketing through the woman.
OOC: Okay! Thank you for participating! Given that little thingie there I don't think you two will find much more information though there's the pamphlet and all that and just the encounter of course. But you're welcome to continue roleplaying and I will thread the scene for you until you head down! If you need a teleport anywheres please ask.
Liesl watches most of the remaining gathering disperse, her shoulders sagging. A soft exhale caps out her sentiments. She was never much of a people person. "Better luck next week," she says aside to her partner in failure.
It doesn't seem a complete failure. Siofra has managed to learn a thing or two, if not perhaps a greatly valueable thing or two yet. But it's something.
Siofra waggles her little pamphlet, collapsing onto Liesl in am embrace that death throes laughter one moment, and pulls away only smiling the next. "RIGHT! Mum martyr'd for nothing, I suppose."
Siofra or, "Rowan Ryan,' pouts her lips, ever so distraught from her own ineffectiveness."
Siofra or, 'Rowan Ryan,' pouts her lips, ever so distraught from her own ineffectiveness.
"I'll look into what it means to be a Sapphic Martyr for next time," Liesl promises Siofra. She has a skeptical, but firm expression on her visage. A favor done for a friend.
The mood of the room has turned quite morose, the depressing vibe only have grown thick enough to linger in the aftermath, even as Siofra revels in that miasma before looking for their exit stage right.
Liesl says "Yeah. Back home. Or wherever."
SRKah says "Yeah just head down it'll spit you out wherever. I can teleport you close to wherever you want with a summon if you're far off. "
SRKah says "Nobody wants to walk the whole town to get back to their car or home etc. "
Liesl latches onto Siofra, holding onto her sleeve. She's gonna let her lead the way.
Victoria awakens in a forsaken room, starkly contrasting the opulence of her last conscious memory. Chained and confronted by her captors—an emaciated man in ill-fitting attire, a brawny figure with a penchant for violence, and a distressingly ordinary-looking individual—she is propositioned with an unimaginable request: to bite them, thereby granting them supernatural strength and abandoning their humanity. Despite their initial intimidation and implied threats, Victoria's prospects begin to shift as her captors opt for a negotiation, hoping to persuade her into compliance. With a mix of defiance and ingenuity, she manages to turn the tables, seizing control of the situation. Yet, the tension remains palpable, a stark reflection of humanity's chaotic and unquenchable thirst for power, encapsulated in the confines of a dilapidated room far removed from the twinkling lights of the Starlight Lounge.
(Victoria's odd encounter(SRCastiel):SRCastiel)
[Fri Feb 28 2025]
At the main bar of Starlight Lounge
The ambience is defined by a celestial theme, with dimmed lighting that mimics the twinkling stars above. Delicate crystal chandeliers hang like constellations, casting a soft, inviting glow over plush velvet seating arrangements in rich hues of deep sapphire and emerald. Each corner of the lounge is adorned with tasteful art pieces that reflect the majesty of the night sky, including celestial maps and exquisite glass sculptures that refract light like starlight.
The centerpiece of the lounge is a stunning bar made of polished black granite, gleaming under the artistic play of light. Behind it, an extensive collection of premium spirits is showcased on backlit shelves. Lush ferns and cascading ivy frames the window, offering a breathtaking view of the manicured gardens outside. The atmosphere is one of refined luxury, where guests can unwind in style amidst a star-dappled oasis of carefully curated elegance.
It is afternoon, about 19F(-7C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds.
(Your target is abducted by humans who believe that the target can help make them supernatural. They need to either get out of the situation themselves, or stall for long enough for their allies to come save them.
)
The Starlight Lounge hums with a quiet sort of decadence, the kind of place where conversation is held in hushed, intimate tones over the rim of delicate glasses filled with aged spirits. The lighting is low, casting a golden haze over plush seating, and walls lined with soft reflections akin to that of hanging constellations. A jazz band plays from the corner this afternoon, just beginning their first rotation of song, and perhaps they are the initial reason of distraction; the upright bass plucking deep, resonant notes that sink into the air like a slow pulse beneath the murmur of voices. Outside, the afternoon is cold, burdened by the weight of a sky swollen with storm clouds, their dark bellies heavy with the promise of rain. Occasional flashes of distant lightning etch pale veins across the heavens, illuminating the townscape in brief, spectral glimpses.
At the bar, the world is measured in careful pours and the gentle clink of crystal. Liquors swirl beneath the precise flick of a wrist, blending into one another in streams of amber, vermilion, and deep lapis hues. Aromas of citrus zest and muddled herbs mix with the faint trace of expensive perfumes and cigar smoke, a cocktail of indulgence in itself. The glow of backlit bottles catches against glass surfaces, refracting in soft prisms that dance along the polished counter. The bartender's motions are seamless, each gesture a quiet symphony of efficiency, the creation of a drink an art form in itself.
Yet, within that elegance, the inevitable chaos of humanity simmers beneath the surface- hidden in the slight tremor of an unsteady hand lifting a glass, the barely perceptible glances exchanged between strangers who share more history than theyd admit. And some of them, tonight, are watching. Watching with too much intensity. They sip at their drinks, but do not taste them. Their conversation flickers, but does not hold weight. They are waiting.
The air shifts. The details do not change, but they feel different, charged with an odd dissonance. A slight lull in conversation. A disruption, so small at first that it barely registers. The presence of someone new- no, several- filtering through the room in a way that does not fit the atmosphere of the Starlight. Their suits are tailored, but the way they wear them lacks the ease of those who belong here. Their movements are rehearsed rather than natural, their casual postures just a bit too stiff, like actors in the wrong production. The illusion of normalcy is imperfect, fraying at the edges with every too-careful glance, every barely restrained shift of weight.
They position themselves near the exits. Unobtrusive. Intentional.
Then, it happens.
A presence at the bar- too close to Victoria. The kind of close that is felt before it is seen. A strangers arm, heavy where it shouldnt be, an intrusion into personal space under the pretense of drunken clumsiness. The scent of sweat and something sharp, chemical, medicinal. A whisper of fabric, the barest disturbance of the air behind. And then-
The world narrows.
The weight of another body presses in from the side to her, pinning limbs in a vice grip. The sensation of movement- fast, brutal. The barstool tips. A sharp sting at the base of the skull, a chemical bite flooding the senses. A tightening sensation at the throat, the air itself seeming to thin as strength falters in Victoria's very bones down to the marrow in the sudden intrusion that in hindsight shouldn't have happened with how keen her senses are, but it does, by luck or by virtue of a gathered group grim and determined to see their intent through.
The last thing seen before the dark rushes in is the glint of glass tipping over, liquid slipping in slow-motion toward polished granite. The murmur of conversation does not stop. The jazz band plays on. The world swallows the moment whole, as if it never happened at all.
The first thing to return is sensation. A raw, unfamiliar cold against her skin. The damp air clings with the scent of mold and decay, thick enough to taste. A distant rumble rolls through the air outside, low and restless, the prelude to an inevitable downpour. It hints that not much time, if any at all, has passed from then and now. Or maybe it did, but the town's chastisement beneath heavy storm yet remains with its curated wrath raining down.
Then, sound.
The steady, rhythmic drip of water somewhere distant. The creak of wood shifting, settling, breathing. The faint rustle of movement- not near, but not far. A single nail loosens from its place in the rafters, falling with a hollow clink against warped floorboards.
Then, sight.
The dim light filtering through boarded-up windows barely touches the rooms edges, casting long, jagged shadows that stretch unnaturally. The floorboards are uneven, marred by deep grooves and dark stains that have long since dried. The furniture- what little there is- remains overturned, abandoned to rot. Rusted metal chains dangle from a beam overhead, their purpose left unstated but unmistakable.
Beyond the doorway, a faint glow pulses in the distance, just out of reach. A lantern, perhaps. A flashlight. Something carried by someone who is waiting. Waiting for Victoria, as bound as she is by thick chains. Her legs are bent in a lotus beneath her, and she's left standing in spite of it all. It's a display of her raw prowess - that even in unconsciousness they couldn't bend her to their whims, but at least managed to tie her in a way that leaves the chains ever so present and tightening with each attempt to move them. Painfully digging into her skin should she resist.
Groaning, Victoria blinks, glancing around with an expression of concern. "What the hell," she mutters, struggling against the bindings with a hiss at their discomfort. Her eyes draw over the boarded up windows before falling to the glow in the distance, and she gives a measured exhale, drawing her tongue over her teeth. "Hey!" she calls out, annoyance lacing the word.
Their voices come before the figures.
A murmur, low and indistinct at first, shapes itself into words- fragments of conversation slipping through the damp air. The sound bounces against warped walls, curling around the edges of the room before their owners step into view.
Three figures.
The first is tall, gaunt in a way that suggests either illness or an unnatural refusal to eat. His skin is sallow under the weak light, stretched too tight over angular features. His hair, once dark, has thinned, revealing the uneven shine of scalp beneath. He wears a cheap black suit, the fabric ill-fitting and slightly wrinkled, as if hed borrowed it from someone else. He walks with a slow, deliberate grace, the kind that belongs to those who have lived on the edge of starvation for too long and have learned to make every movement count. His fingers twitch at his sides, the nails bitten down to uneven nubs. His eyes, deep-set and shadowed, flick to Victoria with a sharp, calculating intensity.
The second is shorter, broader, built like someone who has spent his life lifting things that dont belong to him. His beard is patchy, streaked with gray despite his otherwise youthful features, and his nose has the flattened, slightly crooked look of someone who has been punched too many times. He wears a leather jacket over a hoodie, the insignia on the chest worn away by time and neglect. He moves like a man who is used to fighting but prefers when the other person is already on the ground. When he speaks, his voice is a growl, thick and rough.
The third is the most unsettling of them all- not because of anything outwardly monstrous, but because of how at ease he looks. He is clean, his clothes neat, his posture casual as he leans against the doorframe. His face is unremarkable, pleasant in the way a face that blends into crowds is pleasant. He wears a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms lightly dusted with hair. His hands are clean, his nails trimmed, his expression unreadable save for the slight quirk at the edge of his mouth, as if he finds the entire situation mildly amusing.
They exchange glances, assessing her as if confirming that she is still whole, still worth what they risked to take. It is the gaunt man who speaks first, his voice dry, almost papery.
"Shes awake."
The broad man snorts. "Yeah, I got ears. She aint happy, either." He steps closer, arms crossed over his chest. "Good. Means shes got enough fight left in her to be useful." The one in the doorframe chuckles. "Shes got every right to be unhappy. We did take her, after all. But it was necessary. Youll see that soon enough, wont you?" His gaze flicks to Victoria, lingering. "You know what you are. And so do we."
The gaunt man tilts his head, his mouth pressing into something that might be a smile but fails to reach his eyes. "We want what you have. And youre going to give it to us." The wind outside rattles the loose boards against the windows, the storm clouds heavy with the promise of rain. The air in the room is thick with expectation, with something smells just shy of desperation to her heightened senses.
"Unhappy is an understatement." The words are practically spat at the three from Victoria, and her eyes narrow in an assessing sweep of all three. The gaunt figure speaking to her receives a snort, and a roll of her eyes. "What I have," she repeats, with a hint of confusion. "You look half dead, so I can't imagine what you might want unless it's food."
Some tension bears down in between all participants, the kind that thickens the air and weighs on the lungs. From the corner, the gaunt man tilts his head, his cheekbones casting deep shadows under the dim light. He smiles, but it is an unnatural thing, stretched too tight, revealing teeth that look too white against the rest of him.
"Oh, but you see," he murmurs, voice dry as dust, "it isn't sustenance we need. It's salvation. A chance to shed this- " he gestures vaguely to himself, fingers splaying as if repulsed by the sight of his own body, "this frail, failing shell. You know what I mean, don't you? You know the strength that lurks beneath your skin. Youve felt it. And we"
The broad man steps forward now, his heavy boots scuffing against the uneven floorboards. He is built like a laborer, thick arms crossed over his chest, a jagged scar cutting through the stubble on his jaw. "We need that. We need what you got," he rumbles, voice edged with frustration. "You dont get it, do you? What we have to live with. Being weak. Being just- " his lips curl in disgust, "ordinary. While people like you, you walk in the shadows of gods. It ain't fair."
The third, the nervous one, shifts his weight, rubbing a clammy palm against his thigh. His eyes dart between the other two, then to Victoria. He swallows. "Weve tried everything," he says, barely more than a whisper. "Magic, rituals, elixirs from charlatans who swore they had the answer. But none of it- none of it was real. None of it made us like you. But this..." He takes a step closer, feverish hope lighting his features. "This is real. You are real. And you can do it. We know how it works. You bite us, and we change. Thats all it takes. Thats all we need."
The broad man scoffs. "And you're gonna do it, one way or another. We aint leaving here until we walk out something more than what we were. So what'll it be?" The gaunt one exhales, amused. "Let's not be so crude," he chides. "We are men of reason, after all. Victoria, my dear, what would it take? What is your price?" He leans forward slightly, his skeletal fingers lifting, as if already reaching for an unspoken bargain. "We can offer you much. Money? Power? A debt repaid in blood? You name it, and it's yours."
The nervous man wrings his hands. "We dont want to hurt you, but if we have to" he trails off, his voice thin, uncertain. That gaunt man clicks his tongue. "Oh, don't be so dramatic. We are simply asking for a favor. A small, life-altering favor." His smile returns, predatory now, knowing. "And you are going to say yes. The question is, how long must we persuade you?"
"You never thought to just... buy a drink and ask?" Victoria asks dryly, looking entirely unamused. "You have no idea what you're asking for, of course. But..." Her arms strain against the bindings again, and her eyes narrow to slits. "You could help yourselves by giving a bit of trust and unchaining me." A sigh, coupled with an even look among each of the three. "Why this, out of anything you could become?"
Tallest of them exhales slowly, rubbing his face as though exhausted. "Look, were not here to fight you." His voice is hoarse, lined with the kind of weariness that settles deep into the bones. "We need this, but we need you to do it willingly."
The one closest to her crouches, gaze searching her face. His hands move to the chains, working the locks with slow, deliberate movements. The metal gives a reluctant groan as it loosens, falling away from her wrists and pooling against the damp wood. "Trust goes both ways," he murmurs, eyes flicking upward briefly before he stands. "So lets start there."
The third lingers near the doorway, arms crossed, fingers drumming against his sleeve. His jaw tightens. "You dont get it. We dont want anything else. We could be richer. We could be stronger. But none of that matters if we stay what we are. If we stay human." His voice strains on the last word, as if the very concept disgusts him. "We see what you are, and we see what we arent. Its not just about power. Its about being more."
The man who unlocked her bindings steps back, giving her space, but not too much. "We know what it costs," he continues. "We know what the change does. We accept that. But we cant take it. You have to give it."
The tallest one finally meets her gaze, expression unreadable beneath the dim, flickering light. "So tell us," he says, voice low, urgent. "What would it take?"
"Oh, well, if you're just asking," Victoria ponders, her voice light as she rubs her wrists, sighing in a bit of relief at the removed chains. She steps forward, nudging the chains away with one heel. "What would it take..." Her lips purse in thought.
And then, she moves. A bit too swiftly for them to apprehend, her hand darts out, grasping at the figure closest to her to spin them, put their back to her. Fingers flick, drawing one blade into her palm. "Trust should start with not poisoning me," she whispers into the ear of that figure, pressing the metal to his neck. "Now we can have a conversation." One shoulder lifts before dropping again in a small shrug. "Usually, it's a process," she explains. "Can't just run about biting people."
(Your target is approached by a member of the Sapphire Martyrs who, with a chilling serenity, tries to convince them of the "beauty" in their cause. They offer the target a chance to join them in their mission to save the other worlds. The target and their allies must navigate this tense situation, deciding whether to play along in order to learn more about their plans, to outright refuse, or to attempt to dissuade the member from their path. The encounter could evolve into a battle or a chase, or even a debate on the nature of sacrifice and salvation.)
Siofra sits next to the sleeping body of a blond woman, staring down with the contempt a mother might give to her child with her hands around the neck. The day has been idle, giving the resting heart rate of the black heart inside, and the general lethargy that drags one into the bed they have yet to leave.
The evening has begun in the early hours today, the sun already setting below the horizon as the temperature begins to drop below freezing outside. The sliver of moon in the night sky is obfuscated by the dark stormclouds up above and there's little to see that inspires one to get out of the bed for any real reason after all. But as these things often do, just when it seems like there couldn't possibly be anything to alieviate the boredom that threatens to spiral Siofra's state into oblivion there comes a soft beeping on whatever phone or communication device Siofra keeps about will draw her attention away from the thoughts that begin to clatter about inside of her mind. Beep. Beep. Beep. Insistent, and demanding. It must be something from the company, or one of the departments. A message, an invoice ... anything is better than nothing.
does not do this thing, though an outstretched hand and wide, madly passive eyes suggest that an attempt was close.
"Siofra or Dominooo-" Siofra hums into the speaker, voice at odds with her expression.
Well, it turns out to be a message versus a call - though it takes Siofra a moment to realize that still distracted with homicidal thoughts that come and go with the urges that accompany them. No voice returns the greeting from the woman, but when she pulls the phone away to see what the hell the problem is, she'll denote the message and be able to read it. /The Sapphire Martyrs are holding a small meeting not far from here, disguised as an AA gathering. Your job is to observe and report on their success with this endeavour and their recruitment methods./
Seeing the message, Siofra likely will feel a pang of annoyance. Her thoughts aren't so far from the truth. In the Corperate structure - the Intern gets the brunt of the workload because it always rolls downhill, doesn't it? In any event, the message seen she can't ignore it now (She could, but Big Brother is always watching) but at least it gives her something to do; and it might save her from idly choosing to murder her roommate in idle fashion with idle hands ...
Siofra takes a swig of blood, swishes it, and spits it all over the bed before she stands. A few droplets hit the window beyond- and what a beautiful reality this blood spatter could have been.
Like Lisa, it will remain a dream for now.
Wiping her mouth and swallowing the rest of the angelborn bitterly, making a face, she walks through the haunted Christmas mansion to the tune of a never-ending garbage disposal- a ghostly roommate waving her past.
And of course, with AA meetings come terrible coffee - which means only one place in town. The Lodge. And so this is where she'll ultimately be headed.
Siofra steps into her poor, poor Volkswagon Beetle, revs its v12 to make sure it still screams beautifully, then forces it down the road- road barely in sight behind the engine block.
Those thoughts do ring true, and when Siofra does eventually arrive (the trip's not that long after all) she'll find a small collection of local vehicles parked along the side of the road along Hart Avenue. The street in front of the Lodge and the Antlers Hotel is lined with those cars. Luckily, Siofra's little zombie-bug is an easy fit amongst the gaps and once parked she'll head inside. Not at the bar itself but past and toward the pool tables she'll find exactly what's expected. A ring of fold-out chairs, coffee supplied by the diner itself and the smell of sweat and desperate people. When Siofra walks in she can feel it right away, that suffering; it's easily distracting. Everyone here is struggling in some way. Struggling to keep sober, struggling not to give in. Every person suffers on some level with the grip that booze has on them here, or so it seems. The man sitting at the head of the circle such as it is, seems the most well-kept of the bunch, clean clothing and the distinct lack of ... poverty, about him.
Siofra looks down at her ring bearing the signet of the hand. That's a quick thing to slip into the pocket.
She gives a pleasant smile to everyone involved- which is easy, the local mood gives a bounce to her step as she takes a chair- happy alcoholic bloodfucker that she is. "Howya? I heard this were the place to see if yer liver's down on its fluttered arse?"
Finding a chair and sitting, Siofra will certainly garner some immediate attention with an introduction like that! The clean-looking man gives her a placating smile and a welcoming gesture. "Welcome, welcome. Please -" he's gesturing to the chair as if Siofra hadn't already taken one. "Welcome to our meeting. I'm Brad - and I'm an Alchoholic. It's nice to see newcomers always. Would you like to introduce yourself?" He gives a too-wide smile that doesn't touch his eyes, but it does bring a small bit of notice to a small lapel pin on the colar of his polo shirt. A little glittering sapphire.
"Rowan Ryan, absolute deadly irresponcible, even a mother!" Siofra gives a bow, right foot crossed behind the left with hands on a high curtsy. She looks around at the depressive state of withdraw around her, currently on her own high with a blank disconnect of empathy.
Siofra's butt lends itself back to the chair after her injection of energy into a lifeless discussion, causing it to lean back and wobble before the metal clacks back down.
Siofra pulls out her phone for a second to fire off a text; Oh, want to come to an AA meeting with me?'
Don't mind the blood spray on the window. I just swallowed some blood and spit it out to make things less comfortable. Siofra adds.
"Well Rowan Ryan, here we're all about trying to right those wrongs, and learn a little accountability, responsability. Welcome." He gives another of those smiles before he turns to the group. "And now that everyone seems ot be here for the night, let's go ahead and let people get a cup of joe, grab a doughnut and come on back alright! Two minutes!" The group at large begins to disperce with the well-practiced routine of people who've done this a thousand times. Good time for Siofra to try and single someone out or take the chance to try and get a bead on what might be going on underneath the scenes around here - if she even remembers! That high is coursing through her Demon-blooded veins and making her almost giddy. Hell, even the way the people seem to shuffle about only serves to cause little bubbles of laughter and good mirth to come rising up inside of her. And who wants to focus on the work to be done with that kind of sensation just over-flowing? In the meantime, This Brad fellow seems to be shifting through some papers, or perhaps organizing them. Next to him a small table setup that seems pretty standard. On it, two little stacks of pamphlets. One bears the large AA symbol, the other stack seems a little more obscure.
#808080It's at the lodge. I think that's at uhhh' I forget the road. It's across the street from Rosie's' Siofra finishes, slipping her phone into her trousers and and staring out from her metal thrown.
It's at the lodge. I think that's at uhhh' I forget the road. It's across the street from Rosie's' Siofra finishes, slipping her phone into her trousers and and staring out from her metal thrown.
Siofra tries not to let the Deamhan show too wide a smile, one must look adequately convicted of sadness- or try, at least. She takes a seat closes to Brad- man of the night that he is- oh, why, one may even paint it in his colors!
Taking a closer seat, the first thing Siofra can see is the logo on the other pamphlet. It's designed to look similar to the AA logo on purpose maybe, only this one is an S and an M molded together in the circle instead. The top reads simply "The Church of Sister Martyrdom". When she speaks over to the man in a low voice, his first reaction is a bit of a give-away. His eyes narrow suspiciously at Siofra for a moment before they slip back into that smiling facade that he wears on the outside. "Oh, of course miss Ryan! Please" he says, smoothly picking up one of each of the pamphlets and passing them along to the woman as she asks. "If you have any questions please feel free to ask! What did you say your friend's name was?" Again, that smile never quite reaches the eyes that look just a little bit beady here up this close.
"Lisa Henderson-" Siofra gives a conspiring hand over her mouth, "Tis a fake-name, sorry to admit. She says 'names are to be martyr'd to the cause." Siofra a genial, dimpled smile follow this statement- something that would follow a rational statement.
"Oh, well everyone has their secrets to keep I suppose. We try not to judge, we leave that to God. His plan for us all" he offers to Siofra, and then the group is coming back around to find their seats and settling in for the meeting. For the time being, Siofra is going to have to sit through this if she wants to try and get anything more out of Brad, who's going to spend the majority of the meeting running it exactly as one would expect. It's BORING. The only thing that keeps her sustained is the continued suffering of those true desperate souls that are here tonight. Some of them are here for the dougnuts and coffee, but many of them are in fact looking for some sense of salvation and that makes their suffering worse.
Siofra takes a moment to read both pamphlets, musing through them with low murmurs of ascent- miming the tone of the peanut gallery every time one of the lovely performs admits to a vicious car accident resulting in their who-cares number of years in prison and a dead child.
"Mmm. My child were kidnapped and died." She announces at some point after some manner of hope has bridged itself between webs of belonging between another- consolidating this meeting as a hopeless place.
Which, is probably what the pretty blue jewel keepers want.
"Because I was drunk." Siofra adds, as if to explain why she mentioned it.
Adding to the depressing vibe of the situation at hand, Siofra benefits from this as she feels that high flowing through her in fresh jolts and waves all throughout, but she also helps set the tone for this man here recruiting. Looking through the pamhlets, the first is your standard AA fare. Twelve steps, you have no power to help yourself, only God and blah blah blah ... the second one though; this one seems more interesting. A clear front for the Martyrs for those already in the know, it still does well at dressing it up. It's a small but vaguely uplifting doctrine describing their 'Church of the Siter Martyr' and it's principles. Helping those find hope again and all of the key points that are sure to lure in these people who want to find a new place to belong or change the world they live in to try and leave their old lives behind. Siofra can definitely assume that this is an entry point- a place to bring people to other meetings as they slowly slip other doctrines and awareness into these people's lives asd they try to entwine them into their schemes.
It's grand! Everyone in here is hurting. Siofra texts, doing the classic school trick of placing her phone over her textbook. Her lap makes a poor desk, however, and her textbook is a pamphlet.
Siofra frowns at her friend's reticence. Who would have thought mercilessly berating her companion for her lack of freedom of thought would make it harder to get her out of the house and around other people.
Siofra folds the Church's front- and the AA meeting as well- after all, studio-sized personal Hells suit her fairly well, into her lap and sets them neatly atop one another as she glances up. "So Brad, how did ya' manage to get off the drink?"
Whatever it is, Liesl arrives unfashionably late and makes her way right over to Siofra, expecting to walk into an AA meeting and support her pal.
Siofra is perhaps the only one here to smile. She is the star of warmth- hellishly so, in this little abyss of sadness. The rictus turns on Liesl as the woman enters, "Lisaaaaah!" She greets, turning the attention of the room stage left.
When Liesl arrives, she'll find her friend Siofra setting close to the man who seems to be leading the last vestiges of the meeting as she trails in late. A vague but not unattractive-looking man she's sitting next to looking smarmy by nature for some reason, dressed in a polo shirt and a fake smile. Everyone else at the meeting seems to carry the signs of their addicition or depression and it fills the air sweetly for those sensitive to the suffering of others as Siofra is. "Well, a lot of hard work, the help of the program, and my faith" this man replies smoothly to whatever question the woman's asked him but his answer is almost going on deaf ears because Siofra is turning to greet her friend a ltitle too loudly. At that, she gets the first frown out of Brad all evening, and he seems to decide it's a good time to conclude the meeting of a sort. "Thank you all for coming, and remember to persevere. The strength to change what you can!" He puts it on thick and as usual the gathered losers and dregs of society here break apart into groups and mingle about for awhile, finishing off the coffee and dougnuts. It gives Siofra time to question these people a little mroe directtly without Brad interfering maybe if they have a mind to.
Liesl doesn't wear any smiles, she makes her debut on stage cautiously, approaching Siofra like she were a wild animal. Their last meeting somewhere far far away didn't end as amenable as usual. So seeing Siofra in high spirits,and said spirits portioned for her is unexpected, but not quite unwelcome. "Hi, Domino," she greets, opting for the nickname than the real deal. A familiar moniker that reveals to one and all she is pretty cushy with dear Siofra. "This place lookslike the pity party," she remarks. It's more she can just feel it. Something about the place is like she's wading through sadness.
"Ahah-" is all Siofra can manage to respond with. Through the perverse sense of engagement with the pain around her, is, as well, her very own muddied behind an expression unchanging. Oh bother, oh no! If she can think about that, surely others aren't sufferinge enough.
"These happen, weekly, dear-" Siofra hisses, tucking two pamphlets under her arm. "c'mere to me-" She beckons with a finger.
Liesl slurps the rest of a can of Sprite with a red straw before dumping it in a trash bin. After that's all said and done, she trudges over to Siofra, studying the mysterious pamphlets tucked away. "Well. I hope this was productive. Whatever it was." She's clued in she missed in on most of the action, but doesn't seem too fussed about it. "Learn anything useful? Feel better?"
Siofra dismisses her own feelings with a flutter-wave into the distance. "Nothing, sure look. I showed up, showed off, now the shows over and you're here, bother-bother." She gives a glance to Braddington, whom is surely growing his own state of depression in a fungus jar housed deep within his soul.
Now that she's settled in, Liesl can see that it is indeed a bit of a pity party. There's an underlying theme of good here, but the intention and the reality have fallen far from each other. The other folks mingle about but there's no real sense of anyone being the first one to want to leave, and nobody seems overly eager to stay. A dead-lock of sorts as these people struggle.
SRKah says "Sorry about that. Phone call - please continue! I will try to add some flavour here for Liesl's arrival before all winds down! "
"Okay. Sure. I'm a Sapphire Martyr," Liesl freely agrees with Siofra, matching her hushed pitch in tone. She looks around for a target, or one of those tables with complementary snacks and drinks that usually are arranged somewhere here. If she's here she's going to get her time's worth. The game plan made and set, she otherwise waits patiently for anyone to approach so she can tell them who she is.
Siofra tugs Liesl up to Braddington. "This me pal, Lisa Bollockson."
Siofra chokes on her own smile.
Ahh, but looking around - Brad is nowhere to be found. Once the meeting ended, he was quick to slip past and away. Perhaps when Siofra was greeting her friend? Alas, he is one source of information that is no longer available.
Siofra immediately sniffs the air for evidence of his passing, but alas;
'It was self mastered.' Yes, a lack of proficiency, self mastered.
Siofra sours as she gets not but the clogged scent of blood ever erupting deep within the cavities of her elfin bridge.
Liesl looks around expectantly. There's no Braddington Boyo, but maybe Siofra can sniff out someone else. She's being led around the place, but her attention is sort of elsewhere. To Siofra, she meaningfully points to a table where she spies the last few plastic cups filled with what she presumes is juice. "Sure," she whispers back, jabbing her finger, indicating some spoils to be looted.
Siofra heads that way, graceless in step and oh- oh no! She's falling! She's falling and slamming her palms into the side of the table set out! Why, everything's gone everywhere!
/Oh/ no! With a 'stumble' Siofra sends cups of juice and coffee hald-drunk and now cold flying all over the place! Up into the air they go, and those watching can almost see it in slow motion as the mixture of stain-inducing juice and coffee all riddled with sugars sure to bind to cloth and clothing go splashing through the air ... the pool table in use gets covered; Siofra and Liesl get covered, as does the group around the table as they all exclaim and shout in surprise as the accident occurs. "Woah!" "OH!" "BRO!" Come three voices in unison.
"What the actual fuck" comes a voice from over by the pool tables, some scruffy-looking guy piping up. Not part of the group, though.
"Ahah- whoops! I'm drunk AND pregnant." Siofra delivers like an episode of Seinfeld, complete with hands on her hips and a look towards her co-star.
Looking past Siofra at that remark, one of the guys around the table looks to Liesl for the moment instead. "Man, your friend here has a bad sense of humor." Turning to her then, they add "This isn't the place for those kind of jokes, man. And if you're serious then you need more help than an AA meeting." Well isn't that Siofra's bad luck she's happened onto the one group here that might actually be looking for some real kind of help out of this kind of thing. Then again ... these are the people the Martyrs are really after, aren't they? Maybe they know something.
Liesl steps to the side to avoid a dreadful date with some juice on her clothes. It's far too late, and she is splashed with the sad state of affairs that was laid out on the table. "Oh well," she says, holding her hands up helplessly. She eyes Siofra dubiously, and almost believes that Siofra might have been pregnant and was hiding it from her til this very day. "She's very troubled," she says sadly, holding onto Siofra's arm protectively. "We need a lot of help."
Siofra combs a strand of coffee stained white out of her face, leaning into her juiced up companion. "Oh, my sincerest apologies- say, d'ya think the reason that God won't look at ya is because you don't deserve it?"
Oh, man. Just when Liesl might be making some headway, Siofra goes and puts her mouth right in it. With a look of offense, these guys stalk away from the pair of women muttering loudly with a nasty sense of tone. Soon enough, that sentiment seems to spread its way through the rest of the crowd little by little. It also makes the crowd disperse much more quickly than they might have. There's even a couple of doughnuts left. SOon though, it's one or two stragglers and Siofra and Liesl.
It does have the desired side-effect though, those sharp spikes of enjoyment rocketing through the woman.
OOC: Okay! Thank you for participating! Given that little thingie there I don't think you two will find much more information though there's the pamphlet and all that and just the encounter of course. But you're welcome to continue roleplaying and I will thread the scene for you until you head down! If you need a teleport anywheres please ask.
Liesl watches most of the remaining gathering disperse, her shoulders sagging. A soft exhale caps out her sentiments. She was never much of a people person. "Better luck next week," she says aside to her partner in failure.
It doesn't seem a complete failure. Siofra has managed to learn a thing or two, if not perhaps a greatly valueable thing or two yet. But it's something.
Siofra waggles her little pamphlet, collapsing onto Liesl in am embrace that death throes laughter one moment, and pulls away only smiling the next. "RIGHT! Mum martyr'd for nothing, I suppose."
Siofra or, "Rowan Ryan,' pouts her lips, ever so distraught from her own ineffectiveness."
Siofra or, 'Rowan Ryan,' pouts her lips, ever so distraught from her own ineffectiveness.
"I'll look into what it means to be a Sapphic Martyr for next time," Liesl promises Siofra. She has a skeptical, but firm expression on her visage. A favor done for a friend.
The mood of the room has turned quite morose, the depressing vibe only have grown thick enough to linger in the aftermath, even as Siofra revels in that miasma before looking for their exit stage right.
Liesl says "Yeah. Back home. Or wherever."
SRKah says "Yeah just head down it'll spit you out wherever. I can teleport you close to wherever you want with a summon if you're far off. "
SRKah says "Nobody wants to walk the whole town to get back to their car or home etc. "
Liesl latches onto Siofra, holding onto her sleeve. She's gonna let her lead the way.