Encounterlogs
Victorias Odd Encounter Sr Castiel 250402
In a tale of measured encounters and unspoken tensions, Detective Lorne and Officer Holtz pay a visit to Victoria's home, amidst a chilling series of ritualistic murders haunting the coastal town of Haven. Their entrance interrupts the serenity of Victoria's master bedroom, exuding warmth against the outside cold. Without fear or hostility, the police duo seeks to engage Victoria in a conversation, searching for any clue that might unravel the mystery behind the grotesque killings that have left the town on edge. Throughout the interaction, there's a dance of observation and subtext, with both parties gauging each other. Despite the underlying intensity of their visit, Lorne and Holtz maintain a professional demeanor, subtly probing for information without direct accusation, highlighting their reliance on community intelligence to crack the case.
Meanwhile, an entirely different story unfolds at White Oak, where Lorenzo, a vampire with a penchant for detachment, navigates his day with a chilling nonchalance. Alerted by a cryptic message about a new target on the notorious app, rather than jumping into action, Lorenzo dismisses the call with a breezy indifference. His day takes an eerie turn as he picks out an easy prey, a young and unsuspecting student, for a quick feed. With the cold precision of centuries-old practice, he veils the encounter with hypnotic persuasion, ensuring his victim remembers nothing of the ordeal. In this darkly woven narrative, Lorenzo embodies the aloof observer, detached from the supernatural underworld skirmishes, favoring the shadows of his immediate desires over the clamor of factional orders, even as violence erupts nearby, hinting at a world teeming with danger lurking just out of sight.
(Victoria's odd encounter(SRCastiel):SRCastiel)
[Thu Mar 27 2025]
In a serene master bedroom
This room combines rustic decor, warm lighting, and a welcoming atmosphere that invites relaxation, making the space the perfect blend of nature and warmth. Walls are created of rich wood, and the main feature within is the bed.
A large bed with a frame made of oak dominates the space and is covered in several plush blankets, making it the ideal place to curl up and unwind. A fur throw has been laid at the foot of the bed, and several fluffy pillows rest against the headboard that is made from the same oak, featuring a black velvet backdrop.
It is noon, about 34F(1C) degrees,
Something between them tenses as soon as the door opens, and the silence stretching just a fraction too long completely shatters with Victoria's presence. The cold, crisp and unrelenting, settles between the three then, fighting the warm current from the house wafting out, but neither side - Victoria by her preternatural resilience, nor the warmly dressed officers - seems particularly affected by it. This is not a meeting between predator and prey, not one that these officers are aware of, anyway. Thusly, there is no fear, no silent calculation of weakness. Just an exchange of gazes, measured and steady.
Detective Lorne takes in the scene before him with the same scrutiny he's applied to countless interviews before. His gaze lingers only for a moment before shifting, subtle but practiced, noting the details that matter- the way the door swings open, the warmth of the house against the outside chill, the ease of movement. There is nothing to indicate distress, nothing to suggest alarm. Nothing, in the way of an expectation from a policely visit.
Beside him, Officer Holtz doesn't shift her weight or glance at her superior for direction. She doesn't need to. There's an ease to the way she holds herself, the kind that comes from confidence rather than authority. Her jacket remains zipped up, gloved hands tucked into her pockets, but her gaze is sharp, flicking briefly past the doorway into the house before returning to the moment. "Morning, actually," she notes offhandedly. "Not quite noon yet."
Meanwhile, Lorne, without letting his partner ramble on or become a nitpick annoyance, moves a hand to his pocket, pulls out his badge. Catch the dull gray light filtering through the thick cloud cover on it under display. "Detective Saul Lorne, State Police." His voice is steady, unhurried, as he tucks the badge away again. "This is Officer Holtz. We were hoping to ask a few questions." There is no immediate accusation, no push forward, no force behind his words. They haven't come with the intention to make an arrest- not yet, at least.
Holtz lets out a slow breath, visible in the cold. She tilts her head slightly, eyes flicking toward the inside of the house again- not lingering, not prying, just a brief assessment before she turns her attention back to Victoria. "Mind if we come in?" The question is routine, but the weight behind it is clear. A threshold waiting to be crossed, a conversation yet to unfold. The storm overhead has not yet broken, but its surely about to. Surely.
"Questions?" Victoria quirks a brow with some confusion hinted on her features before stepping aside, motioning within the house. "Of course, come in." She turns to move through the foyer, pointing a finger to the living space nearby. "We can talk in there if you'd like. I'd offer you a drink, but seeing as you're on duty and all..." She gives a slight smirk, leading the way to where she's indicated before dropping herself onto the couch.
All the warmth inside contrasts sharply with the biting cold of the outside world. The rich scent of wood lingers in the air, mingling with something faintly herbal. Lorne steps in first, unhurried, taking a moment to brush his gloved hands together before removing them, slipping them into his coat pocket. Holtz follows, her gaze flicking briefly across the interior, the practiced habit of someone who files away details without looking like she's searching for them.
They settle into the living space after Victoria, without either of them replying to her initial smirk or offer of a drink. A plush couch, a well-worn coffee table, the soft glow of ambient lighting warming the rustic decor. There's an ease to the setting, something almost inviting, though neither officer lets it soften their purpose. Lorne chooses a seat opposite the couch, while Holtz opts for a chair at an angle, where she can observe both him and their host without obstruction.
Lorne leans forward, resting his forearms lightly on his knees. He doesn't immediately press. Instead, his gaze drifts briefly over the room, taking in the quiet details- the neatly arranged bookshelf, the absence of clutter, the lived-in quality without chaos. His thoughts turn inward, back to the case that led them here, the string of deaths pulling them through the coastal town like a hook through flesh.
Three bodies over the course of two weeks. The most recent ones, at least. The first, a fisherman named Patrick O'Dell, found half-submerged in a tide pool, his throat carved open so cleanly it was almost surgical. The second, a bartender- Helen Price, discovered behind the shuttered windows of her own home, slumped over the kitchen table, the floor beneath her a pool of deep, coagulated red. The third, just three days ago, had been a traveler, someone passing through Haven on their way south. A motel guest who never checked out, their room filled with the metallic stink of old blood, the sheets soaked through to the mattress.
The bodies weren't just murdered. They were posed. Arranged with a ritualistic deliberation that made even seasoned officers uneasy. O'Dell had been left with his hands folded over his chest, a circle of fishhooks scattered around him like offerings. Helen's body had been seated, her head tilted slightly, her hands cupping her own severed tongue like a grotesque communion. The traveler's wrists had been crossed, one palm up, one down, a shallow dish of salt placed beside them.
And no one had seen a damn thing.
Lorne exhales, settling deeper into his seat. His tone remains even, careful, neither accusatory nor overly familiar. "There have been some incidents, recently. It's almost as if.. someone, was making a beeline straight to Haven. Three deaths, all violent." He pauses just long enough to let the weight of the statement settle before continuing. "We're still piecing together exactly what happened, but the nature of the scenes suggests this wasn't random. Whoever did this- " his gaze flickers for a moment, unreadable, "- they knew what they were doing."
He leans forward slightly, lacing his fingers together. "We're reaching out to people in the area, trying to get a better sense of things. Where people were. What they might've seen or heard. Anything that could give us a clearer picture." He meets Victoria's gaze evenly. "You've been in Haven long enough to know how these things go. Someone always knows something."
Holtz, quiet up until now, tilts her head slightly. "We're not saying you're involved," she adds, voice measured. "But right now, we don't have a lot to work with. So, if there's anything you can tell us- anything at all- it might help."
Theories churned like black water under the surface of the investigation. A serial killer passing through? A local with a grudge? Something deeper, older, buried beneath the town's long history.. Or maybe it was something else, that was in the process of passing through Haven. Digging into the victims, they were all guilty of one thing or another. None of them were good folk, to be sure, but they were still people. No one deserved what they endured.
Lorne lets out a slow breath again, watching Victoria carefully as he speaks, a bit repetitive, but to the point. "You've been in Haven a while," he starts, keeping his tone neutral. "You know how small towns are. Word gets around. People talk." He folds his hands together. "You ever hear anything strange about the victims?" Holtz doesn't interject, but she watches closely. Not tense, not aggressive- just observant, the way a wolf watches the treeline at dusk, waiting to see what moves first.
A mixture of shock and concern crosses Victoria's features for a flickering moment as she brushes an errant strand of hair behind one ear. She relaxes back into a cushion, crossing one leg over the other to leave one heel bobbing idly. She casts an unblinking glance between the two, pursing her lips in thought. "Can't say that I have," she finally muses to Lorne. "Haven's a bit of an odd spot, and most of my time is spent out here, unless I'm at work." One shoulder lifts, then drops in a lazy shrug. "Sounds like some sort of sacrifice or something."
Lorne watches her for a long moment, considering. The answer is reasonable, noncommittal. If she knows anything more, she's keeping it to herself, but that's not unusual. People don't like being involved in police business, especially not when it involves something like this.
Holtz shifts in her seat, exhaling slowly. "Maybe," she concedes. "We've seen some things that could point that way." She glances at Lorne, then back to Victoria. "If you think of anything- anything at all- you can reach out to your local deputy department and they will forward your message to us.." Lorne nods, pushing himself up from his seat. "We appreciate your time." There's no hard edge to his tone, no attempt to pry further. If there's something more to find, it'll have to come another way. For now, this is as much as they'll get.
With that, they prepare to take their leave, stepping back into the biting cold. The case isn't closed- not even close- but for now, they'll let Victoria be. That doesn't mean they won't be watching. She'll be under scrutiny, under watch - and it is likely that the murders will continue, the ritualistic pile will grow larger and larger without a single evidence as to what or who is causing these. Corpses left, almost as if in some kind of wicked penance for their misdeeds, for they all are people of a bad circumstance that has led them down the wrong path.
Not that it is any worry for Victoria, who won't even know that the case will move on without her, and that the state-police will leave her be entirely after enough time spent in observation. All that matters, for now, is that they're gone. Wandered back into their car, and left Victoria to her own thoughts in the sanctum of her own abode, out in the woods.
(Your target and their allies are charged with tracking down a supernatural criminal on the run from the factions, what they do with them then is up to the players to decide.
)
As Lorenzo struts his stuff along the campus commons his cell phone buzzes. Not the usual buzz, no, the buzz from that other app with the clench fist. The one that no one talks about but all of his friends and coworkers seem to have. In the alert bar is just one simple message. "New Target acquired." If Lorenzo opens the app he will see the full details:@line
"Rafe 'Redjack' Morlin is wanted by the hand for smuggling supernatural artifacts and multiple, creative, Understanding violations. He is to be treated as extremely dangerous and to be dealt with with extreme prejudice."
As Lorenzo struts his stuff along the campus commons his cell phone buzzes. Not the usual buzz, no, the buzz from that other app with the clench fist. The one that no one talks about but all of his friends and coworkers seem to have. In the alert bar is just one simple message. "New Target acquired." If Lorenzo opens the app he will see the full details:
"Rafe 'Redjack' Morlin is wanted by the hand for smuggling supernatural artifacts and multiple, creative, Understanding violations. He is to be treated as extremely dangerous and to be dealt with with extreme prejudice." (fix)
Lorenzo pulls out his cell phone as it vibrates with a distinctive buzz, the screen lighting up with a message from that not-so-secret app among his inner circle. Glancing over the alert, his expression doesn't change; if anything, there's a hint of amusement in his cool blue eyes hidden behind polarized shades.
"New Target acquired," the message reads, presenting him with a task that might ruffle the feathers of any law-abiding citizen. Not Lorenzo, though. With a slight shake of his head and a wry smirk, he murmurs to himself, "Not my monkey, not my problem."
Sliding the phone back into his pocket, he continues his walk. The details of Rafe 'Redjack' Morlin, a smuggler of the supernatural, float through his mind briefly as an idle thought, no more concerning to him at the moment than the weather forecast. With an air of indifference, Lorenzo lets the digital prompt dissolve into the background noise of his day, choosing to remain a spectator in this particular drama rather than the lead actor. After all, some games are best watched from the sidelines.
Lorenzo mutes his phone, something the Hand leadership will have to talk to him about later. Orders are orders after all, but that in neither here nor there at the moment. Someone else can deal with the supernatural criminals, and likely the Temple is already working on it.
On the other hand, the message is still there with all the details of his crime and last known whereabouts. Maybe this is something Lorenzo can leverage into some sort of advantage, or not. Across the quad a group of sorority girls talk quietly in the shadows, another group of boys leering at them from behind another pillar. A few straggling students wander to class. A cool, calm, quiet day at White Oak.
Lorenzo lets out a low chuckle, scrolling past the alert on his phone with a dismissive swipe of his thumb. "Chasing down thugs isn't exactly my branch of service," he muses aloud, almost to himself but loud enough for any curious eavesdropper. His expression is one of mild amusement, a stark contrast to the gravity of the message he's just ignored.
"Muscling over a thief isn't my style, either," he continues, glancing casually around the quad, his eyes catching the interplay of light and shadow where groups of students congregate. He leans back against the cool stone of a nearby pillar, his posture relaxed, the epitome of nonchalance.
"Let the Temple handle the dirty work. I've got better things to do," Lorenzo adds with a smirk, his gaze lingering on the interactions around him, always watching, always calculating. The message about Rafe 'Redjack' Morlin could wait - Lorenzo knew when to play his cards and when to fold them. Today, it seemed, was a day for watching, not for acting.
A few students broke off from the group and scurried about the quad, off to their various groups. The bell was about to ring and Professor MacNamara was notorious for not letting students be late for Potions class. Rumor was he turned the last student who was late into a newt, but that was just a rumor. They can't actually turn people into newts can they?
All things held equal this was the perfect time for Lorenzo to pick of a student if he was feeling peckish. Otherwise he would be very much alone in the early afternoon daylight in a few moments.
As the students scatter across the quad, Lorenzo's sharp gaze locks onto one particularly distracted young man looking more lost in his thoughts than his surroundings. A perfect mark. He sidles up, his approach smooth and unassuming, the light catching the silver cross hanging loosely around his neck.
"Hey," Lorenzo murmurs, his voice a low purr that barely rises above the ambient noise of the campus. His blue eyes flicker momentarily with a hypnotic gleam, catching the student's gaze with an almost tangible pull. "Looks like you could use a break from the chaos, huh? Let's find somewhere quiet to talk," he suggests, his tone casual but laced with an underlying command that resonates deep within the student's mind.
Using his skills in hypnotism subtly, he guides the student away from the crowd with a gentle hand on the shoulder, steering him towards a less frequented part of the campus. The quiet confidence in his stride and the reassuring, almost mesmerizing tone of his voice make it all too easy for the student to follow without question, swept up in the perceived safety and authority Lorenzo projects. As they walk, Lorenzo keeps the conversation light, but his mind is sharp, always in control, always watching.
The young man follows along with not much complaint. This is likely a freshman or new supernatural with little to no supernatural defenses at his disposal. Easy prey for the elder vampire. As they make their way through the campus a few of the nuns and priests give Lorenzo and the young man a once over, as if to reproach them but then decide that what two students do is not their problem until it is and right now they aren't being a problem.
The pair finally make their way behind the bleachers because that is where all students go to be alone. It is a rule written in the foundations of reality. Students neck under school bleachers. The fact that Lorenzo has a different kind of necking in mind is a mere technicality. Triffling difference really.
Lorenzo chuckles lowly, a sound rich with dark amusement as they slip behind the bleachers, the very picture of college cliche. The student, nervously glancing around, seems oblivious to the true nature of his companion.
"Relax," Lorenzo murmurs, leaning casually against the cool metal of the bleachers, his eyes gleaming with an unfathomable depth. "This is just your typical college experience, right? A little chat in a quiet corner," he continues, his voice smooth as silk, yet carrying an edge that could slice through steel.
His gaze never wavers from the young man, holding him as surely as if hed physically grasped him. "Though, I must admit, I'm not here for the gossip or the drama," Lorenzo adds, the corners of his mouth ticking up in a knowing smirk. "Let's just say I'm more interested in what's flowing in your veins than the latest campus scandal. Don't worry, you won't miss it much," he teases, stepping closer, his presence overwhelming yet oddly comforting.
Lorenzo's demeanor masks the predator within, making it almost easy to forget the danger. Almost. His charm is a veneer, skillfully applied, and behind it lies the eternal hunger of the vampire, always lurking, always ready.
"Yeah, just an experiment," the mousy student echoes back to Lorenzo before relaxing despite the very real fact he is about to be tapped like a keg. Another college cliche. It's just another one of those days on White Oak.
The man did relax, however, and leans back against the wall, dazed and properly mind melted with the vampiric brain voodoo. How far Lorenzo takes this is up to him, but the little sheep is ready for the sheering as it were.
Lorenzo's gaze intensifies, the electric blue of his eyes seeming to pulse with an otherworldly light as he holds the student's gaze. With a smooth, almost imperceptible movement, he murmurs softly, his voice a velvet caress that slips deep into the young man's psyche. "Forget this," he whispers, invoking his powers of psychic persuasion and hypnotism simultaneously, a double thread of compulsion weaving through the air between them.
"Nothing unusual here," he continues, his voice a hypnotic lull, "just a typical student interaction." The subtle manipulation sinks into the students mind, setting hooks that would later erase the memory of what was about to transpire.
With the student now completely under his influence, relaxed and suggestible, Lorenzo leans in closer, his fangs barely brushing against the pulsing vein in the young man's neck. The hunger roars within him, demanding, insatiable, but he reins it in with the finesse of centuries. His bite is gentle, almost tender, the pierce of his fangs sharp but precise. He drinks deeply, the warm rush of blood flooding his senses, every gulp a battle against the urge to take it all.
But he stops, drawing back after enough to sate his thirst but not harm. With a final, soothing whisper, he reinforces the compulsion. "You just felt a little dizzy, that's all. Go enjoy your day." As Lorenzo steps back, smoothing down his shirt as if nothing of consequence had occurred.
The student nods and then scurries away as he is bidden, none the wiser, but a pint or two lighter. Such is life at White Oak. Lorenzo had his lunch and all is right with the world. No one will remember anything, or at least acknowledge it.
Far off in the distance, out of sight of Lorenzo, a large brute of a man is slammed into a tree by someone else trying to claim the bounty. A fire fight ensued and the man escaped, maybe to haunt Lorenzo another day.
Lorenzo watches the retreating figure of the student with a satisfied smirk, the thrill of the hunt still tingling in his veins. His attention shifts momentarily to the distant sounds of chaos - a grunt, the crack of a body against bark, the unmistakable discharge of firearms. He shakes his head, the smirk widening into a devil-may-care grin.
"Ah, the sweet symphony of White Oak," he mutters to himself, his tone dripping with dark amusement. "As long as they keep it out of my playground, let them play their dangerous games." With a casual shrug, Lorenzo turns, his coat flaring slightly as he walks away, content to leave the distant fire fight as a backdrop to his serene afternoon stroll. After all, in the grand scheme of things, it's just another day in paradise, or at least, his version of it.
Meanwhile, an entirely different story unfolds at White Oak, where Lorenzo, a vampire with a penchant for detachment, navigates his day with a chilling nonchalance. Alerted by a cryptic message about a new target on the notorious app, rather than jumping into action, Lorenzo dismisses the call with a breezy indifference. His day takes an eerie turn as he picks out an easy prey, a young and unsuspecting student, for a quick feed. With the cold precision of centuries-old practice, he veils the encounter with hypnotic persuasion, ensuring his victim remembers nothing of the ordeal. In this darkly woven narrative, Lorenzo embodies the aloof observer, detached from the supernatural underworld skirmishes, favoring the shadows of his immediate desires over the clamor of factional orders, even as violence erupts nearby, hinting at a world teeming with danger lurking just out of sight.
(Victoria's odd encounter(SRCastiel):SRCastiel)
[Thu Mar 27 2025]
In a serene master bedroom
This room combines rustic decor, warm lighting, and a welcoming atmosphere that invites relaxation, making the space the perfect blend of nature and warmth. Walls are created of rich wood, and the main feature within is the bed.
A large bed with a frame made of oak dominates the space and is covered in several plush blankets, making it the ideal place to curl up and unwind. A fur throw has been laid at the foot of the bed, and several fluffy pillows rest against the headboard that is made from the same oak, featuring a black velvet backdrop.
It is noon, about 34F(1C) degrees,
Something between them tenses as soon as the door opens, and the silence stretching just a fraction too long completely shatters with Victoria's presence. The cold, crisp and unrelenting, settles between the three then, fighting the warm current from the house wafting out, but neither side - Victoria by her preternatural resilience, nor the warmly dressed officers - seems particularly affected by it. This is not a meeting between predator and prey, not one that these officers are aware of, anyway. Thusly, there is no fear, no silent calculation of weakness. Just an exchange of gazes, measured and steady.
Detective Lorne takes in the scene before him with the same scrutiny he's applied to countless interviews before. His gaze lingers only for a moment before shifting, subtle but practiced, noting the details that matter- the way the door swings open, the warmth of the house against the outside chill, the ease of movement. There is nothing to indicate distress, nothing to suggest alarm. Nothing, in the way of an expectation from a policely visit.
Beside him, Officer Holtz doesn't shift her weight or glance at her superior for direction. She doesn't need to. There's an ease to the way she holds herself, the kind that comes from confidence rather than authority. Her jacket remains zipped up, gloved hands tucked into her pockets, but her gaze is sharp, flicking briefly past the doorway into the house before returning to the moment. "Morning, actually," she notes offhandedly. "Not quite noon yet."
Meanwhile, Lorne, without letting his partner ramble on or become a nitpick annoyance, moves a hand to his pocket, pulls out his badge. Catch the dull gray light filtering through the thick cloud cover on it under display. "Detective Saul Lorne, State Police." His voice is steady, unhurried, as he tucks the badge away again. "This is Officer Holtz. We were hoping to ask a few questions." There is no immediate accusation, no push forward, no force behind his words. They haven't come with the intention to make an arrest- not yet, at least.
Holtz lets out a slow breath, visible in the cold. She tilts her head slightly, eyes flicking toward the inside of the house again- not lingering, not prying, just a brief assessment before she turns her attention back to Victoria. "Mind if we come in?" The question is routine, but the weight behind it is clear. A threshold waiting to be crossed, a conversation yet to unfold. The storm overhead has not yet broken, but its surely about to. Surely.
"Questions?" Victoria quirks a brow with some confusion hinted on her features before stepping aside, motioning within the house. "Of course, come in." She turns to move through the foyer, pointing a finger to the living space nearby. "We can talk in there if you'd like. I'd offer you a drink, but seeing as you're on duty and all..." She gives a slight smirk, leading the way to where she's indicated before dropping herself onto the couch.
All the warmth inside contrasts sharply with the biting cold of the outside world. The rich scent of wood lingers in the air, mingling with something faintly herbal. Lorne steps in first, unhurried, taking a moment to brush his gloved hands together before removing them, slipping them into his coat pocket. Holtz follows, her gaze flicking briefly across the interior, the practiced habit of someone who files away details without looking like she's searching for them.
They settle into the living space after Victoria, without either of them replying to her initial smirk or offer of a drink. A plush couch, a well-worn coffee table, the soft glow of ambient lighting warming the rustic decor. There's an ease to the setting, something almost inviting, though neither officer lets it soften their purpose. Lorne chooses a seat opposite the couch, while Holtz opts for a chair at an angle, where she can observe both him and their host without obstruction.
Lorne leans forward, resting his forearms lightly on his knees. He doesn't immediately press. Instead, his gaze drifts briefly over the room, taking in the quiet details- the neatly arranged bookshelf, the absence of clutter, the lived-in quality without chaos. His thoughts turn inward, back to the case that led them here, the string of deaths pulling them through the coastal town like a hook through flesh.
Three bodies over the course of two weeks. The most recent ones, at least. The first, a fisherman named Patrick O'Dell, found half-submerged in a tide pool, his throat carved open so cleanly it was almost surgical. The second, a bartender- Helen Price, discovered behind the shuttered windows of her own home, slumped over the kitchen table, the floor beneath her a pool of deep, coagulated red. The third, just three days ago, had been a traveler, someone passing through Haven on their way south. A motel guest who never checked out, their room filled with the metallic stink of old blood, the sheets soaked through to the mattress.
The bodies weren't just murdered. They were posed. Arranged with a ritualistic deliberation that made even seasoned officers uneasy. O'Dell had been left with his hands folded over his chest, a circle of fishhooks scattered around him like offerings. Helen's body had been seated, her head tilted slightly, her hands cupping her own severed tongue like a grotesque communion. The traveler's wrists had been crossed, one palm up, one down, a shallow dish of salt placed beside them.
And no one had seen a damn thing.
Lorne exhales, settling deeper into his seat. His tone remains even, careful, neither accusatory nor overly familiar. "There have been some incidents, recently. It's almost as if.. someone, was making a beeline straight to Haven. Three deaths, all violent." He pauses just long enough to let the weight of the statement settle before continuing. "We're still piecing together exactly what happened, but the nature of the scenes suggests this wasn't random. Whoever did this- " his gaze flickers for a moment, unreadable, "- they knew what they were doing."
He leans forward slightly, lacing his fingers together. "We're reaching out to people in the area, trying to get a better sense of things. Where people were. What they might've seen or heard. Anything that could give us a clearer picture." He meets Victoria's gaze evenly. "You've been in Haven long enough to know how these things go. Someone always knows something."
Holtz, quiet up until now, tilts her head slightly. "We're not saying you're involved," she adds, voice measured. "But right now, we don't have a lot to work with. So, if there's anything you can tell us- anything at all- it might help."
Theories churned like black water under the surface of the investigation. A serial killer passing through? A local with a grudge? Something deeper, older, buried beneath the town's long history.. Or maybe it was something else, that was in the process of passing through Haven. Digging into the victims, they were all guilty of one thing or another. None of them were good folk, to be sure, but they were still people. No one deserved what they endured.
Lorne lets out a slow breath again, watching Victoria carefully as he speaks, a bit repetitive, but to the point. "You've been in Haven a while," he starts, keeping his tone neutral. "You know how small towns are. Word gets around. People talk." He folds his hands together. "You ever hear anything strange about the victims?" Holtz doesn't interject, but she watches closely. Not tense, not aggressive- just observant, the way a wolf watches the treeline at dusk, waiting to see what moves first.
A mixture of shock and concern crosses Victoria's features for a flickering moment as she brushes an errant strand of hair behind one ear. She relaxes back into a cushion, crossing one leg over the other to leave one heel bobbing idly. She casts an unblinking glance between the two, pursing her lips in thought. "Can't say that I have," she finally muses to Lorne. "Haven's a bit of an odd spot, and most of my time is spent out here, unless I'm at work." One shoulder lifts, then drops in a lazy shrug. "Sounds like some sort of sacrifice or something."
Lorne watches her for a long moment, considering. The answer is reasonable, noncommittal. If she knows anything more, she's keeping it to herself, but that's not unusual. People don't like being involved in police business, especially not when it involves something like this.
Holtz shifts in her seat, exhaling slowly. "Maybe," she concedes. "We've seen some things that could point that way." She glances at Lorne, then back to Victoria. "If you think of anything- anything at all- you can reach out to your local deputy department and they will forward your message to us.." Lorne nods, pushing himself up from his seat. "We appreciate your time." There's no hard edge to his tone, no attempt to pry further. If there's something more to find, it'll have to come another way. For now, this is as much as they'll get.
With that, they prepare to take their leave, stepping back into the biting cold. The case isn't closed- not even close- but for now, they'll let Victoria be. That doesn't mean they won't be watching. She'll be under scrutiny, under watch - and it is likely that the murders will continue, the ritualistic pile will grow larger and larger without a single evidence as to what or who is causing these. Corpses left, almost as if in some kind of wicked penance for their misdeeds, for they all are people of a bad circumstance that has led them down the wrong path.
Not that it is any worry for Victoria, who won't even know that the case will move on without her, and that the state-police will leave her be entirely after enough time spent in observation. All that matters, for now, is that they're gone. Wandered back into their car, and left Victoria to her own thoughts in the sanctum of her own abode, out in the woods.
(Your target and their allies are charged with tracking down a supernatural criminal on the run from the factions, what they do with them then is up to the players to decide.
)
As Lorenzo struts his stuff along the campus commons his cell phone buzzes. Not the usual buzz, no, the buzz from that other app with the clench fist. The one that no one talks about but all of his friends and coworkers seem to have. In the alert bar is just one simple message. "New Target acquired." If Lorenzo opens the app he will see the full details:@line
"Rafe 'Redjack' Morlin is wanted by the hand for smuggling supernatural artifacts and multiple, creative, Understanding violations. He is to be treated as extremely dangerous and to be dealt with with extreme prejudice."
As Lorenzo struts his stuff along the campus commons his cell phone buzzes. Not the usual buzz, no, the buzz from that other app with the clench fist. The one that no one talks about but all of his friends and coworkers seem to have. In the alert bar is just one simple message. "New Target acquired." If Lorenzo opens the app he will see the full details:
"Rafe 'Redjack' Morlin is wanted by the hand for smuggling supernatural artifacts and multiple, creative, Understanding violations. He is to be treated as extremely dangerous and to be dealt with with extreme prejudice." (fix)
Lorenzo pulls out his cell phone as it vibrates with a distinctive buzz, the screen lighting up with a message from that not-so-secret app among his inner circle. Glancing over the alert, his expression doesn't change; if anything, there's a hint of amusement in his cool blue eyes hidden behind polarized shades.
"New Target acquired," the message reads, presenting him with a task that might ruffle the feathers of any law-abiding citizen. Not Lorenzo, though. With a slight shake of his head and a wry smirk, he murmurs to himself, "Not my monkey, not my problem."
Sliding the phone back into his pocket, he continues his walk. The details of Rafe 'Redjack' Morlin, a smuggler of the supernatural, float through his mind briefly as an idle thought, no more concerning to him at the moment than the weather forecast. With an air of indifference, Lorenzo lets the digital prompt dissolve into the background noise of his day, choosing to remain a spectator in this particular drama rather than the lead actor. After all, some games are best watched from the sidelines.
Lorenzo mutes his phone, something the Hand leadership will have to talk to him about later. Orders are orders after all, but that in neither here nor there at the moment. Someone else can deal with the supernatural criminals, and likely the Temple is already working on it.
On the other hand, the message is still there with all the details of his crime and last known whereabouts. Maybe this is something Lorenzo can leverage into some sort of advantage, or not. Across the quad a group of sorority girls talk quietly in the shadows, another group of boys leering at them from behind another pillar. A few straggling students wander to class. A cool, calm, quiet day at White Oak.
Lorenzo lets out a low chuckle, scrolling past the alert on his phone with a dismissive swipe of his thumb. "Chasing down thugs isn't exactly my branch of service," he muses aloud, almost to himself but loud enough for any curious eavesdropper. His expression is one of mild amusement, a stark contrast to the gravity of the message he's just ignored.
"Muscling over a thief isn't my style, either," he continues, glancing casually around the quad, his eyes catching the interplay of light and shadow where groups of students congregate. He leans back against the cool stone of a nearby pillar, his posture relaxed, the epitome of nonchalance.
"Let the Temple handle the dirty work. I've got better things to do," Lorenzo adds with a smirk, his gaze lingering on the interactions around him, always watching, always calculating. The message about Rafe 'Redjack' Morlin could wait - Lorenzo knew when to play his cards and when to fold them. Today, it seemed, was a day for watching, not for acting.
A few students broke off from the group and scurried about the quad, off to their various groups. The bell was about to ring and Professor MacNamara was notorious for not letting students be late for Potions class. Rumor was he turned the last student who was late into a newt, but that was just a rumor. They can't actually turn people into newts can they?
All things held equal this was the perfect time for Lorenzo to pick of a student if he was feeling peckish. Otherwise he would be very much alone in the early afternoon daylight in a few moments.
As the students scatter across the quad, Lorenzo's sharp gaze locks onto one particularly distracted young man looking more lost in his thoughts than his surroundings. A perfect mark. He sidles up, his approach smooth and unassuming, the light catching the silver cross hanging loosely around his neck.
"Hey," Lorenzo murmurs, his voice a low purr that barely rises above the ambient noise of the campus. His blue eyes flicker momentarily with a hypnotic gleam, catching the student's gaze with an almost tangible pull. "Looks like you could use a break from the chaos, huh? Let's find somewhere quiet to talk," he suggests, his tone casual but laced with an underlying command that resonates deep within the student's mind.
Using his skills in hypnotism subtly, he guides the student away from the crowd with a gentle hand on the shoulder, steering him towards a less frequented part of the campus. The quiet confidence in his stride and the reassuring, almost mesmerizing tone of his voice make it all too easy for the student to follow without question, swept up in the perceived safety and authority Lorenzo projects. As they walk, Lorenzo keeps the conversation light, but his mind is sharp, always in control, always watching.
The young man follows along with not much complaint. This is likely a freshman or new supernatural with little to no supernatural defenses at his disposal. Easy prey for the elder vampire. As they make their way through the campus a few of the nuns and priests give Lorenzo and the young man a once over, as if to reproach them but then decide that what two students do is not their problem until it is and right now they aren't being a problem.
The pair finally make their way behind the bleachers because that is where all students go to be alone. It is a rule written in the foundations of reality. Students neck under school bleachers. The fact that Lorenzo has a different kind of necking in mind is a mere technicality. Triffling difference really.
Lorenzo chuckles lowly, a sound rich with dark amusement as they slip behind the bleachers, the very picture of college cliche. The student, nervously glancing around, seems oblivious to the true nature of his companion.
"Relax," Lorenzo murmurs, leaning casually against the cool metal of the bleachers, his eyes gleaming with an unfathomable depth. "This is just your typical college experience, right? A little chat in a quiet corner," he continues, his voice smooth as silk, yet carrying an edge that could slice through steel.
His gaze never wavers from the young man, holding him as surely as if hed physically grasped him. "Though, I must admit, I'm not here for the gossip or the drama," Lorenzo adds, the corners of his mouth ticking up in a knowing smirk. "Let's just say I'm more interested in what's flowing in your veins than the latest campus scandal. Don't worry, you won't miss it much," he teases, stepping closer, his presence overwhelming yet oddly comforting.
Lorenzo's demeanor masks the predator within, making it almost easy to forget the danger. Almost. His charm is a veneer, skillfully applied, and behind it lies the eternal hunger of the vampire, always lurking, always ready.
"Yeah, just an experiment," the mousy student echoes back to Lorenzo before relaxing despite the very real fact he is about to be tapped like a keg. Another college cliche. It's just another one of those days on White Oak.
The man did relax, however, and leans back against the wall, dazed and properly mind melted with the vampiric brain voodoo. How far Lorenzo takes this is up to him, but the little sheep is ready for the sheering as it were.
Lorenzo's gaze intensifies, the electric blue of his eyes seeming to pulse with an otherworldly light as he holds the student's gaze. With a smooth, almost imperceptible movement, he murmurs softly, his voice a velvet caress that slips deep into the young man's psyche. "Forget this," he whispers, invoking his powers of psychic persuasion and hypnotism simultaneously, a double thread of compulsion weaving through the air between them.
"Nothing unusual here," he continues, his voice a hypnotic lull, "just a typical student interaction." The subtle manipulation sinks into the students mind, setting hooks that would later erase the memory of what was about to transpire.
With the student now completely under his influence, relaxed and suggestible, Lorenzo leans in closer, his fangs barely brushing against the pulsing vein in the young man's neck. The hunger roars within him, demanding, insatiable, but he reins it in with the finesse of centuries. His bite is gentle, almost tender, the pierce of his fangs sharp but precise. He drinks deeply, the warm rush of blood flooding his senses, every gulp a battle against the urge to take it all.
But he stops, drawing back after enough to sate his thirst but not harm. With a final, soothing whisper, he reinforces the compulsion. "You just felt a little dizzy, that's all. Go enjoy your day." As Lorenzo steps back, smoothing down his shirt as if nothing of consequence had occurred.
The student nods and then scurries away as he is bidden, none the wiser, but a pint or two lighter. Such is life at White Oak. Lorenzo had his lunch and all is right with the world. No one will remember anything, or at least acknowledge it.
Far off in the distance, out of sight of Lorenzo, a large brute of a man is slammed into a tree by someone else trying to claim the bounty. A fire fight ensued and the man escaped, maybe to haunt Lorenzo another day.
Lorenzo watches the retreating figure of the student with a satisfied smirk, the thrill of the hunt still tingling in his veins. His attention shifts momentarily to the distant sounds of chaos - a grunt, the crack of a body against bark, the unmistakable discharge of firearms. He shakes his head, the smirk widening into a devil-may-care grin.
"Ah, the sweet symphony of White Oak," he mutters to himself, his tone dripping with dark amusement. "As long as they keep it out of my playground, let them play their dangerous games." With a casual shrug, Lorenzo turns, his coat flaring slightly as he walks away, content to leave the distant fire fight as a backdrop to his serene afternoon stroll. After all, in the grand scheme of things, it's just another day in paradise, or at least, his version of it.