Encounterlogs
Viktorins Odd Encounter Sr Lucas 241016
In the bustling atmosphere of The Succubus Club's dance floor, Viktorin stands aloof, his gaze drifting over the undulating crowd with detached curiosity. The night unfolds in vibrant rhythms, drawing Viktorin's attention to a peculiar smoke weaving through the neon lights, coalescing into a human figure. This figure, introducing himself as Tony Mamba, or more ominously as Nicholos Scratch, appears suddenly beside Viktorin. Despite Viktorin's stoic demeanor, Tony's presence and the surreal nature of his arrival hint at a night far removed from the ordinary. Tony, with his insidious charm and mouth agape revealing a void, offers Viktorin a Faustian bargain, tempting him with desires unspoken, yet powerfully present.
Viktorin, asserting his identity as a child of Chernobog, resists Tony's provocations with a mix of disdain and rage. The demon's persistence escalates the encounter into a nightmarish tableau, transposing the club into a psychedelic vision of the 1970s and then a melting hellscape as Viktorin's refusal to succumb to temptation enrages Tony. Flames envelop Viktorin, a tangible threat amidst the disintegrating reality Tony wields like a weapon. However, Viktorin's defiance forces Tony into a retreat, vanquishing the demon back to the depths. The club returns to its original state, leaving Viktorin amidst the unsuspecting crowd, marked only by the brief physical remnants of their confrontation. Through steadfast resistance and invoking his own mythical lineage, Viktorin withstands the demon's allure, preserving his soul against insurmountable odds.
(Viktorin's odd encounter(SRLucas):SRLucas)
[Tue Oct 15 2024]
In the Main Dance Floor of The Succubus Club
The wide open space of dance floor takes up most of this open portion of
the club, warehouse ceilings high and fixed with a multitude of appropriate
strobing and colorful lights. Lounge furniture is spaced along the outer
walls to watch the dance floor and provide a place for seating and drinks as
the thrum of high energy dance music and trap remixes of popular songs
pulses from the speakers. Waitresses in skimpy attire move between the
seating and throngs of people to take and deliver drink orders on site, and
the rounded double stairs converge together on a sky balcony to look over
the floor below.
A hallway leads to vending and bathrooms, as well as a steady stream of
people who seem to be getting club drugs from one source or another in that
direction. The front bar is partially partitioned behind the dance floor
near the entrance, a more suitable place for conversational drinks as the
music allows for limited version in the main club.
It is night, about 59F(15C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. There is a waxing gibbous moon.
(A demon from hell has become interested in your target, they decide to see if they can tempt them into becoming one of their instruments on earth.
)
Even whilst the music eekes out its existence on the dance-floor, Viktorin stands, idle, listless. Alone, partitioned and separated from the crowd, leaned against the balcony overlooking the throng of club attendants writhing upon the dance-floor. The Czech emptily stares onward, as if looking through them, at something hidden to the mind's eye. Or perhaps he's just lost in thought amidst the flashing lights and bright neon atmosphere. Drinkless, he is, inebriated, he is not.
The night is reaching that peak where one day ends and the one will soon begin. As Viktorin leans over the railing and watch the sea of flesh as it undulates and thumps and gyrates to the mesmerizing rhythm of the EDM music that pounds through the floor as it vibrates through speakers. IT's like watching the primordial pool that life spawned in and crawled from, writhing and wriggling along the dance floor. As he watches, there's not really anything to catch the eye until a small wisp of smoke moving through one of the colored lasers catches the man's eye. It wouldn't have, but he can see it doesn't move the way it should. Following it, there's another small wisp like a thread of smoke that joins with it. Soon enough there are many, the humans down there none the wiser as their dance and their rythym calling upon ancient rites unknown to them. These threads continue to converge until the begin to take a shape down there.
That shape turns into the silouhette of a man, and then clothing, and style. As Viktorin watches this man something seems to pull himself together piece by smokey piece right in front of his eyes! When Viktorin moves to turn from the railing next, he'll find himself shocked to discover that self-same man now standing next to him leaning with his back against thje rail as opposed to leaning over it. "Well, well, well. What are you doing up here all alone?" The man looks like your average club kid. Short spiked hair, collar shit with some rediculous style, a pair of shades hiked up over his forehead in the middle of the night. His body continues to move with the sound and beat of the music, never quite stopping his movements as he studies Viktorin.
There's, ironically, very little surprise from Viktorin, as if he is oft exposed to strange and discomforting experiences and sights. Whilst concern practically writes itself on the Czech's face, knitting eyebrows together, lips spiraling into a frown, hand tensing upon the railing, slowly. As the people seem none the wiser to this, the Czech relaxes a little. Only a little of course. The phenomena is studied, hawkishly observed. When smoke becomes man, that to is noted, observed, and the dusky thing playing at 'anomaly researcher' is now about to press his finger upon that little bead in his ear, turning to glance at his surroundings. Only to find the man he was watching.
"Observing the mundane," Viktorin intones with an ounce of annoyance, though his voice rings slowly. As if this were deceit. Or a half-truth. "And may I ask why I was selected as your choice of company?" More irritation.
"Because of all the people in here, you're the one that NEEDS something" comes the easy answer from this man. He grins easily, without revealing any teeth. "The name's Tony. Tony Mamba" and now he smiles, his mouth opening. The inside of his mouth is completely black. His gums, his teeth, all of it. "Some call me Nicholos Scratch." The man takes an easy approach for a Demon. bouncing to the music, but still through all of that it's some sense of need or desire in Viktorin amongst all of these people that has called him out here tonight, onto the dance floor and into Viktorin's life. "So the real question is, my bummed out little dude, is what do you NEED?" His hands spread open, and there's flashes of cards, jewels, gems, almost anything once can imagine that SEEMS to tumble through his hands as he entices the man he speaks to with them. "My prices are insane ..." this comes out almost like the slithering hissssss of a snake.
"Need and want are two different things," intones a quiet but, clearly annoyed Czech. "I need naught but food, water, sleep. I want far, far more." Clicking his tongue, he nearly begins to issue out a sarcastic, sardonic response, especially with that dour and displeased look pasted to his face, before notes of surprise finally hit him at the man's mouth. "Audacious, are we not?" he remarks in clear disproval. "So many defy that which should be hidden and kept secret, naught but for a moment's pleasure, and yet each glimmer of a hidden truth has far-reaching consequences. I only hope that none have spotted such glimmers."
Slanting his eyes at the next name used, Viktorin simply shrugs. Also not recognizing it. "I fear I am unaware of that name as well. I am a Slav. I know Slav names and Slav things." The dusky skinned man doesn't bounce along or dance. Instead, he nearly and gracefully composes himself, as if in an attempt to assert himself as regal. Serene. But those words about 'prices' have the demigod hawkishly glaring at the man. "I'd almost think you were a devil to be approaching me with such Faustian offers."
Giddy, the man gives a little giggle. "Gaunter Grimm? No? It sounds like you understand just fine, daddy-o." Leaning over the shades on his forehead slip down his face, sliding in what seems to be come cool party trick down his face and to the end of his nose bridge in all one smooth motion. As the sunglasses pass over the man's face though, those eyes shift from a regular blue or blue gray to deep pools, of living red. If Viktorin stares into them he might get lost, within pits of flame and the boundless depths of self-inflicted damnation. "I don't go to where the deals are made, I'm called. So who's on the phone?" His grin comes again, and that black mouth, like the snake is so readily apparent and that hissing sound comes again. Each time he askes it's like a little more pressure builds inside Viktorin's skull. All he has to do is say what he wants, his most selfish of wants and that pressure could be released.
"I am more apt to call upon the Black Stag, than I am someone I was both unaware of, and unrelated to," Viktorin simply retorts, grimacing a little as there sunglasses slide down. "Devil-kin," the Czech guesses, rubbing a finger along his own nose. "My name is Viktorin Teptic. A child of Chernobog." Pressure is responded to with fury. Rage. Slowly it bubbles forth, contorting the Orderite's countenance. And it seems not too much pressure is required for that either, with the way he lays the abrasiveness on thick. "Veles, a serpent, a wyrm, was crushed by Perun, for the eagle's wrath was so great."
"Is that so?" SRLucas just gives a snap of his fingers ... and woosh! The nightclub is gone, and they're in another one. No ... the same one. Except now it's decorated to a retro 70's motif. Everyone is playing their part too, the lingo, the clothes, the hair. Everything is just right. "They're not here, are they? Horns? Calling all black horns? No?" His laugh comes slithery and sinister as he pretends to look around. Then Viktorin finds himself covered in flames that burn and bURN! but the pain is gone, and there's no fire. "The world is whatever I want. Whenever I want. I didn't come out here to waste my time on nothing. Your soul called out, so we can round and about ... " those blood-red eyes narrow to slits. "But I'm leaving here with your soul." His voice takes on a smoky quality, like grating or crumbling stone and volacano ash. The whole place gets hotter, as his mouth opens to release a sulfur smell from that black pit.
The differeny scenery evokes something different from the Czech. Confusion. And a need to survive. Swiftly, he places his hand upon the sheath hiding his dagger. Surely, he can't fight a demon on his own. Even he wasn't alone, victory would probably be difficult to come by. When he's set on fire, he does freak out a little, swiftly patting at his clothes. And when pain fades, so does the frantic almosy animalistic and instinctual reactions. Viktorin can't respond without the lingering rage. "You may as well build a coffin here then, because I'm not giving you anything more than mere words to spill past my lips. And to truly claim that the world is whatever you wish it to be? You may as well go dispute those facts with every other abomination lurking in our tapestry."
A look of fury comes over the man's face. Slowly the walls around them begin to melt like an oil painting too close to a source of heat. The entire club, the reality around it comes dribbling and drawling down the veritcal walls that shouldn't even be standing like thast if they're melting. The ceiling begins to drop down in giant blobs of hot, oily tar that hits the ground with hot acid hisses that bring up hot wisps of smoke and steam that smell like sulfur and acid. "YOu! You will BURN!" The demon-being seethes out with a massive display of rage. HIs eyes blaze to life and the whole room kicks up into the hundreds. Sweat pops out over Viktorin's forehead and it's getting hot. FAST. But then it's Scratch that start to bubble and smoke like the oil painting dripping everywhere. The air is toxic almost, from the smells and the smokes and nastiness and then Scratch is bursting into a greasy collection of flames. "YOU WILL BURN!!!" The man's roar is the last thing heard as the third denial of this Demon sends him sliding back down whatever sinkhole he'd slithered out of.
All of the sudden, Viktorin finds himself right back where he'd found himself. Dowen there is still the sea of people dancing, still the pumping and thumping of the music that keeps everyon in that mesmorised trance of dancing and bleeding their lives away. All that remains of the exposure is a small red spot on an arm or perhaps a small burn hole in a piece of clothing where a droplet or two of that greasy oil splashed him.
OOC: Thank youo very much! If down doesn't takew you back to the club or whatnot let me know what stop is closest we'll bamf you there.
Viktorin, asserting his identity as a child of Chernobog, resists Tony's provocations with a mix of disdain and rage. The demon's persistence escalates the encounter into a nightmarish tableau, transposing the club into a psychedelic vision of the 1970s and then a melting hellscape as Viktorin's refusal to succumb to temptation enrages Tony. Flames envelop Viktorin, a tangible threat amidst the disintegrating reality Tony wields like a weapon. However, Viktorin's defiance forces Tony into a retreat, vanquishing the demon back to the depths. The club returns to its original state, leaving Viktorin amidst the unsuspecting crowd, marked only by the brief physical remnants of their confrontation. Through steadfast resistance and invoking his own mythical lineage, Viktorin withstands the demon's allure, preserving his soul against insurmountable odds.
(Viktorin's odd encounter(SRLucas):SRLucas)
[Tue Oct 15 2024]
In the Main Dance Floor of The Succubus Club
The wide open space of dance floor takes up most of this open portion of
the club, warehouse ceilings high and fixed with a multitude of appropriate
strobing and colorful lights. Lounge furniture is spaced along the outer
walls to watch the dance floor and provide a place for seating and drinks as
the thrum of high energy dance music and trap remixes of popular songs
pulses from the speakers. Waitresses in skimpy attire move between the
seating and throngs of people to take and deliver drink orders on site, and
the rounded double stairs converge together on a sky balcony to look over
the floor below.
A hallway leads to vending and bathrooms, as well as a steady stream of
people who seem to be getting club drugs from one source or another in that
direction. The front bar is partially partitioned behind the dance floor
near the entrance, a more suitable place for conversational drinks as the
music allows for limited version in the main club.
It is night, about 59F(15C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. There is a waxing gibbous moon.
(A demon from hell has become interested in your target, they decide to see if they can tempt them into becoming one of their instruments on earth.
)
Even whilst the music eekes out its existence on the dance-floor, Viktorin stands, idle, listless. Alone, partitioned and separated from the crowd, leaned against the balcony overlooking the throng of club attendants writhing upon the dance-floor. The Czech emptily stares onward, as if looking through them, at something hidden to the mind's eye. Or perhaps he's just lost in thought amidst the flashing lights and bright neon atmosphere. Drinkless, he is, inebriated, he is not.
The night is reaching that peak where one day ends and the one will soon begin. As Viktorin leans over the railing and watch the sea of flesh as it undulates and thumps and gyrates to the mesmerizing rhythm of the EDM music that pounds through the floor as it vibrates through speakers. IT's like watching the primordial pool that life spawned in and crawled from, writhing and wriggling along the dance floor. As he watches, there's not really anything to catch the eye until a small wisp of smoke moving through one of the colored lasers catches the man's eye. It wouldn't have, but he can see it doesn't move the way it should. Following it, there's another small wisp like a thread of smoke that joins with it. Soon enough there are many, the humans down there none the wiser as their dance and their rythym calling upon ancient rites unknown to them. These threads continue to converge until the begin to take a shape down there.
That shape turns into the silouhette of a man, and then clothing, and style. As Viktorin watches this man something seems to pull himself together piece by smokey piece right in front of his eyes! When Viktorin moves to turn from the railing next, he'll find himself shocked to discover that self-same man now standing next to him leaning with his back against thje rail as opposed to leaning over it. "Well, well, well. What are you doing up here all alone?" The man looks like your average club kid. Short spiked hair, collar shit with some rediculous style, a pair of shades hiked up over his forehead in the middle of the night. His body continues to move with the sound and beat of the music, never quite stopping his movements as he studies Viktorin.
There's, ironically, very little surprise from Viktorin, as if he is oft exposed to strange and discomforting experiences and sights. Whilst concern practically writes itself on the Czech's face, knitting eyebrows together, lips spiraling into a frown, hand tensing upon the railing, slowly. As the people seem none the wiser to this, the Czech relaxes a little. Only a little of course. The phenomena is studied, hawkishly observed. When smoke becomes man, that to is noted, observed, and the dusky thing playing at 'anomaly researcher' is now about to press his finger upon that little bead in his ear, turning to glance at his surroundings. Only to find the man he was watching.
"Observing the mundane," Viktorin intones with an ounce of annoyance, though his voice rings slowly. As if this were deceit. Or a half-truth. "And may I ask why I was selected as your choice of company?" More irritation.
"Because of all the people in here, you're the one that NEEDS something" comes the easy answer from this man. He grins easily, without revealing any teeth. "The name's Tony. Tony Mamba" and now he smiles, his mouth opening. The inside of his mouth is completely black. His gums, his teeth, all of it. "Some call me Nicholos Scratch." The man takes an easy approach for a Demon. bouncing to the music, but still through all of that it's some sense of need or desire in Viktorin amongst all of these people that has called him out here tonight, onto the dance floor and into Viktorin's life. "So the real question is, my bummed out little dude, is what do you NEED?" His hands spread open, and there's flashes of cards, jewels, gems, almost anything once can imagine that SEEMS to tumble through his hands as he entices the man he speaks to with them. "My prices are insane ..." this comes out almost like the slithering hissssss of a snake.
"Need and want are two different things," intones a quiet but, clearly annoyed Czech. "I need naught but food, water, sleep. I want far, far more." Clicking his tongue, he nearly begins to issue out a sarcastic, sardonic response, especially with that dour and displeased look pasted to his face, before notes of surprise finally hit him at the man's mouth. "Audacious, are we not?" he remarks in clear disproval. "So many defy that which should be hidden and kept secret, naught but for a moment's pleasure, and yet each glimmer of a hidden truth has far-reaching consequences. I only hope that none have spotted such glimmers."
Slanting his eyes at the next name used, Viktorin simply shrugs. Also not recognizing it. "I fear I am unaware of that name as well. I am a Slav. I know Slav names and Slav things." The dusky skinned man doesn't bounce along or dance. Instead, he nearly and gracefully composes himself, as if in an attempt to assert himself as regal. Serene. But those words about 'prices' have the demigod hawkishly glaring at the man. "I'd almost think you were a devil to be approaching me with such Faustian offers."
Giddy, the man gives a little giggle. "Gaunter Grimm? No? It sounds like you understand just fine, daddy-o." Leaning over the shades on his forehead slip down his face, sliding in what seems to be come cool party trick down his face and to the end of his nose bridge in all one smooth motion. As the sunglasses pass over the man's face though, those eyes shift from a regular blue or blue gray to deep pools, of living red. If Viktorin stares into them he might get lost, within pits of flame and the boundless depths of self-inflicted damnation. "I don't go to where the deals are made, I'm called. So who's on the phone?" His grin comes again, and that black mouth, like the snake is so readily apparent and that hissing sound comes again. Each time he askes it's like a little more pressure builds inside Viktorin's skull. All he has to do is say what he wants, his most selfish of wants and that pressure could be released.
"I am more apt to call upon the Black Stag, than I am someone I was both unaware of, and unrelated to," Viktorin simply retorts, grimacing a little as there sunglasses slide down. "Devil-kin," the Czech guesses, rubbing a finger along his own nose. "My name is Viktorin Teptic. A child of Chernobog." Pressure is responded to with fury. Rage. Slowly it bubbles forth, contorting the Orderite's countenance. And it seems not too much pressure is required for that either, with the way he lays the abrasiveness on thick. "Veles, a serpent, a wyrm, was crushed by Perun, for the eagle's wrath was so great."
"Is that so?" SRLucas just gives a snap of his fingers ... and woosh! The nightclub is gone, and they're in another one. No ... the same one. Except now it's decorated to a retro 70's motif. Everyone is playing their part too, the lingo, the clothes, the hair. Everything is just right. "They're not here, are they? Horns? Calling all black horns? No?" His laugh comes slithery and sinister as he pretends to look around. Then Viktorin finds himself covered in flames that burn and bURN! but the pain is gone, and there's no fire. "The world is whatever I want. Whenever I want. I didn't come out here to waste my time on nothing. Your soul called out, so we can round and about ... " those blood-red eyes narrow to slits. "But I'm leaving here with your soul." His voice takes on a smoky quality, like grating or crumbling stone and volacano ash. The whole place gets hotter, as his mouth opens to release a sulfur smell from that black pit.
The differeny scenery evokes something different from the Czech. Confusion. And a need to survive. Swiftly, he places his hand upon the sheath hiding his dagger. Surely, he can't fight a demon on his own. Even he wasn't alone, victory would probably be difficult to come by. When he's set on fire, he does freak out a little, swiftly patting at his clothes. And when pain fades, so does the frantic almosy animalistic and instinctual reactions. Viktorin can't respond without the lingering rage. "You may as well build a coffin here then, because I'm not giving you anything more than mere words to spill past my lips. And to truly claim that the world is whatever you wish it to be? You may as well go dispute those facts with every other abomination lurking in our tapestry."
A look of fury comes over the man's face. Slowly the walls around them begin to melt like an oil painting too close to a source of heat. The entire club, the reality around it comes dribbling and drawling down the veritcal walls that shouldn't even be standing like thast if they're melting. The ceiling begins to drop down in giant blobs of hot, oily tar that hits the ground with hot acid hisses that bring up hot wisps of smoke and steam that smell like sulfur and acid. "YOu! You will BURN!" The demon-being seethes out with a massive display of rage. HIs eyes blaze to life and the whole room kicks up into the hundreds. Sweat pops out over Viktorin's forehead and it's getting hot. FAST. But then it's Scratch that start to bubble and smoke like the oil painting dripping everywhere. The air is toxic almost, from the smells and the smokes and nastiness and then Scratch is bursting into a greasy collection of flames. "YOU WILL BURN!!!" The man's roar is the last thing heard as the third denial of this Demon sends him sliding back down whatever sinkhole he'd slithered out of.
All of the sudden, Viktorin finds himself right back where he'd found himself. Dowen there is still the sea of people dancing, still the pumping and thumping of the music that keeps everyon in that mesmorised trance of dancing and bleeding their lives away. All that remains of the exposure is a small red spot on an arm or perhaps a small burn hole in a piece of clothing where a droplet or two of that greasy oil splashed him.
OOC: Thank youo very much! If down doesn't takew you back to the club or whatnot let me know what stop is closest we'll bamf you there.