Encounterlogs
Viktorins Odd Encounter Sr Meridith 240208
Viktorin finds himself an unwilling participant in a bizarre situation, abducted and waking up alone in a mysterious locked room, his hands bound. In a solitary confinement, he assesses his surroundings: a featureless room with few pieces of furniture and a steel door secured by a keypad. After a moment of struggle to compose himself, Viktorin manages to break free from his surprisingly frail bindings, which turn out to be nothing more than tape. Anxiously, he searches the room, eventually finding a sequence of keys hidden within the locked furniture. In the final drawer, Viktorin discovers nothing, prompting an audacious approach to escape. He uses a piece of furniture as a ram to force the door open, and a panicked voice from the other side cries out, revealing the truth behind his capture: he is in the middle of a whimsical 'escape room' designed by a dream entity that calls Viktorin its first guest. Upon realization that he is indeed in a dream, Viktorin vanishes, returning to his reality.
Back at White Oak, Viktorin, preoccupied with a tarot book, hears a mysterious chanting coming from the basement. Driven by a mix of fear and curiosity, he finds three students conducting a ritual around a brazier with a roasting heart. They perceive him as a threat who could expose them and become aggressive. Viktorin acts quickly: he shuts them inside the room and makes a desperate run to escape the building. However, as dread grips him, he finds himself disoriented and begins hallucinating, overwhelmed by the sensory assault of chanting and the smell of roasted flesh. Eventually, the intense experience causes him to collapse, falling into unconsciousness. When he comes to, Viktorin is back in White Oak, the harrowing experience leaving a disturbing taste in his mouth and the unsettling feeling of a dream overlapping with reality.
(Viktorin's odd encounter(SRMeridith):SRMeridith)
[Wed Feb 7 2024]
On Prospect Street
It is night, about 7F(-13C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. There is a new moon.
(Your target is abducted in their sleep, waking up alone in a locked room. They need to either escape or draw attention to them so their allies can come and provide assistance.
)
The date on the calendar is unknown. Perhaps it's a drug? Or a spell? The waking world or a dream? Whatever Viktorin might be familiar with about the strange world he dwells within on this particular moment he is awakening. For a moment, his mind is foggy, whatever he was up to last might be hazy, hard to recall. Where he is now, is a room. It isn't featureless, but it's hard to place. Dark, windowless, a single hanging light bulb above them casts long shadows around the room which is otherwise empty. He's seated in a chair, hands bound, and for the moment, otherwise seems alone.
Viktorin blinks groggily, attempting to move both his hands and his feet, before finding he's bound. Confusedly, the Czech peers around the room, blinking several times to focus, hardly gazing as far as his neck allows him to. With a deep sigh, Viktorin mumbles tiredly, "Not again..."
Familiarity breeds comfort, right? At least it should, no? His body is otherwise completely unbound, his hands are tied but he has some movement to them and his hands are free. Hm. Well, perhaps that's nice. Still, the question of their identity remains fixed. Who and why. It changes a lot but Viktorin can't even really recall the moment that led to this. Was he out? A club? Could someone have targetted him?
Within the room Viktorin is able to make out a few details. A dresser with three drawers, about twice his width, a bed side table with a single drawer. And a desk. The door is made of solid steel, a single handle and a keypad with numbers.
There's a moment the man takes to compose himself, blinking the grogginess away, taking calming breaths, watching his surroundings. His eyes swivel here and there, taking in the steel door and the keypad, focusing on that for a moment. "Well... guess I'm not getting out right this minute. Doubt I can even smash through it," Viktorin says to himself quietly. Clenching his jaw, he lifts himself upward with his legs, wobbling here and there clumsily. There's a moment where there could be a fall, but it doesn't come, just yet. "Hell of a room. Could've left me a dirty mattress or something," He growls, the situation dawning on him more.
It is suspiciously bare. It downs on him as curious. These bare amenities, no food, no water, not slat on the door? Perhaps it's temporary enough that Viktorin's captors aren't concerned, which might suggest his time is limited here.
He tests his bounds and finds it's actually quite possible he could slip his hands free, cut on a corner or break his bonds without enough effort.
Viktorin grumbles and tenses his arms for a moment, before quickly and forcibly thrusting both arms in opposite directions, desperately attempting to force through any resistance he may encounter.
Viktorin finds with enough effort and strain he snaps his bounds. Looks like it was..tape? And not a lot either. If he removes the pieces he'll take some hair with, but otherwise he's able to free himself without too much trouble.
With his newly found freedom, or at least relatively so, the Czech begins opening all the drawers of the dresser and the nightstand, scanning each one quickly to find something, anything, that may help his newly found cause. He tears through it, uncaring of how much noise he's making as panic sets into the man. His eyes flicker warily towards the door at odd intervals, here and there, in paranoia. Viktorin then seizes the chair and smashes it against the floor as hard as he can, attempting to break whatever he can to fashion a crude weapon. "At least... gotta find a weapon. Fuck... I missed combatives today, I'm such a fucking idiot." Panic raises the voice ushered through lips parted. "Fuck... fuck... fuck!"
The drawers are all locked. He finds pulling on them doesn't really...oh. Well, as he begins to move as his panics and shatters the chair against the floor, a sudden silence filters into the room. He holds his chair leg in hand, the rest of the furniture gazes in horror at what may be next.
Not literally of course, but there is a sudden hush compared to the violence of the now smashed chair
Viktorin moves towards the door and tries it out, seeing if it's unlocked. After doing so, he slants his eyes towards the dressers and drawers. "Uhm... uhm... maybe... maybe I should call someone?" The man's hooded eyes shift immediately towards his pants and his jacket, as he thrusts a hand clumsily and frantically into each pocket, looking for his cheap, crappy lifeline. "Please be idiots... plesse be idiots... God... please make them idiots..."
Into one of Viktorin's pockets his hand goes and he finds not his phone nor any belongings...but a small golden key? The door when pushed on appeared to have been locked. Still, stupid, right? Of them of course.
With a small sigh, Viktorin pinches his brow, flakes of tape still uncomfortably stuck upon his skin. Mired by exhaustion at the dire situation, Viktorin takes a quick peek at the key before decidedly attempting to unlock each and every drawer he can find with it, leaning his chair leg upon his shoulder casually. His eyes, of course always flicker towards the door, always watching it to be sure he's ready for whatever may come through. "Damn it all... how do I get out of this one?"
The room is square, fifteen by fifteen feet. Not spacious but far from cramped. A quad of potential drawers await him and luck finds him on his...third attempt. The key fits, and a drawer, the desk not the dresser opens. He's left for a moment with a...well perhaps it's a mild surprise. Another key?
Viktorin squints at the next key, clearly taken aback. Muttering under his breath a slew of curses, he takes the key aggravatedly before impatiently trying -that- one with ever drawer he's found so far. "Sickest fucking game... What freak drugs me and then decides to put me in some sort of twisted escape room?"
Viktorin has pretty much figured out the sequence, each key tried leads to another drawer, leading another key. Each unique. Three drawers, four keys. He has a single drawer left. And the room gives no other answer thus far
"To hell with it, I'm opening you now." And with that, the Czech angrily twists his latest key into the drawer before giving it a forceful yank. "God save me from this awful nightmare," the man mutters, a half a prayer, half a bit out of irritable amusement. Viktorin snorts a bit, finding the terrible absurdity of the situation a bit amusing, scattering his previous keys upon the drawers. His lips purse and his eyebrows knit together with attempted and half-assed concentration, no longer really chexking the door.
There is a moment of confusion as the key struggles to fit, but...no, within a few moments of wiggling the key fits, turns and opens the last and final drawer. The anticipation seems like it is palpable...! Slowing the world around to a crawl as the opened drawer reveals:
Nothing.
Of course this is a metaphoric and conceptual slow down, not a tangible one.
Viktorin slowly frowns, gazing at the drawer before he slowly turns his lips upward. "Don't need to be stronger than a steel door. Just need to be stronger than the lock." Gingerly, he attempts to remove the drawer at first, before immediately deciding against it. "Need something a bit stronger I think. What if I use... the end table? Might not work, but I can use the dresser afterwards..." And with that line of verbally announced thought, he sidles on over towards the end table, picking it up, before slamming it repeatedly into the door, angled towards the door handle and the door frame, throwing as much force into his swings forward.
Frustration setting in, Viktorin finds he is able to scoop the end table up. In his hands, fully done with whatever the point of that was he slams the end table into the door. So-called steel bucks and bounces, suggesting it might just be painted with a cheaper base? After a few moments of effort a frantic voice on the otherside shouts "Stop! Stop! I'm opening it!"
Viktorin slowly steps back, readying his crude weapon like a club. There wasn't an ounce of trust in his eyes for whatever or whomever locked him in here, and his muscles tensed as he got ready to barrel through whomever was on the other side. However, on a small chance of conciliatory words, he lifted his voice, calling forth, "Who are you, and why did you lock me in here?" The man's eyes slant momentarily, before deciding to rush and slam the lightbulb out with his chair leg.
"I made it! I made it! You came here! You're my first guest!" the voice cries. The door is flung open as glass showers on Viktorin's head. Outside of the room light floods forth, and he appears to be in a foggy...nothing? But a figure stands before the door and waves its hands. "No! No! It's just a game! My fanciful escape room! I heard about them in a dream and oh I just had to try to make one!" When Viktorin's eyes adjusts he sees a small...person? A massive wooden mask occupies one half it's five foot form, and the rest is in strange dress.
There's a bit of uncertainty to the man's expression as he takes in whomever or whatever this thing is. And for a moment, Viktorin is apalled. Stunned. Utterly flabberghasted. In an almost confused voice, he asks, "Uh. Are you... pardon me, but uh. Are you a Fae?" The Czech slowly eases his weapon on to the floor, warily watching the creature. "Sorry about the uh.. room... er... I thought I was kidnapped."
"Oh!" The figure seems amused by this. It lets out a giggle that sounds like twinkling bells. "No! Silly. I'm a dream! You are too! In a way. I suppose!" He stomps near Viktorin, and the expression on the mask shifts grumpy. "Ah! It's gonna take an age to fix this!"
Viktorin mutters quietly, "Oh. Nice. A dream." He shifts his attention towards the small being, asking them hopefully, "Ah. Before you fix it, can I uh. Leave? Please?"
The figure stomps inside the room, then wheels about on Viktorin. "If you wanna leave all you gotta do is!"
"Wake u-" And Viktorin vanishes, back to where he came.
(Your target and their allies learn about an upcoming ritual by a coven of witches that could bring about a cataclysmic event. They need to infiltrate the witches' gathering and stop the ritual without exposing themselves.)
A page is flipped. And then, occasionally another. The Czech's fingers lazily and boredly trail beneath each sentence, each word, pausing as he reaches each end. And then a flip again. "Tarot," he mutters, "Is awfully boring. Colorful pictures I guess. Stereotypical future predicting. Keep it vague and you'll be able to worm up any seering up with ease. Practically a self-fulfilling prophecy. Why do I even bother with this rubbish?" And yet, the man still bothers with it, apparently, as Viktorin flips another page, reading with mild disinterest. "The Fool. New beginnings. Willingness to take risks based on intuition. Sounds awfully like me. And I probably am a fool." His eyes worm through the next page, Viktorin' voice practically oozing with sarcasm.
As Viktorin sits and reads, a strange, rhythmic chanting begins to seep into his notice from a discreet nearby stairwell leading down to the basement. Each syllable seems with an otherworldly cadence, barely a whisper to tickle at his ears, but the sound of it -- caught in some language he cannot quite understand -- seems to beckon him closer, drawing him towards the shadowy descent. It's hard to make out any words, but the chanting is multiple voices, some mixture of male and female.
As the chant seems to whisper, some low, dark mist seems to seep into White Oak's reception, carrying with it the whiff of smoke and some kind of uncertain chill.
A glimmer of slight interest appears in Viktorin' eyes, just as much as fear clouds it. Dread, utter, palpable dread lingers within him, chilling his heart. Slowly, he rises, and slowly, he tries to recount, with little memory, some lesson he learned a while ago. "What... what was the prayer? To protect myself? Should've... should've repeated it a few times to actually memorize it," the dusky man mutters, curiosity winning over for the moment. With an unsteady rise, he clasps his book protectively against his chest, exhaling slowly. Lean arms grip the book to his chest like some make-shift armor, as if it would be the only thing that could protect him. And treading cautiously, Viktorin ventures towards the stairwell, slowly, warily. Viridian-green eyes peer down the stairwell, attempting to discern whatever lies within. And an aquiline nose wrinkles at the smell of smoke.
Down the stairs -- down, down. White Oak's basement is unused, largely, and the lights here are dim and flickering. As Viktorin descends, it seems to be he is confronted with a maze of steam tunnels, so that the hiss of the steam heating campus mixes with the dark mist that seems thicker here, heavier and more oppressive. There's a wet heat when the young man breathes in, mixed still with the smell of smoke, and he can hear that chanting: it rises and falls, voices overlapping. He has a sense of its direction, but it is imperfect at best in a dimly-lit maze of corridors and storage units.
Viktorin would swear that chanting is coming generally from the west: there's a corridor that way, but there is the risk, always, of becoming lost if he tries to follow his ears.
A cough emerges from the Czech as he makes his way down, his nose wrinkling further as he helplessly inhales. Fits of coughs erupt from Viktorin, and doing his best to alleviate them, he pulls up his shirt, wearing it as some sort of makeshift mask. Steps lead the man further, eyes always flickering about with the caution of a more cervine nature. His legs tense, and his body shivers. "Belobog, if you can hear me... protect my soul," Viktorin quietly prays. A step, a second, and the man is facing the west. "That way?" The question was rhetorical, but a small comfort to the Czech. Slowly, he closes his eyes, listening to the chanting, attempting to concentrate on the chanting...
This way, perhaps: as Viktorin walks down the corridor, the chanting seems to get louder. It rises in a little pitch, and then, around a corner, and then another corner -- right, then left -- he has it. He's less confident of where he is, in relation to the stairs, but a ruddy orange-yellow light spills out from an open metal door down the corridor. The door is heavy, with a seal on it like it was some kind of vault door. The lights spilling out from the door seem to flicker and move as if inside, some series of bodies are walking in a circle around the source of that light.
As the glow meets Viktorin' eyes, so does the instinctual need to press himself to the walls and seek whatever shadows that may dance from the light. Each step forward is measured carefully, heel to toe, heel to toe. Gentle. The Czech's hands trail the walls of the corridor, though the man is distrustful to rub any of his clothing against it. Try as he might though, there's no way he can succeed with that, so he resigns himself to moving even slower, to account for such. And with wary steps, he attempts to silently make his way towards the door, keeping his head directed towards the opening. His chest heaves as he sucks in air as slowly as he can, as quietly as Viktorin can. His eyes narrow and squint, attempting to discern the room as he steps forward. And his heart thumps faster, at Viktorin' frantic thoughts...
Each step bring Viktorin closer -- and the young man is, in fact, stealthier than the average bear. The steam tunnels are dark and misty, close around him, but as he approaches that old doorway he is able to peer around the door and see inside that disused storage room. Sure enough, there -are- figures there: three of them, robed. They seem like students, two young men and a girl, and Viktorin recognizes them distantly from class. Each wears a red robe, and they are chanting, moving in a slow circle around a burning brazier. In the brazier are coals, and on the coals what appears to be a heart -- it's roasting, the smell of meat filling the air. Is it a human heart? It's hard to know, really.
Clearly, this was not Viktorin' expertise. Mostly by the bafflement exuded upon his countenance. Silently, Viktorin attempts to gauge the room, the distance, and very possibly, the few options he truly has. With the barest hints of morbid amusement, Viktorin glances towards his book, held within one of his hands, and towards the wall opposite between himself and the trio. Closing one eye, he bites below his bottom lip, grimacing as he aims, adjusts his grip, and throws his book towards the opposite wall, in a desperate attempt, not to hit anyone, but to hit only the wall.
Flitter-flatter-flap-THUNK. The book hits the wall, the spine cracking; some librarian, one might think, will have something to say about this. It stops the dancing and chanting, though, as the trio turn to look at Viktorin. They're not doing a ritual anymore. That's good, right? Except they are producing some daggers, and that heart is still sizzling, and... "Interloper!" yells one of the young men. "He can't tell the Headmaster!"
Viktorin quickly glances towards the door, and then to the perceieved cultists, before darting towards the door, gripping it, and lugging it swiftly along with him to shut. He tenses his calves and plants his heels into the ground, clenching his jaw whilst he grits his teeth. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," is a continual mantra, chanted by the Czech as he rushes to shut the door on the Cultists.
As Viktorin puts his shoulder into it the door shuts. He's athlete strong, and he's able to get it closed, as on the inside there starts to be a bang-bang-bang as the cultists inside try to get out. "Let us out!" one of them yells, though they don't seem to be having much success battering at the heavy, iron door. After a moment, the banging seems to cease, as instead the cultists begin to chant again. It's different this time, though, and is that Viktorin's name he is hearing in the voices of the incantation?
Instinct pushes the Czech back now, and he pivots immediately upon hearing his name. Deftly, or ss deft as he can, he begins to sprint, turning down the corridors to get as far away as the chanting as possible, seeking the confines of the school above. "Damn it all," he wheezes, sprinting and weaving and dodging his way past corners. Left and then right. Each thudding step slammed down is one concocted of pure terror, pushing the Viktorin further and further away from the chanting in a bid and a gamble for the stairs and the innards of the college.
Running, running, running -- but just as Viktorin might have been concerned, he's a little lost. He's faster, certainly, then any pursuing robed cultist-student, but he's also not just not sure where he is going. The stairs should be around the corner, right here, but then... nothing. A blank wall. Can he still hear chanting? It's hard to know: with the dark mists high, what's in Viktorin's mind and what he can actually hear starts to blend together. What he can be sure of, though, is some fear: fear in the heart of the young Czech, like an icy-cold grip closing on his heart.
On the topic of hearts, it's hard to get the vision of the heart on the brazier out of his mind. It smelled so much like fresh, roasted pork.
Viktorin nearly retches, his nose wrinkling in disgust. He spits as he salivates, and then spits again, before leaning over, heaving and retching, grasping his stomach. Viktorin gags after he finishes, and he steps beyond his mess and doesn't dare to glance behind himself, in some superstitious act of fear. Instead, he keeps his gaze forward, backstepping carefully over his mess, and retracing some of his steps whilst scanning his sides for an alternative path. Any path really. So long as it leads away from that dreaded door. "God... please... protect me from these savages..."
And then the chanting seems to be in Viktorin's ears: like a pounding, upset thing, full of fire and fury. His vision seems to fill with that heart, that burning heart, and the flickering red flames of it fill his sight, seem to overcome his eyes. It fills -- it fills and fills his vision, and with it that smell, that terrible smell. His name echoes in his ears, and those strange syllables, and then he can't see the steam tunnels at all. He can't see anything besides the flames; he can't hear anything except the chanting, and he can't smell anything except burning flesh.
Then blackness, as unconsciousness takes the young man.
Viktorin clutches his head between his hands, falling to his knees. Blearily he blinks his eyes, to see something, anything else. As consciousness leaves him, he slowly falls to his side, muscles relaxing.
And then, when Viktorin wakes up, he's asleep in a corner of White Oak -- but not where he drifted off, and when he wakes, there is the strange terrible taste of pork on his tongue.
Back at White Oak, Viktorin, preoccupied with a tarot book, hears a mysterious chanting coming from the basement. Driven by a mix of fear and curiosity, he finds three students conducting a ritual around a brazier with a roasting heart. They perceive him as a threat who could expose them and become aggressive. Viktorin acts quickly: he shuts them inside the room and makes a desperate run to escape the building. However, as dread grips him, he finds himself disoriented and begins hallucinating, overwhelmed by the sensory assault of chanting and the smell of roasted flesh. Eventually, the intense experience causes him to collapse, falling into unconsciousness. When he comes to, Viktorin is back in White Oak, the harrowing experience leaving a disturbing taste in his mouth and the unsettling feeling of a dream overlapping with reality.
(Viktorin's odd encounter(SRMeridith):SRMeridith)
[Wed Feb 7 2024]
On Prospect Street
It is night, about 7F(-13C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. There is a new moon.
(Your target is abducted in their sleep, waking up alone in a locked room. They need to either escape or draw attention to them so their allies can come and provide assistance.
)
The date on the calendar is unknown. Perhaps it's a drug? Or a spell? The waking world or a dream? Whatever Viktorin might be familiar with about the strange world he dwells within on this particular moment he is awakening. For a moment, his mind is foggy, whatever he was up to last might be hazy, hard to recall. Where he is now, is a room. It isn't featureless, but it's hard to place. Dark, windowless, a single hanging light bulb above them casts long shadows around the room which is otherwise empty. He's seated in a chair, hands bound, and for the moment, otherwise seems alone.
Viktorin blinks groggily, attempting to move both his hands and his feet, before finding he's bound. Confusedly, the Czech peers around the room, blinking several times to focus, hardly gazing as far as his neck allows him to. With a deep sigh, Viktorin mumbles tiredly, "Not again..."
Familiarity breeds comfort, right? At least it should, no? His body is otherwise completely unbound, his hands are tied but he has some movement to them and his hands are free. Hm. Well, perhaps that's nice. Still, the question of their identity remains fixed. Who and why. It changes a lot but Viktorin can't even really recall the moment that led to this. Was he out? A club? Could someone have targetted him?
Within the room Viktorin is able to make out a few details. A dresser with three drawers, about twice his width, a bed side table with a single drawer. And a desk. The door is made of solid steel, a single handle and a keypad with numbers.
There's a moment the man takes to compose himself, blinking the grogginess away, taking calming breaths, watching his surroundings. His eyes swivel here and there, taking in the steel door and the keypad, focusing on that for a moment. "Well... guess I'm not getting out right this minute. Doubt I can even smash through it," Viktorin says to himself quietly. Clenching his jaw, he lifts himself upward with his legs, wobbling here and there clumsily. There's a moment where there could be a fall, but it doesn't come, just yet. "Hell of a room. Could've left me a dirty mattress or something," He growls, the situation dawning on him more.
It is suspiciously bare. It downs on him as curious. These bare amenities, no food, no water, not slat on the door? Perhaps it's temporary enough that Viktorin's captors aren't concerned, which might suggest his time is limited here.
He tests his bounds and finds it's actually quite possible he could slip his hands free, cut on a corner or break his bonds without enough effort.
Viktorin grumbles and tenses his arms for a moment, before quickly and forcibly thrusting both arms in opposite directions, desperately attempting to force through any resistance he may encounter.
Viktorin finds with enough effort and strain he snaps his bounds. Looks like it was..tape? And not a lot either. If he removes the pieces he'll take some hair with, but otherwise he's able to free himself without too much trouble.
With his newly found freedom, or at least relatively so, the Czech begins opening all the drawers of the dresser and the nightstand, scanning each one quickly to find something, anything, that may help his newly found cause. He tears through it, uncaring of how much noise he's making as panic sets into the man. His eyes flicker warily towards the door at odd intervals, here and there, in paranoia. Viktorin then seizes the chair and smashes it against the floor as hard as he can, attempting to break whatever he can to fashion a crude weapon. "At least... gotta find a weapon. Fuck... I missed combatives today, I'm such a fucking idiot." Panic raises the voice ushered through lips parted. "Fuck... fuck... fuck!"
The drawers are all locked. He finds pulling on them doesn't really...oh. Well, as he begins to move as his panics and shatters the chair against the floor, a sudden silence filters into the room. He holds his chair leg in hand, the rest of the furniture gazes in horror at what may be next.
Not literally of course, but there is a sudden hush compared to the violence of the now smashed chair
Viktorin moves towards the door and tries it out, seeing if it's unlocked. After doing so, he slants his eyes towards the dressers and drawers. "Uhm... uhm... maybe... maybe I should call someone?" The man's hooded eyes shift immediately towards his pants and his jacket, as he thrusts a hand clumsily and frantically into each pocket, looking for his cheap, crappy lifeline. "Please be idiots... plesse be idiots... God... please make them idiots..."
Into one of Viktorin's pockets his hand goes and he finds not his phone nor any belongings...but a small golden key? The door when pushed on appeared to have been locked. Still, stupid, right? Of them of course.
With a small sigh, Viktorin pinches his brow, flakes of tape still uncomfortably stuck upon his skin. Mired by exhaustion at the dire situation, Viktorin takes a quick peek at the key before decidedly attempting to unlock each and every drawer he can find with it, leaning his chair leg upon his shoulder casually. His eyes, of course always flicker towards the door, always watching it to be sure he's ready for whatever may come through. "Damn it all... how do I get out of this one?"
The room is square, fifteen by fifteen feet. Not spacious but far from cramped. A quad of potential drawers await him and luck finds him on his...third attempt. The key fits, and a drawer, the desk not the dresser opens. He's left for a moment with a...well perhaps it's a mild surprise. Another key?
Viktorin squints at the next key, clearly taken aback. Muttering under his breath a slew of curses, he takes the key aggravatedly before impatiently trying -that- one with ever drawer he's found so far. "Sickest fucking game... What freak drugs me and then decides to put me in some sort of twisted escape room?"
Viktorin has pretty much figured out the sequence, each key tried leads to another drawer, leading another key. Each unique. Three drawers, four keys. He has a single drawer left. And the room gives no other answer thus far
"To hell with it, I'm opening you now." And with that, the Czech angrily twists his latest key into the drawer before giving it a forceful yank. "God save me from this awful nightmare," the man mutters, a half a prayer, half a bit out of irritable amusement. Viktorin snorts a bit, finding the terrible absurdity of the situation a bit amusing, scattering his previous keys upon the drawers. His lips purse and his eyebrows knit together with attempted and half-assed concentration, no longer really chexking the door.
There is a moment of confusion as the key struggles to fit, but...no, within a few moments of wiggling the key fits, turns and opens the last and final drawer. The anticipation seems like it is palpable...! Slowing the world around to a crawl as the opened drawer reveals:
Nothing.
Of course this is a metaphoric and conceptual slow down, not a tangible one.
Viktorin slowly frowns, gazing at the drawer before he slowly turns his lips upward. "Don't need to be stronger than a steel door. Just need to be stronger than the lock." Gingerly, he attempts to remove the drawer at first, before immediately deciding against it. "Need something a bit stronger I think. What if I use... the end table? Might not work, but I can use the dresser afterwards..." And with that line of verbally announced thought, he sidles on over towards the end table, picking it up, before slamming it repeatedly into the door, angled towards the door handle and the door frame, throwing as much force into his swings forward.
Frustration setting in, Viktorin finds he is able to scoop the end table up. In his hands, fully done with whatever the point of that was he slams the end table into the door. So-called steel bucks and bounces, suggesting it might just be painted with a cheaper base? After a few moments of effort a frantic voice on the otherside shouts "Stop! Stop! I'm opening it!"
Viktorin slowly steps back, readying his crude weapon like a club. There wasn't an ounce of trust in his eyes for whatever or whomever locked him in here, and his muscles tensed as he got ready to barrel through whomever was on the other side. However, on a small chance of conciliatory words, he lifted his voice, calling forth, "Who are you, and why did you lock me in here?" The man's eyes slant momentarily, before deciding to rush and slam the lightbulb out with his chair leg.
"I made it! I made it! You came here! You're my first guest!" the voice cries. The door is flung open as glass showers on Viktorin's head. Outside of the room light floods forth, and he appears to be in a foggy...nothing? But a figure stands before the door and waves its hands. "No! No! It's just a game! My fanciful escape room! I heard about them in a dream and oh I just had to try to make one!" When Viktorin's eyes adjusts he sees a small...person? A massive wooden mask occupies one half it's five foot form, and the rest is in strange dress.
There's a bit of uncertainty to the man's expression as he takes in whomever or whatever this thing is. And for a moment, Viktorin is apalled. Stunned. Utterly flabberghasted. In an almost confused voice, he asks, "Uh. Are you... pardon me, but uh. Are you a Fae?" The Czech slowly eases his weapon on to the floor, warily watching the creature. "Sorry about the uh.. room... er... I thought I was kidnapped."
"Oh!" The figure seems amused by this. It lets out a giggle that sounds like twinkling bells. "No! Silly. I'm a dream! You are too! In a way. I suppose!" He stomps near Viktorin, and the expression on the mask shifts grumpy. "Ah! It's gonna take an age to fix this!"
Viktorin mutters quietly, "Oh. Nice. A dream." He shifts his attention towards the small being, asking them hopefully, "Ah. Before you fix it, can I uh. Leave? Please?"
The figure stomps inside the room, then wheels about on Viktorin. "If you wanna leave all you gotta do is!"
"Wake u-" And Viktorin vanishes, back to where he came.
(Your target and their allies learn about an upcoming ritual by a coven of witches that could bring about a cataclysmic event. They need to infiltrate the witches' gathering and stop the ritual without exposing themselves.)
A page is flipped. And then, occasionally another. The Czech's fingers lazily and boredly trail beneath each sentence, each word, pausing as he reaches each end. And then a flip again. "Tarot," he mutters, "Is awfully boring. Colorful pictures I guess. Stereotypical future predicting. Keep it vague and you'll be able to worm up any seering up with ease. Practically a self-fulfilling prophecy. Why do I even bother with this rubbish?" And yet, the man still bothers with it, apparently, as Viktorin flips another page, reading with mild disinterest. "The Fool. New beginnings. Willingness to take risks based on intuition. Sounds awfully like me. And I probably am a fool." His eyes worm through the next page, Viktorin' voice practically oozing with sarcasm.
As Viktorin sits and reads, a strange, rhythmic chanting begins to seep into his notice from a discreet nearby stairwell leading down to the basement. Each syllable seems with an otherworldly cadence, barely a whisper to tickle at his ears, but the sound of it -- caught in some language he cannot quite understand -- seems to beckon him closer, drawing him towards the shadowy descent. It's hard to make out any words, but the chanting is multiple voices, some mixture of male and female.
As the chant seems to whisper, some low, dark mist seems to seep into White Oak's reception, carrying with it the whiff of smoke and some kind of uncertain chill.
A glimmer of slight interest appears in Viktorin' eyes, just as much as fear clouds it. Dread, utter, palpable dread lingers within him, chilling his heart. Slowly, he rises, and slowly, he tries to recount, with little memory, some lesson he learned a while ago. "What... what was the prayer? To protect myself? Should've... should've repeated it a few times to actually memorize it," the dusky man mutters, curiosity winning over for the moment. With an unsteady rise, he clasps his book protectively against his chest, exhaling slowly. Lean arms grip the book to his chest like some make-shift armor, as if it would be the only thing that could protect him. And treading cautiously, Viktorin ventures towards the stairwell, slowly, warily. Viridian-green eyes peer down the stairwell, attempting to discern whatever lies within. And an aquiline nose wrinkles at the smell of smoke.
Down the stairs -- down, down. White Oak's basement is unused, largely, and the lights here are dim and flickering. As Viktorin descends, it seems to be he is confronted with a maze of steam tunnels, so that the hiss of the steam heating campus mixes with the dark mist that seems thicker here, heavier and more oppressive. There's a wet heat when the young man breathes in, mixed still with the smell of smoke, and he can hear that chanting: it rises and falls, voices overlapping. He has a sense of its direction, but it is imperfect at best in a dimly-lit maze of corridors and storage units.
Viktorin would swear that chanting is coming generally from the west: there's a corridor that way, but there is the risk, always, of becoming lost if he tries to follow his ears.
A cough emerges from the Czech as he makes his way down, his nose wrinkling further as he helplessly inhales. Fits of coughs erupt from Viktorin, and doing his best to alleviate them, he pulls up his shirt, wearing it as some sort of makeshift mask. Steps lead the man further, eyes always flickering about with the caution of a more cervine nature. His legs tense, and his body shivers. "Belobog, if you can hear me... protect my soul," Viktorin quietly prays. A step, a second, and the man is facing the west. "That way?" The question was rhetorical, but a small comfort to the Czech. Slowly, he closes his eyes, listening to the chanting, attempting to concentrate on the chanting...
This way, perhaps: as Viktorin walks down the corridor, the chanting seems to get louder. It rises in a little pitch, and then, around a corner, and then another corner -- right, then left -- he has it. He's less confident of where he is, in relation to the stairs, but a ruddy orange-yellow light spills out from an open metal door down the corridor. The door is heavy, with a seal on it like it was some kind of vault door. The lights spilling out from the door seem to flicker and move as if inside, some series of bodies are walking in a circle around the source of that light.
As the glow meets Viktorin' eyes, so does the instinctual need to press himself to the walls and seek whatever shadows that may dance from the light. Each step forward is measured carefully, heel to toe, heel to toe. Gentle. The Czech's hands trail the walls of the corridor, though the man is distrustful to rub any of his clothing against it. Try as he might though, there's no way he can succeed with that, so he resigns himself to moving even slower, to account for such. And with wary steps, he attempts to silently make his way towards the door, keeping his head directed towards the opening. His chest heaves as he sucks in air as slowly as he can, as quietly as Viktorin can. His eyes narrow and squint, attempting to discern the room as he steps forward. And his heart thumps faster, at Viktorin' frantic thoughts...
Each step bring Viktorin closer -- and the young man is, in fact, stealthier than the average bear. The steam tunnels are dark and misty, close around him, but as he approaches that old doorway he is able to peer around the door and see inside that disused storage room. Sure enough, there -are- figures there: three of them, robed. They seem like students, two young men and a girl, and Viktorin recognizes them distantly from class. Each wears a red robe, and they are chanting, moving in a slow circle around a burning brazier. In the brazier are coals, and on the coals what appears to be a heart -- it's roasting, the smell of meat filling the air. Is it a human heart? It's hard to know, really.
Clearly, this was not Viktorin' expertise. Mostly by the bafflement exuded upon his countenance. Silently, Viktorin attempts to gauge the room, the distance, and very possibly, the few options he truly has. With the barest hints of morbid amusement, Viktorin glances towards his book, held within one of his hands, and towards the wall opposite between himself and the trio. Closing one eye, he bites below his bottom lip, grimacing as he aims, adjusts his grip, and throws his book towards the opposite wall, in a desperate attempt, not to hit anyone, but to hit only the wall.
Flitter-flatter-flap-THUNK. The book hits the wall, the spine cracking; some librarian, one might think, will have something to say about this. It stops the dancing and chanting, though, as the trio turn to look at Viktorin. They're not doing a ritual anymore. That's good, right? Except they are producing some daggers, and that heart is still sizzling, and... "Interloper!" yells one of the young men. "He can't tell the Headmaster!"
Viktorin quickly glances towards the door, and then to the perceieved cultists, before darting towards the door, gripping it, and lugging it swiftly along with him to shut. He tenses his calves and plants his heels into the ground, clenching his jaw whilst he grits his teeth. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," is a continual mantra, chanted by the Czech as he rushes to shut the door on the Cultists.
As Viktorin puts his shoulder into it the door shuts. He's athlete strong, and he's able to get it closed, as on the inside there starts to be a bang-bang-bang as the cultists inside try to get out. "Let us out!" one of them yells, though they don't seem to be having much success battering at the heavy, iron door. After a moment, the banging seems to cease, as instead the cultists begin to chant again. It's different this time, though, and is that Viktorin's name he is hearing in the voices of the incantation?
Instinct pushes the Czech back now, and he pivots immediately upon hearing his name. Deftly, or ss deft as he can, he begins to sprint, turning down the corridors to get as far away as the chanting as possible, seeking the confines of the school above. "Damn it all," he wheezes, sprinting and weaving and dodging his way past corners. Left and then right. Each thudding step slammed down is one concocted of pure terror, pushing the Viktorin further and further away from the chanting in a bid and a gamble for the stairs and the innards of the college.
Running, running, running -- but just as Viktorin might have been concerned, he's a little lost. He's faster, certainly, then any pursuing robed cultist-student, but he's also not just not sure where he is going. The stairs should be around the corner, right here, but then... nothing. A blank wall. Can he still hear chanting? It's hard to know: with the dark mists high, what's in Viktorin's mind and what he can actually hear starts to blend together. What he can be sure of, though, is some fear: fear in the heart of the young Czech, like an icy-cold grip closing on his heart.
On the topic of hearts, it's hard to get the vision of the heart on the brazier out of his mind. It smelled so much like fresh, roasted pork.
Viktorin nearly retches, his nose wrinkling in disgust. He spits as he salivates, and then spits again, before leaning over, heaving and retching, grasping his stomach. Viktorin gags after he finishes, and he steps beyond his mess and doesn't dare to glance behind himself, in some superstitious act of fear. Instead, he keeps his gaze forward, backstepping carefully over his mess, and retracing some of his steps whilst scanning his sides for an alternative path. Any path really. So long as it leads away from that dreaded door. "God... please... protect me from these savages..."
And then the chanting seems to be in Viktorin's ears: like a pounding, upset thing, full of fire and fury. His vision seems to fill with that heart, that burning heart, and the flickering red flames of it fill his sight, seem to overcome his eyes. It fills -- it fills and fills his vision, and with it that smell, that terrible smell. His name echoes in his ears, and those strange syllables, and then he can't see the steam tunnels at all. He can't see anything besides the flames; he can't hear anything except the chanting, and he can't smell anything except burning flesh.
Then blackness, as unconsciousness takes the young man.
Viktorin clutches his head between his hands, falling to his knees. Blearily he blinks his eyes, to see something, anything else. As consciousness leaves him, he slowly falls to his side, muscles relaxing.
And then, when Viktorin wakes up, he's asleep in a corner of White Oak -- but not where he drifted off, and when he wakes, there is the strange terrible taste of pork on his tongue.