Patrollogs
(Emmanuel's decursing attempt)
[Fri Nov 1 2024]
In a Professor's Office
Warm, earthy tones of the wooden bookshelves and the polished mahogany desk exude an air of intellectual refinement and scholarly dedication, underscored by the faint scent of aged leather from the meticulously arranged tomes and academic journals that line the shelves. The soft, filtered light from the partially drawn blinds casts gentle, diagonal patterns on the sprawling carpeted floor, illuminating the academic accolades and intricate artifacts that adorn the walls, reflecting the esteemed legacy and erudite pursuits of the dedicated faculty members within the Institute. The subdued murmur of turning pages and the occasional click of a pen against paper intermingle with the distant hum of scholarly discourse.
It is about 50F(10C) degrees.
Emmanuel says "I've stumbled onto a cursed dagger, I've ducked into an office in the White Oak."
Well, Emmanuel has stumbled upon yet another magically inclined trinket, and once more he's alone when attempting to break it's curse. The Frenchman shuffles out of sight, and into one of the offices dotting the White Oak Institute, muttering a string of curses under his breath as he stares down at the dagger in his hand. "I swear, I cannot be catching a break," He laments to himself.
Emmanuel goes about rustling through the desk, searching for anything that might be of use. He comes up largely empty handed, apart from a crazy collection of confiscated vapes. "Huh," He blurts out at this, before getting back to business. There's a whiteboard in the room, and Emmanuel skitters over there to steal away it's markers, before scrambling back toward the desk. Using the stolen markers he starts to draw a circle against the desktop, going over it over and over with frantic motions.
An arc of lightning blasts out of the artifact to strike Emmanuel, sending him flying.
Well, it seems that the dagger isn't too found of Emmanuel's attempt at crafting a cure - the blast of lightning catches the man in the chest, blowing him up and off of his feet and crashing backwards into the whiteboard, cracking it with his bulk before he collapses onto the ground with a grunt, and a hiss of pain, "Ow, ow." Emmanuel complains, rolling about this way and that as he tries to recollect himself, "God damn it."
With the gods damned, and Emmanuel starting back up to his feet once more, he staggers over towards the table, and begins to draw three more overlapping circles within the initial one, "Rule of threes, Emmanuel, rule of threes." He mutters to himself, lacking anyone else to explain the method in his madness to. It is a pretty basic rule of the supernatural, the rule of three, that is. It's been given power by the collective unconsciousness. He continues to scribble and draw, and when his little circles are finally finished he works on prying the dagger out of his other hand.
The whole room shakes.
The room starts to shake, and Emmanuel shakes with it. He stumbles this way and that, like he were a drunk pirate on a drunker yet ship, in the middle of a drunk storm. Eventually, though, he jerks his hand out - stabbing the hungry blade of the dagger into the centre of the circles, and using this as an anchor within this storm of movement. With this done, Emmanuel goes about working his fingers away from the handle, eventually stumbling away from the weapon - "Ah, hah! Take that!" He yells. At the inanimate object.
The artifact emits a flash of blinding light.
With his hand free Emmanuel can get to the very important task of rubbing them together, as he schemes about what comes next against his newest foe. At least this one can't toss him in the clinic for weeks at a time, or so he hopes. Better not take any chances though, and deal with it quick-smart. With the circles drawn, and the dagger embedded, Emmanuel scrambles to reach into his pocket, producing fistfuls of sand and salt, and tossing them toward the cursed object - only to end up getting flashed, "Fuck a duck!" He cries out in alarm, blinking rapidly while stunned.
With a distinct lack of ducks to fuck Emmanuel is forced to just rub at his eyes with his salty, sandy hands, until vision returns in splotches and splatches. "Ugh," There he is, complaining again, as he shifts back over to the circled, salty and sandy dagger now. His hands dart out to set against the outer edges of the circles now, and he begins to chant in pseudo-latin, and French, putting the craft into witchcraft as he works his analog magics.
For several seconds the room grows painfully hot.
Sweat beads from Emmanuel's brow, down his face, and into his eyes. Those stinging little bastards aren't enough to stop the Templar's chanting and focus however, even as the room grows hotter, and hotter yet, with sweat marks oozing through the joints and underarms of his clothing. This must be a sign that his attempts are working, after all! Surely! That or global warming just hit particular hard, and in one very specific place.
With the chanting starting to reach it's crescendo, Emmanuel darts a hand out toward the dagger. He doesn't aim for the grip of the thing, however, but the blade itself - what isn't buried in the desktop, at least. Blood. Life. It's the final reagent of the manual magic that he is shaping. It starts with intent, and then ritual, and it ends with blood. Suffering. Like magic always does. There's a hiss of pain as the cruel blade cuts through tender, healing flesh, and Emmanuel's blood mixes with the salt, sand and circle drawn atop the desk.
With a final burst of power the curse on a golden dagger is broken.
Emmanuels Decursing Attempt 241102
(Emmanuel's decursing attempt)
[Fri Nov 1 2024]
In a Professor's Office
Warm, earthy tones of the wooden bookshelves and the polished mahogany desk exude an air of intellectual refinement and scholarly dedication, underscored by the faint scent of aged leather from the meticulously arranged tomes and academic journals that line the shelves. The soft, filtered light from the partially drawn blinds casts gentle, diagonal patterns on the sprawling carpeted floor, illuminating the academic accolades and intricate artifacts that adorn the walls, reflecting the esteemed legacy and erudite pursuits of the dedicated faculty members within the Institute. The subdued murmur of turning pages and the occasional click of a pen against paper intermingle with the distant hum of scholarly discourse.
It is about 50F(10C) degrees.
Emmanuel says "I've stumbled onto a cursed dagger, I've ducked into an office in the White Oak."
Well, Emmanuel has stumbled upon yet another magically inclined trinket, and once more he's alone when attempting to break it's curse. The Frenchman shuffles out of sight, and into one of the offices dotting the White Oak Institute, muttering a string of curses under his breath as he stares down at the dagger in his hand. "I swear, I cannot be catching a break," He laments to himself.
Emmanuel goes about rustling through the desk, searching for anything that might be of use. He comes up largely empty handed, apart from a crazy collection of confiscated vapes. "Huh," He blurts out at this, before getting back to business. There's a whiteboard in the room, and Emmanuel skitters over there to steal away it's markers, before scrambling back toward the desk. Using the stolen markers he starts to draw a circle against the desktop, going over it over and over with frantic motions.
An arc of lightning blasts out of the artifact to strike Emmanuel, sending him flying.
Well, it seems that the dagger isn't too found of Emmanuel's attempt at crafting a cure - the blast of lightning catches the man in the chest, blowing him up and off of his feet and crashing backwards into the whiteboard, cracking it with his bulk before he collapses onto the ground with a grunt, and a hiss of pain, "Ow, ow." Emmanuel complains, rolling about this way and that as he tries to recollect himself, "God damn it."
With the gods damned, and Emmanuel starting back up to his feet once more, he staggers over towards the table, and begins to draw three more overlapping circles within the initial one, "Rule of threes, Emmanuel, rule of threes." He mutters to himself, lacking anyone else to explain the method in his madness to. It is a pretty basic rule of the supernatural, the rule of three, that is. It's been given power by the collective unconsciousness. He continues to scribble and draw, and when his little circles are finally finished he works on prying the dagger out of his other hand.
The whole room shakes.
The room starts to shake, and Emmanuel shakes with it. He stumbles this way and that, like he were a drunk pirate on a drunker yet ship, in the middle of a drunk storm. Eventually, though, he jerks his hand out - stabbing the hungry blade of the dagger into the centre of the circles, and using this as an anchor within this storm of movement. With this done, Emmanuel goes about working his fingers away from the handle, eventually stumbling away from the weapon - "Ah, hah! Take that!" He yells. At the inanimate object.
The artifact emits a flash of blinding light.
With his hand free Emmanuel can get to the very important task of rubbing them together, as he schemes about what comes next against his newest foe. At least this one can't toss him in the clinic for weeks at a time, or so he hopes. Better not take any chances though, and deal with it quick-smart. With the circles drawn, and the dagger embedded, Emmanuel scrambles to reach into his pocket, producing fistfuls of sand and salt, and tossing them toward the cursed object - only to end up getting flashed, "Fuck a duck!" He cries out in alarm, blinking rapidly while stunned.
With a distinct lack of ducks to fuck Emmanuel is forced to just rub at his eyes with his salty, sandy hands, until vision returns in splotches and splatches. "Ugh," There he is, complaining again, as he shifts back over to the circled, salty and sandy dagger now. His hands dart out to set against the outer edges of the circles now, and he begins to chant in pseudo-latin, and French, putting the craft into witchcraft as he works his analog magics.
For several seconds the room grows painfully hot.
Sweat beads from Emmanuel's brow, down his face, and into his eyes. Those stinging little bastards aren't enough to stop the Templar's chanting and focus however, even as the room grows hotter, and hotter yet, with sweat marks oozing through the joints and underarms of his clothing. This must be a sign that his attempts are working, after all! Surely! That or global warming just hit particular hard, and in one very specific place.
With the chanting starting to reach it's crescendo, Emmanuel darts a hand out toward the dagger. He doesn't aim for the grip of the thing, however, but the blade itself - what isn't buried in the desktop, at least. Blood. Life. It's the final reagent of the manual magic that he is shaping. It starts with intent, and then ritual, and it ends with blood. Suffering. Like magic always does. There's a hiss of pain as the cruel blade cuts through tender, healing flesh, and Emmanuel's blood mixes with the salt, sand and circle drawn atop the desk.
With a final burst of power the curse on a golden dagger is broken.