Patrollogs
Emmanuels Ghost Banishing 240903
On a eerie night at Arkwright Cemetery, Emmanuel and his companion Novel find themselves engulfed in a battle against sinister forces. The sudden appearance of demonic smoke monkeys sets the tone for a night filled with chaos and violence. Novel, reveling in the madness, gleefully engages the creatures with a ferocity that matches their malevolence, while Emmanuel tries to fend them off with a mix of desperation and tactical thinking. Their encounter escalates as they face not just the physical assaults of these supernatural entities but also their psychological warfare, tempting them with depraved desires and stoking the fires of fear within.
As the battle rages on, the duo's resolve is tested by waves of fear and doubt instilled by the supernatural foes, culminating in an armored warrior conjured from the mist that presents a dire threat. In a moment of clarity amidst the chaos, Emmanuel decides to shift from combat to a more decisive form of action to end the nightmarish ordeal. With a mix of bravery and urgency, he performs a ritual that harnesses the power of blood and fire, casting a potent spell that finally disperses the malevolent mists and banishes the smoke monsters from the graveyard. In the end, despite the fear and the overwhelming odds, Emmanuel and Novel stand victorious, their foes vanquished and the night reclaimed from the clutches of darkness.
(Emmanuel's ghost banishing)
[Mon Sep 2 2024]
On the Sprawling Hillside of Arkwright Cemetery
It is night, about 67F(19C) degrees, There is a waning crescent moon.
There is the sudden smell of brimstone that fills the area, and along with a rising, black mist: smoke, coiling along the surface of the graveyard. It seems to form strange whorls and shapes, and as they draw close to %n they begin to look more and more like creatures -- horned creatures, with red eyes full of menace.
"Is being trapped in this town really better than nothingness?" Emmanuel queries of Novel at that, raising his hand to make a so-so sort of gesture, before pausing as the sea-side air gets real sticky all of a sudden. "Ugh." He complains, and side-eyes Novel, "Was that you? Eat more vegetables, mon amie.."
Novel takes in a sucking breath through his mouth, a laugh exhaling through his lips. "Oh, fuck yes. Abso-fucking-lutely. My life has been INCREDIBLE since I got here and met you and fucking Fayad. And this town..." A certain glee crawls into his tone. "So much FUN. Fighting, and dread, and violence, and the hottest women you can think of willing to do all sortsa things - c'mon, Emmy. It's been great, hasn't it? And I eat plenty of fucking vegetables. Even at a Salad today."
With a howl, some kind of winged monkey-demon swoops down near Emmanuel, its body made of living smoke. It's all grasping claws, striking hard to leave psychic scars that hurt like deep slashes. Other monkeys attack anyone nearby, with similar screeching, rending claws.
"Well, I suppose you are making a po-" Whatever else Emmanuel was going to say is abandoned for the time as he is attacked by a monster straight out of Oz. The screaming, howling monkey-demon lands right on his shoulders, grabs him by the beard and then bites into his head. "Aaaaah!" Chaos ensures as Emmanuel just starts screaming and running in circles, struggling with the beast and trying to punch it off of his own head!
"Oh boy. It's like a it's my fucking BIRTHDAY every GODDAMN DAY." Novel says with open delight as he drops into a knife-fighter's crouch, the man never unarmed on his bowie knife appears and he drives it directly into the chin of one of the monkey ghosts, having an entirely different, gleeful reaction as he devolves into full monkey mode himself. Cackling with glee, even as injuries rake him and he delivers violent strikes in turn.
There's just a string of French expletatives as Emmanuel runs back and forth through the cemetery, until he eventually manages to dislodge the monkey from his head, and punts it over toward Novel. He's covered in little bites, and scratches and already breathing heavily, "Jesus christ, what are these things?"
Novel flips his dagger around, one-handed, and rams it right into the smoke skull of the animal, causing it to dissolve, collapsing, rejoining the smoke that's swirling around them. His other arm occupied with ANOTHER monkey caught in a headlock that's currently biting the shit out of him while his booted foot punts another right into a grave with a puff of smoke. "Smoke monkeys." He takes another look at the thing in his arms that's leaving toothy marks, ramming the knife right behind it's ear. "Demon smoke monkeys," He concludes.
A hot wind blows through the cemetery, and with it comes sibilant whispers in the ears of Emmanuel and all their companions: they promise depraved, decadent desires fulfilled, and for a moment that's all anyone can focus on.
Well, Novel isn't wrong, that's for sure. They are in fact smoke monkeys. Sorry, /demon/ smoke monkeys. Emmanuel takes a few moments to catch his breath, before drawing his sidearm from it's hidden holster. Plink. Plink. The Templar fires at a few of the beasts, ensuring that he doesn't accidentally shoot his compatriot in the process. But then there's those whispers, and the idea of shooting Novel starts to sound a little nicer.
Novel glances around - his expression increasingly disappointed as he searches for more targets to murder. "...Where'd they all go?" And then he's wandering around, peeking over graves, scurrying around as he looks for another target to stab. The fact that the man's behavior changes not at all is probably something that shouldn't be too closely examined. And to be fair.
He DID shoot Emmanuel once.
Eat the elephant. Start with one. There's one right here. This may not be the decadent thoughts that most would get from this fell wind, but to start killing allies? Well, that might just be considered a depraved thought to some. Ally is a stretch really. Isn't it?
It takes some effort for Emmanuel to shift his finger away from the trigger, and to the side of the pistol, though his eyes remain on Novel, all the while. "I can still see one." He whispers, more to himself than the other man.
From the smoky mist, a circle of hooded figures seem to approach, chanting in unison. At first, they seem to be living people, but as they draw closer to Emmanuel it becomes clear they are smoke monsters themselves. They reach out as their chants increase in volume, and it is as if they are sucking the air out of the lungs of everyone present.
It wasn't just the one time, was it? With the bow. Then there were the operations. The man standing gleefully, wading in. Why, just today, plunging his sword into Emmanuel's chest, Novel smiling all the way while he did it. Not even questioning the hows or why. Just there, and a sword, and a body to plunge it in. You have to wonder.
He turns at Emmanuel's calling out, saying, "Oh?" And then, the new crop appears. He smiles, with wicked glee, opening his mouth to say something - soundless. But then his blade whistles and one of the robed figures circling Emmanuel crumples as he eagerly, almost hungrily, tears into them, leaving naught but whirling smoke and silence in his wake.
The reverie breaks, it snaps, with the hungry strike of Novel's blade. Emmanuel staggers forward then, blinking rapidly, feeling the threads of this enchantment fall away like cobwebs, and then he too is raising his weapon to fire upon the approaching monsters, "Ah, more than one!" He offers a correction to his earlier observation, slinking backwards toward Novel, and pausing every two or three steps to fire.
Novel strikes, and kicks, and elbows, and knees, and does all the combat grappling moves that are totally illegal in the WWE for being too effective and doing too much damage, like it was a specific list on how to fight. Nothing is off the table. Knife guts, eye gouging. He's a maniac made flesh, producing a deep, throaty laugh at Emmanuel's words, finding himself back-to-back with his comrade in arms. However temporary.
Out of the smoke charges an armed and armored warrior, spun out of black mist. He is dressed head to toe in archaic plate armor, wielding some huge, two-handed sword as black as his armor. With a roar, he rushes at Emmanuel, swinging the sword in some attempt to cut off their head.
This might be one of the few similarities between Emmanuel and Novel, really. Neither of them feel the need to fight fair. Pocket sand is employed by the French man, as he flings handfuls of salt and sand toward the spirits, and follows up with hot lead. I mean, it might be largely useless, but it has flair! They do say that salt helps to cleanse evil spirits, after all.
"Duck!" Emmanuel blurts out, and it isn't the bird, he reaches over to grab at Novel, trying to drag them down with him to avoid them losing their heads.
Their fight is probably aided by the amulets they both wear, to be fair. And in his case, Novel never really questions if he can stab something. It is there, therefore, he must be able to stab. His thought processes never go further than that. "Wha-uff!" He says, finding himself getting a mouthful of grave dirt on the way down, flailing some with a knife as he tries to roll onto his back and see what's actually going on.
Thankfully Emmanuel and Novel manage to keep their heads long enough to eat dirt, instead of the sharp blade of the knight. The Frenchman releases his compatriot, and scrambles to the side, doing his best to dodge the next sweep of the large blade - curling behind a tombstone for protection as the massive weapon shatters it, "Fucking fucky fuck!" Panic does wonderful things to one's vocab. He leaps to the side then, drawing a sharp knife and scoring it against the armour- it's a vain strike, really, it barely leaves a scratch.
A trio of horned smoke-monsters advance out of the mist. They have twisted weapons formed of smoke, and they descend on Emmanuel, howling in an incomrephensible, devilish tongue.
Novel coughs, spitting out a spray of dirt and shoving the blade away when he sees the actual problem and the snake monsters. His body is a better thinking machine then his drug-addled brain could ever be, instinct for mayhem arriving as he lunges like a long-limbed spirit himself towards the armored man. A tackle and a lift, a judo throw of chucking the whole armored knight directly towards... Emmanuel
There's a momentary flash-second to consider the betrayal before the knife and weaponry slams right into a pair of the horned smoke monsters, creating a messy pile that turns into one big mass of distorted smoke.
"Tentacles!" Emmanuel blurts out in sudden alarm as the whole arse knight comes flying toward him. He shies away, throwing himself to the ground with widened eyes, and takes his own mouthful of dirt as a result, "Pah!" The man coughs out, turning to watch the results of Novel's efforts, as the Knight crashes into the other monsters. "Oh." A beat, "Merci."
But this isn't the annual Haven dirt eating contest, this is a ghost patrol, so Emmanuel scrambles back up to his feet and starts to produce more salt from his pockets, digging a little hole and filling it, "I think it is being time to stop fighting battles, and be doing the war, hm?"
As the dark mists roil in the cemetery, Emmanuel and everyone with them are struck with a sudden fear. It's cold and awful, sinking into their heart to make the world seem impossible and alone.
"Mercy's for pussies," Novel gleefully answers Emmanuel, already stepping forwards, his hands flexing and palms open. Arms already raised to commit more heinous acts against the doubtful dead. Or the living. Honestly, he's not picky. And then, suddenly, he stops. A flashing of teeth, a gnashing of the air, a distasteful, spreading grimace, as his body trembles and his face goes paler and ashen. He grunts.
He slams a foot into a nearby grave. The ground. Kicking - fighting, the white of his eyes and wildness coming to the fore. The violent squirming of a cornered rat.
Fear is a common companion to the little humans that scurry to and fro, beneath the heel of the supernaturals forces that regard them as little more than food and entertainment. That cold sinking feeling may as well be an old friend for Emmanuel as it drags the pit of his stomach down into his shoes. Reminding him that at the end of the day, he'll never win, he'll never succeed.
But that is okay.
He may be frightened out of his gourd, with the dark and the smoke and the mists around, but Emmanuel raises a shaking hand to his lips, biting his thumb and smearing blood around the circle of salt as he mutters lilting, shaking pseudo-latin, and French, and finally ignites it with a flick of his lighter.
The smell of smoke seems to peak, and then, with a rush of magical power, it's gone. The smoke monsters in the cemetery disappear, banished -- fading away as wisps of mist in the air around $n.
As the battle rages on, the duo's resolve is tested by waves of fear and doubt instilled by the supernatural foes, culminating in an armored warrior conjured from the mist that presents a dire threat. In a moment of clarity amidst the chaos, Emmanuel decides to shift from combat to a more decisive form of action to end the nightmarish ordeal. With a mix of bravery and urgency, he performs a ritual that harnesses the power of blood and fire, casting a potent spell that finally disperses the malevolent mists and banishes the smoke monsters from the graveyard. In the end, despite the fear and the overwhelming odds, Emmanuel and Novel stand victorious, their foes vanquished and the night reclaimed from the clutches of darkness.
(Emmanuel's ghost banishing)
[Mon Sep 2 2024]
On the Sprawling Hillside of Arkwright Cemetery
It is night, about 67F(19C) degrees, There is a waning crescent moon.
There is the sudden smell of brimstone that fills the area, and along with a rising, black mist: smoke, coiling along the surface of the graveyard. It seems to form strange whorls and shapes, and as they draw close to %n they begin to look more and more like creatures -- horned creatures, with red eyes full of menace.
"Is being trapped in this town really better than nothingness?" Emmanuel queries of Novel at that, raising his hand to make a so-so sort of gesture, before pausing as the sea-side air gets real sticky all of a sudden. "Ugh." He complains, and side-eyes Novel, "Was that you? Eat more vegetables, mon amie.."
Novel takes in a sucking breath through his mouth, a laugh exhaling through his lips. "Oh, fuck yes. Abso-fucking-lutely. My life has been INCREDIBLE since I got here and met you and fucking Fayad. And this town..." A certain glee crawls into his tone. "So much FUN. Fighting, and dread, and violence, and the hottest women you can think of willing to do all sortsa things - c'mon, Emmy. It's been great, hasn't it? And I eat plenty of fucking vegetables. Even at a Salad today."
With a howl, some kind of winged monkey-demon swoops down near Emmanuel, its body made of living smoke. It's all grasping claws, striking hard to leave psychic scars that hurt like deep slashes. Other monkeys attack anyone nearby, with similar screeching, rending claws.
"Well, I suppose you are making a po-" Whatever else Emmanuel was going to say is abandoned for the time as he is attacked by a monster straight out of Oz. The screaming, howling monkey-demon lands right on his shoulders, grabs him by the beard and then bites into his head. "Aaaaah!" Chaos ensures as Emmanuel just starts screaming and running in circles, struggling with the beast and trying to punch it off of his own head!
"Oh boy. It's like a it's my fucking BIRTHDAY every GODDAMN DAY." Novel says with open delight as he drops into a knife-fighter's crouch, the man never unarmed on his bowie knife appears and he drives it directly into the chin of one of the monkey ghosts, having an entirely different, gleeful reaction as he devolves into full monkey mode himself. Cackling with glee, even as injuries rake him and he delivers violent strikes in turn.
There's just a string of French expletatives as Emmanuel runs back and forth through the cemetery, until he eventually manages to dislodge the monkey from his head, and punts it over toward Novel. He's covered in little bites, and scratches and already breathing heavily, "Jesus christ, what are these things?"
Novel flips his dagger around, one-handed, and rams it right into the smoke skull of the animal, causing it to dissolve, collapsing, rejoining the smoke that's swirling around them. His other arm occupied with ANOTHER monkey caught in a headlock that's currently biting the shit out of him while his booted foot punts another right into a grave with a puff of smoke. "Smoke monkeys." He takes another look at the thing in his arms that's leaving toothy marks, ramming the knife right behind it's ear. "Demon smoke monkeys," He concludes.
A hot wind blows through the cemetery, and with it comes sibilant whispers in the ears of Emmanuel and all their companions: they promise depraved, decadent desires fulfilled, and for a moment that's all anyone can focus on.
Well, Novel isn't wrong, that's for sure. They are in fact smoke monkeys. Sorry, /demon/ smoke monkeys. Emmanuel takes a few moments to catch his breath, before drawing his sidearm from it's hidden holster. Plink. Plink. The Templar fires at a few of the beasts, ensuring that he doesn't accidentally shoot his compatriot in the process. But then there's those whispers, and the idea of shooting Novel starts to sound a little nicer.
Novel glances around - his expression increasingly disappointed as he searches for more targets to murder. "...Where'd they all go?" And then he's wandering around, peeking over graves, scurrying around as he looks for another target to stab. The fact that the man's behavior changes not at all is probably something that shouldn't be too closely examined. And to be fair.
He DID shoot Emmanuel once.
Eat the elephant. Start with one. There's one right here. This may not be the decadent thoughts that most would get from this fell wind, but to start killing allies? Well, that might just be considered a depraved thought to some. Ally is a stretch really. Isn't it?
It takes some effort for Emmanuel to shift his finger away from the trigger, and to the side of the pistol, though his eyes remain on Novel, all the while. "I can still see one." He whispers, more to himself than the other man.
From the smoky mist, a circle of hooded figures seem to approach, chanting in unison. At first, they seem to be living people, but as they draw closer to Emmanuel it becomes clear they are smoke monsters themselves. They reach out as their chants increase in volume, and it is as if they are sucking the air out of the lungs of everyone present.
It wasn't just the one time, was it? With the bow. Then there were the operations. The man standing gleefully, wading in. Why, just today, plunging his sword into Emmanuel's chest, Novel smiling all the way while he did it. Not even questioning the hows or why. Just there, and a sword, and a body to plunge it in. You have to wonder.
He turns at Emmanuel's calling out, saying, "Oh?" And then, the new crop appears. He smiles, with wicked glee, opening his mouth to say something - soundless. But then his blade whistles and one of the robed figures circling Emmanuel crumples as he eagerly, almost hungrily, tears into them, leaving naught but whirling smoke and silence in his wake.
The reverie breaks, it snaps, with the hungry strike of Novel's blade. Emmanuel staggers forward then, blinking rapidly, feeling the threads of this enchantment fall away like cobwebs, and then he too is raising his weapon to fire upon the approaching monsters, "Ah, more than one!" He offers a correction to his earlier observation, slinking backwards toward Novel, and pausing every two or three steps to fire.
Novel strikes, and kicks, and elbows, and knees, and does all the combat grappling moves that are totally illegal in the WWE for being too effective and doing too much damage, like it was a specific list on how to fight. Nothing is off the table. Knife guts, eye gouging. He's a maniac made flesh, producing a deep, throaty laugh at Emmanuel's words, finding himself back-to-back with his comrade in arms. However temporary.
Out of the smoke charges an armed and armored warrior, spun out of black mist. He is dressed head to toe in archaic plate armor, wielding some huge, two-handed sword as black as his armor. With a roar, he rushes at Emmanuel, swinging the sword in some attempt to cut off their head.
This might be one of the few similarities between Emmanuel and Novel, really. Neither of them feel the need to fight fair. Pocket sand is employed by the French man, as he flings handfuls of salt and sand toward the spirits, and follows up with hot lead. I mean, it might be largely useless, but it has flair! They do say that salt helps to cleanse evil spirits, after all.
"Duck!" Emmanuel blurts out, and it isn't the bird, he reaches over to grab at Novel, trying to drag them down with him to avoid them losing their heads.
Their fight is probably aided by the amulets they both wear, to be fair. And in his case, Novel never really questions if he can stab something. It is there, therefore, he must be able to stab. His thought processes never go further than that. "Wha-uff!" He says, finding himself getting a mouthful of grave dirt on the way down, flailing some with a knife as he tries to roll onto his back and see what's actually going on.
Thankfully Emmanuel and Novel manage to keep their heads long enough to eat dirt, instead of the sharp blade of the knight. The Frenchman releases his compatriot, and scrambles to the side, doing his best to dodge the next sweep of the large blade - curling behind a tombstone for protection as the massive weapon shatters it, "Fucking fucky fuck!" Panic does wonderful things to one's vocab. He leaps to the side then, drawing a sharp knife and scoring it against the armour- it's a vain strike, really, it barely leaves a scratch.
A trio of horned smoke-monsters advance out of the mist. They have twisted weapons formed of smoke, and they descend on Emmanuel, howling in an incomrephensible, devilish tongue.
Novel coughs, spitting out a spray of dirt and shoving the blade away when he sees the actual problem and the snake monsters. His body is a better thinking machine then his drug-addled brain could ever be, instinct for mayhem arriving as he lunges like a long-limbed spirit himself towards the armored man. A tackle and a lift, a judo throw of chucking the whole armored knight directly towards... Emmanuel
There's a momentary flash-second to consider the betrayal before the knife and weaponry slams right into a pair of the horned smoke monsters, creating a messy pile that turns into one big mass of distorted smoke.
"Tentacles!" Emmanuel blurts out in sudden alarm as the whole arse knight comes flying toward him. He shies away, throwing himself to the ground with widened eyes, and takes his own mouthful of dirt as a result, "Pah!" The man coughs out, turning to watch the results of Novel's efforts, as the Knight crashes into the other monsters. "Oh." A beat, "Merci."
But this isn't the annual Haven dirt eating contest, this is a ghost patrol, so Emmanuel scrambles back up to his feet and starts to produce more salt from his pockets, digging a little hole and filling it, "I think it is being time to stop fighting battles, and be doing the war, hm?"
As the dark mists roil in the cemetery, Emmanuel and everyone with them are struck with a sudden fear. It's cold and awful, sinking into their heart to make the world seem impossible and alone.
"Mercy's for pussies," Novel gleefully answers Emmanuel, already stepping forwards, his hands flexing and palms open. Arms already raised to commit more heinous acts against the doubtful dead. Or the living. Honestly, he's not picky. And then, suddenly, he stops. A flashing of teeth, a gnashing of the air, a distasteful, spreading grimace, as his body trembles and his face goes paler and ashen. He grunts.
He slams a foot into a nearby grave. The ground. Kicking - fighting, the white of his eyes and wildness coming to the fore. The violent squirming of a cornered rat.
Fear is a common companion to the little humans that scurry to and fro, beneath the heel of the supernaturals forces that regard them as little more than food and entertainment. That cold sinking feeling may as well be an old friend for Emmanuel as it drags the pit of his stomach down into his shoes. Reminding him that at the end of the day, he'll never win, he'll never succeed.
But that is okay.
He may be frightened out of his gourd, with the dark and the smoke and the mists around, but Emmanuel raises a shaking hand to his lips, biting his thumb and smearing blood around the circle of salt as he mutters lilting, shaking pseudo-latin, and French, and finally ignites it with a flick of his lighter.
The smell of smoke seems to peak, and then, with a rush of magical power, it's gone. The smoke monsters in the cemetery disappear, banished -- fading away as wisps of mist in the air around $n.