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Miless Ghost Banishing 240331
On a chilling night in Arkwright Cemetery, Miles finds themselves alone amidst the haunting echoes of a piano melody, confronted by three ghostly pirates engaged in a supernatural standoff. The ghosts, adorned in a macabre fusion of ballroom and pirate attire, brandishing weapons like flintlock pistols and cutlasses, encircle Miles, flickering in and out of reality. In a bid for self-preservation, Miles, relying on their cursory knowledge of magic and banishment rituals, desperately carves a protective circle and cross into the earth, sprinkling salt within the carefully etched symbols, all the while attempting to evict the pangs of fear with muttered reassurances to themselves. Despite the advancing threats, Miles holds onto a shred of hope, drawing upon the symbolic power of their hastily constructed sanctuary.
As the spectral assailants intensify their attack, Miles's situation grows dire. A ghostly shot, leaving no wound but agonizing pain, strikes them, and their belongings are rifled through by another specter. With resilience waning but determination undiminished, Miles recalls a vital lesson on the power of blood in magic. In a moment of desperation, amidst the spectral onslaught, they slash their palm, anointing their salted symbols with blood, invoking a myriad of divine entities in a plea for aid. This act of desperation and faith culminates in a fervent entreaty to both familiar deities and obscure ones, blending belief systems in a singular moment of hope. As the night air quivers with the weight of Miles’s invocation, the outcome of this ghostly confrontation hangs in the balance, a testament to Miles’s tenacity and the unpredictable nature of magic and belief.
(Miles's ghost banishing)
[Sat Mar 30 2024]
On the Sprawling Hillside of Arkwright Cemetery
It is night, about 40F(4C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. There is a waning gibbous moon.
A haunting piano melody suddenly creeps over the graveyard as one by one, three spectral forms raise up into sight. Each is somewhat decayed and dressed in a mix of ballroom gown and old pirate garb, one wields a pair of flintlock pistols, another a wicked cutlass and the third a pair of sharp looking knives.
"Alright, how hard can this be on my own. I've seen others do it a few times now." Miles tries to talk themselves up as they find themselves alone in the graveyard in the middle of the night with ghosts. The piano music starts, and the hair on the back of their neck stands up at attention.
The three spirits encircle the group, flicking in and out of reality as they coral them.
Miles digs about on their person, until they manage to conjure up their trust bag of salt from their somewhat more baggy than usual clothing. "Alright. Alright." They continue to talk themselves up, "Symbols have power because we believe them to have power, so we'll start there." A knife is drawn from their belt, and they go about cutting a large circle into the dirt and grass beneath their feet, sawing at the earth with the blade.
They only try to work faster yet as the spirits start to flick in and out of view, doing their best to avoid looking at them as they work. Alright, done. There's a circle. "Circle." Miles even mutters out under their breath, and then squeezes their eyes closed as they wrack their brain. "Jack draws on crosses, and crap, so.." They go to work carving a cross into the centre of the circle and starting to fill it with salt - using their knife and hands to dig out the little tunnels.
There. Done it. There's now a lovely salty cross in a circle where there had once been pristine maintained lawn. Well done, Miles. You're a vandal. They lean back on their knees a little, peering about warily. "Cross, done. Circle, done. ..May as well throw another symbol in for good measure." They mutter to themselves, and start to carve yet another into the earth. This is a circle flanked by two semi-circles, and they sort of being attached to the bottom of the cross.
Miles's shoulder suddenly burns as the flicklock wielder materializes long enough to fire a shot into her, there's no visible wound.
You know, things are going well, all things considered. Miles hasn't been shot, or stabbed, or hit with any flying mailboxes, and there's a brief moment there, as they carve another symbol into the grass where the femme starts to consider that they might actually not be entirely useless with some of this magic stuff.
Of course, immediately following this thought, one of the ghosts appears just long enough to shoot Miles. "Ack!" The deputy blurts out in surprise and agony alike, dropping to the grass and rolling around as they clutch at their shoulder. There may not actually be a wound, but by god does it feel like it. "Bastard!"
"Why is it -always- me?" Miles laments as they rock back and forth on the ground, eyes squeezed shut while they work through the pain. The answer, this time at least, is obvious. Because Miles was the only idiot who decided to show up and try to banish the ghosts, that's why. Everyone else is likely in the warmth and safety of their homes instead of running around like goobers.
The cutlass-wielder attacks Miles, driving her back as the flintlock lady appears behind her, using the distraction to go through her pockets.
The other two spectres answer the question in their own special way, one of them darting at Miles with a cutlass while the other takes advantage of their attempts to avoid being skewered by pilfering a few wrappers of gum, and some loose change from their pockets, "Hey! Piss off!" They blurt out, using their knife to fend off the blade before scrambling to get back into the circle. "I hate these, I hate these." That's their chant apparently, as they continue to fill the dug out parts of the earth with more salt.
The cutlass-wielder attacks Miles, driving her back as the flintlock lady appears behind her, using the distraction to go through her pockets.
Apparently Miles's hatred doesn't go unnoticed as the sword-wielding spectre comes slashing back at them anew. "Ack!" They probably should've brought their full kit instead of just a dinky knife, but alas, this is all Miles has to fight back with - well, it's most of what they have. "Pocket salt!" They yell out, drawing a handful of loose salt from their jacket pocket and flinging it at the spectre as well.
The cutlass-wielder attacks Miles, driving her back as the flintlock lady appears behind her, using the distraction to go through her pockets.
"Pocket salt! Salt! Salt!" The assault (hah) continues as Miles does their best to fend off the pirate ghosts, alternating between flinging salt at them, and onto the symbols they've carved into the earth, but they're missing one important element that Tabitha had taught them, and they haven't quite cottoned onto this yet. This time when the woman tries to pilfer their pockets, they respond with a side kick - which is awkward in this borrowed body of theirs, and only goes right through their spectral form, "Shit."
The three spirits surround Miles, attacking and harrying her from all sides.
It seems that ghosts don't like having salt thrown at them, or being kicked through their stomachs. The trio of terrible haunters fall upon Miles, beating the deputy down and into the soft earth of their carved symbols, even as they raise their hands and tuck into a ball to protect themselves. They may just be spirits, but their blows still pack a wallop, and Miles is wincing beneath the assault. It's only now, while being beaten that Miles recalls a lesson that Tabitha had imparted upon them. The power of blood. Will isn't always enough when it comes to magic, especially for those so lacking in ability such as Miles, sometimes they need a conduit. They scramble to draw their knife back, and run it across their palm, like the boys do in Supernatural, then with the bleeding wound they smear their hand over the symbols in the grass. That fucking stings. Especially with all the salt, "Ah!" Miles yelps, "I invoke Jack's faith! I call upon Tabitha's strength! I beg for help! From Christ, and Hecate, and the triple goddesses!" They really take their shot in bartering with nearly every spooky god or deity they've heard of, "Hell, Chernobog too!" They throw one of Viktorin's spooky czech ones in there for good measure, repeating themselves over and over as they bleed and hope.
As the spectral assailants intensify their attack, Miles's situation grows dire. A ghostly shot, leaving no wound but agonizing pain, strikes them, and their belongings are rifled through by another specter. With resilience waning but determination undiminished, Miles recalls a vital lesson on the power of blood in magic. In a moment of desperation, amidst the spectral onslaught, they slash their palm, anointing their salted symbols with blood, invoking a myriad of divine entities in a plea for aid. This act of desperation and faith culminates in a fervent entreaty to both familiar deities and obscure ones, blending belief systems in a singular moment of hope. As the night air quivers with the weight of Miles’s invocation, the outcome of this ghostly confrontation hangs in the balance, a testament to Miles’s tenacity and the unpredictable nature of magic and belief.
(Miles's ghost banishing)
[Sat Mar 30 2024]
On the Sprawling Hillside of Arkwright Cemetery
It is night, about 40F(4C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. There is a waning gibbous moon.
A haunting piano melody suddenly creeps over the graveyard as one by one, three spectral forms raise up into sight. Each is somewhat decayed and dressed in a mix of ballroom gown and old pirate garb, one wields a pair of flintlock pistols, another a wicked cutlass and the third a pair of sharp looking knives.
"Alright, how hard can this be on my own. I've seen others do it a few times now." Miles tries to talk themselves up as they find themselves alone in the graveyard in the middle of the night with ghosts. The piano music starts, and the hair on the back of their neck stands up at attention.
The three spirits encircle the group, flicking in and out of reality as they coral them.
Miles digs about on their person, until they manage to conjure up their trust bag of salt from their somewhat more baggy than usual clothing. "Alright. Alright." They continue to talk themselves up, "Symbols have power because we believe them to have power, so we'll start there." A knife is drawn from their belt, and they go about cutting a large circle into the dirt and grass beneath their feet, sawing at the earth with the blade.
They only try to work faster yet as the spirits start to flick in and out of view, doing their best to avoid looking at them as they work. Alright, done. There's a circle. "Circle." Miles even mutters out under their breath, and then squeezes their eyes closed as they wrack their brain. "Jack draws on crosses, and crap, so.." They go to work carving a cross into the centre of the circle and starting to fill it with salt - using their knife and hands to dig out the little tunnels.
There. Done it. There's now a lovely salty cross in a circle where there had once been pristine maintained lawn. Well done, Miles. You're a vandal. They lean back on their knees a little, peering about warily. "Cross, done. Circle, done. ..May as well throw another symbol in for good measure." They mutter to themselves, and start to carve yet another into the earth. This is a circle flanked by two semi-circles, and they sort of being attached to the bottom of the cross.
Miles's shoulder suddenly burns as the flicklock wielder materializes long enough to fire a shot into her, there's no visible wound.
You know, things are going well, all things considered. Miles hasn't been shot, or stabbed, or hit with any flying mailboxes, and there's a brief moment there, as they carve another symbol into the grass where the femme starts to consider that they might actually not be entirely useless with some of this magic stuff.
Of course, immediately following this thought, one of the ghosts appears just long enough to shoot Miles. "Ack!" The deputy blurts out in surprise and agony alike, dropping to the grass and rolling around as they clutch at their shoulder. There may not actually be a wound, but by god does it feel like it. "Bastard!"
"Why is it -always- me?" Miles laments as they rock back and forth on the ground, eyes squeezed shut while they work through the pain. The answer, this time at least, is obvious. Because Miles was the only idiot who decided to show up and try to banish the ghosts, that's why. Everyone else is likely in the warmth and safety of their homes instead of running around like goobers.
The cutlass-wielder attacks Miles, driving her back as the flintlock lady appears behind her, using the distraction to go through her pockets.
The other two spectres answer the question in their own special way, one of them darting at Miles with a cutlass while the other takes advantage of their attempts to avoid being skewered by pilfering a few wrappers of gum, and some loose change from their pockets, "Hey! Piss off!" They blurt out, using their knife to fend off the blade before scrambling to get back into the circle. "I hate these, I hate these." That's their chant apparently, as they continue to fill the dug out parts of the earth with more salt.
The cutlass-wielder attacks Miles, driving her back as the flintlock lady appears behind her, using the distraction to go through her pockets.
Apparently Miles's hatred doesn't go unnoticed as the sword-wielding spectre comes slashing back at them anew. "Ack!" They probably should've brought their full kit instead of just a dinky knife, but alas, this is all Miles has to fight back with - well, it's most of what they have. "Pocket salt!" They yell out, drawing a handful of loose salt from their jacket pocket and flinging it at the spectre as well.
The cutlass-wielder attacks Miles, driving her back as the flintlock lady appears behind her, using the distraction to go through her pockets.
"Pocket salt! Salt! Salt!" The assault (hah) continues as Miles does their best to fend off the pirate ghosts, alternating between flinging salt at them, and onto the symbols they've carved into the earth, but they're missing one important element that Tabitha had taught them, and they haven't quite cottoned onto this yet. This time when the woman tries to pilfer their pockets, they respond with a side kick - which is awkward in this borrowed body of theirs, and only goes right through their spectral form, "Shit."
The three spirits surround Miles, attacking and harrying her from all sides.
It seems that ghosts don't like having salt thrown at them, or being kicked through their stomachs. The trio of terrible haunters fall upon Miles, beating the deputy down and into the soft earth of their carved symbols, even as they raise their hands and tuck into a ball to protect themselves. They may just be spirits, but their blows still pack a wallop, and Miles is wincing beneath the assault. It's only now, while being beaten that Miles recalls a lesson that Tabitha had imparted upon them. The power of blood. Will isn't always enough when it comes to magic, especially for those so lacking in ability such as Miles, sometimes they need a conduit. They scramble to draw their knife back, and run it across their palm, like the boys do in Supernatural, then with the bleeding wound they smear their hand over the symbols in the grass. That fucking stings. Especially with all the salt, "Ah!" Miles yelps, "I invoke Jack's faith! I call upon Tabitha's strength! I beg for help! From Christ, and Hecate, and the triple goddesses!" They really take their shot in bartering with nearly every spooky god or deity they've heard of, "Hell, Chernobog too!" They throw one of Viktorin's spooky czech ones in there for good measure, repeating themselves over and over as they bleed and hope.