Patrollogs
(Novel's decursing attempt)
[Wed Sep 11 2024]
In the bowels of SLUDGEFUKK
Now you've done it.
Past the metal security door lies a dismal space, resembling some manner of basement more than an aboveground dwelling. The only light source seems to be from flickering aged fluorescent bulbs; they would make a grating hum, if it wasn't for the wall of noise that filled the space otherwise. On the right, entering in, is a bar made of scrap materials such as cinderblocks and cargo pallets. The majority of the space is taken up by a rather improvised dance floor, the black linoleum tiling worn away by the endless stomp of steel-toed boots into a ragged ocean of concrete underneath.
A wall of sound fills the entire area, regardless of whether a band is playing or not. A shitty PA system roars out tunes best described as abysmal and hostile to life as we know it; chugging guitars, screaming, growled vocals, and savage breakdowns punctuate every motion in the room in an endless repeat. It was nearly impossible to make out any noise -other- than that hellish cacophony; one has to yell to people standing right next to them in order to have a conversation. This is likely by design.
Ahead of the doorway, and past the mosh pit, is the main stage.
To the left of the doorway is a single door, labeled, "RESTRUM". A note tacked to the door reads, 'put your fuckin needles in the trash im done cleanin them up'. Lovely.
It is afternoon, about 74F(23C) degrees,
Novel is casually leaning against the bar - twirling a silver bracelet around a singular finger as he leans against the bar, the smoke that seems to endlessly filter through the wall of noise crawling and pushing around him, a small space of his own at it. He doesn't say anything. Or maybe he does, it's impossible to fucking tell - and he lifts his chin in greeting to Isaiah.
Novel talks loudly. That's his nature. Here? That's just the right noise level to be audible. "Yeah?" He notes, wryly amused. "Where better to take something if you want it goddamn broken?" His own eyes, hidden, behind those big sunglasses that conceal a huge part of his space. He stops spinning the bracelet - tilting it, as if to drop it, but instead it clings to him like a snake, sliding down the bottomside of his arm in liquid, unnatural fashion. "You here for me, the bar, or this piece of shit?"
Novel fires off a brief text, nodding some in confirmation as he continues to stand - loom, actually. Another tweaker gets too close. The man casually kicks him in the ankle. He stumbles, falling into the crowd, which assaults him. Or molests him. It's hard to tell, but there's a lot of violence and pain. And then the bracelet suddenly snaps, hisses, an angry noise in it, crawling and bending and flexing. "Good to fucking see you too you crossdressing gender-questionable dudefucker." The man easily swears with an easy smirk back. "Your place seems to be doing a lot of good fucking business, too. Food's good."
Stepping through the security door is a woman who... Definitely doesn't look like she belongs here. She's wearing a pretty sundress, perfect for the day, a wide-brimmed hat to keep the light from her eyes, and an elegant parasol in a hand, tipped back to rest on a shoulder. "Hello hello. What is this that is going on?" Roselyn says after a moment, nose wrinkling at the inside of the building.
Isaiah rolls his eyes with a flutter of lashes at Novel's comeback for his insults, though it's easy enough to tell that it's a strange and twisted banter between the two, who seems quite familiar with each other. "Shut the fuck up, you want me," is Isaiah's reply to that string of swears and insults, and it's partnered with an amused smirk that spreads his lips across his freckled cheeks, his tongue ring tapping against his too-sharp canines as he speaks. "Hell yeah," he agrees, standing up to start shifting amongst the crowd as he speaks, the movement amongst the mob enough to mask the fiery wisps of magic that start to warp from his person. It's just part of the light show accompanying whatever disgusting metal band is blaring over the speakers, really. His pretty blue eyes shfit to give Roselyn a silent greeting, but soon he's melding into a mosh pit, laughing playfully as he's shoved, punched, and generally thrown around- and dishes out the same, part of some masochistic ritual, apparently.
The artifact emits a flash of blinding light.
Novel lifts his hand to Roselyn, the bracelet held in his hand gleaming like a bright, terrible beacon, amidst the crowd and noise and darkness of the smoke from the crackling table nearby him. He on the other hand, seems to fit right in like the last glass shard for a makeshift shift. "Hey, Roselyn!" He calls, his ordinarily bassy, noisy voice just barely enough to be heard over the crowd.
He leers back at Isaiah, deeply amused, and a flash of white teeth. "Only for violent purposes. And I like to spread around that kind of pointy love. There's a fucking basement for that, though I been thinking of adding another one with chains and shit. We'll see what my Aunt thinks about that before I start fucking around."
In contrast, the man doesn't appear to have any magic - despite being inundated and surrounded by it, as he starts to violence his way through the crowd over to Roselyn, giving Isaiah a fistbump on the way by.
For several seconds the room grows painfully hot.
There's a cross of Roselyn's arms as Novel approaches, well- At least one of her arms crosses over her stomach, the other too busy hoisting that parasol upon her shoulder. She looks downright MISERABLE, lips drawn together in a tight line. "This place..." She trails off, her tired and soft voice- Laden thick with a French accent- probably not being able to reach Novel just yet.
A breath of exhaustion escapes Roselyn as she looks at her phone. She decides it's best to just stuff it back away.
"I love violent purposes!" Isaiah calls out over the shout of the crowd and the volume of the music, bumping Novel's fist back hard as that fiery glow around him starts to burn with flaming intensity. It's clear what's happening here: to the aware, anyways. What happens when a pyromanic, demon-blooded twink gets thrown into the middle of a mosh pit? Well. Suffering abounds, and who better to soak it all up and fuel this sado-masochistic ritual than him?
The weakness of the crowd becomes the power of Isaiah, and Novel would occasionally be able to glimpse the redhead weaving through the crowd like water, all singing hips and swaying arms as every punch to the face someone receives causes his smile to grow significantly. What's worse is that he's dancing- enjoying himself, even- as every motion he makes brings him closer to Novel, circling the guy and closing in- though those aquamarine irises aren't on the tweaker- they're on the silver bracelet he holds. Eventually that fiery passion burning around the femboy begins to weave its way towards, and then into, that piece of jewelry.
For several seconds the room grows painfully cold.
Novel is pink and flush and sweating, the gnash of teeth. He bursts through the crawling, writhing mass of suffering humanity as squealing starts in response to the sudden heat in the room. It only seems to fill the man with even more unholy glee. And there he is. Looming up and above Roselyn. The silver bracelet in his hand glowing cherry-red, the source of the sudden agonizing warmth. Here, with all the noise and the heat - well, unexpected pain just comes along with the territory.
He offers the bracelet-clamped hand. In offering, in supplication, smirking over to Isaiah as the man arrives in his own glowing mayhem. Welcoming it just as the other man. But instead of losing himself he seems more focused. More relaxed, than ever before, delighted and almost affectionate. "Fucking fantastic, isn't it?" He heard Roselyn, somehow. "You can do fucking ANYTHING here. They'll just let you." He gestures with his other hand back over his shoulder at the wall of noise, the grunge, the rejects, the dejects, the punks, the masochists, and the psychopaths - though many of them fall into more than one category.
Another shudder at the sudden shift, a groan, a washing of those icy rivers tightening and it serving to burn and delight Isaiah's blood even further.
"It is being /loud/!" Roselyn calls over the noise in responde to Novel, shuffling forwards. Her gaze falls upon Isaiah for a moment, noting the way he dances- The way he delights in the mosh pit. And then her gaze falls upon the bracelet. "I have never done this before, mi ami!"
An arc of lightning blasts out of the artifact to strike Novel, sending him flying.
"Oh? Yeah? We're gonna pop yo-" Whatever other disgusting thing Novel was about to say with Roselyn is interrupted when he's suddenly sent rocketing back - either into the crowd, or directly into Isaiah, but either way, he's not getting away without a few injuries ontop of the fresh burn marks on his arm.
Isaiah is dancing like a drugged-up whore amongst a pit of violent and angry men far larger than he is- and he's a tall guy, even for someone so feminine. Yet, he doesn't seem to mind when he catches a stray punch to the jaw, or when someone ( Novel ) comes flying across the place towards him, smashing right into the twink who falls onto his ass and subsequently gets his head kicked around a few times. He can do little more than clench his eyes shut and hold up a protective arm, waiting for the crowd to get bored of abusing him before he sighs, whimpering faintly as he touches a stream of blood now oozing from his nose. Still- he isn't pouting for long, and eventually he's cackling at the misfortune of both he and Novel as the last of his fiery essence streams into that bracelet, threatening to shatter it, too, as it warps and weaves around the curse. "You fucking clumsy piece of shit!" he bellows, cackling, almost falling backwards again from the laughter.
With a final burst of power the curse on a silver bracelet is broken.
Novels Decursing Attempt 240912
(Novel's decursing attempt)
[Wed Sep 11 2024]
In the bowels of SLUDGEFUKK
Now you've done it.
Past the metal security door lies a dismal space, resembling some manner of basement more than an aboveground dwelling. The only light source seems to be from flickering aged fluorescent bulbs; they would make a grating hum, if it wasn't for the wall of noise that filled the space otherwise. On the right, entering in, is a bar made of scrap materials such as cinderblocks and cargo pallets. The majority of the space is taken up by a rather improvised dance floor, the black linoleum tiling worn away by the endless stomp of steel-toed boots into a ragged ocean of concrete underneath.
A wall of sound fills the entire area, regardless of whether a band is playing or not. A shitty PA system roars out tunes best described as abysmal and hostile to life as we know it; chugging guitars, screaming, growled vocals, and savage breakdowns punctuate every motion in the room in an endless repeat. It was nearly impossible to make out any noise -other- than that hellish cacophony; one has to yell to people standing right next to them in order to have a conversation. This is likely by design.
Ahead of the doorway, and past the mosh pit, is the main stage.
To the left of the doorway is a single door, labeled, "RESTRUM". A note tacked to the door reads, 'put your fuckin needles in the trash im done cleanin them up'. Lovely.
It is afternoon, about 74F(23C) degrees,
Novel is casually leaning against the bar - twirling a silver bracelet around a singular finger as he leans against the bar, the smoke that seems to endlessly filter through the wall of noise crawling and pushing around him, a small space of his own at it. He doesn't say anything. Or maybe he does, it's impossible to fucking tell - and he lifts his chin in greeting to Isaiah.
Novel talks loudly. That's his nature. Here? That's just the right noise level to be audible. "Yeah?" He notes, wryly amused. "Where better to take something if you want it goddamn broken?" His own eyes, hidden, behind those big sunglasses that conceal a huge part of his space. He stops spinning the bracelet - tilting it, as if to drop it, but instead it clings to him like a snake, sliding down the bottomside of his arm in liquid, unnatural fashion. "You here for me, the bar, or this piece of shit?"
Novel fires off a brief text, nodding some in confirmation as he continues to stand - loom, actually. Another tweaker gets too close. The man casually kicks him in the ankle. He stumbles, falling into the crowd, which assaults him. Or molests him. It's hard to tell, but there's a lot of violence and pain. And then the bracelet suddenly snaps, hisses, an angry noise in it, crawling and bending and flexing. "Good to fucking see you too you crossdressing gender-questionable dudefucker." The man easily swears with an easy smirk back. "Your place seems to be doing a lot of good fucking business, too. Food's good."
Stepping through the security door is a woman who... Definitely doesn't look like she belongs here. She's wearing a pretty sundress, perfect for the day, a wide-brimmed hat to keep the light from her eyes, and an elegant parasol in a hand, tipped back to rest on a shoulder. "Hello hello. What is this that is going on?" Roselyn says after a moment, nose wrinkling at the inside of the building.
Isaiah rolls his eyes with a flutter of lashes at Novel's comeback for his insults, though it's easy enough to tell that it's a strange and twisted banter between the two, who seems quite familiar with each other. "Shut the fuck up, you want me," is Isaiah's reply to that string of swears and insults, and it's partnered with an amused smirk that spreads his lips across his freckled cheeks, his tongue ring tapping against his too-sharp canines as he speaks. "Hell yeah," he agrees, standing up to start shifting amongst the crowd as he speaks, the movement amongst the mob enough to mask the fiery wisps of magic that start to warp from his person. It's just part of the light show accompanying whatever disgusting metal band is blaring over the speakers, really. His pretty blue eyes shfit to give Roselyn a silent greeting, but soon he's melding into a mosh pit, laughing playfully as he's shoved, punched, and generally thrown around- and dishes out the same, part of some masochistic ritual, apparently.
The artifact emits a flash of blinding light.
Novel lifts his hand to Roselyn, the bracelet held in his hand gleaming like a bright, terrible beacon, amidst the crowd and noise and darkness of the smoke from the crackling table nearby him. He on the other hand, seems to fit right in like the last glass shard for a makeshift shift. "Hey, Roselyn!" He calls, his ordinarily bassy, noisy voice just barely enough to be heard over the crowd.
He leers back at Isaiah, deeply amused, and a flash of white teeth. "Only for violent purposes. And I like to spread around that kind of pointy love. There's a fucking basement for that, though I been thinking of adding another one with chains and shit. We'll see what my Aunt thinks about that before I start fucking around."
In contrast, the man doesn't appear to have any magic - despite being inundated and surrounded by it, as he starts to violence his way through the crowd over to Roselyn, giving Isaiah a fistbump on the way by.
For several seconds the room grows painfully hot.
There's a cross of Roselyn's arms as Novel approaches, well- At least one of her arms crosses over her stomach, the other too busy hoisting that parasol upon her shoulder. She looks downright MISERABLE, lips drawn together in a tight line. "This place..." She trails off, her tired and soft voice- Laden thick with a French accent- probably not being able to reach Novel just yet.
A breath of exhaustion escapes Roselyn as she looks at her phone. She decides it's best to just stuff it back away.
"I love violent purposes!" Isaiah calls out over the shout of the crowd and the volume of the music, bumping Novel's fist back hard as that fiery glow around him starts to burn with flaming intensity. It's clear what's happening here: to the aware, anyways. What happens when a pyromanic, demon-blooded twink gets thrown into the middle of a mosh pit? Well. Suffering abounds, and who better to soak it all up and fuel this sado-masochistic ritual than him?
The weakness of the crowd becomes the power of Isaiah, and Novel would occasionally be able to glimpse the redhead weaving through the crowd like water, all singing hips and swaying arms as every punch to the face someone receives causes his smile to grow significantly. What's worse is that he's dancing- enjoying himself, even- as every motion he makes brings him closer to Novel, circling the guy and closing in- though those aquamarine irises aren't on the tweaker- they're on the silver bracelet he holds. Eventually that fiery passion burning around the femboy begins to weave its way towards, and then into, that piece of jewelry.
For several seconds the room grows painfully cold.
Novel is pink and flush and sweating, the gnash of teeth. He bursts through the crawling, writhing mass of suffering humanity as squealing starts in response to the sudden heat in the room. It only seems to fill the man with even more unholy glee. And there he is. Looming up and above Roselyn. The silver bracelet in his hand glowing cherry-red, the source of the sudden agonizing warmth. Here, with all the noise and the heat - well, unexpected pain just comes along with the territory.
He offers the bracelet-clamped hand. In offering, in supplication, smirking over to Isaiah as the man arrives in his own glowing mayhem. Welcoming it just as the other man. But instead of losing himself he seems more focused. More relaxed, than ever before, delighted and almost affectionate. "Fucking fantastic, isn't it?" He heard Roselyn, somehow. "You can do fucking ANYTHING here. They'll just let you." He gestures with his other hand back over his shoulder at the wall of noise, the grunge, the rejects, the dejects, the punks, the masochists, and the psychopaths - though many of them fall into more than one category.
Another shudder at the sudden shift, a groan, a washing of those icy rivers tightening and it serving to burn and delight Isaiah's blood even further.
"It is being /loud/!" Roselyn calls over the noise in responde to Novel, shuffling forwards. Her gaze falls upon Isaiah for a moment, noting the way he dances- The way he delights in the mosh pit. And then her gaze falls upon the bracelet. "I have never done this before, mi ami!"
An arc of lightning blasts out of the artifact to strike Novel, sending him flying.
"Oh? Yeah? We're gonna pop yo-" Whatever other disgusting thing Novel was about to say with Roselyn is interrupted when he's suddenly sent rocketing back - either into the crowd, or directly into Isaiah, but either way, he's not getting away without a few injuries ontop of the fresh burn marks on his arm.
Isaiah is dancing like a drugged-up whore amongst a pit of violent and angry men far larger than he is- and he's a tall guy, even for someone so feminine. Yet, he doesn't seem to mind when he catches a stray punch to the jaw, or when someone ( Novel ) comes flying across the place towards him, smashing right into the twink who falls onto his ass and subsequently gets his head kicked around a few times. He can do little more than clench his eyes shut and hold up a protective arm, waiting for the crowd to get bored of abusing him before he sighs, whimpering faintly as he touches a stream of blood now oozing from his nose. Still- he isn't pouting for long, and eventually he's cackling at the misfortune of both he and Novel as the last of his fiery essence streams into that bracelet, threatening to shatter it, too, as it warps and weaves around the curse. "You fucking clumsy piece of shit!" he bellows, cackling, almost falling backwards again from the laughter.
With a final burst of power the curse on a silver bracelet is broken.