Patrollogs
Sams Ghost Banishing 241208
On a chilly night at Arkwright Cemetery, Sam found himself amidst a chilling encounter with three ghostly figures, each bearing haunting resemblances to pirates blended with eerie elegance. The atmosphere grew tense as these spectral entities, armed with flintlock pistols, a cutlass, and knives, began to encircle Sam. In response, he initiated a mysterious ritual, cutting his palm and drawing a triangular shape on the ground, all while clutching a human fingerbone on a silver chain, an action that seemed to be a crucial part of his conjuration. The air around them became charged with a supernatural glow, hinting at the unfolding of a potent magical confrontation. Despite the sinister display of aggression by the ghosts, Sam persevered, wielding a bright steel knife to fend off the spectral assaults while maneuvering himself strategically over the ritualistic symbol he had crafted on the graveyard soil.
As the confrontation reached its climax, Sam's resolve was tested by the relentless attacks of his ghostly adversaries. The atmosphere thickened with the intensity of the fray, marked by spectral bullets and swashbuckling aggression. In a pivotal moment, Sam's composure was momentarily shaken as one ghost rifled through his pockets, stealing a bone compass, an act that only fueled his determination. Despite the unearthly onslaught, including being struck by a spectral bullet that left no wound but a mark on his suit, Sam's focus never wavered. He cleverly manipulated his shadow and the ritualistic markings on the ground to harness their mystical energy. With a mix of defiance and desperation, he anchored himself within the triangle, his actions culminating in a decisive stand against the haunting presence. The tale concludes with Sam's audacious declaration of being "done with this bullshit," a testament to his relentless spirit and the intricate dance between the arcane and the corporeal in the face of spectral adversity.
(Sam's ghost banishing)
[Sat Dec 7 2024]
On the Sprawling Hillside of Arkwright Cemetery
It is night, about 34F(1C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by dark grey stormclouds. It's snowing. There is a waxing 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.
Letting out a sort of sigh, Sam pricks the serpent's mouth of his obsidian ring onto his palm, and slowly starts to trace a triangular form into the ground below.
He narrows his eyes, and clasps the human fingerbone on a silver chain around his neck with his free hand. He pauses, standing at one of the triangular shape's points, reaching into his backpack to retrieve a bright steel knife, which he holds up with narrowed eyes.
The three spirits surround Sam, attacking and harrying him from all sides.
As the spirits start to harass him, Sam lifts that blade, trying hsi best to parry the incoming blows. His eyes narrow at the pirate ghost, looking at the flint-lock in it's hands. "Fucking... here we go..."
Stepping back as he fights the ghosts, Sam moves the fight to be right over that ritual form, the scarlet marking on the ground starting to glow as he keeps his free hand firmly clasped around that fingerbone, a faint glow from magic runes on it starting to give the area around him an eery glow.
The three spirits surround Sam, attacking and harrying him from all sides.
Doggedly, Sam keeps up the fight, huffing as his lips move silently, maybe a private prayer of sorts, maybe a string of cursing as some of the attacks make it through. Perhaps a big of both.
The flintlock wielder unleashes a stream of spectral bullets, somehow not needing to reload as the group is forces to drop to the ground to avoid getting struck.
Ducking behind a gravestone, Sam cuts his palm with his knife, clasping his focus with the bloodied hand as he points towards that triangle, wincing slightly as he tries to keep the ritual's energy flowing, while avoiding the spectral hail of bullets.
Eventually, Sam gets up again, and returns to his place over the ritual spot, using his knife to fend off any ghosts that approach. He pants lightly, combining defending and arcanism is tiring work, after all.
The cutlass-wielder attacks Sam, driving him back as the flintlock lady appears behind him, using the distraction to go through his pockets.
"Son of a..." Sam sighs, kicking a foot back at the pickpocket as it flies off with a bone compass. "FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!" HE stabs forward at the cutlass-wielder, though of course, it's not a physical thing. Maybe it's just to make a point, or blow off steam.
The cutlass-wielder attacks Sam, driving him back as the flintlock lady appears behind him, using the distraction to go through his pockets.
Seemingly resigning himself to having to collect strewn goods from the graveyard after this, Sam just keeps duelling the cutlass-ghost, drops of blood occasionally dripping down into the ground.
That red traingle of blood starts to shimmer, and Sam's shadow slowly coils itself around the form, a soft hissing audible.
The shadow inside the triangle seems to deepen, and Sam steps off of the form, instead opting to crouch low, and keep fending off the spectral aggression, sweat pearling on his brow.
Sam's shoulder suddenly burns as the flicklock wielder materializes long enough to fire a shot into him, there's no visible wound.
Letting out a yelp, Sam drops to the ground, and groans. "Not the fucking suit, man!" He sighs, brushing the soot off of the shoulder, baring his teeth as he puts the hand without his knife in it onto that triangle. "Aight, I'm done with this bullshit."
As the confrontation reached its climax, Sam's resolve was tested by the relentless attacks of his ghostly adversaries. The atmosphere thickened with the intensity of the fray, marked by spectral bullets and swashbuckling aggression. In a pivotal moment, Sam's composure was momentarily shaken as one ghost rifled through his pockets, stealing a bone compass, an act that only fueled his determination. Despite the unearthly onslaught, including being struck by a spectral bullet that left no wound but a mark on his suit, Sam's focus never wavered. He cleverly manipulated his shadow and the ritualistic markings on the ground to harness their mystical energy. With a mix of defiance and desperation, he anchored himself within the triangle, his actions culminating in a decisive stand against the haunting presence. The tale concludes with Sam's audacious declaration of being "done with this bullshit," a testament to his relentless spirit and the intricate dance between the arcane and the corporeal in the face of spectral adversity.
(Sam's ghost banishing)
[Sat Dec 7 2024]
On the Sprawling Hillside of Arkwright Cemetery
It is night, about 34F(1C) degrees, and the sky is partly covered by dark grey stormclouds. It's snowing. There is a waxing 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.
Letting out a sort of sigh, Sam pricks the serpent's mouth of his obsidian ring onto his palm, and slowly starts to trace a triangular form into the ground below.
He narrows his eyes, and clasps the human fingerbone on a silver chain around his neck with his free hand. He pauses, standing at one of the triangular shape's points, reaching into his backpack to retrieve a bright steel knife, which he holds up with narrowed eyes.
The three spirits surround Sam, attacking and harrying him from all sides.
As the spirits start to harass him, Sam lifts that blade, trying hsi best to parry the incoming blows. His eyes narrow at the pirate ghost, looking at the flint-lock in it's hands. "Fucking... here we go..."
Stepping back as he fights the ghosts, Sam moves the fight to be right over that ritual form, the scarlet marking on the ground starting to glow as he keeps his free hand firmly clasped around that fingerbone, a faint glow from magic runes on it starting to give the area around him an eery glow.
The three spirits surround Sam, attacking and harrying him from all sides.
Doggedly, Sam keeps up the fight, huffing as his lips move silently, maybe a private prayer of sorts, maybe a string of cursing as some of the attacks make it through. Perhaps a big of both.
The flintlock wielder unleashes a stream of spectral bullets, somehow not needing to reload as the group is forces to drop to the ground to avoid getting struck.
Ducking behind a gravestone, Sam cuts his palm with his knife, clasping his focus with the bloodied hand as he points towards that triangle, wincing slightly as he tries to keep the ritual's energy flowing, while avoiding the spectral hail of bullets.
Eventually, Sam gets up again, and returns to his place over the ritual spot, using his knife to fend off any ghosts that approach. He pants lightly, combining defending and arcanism is tiring work, after all.
The cutlass-wielder attacks Sam, driving him back as the flintlock lady appears behind him, using the distraction to go through his pockets.
"Son of a..." Sam sighs, kicking a foot back at the pickpocket as it flies off with a bone compass. "FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!" HE stabs forward at the cutlass-wielder, though of course, it's not a physical thing. Maybe it's just to make a point, or blow off steam.
The cutlass-wielder attacks Sam, driving him back as the flintlock lady appears behind him, using the distraction to go through his pockets.
Seemingly resigning himself to having to collect strewn goods from the graveyard after this, Sam just keeps duelling the cutlass-ghost, drops of blood occasionally dripping down into the ground.
That red traingle of blood starts to shimmer, and Sam's shadow slowly coils itself around the form, a soft hissing audible.
The shadow inside the triangle seems to deepen, and Sam steps off of the form, instead opting to crouch low, and keep fending off the spectral aggression, sweat pearling on his brow.
Sam's shoulder suddenly burns as the flicklock wielder materializes long enough to fire a shot into him, there's no visible wound.
Letting out a yelp, Sam drops to the ground, and groans. "Not the fucking suit, man!" He sighs, brushing the soot off of the shoulder, baring his teeth as he puts the hand without his knife in it onto that triangle. "Aight, I'm done with this bullshit."