Plotlogs
A Descent Most Righteous Sr Victor 241215
In the heart of Williamsburg's bustling streets, the Music Hall thrums with a strange energy that belies its typical, grungy charm. Amongst the crowd, two figures, Vindicta and Ash, navigate the pulsating scene, drawn together by a shared goal amidst the cacophony of fans and the curious undercurrent of suits moving with precise intent. Inside, they find a venue alive with the electric pulse of anticipation, its every surface steeped in the echoes of countless past performances.
Their quest, unbeknownst to the thronging mass of concertgoers swaying to the rhythm of music and unspoken tension, leads them backstage—a realm usually veiled from the average attendee's view. Here, behind the dim glow and shadowed corners, lies their true objective: Robin Hopkins, a figure whose significance extends far beyond his onstage persona.
Through a carefully crafted facade, Vindicta and Ash leverage the chaotic energy of the venue. A plan, intricately designed by Ash's quick thinking, sees them past security, with Vindicta posed as a gravely ill fan whose last wish is to meet Hopkins. The ruse is elaborate, convincing, and tinged with Vindicta's bitter resilience as she clings to life and purpose with equal ferocity.
Once past the guarded thresholds and into the sanctuary of the backstage lounge, they find Robin Hopkins in a state of eerie detachment. His eyes rolled back, his mouth a conduit for voices not his own, he is both there and profoundly not. Around him, a strange and unsettling scene unfolds, delivering cryptic messages through his unwilling form—a prophetic torrent spilling forth in languages unknown and yet somehow deeply familiar. These words, woven of light and shadow, speak of judgments to come, of entities descending in righteous retribution.
The urgency of their mission becomes clearer through Robin's fragmented utterances—their target lies far from the clot and claustrophobia of the city, buried in the desolation of the Rub'al-Khali Desert. It is in this revelation that the night's true purpose is laid bare: to find a prison, a tomb, perhaps, that holds a key to something both Vindicta and Ash desperately seek, though their motivations diverge in the dim light of the backstage room.
But their discovery comes with a cost. As Robin's voice fades, his body a mere vessel drained of vitality, the reality of their situation settles in with the weight of impending peril. It is time to leave, to escape the confines of the music hall with their newfound knowledge—and for Vindicta, perhaps to confront the inevitability of her condition under the looming specter of a moon yet to rise.
In the final moments, as Ash carries the burden of their shared endeavor—both the literal weight of Robin's lifeless form and the metaphorical weight of the journey ahead—their escape is a silent vow. A promise, forged in the chaotic heart of the Music Hall of Williamsburg, to pursue the truth buried in the sands of the Rub'al-Khali, to challenge the fate whispered in prophecy, and perhaps, to find salvation or damnation in the depths of the desert’s unforgiving embrace.
(A Descent Most Righteous(SRVictor):SRVictor)
[Sat Dec 14 2024]
In the Music Hall of Willamsburg
Stepping inside, the Music Hall exudes raw charm. Exposed brick walls, dim lighting, and scuffed hardwood floors create an intimate atmosphere in continuation of the hallway. The lobby features a small merchandise booth illuminated by a lone Edison bulb, selling band T-shirts and vinyl records. Posters for past shows line the walls in a chaotic collage, their bold colors catching the flicker of light from a narrow stairwell leading up to the balcony - but barred by a row of iron bars to prevent entry.
Through the swinging doors, however, the main performance hall opens into a dark, spacious area, deceptively larger on the inside to fit easily six hundred people. The stage, framed by heavy velvet curtains, stands slightly raised at one end, its worn surface bearing the marks of countless performances. Overhead, steel beams support a grid of lights that shift in hues, setting the mood with deep reds and blues. The open floor slopes subtly toward the stage, encouraging the energy of the crowd to flow forward. Up above, in that perpetually vacant balcony, there is still movement. Either stage-hands, or light-staff - but shadows shift, bustling with activity.
Not too far from the stage, leading to it in fact with a set of small stairs dipping behind a red curtain, there is an unassuming black door heading backstage. There is no hiding it, nor anyone that walks out of it, which is often a bouncer or another staffer dipping in and out at seemingly random intervals for one thing or another.
To the left, a long, polished bar stretches under warm pendant lights, its surface crowded with drinks as bartenders work quickly to meet the demand. Every surface hums faintly with the vibrations of music, past and present, while the ambient buzz of voices and clinking glasses fills the moments between sets. The space feels alive, a perfect mix of grit and anticipation.
It is about 50F(10C) degrees.
This Music Hall thrums with energy, a hive of movement and sound that seems to press in from all sides. The exposed brick walls, lit dimly by the occasional warm glow of Edison bulbs, feel alive with history, their surfaces rough and scarred like the skin of something that has weathered countless storms. The scuffed hardwood floors carry the weight of hundreds of feet shuffling, tapping, or standing in place, sticky in spots from spilled drinks or wear. The scent of old wood, faint metal, and spilled beer mingles with the acrid tang of sweat, hanging faintly in the close air.
The narrow lobby, a transitional space between the outside world and the heart of the venue, holds its own chaotic charm. The merchandise booth, lit by its solitary bulb, is a beacon for fans grabbing T-shirts or flipping through vinyl records. The booth worker, barely visible behind a pile of band merch, hands out change and exchanges rushed words with patrons while the music overhead rolls on. Nearby, the collage of posters- bright, worn, layered one over the other- competes for attention with bold lettering and vivid designs, a kaleidoscope of past performances proclaiming their fleeting moments of triumph.
Through the swinging doors, the main performance hall sprawls out like a cavern, darker and wider than expected, with a crowd packed in so tightly that every motion sends ripples through the mass of people. The overhead lights shift colors- reds bleeding into blues, with the occasional flash of white- casting the entire space in a dreamlike haze that highlights faces in the crowd for fleeting moments before plunging them back into shadow. The speakers pump "Courtesy Call" through the hall, the bassline rolling like a wave that seems to settle into the very floor beneath the crowd, rattling through the bones of the building and those within it.
"Hey-oh, here comes a danger up in this club"
The bar to the left is a constant bustle of activity. Bartenders slide drinks across its polished surface with mechanical efficiency, their hands darting between bottles and taps as voices shout orders over the ambient noise. Pendant lights dangle low, their warm glow catching the sheen of sweat on foreheads and the foam spilling over pint glasses. Glasses clink, the sounds of cheers and laughter barely rising above the ever-present buzz of the room.
Toward the stage, the curtains hang like a theater's final veil, their rich velvet surface dulled in spots by years of wear. The stage itself, raised just enough to separate performer from spectator, seems to hum with latent energy, its surface battered and faded with the stories of countless acts that came before. A black door to the side, framed by nothing more than its unassuming presence, leads backstage. The door swings open every so often, the movement of staff and bouncers through it as unobtrusive as shadows passing through an alley. Each time it opens, a sliver of something unseen- an off-stage world hidden from the crowd- briefly peeks through before vanishing again.
Above, the balcony looms in the dim light, its barred stairwell standing like a sentinel against the crowd's flow. Though officially off-limits, the occasional movement of shadows hints at life above: staff adjusting lights, or perhaps something less routine. From time to time, a figure leans briefly into view, silhouetted against the glow of the light grid, before disappearing back into the backstage maze.
The floor of the hall slopes ever so slightly toward the stage, drawing the gathered crowd forward like water pooling at the bottom of a hill. Clusters of fans stand in animated conversation, shouting over the music, while others focus intently on the stage as though the mere act of staring might summon the performers. The overhead lights pulse in rhythm with the music, casting silhouettes and flickering glints of color across a sea of faces. People sway or shift on their feet, the waiting made easier by the familiarity of the song blasting from the speakers- a call to something soon to come, just out of reach.
This, is just as much of a transitional spot. Vindicta and Ash, no matter their discussion, if they're intent on what they came here for, and are here for a reason, have two paths available to them. There is no one on stage as of yet - that is telling enough that they'll find their target in his lounge backstage. The door leading to it is relatively unmolested, empty almost, ripe for it -- but they both are apt and able enough, even with one injured, to see that the crowd isn't only full of clubbers or faith-stricken christan rockers. There are suits afoot, likely waiting for the perfect moment, the end of the show, to nab the very target they've also came to interrogate. Do they wander past, sneak in, delay the concert for everyone to interrogate now and risk drawing the attention of all those agents? Do they sneak in after the concert, after having a good time first, where it'll surely be swarmed with the lot on the way leading to backstage? Maybe they'll think of something else. But alas, the decision is theirs.
A familiar voice. "Ash!" Vindicta suddenly chirps, a thousand curls nearly slipping free of the ushanka that almost falls off of her head, but not quiet, her pallid eyes going wide with shock as Vindicta spins and lays eyes upon Ash amidst the hustle and bustle of the theater hall. She observes as they mindfuck their way to her, then she laughs faintly, wondering of Ash "What... What doing here?" Even as she poses her question, she isn't ceasing her limp, observing the suits, the stage, clenching her eyes and gritting her teeth at the music, keeping close to her IV to prevent people from fucking her up accidentally or on purpose.
While she talks with Ash, too, Vindicta is slipping toward the door leading backstage. She isn't waiting for the concert to be over- far from it, she'll pose as a cancerous child if she has to, to get to where she's going- to get to whom she seeks. "Careful not draw attention," she warns the androgyne under her breath, just loud enough to be heard over the din of the concert hall crowd. "People here, not good, look for one man, see? Ask question, hope not get kidnap."
Ash had the same plan. Though, they have a Doctor Who trick - they watch those going in and out, their lanyards and IDs, and it's easy enough for them to replicate one with their face on it, add their name to lists, and - if needed - they can just steal someone's face to be who they need to be. "Mmm, I'm here for the same reason," they explain to Vindicta. Then, there's even an illusion for her - words, made of white bunnies lying down in cute shapes:
You are a fan of Robin Hopkins, and his music and faith in god has inspired you to fight for your life after your horrific accident in the woods. The Helping Hands organization has arranged for you to meet the man and ask him some questions - that's why you're in a hospital gown. I'm your handler. You're the star here - that works with you? Capiche?
After giving Vindicta time to read, they'll continue talking, explaining, "Yes, I'm also a fan, so I'm glad that they picked me." They don't respond to Vindicta's warning not to attract attention - of the two, Vindicta sticks out like a sore thumb. But, they presume that their story will fix that, if anyone stops to ask. Smooth as a buttered ass, Ash is - or tries to be.
"When we get started, and we ain't gonna stop!"
The crowd in the Music Hall is a kaleidoscope of movement and expression currently, as varied as the graffiti-streaked streets outside. Despite the faith-infused themes of the night, this is no somber gathering. Clusters of people sway and bounce to the pounding rhythm of that Thousand Foot Krutch song, their bodies moving almost unconsciously to the bassline reverberating through the space. Almost too unconciously. A small group near the stage has formed a loose circle, where a few brave souls jump and spin in impromptu dances, their enthusiasm infectious even in the dim light. Others stand back, clapping or nodding their heads in time with the beat, their faces illuminated by the shifting colors of the overhead lights as they wait.
At the bar, patrons lean against the polished surface, some nursing drinks as though theyve got all night, while others slam back quick shots before returning to the floor, too eager, too lively. Like everyone is on some kind of drug- except the suits. The bartenders, unfazed by the eclectic mix of people, pour drinks with practiced ease pints of beer, glowing cocktails, and even the occasional soda or bottle of water for those playing it safe. A young man in a leather jacket laughs loudly at something his friend says, nearly spilling his beer as he gestures animatedly. Beside him, an older couple share a quiet toast, their glasses clinking softly before they turn their attention back to the crowd.
In the corners of the room, small knots of attendees chat over the music, their voices raised to compete with the speakers and the general din. Some look entirely at ease, as if this is their natural habitat, while others glance around the space with wide-eyed curiosity, perhaps new to the scene or drawn here for reasons they cant quite articulate. The sort of people that were only wandering outside, with somewhere else to be, a life to go on with - but somehow here, drawn like moths to a flame. A woman in a floral dress clutches a flyer for the concert in one hand while balancing a plastic cup in the other, her foot tapping along to the beat as she talks to a companion who seems more interested in the bar menu than the music - music that has changed to another TFK song, War of Change.
"It's a truth that in love and war"
"Worlds collide and hearts get broken"
"I want to live like I know I'm dying"
"Take up my cross, not be afraid"
The religious undertones of the night are present but subtle, visible more in the T-shirts and cross pendants worn by some of the attendees than in the behavior of the crowd itself. A man with a "Saved by Grace" hoodie raises his drink in a mock toast toward the stage, grinning as he joins a group already mid-conversation about Robin Hopkins earlier albums. Nearby, two women with matching "God Is Absolutely Good" shirts share a selfie moment, tilting their heads to capture the colorful lights behind them.
it's just about to break, it's more than I can take"
"Everything's about to change"
"I feel it in my veins, it's not going away"
"Everything's about to change"
Even those not directly engaged in the revelry seem to find their rhythm. A young couple near the back sways in place, their fingers intertwined, while a lone figure in the shadows by the wall nods faintly in time with the music, a half-empty cup dangling from their fingers. The atmosphere is electric but unpretentious. Even though, there is the unmistakable feeling of something being wrong inadvertantly begging to gnaw beneath the both of them. No, in fact, they can recognize it. Everyone here, save for them - they act in a certain manner, under a certain influence. Or rather, under a certain dominance as one would if they were under that type of ritualistic condition. Certainly, it feels like just about everyone who has been here acts as if they're of angel-blood, so eager to bounce their emotions off of one another, in a haze and daze. The whole place is a ticking time-bomb, with so many empaths who don't know they're currently empaths all stuffed in one location like livestock.
Vindicta, alongside Ash, wanders towards the backstage naturally. Perhaps it is her intuition, of her years spent surviving, of her own empathy perhaps subtly influenced. Yet, as she acts wary, she'd note one certain fact. People around her are wary too. Her desire to make it to the backstage is made manifest in a few people near immediately, who cast glances - not her way, but where she's glanced. Though, their reasons are altogether different. Maybe they want an autograph? It's, if they notice it, is a telltale sign of danger, of how careful they have to be in this minefield. One stray emotion, and it could cause a cascade- but as of yet, the emotions bouncing off of other rockers waiting for their tunes steal back the attention of those few. Even the agents, slowly succumbing to the influence, are now a little more lax where they're mingling in the crowd or on the sidelines. Joining others for drinks, feeling up a few dancers or being felt up. Ash would find that, even though they feel the thrum of this strange magic in the air, they're not a thrall to it. Far from it, as a monster in a den of cattle. If anything, it all smells deliciously sinful, and absolutely mouthwatering. No one actually cares about their presense, too lost in the din of emotions swimming everywhere, though what Ash does- it certainly helps. It helps, a lot. If they so wish, they could most definitely vanish behind the doors to the backstage, pass through it and seek the private lounge for the artists.
"Bianchini fan of Robin Hopkins," Vindicta agrees with the words Ash had given her to recite, mentally holding onto them as they fade, echoing them out as they approach security, surpassing it after she explains that the man inspired her to fight for her life. That bit is bitten out hatefully, like she hates giving credit for her accomplishments to others, but she does it for the sake of the mission- looking grumpy throughout.
Behind the doors, past them, she tries to slip with Ash, letting them take the lead of guiding the sickly half-dead patient to meet her 'savior' it seems. She offers those words as often as she has to, and stays mostly out of sight where she can. She isn't the face of this group. Not tonight. Not like this. No. Tonight she's a Make A Wish kid from St. Jude's Hospital for Children, and Ash is making her dream come true every step that they take together.
Ash rubs their temples, thoughts and desires warring in their mind. They're not fond of the angelblood - no, not at all. A hand clutches at an earring in their pocket. Once upon a time, this hoop granted them insight into desires... but they could turn it off. They could re-organize their thoughts. But at some point - right around where the same aura soothing Vindicta's wounds - they no longer needed the imbuement. And they were beginning to realize... they couldn't turn it off, now.
They pull back an overlong sweater sleeve up to their shoulder, then unbuckles the wraps, pushing it to their wrist. The words, written, like a high school cheat sheet are (in a mix of Spanish, French, and English: Get to Robin. Ask him about the prison. Nothing else unless it accomplishes that.
Just for a moment, eyes flick over it - knowing that it's there and they tug the arm wraps back down, buckles, and pulls down their sleeves.
They, of course, went right in with Vin, playing their part and using their fae wiles to get them to their goal.
"I have a name"
The black door creaks faintly as it swings open, revealing a space that is at once larger and quieter than expected, but obviously much smaller than the music hall, though tension hums just beneath the surface. This backstage is a blend of utility and forced comfort, its exposed brick walls continuing from the hallway, now softened by dim, amber lighting from low-hanging fixtures. A mismatched assortment of furniture fills the space- well-worn leather couches with faded upholstery, a few sturdy wooden chairs, and a scratched coffee table bearing the scars of countless drinks set down without coasters. A tired-looking vending machine hums in the far corner, its light flickering faintly, and a few scattered floor lamps throw elongated shadows across the room- from their positions on the floor. Broken. The music continues here, a different melody. A little garbled, a little different. It doesn't sound like the original singer at all.
"but I've been changed, and now I can't stay the same"
"and I'm a loser if that means I've been lost before"
"but now I found it, I'm surrounded"
"'Cause you can hear the way it sounded"
In the center, a heated debate has claimed the attention of most of the rooms occupants. Several figures stand in a loose but clearly defined circle, their postures sharp and aggressive. Among them, men and women in crisp suits- government agents, judging by their stiff, practiced demeanor- gesture with barely restrained frustration. Across from them, another group, dressed in a strange mix of business-casual and street-smart practicality, radiates an energy that is less polished but no less intense. The exact nature of their affiliation is hard to pin down, initially, but if they're knowledable- and they are, as agents themselves, someone and Ash would pick up the telltale markings of The Free. They're those lunatics that cater to angelborn, fueled by an intensity to keep them from harm. Who knows why they would be here?
"Like angels singing with a million voices"
Voices rise and fall under the song, a hundred, a thousand different ones, momentarily, before it is reduced to only one voice, though the content of the argument beneath it remains murky through the occasional overlap of conversations. A man in a slate-gray suit speaks with an authoritative tone, his voice clipped as if each word is meant to carry weight. "- not within your jurisdiction. Weve made that very clear." His words are met with a scoff from a woman across from him, her hair dyed an unnatural shade of green, the sharp edge of her reply cutting through the air. "Jurisdiction? You think that matters now? You dont own the truth, you don't own them!"
"The end is where we begin"
"I have a name"
The black door creaks faintly as it swings open, revealing a space that is at once larger and quieter than expected, but obviously much smaller than the music hall, though tension hums just beneath the surface. This backstage is a blend of utility and forced comfort, its exposed brick walls continuing from the hallway, now softened by dim, amber lighting from low-hanging fixtures. A mismatched assortment of furniture fills the space- well-worn leather couches with faded upholstery, a few sturdy wooden chairs, and a scratched coffee table bearing the scars of countless drinks set down without coasters. A tired-looking vending machine hums in the far corner, its light flickering faintly, and a few scattered floor lamps throw elongated shadows across the room- from their positions on the floor. Broken. The music continues here, a different melody. A little garbled, a little different. It doesn't sound like the original singer at all.
"but I've been changed, and now I can't stay the same"
"and I'm a loser if that means I've been lost before"
"but now I found it, I'm surrounded"
"'Cause you can hear the way it sounded"
In the center, a heated debate has claimed the attention of most of the rooms occupants. Several figures stand in a loose but clearly defined circle, their postures sharp and aggressive. Among them, men and women in crisp suits- government agents, judging by their stiff, practiced demeanor- gesture with barely restrained frustration. Across from them, another group, dressed in a strange mix of business-casual and street-smart practicality, radiates an energy that is less polished but no less intense. The exact nature of their affiliation is hard to pin down, initially, but if they're knowledable- and they are, as agents themselves, Vindicta and Ash would pick up the telltale markings of The Free. They're those lunatics that cater to angelborn, fueled by an intensity to keep them from harm. Who knows why they would be here?
"Like angels singing with a million voices"
Voices rise and fall under the song, a hundred, a thousand different ones, momentarily, before it is reduced to only one voice, though the content of the argument beneath it remains murky through the occasional overlap of conversations. A man in a slate-gray suit speaks with an authoritative tone, his voice clipped as if each word is meant to carry weight. "- not within your jurisdiction. Weve made that very clear." His words are met with a scoff from a woman across from him, her hair dyed an unnatural shade of green, the sharp edge of her reply cutting through the air. "Jurisdiction? You think that matters now? You dont own the truth, you don't own them!"
"The end is where we begin"
Around them, the room is sparsely populated. A tired bartender, likely part of the venue staff, stands behind a small portable bar in one corner, drying glasses with deliberate slowness and keeping his head down. A few other individuals linger along the edges of the room, watching the argument with varying degrees of disinterest or thinly veiled irritation. One man, seated on a couch near the vending machine, flips through a weathered magazine, his foot bouncing with restless energy. A woman in the shadows near the door adjusts her coat, eyes darting between the arguing groups as though gauging the potential for escalation. They're anxious, a reflection of the emotions that cascade from the officials.
"We are the voice of a song unsung!"
The muffled music from the stage outside thrums faintly through the walls now, but, the melodies are overlapping. They're not the same in lyric either, as if the songs shift and mix, a whole album in disarray, spoken by a voice through the speakers, a distant reminder of the packed crowd beyond this secluded space, and something else, influencing it all by sheer presence. In kindred to that nefarious notion, the air feels heavier here, as though whatever is being discussed carries a weight that everyone present is reluctant to acknowledge outright. Words like "leverage," "containment," and "asset" occasionally pierce the ambient hum of voices, their sharpness hinting at stakes far beyond the walls of the Music Hall - but it also gives Vindicta and Ash the opportunity to slip through and past them unnoticed, head for that room at the end of the hallway - the one that simply, blatantly reads 'Private Lounge', beside the fire exit to its left.
"This way," Vindicta whispers conspiratorially to Ash as they walk, though the bitty albino seems to take notice of the way being near Ash helps her to heal- she walks with less of a limp, though her wounds are still present- she fills the void of their walking with an answer to the androgyn's question, finally, as though she were hesitant to confess: "... Wolf bite... Break in Bianchini house.. Chase.. Bite again and again. Hurt bad." Something about her words, too, has a sense of finality... Like she doesn't intend to see through what will happen in a month's time when the moon is full again. And so it seems that Ash is accompanying the tiny Templar on her final mission. To find a tomb, a prison, a burial site, perhaps, and unleash... Something. Maybe she hopes that it can heal her, and if it can't, well..." Her eyes are downcast as they finally reach the door of the private lounge, and after ensuring no one important, or anyone, really, is looking, she sets her bruised little fingers on the door knob, gives it a twist, and pushes it open.
"... Hello..?" she asks, peeking inside, sticking close to Ash all the while, her body shivering in pain as her medications wear off and her IV bag runs on empty."
(fix) "This way," Vindicta whispers conspiratorially to Ash as they walk, though the bitty albino seems to take notice of the way being near Ash helps her to heal- she walks with less of a limp, though her wounds are still present- she fills the void of their walking with an answer to the androgyn's question, finally, as though she were hesitant to confess: "... Wolf bite... Break in Bianchini house.. Chase.. Bite again and again. Hurt bad." Something about her words, too, has a sense of finality... Like she doesn't intend to see through what will happen in a month's time when the moon is full again. And so it seems that Ash is accompanying the tiny Templar on her final mission. To find a tomb, a prison, a burial site, perhaps, and unleash... Something. Maybe she hopes that it can heal her, and if it can't, well... Her eyes are downcast as they finally reach the door of the private lounge, and after ensuring no one important, or anyone, really, is looking, she sets her bruised little fingers on the door knob, gives it a twist, and pushes it open.
"... Hello..?" she asks, peeking inside, sticking close to Ash all the while, her body shivering in pain as her medications wear off and her IV bag runs on empty.
Ash affects a mildly worried look at the suits as they take a wide curve around them - just some innocents, don't want to get caught up in corporate drama - and head to the door. Polite, they knock on the door, beckoning Vindicta through. Though, for Vin's sake, she'll see an arrayed response. Confusion... worry... anger... concern. "Cauterized? It... shouldn't be any that I know well. They should have-" But, there's no time to say more, Vindicta is going in.
Once they're in, Ash takes quick stock of the situation. If they have time, they'll check their medkit. They have a few things that could help - especially if Vindicta knows what she's been given, and working on her only adds to the play - as long as they stick to it, anyways.
Backstage lounge is quiet, save for the faint, muffled pulse of the music filtering in from the stage beyond. It's just the instruments that reach here. Thrumming, drumming, bouncing in Vindicta and Ash's chests both. The walls, painted in bold, surreal patterns, seem almost alive in the dim, flickering light. Reds and blacks twist together, forming abstract shapes that hint at things both floral and menacing. The room should be a sanctuary, its leather couches and cozy touches inviting performers to relax and unwind, but the atmosphere is anything but tranquil.
In the center of the room, sprawled across one of the couches, sits Robin Hopkins. The man is a bizarre contradiction- his long, grayed hair hangs in lank strands over a leather jacket too new to look authentic, while tight jeans and scuffed boots seem to cling desperately to a youth long since passed. His sunglasses, slightly askew, reveal the unsettling truth beneath: his eyes, rolled completely back into his skull, show only the milky whites. A dark trickle of blood runs from his ears, staining his collar and the edge of his unbuttoned shirt.
His legs are kicked up onto the scratched coffee table in front of him, one boot bouncing faintly with some unseen rhythm. In both hands, he grips a microphone, holding it close to his mouth. But his lips barely move. Instead, his mouth hangs open, slack, while a torrent of voices spills forth from his throat. The sound is unnatural, layered- a chorus of tones, some low and guttural, others high-pitched and keening. They do not belong to him. The voices seem to clash and harmonize at once, speaking in languages that shift and bleed into one another. Words half-formed, syllables sharp as broken glass, weave an incomprehensible tapestry of sound.
"From eFse of light, h iei tafedr dare thread,"
"eaao cry hsdd to stir ydwi ttelA the dead."
The microphone, old and battered, crackles faintly as it picks up the eerie chorus. The voices seem amplified, resonating through the room, filling every corner with their alien cadence. Shadows seem to deepen where the light does not reach, and the air itself feels thick, oppressive, charged with something unseen and unbidden.
Robin's body remains still, save for the faint, erratic bouncing of his boot. His face, slack-jawed and ashen, seems detached from the voices that use his throat as their vessel. The casual rebellion of his rocker-boy aesthetic feels hollow now, a costume draped over a man who no longer seems entirely present. Something to change, should, or if Ash or Vindicta decides to rouse him from his strange mood.
"The blade luktwimwa struck e,h hdaTct flame,
"Now eben beneath swi eteb.nms searing aeshanitNdo.
The room, so carefully designed to foster creativity, feels like a cage. The vibrant murals seem to twist and leer in the flickering light, their colors too sharp, their shapes too deliberate. The hum of the distant music, so full of life outside, only serves to heighten the sense of dissonance within. Robin Hopkins, the man of the hour, is here- but whatever speaks through him is something else entirely.
(repost) Backstage lounge is quiet, save for the faint, muffled pulse of the music filtering in from the stage beyond. It's just the instruments that reach here. Thrumming, drumming, bouncing in Vindicta and Ash's chests both. The walls, painted in bold, surreal patterns, seem almost alive in the dim, flickering light. Reds and blacks twist together, forming abstract shapes that hint at things both floral and menacing. The room should be a sanctuary, its leather couches and cozy touches inviting performers to relax and unwind, but the atmosphere is anything but tranquil.
In the center of the room, sprawled across one of the couches, sits Robin Hopkins. The man is a bizarre contradiction- his long, grayed hair hangs in lank strands over a leather jacket too new to look authentic, while tight jeans and scuffed boots seem to cling desperately to a youth long since passed. His sunglasses, slightly askew, reveal the unsettling truth beneath: his eyes, rolled completely back into his skull, show only the milky whites. A dark trickle of blood runs from his ears, staining his collar and the edge of his unbuttoned shirt.
His legs are kicked up onto the scratched coffee table in front of him, one boot bouncing faintly with some unseen rhythm. In both hands, he grips a microphone, holding it close to his mouth. But his lips barely move. Instead, his mouth hangs open, slack, while a torrent of voices spills forth from his throat. The sound is unnatural, layered- a chorus of tones, some low and guttural, others high-pitched and keening. They do not belong to him. The voices seem to clash and harmonize at once, speaking in languages that shift and bleed into one another. Words half-formed, syllables sharp as broken glass, weave an incomprehensible tapestry of sound.
"From eFse of light, h iei tafedr dare thread,"
"eaao cry hsdd to stir ydwi ttelA the dead."
The microphone, old and battered, crackles faintly as it picks up the eerie chorus. The voices seem amplified, resonating through the room, filling every corner with their alien cadence. Shadows seem to deepen where the light does not reach, and the air itself feels thick, oppressive, charged with something unseen and unbidden.
Robin's body remains still, save for the faint, erratic bouncing of his boot. His face, slack-jawed and ashen, seems detached from the voices that use his throat as their vessel. The casual rebellion of his rocker-boy aesthetic feels hollow now, a costume draped over a man who no longer seems entirely present. Something to change, should, or if Ash or Vindicta decides to rouse him from his strange mood.
"The blade luktwimwa struck e,h hdaTct flame,"
"Now eben beneath swi eteb.nms searing aeshanitNdo.
The room, so carefully designed to foster creativity, feels like a cage. The vibrant murals seem to twist and leer in the flickering light, their colors too sharp, their shapes too deliberate. The hum of the distant music, so full of life outside, only serves to heighten the sense of dissonance within. Robin Hopkins, the man of the hour, is here- but whatever speaks through him is something else entirely."
(last fix I swear, sorry.) Backstage lounge is quiet, save for the faint, muffled pulse of the music filtering in from the stage beyond. It's just the instruments that reach here. Thrumming, drumming, bouncing in Vindicta and Ash's chests both. The walls, painted in bold, surreal patterns, seem almost alive in the dim, flickering light. Reds and blacks twist together, forming abstract shapes that hint at things both floral and menacing. The room should be a sanctuary, its leather couches and cozy touches inviting performers to relax and unwind, but the atmosphere is anything but tranquil.
In the center of the room, sprawled across one of the couches, sits Robin Hopkins. The man is a bizarre contradiction- his long, grayed hair hangs in lank strands over a leather jacket too new to look authentic, while tight jeans and scuffed boots seem to cling desperately to a youth long since passed. His sunglasses, slightly askew, reveal the unsettling truth beneath: his eyes, rolled completely back into his skull, show only the milky whites. A dark trickle of blood runs from his ears, staining his collar and the edge of his unbuttoned shirt.
His legs are kicked up onto the scratched coffee table in front of him, one boot bouncing faintly with some unseen rhythm. In both hands, he grips a microphone, holding it close to his mouth. But his lips barely move. Instead, his mouth hangs open, slack, while a torrent of voices spills forth from his throat. The sound is unnatural, layered- a chorus of tones, some low and guttural, others high-pitched and keening. They do not belong to him. The voices seem to clash and harmonize at once, speaking in languages that shift and bleed into one another. Words half-formed, syllables sharp as broken glass, weave an incomprehensible tapestry of sound.
"From eFse of light, h iei tafedr dare thread,"
"eaao cry hsdd to stir ydwi ttelA the dead."
The microphone, old and battered, crackles faintly as it picks up the eerie chorus. The voices seem amplified, resonating through the room, filling every corner with their alien cadence. Shadows seem to deepen where the light does not reach, and the air itself feels thick, oppressive, charged with something unseen and unbidden.
Robin's body remains still, save for the faint, erratic bouncing of his boot. His face, slack-jawed and ashen, seems detached from the voices that use his throat as their vessel. The casual rebellion of his rocker-boy aesthetic feels hollow now, a costume draped over a man who no longer seems entirely present. Something to change, should, or if Ash or Vindicta decides to rouse him from his strange mood.
"The blade luktwimwa struck e,h hdaTct flame,"
"Now eben beneath swi eteb.nms searing aeshanitNdo."
The room, so carefully designed to foster creativity, feels like a cage. The vibrant murals seem to twist and leer in the flickering light, their colors too sharp, their shapes too deliberate. The hum of the distant music, so full of life outside, only serves to heighten the sense of dissonance within. Robin Hopkins, the man of the hour, is here- but whatever speaks through him is something else entirely.
Ash realizes then and there - fae wiles may have gotten them here, but this? This is not what they expected, not at all. Mentally, the open the pages of a book, searching through their mental encyclopedia of occult knowledge. Is this a possession? Possibly - but this hardly seems like a ghost. Their hand reach for their back - no, they left that backpack of contraband behind, didn't they? Put it away when they took a bath, then too worried about an outfit that fit the scene to remember to take it.
As they wrack their mind for the answers, they move closer to the man, cautious, prepared for sudden movements or a demon to come screaming from his throat like vomit - after all, isn't that how things go?
"Something flame... Nintendo.." Vindicta fails to repeat after the possessed man as she an Ash spot him in that odd state. She ponders for a time, then watches the dreadhead move closer still. "Be careful.." she insists, apparently having done much more in her head, but with half an hour to midnight, her mind is making moves that her fingers quite simply aren't. "Cold water, maybe," she offers as she starts to slump forward, leaning more heavily on the IV hanger on wheels that thus far has carried her medicine. Now little more than empty pouches, it carries *her* instead. She'll be unconscious soon, but she's trying, oh how she's trying, to solve this mystery. "Where... Prison?" she asks the man who is, currently, out of his mind.
Slowly, second by agonizing second, those garbled words sung by a thousand voices cry out dimmer and dimmer. The electronic of the microphone is the first to buzz out while Vindicta and Ash approach. But in the lack of electronic, the words come to full understanding. Slowly, voices die one by one - dwindle like the wick of a candle, until there is but one. Commanding yet quiet, somber but also fierce. It still doesn't belong to Robin - the man couldn't possibly hope to have such range. His sunglasses fall, scatter to the floor as his eyes roll forward again and look upon his visitors.
"The blade, once forged in wrathful fire,"
"Now bends beneath its burden dire."
"And one enshrouded, dark as night,"
"Stood firm beneath the heaven's blight."
It's the chant of prophecy. For his faults, his strangeness - and whatever situation is forming here, this man is divine-touched. Something broken, someone who saw more than they should, Aware, like one of them, but also, entirely not in his corruption. Something, Ash might realize, usurped the mind of the poor man while he was doing whatever ritualistic mumbo jumbo to the poor folk outside to grow his own cult revolved around song. That thing, it now speaks to them, whispers the words that come through a voice that sounds like dying, smoldering embers. Raging through its usurped mental tether to possess and speak through the past of something, and then, worse.
"The skies were rent, the sun did fade,"
"Two lights fell low, by shadows stayed."
"To tread with men, the mortal profane,"
"Bereft of solace, by shunned skies."
In the last notes, it is no longer a story of the past. It is about the here and now, of an arrival, of a descent, or an escape. Something of the sort- it is hard to tell, harder to comprehend. Robin bleeds through his mouth as he forms the words now, bleeds out of his eyes, ears in tiny rivulets of stress but nothing life threatening, just over-exertion of a sensitive soul.
"A penance borne, a tale of woe,"
"Of mercys cost and hearts laid low."
"Two bound by doom, will roam free,"
"To carve the shape of prophecy."
It isn't quite a demon that comes screaming through his mouth. Ash, as the impeccable seeker and keeper of knowledge he is, can read between the lines. The prophecy, no doubt what the others outside have been discussing and arguing about, speaks of a descent. Of angels, and their penance - but it is then that Robin throws himself ahead, falls into the coffee table, tries to crawl over it on his hands and knees to try and capture Ash's hand, stare at both them and Vindicta with pleading, bloodshot eyes, and a hoarse, broken voice- but his expression, it is of pure bliss. He's ecstatic, happy, a shamble of a man that has seen beyond the veil and came back mad with happiness.
"They're coming- they'recomingthey're coming they'recomingcomingthey'recominghere-" Then, once more, his eyes slowly roll into the back of his skull, while his whisper comes out in a heated breath of sheer vigil, dominance, retributional resolve. "In His image, to judge the wicked sinner.." And he collapses, face-first, slack, just about worn to an inch of his life. He still musters the will, the strength to answer Vindicta with the last of his breath before he's done and gone; "The kind one, the warm one.. Buried in.. Rub'al-Khali, desert.. saud-iii.."
Flatlined.
Rest in piece, Robin.
Maybe it's time to bail?
Ash lifts the man older their shoulder - for a supernatural, they are nothing special, but for the realm of humans, they are just strong enough. His hands has their DNA, and the body is... interesting. That's enough. The Path starts to open, and they hold out a hand to bring Vindicta with them. Back to Haven, and for the smaller of the short duo, back to the hospital.
"Soft... Warm? Kind?" Vindicta asks, turning her gaze up towards Ash afterwards, feeling the ripple of reality tearing open and sensing that, yeah.. It's time to beat feet. "Rub... Rub'al-Khali Desert.." she mumbles, settling her little hands into Ash's own, but then her eyes start to roll back. She's collapsing, her wounds aren't opening back up, but she's expended the last of her energy for this adventure- she's going to go slack and slump any moment now.
Their quest, unbeknownst to the thronging mass of concertgoers swaying to the rhythm of music and unspoken tension, leads them backstage—a realm usually veiled from the average attendee's view. Here, behind the dim glow and shadowed corners, lies their true objective: Robin Hopkins, a figure whose significance extends far beyond his onstage persona.
Through a carefully crafted facade, Vindicta and Ash leverage the chaotic energy of the venue. A plan, intricately designed by Ash's quick thinking, sees them past security, with Vindicta posed as a gravely ill fan whose last wish is to meet Hopkins. The ruse is elaborate, convincing, and tinged with Vindicta's bitter resilience as she clings to life and purpose with equal ferocity.
Once past the guarded thresholds and into the sanctuary of the backstage lounge, they find Robin Hopkins in a state of eerie detachment. His eyes rolled back, his mouth a conduit for voices not his own, he is both there and profoundly not. Around him, a strange and unsettling scene unfolds, delivering cryptic messages through his unwilling form—a prophetic torrent spilling forth in languages unknown and yet somehow deeply familiar. These words, woven of light and shadow, speak of judgments to come, of entities descending in righteous retribution.
The urgency of their mission becomes clearer through Robin's fragmented utterances—their target lies far from the clot and claustrophobia of the city, buried in the desolation of the Rub'al-Khali Desert. It is in this revelation that the night's true purpose is laid bare: to find a prison, a tomb, perhaps, that holds a key to something both Vindicta and Ash desperately seek, though their motivations diverge in the dim light of the backstage room.
But their discovery comes with a cost. As Robin's voice fades, his body a mere vessel drained of vitality, the reality of their situation settles in with the weight of impending peril. It is time to leave, to escape the confines of the music hall with their newfound knowledge—and for Vindicta, perhaps to confront the inevitability of her condition under the looming specter of a moon yet to rise.
In the final moments, as Ash carries the burden of their shared endeavor—both the literal weight of Robin's lifeless form and the metaphorical weight of the journey ahead—their escape is a silent vow. A promise, forged in the chaotic heart of the Music Hall of Williamsburg, to pursue the truth buried in the sands of the Rub'al-Khali, to challenge the fate whispered in prophecy, and perhaps, to find salvation or damnation in the depths of the desert’s unforgiving embrace.
(A Descent Most Righteous(SRVictor):SRVictor)
[Sat Dec 14 2024]
In the Music Hall of Willamsburg
Stepping inside, the Music Hall exudes raw charm. Exposed brick walls, dim lighting, and scuffed hardwood floors create an intimate atmosphere in continuation of the hallway. The lobby features a small merchandise booth illuminated by a lone Edison bulb, selling band T-shirts and vinyl records. Posters for past shows line the walls in a chaotic collage, their bold colors catching the flicker of light from a narrow stairwell leading up to the balcony - but barred by a row of iron bars to prevent entry.
Through the swinging doors, however, the main performance hall opens into a dark, spacious area, deceptively larger on the inside to fit easily six hundred people. The stage, framed by heavy velvet curtains, stands slightly raised at one end, its worn surface bearing the marks of countless performances. Overhead, steel beams support a grid of lights that shift in hues, setting the mood with deep reds and blues. The open floor slopes subtly toward the stage, encouraging the energy of the crowd to flow forward. Up above, in that perpetually vacant balcony, there is still movement. Either stage-hands, or light-staff - but shadows shift, bustling with activity.
Not too far from the stage, leading to it in fact with a set of small stairs dipping behind a red curtain, there is an unassuming black door heading backstage. There is no hiding it, nor anyone that walks out of it, which is often a bouncer or another staffer dipping in and out at seemingly random intervals for one thing or another.
To the left, a long, polished bar stretches under warm pendant lights, its surface crowded with drinks as bartenders work quickly to meet the demand. Every surface hums faintly with the vibrations of music, past and present, while the ambient buzz of voices and clinking glasses fills the moments between sets. The space feels alive, a perfect mix of grit and anticipation.
It is about 50F(10C) degrees.
This Music Hall thrums with energy, a hive of movement and sound that seems to press in from all sides. The exposed brick walls, lit dimly by the occasional warm glow of Edison bulbs, feel alive with history, their surfaces rough and scarred like the skin of something that has weathered countless storms. The scuffed hardwood floors carry the weight of hundreds of feet shuffling, tapping, or standing in place, sticky in spots from spilled drinks or wear. The scent of old wood, faint metal, and spilled beer mingles with the acrid tang of sweat, hanging faintly in the close air.
The narrow lobby, a transitional space between the outside world and the heart of the venue, holds its own chaotic charm. The merchandise booth, lit by its solitary bulb, is a beacon for fans grabbing T-shirts or flipping through vinyl records. The booth worker, barely visible behind a pile of band merch, hands out change and exchanges rushed words with patrons while the music overhead rolls on. Nearby, the collage of posters- bright, worn, layered one over the other- competes for attention with bold lettering and vivid designs, a kaleidoscope of past performances proclaiming their fleeting moments of triumph.
Through the swinging doors, the main performance hall sprawls out like a cavern, darker and wider than expected, with a crowd packed in so tightly that every motion sends ripples through the mass of people. The overhead lights shift colors- reds bleeding into blues, with the occasional flash of white- casting the entire space in a dreamlike haze that highlights faces in the crowd for fleeting moments before plunging them back into shadow. The speakers pump "Courtesy Call" through the hall, the bassline rolling like a wave that seems to settle into the very floor beneath the crowd, rattling through the bones of the building and those within it.
"Hey-oh, here comes a danger up in this club"
The bar to the left is a constant bustle of activity. Bartenders slide drinks across its polished surface with mechanical efficiency, their hands darting between bottles and taps as voices shout orders over the ambient noise. Pendant lights dangle low, their warm glow catching the sheen of sweat on foreheads and the foam spilling over pint glasses. Glasses clink, the sounds of cheers and laughter barely rising above the ever-present buzz of the room.
Toward the stage, the curtains hang like a theater's final veil, their rich velvet surface dulled in spots by years of wear. The stage itself, raised just enough to separate performer from spectator, seems to hum with latent energy, its surface battered and faded with the stories of countless acts that came before. A black door to the side, framed by nothing more than its unassuming presence, leads backstage. The door swings open every so often, the movement of staff and bouncers through it as unobtrusive as shadows passing through an alley. Each time it opens, a sliver of something unseen- an off-stage world hidden from the crowd- briefly peeks through before vanishing again.
Above, the balcony looms in the dim light, its barred stairwell standing like a sentinel against the crowd's flow. Though officially off-limits, the occasional movement of shadows hints at life above: staff adjusting lights, or perhaps something less routine. From time to time, a figure leans briefly into view, silhouetted against the glow of the light grid, before disappearing back into the backstage maze.
The floor of the hall slopes ever so slightly toward the stage, drawing the gathered crowd forward like water pooling at the bottom of a hill. Clusters of fans stand in animated conversation, shouting over the music, while others focus intently on the stage as though the mere act of staring might summon the performers. The overhead lights pulse in rhythm with the music, casting silhouettes and flickering glints of color across a sea of faces. People sway or shift on their feet, the waiting made easier by the familiarity of the song blasting from the speakers- a call to something soon to come, just out of reach.
This, is just as much of a transitional spot. Vindicta and Ash, no matter their discussion, if they're intent on what they came here for, and are here for a reason, have two paths available to them. There is no one on stage as of yet - that is telling enough that they'll find their target in his lounge backstage. The door leading to it is relatively unmolested, empty almost, ripe for it -- but they both are apt and able enough, even with one injured, to see that the crowd isn't only full of clubbers or faith-stricken christan rockers. There are suits afoot, likely waiting for the perfect moment, the end of the show, to nab the very target they've also came to interrogate. Do they wander past, sneak in, delay the concert for everyone to interrogate now and risk drawing the attention of all those agents? Do they sneak in after the concert, after having a good time first, where it'll surely be swarmed with the lot on the way leading to backstage? Maybe they'll think of something else. But alas, the decision is theirs.
A familiar voice. "Ash!" Vindicta suddenly chirps, a thousand curls nearly slipping free of the ushanka that almost falls off of her head, but not quiet, her pallid eyes going wide with shock as Vindicta spins and lays eyes upon Ash amidst the hustle and bustle of the theater hall. She observes as they mindfuck their way to her, then she laughs faintly, wondering of Ash "What... What doing here?" Even as she poses her question, she isn't ceasing her limp, observing the suits, the stage, clenching her eyes and gritting her teeth at the music, keeping close to her IV to prevent people from fucking her up accidentally or on purpose.
While she talks with Ash, too, Vindicta is slipping toward the door leading backstage. She isn't waiting for the concert to be over- far from it, she'll pose as a cancerous child if she has to, to get to where she's going- to get to whom she seeks. "Careful not draw attention," she warns the androgyne under her breath, just loud enough to be heard over the din of the concert hall crowd. "People here, not good, look for one man, see? Ask question, hope not get kidnap."
Ash had the same plan. Though, they have a Doctor Who trick - they watch those going in and out, their lanyards and IDs, and it's easy enough for them to replicate one with their face on it, add their name to lists, and - if needed - they can just steal someone's face to be who they need to be. "Mmm, I'm here for the same reason," they explain to Vindicta. Then, there's even an illusion for her - words, made of white bunnies lying down in cute shapes:
You are a fan of Robin Hopkins, and his music and faith in god has inspired you to fight for your life after your horrific accident in the woods. The Helping Hands organization has arranged for you to meet the man and ask him some questions - that's why you're in a hospital gown. I'm your handler. You're the star here - that works with you? Capiche?
After giving Vindicta time to read, they'll continue talking, explaining, "Yes, I'm also a fan, so I'm glad that they picked me." They don't respond to Vindicta's warning not to attract attention - of the two, Vindicta sticks out like a sore thumb. But, they presume that their story will fix that, if anyone stops to ask. Smooth as a buttered ass, Ash is - or tries to be.
"When we get started, and we ain't gonna stop!"
The crowd in the Music Hall is a kaleidoscope of movement and expression currently, as varied as the graffiti-streaked streets outside. Despite the faith-infused themes of the night, this is no somber gathering. Clusters of people sway and bounce to the pounding rhythm of that Thousand Foot Krutch song, their bodies moving almost unconsciously to the bassline reverberating through the space. Almost too unconciously. A small group near the stage has formed a loose circle, where a few brave souls jump and spin in impromptu dances, their enthusiasm infectious even in the dim light. Others stand back, clapping or nodding their heads in time with the beat, their faces illuminated by the shifting colors of the overhead lights as they wait.
At the bar, patrons lean against the polished surface, some nursing drinks as though theyve got all night, while others slam back quick shots before returning to the floor, too eager, too lively. Like everyone is on some kind of drug- except the suits. The bartenders, unfazed by the eclectic mix of people, pour drinks with practiced ease pints of beer, glowing cocktails, and even the occasional soda or bottle of water for those playing it safe. A young man in a leather jacket laughs loudly at something his friend says, nearly spilling his beer as he gestures animatedly. Beside him, an older couple share a quiet toast, their glasses clinking softly before they turn their attention back to the crowd.
In the corners of the room, small knots of attendees chat over the music, their voices raised to compete with the speakers and the general din. Some look entirely at ease, as if this is their natural habitat, while others glance around the space with wide-eyed curiosity, perhaps new to the scene or drawn here for reasons they cant quite articulate. The sort of people that were only wandering outside, with somewhere else to be, a life to go on with - but somehow here, drawn like moths to a flame. A woman in a floral dress clutches a flyer for the concert in one hand while balancing a plastic cup in the other, her foot tapping along to the beat as she talks to a companion who seems more interested in the bar menu than the music - music that has changed to another TFK song, War of Change.
"It's a truth that in love and war"
"Worlds collide and hearts get broken"
"I want to live like I know I'm dying"
"Take up my cross, not be afraid"
The religious undertones of the night are present but subtle, visible more in the T-shirts and cross pendants worn by some of the attendees than in the behavior of the crowd itself. A man with a "Saved by Grace" hoodie raises his drink in a mock toast toward the stage, grinning as he joins a group already mid-conversation about Robin Hopkins earlier albums. Nearby, two women with matching "God Is Absolutely Good" shirts share a selfie moment, tilting their heads to capture the colorful lights behind them.
it's just about to break, it's more than I can take"
"Everything's about to change"
"I feel it in my veins, it's not going away"
"Everything's about to change"
Even those not directly engaged in the revelry seem to find their rhythm. A young couple near the back sways in place, their fingers intertwined, while a lone figure in the shadows by the wall nods faintly in time with the music, a half-empty cup dangling from their fingers. The atmosphere is electric but unpretentious. Even though, there is the unmistakable feeling of something being wrong inadvertantly begging to gnaw beneath the both of them. No, in fact, they can recognize it. Everyone here, save for them - they act in a certain manner, under a certain influence. Or rather, under a certain dominance as one would if they were under that type of ritualistic condition. Certainly, it feels like just about everyone who has been here acts as if they're of angel-blood, so eager to bounce their emotions off of one another, in a haze and daze. The whole place is a ticking time-bomb, with so many empaths who don't know they're currently empaths all stuffed in one location like livestock.
Vindicta, alongside Ash, wanders towards the backstage naturally. Perhaps it is her intuition, of her years spent surviving, of her own empathy perhaps subtly influenced. Yet, as she acts wary, she'd note one certain fact. People around her are wary too. Her desire to make it to the backstage is made manifest in a few people near immediately, who cast glances - not her way, but where she's glanced. Though, their reasons are altogether different. Maybe they want an autograph? It's, if they notice it, is a telltale sign of danger, of how careful they have to be in this minefield. One stray emotion, and it could cause a cascade- but as of yet, the emotions bouncing off of other rockers waiting for their tunes steal back the attention of those few. Even the agents, slowly succumbing to the influence, are now a little more lax where they're mingling in the crowd or on the sidelines. Joining others for drinks, feeling up a few dancers or being felt up. Ash would find that, even though they feel the thrum of this strange magic in the air, they're not a thrall to it. Far from it, as a monster in a den of cattle. If anything, it all smells deliciously sinful, and absolutely mouthwatering. No one actually cares about their presense, too lost in the din of emotions swimming everywhere, though what Ash does- it certainly helps. It helps, a lot. If they so wish, they could most definitely vanish behind the doors to the backstage, pass through it and seek the private lounge for the artists.
"Bianchini fan of Robin Hopkins," Vindicta agrees with the words Ash had given her to recite, mentally holding onto them as they fade, echoing them out as they approach security, surpassing it after she explains that the man inspired her to fight for her life. That bit is bitten out hatefully, like she hates giving credit for her accomplishments to others, but she does it for the sake of the mission- looking grumpy throughout.
Behind the doors, past them, she tries to slip with Ash, letting them take the lead of guiding the sickly half-dead patient to meet her 'savior' it seems. She offers those words as often as she has to, and stays mostly out of sight where she can. She isn't the face of this group. Not tonight. Not like this. No. Tonight she's a Make A Wish kid from St. Jude's Hospital for Children, and Ash is making her dream come true every step that they take together.
Ash rubs their temples, thoughts and desires warring in their mind. They're not fond of the angelblood - no, not at all. A hand clutches at an earring in their pocket. Once upon a time, this hoop granted them insight into desires... but they could turn it off. They could re-organize their thoughts. But at some point - right around where the same aura soothing Vindicta's wounds - they no longer needed the imbuement. And they were beginning to realize... they couldn't turn it off, now.
They pull back an overlong sweater sleeve up to their shoulder, then unbuckles the wraps, pushing it to their wrist. The words, written, like a high school cheat sheet are (in a mix of Spanish, French, and English: Get to Robin. Ask him about the prison. Nothing else unless it accomplishes that.
Just for a moment, eyes flick over it - knowing that it's there and they tug the arm wraps back down, buckles, and pulls down their sleeves.
They, of course, went right in with Vin, playing their part and using their fae wiles to get them to their goal.
"I have a name"
The black door creaks faintly as it swings open, revealing a space that is at once larger and quieter than expected, but obviously much smaller than the music hall, though tension hums just beneath the surface. This backstage is a blend of utility and forced comfort, its exposed brick walls continuing from the hallway, now softened by dim, amber lighting from low-hanging fixtures. A mismatched assortment of furniture fills the space- well-worn leather couches with faded upholstery, a few sturdy wooden chairs, and a scratched coffee table bearing the scars of countless drinks set down without coasters. A tired-looking vending machine hums in the far corner, its light flickering faintly, and a few scattered floor lamps throw elongated shadows across the room- from their positions on the floor. Broken. The music continues here, a different melody. A little garbled, a little different. It doesn't sound like the original singer at all.
"but I've been changed, and now I can't stay the same"
"and I'm a loser if that means I've been lost before"
"but now I found it, I'm surrounded"
"'Cause you can hear the way it sounded"
In the center, a heated debate has claimed the attention of most of the rooms occupants. Several figures stand in a loose but clearly defined circle, their postures sharp and aggressive. Among them, men and women in crisp suits- government agents, judging by their stiff, practiced demeanor- gesture with barely restrained frustration. Across from them, another group, dressed in a strange mix of business-casual and street-smart practicality, radiates an energy that is less polished but no less intense. The exact nature of their affiliation is hard to pin down, initially, but if they're knowledable- and they are, as agents themselves, someone and Ash would pick up the telltale markings of The Free. They're those lunatics that cater to angelborn, fueled by an intensity to keep them from harm. Who knows why they would be here?
"Like angels singing with a million voices"
Voices rise and fall under the song, a hundred, a thousand different ones, momentarily, before it is reduced to only one voice, though the content of the argument beneath it remains murky through the occasional overlap of conversations. A man in a slate-gray suit speaks with an authoritative tone, his voice clipped as if each word is meant to carry weight. "- not within your jurisdiction. Weve made that very clear." His words are met with a scoff from a woman across from him, her hair dyed an unnatural shade of green, the sharp edge of her reply cutting through the air. "Jurisdiction? You think that matters now? You dont own the truth, you don't own them!"
"The end is where we begin"
"I have a name"
The black door creaks faintly as it swings open, revealing a space that is at once larger and quieter than expected, but obviously much smaller than the music hall, though tension hums just beneath the surface. This backstage is a blend of utility and forced comfort, its exposed brick walls continuing from the hallway, now softened by dim, amber lighting from low-hanging fixtures. A mismatched assortment of furniture fills the space- well-worn leather couches with faded upholstery, a few sturdy wooden chairs, and a scratched coffee table bearing the scars of countless drinks set down without coasters. A tired-looking vending machine hums in the far corner, its light flickering faintly, and a few scattered floor lamps throw elongated shadows across the room- from their positions on the floor. Broken. The music continues here, a different melody. A little garbled, a little different. It doesn't sound like the original singer at all.
"but I've been changed, and now I can't stay the same"
"and I'm a loser if that means I've been lost before"
"but now I found it, I'm surrounded"
"'Cause you can hear the way it sounded"
In the center, a heated debate has claimed the attention of most of the rooms occupants. Several figures stand in a loose but clearly defined circle, their postures sharp and aggressive. Among them, men and women in crisp suits- government agents, judging by their stiff, practiced demeanor- gesture with barely restrained frustration. Across from them, another group, dressed in a strange mix of business-casual and street-smart practicality, radiates an energy that is less polished but no less intense. The exact nature of their affiliation is hard to pin down, initially, but if they're knowledable- and they are, as agents themselves, Vindicta and Ash would pick up the telltale markings of The Free. They're those lunatics that cater to angelborn, fueled by an intensity to keep them from harm. Who knows why they would be here?
"Like angels singing with a million voices"
Voices rise and fall under the song, a hundred, a thousand different ones, momentarily, before it is reduced to only one voice, though the content of the argument beneath it remains murky through the occasional overlap of conversations. A man in a slate-gray suit speaks with an authoritative tone, his voice clipped as if each word is meant to carry weight. "- not within your jurisdiction. Weve made that very clear." His words are met with a scoff from a woman across from him, her hair dyed an unnatural shade of green, the sharp edge of her reply cutting through the air. "Jurisdiction? You think that matters now? You dont own the truth, you don't own them!"
"The end is where we begin"
Around them, the room is sparsely populated. A tired bartender, likely part of the venue staff, stands behind a small portable bar in one corner, drying glasses with deliberate slowness and keeping his head down. A few other individuals linger along the edges of the room, watching the argument with varying degrees of disinterest or thinly veiled irritation. One man, seated on a couch near the vending machine, flips through a weathered magazine, his foot bouncing with restless energy. A woman in the shadows near the door adjusts her coat, eyes darting between the arguing groups as though gauging the potential for escalation. They're anxious, a reflection of the emotions that cascade from the officials.
"We are the voice of a song unsung!"
The muffled music from the stage outside thrums faintly through the walls now, but, the melodies are overlapping. They're not the same in lyric either, as if the songs shift and mix, a whole album in disarray, spoken by a voice through the speakers, a distant reminder of the packed crowd beyond this secluded space, and something else, influencing it all by sheer presence. In kindred to that nefarious notion, the air feels heavier here, as though whatever is being discussed carries a weight that everyone present is reluctant to acknowledge outright. Words like "leverage," "containment," and "asset" occasionally pierce the ambient hum of voices, their sharpness hinting at stakes far beyond the walls of the Music Hall - but it also gives Vindicta and Ash the opportunity to slip through and past them unnoticed, head for that room at the end of the hallway - the one that simply, blatantly reads 'Private Lounge', beside the fire exit to its left.
"This way," Vindicta whispers conspiratorially to Ash as they walk, though the bitty albino seems to take notice of the way being near Ash helps her to heal- she walks with less of a limp, though her wounds are still present- she fills the void of their walking with an answer to the androgyn's question, finally, as though she were hesitant to confess: "... Wolf bite... Break in Bianchini house.. Chase.. Bite again and again. Hurt bad." Something about her words, too, has a sense of finality... Like she doesn't intend to see through what will happen in a month's time when the moon is full again. And so it seems that Ash is accompanying the tiny Templar on her final mission. To find a tomb, a prison, a burial site, perhaps, and unleash... Something. Maybe she hopes that it can heal her, and if it can't, well..." Her eyes are downcast as they finally reach the door of the private lounge, and after ensuring no one important, or anyone, really, is looking, she sets her bruised little fingers on the door knob, gives it a twist, and pushes it open.
"... Hello..?" she asks, peeking inside, sticking close to Ash all the while, her body shivering in pain as her medications wear off and her IV bag runs on empty."
(fix) "This way," Vindicta whispers conspiratorially to Ash as they walk, though the bitty albino seems to take notice of the way being near Ash helps her to heal- she walks with less of a limp, though her wounds are still present- she fills the void of their walking with an answer to the androgyn's question, finally, as though she were hesitant to confess: "... Wolf bite... Break in Bianchini house.. Chase.. Bite again and again. Hurt bad." Something about her words, too, has a sense of finality... Like she doesn't intend to see through what will happen in a month's time when the moon is full again. And so it seems that Ash is accompanying the tiny Templar on her final mission. To find a tomb, a prison, a burial site, perhaps, and unleash... Something. Maybe she hopes that it can heal her, and if it can't, well... Her eyes are downcast as they finally reach the door of the private lounge, and after ensuring no one important, or anyone, really, is looking, she sets her bruised little fingers on the door knob, gives it a twist, and pushes it open.
"... Hello..?" she asks, peeking inside, sticking close to Ash all the while, her body shivering in pain as her medications wear off and her IV bag runs on empty.
Ash affects a mildly worried look at the suits as they take a wide curve around them - just some innocents, don't want to get caught up in corporate drama - and head to the door. Polite, they knock on the door, beckoning Vindicta through. Though, for Vin's sake, she'll see an arrayed response. Confusion... worry... anger... concern. "Cauterized? It... shouldn't be any that I know well. They should have-" But, there's no time to say more, Vindicta is going in.
Once they're in, Ash takes quick stock of the situation. If they have time, they'll check their medkit. They have a few things that could help - especially if Vindicta knows what she's been given, and working on her only adds to the play - as long as they stick to it, anyways.
Backstage lounge is quiet, save for the faint, muffled pulse of the music filtering in from the stage beyond. It's just the instruments that reach here. Thrumming, drumming, bouncing in Vindicta and Ash's chests both. The walls, painted in bold, surreal patterns, seem almost alive in the dim, flickering light. Reds and blacks twist together, forming abstract shapes that hint at things both floral and menacing. The room should be a sanctuary, its leather couches and cozy touches inviting performers to relax and unwind, but the atmosphere is anything but tranquil.
In the center of the room, sprawled across one of the couches, sits Robin Hopkins. The man is a bizarre contradiction- his long, grayed hair hangs in lank strands over a leather jacket too new to look authentic, while tight jeans and scuffed boots seem to cling desperately to a youth long since passed. His sunglasses, slightly askew, reveal the unsettling truth beneath: his eyes, rolled completely back into his skull, show only the milky whites. A dark trickle of blood runs from his ears, staining his collar and the edge of his unbuttoned shirt.
His legs are kicked up onto the scratched coffee table in front of him, one boot bouncing faintly with some unseen rhythm. In both hands, he grips a microphone, holding it close to his mouth. But his lips barely move. Instead, his mouth hangs open, slack, while a torrent of voices spills forth from his throat. The sound is unnatural, layered- a chorus of tones, some low and guttural, others high-pitched and keening. They do not belong to him. The voices seem to clash and harmonize at once, speaking in languages that shift and bleed into one another. Words half-formed, syllables sharp as broken glass, weave an incomprehensible tapestry of sound.
"From eFse of light, h iei tafedr dare thread,"
"eaao cry hsdd to stir ydwi ttelA the dead."
The microphone, old and battered, crackles faintly as it picks up the eerie chorus. The voices seem amplified, resonating through the room, filling every corner with their alien cadence. Shadows seem to deepen where the light does not reach, and the air itself feels thick, oppressive, charged with something unseen and unbidden.
Robin's body remains still, save for the faint, erratic bouncing of his boot. His face, slack-jawed and ashen, seems detached from the voices that use his throat as their vessel. The casual rebellion of his rocker-boy aesthetic feels hollow now, a costume draped over a man who no longer seems entirely present. Something to change, should, or if Ash or Vindicta decides to rouse him from his strange mood.
"The blade luktwimwa struck e,h hdaTct flame,
"Now eben beneath swi eteb.nms searing aeshanitNdo.
The room, so carefully designed to foster creativity, feels like a cage. The vibrant murals seem to twist and leer in the flickering light, their colors too sharp, their shapes too deliberate. The hum of the distant music, so full of life outside, only serves to heighten the sense of dissonance within. Robin Hopkins, the man of the hour, is here- but whatever speaks through him is something else entirely.
(repost) Backstage lounge is quiet, save for the faint, muffled pulse of the music filtering in from the stage beyond. It's just the instruments that reach here. Thrumming, drumming, bouncing in Vindicta and Ash's chests both. The walls, painted in bold, surreal patterns, seem almost alive in the dim, flickering light. Reds and blacks twist together, forming abstract shapes that hint at things both floral and menacing. The room should be a sanctuary, its leather couches and cozy touches inviting performers to relax and unwind, but the atmosphere is anything but tranquil.
In the center of the room, sprawled across one of the couches, sits Robin Hopkins. The man is a bizarre contradiction- his long, grayed hair hangs in lank strands over a leather jacket too new to look authentic, while tight jeans and scuffed boots seem to cling desperately to a youth long since passed. His sunglasses, slightly askew, reveal the unsettling truth beneath: his eyes, rolled completely back into his skull, show only the milky whites. A dark trickle of blood runs from his ears, staining his collar and the edge of his unbuttoned shirt.
His legs are kicked up onto the scratched coffee table in front of him, one boot bouncing faintly with some unseen rhythm. In both hands, he grips a microphone, holding it close to his mouth. But his lips barely move. Instead, his mouth hangs open, slack, while a torrent of voices spills forth from his throat. The sound is unnatural, layered- a chorus of tones, some low and guttural, others high-pitched and keening. They do not belong to him. The voices seem to clash and harmonize at once, speaking in languages that shift and bleed into one another. Words half-formed, syllables sharp as broken glass, weave an incomprehensible tapestry of sound.
"From eFse of light, h iei tafedr dare thread,"
"eaao cry hsdd to stir ydwi ttelA the dead."
The microphone, old and battered, crackles faintly as it picks up the eerie chorus. The voices seem amplified, resonating through the room, filling every corner with their alien cadence. Shadows seem to deepen where the light does not reach, and the air itself feels thick, oppressive, charged with something unseen and unbidden.
Robin's body remains still, save for the faint, erratic bouncing of his boot. His face, slack-jawed and ashen, seems detached from the voices that use his throat as their vessel. The casual rebellion of his rocker-boy aesthetic feels hollow now, a costume draped over a man who no longer seems entirely present. Something to change, should, or if Ash or Vindicta decides to rouse him from his strange mood.
"The blade luktwimwa struck e,h hdaTct flame,"
"Now eben beneath swi eteb.nms searing aeshanitNdo.
The room, so carefully designed to foster creativity, feels like a cage. The vibrant murals seem to twist and leer in the flickering light, their colors too sharp, their shapes too deliberate. The hum of the distant music, so full of life outside, only serves to heighten the sense of dissonance within. Robin Hopkins, the man of the hour, is here- but whatever speaks through him is something else entirely."
(last fix I swear, sorry.) Backstage lounge is quiet, save for the faint, muffled pulse of the music filtering in from the stage beyond. It's just the instruments that reach here. Thrumming, drumming, bouncing in Vindicta and Ash's chests both. The walls, painted in bold, surreal patterns, seem almost alive in the dim, flickering light. Reds and blacks twist together, forming abstract shapes that hint at things both floral and menacing. The room should be a sanctuary, its leather couches and cozy touches inviting performers to relax and unwind, but the atmosphere is anything but tranquil.
In the center of the room, sprawled across one of the couches, sits Robin Hopkins. The man is a bizarre contradiction- his long, grayed hair hangs in lank strands over a leather jacket too new to look authentic, while tight jeans and scuffed boots seem to cling desperately to a youth long since passed. His sunglasses, slightly askew, reveal the unsettling truth beneath: his eyes, rolled completely back into his skull, show only the milky whites. A dark trickle of blood runs from his ears, staining his collar and the edge of his unbuttoned shirt.
His legs are kicked up onto the scratched coffee table in front of him, one boot bouncing faintly with some unseen rhythm. In both hands, he grips a microphone, holding it close to his mouth. But his lips barely move. Instead, his mouth hangs open, slack, while a torrent of voices spills forth from his throat. The sound is unnatural, layered- a chorus of tones, some low and guttural, others high-pitched and keening. They do not belong to him. The voices seem to clash and harmonize at once, speaking in languages that shift and bleed into one another. Words half-formed, syllables sharp as broken glass, weave an incomprehensible tapestry of sound.
"From eFse of light, h iei tafedr dare thread,"
"eaao cry hsdd to stir ydwi ttelA the dead."
The microphone, old and battered, crackles faintly as it picks up the eerie chorus. The voices seem amplified, resonating through the room, filling every corner with their alien cadence. Shadows seem to deepen where the light does not reach, and the air itself feels thick, oppressive, charged with something unseen and unbidden.
Robin's body remains still, save for the faint, erratic bouncing of his boot. His face, slack-jawed and ashen, seems detached from the voices that use his throat as their vessel. The casual rebellion of his rocker-boy aesthetic feels hollow now, a costume draped over a man who no longer seems entirely present. Something to change, should, or if Ash or Vindicta decides to rouse him from his strange mood.
"The blade luktwimwa struck e,h hdaTct flame,"
"Now eben beneath swi eteb.nms searing aeshanitNdo."
The room, so carefully designed to foster creativity, feels like a cage. The vibrant murals seem to twist and leer in the flickering light, their colors too sharp, their shapes too deliberate. The hum of the distant music, so full of life outside, only serves to heighten the sense of dissonance within. Robin Hopkins, the man of the hour, is here- but whatever speaks through him is something else entirely.
Ash realizes then and there - fae wiles may have gotten them here, but this? This is not what they expected, not at all. Mentally, the open the pages of a book, searching through their mental encyclopedia of occult knowledge. Is this a possession? Possibly - but this hardly seems like a ghost. Their hand reach for their back - no, they left that backpack of contraband behind, didn't they? Put it away when they took a bath, then too worried about an outfit that fit the scene to remember to take it.
As they wrack their mind for the answers, they move closer to the man, cautious, prepared for sudden movements or a demon to come screaming from his throat like vomit - after all, isn't that how things go?
"Something flame... Nintendo.." Vindicta fails to repeat after the possessed man as she an Ash spot him in that odd state. She ponders for a time, then watches the dreadhead move closer still. "Be careful.." she insists, apparently having done much more in her head, but with half an hour to midnight, her mind is making moves that her fingers quite simply aren't. "Cold water, maybe," she offers as she starts to slump forward, leaning more heavily on the IV hanger on wheels that thus far has carried her medicine. Now little more than empty pouches, it carries *her* instead. She'll be unconscious soon, but she's trying, oh how she's trying, to solve this mystery. "Where... Prison?" she asks the man who is, currently, out of his mind.
Slowly, second by agonizing second, those garbled words sung by a thousand voices cry out dimmer and dimmer. The electronic of the microphone is the first to buzz out while Vindicta and Ash approach. But in the lack of electronic, the words come to full understanding. Slowly, voices die one by one - dwindle like the wick of a candle, until there is but one. Commanding yet quiet, somber but also fierce. It still doesn't belong to Robin - the man couldn't possibly hope to have such range. His sunglasses fall, scatter to the floor as his eyes roll forward again and look upon his visitors.
"The blade, once forged in wrathful fire,"
"Now bends beneath its burden dire."
"And one enshrouded, dark as night,"
"Stood firm beneath the heaven's blight."
It's the chant of prophecy. For his faults, his strangeness - and whatever situation is forming here, this man is divine-touched. Something broken, someone who saw more than they should, Aware, like one of them, but also, entirely not in his corruption. Something, Ash might realize, usurped the mind of the poor man while he was doing whatever ritualistic mumbo jumbo to the poor folk outside to grow his own cult revolved around song. That thing, it now speaks to them, whispers the words that come through a voice that sounds like dying, smoldering embers. Raging through its usurped mental tether to possess and speak through the past of something, and then, worse.
"The skies were rent, the sun did fade,"
"Two lights fell low, by shadows stayed."
"To tread with men, the mortal profane,"
"Bereft of solace, by shunned skies."
In the last notes, it is no longer a story of the past. It is about the here and now, of an arrival, of a descent, or an escape. Something of the sort- it is hard to tell, harder to comprehend. Robin bleeds through his mouth as he forms the words now, bleeds out of his eyes, ears in tiny rivulets of stress but nothing life threatening, just over-exertion of a sensitive soul.
"A penance borne, a tale of woe,"
"Of mercys cost and hearts laid low."
"Two bound by doom, will roam free,"
"To carve the shape of prophecy."
It isn't quite a demon that comes screaming through his mouth. Ash, as the impeccable seeker and keeper of knowledge he is, can read between the lines. The prophecy, no doubt what the others outside have been discussing and arguing about, speaks of a descent. Of angels, and their penance - but it is then that Robin throws himself ahead, falls into the coffee table, tries to crawl over it on his hands and knees to try and capture Ash's hand, stare at both them and Vindicta with pleading, bloodshot eyes, and a hoarse, broken voice- but his expression, it is of pure bliss. He's ecstatic, happy, a shamble of a man that has seen beyond the veil and came back mad with happiness.
"They're coming- they'recomingthey're coming they'recomingcomingthey'recominghere-" Then, once more, his eyes slowly roll into the back of his skull, while his whisper comes out in a heated breath of sheer vigil, dominance, retributional resolve. "In His image, to judge the wicked sinner.." And he collapses, face-first, slack, just about worn to an inch of his life. He still musters the will, the strength to answer Vindicta with the last of his breath before he's done and gone; "The kind one, the warm one.. Buried in.. Rub'al-Khali, desert.. saud-iii.."
Flatlined.
Rest in piece, Robin.
Maybe it's time to bail?
Ash lifts the man older their shoulder - for a supernatural, they are nothing special, but for the realm of humans, they are just strong enough. His hands has their DNA, and the body is... interesting. That's enough. The Path starts to open, and they hold out a hand to bring Vindicta with them. Back to Haven, and for the smaller of the short duo, back to the hospital.
"Soft... Warm? Kind?" Vindicta asks, turning her gaze up towards Ash afterwards, feeling the ripple of reality tearing open and sensing that, yeah.. It's time to beat feet. "Rub... Rub'al-Khali Desert.." she mumbles, settling her little hands into Ash's own, but then her eyes start to roll back. She's collapsing, her wounds aren't opening back up, but she's expended the last of her energy for this adventure- she's going to go slack and slump any moment now.