Plotlogs
Feral Forces Fight Frakking Pt 2 Sr Novel 241209
In the subtly lit master bedroom, with its carefully chosen decor and mid-brown laminate flooring, a scene unfolds that seems almost sacrilegious to the room's serene ambiance. At dusk, under the watchful presence of darkening skies, Illyana stands before Father Matthew, a man whose religious fervor burns as brightly as the fiery inflictions across his flesh. The Father, deluded by his beliefs, accuses Illyana of demonology, invoking the names of Lucifer and other demonic entities, demanding her release from an unholy grasp he perceives her to possess.
As the room's temperature uncomfortably rises, filled with the scents of metal, smoke, and the disturbing odor of burning flesh, Father Matthew's ritual reaches a climactic fervor. Yet, in the face of his aggression, Illyana remains undisturbed, her response filled with a serene light that speaks more of her angelic heritage than the demonic nature the Father accuses her of harboring. She stands, a beacon of calm and poise, challenging his misconceptions without direct confrontation.
Father Matthew, caught in the grip of his delusions, fails to fully grasp the reality of his situation, his mind teetering on the edges of sanity as his physical form begins to betray the collapse of his psyche. Despite the confusion and growing doubts within him, he persistently clings to his mission, his faith, questioning Illyana about a work-camp that only exists within his fractured memories.
Illyana, with a patience borne of her otherworldly nature, engages the Father, gently guiding him towards the reality of his circumstances. She provides him with clear details of his location, subtly urging recognition of the truth behind his disorienting experience. Her tone, neither condemning nor dismissive, seeks to unravel the tangles of his mind, offering a path to understanding and, perhaps, peace.
As the Father speaks of his purpose - the overseeing of a group meant to build a transcontinental railroad - his memories begin to reassert themselves, although fragmented and interlaced with the anguish of a tragic demise. His mention of the workers, their faiths, and the ambitious journey from Washington to California, hint at a narrative filled with hope and dedication, yet tragically cut short.
Illyana's questions, gentle yet probing, encourage the Father to confront the reality of his incomplete mission and the undeniable fact of his own death. His final moments, filled with a realization of his faith and purpose, culminate in a poignant farewell, the spectral priest expressing gratitude as he dissolves into nothingness, leaving behind a room momentarily charged with sorrow and the aftermath of spiritual turmoil.
Illyana, ever practical, fetches airfreshener and vacuum, a quiet acknowledgment of the night's extraordinary events and the need to return to normalcy, however fleeting that might be in her world. The encounter, a testament to the complexity of faith, redemption, and the power of empathy, concludes with a sense of resolution, albeit one tinged with melancholy and the profound mysteries of the human spirit.
(Feral Forces Fight Frakking pt. 2(SRNovel):SRNovel)
[Sun Dec 8 2024]
In the master bedroom
This room isn't overly large, though it uses its space to the upmost.
floored with a mid brown laminate, it offers a splash to the room that compliments the rest of the decor; slightly reflective, and chosen to refract any light that strikes it.
The walls have been painted in a subdued cream, the off-white tone offering a cast to the room that suggests warmth and size to the structure, the base-boards contrasting to throw off a defined outline.
With storage enough to satisfy two residents, the room is left largely open-plan with a charcoal rug sitting in the center, from where a bed is allowed to oversee the room in all of its glory, complete with a hot pink, rolled back throw.
It is dusk, about 40F(4C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
Religious fervor in his one-eyed gaze and his gaunt expression hardening as he considers the small Illyana before him. Many strange questions might come to mind, like why he picked out this small woman. Why he accuses her of such demonology. The strange flexing of flesh and suffering around the metal that brutally juts out from his features, creased with bone and blood. He begins to intone as such ichor drips down, "O most abhorrent and iniquitous advers, thou who are the very architect of deception and woe!" It seems faith and belief, fuel as they are for other magics and rituals, can be put to further uses as the man raises his own cross. "I call thee by every name thou hast been given across the annals of time - Lucifer, Beezlebub, Apollyon, Prince of Lies!" His grip turning white knuckled upon the symbol and thoughts of his believe, the smells intensifying: And sounds, too. Clanging metal? Smoke. Charcoal. Some cooking pot left along before the fire too long. Buffallo. Distinct and savory. The room gradually becoming unpleasantly warm. "Hear me now as I invoke the infinite authority of the Almighty and command thee to relinquish thy unholy grasp!"
The blasting, noisy whistle. Voices yelling, shouting. The potent, pungent smell of burning human flesh as his own skin begins to drip and sag.
Unperturbed, the Father Wax and Marrow pressed on, his voice swelling in volume and ferocity as he steps forwards, shining, white light, presenting itself in demand and driving towards Illyana's eyes, slowly washing out other colors. "I rebuke thee, thou serpent of old, thou perdition-born deceiver! By the power of Christ, who hath triumphed over death and the grave, I declare unto thee: thy reign of terror over this mortal vesse-er." And then Illyana has a bunch of reactions that seem to catch him momentarily offguard. His gaze flicking over to the still form of the woman in the bed, then back to Illyana. The light gradually dims and fades, becoming softer, less sharp. The scattered, shattered remains of a memory echo.
He does not become more cohesive. In fact, the statement, the calm, even talking, the accusation that HE went after HER, puzzlement reigns in those features that continue to cave inwards, collapse, revealing naught much more than an empty, dark shell. But the hand wrapped around the cross remains resolute.
"I am..." Confusion. "I am - Father." And then his form starts to recollect. The shattered remains of a psyche slowly getting back together. "I am Father Matthew. I will not be fooled by the deceptions and works of a demon!" And back into the role of it. His thumb rubbing over the cross, again and again. A nervous gesture. And yet the scents begin to fade, slight hints of doubt here and there creeping into his expression. "Where is the work-camp?" An expectation to see a place that does not, in fact, appear.
"Father," Illyana tells the man. "You are mistaken." Standing slowly, Illyana holds out a hand to the disgusting phantasm. She's beginning to glow now; A light from within, that of the angel which is her primary heritage. There's no direct statement of that being the case, Illyana leaves it to the poor befuddled priest to figure out for himself, every iota of charisma and poised inhuman beauty channeled through her; The empyrean and the mundane blendingas the gods of old demanded of their servants. "I'm no demon." It's a lie. "I'm not here to harm you." That one could go either way. Illyana doesn't like people who try to flex, and she's not too happy with home invasion either. "Tell me about the work camp you're looking for? Tell me your story and we'll try to see how we can resolve this little issue." And destract Illyana from wanting to pull out the rail spike. It really is tempting. "You're outside town of Haven. You're near boston. You're some way through Forest View drive near Wailer road. Just on the intersection there." You're in Illyana's home and I'm getting annoyed at the interuption. My pet is trying to sleep. "Where is it that you're trying to go? Maybe we can help you to get there."
Glow that matches glow, the radiance that was coming from the man earlier mirrored in Illyana's actions. But angels, while created by the gods, are just as much an artifice and creation as demons are. They're just set to subtly different purposes and angels of design. The turning inwards. The forcing of re-examination, the sputtering from between the man's lips as he considers the One True Faith. And what harm can you really do to the crumbling, slowly forgotten dead. "We. They, our flock, the group arriving from the boats." He sways, there, now, considering, confusion. The only recognition if Boston and Haven, a flicker behind the eyes. "We were... they were going to build a railroad. Transcontinental. I was there to help ease them from their home, to - here..." An Americanized accent. Not the Irish, that the well-paid immigrants who worked hard, were paid well, and given meat and beer as part of their wages, to ensure that they could complete in time to cross the world. Who knew food, beer, and money thrown at the issue could make someone work hard?
"...California." His shoulder caves in, the right, the hand not holding the cross as he slowly starts to crumble. "We were going to go all the way to California and Washington..." A rattling thing, a laugh. "Washington to Washington."
"A noble cause." Illyana nods, listening to the priest talk. "So the railroad. How far did you get?" Illyana asks- Clearly not that far with a spike through your head. "And were they receptive to the word of God?"
"Eight miles. A day. We had gotten to... fifty..." The steadily crumbling entity. Memories starting to return. His expression scrunching in intensity. "Catholics, one and all. Some of them Quakers. I was Protestant. But we were all People of... people of... people of..." SRNovel starts to slowly fade away, to melt further, normalcy and reality reasserting itself over temporary haunting. The scent edging with the smell of human flesh, burning, agony crossing his features. "God."
And then as he collapses and fades, becoming so much molten mess and then, that too, fades, comes, "Thank you."
Illyana fetches the airfreshener and vacuum.
As the room's temperature uncomfortably rises, filled with the scents of metal, smoke, and the disturbing odor of burning flesh, Father Matthew's ritual reaches a climactic fervor. Yet, in the face of his aggression, Illyana remains undisturbed, her response filled with a serene light that speaks more of her angelic heritage than the demonic nature the Father accuses her of harboring. She stands, a beacon of calm and poise, challenging his misconceptions without direct confrontation.
Father Matthew, caught in the grip of his delusions, fails to fully grasp the reality of his situation, his mind teetering on the edges of sanity as his physical form begins to betray the collapse of his psyche. Despite the confusion and growing doubts within him, he persistently clings to his mission, his faith, questioning Illyana about a work-camp that only exists within his fractured memories.
Illyana, with a patience borne of her otherworldly nature, engages the Father, gently guiding him towards the reality of his circumstances. She provides him with clear details of his location, subtly urging recognition of the truth behind his disorienting experience. Her tone, neither condemning nor dismissive, seeks to unravel the tangles of his mind, offering a path to understanding and, perhaps, peace.
As the Father speaks of his purpose - the overseeing of a group meant to build a transcontinental railroad - his memories begin to reassert themselves, although fragmented and interlaced with the anguish of a tragic demise. His mention of the workers, their faiths, and the ambitious journey from Washington to California, hint at a narrative filled with hope and dedication, yet tragically cut short.
Illyana's questions, gentle yet probing, encourage the Father to confront the reality of his incomplete mission and the undeniable fact of his own death. His final moments, filled with a realization of his faith and purpose, culminate in a poignant farewell, the spectral priest expressing gratitude as he dissolves into nothingness, leaving behind a room momentarily charged with sorrow and the aftermath of spiritual turmoil.
Illyana, ever practical, fetches airfreshener and vacuum, a quiet acknowledgment of the night's extraordinary events and the need to return to normalcy, however fleeting that might be in her world. The encounter, a testament to the complexity of faith, redemption, and the power of empathy, concludes with a sense of resolution, albeit one tinged with melancholy and the profound mysteries of the human spirit.
(Feral Forces Fight Frakking pt. 2(SRNovel):SRNovel)
[Sun Dec 8 2024]
In the master bedroom
This room isn't overly large, though it uses its space to the upmost.
floored with a mid brown laminate, it offers a splash to the room that compliments the rest of the decor; slightly reflective, and chosen to refract any light that strikes it.
The walls have been painted in a subdued cream, the off-white tone offering a cast to the room that suggests warmth and size to the structure, the base-boards contrasting to throw off a defined outline.
With storage enough to satisfy two residents, the room is left largely open-plan with a charcoal rug sitting in the center, from where a bed is allowed to oversee the room in all of its glory, complete with a hot pink, rolled back throw.
It is dusk, about 40F(4C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky.
Religious fervor in his one-eyed gaze and his gaunt expression hardening as he considers the small Illyana before him. Many strange questions might come to mind, like why he picked out this small woman. Why he accuses her of such demonology. The strange flexing of flesh and suffering around the metal that brutally juts out from his features, creased with bone and blood. He begins to intone as such ichor drips down, "O most abhorrent and iniquitous advers, thou who are the very architect of deception and woe!" It seems faith and belief, fuel as they are for other magics and rituals, can be put to further uses as the man raises his own cross. "I call thee by every name thou hast been given across the annals of time - Lucifer, Beezlebub, Apollyon, Prince of Lies!" His grip turning white knuckled upon the symbol and thoughts of his believe, the smells intensifying: And sounds, too. Clanging metal? Smoke. Charcoal. Some cooking pot left along before the fire too long. Buffallo. Distinct and savory. The room gradually becoming unpleasantly warm. "Hear me now as I invoke the infinite authority of the Almighty and command thee to relinquish thy unholy grasp!"
The blasting, noisy whistle. Voices yelling, shouting. The potent, pungent smell of burning human flesh as his own skin begins to drip and sag.
Unperturbed, the Father Wax and Marrow pressed on, his voice swelling in volume and ferocity as he steps forwards, shining, white light, presenting itself in demand and driving towards Illyana's eyes, slowly washing out other colors. "I rebuke thee, thou serpent of old, thou perdition-born deceiver! By the power of Christ, who hath triumphed over death and the grave, I declare unto thee: thy reign of terror over this mortal vesse-er." And then Illyana has a bunch of reactions that seem to catch him momentarily offguard. His gaze flicking over to the still form of the woman in the bed, then back to Illyana. The light gradually dims and fades, becoming softer, less sharp. The scattered, shattered remains of a memory echo.
He does not become more cohesive. In fact, the statement, the calm, even talking, the accusation that HE went after HER, puzzlement reigns in those features that continue to cave inwards, collapse, revealing naught much more than an empty, dark shell. But the hand wrapped around the cross remains resolute.
"I am..." Confusion. "I am - Father." And then his form starts to recollect. The shattered remains of a psyche slowly getting back together. "I am Father Matthew. I will not be fooled by the deceptions and works of a demon!" And back into the role of it. His thumb rubbing over the cross, again and again. A nervous gesture. And yet the scents begin to fade, slight hints of doubt here and there creeping into his expression. "Where is the work-camp?" An expectation to see a place that does not, in fact, appear.
"Father," Illyana tells the man. "You are mistaken." Standing slowly, Illyana holds out a hand to the disgusting phantasm. She's beginning to glow now; A light from within, that of the angel which is her primary heritage. There's no direct statement of that being the case, Illyana leaves it to the poor befuddled priest to figure out for himself, every iota of charisma and poised inhuman beauty channeled through her; The empyrean and the mundane blendingas the gods of old demanded of their servants. "I'm no demon." It's a lie. "I'm not here to harm you." That one could go either way. Illyana doesn't like people who try to flex, and she's not too happy with home invasion either. "Tell me about the work camp you're looking for? Tell me your story and we'll try to see how we can resolve this little issue." And destract Illyana from wanting to pull out the rail spike. It really is tempting. "You're outside town of Haven. You're near boston. You're some way through Forest View drive near Wailer road. Just on the intersection there." You're in Illyana's home and I'm getting annoyed at the interuption. My pet is trying to sleep. "Where is it that you're trying to go? Maybe we can help you to get there."
Glow that matches glow, the radiance that was coming from the man earlier mirrored in Illyana's actions. But angels, while created by the gods, are just as much an artifice and creation as demons are. They're just set to subtly different purposes and angels of design. The turning inwards. The forcing of re-examination, the sputtering from between the man's lips as he considers the One True Faith. And what harm can you really do to the crumbling, slowly forgotten dead. "We. They, our flock, the group arriving from the boats." He sways, there, now, considering, confusion. The only recognition if Boston and Haven, a flicker behind the eyes. "We were... they were going to build a railroad. Transcontinental. I was there to help ease them from their home, to - here..." An Americanized accent. Not the Irish, that the well-paid immigrants who worked hard, were paid well, and given meat and beer as part of their wages, to ensure that they could complete in time to cross the world. Who knew food, beer, and money thrown at the issue could make someone work hard?
"...California." His shoulder caves in, the right, the hand not holding the cross as he slowly starts to crumble. "We were going to go all the way to California and Washington..." A rattling thing, a laugh. "Washington to Washington."
"A noble cause." Illyana nods, listening to the priest talk. "So the railroad. How far did you get?" Illyana asks- Clearly not that far with a spike through your head. "And were they receptive to the word of God?"
"Eight miles. A day. We had gotten to... fifty..." The steadily crumbling entity. Memories starting to return. His expression scrunching in intensity. "Catholics, one and all. Some of them Quakers. I was Protestant. But we were all People of... people of... people of..." SRNovel starts to slowly fade away, to melt further, normalcy and reality reasserting itself over temporary haunting. The scent edging with the smell of human flesh, burning, agony crossing his features. "God."
And then as he collapses and fades, becoming so much molten mess and then, that too, fades, comes, "Thank you."
Illyana fetches the airfreshener and vacuum.