Plotlogs
Waking The Dead Sr Sarah 240204
In a shadowy, windowless cellar, Caelum encounters the ghostly presence, guided by scribbles in a diary and the subtle forces of the supernatural. He is instructed to dig "FOUR-HUNDRED FEET" beneath the surface, an enigmatic request that captures his curiosity and propels him into action. With nothing but his bare hands, he unearths a crudely shaped wooden doll, reminiscent of a child's plaything from centuries past, its form reduced to a torso and head by the passage of time.
The atmosphere is charged with a bone-deep solitude as he clutches the decayed doll, gently whispering the name "Anne." It's a whisper not intended to summon the ghost but to ponder her fate. With reverence, he offers the spirit a choice: to join him at his home or have the doll placed among the graves marked "Hall" at the cemetery. The silence that follows his proposition is profound, until a soft voice expresses gratitude and an ethereal touch grazes the back of his vest. No direct answer is given, leaving Caelum to decide her fate.
The choice made, Caelum secures the fragile doll close to his chest, tenderly assuring the spirit that she will not be alone again. He emerges from the cellar, journeying through the mist back to his home—a vampire providing an unexpected sanctuary for a departed soul.
As he offers her solace, Caelum learns the sorrowful history of the spirit, known as Anne, who perished in a blaze on a pyre in the garden of her home. Her death, steeped in tragedy and mystery, led to rumors of a curse that lingered over the house, preventing it from being sold. Anne describes her consciousness awakening sometime after her tragic demise, her efforts to protect her beloved doll from the ravages of time, and her spectral existence hidden amidst the ruins of her former abode.
Yet, the circumstances of her harrowing death remain unspoken, a dark secret she carries with her. And while Anne allows her presence to be felt in the company of Caelum, she remains unseen by others, particularly humans—beings incapable of understanding her kind. The bond formed in the cellar cements a silent pact between the undead and the dead, an unlikely companionship in a world where both exist unseen and misunderstood by the living.
(Waking the Dead(SRSarah):SRSarah)
[Fri Feb 2 2024]
In a spacious, windowless cellar
This expansive cellar space unfolds gracefully beyond the stone staircase, creating an illusion of boundless dimensions as the walls seamlessly dissolve into the shadows. Spanning beneath multiple rooms above, the cellar is divided by a quartet of robust, sleek stone support beams. In the heart of this cavernous expanse, a solitary hanging lightbulb illuminates the dead center, revealing an alternating pattern of black and gray bricks on the floor. To the left, a charmingly compact yet tastefully appointed kitchen awaits, complete with all the modern amenities and adorned with a comforting carpet for added warmth.
On the opposing side, a delightful disorder reigns, with laundry draped over the sparse furniture. A resilient double bed, ensconced within a sturdy steel frame and bedposts, rests on a once-black-now-gray circular carpet. Adjacent, a wooden desk and chair find harmony against the wall, while a weathered wingback armchair leans casually against a supportive beam. Just beside the bed, a tall full length mirror stands upright on folding frame. Gazing straight ahead from the staircase, a captivating wall-to-wall displaya grandiose, vintage wine rack that nearly overflows with its precious contents.
It is afternoon, about 30F(-1C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds.
Having stopped dead in his tracks, Caelum watches the display put by the ghost. The step forward he takes is just as unwise as he always is. "Four-hundred feet what?" Caelum wonders to the air, gives a sparing glance when he was guided rather well - but clearly not understading. "Dig under, that much?" The question is a grim one, paired with the steel expression of himself still that had taken over for the oft easy display.
"DIG. FIRST." words explain on the diary. "...AFTER" The letters seem to be getting more thin at the end, as if the presence doesn't have much to it anymore at this point. Giving what instructions it can, perhaps, as small bits of sand roll away from the spot. It's helping, a little bit, in its own way. Though clearly, the brunt of the work seems to be in store for Caelum
Another page flips. Caelum, accustomed by large to communicating via text by now, slowly sinks down on a single knee. He leaves the open diary aside, and what follows, in kept silence, determined, is his expression. Collected singularly upon the ground like it owes him something, anything - while without any digging instruments, he bare-hands it like it matters to him not, and he's a like a child searching for the toy under the chocolate while finally deciding. "If this doesn't work," Caelum suggests, "Come stay at my basement, Anne. I wouldn't bother you, promise."
A single breeze of air passes by Caelum's ear as he makes his offer, coincidence, perhaps, even if it may well feel like an excited gasp. He does not have to dig deep to find what he was guided to, covered in rocks slightly below the surface - as if in an attempt to preserve it - he would find a piece of wood. Perhaps once painted, but now, mostly rotten. It is crudely shaped like a human torso and head, perhaps once, it had more attached - limbs, clothes, but not now. It is a miracle in a way, that there is even any part of it left at all. Some kind of gift from the mists, perhaps. Or the will of the presence. Or was the item that way to begin with?
Perhaps he may recognize it for what it is - a crude doll as was somewhat common, centuries past. Davey. Perhaps strangely, there is no response to it whatsoever from the presence. No jubilation, nothing. It may well be gone for now. But the instructions remain.
The lack of any presense when he's unearthed the barebones of a doll from beneath the undergrowth and the soil, Caelum stares hard at the barely recognizeable mess. He remains as still as the undead he is, on a single knee in center of nothing with the somber and sullen air hanging thick and heavy over his shoulders. Perhaps he hadn't expected such a sad turn of events, even though he suspected - and for it, the doll is held tighter between his fingers. More possessive, more claiming of it.
"Anne." Caelum whispers the name - not as a call to the ghost, but in thought. "If you don't want to be alone anymore.." Pondering follows, and again, he asks quietly, looking over his shoulder at nothing first, then his sight wanders;
"I will take this to the cemetery, and leave it with the other graves - marked Hall." And offering; "If you give me a sign, anything, I will keep it. You're welcome to my home, anywhere it will ever be." There, with his offer put to more concrete terms, Caelum waits for whichever he will do - as his eyes drift back down to the old, very old doll he keeps a tight hold of.
A rush of air is all that comes in response, a silence most pronounced, then finally, a small voice, weaved from the air, crafted from the ethereal. "...Thank you."
There is no answer in there. Simply gratitude. Whether Caelum takes the spirit home, or tries to put them to eternal rest, seems to be left up to him. It is only accentuated by a single stroke over the back of his vest.
The brush of her small voice lends a faint, distant smile to Caelum's lips. He stares in wait still, tousled by the rush of air, the heavy silence in the unmoving, unflinchingg fog in the depth of the forest. For all of its dangers, even the most wicked of it seems adamant not to disturb this moment. He nods, anyway, and climbs to his feet. Caelum doesn't brush away the dust, the dirt, the sticking leaves to his jeans. The decrepit little doll is placed not in a pocket, he unzips his vest, places it inside close to his skin, and zips it half-way back to keep her memory close.
"Rest easy, Anne. You're home, and you won't be alone again."
There, he moves - back whence he came, stepping into the mist and back to town in slower steps that carried him here. Far from the cemetery, where the doll would be lost to time and elements, but back home, to give her a proper solace, as well as she could find in the hovel of a vampire, anyway.
A companion, Caelum would find. Should he do his research he would find her death most tragic and even a tad mysterious. She was found burned to a crisp on a pyre in the garden - no one was held responsible, not uncommon for those times. There was a rumor the house was cursed for the longest time as a result, and ultimately, it failed to sell. She had been there, all that time, weak as she was. She would tell him if he lets her - with difficulty, of when she first became conscious. Of the effort she took to find the doll in that dilapidated place. Of her efforts to cover it in rocks, to try to protect it from the elements.
But she would never speak of how she died.
And while she would let her presence be known, so long as no fires - not even candles - were lit,
She would never around humans.
They wouldn't understand.
They aren't like her.
The atmosphere is charged with a bone-deep solitude as he clutches the decayed doll, gently whispering the name "Anne." It's a whisper not intended to summon the ghost but to ponder her fate. With reverence, he offers the spirit a choice: to join him at his home or have the doll placed among the graves marked "Hall" at the cemetery. The silence that follows his proposition is profound, until a soft voice expresses gratitude and an ethereal touch grazes the back of his vest. No direct answer is given, leaving Caelum to decide her fate.
The choice made, Caelum secures the fragile doll close to his chest, tenderly assuring the spirit that she will not be alone again. He emerges from the cellar, journeying through the mist back to his home—a vampire providing an unexpected sanctuary for a departed soul.
As he offers her solace, Caelum learns the sorrowful history of the spirit, known as Anne, who perished in a blaze on a pyre in the garden of her home. Her death, steeped in tragedy and mystery, led to rumors of a curse that lingered over the house, preventing it from being sold. Anne describes her consciousness awakening sometime after her tragic demise, her efforts to protect her beloved doll from the ravages of time, and her spectral existence hidden amidst the ruins of her former abode.
Yet, the circumstances of her harrowing death remain unspoken, a dark secret she carries with her. And while Anne allows her presence to be felt in the company of Caelum, she remains unseen by others, particularly humans—beings incapable of understanding her kind. The bond formed in the cellar cements a silent pact between the undead and the dead, an unlikely companionship in a world where both exist unseen and misunderstood by the living.
(Waking the Dead(SRSarah):SRSarah)
[Fri Feb 2 2024]
In a spacious, windowless cellar
This expansive cellar space unfolds gracefully beyond the stone staircase, creating an illusion of boundless dimensions as the walls seamlessly dissolve into the shadows. Spanning beneath multiple rooms above, the cellar is divided by a quartet of robust, sleek stone support beams. In the heart of this cavernous expanse, a solitary hanging lightbulb illuminates the dead center, revealing an alternating pattern of black and gray bricks on the floor. To the left, a charmingly compact yet tastefully appointed kitchen awaits, complete with all the modern amenities and adorned with a comforting carpet for added warmth.
On the opposing side, a delightful disorder reigns, with laundry draped over the sparse furniture. A resilient double bed, ensconced within a sturdy steel frame and bedposts, rests on a once-black-now-gray circular carpet. Adjacent, a wooden desk and chair find harmony against the wall, while a weathered wingback armchair leans casually against a supportive beam. Just beside the bed, a tall full length mirror stands upright on folding frame. Gazing straight ahead from the staircase, a captivating wall-to-wall displaya grandiose, vintage wine rack that nearly overflows with its precious contents.
It is afternoon, about 30F(-1C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds.
Having stopped dead in his tracks, Caelum watches the display put by the ghost. The step forward he takes is just as unwise as he always is. "Four-hundred feet what?" Caelum wonders to the air, gives a sparing glance when he was guided rather well - but clearly not understading. "Dig under, that much?" The question is a grim one, paired with the steel expression of himself still that had taken over for the oft easy display.
"DIG. FIRST." words explain on the diary. "...AFTER" The letters seem to be getting more thin at the end, as if the presence doesn't have much to it anymore at this point. Giving what instructions it can, perhaps, as small bits of sand roll away from the spot. It's helping, a little bit, in its own way. Though clearly, the brunt of the work seems to be in store for Caelum
Another page flips. Caelum, accustomed by large to communicating via text by now, slowly sinks down on a single knee. He leaves the open diary aside, and what follows, in kept silence, determined, is his expression. Collected singularly upon the ground like it owes him something, anything - while without any digging instruments, he bare-hands it like it matters to him not, and he's a like a child searching for the toy under the chocolate while finally deciding. "If this doesn't work," Caelum suggests, "Come stay at my basement, Anne. I wouldn't bother you, promise."
A single breeze of air passes by Caelum's ear as he makes his offer, coincidence, perhaps, even if it may well feel like an excited gasp. He does not have to dig deep to find what he was guided to, covered in rocks slightly below the surface - as if in an attempt to preserve it - he would find a piece of wood. Perhaps once painted, but now, mostly rotten. It is crudely shaped like a human torso and head, perhaps once, it had more attached - limbs, clothes, but not now. It is a miracle in a way, that there is even any part of it left at all. Some kind of gift from the mists, perhaps. Or the will of the presence. Or was the item that way to begin with?
Perhaps he may recognize it for what it is - a crude doll as was somewhat common, centuries past. Davey. Perhaps strangely, there is no response to it whatsoever from the presence. No jubilation, nothing. It may well be gone for now. But the instructions remain.
The lack of any presense when he's unearthed the barebones of a doll from beneath the undergrowth and the soil, Caelum stares hard at the barely recognizeable mess. He remains as still as the undead he is, on a single knee in center of nothing with the somber and sullen air hanging thick and heavy over his shoulders. Perhaps he hadn't expected such a sad turn of events, even though he suspected - and for it, the doll is held tighter between his fingers. More possessive, more claiming of it.
"Anne." Caelum whispers the name - not as a call to the ghost, but in thought. "If you don't want to be alone anymore.." Pondering follows, and again, he asks quietly, looking over his shoulder at nothing first, then his sight wanders;
"I will take this to the cemetery, and leave it with the other graves - marked Hall." And offering; "If you give me a sign, anything, I will keep it. You're welcome to my home, anywhere it will ever be." There, with his offer put to more concrete terms, Caelum waits for whichever he will do - as his eyes drift back down to the old, very old doll he keeps a tight hold of.
A rush of air is all that comes in response, a silence most pronounced, then finally, a small voice, weaved from the air, crafted from the ethereal. "...Thank you."
There is no answer in there. Simply gratitude. Whether Caelum takes the spirit home, or tries to put them to eternal rest, seems to be left up to him. It is only accentuated by a single stroke over the back of his vest.
The brush of her small voice lends a faint, distant smile to Caelum's lips. He stares in wait still, tousled by the rush of air, the heavy silence in the unmoving, unflinchingg fog in the depth of the forest. For all of its dangers, even the most wicked of it seems adamant not to disturb this moment. He nods, anyway, and climbs to his feet. Caelum doesn't brush away the dust, the dirt, the sticking leaves to his jeans. The decrepit little doll is placed not in a pocket, he unzips his vest, places it inside close to his skin, and zips it half-way back to keep her memory close.
"Rest easy, Anne. You're home, and you won't be alone again."
There, he moves - back whence he came, stepping into the mist and back to town in slower steps that carried him here. Far from the cemetery, where the doll would be lost to time and elements, but back home, to give her a proper solace, as well as she could find in the hovel of a vampire, anyway.
A companion, Caelum would find. Should he do his research he would find her death most tragic and even a tad mysterious. She was found burned to a crisp on a pyre in the garden - no one was held responsible, not uncommon for those times. There was a rumor the house was cursed for the longest time as a result, and ultimately, it failed to sell. She had been there, all that time, weak as she was. She would tell him if he lets her - with difficulty, of when she first became conscious. Of the effort she took to find the doll in that dilapidated place. Of her efforts to cover it in rocks, to try to protect it from the elements.
But she would never speak of how she died.
And while she would let her presence be known, so long as no fires - not even candles - were lit,
She would never around humans.
They wouldn't understand.
They aren't like her.