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In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 → 2 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

Junkyard


For the first time in...

... he dreamt.

"I need to show you something."

"....figure out..."

"Where it ends."

"Raven Jones caused all your problems."


He blinked, suddenly cognizant of the cabin he was hunched in. Daylight spilled through the skylight overhead, almost blinding as it bore down upon him. He didn't understand; it had been dusk just moments ago, before...

Had he slept? Had he been dreaming?

Who was Raven Jones?

The name didn't match to anything he'd understood. Why was he dreaming? That, more than anything else, unsettled him.

He had never dreamed. Not since-...

As far back as his memories could go, dream and sleep were just one of many normal things that had eluded him. He understood the concept of it, and had vague impressions of what it meant, but not the familiarity that he should.

Much of the dream, he didn't understand. He felt no different from before, save that he was no longer a passenger watching someone else's memories.

A trial. Robed figures, wearing masks of bone. A girl searching for her mother, entering the Pit, the black liquid and the snakes bursting from the contorted bodies painted across a wall.

Was this what Ashley had faced all those years ago? A nightmare of her own?

The creatures devouring the girl, and the dark place he'd sighted invoked memories of cold shadow and pain beyond anything the boy could've ever imagined, once upon a time.

Raven Jones was a name that held no familiarity for him, but he felt a certain sense of sympathy at the girl's situation.

"Raven Jones is a monster." The words echoed in his head.

"We're all monsters," was his reply to that.

It meant something that he'd felt more power here, in this place, than he had at any other point in the existence he'd known.

His memory of the last week was ephemeral. He'd arrived in this city with hints of where to go, pointed at the asshole sporting the wolf motif. He'd found that asshole, Judas, and with some difficulty had managed to get a private audience. He'd persuaded Judas to talk, only for the man to die seconds later. Shayton, the 'carpet bagger' - as one of the Nazis he'd spoken with had called the man, among other impolite phrases - had been there, and all-but acknowledged responsibility for Judas' death. And then he'd disappeared, claiming he had to report to his 'bosses' - Clancy had suspicions who he associated with, although he hadn't shared those with the others nor come to any definite conclusion.

He'd needed answers, and Shayton had taken that from him before he was done. Taken his chance to find Ashley's killer, and finish what he came to St. Portwell to enact.

The thought drove him to anger, but the rational part of him knew that it was pointless at this moment. The 'Father Wolf' killer was still out there, and the baritone immigrant's warning had remained in his mind.

“... I would suggest you keep your head down. Whoever- whatever you are. These days, everyone is a target. They don’t know it yet.”

Clancy pushed the thought to one side, looking to the 'home' he'd carved out in this space; the interior cabin of an abandoned RV parked out on a junkyard half a mile from the urban sprawl, where the most attention he'd seen had been some local assholes stumbling down the road on a bender, hurling bottles and pissing against the fence. Sections of tarp had been cut and draped over the windows to shield from prying eyes. A few discarded belongings were spread about the place, including his old knapsack and the cellphones of varying value and technological generation. The decor was dated, at least twenty years out of fashion, with ragged couch cushions that probably pulled out into a bed spread, if he were so inclined.

What passed for a kitchen unit was bare of running water or any other provisions, but settled on the countertop was his dufflebag, still bearing the ornate axe with norse runes and motifs decorating both head and handle. He realised, in retrospect, that there was some power that sat within it that was bestowed upon its wielder. How else had the asshole he'd taken it from - Victor - been able to push the weight of a car, and drive the blade through stamped steel?

It seemed important somehow, Clancy knew, although he himself felt no different - no weaker, no stronger - from holding it in his hands. Maybe that was his problem rather than the axe's, although he felt no disappointment at that fact. Power and strength came with a price he knew, and it seemed better it remain in his hands for now, than anyone else's. His parents had taught him how irresponsible it was to leave dangerous things in the hands of children who didn't know better.

Besides, if nothing else, it was sharp, and made a cleaner cut of felling trees, meshwork and other stubborn obstacles than any other method he could've tried.

Shrugging the thought off, Clancy zipped up the bag and slung it back over his shoulder. Waiting around wasn't going to help him, and he was restless enough as-is. The 'festival', as he recalled the others talking about, was upon them, along with a good chance of catching up with the locals and Ashley's-...

"Friends."

He bared his teeth in a humourless grin as his thoughts invoked the word. The escapade at the cemetery a week ago, something he had observed from the shadows, had led him to question that assertion, but they were if nothing else a means to an end.

Approaching the exit, he twisted the door handle and pried open into the daylight; the locking mechanism barely functioned, and his original entry method had been through the skylight. Now that it was daylight, he didn't want to advertise himself as the metaphoric king of the scrapheap.

Outside, a layer of gravel, hardy grass and weeds awaited him, all partitioned off from the outside world by a chainlink fence crowned with barbed wire. The RV had been parked off at the far side of the lot, away from the main road or where most would've seen him. As he stepped out into the daylight, gravel crunching beneath his sneakers, he noted that the camper looked much sorrier in the dawn. ts tires had partially worn down to baldness, the alloys stripped off a long time ago.

Surprisingly, it still retained both windscreen and side windows, although the cracks in the glass suggested someone had, at some stage, attempted to hurl rocks and beer cans at it for fun. It was kind of old by the day's standards, dating somewhere between the late eighties and early noughts, with paintwork that had been bleached and rusted by at least a decade or two of exposure to the elements without due care and attention. Compared to this, the motel had been a penthouse, but the attention it drew was too much, the time he'd had left in the room too limited. Here, confined behind chainlink fencing with minimal oversight, was some privacy.

For him? It served. He'd seen worse places in his time; condemned buildings and shooting galleries where he'd stepped over the semi-conscious limbs of addicts enjoying their latest high. Sometimes, they bothered him, but never for long. He didn't need shelter, didn't need warmth. But as far as convenience went, less questions were asked if he had somewhere he could retreat without being bothered by people.Children wandering the woods at night so close to the city attracted questions, and he didn't want to become a lost child with his face plastered on posters and milk cartons all over town.

Been there, done that. The thought was a bitter one, but he pushed it out of mind.

Mind set on where he needed to go, Clancy paced over towards the fence. At the far end, he'd been able to cut a thin strip that he could peel back to slip underneath, circumventing both chainklink, front-gate and barbed wire. His clothes would thank him for that, no doubt; it was frustrating enough when he'd had to scavenge up a new set after the events at the club had ruined what had been an almost perfect fit, without dressing himself up as a baby.

Fingers gripped around the ringlets in the mesh and pulled, opening a space half a meter in width for him to slide through. Just as he was about to, however, it occurred to him; Halloween Festival.

His expression crinkled at the thought.

Was it essential to bring a costume?


@FernStone@silvermist1116
Halloween Festival, Children's Paddock


Days of watching, waiting, following the metaphoric breadcrumbs left by the Persons of Interest that had once been a component of Ashley's old life, the 'cult' that had been dubbed the Sycamore Tree coven. Waters muddied by a dream he shouldn't have experienced, names floating through his mind.

A voice, brief as it was, that invoked a familiar longing.

A week of observation had been fruitless, for the most part since the graveside visit. His quarry had spent their time talking each other to death in diners and bars, shopping, and other meaningless exercises. All of it, to lead to where he was now.

And it had amounted to whispers so far, with nothing tangible to show for it. At least he hadn't wasted his time sitting idly. He'd learned things from watching. Had they played a part in Ashley's death? He wasn't sure, but the graveside visit suggested they were far from the good friends they'd pretended to be, although he didn't understand any of the teenage stupidity that was behind any of the bad blood, between them, Ashley or the differing factions - covens - that had fractured apart from one another. He'd confirmed what he had suspected for a long time, that there was a government agency out there, dedicated to finding the ghosts, ghoulies and other creatures of myth of which he had probably been due some credit. That the girl, Alizee, was dead and gone, and the parasitic shadow attached to her - the entity that had needled him so - seemed to have disappeared with her, into the 'Void'.

That they were still no closer to finding Father Wolf, despite the threads that connected it all together.

This world, what had he heard someone call it? 'Shimmer'? It made him think how small and insignificant they all were in the greater picture.

So was he, come to think of it. In more ways than one, he had realised.

"Comin' through kid-"

Someone in the crowd brushed past him, catching his shoulder hard enough that they'd have knocked him over if he didn't have a greater sense of core balance and dexterity, threw him off track. They were gone before he could really make out the culprit, the crowd ahead of him blending together like watercolours on a dull canvas. Now he was back on dry land having disembarked the ferrry to the Island Festival a short while before, and conscious of the hunger pangs nipping away at him. He'd taken sustenance of a kind before arriving, but the crush had only tightened his appetite.

Clancy scowled beneath the veil of his current garb, frustrated at it. He felt no joy from being here amidst people, packed onto one of the ferry boats like sardines and shuttled across the water. At one point as they'd disembarked, someone had patted him on the head in a gesture of almost-drunken giddiness, and it was a credit to his restraint and sheer resolve that he hadn't thrown the offender over the railings of the acces and into the water. Instead, he'd gently nudged the back of their ankle with the tip of foot, ending the matter with a yowl on their part.

Clancy wondered if that had been the only reason to attract a few stares his way. His chosen costume in particular left much to be desired.

A few holes had been haphazardly cut into some bleach-white tent canvas, salvaged from the junkyard. Holes for the eyes, awkwardly punched out to give himself a reasonable peripheral vision. Slits for his hands to fit through, so he had some dexterity and maneuverability. Long enough that it covered him to just below the knee, so it wouldn't snag on the ground and get caught in anything. It had been a long time since he'd wasted his time with something as childish as Halloween. He had vague memories, recollections of being dressed in a white sheet that someone - Judy - had cut out for him, and this served his purpose. Likewise, he was cloaked now, ostensibly passing as a traditional caricature of a ghost, a relic amidst the humanoid wildlife, gangsters and other grotesques and characters of fairy tale myth.

If only ghosts were so simple.

At least it afforded him some anonymity, and if all else failed, he could dump the thing to one side and walk around as he was without the need for a stupid costume. Beneath the canvas, he wore the same clothes; the green hoodie with the duck mascot and the oversized denim pants, both a little dirtier after days roaming the wilderness and chasing leads. Tightly slung to his back was the dufflebag and the artifact that lay within.

Maybe he'd been better off getting himself covered in blood? That would've been convincing enough, sure, but he'd taken some liking to his clothes, and didn't want to ruin them just yet. Another consideration, made after some delay; finding a willing donor would've been a small complication.

Clancy pushed the thought to one side. By nature of his stature, he'd found himself funnelled towards the children's sector of the island by one of the event's security guards, where the stalls, rides and activities were considered safe and sane for the under-twenty-ones. He bristled at that thought, keeping his distance from toddlers and tweens alike, maneuvering between scattered family units and single parents alike, either tending or neglecting their offspring. The presence of massed human bodies in varying states of excitement needled him, a level of agitation that had once driven him to walk apart from society.

Sustenance.

That feeling was never truly apart from him, he knew. This wasn't good, he acknowledged , but self-control won out for the time being.

Nonetheless, he found himself instinctually scanning the crowds for outliers, briefly looking for anything that would excuse acting on that base need.

A man with a vaguely familiar face, walking with his wife and kid. With a scraggly beard and a shorn scalp, he resembled one of the assholes he'd watched breaking bread with the Nazi bikers, moments prior to an untimely industrial accident. What did it matter if the man's family were there? It just meant he was an asshole with baggage.

Clancy dismissed the thought. He wasn't familiar with the man's face, not realpy. But he, himself was in control of what he did right now. He reminded himself of the fact, and why he'd travelled to St. Portwell in the first place.

Remember why you're here...

... and for her.

Judy's name crossed his mind, and that was sustenance enough for now. The rest could wait until later.

Shaking it off, he moved away from the push to somewhere less crowded, walking past a witch conversing with a fellow mother as they watched a small boy in a pumpkin outfit. Clancy's head tilted upwards, gaze fixed upon the artificially generated fog that only amplified the localised weather phenomenon that seemed to be afflicting the island, working to tune out the crowds giggling teenagers picking through their buckets of candy, alcohol and other illicit materials being passed around.

Something rotting was close, a sensation worse than being immersed in carrion meat. His posture tightened, briefly, although he made no further movement. Overhead, his eyes remained locked on the black birds - crows circling where the adult entertainment had been settled.

It would, at least, explain some of the noise coming from that direction.
In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 → 3 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

Old, Burning Church


"GET YOUR RIFLE!"

Clancy continued to slowly backpedal, silently observing as the SWAT who'd made the mistake of trying to put hands on him began scrabbling for the weapon that had been so easily taken away from him.

"..handle him, Mr. Champion."

One of others was looking at him, and judging by the subtle bobbing of their throat, they were talking to their colleagues. There was a certain familiarity about that one - he wasn't sure if they were one of the same cops that had run into Judas the night before.

What he was sure of was that they were about to walk into him: Maximilian was apprpaching him at an almost flippant pace.

"Do not try me," Clancy growled, posture arched like a wildcat poised to swipe. There was an anger building in his voice, an erosion of the careful self-control he'd erected in his mind as he backed away, "Or I bre-"

A wave of what he guessed was heat washed over the both of them, followed by a blinding light as something erupted skywards and set the ceiling alight.

Clancy himself was briefly dazzled by the intensity of it, backpedalling into then ducking under the nearest pew, seizing the opportunity that had been made to lose the SWAT uniforms on his fail. Black smoke mingled with that of the tear gas, forming a noxious, potent miasma that nonetheless did nothing but prod at his senses. He could hear the panicked noises of the others, coughing and spluttering, while the uniforms shifted their priority to hauling out the second-hand smokers.

Smoke inhalation wasn't a problem for him, but the fire... was an annoyance that would slow him down. Luckily, the smoke billowing downwards offered him a shroud, and the drum of heavy bootsteps in the direction of the exit gave him some indication they had or were almost wholly evacuating the church, and that itself gave him the impetus to withdraw. Creeping outwards, an oily black layer sheathing his features, Clancy crept under the remaining pews, near the center of the building, he pulled his form closer to the edges of the building until he found a beam he could scale, ascended to and with little more thought he thrust a limb through one of the dust-caked windows at the far end of the room, picking away at the dangling shards of glass until there was an opening wide enough for him to make an exit. It took a moment for his vision to adjust as the daylight glared down upon him; pulling back the shadow, he almost forgot to pull his new clothes in a little and stop them from snagging on the broken glass, pointing inwards like shark's teeth as he crawled out of the maw of the inferno.

He came out onto an old slate rooftop, sun beating upon it, and tucked himself as far into a crevice as he could. Over the sound of crackling flames, he could hear a familiar set of voices, and some unfamiliar.

".. see what happens to you! I won’t kill you! But I’ll fucking make you wish I did! Now, who here can tell me which one of you killed Agent Mahendra…”

The voice wasn't one he recognised, but he could follow along enough that she was furious about something. Peeking over the lip of the roof from the alcove he'd found, he saw

Mahendra wasn't a name that rang a bell, but he wagered - and won that wager - he was yet another local caught up in the murders that had taken Ashley from them.

Clancy watched, waited, listened. They were agents, federal or otherwise, which validated his suspicions. The 'PRA' was something that felt as though it should be familiar, at a base level, but he couldn't relate it to anything he'd really known. It answered one question; they weren't directly here for him, and had most likely stumbled upon him by accident in the process of tracking down the cult that had formed around Ashley's social circle in her younger days. That wasn't to say he was wholly relieved, they had seen him and recognised a part of his nature. It was another potential annoyance that he would have to deal with along the road, so he kept himself concealed and continued to observe until they were at the point of withdrawal.

For a moment, he considered whether it would be easier to take them unawares, and hamstring them while their backs were to him. No. It was too much effort, time and psychological energy to commit for little return, and among their number he recognised power that made it more than just a matter of breaking arms, kneecaps and causing other debilitating-but-survivable injuries. To consider it at this moment broke too many barriers he'd set for himself. So instead, he let them walk away, now with one of the group in their custody. He didn't know her, and only barely recognised her as one of several who had recklessly thrown themselves in front of the bikers in the same way that had gotten the girl - Alizee - killed.

Eventually, the smoke had billowed up hard enough that he wagered it wouldn't be too long before the roof of the church gave out, and he didn't feel like picking himself out of soot-caked rubble, clothes ruined, and go through the tedious exercise that was stalking half-naked through the woods, searching for clothimg and sustenance. Too many possibilities of being stopped by do-gooders who knew nothing of him or the time they would waste, too many questions and obstacles it would throw up. It was a road well travelled, and one which he did not wish to revisit. Besides, the people he'd tracked- Ashley's friends, acquaintances and otherwise - were all here, and he hadn't yet tied up loose ends with them, given their conversation had been rudely interrupted by the federals.

Instead, he slipped down, hitting the dirt with a hard hud as his shoes bore the brunt of the impact. The ground cover was poorer here, but he used what sections of overgrowth he could to slip away, out of sight, watching from the treeline. It was easy enough to scale the trees, and no more difficult to vault between them when one had as much practice and verticality as he had. They were licking their wounds, angry, hurtful at each other.

Two stood out, the pair who'd been close to blows earlier. “... glad Father Wolf took Jinhai from you, you deserve as much.”

There was something especially low about that. Judy's name was the first that came to mind, even though it wasn't murder that had taken her, it cut deep. His sister, and then her-... Ashley. Who had been murdered, and taken from hom like everyone and everything else.

Clancy's fingers tightened just a little, until one of the branches he'd been holding onto broke in half under the pressure, reduced to splinters. Quickly, he adjusted his grip to avoid falling, but he realised being here, talking to people, dealing with their problems... was tiresome in a way he couldn't physically quantify. He'd spent so long alone, on his own terms, it was difficult to adjust to this again.

More time passed. The federals packed up and left, leaving the remaining stragglers to lick their wounds. Clancy followed one of the breakaway groups comprising Jasper, Luca, Lila, Lynn, moving across the treeline and through sections of tall grass, keeping enough distance so he wouldn't draw their attention, eavesdropping on the conversation.

".. have the Halloween festival coming up in a week, what if we all went to that together? Did a..”

Clancy could make an educated guess on what they might do.

“Group costume?”

He made a sound of disapproval, audible only to the bugs in the treebark.

”Group costume."

They didn't know him, and given the recent display, he wasn't a hundred percent confident he would get what he needed right now. He was sure he'd seen enough to recognise most of them now and that things were even more complicted than they had been, but not enough to have a full picture. This group were filing into their car, and in the distance, Clancy caught the approaching wail of sirens that had rung out the previous night.

The church, remember?

It wouldn't have helped anyone for him to linger here. As the others drove away, Clancy set off deeper into the overgrowth.


Motel



Moonlight hung over them. The signage of the motel was only just lit, the lettering sat under a flickering, ephemeral glow from lamp bulbs that probably hadn't been replaced for years and were on their way out. By all means, it wasn't the worst place he'd been to - there were much worse places to stay back home and along the Midwest. The building was relatively clean, although judging by the lighting and other signs of wear and tear, there probably wasn't a lot in the budget.

Clancy took a brief detour before returning to the room that his host had generously planned and paid upfront for almost a week. Stepping into the reception area, he quietly leaned over towards the rack of tourist pamphlets and perused through the contents. A few homely offerings, like bake-sales, markets and charity vents. A regional band on tour at some local bars. And the Halloween Festival. This seemed go be the crown jewel as far as he could tell, and had been the talk of the others earlier. If he wanted to catch most of them again, it was a measurable chance.

"Little late to be out, you alright son?" The night manager's withered voice almost made him pivot, but he kept his composure, "Yeah," he answered, not turning to face the old man, "Just grabbing something for my dad." He discreetly wiped at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, a dark wine-stain smear coming away. Clancy took that as a cue to make an exit, extracting himself from the office and pacing back towards the motel room, making sure that he wasn't being followed or watched.

They hadn't asked any further questions, but he'd sensed a degree of skepticism.
For good measure, he adjusted the Please Do Not Disturb sign hung over the door, before unlocking and stepping into a room kept alive by the dull, buzzing glow of a late-00s TV holding both darkness and silence at bay with late-night television.

First priority, clean up.

Clancy slapped the pamphlet on the nightstamp, unslung and dumped the dufflebag on the bed with a hefty thud, then made his way to the bathroom, a cramped box contained at the back of the room in a space just large enough to contain a toilet, sink and bath-shower combo.

He was conscious that, although it didn't particular bother him, the lingering presence of soot and tear gas threatened to be a literal eyesore for anyone who came near him. A scruffy kid caught attention, and the night manager had almost proven that. Peeling away the partially soiled clothing, Clancy ran the faucet of the sink and dumped the clothes inside to soak for a few hours, then proceeded to do the same for the shower, stepping under the water so that the layers of contaminant that clung to his form would wash away.

Hot or cold, it didn't really matter. The water could've been from a frozen river and it wouldn't have made a difference to him, this was just yet another opportunity to clean up, look somewhat presentable to strangers. Soot, dirt and a half-congealed wine-stain ichor sloughed off him, forming a receding dark circle over the floor of the tub as it disappeared into the drain. After what might've been an hour of staring at the tiles, he stopped the water, stepped back in front of the sink and began to wring through his clothes, working to scrub off the dirt with his hands.

In the mirror, he saw a face that felt more like a memory than a self. Once, out in the wilderness, he'd been spared that face, only forced to look in the reflections of lakes and streams, or cars parked in clearings. A thin speck of crimson remained smeared across the corner of his mouth, the shower having failed to dislodge it previously - he scrubbed that away with equal fervor.

Clothes. He turned his attention back to the murky pool that had formed in the sink.

It would have to do. He grabbed the soaked bundle of clothes, stepped back into the room and dumped them on a rack by the heater, leaving them to dry overnight. Wet clothes were likely to ask close to as many questions as they were when dirty. Once that was done, he went back to grab a towel and extract whatever moisture still clung to him, so it didn't track across the floor.

In the process of retreating to the bed, he felt his foot catch against something soft and heavy that had been haphazardly stowed under the bed; a large suitcase that had belonged to his host, positioned to avoid grabbing the attention of anyone who tried peering into the room. Clancy had neglected to take care of that particular matter, given the last twenty-four hours of events, but it would need to be done or there would be more questions asked that he didn't have time to deal with. Off to one side was a pizza box, darkened through with grease, the contents uneaten and soon-to-be moldering on the table. He made a mental note to dispose of that, too.

Second priority. Think.

He sat in the bed, drew his bare knees to his chest the closed his eyes. Nothing. it was pointless to emylate sleep, and he'd forgotten what dreams were. Even the quiet hours could be monotonous, dragging on, and his thoughts then drifted to other matters. Going on a walk in the night only encouraged those thoughts, and he didn't want to be reminded of how hungry he'd been, and how a core part of him still was, despite the wild game offering subsistence an hour ago.

Focus.

There was a week before the Halloween Festival, and Clancy had questions which needed answering. There had been a lot to digest, figuratively. Bikers. Federals. Ashley's 'friends'. Other things lurking out there, and in the midst of it all, Father Wolf.
In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 → 3 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

@Atrophy@Fernstone@Punished GN
Church

Some had ignored him, or at least hadn't noticed his presence. Clancy looked away, and when he turned back - the host-girl and the parasitic monkey on her back had disappeared, while a few others at the back row were still bickering over something he could only guess was inane high school bullshit that none of them could afford to waste time on.

“... sorry for your loss, as I am sorry for our behavior. This situation has left us at our worst. My name is Sloane..."

Then, finally, he realised he'd managed to turn a few heads, but it took the first of them stepping up from the pew to finally acknowledge him, and imply she had some useful information. “...the rest of the congregation would like to offer this young man their condolences?”

Although he would credit the girl - Sloane - that, the gentleness of her tone betrayed a condescendance that he didn't have time for. "I don't need condolences-"

Two others cut in.

”...for your loss, Clancy. My name's Anya Baksh, and I also… worked with Ashley.”

The first, Anya, followed suit with Sloane, which wasn't much use given they had bigger issues on their plate. Hearing his name spoken aloud by someone else was something he'd almost forgotten, and not a thing he would get used to anytime soon, but that bottle had been uncorked already.

The second speaker, not so much.

”Oh, so you do know how to offer condolences, Sloane? You didn't even like Ashley. After everything Jinhai did for him, it's the least you could do, bitch.

This is going in circles. Exasperation made him question why it took a child to recognise their bickering was a waste of time, in light of everything. Seriously?! As the asian girl seemed ready to smash Sloane in the face with a book, Clancy stepped down from the lectern towards them, thrusting the axe back inside the bag so he didn't give in to the temptation to brain them with the flat end.

"Was I talking Yid-?!" he exclaimed, only for the last few syllables to be drowned out by the pitched crackle of broken glass. Clancy pivoted on his heels, fingers tightening around the handle of the axe, watching as a pair of cannisters bounced off the drywall and skidded across the floorboards of the church, a thin white trail of something noxious released from them, judging by the reaction the others were having.

This wasn't good.

Doors kicked in. People in full SWAT gear, wearing masks and yelling out orders.

“EVERYONE! GET ON THE GROUND! ON! THE! GROUND!”


They cops or whoever they were had arrived in strength this time, he knew. Clancy recognised a few of the voices, namely the asian girl from last night who'd offered him the business card. She seemed to have history with he girl with the bible, more bad blood.

For a moment Clancy stood there, lips pursed, apparently unaffected by what he eventually realised was tear gas. It rolled over him and he felt... nothing. He'd never been gassed before, not like this, but it still came as a surprise, the perplexed expression creased across his face as Bianca copped a bible nearvthe head and responded by tasing Linqian.

It was an expression that turned to momentary rage when a gloved hand clamped around his arm, close to the elbow.

“Hey, little guy-” the voice was cut off as he yanked the arm back hard enough for the masked man to lose his footing, landing on the floor.

"Don't-" he spat, seething at the masked man. Although he stood over him, he felt a semblance of restraint that kept him from taking that building anger any further.

“... What the hell?!” Samson asked.

Clancy stepped back, wordlessly planting a foot on Samson's rifle and kicking it to one side beneath a nearby pew, before anything stupid happened. His gaze was searching for an exit, fully conscious that all the conventional means of leaving had been covered by the SWAT team.
In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 → 3 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

@Estylwen@Punished GN@Fernstone
Old Church


"There was a boy at Veni Vedi. Said he knew something. If we can find him, there's our next lead. He might be alive, despite getting shot."

A slow clapping filled the air, echoed off the steepled ceiling and inner walls of the church so it felt like it was a dozen hands making the noise, rather than a single pair.

"That boy has a name, and he could hear you all from a mile away."

One leg thrown over each side, perched between one of the roof beams and the ceiling, was a pubescent boy - the same boy that had shown up at the club, been shot, then disappeared without a trace. In one swoop, he clambered down from the beam, shoes scuffing against the religious decor as he dropped down to the lectern at the far side of the hall. He was dressed differently, this time.

"Gotta say, if you people really were her friends, you're doing a terrible job of looking out for her memory. Why wait to get picked off when you can do half the work and kill each other?"

The boy wore a green hoodie bearing the likeness of a sports mascot he couldn't personally recognise, an oversized cartoon bird with a sailor's hat that could best be described as a poor man's Donald Duck. Along with that were a pair of denim pants that were a shade too large, with sleeves that had been too obviously torn at the edges in an amateur attempt to adjust them to the wearer's shorter height. Slung over his back was a navy gym bag, about half his size, the length running from head to hips. Something long and heavy was sat inside, judging by the outline bulging through the fabric.

"By the way," he remarked jabbing a finger at Layla, "They're not wrong about what you're in for." He shifted his gaze towards the entropic Void, eyes crinkling. He shook his head, shrugged it off. "Guess one dead host isn't enough? She might not know what you are, but be honest - you're just another predator."



Last Night.

Rooftops


As he sat watching the world snap to reality, a memory of a hospital room and the thrum of a heart monitor sat in his memory.

"I'm sorry." That's what he'd told her, and the only shred of honesty he'd given that night. "I'll go tell Mom I'm home, Judes."

It had been a lie. There was no home, not anymore, not for him, that ship had sailed.

"Just get some sleep." That was their final goodbye, the last thing he'd said to her. She died a few weeks later.

Judy and Ashley were gone, there was no bringing either of them back. But for Ashley's sake, he could try and unpick what happened and deal with whoever was responsible. His one lead, the biker, was dead, the stranger gone, which left only one other word in his mind.

Overhead, the dull buzz of an aircraft filled his ears. Emergency lights and distant voices chattering as the inertia of tearing up a neighbourhood finally hit the brick wall. The area had been swarmed with a scattering of emergency workers and locals whom had been roused at the dead of night by the chaos. No doubt they'd officially blame that on a faultline, an occupational hazard of living in the Pacific Northwest.

His thoughts drifted to the people who'd shown up and tried to spirit him away after taking a twelve gauge to the face, they weren't kids, they were organised. Cops? More than that, he knew there were government agencies that took an interest in things that sat beyond the mundane world, things like him. Had they seen enough of him that questions would come up? It was a point of frustration, but one he would deal with later.

Bag, shoes and new clothes. Those were his priorities right now.

The bag had a couple of his belongings in it, stuff that would've been more of an inconvenience to replace in a short amount of time. The shoes, he didn't want to go through the trouble of finding a replacement pair that would fit him without slipping off. Clothes, well-

Now he was pacing along a side-street, half-naked and speckled with blood that belonged to at least three other human beings and one decidedly inhuman creature, the clothes he'd been wearing now a tattered ruin for the most part. The only article close to remaining somewhat intact were his pants, and they too had seen better days. That he could thank the bikers and their pet for ruining. Good clothes were frustratedly difficult to come by.

He touched at his own face and glanced at the distorted reflection in the side mirror of an adjacent car. For the most part, everything had shifted back into place, where it was supposed to be, although he couldn't say he ever truly felt like himself - there was no real normal, not for him, just the state of being. At least he'd taken his pound of flesh in turn, and had managed to find the contents of the heavy bundle that was now wrapped under his arm in the tattered remains of his hoodie.

Across the street was the Veni Vedi Veni, definitely closed for business after the night's events, although he found irony in the fact that despite a few buildings being damaged beyond repair, the strip club where the night's events all started had probably escaped unscathed, save for one private room that would need new carpets and a deep clean. The police had taped off the parking lot, and as he crossed the street and slipped under the tape and behind the nearest car, he caught a glimpse of a mixed group of SPPD and SPFD officers talking near the front of the club.

Sand, trash and other detritus had been scattered everywhere. Near a wrecked car, a white sheet had been draped over the ground, a humanoid shape laid out beneath it. There, he spotted his bag and shoes, dumped a few feet away with a marker taped over them. When the nearby cop stepped away to drag on his cigarette, he made his play, scrabbling on hands and knees until he was able to swipe both. He didn't waste time slipping them on, instead making an exit just in time to hear an older cop cursing out the other on their smoke break.

"... prints all over the floor, tell those pricks to stop walking over and moving shit..."

Just one more thing.


Now

Church


"It's Clancy, by the way. Ashley was my cousin, we used to speak sometimes, before..." Some things didn't need explaining, so he let the silence hang there for a moment while he gathered his thoughts.

The truth was that he'd been following them for a while, and learned enough along the way. A retelling of last night's events, how more of them were dead this morning. Each going for the other's jugular, until a cloud of butterflies had put an end to that. They had all been Ashley's 'friends', although given how divided they were, he wondered how far that was stretching the term.

"You were Ashley's friends, right?" His thoughts found their form in speech.

They were, altogether, a wretched group. His gaze particularly crinkled whenever it passed over 'Void' and its new host, the girl who went by Layla. Its very presence was a point of consternation, a reflection that he had no desire to see. Truth was, he felt sorry for the girl and the world she was in for, and had doubts as to whether he was as much responsible for her plight as he was for getting the last host, Alizee killed.

Given one of the others - Anya - had spoken of sharing information while the contenders for 'senior it-girl' had disappeared, he felt it opportune to share what he knew.

"Since you were busy with the crazies, I spoke with their boss... who maybe just convinced me he had nothing to do with Ashley or your friends dying." Clancy tugged at the strap around his shoulder, then unzipped the gym bag he was hauling with him. Reaching inside with one hand, he pulled out a familiar axe with ornate decor furnishing both the handle and head. "Said that 'Dollhouse' gave the bikers their stuff, abstracthangs- whatever you wanna call them."

Clancy shrugged, balancing the axe with a one-handed grip just below the the head, "Means nothing to me, except they sound like a bunch of creeps. But you know this town, and I know Ashley knew stuff too. And we want the same thing, which is to find whoever killed her."
In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 → 4 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


@Punished GN@Estylwen@Atrophy@FernStone@LanaStorm
Veni Vedi Veni - Parking Lot


Momentarily, he felt nothing but a haze, and sensed everything peripherally. A gunshot rang out, followed by more noise, angry voices and the cries of the others, and some ephemeral song in a language he didn't understand. Something washed over him like a breeze, but he felt no warmth from it. A voice raged, set apart from the rest in its raw anguish.

"Alizée!!!"


His senses reclaimed him.

Clancy blinked, hunched beside a pickup truck where the engine still ran, one palm pressed against the door. When he pulled it away, he noted the deep gouges torn into the metal, like fingernails through paper, and chunks of wet, meaty viscera sloughing away from whatever or whoever had sat at the other side, and then he glanced down.

There were punctures and tears in his shirt and hoodie, barely concealing the pale unblemished skin beneath. There was no hiding that, nor the wet, crimson substance wh ich overlapped the layer of dried blood that had belonged to the other Nazi on his fingertips.

The French-speaking girl whom had tried to reach out to him - Alizée - was dead. The thing that sat inside her heart was notably absent, Clancy knew - he couldn't feel its presence anymore.

Had Alizée died because of him? There was no easy answer, none which sat right, even with him. He shrugged it off. More important things to focus on. It wasn't his fault those biker assholes were psychopathic junkies.

An axe lay at his feet, ornate decor wrought into the handle and head. Surprisingly, it remained untarnished despite the scene he'd extracted it from. Its previous owner had no further use nor any ability to wield it after they'd settled matters, though when he knelt to pick it up, he felt no different from before - not that he expected to. But it was sturdy, and sharp - the way it had cut through clothing, stone and metal in similar fashion had made that very clear. And given what he'd seen tonight, that might have been useful.

The weight of it seemed inconsequential compared to everything else. He was stronger than he looked

Where he stood, he was at the far side of the lot, away from the heart of the fighting now. The others were still arguing, still ready for a fight, he could hear them. There was a new arrival, someone who'd transitioned from a fiery eagle to man. He was talking with the asian girl, the one who'd offered him the business card for the fishery earlier.

"WOLFPACK!"


A voice bellowed from a building overlooking the lot. Clancy squinted at the rotund figure stood atop the rooftop, clutching a trio of meaty creatures that seemed halfway between goat and wolf. Something about them struck him with a vague, dreadful sense of deja vu, a bad memory from a time when he'd been out by the Great Lakes on his own, when he'd first left home.

"Ooooooooooh, Judas! This bitch said she killed Joe Skinner- and she just killed Victor!"

Wrong on both accounts, he mused, but correcting them would've been a waste of time. The mouthy she-biker had already outed her boss for him, and the others - particularly the girl - had drawn their attention.

Judas. Poppa Wolf.

Doubt set in, however.

Did that make him Father Wolf?

That, Clancy didn't know. Only one way to find out. While the others were busy, he hunched low, axe clutched in both hands, and moved along the row of parked cars where the overhead lighting didn't offer much coverage, perhaps short enough that only the observant would've noticed him moving across. He hit the edge of the lot, eyeing the motorcycle that had belonged to Joe Skinner.

Tempting, but no. He wasn't done here, not yet. Across the street was an alleyway, filtering between a pair of building that neighboured the rooftop where Judas and his pets were waiting. Then, after a moment's thought, he darted across the street.
In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 → 4 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


Veni Vedi Veni - Parking Lot


Clancy threw up both arms a second too second late; the blade of Victor's axe bedded half an inch into the boy's collar before his palms caught the handle with a strength that didn't match his frame and grappled with the larger man to keep it from being driven any further.

”Stay down.” His voice was a growl, a child's pitch with an unnatural resonance, and followed with a foot being swung out at Victor's knee, breaking his footing and knocking him over.

Victor hit the ground with a thud, then glanced upwards.

“... You are no kid,”

No fluid seeped from the wound the axe had formed, only a hollow black void where the head had parted skin. Similar punctures in his shirt, barely concealed by the unbuttoned hoodie, told a similar tale.

The Pagan pressed a palm into the ground to force himself to his feet, then swung the axe down - aiming to split Clancy in two.

This time, the boy dove into the side of an adjacent car, just in time to see the axe head tear a foot of asphalt and gravel from the ground. ”Know nothing,” he snorted, back pressed against the passenger door of the car ”Do you Nazi morons know when to stop?”

Victor didn’t even flinch, he raised the axe in the air again - not to bring it down on Clancy - but a bright flash of light appeared - blinding onlookers and causing the kid to crumple inwards with a silent grimace. Then in the makeshift flashbang he made he rushed Clancy with another swing of his axe.

There was no running, no token resistance; the axe sank deep into the boy's chest, crunching through metal and glass at the other side and pinning him to the passenger door of the car. No gasp, no final breath, the kid simply slumped forward, arms limply dangling to the floorm. Victor planted a boot against Clancy’s midsection to pry the axe free; once both blade and body were released from the car, he turned around, slung the axe over his shoulder, and prepared to rush in to help Valjean-

“... The hell?!”

Something grabbed the man's boot, clamped around the ankle, and yanked hard enough to pull him off his feet and drag him along the asphalt, back towards the parking space.

Victor screamed, but no more coherent words followed. The space fell silent in seconds, and a viscous pool of blood slowly began to trickle out from beneath the car's wheels shortly thereafter.
In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 → 4 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay




The pickup moved at pace, two of the boys in their leathers holding onto the bed of the truck for life. One of them, cigarette dangling from his mouth, was grumbling to his companion.

"-me why my coffee's going cold on the counter?"

The other man, squat with a goatee, spat off to the side and shrugged. "Iunno, Dutch said he got a call some fuckers trashed the Vee-Vee, and messed Joe Skinner up real bad."

"That dumbass sack o' shit," the smoker snorted, "Why should we care?"

Goatee shrugged, "He's Dutchman's brother."

"In-law, or somethin' like," the smoker corrected, "Which counts for shit."

"Don't matter Jay, still one of ours, s' the principle, and "Papa" is gonna be piss-.. ah shit, I think that's them." There was already half a riot breaking out on the parking lot, sand, detritus and cordite in the air. The two men held on for life as the driver of the pickup applied the brakes.


Veni Vedi Veni - Parking Lot


"Oh shit," Goatee chuckled, "Val's already gone Scorpion King on them."

They'd arrived in the middle of it all, probably beating any local authority by a good mile.

"Sand in my ass for days," Jay coughed as some of the Vasil sister's handiwork blew against the bodywork of their improvised cover, tugging at the .38 under his waistband. They were hunched low, moving between cars, a few rows away from the heart of the chaos. Goatee was keeping an eye on things, trying to dind a window to move in - the kids had the kind of power that some of the club had barely tasted, an expensive gift that only the lucky ones got to wield at their fingertips.

There was a dull thud, barely audible over everything else. "What you reckon?" Goatee asked, but no answer came. The man looked over one shoulder to see his companion crumpled against a car door one row over. "Jay?"

Closing the distance, it became clear why Jay wasn't answering. Fluids trailed from one side of what was left of his face, where something had smashed him into the windscreen of the car - a spiderweb of bloody cracks forking out from the corner. The force of the impact had shattered his eyesocket and cheekbone into bloody pulp. Bone and tissue speared through the sleeve of his jacket where the arm had been bent inwards, far beyond what human joints could handle.

"What the fugGHAAR-"

A tiny foot slammed into the back of Goatee's knee with a strength that didn't belong, hard enough that something popped. The man dropped to the ground with a yelp before someone muffled his squawking, tiny fingers clasped around the underside of his jaw, tight as a vice against his throat.

Nobody noticed the muffled shriek, blended into the cacophony of noise wreaking havoc across the parking lot.



Sully crept through what must've felt like a mile of sand, shell casings and stale piss to get to where the kid had been dropped. With visibility reduced amidst the thin cloud of sand and shadow, the only thing that stood out were a pair of child-sized sneakers peeking out from behind the tires of a parked car.

Sully found it was for nought. There were clear indents in the surrounding gravel and bodywork where Maggie's cartridges had punched past or through their target, but no blood spatter, and save for an empty pair of sneakers, the kid wasn't there.

It wasn't a discovery he had time to question, between the wave of sand and one of the Wolfpack's other hard-hitters coming up on him fast. A few muffled noises erupted a few cars away, although between the biker putting a gun to his head and the junkie throwing sand everywhere, it was easy to miss.

What wasn't easy to miss was a large, humanoid shape, flung through the air. It bounced off the hood of the car, next to where Dean and Sully were having their conversation, before flopping to the ground with a meaty crunch, between the two men,

Not humanoid. Human. A body, tossed from behind the row of parked cards. It- he was just barely twitching, limbs contorted at unnatural angles, but it was a foregone conclusion; the poor bastard's lower jaw had been pried open past human limits, until tissues which connected upper to lower had torn under the strain, leaving a gruesome, lopsided expression.

The only recognisable feature was a goatee, sticky with blood.

A vaguely familiar voice growled with a child's pitch, carrying over the row of parked cars.

"... you assholes..."


A few moments later, another shrill noise intermingled with the rest; one of the cars parked close to where Victor had been firing on the others began to sound off when something triggered its alarm. There was a faint, metallic groan, followed by the weight of the car briefly tilting downwards, before it jolted forward at a skid by a few metres - directly into the path of the armed Neo-Pagan with the full tonnage weight bearing down on him.

In the empty space it left behind was a familiar child-sized silhouette, barefoot, face shadowed by the poor lighting of the space, with dark sockets that almost appeared hollow.

@Punished GN@silvermist1116@Estylwen@Atrophy


In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 → 4 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
<Snipped quote by Zombiedude101>

You must be punished for your crimes.

To the torture chamber.


Is that another euphemism for the discord?
In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 → 4 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
<Snipped quote by Zombiedude101>

Added him to the Wolfpack faction.

But from here on in, and this is a notice for everyone, when you're making an NPC; do not remove any of the coding. It's the way that it is so I can easily just slide a new NPC in the existing NPC table.


Sorry, I wrote it up on my phone and the formatting was fucked for me somehow.
In Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 → 4 mos ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Seeing as my time is a little freed up now, here's an NPC that may bear relevance to add to GN's cast of clowns.

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