[img]https://txt.1001fonts.net/img/txt/dHRmLjExNi5hY2FjZWYuUTJ4aGJtTjVJRkJoZEhKcFkycy4x/burn-out-fade-away.regular.webp[/img] [code]Dreaming[/code] [hr] The same girl again. [i]Imitations[/i] of a human face, a human expression. An oily black fluid. Snakes, writhing in the ooze. When the creature climbed atop the girl, that entropic pit of despair gnawed at the memories deep within his consciousness, and he felt a pang of [i]familiarity[/i] that brought no warmth. And then the ooze burst forth from the [i]humanoid[/i] creature's constrictor-like maw. [i]"No,"[/i] he wanted to scream, but the word gave no voice, [i]"Leave her alone!"[/i] He had no mouth, and could not scream. Forced to watch, he thrashed non-existant limbs against equally non-existant walls, raging against the immaterial. Helpless, in a way that cut at his core, unable to intervene or [i]break[/i] this creature that forced its poison upon another. To rip, tear, bite, devour- And then it ended, and the girl had dusted herself and moved on, undeterred - that was more than he would've admitted to doing, where their places swapped. A temple ruin of some sorts, like the comics he used to read. A book of symbols that he didn't understand, save that they meant [i]some[/i] form of power Automaton suits of armour, with sections that precluded a human occupant, following the orders of a 'King' that made little sense to him. The girl seemed done for, once again, as they levelled arms against her - only to be crushed by the arms of a giant sprouting from the ground, a creation of the older woman's blood magic - if such a thing were as it seemed. Their joy was short-lived. The girl had doubled over, serpentine shapes writhing beneath her skin; the [i]black ooze[/i]. Phantom fingers tightened into a fist, but as before, Clancy was an observer and nothing more. He had no control here. Instead, the [i]other[/i] creature's words to the girl's "mother" cycled through his mind. [i]"How can you kill what doesn't live?"[/i] It was a good question. [hr] [code]Junkyard[/code] [hr] [i]Deja vu.[/i] Thoughts of the hunted girl, the chalice and the book were soon pushed to one side. Morning light spilled into his vision, and he realised he was [i]awake[/i] and in the real world. The second dreaming. And not just from the skylight; in the thrashing before his waking - as he had watched the ooze forced upon the girl - Clancy realised his phantom limbs had, in fact, raged against something. The interior of the cabin was in further disarray than when he'd left it, cabinets torn from their fittings on the wall, the windows hatttered and where there had been a finished plywood wall beside the doorframe, there was now a jagged hole the size of his arm where even [i]more[/i] light spilled through. And he recognised the shadowy digits emerging from the hand closest to that entrypoint, long and thin as stalactites, threatening to burst through his fingertips and subsume the rest of his [i]self[/i] in the throes of a paralytic rage. He shook the arm, and when that seemed to be insufficient, held it out into the light until those black digits receded. His next question: had anyone seem him? To his annoyance, he acknowledged that the RV was no longer an option for him now. If the sound of his unconscious-self tossing the place in a frenzy hadn't drawn attention, the sight of the wrecked motor home would. That meant finding somewhere else to settle down his few possessions, and draw together his thoughts - a question he would settle later in the day, or night if required. It was a frustration that he could contain, at the least, but it brought to mind [i]another[/i] problem that had emerged since he arrived in town, looking for the one who killed Ashley. In the days since the island, he felt as though another set of eyes and ears trailed close behind him - perhaps it was just paranoia, but the standoff with Shayton had left an impression that had more permanence than the [i]cane[/i] lodged through his eye socket. He was not wanting for 'enemies', if there were. The biker-nazi [i]assholes[/i] would have no love for him or the gradually increasing dent he'd made in their numbers. The PRA believed that [i]something[/i] had killed Judas, and the real killer - Shayton and his [i]employers[/i], assuming they were Dollhouse - were yet another set of [i]assholes[/i] with an agenda that involved [i]dealing[/i] with him. And for all intents and purposes, if Shayton had been telling [i]any[/i] shade of truth, which wasn't outside the realm of possibility, neither of the three had anything to do with Father Wolf. It changed nothing, he recognised, and he felt that pang of frustration at being no closer to understanding any of it. The [i]dreaming[/i] that invaded his consciousness, the messages that trailed them. There were only a handful of [i]artifacts[/i] he knew of; one was a blade that served as a means to an end, and the other was the [i]axe[/i] in his possession, a sharp and sturdy weapon. The Book was beyond his reckoning. The Chalice, he vaguely recalled having seen it somewhere, but not so well as to know or understand its purpose. Raven Jones - the girl in the dreams - the [i]monster[/i] as the voice had dubbed her, was a stranger to him. When this happened, he didn't know. Days, months, weeks, or maybe years ago? Centuries, even. Was it a trick, a lie? Clancy shook the thought away. His only lead involved the group of people being targeted by Father Wolf. The Sycamore Coven. A group that seemed bigger by the day whenever he dropped by, and judging by the initials carved into the tree, it seemed as though they once numbered enough to fill out a school year. There would be time to find a new place of respite [i]later[/i], he affirmed himself, then tugged at the strap of his dufflebag, sloughing off the fragments of shattered plywood sprinkled across the top, then slung it over his shoulder, feeling for the weight of the axe within. [hr] [@Punished GN][@Atrophy][@FernStone][@Estylwen]@everyone [code]Kari Wilson's House[/code] [hr] He was early. And, as far as he knew, alone. The others hadn't quite arrived yet, and he wasn't aware that a third party was watching from afar - although the paranoia of being followed had never quite gone away. When he'd first approached, the cabin had invoked memories of stalking through forest hiking trails and national parks. It almost seemed too good to be true; where was the moss and overgrowth? He could give their landscraper credit, he supposed. Getting inside ahead of the others had required a little finnesse, but he'd had [i]plenty[/i] practice of quietly slipping inside buildings that offered no warm welcome. Assessing the wasn't too hard; Clancy had briefly contemplated using the chimney until he realised he was neither jolly nor fat - and realised there was an open balcony that would've just as easily led inside. Scaling the pillar and the railing wasn't a great effort, and prying open the door required just a touch of finesse. That got him inside, although by the time he'd done so, other figures were starting to appear on the horizon, and so he closed that door behind him. Making sure this wasn't going to be another disaster seemed sensible enough. Why let more of Ashley's idiot 'friends' get themselves killed before they could get results, if such a thing were possible. The night at the island, he'd left with a wretched outlook, stewing in his failure and surrounded by a crowd of people to stoke that fire - the toga party had stirred some [i]conflicted[/i] feelings at the back of his mind, which clashed with the expectations and subsequent behaviour he'd seen from them. For a group of supposed friends, it was clear the only consistent factor between them were the ties to the coven and the entity they fought, and these days it seemed as though that friendship was at its limits. Ashley's response from beyond the grave was telling enough, although he wondered if he wouldn't have said the same in her place among the dead, whether or not he'd known them. Her answer was enough to suggest she didn't want to be disturbed, and he could respect that to some degree. The other two, however.. Lionel Hunter - he'd named the killer as a 'he', although he never got specific, but the 'club' angle made something of a difference for him. Problem was, there were clubs all over what qualified as 'downtown', and he'd drawn enough trouble at the first club he'd gatecrashed on his way into town. Despite this, Clancy [i]had[/i] tried to find something of use, only to run into dead ends. Kari Wilson - an outlier in that she seemed to have no memories of their friend group - only [i]heavy[/i] footsteps before she died. So maybe Father Wolf [i]was[/i] a he, unless . They'd talked about her not being 'their' Kari that night, and from what he'd overheard from following the others, they seemed interested in her. That's why he was here tonight. The other victims had shown up dead too late to be of any use. In the case of Kali Mahendra - the one that seemed to be tied up with the federals and had supposedly died in a public place - he'd tried to get his hands on the security footage from the place he'd supposedly died, but it had been a dead end. The footage had already been taken by the authorities, or was conveniently absent when he'd gone poking through the back offices of a couple of local stores. Whether that was by design or negligence he didn't know, and he realised in poking around he'd exposed himself to more attention than he'd wanted. [i]Which brought him back to Kari Wilson.[/i] He'd watched, listened, tracked and waited. The surviving 'coven' had been planning a trip here anyway, and given Ashley's things had been tossed over, and the others had died [i]aware[/i] they were on the block with no real leads to offer in their dying, he rationalised that visiting Kari's place wasn't unreasonable. A clue at what she'd been doing, what had happened maybe. That aside, he was [i]tired[/i] of blindly fumbling for answers alone - as a stranger to St. Portwell and the history behind it. [i]Back on track.[/i] The upper floor had been cleared, for now. He didn't have the context or the background to know what else he might be looking for. Voices outside. They were close enough now that he could hear them more clearly. Another one of their number had died. Lyss. Clancy made his way downstairs, one eye on the front door, and the other taking in his surroundings. [color=goldenrod]“.. let’s all huddle up, focus, and give Auri our undivided attention, okay? But first let’s take a moment to pay respects to Lyss. She was a good egg. A lot of us are standing here today thanks to her,”[/color] A pause. Then, in the dark - a fire that resembled gaslight, blue and orange. Were they trying to pick the lock? He realised it was probably easier to unlock the door from the inside and let them in, but- [color=goldenrod]“I dunno, maybe we can just give her a moment of si—”[/color] [h3][b]BANG![/b][/h3] It burst open hard enough to dent the interior plaster and rebound back in the doorway, only for someone to catch it. [i]Sloane[/i] - he remembered her from the church, although she hadn't noticed him yet - he was stood off to one side, in a blind spot. [color=silver]“Door’s open. What are you waiting for? Let’s go accomplish fucking nothing again.”[/color] It was clear she wasn't making any friends, judging by the reaction of the others. [color=f4eb93]”I know because you think Kari is dead; it doesn't matter what we do to her house, but I'm not going to sit here and let you, or anyone else, trash her home. I don't want to be here, and I don't think we should be breaking into her house in the first place, but we need to show her - and her possessions - some [i]respect[/i].”[/color] [i]Good friends indeed.[/i] [color=f4eb93]”She was one of [b][i]us[/i][/b] - the most vital in fact - and you should leave your little world for a second and remember that.”[/color] [b]"You could've knocked,"[/b] Clancy answered, announcing his presence. As before, he wore the same green and yellow sports hoodie and awkwardly cut-to-length jeans, now bearing a few extra dark spots from almost two weeks of exposure to dirt, grime and other [i]detritus[/i] in the elements. [b]"At least your friend's kinda onto a point, but you really are a [i]shitty[/i] bunch of friends, to Ashley and the rest, d'you know that?"[/b] His expression was a cold condemndation, almost glowering, but he shook it off. [b]"If you can remember not to fight like a bunch of [i]high school kids[/i], maybe you'll get something done this time."[/b] As he stepped into view, the duffle bag slung over his shoulder, along the length of his body, came into view.