C U R R E N T A R C:
CASE 1:
T h e G a r d e n B e l o w
[IC] Lamplight
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Ohm 𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 // 𝙽𝚞𝚖𝚋
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For a million years,
we watched the sky
and huddled in fear.
The janitor sat in his truck, forehead resting long enough on the steering wheel that it would likely leave it red—with threadlike marks, to boot. The sounds of Blue Oyster Cult crackled through the speakers, the bass all but removed. There was something about the hollowness of hearing Bloom melodically lament the immutability of the seasons that remained embedded in the janitor's mind—an ethereal, grim reminder of borrowed time. His thoughts shifted as he pulled a breath into his diaphragm, and soon, he once more found himself at those familiar crossroads, where light was no friend. He hated how it was sealed, the feel of pallid all-too-smooth skin against his wrinkled, calloused hands. Staring into those damnable eyes, the color of a monkey's paw. The words that lingered far, far beyond when they were said.
He could feel the pressure in his head building. A sensation in his chest began to churn and dig up a pain that seemed to blink around in several spots, his breaths becoming shallower by the second. The janitor reached up and grabbed the steering wheel, his eyes screwing tightly shut just above his grinding teeth. The visions weren't ceasing. He could see the snow and desolation, the streak in the sky, the blood trailing into the wilderness, and her. Always her. He couldn't stop it from happening, and the thought ate away at him in smaller and smaller increments, savoring what little remained of the man.
And above her, the shadow of his enemy.
"All our times have come,
here, but now, they're gone..."
Sunlight breached over the eastern edge of the building nearby, piercing the window with an orange ray. It slid over the janitor's hand, the warmth slowly bringing him back to reality, as if a sign from beyond. He rose away from the steering wheel, leaning his head back against the headrest, his eyes pushing through the blurriness and focusing on the damp ground outside. It had rained not more than a couple days prior, and with that knowledge came a realization: the girl must've been taken during the storm.
A long exhalation escaped the man's throat as his gaze traveled skyward to the ceiling of the truck's cab. The fabric was fraying in several areas, discolored in others. He'd had this truck for a long time now, and it'd seen its fair share of damage, both explainable and not. The more difficult to buffer out, he contracted the old hag and her cohort to fix.
Old hag. The man snickered at the thought. How ironic.
The jumbling of radio ads tore his attention away, almost immediately filling him with baseline agitation. At that point, he knew it was time to get going. He shut the radio off with a flick of his index finger, then swung the driver's side of the door wide open with little care. It slammed shut behind him and he moved to the bed of the truck, leaning over the side and grabbing his cleaning supplies. As he came away from the truck, the man felt a tug at his steel blue jumpsuit, his vision sliding down to his work uniform being caught on a metal prong, one curled out from a particularly nasty gouge within the side of the truck's body. Within micrometers of the dastardly hook, a penny-sized hole in the uncomfortable fabric.
"Con— Be— Goddamn it!" The man nearly hurled the large, four-wheeled bucket across the gravel lot, opting instead to drop it next to his feet. The mop, broom, and cloth dusters, he tossed aside in anger as he began to fiddle with the part of his suit still ensnared upon the trap that was otherwise just property damage. He grumbled, thinking about what cruel deity would find the act of ruining a good jumpsuit amusing and freeing himself from the prong.
In a way, that anger served him well. His mind was no longer clouded with anxiety and pain. Clearing his throat, he felt the pressure in his head subside as he wandered around the lot, picking up his supplies before heading into the building—Forrester Public Library, the first one built here in the town. As the man pushed through the doors and disappeared from sight, the sun rose a little higher, gracing the treetops of Stone's Throw with the golden halo of a new dawn.
Elsewhere, that same sun illuminated a light pole on a street corner, the same one shared by Hopper's Bar, and fastened to that light pole was a poster.
It had been two days since Clara Mathews went missing, since she was last seen walking with an unsteady gait out of Hopper's Bar. The scene was lively and electric, much unlike the watering hole's usual days, and Clara was celebrating something, though the strangers couldn't say what. It was the happiest she'd been in a long time, but that happiness seemingly didn't last. Now, left in her wake were questions, and no one knew how to find the answers.
Somewhere out of sight, blood carves a path down a lone tree, daring the pierce the soil to the root.
CASE 1:
T h e G a r d e n B e l o w
A̷̚͢l̵͚̰̈︢e̷̴x̴̷͌a̸͌̚͜n͜d̷̵︢͌͢e͜r̵͚̰̚͢͜ Ḧü̴͌e͚̰͢ẗ̵̚h̴͌e̷͌̚r͚̰̈
A̷̚͢l̵͚̰̈︢e̷̴x̴̷͌a̸͌̚͜n͜d̷̵︢͌͢e͜r̵͚̰̚͢͜ Ḧü̴͌e͚̰͢ẗ̵̚h̴͌e̷͌̚r͚̰̈
A̷̚͢l̵͚̰̈︢e̷̴x̴̷͌a̸͌̚͜n͜d̷̵︢͌͢e͜r̵͚̰̚͢͜ Ḧü̴͌e͚̰͢ẗ̵̚h̴͌e̷͌̚r͚̰̈
@Tally Dor
Location Unknown
A night like any other, one filled with conversation and joy.
Alexander sits at the head of the table, flanked on both sides by his loved ones. Nearest him to the left, his wife Adriana smiles warmly, her thumb caressing the side of his hand. To his right, his two children, Caleb and Kirsten, argue quietly to each other about who can more quickly scarf down their food, prompting a response from their mother.
"Go slow. If you eat too fast, your tummies are gonna hurt, and I don't want you complaining about it later."
Their voices sound like hunger and taste like blood. Alexander hears the word 'eat' and his soul aches.
The sun is getting lower by the second. With the twilight comes another ache, one that splits the body from head to toe, divides in two. A separation within and without. From deep within Alexander's body comes a familiar dread. As he tries to focus on the meal in front of him, he envisions a hydraulic grip around his smiling wife's throat, an unholy and shrill scream echoing from a mouth split seven ways from Sunday. Crimson floods her eyes and stains her face, yet still she maintains a catharsis of acceptance and joy. She begs him to feed as his body tears itself apart. The children look on in anticipation, impatient.
They're wondering when it'll be their turn.
Beneath the table, Alexander's fingers begin to come apart from themselves, spirals of skin peeling in tiny spools. It was always painful, but never more agonizing than thinking of losing control.
"Honey?"
Alexander notices the love of his life staring. He can feel the beads of
[sweat? tears? blood? what do you need? what do you deserve?] sliding down his cheek. There is no smile. Fear feeds the beast."What's wrong?"
Alexander's body responds and causes his family to scream in horrific unison. The walls begin to peel and smoke. The space is rotting. The space is rotting. Your mind is rotting, Alexander.
What makes man different from a monster?
Carry-On Motel; Room 212
Alexander jolts awake on the cusp of an early morning. His forehead is slick with sweat, but the rest of him is slick with something else. The scent of blood fills the air. Another bad dream, a silent klaxon of a possible future, an unwanted end to an unfinished life. There is more to be done, Alexander knows this, and his search has led him here to the deceptively quiet town of Stone's Throw. Two centuries of hunting the creature, all leading to an unassuming place. Alexander felt it in the air when he arrived. This place will be a grave. It's just a matter of who'll fill it.
He didn't do much investigating in the 48 hours he's been here. Something was off, but it was hard to tell what it could be. However, he has a lead - a poster found taped to the front of a navy blue mailbox, sandwiched between two empty publisher boxes. The dust inside them gave off an eerie feeling, the awareness that newspapers weren't delivered for some time. In the back of his mind, Alexander had reasoned with the odd experience. The world was in the future, now. Paper media was seeing a phaseout. At least the missing persons poster is still physical. Emblazoned on the light beige paper in red and blue - a clue.
Revolori Street; Outer Stone's Throw
3.7 miles from the Dark Mile
"We have received report of missing woman. Records name her Clara Mathews. This would be typical missing persons report, but seems there was eyewitness to the event. I traced their IP to this place, but all I can do."
Through her communicator, the thick Eastern European accent of Julie's handler—a man referred to only as 'Marker'—sounds nearly garbled and unintelligible. Maybe it's because of the remoteness of Stone's Throw. The town itself is nestled deep in the Roukeshaw Forest, with only two roads at both the south and north ends leading in and out. Towards the south, the forest opens up into an interstate highway that cuts through the forest like a knife through paper. If one travels westward on that road long enough, they can see where the earth starts to fail in displaying its majesty, the edge of the highway giving passing drivers a view of the withering, wooden bones vaguely recalled as Lamplight.
To the north, another region called the Dark Mile. Julie did her research in the hours before being dropped off by an unmarked vehicle. Appositely named, the Dark Mile is a stretch of arid soil measuring one square mile, and tall tales from the community seem to depict the area as incapable of maintaining any sort of artificial light. Lasers, headlamps, flashlights, even flame-touched torches lit by human hands—all snuffed out by an unseen presence. Even during the day, the Dark Mile maintains an otherworldly shade, as if the clouds themselves move to obey its demands for darkness.
It's a tale parents tell their kids, to keep them in line, to keep them from wandering off. "All roads, to the lost, lead to the Dark Mile."
Julie doesn't seem the type for tall tales. There's always a truth hidden in the words. Superstition is just experience passed down through unwritten epitaphs, fear colored in purple prose, but for Julie, there is nothing that isn't worth investigating when it comes to the paranormal.
The agency Julie works for operates under a codename: CASS—Cybercommunciations Awareness Security Specialists. It's newer and much smaller than most agencies, established in 2012 and paling in comparison to the front-running BPA. Still, Julie likes to believe that even the smaller, less acknowledged of their curious kind can do good work, even if it takes considerably more ef—
"Miss Underwood."
He leans against a streetlamp that seems to flicker Morse code. An olive-green overcoat swallows his body, drenching it in shadow. One of his hands rests in a large pocket on the outside, while the other flicks ashes off the cherry of a lit cigarette in between his fingers. The light seems to reflect the color of his age, illuminating streaks of gray in his curtained hair. He pulls the cigarette to his lips, red-orange light dimly revealing a bearded face and the glint of serious, studious eyes. Only one thought comes to Julie's mind in the moment:
"God... again?"
Julie Underwood is no stranger to this man by now. Through the several times in which they crossed paths, she learned his name was Agent Joseph Arbor.
"You know," he says, pushing away from the streetlamp and casually strolling towards the—in his eyes—diminutive woman. "Here I am, on a mission for the Bureau, thinking I would have this place all to myself, and I see you—yet again. I would say this is a strange coincidence, but considering you've been following the BPA pretty much everywhere, I have half a mind to think you're looking to join us. That would be a bad move, considering your..."
Agent Arbor gives Julie a once-over from top to bottom, scanning her tailored suit the way he would a potential anomaly. Julie can feel his eyes searching her, as if he's closer than he wants to be.
"...conspicuousness."
He pulls his hand from his pocket, bringing with it a small case. With a flick of his wrist, the case pops open, revealing a stash of cigarettes, parallel and neat beneath velvet straps. The air that wafts out smells overwhelmingly of tobacco, with an interesting note of cedar.
"Cigarette?"
Carry-On Motel; Room 149
Tiffany can't sleep, not with all the voices flooding her mind.
She sits against the headboard of the bed with her knees drawn to her chest, fingers buried in her long blonde hair. Her powers are flaring, her telepathy a maelstrom that invites the waters of thought from the myriad seas of surrounding people. She can hardly sift through the rapid-fire synaptic transmissions, her brain filling with a static and almost physical buzzing until, suddenly, silence.
She knows better than to breathe right now.
"The girl will be thankful..."
Beneath the words, Tiffany can hear the slithering of slimy flesh, the groaning of long-ancient architecture that sways in a dark wind. The void has a way of emptying hope and optimism in just a few words, but the void never wants for words. The void has many and speaks often.
"It can feel the girl's fragile mind. It can feel the...
hopelessness?
wo rrrrrrry? f
e
a
r . . .
It can sense the girl searching for a way
o u t .
Tiffany's body shakes as the voice crawls across her brain, coloring her thoughts as it speaks.
"The girl is beholden to it,
and it has a
vision of the future."
Enter by the narrow gate, for the gate is wide
and the way is easy that leads to destruction,
and those who enter by it are many.
Stone's Throw Outskirts, Southern Road
By the time the sun begins to crest over the horizon, Jordan finds her way to the edge of Stone's Throw. She has been walking for an inordinate amount of time, longer than any normal human being ever should, to the point where she can feel the asphalt of the southern road leading into town on her bare feet, the soles of her tennis shoes and socks having disintegrated on the journey. The sensation is reminiscent of a distant life, though the modern world has all but obliterated the memory. Her mind wanders briefly, her hands automatically spreading away from her hips. Her gait shrinks as she slows down, closing her eyes. She can almost feel the high grass on her fingertips, the gentle breeze that sweeps across and rustles the vast elysian fields. She can feel the warmth of the sun shining down on her face. It's almost too warm. It is too warm.
She can see the fire.
Her eyes snap open at the sound of a passing car's horn, whose driver has plenty of time to curve around her and into the lane that usually welcomes oncoming drivers into town, before returning to follow Oregonian law. It's enough to pull Jordan out of the trance and help her refocus her efforts on the task at hand. There is someone here she needs to meet, but no actionable information to go on. The only thing passed down to her from a higher power was a name.
Jordan mulls over the singular detail. There could be many people by that name here in Stone's Throw. How will she know who it is? And what part are they to play?
The crown of her head starts to subtly warm. A swift breeze jostles her shoulder-length black hair. It is a sign that someone wants to speak.
"Faithful servant of Heaven, stand firm and be welcomed in the light of the Lord. No words be needeth spoken. Thy will to act in the name of the Almighty is all that is desired. He has need of your presence in this world, that you may perform in his stead and steel, in the name of the Lord, the faith of His children."
Fortesque Street, Eastern Stone's Throw
Near Hopper's Bar
The Turritopsis dohrnii is known worldwide to be the only animal in the kingdom considered 'biologically immortal.' Funny thing about immortality.
Iustina stares at the moist blood trail that still paints the alleyway path in small patches of deep red. She knows that this is where the girl was last seen. In the back of her mind, she knows that people like Salomé are somehow involved. She convinced herself of it before she even stepped foot in town. It is the ember of motivation that keeps her going.
The trail goes cold as quickly as it starts, the long and short of it summed up to a single drag mark leading east. There are clues here, but Iustina isn't much an investigator, no more than she is the very thing for which she searches. In the moment, there is a sense of loss, much like that fateful night—where a cradle became a tomb.
Was Iustina present for the burial? It's hard to say. Hatred and vengeance—a need to impart upon the ignorant a lesson—impetuses that can spurn a person into action. There is no greater compulsion, however, than those of desire and greed. Human nature dictates that we take what we can, for all is finite and nothing is guaranteed. In a way, Iustina's search is one of such pursuits. Deep down, there is a dark presence that echoes a single sentiment: They owe me. It's this sentiment that colors her perception of the blood patch on the pitch-black ground. Something about it looks... enticing.
And yet, there's an anomaly on the scene. Leaves. Fragments of tree bark. Marks across the walls that, in the barest light of the rising sun, look like trails of light-beige crayon from a distance. The evidence is inconsistent with Iustina's initial assumptions, and sows more confusion than certainty.
Just what happened here?
Forrester Public Library Entrance
3.5 Miles Northeast of Lamplight
Marion sits at a bench outside the entrance of Forrester Public Library. The building is in contrast to the world around it—modern brutalism flush against a rural, rustic backdrop. Concrete faces and sharp angles. Color was absent from without. It is the result of the town's attempt to modernize and grow, to attract new arrivals from surrounding counties, to improve their economy. At this rate, they would see an influx of potential residents in the next... anyway.
The doctor watches a man sitting in his truck. The vehicle has been parked for the past 40 minutes, the driver's head practically glued to the wheel. A fleeting thought crosses her mind. Perhaps he's asleep. Perhaps he's dead. Either possibility wouldn't be particularly surprising. From the records Marion dug into, she found that the nearby ghost town of Lamplight suffered chemical poisoning and became a Superfund site in 1981. The ground is so replete with lethal compounds that even an hour spent there could mean death, if not permanent change.
The man moves. Marion sees his head lean back against his seat. No sleep, no death. Not yet, anyhow. She watches the door swing open, and gleams a few details from the man's exit of the vehicle.
He stands quite tall at a startling six feet and three inches, an odd height for a man of his age. Judging from the long, frizzy white hair the man has pulled back in an unkempt ponytail and the matching beard, she can place him between the late 50s and mid-60s in age, though he seems surprisingly limber. He's dressed in a steel blue jumpsuit, the kind likely seen on those who do maintenance, and sure enough, she watches him lift cleaning supplies from the bed of his truck before tossing all of it across the gravel lot.
"Goddamn it!" A not-so-subtle drawl and twang. Born in the South, for sure.
He seems to be struggling with something, as old people often do. The casual anthropologist watches him struggle in a fight against the side of his truck. It would be amusing, had Marion been simply visiting to take in the sights, but she is here on a mission. The library will be open in only a few hours and, inside, there is knowledge on the surrounding area. There has to be. Within, Marion will likely find information on the military installation up north. It helps to have some sense of optimism, even if it can decay in real-time.
As her cigarette shrinks, she thinks back on the missing persons poster she encountered on the way here. This girl—Clara—taken too soon. Not even 30 years old. It had been two days since her disappearance, and there was no development on the situation so far. It's like people here aren't trying to search for her, and if they are, they're not trying hard enough. Sure, it's a small town and there might not be many resources, but it's a small town. How far could she get? The question is answered quickly—the trees. If she left Stone's Throw, she could be anywhere in Roukeshaw now.
The man is walking toward the library now. Seventy feet until he passes the first right-angled arch. He walks with the bearing of a man who's lived a long time, who's borne a lot of life's burdens, which means he might know a few things. She feels intrepid.
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GM
Ohm 𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 // 𝙽𝚞𝚖𝚋
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Dredged up from the black, the vision swirls into focus, bringing with it an abnormal clarity.
A tree sits isolated in a dark space. Embedded by its branches is a woman, still breathing, blood crawling from her wounds and down its trunk. Figures from the darkness emerge and prostrate before the tree, bowing out of rhythm, their bark-laden and gnarled bodies twisting in the scarce light. Smears of dried blood grace their jaws, a sign of feeding, yet they don't seem keen to eat the prey before them. As the woman's blood courses in stray rivers over the stains of other life, it reaches the bottom of the tree, curls over a root strong enough to pierce through stone, and out of sight.
Tiffany watches Stone's Throw from the air, a silent observer. The fringes of her vision separate the colors, distort slightly, and she witnesses—in all too instant a fashion—the obliteration of six square miles of land. Buildings erupt, their rubble cast skyward. The very ground cracks, sinks, is thrown in all directions, as massive roots spring forth like worms breaching the surface. They seek life everywhere, finding the distracted and scared and impaling their bodies clean through with wooden spikes. The screams of the tree's victims are drowned out by the sheer volume of destruction, the town sinking into the newly-formed crater that appears to grow.
In the center, rising from the depths of ruin, the tree ascends, its body increasing in size. Golden leaves enlarge upon gargantuan branches. A mile high, the tree comes to a stop, towering over chaos and death. Suddenly, silence. Tiffany listens to the breeze passing through the leaves of the forest below, a new greater being having joined their ranks.
And then, a dust-like cloud forms from the branches of the great tree and is carried by the wind, heading westward.
"the GIRL is human...
What hope does the girl have in preventing the inevitable? It desires destruction. It desires the chaos. The girl cannot hope to stop what comes. The girl will need its strength."
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PatientBean Hi, I'm Barbie. What's up?
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Tiffany Graves
Tiffany Graves
Tiffany Graves
The Spooky
Harm: 0
Luck: 0
Harm: 0
Luck: 0
Carry-On Motel: Room 149
The motel room felt claustrophobic, as if the walls themselves ebbed and flowed based on an internal heartbeat deep within its crevices. For all anyone knew, the motel itself was a living, breathing organism that fed on the unwashed masses that entered the front door with the jingling bell that promised some sort of mirth despite all evidence to the contrary. The man at the front desk, the one who had one hand on the desk to sign guests in and the other hidden not-so-discreetly underneath the counter towards his lap that fed the imagination of anyone who dared look him in the eye. The keys behind him, moving ever so slightly in the wind that smelled of discarded dreams and a lit cinnamon candle as if that would hide the motel's sins.
Tiffany had slept in much worse conditions (when she slept at all, which, admittedly, was few and far between evenings). She didn't like the way the motel clerk looked at her and ensured both locks on her door were engaged, as well as a chair placed under the knob (since she didn't trust the locks that looked like they wouldn't stop a whisper, let alone an intruder).
As she sat on the bed as the words overtook her brain, she wondered why she had come here. It wasn't as if she held roots anywhere else. It wasn't like she would be missed if the ever-present shadows that haunted her peripheral finally took her to its home. Any semblance of connection she held was either obliterated or damaged beyond recognition. And any that did hold was only hanging on by the slimmest of threads. She was sure she had an aunt somewhere or a cousin thereabouts who, during the middle of dinner when they weren't cursing their fucking rotten luck to be living in "dead end" nowhere while they worked their 9 to 5 and patted their back they didn't take the paper cutter on their desk to Rebecca in reception's arteries whenever she popped her bubble gum would ask "hey, I wonder what happened to Tiffany. You know, Tiffany? Used to be cute as a button until her mother was killed in that fire and her father took her to some priest or other because he believed his daughter was.....what did he say....oh right 'Satan incarnate'".
As if on cue, whenever Lucifer was brought up, the slow buzz in her head was silenced as she heard the whispers creeping around the corner. The words played around with tone and intonation as if it was presenting in front of a college class and needed to add drama to ensure they at least received a B for their efforts (participation counts for 20% of your grade, fucking monsters).
And then, the vision.
Not the first she had ever received, though they never got less disruptive. She felt herself rattle and shake as she saw the images vividly. The destruction. The carnage. The blood (always blood). A girl, perhaps the core of what the voices were talking about. Could be the missing girl she saw on one of the posters that was hung up haphazardly as if the barest of efforts to ensure she was found safely and, if not, at least intact could not be met by the man at the gas station and rang her up for the stale coffee she wanted while he stared at her chest.
As the vision ended, she paused to calm down (or at least stop rattling the bed lest her neighbors assume she is carrying on with more than she intended). Tiffany finally opened her eyes and regretted it as the color of the motel room's walls would make anyone contemplate taking their own life, as it would only improve the decor to find a rotting corpse on the stained carpet.
She swore inwardly, knowing that the vision she saw was to happen unless she stepped in to put a stop to it. Just another apocalyptic event that required her services. It was almost comical how much 'cosmic good' she did, and yet she never felt she earned her place in heaven because what sort of god or god-like entity would put her through all of this shit?
Tiffany walked towards the dresser, which held few possessions that any would-be thief would second-guess taking because dear Christ what person lived like this, and why weren't they the ones doing petty crime, and grabbed the small bottle of whiskey she bought with her coffee and took a swig. It would be empty by the day's end, but at least it burned in her throat by her own hand.
Grabbing her supplies, she went to the bathroom mirror and checked herself. Soulless eyes, dark circles, hair that she was proud of on a good day, and wanted to shave off on all of the bad. She could feel the pulse in her temples as she wanted to smash the mirror to break up the image of a woman who maybe had her life together, if only to show the cracks she felt inwardly.
Once she was satisfied she would not take a broken shard to her wrists, she left and entered the motel hallway. Tonight was going to be a fucking horrible night.
Why break tradition?
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Raqueltrper
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Julie Underwood
Julie Underwood
Julie Underwood
The Professional
Harm: 0
Luck: 0
As the unmarked vehicle drove off, leaving her alone, Julie cast her blue eyes upon the square mile of dark, dead soil. To a lot of people, the Dark Mile would send chills up their spine. Maybe if you had asked her several years ago, Julie would have told you the same thing. Now, however, after all she had seen, very little scared her - at least, when it came to superficial horrors. The flickering lights, the dark alleyways, the strange noises outside your window... It meant little at this point. Just part of the job. When you went underneath old Chuck E. Cheese locations to hunt down beasts lurking in the basement, or you wandered lonely caverns near rural towns to look for minute monsters hunting local children, it all became routine.
Her mind ran through the mission in her head. Clara Matthews, missing woman. Last seen leaving a bar. They had found an IP address of a witness. No doubt the witness was the one who had shared what they saw as a creepypasta story. Of course, Julie wasn't one to jump to conclusions - it was common for missing persons to turn into creepypasta stories. Someone hears about a person disappearing, and they start to come up with stories about how aliens took them to go fight some evil empire. Yeah I know, people lie on the internet - weird, isn't it?
But sometimes... sometimes those stories were true. What's the old cliche? That's where I step in. I carry a badge.
She took another step towards it when a voice broke through the darkness. "Miss Underwood." Julie froze and turned her head towards the sound. It was like something out of those old noir films: a man in an overcoat, hanging out by a streetlamp that was clearly on its last electrical legs. The streaks of grey hair betrayed a sense of experience, and that cigarette in his lips betrayed a certain level of ego she had come to expect. Since she fully recognized the man: Agent Joseph Arbor of the BPA. Also known, by those who hated speaking in acronyms, as the Bureau of Paraphysical Anomalies. CASS was like a smaller, perhaps more contained version of it: the BPA went after anomalies of all sorts, whereas CASS largely focused on those that might have been shared secretly online. A lot of the other agencies looked down at CASS, and stereotyped them as failed federal agents who spent their days watching YouTube videos or scouring forum posts. BPA agents were the worst, and were well known to look down on CASS agents. Arbor was certainly no exception. And somehow... somehow... Arbor kept showing up at her investigations.
Oooooooh boy, came a thought in her mind. Bring back the Chuck E. Cheese monsters, please...
He approached her, describing his surprise at seeing her. His eyes took in her tailor and made a comment on how conspicuous she was. Julie was in her standard dress: a dark beige pants suit, with a blazer tailored to her feminine shape, and a thin black tie that went down along her buttoned-down dress shirt. It did wonders to hide the flak vest underneath. Frankly, with that borderline Van Dyke mustache of his, she wasn't sure if he was one to talk about conspicuousness.
"Well you know," Julie said, smiling to show no sign that Arbor was irritating her, "my father was a lieutenant inspector on the force. He dressed sharp too. He had a saying when people mocked him for it: 'If I die, I die well dress.'" She actually had a cover story for her dress: she was a reporter from a newspaper out of town, investigating the missing girl claims. Of course, she wasn't about to share that with Arbor - she trusted him like she trusted a greasy frat boy with a free drink.
It was then he offered a cigarette, and she waved her fingers in a dismissive manner. "I gave it up in college. I only smoked them to stay awake anyway." She crossed her arms then and leaned her head back. Given her short-cut blonde hair, almost like a pixie cut, it exposed her slender neck well. She'd certainly had to stick her neck out for people in the past before - and nearly lost her head a few times in the process. "The bigger question, Arbor, is what are you doing here? Why would BPA be interested in a small town like this? Surely you all prefer to let the small fry agencies handle the small town problems. You know, like CASS."
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Tally Dor Head in the clouds, but my gravity is centered.
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A̷̚͢l̵͚̰̈︢e̷̴x̴̷͌a̸͌̚͜n͜d̷̵︢͌͢e͜r̵͚̰̚͢͜ Ḧü̴͌e͚̰͢ẗ̵̚h̴͌e̷͌̚r͚̰̈
A̷̚͢l̵͚̰̈︢e̷̴x̴̷͌a̸͌̚͜n͜d̷̵︢͌͢e͜r̵͚̰̚͢͜ Ḧü̴͌e͚̰͢ẗ̵̚h̴͌e̷͌̚r͚̰̈
A̷̚͢l̵͚̰̈︢e̷̴x̴̷͌a̸͌̚͜n͜d̷̵︢͌͢e͜r̵͚̰̚͢͜ Ḧü̴͌e͚̰͢ẗ̵̚h̴͌e̷͌̚r͚̰̈
The Monstrous
Harm: 0
Luck: 0
Harm: 0
Luck: 0
Alexander eyes blinked a few times as he tried to chase away the haze that still clung to his consciousness. He could feel the bed sheet beneath him was caked to his back and buttock. Slowing raising his arm he pressed his palm up against his forehead and applied pressure. His skin felt bitterly cold to the touch despite the sweat. It always felt this way. Waking up that is. A small sigh escaped his parched lips.
Every.
Damned.
Morning.
A different dream. A new nightmare. Some sick twisted fantasy that the entity had cooked up in an effort to break his psyche. One would think they would grow numb to this after a time, but every dream felt as long as a lifetime. Every loss, every life that slipped through his fingers bit deeply. A family started. Children raised. New friends made along the way. Then it was all snatched away. He raised himself from the bed as he felt the fabric break free from his skin. His blue eyes drifted down to the mess on the bed. The after-effects of its rage at being contained. Sometimes he wondered how he always managed to survive after so much blood loss.
He shoved the thought out of his mind as he headed into the bathroom and climbed into the shower. After ruining countless outfits sleeping naked was the only recourse. He gripped the faucet and cranked the water up to its highest setting on hot as the water cascaded down upon his body. Alexander closed his eyes and frowned. He could feel it. His skin was rippling almost like a still pond that was struck with a stone. The water that should have hit the floor by now had still not reached his legs as his body drank greedily.
In time he left the shower and donned an old outfit. The clothes were more or less rags, but they did the job. Allowing him to pass off as a bum. Alexander rummaged through the old backpack until he found it. A missing poster he had taken from a light pole.
'Hopper's bar.'
It was a start. The digital age was not one of mankind's greatest creations in his opinion, but the advancement of technology did have some benefits as his eyes swept across the dilapidated motel room. A place fit for a peasant several hundred years ago but barely fit for a modern-day beggar now. At least the electricity had made it, so fire was more or less outdated. Stepping out into the hallway, he made sure to place the do not disturb sign on his doorknob as he knew eventually the mess on the bed would have to be dealt with. His eyes briefly landed upon a blonde-haired girl in the hallway before his focus returned to the task at hand and he left via a side door in the opposite direction.
Alexander was unsure if the missing girl was related to his prey, but it was a worthy start. If nothing else asking around the bar for other strange occurrences, missing people, and mangled livestock might point him in the right direction if the girl was unrelated. He could feel his stomach growl as he rounded a corner. It had been a week since he last feed, but the hunger pains were still only minor for now.
2x Like
GM
Ohm 𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 // 𝙽𝚞𝚖𝚋
Member
Seen
0-24 hrs ago
"Mmm... the girl is still so determined. How delicioussssss...
.
. .. . .. . . .
.
.
.
It will make her relinquishment to it all the more s w e e t."
Tiffany steps out into motel hallway, a short passage with more fire exits than rooms. One wall of the hallway opens out into an exterior atrium, at the center of which is a pool, placid waters occasionally interrupted by the burbling of submerged jets. In the back of her mind, she could feel the void in her head crawl across her brain, invading the folds and coloring her every thought.
Somewhere across the way, on an upper floor, she feels a pair of eyes on her. By the time she notices, the figure—a bald man dressed in rags—had turned and started descending a different set of stairs, heading towards the exit.
"WELL, NOW."
"whAT AN INteresting ᙅ ᖇ ᙓ ᗩ T ᙀ ᖇ ᙓ. So full of... secrets."
Before Tiffany is able to control her thoughts, a dark impulse arises.
"Follow it. Break the body, tear it open. It wants to see its insides, the intricacies of the inhuman."
Alexander reaches the first floor of the motel, moving down the hallway towards the entrance. He passes numerous rooms in which he can hear some sort of life—arguing, making love, wondering whether life is worth living. With each passing room, the hunger at his core begins to rise even more. There's a part of room that reckons that most of these people are forgettable, if they were ever thought about in the first place. It is a dangerous thought to have in the wake of trying to keep himself together. If he's to stave off the other side, he'll need to find a wandering animal and feed.
It's a mile's walk from the motel up north to Fortesque Street, home of the locally legendary Hopper's Bar. Twenty minutes, give or take.
"The BPA goes where they're needed, Miss Underwood." Arbor snaps the cigarette case closed and slips it back into his pocket. "And they're always needed. Need I remind you of La Huerta, near Roswell? If it weren't for us, you'd have a large metal rod so far up your ass you'd be speaking languages only heard halfway across the galaxy. If we left it to the small agencies, like... what was it? CASS?"
Arbor takes a long drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke billow out as it scales across his face and into the cool air.
"There'd be no agencies left, and I don't think your father would like that his daughter caused the end of the world."
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TokyoPewPew rpguilder (derogatory)
Member
Seen
6 hrs ago
"█̸̥̯̥̥̓̏̍█̶̣̗̦̮͛̋█̶̧͙̞̤͑̂█̶̛̤́█̶͖̜̬̓̍̈̑█̸̘̪͉͆̆█̴͙̤̒̈́̚ ̵̼̽͑█̸̯̠͙̲̎͝█̶̥̗͇̆█̵̗̊̈́̈́͠ ̷̪͛̆͒͜͝█̸̢̼̗͎̕█̶̢̹̠͐th, 2016. 6:30 A.M. exactly. Couldn't sleep——too anxious——didn't want to leave the relative privacy of my motel room but eventually paranoia lost the battle to sheer restlessness. Between the ceiling fan and the hum of the A.C. unit, both conspiring to keep the room arctic-cold, both inducing a slow, itchy madness..." [scoff] "Didn't plan on making another recording until I had something more to say——had made some concrete progress——but the library doesn't open until nine and there's not much else to do. Just smoke cigarettes and shoot the breeze...Funny. Yesterday's message was a suicide note in all but name but sitting here on this public bench, intact, unmolested, I blush with a sense of melodrama. Of sheer, staggering silliness. In truth I fight the urge to delete it. A ludicrous fallacy, of course——just ask theEdmund Fitzgeraldand her twenty-nine icy dead whether calm waters today augur calm waters tomorrow——and just because I can't see anyone watching me...begssomeone to wonder what's behind it. And shudder at the state-sanctioned violence they will do to keep one from wandering too close. But that leaves the observer to make an educated choice, doesn't it?——risk it all to get inside, or keep walking. And that won't do. No, maybe that's how | __________________________________________ 
|
you send a message, but not how you keep a secret, and if you were in charge of this coverup, with the stated goal of keeping eyes off Lamplight at all costs, no expense spared——you would almosthaveto recognize Stone's Throw's crucial importance in that endeavor, wouldn't you? It's the enemy's bridgehead. It's where she'll eat, sleep, plan, and recover. Where-to she'll retreat when things get dicey. Where-from she will launch all her efforts. And sending weapons and uniforms goosestepping down Main St., tangling the sidewalks in barbwire——dammit I'm a fool. If this place is anything to them it's a damn honeypot, not a bulwark! They're watching; they'relistening;they don't have to shoot a single living soul near the cordons because they can disappear people right here, right off the sidewalk. Anyone who fits the profile. Investigative journalists, whistleblowers, tinfoil hatters, why not? Anyone who asks the wrong questions, naturally. But anyone who stumbles too close at all, too, wittingly or otherwise!" [The morning air is so still, so quiet, one can hear the crackling of the cigarette paper as the speaker inhales.] "Sorry, I'm not used to this yet. Questioning everything, taking nothing for granted. I mean intellectually speaking I am, but not, not...existentially. Checking and re-checking peer-reviewed, trustworthy sources, sure, a little skepticism is just prudence, but this...holistic paranoia? It's exhausting. Does it get easier with practice? When does it stop being sotiring?"Let's just..." [swallowing] "Taking stock for a minute. Irrational anxieties be damned, I'm sure nobody remembers me. It's been eighteen years for God's sake. I haven't done anything suspicious in town so I can move freely for now. At this stage they'd have to find the dirt bike and I'msureI hid it as well as it can be hid. I mean even if they found tire tracks, even if they ascribed more significance thereto than the mere leavings of——of offroading hooligans, they'd have to follow those tracks uphill, downhill, over all manner of terrain. (Already a lot to ask of an E-3.) They'd have to bushwack and trailblaze, maybe for hours, through the wet, with all their equipment slogging them down. Then they'd have to find it despite the camouflage. And afterall that,I unbolted the license plate and scoured the VIN, so they'd have to think to check the serial numbers, which couldmaybelead back to me eventually...no. No, I think I'm in the clear. As long as I don't get complacent now. No heroics, no unnecessary risks, just keep my head down and do what I came here to do. Which...assumenothing. Starting with the MSMA, which for all I know might not be MSMA at all but an entirely different chemical or hell, a whole alphabet cocktail of them. After all, what layman is going to know better? And which farmer whodoesknow better is going to say anything, when it's no doubt been heavily impressed upon him——upon them all——what will happen to their wives, their children if they do? No. First order of business——after the library, of course——has to be learning the true chemical composition of this stuff. Ascertain that I'm not wasting my time out here. I don't have the equipment nor the know-how to do this myself, of course. Bringing the samples back with me will just have to do. There's spectrometers and chromatographs in the Chemistry Department; someone there will help me for sure. Then a simple cross-reference with the records; check for chemical decomposition over time; check for any attempts to clean up or neutralize the spills; and I should have a pretty decent picture of whether the official story is bullshit. Then either the funreallybegins, or...or else I've expended a whole lot of time, money, and emotional energy on a snipe hunt.isn'ta snipe hunt, the size and coordinates of the Superfund area should tell me, fairly accurately, which tributaries one could have used to disperse a water-soluble toxin at such scale. True, it may yet prove to be as simple as following the █̶͙̈́͝█̸͍̾█̴̹̦̲͊̑̓█̶̡̗̲̪̅̓͊█̸̠̏͗̍͜█̴̛̤̣̈̽█̷̰͉̩̞͒͝█̶̝̪͈͓̔█̵̫̠̗͔̾͌́█̵͎̀̓█̸̻̝̱̈́█̷͔̎̅̎͝ River until I reach that cranberry farm, but it's best to be prepared. And by the time I've gathered all this the library will be open. Then it's a fairly straightforward, if tedious, matter of——...of...""Con——be——god damn it——goddammit!" "What is he——?...I wonder...Sir?" [footsteps: leather soles clacking imperiously over flagstone] "Sir, hold on a moment. Let me help you with that..." |
GM
Ohm 𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 // 𝙽𝚞𝚖𝚋
Member
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0-24 hrs ago
"Sir, hold on a moment. Let me help you with that..."
The old man grumbled inaudibly. Great. Another one.
As the woman approached him, her shoes clicking off the flagstone and coming onto the gravel, he held up a hand, moving with a uncharacteristic spryness.
"I'm good, lady. Don't need the help, but..." He pictured her dead in the forest, mangled, limbs lost to the wilderness, and lowered his hand. "Thanks for the offer."
He took note of the area and the woman, picking up on the fact that she was here seemingly before him. The observation made him feel uneasy as he picked up the cleaning bottle, no safety diamond in sight. "Little early for the library, aint'cha? Ain't open for another couple hours. There's a diner down the street; should be open right 'bout now. You can hang out there. See that sign? No loitering."
PatientBean Hi, I'm Barbie. What's up?
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Online
Tiffany Graves
Tiffany Graves
Tiffany Graves
The Spooky
Harm: 0
Luck: 0
Harm: 0
Luck: 0
Carry-On Motel: Hallway
Tiffany had been in therapy before. Credit where it's due, the therapist tried her best. She saw a young girl before her, clearly traumatized from the loss of her mother and her father doing anything except calling for an exorcism. Tiffany bets the therapist was a straight-A student through school, had a perfect plan ever since she was little and wanting to help people. The therapist probably had a harsh home life. A mom who smoked too much and had "friends" come visit whenever her father, a hard-working, hard alcohol lover who worked overtime because it meant he didn't have to be home to watch his life decay in slow-motion. The therapist probably had a sibling or a pet (what was the difference to her?) who she confided in who probably died from suicide if only to get away from her. That was the trigger, that was the moment the therapist decided she wanted to be there for others. Be the guide to help them meet their potential. It isn't too late, it's never too late.
So a little girl in pigtails who lost her mother recently was a snap. The perfect patient. Hell, there was probably some guide book on what right questions to ask to elicit responses, the use of art or toys to get the young child to open up without realizing they are doing so. The therapist probably had a peer reviewed journal printed out and ready to use when the moment sprang that the little girl burst into tears recalling how much she missed her mother. How much she wished her father could be there for her. Boo hoo so on and so forth.
What the therapist hadn't expected was the girl sitting there staring at her. No emotion on her face. No sadness, no anger, no fear. Simplicity for simplicity's sake. The therapist would not admtit this openly (she did so later at some dive bar she went to where she downed a bottle of bourbon and decided she needed to go into a career change and wondered how much park rangers made yearly where they could live in isolation and not be bothered by, say, scary demon children), but it was unnerving how little the girl moved. There was no idle curiosity of a young child being in a new environment. There was no questions about what they would do or if they could play a game. The therapist tried eliciting responses and got one-word answers in return.
Did she miss her mother: Yes
Was she sad: No
Why wasn't she sad: Voices
What voices you ask? Or rather the therapist did. Was she on to something? Hallucinations could be a sign of trauma. Instead of answering the little girl asked for a sheet of paper and some coloring supplies. The therapist provided them, secretly hoping this would be the dtart of a flourishing career with a book she wrote about her work. As the little girl drew the therapist made pretend speeches at psychology conferences and acceptance speeches for awards she would be given for her work.
Once she was done the little girl sat back in her seat. The therapist looked at the drawing and her insides curdled. Her blood felt frozen in place. It was as if looking at the drawing was slowly seeping black ooze into the crevices of her brain. She felt the urge to scream but held it in, allowing it to fester in her organs. She would vomit later recalling the drawing. Even after she took it and burned it, it was as if the drawing lingered, laughing at her.
The little girl was never seen again. The therapist claimed insurance issues but the truth is she wanted the little girl as far from her as possible.
She wondered if Yosemite National Park was hiring.
As Tiffany entered the hallway she felt the presence of someone else. She felt eyes on her, albeit briefly, so she pretended to not notice the man as he turned and walked away.
Then she felt the slow buzz, the thoughts creeping into her head.
Battered. Bruised. Broken.
She knew if she ignored it that it would get worse and grow and consume. She wasn't about to commit a felony, not yet at least, but she could pretend. She pretended every day. She pretended to be an ordinary citizen of this country. She pretended like she functioned normally, had normal thoughts, didn't think about jumping over every bridge she passed or running in front of a speeding car if for no other reason than to see if she could. Pretend like she could be just some person you passed that had an apartment she could barely aford while she worked some dead-end job that barely covered a grilled cheese sandwich let along the utilities she needed to ensure she could clean herself or not freeze to death in the middle of the night.
So she mumbled a curse under her breath, turned, and started to follow the man who did not ask for this, would never ask for this, and could very easily take her out or report her to the authorities depending on his mood. Let's just see where he goes. Maybe he is a serial killer and this will be easy or perhaps he is a father of two and a half kids and this will be less easy.
Either way, this day was getting dark.
Tally Dor Head in the clouds, but my gravity is centered.
Member
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1 hr ago
A̷̚͢l̵͚̰̈︢e̷̴x̴̷͌a̸͌̚͜n͜d̷̵︢͌͢e͜r̵͚̰̚͢͜ Ḧü̴͌e͚̰͢ẗ̵̚h̴͌e̷͌̚r͚̰̈
A̷̚͢l̵͚̰̈︢e̷̴x̴̷͌a̸͌̚͜n͜d̷̵︢͌͢e͜r̵͚̰̚͢͜ Ḧü̴͌e͚̰͢ẗ̵̚h̴͌e̷͌̚r͚̰̈
A̷̚͢l̵͚̰̈︢e̷̴x̴̷͌a̸͌̚͜n͜d̷̵︢͌͢e͜r̵͚̰̚͢͜ Ḧü̴͌e͚̰͢ẗ̵̚h̴͌e̷͌̚r͚̰̈
The Monstrous
Harm: 0
Luck: 0
Harm: 0
Luck: 0
As Alexander crossed the threshold that led to the outdoors. He paused and breathed in the fresh air. He felt far more at home outside then in a building. Truth be told he preferred to stay away from towns in general when it could be help. His adversary apparently had other plans in mind. He had been tracked it to the outskirts of the town roughly ten miles out, before the trail went cold. Alexander exhaled as his blue eyes scanned what was immediately in front of him. A few small businesses and wilderness beyond.
As he inhaled again, he felt his body twitch. His eyebrow raised at the faint scent on the wind. Covering his face like one might when they wished to blow warm air into their palms. Several orifices opened up near his nose causing a slight trickle of darkened blood to drip down his face. Parting his fingers ever so slightly he deeply inhaled. Drawing in breath far beyond what any normal human's lungs would be able to bring in. If it were not for the baggy shirt, one might have noticed his chest had in fact expanded disproportionately to the rest of his body.
It was there alright. The unmistakably sweet smell that haunted his very being now.
'Human blood.'
He began walking towards the scent, almost getting hit by car as he crossed the street, but paid it little mind. Not because of his now gnawing hunger but because there was also something vile upon the wind. The faintest trace. Almost easily overlooked if he allowed himself to get lost in what his body craved. Moving his hands from his face, he quickly passed by the businesses that blocked his access to the wilderness surrounding the town and walked several hundred feet letting his nose guide him. Alexander was sure of it. The breeze that ruffled his shirt and caressed his skin. He was definitely downwind of it now but still a ways away.
He pulled his shirt off and stuffed it into the hollow of an oak tree just in case of a fight. His pants already filled with holes on the legs he ignored as he was at least out of sight of the buildings that marked the town now. While he was not starved his body was on the weaker side.
"To take I must give."
He whispered to the wind as his calf muscles began to bulge and expand. The skin stretching before ripping unable to contain the rapid muscle growth. He groaned as each of his feet split in half up to the cuneiform bone. As the mangled flesh seemed to recede and bone fused almost given it a hoof like bone, while a similar spike extended from the heel to give more balance. Alexander wheezed at the pain as his right hand bent back unnaturally and from his wrist tore out a nearly two feet bone blade. He leaned upon it as he regained his bearings. It was draining to transform like this while hungry and to access his more advanced powers required him to take energy away from other parts of himself. In this case it was his left arm that hung uselessly. It blew about in the wind. Hollow like a glove. No muscle, no tendon, no meat, only a skin sleeve.
Bracing himself Alexander launched forward with explosive speed packed into his legs, his clawed feet digging into the ground for additional purchase as he raced forward prepared for a fight, using his right arm to keep himself balanced, whether it was piercing into the ground or a tree to stabilize himself. After running for roughly four miles, he came upon it. Laying before was a grisly sight. It was a hiker. They were sprawled on their back with their torso opened up and all the inners gone with chunks of meat gone at random on their arms and legs. There glazed over eyes were skyward. Staring at nothing with sheer terror and pain still etched upon their face.
Alexander rapidly turned a few times as he scanned the horizon and the tree line. The scent ended here. Only a dead hiker, its killer was nowhere to be seen. As his legs lost mass and his feet fused back together and his left arm begun to fill, he kept his right arm bladed. He kneeled down to the hiker. It was an African American man. Most likely in his late thirties. The body was at least a few days old. Judging by the backpack they had been out for a while and most likely weren't even missed by anyone yet.
"I am sorry." He spoke to the dead. "I shall catch your killer and allow you to become a part of something greater."
Using his free hand he closed the man's eyes. He sighed as he could feel his body beginning to split open from his shoulder blade to almost his groin. His rib cage broken and jagged like serrated teeth. Within moments the body would be completely gone.
Passable Writer Admirably Adequate
Member
Seen
5 mos ago
Jordan
Jordan
Jordan
The Divine
Harm: 0
Luck: 0
Harm: 0
Luck: 0
Stone's Throw Outskirts, Southern Road
The words she heard were impossible, rooting her bare feet to the half-frozen road as she listened, struggling to understand. So many voices. Tongues all at once familiar, and yet beyond her comprehension, shifted until at last she understood. The fading light grew brighter, touching her skin with a warmth that drove away the weariness that she had long ignored. Her tattered shoes lay neatly beside her, pitiable companions that could go no further, and do nothing more than bear silent witness.
Stone’s Throw loomed before her.
She knew nothing of it, save that she saw a place shrouded in strange shadows, mournful shapes that she couldn’t explain, but saw, even in the twilight. The forest shrouded with dying leaves seemed an ill omen, accompanied by warnings whispered on each cold gust of wind. The autumn morning, aglow with the light of the rising sun, met her much diminished, stripped of all warmth and welcome. Driven by her purpose, time faded from her thoughts, the ever-changing voices guided her, beseeching her to continue onwards. Nourished her beyond hunger and the many other pitiful, insistent demands made by her flesh. It was always there. Always with her. With each breath that she took. It was real, more real than world around her. Her own personal kismit.
A name, just a name, but a name was a start.
Marion.
The name meant nothing to her. No memories sprung up from the depths of her awareness and she felt no pang of emotion. But there was power in a name. Power that most had long since forgotten.
No one had said her job would be easy. She knew this and she accepted it.
The ethereal voice comforted her, by word and presence. She believed, but it was a relief to know that she had not lost her way along the journey. Boston was just another memory now, a brief moment of respite before duty roused her. They’d soon forget her. The case had fallen apart without the bodies. No one had any desire to remember. She was a problem, an inconvenience that all desired to bury before the flurries of the first winter snow arrived. To do anything else, meant that they might stumble upon the truth, the truth that horrors resided amongst them, that the world was not, and had never been, as they perceived it.
She forgave them. The truth of their own inadequacies, the weakness that adorned them, basking them in the soft glow of mundane sin, would permit them little else.
Jordan closed her eyes, her arms falling to her sides, palms open to the sky. The voice overwhelmed her, hidden meaning ringing like a great bell, booming louder than any noise around her, each thundering strike so perfect, so pure that it pained her to hear them.
She was ready, and she listened.
Boss from Beyond roll --> 9 (4, 4, +1)
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Iustina Anghelescu
Iustina Anghelescu
Iustina Anghelescu
The Wronged
Harm: 0 | Luck: 0
Fortesque Street, Eastern Stone's Throw
Near Hopper's Bar
Much like any other sort of person, every vampire was different. Each one had their own preferences for hunting. But what exactly had this one meant to do? Had it been trying to disguise itself as a plant? Had this been a spontaneous hunting session by a fresh vampire who’d barely dusted themself off? Whatever had gone on here, the details were definitely far from what Iustina had come to expect of vampires. Hopefully, she could wring some commentary out of it before its time came. But that depended on catching the thing.
The blood trail gave a clear direction. Once she had photographed the scene to her satisfaction, Iustina started following the blood. It was fortunate that neither weather nor foot travel had completely eroded the trail. As expected, the vampire had taken care not to spill too much blood. Whatever wounds it had made were either shallow or quickly attended to to the best of its ability. Drop by drop, the trail proceeded eastward. The benefit of small towns like Stone’s Throw was that there was no constant flurry of activity muddling useful information with countless other stories. And the weather hadn’t yet wiped the slate clean either.
Drop by drop, Iustina started to assemble a picture of the night. The attack must have been in the alley, no doubt. There, Clara had most likely been knocked out, bound, or otherwise incapacitated. The trail appeared to indicate so, anyway. The distribution of the droplets, to Iustina’s eye, suggested Clara had not been putting up any significant struggle by the time she was taken from the initial scene. Few and far between though these droplets were, they were still bread crumbs offering some vague direction. The vampire had brought her east, in the opposite direction of the bar. Iustina followed the trail for some kilometer or so to the edge of the town. It was a shame. The stupid ones, the unlucky ones—those were easy quarries. It was moments like these where Iustina wished she had a good hunting dog. The wilderness was busier than the town; already, the wildlife had messed up the trail enough that she doubted she could reliably follow the trail by sight. A good nose could have caught a scent.
She shook her head and sighed. She could waste time contemplating possibilities out of her reach, or she could change course. When hard evidence wasn’t working out, the next best thing was eyewitness accounts. Even though townsfolk were less nosy than they were before modern entertainment, if there had been any noise—any sort of attention-grabbing commotion—at least a few of the neighbors would likely have peeked out the window. Considering nobody, as far as Iustina knew, had called the police the night of the incident, it was unlikely there would be any substantial reports. But if nothing else, maybe there were people who had later gone in with things they’d observed, or who just needed a bit of help jogging their memories. And, if that failed, they might at least be reminded to be on the lookout for future incidents.
The beginning of a new hunt was usually like this. It was a lot of throwing mud against different walls to see if anything stuck. If this murder was a one-off thing, and no new clues or incidents occurred, then it would be a bust, and she’d have to look for the next hook. Fortunately, as she understood it, few vampires were keen to abandon a community they’ve been invited into so quickly. For now, it was a matter of doing a broad diagnostic, and see what loose ends there were to pull at.
Iustina took a moment to straighten her posture and make sure her appearance was sufficiently confident and professional before she proceeded. Then, she approached the last residence on the street before the town gave way to wilderness. She rang the doorbell, and waited.
If there were an answer, she’d start with a simple lead.
“Good morning. If you have a moment, I’d like to ask you a few questions about the Clara Mathews situation.”
1x Like
GM
Ohm 𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 // 𝙽𝚞𝚖𝚋
Member
Seen
0-24 hrs ago
As Jordan listened to the myriad voices in her head, she could feel her vision swim, shifting the space around her as it became consumed in an all-encompassing fog. As it dissipated, Jordan found herself standing on a dirt road. The area around her was pitch-black, save for the sky above, glittering lights of the stars doing nothing to brighten the space. Here, Jordan could feel a great heaviness and an even greater dread. Somewhere in the dark, somewhere on this road, someone was breathing raggedly.
"Listen, child. On this road, a contract was forged between Man and the first of our fallen brethren. The one whose soul is bound to the dissipating sands of time—they are your charge. They made a foolish mistake for the sake of revenge."
Jordan hears the breathing getting closer, becoming gravelly and bestial. A newfound gravity begins to sink her shoulders.
"Salvation awaits them, but only you can deliver unto them its glory. What I ask of you is no small matter; you face..."
Jordan watches as a silhouette grows in size, standing at nearly double her height. Antlers, crooked and thorned, threaten to pierce the very night sky, and two hollow white orbs where its eyes might be assumed to exist dare to invade the Divine's very being with simply its gaze.
"...Hell itself."
Beneath the head of the hulking silhouette, Jordan notices a glint in the dark. A pair of coiled serpents, made of silver, devouring themselves as they submerge into the black. She hears a growl as the silhouette lunges toward her, claws outstretched.
Before she can react, the scene has changed, revealing the southern road to Stone's Throw. She has returned to the present, the last frame of the vision burned into her mind: a decaying skull, rotting meat sloughing off the discolored bone in chunks. The jaw of the creature, unhinged and wide, threatening to swallow her whole. The skin, rippling with muscle and scars and abscesses, weeping a sickly fluid. The thirst for blood. The creature, in her newly awakened reliquary of knowledge, seems oddly familiar. The name is dredged from a memory she didn't know she had until now, until it's sifted from the deep and made clear to her.
There's a wendigo in Stone's Throw.
The place was silent for several moments, the signs of someone inside only made apparent through the toppling of some glass object from within. For a time, there was no answer to the knock at the door, but then, it swung open with the width of a hand, the grizzled face of a hungover man peering through the crack as a familiar of cigarettes and faint alcohol wafted out. He sighed, thinking the woman at the door was someone else, but then he heard her speak.
“Good morning. If you have a moment, I’d like to ask you a few questions about the Clara Mathews situation.”
The man stared at Iustina, casually failing to rub the graying stubble on his chin. His eyes shifted in various directions almost imperceptibly, as if the world decided not to stay in one spot. With a gruff clear of this throat, he repositioned his body, standing just a little bit firmer, the sparse light of the sunrise illuminating his lack of a shirt.
"You a cop?" he asks.
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