Ohm — Roleplayer Guild

For a million years,
we watched the sky
and huddled in fear.John Koenig, "Lachesism"

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

@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.

Julie Underwood 
Julie Underwood

@Raqueltrper

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?"

Tiffany Graves 
Tiffany Graves

@PatientBean

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."

Jordan 
Jordan

@Passable Writer

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.Matthew 7:13

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."

Iustina Anghelescu 
Iustina Anghelescu

@enmuni

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?

Marion Lovelace 
Marion Lovelace

@TokyoPewPew

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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𝚀𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎 // 𝚁𝚊𝚐𝚎

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