2020-10-08 A Dark Promise, a Cold Blade

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A Dark Promise, a Cold Blade
Tabin and Wick are jumped by an old friend of Tabin's, but not the type of friend you want.
IC Date October 8th, 2020
IC Time Evening
Players Tabin, Wick
Location The Artist's Guild - Gallery
Spheres Changeling


Setting

The Artists' Guild - Gallery

Glass dooes open redwood tile floors and brick walls, hanging bulb lights which combined give a grunge-like rustic atmosphere. There is no ceiling, in a sense, but instead is left often to show off the rafters. The air is cool here, held at constant temperature that is while cool, also a touch dry. The faint smell of canvas, paint and oils lingers in the air that gives the gallery a artisian perfume.

The Gallery has several areas, partitioned off with walls that while open to the room can easily allow art and sculptures to be orchestrated by genre, style or type. Each piece has it's own lighting bolted to the rafters to help illuminate the artwork - making them stand out in the otherwise low-light atmosphere of the gallery.

To the east is an archway in the wall that leads to a storefront with all manner of paint, canvases and other items as needed. Toward the back of the showroom, tucked behind a wall, is a door with a keypad and card reader with a sign saying 'Members Only'.

Chimerical chimes signal your entrance into this place that seems to repulse the cold winds of banal autumn outside. The walls behind the paintings are cascaded in chiemrical frescos of epic tales of yesteryear that seem to be alive as one traverses the showroom. A sailor raising a blade to a moving kraken, a young oak that grows to fruitfulness, all sights to be seen in the living painting - each one putting an art piece as central to whatever motif is being depicted.

Scene

It's not 8pm like it says it is. It is NEAR closing. Therefore it is close to 5pm instead of 8. Tabin, is manning the battlements of the Artists Guild rearranging the gallery with fresh new works. He is currently hanging signs and sent a text to Wick seeing if he wanted to come over and meet up - then after work they could go bro out somewhere. The Gallery just has Tabin, and a few mundanes give waves bye to Tabin as they depart - the fact they have paint on their fingers and stained clothes probably suggest they had been painting.

Wick responds at once - and he arrives quite soon after that. Clearly, the Satyr has far too much time on his hands. He steps into the gallery mere minutes after the last of the artists have cleared out. The Satyr arrives with a bright little smile, much pleased at the invitation. "Hi Tabin." He approaches, hands in his pockets. "Need any help?"

Tabin looks up and over. "WIIIIIICKKKKKKK." He says, giving the Satyr a smile. "Bah I'm almost done. I just need to get a few more nameplates and then I'm good to go." Which is basically him putting stands in front of paintings and sculptures in a way that makes them look SNAZZY. "How've you been since last we talked? I don't need to add more boyos to the list of people I need to interrogate for you again do I?" He eyes Wick.

Wick ducks his head with a noticeable flush of color in his cheeks. Running a hand back through his hair, he nods, "I've been well. And. No, I haven't met anyone new." Though he may or may not have given him a full list to begin with. He drifts along as a slow shadow as Tabin busies himself with those nameplates. "What about you? How are things with Evie?"

Tabin continues to eye Wick and shakes his head. "That means there's like 10 more now. I can't do my job right if you keep being all magnetic, Wick." He teases. When Wick asks about Evie he nods. "Legit now. And it's going good. She is..." He puts his arms to his sides, superman pose as he looks at the last nameplate. "She's hellbent on trying to understand all the supernatural shit going on in Prospect. She's in over her head...but I'll be with her. Ride or die." He nods.

  • chime* The doorbell dings. Twice.

"Hey! Sorry, we're closed!" Tabin tilts to look toward the front door...but there is no one there. The door gently closes again to no one coming in.

Wick blushes to the tips of his ears as Tabin accuses him of having 10 more lovers. Though he can’t help but smile as Tabin calls him magnetic. More pleased than he’d like to admit. He follows his gaze to that last nameplate before peeking curiously back over at him. His smile grows. “Mm. She seems almost as fortunate as I’ve been to know you.” And he’s about to say something further, but pauses with the door’s chime. But nothing’s there. He blinks. “Speaking of supernatural shit… ghosts?” He glances over at Tabin, head tilting.

Tabin continues to eye the door and once it closes he lets out a ‘huh’. He looks back to Wick. “Well I won’t count my chickens quite yet. One thing I learned from Kyri is things are not always as perfect as it might be. Call me Mr. cautious awareness...but yeah. I’m lucky, that’s for sure.” He looks back to the door. “Ghosts don’t open doors, bro! They just walk through them don’t they?” He says.

The gallery feels filled with people, though they are the only two there. From near Wick, words begin to form from nothing. “Tabin! It has been a long time! Ever since you ran away, I looked high and low for you!”

Tabin, at the words, frowns. “..../Caleb/?” He looks around. “Where the fuck you at man? What’s with the ghost-motif? There ain’t no one here.” He looks to Wick. “I knew him at Salem. He was also in the Orphanage I grew up in. Kinda helped me survive.”

Wick’s brows furrow, not quite certain. “I mean… poltergeists, right?” He hesitates as the room starts to fill with unseen presences. “You… you feel that?” He flinches with the sudden voice, whirling around for its source. But his attention flits to Tabin as he seems to recognize the voice. He relaxes a bit. “Oh… You knew him?” He smiles. “Caleb… it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Despite not having any specific direction to offer the greeting in, he nods.

“Any friend of Tabin’s is a friend of mine.” Says the voice. “I’ve known Tabin for years. Once I found out where you were, Tabin, I had to come see you. I found it. At the Orphanage. After you left.” The voice says. “I found the way back home. To Arcadia.” The voice takes on almost ecstatic glee as it speaks of Arcadia. “We can go home now. No more orphanages. No more Miss Stantons.”

Tabin, meanwhile, still seems confused. One. Cuz there is no answer to his question about why Caleb is -literally- ghosting them, and two...it just sounds nuts. “Shit Caleb, you were there. There ain’t no Arcadia in that place, let alone glamour that admin doesn’t Capri-Sun from you.” He sniffs. “And besides, how DID you find me anyway? It isn’t like I left a business card with the Baronial Court when I left.”

“Word reached Salem of where you were. So I had to come see you personally. Because you deserve it. You deserve home more than anyone. We deserve it.” The voice responds.

Wick smiles, much pleased to be so accepted by Tabin’s old friend, however odd their unseen presence might be. He has started not to blink quite so much at such mysterious happenings there in Prospect. But at the mention of Arcadia. He blinks. More than once. He looks to Tabin with a hesitant furrow of his brow. Then gazing off into the middle distance, speaking to the disembodied voice, he says, “He does. Doesn’t he. But… But Tabin… he has found a home here. In Prospect. Comes and goes but… always returns here. It’s a wonderful place.”

Tabin looks to Wick and nods. “Yeah. This place is okay. More of a ‘for the people’ than ‘for the place’ to be honest but yeah.” He says, agreeing with Wick. “Besides. How could you possibly figure out Arcadia out of the Orphanage?? That place is an emotional tomb, dude. Seriously.”

“That’s just it, Tabin. That’s how!” The voice says with a perverse reverie. “Banality is our key. We must be forgotten here, Tabin! The world must forget us, and then we get to go home.” The voice seems both excited, and impassioned, with such a claim. “The Orphanage was a sign! We were meant to die to banality there, Tabin. It is how we will get home! Don’t you want to go home?”

The voice then targets Wick. “Wouldn’t YOU want to go home?”

Wick’s smile quirks a bit at Tabin. “Mm. I mean… the people define the place. At least, for me. But I know what you mean.” He nods. More than once he has mentioned needing to just get out of Prospect for a time. In the desert. Out on the water. Away. But then he stills with the voice’s mention of banality. His brow furrows with a deepening caution. And slowly, he eases closer to Tabin’s side. But he stops as the voice targets him. “We /are/ home. Here. Among the people we’ve found. It’s a beautiful place, Caleb…”

Tabin frowns. As Wick comes closer Tabin looks around. “This ain’t funny, Caleb.” He points out. “We fought -against- banality at the Orphanage remember? Arcadia ain’t some banal shithole. Anyway, I don’t wanna go to Arcadia. Like I wanna leave Earth to low the boot of some soul-sucking Sidhe Lord in Arcadia-ville.” He shakes his head. “Whatever your joke is, you seriously need to stop.”

The voice is quiet. When it speaks again, it is sad. “...It’s okay. I figured you wouldn’t accept it at first. But that is why I came, Tabin.” A shimmer of glamour is felt in the gallery. “Don’t worry. You and your friend will go home. When you get there, wait for me. I will be there soon when I save as many as I can.”

Standing behind Tabin and Wick, is a Boggan and a Sluagh, weilding Cold Iron daggers.

Wick’s head turns with that shimmer of glamour. His brow furrows with a deep caution, eyes sharp with alarm. But then he whirls around. His insides turn cold at the sight of those daggers. “Oh, fuck.” He grabs Tabin by the sleeve, pulling him back. “Stop. Stay back. Both of you. Warning you. If you take even /one/ step.” From his pocket, he has pulled out a lighter. He flicks it on and holds it out as if to ward them off with that tiny flame.

The Dreaming summons it's Champions and combat begins!

Cold with fear, sick in the malaise of their banality, Wick uses the most powerful art he knows. Grasping that tiny plastic lighter like a sword, the miniscule flame erupts into an immense sword of fire, radiant as the summer sun. And with a hoarse shout, Wick swings to keep them back. It connects - and not only does it leave a ragged gouge across their chest, it burns away an entire level of their banality.

The Slaugh bursts, into literal flames! A shrieking Sluagh would scare anyone, the rasping pain sending shivers as if the very air itself was trembling at the pseudo-sound. The response of the Sluagh is to lunge forward, the dark pool of eyes surging with a cold malice Wick hasn't seen before as a flash of light reflects off the dark, dreary metal that is the blade he weilds. He slashes across Wick's chest as his body erupts in agony. His fae mein crumbles as the Dreaming's Bane eats it's way through his fae skin, while slicing through his mortal form like butter - the Bane knows it's prey.

Tabin, is having no better luck. He unsheathes his cutlass and lunges toward the Boggan for a thus only for the cutlass to go through the Boggan as if he wasn't there. A step, a stumble as the Dauntain have now split the party from each other.

Tabin, getting split from Wick, needs an edge. The Boggan is immune to his cutlass. So he decides to even the odds. Power, channels into Tabin as one can feel the intense direction of the Dreaming turning to focus entirely on the Eshu. The smells of foreign spices, exotic airs and a heightened spirit of the unknown is felt as Tabin points at the Sluagh and Boggan and commands the Dreamind. "Strike down my enemies!" The floor of the Artists Guild begins to rumble as the Dreaming enforces itself in the real world, shunting Banality aside for it's awesome power. The floor bubbles and rises as two concrete arms and fists form out of the ground and BITCHSLAP the Boggan and Sluagh, sending them reeling.

Wick stumbles back with an agonized cry, clutching the the shallow cut made across his chest. It's not deep, but the cold iron hurts more than anything he's ever felt. It burns. And unlike any other time he's gotten hurt - this won't heal. His gaze shoots to Tabin. He can see the Boggan coming at him with that blade. His voice lifts in a desperate bird call, and calling on the trees in which he makes his home, he asks them to protect his dearest friend. And thus, a powerful Oakenshield takes shape across Tabin's body.

The area darkens. Color begins to bleed from the paintings, the sculptures and the dark homey hues of the Guild's gallery like blood pooling onto the ground. It turns to ash! The color and life, the spark of life, blowing away like dust in the wind. Except for the Sluagh. The Sluagh is the only one who looks ALIVE in this dreary place, and the shadows, notice the plural there, appear to be ready to pounce on the Dreaming's defenders with soulless malice sending terror spiking into your hearts.

The Boggan has no such flash. The Cold Iron dagger gleams with a deadly sheen in this lifeless expanse as he tries to thrust the blade deep into Tabin's chest. But where the dagger finds purchase finds skin of bark, crumbling away into the lifeless nothing the colors went leaving Tabin none the worse for wear. He tries again, slashing wide and easily avoided with a step back.

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