-- Ash Corona ------------------------------------------------------------------

DISCLAIMER: Some information may be altered or omitted to protect player
privacy. In the event of correctional emotes I have removed the correction,
integrating it into the original emote.

  (Player entry and exits in parentheses.)
  [Private emotes/messages in square brackets.]
  --> Relevant SR commands preceded by arrows.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------





[In The Sunshine Florist - A Crowded Checkout Counter]
It has extravagant decor.

  A smooth oak trunk has been carved into a counter here, the eyes of the wood
polished to a sheen and not a single splinter to be found. The counter itself
is covered in various plant parts and floral supplies, clearly used as a
workspace when no customers are present. Framing the counter are two stands,
one full of various small plants, and the other with postcards of scenic views.


A half-door blocks the way to the east, a small workshop visible through the
open space. 

There's a small sign on the counter. It reads: If you have a special request,
please call Leah. 712-8537



It is afternoon, and about 75F(23C) degrees.  


[                                                       ]
[  [west]              south              (east)        ]

Leah is standing here.
A bubbly female florist prepares boutonnieres behind the counter
Booker is standing here.

You tell Booker 'Hi there! Thank you for joining my first SR session. If you
guys could help me out by writing an emote establishing what you're doing here?'

You tell Leah 'Hi there! Thank you for joining my first SR session. If you guys
could help me out by writing an emote establishing what you're doing here?'

Booker works behind the counter, mostly reorganizing inventory. His shirt
and his hands are stained with dirt. 

Leah hums softly to herself as she carries a bouquet into the room and puts
it into the fridge. 

The traffic outside has stopped, which is to say a car hasn't shot past the
window in a long time. It may be easy to miss. Even the typically parked cars
that line the streets are gone, save for those Leah or Booker may have driven
here. The only thing that might arrest their attention is the slap-slap-slap of
someone running outside. 

  (Doug walks in from behind you.)

  --> LOOK DOUG
This is a thin, worn man with stringy light brown hair in his mid-fifties
facing away from you.
His aura has a faint green glow.
You would judge him to be a 4.0 out of 10.
They seem like a newcomer to Haven.
He is 6'1" and has pale, worn Caucasian skin, brown hair, and brown eyes. 
You can see his face, neck, the top of his chest, arms, and hands. 

This man is on the thinner side but he has muscle definition still.  He
looks like he's been through the ringer, the sort of man who broods in a bar
even.  His hair is stringy, light brown and generally pulled back but some
bits escape.  His mustache which is similar to a handlebar goes down near
the lips pointing down.  Overall he has this very tired look to him.  His
skin is pale and worn, his hands are just as worn, but his eyes still have
life to them and are wary of the world around him but at the same time hold
some kind regard for fellow mankind.  He looks like the sort of man who may
have a lot of tattoos but strangely looks free of them.  


Doug is using:

(D) a pair of faded blue jeans covering his bottom half
(D) a pair of black well-loved leather boots on his feet
(D) an old white ribbed wife beater covering his chest
(D) silver necklace two rings wedding bands crucifix around his neck
(D) a simplistic bone ring on the middle finger on his left hand



Booker reaches to wipe some sweat off his brow, glancing outside for a
moment, a brow raised, before his attention comes to the new customer inside,
"Welcome." He greets Doug, "Can I help you?" 

In the street, there isn't a car to be seen. The footfalls outside grow
louder and louder, faster, more urgent - maybe a jogger or a runner in
training, really giving it their all. 

Doug seems to humming some hymn to himself, however at the greeting he
pauses his humming and raises a hand, "Hey, man. Checking up on the order I put
in... unless I didn't put the order in..." 

Doug (Privately) wonders if he saw anything odd when he parked 

Leah picks at the petals of the bouquet, pulling them back into place,
before closing the fridge door and wandering over to the window. 

Booker glances at Leah, before answering, "Y'never did, yeah. Boss here sent
you a text with options days ago." Booker says, "No response yet, but we can
talk 'bout it now." His attention wanders for a moment, outside. 

You hear someone panting loudly, the rise and fall of their breath, then
without warning, a loud, glassy SLAP, as someone collides with the window of
the storefront, hitting it as hard as they can without breaking it. There they
remain, plastered to the glass, staring wide-eyed into the shop. The glaring
sunlight outside makes a black silhouette of them, features indistinct. 

Doug turns quickly at the slap, the older man's eyebrows lifting briefly. He
doesn't respond to the current conversation, he's too distracted by the window.

"Oh!" Leah jumps back from the window, eyes wide in surprise. "What the shit." 

Then, in shaky movements, Leah jerks towards the door and locks the main
door of the shop. 

Booker steps around the counter to approach the door, "Hey." He barks out,
brows raised, eyes wide, trying to discern what he sees. 

Doug blinks some, but quietly meanders towards the door oddly otherwise not
very shaken by this. 

Leah thinks; "This fucking town. I should get them in the office. "

Those inhabitants of the shop who look outside find their eyes eventually
adjusting to the contrast between light and dark. Flattened there against the
glass, his arms outspread, is what appears to be an African man, wearing an
incredibly expensive-looking suit, at odds with his NY ballcap. He is covered
from head to foot in some kind of flaky, white strata, like ash that snows from
his body in flurries. He's staring into the store without blinking, and saying
something you can't hear, lips dragging along the glass. 

Leah feels Leah's heartrate is spiking, fear spreading through her limbs. 

Doug brings his hand back to the back of his jeans briefly, checking
something before he heads towards the door and tries to approach the man. 

Booker approaches the door, gaze narrowing as he comes close, trying to make
out what the man says. He tries to glance past the man, to see if anything
comes behind him, any marks on the street beyond, before returning to him. 

Leah runs a hand through her hair, the other hovering by the oddly-extensive
number of locks on the door. "Can you make anything out, Booker?" 

  TO BOOKER & DOUG:
  [Booker and Doug come closer to the glass. As they approach they can make out
  his words, muffled at first, but as they come closer and closer, they can
  hear him repeating something, his accent incredibly thick. "Time, she stands
  still!" he chants, over and over. "Time, she stands still! Time, she stands
  still!"]

Booker grunts, "Time, she stands still." He repeats, to Leah, and reaches
for his pocket, for his phone, "Should I call the police, boss?" 

Doug breathes out some, unconscious grabs his crucifix for a moment. He
glances at Booker briefly before looking back at the man. "Huh. Sounds ..." he
doesn't finish this. 

Leah drops her hand to rub at her neck. "They're just as likely to target us
as him." To Doug, she asks, "Sound like anything you've heard before?" 

Doug seems unusually calm for the weirdness, but he shakes his head, hand
sliding into his pocket. "Nope, can't say I have ma'am" he tells Leah in this
Louisiana drawl. "I've heard it say that time's a flat circle but ne'er that." 

Leah thinks; "Great. He's one of them too. Hopefully not one that'll bite my
throat out. "

Booker grunts, stepping closer, touching the door, staring at the man. He
searches for wounds under the ash, stares. 

The stranger's chanting continues over and over, until abruptly and without
explanation, he peels himself off of the window, leaving behind white ash, and
tiny smears of blood where he'd smashed his brow against the glass. The man
sprints off into the distance, leaving behind his own localized cloud of
short-lived ashen snow. 

The street outside is covered in a thin dusting of ash, as far as you can see. 

Doug blinks as he watches the guy run off and he shakes his head as he rubs
his hands on his jeans. "Alright then." 

Leah slides away from the door and joins the other two at the window. "He
gone?" 

"Just a regular day in Haven" Doug tells himself before staring out at the
window again. 

Still no sign of outdoor traffic. The ash's presence is strange and
atemporal - sometimes it coats the roads like a dusting of snow; other times it
comes away in flurries, snatched up by errant wind. But it's always there.  

There is more running, loud footfalls, the clomping of boots, the slapping of
sandals, growing closer and closer - not one but many. 

Leah tenses at the sound of running feet. "That it damn well is. We should
get out of sight. It sounds like he has friends." 

"Probably a college prank" Doug grunts, heading away from the window now to
look at flowers. 

Booker blinks, staring a moment longer before turning to look at Leah,
Y'want to hide in the office? Behind the counter?" He asks, tense, stepping
back." 

Leah chews on her lip, eyes wandering between the locked office door and
Doug. "Counter should be fine and the door is right there in case they start
banging on the door." 

Booker reaches to rest a hand on Leah's shoulder and urge her ahead before
him, "Come on." He says, and glances towards Doug. 

As the sound of trampling footwear rises in volume, they appear. Scores of
them, people sprinting by the Sunshine Florist as fast as their legs can carry
them. They appear predominantly African, though skin color varies - not that
it's easy to make out, as every single one of them wears that same spectral
blanket of ash. Beneath the white dust they are resplendent in formalwear,
suits and dresses in veldt patterns, ascots and kerchiefs, cufflinks shining
from lots of wrists.  

They continue on and on, a bizarre and unexplained marathon, though several of
them slow noticeably, looking into the shop but never scanning it - they always
lock eyes with Doug, Booker, and Leah. 

  (Lambi walks in from behind you.)

Doug hmms to himself as he glances at the window again. "Any of y'all been
to N'awlins?" he asks randomly to Booker and Leah as he sinks behind the
counter casually as if this wasn't weird at all. 

  TO LAMBI:
  [Nothing seemed unusual from the street - but should Lambi turn and look out
  the window, from the viewpoint of the shop, the street is coated entirely in
  ash, various men and women sprinting by the shop in a hurried but bizarrely
  calm stampede.]

Booker hides behind the counter, and at Doug's question, he simply glares at
the man before resuming his watch, staring back as the running, ash-covered
people slow down and look on. He breathes. 

Lambi slips past the stampede, a little wild eyed- like 'what the sucking
duck was that' as Lambi gets into the shop. They give Booker and Doug and Leah
all a weird look as if they know and understand what is going on. Because Lambi
sure as heck doesn't. 

Leah lets out a harsh laugh and tucks herself into the corner between the
office and the counter. "Nope. Grew up in New York then moved here." She
beckons Lambi with a jerky wave. "Get over here and away from the door." 

There seems no end to them, racers in a race with no warning, no meaning, no
ending in sight, leaving behind smoky clouds of ash in their wake, vortices
forming in the air to suck it all away in slow-time. The majority of the people
move on with their strange and hurried business, but incidences of passersby
taking notice of the shop's patrons begins to increase, until several of them
have stopped entirely, a congregation of faces both dark and light, pressed to
the glass, gaping wide-eyed at the people within.  

One of them tries the door. 

Lambi pulls over a rack or something to push in the way of the door, before
Lambi starts heading on over towards Leah with another wide-eyed look. 

Leah murmurs under her breath as the door knob turns. "I could've sworn I
locked that. What the hell is going on." 

Booker grunts, jumping over the counter and moving to the door, a word of
'thanks' towards Lambi as he makes to block the door with his own strength as
well. They've been seen, nothing to do but hold, at least in his mind. He
stares back, hand on the handle, as if that might help. 

Doug nods, his voice low, "Well" he says, tugging gently at the gun in his
belt to pull it out, but kept pointed at the ground, "N'awlins is a weird
place. Got some supersticions there." he peeks towards the door as he hears
faintly the door being tried. 

One person tries, then another, then another - three men and an especially
bulky woman, pushing at the door, while the rest of their group continue to
leer at Leah, Lambi and Doug, all wide-eyed, wearing bizarre and manic grins,
transferring their blankets of ash gradually to the glass.  

The people at the door are finding it surprisingly difficult to push through
Booker - they occasionally take ground and crack the door open an inch or two,
but he seems always able to push them back, displaying an unusual strength. 

And then Lambi is wincing. Wincing as they say, "...Cover... your ears..."
Underneath their breath. 

Booker shifts his stance as more try, shoulder against the door, hand on the
handle, feet braced against the floor as he pushes back. He groans, holding
best he can. When Lambi speaks, he glances over, somewhat clumsily releasing
the handle to do as asked, though he maintains the push against the door with
his shoulder. 

		Stat Report:Booker
	he has Strength stat at [redacted].

Doug peers at Lambi, "Huh. You can talk" he mutters before covering his ears
as requested, the gun left on his leg. 

Leah covers one ear with a palm and tucks the other into her shoulder,
shaking as she moves to one of the fridges along the room. 

Leah thinks; "We've got to block the door. "

And then Lambi opens his mouth, to let out a song. The song of the Sirens.
It's... something else to listen to, if you're listening to Lambi. The song
leaks out of the cracks in the door. 

Lambi sings a beautiful but hard to remember song.

More and more approach the building, amassed like an especially restrained
pack of roaming zombies, fixated on the building's occupants. Those at the door
push with an unceasing and tireless strength, not quite a match for Booker, but
showing seemingly no signs of growing tired. Though they appear through the
glass, the cracks in the door reveal nothing whatsoever unusual outside, a thin
sliver of Deadwood Drive not covered in ash, not overrun with alien strangers. 

As Lambi begins to sing, everyone freezes in place - even uninterested
sprinters out in the street, and the overwhelming feeling of being watched by
an entire congregation is unavoidable. Those trying to break in through the
door halt, and it abruptly slams shut, giving poor Booker a needed reprieve. 

They are all staring wide-eyed at Lambi, not a one of them blinking. 

Lambi keeps singing, starting to stand up. Motioning for the others to move.
They keep their song up for as long as they possibly can. Which... could be
quite a while. 

		Stat Report:Lambi
	he has Stamina stat at [redacted].

Booker nearly falls against the door, stumbling when the push against him
suddenly ceases. He catches his breath, eyes wide as he stares out, and then
back at Lambi, surprised. 

Doug peeks at the door and blinks "What the fuck did you do?" he mutters
quietly hands still covering his ears. He glances around, trying to decide
where to go. 

Leah stops in front of the fridge, then rushes over to Booker. "Open the
door," she mouths, head still tucked awkwardly against her shoulder. "And get
ready to run." 

As Lambi sings, they tap in 911, but don't hit enter yet. They slide their
phone over to someone so whoever can peer down at the phone. And get the
message. Lambi keeping on singing for as long as Lambi's breath can will allow.

Doug tucks an ear against his shoulder as he snags his gun, and covers his
ear again before making his way to the door, but he pauses looking at Lambi
with some concern. But the typing on the ph one has his attention and he walks
over to glance at the phone before nodding at him. 

Booker looks to Leah, brow furrowing. He grunts, looking out through the
door once more, and nods, awkwardly tilting his head against his shoulder to
keep his ears covered with that and one arm, as he uses the other to take hold
of the handle and, after unlocking it, pulling the door open. 

Tears start to leak down Lambi's eyes as Lambi's song persists.

The scene is mind-bending, completely unexplainable. There the people stand,
pressed flat to the glass like a pile of dolls dumped into the bottom of a box.
Their ash clings thickly to them, raining in slow motion. They continue to
stare. And up until Booker had opened the door, there they were, through its
glass as well. But as he opens it, it reveals a street with... nothing. No ash.
No people. There are parked cars and occasional thru traffic, totally at odds
with what is happening out the window. 

  TO BOOKER:
  [You see something on the sidewalk, outside. ]

"Stop." Booker calls out, over his shoulder at Lambi, holding the door open
with his foot as he stares out, confused. 

Leah jerks, nearly tipping over before her desire to run is overtaking by
the completely clear sight outside. She catches herself on Booker's arm, barely
managing to keep her ears covered. 

And eventually... Lambi does stop. Gasping for breath. Holding their throat.
Dropping to their knees. 

Doug glances out the door, then the window. Then the door. Then the window.
He blinks slowly. "The fuck..." He blinks a few times trying to tell if he's
seeing this. "An illusion" he mutters before he's walking out the door and
glaring around. 

  TO DOUG:
  [You see something on the sidewalk, outside, in the shadow of a parked Buick.]

As soon as Lambi stops singing, the horde reanimates, their lips moving, all
chanting that strange chant, a host of dissonant voices with impossibly thick
African accents. But there is no continuity between the window and the open
door - if there are still people who are supposed to be behind it, they're not
pushing. There's no one running through - even as one or two window-gawkers
rush aside, as if to make for the entrance. 

Doug steps out the door now, and towards this parked Buick glancing back at
the shop briefly before looking for whatever that is that he sees. 
 
"If it's an illusion. They can't hurt you." Lambi whispers underneath their
breath, staring down at the floor. Before slowly gathering themselves up.
Picking up their phone. And starting to... hesitantly walk out. 

Booker stares out a moment longer, sometimes tilting his head to catch the
illusion, to flinch. He doesn't move so long as Leah holds onto his arm, a
small bit of protectiveness from him. He squints, staring out. 

Those who venture outside all see the same thing, a lumpen shape in the
shadow of an old parked Buick. Some sort of mask, covered thickly in ash.
There's no one at the window outside, at all - nothing anyone might see that
would give the impression the shop is under siege, that it's anything but a
crappy, hot day in Haven. 

With a shaky breath, Leah lets go of Booker. She resolutely keeps her gaze
away from the window. 

Doug crouches but doesn't touch the mask yet. "What do we have here... are
you one of the supersticions I spoke of?" he asks it, as if it could reply to
him. He leans closer to peer at it, looking for anything that may give him a
clue. "Why do I think you're related..." 

Booker glances down at Leah for a moment, looking her over, as if to ensure
she's unharmed, and then moves to approach Doug and the mask, head tilted as he
curiously looks over. 

"Hey" Doug calls over to Booker "Got something rubber? I don't wanna touch
this." 

Lambi starts to follow Doug towards the buick, peeking at the mask. Still
tearing up. Still gathering their breath. 

		Stat Report:Doug
	he has Occult Knowledge stat at [redacted].

Booker reaches for the bag strapped across his torso, picking out a leather
jacket, handing it over. 

Booker gets a worn leather jacket from messenger bag.

Booker gives a worn leather jacket to Doug.

  TO BOOKER, DOUG, & LAMBI:
  [It's a strange and ghastly-looking thing, elongated like a stretched-out
  simian skull, stuck in a death scream. Wood coated in glimmery kaolin, painted
  with beautiful and intricate white triangles and chevrons. Its details are
  hazy, however, as ash clings to it like smoke, wafting off here, covering it
  there.]

"Well. Leather... might work" Doug says as he tries to use it to pick up the
mask. He holds it towards Booker for some reason, "As I suspected, it's
probably cursed." He glances around to check if anyone is around that could
hear him. 

Doug says, with a rough masculine Louisiana drawl, "I can't tell but it's
weird"

Leah crosses her arms and waits by the open door 

Booker glances it over, and reaches to take it, cradled in the jacket. He
does his best not to touch the actual mask, taking a closer look, gaze
narrowed, "I don't know anythin' about this." He mutters. 

Leah feels Leah's fingers twitch with the desire to close the door. 

As it turns out, the caution isn't necessary. As the mask is handled, passed
from person to person, its wooden and clay edifice crumples, then splinters
apart like wet tissue paper, before dissolving into a flurry of ash,
whirlwinding into the sky. 

  TO LEAH:
  [The bizarre tableau in the window is gone. Leah sees only the street,
  settled and occupied, as it always was.]

Doug seems to be watching Booker himself, very closely for whatever reason
before he stands fully. "Know anyone who knows about this sort of thing?" he
asks, "I can't be for certain, it just looks like something out of N'awlins or
Africa." He glances at the mask as it crumbles, noticing a little late that it
is indeed crumbling. "Hmm. Well." He heads back to the shop, inside to check
the window. 

Booker blinks, nearly dropping his jacket as the mask starts to come apart,
and before long, it's just ash being blown away. He sighs out, something like
relief, and pats his jacket against the floor to clean it, "Boss! Y'see
anything through the windows?" He asks, aloud. 

  TO DOUG:
  [There's nothing at all unusual inside of the shop. The same run-down,
    familiar Devilwood Drive you know and may or may not love.]

Lambi shakes their head a little towards Doug. Before starting to wander
off. Still looking kind of sad. Like that last song sapped all of the will out
of Lambi. 

Doug glances at Lambi, blinking at him. "What? Hey... are you ok there
buddy?" he asks him, noticing finally something is off about him. 

when the motion in the corner of her eye fades, Leah finally turns to the
window. "Not anymore," she shouts back to Booker. "Everything vanished when
that ash went into the sky." 

Lambi taps on their phone some, before mouthing one word. 

Lambi(Privately) -number- 

Doug says (to Lambi), with a rough masculine Louisiana drawl, '[phone number]'

Doug notices his phone about this time too and sends a text. "Dammit Dale,
not now." 

Booker rises to his feet, still patting at his jacket as he steps back to
Leah, "Y'hurt at all?" 

In no time at all, with little transition, and no explanation whatsoever,
life around the Sunshine Florist has gone completely back to normal. The only
sign anything unusual happened, at all, are the scuffmarks on the floor from
Booker's boots, and scratches from where Lambi had shoved over a rack. 

You tell Lambi 'Thank you all so much for participating in my first story run!'
You tell Doug 'Thank you all so much for participating in my first story run!'
You tell Leah 'Thank you all so much for participating in my first story run!'
You tell Booker 'Thank you all so much for participating in my first story run!'