Zombiedude101

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

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Tacoma > St. Portwell Interchange

Ambience

THIRTY THREE HOURS AGO

---

"You alright, kid?"

Clancy blinked, glancing over to one side. He'd taken the empty seat on the bus. Always the empty seat if he could. Walking was preferable to being hassled by strangers, sometimes - even if the bus ride in question was measured in hours rather than minutes.

In the seat across from him sat an older woman, probably pushing her mid-late sixties, with cropped platinum hair and an orange bodywarmer accompanying her choice of denim. By his standards of "old lady" she was decidedly modern.

"You looked a little ah-... 'off', was all, and it's a long road from upstate."

Clancy didn't have an answer. Was he visibly agitated? He didn't realised he'd been giving her a tell if he had.

"It's fine, you don't have to talk to me if you don't feel up to it... I just wanted to make sure you're alright."

"I am alright.

"He talks, then."

"I guess."

The old woman shuffled along her seat "Sorry, I just got a feeling you're a ways from home... used to be a social worker, so I know the look."

Sigh. Clancy shrugged; he'd been through this conversation before, each time rolling his eyes, shaking his head, telling them to go away, or just being silent. It made no difference usually. People either engaged with him or they didn't - sometimes it was a stranger, sometimes it was a cop, or some other figure trying to do the 'right thing'. They were well intentioned, but annoying at their worst, and none of them would really understand him.

"Look... I won't force anything you don't want," the woman said, tugging a creased slide from her purse, "But if you need anything, or just a place to talk? Here's my card, I kept the number after retirement." She leaned over, to plant the card in his twitching palm, and her fingertips momentarily brushed his palm.

"Do not-" Clancy hissed, jerking his hand back, "-touch me." He shot her a glare that could split ice.

"I'm sorry-... and I know, your business is yours, so-"

"Then mind your own." Clancy snapped back - and that seemed to get the point across, judging by her expression - as if she'd been slapped. "Okay, alright. Just... take it with you? And.. stay outta the cold." Maybe she misread, or was willing to take the chance of pushing him away. He found her irritating either way. but to keep her quiet he pocketed the card.

Another twenty minutes of disconcerted silence, and Clancy made a point of getting off a few stops earlier than he'd originally intended, just in case she dropped a call about a child-at-risk. He wasn't too worried about being flagged down, but being stopped and bothered was just another waste of his time, extra hassle he didn't need. He glanced down at the phone, a basic handset which probably cost less than the bus ride had. A new message headed the screen, indicating the vibration he'd felt in his pocket earlier hadn't been his his imagination, a cue he was expected somewhere.

see u soon buddy ;)

Glancing over his shoulder, Clancy tugged the hood over his head and started moving again.

---

It was relatively late in the day when he arrived, the silhouette of the building complex masking the sun like a wall of obdisidian. Clancy stepped inside a relatively narrow corridor, finding a door by one corner where the field of view was about as narrow as you could get. He tugged at his phone and keyed in a message.

im here

The door cracked open no less than a minute later.

"Nick?" a voice asked, a squat man in his early thirties with a scraggly blonde mustache. A friend. Connection he'd made a few days in advance - needed someone to help keep him going. "Hi," 'Nick' said back, shyly, "Um.... sorry if I'm late."

The man threw up his arms, "Hey dude, don't sweat it, I uh-..." he glanced over Clancy's shoulder, then further through a slit in the curtains, "I got a couple beers and some pizza, know you said you were hungry. You uh, don't mind pineapple, right?"

"No, it's cool." Clancy shrugged, a weak smile creasing his lips, "I mean uhm, thanks."

"C'mon in," the guy nodded, his expression relaxing a little. Clancy nodded. It wasn't like he had any other options, he was out of town, needed some extra cash, and hadn't eaten for a while. Some things were a no-brainer, pride or not. He glanced over his shoulder, then off to each side - stepping in shortly afterwards.

---

The agitation had somewhat settled by the next morning. He'd taken what he could get, and used the opportunity to snag a spare change of clothes and a couple other things. Before long, his 'friend' was a barely cogniscient memory that he pushed out of sight and mind, no more calls or texts, and he could get on with what - and who he came here for.

Ashley Stone.

They were connected through her grandmother, who was herself a Patrick by maiden name before she'd married out. She had been a crutch for him maybe, as the only family connection he could actually speak to - even if it was by way of internet messaging. He'd already lost his sister, and it wasn't like he could talk to his brother or parents. And now Ashley was dead.

For all intents and purposes he was a stranger in a strange town. But he wasn't blind, deaf or dumb; he knew the stories about St. Portwell just like any other place, and he'd learned that Ashley had been a part of it - she'd told him enough. And Ashley had friends, and people who knew her from her days as a kid, and all the stuff that happened. The internet was far from a reliable narrator, but he'd found a small collection of names and faces that may have been familiar or linked to Ashley, and recalled from their discussions just what happened. And he had been through enough homeless encampments and shooting galleries in desperate times to intuit his way towards an answer.

Father Wolf.

Supposedly this person had claimed responsibility for her death. Others too, based on the rumour mill. And things pointed towards a local crew of assholes that at best were a bunch of worthless lowlives, and at worst thought they were demonstrations of the primacy of the white race - something which amused him very little in light of what he'd seen back home, when there was a home. Assholes were assholes, even a kid could recognise that, and his dad had taught him too.

If he wanted answers, it was a real possibility that the Wolfpack were at least one of the go-tos. How he'd manage that, he'd figure it out. While at his 'friend's place, he had seen a flyer for some local skinbar, Veni Vedi Veni.

Guess some assholes liked their Latin

There was just one question.

How did he get in?

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

Clancy Patrick

obligatory theme

_______________________________________________ Clarence Patrick He & Him | 12 ½ | Irish-American | 4'9 | 84lbs _______________________________________________ Lonely _______________________________________________ Skills & Talents ___________________________________ [+] Lockpicking ⫻ Surprisingly, Clancy has some nimble fingers and can pick through some of the more basic locks out there. Outdoorsman ⫻ Hitchhiking hundreds of miles from home, and being raised by a military man with some hard old-fashioned values has taught Clancy a ways of how to behave in the wilderness. If you left him out in the woods, odds are he wouldn't struggle too much. Clancy's hiked his way far enough to at least have a rough idea of what's safe and sane. Grift ⫻ Clancy has a natural grift for getting a hold of items & getting into places he shouldn't. Lifting stuff off shelves, climbing into locked buildings, slipping under a gap in the fence to get into private property.

Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Clancy carries the frame of a pubescent boy, no older than twelve or thirteen, with a voice that just about veers on the cusp of breaking. His features are smooth, with not even a wisp of body hair apart from that found on his head - an unkempt mass of charcoal fuzz. His eyes possess a dull, ice blue tone, resembling flinty chips of ice - and his skin is a pasty white, more likely to burn than tan. A length of puckered skin runs along the underside of his left arm, from the elbow to halfway up the sleeve; a consequence of a bicycle mishap when he was a little younger. Some time on the road had taught him to dress sensibly; Clancy wore a mottled-green flannel lumberjack hoodie over a khaki-tone undershirt, with navy cargo pants & a laced pair of sneakers. Sometimes with a pair of gloves, if the weather wascold. Among his possessions was a denim knapsack which he was often seen lugging about, containing whatever goods he can snag off store counters when nobody's looking. Since the incident at the strip club, he's been forced to undergo a change of clothes, wearing a green hoodie bearing the likeness of a state sports mascot best described as a poor man's Donald Duck, and a pair of oversized denim pants with sleeves that have been obviously torn at the edges in an amateur attempt to adjust them to the wearer's shorter height.

_{Psychology
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}

MAIN GOAL ⫻ Clancy had sought out one of hte few family connections he had left in Ashley, only to lose her. His upbringing and background has left him missing out on the much needed familial ties and friendships. Now? He wants the person who killed her, and to make sure they pay for what they did.

PHILOSOPHY ⫻ Self-reliance is something Clancy has come to depend on as a consequence of his upbringing, even to a fault. Trust is something he struggles with, as his own family situation made it difficult to make connections, and the only person he really connected to - his sister - died after a long battle with a terminal illness. He's still going through the grief of losing a sister and working it out in his own complex way. Authority figures aren't something which carry an automatic respect.

SECRETS ⫻ Clancy is a runaway, having left home and hitchhiked some many miles to make it to St. Portwell. He's spent a long time (by a child's standards) roughing it, and has been through a few things a child probably shouldn't, and won't be open to talking about it. As events at the strip club turned out, he is not your ordinary child.

SEXUALITY ⫻ Not something Clancy even considers.

FEARS ⫻ Loneliness and the idea of being out of control with his life, to an extent. The difficult upbringing has thrown a lot of abstract concepts at his young mind, with loss and grief exacerbating this.

REPUTATION IN OLD COVEN ⫻ He's an unknown to the Coven, having never been around during the fight with the Stygian Snake.

ROLE IN THE BATTLE AGAINST THE STYGIAN SNAKE ⫻ N/A

FLAWS ⫻ He's a child, and one that has some serious emotional baggage stemming from family issues, personal grief and a difficulty with self-contol. To say his view would be a little skewed goes without saying. They're not in Texas or one of the Pacific SovCit compounds, so it's not like he can just pick up an Armalite and go to town, is it?

_{Backstory
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}

Clancy's upbringing wasn't anything outstanding, as the youngest of a brood of three. His parents were old fashioned, but not outright abusive, having met after his father returned home from military service in Europe. Self-reliance was something he learned in part from his parents, and other factors in life. Tragedy struck the family hard. Coming as the middle child from a brood of three, his brother Frank died serving overseas in the Marines, and his sister died a year ago - something he took really hard. He reached out to one of the only other family connections he had - a cousin, Ashley Stone - connected through her dad's side of the family.

Ashley seemed to get him, and she helped him through dealing with his sister's death. The family situation at home was getting more difficult by the day, and other issues made things untenable to him. Then Ashley lost touch, and Clancy felt there was only one thing for it. He ran away from home, catching buses and hitching rides where he could.

His arrival in St. Portwell was not without noise. Within 48 hours of arriving, he'd proven himself to be far different to the expectations of any onlookers, with a trail of blood and broken bodies following him. He was present at the death of the Wolfpack's Club "President", Judas, and subsequently evaded the PRA raid on the Reformed Coven's hideout. A week in, and still, very little is known about him - save that he isn't just a kid. Surving gunshot wounds and a wooden cane through the eye was proof enough of that.

His accent is hard to place, save that he comes from same place north of the Ohio River - possibly Chicago or Cincinatti? Maybe even further out west, like Bellevue

_{Abstraction
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}

TYPE ⫻ Unknown

^{Other
_{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}

Clancy knows.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

@Punished GN my first sheet is up

Clancy Patrick

Clancy Patrick

_______________________________________________ Clarence Patrick He & Him | 12 ½ | Irish-American | 4'9 | 84lbs _______________________________________________ Lonely _______________________________________________ Skills & Talents ___________________________________ [+] Lockpicking ⫻ Surprisingly, Clancy has some nimble fingers and can pick through some of the more basic locks out there. Outdoorsman ⫻ Hitchhiking hundreds of miles from home, and being raised by a military man with some hard old-fashioned values has taught Clancy a ways of how to behave in the wilderness. If you left him out in the woods, odds are he wouldn't struggle too much. Clancy's hiked his way far enough to at least have a rough idea of what's safe and sane. Grift ⫻ Clancy has a natural grift for getting a hold of items & getting into places he shouldn't. Lifting stuff off shelves, climbing into locked buildings, slipping under a gap in the fence to get into private property.

Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Clancy carries the frame of a pubescent boy, no older than twelve or thirteen, with a voice that just about veers on the cusp of breaking. His features are smooth, with not even a wisp of body hair apart from that found on his head - an unkempt mass of charcoal fuzz. His eyes possess a dull, ice blue tone, resembling flinty chips of ice - and his skin is a pasty white, more likely to burn than tan. A length of puckered skin runs along the underside of his left arm, from the elbow to halfway up the sleeve; a consequence of a bicycle mishap when he was a little younger. Some time on the road has taught him to dress sensibly; Clancy wears a mottled-green flannel lumberjack hoodie over a khaki-tone undershirt, with navy cargo pants & a laced pair of sneakers. Sometimes with a pair of gloves, if the weather is cold. Among his possessions is a denim knapsack which he's often seen lugging about, containing whatever goods he can snag off store counters when nobody's looking.

_{Psychology
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}

MAIN GOAL ⫻ Clancy's seeking out one of the only family connections he thinks he has left available, and part of that includes understanding what happened to his cousin. His upbringing and background has left him missing out on the much needed familial ties and friendships.

PHILOSOPHY ⫻ Self-reliance is something Clancy has come to depend on as a consequence of his upbringing, even to a fault. Trust is something he struggles with, as his own family situation made it difficult to make connections, and the only person he really connected to - his sister - died after a long battle with a terminal illness. He's still going through the grief of losing a sister and working it out in his own complex way. Authority figures aren't something which carry an automatic respect.

SECRETS ⫻ Clancy is a runaway, having left home and hitchhiked some many miles to make it to St. Portwell. He's spent a long time (by a child's standards) roughing it, and has been through a few things a child probably shouldn't, and won't be open to talking about it.

SEXUALITY ⫻ Though he's a little young to be enjoying that element of life, he would assuredly be into the female gender.

FEARS ⫻ Loneliness and the idea of being out of control with his life, to an extent. The difficult upbringing has thrown a lot of abstract concepts at his young mind, with loss and grief exacerbating this.

REPUTATION IN OLD COVEN ⫻ He's an unknown, being a child and all.

ROLE IN THE BATTLE AGAINST THE STYGIAN SNAKE ⫻ N/A

FLAWS ⫻ He's a child, and one that has some serious emotional baggage stemming from family issues and personal grief. To say his view would be a little skewed goes without saying. They're not in Texas or one of the Pacific SovCit compounds, so it's not like he can just pick up an Armalite and go to town, is it?

_{Backstory
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}

Clancy's upbringing wasn't anything outstanding. His parents were old fashioned, but not outright abusive, having met after his father returned home from military service in Europe. Self-reliance was something he learned in part from his parents, and other factors in life. Coming as the middle child from a brood of three, his brother Frank is serving overseas in the Marines, and his little sister died a year ago - something he took really hard. He reached out to one of the only other family connections he had - a cousin, Ashley Stone - from her dad's side of the family.

Ashley seemed to get him, and she helped him through dealing with his sister's death. The family situation at home was getting more difficult by the day, and other issues made things untenable to him. Then Ashley lost touch, and Clancy felt there was only one thing for it. He ran away from home, catching buses and hitching rides where he could.

His accent is hard to place, save that he comes from same place north of the Ohio River - possibly Chicago or Cincinatti? Maybe even further out west, like Bellevue

_{Abstraction
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}

TYPE ⫻ N/A

^{Other
_{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}

Clancy believes (One Eye Open baby)

Recollections: Who Is Eleanor Black [CANCELLED]

@FernStone@Punished GN@Atrophy
Nowhere

Ambience

---

For the drive, he had few words to say apart from the odd "uh-huh" here and "heh, yeah" there. More than anything, 'Carl' seemed to be in his own thoughts and he was. Dealing with Black, finding the money, getting out and gone so he could go back to figuring what he might do to salvage or recalibrate his career. Warily, he briefly glanced towards Ophrenia and Zeltz9n - the two that were openly packing heat, of which he was dubious they even knew how to use.

The van pulled up and steadily people filed out. Clay had come dressed for the job. A rain poncho, gloves, boots with good ankle support and the tool bag slung over his shoulder. There was a dry change of clothes in the trunk of his car for when he got back to the motel, and hopefully a warm coffee somewhere a ways down the road when all this was done.The rain... he'd thought Memphis got it heavy, but thsi place made hometown seem like a shower by comparison. Visibility was down to shit, but that played both ways for anyone else around. He just hoped he wasn't wasting his time here, and made a rough mental note of the route for when he found himself walking back. At least he could trade the pungent stench of weed for rain and swamp water.

And of course the gate was locked. He had brought the toolbag with him, but he wasn't too wild on outing that someone had forced entry to the property in the event that someone came down here. Instead, he kept his mouth shut as Jen and the other girl, Ophrenia - one slinging the twelve gauge - argued about whether or not the latter would try and shoot off the padlock. He wasn't exceptionally willing to count on that either - if the lock wasn't bottom-of-the-barrel quality, it would.more likely chip it than shatter it. He'd seen that once or twice, dumbass perps who'd tried and failed to blow off a lock with a .22 or birdshot and only signalled to that side of town they were trying to rip some olace off.

You bust the lock, that's B and E... the British, no - Scottish girl had it right. Shotgun girl too - it would've been better if they parked it down the road, out of the way, but he suspected Jennifer wasn't going to bother now - and to be honest, the van wasn't in his name either, so it slipped past a point of him caring. Instead, he pulled out a maglite from his toolbag and quickly pointed it at the ground in front of him to make sure he wasn't stepping into any sinkholes, then did the same for the fence.

Lily and Jennifer climbed over first, the former whining about ruining her pants, which prompted Clay to briefly double check there wasn't anything he was going to snag himself on, before carefully maneuvering himself up and over the gate, before dropping to the other side with a faint, sucking splash. "Here-" he said to Charlie, pointing for the same foot and gandholds so the girl would know where to go. Zeltzin seemed like she'd pulled a muscle or twisted something coming over, and he figured it wouldn't be good if another one of the girls ended up the same way - things were slow enough as is.

"... What. In. The. FUCK?" Lily's exclamation caught his attention and his gaze shifted over to the... effigy. Clay blinked, realised it was still there, then squinted hard, his own torch beam further illuminating its features. For a moment, he thought it was some transient or junkie lost in the swamps, then he noted the antlers arcing out towards the treeline in either direction, the fact that whatever tissues - fur and otherwise, looked like it had been moldering there for at least a week, roots and moss growing through its 'body' until it might as well have been a permanent fixture.

His sentiments were shared with Lily. What the fuck? Even by his own standards, this counted among some of the strangest things he'd seen.

"Yooooooo, what the fuck? I seen a lotta' shit, but I ain't eva' seen some shit like that?"

"Yeah, um.... let's... keep moving."

"Fuckin' swamp people." Clay muttered. Somehow, he suspected this was either the work of some locals, on bath salts or otherwise, or some dumbass fratboys off on Spring Break. Who else propped up a warped take on hybrid taxidermy in the middle of this shithole? He glanced over his shoulder, bristled at the notion of being in the company of even more strange characters, and paced over towards one of the others with a degree of impatience.

The other girl, one of the last to come over - Neko - was too busy fumbling for something in the ground. Her phone, he'd guessed. The longer they were here, the less he wanted to linger. Clay grunted, pointing his torch beam at the ground towards what he thought might've been a phone-shaped indentation, and gestured to Neko.

Recollections: Who Is Eleanor Black [CANCELLED]

@FernStone@Punished GN
Webb Family Coffee House

---

Clay quietly gulped down mouthfuls of caffeine while the group engaged in the discussion around their next plan.

The Doctor's words were stuck in his head.

Magic?

The jar that Lily had taken reminded him of those homeopathic treatments he'd seen too many fall into alongside the rest of the New Age bullshit. He wrinkled his nose. It reminded him of a bad case he'd seen a long while back, some mother who'd tried to treat her kid's near-terminal illness with another snake oil solution.

But if she `was what qualified for a doctor around here, maybe that set the example for what to expect. For all he knew it was a local recipe, a key to a bad trip.

He blinked it off, focusing back to what he was supposed to be here for. Where the group were going, this old rotting family mansion that may or may not have had what they were looking for, and how it related to what he came here for in the business. One loose end, and a retirement plan.

There were a few snags to his plan.

One. That was assuming his retirement fund was there.

Two. Finding the fund, and getting it out. Assuming Black, or whoever she was, hadn't already split it up and buried it in different parts, he had to figure out how to work around the others.

All they knew was Carl - a First Responder looking for his wife, or at least that's the story they'd been sold. Whether they bought it, well... he wasn't sure, but he'd not given any indication otherwise, or at least he didn't think he had.

Three. Black herself, or whatever name she was going by. The Black he knew, the wily bitch who, as far as he could tell, had turned on her fellow badge and ditched town with a share of something that was rightfully his, was no louch. She'd be trouble to deal with, if she was around. And if she wasn't, if she'd already ditched town, with or without the retirement fund, well - Clay wondered if he wanted to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder.

Cross that bridge when /I/ get there, he figured, glancing at the others.

Most of them were kids anyhow, and he didn't want them getting caught up in his business - that was a headache for him, and he wasn't interested in seeing them hurt. Yeah, he did things his way, made sure he got his dues, but he wasn't a monster.

Monsters, Werewolves and Ghoulies, huh. He snorted at the thought, almost interrupting the conversation that was taking place. Maybe it was them who got that 'Gene and the other one. They were apparently responsible for the girls that had gone missing, now that struck him as something off.

And judging by the point they'd caught up to....

"-hour? There might be monsters. There might be something worse. But, as long as we're out during the day, everything should be fine."

"But, I saw something at the motel. When...- I was at the motel... I saw a woman, but there was something wrong with her. It was like she was a... ghost."

"... You may have seen an Apparition."

"Ya, that's what I'm saying, I mean- uh, never mind. We'll, um, just meet in the motel in an hour?"

Neither Clay nor 'Carl' could argue with that. He threw her an affirmative expression, motioning to finish his coffee while the others slowly filtered out.

---

It was the waiting that had him thinking as he stood over the back of the car.

He glanced over his shoulder, a little wary. Keys were in his pocket. If the other two had cut their losses and run, then there was nothing stopping him.

Something kept his interest, either way. And deep down, he couldn't be honest with himself and say he was only here to tie up loose ends, right now. A part of himself he had figured was buried under years of apathy, weariness and paperwork.

"Ain' a badge anymore, just don't know it yet," he chuckled, almost bitterly, then shrugged, "Gonna get my ass chomped by Nosferatu."

Still, they were out in the ass-end of the swamps, real society miles away. He wasn't chancing it. Between the locals, the wildlife, and all the rumours, there usually wasn't some smoke without fire. Odds were, this town had a nasty problem with tweakers, and he wasn't taking any chances there. He popped the trunk, then pulled back a sheet to check he'd got everything he'd need. A pair of rugged boots, gloves for when he needed to handle some extra wear and tear - or otherwise ensure he didn't leave anything behind - and a dufflebag with a couple of tools that'd come in handy. After all... one thing he'd learned was a degree of self sufficiency, and the motto 'If you're gonna do it, don't half-ass it.'

He did carry a maglite, too, which was probably good for smacking a junkie in the face in a pinch, but under his waistband was where he'd come heavy.

One last thing to check, before the other showed up. He dropped the trunk, then circled around to the driver's side of his car. He knelt, felt underneath the wheel well. Yep, there we go.

It was about as ready as he was going to be.

Recollections: Who Is Eleanor Black [CANCELLED]

@Fernstone @Punished GN
Sybil A. Harkness MD.

---

"... and keep your damn head on a swivel, especially at night. There are some things here that are a lot worse than an alligator, or a methhead."

Clay's expression crinkled at that - there was something about Sybil's phrasing that seemed deliberate. A gut feeling at the pit of his stomach. Fuck. What was he caught up in? It wasn't completely out of the question that some backwater place like this, families with old blood and deep roots, there were some folks pulling the strings. He'd not run into the local sheriff's department yet, or even seen a passing cruiser at this stage, but he could've guessed they knew who everyone was, and could pick out everyone who wasn't.

He'd heard stories of just how far that could go. Hell, he'd lived it back home, having to deal with things a certain way, well outside the realms of due process.

Instinct was that he could cut and run, but he was committed to this now. If he went home, tail between his legs, there was a fifty fifty chance he could end the year with the clothes on his back and nothing more. Riskier chance he might end up in a cell. That wasn't ideal, and given his history, he wasn't sure if those were the terms he wanted to go down on.

Leaning forward, he pressed the doctor further; "What's been said here, stays between us, so just level with me," 'Carl' asked, "Who are we talking about - people willin' to hurt folks for asking questions?" Briefly, he glanced off to one side, keeping his tone fairly hushed. "Look, she's just trying to find someone who mattered to her. You figure where these girls went? At least, y'know, I can keep an eye on these two, keep 'em outta trouble."

Recollections: Who Is Eleanor Black [CANCELLED]

@FernStone@Punished GN
Sybil A Harkness MD

Clay's brow arched for a just a second as they were led in past the receptionist, the nurse, all the way to Doctor Harkness herself.

This wasn't quite quite he was expecting either; small town family doctor out in the swamps, at the least he expected someone older. That might've gone either way for them, he rationalised.

The act - she wasn't buying it either - not that he expected it would've worked for too long - and he got the impression doubling down hard would throw up walls. Best to go with a soft approach. Before Lily or Charlie could blow it for them, he decided to speak up, projecting as best of a warm, disarming expression as he could.

"Look, bein' honest I just ran into these girls, saw this one seemed a little green aroun' the gills. I help take care of a fire crew up in Memphis, so I get it, but I always figure best to play it safe, but..." he shrugged. "I'm a Tennessee boy, so I know how tourists up north an' east can't take too much sun like us..." he chuckled, trailing off a little, then projected a warm expression .

He offered out a hand to her, projecting a warm expression, "Hell, I bet you get enough tourists on your plate as-is, huh?" he led on, projecting that warm persona. "Name's Carl - sorry for wastin' your time."

Recollections: Who Is Eleanor Black [CANCELLED]

@FernStone@Punished GN
Sybil A Harkness MD

---

"... not going to believe me when I say this, but magic? It's real. So are monsters and ghosts and other nasty things. Your fearless leader clearly has magic herself. I wooooould elaborate buuuuuuut... I can tell by the looks on your faces that you think I'm crazy! But, you all will find out on your own soon enough. Just uhhhhh... if you see a deer with flayed skin: run. If you see a tree with a talking skull on it: run. If you see a skeleton in a robe with a gold necklace: run. If you see a green werewolf... you're probably already dead. And whatever you do, stay out of the swamp - especially at night. I'll be around!"

Clay's expression crinkled as Odessa pulled away, but he didn't take things any further. That girl's skin was clammy, and cold. Only way he could describe it.
"What the fuck wqs that?" Lily asked, and he shrugged. "Better we don't get involved," She didn't have any track marks that anyone could see, and though she was cold she didn't exactly have the rotting teeth associated with meth mouth or sticking to the pipe. "If its drugs, or other issues, folk like that can get unpredictable if you push 'em while they're spiralling." Mental illness was another possibility, but some things didn't fully add up. She was awfully specific, and the spiel she'd run her mouth off on suggested she was going through some kind of episode. Didn't matter, he figured. They soon moved on.

"... Let's get a move on. Remember: we're going with the heatstroke story."

Nodding, Clay briefly gestured his palms towards Charlie.

"Doctor's gonna figure out quick that you're full of shit, so make sure you do it right. Remember, don't talk too much. You're head's gonna be spinnin', feelin' like you wanna throw up even if you've got nothin' in you, maybe your body's gonna feelin' tight like you got cramps everywhere. Head's gonna feel like it's on fire, and you're gonna be thirsty."

Then, as an aside, he chuckled "Anythin' else, we can really just put it down to you being a weak-ass tourist."

For added effect, Clay gently reached out for Charlie's tricep to lead her along into the waiting room.

"Hiiiiiii, mami, is Dr. Harkness available? Too obvious that. How's an out of towner gonna know the doctor's name firsthand? Sure, it wasn't implausible - there was a sign outside that read Sybil Harkness MD - but Clay felt it gave the game away a little too early.

"She's in the middle of someone's check-up, is this an emergency?"

"Ummm... Mami over here... she hasn't been feeling too good?

That was Charlie's cue. “I feel faint," she mumbled, "Think I’m gonna be sick.”

He felt the British girl lurch forward, almost on cue - and braced his feet to take some of her weight, just enough that when the girl accidentally lost her footing, he was better suited to take her weight. Instead of toppling over and pulling him down with her, she ended up swinging around into his side, with 'Carl' propping her up, "Woah, hang on-.." Playing this a little too well, maybe. With a grunt, he shifted the girl's weight against his shoulder to stabilise the both of them, then apologetically nodded to the receptionist.

"Sorry, ma'am," he interjected, not wanting to get on the receptionist's bad side with their unsolicited drop-in anymore than they probably had, "I'm not from around here - but I ran into these girls and this one looks like she might have been out in the sun too long, so I figured to get her checked out. I looked her over quick, but I think she's better off gettin' a professional's eyes on her. I'll wait with her while the Doctor finishes up, if that's alright."

REZORT: VACATION FROM HELL

@Vanny

Terry York

Terrence York
Terrence York

^{45| Male|Comedian/Actor/Voiceover}

A P P E A R A N C E
A P P E A R A N C E

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A stocky Yorkshireman standing at 5'9, Terry wears a #3 haircut of salt & pepper, that's vaguely receded a good few centimeters up his forehead since his youth. His face is somewhat rounded, with a square jaw cropped in a manner that would imply he shaved not too long ago.

Fat is not a good way to describe him, though the lack of firmness and somewhat loose skin around his stomach does suggest it in the recent past. He's certainly not at peak fitness, but for a man his age his efforts to avoid neglecting cardio are demonstrated in the tone of his legs.

P E R S O N A L I T Y
P E R S O N A L I T Y

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For the most part, Terry is what most would consider a laid-back individual. Most (mundane) things don't normally phase him, and he's quite used to flecking off insults like a hose pipe on a duck's back. He gets a little touchy when his private or his family life is brought up in tenous conditions, however - a recent incident is proof of that. Humour, sarcasm and general attempts at wit are part of both his public and private personas, with the latter expressing a degree of weary cynicism. There's a part of him that feels

One thing that characterises Terry; he's loud in the public view. He has a distinct "Pub Dweller's" accent stemming from his upbringing around South Yorkshire, with an inflection that pins him to somewhere anywhere between Barnsley- Sheffield - Chesterfield, although if you asked him he'd probably joke that he was the result of Channel 5 trying to clone a hybridised homonculus of Peter Kay and Sean Bean to appeal to that '00s demographic. Privately, he's a little more toned down, but the more stress he's under, the more his accent starts to slip into deedar levels of comprehension.

B I O G R A P H Y
B I O G R A P H Y

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Terry was born and raised in South Yorkshire, under a traditional working class family the likes of which were common for the time. Mind you, his dad wasn't down the pit, it was a bit late for that, but he was a tradesman of sorts. Stripped cars here, sold some scrap there. When times got hard in the 80s, like many others of the time Terry's dad resorted to scrap metal theft to make ends meet. Consequently, he had a view of the ground level, gritter edges of society - where one wouldn't bat an eye at someone selling imported fags on the cheap.

Growing up, he spent some time in the workforce; some time working in a call center, and some more as a cabling engineer supporting IT network rollouts at commercial sites. Eventually this segued into work as a technician for one of the local radio stations, where by chance Terry's voice happened to catch the ear of the station manager during a recording test. That earned him a weekend slot, and before long his voice was eponymous with the station and he caught the ear of a talent scout working for Channel 5. Things moved forward from there.

His career was one of moderate success. He was never quite the big hit that some of his counterparts in the industry would be - the best he got was being remarked by the tabloids as a Poundland knock-off of Sean Bean who would never step outside the shadow of his greater contemporaries. Yes, he made national media appearances, and even came up in the international spotlight once or twice, but he never quite achieved the main cast punching power in global box offices like some of his peers and predecessors did in the big blockbusters. His most recent claims to fame were being the voice of that English peasant sounding guy in a lot of Victorian - Medieval punk games, and a leading role in Grafter, a nostalgic British comedy-drama series set in the North featuring a cast ranging from rogue tradesmen (like that plasterer who stuck newspaper in the holes rather than doing the job properly) to gypsies known for stripping scrap metal off anything that wasn't nailed down. His character in particular had established something of a loveable rogue reputation, being a local trader who sold illegal duty-free (untaxed) fags on the side alongside his usual business, and the comedic effects of keeping the police and the Bangladeshi Mafia at bay.

In his personal life, things flagged. For a time, he had a stable marriage; a son came with that, from his wife's previous relationship. Things were okay for a while. However, people can grow apart - that's a fact of life - and this happened with Terry's relationship. It wasn't one singular thing. Neither of them had been sleeping around, or mistreating one another (though Terry later acknowledged he could've tried harder) - but their relationship slowly drifted apart. By the time his mid fourties were rolling around, his wife came forward and admitted it seemed more sensible to end it. Terry, admittedly, didn't take it as well as he should've - but it happened, eventually.

Still, life wasn't a complete trainwreck for him. Especially in this economy, he couldn't complain - he lived comfortably enough, with a house that was otherwise empty now his (soon-to-be ex) wife had moved out and his (step) son was off on a gap year. But it was still an empty house, and that absence of the people he'd originally had around him was slowly sinking in, just a little.

More specifically, he landed himself in a bit of controversy when he threatened to twat some camera jockey working for the tabloids when he caught them photographing him and his (ex) wife when she dropped by with some of the paperwork for their divorce proceedings. He wasn't sure what had done it, maybe it was the fact that the guy had made the mistake of asking him who his wife had been sleeping, but needless to say, the footage of him lobbing a plastic lawn chair at the guy's car in his bathrobe had been a point of amusement for the British public, and a difficult conversation with the police.

Luckily, it didn't cost him his spot in Grafter, though a firm chat with his agent suggested he take a break. This holiday was supposed to be a break from that - he and his (ex) wife had always talked about dropping by the Carribean, but it never came up. Well, he figured he would be too old to do it if he didn't get on it. Here we are.

"Ah, fer fucks sake."

M I S C E L L A N E O U S
M I S C E L L A N E O U S

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Dialogue will be "Bold - deed tha' know, some o'rem lads from up Sheff way speak a bi' like dis, orate?"

If you want to get an idea for what his voice sounds like, think of a slightly gravelly iteration of Peter Kay's portrayal of Maxwell Bygraves in Phoenix Nights/Max and Paddy

Recollections: Who Is Eleanor Black [CANCELLED]

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Webb Family Coffee House

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Clay sat through the rest of the conversation without much else to say, only loosening a faint, exasperated chuckle to Lily's suggestion of enhanced interrogation techniques with the doctor. It made sense, they could probably take the British girl over, have her pass off as a tourist who had come down with heatstroke. He'd seen it back during some of Memphis' worst summers, particularly among those coming a good few hundred miles northwards.

The others had things in hand, but he couldn't get much of a size of them yet. His gaze briefly flecked towards the kid with the Texan drawl, among others, but he didn't keep his focus there. Too early to say what this group were like. He did find it strange, however, that this Jennifer was basically sending them to go away while she did something solo. One

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@FernStone@Punished GN
Doctor's Office

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The Doctor's Office was far from what he'd have considered welcoming, even by the low bar set by some of the rougher local clinics of his hometown. Paint almost looked like it was ready to peel off the wals, the wood halfway to rotting, or at least that was his perception - not that it would've been a surprise if it was, in this humidity.

He questioned what they were really going to get out of this, but it was as good a bet as any. Maybe there'd be some medical records they could peel out of Dr. Harkness' office. And the supposed missing girls.

For the most part he kept quiet, gesturing or nodding as Charlie and Lily conversed. He did offer a brief suggestion, "So uh, if you're wantin' to speak with this Doctor, maybe you can pass off as a tourist?" he idly gestured at Charlie, "I mean, none of us really from aroun' here, but I'm guessing you ain' used to this sorta heat, right? I used to see that a lot when I was a Fire L-T, humidity and heat gets a lotta folks down this ways."

"Ah, mami, here's the place but there's something I gotta get off my chest, I can't just be the only one that doesn't trust our little fearless leader? There's something about her - especially with the little Bambi act she puts on - like she's up to something. Liiiiiiiiiiiiiike.... let's think... she drops all these fucking leads on us, waves in our fuckin' faces that she knows something, then insists she works alone then dips."

Clay shrugged, letting her continue back and forth with the British girl.

"It's just a hunch right now, mami. But, if she's using us or something imma' bitch slap her little nerdy ass with a padlock...." It was difficult to tell if she was being sincere, but anything was possible in this day and age.

"Jesus, goin' heavy there, huh?" 'Carl' snorted, puffing out an almost exasperated chuckle, "I mean, I dunno, I kinda figure where you're comin' from, but this whole thing's a little weird, right? We're all-" He didn't get a chance to continue that line of thought, as some stranger wrapped in a clay-tone cloak skipped over, near enough thrusting a rose of all things into Lily's hands. In this heat? Probably methed out.

When he saw the stranger keep a hold of Lily's hand, he didn't like that at all, instincts about her being a junkie or transient paying off. He was about to physically intercede, when...

"... You all need to leave Quintin, there are things here that none of you are equipped to handle! Just pack up and leave. Before you all get more in over your heads. Eleanor Black is not real. Repeat after me... Eleanor Black is not real."

The mantra echoed at the base of his skull, contrary to all manner of logic - and he held back from grabbing her by the arm. For a moment, he wondered if this was a set-up, and he was at the center of it - a nice big fuck you from IA. He peered over his shoulder, briefly pulling his eyes from the girl in the cloak, but the only thing that caught his eye was a momentary glimpse of a feminine silhouette, peering out through the window at them. He blinked, and she was gone.

"Mhr," he bristled, rubbing at his jaw, attention flicking back to the laughing flower-girl.

"I don't know her, actually. But, in a way, I might as well know her... because like your fearless leader said, other people came to Quintin looking for Eleanor Black. What she left out - either due to obliviousness or something more... sinister - is that twenty-seven people came to Quintin - including those girls, who I also tried to convince to leave - and guess what?"

Flower girl's name was long-winded enough. Odessa. OKM. Even more long-winded was what she had to say

""Twenty-six of them are missing... the body of one was found in town and umm... it's not pretty," Odessa snorted. "When I say that Eleanor Black is not real: something is luring you all here - and I suspect that something is killing you all." if not for the mention of Eleanor, he was ready to believe she was just a transient coming off her latest bump, and even then he wasn't convinced that wasn't the case anyhow. The vague threat to their person rolled off him, for the most part - but his hands were a little closer to his side, a little more self-conscious of his surroundings.

Lily beat him to the punch, which he was glad for - how did she know about Eleanor?

"I was hiding in the bushes, listening to your whole conversation! Next time, close the window!" Fucking junkie, he quietly bristled with a certain inner contempt, before reminding himself that he was just a civilian here.

"That's not cute or funny at all..." Lily had trailed off, but Clay finished that line of thinking. "No, it's sick."

"But do you all have an idea of what's out here? Strange things that shouldn't be possible, but are!"

For all he knew, there could've been shades of truth in the apparent batshit crazy of it. Even junkies could carry fragments of a real story, however fucked their sense of reality was.
"Right, let's just back up" Clay stepped forward to firmly grasp and remove Odessa from within grasping distance of Lily, drawing on her wrist, "You're-... I'm just trying to figure out what's going on with someone. You can't be telling people they're gonna die, I mean how do you even know about all this, huh?"