Zombiedude101

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

Seeing as my time is a little freed up now, here's an NPC that may bear relevance to add to GN's cast of clowns.

Conrad the Floating Dutchman

Conrad.van der Vegte

42 | Conrad van der Vegte | He/Him

Description:

Conrad represents the incorporation of more... idealogical figures into the Wolfpack's sphere of influence. While Judas' power projection and leadership have mostly kept a lid on his ambitions and open to business, it's an open secret that Conrad had (and for all they know, still has) ties to key figures within Das Sonnengrad and was involved in luring some of the cult's more fringe members and associates to act as muscle for the Wolfpack when the former fell into irrelevance.

While formally deferring to Judas, Conrad (derided as the Floating Dutchman over a mishap that saw him nearly drown a few years back, although not to his face) keeps a small cadre of followers with ties to Aryan Nation & Neo-Nazi groups, and has been known to use the Wolfpack as a front for some personal business under the table.

Why Judas tolerates him is a mystery, although it probably involves money.

Abstraction:

Unknown. It definitely isn't swimming.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

@Punished GN@Fernstone@Estylwen@AtomicEmperor
Veni Vedi Veni - Parking Lot

---

His effort with the beer can had been a waste, and his argument had mostly fell on deaf ears. Clancy could see the girl wasn't in a position to reason, and he could see.... emerald light, flickering and swelling at the periphery of his vision. It was blinding, and he felt the strength of it close him like a fire licking at his clothes.

His feet moved on their own, almost autonomous - Clancy circling to what he'd felt was a safer distance somewhere a little more shaded as Stormy, Sully and Alizee briefly tussled on the street. It was only when he looked back he saw the girl was spent, all-but-broken, and for a moment he felt something that was halfway between contempt and pity. She lacked self-control, he realised, and that was something which brought on a sense of disconnected self-loathing.

anbience

Noise shook him out of that notion.

The collective buzz of motorcycle engines, catalysing with a single warning shot. It had been a while since Clancy had heard that unpleasantly familiar crack associated with gunfire.

A barely discernible mutter left his mouth."... warned you."

If it wasn't for the light, Clancy might've snorted at how moronic the Wolfpack looked. Between the braids, the spiked hair that had been poorly brill-creamed and what he wagered were sores from using, they almost looked like a collection of comic book villains, like the ones he used to read. The only things he'd lacked were named, until he overheard one of the others call out some names. "Valjean, Elodie, Shayton, Cyril, Maggy, Dean, and Victor.... no Judas or Curs."

Clancy wasn't sure who was who, save that Valjean was probably the spiky asshole barking orders at them.

For bikers, they seemed characteristically pissed, though he wondered if the commotion at the bar was their only reason for being here, and being ready to hurt people.

"Now, can someone tell me, who the fuck here killed Joe Skinner?! Don't give me any of that 'Aw, we didn't do it, believe us' bullshit! Shit ain't happen until you motherfuckers showed up, thrashing the place! So, you guys have one fucking minute to decide who the fuck killed a member of our pack before we send all of you to your God!"

Oh. That.

Clancy had almost considered the matter all-but settled. But things happened, it wasn't like Skinner was aanything but a bad guy. Did it really matter?

Wasn't like he was number one public enemy here, that went to the girl with a lack of self-control.

And Daddy Wolf was on the way. Maybe this was his shot at finding Judas? He wasn't sure at this stage; too many unknowns, too many people, in a world where he was very small.

Clancy flinched, threw up his hands, inching further off to one side. His attention was really on the motorcycle off to the far side of the lot. Joe Skinner's motorcycle, to which the keys were still in his pocket. It was one option, he'd guessed-

“Hey, kid!”

Clancy heard one of the female members of the Wolfpack call him. A sulty woman leaning up against her bike with her arms crossed and a cigarette in her mouth. She gestured for him to come closer with one finger.

“C’mere.”

Shayton turned to look at her with a raised eyebrow.

Clancy glanced back towards the others, "H-hey, I dunno anything lady, I was just waiting for my dad." It was probably the most genuine he'd sounded tonight.

Palms still raised, he apprehensively stepped forward, then-

“Bullshit.” Clancy froze as the woman hissed at him. “Any other kid in your position would be ready to shit themselves, but you?” She quickly drew her pistol and levelled it at him. “You’re agitated. All agitated. That makes zero fuckin’ sense for a kid your age… and I’m new to this magic bullshit, but that means one of two things…”

She raised two fingers.

“... You must be some kinda sociopath, or you’re not who you say you are.”

”Or,” Clancy snorted, squinting at the woman, ”Maybe I was taught not to fall over and shit my pants over some losers replaying the sixties over and over.” She wasn't wrong. He was agitated, and not necessarily because of the Wolfpack - though that particular fact was about to change.

“Bullshit, but you know what…?”

Maggy squinted down the gunsight and tugged back on the trigger. A single muzzle flare erupted, Clancy barely able to let out a whimper before he collapsed like a deck of cards with the center torn out.

There was no blood, no spatter of brain matter or viscera on the floor, simply the sight of a child crumpling to the ground beside a row of parked cars.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

@Punished GN@Fernstone@Estylwen@AtomicEmperor@Blizz
Veni Vedi Veni - Parking Lot

---

In a matter of moments, the fighting seemed to have died down. Clancy had the self-awareness to recognise he had barely played a small-part in that, and it was more to do with people recognising other people they knew, and those people in turn backing down. He was an outsider in all of this; the only real connection he had to St. Portwell was Ashley Stone, and now she was gone.

That, and the walking embodiment of entropy needling at him, "Does it want a treat?" Asshole.

"Does it like toys?" A sense of agitation was building, more than it usually did when strangers derided him in this way. Too close to home.

"Does it want to feel the sweet, cold embrace of death?" Enough. He wasn't rising for that.

"It wants some quiet time while the grown-ups are talking..." Clancy snapped his fingers dismissively, offering no further answer to the entity or its host - at least, that's what he assumed their relationship might've been, it was difficult to tell what ties this walking embodiment of entropy had to living people except that it was closely involved with her. Good luck with that, anyway.

The woman herself had waved it off and was now speaking with one of the others in the lot, in French no less, but he couldn't follow along. His father - a military man - had spent some years deployed in Europe, but the only phrase he'd ever heard as far as he knew (from overhearing a poker night with some old friends) was "Voudriez-vous aller vous promener, mademoiselle?" followed by raucous laughter.

Meanwhile, the other would-be samaritan had chosen not to push things, but he couldn't help but find some strange amusement at being offered a business card by a stranger twice in as many days. Again, he took the card, briefly glanced over its contents, then pocketed it. If nothing else, it kept one more potential annoyance off his back.

Others were gathering, dropped off or parking close bg - and he was conscious that St. Portwell was a smaller town than he'd anticipated. Clancy wasn't entirely following along; a few names were finally being called out. Alizee, Leon. Sully. Britney. They weren't particularly ear-catching, but something- a sixth sense, maybe - gave him the impression they were supposed to mean something. Maybe something he'd seen on the internet, or when asking around.

At the least, he'd established they probably had nothing to do with the Wolfpack.

"..Sycamore Tree Coven.."

That mention caught his attention - and he linked it to what he'd known about Ashley, the group of friends (loosely using the term, he judged) she had led, that had accomplished a feat so great that it had become part of local myth and had helped lead him here. The same group who's own members were supposedly being picked off in murders by this asshole calling himself Father Wolf.

He suppressed his initial urge to immediately question them; it was obvious most of the people talking here had shared history, less than half of it good. Time wasn't necessarily on their side either; how long until some of Skinner's friends turned up and started asking pointed questions about why their favourite titty bar was trashed? Or why their friend had been left in the state he was, after a heart-to-heart conversation with an impressionable young boy? The latter part was less so concerned for his own sake, and he doubted Skinner would be talking about it to point a finger.

"...jumped me, Brit. G-got in the way of my... investig-gation."

The group he'd seen at the start of all this - that had been fighting Alizee - were still spoiling for a fight, naturally. Trying to catch and predate on some didn't make you friends, and the girl's flimsy defence against the accusations of "hunting" was a matter Clancy understood more than he had ever wanted to, and it did not evoke any warm feelings.

"If by investigation you mean trashing up the club." He wasn't particularly confident they were really listening to him, and was taking a certain relief in being blunt about the matter. "Thanks for that, by the way, you made it easier to walk out the front door."

Even her own 'friends' seemed skeptical about the matter.

”…do you have any idea why there’s a child here, by any chance?” It took a few more moments to realise the big guy with the beard had been referring to him, without directly addressing him. Well that made a change from the usual would-be samaritans, but he felt some irritation nonetheless, thumbing backwards. "The child is here because he wants-" Alizee interrupted that train of conversation by putting hands on the man - Stormy, she called him. Clancy wagered this wouldn't end well, the girl had a temper, but she seemed to back down... only to turn her anger back towards the group she'd originally been spoiling to fight.

His eyes crinkled. There is no time for this.

In the corner of his vision was a discarded beer can, only slightly crushed. Clancy knelt, grabbed it, and impulsively tossed the thing at the french speaker's back. Judging by the sloshing, it still had some liquid inside. Oops. "Listen, morons! You can kill each other whenever you want, but if these losers show up on their bikes, they're going to be your problem, so put a lid on it!" He stood there, gaze fixed on Alizee, posture tight. ".. Already have what you're looking for, it isn't you they need.."

If that didn't break her concentration, then the alternative was messy.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

Ambience

@Punished GN@Fernstone@Estylwen@AtomicEmperor

---

Veni Vedi Veni - Backstage

Getting into the club was just another leg of the journey. Going in through the front door was out of the question, between the regulars and the bouncers, an open window slit that was conveniently just wide enough to fit a child was a much better alternative. Clancy had slipped in while some of the night's main attractions were busy entertaining their audience. Music pulsed through the walls, lyrics and rhythms muffled by the physical barriers between the backstage areas and the main hall from whence it they were broadcast.

It looked like he'd wandered into the corridor preceding some of the private booths, but there wasn't anyone around - just the faint scuffing of high heels on expensive carpet, so for a while he sat around, listened in. Nothing all, except perhaps one guy that he caught a glimpse being led towards one of the private rooms, who didn't strike him as a leader, but had some of the hallmarks you'd associate with the trash found with some of the ex-cons that had fallen into the biker crowd.

He wore a red-and-black lumberjack shirt and denim pants, with an almost shiny clean-shaven dome that seemed to reflect the multi-coloured ambient lighting pretty well. The only thing that gave it away was what looked vaguely like a dog's head for the belt buckle, and the fact he was a skinhead at a club associated with a local group of assholes.

Leading him was one of the dancers, a petite girl somewhere between her late twenties and mid thirties, with platinum hair that he was almost certain had been brought on via artificial means. She was clad in black leather, and reminded him of one of those women he saw on the internet who got paid to stamp on men and tell them how useless they were.

He waited a while, caught some glimpses of their conversation. Based on the chuckling and the trash-talk, he was a regular. Her regular - Skinner, she called him. It sounded like they were very familiar, indeed. And then, some noise muffled by a couple of walls.

"SECURITY! GET HER OUT OF HERE!"

The girl heard it, it seemed. Her client wasn't so interested. "-just wait here a sec, I'll deal with you in a moment." Footsteps, rapidly pacing away. Clancy caught the outline of the girl disappearing around a corner, probably to see what the commotion was.

Some privacy at last.

This was probably the only lead he'd have. Checking over one shoulder, then forward again, he leaned in through the doorway.

"Everything okay?"

Skinner, the girl's client, was seated on a leather couch with some mood lighting overhead. To make things interesting, he was already partially undressed; his shirt was hanging off a hook to one side, and his denim unfastened in a tangle around his ankles. To make it even more interesting, he was handcuffed by his wrists to a railing behind the couch. Another set of manacles chained his ankles to the legs of the couch.

Now that Clancy had a chance to get a better look at him, the illusion of masculinity had been broken. Skinner was paunchy, and judging by the vague outline across the rim of the guy's head, he was compensating for a spell of baldness that had come in some years too early.

Adding to it all, it was much easier to make out sharp, angular tattoo on the guy's upper torso running from shoulder to pectoral, drawn to resembles thick bolts of lightning and repurposed norse runes. Definitely trash.

"Uhm... I'm lost, mister."

"Go on, get outta here kid. This ain' elementary school." Clancy shut the door behind them, then ignorantly dusted off his palms.

"You deaf? C'mon, I'm being fair. I gotta shout, they will toss your ass out. You wanna look at titties, go look 'em up on your phone." Skinhead wasn't amused. "You hear me?"

"Uh-uh," Clancy shook his head,"I got questions. You're not exactly in a position to drag me, and I think security are a little.... busy. I want to know about your boss, or maybe your boss' boss.. you look too much like dirt to associate with management."

"Fuck you, kid. You seriously oughta get outta here before I slap you upside the head."

"With what?" Clancy waved his palms, "I'm guessing your date has the keys. And I bet neither the cops, or your friends would really love dealing with a chomo."

"Fuck you talkin' about you stupid little cocksucker-" Clancy pressed a finger to his own lips and made a 'shush', "I wouldn't say that too loud, or you're just making it worse for yourself." He whipped out the new phone he'd acquired the other night, shifting into the camera app. It took him a moment to figure out the selfie button.

Skinhead flailed, cursing away - fruitlessly, as the commotion had pulled any would-be intrusions to the main viewing gallery. Clancy leaned in close, posing for a few snaps, placing himself in a few compromising poses. A few snaps and it was done. "Unless you want this getting outside the club, you'll tell me what I want to know."

"You better fuckin' delete that shit, or-"

"Or what?" Clancy cut in, rummaging through the pocket of Skinner's shirt, "You'll dislocate your thumbs to come at me? Make it easy, you spend time with this crowd of losers." He tugged out a switchblade. "I want to know what you know. You play with some real losers, so I'm guessing you know something. What about about the guy they call Judas? What's his uh.. deal?"

"Nunya fuckin' business you mongoloid fuckEAARGH!" A shriek drowned out anything coherent. Clancy had stuck the blade in Skinner's knee. "I asked nicely the first time. And now I'm asking one more time before I decide to..." he twisted the blade in place, causing the man to yelp and flail. "YEARHGFUCKER-!"

"Judas. Wolf guy. What does he want? Where. Is. He?" Another twist. "This kneecap is going to pop out aaany minute..."

"I DON'T KNOW! S-STOP!"

"I don't believe you."

"F-fuckin' psycho kid... I d-don't fuckin' know, whaddya even want with 'em?!"

"Child support, he owes my mom a lot of child support." Another twist, for emphasis. "I'm not really good at this, my fingers might slip and hit an artery."

"F-FUCK, STOP! P-please, I really don't fuckin' know! I'll... j-just lemme tell ya'.."

Clancy kept a couple of fingertips on the hilt of the blade, "I'm listening."

"I-... I really don't know much shit 'bout Judas, I swear. He don't... we don't mess around with him much, you think I'm into that crazy shit?"

"Keep on talking... I wanna know why he's killing people like Ashley Stone."

"Ashley wh-.. what the fuck are you talking about? I don't know about any shit like that! W-why are we even talkin' about this, jesus... bet you don' have a clue what you-" Clancy leaned back into the blade. "FURGHh-f-fine! I d-don't know anything about girls b-but.. hear me out, we all seen he's been meetin' with some weird fucks, they come by t-the clubhouse to meet in private. But we d-don't get into that shit."

"What weirdos are we talking about?"

"I d-dunno, they're into some weird demon shit. Sometimes they want people, I got told to stay the fuck away from them, so that's what I do." Clancy eyed the blade, a dull expression in his eyes, "Uh.. s-ssomethin' about dolls... D-Dollhouse, that's their crew!"

Dollhouse. The penny dropped. That it was a name he'd heard before. It didn't evoke a fond memory.

More questions came.

---

"It goes without saying that if you talk about this with anyone, these-" Clancy waved the phone at Skinner, compromising photos on show, "-will find their way out there. That won't be good for you at all. If anyone asks, you uh... figure it out. Nod if you understand."

Skinner frantically nodded, sweat beading down his forehead and other fluids of varying darkness having pooled around the couch cushion and his feet. One of the sleeves of his shirt had been torn off and wedged in his mouth. The blade had been left wedged in his knee, and had left an ugly picture for how small it was.

The stench of meat, blood and other human odours was almost overwhelming. Clancy turned back to the door, fleding his fingers. He had a starting point, at least, and there wasn't anything left for him here - between the information, some extra cash and a few little things borrowed from Skinner's pocket, he had most of what he came for

On second thoughts.

Clancy turned back for a moment; there was one more thing he needed. He'd almost forgot.

---

Veni Vedi Veni - Parking Lot

---

Slipping back out hadn't been too much trouble, though one of the girls in the back had made a point of reminding him on her way out, "Jasper c'mon, your mom doesn't work here anymore." It was almost funny. Almost.

Except the commotion that had drawn Skinner's date away had spilled outside. Peaking around the corner, Clancy saw a trail of destruction leading out of the main dance hall, overturned tables and broken glass everywhere. And the air reeked of something beyond the overpriced liquor, aftershave and perfume that left their pungent trademarks.

Something surged at his insides, briefly - a sensation he hadn't felt for a long while. He wasn't sure if that was a good of a bad thing. Instead, he felt through his knapsack for security. A couple of phones rating from bad to okay, including the new one Skinner had generously gifted him. And the key. A motorcycle key to be specific.

Could he still ride a bike? The learned motions were there, somewhere deep within him.

Depending on what it was... well, a long time ago, his older brother had taken him out to a road near a quarry to ride on his '31 Indian Scout, a hand-me-down from Uncle... Gerry? Sometimes the memories were a blur - Frank had made Clancy do the run by himself, and he'd almost gone over the handlebars when he hit a rock in the road... except he hadn't, and beat the odds. Lucky for them, really. If their mom had found out, they'd have both got the belt.

He shook the memory off as he stepped outside. Back to the now.

And there it was. Clancy could see a motorcycle parked across the lot, and judging by the profile, it matched Skinner's key. Except there was another problem.

Some kind of tussle had broke out in the lot, and he couldn't make hide or hair of who these people were, save that they vaguely matched the profile of weird demon shit that Skinner had alluded to. But he didn't get the impression these people were Dollhouse, even though they reeked of power.

And an ivory-skinned girl with matching hair, projecting phantom limbs which had no business being attached to a human body. There was no warmth felt in his recognition of that ephemeral shadow, clutching a redhead in its grasp, and there was little doubt it might recognise him... in a fashion.

A kindred spirit of sorts, from the Void. Hunger

One of the others in the opposing group spoke up.

"We do not wish to fight! Please release our friend and we will leave! There are more of us on the way, and the Wolfpack is likely on the way as well; there is no way for you to win! We will do anything for our friends. If you do not stop... we will be forced to kill you! And trust me, everyone here has taken a life before, and we will show you no quarter!"

It occurred to him he was a 12 (and-a-half) year-old boy stood outside the local biker crew's favourite titty bar, in the middle of a fight between powers beyond human mortality.

"Uh... I'm lost." he remarked, to nobody in particular.

Something was uncanny about the boy, and it wasn't the dried blood on his fingertips.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

<Snipped quote by Zombiedude101>

Cucked

@Punished GN

well at least I still know more about linux

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

post 60 imminent

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

---

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.