Post by WOOLA! on Jun 19, 2015 20:59:24 GMT
OOC Thread: Here
Prolog
A hundred and eighty years ago, among the quiet hills and clinging mists of what would become the State of New York in a few more peaceful years a story unfurled itself like the many limbs of some foul deep beast. Some say the place had always been dark, too quiet, too peaceful, cursed with stagnation. Others that a witch in the days it was a Dutch settlement cursed it with all her might as she was run from her home or before that by the Indians. The voices that crept through the woods, the murky darkness that was trapped in the valley in all but the strongest of summer suns. All this lead to a place that had many rumors, one stood out however, enough that almost all even in Modern America have heard of at least the name.
A horseman, a Hessian soldier from the Revolutionary War who was killed and lost his head, quite literally. In war this is not so very uncommon, such things are want to happen to the poor men that fight tooth and nail for their causes. Yet for this man, death did not claim him. No one lead him across the river and into the restful darkness, no he rode again, the lack of a head serving no apparent impediment. In those times anyone out at night might catch a glimpse of the horseman who sought to reclaim his head. Riding back to the site of that battle from his grave in the woods, somethings hooves thundering through the middle of the village. Despite this and the fear it bought to people in this time since the war, no one had been known to be killed by the horseman. Given the nature of this tale however, this was not something that would remain however.
One dark night the horseman could be heard in the village, the doors locked, windows barred and children long sent to bed. Yet on this night, a scream pierced the air, cutting the wind and rain asunder as the hooves made haste away. When the shaken villages roused the courage to peek at the cracks in their shutters, through keyholes and windows one of their number lay dead. The rain had washed the blood, staining deep red streams into the roadway. The woman who lay with rounded belly was at first unidentifiable, after all she was without a head. Her husband wrought with grief and anger vowed that he would return his vengeance three fold upon the horseman.
The next morning it was his body they found just outside the village, his head removed, musket cast aside. Nor was he the last, the Priest, the Notary, the Chief of the village, along with half a dozen farmhands and likely lads. Help finally arrived in the form of a detachment of black coated soldiers, armed with pikes and muskets that ran a three day battle with the horseman, before disappearing into the forest. Neither they or the horseman were seen again, until now.
-------------------
Present Day
Even halfway through the day the sun lazily peeked through the clouds only intermediately. What was once a village of a few dozen buildings was now more like a town. Paved streets, homes, cars, all the trappings of the modern American life. If you climbed the hill towards New York city on a clear night, you might see the glow on the horizon, to remind you just how dangerous the world can be. It is thought that Jenny Painter did just that two days ago, going for a walk alone at right is ill advised at the best of times yet she did and the twenty four year old paid the price with her head. The sound of hooves ran out through the town at night but almost no one thought it would be the tale. They still didn’t even after the body was found, a murder for sure, but not one of foul magic. Even if it were, some freak did not equal the return of a haunting from a story.
Then two days later, another body this time a boy no older than twelve years old. As it would happen he was Jenny’s cousin, found in the woods with hoof marks and blood, he had been chased. There were no sightings until four days later, when a man, tall and in dark clothes broke into the home of the recently deceased Robert Roose and killed both of his parents. By now it was clear the wounds were not caused by a normal weapon, nor a human of normal strength. With the security alarms blaring he rode off once again into the night, seen only from afar in the darkness.
These events were of course picked up by those that listen to them, sending their forces to investigate the cause of the deaths and if supernatural to deal with it. If it is the creature from those stories so long ago then something must have caused it to return now. If its something else copying them, well, that might be just as hard to deal with. This just sets the scene however, the truth behind these things is like so many things shrouded in lies and rumors.
That afternoon with its pale sun and damp air was when the the understated arrival of the team from the I.A.C.S.B. A black 2006 Chevrolet Suburban a small white logo on each door and a strip of internal lights the only thing that made it even remotely of note parked outside the small local police station. A station that until a fortnight ago merely had to deal with drunks and speeding fines. Sheif Brunt was inside along with some of his deputies, state troopers and several officers from the State Homicide Unit.
They are not the only visitors to this town however, given all the funerals and needs of the people the local church has also seen more activity of late with a car arriving late last night. Even that pales with the number of tourists that have flocked to catch a glimpse of the supernatural along with the train of doomsayers and magical protection merchants that follow in their wake. Some of them the very people that are the reason central New York City needed to have a chain link fence and guards put up around it. Hardly to keep the dragon in, but to keep people from getting themselves killed trying to see it. It isn’t entirely unwelcome even in these dark times the boost in business for such a small place is substantial, all the local hotels and motels fully booked.
The police have forbidden anyone from going into the forest at night however and there is a strict 8pm to 5am curfew on the entirety of Sleepy Hollow. It would be neglectful to forget that the media is also here, while not outstanding compared to some mythological attacks the element of history is indeed enticing.
----------------
“Pelican,” A woman’s voice tinged with a French Canadian accent,
“Pigeon Pie,” This voice softer in places, a flexing cadence and her vowels placed her somewhat clearly as a New Englander.
This elicited a giggle from the other woman, her eyes shining before her halted answer came, “Potatoes,”
“Salad,” A small smile broadened, “Now you are making me hungry,” As neither of the two had eaten lunch this was a statement of little surprise. Red haired, shortish and with black framed glasses and wearing a black hoodie over a long overshirt and tights.
“Well you won’t have to wait that long, not that I have any, Pigeon Pie,” Breaking into a giggle the taller and better built woman swayed her hips a little. Dressed in a yellow fleece and jeans she had locks of light brown hair cascading with each turn of her head. Her face seemed a little long and when she smiled all of her teeth showed yet her slightly crooked nose and amber eyes brought it all back together into rather effortless charm.
Cordelia was visiting from further East, not a thing to do with the murders mind she was keen to stress that. They had made plans months ago that when Sabine was going to be off work for a while that she’d come stay for a while and catch up. Being properly out in the country and some time away from home was meant to be good for her, however all this activity was problematic. Never the less she could hardly abandon her friend to the dangers around right now, even if it was a thin line to tread. Even thinking that the redhead knew that when it came down to it, her own safety had to come first.
Sabine was seemed carefree right now, it was the day and despite what happened two days ago it had nothing to do with her at all. Some crazy murderer was hardly going to strike at her of all the people here and she didn’t even know the victims. This was the first holiday she had away from the office in months and she was going to make the best of it. While her friend seemed rather conflicted all of a sudden she sprang back, “I wouldn’t worry about it, you know, it's not like he can just walk in here with all the police and stuff,” Was she saying it for her friends sake or her own, “Its the day so lets just have fun, I’ll make you pie if you really want it,” Sticking out her tongue, her eyes still showing some seriousness.
Smiling and offering a nod Cordelia kept pace as they walked past the police station. She couldn’t help but wonder though, one of them was the question she knew the answer to for herself, would Sabine risk her life for her? Before anything more of that could be pushed away or words used to cover it her friend came to an abrupt stop, staring. Confused her counterpart also stopped looking first to her and then to where she was staring. Her heart skipped a beat, it was fear. Something ingrained into her most of her life, the few times she had ever seen them.
There was a tall, dark skinned man in a trench-coat and sunglasses, a somewhat short girl but taller than herself with silver hair in a marked uniform and finally, well she certainly stood out like a sore thumb. Bright green, open waist, tight at the bust and a skirt that was certainly, a statement mixed with those ears. Even from the other side of the road she could make those out. She’d never actually seen an Elf before, by her reaction Sabine hadn’t either. The way they were acting though, they were together, that meant trouble. Someone dressed like that could quite possibly be crazy and with her company, might start throwing curses and hexes at anyone who looked at them funny. A certain someone like, grabbing her friend by the arm Cordelia started to pull her away down the street before whispering under her breath, “You shouldn’t have anything to do with them, they are dangerous!” They kill people, they pretend to be all nice and then use that to trap you, just like they did before.
In her eyes, very few people could be trusted with magic and those that would use it on people they way she had heard it used, should never had that power. There was also the fact that if she was discovered then it would effectively be the end of the life she worked so hard to protect. All her friends, getting a job, walking around outside, the safety of her family, just to gawk. Sure seeing an actual elf might be cool but at what cost, did they even have human values? There was more than one theory that those Fey were behind the Dragon and the Roswell Incident, maybe they even helped the Nazi’s. No you shouldn’t trust them, or get anywhere near them.
-------------
Turning off the engine the driver didn’t look over his shoulder, he had by far enough on this trip already. Stepping out he stretched his legs and then his arms, a black over coat ruffling itself as he did so. Even if it was only driving from the airport this was a pain, he could have at least had better passengers. Then again this was his job, he didn’t have to like them at all, so silent he stayed. There was a job to do, investigate all this and solve it. Even if it meant driving around Elf and Wolf here like a glorified chauffeur.
-----------------
A sense of melancholy hung in the air around the church, one of the oldest buildings in the town, a white wooden replica of the church that burn down a hundred years ago. It used to be such a focal point of the community, yet the protection it offered against spirits and the darkness was as real now as it ever was. Next to its white spire across the graveyard was the rectory, an old sandstone house, two stories tall but wide and deep, six bedrooms, offices, libraries and an exceptionally large basement. Reaching down into tunnels that existed back to the civil war, it allowed access to several of the town’s old buildings and even into the sewers.
There was a sole priest that lived there now with only occasional visitors and a clearer once in a while. Last night however a car arrived and more than one light was it on the upper levels. Whatever the cause it was apparent that recent events caused others from the church to visit the local priest. It is known that in Europe they operate a rather conservative approach to the supernatural, namely burning it like a scourge from the face of the Earth. Brutal, violent and effective, a war against any that might consider harming humans or even have the power to do so. Here, their power is not so strong yet they still have some sway, enough that they can cover their tracks and move their members in secret. There are those with power that would much rather the Church and not the I.A.C.S.B. were the guardians of these United States. Those that fear those with unnatural powers, even if used for good.
Now morning prayers are aside and the matters of faith have be dealt with the business of the day could take place, for that night it was certain that the horseman would ride again. These nights where the horseman rides, death rides at his side.
In the office Roland Van Tassel sits behind a desk with those sent by the mother church to defend the faithful across from him. A large and very old bible sits upon it, illuminated by a candle, red curtains across the window. The room is cold still, a seriousness filling it. Lives after all did depend on the words that were about to be spoken.
Prolog
A hundred and eighty years ago, among the quiet hills and clinging mists of what would become the State of New York in a few more peaceful years a story unfurled itself like the many limbs of some foul deep beast. Some say the place had always been dark, too quiet, too peaceful, cursed with stagnation. Others that a witch in the days it was a Dutch settlement cursed it with all her might as she was run from her home or before that by the Indians. The voices that crept through the woods, the murky darkness that was trapped in the valley in all but the strongest of summer suns. All this lead to a place that had many rumors, one stood out however, enough that almost all even in Modern America have heard of at least the name.
A horseman, a Hessian soldier from the Revolutionary War who was killed and lost his head, quite literally. In war this is not so very uncommon, such things are want to happen to the poor men that fight tooth and nail for their causes. Yet for this man, death did not claim him. No one lead him across the river and into the restful darkness, no he rode again, the lack of a head serving no apparent impediment. In those times anyone out at night might catch a glimpse of the horseman who sought to reclaim his head. Riding back to the site of that battle from his grave in the woods, somethings hooves thundering through the middle of the village. Despite this and the fear it bought to people in this time since the war, no one had been known to be killed by the horseman. Given the nature of this tale however, this was not something that would remain however.
One dark night the horseman could be heard in the village, the doors locked, windows barred and children long sent to bed. Yet on this night, a scream pierced the air, cutting the wind and rain asunder as the hooves made haste away. When the shaken villages roused the courage to peek at the cracks in their shutters, through keyholes and windows one of their number lay dead. The rain had washed the blood, staining deep red streams into the roadway. The woman who lay with rounded belly was at first unidentifiable, after all she was without a head. Her husband wrought with grief and anger vowed that he would return his vengeance three fold upon the horseman.
The next morning it was his body they found just outside the village, his head removed, musket cast aside. Nor was he the last, the Priest, the Notary, the Chief of the village, along with half a dozen farmhands and likely lads. Help finally arrived in the form of a detachment of black coated soldiers, armed with pikes and muskets that ran a three day battle with the horseman, before disappearing into the forest. Neither they or the horseman were seen again, until now.
-------------------
Present Day
Even halfway through the day the sun lazily peeked through the clouds only intermediately. What was once a village of a few dozen buildings was now more like a town. Paved streets, homes, cars, all the trappings of the modern American life. If you climbed the hill towards New York city on a clear night, you might see the glow on the horizon, to remind you just how dangerous the world can be. It is thought that Jenny Painter did just that two days ago, going for a walk alone at right is ill advised at the best of times yet she did and the twenty four year old paid the price with her head. The sound of hooves ran out through the town at night but almost no one thought it would be the tale. They still didn’t even after the body was found, a murder for sure, but not one of foul magic. Even if it were, some freak did not equal the return of a haunting from a story.
Then two days later, another body this time a boy no older than twelve years old. As it would happen he was Jenny’s cousin, found in the woods with hoof marks and blood, he had been chased. There were no sightings until four days later, when a man, tall and in dark clothes broke into the home of the recently deceased Robert Roose and killed both of his parents. By now it was clear the wounds were not caused by a normal weapon, nor a human of normal strength. With the security alarms blaring he rode off once again into the night, seen only from afar in the darkness.
These events were of course picked up by those that listen to them, sending their forces to investigate the cause of the deaths and if supernatural to deal with it. If it is the creature from those stories so long ago then something must have caused it to return now. If its something else copying them, well, that might be just as hard to deal with. This just sets the scene however, the truth behind these things is like so many things shrouded in lies and rumors.
That afternoon with its pale sun and damp air was when the the understated arrival of the team from the I.A.C.S.B. A black 2006 Chevrolet Suburban a small white logo on each door and a strip of internal lights the only thing that made it even remotely of note parked outside the small local police station. A station that until a fortnight ago merely had to deal with drunks and speeding fines. Sheif Brunt was inside along with some of his deputies, state troopers and several officers from the State Homicide Unit.
They are not the only visitors to this town however, given all the funerals and needs of the people the local church has also seen more activity of late with a car arriving late last night. Even that pales with the number of tourists that have flocked to catch a glimpse of the supernatural along with the train of doomsayers and magical protection merchants that follow in their wake. Some of them the very people that are the reason central New York City needed to have a chain link fence and guards put up around it. Hardly to keep the dragon in, but to keep people from getting themselves killed trying to see it. It isn’t entirely unwelcome even in these dark times the boost in business for such a small place is substantial, all the local hotels and motels fully booked.
The police have forbidden anyone from going into the forest at night however and there is a strict 8pm to 5am curfew on the entirety of Sleepy Hollow. It would be neglectful to forget that the media is also here, while not outstanding compared to some mythological attacks the element of history is indeed enticing.
----------------
“Pelican,” A woman’s voice tinged with a French Canadian accent,
“Pigeon Pie,” This voice softer in places, a flexing cadence and her vowels placed her somewhat clearly as a New Englander.
This elicited a giggle from the other woman, her eyes shining before her halted answer came, “Potatoes,”
“Salad,” A small smile broadened, “Now you are making me hungry,” As neither of the two had eaten lunch this was a statement of little surprise. Red haired, shortish and with black framed glasses and wearing a black hoodie over a long overshirt and tights.
“Well you won’t have to wait that long, not that I have any, Pigeon Pie,” Breaking into a giggle the taller and better built woman swayed her hips a little. Dressed in a yellow fleece and jeans she had locks of light brown hair cascading with each turn of her head. Her face seemed a little long and when she smiled all of her teeth showed yet her slightly crooked nose and amber eyes brought it all back together into rather effortless charm.
Cordelia was visiting from further East, not a thing to do with the murders mind she was keen to stress that. They had made plans months ago that when Sabine was going to be off work for a while that she’d come stay for a while and catch up. Being properly out in the country and some time away from home was meant to be good for her, however all this activity was problematic. Never the less she could hardly abandon her friend to the dangers around right now, even if it was a thin line to tread. Even thinking that the redhead knew that when it came down to it, her own safety had to come first.
Sabine was seemed carefree right now, it was the day and despite what happened two days ago it had nothing to do with her at all. Some crazy murderer was hardly going to strike at her of all the people here and she didn’t even know the victims. This was the first holiday she had away from the office in months and she was going to make the best of it. While her friend seemed rather conflicted all of a sudden she sprang back, “I wouldn’t worry about it, you know, it's not like he can just walk in here with all the police and stuff,” Was she saying it for her friends sake or her own, “Its the day so lets just have fun, I’ll make you pie if you really want it,” Sticking out her tongue, her eyes still showing some seriousness.
Smiling and offering a nod Cordelia kept pace as they walked past the police station. She couldn’t help but wonder though, one of them was the question she knew the answer to for herself, would Sabine risk her life for her? Before anything more of that could be pushed away or words used to cover it her friend came to an abrupt stop, staring. Confused her counterpart also stopped looking first to her and then to where she was staring. Her heart skipped a beat, it was fear. Something ingrained into her most of her life, the few times she had ever seen them.
There was a tall, dark skinned man in a trench-coat and sunglasses, a somewhat short girl but taller than herself with silver hair in a marked uniform and finally, well she certainly stood out like a sore thumb. Bright green, open waist, tight at the bust and a skirt that was certainly, a statement mixed with those ears. Even from the other side of the road she could make those out. She’d never actually seen an Elf before, by her reaction Sabine hadn’t either. The way they were acting though, they were together, that meant trouble. Someone dressed like that could quite possibly be crazy and with her company, might start throwing curses and hexes at anyone who looked at them funny. A certain someone like, grabbing her friend by the arm Cordelia started to pull her away down the street before whispering under her breath, “You shouldn’t have anything to do with them, they are dangerous!” They kill people, they pretend to be all nice and then use that to trap you, just like they did before.
In her eyes, very few people could be trusted with magic and those that would use it on people they way she had heard it used, should never had that power. There was also the fact that if she was discovered then it would effectively be the end of the life she worked so hard to protect. All her friends, getting a job, walking around outside, the safety of her family, just to gawk. Sure seeing an actual elf might be cool but at what cost, did they even have human values? There was more than one theory that those Fey were behind the Dragon and the Roswell Incident, maybe they even helped the Nazi’s. No you shouldn’t trust them, or get anywhere near them.
-------------
Turning off the engine the driver didn’t look over his shoulder, he had by far enough on this trip already. Stepping out he stretched his legs and then his arms, a black over coat ruffling itself as he did so. Even if it was only driving from the airport this was a pain, he could have at least had better passengers. Then again this was his job, he didn’t have to like them at all, so silent he stayed. There was a job to do, investigate all this and solve it. Even if it meant driving around Elf and Wolf here like a glorified chauffeur.
-----------------
A sense of melancholy hung in the air around the church, one of the oldest buildings in the town, a white wooden replica of the church that burn down a hundred years ago. It used to be such a focal point of the community, yet the protection it offered against spirits and the darkness was as real now as it ever was. Next to its white spire across the graveyard was the rectory, an old sandstone house, two stories tall but wide and deep, six bedrooms, offices, libraries and an exceptionally large basement. Reaching down into tunnels that existed back to the civil war, it allowed access to several of the town’s old buildings and even into the sewers.
There was a sole priest that lived there now with only occasional visitors and a clearer once in a while. Last night however a car arrived and more than one light was it on the upper levels. Whatever the cause it was apparent that recent events caused others from the church to visit the local priest. It is known that in Europe they operate a rather conservative approach to the supernatural, namely burning it like a scourge from the face of the Earth. Brutal, violent and effective, a war against any that might consider harming humans or even have the power to do so. Here, their power is not so strong yet they still have some sway, enough that they can cover their tracks and move their members in secret. There are those with power that would much rather the Church and not the I.A.C.S.B. were the guardians of these United States. Those that fear those with unnatural powers, even if used for good.
Now morning prayers are aside and the matters of faith have be dealt with the business of the day could take place, for that night it was certain that the horseman would ride again. These nights where the horseman rides, death rides at his side.
In the office Roland Van Tassel sits behind a desk with those sent by the mother church to defend the faithful across from him. A large and very old bible sits upon it, illuminated by a candle, red curtains across the window. The room is cold still, a seriousness filling it. Lives after all did depend on the words that were about to be spoken.
