Molly Tries To Find A Nosferatu

M. Toombs @ 7:58PM

[Intelligence 3 + Investigation 2:  Researching Leads, +1 Diff for time crunch]

Roll: 5 d10 TN7 (2, 2, 6, 8, 9) ( success x 2 )

M. Toombs @ 7:59PM

[Intelligence 3 + Investigation 2: Additional Research]

Roll: 5 d10 TN6 (5, 6, 7, 7, 9) ( success x 4 )

M. Toombs @ 8:00PM

[Intelligence 3 + Computers 1: Internet!]

Roll: 4 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 7, 9) ( success x 2 )

M. Toombs @ 8:00PM

[Wits 4 + Occult 4: Interpreting that Addt'l Research]

Roll: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 4, 5, 7, 7, 9, 10) ( success x 4 )

M. Toombs @ 8:01PM

[Stamina 3]

Roll: 3 d10 TN6 (3, 3, 7) ( success x 1 )

vampires

As Molly puts her mind to the problem of finding a Nosferatu (and a city applauds, with condescending benevolence, her sticktoitiveness, her optimism), it does occur to her that while she does not know all of Jack's haunts, she is familiar with his haunts in the guise of Harald. He might be found at the Riverside Cemetery. He had mentioned to her before a bookshop called Black's which carries rare occult books and has a deal with the city's warehouse proprietors at first crack should the items in any storage unit be suddenly put up for sale. He might be found at the donut shop he brought her to on more than one occasion, and whose delicious coffee he brought her too, friends as he is with the owner. It occurs to her too that she might try to contact some of her vampiric pals or even that a ghost might be able to find a Nosferatu where human beings and other vampires fail.

It's a trick, finding Jack. The reflection was pretending to be him (or it was him, truly), as if Jack himself were caught on the otherside now, so finding the Nosferatu might well prove to be even harder than it would under normal circumstances.

Going over her notes and the occult books she has managed to collect, one thing becomes remarkably evident to Molly, and that thing is: Her resources are limited. She needs a better sort of library, because it's the same information over and over, again and again, but what is this? A scrap, a hint, a ritual, something to summon a familiar from another circle, something which might do the summoner's bidding if only a deal was struck. Another scrap, another hint at a ritual, or a rite, something local involving a crossroads outside of town, a certain time of night, a specter which can be impugned to grant desires.

Molly is certain that she can very creditably try either of these courses of action and see whether or not they're true whether or not they're real.

But there's nothing that looks specifically like it would convert to summoning up the reflection.

The stress and the truncated sleep makes her more tired than usual toward the end of her shift when that finally comes, but she's Molly Toombs, so she manages and her body does what she tells it to.

Molly

Finding a Nosferatu that seemingly didn't want to be found was no easy task.  Molly was a clever woman, an occultist by passion so strong that she couldn't just call it a hobby any longer, but her day job wasn't that of a detective or private investigator.  She was a trauma nurse.  She could diagnose injuries and a plethora of illnesses, and she could provide life-saving first aid in many different medical emergencies as well.  What she lacked distinctly, though, was background in tracking people down, in particular those with tricks to keep themselves hidden and unnoticed for as long as they were willing to be patient.  That could even be as long as it took for the last breath to rasp its way from her lungs, be that prematurely or of old age (the latter seemed less and less likely as weeks and months passed by anymore).

But a valiant effort Molly did put forth, and the day following her uncomfortable and binding encounter she set down to make her plan of attack for the rest of the week.

First she would try to track Jacky down at the haunts she'd frequented with him before.  She'd visited and gone out with him more times than she bothered to keep track of, to plenty of locales, but a few stood out when she strained her memory.  These locations were jotted down on a list and stuck to her fridge with a flower magnet:

• Black's Bookshop
• Riverside Cemetery
• Doughnut/Coffee Shop

She wouldn't have the time to check them out today.  She'd need to be into work in the mid-afternoon and intended the day to be one of research, of planning and plotting and drafting.  She'd paused to refill coffee and pull something together for breakfast, and during this time the energy drink bottle that she'd abandoned on her kitchen counter last night was stared at.  Stared down.  Analyzed.  Challenged.  It was a puzzle with a contract, there were rules that she could not-would not break.  <i>If information about the encounter is forced from you, drink from this bottle.</i>  It wasn't outright said that the contents were poisonous, but Molly could just assume so.  The contemplating continued while she fried sausages in a pan and made toast to go along with them.  The staring kept up while waiting for the food to finish, and a decision was made while sipping her coffee and tapping her fingertip on the lid -- a lid that she unscrewed so that she could dump the contents down the sink.  The bottle was then thoroughly rinsed, washed with dish soap, and then by compulsion (because <i>something</i> had to be in there to drink), refilled with water from the tap.

With that done, she sat down to breakfast with a trio of books she'd pulled from her shelf to scour and search for thoughts on her back-up plan if no leads on Jacky could be found at the locations on her fridge list.  She had the distinct hunch that the reflection who'd come to visit her, who'd called upon her to go to the woman with the cards in the first place, was still somehow connected to Jack.  If that were the case, perhaps it could lead her to him instead.  So, she needed to find a way to summon him to her-- it's not like the reflection had a cell phone that she could text, and she couldn't just stand in front of a mirror and chant "Monster-Jack, Monster-Jack, Monster-Jack!" and hope that he'd come peeking in through the corner of the glass.

The books didn't hold much that was new, as she'd read through them numerous times before, but there were tidbits here and there that she'd jotted down as inspiration, possibilities that could maybe just perhaps maybe work.  She'd next turned to the internet, placing her long-since-finished breakfast plate in the dishwasher and moving to her couch with her laptop, where Lucy the Cat would keep her company curled up against her hip.  Molly never left traces of herself beyond a visiting IP address when doing her research-- she wouldn't post questions or comments or queries onto websites or sign up for any subscriptions.  There was no interaction with other people interested in the same things, but Molly could still glean from their insight when she found evidence of it left behind in forums and on websites and blogs.

Between the books and the laptop, instructions and concepts were drafted together to summon forward a reflection (hopefully the one she sought specifically) if her foot-hunt failed.

It was around this time that Molly looked up bleary-eyed to the clock on her wall and realized that she would need to be in to work in the next 50 minutes.  With a sigh and a rub of her eyes, Molly readied herself and went into work at the hospital.  The night there would be long, but Molly was an E.R. nurse.  She knew long hours and exhaustion like they were close friends, and though the night before had worn her down and the morning had been mentally exhausting to match, she managed to make it all the way through her shift without wrecking any procedures or performing below her standard stellar expectations for herself.

Tomorrow, she'd advised herself while sipping her third cup of coffee that evening around eleven at night, she would begin the real search.

mystery

Black's is one of those book shops in a strip mall you expect to be bought out by a drycleaners or a massage parlor at any moment. It's sign is faded and almost illegible, and the neon in its window is a faded dizzy pink. Maybe Molly calls in advance, just to see who's working. Maybe she just shows up and hopes for the best.

The counter is in the back of the shop, in a corner where whoever's sitting at the corner can spy on everything going on to the best of their ability, thanks to a few mirrors and a grainy security camera. The air smells of old glue and paper and leather, and the proprietor is in.

He's a mountainous man, obese to a fault, and very pale, as if he never got a chance to go outside, or even yet as if he were some species of underwater mammal. He dresses well, but his bulk is just: impressive, as is the watchmaker delicacy which even his tiniest gesture seems to finick over. She's probably exchanged words with him before, on prior occasions, there with Harald - or if she hasn't personally been there she's heard about him from Jacky. 

He's doing something on his tablet, a pair of frameless half-moon glasses perched on the very point of his long nose. 

--

[Okay, to kick off Day 2, let me know what Molly's work schedule is, then roll me her Stamina.]

Molly

The previous night at work had been long but not unbearable.  Molly slept hard when she came home, a mercilessly dreamless sleep due to the state of mental exhaustion.  Still, she'd set a 10:00am alarm for herself (despite getting home at 2:00am and falling asleep about an hour afterwards), because she had an agenda for the next day.

When the morning came about she bustled through her morning routine-- took Florence the Dog out for a somewhat abbreviated run, showered hastily and put on her make-up with only the most bare essentials required to cover the tired circles under her eyes and help her look more awake.  She didn't waste time prepping breakfast or coffee at home-- simply carried a water bottle and her list of locations from the fridge out the door with her and looped back to the small parking lot of covered stalls that her apartment building provided for residents.  Molly was typically fond of traveling by foot or bicycle in warm weather, but time was of the essence today as was energy conservation.  She took the car, went through a coffee shop drive-thru to grab a latte with an extra pair of espresso shots and a breakfast scone, and then set a route for Black's Bookshop.

Once she'd parked and stepped inside the faded-dusty shopping center space of a bookstore, Molly's eyes performed a cursory sweep for faces both familiar and not.  She knew some of the tricks of the Nosferatu, knew that they put on whatever faces they could muster themselves to craft to hide their beastliness from everyone else, and so expected that if Jacky were here by any off chance it would have to be with a face not like the homely one she'd grown so fond of (whether that was by genuine sentiment or something influenced by blood she couldn't know).  Paper beverage cup in hand, she roamed about through the small space to root out corners for people who may be lurking out of sight before ultimately rounding her way back to the front desk, to the massively obese man with the very precise motions that she'd seen one time before when visiting here with who she thought to be Harald.

"Excuse me," she said as politely as she could, trying not to sound so urgently in a rush or eager for information (and probably doing a fairly decent job of it too).  "I'm wondering if you've seen my friend Jacky around here?  He comes in here a lot.  His phone got turned off, so I can't just text him like I usually would."

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

[[  Molly's work schedule for Day 2 will be much like Day 1.  She'll have to be in to work at 4:00pm, and will probably be there until about 2:00am or so this time around.  But at least she can go into it knowing that she doesn't have to work at all on Day 3 -- mid-week days off are the shit, yo.  Also, here's that Stamina roll! ]]

Molly @ 7:33PM

[Stamina 3]

Roll: 3 d10 TN6 (3, 6, 9) ( success x 2 )

mystery

He purses his shell-pink delicate lips together thoughtfully, cheeks gone shiny with the gesture, and looks Molly over as if trying to put together whether or not she is telling the truth.

Eventually, he says, "I know Jacky. I have a book on hold for him which he was, hrm, supposed to pick up a month ago, but he still hasn't been in for it. Prepaid, so I can't resell it."

Molly

At first glance Molly probably seemed an easy person to trust.  There was something to having a rounder shape, in body and face both, that made her seem inherently warmer and more trustworthy.  The splash of freckles even sweetened the deal, like some Americana rural sweetheart (or a far cry back to some European Isles).  But even so, her eyes were a bit too sharp, her demeanor a bit too set in determination.  It set the whole thing into doubt.

It didn't help when she did things like consider the man's answer for a moment before asking:

"What was it?"

Probably None of her goddamn business, but she really just figured there wasn't much he could do beyond tell her 'no' if she asked anyways.

mystery

The man looks her over: a sluice of a look. In a thin man it would be a rake but in this grotesquely huge man it's a sluice it's like water trickling slowly down in a rush up and down leaving behind remnant of pressure. He touches the side of his mouth with his pink tongue and then say, "Hold on," and he forces himself up on his feet a sound popping in the ground like a spine like a groan and then he goes into the back.

If Molly is still there when he returns, he has a book covered in brown paper moth-drab don't-look-at-me paper. "Show me some ID and you can just take it. Jacky, hrm, he doesn't cause any trouble and I, hrm, I don't want to keep something I won't be able to sell later in good conscience." He sounds so virtuous but also as if he'd just really like to give that damned book away. 


Molly

Eyes climbing down Molly's figure and back up again weren't the most uncommon thing to happen to her.  She was a pretty woman, after all, with plenty of curve to fill the eye with-- this certainly wasn't the first time she'd gotten that kind of a once-over and it surely wouldn't be the last.  The red-haired woman tolerated it well, even put a small smile on closed lips to encourage cooperation while this man toyed with the idea of helping out with her request or not.  When the 'Hold on' was announced, Molly's smile spread a bit further on her face and she nodded, hitched an elbow on the counter, and waited.

When he returned with a square package wrapped in brown paper and requested ID, Molly nodded and slipped fingers into her back pocket.  "Thank you.  Maybe I can hold it ransom for him to finally call me back, huh?"  She grinned, the expression friendly and polite jest, then shuffled her driver's license free from the small stack she'd produced (the plastic of a credit or debit card along with the green of a couple of bills accompanied the ID card) and offered it over to him.

Molly L. Toombs
Colorado Resident
Class D License
Donor?:  Y
Hair: Red
Eyes: Blue
DoB: June (something-or-other), 1988

The picture showed a woman with a somewhat slimmer face but identical features otherwise, set unsmiling into the camera, with hair that was much shorter (about chin-length) and dyed black.  Her appearance had changed enough to warrant a double-take, but when it came down to it the features, the freckles, and the cool sort of watchful calculation in those blue eyes were precisely the same.

mystery

He squints at the id and he squints at her face as if trying to match them up. The changes are noted. This is no casual observance. This is ritual. This is rite. This is the way things are done! Once he has thoroughly ascertained to the best of his ability that Molly before him and Molly in the book are the same person, he hands the book over and makes a note in his ledger and smiles at her, pinkly unctuous. And then she is left with her book. Jack's book. Jacky's book. Harald's.

Should she be tempted to unwrap and look at it, she'll see that it is an old old thing, written in German or a related language, in a hand-blocked font difficult to translate until one has got the hang of it. More interesting to her, perhaps, would be the woodcuts -- they're few and far between, but eye-grabbing, dark night-winged creatures and ornate frames which could be mirrors or symbols or who knows what. Alchemy. 

mystery

Should Molly go to Riverside Cemetery before work, it is beautiful and the gates are open and she runs into a few people leaving flowers or going for a jog. The cemetery has buried its last people, perhaps, but that recently, and their memories are still burning as a torch in somebody else's mind. There is a security guard's building near the front gate, a groundskeeper's hut, which is generally empty but has a golf cart parked outside of it during the today. The Friends of the Cemetery are the ones who maintain this property, and the grasses go wild, and so do the graves, the further in one goes. A crow stares at her, bright black eyes, sharp black beak.

The sun's out. No Jack, though at one point she has the pinprickle feeling of somebody watching her. Uncanny, the feeling wants to be beestingers under her skin, wants to be a shiver. September is cold, and crisp, and brilliant -- the thin Denver air distills the sunlight, turns it into ice. And it is lovely.

Should Molly go to the Riverside Cemetery after dark, after work -- well.

Molly

Rest assured that Molly only stuck around the bookshop long enough to get both the ID and the book into her possession.  As soon as both were in her hands she smiled politely, offered a quick 'thank you', and was out the door within the next breath.

She waited until she was in the driver's seat of her car before pulling the brown paper from the book.  Then she'd spent about five minutes looking at the cover and flipping through the pages.

It probably would have been longer if she could read the actual text.

Molly @ 7:20PM

[Intelligence 3 + Occult 4]

Roll: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 2, 3, 4, 6, 9) ( success x 2 )

Or!

Molly @ 7:20PM

[Wits 4 + Occult 4]

Roll: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 3, 6, 6, 6, 6, 10) ( success x 5 )

[Whichever would best apply, at whatever difficulty rating you would set analyzing the book]

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

The next place Molly's sedan rolled up to was the cemetery, but she did not stick around for long.  Her vehicle parked up against the curb near the entrance long enough for her to look inside and think.  It was upon concluding that if she was going to find him investigating there, or signs that he had been there, her odds would be better at night.  Plus then there wouldn't be joggers and visitors to watch her and wonder what she's doing.

So Molly returned home.  Phoned her hospital with some story about why she would need the night off.  Phoned a coworker that owed her a favor to have her shift covered.  Walked her dog and made dinner.  Ate while studying the book she'd retrieved earlier that day with more curiosity and more time for her mind to wander down corridors of occult-riddled wonder and possibility.

After a bit of thought, she decided to slip the simple folding knife she used to carry more often back into her purse.  She remembered the last time she and Jack had gone to a cemetery at night, and how she'd genuinely thought to arm herself with a shovel.

It was only after the sun had been down for an hour, perhaps two, that Molly's car parked in the lot for visitors at the Riverside Cemetery.  This time the engine was killed and the solo adventurer walked into the hallowed grounds of the dead.

Rest assured that Molly only stuck around the bookshop long enough to get both the ID and the book into her possession.  As soon as both were in her hands she smiled politely, offered a quick 'thank you', and was out the door within the next breath.

She waited until she was in the driver's seat of her car before pulling the brown paper from the book.  Then she'd spent about five minutes looking at the cover and flipping through the pages.

It probably would have been longer if she could read the actual text.

Molly @ 7:20PM

[Intelligence 3 + Occult 4]

Roll: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 2, 3, 4, 6, 9) ( success x 2 )

Or!

Molly @ 7:20PM

[Wits 4 + Occult 4]

Roll: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 3, 6, 6, 6, 6, 10) ( success x 5 )

Whichever would best apply, at whatever difficulty rating you would set analyzing the book

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

The next place Molly's sedan rolled up to was the cemetery, but she did not stick around for long.  Her vehicle parked up against the curb near the entrance long enough for her to look inside and think.  It was upon concluding that if she was going to find him investigating there, or signs that he had been there, her odds would be better at night.  Plus then there wouldn't be joggers and visitors to watch her and wonder what she's doing.

So Molly returned home.  Phoned her hospital with some story about why she would need the night off.  Phoned a coworker that owed her a favor to have her shift covered.  Walked her dog and made dinner.  Ate while studying the book she'd retrieved earlier that day with more curiosity and more time for her mind to wander down corridors of occult-riddled wonder and possibility.

After a bit of thought, she decided to slip the simple folding knife she used to carry more often back into her purse.  She remembered the last time she and Jack had gone to a cemetery at night, and how she'd genuinely thought to arm herself with a shovel.

It was only after the sun had been down for an hour, perhaps two, that Molly's car parked in the lot for visitors at the Riverside Cemetery.  This time the engine was killed and the solo adventurer walked into the hallowed grounds of the dead.

mystery

(Before I post a reply, what I'd like from you would be a ...

Perception + Alertness.
Wits + Alertness.
Charisma + Animal Ken. Diff 8.

And a...

Perc + Awareness, diff 10.)

Molly

Molly @ 9:12PM

[Perception 3 + Alertness 3, diff 8]

Roll: 6 d10 TN8 (1, 1, 1, 3, 4, 7) ( botch x 3 )

Molly @ 9:12PM

Oh sweet Jesus.

Molly @ 9:13PM

[Wits 4 + Alertness 3, diff 8]

Roll: 7 d10 TN8 (2, 2, 3, 4, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 3 )

Molly @ 9:13PM

[Charisma 3 + Animal Ken 1, diff 8 (spending WP)]

Roll: 4 d10 TN8 (3, 3, 4, 5) ( success x 1 ) [WP]

Molly @ 9:14PM

[Perception 3 + Awareness 3, diff 10 (on a wing and a prayer!)]

Roll: 6 d10 TN10 (1, 3, 8, 10, 10, 10) ( success x 3 )

mystery

The book is old and the pages are sharp. They can't be (probably can't be) actively malevolent but they seem to want to fold or to cut. The text is in no language Molly knows how to read, but she is clever enough to narrow it down to a Germanic language -- perhaps German. The font is an old font where certain letters seem awfully similar to other letters and the whole thing would be a pain to read. The true treasure: some hand-made notes, faded as any ghost ever is to the eyes of the living, but Molly catches the gleam of graphite. The notes are mostly in German, but only mostly, with a few French phrases thrown in for good measure and on one page written in English The eyes here as the mechanism which turns the machine. No occultist worth her damn can fail to catch on certain phrases, and Molly can glean by the phrases (very few -- perhaps one, two) that she does recognize that the text contains information about summoning spells and rituals and revenants, spectres, ghosts.

---

The Riverside Cemetery is lonesome. Lonely. Forgotten people lying in boxes under the ground while the river gnaws its way toward the boxes. Molly comes back late enough that there are no birds, flitting from grave to grave, as if guiding her; no. But there is a rat, which flees the sound of her booted footstep, pauses to give her a baleful look, before disappearing into dry and unmown grass. She thinks that some of the gravestones have toppled since last time she came to visit, that there is a change in the path. The Riverside Cemetery feels empty, feels lonely, but it also feels as if it is waiting, as if it is humming. All the insects are silent, and the rat is the only living thing she sees.

Until she gets further down the path. There. By one of the Mausoleums, with iron bars over its mouth: a granite monument, locked and rusting. There, behind the bars, she sees a white figure looking at her, man or woman it is difficult to tell. The uncertain light of the Cemetery at night (and Molly, with any light at all?) calls whether or not she is truly seeing something looking at her into question.

But there is the head; it seems to turn at her. There are the shadowy eyes.

Not a whisper of breath, no . . . 

. . . And somewhere, somewhere near, some Thing is happening to make her skin try to crawl away from her flesh and take her heart with it. She hasn't felt "this" kind of strangeness before, but she knows that something strange is happening -- some canny push, something super-natural. Preter-natural. More-than-natural. The air becomes full of the promise of lightning, though there is no storm in the sky, and her hair is static, it feels as if when she clicks her teeth a spark will pop beneath them.


Molly

Through the cemetery gates, and on along paths cut for people to walk from the front of the property back into other quadrants, Molly walked.  She had the pace not of someone sneaking and sleuthing, but a casual (if cautious) stroll.  No purse rattled at her side, instead she'd pocketed knife and keys and phone.  This was in case she had to run or sneak or maneuver away from something.  She didn't carry a flashlight either, for she was (traditionally) perceptive enough to find what she needed even through the veil of dark.  Having a beacon draw everything to your presence wasn't worth saving the eyestrain.  Plus, a beam of light would only further dim her peripherals, and not all enemies were bold and assured enough to approach you front on.

So this is what life became, Molly mused to herself as she walked between headstones. Thinking about 'enemies' and escape routes.

There, up ahead-- movement, something white and humanoid had caught her eye.  Comfortable running shoes came to a stop on the grass and Molly stood with the distance of several headstones, perhaps even the beginning slope of a hill, between her and the mausoleum.  She peered directly through the darkness, then remembered a trick she'd read somewhere and shifted focus to the side slightly-- this lessened the dark around the immediate field of vision, made seeing the lines and shapes of this figure easier.  Confirmed to her that what she was seeing was actual, not just a trick of shadows and imagination.

How many times have you been offered a way out now?  Can you still count them on one hand?

The head turned, and Molly was sure that it was looking right at her with darkened sockets of shadows for eyes.  She felt a spasm of eye contact, and the air seemed to shift and change and tingle with electricity.  She felt the hairs on her arms stand straight, even a few strands from her head began to lift away and float into the air.  She licked her lips and slow-and-smooth dipped her fingers into her hip pocket to free up the knife she'd brought along.  Her eyes broke from the figure long enough for them to dart around her, suspicious of the possibility that the specter had summoned something outside of those bars.  Maybe the paranoia was only planted there by her literature choice from earlier in the day, but a healthy heap of paranoia has kept many a person alive before her.

Assuming she found nothing, she'd quickly look back to the figure, worried that it would vanish only to reappear someplace less comforting than behind bars.

mystery

The figure is gone when she looks back.

The suspicious glance around brought her no new information. The shadows are dark and there are many of them. The cemetery is still and full and wide and dark and deep and there are rows and rows of headstones and mausoleums and monuments. The Unsinkable Molly Brown is buried somewhere in this graveyard. 

A sharp hiss; just ahead. A cat, not Boots, not the Cat Who Belongs To Jack, not his familiar and his messenger, but another cat, its ears back and its fur clouding around it in sharp bristles its eyes blackblackblack. It has come slinking out of the underbrush on fast paws; now that it sees her it does a queer back-arcing sideways slither and spits further. She can calm it enough that the emphasis of its arcing back lessens and it does not attack her; see how it was coming forward, with dangerous intent?

And then it races away.

Molly

Of course, Molly thought to herself.  There was no way she could be so lucky as to keep something eerie and otherworldly in her sights.

She was still squinting over in the same direction, hunting for wisps of disturbance in the air, waves and ripples to indicate anything remained, when the sharp hissing noise startled her and snapped her attention back forward.  The angry cat looked like a cobra, back arched just so and slither-stalking to the side on stiff legs.  Molly's hands came up near her chest naturally, responding to some old call of instinct to be able to defend her face and neck and torso if the small creature of claws and teeth were to spring.

Molly couldn't be sure if the cat were possessed or controlled by some outside force (those eyes were pitch as the night), but it certainly wasn't the scariest thing that could have sprung upon her.  While she didn't want to, she felt confident in knowing that the cat would likely not survive well a good kick or stomp or wrench of the neck if it were to try and attack her.  Thankfully it didn't come to that point, for quiet shushing sounds and non-threatening posture seemed to do enough to dissuade the feline from battle.

As it raced away, Molly lowered her hands and huffed out a silent breath of relief.  Well, at least that had passed.

With one glance back toward the monument, a final check as far as she was concerned, she started forward again.  Through rows of gravestones she walked at the pace of an archaeologist who was hunting for signs of ruins that could be buried beneath vines and shrubs.  While Molly preferred quiet, she recognized that she was on a limited amount of time.  She needed to find someone, and chances were very slim that she would just stumble across him while silently slinking through the city.  She would need to try and find a way to draw him to her, she understood.  Perhaps that book she'd picked up would have some pointers, if she could translate it effectively enough.

For now, for here, simpler measures would have to do.

"Jack?"

The call into the graveyard was soft, spoken rather than shouted.  Testing, cautious, unsure of results and aware of the risk of bringing something with a different name to her instead.  It was a risk that would just have to be taken.

mystery

There are calculated risks. Calculated risks are the best kind of risks. They're risks Molly is familiar with though who'd expect it from a nurse like Molly. Molly doesn't look like the kind of trouble Molly is. The thing when it comes to calculated risks: it helps to know what you need to calculate with. If you're lacking information, sometimes things go wild.

Wild, then. The cat who ran off. Wild, now, the underlying note in the voice of the woman at Molly's back, the woman she didn't notice, the woman with hair with fat dreds like Medusa's snakes lying inert and dust-caked, the woman who says,

"What Jack you lookin' for so far from the light lil' girl?"

Close enough for Molly to feel her breath on the nape of Molly's neck but there is no breath. It's not the figure she saw before.

Molly

Shoulders jerked and spine stiffened when words carried breathless onto Molly's neck.  Her step seized when she startled and she hopped forward a few quick-scared-what-the-fuck-was-that steps forward.  Molly turned around quickly and laid wide eyes upon the woman, took in the dirty dreads of hair and immediate visage of her.  Whether she was looking up at someone taller, or down at a smaller apparition, Molly appeared all the same on-guard and wary, even a little bit afraid (but not anything that would paralyze her, for she'd plunge forward, <b>courageous</b> thing that she was), and stood with her hands down near her hip pockets, posture stiff and ready to dash away.

There's nothing wild to Molly, nothing that would mirror the voice that inquired after her.  She's steady and calm in her voice when she answers, even though her face was still wide-eyed and stark.

"A friend of mine, you may have seen him around here.  Do you have any Jacks that have passed through, that you could point me in the direction of?"

mystery

"There is the Jack who got put in the ground earlier tonight. He'll be coming up again soon," the wild woman says, with a savage sort of delight or - no. It is alien; too alien to be delight. Satisfaction or conviction mingled with resignation and a sense of fate. "There is the Jack whose grave is over yonder. But you must be talking about friendly Jack. Nosy Jack. Jack with his nose in everybody's business who comes here sometimes in one face or the other. Is that the Jack you mean, little girl? What'd he look like?" 

Molly

What the woman had to say was taken in with a filter, but Molly was clever enough to know better than to trust that filter 100%.  She guessed this woman was a vampire, and assumed that she was speaking of vampires as well.  Of course, she knew that she could very well be some other type of specter, and the graves and Jacks she spoke of could be actual dead men who would rise as zombies for her service.

But 'Nosy Jack' did sound familiar.  Like a bit of a lead, at least.

"It could very well be him," she said thoughtfully, and hooked her thumbs into her hip pockets.  Did her best to make it look casual, though it was for her own comfort that her right thumb was touched to the tucked-away knife she was carrying with.  "He's a homely man."  That's all she offers for a physical description.  "Inquisitive.  Different in different lights, I suppose."

mystery

"The Jack in the ground isn't homely. He's as handsome as anything, a - " The wild woman pauses to reflect.  "'Baller.'" The slang is not at home in her mouth which, now that Molly looks at it, Molly might note something wrong with her teeth. They're not vampire fangs; has she ever really taken a good look at vampire fangs? But they're -- some of them are odd: animal. That she can talk around them is a miracle. Or not. "But I know the Jack you mean. With his kitty cat. Good to animals. Good to solitude." She sniffs. "I haven't seen him since a while now. If you want to look at the other Jack," the woman leans in, leans closer. "The one who'll be coming up." Her nostrils flare: she is scenting Molly, scenting the salt on her skin the blood in her veins. "You can wait. I'll show you where."

Molly

The animal teeth, maybe a little too pointed on every end, maybe a few too many of them crowding her mouth, clued Molly in that this woman would probably have to be one particular type of vampire or another to still qualify under that assumption.  She wasn't quite sure what else she could be, or would be, or how she would know her Jack if she wasn't.  So when the woman leaned in, Molly took an even-paced step back to keep the distance.  She didn't make any faces or threats or signals of body language to actually portray warning.  Molly wasn't going to be laying out threats.  However, it was pretty obvious that she would continue to try to keep the distance, even if that would ultimately mean having to duck and run hard.

"A more handsome Jack sounds like a more dangerous one," Molly said with a small smile that was put on for effect, clearly, but the effect wasn't much lessened for it.  Knowing, jesting even a little.  I'm cool, I'm likable, just let me slide on by and don't cause me no harm.  "I prefer my homely one."

She cast a very brief glance to one side, breaking her gaze away from the woman-creature before her like she was coming up for air before diving again.

"You know both of the Jacks, then.  Do you know where else I might find the one I'm looking for?"

Molly @ 4:00PM

Manipulation 3 + Empathy 2

Roll: 5 d10 TN6 (4, 4, 4, 9, 9) ( success x 2 )

mystery

"You ask a rat for the Jack and it'll go down to them that's down and let them know he's wanted, or if you want more privacy, you might get a fake Jack first way, you go to that donut shop at," and the woman gives an address. "He might not be there too often or maybe he is but he gets those messages and nobody's fucked it up yet. But last I heard friendly Jack was quiet. Maybe dead, I dunno. If they're not put in the ground they're dead." The woman sniffs again, disdainful. "Fightin' everywhere."

Molly

Relief softened Molly's brow when the woman did not lunge forward, did not play coy, but instead answered her question about where she should go to find Jack.  It had her nodding along amicably, in understanding and toward the end agreement both.  The relief she'd felt helped the gesture be all the more genuine, instead of just appearing as such.

"So I've heard."  Then, thoughtfully.  "Maybe he's quiet on purpose-- hidden, not sleeping."

Then she offered a smile to the helpful creature.  Molly was assured but not stupid, and the smile told that as well.  It didn't quake or speak of fear like a simple baring of ape-teeth would.  It was just a little shaky, though, because she understood that she shouldn't get too ahead of herself.  It was a smile reserved for a wolf that appeared to have chosen not to strike for now.  "I appreciate your help."  The tone, as well as her body language, said she was ready to leave and pursue the next lead-- the doughnut shop.

mystery

"They do that," the woman says, without too much concern. The fighters come and go; the Tower shakes; the Sword clangs. Some things endure, some other things do not. She doesn't make a move to grab Molly or snatch at her, doesn't suddenly decide that she is hungry, but she does watch the nurse with unblinking eyes. She doesn't move; just watches, like an animal standing over its territory, considering. 

Molly

There's a moment of suspended pause then.  The predator watched, and Molly the Inquisitor stood in some limbo between wanting to leave and hovering in place.  She behaved as though she was forgetting something, thinking about where she last saw her keys before leaving the house as an example.  Or perhaps like she had something else she wanted to say.

Ultimately, she patted at her pockets like perhaps she'd find something there like magic, then dropped her hands and spoke apologetically.

"I don't have anything to give.  But I want you to know my gratitude for giving me direction."  Her hands opened palms-upward out to her sides, a loose ghost of an apologetic shrug.  "So a thank you, for now, and perhaps I can help you with direction in return another day."

mystery

The dread woman (the dredded woman) does not reply; only continues to watch, fingers curling inward, jaw soft only because it is easier to have a soft jaw then to close it all the way, with her teeth in the configuration they are in. Nothing anybody but a dentist might notice, and then if they were looking for it; nothing eyes might pick up on and understand without a preternatural clarity of vision, that impulse-sparked knowledge of signs, but it makes her look less mean. She doesn't move, and then the mist comes. And she's gone.