logsinthenight | EVENT LOG: ENTER MR SANDMAN (DEFENDERS)

EVENT LOG:
ENTER MR. SANDMAN (DEFENDERS)

characters: those who signed up as defenders for the event
location: all around Beacon
date/time: november 16-29
content: the defenders attempt to drive off a spirit invasion
warnings: lots of horror! body horror, psychological horror, gore, violence, etc.. please cw all threads where appropriate! mods will do the same

in your closet, in your head.

It all happens in a matter of moments. Your friends, your companions, and even some people you aren't all that fond of; everyone who took so much as a bite of the spirits' feast suddenly collapses into a comatose heap. Which is bad enough already, but the worst, by far, is yet to come.

Before anyone can really figure out what's happened to the sleepers, the woods surrounding the town come alive with sound. Rustling, screeching, clicking, howling, and under it all, the characteristic hoots and whistles of the forest spirit tongue. But these aren't the friendly creatures that set up the banquet in the first place, and they aren't the familiar faces (or masks) from around Beacon. As they begin to emerge, bursting forth from the trees, these spirits reveal themselves as a horrifying army of terrors. And sprinkled among them, distinguishable by the emerald glint in their sockets, are the infamous "green eyes", the dangerous spirits that appeared once before.

Attempting to talk to these spirits is a moot point, made obvious by their immediate assault on anyone they get close to. They attack with claws and teeth, with limbs far stronger than they have any right to be, and the green eyes, as they are wont to do, will try to get into your head. Somehow, they seem to know what it is that scares you most, and they don't seem too hesitant to use it. It's not clear what they want— are they here to eradicate you? To frighten you? To send a message?

Whatever the case, one thing is very clear: you and everyone else, sleeping or waking, are in serious danger. Are you ready to defend Beacon?

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Crowley hadn't thought of that. It's a bad thought. All of these people in one place, it would be an absolute slaughter if the creatures could just follow without stopping. He takes a breath and grips one end of a table, motioning to the person to take the other side.

"Anything can happen here. We're in Hell, remember? They've got all the tricks up their sleeves."

"Wait, are we actually confirming this is Hell?"

Probably not the best question to ask at this time, and yeah, there's a ton of proof waiting for them outside if Steve had any doubts ... but. He hates to think that after a pretty non-exciting, the-worst-thing-he-ever-did-was-drink-too-much-and-maybe-bully-some-kids life of less than 20 years, he wound up in Hell.

Yikes. The standards for the Pearly Gates are high.

He moves towards the table, positioning himself at the other end so they can lift the thing up.

"You know what? Never mind. I don't wanna know."

Crowley looks up at the person helping him with the table. Not a person---he's really just a child, isn't he? Can't be more than seventeen or eighteen, right? Great hair. Children don't belong in Hell, not in Crowley's opinion. No child has ever done anything so horrible, not on purpose. Not without some motivator beyond what people really understand.

"No," he says, very seriously. "No, we're not in Hell. I don't know where we are, but we're not really in Hell."

Purgatory? Yeah, Crowley could bet even money on that. But he's not going to tell the lad that.

"Come on, to the window."

Steve doesn't respond at first, fighting his own personal stubbornness about this place. But the seriousness in the other guy's voice reassures him. He looks like a guy who knows things, you know, and Steve has no real reason not to believe him.

He wants to believe him.

(He wants to be able to maybe get back home.)

"Yeah."

Together, Steve helps to hoist the table up against the window, blocking what little view of the outside there is in the never ending darkness. He turns away from the glass.

"If those creepy green eyes suddenly appear right now, I swear to God —"

"We'll need to fight them off, protect the people who are sleeping." Protect Aziraphale. Why does Aziraphale always have to disappear in moments like this, leaving Crowley to have to talk to people and be----well, helpful? He definitely would rather be drinking the whole Invincible down right now rather than helping.

He'd really just rather be in London, sitting in Aziraphale's bookshop. Acting like he owned the whole universe. But, looking from the neverending darkness of outside to the comatose people inside, it looks like that is a long, long way away.

"Got a preference for a weapon?" he asks the lad.

One hell of a long, long way away, that's for sure. That same feeling echoes inside Steve Harrington, too. It'll be a miracle, or something like it, if they just get through tonight unscathed.

As for Crowley's question ... yeah, actually. Steve's got a very specific preference. Might be something of a tall order, anyway.

"You wouldn't happen to know where I could find a bat with nails, would you?"

Crowley's been performing a lot of miracles, lately. Little healings, here and there. Creating small weapons, stopping doors from opening or shutting. It's starting to wear on him in a way miracles never did before. It's this place, he knows it.

But he definitely has one more in him.

From behind a table, he produces a bat---American baseball---with nails sticking out of one side of the top, like a mace. He hands it over.

"Will this do?"

"Holy shit! Was that just lying around or something?"

Steve accepts the bat like the holy grail had been bestowed upon him. He finds his grip around it, gives it a short practice swing. It feels familiar, and a little nostalgic.

Prior to mauling creepy demodogs, he'd actually been a decent batter.

"Thanks, man. This is awesome."

"Something like that. Think you can cause a little chaos with it?"

After all, demonic miracles always work a little better with chaos attached to them. Not that Crowley needs to justify any of his miracles in this place, which is nice. The whole lack of paperwork bit is very nice.

"Oh, yeah. With this thing? Definitely."

Cue the music. Steve already feels a hundred times more prepared for the incoming onslaught. If he were the kind of dweeb to give a thumbs up, he would. But as it is, he nods at Crowley.

"Those freaks won't know what's coming to them." Steve gives it another practice swing before he notices that between the two of them, he's the only one holding some kind of a weapon. "Hey, what about you? You gonna be okay?"

Crowley looks at the lad's weapon and his own empty hands. Crowley is far from a fighter, never has been, and all of his attempts to fight the creatures coming at them now have turned out less than stellar.

Still, he can cause a little chaos. And the lad's weapon is definitely interesting.

"What should I wield, then?" he asks, offering him a smile. "You pick."

"Spikes are always effective, right? There's uh - there's a weapon my buddy Dustin used to talk about, it was part of this game he and his friends played back —" When he used to be alive? When he wasn't here? The sentiment is so automatic, thinking about this place like it's only temporary and it isn't where he's going to spend the rest of eternity. But he can't help it when he finishes with, "— home."

Oof. Keep going, Harrington. Keep going, forget that thought.

"Big spiky ball on a chain. Could be fun. That or a gun that never runs out of bullets."

There are too many children here, Crowley thinks. The children wandering around this place, the ones sleeping, and this lad here. This can't be Hell, he's certain of it, but why put a child through Purgatory?

"What, a flail mace?" Crowley says. He reaches behind his back and produces one with two balls, adorned with spikes. "Used to be used in the late middle ages. Not always the most effective, but I think I can handle one. Been in my share of peasant rebellions in my time."

Not that Crowley was the biggest fan of the middle ages, the 14th century in particular. But he does know a thing or two about it, having either drunk or meandered his way through them. Might've been easier if he spent more of his time with Aziraphale, he thinks.

EVENT LOG: ENTER MR SANDMAN (DEFENDERS)

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sorry this took a million years to respond!!!

ain't no thing, bb!