Days Of Unrest

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Original poster
[This is an intro, as an OOC is not required.
The link to the OOC for any questions or concerns is here:
The setting is what you make it, but the base area is a completely sealed off neighborhood, suburban perfection that goes for miles. A dark fog begins to sweep over the area, and the people who live in the houses begin to go outside and take notice.]

-Keep bad language to a minimum, this is an RP geared toward newer players and by using foul language in place of emotion and reactions, posts become cheap and trivial. You are allowed to use bad language, but try to explain your feelings in detail.
-This is a horror RP, so there will be gore.
-NPCs are perfectly fine, as it's easier to kill an NPC with a creature than it is to kill a player. Only kill your own NPCs unless otherwise decided by the player whose NPCs you wish to kill. -This is a large neighborhood, so entering players may come in at any time without issue.


Father Brandon stepped from his house slowly, looking at the darkened cloud that seemed to be nearing his neighborhood. He let out a small gasp and gently gasped the cross around his neck. Never before had this feeling come over him before, an unrelenting sense of fear. It was as if someone was squeezing his lungs in his chest, keeping him from breathing and making his heart race.

He walked slowly toward the curb, never looking away from the sky, never letting go of his cross. He stopped suddenly and heard the hum of demons nearing him. His belief in his god drew them to him, but he had his faith. This faith did not settle him, as even with the power of his god, he felt helpless and alone.

One step. Then another. Then a sound louder than the scream of Satan himself was heard across the area. The twisted metal and bloodied viewpoint from someone not from the neighborhood, a new player in this world of darkness. The priests body was thrown over his car and smashed on the street behind. The car stopped, but slowly. There was no screeching stop, no rush to help. A horn blared on, fractured parts keeping it going, and a door slowly opened. It creaked and moaned as the man stepped from his vehicle, and a window smashed as he closed it.

The man neared the body of the priest and using his foot, kicked the body over. He could tell the priest was still alive, albeit barely. Stepping on his neck, he collapsed his windpipe and snapped his neck. Grinning slowly, he began to walk toward the house from which the priest came as if nothing happened. He slid his hands in his pockets as he whistled softly and picked up the newspaper from the porch, flipping it open as he shut the door behind him.
Maxwell James Spencer, better known as Max to his colleagues on the force, pulled his patrol car into the sleepy suburban community. Usually he would have been partnered with someone else, but today he was pulling solo duty. Not that it was likely he would need any back-up, considering how slowly things tended to move in this corner of the world. Even now, as he drew nearer to the sound of a blaring car horn that he had heard from the highway nearby, he doubted it was anything serious. Probably just some spoiled teenage brats harassing somone or engaging in petty vandalism. They would scatter as soon as they saw him approaching and that would be the end of it. Still, the horn had been going steadily now for more than a few minutes, strangely monotonous in a way that suggested there was no human motivation for it.

As he pulled up to one of several identical driveways, he realized he had been quite wrong. He didn't have to be an expert detective to tell that the vehicle was clearly damaged, apparently from some kind of head-on collision, and the horn must have been stuck after whatever had happened. Parking at the curb and exiting his own car, he walked towards the abandoned automobile. He gasped out loud when he almost stepped right over the body.

The man was dressed like a priest, and this was further exaggerated by the fact he was clutching a cross in one dead, frozen hand. The chain that had kept it bound to his neck was now broken, and crouching down to examine him closer, Max saw that he had sustained a serious neck injury from the accident. Curiously, he could almost swear the mark looked like a footprint. More disturbing, however, was the look of intense terror locked on his face at the moment of death. The eyes were glassy and lightless, seeming to stare straight through his own gaze, searing his brain.

Backing away with his hand covering his mouth, Max swallowed once with some difficulty, as if his mouth could no longer produce saliva. Looking around, he tried to figure out what had happened. It looked like the priest had been a pedestrian hit by the car, rather than the one driving it, but there was no one else in sight. It slowly began to dawn on him that he had stepped into a serious situation, one he wasn't sure he knew how to deal with.

The horn abruptly cut out, startling him and making him jump. His thoughts were now back on the scene before him and what he would do. Taking a deep breath, he stepped away from the body and went to inspect the car.
Meet Again

Jarek Svarc couldn't sleep. Not after having heard that sound, that damned loud, crashing sound and a faint crunch afterwards. Moving the blankets off, he turned and peered through the blinds of his window, seeing the smashed up car, yet not whatever caused the damage. Yet he couldn't stop gazing at the corpse; a priest he'd seen around here a few times. He never knew him, but the feeling of coldness, as if the pressure had suddenly increased and one was only able to perceive the remnants of the dead, he knew that well. The fear was there, suppressed, but so was the curiosity, something that he did not suppress naturally but rather simply had to attempt to will it off. This fascination with the morbid and the macabre went back for years, but it had only become an noticeable trait when he had met Max.

Max was a cop and Jarek was simply a man who simply "knew his way around" in tought situations, as some would put it simply. He needed a contact on the ground and someone to watch his back. He didn't know Max, yet somehow, he trusted him with his protection as well. The case ultimately worked out for the better, yet he didn't know if he would truly call the officer a friend. They shared a powerful bond, but it was one that was born of necessity. Yet when he saw him through the blinds, he felt the connection still there, still unbroken.

He was fully dressed and outside in a few minutes, having seen the commotion from the house overlooking the mouth of the street. At the age of 29, he stood at six feet and two inches, strong yet not bulky, rather sleek in appearences. Short hair, well trimmed, almost looking like a thin layer upon his head, with a sharp face, looking harsh, attentive, and cautious. Dressed in simple black pants, somewhere between jeans and cargoes, and a simple dark green and blue shirt, he walked up to Max.

He said nothing as he looked up at Max, his simple facial expression, stony and grim, communicating his understanding of the situation. Looking around, he noticed various other citizens slowly making their way to the area, looks of surprise and shock upon their faces.
Slowly opening his door, Andy stepped outside of his house wrapping his bathrobe tightly around himself. As he tied the knot around his waist, he gazed in horror at the blood-spattered vehicle in front of Father Brandon's house. He saw the Officer Max examining the wreckage and he began to wander towards him. He noticed among the other people coming to see what happened that Jarek had made his way outside.

Andy didn't make it past his gate entrance, as he saw what the object of fascination was. His stomach turned and warbled, he keeled over and threw up on the grass, supporting himself up by holding a picket of his fence. He stayed bent over, trying to breathe and calm himself. He rushed back inside and ransacked the cabinets for ibuprofen and got a glass of water.

"What's going on, Andrew?"

He was startled and dropped the glass on the floor, causing it to shatter and he let out a small yelp. He threw the pills against the kitchen window and put his head in his hands, barely able to hold himself together. His wife took careful steps toward him, watching for the glass as to not step on it. She put her arm around him gently and held his head to her breast as he whimpered and shook. She whispered to him that it would be okay, that everything would be alright, but he knew that it wouldn't.

"F-father Brandon... He..." he tried to say but couldn't, "He..."

"He's dead."
Amanda had not slept well for about a week now. Something seemed to be brewing on the horizon and she didn't like the feel of it. Her husband Andrew seemed to be unable to relax or rest as well. Neither of them said anything about their own fears though. They had a simple marriage and loved each other. Sure, talking to your partner was important so that a marriage stayed strong, but she didn't know if what was bothering her was the same thing that was bothering him as well. She didn't want him to worry about her having bad dreams anyway, so she said nothing.

She had woken when Andrew had gotten out of bed that morning, earlier than usual, but had stayed in bed for a little, thinking that he needed to be alone for a bit. After laying awake for a bit she finally got up and put on a house robe. Walking out to the kitchen she heard Andrew shuffling around more hastily than would be normal for the early hours. She stepped in to the kitchen and saw him holding a glass of water and a bottle of ibprofen.

"What's going on Andrew?" she asked, making him jump and drop the glass in his hand. It shattered on the floor, glass and water going everywhere. She stepped carefully to his side, making sure to avoid the glass so her bare feet wouldn't get cut. She put her arm around him and pulled his head to her chest, stroking his hair gently.

"Everything is going to be okay sweetheart," she whispered gently as she stroked his hair, telling him also that it was alright, that she wasn't angry that he had dropped the glass. What he stammered out next froze her and made her heart go ice cold.
Max probably didn't seem as startled as he should have when Jarek appeared as if from nowhere without saying a word. That probably had something to do with the fact that he was already quite unnerved by the situation he found himself in. Of course he remembered Jarek Svar. He didn't think he would ever forget him, either, if not for his unique name than for the even more unique way they had met.

Max had first encountered Jarek over a year ago when he had walked into the precinct with a lead on a dead-locked case. There was no reason he should have known what he did. There was nothing connecting him to the case or anyone involved. His record had checked out clean. Strangest of all, his advice was right on the money. Max had been part of the force that brought in the perp, who was exactly where Jarek's information had said he would be. Seeing him here, now, in another inexplicably strange set of circumstances, brought it all vividly back to Max's mind.

Figuring it would be a waste of time to try and rationalize why he was there, Max simply nodded at Jarek, aknowledging his presence without incredulity. He continued investigating the car. The keys were still in the ignition, indicating that it had been a hit and run, and if the suspect was on foot, that likely meant they were still in the area. Realizing that he need to report the incident before pursuing it any further, Max walked back towards his own car to call it in. He saw someone wander out of a house across the street, only to get sick after seeing the body and run back inside.

He paused next to the priest's corpse, wondering if he had any identification on his person. He would have to search the body to find out; a prospect he didn't find particularly appealing. The very idea of coming into contact with the deceased man's flesh made him feel like he might lose his own breakfast.

Turning back to Jarek, he remarked. "A dead priest, run down in the middle of the street. I can't say that was something they briefed us on. What's your take on this?"
Jarek was kneeling down behind the corpse, observing its head and neck intently. His voice, reserved yet keeping to itself the feeling of a great power held down and let loose only when needed, responded. He remained inspecting the body.

"Run down? Not sure."

He pulled something out from his pocket, a wallet, and prodded the head lightly, and then its neck. The former lolled around loosely while the latter seemed a bit softer than normal.

"Dead, but after impact. Died here, not due to wounds. Windpipe crushed; imprint of boots."

His voice seemed neutral in tone almost, analyzing the events with a nearly machine-like sense of rationality. He rose slowly, standing a bit taller than Max.

"Don't know who'd want him dead; I only came here two years ago, never was a religious man, never was around him much. We need an investigation group, a bigger one than just us two."

He looked around them, eyes scanning the area, before his look settled on the house of the priest. He tapped Max on the shoulder and pointed.

"Brandon's house," his eyes narrowed. "Strange, he doesn't pick up the newspapers that early. He forgets most of the time."

He glanced at Max, a look of suspicion concerning the murder. This was not an accident at all.