Roleplay

[center][sub][i]is it still a possession if you're a ghost..?[/i][/sub][/center] [center][i]---[/i] [emoji=candle size=1] [i]---[/i][/center] [b]Name:[/b] Quinn Hudson [b]Age:[/b] A few centuries at least, although their body psychically appears to be around 26 or so. [b]Gender + Pronouns:[/b] Transmasc Nonbinary | He/Him + They/Them [b]Orientation:[/b] Bisexual [b]Occupation:[/b] Probably the local gas station clerk, but only on the weekends since he scares people half to death by just existing. [b]Appearance:[/b] Stands at about 5'0". Long, black hair that cascades over his shoulders in thick curls, with a few strands here and there being white. Fairly lean build, although he is notably a bit more on the muscular side. Hooded eyes with warm golden-yellow irises a shade somewhere not far off from that of marigolds. Often mistaken for being a deeper brown. Usually adorned with an array of gold jewelry that looks older in style than he does. Hardly goes anywhere without any of it. [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/vxORoAB.jpg[/img][/center] [center][sub][i]Moodboard courtesy of myself. Character image made in Picrew.[/i][/sub][/center] [center][sub][i][url=https://picrew.me/en/image_maker/1855819]-Link.-[/url][/i][/sub][/center] [sub][i]@PreferablyAlone[/i][/sub]

Being largely nocturnal wasn't so bad on nights like these. Rain pattered outside, forming transparent rivulets on the windows of the old farmhouse. Tea was in the process of being made, leaves only awaiting the water that had yet to reach a boil on the stovetop. As per usual there was something wrong with the stove itself. Whether the issue was a result of natural wear and tear or some malevolent spirit's ill will had yet to be seen, but with any luck it wouldn't be the former. The dead, much like the living, had a habit of being rather.. predictable. If it was one of their usual tricks then that would at least mean the stove wasn't in need of repairs again.

Running a hand back through his dark locks, Quinn stood from where he'd been crouched on the floor. Loosing a low groan along the way as a familiar stiffness made itself known in his lower back. Evidently, whatever the problem was wouldn't be getting fixed right now. The stove's innerworkings were proving to be just a little too difficult to make sense of this time around, and he had company on the way. Company that should be arriving soon, as a matter of fact. Yellow irises flickered toward the entryway adjacent the kitchen. After a moment of contemplation and absent-mindedly fidgeting with his rings, he turned to swiftly make his way to his bedroom, hoping to put on an outfit that was perhaps slightly more presentable.

As Quinn got himself prepared, a polite knock could be heard. Did time really fly that fast? Well, his guest was at least on time, maybe even a bit early with bad timing... His voice over the phone was quite timid, but he seemed to be confident in what he could and couldn't do. Wonder what he'd look like, but that curiosity was probably likewise.

The rain had forced him to take the bus, it took longer than it would have if he went with his usual transport. Alas, rain was a hindrance. The guy sighed to himself, he mostly was dry as he was secured under the umbrella. A heavy bag hung over his other shoulder, he checked if he had everything he needed... As if he didn't check trice back home. All was where it was supposed to be, maybe even a bit overprepared. But rather that than to be underprepared. He couldn't help but shudder, he loved autumn but not the rain it brought! He flicked off some rain droplets that had gotten on his suit and tried to get some of the mud off before he could stain the doormat completely.

A muffled curse followed the knock at the door, barely audible from within the thin walls of the farmhouse. Soon after a crash could be heard. Naturally another resounding profanity followed, likely the result of a stubbed toe or something similar. Footsteps reverberated, gradually drawing closer until..

At last the door opened.

Eyes the color of marigolds, or perhaps just a deep, warm brown peered past the old piece of wood before a hand adorned in tarnished golden rings crept forth round its edge to open it fully. There they stood. Quinn. Admittedly, they were a bit smaller in stature than they'd sounded on the phone. Perhaps that was an unfair assumption, though. A bit of frustration paired with a thick southern accent could make just about anyone sound more intimidating than they actually were. He wore a pair of jeans, clearly a bit on the older side, and a pale yellow, sleeveless turtleneck sweater. Three similarly pale tulips arranged in a row were embroidered across the chest.

As if to acknowledge the man in front of him, he gave a small nod. His hand drifted away from the door, moving to fidget with the myriad of gold necklaces he wore. The other held an icepack to his forehead. He looked so.. radiant, almost, if a human being could even be described in that way. At first glance one might expect him to give off heat the same way a fire would, yet there was something so distinctly off about him. Maybe it was just the dreary weather, though.

"Quinn Hudson," he greeted simply. "Glad you could make it. You're the uh.. the exorcist? Right?" Shaking his head, he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Nevermind. That's a stupid question. 'Course you are. Nobody ever comes out here less they're lost."

The voice matched what Quinn heard over the telephone, a timid yet formal guy, rather professional with a light British accent. And quite knowledgeable for his age. "Good evening, I'm Sacarel Kest... I mean, you already knew, otherwise I wouldn't have known how else you found my number. Though I do sometimes get called Zack as well" He spoke with some jest. His hair was black and reached almost shoulder length, its waves being just tamed enough to not be all over the place. Clean shaven, as if he couldn't grow facial hair, his eyebrows are long and well taken care of. He had a tan completion as well, he stuck his hand out for a shake. His hands were covered in silky gray gloves, that matched his dark blue tailcoat. The gloves matched the frilly shirt that poked through the open chest piece of the suit. His expression was rather impersonal. His attire seemed to reflect the Victorian era more than what most wear these days...

"I'm guessing you tried priests from the church first? I doubt inviting the occult would be anyone's first option, but let's start from the beginning. I'll leave the decision up to you if you prefer formalities before business, I need to unpack either way." He stepped under the portico's roof to escape the rain, shaking the umbrella from all the wetness away from them. "It's a beautiful house despite the current unpleasantries, I'm sure I can return it to its former peace without much stress. Unless something really surprising happens" He remarked, let's hope he didn't just jinx himself and he's right about it... But he didn't say he'd quit on a tough job either, though a bit hard to believe he could take a punch- He was quite skinny, and not much taller than Quinn himself.

"Folks down at the church don't quite like me," Quinn remarked with a shrug as they stepped aside, allowing the man entry into his home. "Couldn't tell you why."

They watched closely as he entered. Their gaze didn't linger long, however. Even as they closed the door it flickered elsewhere throughout the room. Something within them half-expected something to get thrown off a shelf, or for the kitchen to erupt with the cacophony of cabinets open and closing repeatedly. Nothing happened though. For the time being, at least.

"Sacarel ain't half bad as a name," they remarked as they trailed after him a moment later. "Feel free to leave your things on the coffee table, or wherever you want, really. The ghosts'll care more than I do."

The house itself was rather homey, in an odd way. Despite the furnishings clearly being on the older side, a clear amount of upkeep had been done to keep them in good shape. A single couch and a rocking chair occupied the living room, along with the aforementioned coffee table and a box TV that sat atop multiple bookstacks across from it. Off to the left a ways was the kitchen, a table in the center with a measly, single tattered doily in the center. The kettle was still sat on the stove, untouched and unheated for the time being. To the right was a hallway that presumably led off another few rooms. Quinn perched himself near the table, leaning back against it somewhat.

"Can I get you something to drink?" he offered warmly. "Was makin' tea before you came, but the stove's busted again." Pushing off the table, he strode farther into the kitchen to take a peek in the fridge. "'Ve got lemonade, sweet tea... Water, too, if you'd prefer that."

Sacarel scanned Quinn's expression, he didn't find it hard to notice the tension he held for these specters, even if it was minimal. His calculated expression quickly dropped when Quinn looked back at him, he gave a light grin, "Thank you, I'm actually not too sure what it means myself. It's foreign at least as far I know".

He was elevating the energy Quinn had themselves, along with what these trapped souls radiated. He always had been sensitive to the world of the undead, he had access to the spiritual ladder since he was young, with much luck and misfortune. His dodgy eyes wasn't hard to notice as he let everything sunk in, though it just made him look hyper-alert. He unpacked his many items of ritual importance on it, although used, it still was quite clean; a bottle of salt with a label that was hanging on with just hope rather than glue, differing candles, some of which had encravings on it. Many different kinds of narrow logs and bundled sticks, the lace that held them had an unknown language written on it. "Hopefully you're not squeamish, but I try to keep extremes as last resort." He remarked before pulling out two knives, one of the blades was far from straight, instead it snaked little ways until its sharp tip, the rest of it seemed blunt. The wood that held it together was old, it still had bark on it as if someone carved it out of the tree itself. The other looked quite new, but also felt off. The metal was stainless, it was almost white. It was hard to tell if it's due to the strong reflection or if it actually was that color. The handle was darker in color, with golden marks on it that followed up to the blade. Yet another language that couldn't be read. It almost glowed...

"Oh shame, I enjoy some hot tea. But lemonade sounds quite all right as well. Could I have that please if it's not any trouble?" He politely requested as he watched Quinn from the table.

"Not a problem at all," Quinn replied.

His eyes lingered on the various items the other had withdrawn from his bag for a moment, but moved away soon enough, redirecting to the requested lemonade within the fridge. Retrieving the jug and subsequently a glass, the latter set on the countertop, he filled it about two thirds of the way with the liquid. Midway through doing so a subtle tink could be heard, and although the noise was borderline subaudible it was no doubt distinct. Glass cracking. Hooded eyes roamed to the side it had originated from. If the cup wasn't already filled finding the blasted fracture would be easier. He bent over somewhat to look closer, breathing out a curse.

When their gaze finally settled upon it another noise sounded. A grimace tugged at the corners of their mouth as they watched the crack creep higher up the glass. Pearls of the yellowish liquid began to seep out through it, earning yet another uttered profanity. Games. The ghosts were playing games now. Well, unfortunately for the spirits this wasn't their first rodeo. Not with this trick at least. Disregarding any worry about possibly spilling the lemonade, let alone serving it at this point, they plucked it up by the rim. Soft tink, tink, tinks moved farther up the glass the nearer they got to the freezer, and they wasted no time in shoving it inside. Just as the door was slammed shut a loud pop could be heard. Presumably the glass bursting within.

"Well," Quinn sighed, drawl thickening with their increasingly evident frustration. "Lemonade might not ah.. might not be so much of an option if this keeps up." Turning back to Sacarel, they offered a weary smile. "The ghosts say hi, though, obviously."