2012 02 07 The Corruption Of Siryn

Log Title:
The Corruption of Siryn

Siryn, Scene emitted by Exodus

IC Date:

London HFC

Brief log summary::
The London HFC has plans. Siryn falls prey to their devices.


There is no TS in this log::

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Muir Isle took a beating last year when the Shadow King attacked and forced all of the X-Men to come to its defense as well as the defense of the world. Much has been rebuilt, even the cottage (aka 2 level home) of Moira nestled within the grove behind the research center. That's where Terry has been spending much of her time recuperating from all that went on between joining X-Factor, learning the ropes with Alex, and then the whole Genosha ordeal that likely pushed her a little too far.
One particular afternoon when she finds herself in the home alone, the land line (phone) rings.

She fell off the wagon after Genosha. Again. Moira's got her sober. Again. It's becoming a horrible cycle. Terry's struggling hard not to become what she sees in her father. She picks up the phone after the second ring. "MacTaggert residence."
Strange sounds are emitted through the headset speaker. Sounds that seem to pull at one to listen. Almost human, yet more akin to animal annunciations. Words are not spoken, but the chaotic mass gives rise to desire without intent. Desire to continue to listen and desire to feel what is on the other side of the line. Terry's throat will become dry, she will find it difficult to swallow, the room starts to spin, her knees become weak, and then the world goes dark.

Terry wakes on an unfamiliar sofa made of black leather. The room around her is dimly lit yet she can make out the antique furniture that adorns it. Classical, Victorian pieces of dark mahogany and deep oak are seen fitted with black leather and silk. A single lamp offers illumination to the room that appears as an oversized bedroom equipped with a canopy bed (also black drapes and sheets). The room smells of sweet perfume and feels warm and comfortable (temperature wise).
She then realizes that she's wearing a Victorian gown, her hair is up and around her neck is a silk choker with a stylized ornate fixture on the front of it. The choker is affixed and snug (she will be unable to remove with casual pulling). Around her left wrist she wears a lovely bracelet of deep blue stones (sapphires) and she feels the same around her left ankle just above the short booted heels she wears that match the particular gown.
The black gown itself is Victorian in design and is much like a corset with flowing skirt. It leaves her pale shoulders exposed and lifts her breasts. The leather strings are pulled tightly in the back leaving the front smooth but ribbed (vertically).
To see herself, she will note a full length freestanding swivel oval mirror near the lamp.

Waking in this atmosphere, Theresa is disoriented at first. And then the first thing that hits her mind is panic. She bolts off the sofa, taking mental stock… the last thing she remembers is the phone. Her heart picks up speed and she has to struggle against outright terror. Grimly, she sweeps the room with her eyes. What the bloody hell is all this?

Soft harpsichord music is heard nearby. Through the black mahogany door that serves as the room's only feasible exit and likely just down the hallway beyond. The two windows that are found on either side of the canopy bed are covered with heavy black-out drapes and otherwise barred from exit.
The room is affixed with the standard decorations of the period; dark paintings, vignette photograph of a beautiful woman (whom Terry will recognize as herself in the Victorian motif), and of course a flower arrangement of orchids. There's a dresser with mirror and chair. Hand mirror upon it, and a brush with strands of Terry's own hair, makeup and other affectations there about. A closet filled with Victorian era clothing (matching her size) and even shoes that would fit (not always comfortably). All things implying that she is an actual resident here.

Now she's confused. VERY confused. Terry heads for the door, pulling it open to find the source of the music. Or perhaps someone to answer some questions.

The floors are hardwood with a deep red throw rug underneath the furnishings. However, heels on hardwood nearing the door seems louder than it should be - yet that's only perception of those wanting to sneak around. The French style latch of the mahogany door depresses easily to allow exit. The door will swing inward toward the room. The hallway is lengthy and dark. Sconces allow very minor electric illumination (15watt). There are affectations along the hallway, a small table with a bust, a large vase, and a red rug running down the middle. There are 4 doors akin to the one she opened and one such door is ajar, that's where the music emits from. Down to the left, the hallway turns out of sight, to the right, the hallway seems to emerge on a balcony.

The redhead frowns, glancing about the room. And then she follows the sound of the music. Hell, no one ever said she was the sharpest tool in the shed — running isn't in her nature. Just ask Bishop. She glides down the carpet to the partially open door and boldly pushes it the rest of the way open.
As the door is pushed open, Terry will note a room decorated as hers was, similar fixtures and features except that instead of a sofa, there is a harpsichord in the room. Seated behind the keys is a beautiful woman wearing a corset and matching panties. Her legs are covered in silk hose and her feet adorned with heeled boots. Her raven hair is up atop her head and she too wears a choker around her throat with a stylized crest affixed to the front of it. Her shoulders are bear and the corset pushes up her full breasts.
Terry's arrival is to the left of the harpsichord and the woman. So the woman is well aware of Terry's presence yet she continues to play the soft classical music without looking over. Sheets of music are displayed atop and in front (on the display stand) of the instrument.

Terry's brow quirks up. "I'm thinkin' yer a bit underdressed fer this little …. visit, lass." She looks around. "Who th' hell's in charge here? And how'd I get here?"
The woman continues to play, ignoring Terry. The woman's skin is pale (not vampiric), her hair dark and her eyes a brilliant green. She does not stir from her attendance to the keys of the insturment.
The 'broach' or crest affixed to her choker is just as Terry's. It is a carved piece of ivory. Oval in nature and set in a silver border. The symbol carved into the ivory looks much like flame.

Theresa is not liking this ONE. LITTLE. BIT. Scanning the room, she turns and heads back out into the hallway to systematically search the place one room at a time. Her anxiety is ratcheting upward with each step.
The second Terry exits the room, the music stops and the woman's voice says, "Calm yourself, young one. You will give yourself another spell." implying that these things have happened before and that they know one another.

Now both of her brows pull down. "A 'spell'?" Terry scoffs. "Yer outta yer mind, miss. ye can tell me how I got here, or ye can shut up an' let me sort out th' situation for meself — after I scream th' rafters down around us," she retorts.
The woman stands revealing her height to be around 5'8". She gracefully moves toward Terry with soft words in her approach, "You came to be here just as the rest of us."

"That isn' likely," Theresa snorts indelicately. "Dressin' like this is not my style. Yer no' answerin' my questions, lass. Who th' hell's in charge around here?"
Without a true answer to her questions, the woman says - still in a soft but firm tone, "Mind your voice, young one. You wish not to arouse our master's wraith. He will be cross with you and that is narry something you wish to invoke."
The woman has closed the distance between her and Terry. Her right hand lifts toward Terry's hair, with the intent to correct a wayward strand.

Theresa pulls back. "Really?" she returns in a dry tone. "Ye may have a master, lass, but I'm no one's captive." She turns toward the door and shouts, "HEY! Someone in charge better show themselves fast!" She tries to augment the shout to make it literally reverb through the place. She's not the daughter of the Banshee for nothing.
That augmentation attempt comes with a stifling shock directly to her throat. The choker quickly reveals that it is more than a pretty affectation. It is something more and something that prevents her from raising her voice to wall shattering decibels.

The woman watches the vain attempt of Terry and ticks out four clicks with her tongue - a sound of disapproval. Which is then followed by, "I suppose you mean to invoke /his/ wrath." She then steps back into her room and returns to the harpsichord.

The redhead chokes, her hands flying to her throat as she coughs. She eyes the woman, her anxiety at being powerless driving her heartrate into the stratosphere. Terry's not one prone to fits of fainting, but there is a moment where the world grays out with the constriction.
The woman takes her seat at the musical instrument and her fingers are once again placed upon the keys. Stroking each key in a harmonic tone, she returns to her solace and ignores Terry's flailings.
Just down the hallway, another door opens. A beautiful woman of auburn hair that stands just at 5'6" steps out in heels and like garments of purple silks. She spies Terry and her index finger draws to her flume and lips in an indication of silence. She shhhhhhh's and then whispers in a desperate manner, "Please, do not rouse the master. Hell will be to pay."

Dancing, empty compliments, discussion, pleasantries and schemes have all taken place in this open, decadent room. From that majestic arched doorway leading from the hall runs a few semi-circular stairs which drop onto a parquet of richly assembled planks - wood colours variegating between lush reds, chocolate umbers, and pale gold. Lit by a crystalline chandelier, it is upon this surface that people conglomerate to chat or, taking advantage of the floor's designed purpose, dance. To aide in that latter process, set aside in the furthest corner - amidst potted plants and slender columns - sits a full grand piano and adequate stage-space for a low-key band or quintet. The walls are a cool jaded green until the wood bordered ceiling - the ceiling itself comprised of mirrors to reflect the motion of the party-goers below, lending to quite the magnificent scene when people start dancing. Comfortable leather couches limn the walls, and should someone wish for a further private conversation, an adjoining smaller arch leads to a chess room.

The balcony in which she stands overlooks a ballroom. On the opposite side of the ballroom is a mirror to the particular balcony where she stands. It too had grand stairs that will move down onto the floor. Upon the other balcony stands a man dressed in the trappings of a Victorian era gentleman. The tailored suit is of pomp and circumstance with fitted areas and fluffed sleeves. His blonde hair and blue eyes familiar to Terry, she recognizes him as Alex. Albeit his eyes pierce across the grand room without a hint of empathy or consideration of Terry's troubles - there's also an age quality to him - as if he's a decade older. In truth, he appears annoyed that he was pulled from something important. He stares at Terry, saying nothing.

There's a moment of disconnect. Because this is just plain bizarre. A great many things run through her head in that moment. Parallel universe? Possible. The world's gone wonky because someone's done something in the past? Also possible. Mind games? More likely than the other two possibles, at least. Ooh! A dream? God, if this is a dream, I'm gonna punch Alex in the face when I wake up just for good measure.
"Alex Summers…. ye better have a good explanation, lad." is all Terry says to him.

The gulf between them seems vast, albeit her voice carries across the grand ballroom between the two balconies. Upon the opposite balcony, his hands grip the black mahogany railing as he steps forward to address the redhead. His voice is stern and controlled, "You will return to your room and await my arrival. I will find you seated upon a hard backed chair in the center of the room. Comply with my desires and your punishment will be swift. Disobey, and you will feel my lash for days."

The snort that erupts from her is derisive at best. She doesn't temper her words either. "Ye lay yer bloody hands on me, boyo, and I'll tear ye apart from the balls on up. And once I'm done then it'll be a toss-up on who gets th' rest of ye — me Da or yer brother," Terry retorts. Because both absolutely would back her if he EVER hurt her.
Infuriated, Alex's grip breaks from the banister as he vaults down to the floor below. With a solid strike of the floor, he starts walking in broad strides toward the grand stair which will lead him to Terry's position. He hasn't words, yet. But he is intent on closing the distance. She still has a few seconds before he reaches the foot of the stairs, even then more seconds before he can successfully climb them.

Oh hell yes, she's gonna flee. Picking up the skirts, Theresa takes the head start and barrels down the hall the opposite direction of 'her' room, heading for the hallway that curves around at a dead run.
Turning to run down the hallway, she will discover those doors that were once open (save her own) are now closed. Running down the hallway produces several thuds as the carpet muffles the strikes of her heeled boots. Reaching the end of the hallway, she turns and discovers that it reaches only another 30 feet with three other doors exiting from it; One on each side and one at the end.
In her pause, she can hear her own heart rate, her deep breathing, and the heavy footfalls of Alex rising the stairs behind her.

If this is a dream, she better wake the hell up soon, Terry thought. She stopped in the hallway and turned to face the music. Even without her power she wasn't entirely helpless. And her jaw set firmly. This was gonna hurt. She only hoped it hurt *him* more than it hurt *her*. She set her feet and held her skirts so they weren't impeding the possibility of kicking at him.
Arriving at the landing, Alex spies his prey. Strides are taken to close the gap. His own jaw is clenched, eyes determined and angry. She can feel his warmth when he gets within 10 feet of her. Closing the gap. His right hand raises to take her throat, "Insolent slave, you will learn to do as I say.".
It's likely her own assault will succeed as well. Though strikes against an obviously stronger foe will result in a slight delay his measure by a few seconds and anger him even more.

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. Theresa throws a roundhouse kick toward his stomach, hoping to shove him far enough back to head for the ballroom again, as it appears to be the only way out.

Her kick hits something solid. As if he bares a resistant energy just millimeters off his skin (force field of sorts). In her rush to escape and dodging around him, he reaches over and will take her by the hair to prevent a fleeing moment. His grip is strong and will use the thickness of her hair against her, retracting back forcefully in an attempt to pull her back and off her feet. His voice is cold, "You're only making matters worse for yourself."

Yanked to a stop by his hands in her hair, Terry yelps. "Ye hurt me, ye bastard, an' I'll cut off yer balls meself, Alex," she gasps, her eyes tearing up from the pain in her scalp. "There won't be enough left of ye fer yer brother t' fookin' bury!" Her Irish is WAY the hell up.

Pulling harshly, Alex drags her off balance and then she'll feel something around her ankles. Getting a glimpse of his free hand, she'll note a stream of dark plasma reaching out and wrapping around her ankles to bind them. His face is determined and set on the task at hand, restraining Terry. "You have spirit… but it will be broken."

This is so not her Alex. And it could be a *fatal* mistake on her part, Theresa realizes. Because in a fair fight, she can't take Alex Summers. And this one keeps a forcefield. Despite the pain in her head, despite the pain in her *throat*, Terry gives using her ability one last shot. "~Drop dead, ye bastard. Ye aren't man enough t' break me, no matter *what* ye do.~"

The rage of the intent and the force she produces does nothing more than to cause a greater reaction of the choker's pendant. Terry is knocked unconscious.

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