2019-05-24 - Slendermen vs. Dolorphage

It's simple for visitors to access the Bayside Apartments complex. First, they either need to speak to the security guard at the front so to allow them entrance through those large, impressive gates. Otherwise, one of the tenants can inform security that they'll be receiving guests, giving forth a name and such. The latter is what Byron Throne had done to ensure safe passage for one such visitor whose text message he had recently responded to. Once that is done, said guest is free to park within a guest parking area near one of the three buildings of this luxury community. From there, one would normally need a key to access the penthouse floor from the elevator, but Byron's set it up to allow one visitor to that floor within the next hour, so if anyone else wanted to venture to the top of building A, they would be free to do so. That elevator would then open up directly across from his penthouse apartment.

Dressed in a business casual attire which is basically just a crisp white buttoned down, slacks, those leather shoes and a navy blue tie done neatly at his collar, the man enjoys the dreary morning by looking across the bay with a cup of coffee in hand. The sound of the elevator's ding alerts him that his guest had arrived, though he moves like a man who is not in a rush. Casual steps are taken as he crosses the entirety of the living room towards the front door which he then swings open, looking the visitor over, "I have a bit of time this morning, but I have a few calls to make this afternoon. I don't think our discussion will bleed over til then. Come on in."

Alexander looks like a homeless person in his massively oversized army jacket with its insignia ripped out, and the faded plaid button down underneath, which no doubt causes eyebrows to rise as he makes his way to the elevators. Not from the parking garage, though: it seems like a car is one of the many things Alexander either doesn't have or chooses not to use. He navigates the elevator without a problem and is impassive under Byron's eyes. He does say, "Thank you for the invitation, and the offer, Mister Thorne." He thrusts a small bag at the man. "Always bring a gift when invited to someone's house." It's a mutter, like he's reciting something. Bright side: the bag smells cinnamony and delicious, and is actually from one of the better bakeries in the town, owned by the same family for three generations. It contains a cinnamon and marionberry scone that's still warm.

Of course, Alexander gets a once over when the door is first opened, but Byron allows him entrance into his neat and organized abode. There's probably room service of some sort for these apartments. The bag being thrust into his hands gets a curious look and though he can easily smell the delicious aroma of baked goods, he's quick to say in light tone, "That's generous of you. Thank you. Now, this better not be..." he sniffs at the air, is that cinnamon? "Cinnamon covered autopsy photographs like you were thinking of sending me the other day." With the bag of goodies in hand and his cup of coffee in the other, he asks, "Can I get you something to drink? I have a fully stocked bar as well an espresso machine, if that's more your taste."

"No autopsy photos. Although those are fascinating. You should give them a chance." Alexander sounds quite serious as he says this, and steps inside, shoulders in a slouch. It doesn't stop him from looking around with a keen eye at the apartment. "No, thank you. I'm fine." He turns in a slow circle. "You have done well for yourself," he says when his rotation brings him back to face Byron again. "I'm glad." It's toneless. "Any further incidents?"

"These photographs, I will assume, have something to do with the strange incidents within town?" Byron pointedly asks and once the offer for drinks is dismissed, he gestures towards his office, "Or are photographs of that nature just some kind of twisted hobby of yours? I never could tell. Please, follow me." Leading the way into his office, he settles himself behind the stately desk within. The bag of baked goods and his coffee are set to the side as he pulls his handsome leather office chair forward, so that he may rest his elbows onto the desktop, hands clasped together.

There's this gauging look that he offers Alexander for a quiet moment when the man offers up a question. Once again, he's contemplating on the answers he'll give. Eventually, he withdraws to sit comfortably back against his chair, his hands pulling back to rest atop the armrests, when he says, "Not personally, no. Only stories that I've heard. Like I mentioned the last time we spoke in person, we may have visitors. Were you told of anything regarding that?"

"Some related to incidents of note, some just a twisted hobby," Alexander says, blandly. He follows obediently behind Byron into the other room, although pauses just inside to scan the interior as if for ambush. Then he continues on to one of the other seats, and sits down as Byron does. And then stands up again as his phone goes off. He pulls it out, frowns, texts, sits back down. From the way his phone immediately buzzes, someone is blowing it up. "...visitors. No, I haven't been told anything about visitors." He looks down at the phone, frowns. "Dead people on the docks, though. Interesting."

This home office has a decidedly masculine scheme of decor and design, sleek and posh with wood paneled walls and flooring. The grain has a charcoal ash hue through it, sophisticating and modernizing the natural dark shades, expensive engineered hardwood at subtle gloss when light comes in from a small scenic bank of windows. Made of polished black walnut, the shelving and desk furniture accents and compliments, a rolling black leather office chair settled behind the work space. A pair of black leather lounge chairs are angled in a nook corner across from the desk for reading lounge or visitors and there’s a marble-top table between, the surface swirled with mist, ash, and pale ivory. The actual decor is minimal and includes some black framed grayscale photography of still life with keen details in fine art style, as well as an oriental throw rug between desk and seating to bring shades of blue color into the room to match the base dark shade of the drapes.

The doorway is across from the master suite directly at the adjoining hall, and to the right, there’s a full bathroom and a door that leads to an appointed guest bedroom. In the other direction, the short hall opens to the main living space.

When Alexander's phone practically blows up with messages, Byron settles back patiently and waits for him to tend to all of that. At some point, however, when all of that is still going on, he says, "A local was visited by a strange woman a few days ago. This happened before the boat tour. She'd asked that person to join ''them'' and from what I'm told, that entails feeding a person or persons to..." And here he sighs, and while he has this urge to pinch at the bridge of his noses, he refrains so hard, "Slender....men. Anyway, when the person refused, she unleashed one of these beings at them. From what I'm told, whatever that was about, he's still feeling its effects as if he were cursed."

With that out of the way, all he can do is blink at what his guest has to say. "Dead people. Do you think something unnatural happened to them?"

Alexander's eyes flick up to Byron and he listens intently throughout the explanation. "I call them the Shadows That Hunt," he murmurs. "I've never...seen someone stupid enough to work with them before, but then, I should not be surprised. Your friend should be careful." His frown deepens. "We should all be very careful. If this person is," a hesitation, "recruiting, then eventually someone will say yes."

"So you do know of them." Byron starts, before he says with light laughter in his voice, "Of course you do. So these are those things that you sometimes see lurking in the shadows and in your dreams?" He obviously has some experience with that himself. "What do you know about the shadow beings? Like are they demons and why recruit? Either way," He starts up again after asking his questions, a hand reaching out for his cup of coffee again, "This local said the same thing. That we all need to be careful."

After taking a sip of that holy brew, Byron adds something else to the conversation, "Then after this discussion I had, a friend of mine was approached by a stranger in her shop one evening. A weirdo and a drunk who, from what I'm told, had a ghost of sorts attached to them. Now, after I'd heard this, I warned her to stay away from him and to let me know the next time he showed up, but she was convinced that he was harmless. Which, after the story we were given of the last visitor, the one who was planning on recruiting one of us, I can't help but have my reservations on this one."

"Dolorphages," Alexander says, shortly. "If I had to pretend science matters and give a scientific name for them. They feed on the weak and the wounded and the...those of us who /stand out/. I don't know why. Or what they are, truly. But a lot of the druggies, the suicides, the murderers here in Gray Harbor, I believe they had help getting to their state. Dreams, yes. Shadows, yes. Whispers and...pressure." His lips thin, something dark and painful flickering in his eyes before he refocuses.

"Not a bad idea. Strangers are difficult to trust, whether they are intentionally working for the Shadows or not. It's easy to use...things that we can do for harm. Even if we don't mean to, sometimes." He stares at Byron's lovely desk. "Everything is calculated for a certain impression, isn't it?"

There's this narrowing of Byron's eyes when the word 'Dolorphages' is uttered, his gaze set on Alexander, "Sure. That." Is his only response. However, when the investigator goes on to explain what could possibly be the victims of this Dolor-something-or-other, the mention of suicides does strike a single chord with him, the only giveaway to this is a slight tensing of his jaw, but that soon fades.

"So victims are chosen among the weak? Or in this possible case, they were selected at random, maybe, by someone working for the darkness... which, I gotta say, is still a strange thing to wrap my head around. The idea that /someone/ is working for these creatures of the shadow. What do they get in return? More power, I can only assume..." He takes another sip from his cup, "And a one-way ticket to Hell, if you believe in that sort of thing."

He can only smile a touch at Alexander's observation regarding his desk. "I like to think of it as having excellent taste."

"Dolor - pain, phage - eater. Eater of pain. I use my Classics education where I can, Mister Thorne." No, Byron didn't ask for an explanation, but when has that ever stopped Alexander from sharing something morbid? Never, that's when. To the rest about the creatures, he makes a noise. "Vulnerable. Chosen from the vulnerable, I would say. Why work for your food, when there are so many people in the world who just need...a little push to be miserable, or inflict misery on others?"

The question about what anyone working with them might get in return gets a lift of his shoulders. "It is said everyone has a price, Mister Thorne. Who can say why a particular person might work with those they know cause harm and suffering to others. Greed? Desperation? Fear of being the next victim?"

His attention returns to the desk. "Interesting. Who decides taste?"

While Byron is not at all amused when Alexanders goes on to explain what exactly Dolorphage means, broken down, he's patient for the time being and unsurprised. "I'll make sure to make note of that. It's always a blessing to expand one's vocabulary." Though this is said with sarcasm. To the rest, this talk of those who side with dangerous, harmful beings, Byron gives out a simple response, "Possibly."

The question on taste, however, makes him quirk a brow, before he chuckles, "Designers who stage editorials for magazines." He really has no time to discuss the intricacies of who determines good taste and so forth. "These bodies at the harbor, who are they?"

"There's no need to be sarcastic, Mister Thorne. Do you prefer calling them 'Slendermen' and sounding like a teenager who spends too much time on YouTube?" Alexander looks down at his knees, his fingers finding a thin space on his jeans and rubbing at it. He opens his mouth, possibly to continue the pointless digression on taste, before his favorite subject is mentioned. It's always easy to distract Alexander with talk of crime, so his head comes up again. "Petty criminals from out of town, and a blank cypher. No ID, no record. That is the interesting one. But," he sighs, "probably not related to the other matter. Likely just a criminal high enough in a hierarchy to keep his hands publicly clean or erase the stains."

"Actually, no. I'll refrain from referring to these beings as either of those name, thank you." Byron is quick to say, but he does add, all without looking at Alexander, in the case that there's gloating to follow, "But if I had to choose, Dolorphage it is, no matter how pretentious." When he's filled in on these dead men at the harbor, this information only elicits a single nod, not being particularly interested in all of that. What he is interested to know is: "So do you know of this Alistair Carver? Out of everyone I expect you to have information on visiting town weirdos."

Alexander doesn't gloat. He just stares. Gloating might be an improvement, really. "As you wish." He shakes his head at the question. "No. I don't know him. But I will remember the name." His head tilts to one side. "There is a British woman newly arrived to the city. A private detective. I could likely inquire with her, just in case they are associates. Alistair Carver." He frowns. "If I hear anything, I will let you know." He makes to rise. "Thank you for the information, and if I run into this woman, I will keep you informed. Could I ask you to do the same? We should try to keep an eye on her."

It's a good thing that Byron's gaze had wandered so as to not take on that odd staring look that he's given, even if their eyes do meet when he eventually comes around back to the discussion. "Carver is the one with the ghost attached to him who visited a friend of mine that evening I'd mentioned. If you ask me, he sounds like a loon, but after what we'd experienced here and the fact that he has a /ghost/ following him around... supposedly has me guessing that he's been through a lot. I'm told that he looks different from us, you know, that light. The spark. The shine." He's not sure if Alexander can see it or not, though it's not something that he'd ever really brought up before despite witnessing it from many a town's folk, "His is muddled with shadow or darkness. All I know is that it's different from ours. That said, if I'd ever run into him, I think I'd notice something like that."

Seeing his guest rise to stand, Byron follows suit, already making his way out from behind his desk, "And thank you as well, Mr. Clayton," or 'That Damn Kid', which is the first name that came to mind, "I've already met this British woman. She said she was a P.I., but she seemed a little sketchy. Maybe it was her attire or how she presented herself. Either way, yes, if I hear anything else about this... woman, I'll let you know. Once again, thanks for coming and I'll show you the way out."

There's a touch of geniune humor in Alexander's face. It warms it, makes it human and about three times less creepy. "Mister Thorne, I do feel I need to point out that most of us who, ah, stand out are at least a /touch/ sketchy. It is not sufficient in itself to designate enemies. But the description of Mister Carver is disturbing. I will pay attention." He follows Byron out, and leaves without fuss or bother.