EVENT #8: MÆRE - IC POST (MAIN EVENT)

[abraxasmods]

Event #8 - Mære

go to the OOC event info and plotting post or the IC faction intervention post.

---

Sleep can be a welcome escape from the daily toils of life. No matter one's magical affinity or physical prowess, many succumb to the need eventually. While some find refuge in it, others prefer to avoid sleep for as long as they can, fearing what lurks in the corners. For the latter, perhaps what happens next is just part of their nightly struggle.

Beginning on the night of JUNE 18, characters will be met with unsettling dreams and their worst nightmares. It will build slowly over the course of the following week as manifestations of their deepest fears and regrets make themselves known.

Night Walk

How does it start? Familiar, perhaps: experienced before or a recognizable concoction of events and feelings. Your old home, a town you've visited, a room you met an old friend in, a corridor where you faced off with a great foe, or a mosaic of the different pieces of your life. You don't yet sense danger. It's safe, you think. Or alternatively: you are consumed immediately by an unsettling feeling, finding yourself in a darkened room you don't recognize, falling endlessly, unable to move, already wounded in the middle of nowhere, or the growl of an animal. Whatever the recreated vista, you slowly get the distinct sense that you are not alone.

As you explore your dreamscape, this sense does not leave you. You may find a shadow looming over you, catch something in the corner of your eye, hear a sound far off in the distance. Wherever you turn, you seem to just miss it. Whether this unsettles you or not will vary, but you will remember this come the morning. If you are one of the lucky ones, it all ends here. Strange dreams are nothing unusual. Those happen now and again. But for many others this is just the beginning.

The Entity

If you are among those less fortunate, you will find yourself plunged into the same dream. It may not be the next night. Perhaps it happens later, when you're napping in the afternoon, or a few nights afterwards when you've already forgotten all about it. Regardless, it returns to you. The stage might be different, the details shifted, but the feeling of something watching remains. In your absence, it only seems to have grown. Each time you return to this singular dream world, its presence grows ever stronger. Oppressive, suffocating, you know you are being hunted.

When you finally see it, you know exactly what it is. The Entity that hunts you is born out of your subconscious itself, your deepest fears and traumas given form. A twisted manifestation of unshakeable guilt, a creature or foe you have fought with once before, a person you may have loved so dearly now turned against you - the sight of it chills your blood and you know in your heart that it is here for you.

The Guest

Should fate twist further, you might not be the only one. Instead, you'll find other Summoned with you. They might also be running from a presence of their own or maybe they're merely unlucky enough to have fallen into the path of yours. Whatever it is, they too will bear witness to that which haunts you - or you will see what haunts them, as well. Your respective dreamscapes might meld together, shift and change, or one might take over the other completely.

Though it's likely you won't realize you're trapped inside a dream, that doesn't mean you can't fight back. Gather your courage to face down your fears or try to help those you find yourself in the company of - you might just find your surroundings steadily shifting in your favor. A weapon here, a pathway opening there, a wooden door that transforms into steel. Be careful, though: should your awareness grow that things aren't real, the world will try to consume those thoughts and you within it, twisting things further in an attempt to make you forget that you're dreaming.

The Imprint

Luckily, you do eventually wake - unsettled, damp with sweat, but at least you're safe. It was only a dream, wasn't it? For some, that might be the case. For others, you'll start to hear the sounds of the dream in the waking world, glimpse the shadow of the Entity in a reflection, feel a breath against your neck. Marks or injuries might also follow you into the physical world: dirt staining your palms from where you fell, a cut from where you were struck, dampness in your hair from the rain. These occurrences could be obvious, but they might also be so minor you feel like your mind is playing tricks.

Still - what if it isn't merely a dream? As the week goes on, whether you experience the phenomenon for yourself or not, you'll most certainly hear of it happening to your friends, loved ones, neighbors. Word reaches you of fellow Summoned being stalked from the shadows, waking up with injuries they shouldn't have, possibly even suffering a near-fatal wound in their sleep. Clearly, there's more to this than uneasy visions in the night.

The Factions

While it is each Summoned who is the focus of their Entity's ire, they are not the only ones who seem aware of its movements. The factions will soon approach each Summoned with an offer: work with them to help contain the threat and aid the suffering of you and your friends - but the one thing they cannot explain is how they have come to know about the existence of the Entity.

Will you take the offer and try to convince your fellow Summoned this is a vital path to take? Or will your mistrust of those in power have you not only refusing, but trying to prevent others from making what you believe is a mistake?

The choice is yours, but the decision might impact more than just you this time.

A separate log located here will detail the reaction of the factions and so forth. You can tag in under the specific heading for each faction.

To thread out any arguments or conflict prior to participating, please do so in this event post. The IC Faction Intervention log should be only for those actively participating in the full process.

The Horizon

When dreams are no longer an escape, desperate souls might turn to the Horizon for safety - though they may remember that, previously, the Horizon was not safe at all.

It Follows

At first, the same doesn't seem to hold true. Things are quiet in the Horizon. There is no need for sleep or dreams here. You have full control over what's formed inside your domain. However, it doesn't take long for the remnants of that horrible dream to seep into your sanctuary. A field you grew may start to turn dark, becoming nightmarish corridors. Maybe the tower you placed so carefully begins to crumble, or perhaps the reflection you see of yourself in a lake isn't you at all. You will find that despite your best efforts, your Entity has followed you into Horizon and is corrupting your domain with it.

As menacing as the presence may be, the Entity will not be able to destroy other's domains. Within yours, though, it may twist the design to varying degrees, ruining carefully laid paths, staining blood on your walls, darkening what is most important to you no matter how much you might try to change it back. Conversely, its hold may only be strong enough to be a shadow in the corner of your eye. It all depends on the strength of your nightmares and how deeply its affected your mind.

Nonetheless, the message is clear: dreams are born of your mind and your mind is what the Horizon is formed from.

The Looking Glass

Whether you see the manifestation of your Entity in full or whether your domain is barely affected by its presence, all who enter the Horizon during the course of the week will find that they are once again plagued by a flash of a vision.

This is nothing like the glimpses into another's past, however. There are no headaches, no recognizable faces. This time, the vision will flicker in and out of focus like an old television trying to find the right signal, staticky and not quite clear at first. The flashes are brief, lasting only mere seconds, if that. In fact, at first, one might even mistake it for a trick of the mind. For some, this may be all they see. For others, it may return in another burst the next time they enter the Horizon, becoming clearer each time. It might appear as soon as you step in, or it might take an hour, two.

What you see will not be anything familiar. The scene itself will never change. It is a soundless meteoric picture. You may glimpse heavy winds stirring some sand, but you will not feel it on your skin nor hear the wind. You may see a flicker of the sea, but you will not smell the sea salt nor hear the crashing waves. All in all, this image which appears to you is abstract, strange, and impossible to understand in their absurdity - except for one part: the appearance of a single Arcana sign.

Intriguingly, this sign likely does not match your own. It might not even match anyone you know at all. It is an undeniable fixture, though, appearing emblazoned on the scene somewhere, not always in the same place, but always present: seared into the ground, carved on stone, scrawled on a page.

The six available images are below and each one is labeled with the Arcana sign your character will notice when they glimpse the scene. Choose any image you like, but only one may be selected. Characters do not need to be experiencing nightmares or the Entity to see these images.

As noted, the Arcanum on the image itself does not need to match your character's. At this time, there are no real details on what the Arcanum itself means or why it's appeared, though the possibilities are endless. Everyone in Abraxas possesses one, after all.

If you want to be surprised and assigned an image at random, comment here and we will do so for you!

The Hermit

The Sun

Temperance

Death

The Lovers

The High Priestess

CODE

Comments

[righteously]

( That's the frustrating thing about what Dean can do — it seems like he can only ever repel things away from other people, like his protective instinct doesn't extend to himself. That glass begins to burst, and Dean's only thought is to raise an arm to ineffectually cover his own face and neck, already bracing for the cuts that are sure to line everywhere else on his body soon enough.

And then Geralt's on him, knocking some of his breath away but sparing him the surge of lacerations that would've come from the shrapnel, the thousands of tiny little projectiles ready to embed themselves in flesh.

Dean's flashlight hits the ground and rolls, still lit up, its beam stretching out long against the floor and lower half of the hallway. Distorting the shadows of the creatures crawling forth to meet them.

He coughs the breath back into his lungs, the heel of a palm pressing down on glassy floor, cutting into the meat of his flesh as he pushes himself up.

No time to say thanks. They're in it now.

His flashlight-free, bleeding hand goes for his holstered weapon. He aims over Geralt's shoulder without even rising to his feet yet. Cover fire - pop, pop, poppop. Three of the fastest somethings drop before they get too close for comfort. Maybe just enough time for Geralt to regroup and hold the front lone so Dean can regroup. It's a matter of trading each other a handful of seconds back and forth, because every single one of them count right now. )

[gynvael]

[ Dean's on the ground, but Geralt doesn't offer him a hand up. They haven't the time. He scrambles for his sword as the monsters fall, flipping it in his grip; the only thing he takes a half-second's pause to do is kick the light rolling back towards Dean with his heel. There are shards embedded in his own palm, pressing deeper where he grasps his weapon.

The world narrows, frenetic and too-slow all at once. Dean gives him an opening, and he takes it. He can't count every creature. They spill through in waves. He snatches one by its spindly, bent leg and cracks it into another, sending them smashing into the ground. His blade skewers through both.

They can't stay on the defensive. Either they need to run or they clear a path and push through. Right now, in Geralt's mind, only one of those is an option. She's there. Beyond this rush of beasts, he'll find her. The knowledge digs into him with a painful certainty that he can't explain. It drives him forward. More shadowed bodies drop, wings and limbs cleaved.

It's nowhere near a clear path. But there is a path, struggling open, lined with teeth and claws. The end of the corridor draws closer. The single red light blinks brighter.

Which is when the striga flings from a darkened corner, sending him sprawling across the glass-littered ground. ]

[righteously]

( He loses track of time. Geralt takes point, and he switches to his blade rather than continue firing off rounds — ammunition is limited, but he can cut things down all day. Rather, he can cut them down until his arms give out, but that'll take longer than it would to empty a clip.

The number never seems to really thin. Geralt takes on the majority of them from there in the lead, with Dean keeping them off of his flank. Keeping them from assaulting from the rear. Cleaning up any that try to pick themselves up again after their first meeting with a sword.

They get in the occasional swipe with a claw, the occasional nip. Blood drips from a cut at his cheek, from the glass in his palm, from a wound on his arm.

They keep fighting. They keep moving. Minutes pass. Longer? It could be worse. This isn't unfamiliar. He did this for a year with company he trusted far less at first. They can do this.

Geralt goes down.

He's moving immediately, flashlight dropped in favor of two-handing his weapon. He swings it like a god damn golf club, slamming into the beast's skull. It should decapitate it, but for some reason it doesn't. It does at least knock the thing off of Geralt, and Dean brings his weapon up intent to drive it down again-

"Dean!" Sam's voice comes from nowhere, an urgent bark that has him faltering, eyes ripped from Geralt to fixate instead on his brother across the room. "Dean, stop! Wait!"

What the hell? )

[gynvael]

[ His sword clatters from the impact, just out of reach. Snapping jaws aim for his face. He guards with his arm, lets teeth latch onto that instead. They dig deep, a white-hot flare that sinks into the bone. Claws pierce his side and rip downward—and then the thing reels backwards with a rattling cry. Dean's there, bloodstained weapon in hand. Geralt wastes no time shoving the creature off entirely.

A sharp, ragged pain shoots up his ribs. His side is sticky, wet. Like Dean, his focus is stolen by the shout. Even as he rolls to his knees, the creature darting away to recover, he's twisting around to the source. Is that—? The fuck. There's no room for this. For disruptions. They're surrounded, both of them nursing wounds, and more are pouring in.

That's no one's brother. Not an ounce of doubt in his mind. If he's wrong, he's wrong, but the time for hesitation and evaluating has long passed.

The voice says stop. Geralt doesn't stop. He tackles the nearest corrupted form. Pins it down by the hand with his dagger and jerks one of its elongated limbs, hard. The snap crackles through the air, bone splintering in half and right through the flesh. ]

Dean. [ Shit. Deep down, he knows. He knows this isn't good. That the second Dean's attention slipped, they've lost what little ground they've gained. ]

[righteously]

Damn it.

( It's a strained mutter under his breath, a direct response to hearing Geralt say his name. He's juggling his attention here, yo-yoing back and forth between the fight that's happening and Sam at the end of the hall. He redoubles his effort, swinging hard to cleave into the skull of something he doesn't even properly see. It has snapping teeth and it isn't human, his mind doesn't really see fit to fill in the details much more than that. This is a dream, he doesn't even notice that it's blurry.

"Dean, you need to leave, now. Come on, we can get out. You can come home, but you have to come now! There's no time. The door's closing."

A frustrated sound rips from his throat, and his weapon swings on — but it's with a different kind of urgency now. It's sloppy, it's distracted. Conflicted, even though he doesn't realize it yet.

Maybe it's the truth. Maybe Sam is right, maybe there's a way home. All the same, he wants to keep his promise here. He wants both. He wants to fix this, to get Geralt to his girl, to get them all out.

He wants to get back to his brother, and why does Sam sound so god damn disappointed in him? )

[gynvael]

[ Later (there will not be a later), Geralt can acknowledge this is as much his mistake as anyone's. He should've taken care of it downstairs, when they'd first run into this thing. They should've never walked away or gambled on the seventh floor.

Desperation and hope make for a dangerous combination.

He manages to snatch up his sword again. The tip of the blade slices a skittering thing with dozens of legs as he makes his way to Dean. Grabs him by the arm, and yanks him out of the path of diving talons. The creature banks too abruptly—smashes through what's left of a shattered window, slicing its own wings open in an arcing red spray. ]

Listen to me. That is not your brother. Leave it.

[ There's no turning back. They're mere feet from the doors ahead and he isn't leaving Dean behind. Not when they've come this far together, not when Dean might be the only person who can point the way to Ciri. And certainly not over a monster wearing his brother's face. ]

[righteously]

( That sudden yank leaves him wild-eyed, startled, tensing as though he's preparing for a blow to come from Geralt himself — only to register the threat passing beside him a second later, the delayed click that he just had his ass pulled out of the line of fire.

Geralt has his full attention, and yet somehow Dean still seems just a little uncomprehending. Struck with disbelief or indecision, rooted, the desire to peel away and look back still yanking at him ceaselessly.

That is not your brother.

How can he be sure?

Leave it. )

I can't.

( There's that twisting conflict on full display, a little desperate, a lot apologetic. It's just not in his biological programing to leave Sam behind, if there's even the slightest chance that's him. )

[gynvael]

Dean—

[ His own rare moment of indecision roots him. Now is no place to argue, but he wants to. He wants to, because they've been caught up in this together and he wants to be able to walk out of here with everyone intact. Dean, Ciri, himself. It is a naïve desire that clings to him nonetheless.

Then Dean looks at him. Looks straight at him, and he can read it in those eyes clear as day. If it were doubt etched across Dean's face, things may have gone differently. It is not. It's an apology. Regret.

This is not a fight he can win; it's lost before it ever began. Ciri needs him. His goal has always been to find her, to bring her home where she belongs. That's what he means to do. He will not die on someone else's hill. He can't.

He presses the gun he never used into Dean's free hand. There's no need to say anything. Dean knows Geralt will not wait, that if he stays for the figure beckoning him forth, Geralt isn't coming back for him. They both have choices to make. He doesn't begrudge Dean for his, but it is what it is. Perhaps by some slim margin, they will see one another on the other side.

And then he's moving. Pushes past the writhing mass of shadows without looking back. The door at the end of the corridor bursts open under his weight, where he shoulders through. Until now, they've been met with tiled floors and smooth glass. Now it's sand that crunches under his boots, the sun blotted out by the dust in the sky. Temperatures plunge well past freezing. He stumbles forward. Blood drips onto the sand, staining the already rusty red darker. A sinister laugh echoes.

Starry-eyed daughter of Chaos.
She is ours. ] 

[righteously]

( It feels wrong. The moment that gun is pressed into his hands, it feels wrong. He doesn't look down at it even as he takes it, just holds Geralt's eye throughout the exchange. Watches him turn, watches him push his way through those doors.

And then turns his eyes to Sam, who slowly steps over crumpled corpses as he approaches.

The weight of the gun feels heavy in his hands. It's not like Dean to abandon somebody, to not deliver on his promise, to leave them alone in the field like this.

In hindsight, it's not like Sam to stand back during a fight, either.

"They're not even human," Sam says with a little scoff, his lips pulling up on one side in a way that reminds him of- )

...you're not my brother.

( Sam's smile grows wider, even as he tries to seem puzzled.

"What do you mean?"

He looks an awful lot like Lucifer when he makes that expression.

A moment of silence passes, and then in a flash, Dean pulls the trigger. Sam crumples to the ground, but Dean knows on instinct he won't be down for long.

A little too late, he sets off after Geralt - shouldering those too-large doors shut behind him. )

[gynvael]

[ The doors shut behind him with finality. It's a dull ache, the kind that sits in a carved out hollow for all things lost. With every step, Dean fades from Geralt's memory, his thoughts. Their entire trip here, Sam, everything—it recedes inch by inch into the corners, pulled by some unknown force, until the only thing he recognizes is what's in front of him: thundering hooves, crackling lightning, a swirling frost that begins to overtake the sand with snow.

He does not notice when or how Dean has come after him.

The era of the wolf's blizzard.

The voice that rumbles through is not her but it is. It is. His heart tightens in his chest, trapped against his ribs. Dust and snow alike whip around him, sharp as the glass that sprayed through the doors. His eyes sting.

Through the thick frost, it's perhaps difficult to see what is happening. The pounding hooves is unmistakable, though. So is the heavy clang of steel on steel. When the winds finally die down, Geralt is curled around something—someone: a girl, several years younger than the woman Dean would know as Ciri, but not so young that it's impossible to place her features. She clutches at him.

The world is suddenly still. Each breath comes heavy, ragged. A fragment of bone is visible through his leg. Several feet away is a broken-tipped spear, stained red all the way up its length. Blood splatters the dirt when he coughs.

It's funny. He's been here before, more than once. At the edge of death's fields. He's always clawed his way back with a deeply entrenched animal resolve, but here, somehow, he does not. Like he knows. That it's different this time. Hard to say how. Maybe it's the fucking hole through his body. ]

[righteously]

( Snow, ash, dust. It's everywhere, it's in his lungs, he coughs his way through it. Throws his arm up over his mouth to try and breathe through his shirt, through the crook of his elbow as he navigates. He's lost his weapon somewhere, and he doesn't remember where. Doesn't remember when. It's gone, along with his flashlight. All he has left is the gun pressed into his hand minutes or hours or seconds ago.

It's pure dumb luck that takes him in the right path — or maybe it's the predestination of dreams. In either case, he spots the girl before he spots Geralt. Only realizes the crumpled figure around her for what it is after he edges closer. )

Oh, god...

( It's a breath, a mutter, and a second later he's on his knees. He touches the girl first — the shoulder, the face, just to make sure she's alright. When it's clear she's more or less functional, his attention drifts downward to assess. Triage.

It's not good. The leg's bad, but it's immediately placed lowest on his priorities list as he sees the blood in Geralt's teeth. )

Okay, okay, okay. You're okay. Easy, easy, easy.

( Quick, rapid-fire murmurs that fall out of his mouth as he sheds his flannel over-shirt despite the freezing temperature. He's gonna need it for the fabric, he's gonna need it to apply pressure. Deft, careful hands roll Geralt over onto his back so he can bundle his shirt up and press it down tight against that fucking hole. One of his hands seeks out Geralt's, so he can drag it over and press it down on top of the fabric, too. )

I need you to hold that there, okay? It's gonna be alright.

[gynvael]

[ Hands grasp him out of nowhere–and it says everything Geralt neither hears Dean arriving nor starts at his sudden appearance. A minute or two pass where he isn't thinking, just lets Dean maneuver him while he draws in a shallow breath. His heart is beating too fast, at the pace of a regular human's, and all it does is spill more blood from his lips.

Geralt. His attention snaps to Ciri. She looks frantic, frightened.

All right. Yeah. They both know that's horseshit.

Geralt pushes Dean off. Struggles upright with a heavy groan. Fuck. They aren't safe here. She isn't safe. A white heat lances through his leg. He can push himself far, but there are limits. He's going nowhere in this condition. The sand is soaked, thick and wet. Every time he blinks, he loses track of more and more seconds. Minutes.

(When in the hell did Dean return? What happened to his brother?) ]

Take her. [ He is not asking. It's the only way. The girl is already protesting, but it's the only way. For the first time in decades, he feels cold. Deeply cold. ] They can't have her.

[righteously]

( He's seen this before. It's not as reassuring as it should be that Geralt tries to push him off. Even less reassuring that he doesn't make it much further than up-ish. His gun's been abandoned in favor of gripping Geralt's shoulder with one hand and pressing that shirt into the wound with the other. He's torn between helping Geralt stay up, or trying to coax him back down onto his back again. He's suspended in that limbo, conflicted. )

Don't worry, we're gonna get her outta here, okay, but we need to get you stable first.

( Beneath his hand, Dean's flannel is already soaking through with blood. How much can a Witcher afford to lose? How super-human are they really, when push comes to shove?

This is a lot of blood. Dude was already pale to start with. )

Geralt, listen to me, man. We gotta stop this bleeding before I can carry you outta here, okay? I need you to focus, I need you keeping pressure on this until I can figure out a way to bind it.

( Because he's not willing to entertain the possibility that Geralt's not getting out of here with him.

But there's a little waver in his tone still, because the back of his mind... ain't so sure. That little logical part that he steadfastly ignores, one that's seen plenty of injuries. One that's seen plenty of people die. One that knows loss, and anticipates it almost always. It's keen to point out Geralt ain't looking too good. It sparks the first hint of real fear in him. )

[gynvael]

[ Dean's words fade into the background. Geralt grips his shirt, fixes him with a stare that manages to stay focused for a brief moment. This is not an argument. It is not a request. He is fucking telling. ]

I said move. They'll be back. [ They've retreated. They aren't near defeated. It never once occurs to him to explain who they are. Who the twisted spiked spear belongs to.

He releases his grip on Dean—or maybe his hand simply slips. ] Look after her.

[ The note of finality hangs heavy. There's nothing more except for Dean to accept what Geralt has known from the start. From before Dean even burst through the storm: his path ends here. And it isn't what he wants—he wants more time with her, he wants to see all the things she will become—but he's always understood he will not be around forever. This day has waited for him from the first step he took on the road. It was only a matter of how many miles and years before he reached it.

Now he knows. ]

[righteously]

( He doesn't care who 'they' are. Doesn't make a damn bit of difference if they're Sauron's army or the Green Bay Packers, it's all the same to him right now. He'll do what Geralt asks, he'll take care of her, he won't let 'them' get her, but god damn if they're anywhere near higher on his priority list right now than trying to keep his friend alive.

Geralt's hand slips.

Dean's heart plummets through his stomach, and fear shoots up to replace it. )

Geralt.

( He moves, shifting, pressing his hand more firmly onto the bundle of cloth at his wound like that'll accomplish anything. His body gets heavier, he has to grip more tightly onto Geralt's shoulder to keep him upright — that's the weight of a body no longer supporting itself. His fingers dig in more tightly. )

Look at me, you son of a bitch, hey, I need you to focus, I need you to look at me, man-

( He shifts, lowers Geralt down onto the sand so he can use that hand to angle his face up. To seek out pupils, desperately looking for dilation. Looking for focus. Looking for the faintest hint of eye contact.)

Geralt.

( That name becomes a bark, ragged, almost angry-sounding. The girl is crying, and it sears at his heart. Shreds it, decimates any chance he might've had to keep a wall between this and himself. He can compartmentalize with the best of them — right up until he gives a crap about somebody.

This is his fault.

He did this.

He screwed up, and now-

That cold, frigid bolt strikes him — realization, reality. The sharp thrust of truth. )

Oh, god-

( His blood-soaked hand abandons the shirt, the wound, in favor of curling around the side of Geralt's jaw beneath one ear. His thumb smears a deep swath of blood along one cheekbone. )

No, no, no- come on. Stay with me, don't do this, look at me-

( It swells, it pushes at his ribs, becoming a bigger truth than his staunch refusal to accept it. Becoming a more powerful force than all the stubbornness of his denial.

He did this. He screwed up. This is his fault.

He's not breathing.

His blood's soaking Dean's clothes, his hands, the ground.

You human?
No.
You're a hunter.
As are you.
You learn to put things away, for what's important.
We can all be worse.
You'll have to find me sufficient for now.
Let me worry about them.

Every single god damn time.

This is his fault.

Shock sets in alongside the denial. The girl is crying. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of hooves.

If he doesn't get this girl out of here, he doesn't deserve to walk out at all. He rips himself up and away, and pulls the girl along with him. The last thing he remembers before he wakes up is hearing her scream. )