The Devil's Own Luck [Open] [Pre-Injustice]

[heirtrigger]

Up in Jersey, there had been a new influx of rumors about the Jersey Devil - which would register as odd to some, given that Dipper, Mabel, and some others had dealt with him some time back.

These also differed from previous accounts - this time the devil was a woman, sometimes she didn't have wings, she dressed like a person, and carried a gun and hunted like a man. The bulk of the reports came from hunters who found themselves being stolen from. They describe the gunshots being as loud as thunder, and a woman flickering in and out of vision coming to carry their quarry away after killing it out from under the hunters.

Cryptid hunters that seem to find a trail also reported bright flashes of light or color, followed by horrible, monstrous sounds, as well as a noticeable scent of sulfur in the air.

It's all very strange to both the locals and their so-called devil. She's not sure where she is, and the way the humans she's encountered with act is strange, even for someone used to getting negative reactions. She tries to hide out, but stealth was never her strong suit.

Comments

[iswayzedthatmother]

Scents of sulphur and Jersey Devil sightings sound like Dean and Sam's line of work, so the Winchesters had headed out to nip this particular trouble in the bud, before it started doing things more aggressive than stealing hunters' kill.

Sounded like a copycat myth riding on the belief the locals still had in the Jersey Devil, though as Guardians the Winchesters were privy to the knowledge that the original Jersey Devil was definitely deceased (and . . . whatever happened that prevented mythical things from sticking around after they were dead, a weird, complicated process by the sound of it).

Dean, never a fan of riding through the reality-warping portal of the snowglobes, still didn't exactly have his interdimensional travel legs, and fell face-first on the carpet of pine needles as he and Sam emerged into the Jersey pine barrens. He stood up quickly, trying to pretend he wasn't wiping pine needles off his face, reaching into his jacket.

"You know, for some reason, I can always find my Sig in here, but never a glock," he commented, to take Sam's attention away from the pine needles he'd just been spitting out, and onto the mystery of the jacket that never seemed to run out of weapons that shouldn't fit in it.