The sound of an irritating alarm rung through the room, going undisturbed for about two minutes, before finally achieving its primary aim and waking up the individual in the bed.
Augustine stirred slowly, they always had, but eventually met their shitty digital alarm to bear-slamming a fist down in a haphazard enough way to knock it off the bedside table and to the ground. However, it’s noise went silent, and they were awake. Begrudgingly, at the hour of eight in the morning, but awake nonetheless. They ran hands through their hair, as they slung themselves into a sitting position, and looked down at the clock, which had fallen in between the bedside table and the small twin bed they slept in. They were worried for a second they’d broken it with their strike, but when they pulled it back up…it was fine. They let out a small sigh, and placed it back down, before standing up fully, and moving to start their day.
Breakfast, done easily enough. Some bland toast and two eggs. Get dressed, also easy, switching a set of worn pajamas for their general work attire-gray short sleeved shirt, black pants, and a trenchcoat. Looking in a mirror, they frowned, and took a comb to their mussed up blueish purplish hair, their one primary distinctive (and weird) trait. It had stopped being a surprise to see it in the mirror a decade ago, and now it was just a part of a normal routine. After that, they went to gather up their bag, putting a few things in, mostly tools and such. They mostly worked odd jobs, and they had one laid out for the day, fixing someone’s gutter which had gotten knocked loose after a storm. Nothing particularly rewarding, but it kept the lights on. They were getting ready to move for the door, an almost cheerful demeanor about them, when the phone rang. They paused. And let out a low groan.
There went the positivity. They dropped their bag, and trudged over, picking up the phone with a motion that felt far heavier than it really was. They heard a cheery male voice on the other end.
“Good morning! Is this Augustine Curstrom?” it oozed with fakeness.
Augustine was already reaching into their pocket, pulling out a silver coin, with various engravings on it, leaning over against the counter. They ripped free a piece of paper from a nearby notepad, and grabbed a pencil. This was always the hardest part. They wrote ‘GM’ at the top line of the paper, followed by the number five on the line below.
“Yeah, that’s me,” They said with a slightly bored reply.
“Lovely, Mr. Curstrom, I’m with the mail carrier, we just wanted to let you know that your package is going to take another few days to arrive. We’re sorry for the inconvenience.”
They nodded absentmindedly, turning up their nose slightly at the use of Mr. Though they assumed it was just Grey’s stupid assistant again. They wrote down the two sentences either way.
“Yeah, yeah, no problem. Thanks.”
They waited a few seconds. Not getting a follow up of any sort, just silence. They hung up. Sighing, and putting the pencil in their mouth as they walked over to the table, paper in hand. They put the silver coin on the table, reading some of its inscriptions and briefly doing a bit of mental calculus. They preferred when these things came by mail, less stress that they’d mishear things. But they come more and more over the phone nowadays. They’d gotten a code switch about a year ago now, and now we’re relying on an entirely different formula. They just sat there for half an hour, scribbling and decoding on a piece of paper. They didn’t know why the Wheel didn’t just tell them where to go, or at least be less obfuscated. Who knew saving humanity would require so much paperwork.
After they were finished though, the message now read something much more simple.
“Go to One Ninety Three Jefferson road, the bar called ‘The Expanse’, it’s a hub for chaos cultists, and a rather large and problematic sect at that. Leave none alive, be discreet.”
They let out another long sigh, leaning back in their chair. A part of them didn’t want to go, it sounded inconvenient, not to mention dangerous. An entire bar full of those guys…ugh.
Chaos cultists meant magic users. How powerful they were seemingly depended on which way the wind was blowing that day, what was going on in Southern France, and what color their mood ring was. That was to say, random, unpredictable, and as a result of that, dangerous. They risked most people finding out about magic and such with every little ritual they did, which means they were most of all, a cognito hazard. They’d made the assumption most magic was like that, honestly. And a bar full of them. Bad news.
Then again. If they didn’t go, Gray would get mad again. He always did, whenever they flaked, or tried to move to avoid work, or…generally didn’t comply. He’d usually respond…poorly. They let out another sigh. What a bother…but they presumed they could make it work. They felt a bit bad, canceling on the guy who needed the gutter fixed, but they’d show up tomorrow and apologize. It could wait, they presumed. Besides, if it went well at the very least, they’d get paid more.
They moved over to one of their other closets, and opened it. Grabbing a large bag and putting a few things inside. A pair of gloves, some pain meds, some other basic first aid supplies…
Four knives, a crappy shortsword, an arm shield…they rummaged through the pile of sharps, grabbing an old quiver out, checking inside. Ten flechettes. That’d work. They reached into a side cabinet, and carefully stowed away a few more crossbow bolts. They then scanned their closet for the weapon itself, eventually finding it behind one of the cabinets and pressed against the wall. They couldn’t remember how it had gotten there, but it was intact at least. They did some basic maintenance briefly, before placing it in the bag, on the top. They almost closed it, before remembering one thing. They went into a bottom drawer, pulling out an old and chipped mask, in the shape of a gilded face, which they put on the top layer.
They then zippered it shut, and closed the closet, making sure to lock it this time, getting the right key first try, tucking it back onto their belt in the process.
After turning off the lights, they moved to the door. Stepping out of their small house on the corner, they waved to an elderly neighbor, Mr. Constantine, who they’d helped with a thing or two when he needed it, since he lived alone. He gave them a wave and a smile in return. They then got into their car, an old chipped red skylark, before putting the key in the ignition, and driving off.
They listened to a bit of the radio on the way over. Some news programs, talking about some recent war protests off in Lincoln, along with nationwide. They were indifferent, and war always made them feel cold. So they switched channels, only to hear about some missing television host named Word. That was frustrating too, so they gave up on the news, and turned on some music, losing themselves in that for the about fifteen minute drive over to the Expanse. They liked not thinking about things. It made them worry less about what they were about to do.
Eventually, they reached the building, parking in an almost empty lot across the street. Fetching their bag from the backseat, they slung it over their shoulder and jaywalked across the street when there weren’t any cars coming.
The Expanse itself was pretty boring looking, given the name. A black sign with red lettering spelled out the name, and a pair of front windows, currently shuttered, would normally allow a view into the bar’s dining room. A closed sign was on the door, but they walked up anyway, and tried the door. It was unlocked. Lucky them.
They walked straight into the interior, with the confidence that they owned the place, even if their anxiety within them was spiking. They saw about nine people on the interior, eight at tables, wearing a variety of different colorful clothes that generally mismatched, and one behind the bar, dressed in a crimson red uniform, with a very nice mustache. They were aware of the looks they got as they strode in, and saw a few people reach for weapons, thankfully, they just seemed to be daggers and other short blades. They walked straight up to the bar, and leaned an arm down on it, giving their best lopsided smile towards the bartender.
“Hey uh, got a call for a busted john?” They said, craning their head towards a side hall which led to a bathroom.
The bartender’s brow furrowed.
“Did you not read the sign?” He said in a gruff voice.
“Yeah, yeah, can’t have a bar open with a busted john now can you?” They said, still smiling, but internally panicking.
“Who called you?” He said, accusingly.
“Dunno, some guy. Sounded urgent, so I came over. Why don’t you just let me take a look, if nothings wrong I’ll get out of your hair. Free consultation.”
The man behind the bar sighed.
“Fine. Go ahead. Take a look.” He gestured an arm over towards the bathroom. Augustine nodded gratefully, and headed over, walking down the small hallway and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind them.
They immediately set the bag down and opened it, grabbing the mask and other pieces of gear, and started setting up. They could hear the sound of talking, and someone moving into the hall. So that was how these cultists wanted to play things, huh?
They pulled on their armor, which was mostly just a reinforced sheet of metal they wore under their shirt, shoved the bag off into the corner, and made sure their quiver and daggers were secure. They loaded a bolt into their hand crossbow, and drew a dagger.
They did one final check, took a deep breath, pulled on their mask and kicked open the door.
The man standing in front of it with a knife was knocked into the wall with the force with a bloody nose. Augustine swept across his throat with their own blade, a small fountain of blood spelling the end for him. In the same motion, they leveled the crossbow forward, and nailed one of the sitting individuals closest to them in the back of the head.
The rest of them shouted, and stood. They let the bloody blade drop from their hands, and they quickly reached to their side, reloading their crossbow with a flechette this time. Moving to the doorway, they saw three incoming with knives, and let loose the bolt. It split midair into pieces, one of them sailing straight ahead into the chest of the first one, the pieces, sharp shrapnel designed to hook into flesh, needled the other three. Five down, four to go. They ducked quickly backwards, just as a ball of fire struck the floor where they’d been standing. They pressed themselves up against the wall, as they heard chanting from the main body of the bar. Magic. They were pulling out magic. They cursed, and reloaded, popping out to quickly aim and fire, along with surveying the room.
Two cultists at the other end, hand in hand, chanting something. One more, right near the door, and lunging for them with a knife. They adapted quickly. Squeezing off their bolt, not able to get a lethal shot, but nailing one in the arm, before elbowing the one right near them, she still managed to get a cut off down Augustine’s arm, which stung. They heard the spellcasting one shout, successful in breaking their focus, as they doubled back into the hall, only for the one with the knife to jump forward, tackling them to the ground, the knife clattering to the ground nearby. This cultist, a woman with auburn hair and wild green eyes, said something in a language Augustine didn’t understand, her fists glowing with a flickering red light. She punched them, and it felt like a burn. They managed to not shout, and headbutted her in the face when she raised her fist to do it again. When she recoiled, they seized the chance, moving upwards, and pinning her against the wall with their foot, kicking her in the face, knocking out a few teeth with their heavy boots, causing the light to flicker out from her fists. They then kicked her again, and again, and again, until she wasn’t moving, and her face looked like something out of an esoteric painting. They then reloaded, drew a dagger, and moved out of the hall. The two cultists who had tried to cast had redoubled their effort, and when Augustine entered, they seemed to finish, a large set of vines sprouting from the floorboards to grab them. They dove forwards, dodging most, but getting grabbed by the ankle.
These idiots wanted everyone to know, huh? They twisted in the grasp of the vine, just as they started chanting something else. They pivoted, and fired their second flechette. Both dropped, and the vines went limp.
They stood, brushing themselves off. They were about to bandage their arm and head back to their stuff, when they heard a loud BOOM from behind them, and felt a massive impact against their back, sending them back to the ground. They heard the sound of a click, and the sound of shaky, but fast hands.
The bartender had a gun. Damn. Armor saving their life again.
They quickly forced themselves into a standing position, and took off at a run, diving over the counter, and full force tackling the bartender. He’d managed to reload, but wasn’t quick enough to fire, thankfully. They slammed the bartender into the back of the bar, grabbing a bottle and smashing it against his head, before drawing one of their knives and plunging it into his chest.
They then stood. Taking a long look down at the shotgun now on the ground. Grey had always told them not to use guns, they weren’t as effective against the older supernaturals. But then again, these were just people. People infused with magic fuckery, but still people. They grabbed it, and moved to the bathroom. They had seen a door off to the side, a backroom they’d surely have to check, but for now they needed to bandage up. Popping a pill and wrapping their wound, they took a bit of a breather, and investigated their armor. The blast had nearly torn through the back. It wouldn’t be as good, and they’d like to be able to repair it. So they took it off, and left it with the bag. They retrieved their dagger, and the non splitting bolts, and turned to head into the back room. Carefully opening the door to avoid ambush, they were pleasantly surprised to find the back room and kitchen unoccupied.
However, unfortunately for them, there was another ajar. Leading into a basement. And they heard movement down it. Sighing, they shouldered the shotgun, and descended down the rickety and creaking stairs. No element of surprise for them. Nothing could be easy.
They swung around the corner. And saw quite the peculiar scene.
Ten more people. Five in the center of the room, five pacing around. Each of them wore crimson red robes, and were participating in a chant. One of the five in the center seemed to be leading it, speaking in the same language as the woman upstairs. Now that they heard a bit more, they thought it was maybe latin. They didn’t really care though. The one in the center, an elderly looking man with a gray beard, held something which resembled a wand, and was pointing it towards…
Floating above him, in the center of the room, was a pulsating red orb, with an almost fleshy texture. It was a hole in space that was completely opaque, and it seemed to hum with an almost unearthly rhythm, the chant of the cultists almost falling in rhythm with it. The entire room did. Augustine had encountered a lot of things in their day. But there were two things. New. And terrifying.
So they greeted this new sensation with violence. As they knew.
Shotgun shrapnel ripped through the leader and two of those nearby. Augustine then drew out their crossbow, firing a flechette which caused three more to fall into large growing puddles of blood. The other four turned, and cast various spells towards them. The first, knocked them to the ground, a wave of force which sent them tumbling into the stair. The second, calling forth a creature which resembles a two headed dog. The third, a massive blast of flame which missed and only ignited their mask, and the fourth, some form of red membrane which settled over the four.
They paused for a moment, wondering if they had gotten them, when Augustine lunged forward, taking the mask off and slamming its burning body into the nearest cultist, who hit the ground, not dead, but shouting in pain. The dog rushed for them, just as the others attempted to weave spells again. They managed to draw a dagger, and give the dog a nasty cut before it jumped them, trying to force them to the floor with its weight. Its eyes glowed a sickly red, and it’s pelt, up close, was seemingly dripping blood. They drove the dagger into its exposed chest, and it hit the ground all the same. One of the cultists charged them, a large greatsword in his grasp. They grabbed the shotgun from the ground, and swung it like a club, impressively shattering the membrane around him and sending him to the ground, groaning, the magically summoned weapon clattering to the ground and vanishing. They quickly reloaded, and placed a bolt into the one who had received the mask, and was just standing up, killing her. They then placed a foot on the throat of the one who’d been struck with the gun, feeling him struggle beneath their foot as they calmly reloaded.
The other two cast more spells, bursts of sudden force and a spectral maw clamping down on their foot, but they braced themselves against the wall. The one on the ground stopped moving, just as they leveled the crossbow at one of the other few remaining, killing them with a bolt through the throat, sending them spasming to the ground. They released the no longer breathing one on the ground, and advanced on the last one, drawing two daggers. She drew a long scimitar. Fancy.
The fight was brief and brutal. She swung over hand, blade crackling with red lightning. They ducked under, and got her with both daggers to the abdomen.
They felt something wet on their hands, and it wasn’t blood. They looked down, and saw the membrane from before, oozing onto their hands rapidly from the woman’s wounds. She looked at them at that, making wild eye contact and saying something simple.
“You’ll join chaos. Enlightenment will be yours.”
They looked down, to see a similar thing happening to their foot that had stomped the other one, almost solidifying quicker in response to her final words. They were locked to the ground.
“Fix thi-” They stopped their sentence when they looked down. The woman was already dead. They tried pulling, tugging, or even extracting their foot from the boot, but it seemed like it was sealed within. Behind them, the unearthly rhythm of the orb continued, it was growing larger and larger. They couldn’t move. They couldn’t think of a way out. They-
They looked around at the carnage they’d caused. The bodies. The people. It was eerily silent, even the orbs pounding almost coming to a close to let their own mind process who they were.
This was for the best.
The room folded away, and enlightenment was had.
Kindling And Miscellany 