Of Blood and Gods [Closed - Rostil]

[Gorgashia]

The music and song, older than the singers, thickens in the air, space, in turn, thins.
The feet of dancers stomp against the earth, and ripple across time.
The invisible web of reality shakes and moves to the rhythm of the sacred dance.
The Great Spirits bleed into the world of mortals, cut by the ecstatic dancers and musicians.
The blood flows red, the sky trembles, the earth shudders and the seas stir so the world knows what has been done.
The Dance of the Gods has been completed, pray it is a time of peace, for the dances bring plenty, if it is a time of war, unspeakable evil has been unleashed.

- Wicakt Owan, Plains-Gorgashi Shaman.

---

Kanata, The People's Protectorate of Gorgashia.

June 22nd, 2001.

Kanata looked like an almost idyllic little town, perched just above the base of Sky-Spear, one of the taller mountains of Gorgashia, the town still managed to have a decent view of the vast plains of Gorgashia below, in between the vibrant green bristles and leaves of Red Bark Forest that covered the base of the mountain. The summer air was warm and welcoming, with an earthy scent and few strong breezes, with the sound of chirping birds and insects dancing out from the trees. The people were in fairly decent spirits, the weeks of spring that preceded brought about several very rich rainfalls that filled the town's reservoirs, meaning no one was especially worried about a water shortage like last year, and another deposit of iron had been found in the local mine, easing growing fears that the mine was going to run dry any day and the consequences it would have for the town's many miners. Years worth of furrowed brows among the populace were now at ease, a soothing release of tension that the minds behind said brows quite enjoyed. However, nothing is perfect, Kanata was no exception, as the recent strings of supernatural murders could attest...

Kanata Police Station, Chief Officer's Office.

The office of Kanata's police chief resembled many of the other offices of the station. It was a small room with tan coloured walls, a white ceiling, a grey carpet covering the floor, almost no furnishings on the side of the room where the door stood, save the rigid wooden chair pulled out for visitors, and almost all of the furnishings on the side facing the door. Of these furnishings were a pair of dull-coloured filing cabinets in the corners on said section of the room that faced the door, a simple, dark brown wooden desk complete with a black leather chair for the room's owner to sit on and file reports on the white desktop computer and keyboard placed on the side of the aforementioned desk, an equally white telephone sat on the side opposite of the computer, a fair gap standing between the two electronics for face-to-face conversation between anyone seated on either side of the desk. Again, save the leather chair, 'Chief Officer' title card on the desk and authority that came with the room, the equality of Socialism that had stood for almost sixty years atop the country known as Gorgashia commanded that it looked just as run-of-the-mill as every other office in the station. A subject of griping from the current police chief and many of the others that came before him. Years of working within the system to become the local chief of police was somewhat underwhelming when all you had to visually show for it was a new chair and a badge. Thankfully, the usual pay raise that came from it and respect from the community that came with the office prevented the position from becoming unattractive. However, despite the office's uneventful appearance, the mood of the room was filled with a rage that shattered the calm tone Kanata had recently achieved, if the reddened face, gritted teeth and furious scowl of Chief Officer Quizo Keegsquaw were to attest.

"This is the third incident this month!" Quizo Keegsquaw yelled at the bureaucrat on the other end of the phone. "Two miners driving back home dead, by the same spirit responsible for the last four attacks? What kind of outfit is the Paranormal Division running, aren't you better than this?!"

"Sir, for the last time, the situation is complicated. We're doing our best to resolve it, the best you can do is keep casualties to a minimum. Maintain the curfew and keep folks who have no business in the wilderness out of the wilderness." The bureaucrat spoke in an emotionless tone, rehearsing what he was told to say. "That's all you're going to get."

"Casualties?" Quizo said in bitter disbelief. "This isn't a fucking war, these people aren't your soldiers, we're Gorgashian citizens who demand that the folks assigned to protecting us protect us!"

"Sir, for the last time, the situation is complicated. We're doing our best-"

That was all the bureaucrat could get out before the phone was slammed back into it's receiver.

"Fucking Central Authority spooks." Keegsquaw grumbled bitterly. "Probably too busy hunting the ghost of Boris Jekyll or some other bullshit to look after the little guy. 'For the Proletariate?' Hah! My ass..."

However, in spite of the Chief Officer's fury demanding action, Keegsquaw couldn't do anything. If he deviated from the Paranormal Division's commands, he could see himself without a job and possibly in jail for failing to follow a direct government order. However, given the bitterness filling the community for the Central Authority's seeming powerlessness to protect them, Keegsquaw just might be heralded as a local hero for it. However, now was not the time for him to fill his head with acts of heroic defiance, he agreed with the bureaucrat on one thing, he had to keep people from dying. He went to work on assigning patrols for the road leading to and from the mine and organizing a few public service messages on the dangers of hostile spirits and how to defend oneself against such an encounter.

If he had any idea what was actually going on, he'd be ordering the town to evacuate as soon as possible.

---

Red Bark Forest.

It was late in the night, birds and insects had ceased their calling, the doors and windows of Kanata were locked tightly shut with the lights within turned off and no one dared to walk the streets, least they be the next victim. Most ominously was that the moon and stars had been blocked by clouds that just creeped over the horizon when the sun began to set, like a shroud of doom summoned to help conceal the bloody events to transpire. Amid the pine trees of Red Bark, a man silhouetted from the darkness was running for his life.

"Spirits above, below and between..." The man rasped between his own panting. "Please see me through just this one night."

Behind the man was a rather common sight. Common in that it was something one would expect to we running from in a forest. A large, silhouetted wolf, mighty paws pounding against the ground as it pursued it's prey. However, a bystander, if there was one, would quickly realize a few unusual features about this wolf. Primarily, that when the man being pursued produced a pistol and fired several shots at the wolf behind him, nothing happened. This isn't to say the man missed every shot, a couple of bullets hit their mark, punching large, red holes into the wolf's flesh, warm, viscous fluids oozing quickly out. Yet, somehow, these wounds did not seek to effect the wolf. One could argue the wolf was more hardy than it appeared, but this could only apply to the first bullet that was lodged into the wolf's back, the second bullet hit the wolf in the head and blew out one of it's eyes and exposed the wolf's brain. Yet, it did not even slow down it's pace, in fact, it began running faster, as if it was merely annoyed by a good chunk of it's face being blown off. Which, in all fairness, would probably annoy most people who could survive gunshots to the face. Of course, if slightly angered annoyance was the emotion that consumed the wolf, soul-rending fear filled the man being chased by the wolf, now all the more frightening with the red blood added to it's dark coat and missing a good part of it's head. The darkness played with the man's imagination as well, as he took glances every now and then, hoping that his bullets' effect was delayed and that any second the wolf would fall over mid stride and die, it looked like the wolf's face was growing back, blood didn't even seem to be coming out of the wound coming from the wolf's back. The man cursed under his withering breath, not able to believe that of all the things he had to run into in the forest, it was something clearly immune to bullets. However, the wasn't ignorant, he knew how to keep himself alive from monsters that can't be killed. He squinted in the darkness of the forest, looking for just the right tree as he loaded another magazine into his pistol. Just as the wolf was gaining on him, he found just the right tree, one with low, but strong branches. The man spun around on the step, carefully aimed his gun at his canine opponent and emptied every round he had in his pistol into the wolf's legs and joints, the wolf fell into the ground in a rolling heap of fur, blood and annoyance that now evolved into pure rage. While bullets could't kill it, it still needed working legs to stand and run. The man that turned around again, jumping on the spot, hands aiming for the nearest branch, unfortunately, he didn't account for his tired legs when he saw the tree and fell back to the ground, hands just short of the branches. He could hear the wolf's mocking growl and the sound bone and sinew would make if they could put themselves back together after being broken and reared in less than a minute. The man began to panic, jumping again and again, hands getting closer and closer to the tree's bark that promised safety foe the horror behind him gaining it's second wind. The wolf was almost back on it's feet, the man just touched the bark, the wolf was dragging itself closer, just one more jump and the man would be safe, the wolf was back on it's legs and leapt towards it's prey, the man's hands wrapped themselves around the branch...

The wolf howled in anger as the man's dangling body retreated up into the tree branches and quickly submerged itself into the leaves. The man quickly sat himself onto a secure part of the tree, pulled out a flare gun and shot an illuminating red light between the leaves and into the night sky. The man felt an overwhelming sense of relief fall over him as he pressed his back against the tree trunk. Now all he had to do was wait in this tree, keeping an eye out for that wolf from climbing up it and his much more well-equipped partners in the Paranormal Division would be able to pull him out of the proverbial fire. As the wolf crossed his mind, the man wrapped his fringes tightly around his pistol, eyeing the ground below the tree and keeping his ears open for the now-familiar sound of wolf paws pressing themselves against the war or claws pulling a wolf up the trunk of a tree. Yet, the man saw and heard nothing, the wolf had disappeared, soon, a bird landed on a tree branch, like it was summoned to fill the wolf's vacancy, and filled ears that once echoed with the terrifying sounds of the recent chase with peaceful chirping. The bird was singing the man praise, as far as he was concerned, the wolf had lost and he had won. As if to further congratulate the man, a beam of sunlight shot from the horizon, through the leaves of the forest and into the corner of the man's eye. The horrific, dark night surrendered to the hopeful, bright day. Pity the man in question had no idea he was trapped in a narrative, and that moments like this were merely traps to conceal the terror about to claim his life. His first warning was when the birds stopped chirping, the second, much less subtle, warning was the shaking of the tree's branches as a great weight was suddenly added to them, the third, and final, warning was the pair of cold, yellow wolf eyes that met the man's through the leaves.

---

Classified Location.

June 23rd, 2001.

While the people of Kanata thought the Paranormal Division of the People's Guard had little grasp of the situation at hand, the opposite was true. The situation was grave, more grave than anyone in the besieged town of Kanata could ever know. Agents had been deployed to scout out the problem, what their reports found resulted in a full company of Gorgashian infantry from the regular People's Guard sweeping the forests for reasons the public was denied information to. Yet, the problem had gotten worse. Now Gorgashian strategists were looking over maps that detailed Kanata and the region around it, a whole division of Gorgashian soldiers was now having their deployment planned out in preparation for the worst case scenario. The Marshal of the Protectorate himself was now keeping a hand close to a very particular phone on his desk, only he could authorize the use of nuclear strikes on Gorgashian territory and citizens. If the course of things continued where they were going, the peaceful village perched on the foot of it's lofty mountain was going to become the closest thing to hell in Gorgashia.

---

??????????????????

Torches illuminated the bowels of Sky-Spear mountain, fires sporadically and uncontrollably flickering and twirling, as if they desires to dance with the chanting dancers they encircled. The cave performers were dressed as if this was any other ceremonial dance in Gorgashia, set up in two circles, musicians banging their hands on traditional Gorgashi drums and blowing into instruments of ancient design surrounding the dancers, who made up their own circle within the musicians', engulfed by the din of music from the times of their ancestors, moving, spinning shifting and stomping in almost perfect harmony. Yet, there was one key difference that separated this dance from any other dance held in Gorgashia held in the last hundred years. In the middle of the two circles was a man, in any normal case, this man would be the story teller, adding narrative to the storm of music and dance around him, the man even looked the part, wearing the traditional garb of a shamanic elder of the Plains-Gorgashi. Yet, he spoke of no tale, he paid no attention to the festivities around him, he focused himself on the pressure of the air around him. He felt it slowly become erratic, fluctuating and changing almost in tune with the music and dance. The man held his left arm out, and pulled out a dagger with his right hand, prepared to strike. The air pressure soon began to rise, higher and higher, even some of the dancers noticed an odd increase of weight on their brows, the man at the center knew the time was almost right and raised the dagger with the pressure of the air. Then, the air pressure dropped, the dancers' feet feeling lighter, and the dagger fell with it, into the wrist of the man in the center. Yet, the dance did not stop even as a small waterfall of blood fell from the man's wrist onto the stone ground, the dancers and musicians familiar with this part of their ritual. Even the man in the center did not seem to care, he even seemed happy now yet another dance had been successfully completed, as soon as he pulled out the dagger, the wound had already begun to heal. All that had to be done now was the final few chants and, if the central figure's research was correct, the people of Kanata would be in for more pleasant surprises in it's near future.

[Grand Britannia and Hibernia]

The Britannic Consulate, Heartland City

The Consulate of the United Kingdoms of Grand Britannia and Hibernia in the Gorgashi capital looked more like an office building than a structure representative of the age-old Crown. Within its maze of cubicles and offices, in the unused recesses of brick and mortar was a cramped little office. The plaque read "Sir Thomas Ryder, KTR" in brassy letters, bolted in to the plaster wall.

The room within couldn't have had less space if one tried; from the gargantuan oak desk that dominated the center, to the rows of cabinets that rose up almost to the ceiling, there was no space that was unused if it could be helped. That being said, there was still enough room for the four figures currently present in the office to converse- if not comfortably. Behind the desk was whom one could rightfully presume was the one and only Sir Ryder, a broad man who had the silhouette of a man who had spent most of his life on his feet. Broad shouldered and tall, with coal-colored hair that was cut in a military manner. A pair of wiry glasses resting on the hard lines of his face spoke of his age, as did the tailored suit that the fashionably-minded would consider decades out of style.

Opposite him sat three much younger-looking individuals. Sitting in a threadbare chair was a thin, dark-skinned young woman who appeared to be from Mauretania, with her silken hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was utilitarian in her mode of dress- a dull, grey shirt tucked into what appeared to be jeans, which were in turn tucked into a sturdy pair of steel-toed boots. A number of amulets and talismans made from what seemed to be wood and animal pelts hung from her belt. Standing close to the door, leaning nonchalantly, was a younger man, seemingly somewhere in his mid-to-late twenties. He had a strange air of both arrogance and careful calculation about him, both unchecked and perfectly measured. He wore a pale brown leather jacket that, despite it being June, was pulled close around the man. A trained eye, however, could pick out the faintest of outlines that would constitute an ancient-looking Webley revolver. He was actually quite attractive in his features; loose blond hair spilling over baby blue eyes with strong-cut features. Lastly was an man who looked very old indeed, sitting in the chair beside the Mauretanian woman, though he could not have been any older than Sir Ryder. Wispy white hair clung to his scalp, and the years seemed to have carved themselves into his countenance. He wore what seemed to be somewhere in between modern clothing and a traditional cassock; the traditional priest's vestments tucked in to a wide, black sash, presumably to allow better freedom of movement. A large cross hung from a chain about his neck, swaying gently.

"Thank you form arriving on such short notice," Sir Ryder began. He shuffled the seemingly infinite papers on his desk, until he found a think manila folder. Flipping through it with mild interest, he continued, "How goes your research on the spirits?"

"I'd be lying if I said we made any significant headway," the woman spoke first. "The Gorgashi...beings are of a completely different stock from anything from either Uhlanga or Britannia."

"If it does not sound presumptuous, I would daresay this is of a much more pressing importance," Ryder spoke, sliding the folder to the other side of the desk. Moving gracefully, the blonde man plucked the folder up and began to skim.

"Someone's been mucking about, 'aven't they?" he said, his Manchester accent thick. "Murders of an apparently preternatural nature, occurin' in the region surroundin' the Gorgashi town of Kanata." He handed the documents to his compatriots.

"Anything unique? Aliases, special instructions?" asked the priestly man, his voice thin.

"Nothing of specific note. Names, however, are a necessity. Adrianne, Warren," he said, gesturing to the woman and blonde man, "are Piper and Harland Winthrope."

The pair looked flatly at the office Knight. "You're joking?" the woman called Adrainne responded first.

"Do I ever?" Ryder said dryly, an amused smile touching the corners of his lips.

"And I?" asked the priest.

"Oh, of course. Cassius, you are one Father Conner Callahan."

"Want to wrap in any more stereotypes while you're at it?" The priest said in a flawless Irish brogue.

A nasally, feminine voice cam over the intercom on the Knight's desk. "Sir Ryder? It's the Highgate office. There was an incident with the Leatherwing team and somebody called 'the count'--"

The Knight gave a deep sigh. "Patch them through." He gave a nod to the three before him. "Serviens Draco et Gladio." The three echoed the saying, and if one looked closely, they could very well see the faintest outlines of dancing ink on the backs of their hands.

Kanata, Gorgashia

The small, second-hand car that rolled in to the small town of Kanata by way of the "scenic" road through the Red Bark Forest was a pitiful thing. Its engine must have been replaced at least three times, and the make of one door did not match the model of three others. If it were not a laughable sight in itself, the passengers surely were; two highly-trained warriors and priest of similar caliber posing as a Mission on their way to an unspecified location.

Renting two adjoining rooms in the town's modest motel, they met to discuss strategy over cups of coffee and suspicious glares as the sun began its descent. Still keeping the persona of their respective brogue and "Royal" English, they fell into their native tongue.

"So...strategy?" Asked Warren, who still had his revolver discreetly hidden in his jacket.

"I'll ask around. A concerned priest is a figure who is easy to trust," replied Cassius, "Even among those who do not hold the same faith."

"Well then, 'honey,'" he said, drawling the final word with sarcasm, "I do believe we have a hunting trip."

Outside, night fell over the town...

[Estainia]

The People's Protectorate of Gorgashia
The Horse Barn - Kanata - 2001

"Yeah... This looks to be about right." It was typical, it didn't matter where he went, what planar alignment, what universe. If it had cities, those cities had a seedy fucked up bar with a tilting sign and a weird name. He sighed and turned the brass knob on the ragged door and went in, the layout was typical, tables, mismatched and creaking chairs, a bar with stools and a bronze bar cap that gleamed from hours of work kneading wax into the pours of the metal. It wasn't late enough in the day for anybody but the regulars, what few there were, to be present in the building. No cliche robe or cloak was cast from his shoulders as he walked deeper into the dimly lit large room, taking time to quickly put out his pipe, his searing fingers protesting as he did so, and sweeping his hat off his head. The dark room was a contrast to the brightly lit outside world and it took a minute or two for his black eyes to adjust. "Whatever the local fare is, really." The man said honestly, his Londinium accent thick to the point of overbearing. The bartender just rolled his eyes lightly at the foreigner and put a thick black looking drink on the counter and motioned his hand, a crisp pair of two Gorgashi dollars, (who said Communists didn't appreciate profit?) were exchanged and he nodded before toddling off.

The foreigner sat on one of the unoccupied stools before him and sipped at the drink, bitter and strong, it wasn't revolting though it certainly wasn't a Britannic Lager. 'Rumor mills tend to be lackluster.' He thought to himself with a sigh, the grape vine was twitching in some places, odd events in this part of the world, though no one seemed to know exactly what, or if they did they certainly weren't yielding details. It was the same old story, he'd come to find, things shifting in the dark and people not knowing what they were, his escapades across Azhadstan and other bleak parts of this plane had revealed that some things just didn't change no matter what universe you were in, Gods or demons or something else was always twitching in the background. "Well at least I didn't get killed by Sutekh, definitely the last time I go pyramid-diving..." He muttered to himself primarily as he drank, when the mug was empty he stood, unwilling to get completely tanked before he investigated, feeling it better to celebrate after. "I know everyone asks you this and it's going to get annoying at some point but is there anything of interest in this town?"

"..." The Bartender stared at him for a minute before he sighed. "No, there really isn't, and I wish people would stop thinking bartenders know everything." The foreigner apologised quickly before he asked. "The nearest lodgings, then?" The tender gave modestly decent directions and the foreigner left the Horse Barn bar and restaurant and made his way to what was... "God that is so stereotypical." He couldn't help but laugh at the modesty of the building, it wasn't rundown persay but it wasn't sterling either, with a sigh the foreigner went into the office of the front desk. Seeing no one out at the front he asked loudly into the air "Vacancy!?"

"Yes, one moment!" The voice of what he assumed to be the clerk came from the back room, removing his hat again the foreigner brushed at his dark hair for the... sixth time that day or so with a short travel comb before halting when the clerk appeared. "One? Your name please."

"Alistair King." One of the things he stuck to was his name, at least, he lied and cheated about a lot, but he was damned proud of who he was, of what he was, that he wasn't hiding behind aliases, enemies be damned. "And how long will you be here, Mister King?"

"Oh, not long, I never stay too long in any one place." He smiled as he withdrew a small pile of local bills and paid for board for a week. During the short, brisk walk to his rented room he took note of the sunfall on the horizon as he slipped inside the... equally cliche room.

[The Motherland Of Mu]

DELETED-RETCONNED

[Gorgashia]

Kanata, The People's Protectorate of Gorgashia.

June 24th, 2001.

It had been a quiet day, as it always had been, not a peaceful quiet, but the kind of silence that overcomes a graveyard. The coming night was welcomed with equal levels of melancholy, fear and grief. People dying in grisly fashion didn't do much to raise spirits, metaphorically speaking. However, everyone had different ways to reacting to stress, as the unfolding events would display. Tensions rose and secrets remained unbroken, the appearance of foreign strangers had not done much to change this. If anything, it wound up the already wounded up people of Kanata all the more. Many eyes glared upon the travellers as they wandered about the town and made their way to their temporary lodgings for the night. Some were eyes of simple xenophobic fear and disliking, others, however, stared with much more sinister intent lurking in the minds of the onlookers. Only time would tell if the strangers ever found out which eyes were which.

The Mountainside Inn.

The Mountainside Inn was possibly one of the most notable buildings in Kanata, in that it was the most stereotypical. It was an averagely sized two-floor motel, made of wood from the surrounding trees and painted in a bright teal paint, peeling in some parts, giving off a warm and somewhat lived-in atmosphere to the building. The interior was the same, walls painted in that homey blue, but the floor and roof was unpainted wood covered in glossy veneer. The lights flickered every odd hour or so, and a few of the hallway lights had burned out and were yet to be replaced. The furnishings were fairly basic, mostly wooden and unpainted, and as economic, to put it politely, as possible. The rooms were cleaned, not completely spotless, but clean enough to not revolt any visitors, at worst one could find a patch of dust that was left unnoticed in a corner of the room. This could be somewhat forgiven, seeing that the motel only had two employees for cleaning, one of whom was on leave to help organize the funeral of one of the tribe's elders, who was one of the first casualties of Kanata's recent spirit problem. Besides the two cleaning staff, there were two clerks, who switched shifts every week.

Akpok was the night clerk for this week, an imposing, but weathered figure, an image brought about by his previous life as a manual labourer and his advanced age, as his broad and muscular build, but greying hair and wrinkled skin attested. His mostly black hair, save the greyed patches, was short and fairly well kept, and his long, angular face was shaved, although he had missed a few short hairs poking out of the tip of his chin. He was wearing a pair of grey trousers and a red plaid shirt that were just as wrinkled and worn as the man wearing them. He had been spending the day lazily burning through a twelve pack of cigarettes and reading the local newspaper, frowning at the repeated reports of paranormal attacks and the continuing inaction of the authorities to stem the tide or even tell anyone what was going on. Every now and then, he rested a large, old hand on the shotgun under the entrance counter to comfort himself whenever he felt an unnatural shiver down his spine, he had loaded it with shells carrying varying types of ammunition, one of them was filled with lead shot dipped in holy water, another one with a slug of solid silver and such as. One could never be too sure on what weapons could harm a spirit, it was a precaution his mother had taught him.

He had taken his shift a bit early, his partner didn't want to head back home in the dark, an opinion Akpok understood completely, who also wanted to get to work before the sun had set as well. As a result, he took note of a peculiar thing that transpired as day turned to night, the strange amount of foreigners that had decided to take up residence in his motel. A band of Brittanians, from the main island to Hibernia to even Mauretania, almost something out of a weekend cartoon, but the group didn't exactly have a 'kid-friendly' air about them. There was another 'Brittanian,' but his accent and mannerisms felt much more forced than they needed to be, somewhat grating Akpok's old nerves. Then there was the person from Mu, who came in dressed in a bathing suit and with a bank card, or something like a bank card, that was issued on a date completely foreign to the man. He considered barraging the tourist with a hundred questions, but decided against it as it might scare off yet another customer for him. He wasn't as uncomfortable around foreigners as other Gorgashians were, hence his job as a clerk for a motel, but their timing was troublesome, especially since many Gorgashians were looking for something, anything, to vent their anger towards. A feeling soon started tingling in the back of Akpok's mind, remembering the strange men that asked him to call a certain number if something strange started happening. Akpok pondered for a moment, but, honestly, the people currently in his motel felt more like a clueless band of tourists, nothing too nefarious. They'd probably leave the town when they realized what was happening and never come back.

"Yeah, that's what'll happen..." Akpok thought out loud as he turned another page of the newspaper, humming himself a cheerful tune to calm himself down.

Red Sap Bar.

Red Sap was an odd, but fairly fitting name for itself. Every inch of wall, roof and floor was made of wood from Red Bark Forest itself and was covered in a veneer that actually made the wood look like it was covered in tree sap. It also happened to be a favourite spot for some of the town's more rowdy Socialists and other 'Reds' to get together and drunkenly sing 'The Internationale.' It was also where men with foul tempers usually visited to reach that level of anger that can only be achieved through the help of alcohol. A group that belonged in the third category, several workers from the Iron Arm Miners' Cooperative, had recently shown up to get a few drinks and stew in their thoughts.

"I'm telling you, someone's targeting our cooperative, we've lost ten people to these attacks, the other cooperatives have, at most, lost two, if at all!"

"When the fuck do cooperatives throw spirits at each other? I'm telling you, it's those bastards in the Atun tribe! We all now the legend of Red Bark Forest, how one of their kin became a skinwalker and Kanteau of tribe Ooleachk slew it. Now look, the forest is no longer a safe place to tread and one of the first victims was an elder of tribe Ooleachk, I say we burn their homes and chase them out of here!"

"Nah, too obvious, besides, almost every tribe has lost someone at this point, even friends of the Atuns. Makes no sense for them to summon forces they can't control."

"Y'know what I heard? Some weird foreigners mucking about in Kanata."

"What? Who would be shit-headed enough to come here now?"

"Exactly! Most of them are this odd group of Brittanics and some weird fucker from Mu, they're all at the same motel too, that can't be a coincidence. I mean, I've heard there's fairy-courts in that island across the pond, and Mu always were an odd bunch, maybe they have something to say about this mess."

"Eh, I say we wait a bit, could be really fucking dumb tourists for all we know."

"Wait, we can't fucking wait, this calls for action! I say we get everyone in the cooperative that has a gun and a pair of balls and give those foreigners a proper Gorgashian welcome."

"Yeah, get us all in prison, that's clever."

"Well, what the fuck do you think?"

"I don't know, alright? Look, the Municipal Assembly is meeting tomorrow, let's bring up this little subject there and see what everyone thinks. If we're going to take the safety of the town into our hands, I'd rather do it with the town's support."

"Agreed. Until then, BARKEEP, ONE MORE ROUND OVER HERE!"

The residential area of Kanata.

Two individuals resided within a rather lonely and run-down cottage near the invisible line between Red Bark Forest and Kanata proper. Both were masters of their field, a field that should make them capable of answering Kanata's biggest question in a few seconds of thought, yet, none of them held an answer. One of them was panicking, looking over notes and scribbling down theories to the phenomena that was thrust upon Kanata. Desperate to figure out why, why was Kanata under supernatural assault, and who was responsible for it and what was their intent? However, the other did have answers, he knew the why, the who and the what, but he refused to tell, acting just as worried and panicked as the other, until the time came for the guise to be removed and the other had to be silenced.

Red Bark Forest

In the shadows, figures moved and weaved through the trees with purpose and regimented discipline, eyes scanning through the leaves and branches and tree trunks for the things that bumped in the night. They walked through the trees without fear or recklessness, armed with the knowledge of what haunted the town. They saw themselves as Kanata's best hope, yet, everyone was forbidden to reveal their actions to the populace. Until the time was right, any curious soul that sought to bring their deeds into the light had to be silenced. Especially the newcomers that had recently drifted into the town...

[Grand Britannia and Hibernia]

The Red Sap Bar, Kanata

Cassius- or, rather, "Father Conner"- made his way across the small Gorgashi town. Racing with the sunset, he walked at an astoundingly brisk pace, and within a few minutes he was outside a moderately-sized tavern whose finished looked a bit too sticky to be just polish. With a look of mixed curiosity and apprehension, he entered the building. The inside was just as garishly painted as without, if not a bit less...sticky.

"An Irish priest walks into a bar..." he laughed under his breath.

Walking over to the bar, he ruffled through his pockets for his billfold. "Whiskey, straight, if you would," he asked politely, laying down a few dollars on the tabletop. The barkeep slid a shot glass down, which he downed immediately. The tender- who previously looked a bit apprehensive at his strange customer, seemed a bit more respective of the priest.

Cassius left the bar, walking over to a table where a number of rowdy Gorgashians sat, chatting amongst themselves. They grew silent as the priest walked over to them, golden crucifix swaying with his gait. He plopped down into an empty chair, insinuating himself rather bluntly into their table. None of the drinkers around spoke up at first, though a few gave worried coughs and exchanged glances, until one of their number finally decided to act.
"Can we, er, help you?" he asked the priest.
"Ah, yes," replied the holy man. smoothing out his vestments. "You kind gentlemen wouldn't happen to know anything about a couple of gruesome deaths that have been going on around here, would you?" He put on his warmest smile.
He smiled a bit wider as he noticed a few of the drinkers' hands moving towards their pockets.

Red Bark Forest, Kanata

The much-abused sedan rolled into an empty lot outside the forest that surrounded the town as the moon had just began to peek over the horizon. The two occupants- Adrianne and Warren both checked over their equipment- a number of talismans and assorted, strange objects for the former, and a number of bullets of various materials for the latter.

The pair trekked out from the empty lot into the thick of the forest, listening to the sounds of the night. Chirping birds, hooting owls, and the occasional squirrel working its way to its home in a tree. However, eventually it became dark enough that the forest floor became a trap of roots and pitfalls.

"God's bones, Adrianne," Warren cursed, barely keeping his balance as he snagged another root, "would it kill you to make up a will-o'-the-wisp? I know it's not that hard."

"I would, but we're looking for whatever's out here, and we don't want it the other way around. Light will tip it off to our location, if it doesn't use some sort of metaphysical sense to 'see.'" said Adrianne, methodically planting one foot in front of another.

"Yea, well, not all of us can hear the bloody dirt singin', or whatever it is you do," Warren went on, bracing himself on a tree trunk after being lucky enough to find yet another hole. "What's this thing supposed to look like, anyhow?"

"One report said that it had been in the form of a wolf," the druidess answered, scanning the dark wood, "but, feasibly, it could take any form it wanted, I suppose."

"Bloody fucking wonderful," spat Warren, adjusting his coat.