News


Takit's note:
These documents are — for most of them — undated.
I have listed them chronologically — as much as I could — from oldest to newest.
The major world events described there can help to ensure the chronology.




Hunter Initiate,

I am most pleased to have this occasion to write to you, and to welcome you into the American Hunters Association. You will risk more than most could imagine, even for so righteous a cause, but should you succeed the bounty will nourish more than just your wallet.

The Association has existed in various forms for many hundreds of years, yet its legacy is silence—and a world freed from monstrous, mindless cannibalistic beings; free from those empty, corrupted shells once human now looking only to fill that rotting vessel with your flesh. You will have heard tell of what waits for you in the wilds. Do not underestimate its vile power.

I fear that my oath does not allow me to commit further details to paper. Suffice to say we stand shoulder to shoulder in this cause—though warn you I must: not every Hunter would say so, and you must remember that treachery comes in many forms.

In high regard,

Philip Huff Jones, M.D.

Director of the American Hunters Association and
Superintendent of the Louisiana Asylum at Jackson
There is no room for regret in the life of a hunter. You must hunt, and you must die. But without risk, there can be no reward, and when the water runs with blood, you must hope it's not your own. John Hayward Hunter is dead. But his story lives on.
“My name is John Hayward Hunter, and I will die tonight. It is the 99th time I write down these words.”

If you don't watch your back, you might find a knife in it.
“Two months ago we lost Sinan, the gun poet. He knew he would die that night. He's in hell now. God bless his soul.”

Hayward knew he would die on the hunt. But, still, we remember him.
Worn ragged from the road, mud encumbered and coat in tatters, your journey is far from over. You stand at the edge of the hunting grounds: marked only by a border scratched on your map, but not your map alone. Through the Cyprus copses swathed with Spanish moss stand others like you, ten Hunters total: marks scored in their flesh, readying firearms, thirsty for blood.

Fetid water gives way to rough mires rising in lonely outcrops. It was on these that people once built their homes and livelihoods, sinking stilts into drenched earth and living out their days on rough hewn planks. They ate, grieved, and worshipped. They are gone, in their place stand husks harboring the sickness you fight, that you profit from.

Fences once built to mark property now enclose claustrophobic compounds. Their names fall now, letter by letter, as paint weathers and wood rots. Their former inhabitants swarm them, feasting on what's left of their livestock, and each other. Tools and utensils litter the ground where they fell. Valuables rust in abandoned carts. Windows are broken; their threadbare curtains hanging limp in the muggy heat. With one false step glass crunches, a chain rattles, or pots clatter, and the swarm is upon you.

Between these compounds thread overgrown trails crossing water by rotten bridges. They cross themselves into a labyrinth, preferable though to the one which lurks between the groves. It's these paths you'll tread warily, no two routes the same. At crossroads stand signs to direct you, but make no bargains with the one who lurks there.

Your ears are as good as your eyes. In the distance you hear Hunters calling to, or shooting at, or fleeing from, someone or something. But the trail leads away from them, winding into the mist. You use this information as you will, to prey on them, or give them a wide berth. It may be an ambush, after all.

The choice sets you free: but there is anxiety in that freedom. Your way is not curtailed; your actions are your own. Triumph and failure are laid before you; you only have to take them. You take death as equally as you take life. There is no cosmic force choosing for you, no predetermination written in the stars, just you.

You will take advantage of the hunting grounds, or the hunting grounds will take you. Speed, Hunter.
Committed, you head onwards, deeper into the hunting grounds. Sound is lost in the dull mist which hangs heavily as it surrounds you. Each step brings you toward the crooked forms of gnarled trees, almost human in their silhouette. Beyond them lurk behemoths—barns, and houses—ready to take you whole. Another step, and what you took for a twisted stump lurches and chokes. It belches flies through a cavity in its throat. As it stumbles back into the mist, they buzz in the air. You promise yourself: when it's gone, you'll move again. The silence is punctured by a distant bark. A gun shot. A splash. The realization sets in: there's no way to be sure that it has gone. You move on.

A gate creaks ahead; furtive whispering reaches you. You dash, the behemoth become house. You crouch down at the fence, watching it. A wash of light crosses a window. You wait for it to recede, then vault the fence, crossing the yard in one, two, three strides. You come to a crouch under the window.

Foot steps. You turn. The belching grunt is beyond the fence, sniffing at the air, trailing an unsteady stream of flies. One remaining lidless eye finds you. A shot deafens. Glass rains. The grunt staggers back, and then buckles as a second shot ruptures its jaw. Shards from the shattered window fall at your feet. You hear someone take a step back from the window and spit. There's a click. A chamber is opened. You rise and turn and open fire into the black depths of the charnel house.

You pass through the house, once built for comfort. You're wary of the doors, now vicious chokepoints. Furniture crowds dark corners, a silhouette in the corner of your eye. The front door is barricaded from the inside, you take it apart piece by piece. It swings open, revealing more lurking, cavernous dwellings. Towards the road, a beast with many limbs churns. It's a pack of grunts, feasting on a horse. You turn away from them, dropping lightly from the porch.

You pass the barn, once built for labor. You watch the upper windows for movement; now they could conceal snipers nests. Something stirs within the building, causing it as if to shudder. You shy away, joining the shadows under a great oak. This place was built for work; now it harbors terror. Its original purpose lost, it might as well built to witness violence and proliferate death.

Above you, something swings. You step back, and look amongst the branches. Dangling is a foot, one among many, many pale appendages on bodies strung from the branches. Once comfortable, once laboring, the builders swing.
Slowly, things fell apart. People fled their homes and holed up in what safe spaces they could, barricading themselves against the horrors outside. The creatures battered themselves against the thinly paneled walls, raking bloody fingernails across the boards as they felt their way through the darkness and toward their next meal.

One group of these survivors had a doctor with them, a man who could have helped them weather this tumultuous time. But instead, my god, what he did instead…

The following story was originally redacted day for day. The passing of time between each cipher is marked with two crosses.

Faith, hope: they died as we festered and fell. We are but 13 now. We hide, we survive, but I know not why. I am not the man I was.


++

Three died the first day. Two bitten, one scratched, all raving. I shot them myself. We did not yet know only to leave the barn at dawn.

++

The infection is potent. Odd. I began an autopsy yet the corpse—but two hours dead—contained only moths. Living moths and no organs.

++

I administer medicine 2x daily, but tonight the bottle spilled. It spilled and… No. The confinement wears on my mind. I must rest.


++

Two moths court the candle's light. Came they too from the corpse? From flesh we have come and to flesh we shall return.

++

I awoke this morning blanketed in flies, crawling across my skin as if I was a corpse. My head aches. I must rest. I must rest.

++

The night screams. The walls scuttle and moan. Sleep is impossible, the fever unbearable. I sketch to pass the time, though I shake.


++

I am thirsty, so thirsty, but I do not wish to talk to the others. Their presence is…offensive to me. They smell of refuse and offal.

++

My strength wanes; yet, when the boy approached, it...I enjoy his company now. The others fear he's been taken. He has.

++

Who saw him die?

I said Fly, with many eyes, I saw him die

Who caught his blood?

I said Fish, with my little dish I caught his blood

++

They speak of a Dr. Reed but I do not remember him. Perhaps they are mistaken, and he was never here. Their faces go dark when I suggest it.

++

I did not know this Dr. Reed, yet today the old man addressed me as such. Reed left his notes in my bower, but they are beyond sense.

++

They believe me to be this Dr. Reed. And for the first time I notice that I no longer remember my name. I am weary, feverish. I need to eat.


++

More blackouts now. Today I came to and found the boy gone. My only comfort. They look at me strangely, and I hiss when they near.

++

Two men are missing, and they must suspect. I begin to remember… I will wait for them tonight, wait. I am spider and scorpion and moth.

++

I came to among bodies and blood, still warm, still running. The scent was…divine. I feel a new sense of purpose.


++

Flesh parts, butter beneath the warm knife. I do not wait. I do not pray. The flesh dwindles. Body and blood, given for you.

++

I must leave them to the maggots now, my brethren. Bread of life, body, red, red water. I will find strength within myself.

++

I have removed the leg. I felt nothing, not even the vibrations of the bone saw against my femur. I dined by candlelight, alone.

++

The stump festers. Puss pools in the wound. I feel nothing. The flesh does not respond, and I bore deeper, and deeper. Nothing.

++

Sores belt my arms. The flesh crawls and bleeds. A moth flutters at my ear. I flee sa fi tyeh ytr ot ekta orot. Dsrow no het gepa a a

Bruised, beaten, and weary, at your feet slumps the last grunt slain. Looking out into the impenetrable dark, there's a faint anomaly, a glimmer of something convulsing in the shade. The presence of something lurking, finding refuge in the ruin of their destruction wrought. The accomplished harbinger vindicated. Placed on their head is the bounty you chase, and your pursuit is drawing to a close.

In a recess, a dark corner of a ramshackle dwelling, the pool of ash settles once more. The revelation it bore, now looping over through your mind. The acrid smell of a tallow candle fills the room and your hands shake as you unfold the map. You mark off Alice Farm as having harbored nothing more than a trace of your target. In light of the revelation, you strike through two more.

You tally them up; now the names struck through outnumber the names unvisited. Eleven down, five to go. Each stroke is a relief, bringing you closer to the target's lair. Each stroke is an uneasy realization; other Hunters are doing and have done the same. But you've seen some dead, heard evidence of firefights erupting in the distance. The unknown few remaining are set to converge in one place, a final showdown of the most cunning and vicious. It was lucky that this time there was only one target, though it's unclear so far whether that luck was good or bad.

But that could be in one of five places; their names a melancholic reminder of purpose lost. You go through them: Lockbay Docks, sagging back into the mud, its foundations rotting and the boathouse slipping beneath bracken water. Reynard Mill & Lumber, standing for the first time silent, the sawmill long having stuttered to a stop. Darrow Livestock, fields rotting, livestock slaughtered within their pens. Port Reeker, clogged with mud drifts, waterways winding like a labyrinth under preserved canning factories. And Healing-Waters Church, the congregation laid slaughtered before the altar.

Five remain. To get this far, you've passed graves dredged to the surface, contents bare to the world. Scattered houses stockpiled food, now spoilt, now convulsing with larva. The rafters filled with the full-grown flies, crawling over one another in search of escape. Hovels sunk back in to the water, deluged in a distant storm. Places you'd rather forget.

Folding the map back up, you decide on Healing-Waters Church being most likely. Shouldering your rifle, you head back into the night and toward more cramped spaces where hulking masses of headless flesh reign supreme; their desecrated bulk offers no escape. On across open marshland, where dormant swarms erupt from sunken chests to chase you across the wetland. Across pits and channels, where chitinous scavengers can't be outflanked. Each space holds different terrors for different beasts.

Handcrafted by malignant demiurge to challenge you at every obstacle, these are the Hunting Grounds.
Long ago, there was a man named John Hayward Hunter. He was not the first hunter, nor will he be the last. But his story is the story of so many of us, those who face the monsters. Though he has passed on to the other side, we all face the same fate. John Hayward Hunter is dead, but still we remember him. His story lives on and reminds us what it is we do when we take up the Hunt.

The following story was originally redacted day for day. The passing of time between each cipher is marked with two crosses.

++

My name is John Hayward Hunter, and I will die tonight. It is the 99th time I write down these words.


++

Most never accept the possibility of death. They try not to think about it. It's the least cheerful of topics.

++

But I know I will probably die in this southern swamp. Surrounded by creatures of madness. Always wanted to visit New Orleans.


++

We all know we might die tonight. All hunters do. That's why the oath of the night is so simple and pure.

++

You know this when you join the Society, on your very first hunt. You know there is little difference between hunter and prey.


++

So for you my daughter, I have nothing to leave. I possess no property save for the knowledge of a terrible truth.


++

And I know it won't be a good death. I have no desire for a good death. Just the hope to die in place of my friends.


++

Two months ago we lost Sinan, the gun poet. He knew he would die that night. He's in hell now. God bless his soul.


++

He was from a land far away. Most of us are from some other place. Sinan was a soldier. They were called The Sinners.

++

A strange name for one so faithful. He explained, and I understood. They knew they were all damned.

++

When you know you're going to hell, you're free. No conscience, no hesitation. You kill without fear of damnation.


++

No place for remorse in the life of a hunter. We are all sinners. We sin and we die so that others won't have to.

++

In the life of a hunter, trust is expensive; betrayal is cheap. Should you choose to trust someone, choose carefully.

++

Your life is the only thing you truly own. The line between friend and foe gets blurry when the stakes are high.


++

The darkest of wounds does not hurt more than a dagger in the back. I was lucky. I had a friend who died to save me.

++

My only will, my daughter, is when you grow up and decide to do what your old man did, that you always remember…


++

My only hope is that you'll find somebody who would sin for you. Somebody who would die, so that you won't have to.

++

In the name of two, bound by blood. Let us drink from the fountain of death. Here's to the hunter. Here's to the hunted.

Hunter carries with them the dead weight of the horrors they've lived. Some can bear it, some stagger beneath the burden uncertainly. Here, an unnamed Hunter recounts the deadly allure of tracking their first target. From their first intoxicating glimpse into the Dark Sight, to their final absorption into the grotesque psyche of their prey, we retrace the boundaries of their own disfigured reality and the gradual unraveling of their grasp upon it.

The following story was originally redacted day for day. The passing of time between each cipher is marked with two crosses.

++

If it's too bright, you can blink and block out the light. The dark waits to take its place. In the shade, all eyes are lidless.

++

We, the Hunters, blocked it out for too long. We saw the things hidden there, confined to arteries. Living in the pulse.


++

There's ash; it blows like leaves in a storm. They can't be caught, counted, measured, or grasped. But we all see it.


++

I hoped it was a collective madness. That the color was drained out the world because we bled our humanity out of us.

++

But seeing the first was unforgettable. The distant glimmer, an object of malignant desire. After that, impossible to ignore.

++

We argued, but its existence became undeniable. Its baleful pull, inescapable. Shutting eyes only made it clearer. I pursued it.

++

I found it, my first, the source of ash. Its cinders erupt and flare into our world. They fall in theirs, cold and blackened.

++

They say it's a rend in our world. It burns where we would bleed. Scabbed over. A petrified memory of barbarity. A pile of dust.


++

What I remember most? The smell: still lingering, burnt flesh and sulfur. Seeped into the earth, seeped into me. Then the pain.

++

I reached into the wound. Tore it open. It engulfed me in billows of fiery heat. I was made to relive the death in its depths.


++

A momentary glimpse. Teeth punctured skin. Jaw crushed bone. My hand deluged in flesh, I pushed, only to melt into its maw.

++

The world returned. The Faustian revelation, fresh, grinding within my mind. Another anomaly was calling, weak and far.


++

You know, the second was much the same. I came undone in a flash. But I took what I wanted from the fire and the fury.

++

The third was easy. I welcomed the heat, as I had grown cold. As it ebbed, I was pulled apart, arm from shoulder, leg from hip.

++

Ripped. Flesh lacerated. Bones ruptured. Neck torn and twisted, around and around and around. Time ground to a halt.

++

When it passed, I was somewhere else. My fear and anger became overwhelming. I raised my hand to my face, to feel if I was me.

++

Too many elbows bent and fingers curled. Nails like claws, some torn out their bed. My face bloated, convulsing at my touch.


++

The floor was far below. Ovens smoked. A school of strung up fish hung around. Webs covered all. My flesh began to tighten.

++

The inverse was constriction, compression, shattering. In the maelstrom, only the image seen remained: the beast's lair, found.
May 4th, Louisiana,

Dear H

,
The journey has been long and arduous. We have ridden our horses until they collapsed beneath us, starving, and slept rough in weather both harsh and fair as we journeyed toward Louisiana. We heard tell of strange new things, of things that will improve the hunt, and our skills as Hunters. One told me of something he called traits, things that lend powers to kill and to heal to those who won them. Another spoke of new weapons, and more powerful, though I suspect that upon our arrival we will find that far more awaits us than we expect.
Join us, please, if you can. The dangers are many, and we first test these new tools in order to protect those who know nothing of what has crept from the darkness between the worlds—and what is at stake. We need your numbers, for in them, we have a greater chance of strength and safety. Join us, and share your thoughts, be they kind or malicious. Many more will follow soon, but those who join our ranks now will be of immeasurable value to the cause.
Yours in life, yours in death,
T
"Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forget life, to be at peace." -Oscar Wilde, The Canterville Ghost

June, 1895, La.

Beautiful words, and words that ring so true for me in these dark times. I find myself thinking back to the song that my mother used to sing me to sleep at night. I never, at that tender age, understood what it was about. I never guessed that its subject was a warning, that those words hinted at what would one day become my profession, my calling. My mother's soothing voice spoke of safety, of home, and in that net of comfort spirited me off to the solace of the dream realms. But the words were a warning, portents of my fate. How naive I was.

I am tired. I do not wish to go on. I wish only to rest, but to rest is to die. I look to the cards, and only the tower stares back.

L.
December, 18--

— Hunters,

I write to you today to inform those new to our ranks of important information that will aid those Hunters lost to us by—how else to put it?—damnation. Though I use this religious terminology here, I must admit: we do not know if these Hunters have been lost to us because of the damning curse of an angry God, or because of the influence of the very demons we hunt. You will be familiar with the existence of our religious affiliated chapters, but—and please forgive the dark nature of my thoughts on this matter—the things we have encountered in the Louisiana chapter have led many of us to believe that the former, if He ever existed at all, has abandoned us to fight this battle alone.

A single Hunter, many, many decades ago and whose name has been lost to us, discovered a phenomenon we now to refer to as “Rifts." These Rifts bubble with dark energy, and appear to be fissures in the fabric between worlds. Though evil they may appear in visage, unlike those fissures that opened the gates to the corruption we now fight in the form of plague, grunts, and monsters, the Rifts allow us to access a positive energy that can help to heal those whose souls have been sullied, or so to say, damned.

A Rift is a puncture in this inter -world-ly fabric. It is, in fact, little more than a leak, and through it a finite pool of valuable energy is slowing escaping—energy capable of healing damaged souls and that is worth much more besides. Should a Hunter close four of these Rifts, they will find themselves able to access that larger energy pool—something we have termed the Wellspring. Close four Rifts, and you will become connected to its Wellspring, and begin to absorb its energy. We cannot yet explain why this is so—the phenomenon was discovered entirely by accident in the desperation experienced by those close to death. That solitary, damned Hunter gave us all a great gift in recording the experience. Many may yet be saved.

The signs of the damned are multi-fold: at first there is no visual indication, though in later stages the body may begin to deform and putrefy. All cases end in death. The energy of the Wellspring can heal this ill, and afflicted Hunters will be sent out to do so, for both their own sake, and the benefit of the AHA, who has great need of the Wellspring's energy, and will exchange bounty for any retrieved and brought in.

Rifts are visible in Dark Sight, and should your soul fall to this cursed damnation, you must seek out four of them immediately. Close four, and empty the Wellspring of its power, and do it quickly. A single Wellspring can save but one Hunter. Many of your brethren may fall, perhaps even by your own hand. But it is a small price to pay for the return of even a single damned individual. It is a mission you must take on your own.

If you do not complete this task quickly enough, all nearby will fall to its power. These Wellsprings are volatile, and when they have been completely depleted by the slow leak of energy through the Rifts, a cataclysmic event occurs, killing the remaining damned in the area. Furthermore, the creation of a Wellspring brings into being a kind of energy wall that is harmful to pass through. Stay close as you absorb its energy, and proceed, as always, with caution.

In high regard,

Philip Huff Jones, M.D.

Honorable Director, AHA
February 18, 1894

Huff has supplied me with a house to use during my time here, and I have converted it into a headquarters of sorts. I hardly remember the last time I was here. Long before the war. Hunters come and go freely, staying for several days or sometimes weeks, as they heal and regroup. Though those who have survived to make hunting their career often seem to find themselves becoming quite wealthy, it appears that many are transients with no home or family to speak of or return to. They spend their gold on things that ease the pain of the present—tobacco, whiskey, well you can imagine. They are a rough and rowdy bunch, nihilists most. Some grudges from the hunting grounds carry over, not all survive their stay here.

Must remember to purchase eggs and flour tomorrow. Huff has secured my line of credit at the local grocer.


February 21, 1895

I can think only of Elisa. I would do better to forget her entirely. Yet here I am, writing in my journal when I should be asleep. I had hoped to stop myself from replaying her final moments, hearing an echo of the horrible sound of cracking bone, and dwelling on my own guilt. Yet here I sit, writing of her. No more! Tomorrow I will throw myself further into my work. That I may yet make a difference is my only solace.


March 31, 1895

Each day I send more of them to their deaths. I should feel ambivalent about this fact, but after so many years they are all starting to look the same to my eyes. Long coats, dusty hats, and that grim, haunted look in their eyes. I set them their tasks, as I always have, and they bring me their dead. My rewards are more appealing than those many of the others offer.

They have killed hundreds and hundreds of the creatures, just in the past year. Yet it does not appear that their infernal numbers wane. There are ever more, a flood of destruction that does not appear to abate. I am lucky to find so many recruits to fight them, and fighting I must keep them, at least slowing the flood, if not stopping it, while I continue to investigate the source.


April 3, 1895

So many have tried and failed. What fool I am to think I would be the one.


April 14, 1895
Huff is pulling the strings again; we have concluded that my skills could be helpful at the asylum, and he will introduce me to the staff as a visiting doctor, there to work with specially selected patients for a few hours each week. I will continue my other work. I remain wary and watchful, but must get closer to know for sure if my theory is correct. I feel myself falling prey to thoughts of futility, but I must persist. What way forward is there but is made by hundreds of individual steps?
The Papers of Hayden Collins
Filed under, “Miscellaneous"
Story draft?
Undated

1/3

My head aches, oh how it aches. I can see no light from within this narrow prison, and have no idea how long I was unconscious or where I am now. Wooden walls close tightly around me, and my knees pulled up to my chest, I can barely breath. Not even an arm's span apart, lie those sloping walls.

I sit in a bath of fine acrid powder—black powder if I am correct. What cruel irony of fate. I am a cooper, and when Filmore asked me to make three barrels far larger than our standard, I did not suspect that he meant to close me inside of one. I imagine my apprentices share this fate, though I pray that I am wrong.

The thousand injuries of Filmore I had borne as best I could, but to be shut into a prison of my own making ventured injury to insult. I have never given him cause to doubt my good will. I should have doubted his. Perhaps, with a fist, I could break open the barrel's corked opening and manage an escape.

My nose fills with dust each time I inhale. I choke and cough and must remind myself to remain calm. Escape, if a possibility at all, will require a clear, calm mind. Yet I know all too well how well these walls are fastened together, what it would take to break them apart. I cannot lift my arm to the cork. It is pinned to my side by the boards I so carefully fit together.
The Journal of Harold Black
Undated
Black leather bound, handwritten, 6" x 8.25"

We learned quickly that dogs could be turned, but livestock observed to have come in contact with the infection have simply died. Slowly, yes, and painfully, yes, but corpses all, their flesh inanimate, their deaths final. I did not yet have the opportunity to perform an autopsy on any of the infected animals, and we avoid eating their flesh. The infection may spread through consumption of the tissue, though I have posited that it may, like rabies, be spread specifically via saliva.

I have not eaten meat in some time; I am always hungry. Supplies run short. The feeling of desperation is almost claustrophobic. I was prepared for this eventuality, but perhaps not enough. No one will come through this as they were before.

Gruesome metal traps are set up around my camp, to disable the wandering sick, and warn of their approach. What folly. When first one of the infected was drawn to the trap it made such a noise as it thrashed and howled against the metal jaws that I was surrounded for most of a day. They clawed at the boards of the shed in which I hid, clawed the nails from their fingers, the skin from their hands catching on the wood and peeling off in long, jagged strips.

At first fear over took me, and I prayed for my life. Then I realized that the situation offered a unique chance to study the creatures, perhaps, even to capture one. I have procured the ropes and chains I will need, and next time, I will have one for more in-depth study. They think it is I they hunt, but it is they being hunted. I intend to begin with an autopsy of the brain. I find my fear replaced with excitement, but I must not let it distract me. Those who are not cautious but sprint toward their own graves.

Interview transcript, 1/2
Interviewer: Unknown
Interviewee: W. Hardin
Undated

I laughed when one of the kids told me they were actually called Mercy Trains. Mercy Trains, Orphan Trains, it's all going to end in a coffin, isn't it kid? He looked scared, and he damn well should have been. I told them there're monsters in these swamps. Most of them have learned not to believe in fairy tales, with the kind of lives they've had. They've already learned there aren't any knights or fairies coming around to fix their problems. Not without a heavy price. They already know the world is full of monsters. They're just used to the human kind. Not sure which is worse in the end. I put them away all the same.

Desperate times, desperate measures. But you already know why we did it.

The train arrived at night, and none of the kids knew where they were. I like to use that to my advantage. Keep them disoriented, keep them from getting comfortable, nervous as a doe. We let them sleep a few hours before we got them up and dusted off and handed out the guns.

Barely any of them knew how to shoot. City kids! A Winfield is pretty easy to handle though, and we had quite a few laying around. We couldn't waste any ammunition on target practice, so they set off without much training to speak of. When we ran out of guns, we handed out knives. I really didn't expect to see those kids again.

We had about an hour until the sun sets. I made it clear their lives depend on what happens tonight, but to be kind, I also told them they were working for the law now. If any of them survived, I told them, I'd deputize them. If.




Interview transcript, 2/2
Interviewer: Unknown
Interviewee: W. Hardin
Undated

The first group out was attacked by a pack of the dogs. Was proud to see them take down three of them, but not without a few causalities. I couldn't look away; their flesh tore so easily... But it gave some of the others the chance to slip away.

I told them, use the knives to get the right hands and bring them back as a trophy - if the thing has hands – paws in this case - prove to me you killed at least three, and we'll see. Didn't want none of them just hiding out there and coming back telling stories. Always need proof. Can't build a case with no proof.

I sat on the roof to wait. Had a fair view from there, though the trees blocked a lot. I had saved a a Marksman for myself, and I had a lot to think about. With the jails cleared out, I could feed five or six through winter. What I'd done had crossed a line in the law I had vowed to uphold, but what good was the law when the world changes like this? One of the loyal ones, Russel, would take the hit if it came.

About then I started to hear gunshots in the distance, screams, but mostly it was quiet. Even the bugs gone silent. Took about an hour before they started coming back. Which means about an hour until they started to run out of ammunition. Five of them. Five out of almost 200. Worse odds than I expected, but what did they have to live for anyway? Nothing. No country. No law. Nothing, no more. Same as me. You got to fight hard to even scrape by, and even then you wake up wondering what the point is. Everything looks like a prison these days.

Predator, prey, the world has its way, and I have nothing but time.
I remember I was humming that to myself. It's one of my favorites. Felt pretty fitting, though I was angling for a fistful of dollars from Huff for this. I watched the survivors, keeping low, thinking. They'd collected a hell of a lot of trophies, the littlest one wearing them around his neck. Then I had to consider. Is the most dangerous one going to be the most help? Or the biggest danger to me? I've always been a good shot. It didn't take me long to decide what to do. Didn't need an extra mouth to feed if it might be trouble later, nope.
On Halloween, the veil between the worlds thins, stretches, and transforms, causing many strange occurrences and apparitions. The barriers that protect us against the darkness are weakened, and on All Hallows' Eve - and the days surrounding it - the influence of the Sculptor is particularly strong. Hunters have reported strange hallucinations and visions, deadly apparitions, and a sudden abundance of pumpkins...

But we Hunters are no strangers to the otherworldly. And so we claim this dark time as our own, and celebrate with mischief and pranks. But it is a game of the Devil’s roulette - yes, sweetened by rewards from the AHA, as is tradition, of course - but the fun masks the truth but temporarily. The life of a Hunter is brutal and short, and we must take our pleasure where we can find it. Halloween is a dangerous time - cold, dark, and unforgiving - but a rewarding one.
Come, Hunter, stop and warm your hands at our hearth awhile. Let us lend you courage with gifts befitting the season! In contrast to that infamous storm of February past, New Orleans has yet to see snow this season. But to face the corruption that plagues the bayous is to feel the icy, tendrilled hand of death penetrate sense and soul. You know of what I speak.

However, Winter's bounty is plentiful for those who know where to find it - and what to do with it. You have fought long and hard throughout this long, dark time, dear Hunter, and as we turn the page of the year we hope we can begin a new chapter of success and glory for the American Hunter's Association. You have fought long and hard, and earned a spot of mischief and a cup of hearty cheer. May the season's delights warm your spirits, though if they do not, a little gold should do the trick.

Sincerely,

PHJ
December 1st, 1895

Dear Hunters,

As we move towards our darkest night, the winter solstice, I find my attention is required by seasonal ceremonies, as my attention veers toward ways to which I was not privy to during my own childhood. Of the very many folks who we rub shoulders with from day to day, there are countless opportunities to share in their creeds and customs, many of which culminate this time of year. As a scientist and a scholar, coincidences are not generally to be relied on as satisfactory explanations. Therefore, I believe that in such tales, however disparate they appear, there runs a common thread of truth that unites them. Perhaps this thread starts somewhere far in our murky past: a quiet, still time; the deep midwinter of our collective history.

My interest lies in the dark specificities of some midwinter traditions. I will focus on those of Europe, though since coming across these findings I am certain that other regions and faiths have their fair share of midwinter monsters. While one gives, another takes away. It is a rejection of nature to assume otherwise.

The first, and most relevant belongs to Francophone peoples and the Low Countries. Père Fouettard, Old Man Whipper, was once a butcher who was known to lure children to their deaths. His name is now invoked to terrify naughty children and warn them that they may be headed to a similar fate. The story originates in medieval France, so it's unlikely that we'll know for sure if there is an association to our own Butcher. There is innate wariness towards those who carve meat.

There are similar figures throughout France and Germany. They go by many names, for instance, the German Knecht Ruprecht and French Hans Trapp, their archetypal identity remains consistent. These are elderly male companions of the benevolent Saint Nicholas. Some tales threaten children with only a light beating, while others threaten them with cannibalism. Their correlation with Saint Nicholas forms a pantheon of sorts, one which likely has its roots in a pre-Christian winter celebration.

Frau Perchta, a witch, performs a similar role as the male figures and emerges from further East. Going by many names, for instance, Frau Holle or Frau Gode, she again seems to originate out of an ancient pre-Christian origin, some attributing her evolution from Frigg and Celtic figures. She is similarly brutal, threatening children with disembowelment with an iron axe, and perhaps stuffing them with straw.

Now that the human figures are covered, we can move onto the non-human. In Iceland when the winter is especially brutal, a giant ogre Gryla descends from her cave to hunt children, to cook in the stew. She is accompanied by thirteen Yule Lads, pranksters who harass townsfolk. Also lurking in the countryside is the Yule Cat, a vicious feline that stalks those who've misbehaved. Perhaps it is rational that a place as hostile as Iceland in winter would have a great many threats in wintertime. But such anthropological and meteorically informed readings should not impress upon the serious work of occultism.

The strange and deathly apparition of Mari Lwyd stalks the valleys of Wales. With the visage of a horses skull, and draped in a long travelling cloak, this figure visits from house to house at midwinter. However, the precise meaning seems to have been lost at some point, buried in a long-forgotten and ancient ritual. She represents death, perhaps once a bringer of fertility corrupted by some irresistible and dark power.

In the highlands of Scotland lies another legend. With the long beak of a magpie and a ragged cloak of brambles, the Ragman is a different sort of menace to naughty children. The Ragman lives on the edges, always moving unnervingly just out of sight. In the depths of the night, he steals gifts from the undeserving. It's said that his lair, somewhere high in the mountains, is stacked high with his spoils. Generations of ungiven gifts rusting and rotting away.

The most famous of all these traditions, and perhaps the rawest, is the Alpine Krampus. A half-goat, half-demon monster that follows Saint Nicholas, threatening those children who have performed misdeeds. Immediately, one notes its similarity to other figures listed prior. However, while appearing human, the Krampus has the visage of the Horned God, that devil worshipped by witches.

Winter is not just a time of human hunger, but spiritual hunger and that which lurks beneath the veil of reality is subject to it too. The monsters enumerated here share so many parallels with the grotesques we face daily in the swamp. Is there a connection? It would be irresponsible of me to assume not. While our own, softened, American traditions seemed to have done away with these menacing companions, we would do well to remember the dark underside of the winter season and of the corruption that lies at the heart of man.

Regards,

Harold Black
Evans was dead, to begin with. But that wouldn't hold the night. By morning there'd be another man walking around with his name and carrying his papers.

There was nobody to mourn his death. No funeral to attend. By the time the body had gone cold and the grave had been dug, I'd be the only one who remembered him. People around here are too busy trying not to make corpses of themselves to notice that one more loner from out of town has gone in the ground. People are too busy to notice that - what a coincidence! - another man was suddenly walking around using a dead man's name. Still, I never thought I'd be writing his name under Accounts Received.

Evans had been my partner a long time. Business partner, and hunting partner. I hadn't planned on having a partner at all - I like to work alone - but there were certain benefits. I always had an alibi. Not that anybody ever asked for one. But then he went and got himself killed, and I thought, “wilful waste makes woeful want!" and in half an hour I had a buyer lined up. And so Evans would rise again, in a fashion. I liked to think that my services at least offered a kind of immortality. Rise up dead man, indeed.

In most cases it went like this: find a buyer, then find some loner who fits the bill. No family, a few accounts, and property a plus. No friends who would bother asking questions. As soon as I joined the American Hunter's Association, I realized Hunters would be perfect targets. Always running straight into Death's arms, like they've been looking for him their whole lives. Petty feuds and greed keeping them infighting. Even if somebody found out I was pulling the trigger, and for a profit, it was likely that nobody would care. Not among that lot.

We worked with Trevors to move packages long distance. That man doesn't do anything by halves. If you want to get something valuable to Chicago or New York without anybody knowing about it, Trevors is your man. He's a gruff, morbid fellow, but I guess you'd have to be in that line of work.

I wired the buyer, and prepared the papers. There was a fat satchel of coin to go along with them, though I kept most of that for myself. Then I brought the package to Trevors for shipping. Trevors took one look at it and went for my throat.




Trevors' large, scarred hands were wrapped so tightly around my throat that I had no time to protest before I found myself on my knees on the floor of his shop. I reached for my knife, calculating what part of his body I would sink the blade into first, when I heard someone at the back of the room clear their throat.

“That's enough Mr. Trevors. Let him stand up at least." A cold, delicate, voice said the words.

Trevors did as he was told, and I turned as I jumped to my feet, eager to discover what new threat was waiting. Then I saw the face. Her face.

“Miss Nora?" I hadn't even recognized her voice.

“Yes, Mr. Stone. I don't wonder at your surprise. Seeing as the circumstances of our last meeting were particularly...unpleasant."

“I thought you were dead."

“You're not that good a shot."

She said it as if I hadn't sat beside her and watched her die.

I could think of nothing to say.

“Don't look so glum, Mr. Stone. You're not the only one in this town with a business of this nature. But you're a tough nut to crack." She laughed at that and nodded to Trevors, who moved quickly behind me, securing my hands with a length of coarse rope.

He hardly needed to bother. I was still, frozen as I was with surprise and confusion. I – the man who had single-handedly bested so many others. How was this woman standing before me when I had shot her myself?

“Nora, I--"

She cut me off. “Mr. Stone, you're a scoundrel, a murderer, a thief, and even more unfortunately, my Father's friend. Or were. Now that my Father is dead, I intend to take over his business. Things have calmed down in New York - at least for the time being. My partner there has established herself and doesn't need strict guidance. It's time I settled the family accounts, and I'm fairly certain that you had something to do with my Father's untimely death."

I ignored the accusation. “Your Father? Your name isn't Nora Evans."

"Don't be stupid, Mr. Stone. Of course it's not. I haven't been Nora Evans since before my first marriage."

My face grew hot, glad that she had turned away. I had, it appeared, overlooked a few rather important details when I'd selected Nora as a target.

“But your papers had said that you..."

She smiled and interrupted me again, “And how long did it take the poor fool who bought them from you to figure out they were forgeries?"

I grimaced, and Trevors barked a cruel laugh. “Your buyer doesn't know does she?" He shook his head. “Well no hard feelings about me tying you up then, I'm sure." He smiled, mouth parting like a gutted corpse before moving to release my hands. “Because if your buyer doesn't know, then we're the least of your worries."




“Nora, I watched you die." And yet here she was.

She moved her hand to her collar as I spoke, and for the first time I noticed the strange hue of the skin there, as though she'd tried to hide a grievous wound beneath powders and cloth.

“Your powers of observation are indeed incredible, Mr. Stone."

“Nora, come now. Is this necessary? Nora? Nora, please," I repeated her name like a bleating lamb, wanting her to think me helpless. Willing her to believe that she had already won.

She was a shrewd woman, but she would see what she wanted to see: an arrogant man, bleating and braying and bested by her own cunning. She had a reputation as one of New York's best Hunters – had even gone as far as to start her own organization – and I had been struck, at the time, by how easy it had been to kill her. It was true that I was arrogant; I thought it evidence of my own skill, and thought no more about it. I would not underestimate her again. But she would underestimate me, and live to regret it. My eyes returned to the skin at her throat, and I filled my voice with notes of concern. “Nora, are you ill?"

“My health," she said, gesturing to Mr. Trevors once again, “is no business of yours. Not anymore. Now, let's see what you and Father have been up to."

Trevors emptied my coat pockets at her signal, and placed my ledger into her gloved hands. Deus Irae. My own reckoning of souls.

She flipped through the pages and smiled. “These are quite impressive. Though I'm not sure they are impressive enough to convince me to forgive you for killing my Father." She closed the ledger, tested its weight, and then swung it into my face with a crack. Blood streamed from my nose and down my chin, and I licked my lips.

Three hundred and seventy-six souls are listed in my ledger. Every last soul and sale is accounted for. I keep very precise accounts. Every detail is correct. Except for one. Nora had been number 273. Soon I would adjust the number to 377.

“I had nothing to do with your Father's death Nora," I said as I groped in my pocket for a handkerchief to staunch the blood flow. “He was my best friend." My use of the words “nothing" and “best" might have been stretching the truth.

It took me an hour to convince her. So many dead men have given me their names and their stories; it comes naturally to slip into their adventures as if they are my own. The tale was harrowing. If I could remember the details, and if they were true, I would surely repeat them. As I spoke, I realized how similar applying for a job and pleading for your life can be.

“Very well," she said eventually. “I will connect you with buyers in New York, and take a share, and you can continue your work unimpeded. I have little interest in getting involved in this mess right now, but I could use the funds. I'll pay you fairly. More fairly than you paid any of the others, I should guess."

She handed my ledger back to Trevors. “Now, take me to see Elwood Finch."

I exited Trevors shop quickly, and with some great relief, but without an apology for the damage to my nose or the blood splattered on my cloak. Outside, the streets bustled with activity and noise. Boughs of pine and holly had been strung from windows and lampposts, and the butcher had several fine turkeys and hams on display. I crossed the street to the grocers, placing orders at several stores as I moved among cheerful Christmas shoppers. Nora Evans would be joining Finch and I – or so she thought – for Christmas dinner.

I had killed her once. I would find out how she survived and then I would kill her again.




Elwood Finch was a man who believed that victory could be bought. Elwood Finch was a man of immense power, influence, and stature among Hunters. Elwood Finch was not coming to dinner. Nora née Evans, however, would be arriving any minute.

The table was laid in fine embroidered linen, and adorned with a handsome arrangement of ivy and holly, berries the bright, brilliant red of freshly spilled blood. I had hired on help for the occasion – two who'd exchanged domestic positions for the bayou's bloody fortunes.

Upon Nora's arrival, we moved through the usual pleasantries, and she quickly accepted my apologies on Finch's behalf – something urgent had come up at the asylum and he would join us after dinner for a glass of sherry if he could get away, I told her. She accepted the change of plans without comment.

We began the meal with oysters en brochette, the shellfish freshly plucked from Black Bay that morning and the bacon providing a dark, smoky compliment to their delicate flavor. We spoke of New York, and how Nora's Hunters were handling the threat there. It was modest compared to the situation in Louisiana – but how long would it remain under control?

The plates were cleared, and the next course served: plump, browned sausages; breaded mutton chops; and a haunch of venison alongside roast cauliflower and potatoes smothered in rich butter. Our conversation grew lively, the mood festive. It was then that I produced a small box, wrapped in fine red paper.

“For you Nora. My condolences, and my apology." I placed the box on the table beside her hand. She paused, regarding it with curiosity, and allowing – if only briefly – a cordial smile to cross her lips. Inside, she found an elegant gold chain on which hung a small gold falcon. Beautiful, and delicate – but deadly.

Her face flushed, and for once, it was she who did not know what to say.

We sat in companionable silence while the plates were cleared for dessert. The time had come. I must know.

“Nora, how did you survive?"

She looked at me. “I supposed I didn't."

I raised my eyebrows, but said nothing, waiting, certain she would eventually feel compelled to fill the silence.

“I've been affected. By the corruption. I'm infected. It wasn't long before you showed up with a mind to sell my name to the highest bidder. My group was not privy to some very important information. We were given instructions about the inoculation ritual, but they were incorrect. They were intended to leave us vulnerable, and destroy us.

“I began to notice a change after the incident at the railway. But then the transition just stopped. I have remained myself, mostly. We suspect that I possess some level of natural immunity, though it may not last. The...my neck..." her hand moved again to the hem of her collar. “I still bear the wound from your bullet. It does not bleed, but it remains open and festering. That's why I need Finch. I do not believe he intended to destroy my Hunters, but I believe that he knows who did."

This time my silence was not calculated. She had been affected by the corruption. I had just shared my Christmas dinner with a grunt. There was no doubt in my mind now of what I must do.

From my pocket I took a small knife, running it gently over the skin of her hand until it drew blood. I then did the same, pressing our hands together where knife had parted flesh, binding her to my bloodline, if informally, and perhaps, helping to ensure she did not slip further into that degradation. It is rare, but it has happened before.

Dessert was served, but there was nothing more to say. At last, she moved to leave.

“I think we will not see Mr. Finch this evening, so I will impose no more upon your kindness and take my leave. Thank you for dinner and the gifts." She looked down at the cut on her hand, now wrapped in a white kerchief. “I pray it is enough." She called the serving girl to bring her jacket and began to wrap a fetching scarf of blue and white, pattern befitting the season and in the Scandinavian style, around her neck.

I looked at her thoughtfully. “Nora, I am embarrassed to admit it, but there is one more present. I can never make up for the loss of your Father, but perhaps it will provide some light on these dark winter nights." I pointed to a large box wrapped in green and gold paper, perched atop the sideboard.

She looked at me, questioning, but the wary edge she'd had in Trevors' shop had left her eyes.


“You were my Father's friend," she said, quietly, “and we are bonded now as well. Fine, Timothy, I will accept your gift."

I walked to the mantel and poured the amontillado, filling two glasses with that exquisite, fragrant liquid, murky and golden. I raised my glass. “To Gregor Evans."

She repeated my words, as she crossed the room to the box and began to tear open the green and gold paper, revealing a tab that would open the lid. She pulled, opening the box, and releasing a cacophony of razor wire as sharp and piercing as the cry that escaped her lips.

Concertina wire is such a beautiful thing, and I consider the concertina bomb its ideal form. I regarded the bouquet of blades, chaotic and efficient, metal shining in the flickering, festive candlelight. The wire had pinned one foot to the ground, nearly severing it from the body, while raising the other in mock dance. So many blades buried in a constellation of wounds across her body where it had torn through her pristine white dress.

She struggled at first, but the movement only drove the wire deeper, and so she fell still and silent, eyes wide and skittering about the room, her laboured breath marking a ragged and uneven percussion.

“Do you like it? I thought it matched the necklace." I emptied my glass in one sip and placed it on the table, freeing my hand to reach for the end of her scarf. The fabric ripped as I pulled it from the tangle of wire. “Daniel," I called, louder now, all pretence of kindness gone from my voice. “Bring my Vetterli."

Daniel – who had served our dinner – appeared again, back in his usual garb now, and handed me a Vetterli engraved with a rose.

“I didn't kill your Father, Nora. But I am going to kill you." I raised the Vetterli, and this time, it was a headshot no creature could survive. I used her scarf to clean her blood from the barrel, wrapping the gun in what remained before turning back to Daniel.

“Call Lynch," I said. “Her package is ready for pick up."
I Am the Lullaby

The rumors began at the same time that he appeared. Some said that Death had begun to wander the Bayou, felling Hunters like dried grass, and taking what they left behind to add to his strange collection. Others insisted that the beaked beast had been created by the Hunters themselves, deceived into binding scrap metal to feather to old flesh bone and performing a ritual meant to grant them power - and instead summoning but more of the Sculptor's corruption. The truth, as always, is far more macabre. Macabre - and banal, like so much of the evil in this world. It started with the appearance of the birds, followed by small models and statues, and the rest... Well, the rest you will have to see for yourself.
They have been watching you, Hunters. They've seen every victory and defeat at the hands of the bayou. Heard of every monster you have had to face; human or otherwise. While they admit they're impressed by the work you've done these past few years, they're finally ready to show you what they can do.

Any Hunter worth their salt knows that health is of the utmost importance to keep up the fight. Why not trust the best physician in Louisiana and try The Doctor's Vapours? It'll help you gain more Event Points and taking it with your team will ensure the effects multiply and make you all masters of the bayou. This all-natural formula is made from local ingredients that not only ensure quality - but make those special event items visible in Dark Sight. So why not give The Doctor's Vapours a try?




Path One: Pierce the Shadow
Many say the Hunting Bow is as old as humanity. Lovingly crafted by deft hands trained by generations, the bow will rarely fail you in a fight, and its arrows might even find their way back to you.

Path Two: Cleave the Shadow
What better marriage of metal and wood than an axe? Take aim, take a breath, and throw so you can watch it spin through the air and bite into its target. Throwing axes are sold in pairs, so the discerning Hunter can send a barrage death towards their enemies.




The Exile
An artist with leather, bone, and shell, Delphine returned to her ancestral home to find work, instead finding a corruption against which she vowed to fight with axe, blade, and bow.

The Third Son
The third son of a third son of a third son, Nahotabi was endowed with notable strength, a brazen manner, and preternatural skill in hand-to-hand combat. By day, a dedicated, curious, and quiet librarian; by night, a silent and deadly terror with pistol or blade.

Faultless
Once an heirloom of the Akune family, this Caldwell Conversion Pistol has taken its share of knocks. On her return, The Exile sought it out, finding it the perfect tool to right wrongs.

The Wayfinder
Quiet as a chill gust of wind heralding a hurricane, the snap of this bow's string ushers in the inescapable destruction of The Exile, finding her way home.

Bayou Phoenix
Ornamented with every shade found within the heart of a blazing fire, this Winfield M1873C Marksman is said to always find its way back into the bayou, ready to rise to any occasion.

Tomahawk
The Tomahawk takes its name from the Algonquian word for cutting tool. In the bayou, this throwing axe continues the fight for life.
Mischief and play dance in the air as the trees begin to fall asleep and the nights grow cooler. Something has begun to grow in the earth and sprout to entice all who look upon it. Devils and apparitions till the soil and nurture the plants for their fiendish schemes and it is all but assured that when it is time to pick the bounty that evil has grown, all will suffer by their tricks.

Hunters have reported feeling strange around the gourds that have popped up around the Hunt. They're said to draw you in and whisper delights into your ear. The yellow pumpkins beg to be destroyed; to be trampled and shot and sliced until they are nothing but feed for crows. Some have come back feeling strange after encountering those yellow pumpkins, that their odd, sweet scent makes them lose themselves in joy and pleasure and when they wake up hours may have gone by. The AHA originally wanted Hunters to avoid pumpkins at all costs but more began to grow and the Hunt became perilous. So, there is only one thing to do: Get rid of them all as quickly as possible.




The Headsman
We fear what we cannot see and hide from what horrors we do. Face serrated by scars, hands calloused by the swing of the axe, and mind warped by violence both witnessed and committed, The Headsman donned the executioner's robe and hood both to terrify and to hide.

The Marwood
A shot from this Caldwell Rival 78 can wake the dead - and put them back in the ground. Fashioned from the wood of a hanging tree and adorned with the rope of a well-worn noose.

Closed Casket
The shot of this Mighty Mosin-Nagant Obrez Mace has been cause of more than one closed-casket funeral and filled many more unmarked graves.

The Executioner
A sharp axe is an executioner's most trusted tool, and this Combat Axe can slice through the flesh of a pumpkin as easily as it can sever the neck of a man.
This is a special time for many. The trees begin to sleep, and some mammals go into hibernation. Birds fly to warmer places and the nights grow cooler. The Wheel of the Year grows closer to finishing its cycle and that means celebration is at hand.

There is no doubt that things have been hard. Every single person here has had to fight demons both within and outside of themselves. Every death seen, every life taken, every battle fought has had us running on that Wheel just so we could reach its end. And here we are ever closer to another year wiser with breath filling our lungs and blood still pumping in our veins despite everything. Despite everything that's happened we are alive, and we can still fight, and God be damned if that isn't worth celebrating.

That's probably why they came here to New Orleans, those men shrouded in cloak and wreath. They called themselves kings and gave us the means to bring festivities to the bayou and forget it all for a while. But it wasn't free, nothing ever is, and now we must pay or else the Wheel will break.




Throwing Axe: Calling Bird
It is said that wherever a cloud of calling birds go, death is sure to follow. Any Hunter can easily serve the reaper by letting these sharp Throwing Axes fly.

Quad Derringer: Evergreen
Winter's branches bared and decked in silvery frost serene. This Derringer defies the rule and rings out evergreen.

Fire Bottle: Spirit of Yule
Oils of evergreen and peppermint fill the air with a delightful scent once this powerful Firebomb goes off. The smell from the ensuing inferno is almost enough to cover the scent of burning flesh.

Winfield 1873 Swift: The Mountain King
In the dark halls of The Mountain King, a powerful creature sleeps the winter away, dreaming of spring's bloody bounty. In the hands of a Hunter, this Winfield 1873 Swift brings those sanguine dreams to life.

Cavalry Sabre: Corvus
Graceful and ominous, like a crow gliding towards its prize, this elegant cane becomes a deadly sabre when blood needs to be spilled. Its handle aims to terrorize its victims, and the horror in their eyes is a proof of success.

Legendary Hunter: Devil's Advocate
Henry Trapp is a good man at a cost: When the bad in him builds up, he dons the devil's mask to release his dark urges. All turned a blind eye because of the good Henry did, but when the hunt began, for the sake of the innocent, they sent him to it.
Detective Herman had hardly slept for a month and his strength was waning. The taste of grits and bitter coffee was hardly a comfort. He told himself that his sleep was being disturbed by nothing more than the piling unsolved murder cases and the grief of the inconsolable. Already late, rushing down Rousseau street to the station, a young woman grabbed his arm. Her eyes pleaded with him, causing him to stop.

“Ma'am, I'm sorry," he began, then stopped.

“Detective Herman," she interrupted, “my husband is missing ."

Images of half-eaten bodies and limbs bent at odd angles flashed through his head, the street became unbearably bright.

“I'm sorry to hear that, miss." He tried to do something sympathetic with his mouth, but his lips were too dry. “Will you come with me to the station? You should make an official report."

“He's only gone since last night," she continued, oblivious to the formalities she was ignoring.

“And what was he doing then?" Herman continued, taking her arm to lead her off the street.

She opened her mouth and closed it again. She shrugged off his arm, then dropped her stare, just for a moment.

“He went to see his lover."

Herman blinked in the too bright street. The buzz of the insects seemed to swell.

“That is very unfortunate, but I'm afraid there's nothing I can do." A passerby stopped on the far corner. “Are you sure you want to talk about this in public?"

“I know what it looks like," he could hear her falter beneath her pride. “but this is different. His lover... She..."

“Miss, come on, let's get you sat down."

Her eyes shifted to him in a flash and narrowed down, sizing him up. She took a step back.

“His lover is the Moon," she said in one breath, like a challenge.

“The Moon? Is that a stage name?"

“No. Not a person. The Moon. Up in the sky."

Herman couldn't hide his unkind reaction. Her eyes turned sharp, and her voice grew with vigor.

“Every night, he speaks to her." She spoke fast, but clearly. “And every month, when she's at her fullest, he goes to her."

“To the sky, you mean?"

“No," she sounded offended. “To her reflection, on the river. He bathes with her. They... They, um..."

“Please, don't." Herman flushed. On the corner, another passerby had stopped. “And he told you about all of that?"

“My husband and I have a powerful connection, sir." Her voice trembled with grief but not doubt. “He would never hide anything from me. And I didn't see any harm in his actions."

“But now he's gone."

“He's missing."

Herman agreed with his head, a slow, gentle movement. He was late. His superiors would be furious. But something about the mad woman's story resonated with him. “Was there anything unusual, more unusual, about his behavior recently?"

“He said she was hurting. Something was poisoning the waters, she needed to get out."

“The Moon needed to get out of the river?" Herman wasn't sure now about his incredulity.

“She was changing. She was... violent." She swallowed, her eyes lost in an image inside her head. “He came back with burn marks over his arms and legs. She tried to force him to stay."

Herman moved a little closer, studying her expression. “And he came back after that?"

She put on a bitter smile, shaking her head. “Last night, he went to save her. Bring her out of the water and into this world."

“And then?"

“I went to the river at dawn. It's gone . No water, no fish, no nothing. Just dirty mud, rusted metal and dried blood." She paused. Herman's heart was beating out of his chest, oblivious now to the crowd that had gathered.

“Do you think my husband was her only one?" the woman asked again. Herman could clearly picture the dry riverbed, the mud was caked at the banks, the grooves the water had cut now dry.

“Was he her only one?" she repeated, panic in her rising voice. But Herman could only see the riverbed, the dry reeds, the carcass of a drowned horse steaming amongst driftwood.

“Detective, would they betray me?"
Bad in the Bayou Rises with the Moon

Prologue
The Moon, in all her glory, was not immune to the Sculptor. Every full moon her immortal light would fall on New Orleans and the crickets and fireflies would dance in the spotlight.But just as the Moon has dictated the turn of tides for millennia, the Sculptor began to dictate the Moon’s influence on the Earth. The Moon’s light cast a spotlight onto people whose hearts were already starting to become twisted by the Sculptor. Mother caused harm to child, brother betrayed brother, and others let their minds wander into madness and desperation. Those who knew the power of both the Sculptor and the Moon began to plot and use the twisting of people’s hearts to their advantage. This is one such story about a man named Mr. Orwell Chary.




Chapter 1
Mr. Orwell Chary had quickly made a name and a home for himself as the new Administrator of the Louisiana AHA. He had easily gained the trust of both Hunters and Finch alike and was often seen as a kind man willing to do anything to stop the scourge that had taken over New Orleans. So, when he asked Becher Hess for help in an experiment that would make more powerful weapons for Hunters to use, and maybe help smite the Sculptor himself, Hess was ready to jump at the chance for glory and the compensation Mr. Chary always gave.

Hess followed Mr. Chary deep into a patch of woods that opened into a small clearing. An abandoned home by a pond and a willow tree was the backdrop for the day’s work. It was an oddly calm place for what Mr. Chary was about to do.




Chapter 2
Mr. Chary led Hess just behind the house to a large patch of dirt where the grass had long died from the Administrator's work. Carefully, Mr. Chary took his cane and began to draw patterns in the dirt, symbols of an ancient dialect familiar only to him. When the symbols had made a circle Mr. Chary whipped the dirt from his cane and nodded to Becher Hess.

“If you would kindly do the honors.” Mr. Chary beckoned Hess over.

With a nod, Hess pulled four strange candles from a bag the Administrator had asked him to carry. Dozens of small hands carved into wax reached for the wick as if it would grant them salvation.

There would be no salvation here.




Chapter 3
One by one Hess placed and lit the candles atop the symbols. Every time the light from the flame flickered, Hess had to do look again to make sure that the clawing and writhing of the hands was just a trick of the light.

“What’s next Chary?” The question from Becher stopped the Administrator in his tracks. Behind his crimson tea shades Mr. Chary’s eyes bored holes into Hess that sent a shiver down his spine.

“Mr. Chary. Sorry.” Hess meekly corrected. Mr. Chary put back on his gentle guarded smile.

“It happens, dear sir. I trust it won’t happen again.” Mr. Chary jovially begins. “The next part is simple. Hold this gun and sit in the center, then we have to wait for the Moon”.




Chapter 4
Soon the clouds pulled back their curtain to present the Moon to Mr. Chary and Hess. The light somehow made the symbols start to glow a soft white and the candles’ flame turned a shade of purple that Becher couldn’t quite comprehend.

“No matter what,” Mr. Chary warned, “Do not let the gun go.”

“Why would I-” And before Hess could finish, the weapon in the Hunter’s hands became white hot. Becher looked up at Mr. Chary, begging for permission to drop it, but the Administrator gave none. Hess began to groan and scream over the sound of searing flesh. But still, loyal to a fault, the Hunter held onto the gun and waited for Mr. Chary to give him permission to let go. Mr. Chary promised him good money. Mr. Chary promised him power that would grant glory in the Hunt. It was worth it. Was it worth it?




Chapter 5
Kevin Linus watched from the window of his home by the pound and the willow tree. The screams had woken him up, as they did every full Moon, and sent him into a panic. The man with the cane and the red tea glasses had come with another person, had sat them down in the non-familiar dirt circle, and made them light the candles. Had them screaming in pain and waiting for permission to stop. It was in this moment that he wished that his mother and father were alive; surely, they would have shooed the man away and helped his victims. But what could a boy of 14 do when he barely had enough strength to hunt squirrels to eat? The screaming turned to whimpers, and Kevin waited to see what would happen next.

The men were close enough to the window that when Becher Hess finally stood, Kevin could see that the Hunter’s hands were gone. Flesh had turned to liquid and was dripping off bone and tendon that were barely holding structure. Kevin couldn’t help the tears that fell from his eyes as the man painfully took the pistol in one boney hand and placed the barrel to his temple.




Chapter 6
Kevin covered his ears as a shot rang out in the night. A glorious spray of blood erupted from Hess’ temple before he unceremoniously fell to the ground. Clicking his tongue and shaking his head, Mr. Chary moved the body around with his cane before bending down to grab the pistol. He held it up to the Moon to let its light highlight each part and Kevin saw that the air around it vibrated with heat. Despite that, Mr. Chary held the gun comfortably in his hand and observed it a while longer before slipping it into his coat pocket.

The Administrator once again took his cane and started writing symbols on the ground which Kevin craned his neck to try and see. The only thing he could really make out was a halo of strange scribbles that Mr. Chary wrote around Hess' head. The man then tapped on the Hunter’s forehead three times and the man sunk into the earth, the ground like a snake savoring a meal. After about a minute, it was as if Becher Hess was never there.




Chapter 7
For the rest of that night and the night after, young Kevin watched as Mr. Orwell Chary brought Hunter after Hunter to his home. The Administrator would draw the symbols, the Hunter would sit with the weapon, and they would all burn for Mr. Chary’s sake. Three other Hunters shared the same fate as Hess, taking the gun to their temple or mouth and shooting themselves. All of them sank. From that first night only one person, as far as Kevin could tell, was successful during the Administrator’s ritual.

Mary Ochenkov was an experienced Hunter who had gone into the bayou countless times for the sake of her sick husband’s medicine. Mr. Chary had promised her that if this ritual was a success, he could not only provide her with money, but also the contact of a doctor well-versed in the effects of Scarlet Fever in adults. It may have been the drive to save her husband that made the flames envelop her body, and it may have been that drive that left her without a single burn on her skin.




Chapter 8
The next night Kevin watched from his window as Mr. Chary waited in that dirt circle. The Administrator had already let another body sink into the ground, but instead of going to fetch another Hunter he waited. Soon enough, Mary Ochenkov came back with a bag in hand and tears streaming down her vacant eyes.

“Welcome back Mrs. Ochenkov, did you bring the thing you cherish most?” Mr. Chary asked in his usual pleasant tone. A sob and a nod were Mary’s only response.

“Then if you would.” Mr. Chary gestured to the center of the circle and Mary plodded into the dirt. She knelt and Kevin craned his neck to see what would come from the soaking cloth bag.

Mary’s hands were gentle and deft as she scooped up a heart and held it towards Mr. Chary. Wails of anguish rang deep in Kevin’s ears as he wretched at the sight. Even though he had now seen several men and women end their lives in that dirt circle, Mary was like a banshee and her pain hit Kevin in waves and made him sick.

Mr. Chary’s long-nailed fingers took the heart and observed it in the Moonlight, smiling.

“How Ironic,” he said in gentle glee.




Chapter 9
It seemed like the Ochenkovs were the lucky charm Mr. Chary needed for his experiments that night. Two other Hunters after Mary got out of the fire unburned and in a catatonic state, they marched off into the night to bring back “the thing they cherish most.” Mr. Chary shivered in joy at the possibilities they’d return with.

Mr. Chary carefully rolled the heart in his gloved palm as he moved to the center of the circle. With his cane, he drew a smaller circle with phases of the Moon and unceremoniously threw the heart into the middle. Just like all the Hunters before it, the heart sank into the ground. Unlike the Hunters before it,the circle reacted, and something returned. The flames of the candles grew high and the glowing symbols on the ground were disrupted by something sprouting from the earth.

First came the spheres, a twist of branches and roots from box elders and red chokeberry trees. They glowed a soft smokey light that somehow caused a panic in Kevin as he watched from the window of his home. Then came the skulls all sharing the same body and shrouded in cloth. The bones rattled as they settled into place by the Administrator for only a few moments, then glided off leaving a skinny path in its wake. The spheres soon followed, tumbling off in every direction. Only one small sphere remained that Mr. Chary picked up to observe. That smokey glow curled into the man as if to caress him, to invite him to become something more, but what could something so weak offer him? He crushed the sphere in hand and twigs turned to nothing. Mr. Chary perked up at the faint scream that pricked his ears as that soft light was snuffed out. He could swear he just heard Hess. No matter, it was a fine night’s work and time for Mr. Chary to retire and write down his observations. He had another long night ahead of him tomorrow and tasks that absolutely had to be done.

Tomorrow, he would talk to the boy.




Chapter 10
Knock, knock, knock.

Kevin woke with start at the gentle taps at his door. After what he witnessed last night- the heart, the burnings, the spheres, and skulls- the boy had taken one of his mother’s quilts and curled into the corner to sleep. He hoped that when he woke up it would have been a terrible nightmare. He had gone to sleep every night after his parents died hoping the same thing. But his parents were still dead, and when Kevin Linus blearily went to open the door it was none other than Mr. Chary.

“Well good day young man, would either of your parents be home?” Mr. Chary greeted the boy with his usual gentle smile. It sent shivers down Kevin’s spine.

“No, and we don’t want to buy anything. Have a good day.” Kevin tried to quickly dismiss the man and close the door, but the end of Mr. Chary’s cane blocked him from shutting it completely.

“By the state of your home,” Mr. Chary began as he looked behind the boy, “I would guess that your parents have been gone for a long time and won’t be coming back. No wonder you get to stay up all night.” Kevin’s eyes grew wide at the revelation that the man knew he was watching him all along.

“Since you’re so curious, would you like to help me tonight? I’m sure you’ll get a better look up close and I can make it worth your time.” Mr. Chary pulled a small pouch out of his coat and handed it to the boy. Kevin cautiously took it and looked inside to see a small bundle of bills. The boy wasn’t going to stand there and count it, but surely there was enough for him to stop surviving off small game for at least half a year.

“Will what I have to do hurt me?” Kevin asked.

A smile crept onto the Administrator's face.




Chapter 11
That night Mr. Chary taught Kevin the basics of the ritual. He gave Kevin his cane and showed him how to etch the symbols into the dirt and light the candles with their many hands. The Administrator told Kevin why they were here: In order to eradicate the corruption that has wrapped its fingers around New Orleans, alternative methods to science needed to be explored. Mr. Chary explained that all his volunteers came to him looking to help end the terror. They were all heroes willing to sacrifice anything to save the people still left in the area.

“But some of them die, and some of them are hurt…” Kevin said. The hurt ones, like Mary, were who Kevin worried for. The two successful Hunters from the night before came back with body parts surely from people they cared for. Both Hunters were shocked to see the boy standing next to Mr. Chary and avoided Kevin’s eyes in shame. He had to hide wiping away tears several times as they went back home with a weapon that cost them everything.

Mr. Chary tossed the parts, a woman’s head and a pair of hands, into the center of the circle before beckoning Kevin over to draw the phases of the Moon.

“They all knew what they were signing up for, more or less. “Mr. Chary replied as the head and hands sank into the dirt. Kevin didn’t have time to walk away from the center of the circle as the Moon appeared from the cloud cover and the candles’ light became pillars of fire.




Chapter 12
Mr. Chary backed away and watched with fascination as Kevin was enclosed into a tower of fire. Countless glowing spheres and skulls on stick bodies rose from the earth and quickly scampered off into the distance. The fire licked at Kevin’s skin and then embraced him. Someone was holding him, protecting him from the bad outside that circle. The boy leaned into it, relishing its somehow gentle warmth, and finding solace in it. He knew it wasn’t his mother or father, but he could pretend it could be just for a moment.

When Kevin understood, the fire and all its warmth died down and the boy appeared before Mr. Chary completely unscathed. The Administrator was as perplexed as he was excited at the turn of events.

“Kevin my boy! Tell me, what-” Without so much as a grunt of pain, Mr. Chary fell to the ground and cradled his knee. He’d just been shot.




Chapter 13
“You’re hurting her. Your experiments are doing nothing but hurting the Moon.” Kevin said looking down at the man. In the fire’s whispers he learned about Mr. Chary and what he was. He learned about why he had come every night to the dirt circle behind Kevin’s house.

“You’re not trying to help anyone but yourself!” Kevin pointed the gun he had been given by the Moon at Mr. Chary’s head. The Administrator slowly got up and composed himself. He slowly knelt down and pulled the bullet from his knee before putting it into his coat pocket.

“Now now Kevin, even if that were true what can a boy like you do?” Mr. Chary laughed, but it was all a facade. The wound in his knee was healing slower than usual and something told him even the remedies Hunters used wouldn’t help him fix this.

“I’ll shoot you right here and now so that no one can ever get hurt by you again.” Kevin said before firing once more. Mr. Chary casually stepped to the side of the bullet and smiled at the boy. He didn’t see a reality where he could convince Kevin to join his side and he would not die at the hands of a mere child. Besides, a new anomaly had now shown itself to the Administrator.

“It seems this experiment is over. But we will meet again, and hopefully you’re more willing to cooperate Kevin.” Mr. Chary smiled his gentle smile at the boy and began to walk away. The boy shot at the Administrator three more times, but he simply glided left and right to avoid the shots. Before he knew it, Kevin was alone with a gun in his hand and a mission on his mind.

Kevin didn’t like men like Mr. Chary, the kind that took advantage of people. The kind that took advantage of his parents’ kindness and drove them to their death. He’d go all over Louisiana if he had to, if it meant he could stop Mr. Chary from taking advantage of anyone ever again.




Chapter 14
Kevin stared at his home by the willow tree one last time. He thought of all the memories of growing up there. Of his parents watching him run around the house when he was smaller, of climbing the trees in the forest nearby, of the comfort a winter night by the hearth brought. He would see the home again, at least he hoped he would, but there were things that needed to be done.

When he was in that pillar of flames, he heard the Moon begging to him. She was already doing all she could to stop the strange influence that was already bound to the earth. But that man, or whatever he was, played with her current weakness and was making things worse. He needed to be stopped, and the only way the moon knew how was to turn Mr. Chary’s ritual against him somehow. In a way it was providence that Kevin no longer had parents; he no longer had something he cherished most, which meant he could cherish the Moon.

With the Moon dipping below the horizon, Kevin turned away from everything he knew and walked off in the same direction Mr. Chary escaped to. The Moon had her champion, and he was off to slay the demon.
The Moon, in all her glory, was never meant to be a victim. She was all powerful and worshiped by many, and in return she imbued her flock and the earth with her mighty light. She was cleansing for some and a trigger for others but overall, she was beloved. But that cursed thing showed up, and with it that cursed man. They used her; they took and took and took until she was only a shadow of her true self. She had called to many for aide, pulling them in from the reflections of rivers and even by the pond and the willow, but none of them stuck.

"Until Kevin, the sweet boy, heard her pleas and joined her side. Now she watches, and waits, and hopes for an end to Mr. Orwell Chary. So that she can return to her former position and imbue the world once more."

"But that's not going to happen, is it Hunter? The rewards are too good, and there's work to be done. A full moon rises over the bayou once more, and with it more tasks to be done. Join Mr. Chary under the Serpent Moon and earn rewards to better the Hunt."




Introducing Viper

"The Viper grew up the middle child of a pair of merchants. The chaos and confusion of the markets often overwhelmed them, which caused wordless tantrums in the middle of their parents' work. It wasn't until The Viper met Delara, a snake born to the Steppes, that they were able to remain calm and begin to speak their first words at seven. It was their play with Delara in the market that eventually drew their mentor to them. It only took a bit of convincing and coin for the child and snake to be taken away from their family and led to the dying Order of Assassins."

"The Viper was trained to trust three things: Their mentor, their snake Delara, and their ability to kill. Soon enough there was no oasis or refuge from their poison and blades, and despite vowing that they would never speak a word unless absolutely necessary, their actions spoke loud enough."

"It was this indiscriminate terror that cast its shadow over the Middle East, only answering to The Sinners who delivered their targets and money. They felt nothing even when their mentor passed, and they had to kill the innocent: Until they realized Delara was dying."

"The two had grown together, learned to kill together, and learned to survive. But a Steppe Viper only lives twenty years and with the dangers they faced together they had shortened her life span. The overwhelming panic that the Viper felt in the markets of their childhood bubbled up at the thought of being without her, and even as Delara gently coiled around their neck they didn't feel reassured."

"And then the call came from far off for a job. From a man named Mr. Chary who just needed to get rid of a young man. In return, the man would give the Viper the secret to extending Delara's life. Too tempted by the call, the Viper got on the first boat they could to New Orleans."
Prologue - A Serpent's Kiss
As the Serpent Moon rises, blood turns to poison, and death turns to bliss.

Fits of madness turned killing sprees. Loyal men snatched from their wives by possessive claws. Beasts driven by a hunger no blood could sate. The stories of the violent incidents under the Moon’s vigilant watch had spread and grown with every retelling. And so, as the sun set in the feared Bayou, the towns cowered, shops closed, streets grew empty, and the night was left to the horses and the flies.

But this was a moonless night, and it was enough to make the foolish feel brave.

As soon as the doors swung open, Howard Lauman’s presence rang loud in the dark, damp saloon. His freshly polished boots strutted through the stink of a long day’s work, and his silver rings caught the attention of more than one pair of shifty eyes. Aware yet unperturbed, Howard settled down at the near-empty counter with a satisfied sigh. He courteously tipped his hat at a hooded loner drinking in the corner, then turned to greet the saloonkeeper.

“I’m paying upfront,” he announced loud enough for all to hear, while shoving a pile of crumpled bills across the counter “and you better make me spend every nickel ‘till the night’s over!”

The bleak atmosphere rapidly escalated into a lively bash, as the crowd joined in on the newcomer’s enthusiasm, be it for his peculiar character or the never-ending stream of glasses sent his way. Howard was no novice drinker and gladly downed whatever he was offered, even asthe liquor burned his throat with an unusual furyand his guts twisted in a silent warning.

The glasses piled up, and hours flew by in the strenuous blinking of Howard’s eyelids. He spectated fleeting memories that didn’t feel like his own and escaped him seconds later, leaving only broken pieces behind. Words mumbled together until they made no sense. Gentle touches he welcomed even as they reached for his pockets. His head empty and heavy at the same time. Deep black eyes who watched him without a face.

He came to himself being thrown to the streets by three different men, his mouth dripping blood from a fight he couldn’t recall. He shouted injuries at no one in sight and stumbled his way through the dark alley, his only guide the faint glow of a distant streetlamp.

Something was wrong. His muscles ached without real pain, and his legs grew heavy and rigid with every step. He couldn’t remember when he began to walk, but the saloon was now dead-silent, and the streetlamp seemed no closer than before. One faulty step, and he was ready to welcome the cold ground, but instead, he felt the warmth of strong hands grasping his shoulders.

In the dark, he could barely make out the imposing figure staring him down, at least a head higher, hidden within the shadows and layers of fabric.

“Get lost!” He could still speak, but barely. “I’ve got nothing left!!”

The figure made no effort to move or speak. Just waited and stared. Deciding to be wise for once in his life, Howard turned on his heels.

He managed three steps before the figure spoke.

“You will die soon.”

The voice was no louder than a whisper. It was fragile - old paper ready to crumble at the slightest of touches. But the words were confident, final. A sealed fate.

Howard turned back, excruciatingly slow, and blinked at the shadows, waiting. Met with yet more silence, a jolt of clarity shot through his brain, and he reached for his pistol.

He could only watch as the figure approached in a graceful stride and placed one hand on top of his own, gently twisting it until the pistol fell off his weak grasp. He lashed out in anger, eager to tear and scratch whatever he could reach, but the hand remained unbothered and retreated without retaliation.

“There’s nothing left to fight,” the voice uttered again. There was no gloating nor sympathy, just truth. “It’s done.”

Howard was transported back to the saloon, the dark corner, a hooded silhouette, watchful black eyes. Liquor that burned like betrayal and ego winning against his better judgment.

His whole body seared with fury, and he tried to scream but lost his voice to a coughing fit. His lungs stung with each laborious breath, and his legs finally gave up. He fell to the ground, hands glued to the cold dirt, as his guts tried to expel the poison inside.

The figure’s stare didn’t shy away from his humiliation, and Howard dug into the dirt with both hands, desperate to blind his captivated audience, but his arms felt heavier than he could carry.

“What did you do to me?” He heard his words coming from the mouth of a wounded street cat, but the figure just watched.

“Who sent you?” His heavy eyelids fought against hot streaks of tears, but the figure wouldn’t budge.

“Why won’t you leave me to die?!” He could no longer hear his own voice and was unsure if his plea came in a scream or a wail.

Yet this time, the figure twitched.

The silhouette slithered closer, and in the faint glow, the slightest curves of lips and a nose were the only proof Howard’s assailant was a human and not Death itself.

“When you’re about to arrive...” The figure got close enough that Howard could feel a slight tremor as they fought to find the right words. “If your body still allows it...”

Black eyes glimmered with zeal.

“Would you tell me how it feels?”

With his last shred of strength, Howard hurled a fistful of dirt. Darkness crept at the edge of his vision, and he barely saw as the figure effortlessly took a step back, and something moved within their clothing.

A hissing noise and a blur of vengeful fangs were everything Howard could make out as paralyzing pain pierced through his contorted face.




Chapter 1
The Moon, in all her glory, was dying. Even those who knew nothing of the corruption could sense her decline. She had taken on a sickly glow that cast a light of dread and misfortune on New Orleans. The ignorant and the innocent could do nothing but look up at the source of that disquieting light with reverence and growing trepidation. Those untouched by The Moon’s first assault were beginning to turn. Panic began to spread, and alongside it came despair, exposing more hearts to the devastation of her pallid effervescence. Oh Night’s Eye, Mother of Twilight and Tide! Could your steady pulse fall still? Could your light be dimmed, and put out?

Those who knew of the corruption were recruited to end the tragedy. Hunters from all walks of life and faith gathered behind Mr. Chary, hoping that in helping him solve his problems, they might also solve their own. But hope is a slippery thing, easily corrupted.

Kevin Linus watched from the window of his home by the pond and the willow. Outside, Mr. Chary waited beside the circle he had drawn in the dirt on so many Moonlit nights before. He would not have to wait long. We are all slaves to habit, and desire, in the end.

The sound of her footsteps proceeded her grim silhouette, and Mary Ochenkov walked straight into the circle without hesitation or greeting. The dirty, dripping bag in her hands began to burn first. Her clothes quickly followed, and as the screams began again, Kevin wept. He would scream with her, would share her pain and stop the terrible cycle. But though he tried, no sound escaped his mouth.

As the flames grew, twisting their way around Mary’s neck, she suddenly snapped her head toward Kevin, a knowing, accusatory expression on her face. While Mr. Chary looked on in sadistic glee, Mary crossed the ritual markings, sparks erupting where they broke, and ran toward the house. When she reached the door she screamed and tore at the panels until her nails broke and bled.

"WHY DIDN’T YOU HELP ME!?” she wailed.

And then he woke up.





Chapter 2
All the encounters had been the same. The chase. The trails of blood. The confrontation and the defeat. As cyclical and constant as The Moon.

The only thing that had changed were the snakes.

Kevin Linus had been pursuing Mr. Orwell Chary for weeks across southern Louisiana. From New Orleans to Baton Rouge and back, the boy had followed the AHA Administrator’s trail, his focus interrupted only by the Hunter-assassins Mr. Chary hired to stop him. But The Moon had been gracious in her blessing, and Kevin had gained an otherworldly intuition for gunplay and combat. All went back to Mr. Chary unable to Hunt.

He finally cornered Mr. Chary in Ascension Parish.

"My my, how you’ve grown!” Mr. Chary said as he spread his arms in mock welcome. His three Hunter companions kept their guns warily trained on the boy.

"Haven’t you done enough?” Kevin replied, pointing his pistol at Mr. Chary’s head. But all the man did was smile.

"Young man, you’re in my way.” At that Mr. Chary snapped his fingers, and a shot rang out into the night. Kevin looked down to see a red blossom blooming from a hole in his stomach. He looked up, and a second shot rang out.




Chapter 3
Kevin fell to his knees as he clutched his bloody stomach with a keening wail.

"What a wonderful sound,” Mr. Chary said. “Truly fitting that it's the last thing anyone will hear from you.” Mr. Chary walked over to the boy and kicked him onto his back. Tears welled in Kevin’s eyes as he groaned and convulsed. But when he moved his hands to expose the bullet wound, he found it had transformed from bloody blossom to writhing vista of protrusions and pulsing sores.

And then a snake slithered from his bloody sleeve.

The snake was small, milky eyed and covered in the blood and viscera of Kevin's flesh. Kevin ripped at the shirt, widening the tear to reveal a coiled brood of small snakes nested in the wound, as if just hatched, scaly maggots uncoiling themselves from his flesh.




Chapter 4
For two agonizing hours Mr. Orwell Chary kneeled over the boy’s body, tearing and slicing at Kevin’s flesh as he moaned in tired agony.

"What’s happening?” Kevin asked. The question was met with silence, and another incision. From the fresh, gaping wound, Mr. Chary plucked the body of a snake.

Again and again Mr. Chary pulled a snake from the wound; again and again the animals sunk their venomous fangs into his hands. It was just what Mr. Chary needed, and with each overwhelming, nauseating rush, he thrust his hands deeper into the wound, probing for more.

The largest snake came from the final incision, a bloody, jagged line from hip to heart. Mr. Chary’s assistants struggled to force it into a bag, and as it writhed, too powerful even for three hulking men, it clamped its jaws around the ankle of the tallest Hunter. It provided him no rush, rather leaving its victim paralyzed and helpless, silent witness to Mr. Chary’s administrations. Was this really what they were fighting for? To allow this man to torture an innocent boy?

"Thank you, Kevin,” Mr. Chary whispered. “You’ve earned my mercy.” The Administrator drew close, holding his gun to the boy’s temple. He caressed the trigger, savoring the moment. Kevin looked to The Moon, and back to Mr. Chary. With his last strength, he twisted his body and sunk his teeth into the man’s wrist.




Chapter 5
Deep in Kingsnake Mine, Isaac Powell, known to most only as the Night Seer, watched Ira Ozols weaving. Strips of dried flesh dipped in rosemary oil, willow splints, and straw combined to form the shape of a large, basket-like structure. Oil dripped from its plats, and footsteps echoed from the direction of the nearest mineshaft.

The flickering lamp was disturbed by a faint breeze, and the shadows danced as Mr. Chary entered the dark cavern. He regarded Ira’s work and nodded. He then turned to acknowledge the imposing, hooded Hunter who sat in the corner, gently stroking the head of the enormous snake coiled around their neck.

“Isaac, you didn’t tell me you had already met!” Mr. Chary regarded the figure in the corner with respect. A rare occurrence.

”He keeps to himself,” came the gruff reply.

The figure rose, and turned towards the Night Seer, menacing.

”Isaac, I believe they would rather not be addressed as he,” returned the Administrator. “The Viper is a valued guest. Show some respect.”

At this, the Viper stepped into the swaying light of the lamp. They were dressed simply, practically, feet bare and undisturbed by the rocky floor. The large snake coiled around their neck lifted its head, appraising the two men. The Night Seer cautiously nodded.

”My apologies,” Isaac said. “We’ haven’t had the opportunity to exchange many pleasantries. I was surprised to find the Sinners were already involved.”

“I’ve been looking for someone fit to the task for a long time. The Sinners sent the Viper, and...” Mr. Chary looked to the Viper to provide the name of the snake.

“Delara,” came the Viper’s response, their voice the rough whisper of a person who does not often speak. At the final syllable, the snake adjusted itself around the Viper’s throat.

Mr. Chary nodded, then spoke again. “It’s time for The Night of the Hunter and the Sinners to bury their quarrels. We need to work together. Much as that pains us both.”

“You think Finch would like hearing you say that?” Powell scoffed.

"Isaac, you know I believe in your vision, but I must maintain my position with Finch until the time is right.” Something dangerous glinted in Mr. Chary’s eyes as he spoke. Isaac grunted. “But politics aside, this is why we’re here” Mr. Chary raised his arm, and a snake silently slithered from his sleeve. “There's a new breed. Already adults after only a few days, exquisite venom, and so...hungry.”

Mr. Chary paused before looking between Isaac and Viper.

“Simply insatiable.” It was unclear if he was referring to the snake or himself. He smiled.




Chapter 6
Ira Ozols’ mother had taught her to weave baskets, and she still found comfort in the repetition of the work, now seeking distraction from thoughts about what she would be asked to do.

The Night Seer had trusted her with the task, much to the chagrin of Nadia, his most loyal acolyte. As the others argued and planned, Ira wondered about the relationship between Mr. Chary and the Night Seer. Who was exploiting who? But she didn’t really care. It was the Night Seer’s vision that interested her. Until she found herself left alone with Mr. Chary.

He spoke: “Ira! It’s so nice to see you again. And with Mr. Powell no less.” Mr. Chary’s whisper set the Night Follower’s skin on edge. She suppressed a shiver.

“Where Isaac goes, I follow,” Ira responded firmly. The Administrator smiled.

“I see he trusts you,” said Mr. Chary, “intimately.” He paused at that.

“We have a common goal.” Almost finished with the structure, she began to check for unintentional gaps.

“And what goal is that?” The Administrator asked.

”You said you believed his vision. I heard you. I wouldn’t think you needed to ask.”

Isaac Powell had told all of his acolytes what he’d seen. But Ira felt that something was missing. That he had kept something from them too terrible – or too important – to share freely.

Mr. Chary kneeled beside the altar and spoke. “I see he didn’t trust you enough to tell you either. Well. What if I told you I knew how to find out.” He stood and offered her a hand. “Come with me. Perhaps I can show you.”

With just a moment’s hesitation, she took his hand.




Chapter 7
"Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid! Do not be discouraged! For the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.” Mary Burgess spoke the words into the stock of her Vetterli before looking to her partner. Circe Elias looked back at her and murmured a quick “amen” before moving forward into the night. Circe wasn’t exactly religious, but with the mission ahead of them any help – divine or otherwise – would be welcome. The Moon was full and bright, and they moved slowly and surely.

Mr. Chary had introduced the two women after they had accepted his contract. Mary was easy to convince: The Bayou was full of sin, and Mr. Chary was a servant of the Lord. If there was someone after the Administrator’s life, then she would ask God for forgiveness and do what had to be done.

Circe was more difficult to convince. She was single-minded in her pursuit of the creature that had murdered her sister and stolen her skin, and as the last heiress of the Elias fortune, she didn’t care about gold or glory. Mr. Chary used an old trinket, a locket with a portrait of Circe’s family, to earn a favor from the Witch Hunter.

As Circe and Mary threaded their way through the Bayou, they ignored the familiar moans and shrieks of the Grunts and Hives that stumbled through the night, and the rustle of the Armoreds papery casing. But what caught their attention was a soft whimpering, human and suffering, from within a half-collapsed shack, camouflaged by rotting clumps of netting and earth.

Circe nodded at Mary, and they readied their weapons. This was the place, and their quarry clearly injured. They’d be done in time to take morning communion.




Chapter 8
Two snakes had remained at Kevin’s side, both comfort and shackle. He would never forget how it felt as Mr. Chary’s long nails clawed into his flesh, as the scaly, writhing bodies were pulled from his wounds, and the delirium of the venom they left behind in their panicked bites. Now the snakes both protected him – keeping the monsters of the Bayou away – and guarded him – a prisoner in the shack where Mr. Chary had left him. It was only when The Moon was full once again that he found the strength to rise.

He staggered to the door, but when he pushed it, rather than swinging open, it creaked, and fell off the hinges. The sound as it hit the warped boards of the porch took the two women lurking outside by surprise.

Mary and Circe looked at the boy now silhouetted by the rotten frame, his face ruddy with tears, and countless scars blemishing neck, face, and arms. Two snakes hissed at his ankles. Wearily, the boy raised his pistol, the moonlight glinting off the clinking chain of bullet chambers.

Circe looked at Mary. "This him? He’s barely grown.” She thought of her sister.

But Mary’s answer was certain. "Even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light.” She began to raise her weapon when Kevin spoke.

"Mr. Chary sent you, didn’t he?” Kevin slowly lowered his weapon. He hoped they would let him explain.

Mary narrowed her eyes, but before she could respond, a strange silhouette filled the broken frame behind Kevin: A hooded figure, with a large snake coiled around their neck.

"Enough.” The voice that spoke was hoarse and raw.




Chapter 9
The Viper slowly brought their arm up to Delara’s fanged mouth. The snake flicked her tongue once, twice, and then gently sunk her teeth into the Viper’s wrist. The Viper’s body quaked as Delara’s venom flowed through their veins and into their heart.

The Viper and Delara belonged to each other, and there would be hell to pay if one of them did not survive this fight. With Delara’s venom coursing through the Viper’s veins, the two were preternatural fighters. But the hallowed gifts of The Moon kept Kevin agile and deadly, and every shot rang true.

Meanwhile, snakes of all sizes were rapidly converging outside of the shack, surrounding Mary Burgess and Circe Elias where they now stood back-to-back. Inside, bullets ricocheted and splintered the walls as Kevin and the Viper fought. Kevin had grown weary of violence and death.

Yet violence and death had not grown weary of him. Delara approached from the right, jaw unlocked and fangs dripping, and the Viper from the left. Kevin fired at the Viper, but Delara, lunging to protect her ward, intercepted, and Kevin’s bullet met flesh.

A broken airy scream rang out from the shack.




Chapter 10
The Viper sat catatonic on the floor where they had collapsed in worry and grief, cradling Delara in their arms. Circe had applied a healing salve, and Mary had bandaged the wound and staunched the bleeding. But the damage had been done. As Delara sought comfort around the Viper’s neck, it was Mary and Circe who set out to follow Kevin’s trail.

As they left, another visitor arrived: One of The Moon’s larger snakes, mottled brown, and the only survivor of the slaughter. The Viper remained still as it approached, tongue tasting the air, slithering from right to left. When it reached striking distance, it paused, its tongue tasted the air once more. Then it struck.

But the Viper was quicker, pushing one thumb down the snake’s throat and gripping the head. The snake struggled to bite, its fangs dripping venom, but the Viper’s grip was too strong. The Viper had been taught to respect predators – and that every predator has a weakness. This abomination was no different.

"Delara, let us feast.” The Viper moved quickly, taking The Moon’s snake between their teeth and tearing, giving the smaller pieces to Delara. Then, with the now slack jaw of the dead snake, the assassin dug the fangs, still covered in venom, into their own neck.

The effect was immediate. The Viper heard conversations and screams as if of a crowd, reeling at the injection of raw experiential information. They heard Mr. Chary convincing Kevin to join him in the circle. They heard the screams of those burned alive in Chary’s dirt circle. They heard Kevin crying and waking up from nightmares, and the screams of Mary Ochenkov.

They felt Kevin’s pain.

It lasted only a few seconds, though it felt like hours to the Viper, and when it ended, the Viper finally understood. Kevin was not the enemy, and Mr. Chary had to be stopped.

The Viper rose to their feet and gently wrapped Delara around their neck once more. From a pouch at their side, they pulled a face shield made of wicker and placed it on their face. They would face many more snakes before they removed it.




Chapter 11
The vile fumes of the black dye filled Ira Ozols’ nose, and she fought the feeling of panic rising in her chest as she tightened the blindfold around her eyes. She did not know how Chary had learned of the ritual, but immediately, she could feel it had worked. As she wandered through the cool dark of her mind’s eye, the visions began to come in bright intense flashes. She stepped tentatively into the tub of black liquid, aware of the dye staining her legs and pooling in the surrounding mud. Pulling a razor from her pocket, she began to shred her robes, and looked into the light.

The truth of the Night Seer’s vision was monstrous, and he had kept it from them all, pretending to a purpose to which he had no allegiance. Everything they’d done would bring pain and horror to those they loved, and she would say and do things she already regret. Ira cut at her right sleeve. It fell into the dye.

The Night Seer following her own tracks.

The razor cutting through her left sleeve.

Mr. Chary telling Isaac of her betrayal.

The razor meeting with soft flesh.

Isaac raising his gun to her head.

Blood pooling in the gash and dripping into the inky black water.

She wretched again, and wept.




Chapter 12
Kevin didn’t make it far from the shack. Instead, he curled himself into a patch of brush and rocked, the screams of the Viper over Delara becoming one with the screams of Mary Ochenkov as she burned. He wished The Moon would comfort him again, but she too was sick, and tormented. He had failed.

So he rocked. And rocked and rocked.

It didn’t take Mary and Circe long to find him. He was tired, so tired, so he sat very still, and waited. Next: voices. The Viper, now masked, had caught up to the hunting party as well. He had failed, and now he had been found. He did not make a sound as the women pulled him from the bushes.

"Why is it,” The Viper’s rough whisper began, muted slightly by the wicker mask. “That that man wants you dead?”

"Because I want to stop him. If I don’t stop him, people will keep dying and The Moon will fall.”

"How many have you killed?” The Viper asked.

"None! I made sure none of them died!” Kevin was vehement. “The only blood on my hands will be his.”

The Viper looked to Mary and Circe, nodding at the expression they found there. They lowered their weapons.

Mary was the first to speak. "Child I cannot, in good faith strike you down knowing what I know now.” The Viper had told her of their vision, and it matched what she had heard from the Hunters Kevin had bested.

"The bastard was probably lying to me too. Let’s go see what he has to say for himself.” Circe offered her hand to Kevin, and when he cautiously took it, hoisted him to his feet.

The Viper picked up Delara and placed her once more around their neck. They nodded.

"To the mine.”




Chapter 13
The group of four cautiously entered Kingsnake Mine to the sound of gunfire echoing from its depths. Mr. Chary had told only a handful of Hunters about his sanctum. They paused, listening, but as they did, the gunfire stopped.

"Enter now and witness the end of the Night Seer or go your own way.” The voice echoing out from the mine belonged to none other than Ira Ozols. The four looked at each other, then headed deeper into the mine.

At a junction, in the flickering light of the oil lamps, they found Ira Ozols and the Night Seer poised in a stand off with weapons drawn. They were both ragged from fighting, and bullet cases littered the floor.

"And what’s all this about?” Circe asked.

"His vision is nothing but a means to send us all to hell. I will not let him corrupt another soul for his gain,” Ira said. “And I,” here she took a deep breath, clearly winded from the fight, “am going to stop him.”

"I will cut out this false seer’s tongue and we can continue our work,” the Night Seer hissed in reply, eyes still fixed on Ira. “And I see you’ve brought the boy.”

"The boy isn't our enemy,” Circe said, walking confidently towards the Night Seer. “We’ve been lied to.”

Kevin felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder. It was the Viper. He took a step forward.

"Listen, ok? Mr. Chary. We need to stop him.” Kevin's voice grew more confident as he spoke.

"Stop me from doing what exactly?” Everyone turned at the sound of Mr. Chary’s voice. But he was not in the room – a trick of the mine’s acoustics, he must be deeper down. Kevin began to panic as visceral memories ripped through him at the sound. But he was not so shaken to forget the gun at his hip, and now he raised it, ready to face Mr. Chary once and for all.

It was time to end this.




Chapter 14
There was someone – something – in the mine. Deep. Trapped. Keening with grief and rage.

Never mind that Ira could not focus on the figures of Kevin or Mr. Chary in her visions now – both were blurry, hazy, blocked. Never mind that Isaac Powell had his gun trained on her and that four more arrivals had just complicated their standoff. That she could handle. But whatever was at the bottom of that mine? She wasn’t sure any of them were prepared to handle that.

The others continued their arguments, unaware, Mr. Chary buying time with meaningless words and empty smiles. Kevin stammering on about The Moon. And that damn nun, always quoting the Bible. Mr. Chary was addressing them all. “And what can this child give you that I cannot?”

"Your honey words will no longer tempt God’s children!” Mary went to stand by Kevin’s side. The boy was trembling, but he steeled himself for the fight. Circe and the Viper joined Mary beside Kevin, forming a line against Mr. Chary.

"But the devil gives excellent rewards,” Mr. Chary retorted. He looked at the four Hunters before him and the two seers behind them. They were all talented Hunters and if they managed to work together, Mr. Orwell Chary would lose his life. But if had just one Hunter on his side, and a little time, he might make it out alive.

"Mister, please. Whatever you’re doing, whatever you have done, it can end here and now.” Kevin trembled as he confronted the Administrator once more.

"You’re right my dearest Kevin, it can, and it will. You’ve helped me more than you’ll ever know. Farewell.” And at that, he snapped his fingers again. From behind the four Hunters Isaac Powell moved his sight from Ira to Kevin, and fired. And Kevin fell.

In that moment, it felt as if time had stopped. The Hunters froze in disbelief as Kevin’s body crumpled to the ground. They did not try to stop Mr. Chary and Powell as they ran towards the surface-ward passage. The Viper fell to their knees and cradled Kevin in their arms. It was the dynamite, lit by Mr. Chary as he ran, that brought them all to their senses.

An explosion, a rumble, and a collapse: they were trapped in Kingsnake Mine.




Chapter 15
The lamps hanging from the walls stopped shaking as the dust and rock settled around the five Hunters left in the mine. Circe walked over to assess the damage to the entrance. They could dig themselves out with the tools left by the miners, but it would take hours. She looked back to the Viper and the boy.

The Viper gently cradled Kevin as he bled out on the floor. Enemy or uneasy ally; no one deserved this.

And then Kevin blinked.

"Where am I this time?” The boy looked around and came face to face with Delara and the Viper, both shocked to see Kevin alive.

"A Lazarus among us,” Mary whispered as she and Circe ran over to join them.

"How is this possible?” Circe asked as she kneeled down to Kevin. She raised his head to observe his now-mending wounds. Bone and flesh popping in like a mushroom in bloom.

"The Moon! I can't rest until she’s better.” Kevin closed his eyes, curling into the arms of the Viper as he healed. “A Linus isn’t supposed to break promises.” Delara curled her tail around the boy’s arm in silent reassurance.

The three Hunters exchanged a determined glance. They had seen how cruel Mr. Chary could be. "We will help you end this.” The Viper spoke, but all nodded in agreement.

On the other side of the mine, Ira gasped. The thing in Kingsnake’s depths was coming into focus.

"We’ll have to fight soon. Get the boy to safety,” Ira said as she reloaded her gun.

"What- “ Circe was interrupted by a piercing wail. Kevin, still healing, thrashed, trying to crawl away from the sound. He’d heard that scream of anguish countless times in his nightmares.

"What is it?” The Viper pretended to be calm but the rasp in their whisper gave away their worry.

"She’s here.” He couldn’t say more.

Something was coming to greet them from the depths of the mine.
While studying the Louisiana Event, researchers are often given information with variations in time gaps and reliability. That has caused frustration among historians from varying specialties including biology. The Stalker Beetle is one such creature that emerged out the haze of the swamp. It was only recently that we gained more insight into this mysterious creature and its ilk. Below are a few extracts restored from the journal of an apiculturist and entomologist that we believe studied the Stalker Beetle.

Journal of Unknown Entomologist
DATE: August 16th
A strange little thing found its way to me today. I was on my way to the 13th apiary when this odd one sprang to life. I thought it was simply a leaf until it reared its head back to reveal a shocking face. Two eyes, black as void, glared at me. Its markings showed bared teeth that appeared dipped in blood. It would surely send many a fair lady running if they encountered such a thing!

The apiary must do without me tomorrow. I will observe this fellow and its natural behavior for now.

DATE: August 17th
What an evening it has been! It seems the bees at the 13th apiary have been busy with something strange. I found many strange larvae in the combs. Could the insect I stumbled upon yesterday have been wandering over there? Perhaps it has seen a merit in sharing its genes and it began to breed with the queen, and the results are these strange little larvae? They are much bigger than the bee larvae so they must have been pushed out of the hive due to size, but still they thrived!

It's strange staring at them, I can't help but feel… lethargic, somehow. I get lost in them, and sometimes I can even see myself. It's odd, but wonderful. I will go back to the apiary tomorrow to gather all that I can.

DATE: August 30th
Discovery after discovery! The growth of the larvae was only expedited when I removed them from the 13th apiary and gave them more accommodating living space. I named them the Foulbrood, for their dark color, like they're diseased. After ten days nestled among their mother-kind's wax and honey I gathered from the 13th apiary, they began to receive enough nutrients to start building strange cocoons around themselves. Why, it seemed like it was mere hours once they were complete. Now the strange larva I discovered is nestled gently in its cocoon next to me and I await with bated breath its new form.

DATE: August 31st
It only took a moment, it seems. I can barely look away from it to write down my observations. The first one to come out of its cocoon, the First Born of a species I and everyone else are unfamiliar with. It chitters at me curiously and observes me. The void-like compound eyes have gotten bigger and developed a glossy outer layer. It sports a hardened carapace, surely to replace that terrifying defense mask from its larval stage. A few legs and feelers round out the equation to make a wonderful creature. It is strange, it doesn't bear any resemblance to its parents, and it's not a bee either in size, or in appearance. It seems the genes broke down completely to make something new.

But the most important thing is what it does, that mesmerizing thing, where it stares at me, and I can see myself. It's gotten stronger; a pulse and rumbling start in my ear and my vision goes black like in the Sight. I see a silhouette of me, almost feel a pulse but I can't move otherwise. It's all wonderful if not a bit terrifying.

Other Foulbrood are still in their cocoons, and I am thrilled to see them emerge, yet I fear what would happen if I saw my reflection through dozens of glossy eyes. It could drive one mad with just the thought…

DATE: September 23rd
The Foulbrood grow stronger by the day. The beetles have selected the First Born as a queen and that led to an unexpected discovery as to how they communicate as a species. They seem to work as a hive mind, following the orders of the queen. The Sight, it somehow seems to tune with the First Born, and I can see into the others. As I suspected, it left me dazed and mad for days - seeing through hundreds of little eyes moving as they willed! But I was able to get control. To the point where I could isolate to one, but only if I held the creature first. That contact, that physical connection, seems necessary, otherwise I fear what would happen with the sensory overload.

DATE: September 26th
Since fostering the connection, I've been taking the young with me into the incursion. Being able to see through their eyes, being able to act before the dangers lurk around do has been a boon. Yes, some have been lost here and there, but their worth has outweighed the cost.

But still, there is so much potential with this new species. The Stalker Beetle is but one Foulbrood, I'm sure of it. I can make them more resilient, be more useful. I'll start planting new larvae here and there. Maybe adverse conditions will help with selective breeding. If the crossbreeding of this mysterious larva and another insect species did this, what could the crossbreeding with others create? Now wouldn't that be a fascinating experiment?
Devil's Moon

LUNAR FEVER TAKES OVER NEW ORLEANS- The talk of the town has been the moon this week as fans of Simon Moore flock to the stands for their copy of the Lunae Diaboli periodical. Readers, young and old, have been enraptured by the tall tales of the young champion Kevin as he fights the dastardly Chary and the horrors he's brought to our very own New Orleans that changed the Bayou forever.

The True Crescent had the opportunity to talk with Mr. Moore about what's next in the thrilling serial, and while he can't tell us much, he promised us that there will be a terrible plan to stop Chary once and for all. We're burning with excitement!"

+++

“The myths of midwinter recall a time of reckoning: gifts for the good, retribution for the bad. The reckoners, few and far between, have been softened by time. But not Perchta, from ancient alpine valleys, where punishments are dealt with a blade at dusk, and trees gifted with rotten garlands at dawn.




The Return of The Skinflint and Devil's Advocate
Note, stapled into Skinflint's ledger, Timothy Stone
Handwritten, original.
Undated.

Warning!

The names listed on this page should only be given to clients who are made aware of the conditions. The persons, to which these names once belonged, found themselves in odd circumstances at their time of death. They were hunters, they led a dismal life of notoriety and violence. There's no telling how many States they were wanted in, how many sons and daughters are out for revenge on them.

But – the names do hold a unique value. The names of these hunters have been consumed by the inferno, as they called it. As such, much like the evidence of Chary's other crimes, their physical forms have been destroyed, totally consumed by the fire. There is no hope of their deaths being discovered. The names are safe, in that regard – safer than others.

Be wary of those who would choose such a name. Of those who would take papers of the doomed, with unknown shadows baying for their blood. One name – Henry Trapp – has already been promised to one of Chary's most feverish supporters. The one who first started the fires. Who wants to burn it all up. Turn this bayou to ash. We know him as the Devil's Advocate.




Dusk Cries Perchta while Dawn Whispers
Journal entry, Luna Wolf
Handwritten, original
Undated.

Our hunt goes on and the inferno burns. The moon weeps. Leo's tracks were lost in the flames. Remus is quiet now. We cursed the boy out the pack when we gave him a lion's name.

In the night howl and the fire crack I heard the name of one who could help. Then more, and more, until I feel I know her already. She is like us, of old ways, of fur and tooth. She is of the land, and follows her own path, not to be swayed by weak men to kill for others' names. She is wild, like us. A whelp of the night, of the moon. Fate draws her to me.

Perchta. The howls echoed her bright, and when a cloud passed the moon, it echoed dark. In the crackle of the fire we heard the same, as it darkened to lick a log, then brightened when it was ready to feast. Perchta has two sides. She might kill us or help us. I have not told this to Remus.

The more I listen to night howl, and the fire crack, the more clearly I hear Perchta coming. The message is becoming clear. That we know if she comes at dawn, fate will take us down one path. At dusk, fate will choose another. Our hunt for Leo will end. The lonely howl will stop. He will come back to us, or we will kill him, and our pack will be whole again.




La Luz Mala Herald the Moon
Letter found in DeSalle Train Station author known to others as 'The Concubine'
Handwritten, original
Undated, recipient unknown

Dear friend, I apologize for confusion I cause due to my lack of knowledge of your tongue and customs. I am a stranger in this place, but now a stranger with goal and purpose.

I reconsidered your suggestion after our last encounter and searched long to find the boy. I got lost, deep in the bayou. It was dark, clouds covered sky. It was a light that brought me out that place. It bobbed in the distance, at eye level. With no other option, I followed it. When I reached it, the clouds parted and there was the moon.

The moon led me to the boy. He reminds me of my brother. May fate be different. There is heavy responsibility on his shoulders. But we support him, and his back would never touch the ground with our company.

The boy's followers look at me suspiciously. They know I am different. They regard me an outsider. But one, a woman from another far place. They call her Luz Mala. Though even a knife would not open her mouth, I sometimes hear her speak in a tongue I am not familiar with. I know what things pass through her mind. Her dark eyes burn with vengeance, something we both share, and this bringing us together.

There is more to this than the boy. Though some follow him, it is the moon that he follows. Do I believe it? I do not know. But there are devils here, there is light, and there is darkness. In this raging inferno the only way is follow the guides that dance in the night.

Alaz




The Infernal Pact
"Mr. Chary, was rich. Mr. Chary was powerful. And Mr. Chary had given out a lot of favors. When the time came to choose a side, many stayed with the AHA for the money, for the power, and to clear their debts. Some stayed because they had a history with the association, and others stayed because they refused to fight by the side of their enemies. Mr. Chary assured all that they would be paid handsomely for their loyalty, and his word was as good as gold."

The Lunar Pact
"No one really knew what was going on with Chary and the AHA. They just knew it wasn't right. They kept their heads down until a boy and a nun approached them. The boy and the nun were quick to tell folks the truth of the matter: The old AHA was gone, and what Chary was doing with it would cause all of Louisiana to sink into Hell and The Sculptor's Hands. The nun and the boy begged for aid to stop Chary, and many ignored the call. But just a few, with guilt and a sense of justice gnawing at their heart, came to help the boy."

The Grounded Pact
"Many observed the chaos for a while and decided that it just wasn't for them. What need did they have for Chary's riches? What need did they have for Kevin's promise of a better future? They all had their reasons for joining the Hunt, and nothing would deter them from their path. So, they would watch, and they would fight, and they would do things like they always did. Nothing would bother them, and if something tried, they would put them in their place with bullets like always."

Chapter 1

Clipping from the New Orleans True Crescent
Authors: Unknown
Newsprint, 4x3 in.

LUNAR FEVER TAKES OVER NEW ORLEANS- The talk of the town has been the moon this week as fans of Simon Moore flock to the stands for their copy of the Lunae Diaboli periodical. Readers young and old have been enraptured by the tall tales of the young champion Kevin as he fights the dastardly Chary and the horrors he’s brought to our very own New Orleans, that changed the bayou forever.

The True Crescent had the opportunity to talk with Mr. Moore about what’s next in the thrilling serial, and while he can’t tell us much, he promised us that there will be a terrible plan to stop Chary once and for all. We’re burning with excitement!




Chapter 2

Letter written by Kevin Linus
Damaged but intact with envelope, no return or recipient address, 8 x 11 in.

Mama? Papa? I don’t know if you’re reading over my shoulder while you’re watching over me, but I’m scared. Everything hurts, but I have too many people to protect now. I can’t stop.

It’s not all bad. I’ve met so many interesting folks, they fight for me. They fight with me. And they try their best to convince others to fight at my side too. But it’s getting harder, I think every person we get to help us only means that he’s gotten two more. And more blood keeps spilling, and more bodies keep piling and I can’t help but know it’s my fault. I wish I could give up. I wish that I could let the others take care of the rest, but I can’t. When I even think about stopping feels like something is crawling in my head, it whispers, only stops when I keep moving forward.

It’ll end soon. All of this. We figured it out, figured out how to kill him. I think. I’m not sure. But once it’s done maybe I can rest, and I can go back home. Maybe I can bring my new friends with me too, would be nice to sit by the pond and listen to all their stories. But right now, I should focus on this fight, so I can have a chance of taking them there.

So mama? Papa? Please keep watching over me a little while longer.




Chapter 3

Wax Recording Transcript
Some parts unintelligible due to molding.

I do not know…if I’ll be able to replicate the experiment. The pieces will stay the same, but the amounts are all a bit hazy. But this is it, this is everything I’ve been working towards. So many sacrificed, so many fighting all for this moment. The sculptor will be nothing to fear… Louisiana will be remembered for ending these incursions once and for all. And I…

[Pause]

If I were to give rough estimates, two parts Hive womb. Around 1000 mL of venom. The essence extracted from several bounties of Mr. Orsica are a must… From there I suppose you mix in enough [Unintelligible] the inoculation takes care of the rest. How fascinating.

Her vocal cords still need some healing and I fear the [Unintelligible].

What a pretty thing she was, such a shame. But at least now she’ll have brawn enough to make up for the loss of beauty.

[Rattling and muffled screams]

Ah, ah, ah my dear. Relax…and recuperate. When you’re ready, you and I will have much work to do. So, save your energy.

[Laughing and muffled screams]

Now Ms. Ochenkov, listen very carefully. A young man will-

[Transmission cuts off here]




Chapter 4

Clipping from the Louisiana Lady’s Periodical, 1903
Author: Unknown
Newsprint 4x8 in.

CAUTIONARY TALES FOR THE CHILD FOLK: BEWARE OCHENKOV’S WIDOW

We at the Louisiana Lady know how hard it can be to get a little rascal to stay in their bed at night or stop them from wandering too far. Give them something that will make them take pause the next time they want to stray with a tall tale sure to give them gooseflesh. This month we give you a story sure keep your kids close to home with OCHENKOV’S WIDOW:

Deep in the night, have you heard the wailing? The sobs and oddly pitched screams that hurts your ears and sets them ringing? Then you’ve just heard the fearsome widow for yourself! Some say that if you catch her gaze, you’ll start weeping enough to fill an empty sea. Others say she’s stronger than ten men and could rip twenty men in half with her bare hands. The latter must be true, considering her self-same responsibility for becoming a widow.

All the newspapers in New Orleans were full of news of Mary when her husband was found massacred, his chest raggedly open, and his heart stolen. By the time the body was discovered, Mary Ochenkov had long since disappeared, but months later something unfathomable transpired. Close to Mary’s home, there were several accounts of people hearing cries in the night. None dared find the source of the cries; none but one, who had an unfortunate close encounter and who said:

When you get close to Mary her neck creaks like metal, and she lets out a wail that could make a strongman pass out. And then she comes at you with knife in hand.

After that, there were many more encounters with the Widow, but few lived to tell the tale. But those few all have one thing to say.

Don’t go wondering around at night, and don’t go talking to any stranger.

Cause Ochenkov’s Widow might catch you and bring your heart to the brazier!




Chapter 5

Letter to Kevin Linus
Author: Handwriting matches that of Circe Elias
Handwritten on a scrap of paper
Severe fire damage; reconstructed by archivist

Kevin,

The roots of evil deepen, and after what I learned from Doctor John, I fear we might need to prepare ourselves for the least expected if we are to survive. Resort to means long denied. We have yet to understand the nature of this monster – that man – for the evil in him exceeds everything I know. There is still hope. Doctor John was hesitant to tell me until he consulted the bones – and even then I doubt he was certain.

Though Chary claims his intentions are good, his actions prove otherwise. His total self-absorption and ambitions cloud his own mind, yet make him a strong-willed adversary. But even the toughest rock can be broken, and the mortal shell his soul resides in is not resistant to everything. All living things, natural or not, need something to function. For us – or rather for our primal bodies – blood is the essence of life and death, depending on the treatment. To manipulate one’s soul, we first need to crack open the shell and reach the essence.

For this, we need treated oleander leaves burned in high quantity at the devil’s hour – a poisonous inferno, “a hellfire” as Doctor John called it. If we burn enough herbs, the fumes can weaken him from within, though this alone can’t be enough to kill him. But at the very least, the smell of oleander will tell those who’ve taken his infernal pact that we will be triumphant, and they are not the only ones who can ravage with fire.

But this is where it becomes unspeakable: the treatment of oleander requires its leaves to be boiled in the blood of the pure and just, as evil can only be defeated by righteousness.

Doctor John is reluctant to let me leave, but Cora promised to carry this letter to you.

Until then, be careful.

C




Chapter 6

Wax Recording Transcript Titled “Timothy Stone”
Some parts are unintelligible due to molding.

New captives arrived today, and Chary brought them again to the dirt circle where it all began. A brutal thing, the process. Long stakes driven into the eyes to keep them in place while Chary calmly covers their body in a clay he prepared. I don't understand how they live so long through it. Then it solidifies, creates a protective layer on the body while the souls “ripen”, as Chary says. It takes a few days, but once the soul is ready, the back of the clay structure slits open, like a mouth, a black crevasse, an abyss. But there’s never a trace of a body in it. And the sound those things make [Pause], it keeps me awake in the nights… gives me unspeakable nightmares.

Chary says he needs those things to reach souls. I don’t know what he means, and I’m afraid to ask again. I dared ask once, and he smirked when I did. Then his face quickly changed when I asked if the boy’s company or other Hunters could also reave the souls. He looked me in the eye for a few seconds, before saying he had a plan. The next day, he gathered his lot and asked them to help those poor souls, explained that it would leave a mark somewhere on their body. If they managed get to one of his collection points with those marks, they would gain his favor and unimaginable rewards. [Chuckles] That man is a true master of manipulation.

[Sighs] Unsurprisingly, Hunters once again gave into their greed, and now I have four hundred thirty-seven new names on my ledger. Business is booming. After all, they have no use of the name they had been called before.

[Unintelligible]

So, I was right. I saw one of the boy’s followers [Unintelligible] he was speaking to that... thing. A Soul Trap. After a few seconds, I could see the mark form on the back of his neck. How do they know about these structures? I don’t know what Chary plans to do, and I don’t care as long as I have more names and a hefty price for each, but I need to stay vigilant.

[Transmission cuts off here]




Chapter 7

Clippings from the New Orleans True Crescent
Authors: Unknown
Newsprint, 4x5 in.

THE CITIZENS OF NEW ORLEANS WORRY AS STRANGE FIRES IGNITE THE BAYOU - Around 5 o’clock p.m. yesterday, supper was interrupted as smoke began to billow in from all directions towards the city. Large wildfires have engulfed parts of the bayou. Local firefighters are unconcerned, as affected areas are of low importance. The True Crescent does not yet know the causes of these fires, but it is unlikely they are natural.

POULTRYMAN COMMENTS ON FIRES - Many are concerned for their land and businesses near wildfire outbreaks. But not poultryman William Moses, whose land is directly affected by the wildfires, who was seen leaving town heavily armed. The True Crescent approached him for comment. “I don’t plan on leaving my home, even when I’m dead and gone. Y’all cowards can stay home, not wanted no way and no how.” Moses refused to speak further on the matter.




Chapter 8

Manuscript, "Lunae Diaboli"
Author: Simon Moore
Undated
Bleached paper, typewritten, 8.5x11 in

Chapter 40

The chaos surrounding the boy and the man stopped in an instant. Guns were lowered and all stood in awe as they listened to Chary’s wretched screams, for Kevin’s fingers were sinking into the administrator’s skull. The smell of the burning oleander hung heavy in the air. There was no blood, only licks of flame, as Chary’s skin and bones parted like paper to make way for Kevin’s fingers. It had worked, Chary’s invulnerability was broken. The violation was absolutely maddening.

“Let it end.” Kevin said with an eerie calm, “Let it end for both of us.”

Kevin’s request was then answered. He coughed up blood as Mary Ochenkov’s hand plunged into his back, her fingers finding purchase on his heart. Snakes creeped around her hands and twined themselves round her arm, sinking their fangs wherever they could, but she paid no attention. If she ever wanted relief – to find her sanity, be in control, get back Petr – she would have to fulfill her last task.

She Squeezed.

Pop. The spectators couldn’t quite hear it as much as felt it. Kevin felt his own relief wash over. Ochenkov released the boy's heart and he fell to the ground. His head, eyes wide open and a calm smile on his face, landed with a thud to stare at Moses. Circe cursed.

Chary, kneeling, panting, slowly erupted into a laugh of triumph. He unnaturally sprung to his feet, wafting away the plumes of oleander smoke that moments before had brought him to his knees.

“Wonderful my girl, simply amazing!” Chary said as he grabbed Ochenkov’s blood-soaked hand. He lifted it into the air and addressed his attackers, stunned by Kevin’s death.

“To think I was ever worried!” Chary guffawed. “No child can stop us, no moon, no Sculptor. Our dear Mary’s transformation has proven it. This is the power we needed, and it shall only grow from here!”




Chapter 9

Damaged Clipping from the New Orleans True Crescent
Author: Unknown
Newsprint, 3x3 in.

DOZENS DEAD IN FIRES – The number of those killed in the recent wildfires is growing by the day. While many are beyond recognition, the True Crescent can today publish the names of eight more of the deceased: Louie Burns, Emolet Gabb, Murr James, Cadianne Landry, Kevin Linus, Leola Skidd, Luetta Williams, and Rossanna Winston.

And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away. (Revelation 21:4)

A public memorial service will be arranged in the coming weeks.




Chapter 10

Wax Cylinder Transcript, 4x2 in.
Labeled “Port Sulphur Field Recording”

The devils in the circle

The devils in the night

The devils in the water

Reflecting the light

The devil is calling

You'll get what you see

Cause devil's on fire

And the devils in me

I guess now we draw the line

Light the match and start the fire

Embers flare up one more time

There's nothing left to lose

And there's nothing left to hide

I fought back and I fought hard

And in the circle I got lost

Always painful memory

The devils in the details

And the devils in me

[Transmission cuts off here]




Chapter 11

Manuscript, "Lunae Diaboli"
Author: Simon Moore
Undated
Bleached paper, typewritten, 8.5x11 in

Chapter 41

In the cool and the dark, Kevin opened his eyes. There was nothing but a soft glow. No pain, no Chary, no moon. Just him. He took a few cautious steps forward, testing his balance. He started walking, for minutes, days it seemed; but it didn’t matter. The calm washed over him.

And then two silhouettes, a man and a woman. Kevin didn’t let himself hope, but he ran to them. Amelia and Robert Linus. His mother and father.

Kevin wrapped his arms around them, and they wrapped their arms around him in return. He crumpled to the ground, and they crumpled with him.

“Is it okay now? Can I be with you again mama?” Kevin sobbed, his face flushing with every fallen tear. His crying showed what he had hidden for a while, something that, to keep going, he'd forgotten: his age.

“My sweet baby, I’m sorry.” Amelia kissed the crown of her child’s head. “There’s still more to do, and you’re still much too young to be here now.” Kevin looked to his mother in confusion.

“Kevin, you have to go back. You have to see this to the end, and I don’t mean just killing that man.” Robert began.

“It won’t end with him, things will keep on coming until you get to the root of the problem.” Kevin’s father stroked his hair. “And you’re young scout. There’s so much more living left for you to do.”

“Can you hold out? Just a little longer?” Kevin’s mother asked. The boy was quiet for a moment, then nodded.

“You always told me that I have to keep my word. And I will.” With that, Kevin held his parents in a tight hug. They returned it with everything they could muster.

“We love you, now go get him.”




Chapter 12

Journal of Elise Austin
Brown leather wrapped in black chord 5” x 7”
Date Unknown

It’s all strange, fascinating, and sick. A system, imperfect, that keeps itself running based on a status quo that even the most wicked vowed not to break. And then one man enters, he works his way up the metaphorical ladder and nestles himself into a position at the top, just to tip it all over.

I can scarcely say who did it first. Who started the inferno, the hellfire, the devil’s hour. There’s just too much chaos to get an accurate testimony before the fools burn themselves up. The so-called Lunar Pact, moon crazed, have been lighting fire with bundles of herb, like they’re smoking something out with the rancid smoke. The Infernal Pact are doing what they can to destroy the bodies, killed in the crossfire, building pyres that turn folks to ash.

I’ve yet to witness all this myself, but I know what whoever caused the fires are destroying the work of future archaeologists, researchers, and academics. They’re turning history to a black void. An abyss into which many will lose their minds delving into.

And all because of one man who wormed his way in. For now, it doesn’t stop me and my work.




Chapter 13

A letter from a stack found at Port Reeker, all identical.
Damaged but intact with envelope, no return or recipient address, 8 x 11 in.

Hello,

You do not know me, we haven’t met yet, but I am told we will. I hope we speak the same language. I am told you have experience with monsters and more terrible things.

The same things that happened where you are, they have been happening here for a while. Even though there are oceans between us. Things that can’t be explained. If my friends are to be believed it is worse here in Louisiana than anywhere else. And it’s spreading, there are rumors, and spreading.

The American Hunter’s Association wants to keep this to themselves. But they’re losing control, and if someone else doesn’t step in, we’re all goners.

I know you have no reason to care. I know you have no reason to help. But if even a small part of you wants to come to New Orleans, please follow it. We are a small group, but we are growing, and I promise we’ll do anything we can to repay your kindness.

When you call for me, I will answer. When you are ready, I will be waiting.

May her light keep you,

Linus




Chapter 14

Poster, “TO THE AHA: THE CORRESPONDENCE OF ELWOOD FINCH”
Letter pressed, 12x18 in.

To all Hunters,

It is with great sadness that the Louisiana branch of the American Hunter’s Association can no longer sustain itself. Though it may outlive me, not for long. There are those that would see the Sculptor thrive in our home. Our administration cannot respond to correspondence at this time, we must take action against those terrorizing our group.

It is no secret that our influence has been waning: others are paying bounties, providing arms, and have their own beliefs. This chaos has allowed the problem to fester. And now these damned Pacts are holding more sway. There is one consolation: they too will soon burn out.

Representatives from both eastern and western branches have been called to lend their strength against those who seek to undermine our mission. I fear it will not be enough.

Though hidden, our arm of the AHA has always been a pillar of New Orleans, Louisiana, and the south itself. I hope some of you will join me in continuing that fight.

In Service,

Dr. Elwood Finch

Director, American Hunters Association




Chapter 15

Found Page
Author Unknown
Torn on the left edge, 5x8 in.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

for auld lang syne,

we'll take a cup of kindness yet,

for auld lang syne.

When Hell had come like hell we fought,

regardless of the crime.

We take the sin with money got

for auld lang syne.

We stood as brothers side by side,

as fires died with time.

The devil gone; the heralds sing.

For auld lang syne.

And when the fight has come again,

your gun will become mine!

For dead men shall not shoot again.

For auld lang syne

Should old acquaintance be forgot,

and never brought to mind?

Should old acquaintance be forgot,

and auld lang syne?
"Rotjaw, as we call this female alligator specimen, defies the physiology of any known aquatic reptile, or creature descended from 'living' taxonomical orders. Putrefaction has encompassed her skull, leaving it bare and smooth. The jaws instill in one a paleolithic fear, something felt by the first mammals to witness their parents eviscerated by reptiles. They are easily capable of crushing three men."

Unlike other Boss Targets, Rotjaw cannot be found in a compound. Instead, she guards her water territories out in the open, lying in wait for prey to approach. Find and defeat her to earn a Bounty Token. You'll deserve it—Rotjaw is one of our deadliest enemies yet.




Primal Pact
The emergence of the Rotjaw has brought together the wildest of Hunters. Worshipping what others fear earns them trophies of flesh and bone. The Primal Pact's instinct detects enemies lurking in the bayou, making them relentless in encounters.

Smuggler Pact
The Ghost Ship Delphine carries treasures tainted by the Land of the Dead. With their value increased, the Smuggler Pact works at any cost to procure these wares. These gunrunners are healed by water and propelled by feverish greed.

Grounded Pact
In a tide of chaos, the Grounded honor the natural order of the bayou. Their shadows are augmented to go unseen by the Corrupted. Their bond is strong, and they channel the energy of Traits to heal their companions.
Chapter 1: The Navigator

TWO YEARS AGO
September 29th, 1883
Delphine Transit Log

4:44 A.M.

Underway early to try and beat the storm. Crickets are loud. River is flat. Mr. Owl missed logging the passengers. Marked down who I saw board:

Crew:
Captain Laffite
Mr. Owl
Mr. Douglas
Scrawlback Jim
Jellico Bennings

Passengers:
Mr. & Mrs. Carmichael
Frederick Dellowit from Algiers Ice
*Rest Unknown

6:45 A.M.

The river is cast in a gray light. Higher than this time last year. A row of houses sit half-flooded and sunk. There are children on the roofs throwing rocks at us. The captain is thumbing the hammer on his rifle, and I don't bother to stay his hand.

8:15 A.M.

We took a deep wake portside in passing a lumber barge. Something heavy dislodged in stowage, and Jellico and Scrawlback started to scuffle. Captain stepped in and slapped them both in front of the Carmichaels. No one will say what they're transporting down there. But Frederick said he heard whispering from one of the crates.

10:10 A.M.

Nearly broadsided an oak tree felled by the wind. Gusting up to 25 knots already. Captain doesn't seem concerned. He's excited. I would be too if my duty was to drink on deck all morning.

12:00 P.M.

I saw the gust blow a circus tent clear into the river and knew there'd be people caught inside the flotsam of canvass and logs. Steered away as best I could, but couldn't stop in time on account of it blowing over 35 knots. The passengers don't know. Had Mr. Owl clean the blood off the bow.

If this storm wasn't haunted, it's going to be now.

4:00 P.M.

Captain won't let us turn back. The storm has burn-mark clouds. The wind is getting stronger, tastes like ash. Every omen of a hurricane is upon us.

If we survive this, I'll make sure the captain never sets foots on this boat again.




Chapter 2: Cardinal Rain

PRESENT DAY
1895, Summer

Tale of Submission, Verse One

May I doubt the strangeness of the clouds no more. Many forget, but those of us who remain Grounded know that there is something darker lurking behind them.

There is a sickness in this rain. It clings too long to leaves and bark. The sound of it dripping on the soil is wrong. Each drop leaves the impression of an insect's footfall in my mind. The mist here tastes rotten, and I'm repulsed anew with each breath. The strange folk about are not bothered by the wetness. They dart out of the bushes and the rain holding iron, boards, wrack. They are building a sculpture from this driftwood and the gnarled parts of a boat wreck. They carry each piece as a sacred object. A rare treasure.

They are too caught up in their work to notice me. I slunk to the altar they constructed and discarded the secrets of my honor to its tainted form. In return, I have gained a Shadow. An extra shade over my own.

The Corrupted cannot see me now. Not the Hives with their screeching and swarms blown like leaves. Not the Armored strung with wild barbed wire. If I'm quiet, I slip between them. I'm a Shadow thin enough to cut light.

With the bayou's blessing, I can hunt the miscreation known as Rotjaw.

But I have lost something.

When I close my eyes, I see veins of silver. They are my own veins, but it is not my blood inside them. It is blood from a different land.

I feel it. Something else seeing through my eyes instead of me. Something beckoning me to kneel on the banks. To kiss the tracks of the beast with its jaws open to the clouds.

The beast that drinks this rain and wishes upon us the foulest season of rot and bloom.




Chapter 3: Gar

PRESENT DAY
1895, Summer

Proseuchomai of the Primal
Volume One, Chapter One

This is the vow all Primal share.

I've only seen a glimpse of Her through the overwash. Rot-dappled. Lumbering with a full bellied sway. There was something inside Her, not whole eaten. They shot a gun through Her flank to escape. But She tensed, twirled the angels of Her stomach, and crushed them so only an arm dropped out.

I gathered that arm. I enwreathed it with blue crab. I balanced it on the bitten carapace of a turtle to make myself a compass. Not one that points near north. But one that aims true to the wishes of men soon to be preyed upon.

The others want to gut Her. Lash Her mandible. Sip Her salt-life until its red be gone and they possess magicks not known.

That Reptilian folk can't be tracked. He has gain some instinct--some knowledge of my presence without regard for the direction of the wind or sound, like he smells the blood beating in my heart. His children are easily followed, that Ward and the hornbacked on. They're clumsy. They move with the steps of drunk fairies and leave their filth like crumbs.

I can lick a beetle and tell of their direction. That is the filth they leave behind.

If there is a testament to be writ here, it will be through or proseuchomai: this prayer that does not cease. We will come face to face with Her. We will offer Her the miracle of many fleshes. We will feed Her until She cannot move. Around Her we shall make a shrine.

But I will be the one to sit atop Her. I will have a throne in these waters at last.




Chapter 4: The Navigator

TWO YEARS AGO
October 1st, 1893
Delphine Transit Log

2:00 A.M.

Hell is real and I am inside it. I am certain there has never been a wind such as this on these shores, or else there would be no shore left to stand upon.

2:30 A.M.

The paddle wheel is churning up bodies of drowned people. They're bursting on the deck when they fall.

2:45 A.M.

We passed through a wall of insects. It seems everything is made of them now. Some have burrowed into the bodies on deck.

2:55 A.M.

A wave reached so high it broke the windshield. Brought with it a six-foot bull shark. It's thrashing at the back of the pilot house. Some massive beetle is screeching inside its mouth.

3:00 A.M.

The captain left us. I saw him. There was a kind of lightning I have never seen before, and it scared him. It scared him worse than it scared me. It struck the boat, and the sound of a gong rang out from the cargo hold.

The captain jumped overboard, holding onto a whiskey bottle. I'm the only one who saw him do it. No one is going to believe me.

7:00 A.M.

We are lost.

This is not a poetic statement of the ship sinking. We are somewhere that in no way resembles any causeway, inlet, marsh channel, or tributary on the map. At first I thought it would be on account of the tide surge. Everything is flooded. But no. We are somewhere else. The storm seems to have put us in its eye and the breeze is calm, steady.

I would say it blows from the southwest, but the compass is erased. I mean to say something has cleared all markings from it.

One more note: The sun didn't rise. I think the storm has eaten it.




Chapter 5: Wayward Helmsman

PRESENT DAY
1895, Summer
Helmsman's Land Log

The Smuggler's Pact is to put gold before souls. If they don't bleed money, I don't care what risks they take.

But the Captain smells land worn. A coward, even. He clings to his rifle and sweats.

"She's near," he sputters. "Rimbo, Jazz. Into the dew reeds to look for the cargo. Don't linger at the trace." Get in the reeds they do. They slide through the pluff mud and heron bones. Me and the captain wade across the still water and take cover behind a palm fringe. We watch them get distracted by the trace. The creek trembles. It shivers. Rattles my knees. The Rotjaw breaches with Jazz clamped in her mouth. Those jaws could crush a cannon ball. I don't know what to call what they do to Jazz's head. Wind surges. It whitecaps the marsh upstream. I brace for the gale-force, steady the captain as he shoots. He's got dizzy aim. Sends a bullet through Rimbo's chest.

Rotjaw purges her shackles. Bolts of blue-green lightning leap from the water and burn Rimbo. His scream comes out of his eyes instead of his mouth. I guess that's because his mouth is gone.

Captain gave up watching the frenzy. He stares east. "There it is, mother of Mary. There it is." The captain drops his gun.

The smokestack of a ship rises through the gatorforth. It steams with a dead fog. But it's real, knocks a tree over. The Rotjaw stops playing with what's left of Jazz and Rimbo. She slinks away and follows the smokestack as it glides downstream on vapors.

"I don't see how we're s'posed to get treasure from a ghost ship," I tell the captain.

He winces. I imagine he's thinking the thoughts of all cowardly captains: that one day gold might float true enough to save him from what he's left to drown.




Chapter 6: Gar

PRESENT DAY
1895, Summer

Proseuchomai of the Primal
Volume One, Chapter Two

She is generous with Her gifts.

I find Her cage, perched in the middle of the still water, rocking like a cradle with two Hunters tucked inside. Pine beetles march up their legs, enter the chapel of their mouths and come out of other holes and windows. What kind of prayer is at work here I do not know, but I study the patterns of the beetles till dawn.

The metal of the cage trap is soaked in Her blood. I taste it. I feel its rot melt and molt and multiply. She is healed through the things that hurt us, and this is a special wonder to me.

On those metal ribs are all sorts of wire spools--veins from machines. Things pretending to be alive. It disgusts me. A plate welded on one of the nodes reads: Algiers Ice Company. Curious, this science that crowns the ribs of our queen.

Whyever the reason, it is sacrilege.

I spear a catfish and touch it to one of the cage spikes. Lightning sparks and smokes through its gills. It doesn't turn to ice.

The sound of it is loud, foolish, causes someone to find me.

I feel their soul as gentle as a moth lands on a skull at night-a pollen of orange flittered in the darkness of my vision, an Instinct. This sense is new, a gift from Her, and it will keep me safe.

I pick up a railroad sledge from one of the dead Hunters. It is slick with tide rot, oyster filth.

I slide quiet, crouching around bundles of pampas grass till I hear the person swish their cane in the water.

I time my movements with the swaying of the tall stalks.

My legs move as Hers move. I am silent in the stream.

I raise the hammer and know that I am blessed.

I let the hammer fall and know that I am blessed.




Chapter 7: The Navigator

TWO YEARS AGO
October 1st, 1893 (Still)
Delphine Transit Log

00:00 A.M. - Time Unknown

Time is irrelevant here. As is hunger, thirst, and other bodily functions. If Mr. Carmichael were to cut me open, he would find clockwork. Clocks inside all of us. The moon here is a joke. It barely moves.

00:00 A.M.

There are more people aboard than I thought. Most are hiding in cabinets or shuddering naked beneath poker tables. Some find river snails and isopods and shove them into their eyes. There are only a handful of the crew and passengers left to talk to.

00:00 A.M.

I told the rest that the captain abandoned us.

Mrs. Carmichael called me "faithless." Said I steered us into a twilight hell.

Mr. Carmichael accused me of pushing the captain over and Jellico agreed, mentioning that our cargo was "immaculate."

Frederick claimed we had the Ark of the Covenant onboard, that he could hear a voice from it without using his ears.

Mr. Owl said he'd gut Frederick if he kept on like that.

Scrawlback Jim shot off some rounds, shut them up. He said he wasn't hungry and hadn't pissed for a thousand years. There was something stalking the boat he wanted us to go shoot. Apparently the Delphine is full of guns and stolen goods.

He mentioned some kind of crenulated "insectile head" like an artifact, too.

00:00 A.M.

They've been shooting for an hour. At the giant beetles that plow these channels with their migrations. At the trees. At the waterlogged, roaming sailors that explode silver vomit from their mouths. The sailors seem out of time, more lost than we are.

00:00 A.M.

The gunshots woke something up. It raised the Delphine a whole foot out of the water then swam out, turned, and rammed us head on. All I saw were jaws tearing into the paddle wheel.




Chapter 8: Wayward Helmsman

PRESENT DAY
1895, Summer
Helmsman's Land Log

They say time heals all wounds, but it runs like water and drowns the unwary.

"When you untie me, I'm going to stab you," The Rat told me. She was wet and shivering.

I shoved a rag into her mouth. Smeared grease across her eyes out of courtesy. Testing the powers of a ship curse is brutal work.

Captain left to talk to that man, Finch. Orders were to see if the Delphine had "blessed us." I went beside Glib and the Gunrunner by the altar we found.

I didn't feel this would work.

The Rat was in the middle of the river. She couldn't move a finger lashed to that tree.

I shot first. Hit her in the shoulder. She didn't make a sound.

Glib and the Gunrunner shot her next, both in the legs. She made a sound then. It was muffled through the rag.

I watched her through my scope. Damn me if I don't speak true, the water boiled at her waist. Her skin spit out each bullet. The holes closed. All healed by the water.

I shot the knot, let her loose.

Glib spat tobacco on the altar. "This don't mean anything."

"The Delphine is running from us," the Gunrunner told me. "From the captain."

We hadn't seen or heard The Rat swimming. She was just there. Tucked a bayonet into Glib's ribs.

Before I could cock a hammer back, she shanked the Gunrunner in the neck and stuck me in the armpit. I've seen men shredded by anchor chains. Slit at the throat by crane wire. Somehow, we bled more than all of that.

"Go on boys," The Rat said. "Time for your bath."

We stumbled into the stream and the water boiled at our waists. Glib murmured something about mermaids drowning. Our cuts healed. Water turned to blood.

The Rat pointed north with her bayonet. To where steam rose above the trees, and a boat's ghostly engine struggled.




Chapter 9: The Navigator

TWO YEARS AGO
October 1st, 1893 (Forever)
Delphine Transit Log

00:00 A.M.

It seems we've been underway for ten thousand years. It feels like I'm made of leyline and fog. Mr. Carmichael can't leave the saloon without licking five barnacles in ritual sequence: north, south, south, west, east, south.

Mrs. Carmichael lives inside what remains of the paddle wheel now. She hugs the axle and spins with each turn. Sometimes I hear her singing.

Frederick has been building a contraption. He says he can use it to "transport" us home. When he leaves the cargo hold, I go and break parts of its cage.

00:00 A.M.

Mr. Owl caught a beetle the size of a sea turtle and tried to bring it aboard. He was going to try eating one again. But that alligator lurched out of the water and snapped his arms off.

Mr. Owl won't be flying anytime soon.

Again, that young girl was on the banks, watching, moving her hands all strange. Maybe she can control that thing.

Maybe she can control all of us.

00:00 A.M.

Mr. Owl has rotted from the inside out. Last word he spoke was "Rotjaw."

00:00 A.M.

After the fifth attack by the "Rotjaw," we were boarded by a man on a rowboat, some stranger we'd never seen before. It shocked me.

It ruined my view of this place as pure and chartless. The man said our cargo was special. He said the "insectile head" buried under the guns was special. "Julius Caesar sacrificed a goat on that very relic," the man said. "Napoleon Bonaparte tried to feed it to his horse, too."

He said the object once showed a man how to make the very first fire. He said if we shoved it inside that alligator, we'd all go home.

He tapped the deck with his cane when he said "home."




Chapter 10: Cardinal Rain

PRESENT DAY
1895, Summer

Tale of Submission, Verse Two

The breath of a flower could break this man in half. "If you patch me up right, I can tell you about the alligator," the bloated man says. He has been wet for a long time. His skin is sick from the rain. The sores seem like a mold he should not have touched. His many broken bones were splintered by a heavy hammer.

The man was brought to me by The Wolf Pack. Their leader kicks him in the ribs. I smell blood on them. There was a fight. They want me to heal them.

If they betray this kindness--I can squeeze their life back out.

They hand me a Trait totem. I grip its skull and channel the restoration within as I have heard done before. The thing is dark and hot, and its energy is strong. I feel blood multiply inside the Wolf Hunters, and the mold withers away from the lowly man's flesh. The totem vanishes.

"You are Mr. Chary?" I ask. "A weak name. A name for a worm."

"Even a worm has seen things you have not." He stands. I hand him a stick instead of his cane.

"How has this 'Rotjaw' come here?" I place my hand over his on the stick. I squeeze hard enough to make him bleed again.

"There is a man who has traveled to another place. The Land of the Dead. He brought something back and used this monster to do it. He's selfish."

"Where is he? Does he too have the name of worm?"

"No. He has the name of a bird: Finch. And I know where he'll be when the sun rises."

"Will the Rotjaw be there?" I draw a grub on the man's face with his own blood.

"Yes. She strikes at the sun like men break their teeth on gold."




Chapter 11: Cardinal Rain

PRESENT DAY
1895, Summer

Tale of Submission, Final Verse

I'm riding her snout through the wind, and her mouth is creaking open. The murmuring deafens me. Arcs of lightning bloom across the swamp, boiling the silver veins inside my eyes.

I'm riding her snout through the wind, and the rain festers on my lips.

Her smell is thyme and lavender, if herbs could weep puss.

I'm riding her snout across the sky, and the rain putrefies. My ropes sling tight under her jaw and hold firm.

I plant my fear inside my spit, and I spit into the holes of her jaw. This is my respect.

Her spit is the color of fireflies squashed between a child's finger and thumb.

I'm riding her snout across the bottom of the river, and the rocks cut me.

I'm riding her snout through the boards of a shack,, and her entrails snag on wood and glass.

Her rot blossoms in the creek, and many fish burn and blacken, and I breathe in their life to give my arms the strength they've lost.

I'm riding her snout over the creek, and her tooth shears the lashing rope.

She death rolls. I let go. The bow of a ship steams in her lightning filth, arching over her.

I'm standing before her open mouth and I bow, my arms out. If I drip on her tongue, she'll bite. If I breathe into her, she'll bite.

I stand still. I swallow vomit and the rain. Inside the Rotjaw, I see an object not of this land.

It's head-like, maybe a paper fossil, maybe a pupa birthed from the first insect to tread on land. Its decay whispers in languages not heard since people first made fire.

I dodge the Rotjaw's bite. She sinks with the boat.

I know now what has fouled this rain.




Chapter 12: Gar

PRESENT DAY
1895, Summer

Proseuchomai of the Primal
Volume One, Chapter Three

That wrestler weakened the Rotjaw and stopped the rain somehow. The clouds are like the fur of a sleeping animal: dead calm.

She gurgles in the water. She calls me to Her. But others have heard too:

Four Smugglers in a watchtower.

The Reptilian and his kin, skulking under walkways. A shield of Hunters caring for the Grounded behind the trees.

The Skinned one rushes from the roots of an upturned tree. Muzzle fire flares from both his hands. Bark explodes behind my head.

A firebomb flutters and breaks on the watchtower, as a moth might were it full of moonshine and lust. Those Grounded Hunters bring a grunt horde led by a host of Hives. They weave through them, undetected, as the Helmsman and his captain get flanked.

The Reptilian's avtomat fire blows apart a Water Devil herd.

The Hornback sets off my trap. She screams, suspended on barbed wire.

I hear pistol ammo run dry. I roll into the water. I was born to be as quiet as the thoughts of a wave. My lance pierces the Skinned from behind. I push its tip all the way through the birdcage of his lungs. Bullets slip through my skin. They're the wishes of butterflies scorched by summer.

A knife blesses my shoulder. An arrow finds my leg.

The pain rings a cicada in my ear.

But I am relentless.

I've made it to the Rotjaw. I touch Her for the first time. The heaving, pulsing, wildness of Her.

I bleed all the blood I have left into Her mouth and banish Her soul as mine is leaving too. I find the ghost of her hand and hold it.

If I can cheat this death, so can She.

I whisper:

I can't save you.

I can't make of you a throne.

I can only crown you queen of my heart, and hope its beating brings you back to me.




Chapter 13: The Navigator

TWO YEARS AGO
October 1st, 1893 (Eternity)
Delphine Transit Log

00:00 A.M.

Frederick retrofitted his electric device to slide around the alligator. He said the relic told him how to do it.

When he thinks he's alone, he cradles the thing like a baby, letting the isopods that follow it suck his fingers.

00:00 A.M.

I have made a plan to stop Frederick's cage and whatever the man in the rowboat wants. If I could feed them to the Delphine, I would.

If my plan works, I'll die.

00:00 A.M.

I stepped off the Delphine for the first time.

I wanted to know what it was like. But she is more a part of me than my own blood. We are married. I could never leave her like the captain did.

I will stay here with her. We will have a kind of children together, I think.

00:00 A.M.

Mrs. Carmichael sings when the Rotjaw comes near. She has sung for a whole geological age, but the thing has not appeared. Something else is about to happen.

00:00 A.M.

The storm is back. Mr. Douglas has been shooting into the wind to try and stop it. Mr. Carmichael is licking his barnacles in reverse order. His wife won't stop singing from the paddle wheel.

00:00 A.M.

Damn them all. They put a meat hook through Scrawlback Jim and drug him on a cable as bait. It happened too fast: The Rotjaw bit down, and they used the paddle wheel as a winch to reel it onto the main deck.

It's set that young girl on the banks to screaming.

It's set Mr. Douglas on blue fire.

It's set me to work to save the ship.




Chapter 14: Wayward Helmsman

PRESENT DAY
1895, Summer
Helmsman's Land Log

The Delphine rained down from the sky. She broke apart as cursed as any shipwreck could hope to be.

It happened when the fish woman crawled on the Rotjaw and banished her. The boat must have been ghosting through the clouds.

The paddle wheel crushed someone hiding in a bush. Hull planks speared into the mud. A chain almost halved me.

It was unnatural enough to scare off the other Hunters.

The crates and boxes and cases of her cargo rained down too. Guns and precious ammo tumbled from them. I picked up a double-barreled rifle with a shotgun bored beneath. I could tell it was more art than weapon. It was worth the lives of a hundred men.

Captain ignored the goods. He sifted through the black entrails of the gator. A rowboat fell and about killed him.

I heaved the captain out of that ichor and noticed a gathering approach. They shambled in the manner of priests. Gathered all the Delphine's debris. The largest of their following stared me down while the rest constructed an altar. Some familiar hook slung over his back and steamed.

They marched their new creation downstream in silence.

The Rat didn't like whatever they were doing. I suppose she was done with damning her soul for money.

She held dynamite and the means to throw it.

I shot her in the back before she could. The bundle went off in the water and tossed her.

The Rat hung on to life, and those gathering driftwood drug her to their shrine. They stacked and mounted whatever guts of the Delphine they could find.

They readied their ritual.

I watched The Rat's soul get turned inside out and absorbed. It looked like a cloud. It smelled like the rain. Maybe that's what this rain is made of.

But who's left to care when there is treasure to sell and guns to fire?

I saw something gold in the water.

I waited and stared and waited longer to see if it would float.




Chapter 15: The Navigator

TWO YEARS AGO
October 1st, 1893 (Time has an End)
Delphine Transit Log

00:00 A.M.

Frederick has doomed himself and the crew. But not me. Not the Delphine.

His cage fit around the alligator, and he took that relic and activated it and I saw Mrs. Carmichael flash to steam. The beast is loose and destroying the saloon.

I pocketed a poker chip for luck and crawled into the boiler. Sealed it from the inside.

I will give all my blood to the Delphine if it will keep her afloat.

00:00 A.M.

This is a miracle. The ship has chosen me. It will not let me die.

The fires in this engine have not burned me yet.

They have not consumed the ship's log for fuel so that I may keep writing.

The Delphine knows I'm inside her. She knows I'm home at last.

00:00 A.M.

All is quiet. I knew the gator had won when the fire around me turned to pale green lightning. I see more stars in these sparks than the sky could ever hold.

00:00 A.M.

I am drifting away. My arm is gone. Turned to ash and steam to give the Delphine breath in whatever waters she sails now.

I will continue to ash away. I will become one with this ship. I will whisper forever that she needs no captain.

00:00 A.M.

My legs go next. My spin blooms with a special kind of decay. In the dark, in the flash of lightning strikes, it looks like I'm becoming a flower. A daffodil for the Delphine.

00:00 A.M.

I am almost complete.

Just ribs. A shoulder. My writing arm. My skull has departed ahead of time.

I cannot see. But my thoughts are everywhere.

I will become a hundred altars to her.

I will turn souls into deckhands, mates, and chambermaids for her.

She will always remember me.

I will always be her shadow on the tide.
The clearing in the bayou was a patch of solid ground, ringed with trees and mud and trampled by the feet of Hunters who'd been that way before. I'd intended to cross it quickly, on my way to someplace my rifle might do some good, but instead I blundered into the middle of a standoff. Three Hunters, all with weapons drawn and deadly silent.

Until I walked in on them, anyway.

They turned as one, guns held steady as they targeted me. “Who the hell are you?" the one furthest from me asked. He was a big man, all dressed in black, with a bandana covering his face so I couldn't see his expression.

“Just passing through," I said, and put my hands in the air. With one I could take my chances, maybe even two. But not three.

“Maybe he can help settle our little argument," said the one on the left, a woman in bloody leathers. She looked like she'd seen some things I'd rather not know about. “That's a hell of an idea," chimed in the third, a well-dressed man in clothes that looked utterly unsuited for mucking about in the swamp. Somehow, he was spotless. The other two had spatters of mud up to their knees.

“I don't want to cause any trouble," I said, looking around for cover. There was none. “Trouble done and found you," the man in black replied. “Now, we've got a simple question. My associates and I were having a bit of a professional disagreement over matters of philosophy, and it seems they want you to cast the deciding vote. From my way of seeing it, things in the bayou have gotten out of hand. Things that ought to be dead ain't staying dead, and I want to put that right." I noticed then that he had a knucklebone dangling from the barrel of his gun, and more bones stitched into his coat to make obscene patterns that clicked and rattled as he moved.

“My friend here," he said, and nodded to the woman, “she doesn't care so much about that. She's thinking that the power that's in the swamp wants us to take down its servants so we can become better versions of them."

“Apotheosis," she said, and nodded. I took a closer look at her and realized that not all the blood on her leathers was human.

Annoyed at being interrupted, the first Hunter cleared his throat. He pointed at the last man, who was doing something intricate and disjointed with the fingers of his free hand. “And that fine gentleman wants to fight fire with fire, and use that power against itself, no matter what the cost. Human, or otherwise. As you can see, it's hard to reconcile these views. So why don't you tell us the right of it, and we'll let you go your merry way."

I looked from gun to gun to gun, face to face to face. The other two nodded in agreement. I wasn't going to be able to talk my way out of this one—no way, no how. Dropping my hands, I took a single step back. “You really want me to choose?" I asked, desperately hoping someone would say no.

“If you want to live," the woman said. I knew she was lying. She had her way, I'd be face-down in the swamp already, food for bugs and worse.

“If you insist…"

“We do," said the man in the suit. “Now answer."

I swallowed and nodded, looking from side to side. “It's a hard question," I said. “Can I have some time to think on it?"

“No," the man in black said flatly. “Choose."




Demented Pact
The Demented Pact icon Demented Pact vow to honor what they believe to be the will of the Sculptor by ascending to become the truest avatars of its powers — the current Boss Targets are impure manifestations, and once they are purged, the Demented will be worthy of taking their rightful place. They embrace the Sculptor's Corruption.

Death Pact
The Death Pact vow to find out why death has fallen into disarray — there are rumors of things that have come back from the Land of the Dead. They believe that finding the truth about death will lead them to victory over the Corruption.

Infernal Pact
The Infernal Pact vow to fight fire with fire. Where others see chaos, they see opportunity. They will take power wherever they can get it but see no benefit in serving a higher power. Their hearts are corrupted, but it is a mortal corruption.
Chapter 1 : Sofia

Addressed to Lulu Bassett
Translated from Spanish
Written Over Newspaper Clipping of 1893 Hurricane

We would rather stay dead.

Why Death has chosen us to come back to life, we don't know, but we are disgusted by its uncertain hand. We want answers. We demand punishment.

I'm with a trio: the Reaper, Worm Bite and the French mother, that crooning old Bone Mason. Worm Bite was working on a fire that would burn anything forever--gravestones, poems, bodies. The Reaper's heart has changed. Something about his work being unmade doesn't sit well with him. The Bone Mason is enraged too. Death sets her free while ignoring who she wants to bring back.

We witnessed a death at Pitching Crematorium. A stain reeked off it in our Dark Sight. We gathered to sit in a circle around the corpse, stoking a cookfire, eating rabbit.

"Do you think it will rise?" Worm Bite asked.

The Reaper stabbed the body with his scythe and it spurted blood on the Bone Mason's bonnet. He apologized, tried to wipe it off her face. She bit his finger. I think I like her.

"I feel old memories," the Reaper said. "I feel my childhood again."

"You should cherish your childhood," the Bone Mason replied. "It is good to feel."

"I never want to feel again," the Reaper replied.

Worm Bite kicked the body like it was a sad dog in the kitchen.

"This Land of the Dead," he said. "Could we find someone who has been there? Could they give us some key to shut its door?"

I set two hot embers over the corpse's eyes.

"Forever dead," I told them. "Forever missed."

Our Pact is forged. Our mission is true. We will sneak through Death's house, take advantage of its shadow, and learn truths of this Land of the Dead. We will find a way to keep the coffins closed.

P.D.

I miss you. I close my eyes and see you sweetly, I see a skull painted on the wings of a moth. I see an alligator eat that moth. I see a boat eat the alligator. I see a thousand fires eat the boat. I see the night eat the fires. And then I see a sculpture. I rip the tongue out of it. I rip the tongue out of everything.




Chapter Two: Butcher's Cleaver

Near Illegible Text Scrawled in Burned Notebook
Author Unnamed, Undated

Chisel these words into the inside of your eyelids:

We vow to let the Sculptor make of us the Sculpted. May we speak with the throats of insects and seep in the wishes of their many thousand eyes.

The rough tongue of the Murmurstone cracks and breaks and secrets come out. They rush my hearing with heat and promises--and oh. Strike a match and stick it inside too. Push its flame to the center of my mind and let it hum of hymns and the snapping of so many spines the world just stops.

Stops its tick tick ticking.

The Murmurstone licked my mind from within the three-Pact showdown at the Delphine's grave. The Rotjaw sizzled in sweet black fire with that Gar, Queen of the Primal, banishing of top of her lizard belly. Those fumbling Smugglers rummaged through the Delphine's debris looking for guns and gold, but I found it first.

Some ignorant and unblessed call it a relic, trying to sound learned. But us chosen know it as thre Murmurstone, for only we can hear its scripture. The stone spoke to me, and I pulled from its mouth a steaming cleaver. The cleaver.

The stone told me a place where this prize would become blessed: The Butcher's Den. The Temple of Meat and Flame.

My followers, demented and hungry, didn't believe me. They whispered and clacked and nipped at my ankles, but I showed them. I showed them at the Slaughterhouse what I promised. Cleaver held to the sky, the divine lightning crashed down on me, burning those who tried to flee and I breathed them in and turned them into more fire inside the Murmurblade.

I carried the blazing metal outside, with the true believers kissing my boot prints, and the false believers kissing twice as hard. The Inferno unraveled itself as a tornado does. It spread to the soil and trees in search of the land's most precious, hidden parts.

I will be the edge that pries apart those secrets. When the world's skull splits open, I will not look away: I will drink from it.




Chapter Three: Burnt Marshall

Forestry Burn Log
Handwritten, Original
Undated

We didn't have long. We vowed to rage against flame with flame. We exploited chaos. We lacked the discernment of fire, and in its spreading took whatever victories we touched.

The corn husks were dry and coarse against my hand. Embers flickered high up in the dark and brooding autumn sky.

Henry scouted for signs of Chary at the windmill. His mask was on, but I could tell he was jealous that he hadn't started this Inferno: a true devil's advocate through and through.

"Henry," I called as he made his way back. "Did Chary leave a note? Anything?"

He shucked a husk and ran an ear of brown kernels across the wooden tongue of his mask.

"The corn is full of sleeping fire, and the fire is speaking my mother's name."

I threw my flare gun at him. He caught it against his chest.

"If you keep speaking nonsense like that, I'll kill you with the corn." I snapped a stalk in half. "Pull yourself together."

We climbed the ladder to the lookout platform. The windmill creaked its hot metal and sounded like a person caught between gears. Across Seven Sisters Estate, dark figures hoisted the banished remains of The Butcher atop a pyre and crawled around on all four, grunting and hopping and biting at each other.

Then the jackal laugh of a maniac came from behind us.

A Demented with a pumpkin over his head cackled and rocked back and forth on the top rung of the ladder. The pumpkin was carved with an artistry worthy of Rome:

A steamboat dragged to hell. An alligator vomiting rain. Insect limbs and mandibles, more foul than an imagination can bear, holding a sculpture above an all too familiar barn.

"We have our message, Henry." I took the pumpkin off the man's head. "I know where we need to go."

Henry forced the flare gun into the lunatic's mouth and fired. We sat and watched his eyes burn from the inside out, shadows playing against his skull. We sat and watched the devils set loose in the smoke that rose into the sky.




Chapter Four: Butcher's Cleaver

Near Illegible Text Scrawled in Burned Notebook
Author Unnamed, Undated

"We caught him sniffing around, trappin' at our altars." The Beast Hunter tossed the Kid to the ground all wrapped up pretty in barbed wire.

"You know what we do with sniffers?" I hoisted him onto our new altar. "We remove the tool that sniffs."

We took turns spiking grubs and rat thumpers onto the points of the Kid's sharp metal cocoon.

"Why do you think these altars give us gifts?" I asked him. He sputtered bile through tight wire.

"Because we are ants," I continued. "Worthless without direction!"

I grabbed a follower--a false believer, unworthy from the doubt flittering in the pus of their eyes--and tossed him to the ground before stomp-stomp-stomping his skull rotten-apple smooth.

"How worthless?" I asked those who remained.

"Worthless as the Split Piglet eaten by worms!" they replied.

I brought out their favorite object: the Split Piglet, so small and dead. So filled with maggots and feral blood-milk. Mosquitoes drank its splendor and flew with fat bellies to feed themselves to beetles hungry in the rafters.

"Will the Sculptor turn us into art?" a follower on her knees wanted to know, brushes and dye strewn around her like a true painter.

"Yes," I told her. I dipped my fingers into the piglet and marked her forehead with the juice. "We will gut and slash and slaughter and maul and bite and tear and bash our heads into hollows that heads weren't meant to hollow inside of."

"We'll scream inside their bodies--a prayer to set us free!" they all chanted.

I squeezed the piglet's blessings into the Murmurstone's mouth, all the curds and blisters and red milk gore. It hummed and delivered my intentions.

"Now," I proclaimed, pressing my shotgun to the Kid's face. "Let's turn you into paint."




Chapter Five: Butcher's Cleaver

Near Illegible Text Scrawled in Burned Notebook
Author Unnamed, Undated

The spiral stairs were draped with bird bones. Feathers fluttered and fell with the stink of egg rot and oil. My pig heart felt cradled by mantises, my face on their faces as they feasted and became holy in the hog blood. At the top, I found the Scrapper's roost, and two of them stooped there.

They wore their Target's beak over their faces. Morrigan and Midian: two tall love-birds, side by side, strapped with trash, totems and offerings. In their hands, one wingless crow, tired and bleedy.

I held out a squirming piglet, kissed its freshly sewn-shut eyes. I squeezed tight and it squealed, hailing my Lord of Meat and Flame. I leaned over its snout and bit its tongue and ripped it out teeth-smooth.

The Scrappers held out their fat crow, and I fed the bird the squealer's tongue, and our bond was forged forever.

"Stagnant," the left one said. "We're stuck," the right one said, petting the bird.

"Who blocks the Sculptor's wishes?" I asked them.

"There is a wounded bird out there," said one. "The old leader of the Hunt."

"He gobbles our prayers," spoke the other. "All of them."

"Finch," I said, and the Scrappers screeched and shivered their feathers loose.

"Finch," they agreed. "False bird. False leader. He blocks us from the pathways our Scrapbeak uses."

I nodded. "He used to lead us all fair and true. I admired him. Now he clips our wings."

"He hobbles our ankles and pigs!" they replied.

Bwuh-bwuh-spittle-muuah-muuuuaaaah, went my little piglet.

Kreeew-kreeew-cacaw-cacaaaw, went the crow.

We placed our pets in a Rift nest and watched the embers swirl. We shushed them to sleep. We sealed them away. We knew when Finch bled his last that they would carry our wishes to our Lord on his chittering throne, and the pathways would be cleared.




Chapter Six: Burnt Marshall

Forestry Burn Log
Handwritten, Original
Undated

Infernals entered the barn one by one, singed and stinking. The fires outside had spread on the wind. The heat had purpose and weight. It was oppressive to the point of darkening the night.

I took the pumpkin from my smock and showed them.

"This is a message from Chary."

Private Eye came from the corner and inspected the carvings.

"See these moon phases?" She drew her finger along the orange skin. "Fort Carmick? And here, the Murmurstone--pigs kissing it. Looks like Chary wants us to lay siege to the Slaughterhouse tomorrow."

"You gather all that from a gourd?" Black Coat asked.

"We wouldn't have to do this at all if the captain hadn't sunk his boat and the stone." She pointed to him, the Delphine's coward of a captain. He sat on a crate of beetles to keep the lid on as they buzzed with the will to combust.

"Bad luck to let a woman speak amongst us," the captain said.

Black Coat produced a baseball bat from his jacket and swung. He hit the captain in the chest hard enough to fling him into the air. There was applause.

Henry sniffed. "Wait, what the hell is that smell?"

There was a sound of muffled screeching. We looked up to the hole in the ceiling and saw pale, gnarled toes curl over the edge of the roofboards. Above them, Monroe and Cain drooled against the harvest sky.

Then they dumped a startled Hive onto us out of a sack.

The bee lady loosed her brood and they poisoned us, killed the fire beetles. We shot open an exit through the barn as the insects exploded. On our escape, I saw a wingless crow riding a piglet's back.

Insanity was in for a season, but I knew that all seasons burn at their end.




Chapter Seven: Burnt Marshall

Forestry Burn Log
Handwritten, Original
Undated

If the Demented think they know fire, they're wrong.

Llorona and I were in the clear sight of the Slaughterhouse and a dozen muzzle flashes winked from the barn roof, the doors, the windows, the piles of rotting swine.

We tossed jug after jug of flammables and each pit of fire was an oasis. Their bullets slipped into us. The flames licked them right back out and blew us kisses. We snaked through the firebreak and infiltrated the barn under waves of hot lead.

There was chaos inside. Naked men with axes. Naked men with pig heads on fire. I shot blindly into the mess, moved up the stairs, and found the Murmurstone enshrined as depicted on the pumpkin--worshiped by pigs. Living ones, dead ones, men sewed inside sow skins, too.

Llorona used a sticky bomb and leveled the shrine, I grabbed the Murmurstone, then ran to the roof. There stood the Demented leader, face to face with Chary. Our Infernal founder held firm with the flair of a magician who had just decapitated his audience.

"Don't you wonder?" Chary spoke to the Butcher's Cleaver. "Why the Sculptor let you unleash the Inferno, only for us to be healed by it?"

The Butcher's Cleaver roared. Not squealed or screamed. But roared. The sound of a stone animal being ripped in two shook the foundations of the compound. Chary stood petrified before such a miracle.

I jumped off the roof and retreated with the Murmurstone while the rest of the Infernal held off the Demented. The Murmurstone whispered to me in the woods as we escaped, just one word. The same one, over and over again, that only I could hear:

Drown.

Drown.

Drown.




Chapter Eight: Sofia

Addressed to: Lulu Bassett
Translated from Spanish
Written On a Page Torn from a Ship's Logbook

We passed the Kid floating at the docks swaddled in pig meat, straw, and pumpkins. Half his face was gone. The water and mud parted like a mouth and swallowed him away.

Our search led us to Mama Maye, tending a new flower that could give us answers.

In the warehouse with catfish chandeliers, we found a board in a planter propped against a tomato trellis. It had a crooked spine grown from it, a skull, and a half-flesh, half-wooden face that blinked at us. This was wreckage from that cursed steamship, this Delphine. Haunted. Dreaming dead ship dreams.

Mama Maye buried severed fingers in its soil and left us to interrogate.

"Give us your name," I commanded.

The face spit seawater at me.

The Bone Mason waddled up to the board-man. She pulled a cracker from her satchel and offered it to the thing. It refused.

"Nothing matters," it rasped. "I've sailed winds born from the mouth of death."

The Reaper took the cracker for himself. Then he crooked his scythe into a soft spot in the board's skull. Lulu, did you know wood can scream? It sounds like piss on dry leaves.

"Tell us how the ship was hexed, Jellico." Worm Bite held a work coat, ran his thumb across its nametag.

The wood cried. It sounded as pathetic as all men's tears.

"There is a deadland underwater," the wood spoke. "I've been there forever. All dead have too. A storm dragged us there. It's ruled by an insect on the moon with a brain among the stars and a body as hollow as air."

I threatened this Jellico with a lantern. "Is this the truth?"

"We brought a monster onboard. We fed it the artifact, the holy stone, the god larva. The ship absorbed us, paddled through death's mouth, and now death is almost out of the kind of dying you want it to give."

"Who knows how to break this stone?" Worm Bite asked.

"Mr. Finch," the wood replied, coughing up more sea water. "We had the stone onboard the ship because of him. Drown. Drown. Drown.

Mama Maye returned with a cart.

"Time for your pruning," she said and transplanted the board. She left to the sound of rain on dry leaves.




Chapter Nine: Sofia

Addressed to: Lulu Bassett
Translated from Spanish
Written on Correspondence Stock: Elwood Finch,
Director

We found Finch in a rocking chair at the center of a ruined house. Ruined paintings hung on the wall, rotted for centuries. A grandfather clock leaned on its side, ticking.

"Where have you been?" Worm Bite asked.

"Killing time." Finch threw a knife at the clock. It didn't stick. The Bone Mason hurled an axe and smashed the clockface.

"I stepped down to search for answers, just like you," he continued. "I spoke with the Delphine's captain. He failed to deliver this Murmurstone, and his story is a lie. But he owed me, secured my passage on another ship to the dirty corners of the world."

"You ran away," the Reaper said.

"I went to discover how to stop this, how it's been stopped before," Finch clarified. "I learned that my blood is old. It hails back to a time of cave paintings and the deep rumbling wells of the earth."

"Now you lie," I told him. "You ran from death. You went to enjoy yourself."

Finch stood and bowed.

"I made mistakes, perhaps valuing my life was the first. The last was to let Chary set his plans in my absence. The Demented thing I'm blocking them from ascension. Some of this Grounded Pact believe I summoned Rotjaw. Everyone wants me dead, except you."

"Don't speak so soon," I told him.

"I will be caught. There is no stopping that. I am in everyone's way."

"Then how can you help?"

"It is called sacrifice. I've learned that is how our association has always won. I know where Chary is going, how we can make him lose."

He handed me three vials of pure and ancient silver, filled with blood. His blood.

"I'm charging you with my final task," Finch said. "There will be one opening. Don't miss."

P.D.

There is a silver of bullet stuck in my arm from the day you saved me. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it's warm. Just wanted you to know, in case I don't come back: I don't think I could ever carry you in any other way.

I've etched your name on the vials. You know I never miss.




Chapter Ten: Mr. Chary

Wax Cylinder Transcript
Sealed with a Bird Feather, Sugar Stained
Labeled: A Singing Man Sang

As one who enjoys the finest thespian pursuits and drama, I want to recount the last moments of a truly beloved friendship:

"Elwood," I called. "You thirsty?"

Finch hung from a high beam, wrapped in rope, cannonballs, vines, and oleander sprigs, much like a bird that had built a trap of nest around itself.

He nodded. I strapped a glass to my cane and held it up for him to sip. It was just us two--I'd sent the rest to hold a wide perimeter as our ferry drifted out into the water.

"I heard you were afraid of clouds, is that true?" he asked me. Pain flared in my leg at the thought, but his inquiry did not warrant a response. He was just trying to hurt my feelings.

"Finch," I said, "let's not strive for cruelty here. I'd much like for this to be as kind a goodbye as goodbyes can be."

I took in the scene, smelled the fine autumn flowers that were set in big arrangements of firebush and angel's trumpet. I sat down at a table set for two, lit a candle, and began to eat my duck.

"That's the same dinner we had when you signed on to the organization," he observed. "Did you bring the beignets?"

I pulled a cloth from the top of a basket and blew powdered sugar off them.

"I guess I am a bit sentimental," I said. "Who knows what's going to happen next? Between you and me sometimes I wonder if I've gone too far."

"Well, a normal man would just stop," Finch said. "But a normal man doesn't learn magic tricks." I flipped open my revolver, flourished my hand to produce a bullet. I held it to Finch, rubbed it, and it swept off into the air, spun, held still in the breeze before gliding into the chamber.

"I'd applaud if I could."

"No need." I spit out the thinnest of thin bones, and it cut my lip. "You know, for such a shallow creek, the sinkhole below us in ghastly deep. Strange things moving at the bottom."

Finch craned his neck to look. "I'll say hello to your friends down there."

"It's been a pleasure, Elwood."

"A pleasure beyond all recall," he said.

Then I shot the rope.




Chapter Eleven: Mr. Chary

Wax Cylinder Transcript
Sealed with a Cicada Husk
Labeled: The Storybook

Cleopatra pulled a snake from the moon. She rode it for forty nights, eating men, soldiers, and children who cried when a breast was pulled from their mouths. The Knights Templar were birthed from an enormous witch enshrined by foundation stones. Napolean's horse, Marengo, had a ribcage that could split open and eat other horses whole. After Bonaparte burned bridges, the stallion could still canter across the ghosts of them.

The Murmurstone is a library for such tales.

It can only speak the truth, or so it says. It's presence demarcates a sacred boundary of the Sculptor's will and influence, much as the pomerium outlined the border of Rome. It is a force of physics and myth intertwined. Emperors have been driven mad with its promises.

The Murmurstone seems primed to tell the tales of women and men, but these are not the histories I am interested in. I seek epics never scribed by personkind and the knowledge hidden in them.

I wish to hear of the nameless "Silver Scarab Goliath" who pulped insectoid maidens into mercury at the first age of the Sculptor. There are fables of worms endlessly burrowing across desolate lands, sludging in unison, charting pathways and inscribing memories for a mind too big to shroud a single sky.

Still, the story I want to hear most eludes the Murmurstone's mouth.

I think it is because the question I ask is the question of a child. It is not what the Sculptor wants, but why?




Chapter Twelve: Mr. Chary

Wax Cylinder Transcript
Sealed with a Cicada Husk
Labeled: Silver Milk

I shall re-enact our reconnaissance to make note of the Demented's care in their rituals:

"If you're not worried, why are we scouting them so close?" Private Eye asked me.

We laid atop a berm, watching a trio of Demented surround an altar. They placed a dismembered body in the mouth of it. Curious were the ornaments and decorations that covered the remains. Their attempts to divine wishes from their Lord were desperate, more intense after losing the Murmurstone.

"Candice, did you ever travel to the city of Bath?" I asked.

"Once." She looked uneasy.

"The Roman bathing pools in Bath were used to heat a unique kind of quicksilver," I said. "This was used to feed abominations bonded with the Sculptor. They used them to summon calamities, overthrow empires."

"Sounds like conspiracy and hearsay," she muttered, adjusting her scope. "Unless the mercury was explosive."

"There was a sound these creatures made. The sound of continents halving in two. It was a siren, a call to mark the end of an age. I've heard this sound now. I want to see if it is truly time for such a thing to transpire."

The trio knelt. A scarecrow rose from a stack of hay by the altar as if freshly given life. It moved stiff legged and dry and slit two of the Hunters' throats. The Butcher's Cleaver emerged from a shadow.

Again, the ground trembled. The Butcher's Cleaver placed the third kneeler inside the altar, and they burst into a pillar of flame and smoke. Far below us, in the Land of the Dead, I could feel a gurgling, a response.

Something was being digested to make room for something new.




Chapter Thirteen: Mr. Chary

Wax Cylinder Transcript
Sealed with Shred of Tattered Flag
Labeled: The Last Bird to Be Crushed

I am free to do as I please. I enjoy recording these little plays, the games and clever moves we each make:

Finch is drowned, his blood sealed inside his body at the bottom of the blackest of black water. No one but he possessed the qualities needed to banish the Murmurstone. In a long line of revenges, I am balanced perfectly upon the last, blade-sharp segment.

The Burnt Marshall and Hawkshaw Jack heaved on one rope. The Delphine's captain and his new crew pulled on another. The Rift at their feet glowed red, resisting their attempts to retrieve the object.

"Pull harder," I told them. "This shouldn't take all day."

"Tell you what, boss," Jack said, dropping his rope. "You tell us why you carry around that fucking cane, and we'll pull the shackles out faster."

They paused their yanking to hear my response.

"When I was a boy, a cloud tried to kill me."

"How?" the captain asked. Ah, how insolent children are best punished one at a time.

I lunged my cane through the captain's eyeball and clicked it to the back of his skull. He dropped, and I stepped on him as daintily as a lover steps on a jacket laid over a puddle. The Rift swallowed his dead body.

"Anything can kill you if it has will and agency," I told the rest. "Now pull those ropes."

They hoisted Rotjaw's shackles from the Rift, but I did not watch. Instead, I looked to the late November sky and its crimson burning. I hoped the Sculptor was watching. I hoped it had a thousand eyes waiting to be stabbed.




Chapter Fourteen: Mr. Chary

Wax Cylinder Transcript
Sealed with a Ticket
Labeled: Mise-en-scène

Eventually we made sense of the captain's map. I knew when we stepped on the banks and discovered the remains of a bloodied circus tent. Downriver we found it, the site of the Delphine's disappearance. Or rather, traversal.

It takes great sacrifice to travel to the Land of the Dead.

My first trip there was an accident. A city burned. The flames were spread by entities of infernal sensibility. When they burned through a person, their shadows forged pathways. And so I secured passage to the Land of the Dead by walking on the ashes of a hundred merchants.

My second traversal to locate the Murmurstone on the Delphine was not so kind. A live body is too resonant to traverse a Rift by normal means. It must be cut into pieces, but by bit, and sieved down into the dead world's waters.

I will not relive such shame again.

Much was learned from my manipulations to pull the Murmurstone back to the bayou. Most importantly: symbols carry weight. Souls do not just disappear, they stick. They haunt and howl to fulfill old promises. This means souls can be baited, misdirected, their energies utilized and bastardized.

The Delphine's debris contain a host of souls trapped within its woodwork and corrosion. We have constructed a stage of its remains to perform our ritual and siphon their yearning.

A play of sorts must be conducted, each role carefully crafted. Some have taken weeks, some years, some gulfs of time that betray the ever-present eye of the Sculptor.

Oh, to be a member of the audience for this magic show, to see how decayed the rabbit pulled from my hat will be.




Chapter Fifteen: Mr. Chary

Wax Cylinder Transcript
Sealed with a Silver Vial
Labeled: Echoes of a Bird

The stage was set. Black Coat played the role of Finch, kindly strung up from a branch. Private Eye played the Steamboat captain, spinning a help nailed to a tree. Devil's Advocate was dying to play the part of Rotjaw, so I let him roam in circles on all fours with his makeshift gator mask.

With the symbology complete, I activated the shackles and shoved the Murmurstone inside. It was instant, nonviolent. A permanent passageway to the Land of the Dead was forged.

The soul of the Navigator existed inside the Delpine's remnants, longing for dead waters. The soul of Finch yearned for the Murmurstone as Rotjaw sought her master as well. These feelings were fuel and ley lines. They were so easily baited, molded into spiritual architecture.

Then the Death Pact ambushed my achievement.

They could have only learned of this site from Finch. Beetles choked the high ground. Worm Bite sniped everyone on deck. The Reaper found many soft spots on necks with his scythe. Everywhere that Bone Mason aimed put a hole in someone.

Sofia rose from the creek flotsam, dripping, her skull-face looming behind a crossbow.

I am not a coward. I must have sensed a miracle about to unfold, because I ducked, and her bolt flew and met the gateway. The silver of its casing should have been stopped by the physics at play. It's metal must have been cursed, blessed, enchanted, I do not know--because it punctured the veil and splattered red against the Murmurstone's mouth with the bright, speckled red of Finch's blood.

All I wanted was an easy-to-trod pathway. A personal back door. But even doors can be corrupted, it seems. The Murmurstone screamed wide, banished, and its connection to the Sculptor multiplied as eyes do in the facets of a stolen diamond.

Dead arms flushed from a chasm that split the shackles, the stage, the very ground itself. The arms recognized me. The bloated eyes knew my name. I smelled sulfur steaming from the Delphine's captain as his spine emerged and bent at sharp angles, his hand grasping for my cane.

The clarion call of a new age rang out.

Its name was Desolation.
After Rotjaw was banished for the first time and the riches of the Delphine rained from the sky, Tona Ramirez, also known as The Rat, was betrayed. Her body and soul were sacrificed by the berzerken cult of The Demented Pact, causing her to fade away into the drizzle and haze. Turner Abbadon Jr., also known as The Kid, investigated the instruments of her demise—strange altars made by stranger folk. The Demented caught him, too. They bound him in barbed wire and turned his face into paint with the barrel of a shotgun. After his corpse was discarded, it sank below the swamps, eventually coming to rest at Tona's side in the Land of the Dead.

Ages and dreams passed over their lifeless bodies. They drifted on odd tides, floated together with other Hunters who'd lost their way. Then, as suddenly as they had died, they were found, bound together with curses and incantations. A white-haired witch had seen some use among their bones. She sought to use their trauma and tragedy as an engine for darker arts. She breathed into them a new kind of life, a new kind of death, and a new kind of hope previously known only to drowned sailors and captains.

Turner and Tona, now The Drowned Kid and The Drowned Rat, rose from the ritual and began their pilgrimage through the dead marshes. Only the moon knows how long they wandered. Only black blood could sing their sorrows.

When Desolation sprung forth from ancient powers unknown, the door they'd long searched for was opened at last. Out from Kingsnake Mine they crawled, back into the bayou. Gasping for air. Gasping for their souls.




Drowned Pact
Unleashed from the Land of the Dead, The Drowned Pact roams the bayou. They are plagued with bloat and the curses of sunken ships. Each Drowned struggles to save their fate from sinking once more.

Demented Pact
The banishing of the Murmurstone has thrown The Demented Pact into disarray. Their new leader rallies their cult into an unstoppable swarm. They seek the Graven Path that leads to the Targets they revere.

Grounded Pact
The Grounded Pact fights harder than ever to save the bayou from being devoured. As new forces vie for power, Daughter of Decay leads the Grounded in search of the source of Desolation and what it feeds.

Chapter One: Daughter of Decay
Undated
Tale of Forsaken Soils, First Harvest

Something's eating the bayou. I must lead the Grounded in the hunt for its mouth.

The smell of its drool is in the air like a dew that clings to the fences, the trees, the trigger of a gun. I can feel its hunger. It's the same hunger I felt when eating the berries that grew from my mother's ribs, the turnips that bulged from her hips beneath the soft soil.

I wonder if she felt me eating her, like I feel the air eating me.

I followed the odor across the swamps to a clearing. The air quivered from whatever had uprooted the weeds and grass scoured the soil.

A wonderful silence was broken by a bundle of spines rising from the earth.

Some living altar wriggled from the ground with wet quills. It grew and heaved with breath from its many holes and dens. Barnacles sputtered, ripe with the stench of Rotjaw. At my feet, ash began to rise.

A man crawled out of the tall grass, steam wafting from his back.

"Need help getting off the ground?" I asked.

"No," he replied. "I'm afraid I'll never get to touch it again."

His skin ashed away. The altar breathed him in one gasp at a time.

"You're Mr. Chary, right?" I said. "Wish I'd met you sooner, so I could tell you some secrets are best left alone."

"Some secrets must come to know of me, no matter the cost." He spat tar, disappeared more.

"Does a fox know the name of the rabbit it eats?" I asked. "Do you think it wonders what the rabbit feels?"

He laughed. He laughed himself away and out into some other world. Not dead or even afraid of death, judging from the echoes he left behind. He'd stay a rabbit hunting foxes until the day he breathed his last.




Chapter Two: The Beekeeper
Almanac of the Swarm
First Comb

Listen, little daughter, this tale will nest an egg inside your heart. Nurture it. Bless it with rotten mint and the bones of your enemies. You will need it hatched to go where I have gone.

Only then will I hold you and say that you are beautiful. Only if you ascend with me will I call you mine.

* Page Torn, Pasted with Black Honey to 1895 Almanac *

At the start of our ascension, we were a colony without direction. Hornets infiltrated our hive and like we should have, we attacked as one. But somewhere along the line, we lost sight of our true purpose: to ascend to become the purest of vessels of the Sculptor's power, the Targets, the Corrupted.

After Sofia's blood-bolt landed true on the Murmurstone, it yawned open. Rift light poured from the stone's mouth--blue--in curtains--divine. The first stage of our ascension was at hand. The Death Pact fled; appendages from our Lord erupted as altars from cracks in the soil.

Four Hunters more blessed by the Sculptor than we rose with them--bloated--alive--not alive. Four Drowned angels, full of mud. We shot and fired and bombed and pushed, but they paired off. They pushed back with filthy weapons and insects I would've held so close to me, so precious and holy, but they sacrificed them.

They shall not be forgiven. To see them set my heart on fire. It made me doubt my vows, and so I crushed my heart to pull the trigger of my gun and believe once more.

One of our Brothers leapt from an altar onto the Murmurstone, dynamite in his teeth. The explosion stilled the air, and the stone shrieked, opening up like a jaw before it caught one of our Sisters, diving away with her into the soil. It ripped her apart, smearing a long red line as it went.

I can feel it. Some queen is ready to descend from the fog and lay her larva with a quiet thorax. How I wish to go up such soft flesh and palpitate it like her. How I want to be the first thing seen by what's born from that womb.

How I wish I could birth anything other than a human.




Chapter Three: Drowned Rat
Ink of Papyrus Scroll
Found at (illegible) Collection

Breathe water. Gulp tar. Pump mud through your heart, if you have one still.

Never was a fan of sunshine. The cloud cover is the only thing keeping me from losing my--

--Cold and violent, the Land of the Dead is with you. Let its tides taste your thoughts. Cradle your ambitions, your fingers as it strangles life from the living--

One moment, I'm back in the bayou, finding what I was sent here for. Then my sight splits in two. In four. In numbers I don't have the mind to count anymore. Like that damn Witch told us, the Land of the Dead has sown its Desolation here.

Honestly, I always hated the bayou. Was almost happy to see it--

--Sink. Sink so far it feels like rising. At the bottom of the world is the sky, where our Moon makes her knives so sharp they--

Was almost happy to see it dying.

Found the Helmsman with two Smugglers. Still had that awful metal around his face. When he saw us, he tried to shoot me with an empty gun.

"What are you sailors more afraid of?" I asked. "Ghosts, or captains?"

Laffite stepped out to join me. The Helmsman ran, but--

--Stab. Bite. Their eyes, remove them. The things they've seen, remove them. Feed them to the many thousand mouths that gasp, swallow, funnel to the Land--

I came to my senses holding one of the Smugglers' heads, and an arm too. Oh well. The Witch told us this might happen. That even if our Drowned-selves lost control sometimes, we were doing the right thing.

Every blessing rides on the back of a curse--

--every shadow laughs on the back side of blood.




Chapter Four: Daughter of Decay
Undated
Tale of Forsaken Soils, Second Harvest

My introduction to the Drowned was seeing The Delphine's captain and the Rat rip two Hunters in half.

At first, I'd judged the amount of blood in the air as signs of Rotjaw. I was wrong.

Death seemed the only conversation to be had with these Drowned creatures, but a stranger's hand stayed my rifle, tipping the barrel down. When I looked up, there stood a man in a suit with long coat tails.

He offered me a cup of steaming tea. "May we speak somewhere less...ghastly?"

He had my respect for sneaking so quietly through the bramble, so I obliged. We went to a train car made into a small outpost. The man smelled of earthen depths that should never be touched, covered up with perfume. He was an animal if animals sought to mate with money.

"Pretty country down here," he said.

I eyed my tea, was afraid to drink it.

"Now, I know Finch departed this world with somewhat of a shaky reputation," he went on. "But the operation you Hunters are set upon extends far and wide. So, I've come down to offer assurances. Bounties will still be paid. The parties I represent would hate for harvesting to diminish."

"I don't care about money, I care about keeping the soil free of curses. These Drowned poison it with altars, with ash."

"Ah yes," he said. "These Drowned folks. I beg you to speak with them. Show compassion, even." "They rip Hunters in half for fun," I replied.

"Did you consider they may be horrified by that?" He rolled a Bounty Token across his knuckles.

"Like you are horrified of losing money?" I asked.

"No," he said, inhaling steam. "More like the horror your mother felt when you ate the berries from her ribs. When you chewed the turnips bulging from her hips beneath that soft, soft soil.




Chapter Five: The Beekeeper
Almanac of the Swarm
Second Comb

When you were a baby, I placed you in a beehive. The bees did not sting you, but you cried and soiled yourself. Even then the bees forgave you--crawled down your throat to let you know--but you couldn't accept their forgiveness. I am earning that forgiveness for you. Everything I do is for you.

* Page Torn, Pasted with Black Honey to 1895 Almanac *

Butcher's Cleaver failed us. Brothers and Sisters gathered at the sawmill for his sentencing. The Cowl had bound the Cleaver to the base of a log flume.

We were forbidden to chant. We were instructed to think.

"I am thankful for our leader bringing us together," the Cowl said. "But I am ashamed of his failure in securing the Murmurstone's Graven Path--the passage to our Lords."

A Brother hooted. A Sister slid a katana through his throat.

At the flume top, Morrigan and Midian poured out a large trough. Beetles glistened in torchlight as they rushed in a black flash of abdomens. I spooned blood honey onto Butcher's Cleaver, and it drew in the swarm to envelop him.

The sounds of insect ecstasy were broken by the crack of a rifle. The Cowl worked the action of his Krag, and another shot rang out. The swarm of beetles took each bullet, shredding in a spray of mandibles--feelers--exoskeletons.

"We must imagine a new kind of violence," the Cowl continued. "The way one creature does not stop eating another until its body is gone."

More shots. More holy carnage. More beetles pouring down the flume to replace their fallen.

"See how they move? No leaders, no weak points, just purpose. Pure and noble."

We listened to the Cleaver's muffled squeals as the beetles continued to feast on the honey, on him.

"We shall become like the swarm," he concluded. "Find your own way. Deceive. Lie. Incinerate. Surge until the Graven Path is found. If you fail, the other Pacts will ascend. Punishment is all that will await you."




Chapter Six: Drowned Rat
Ink of Papyrus Scroll
Found at (illegible) Collection

--Let us drink from the fountain of death. Here's to the Hunter. Here's to--

The Kid whistled as he dug. Water poured from a hole in his cheek. Thirteenth Mate tracked some Demented who were rounding up unpledged Hunters with ropes.

"Try digging quietly," I told him. "Like the captain."

We'd lifted a map from the Helmsman's friends. All the Smugglers' weapons were cached, ripe for the pickin'.

"Do you still see it?" The Kid gurgled, digging out more weapons.

"What you mean--"

--You can never unsee the Mound. It towers. Always looms. Runs the rain silver. Blows ash that seeps through worlds. Its weight is the weight that makes all things sink--

"Oh. You mean that Altar Mound as tall as a mountain? Yeah, I still see it. Gonna be seeing it forever, I bet."

Captain and the Kid handed me guns and dynamite bundles. The weapons were mud-caked. Holding them was the first time I realized I'd never be clean again.

"Kid, you ever just want to give up?" I asked without meaning to.

"Sure, 'course I do," he said. "Then I remember we're lucky."

What a brat. A brat with enthusiasm. Guess I admired him for that. He was right, we could have been trapped in the Land of the Dead's Desolation. Turned into strange statues. Devoured alive by myths we never heard of, which now roamed the dead swamps.

Thirteenth Mate fired off a flare. The other Pacts had found us. It was time to drag all our fates underwater to drown hand in hand.




Chapter Seven: Daughter of Decay
Undated
Tale of Forsaken Soils, Third Harvest

The four Drowned reeked. Dead fish smell misted out their mouths as they panted. They huddled in shame around weapons and a weeping altar. I felt bad for them.

I stood with the other Pacts who were gathered. This was more people than I'd ever seen before. Felis and her Primal friends, sad folks from the Death Pact, my fellow Grounded and even Smugglers showed up.

With all our guns drawn, the Drowned spoke first.

"Place your ear to the earth," they said. "Listen."

I was the only one to do as they said. Ear to the ground, I heard many hearts beating. They beat deep and rooted. I didn't need to listen long to know one of them was mine.

"The Sculptor's gifts aren't free," the Drowned Rat told me. "Every time you touch an altar, something is taken from you. A knowing. A truth. It has grown in the Land of the Dead, returned with teeth to eat us all." She shot the altar and it screeched.

"That's lunacy," Felis said. I hushed her.

"Soon you'll not belong to yourself anymore," the Thirteenth Mate said. "The blood in your body will marble. You'll be trapped inside the worst thing you've ever done, and the Sculptor will feed on it. It'll swallow this place whole."

"Doesn't matter," the Drowned Rat said. "We're being collected, eaten--here's the point. If you want to stay yourselves, follow us. Or don't. We all got our own problems."

"Go where?" a strange solo Hunter asked. I smelled a sickly honey behind her mask of branches. She scribbled notes in a large almanac.

"Down in Kingsnake Mine, there is a passage made by the Murmurstone: the Graven Path. We'll make for it at dawn."

Tears stained my mask. I'd heard more than my own heart in the ground. I heard my family's. I heard a last chance to say goodbye to them.




Chapter Eight: The Beekeeper
Almanac of the Swarm
Third Comb

The only way to split my soul was to have you. With you, I could feel twice as much. See twice as far. You were to be a queen in a queen-less land. You were to be a miracle of a daughter, not a curse.

* Page Torn, Pasted with Black Honey to 1895 Almanac *

We Demented got to the mine first and uncovered the passage. The Cowl was pleased--he spared me. My Brothers and Sisters had gathered plenty of others to bless the Graven Path for our ceremony.

"Bleed the path wider for us," he commanded.

Deep underground, all sounds were amplified. Five unpledged Hunters were pinned by lances in a circle around the rift passage. Their blood leaked into the Graven Path and made it pulse with waters from the Land of the Dead. We tossed Mr. Chary's equipment in--knives--brackets--jars of organs--more knives and restraints. The hole widened.

"We've worshiped our Targets as devotees, acolytes," the Cowl told us. "But perhaps it is the Targets who worship us. We will seek them out. It is time to give them our blessings."

We forced groups of unpledged through the Graven Path and stormed forth in their wake. A thousand ship bells rang, and through their echoes we sank.

At the Graven Path's end, I slid into a fountain. In the distance, a great Mound loomed, spiraled and kinked and made by giants of insect-kind. Lightning flashed, and monsters hunched and furrowed in the distant mists.

Legends unknown blocked me from this throne. So a legend myself I set to become.




Chapter Nine: Drowned Rat
Ink of Papyrus Scroll
Found at (illegible) Collection

Those Demented breached the Graven Path, went through before us. The Drowned and I felt it in our lungs when it happened. We puked. It hurt us. It took everything we had to gather our supplies and lead just a handful of Pact members to Kingsnake Mine. It wasn't much, but it'd have to do.

We put the five Hunters impaled around the Path out of their misery. I asked for their names before we passed through, but the insane ringing of ship bells cleared them from my mind. We got spat out, and the swampland mazes of the Land of the Dead stretched before us. Every gooseneck bend and turn changed, distorted. Each step of the way, some new and horrible sculpture blocked our path.

The first statue was a man making a fire. Then a herd of white bison, followed by a one-legged woman nailed to a cypress tree. In a switchback of reeds, a priest screamed, frozen in white marble flames. A Meathead impaled a man against the beam of some ceiling that wasn't there. Another man with a katana held back, ready to swing.

We stopped at the statue of a train bent over a hill. Marching out of it were stone children holding guns. A moon-white Sheriff Hardin pointed them towards the Mound.

"What are all these statues?" Daughter of Decay asked.

"They're sculptures. Stories. Legends and tales brought here by the Murmurstone," I told her.

"Why?" the Kid asked. "What's the point in having all these stories?"

He placed his hand on one of the children's guns, opened his mouth to swallow the rain.

"They've come here," I told him, "so that the Sculptor can figure out how all of 'em end."




Chapter Ten: Daughter of Decay
Undated
Tale of Forsaken Soils, Fourth Harvest

Down here, we were fruit that didn't need the sun to grow. No thirst, no hunger. Overhead was a Moon with a rotten black scar like a goat's eye. Ash drifted up from the dead land and gathered there in piles. I heard echoes of Mr. Chary laughing in its soot. It sounded like he was fighting the Moon.

A great Mound rose from the south. When the fog cleared it seemed to be a mountain, a tower, a volcano and insect nest all in one. We climbed up a marsh bank for a better view and came across a ship, or the skeleton of one. It looked brittle, like a dandelion, ready to fall apart if you made a wish and blew on it.

"Welcome to the Delphine's Ghost, the Drowned Rat said.

We boarded. She said this ship began the story we were in. Sculptures were all over the boat. A statue of the captain jumping over the railing. An eyeless man at the ship's wheel. Dead statues grew all over the deck, and in the hold was a Rotjaw statue absorbing a stone woman.

"Get on, Laffite," the Drowned Kid said, and pulled him in. The captain's arm burst into black fire when he crossed the threshold. The boat didn't want him on board. He stood ashamed on the shore and watched us leave.

The paddle wheel groaned on its own, and the rudder twitched like a horse tail. This boat needed no captain. It steered itself toward the Mound and steamed ahead. Sculptures were everywhere: an old soldier with his legs sawn off and a bird on his shoulder, someone trapped underwater in a rope nest weighed down by cannonballs. We almost sunk the ship on the statue of a woman split open from giving birth to a Meathead.

I knew somewhere out there was a sculpture of me. I felt myself growing there in stone. I felt shadows stalking me. They were waiting for me to find myself.




Chapter Eleven: The Beekeeper
Almanac of the Swarm
Fourth Comb

The first time I was stung, I cried with joy. The blessing of the stinger is holy. The spreading of venom in blood makes openings in your soul. From there our Lord's thoughts emerge. But some thoughts you must be wary of, child. Some thoughts must be killed before they kill you.

* Page Torn, Pasted with Black Honey to 1895 Almanac *

We pushed groups of unpledged Hunters in front of us, blindfolded and tied to ropes. We shot them if they slowed. The landscape reacted to our swarm--Armoreds hulked from the fog--sheared limbs--the air filled with Hive screeches--and we fired and impaled and reveled in the mud and bile we spilled.

Statues of monsters forgotten by books and time blocked our way: herds of decayed horses frozen mid-gallop, fleeing a skeletal giant--a tree-high horse to rule all horses, its ribs split open and sucking in the old soldiers and the equine alike to mash them with its bones.

The closer we came to the Mound, the more deranged the fights became. Our crusade pushed through herds of leeches and waves of Grunts that set off old ship mines buried in the mud. Every hunk of shell lodged in our flesh only affirmed our vows. Bite wounds and poisoned spines became the language of our story.

We were chosen to rule over this endless place--chosen we had to be chosen. We would prove it at the Mound under a dying moon.




Chapter Twelve: Drowned Rat
Ink of Papyrus Scroll
Found at (illegible) Collection

--Myths and curses from Desolation's past roam under an injured Moon. Fables cannot die. Fables can only seek the blood of those who made them.--

Got pinned in a ravine. Something huge came for the Delphine's Ghost, seemed to give everyone a different vision.

Felis called it a landslide full of bones. Kid thought it was a giant serpent. That Worm Bite fella saw it to be a legion of knights with tombstones for heads.

I called it something to shoot, and shoot it to sunken hell we did.

Each time some new horror struck at the ship, the landscape closed up and trapped us. We shot and stabbed our way through it all. And at the ever-wandering center of the Land of the Dead, we found her: the creatore of us four Drowned.

That white-haired Witch who calls herself Lynch.

She sat on a sculpture of Rotjaw. In the gator's mouth, that Gar woman was nestled with a little girl on the tongue. They held a bundle of wilted lilies between 'em and laid fast asleep in the cradle of teeth.

"Strange sitting place you got there," I told her.

"--It's a promise I've kept,--" Lynch said. Her voice still spoke only in my head, just as always.

"Great," I told her, jumping off the bow. "You promised a plan if we brought the Pacts. Give it now."

"--The Lord of the Dead is anxious. He knows I am to win our wager.--"

A walkway of pillars and columns stretched away from us. There stood the Lord of the Dead. Was hard to make out its shape. Something like a man stabbed with a thousand knives. Maybe just some unnamed thing you miss every time you blink.

"Let's hear it. The bet, the plan."

"--Erase the bayou's history. Wash clean its transgressions and sins. I've channeled all I could manage into you four. Drain the rest from the Mound, and your Drowning will end.--"

"Sounds like a trap. What'll you gain from it?"

Lynch looked to the sky. Flicked a knife at the Moon.

"--I will have a mouth as wide as the Sculptor. I will learn to hunt as it hunts, and take what it cannot.--"




Chapter Thirteen: Daughter of Decay
Undated
Tale of Forsaken Soils, Fifth Harvest

I made the ship stop, in a pale glade where a statue of myself stood. It was of me as a little girl, sowing seeds into my mother's fingers. Sculpted bits of my cousins, siblings, aunts and uncles stuck through the soil too. I stood a minute, a year, ten dozen seasons of fog.

"I came all this way," I finally said, "to share my harvest with you."

I shot a hole in my statue. It bled over the garden. If I had tasted of them, it was only fair for them to taste of me. My life was theirs too. The shadows following me bowed in respect.

Weeds must be pulled with a cold heart, and so we pushed onward to the Mound.

We crept up on the Demented horde as they crashed upon the Mound's slope in horrible shrieks and waves. The entrance to the Mound's center was barred by a goliath gate of beetle wings. We wouldn't be able to pass through the elytra shells sunk into the rock. The Demented pounded upon the barricade and fought off every terror the bayou has ever known as rows of Meatheads pushed them into the channel, piled upon them to drown.

Everyone but the Drowned jumped ship and left to fight off the monsters and Demented, but the shadows which had followed me drew in close. I crept in their shade as they guided me through body piles and rows of traps.

I ducked, waited. Shot who and what I could.

The shadows pointed to a gathering of Immolators at the gate. One bullet was all I needed. They erupted in a chain-inferno and set the gate aflame, revealing it to be alive. Pus and insect blood hissed from the cracks in the wings, and the Delphine's Ghost churned ahead and rammed the injured gate.

The entry tore open, and a tremor shook the Mound. Hosts of shadows escaped from within the gate, free to roam whatever land they chose.

But my shadows stayed with me. For there was still a season of harvest my family wished to guide me through.




Chapter Fourteen: The Beekeeper
Almanac of the Swarm
Fifth Comb

Little one, I've seen the hive where all souls converge. Sky high and stretched with star larvae. Lords quivered from those constellations and combs. Their eyes wept with all the love we waste, and there--in the black rain--I tasted all I've wasted on you.

When I recall the flavor and spice of it, I almost remember how to forgive you for leaving me.

* Page Torn, Pasted with Black Honey to 1895 Almanac *

Cracks from the steamship's impact broke open the slope of the Mound. Inside were layers upon layers of the Target's pupae. They spilled out--goo slick--tarnished and black in the fertilizer of banishment. My Demented guzzled in their rawness. They slurped and burrowed into the pulsing nursery until they were out of sight.

I didn't join them. They ignored the Delphine's Ghost but the ship's journey had not ended. It struggled against wind and the ichor gushing out the gate, so I boarded in secret. I knew there was a greater miracle to behold beyond these gestating Targets, and so I left my kin behind to journey into the Mound.

Only the Drowned were left aboard the ship, dead quiet and still.

The paddle churned for years, decades.

Sculpted combs spiraled along the walls into the sky. Each glowed with stars--eggs--larvae--promises from beyond.

After an eternity, we beached onto an island at the core. Every altar ever made was stacking in a maddening pile. To see it in Dark Sight was to stare at the sun. At the pile's peak was a platform for a statue, but it was empty.

I abandoned ship, dodging gunfire from the Drowned until at last I climbed upon the platform and made myself a legend above all others. A black rain poured from the high combs. I opened my mouth to taste it.

As the first drop touched my tongue, I felt the rumbling of a queen about to descend.

Energy flowed from the altars and swirled overhead. The walls burst and caved. An egg spiracle winded down from the center of the rift storm and the fools fired their guns, their lances, tossed flaming jars and explosives that lit the cavern. All useless.

I was to witness the molting of our Desolation's Lord. I was to be a child to it, the kind of child my daughter was never brave enough to be.




Chapter Fifteen: Drowned Rat
Ink of Papyrus Scroll
Found at (illegible) Collection

Lynch lied. Figured as much. She meant to feed us to this thing being hatched, this monster born of Desolation. I fired all my rounds anyhow, tossed some Depth Markers for fun. Then I smelled a life bursting into flames.

Laffite finally made it to us. Came on an old rowboat. Rowed so hard one of his hands fell off.

He flopped aboard and the Delphine's Ghost blew its whistle in disgust. Whatever long-sowed punishment he earned scorched him with blue heat, orange embers. He looked ashamed and at peace at the same time.

This is what atonement must be, I thought. Don't think I'll ever seek it out myself.

He burned and crawled into the engine room to open the boiler. Inside was a navigator's hell no artist could describe. Whatever its shape, he accepted it. Hugged it, even.

Lightning and smoke roared from the smokestack. We abandoned ship as the Delphine's Ghost said goodbye to the Land of the Dead and the Land of the Living, and banished as a summer thundercloud rising around the madness that throbbed from above. Her bow crashed upon the hatchling and tore open its gulping throat. Black steam ballooned its gut and burst. Rest of our dynamite went off, and if this thing had a mind, it was blown apart with the force of a volcano.

--Your sins may be forgiven, though you will carry them always. May their scars live on forever. May you live to feel the unfeelable.--

Storm bolts struck the altars, and we heard every statue across the land shatter. The Graven Path flooded in on a surge of light. Brain chunks glowed in constellations upon the walls, think some last thought. The Path spread a cover between us and Desolation and splashed over the cave. It drank us in. Spat us out all across the bayou, in trees, creeks, and on roofs and walkways.

Wherever our stories end, it wasn't down there.

Lynch said we four Drowned hold all the bayou's sins now. I don't feel much different than before though. Rain feels cool. Bullets cause pain, and pain reminds me I'm alive, or alive enough. A mosquito finds the sunlight warm on my cheek and drinks. I wonder what desolate plain it feels itself upon as the shadow of my hand covers it.

I wonder if I'll be fast enough to pull my gun when that shadow comes for me.




Epilogue
A mosquito lands on a woman's cheek. It drinks her blood, tastes something feral roiling in its murk. She tries to crush it, misses. The spores infect the insect's mind - set it flying north - toward a shadow beginning to bloom.
Chapter One: Sheriff Hardin
Letter regarding Bounties, 1/2
Author: W. Hardin
Undated

To Our Stalwart Benefactors:

When I'm done here, the devil will be branded with Louisiana justice. He'll be nothing more than a stain on your shoes, easily cleaned. I swear.

The train you sent coughed enough smoke to blot out the dawn as it trundled away. The man it left behind was slender with a haughty figure, top hat and all. This can't be who they sent, I thought. No way, no how.

Instinct drew my revolver as I waded through the smog, as fine of a first impression as I can give. A whistling wind swept the air between us away to reveal his pistol pointing back at me in kind. Took all of my restraint to hold my finger steady. I asked his name instead of shooting, but he was silent. That's when I saw what surrounded him: at least twoscore cases of ammunition and weapons around his feet. I suppose ghosts must have unloaded it--he didn't seem the type to do it himself.

I also suppose I have y'all to thank for the boon.

"Which way to the Bounties?" he asked after neither of us pulled the trigger.

But someone else did: a gunshot rang from the station, and a bullet ricocheted near his head. It didn't take long to snuff out our would-be ambusher. I read her rites, tied her to a tree, and stepped back ten paces to execute. The from the train shot her from five.

"I'm a Statesman," he said. "I know how to treat vermin."




Chapter Two: Felis
Exodus of the Primals
Recorded verbally, transcriber unknown.

I tracked Hardin. I wanted his blood. His scent lingered on bushes and the insides of sheds, along with another smell, something that was like fox piss and campfire. It was easy to follow.

Winds have always blown through the bayou, and Primals catch scents easily on that wind. But when Desolation bloomed, our Pact fell still, frozen and unsure. So I tread across rising ash and through parted, rotting mists. I became the wind to blow it all away when no wind would come.

I found the den of Desolation, I fought against the ash. It was more of a vision than a fight, and when I returned, it was the wolf who sought me first--that boy who cries alone in the night. Lonely Howl had seen a name written on the moon.

"The sheriff has risen to the top of the pack," he said. "He got to Rotjaw before us, claimed her as his discovery. He sat back and let the Pacts take on the fires and the wrath of Desolation. He's ready to step into the fight now, and he's strong."

"We won't be tamed by cowboys," I replied.

"The Death Pact seems not to mind," said Howl. He had a vial of ash that he'd carried with him since the first blooms of Desolation appeared. I snatched it from his belt.

We knelt over a stump. A slug crossed its rings, didn't notice us.

"There is no law here." I poured the ash on the slug, and its skin hissed and bubbled. "Only nature. Only hunger. Desolation showed me unexplainable things. I see the world different now. I can feel Corruption spreading outside the bayou."

The slug crawled on and smoked like it was a train, a hexed premonition.

"Let's see how hungry Hardin is," I said. "Let's see how far he'll go to eat."




Chapter Three: Sofia
Addressed to Lulu Bassett
Translated from Spanish
Ink on Blank Train Schedule

We held lanterns at the bottom of Kingsnake Mine. Worm Bite crouched before a mud sculpture, something like a snake eating the moon. It reminded me of how you look when you're biting an apple. "The Graven Path is closed," Worm Bite said. "I've made sure. But something is still wrong."

He was surrounded by mud art. Crude Mountains. Sludge trees and animals. The landscape of a lost mind.

"It's time for you to come out," the Bone Mason said. "You don't know what it was like in the Land of the Dead," he replied, anguished. "It was a war, a religion being unmade."

"Rest," I told him. "You walked into Death's dream and woke him up. We've won."

"Every grave I've dug was wasted," he said. Some tall nest of clay stood at the center of his works. He placed a pocket watch on it.

"Did your mud friends tell you that?" I asked him. "This is a calendar. Just wait. In one minute, an Altar will emerge right here."

We waited. Water dripped.

Each drop brought an image to my mind. Visions. Trees taller than I'd ever seen. An infected chimney with infected men crawling out from the top. Miners sipping molten metal from a cauldron until their jaws burned off.

Suddenly, the mineshaft trembled. The floor bulged, and emerging spines uprooted Worm Bite's pocket watch calendar of mud. He huddled at the foot of the Altar, looked up to it like he'd seen it a thousand times before.

"You can never unsee the Mound," he said.

"Fine," I told him. I sunk a round of Pennyshot ammo into the Altar with my Derringer. "You can't shoot what you can't see."

Bone Mason dragged Worm Bite away as the thing readied to explode. The sound of it echoed throughout the tunnels of the mine.




Chapter Four: Sofia
Addressed to Lulu Bassett
Translated from Spanish
Ink on Blank Train Schedule

Worm Bite's memory is bewitched from his time in the dead world. Sometimes he thinks he's been shot and screams, remembering old wounds. Sometimes he thinks he's just been born, forgetting his name, thinking the Bone Mason is his mother.

Now he's spread his madness on to us.

When I smell one of these Spine Altars, I see a forest bent in furies of the wind. Terrible machines growl and gnash the earth. Dead horses decay on high hills, ripped in half by monsters.

We sought out help from our new kin, Brood and Bile--the blackbirds.

"The gravedigger contains echoes of the Land of the Dead," Bile confirmed.

We pushed Worm Bite forward, and he told his tale of statue fields, of a terrible serpent swallowing a steamboat, of monsters piled so high they scarred the moon.

"A ritual can show us more," Brood said. "Let's find out where these Altars are coming from."

The duo arranged six human skulls that were studded with gunshot wounds. From their beaked masks, they pulled tongues wrapped in sage, connecting them with wire, sliding them through the old, dead flesh. They wound the wire around a Spine Altar and shot it. The explosion made the metal hot, turned the tongues into rays of light.

We were blinded by that light. Drawn into a vision. Blood gushed from a train engine and painted a red line across the desert. Hunters fled the swamps and crawled along the line towards a range of mountains. We soared over a lonely bayou: the quiet paradise the Primals hope for. Boss Targets screamed in their lairs. The Corrupted shivered and walked the woods.

The only souls left were damned--The Drowned. Hunting forever through rain, fire, sunsets, and blooming ash.

Our sight returned as the smoke faded.

"These Altars and The Drowned are entwined," Bile said. "They dwell in a place as broken and flooded as their souls. Darin Shipyard."




Chapter Five: Sofia
Addressed to Lulu Bassett
Translated from Spanish
Ink of Blank Train Schedule

We found The Drowned banishing an Assassin in the boathouse. They peered out of openings in the walls and floor to stare at their reflections in the water. A new witch hunter was with them, that Hex Breaker. He hid beneath his hat, scribbling notes as the Drowned Rat muttered.

"It's our burden to keep the Graven Path closed," she said. "When we breathe, mud churns. When we sleep, our eyes fill with blight. Our very lives are what have sealed the Land of the Dead away."

"Then why have the Altars returned?" Worm Bite asked. "We destroyed the Mound."

"It's for the same reason flies come out of dead bodies," Thirteenth Mate said. He stroked a Choke Beetle that chittered in his arms. "They spread where they can."

"We still hear Lynch." The Drowned Kid stepped forward. "Singing as she goes about her work."

"And what works is that?" I asked.

"Lynch has tossed her personhood aside," Hex Breaker said. "If she ever had any to begin with, anyway. She's a kind of nature we don't understand."

"She can only exist where the Corruption exists now," the Drowned Kid added. "We hear her voice far away. Traveling."

The new witch hunter had heard of Lynch's work, had come to learn her ways from The Drowned. "Do you know what salvation a witch seeks?" he asked. "What makes them dance naked under a moon, or eat the heart out of a living deer?"

The Banishing crackled and roared. Hex Breaker answered his own questions.

"They want to taste a blackness beyond sleep," he said. "They want to bathe in the well all curses flow from. And to do that, they cannot stay a witch. They must become a monster."

I believed him.

Corruption has spread somewhere new, Lulu. I've dreamed it. Lynch has joined Death to grope our souls. Their fingers pry white inside my mind. If we don't stop this, you will lose me.

So I'm going to look for help.




Chapter Six: Sheriff Hardin
Interview transcript, 1/3
Interviewer: Unknown
Interviewee: W. Hardin, Undated

I showed the Statesman where that ungodly gator gave me my limp. He wanted to know everything there was to know about Rotjaw--her lightning, her Token, her size. Eventually, we decided to hunt her for some good old-fashioned payback. It was the perfect chance for him to have his questions answered in person...and for me to grab some sway over his arrogant, prissy self.

Didn't take long before we ran into the stench of vermin. Of one mind, the Statesman and I cracked open our case of ammunition. Both of us knew the cases were supposed to last for the long, grueling crusade ahead of us, but damn it if I can't resist the temptation of cutting a little loose, not when we'd been blessed with the means.

Just this once, I told myself.

Afterward, over the bodies that were now riddled with all different kinds of bullets, we got to talking. Like equals this time. Bloodbaths always get the heart pounding and the mouth yapping. I flattered him by sayin' he's got a better shot than any lawman I'd seen before, save myself. He told me he's never met a sheriff who'd stay to protect a town where only the dead remain.

I told him I'd mustered at least three fine Hunters who were all for my cause of bringing back order. He told me his benefactor had plans for a lawman who can lead a slaughtering force from the front line.

I told him I'd like to be privy to those plans. He said I was already doing my part.

Turned out we saw the same bayou--well, almost. To him, it was the ruins of remarkable towns which were already in ruin. To me, it was chaos that needed order.

At least the very least, I agreed on his idea for what needed to be done about it.




Chapter Seven: Sheriff Hardin
Interview transcript, 2/3
Interviewer: Unknown
Interviewee: W. Hardin, Undated

Later, the Statesman and I took turns testing his new Mako rifle on the Demented rabble scattered around Moses Poultry. They slobbered over themselves, hoping to bite the throats from the Spider, lost in their delusions of ascension.

I got one in the leg, then passed over the rifle. The Statesman pumped the lever and waited, watching our prey scrabble in the dirt. It was then he told me about the benefactors. He said they were a council of rich folks playing poker with Bounty Tokens, dabbling in the occult. Well, not just the occult--our occult. Felt good to be initiated proper, to get a scrap of food after what it felt like a full winter's starving. The Statesman took another shot and passed the rifle before I registered a Demented's head explode to pieces. I aimed for another one, wanting to see if it'd been a lucky hit or if the rifle really could fire true from three hundred yards. Took my time, just like he did, but I reckon it was too long, since the lone man standing left his dead partner to the Hunter with the wounded leg. Regardless, my shot landed true as steel, just as I heard the kicker.

The idea of a new law done lit a fire in my soul. Same one as on the day I was handed a revolver and swore to protect New Orleans. Excitement is what it is. No, it's greater than that...you might call it faith.

Faith can blind you, though.

Someone in the bush tagged me with a silenced rifle. The ammo was something that had me bleeding from both my ears. I took cover and patched myself up. When the dust settled, the Statesman was gone.

Whoever took him only left behind a fish speared on a branch, wearing his top hat.




Chapter Eight: Sheriff Hardin
Interview transcript 3/3
Interviewer: Unknown
Interviewee: W. Hardin, Undated

I am nothing if not a man of restraint, so the first idea that struck me was to do nothing.

The Statesman knew what he signed on for, didn't he? Knew from the moment he got swamp muck on his shiny shoes. I'd only need to write a letter to say he perished on the Hunt, and then there'd be one less person to answer to. Hell, if I'd have known how much he was still getting paid, then I very well might have gone through with it.

Instead, I did what I always do: my duty.

This was our opportunity, our test. Us Lawful had spread ourselves across the bayou and held guard in our own stations, but now was the time to gather and demonstrate our worth, time for me to demonstrate my leadership to those who ceded it to me. We were the beginning of a new law, so steel and gunpowder had to test the truth. I had to show that our authority would birth order.

It's true that this test would involve purging unruly citizens from the Earth. Once every green moon, duty and pleasure do happen to mix.

So I investigated. Hard interrogations, not that soft jail-cell-prodding the Governor always called for. When the next train pulled in, we had to have the Statesman in tow, or else the additional arsenal he commissioned was fixing to be forfeit.




Chapter Nine: Felis
Exodus of the Primals
Recorded verbally, transcriber unknown.

We waited for Centipede's arrival. I sat by the fire while Lonely Howl prowled the perimeter. Ants circled the coals, the broke free to flee south. They carried a mouse rotted down to just its head and spine.

It was a good omen. This is how I knew she'd been successful in securing a great bounty.

"They're coming," Howl barked.

"Be still," I said. "Yap like a cub, and your prey will sense weakness."

Howl quieted, and we heard shadows scuffle across leaves. An owl high in an elm spooked and flew off. Centipede dragged a man behind her, his hands bound, his head covered with a potato sack. The coarse material was a world away from the fine clothes the man wore. He was a well-dressed devil, or thought of himself as such.

I ripped off the man's hood.

"You'll regret this," he snarled, eyes glancing wildly around our camp. If he was one of us, he'd have bitten off Centipede's thumb. But he wasn't. He was domesticated.

"I'll remember every face in this godforsaken swamp," he went on. "We'll chase you down like foxhounds and stomp your faces into the mud."

"You'll forget this chase soon enough and go back to Hunting money," I said. The ants hadn't gone far. I picked up the mouse corpse and placed it by the fire. Its spine curled from the heat. "You call yourselves the Lawful, but you bark like animals. They are barks of fear, not command."

"You're Felis." He spat into the dirt. "I know you. Mark your days carefully. You only have a few free ones left."

"You're not dead yet, but you could be." I rose from the fire and nodded. Centipede pushed the man to his knees. Sweat dripped off his face onto the mouse remains and glistened in the light. "Would you like to know why?"




Chapter Ten: Felis
Exodus of the Primals
Recorded verbally, transcriber unknown.

The Statesman didn't believe us at first. It was only when I had Centipede show him her tattoos that he was able to understand: insane and twisted markings of insects beheading mice, foxes, oxen, men. She had been a Demented follower once, before she was one of us.

When we first found her, Howl and I had followed Hardin's trail and come across a bloodbath, the remains of the Lawful's "order." A single Demented cultist was left breathing in the mess, and we took her.

Centipede had earned her name for her adaptability, the quickness of her strike. She'd made poisons and worked them into bullets for the other Demented. I saw her eyes flicker with instinct. She could do more than follow madfolk chasing false prophecies.

I showed her the wilds. Showed her the beauty in the chase, the kill. Showed her that the Sculptor was just one in a long chain of hunger, that there would one day be something bigger than it, too. All we could do was rise to the top of our own pack.

"So you left me alive to tell me this?" the Statesman asked into the dying fire. "What good will it do you?" I knifed open a Starshell round. Ants had swarmed back to the rotting mouse, and I poured out a circle of black gunpowder to trap them there.

"We tell you this because you're not a threat," I told him. "You're bait. We honor our bait, respect it. Even you."

I dropped a coal on my trap and the Starshell powder flashed, incinerating the ants and setting the mouse head on fire.

"Bait can be a warning and teach lessons to its kin, if it survives the bite."




Chapter Eleven: Sofia
Addressed to Lulu Bassett
Translated from Spanish
Ink on Blank Train Schedule

When I eventually spoke to Hardin, I was surprised he didn't recognize me despite hunting us before. Perhaps he didn't care about our crimes anymore. We gathered in a cabin raised high above the water. The Lawful had caught three Primals and were interrogating them.

Below us, Rotjaw lumbered.

"This isn't law," the Bone Mason told him. "It's ruthless and unusual."

"Beg your pardon, Ma'am," Hardin said with a tip of his hat. "If I wasn't sworn on this badge, these degenerates would have their hands behind their backs holding nothing but toothpicks. They're filthy kidnappers."

He asked the captured Primals questions about Felis and a stolen Statesman. Each stayed silent and was kicked off into the water with Rotjaw. We tried to get him to stop. Every Pact was needed now, but Hardin couldn't see the bigger threat.

"Do you know what makes us Hunters?" I asked him.

"Sure" he said. "Tracking, staying quiet, but you here just don't see fit to shut up."

"It's the inoculation," Worm Bite said. "That concoction runs through all our blood. Gives us Dark Sight. Do you know who made that shot?"

Hardin Fired a shiny new rifle to send Rotjaw into her fit. "Sure I do. But if it's all the same, I don't care who made the gun I'm holding. I just mind if it puts a hole where I want."

"Finch's blood was strong enough to open the Land of the Dead," Worm Bite continued. "What do you think Lynch could do to us, with all her design flowing in our veins?"

The Sheriff paused at that. "Listen," he said. "You folks want cooperation? Answers and help? Join me in getting the Statesman back, and I'll put you in touch with the people paying out Bounties. I heard they beat Death at poker and got all the secrets of the world in their pockets."




Chapter Twelve: Felis
Exodus of the Primals
Recorded verbally, transcriber unknown.

We took the Statesman to the rail line. "Here," I declared as we reached the railway. "Behold the iron scar paved by your money. Behave, or we'll feed you to the steam beast when it comes."

"You promised you'd bring me to the station," the Statesman said. "You can't tell me you don't understand what a train is."

"The way of civilized man is a mystery to us." Iron Bark laughed. "That station smells of you lawmen. They'll leave and come to our woods for you."

We crouched behind old cannons. I found fresh bird droppings on the hot metal, could tell the Lawful scared off mallards and drove them down this way. We wouldn't be flanked.

The train should've been there at high noon. "They're late," Howl said.

At all once, gunshots crackled from the tree line.

Bullets glanced off the rail and hit Iron Bark in the leg. Howl flashed his revolvers in return, turned a white-shirt's kneecaps into crumbles of gravel.

Centipede threw a spear and a gurgling cry confirmed that it hit her target's throat. I shot an oil barrel, and smoke caught the south wind, giving us cover.

"Come out, Felis," I heard Hardin call after the gunfire stopped. I peeked out over the rail. The battered Statesman held Centipede at gunpoint, three Hunters dead around her.

"We bought you animals out," the Statesman said, patting Iron Bark on the shoulder. "Turns out money talks more than mouse heads and summoning stones."

Pebbles shook along the track as a whistle shrieked like a shot dove. Guns fired from the train, and railmen fell off to the sides, dead, covered in Hive filth. Iron screeched on iron, and the train stopped. The blood-smeared freight cars shed dust from crossed deserts, and their doors burst open.




Chapter Thirteen: Felis
Exodus of the Primals
Recorded verbally, transcriber unknown.

Iron Bark had sold us out to Hardin. They stood side by side. That grave-digging halfwit was at the tree line too. Seemed the Death Pact had saddled in with the lawmen.

"There's deeper evils out there," called Hardin. "Just look at the train. Our problems here have spread." Two Meatheads crumpled the wall of a freight car and tumbled out. One knocked a cannon onto a lawman, breaking him open. A leech fed on his exposed lung and swelled like a tick embedded in a dog ear.

"Let's compromise," the sheriff went on. "I want to die from old age, not poison and monsters."

"Funny how compromise always involves kissing your ring, Hardin," I said.

"Let us hold Hunters accountable." He waved a pistol in the air. "We can't have more Demented, or another fall to the Sculptor."

"Look at your hostage," I called back. Howl tossed a bundle of dynamite, and the Meathead split like a flower. "The only thing that saved her was the freedom to be wild. To follow her instincts."

"Hunters aren't beyond the law," Hardin shouted, his hand grazing his badge.

"Nature is the law." I ripped a weed from the soil. "I'm taking the train. Will you agree not to shoot?"

"You calling for a truce?" A genuine ask.

I stood, and some Hunter in his union suit showed up late. He stumbled from the trees and shot, maybe even by accident. The rest opened fire in response. I ran, made it to the train as the firefight went on. Howl stoked the engine, pulled me onboard.

"Let's call it more of a head start," I shouted to Hardin, and the brakes unlocked.




Chapter Fourteen: Sheriff Hardin
Letter regarding Bounties, 2/2
Author: W. Hardin
Undated

To Our Stalwart Benefactors (and your many cast shadows):

Never hurts to have scouts on hand, and that's what I designated those Primals after I gave the Statesman his hat back. For now, anyway.

We let the lot of them take the train--it was infected anyway, and I'd prefer a clean ride across the wests of our country.

The Statesman couldn't give a straight answer as to why our Backers would send a train in such condition. Was it a test? Some statement or warning? We agreed that at best it was a call for aid.

So, aid I'll give, along with the official leave of absence I'm about to offer Louisiana and her mud-slicked shores.

Ten years I've served these parts. Three now under the name Sheriff Hardin. Seen lots in the way of bedlam and betrayal in that time, with my loyalty pointed north, south, east, and west. I never considered doing more than upholding law in New Orleans until now. You'll make a fancy man of me yet.

A new law needs the sacrificing of the old one, so I've been told. Mark my words though, this "truce" won't last. When it expires, I won't need a train supply of firepower to keep it in check.

I'll need an army.

See, we put down vermin here, your honor. But they breathe the same air as we do, and sometimes it's hard to see what side of the fence you sit on. So some get let go--this time. You know what it does to a sheriff to shake the poison-marked hand of a stray, rabid lion? Swallow his pride and betray the law he was sworn to die for?

Neither do I.




Chapter Fifteen: Sofia
Addressed to Lulu Bassett
Translated from Spanish
Ink of Unmarked Map

This letter I won't give to you. I will keep it on me for now. My words mean nothing if not aimed at you, so I have to put them down like this.

You're asleep in the railcar and the desert passes quickly. Our hands are cold when they touch. It's the coldness of leaving a place. No goodbyes are ever warm, even when they are from a swamp as vile as ours. The bayou will always steam with regret, taste like gunpowder. I think I'll miss it.

We both smell like low tide and rot from the Land of the Dead. Shaking hands with The Drowned has lingered on us. But the bayou is their burden for now. They're only guardians we could find, but they fit. They've earned it.

Vultures are circling some animal walking across the playa. It's following the trail of some circus caravan. Dying in the desert is dry and desperate. Death has has no passion there. His kisses are cacti and blisters. He's all heat and shimmer, thin as a snake in the distance where sand meets the sky. The Death I made my deal with was different. He was giant, a rotting skeleton who gurgled with the rasping throats of men caught in trees. He was something that lurked in floods and graveyards. That is Death in Louisiana.

I do not know what Death will look like further west, but I've heard rumors. Sunsets paint the canyons and make the rocks bleed. The air is thin, hard to breathe. Things are alive there in a wildness the swamps forget.

On the other side of these mountains, dying will take a new shape. Its shadows will be the skeleton of you and me, back-to-back, and a thousand gun barrels waiting to sing.




Epilogue
Hunters ride uneasily on the rails towards mountains, following an unseen trail of despair. A new hunting ground waits for them, painted red, high and dry and thirsty for blood.
Well, if it ain't my persistent young friend. Welcome to my humble front porch. Surely a fine journalist such as yourself knows how to read that there No Trespassing sign? No? Then take a seat. You're just lucky I recognized your face before my hand recognized my revolver.

If you're that eager to know what happened back then, fine. I'll tell you. You won't believe it, but I'll tell you.

Some of this I saw, some I learned secondhand. Most Hunters would loosen their lips around me sooner or later. I was a familiar face, and they always wanted to talk. They'd have a few drinks, or they'd be dizzy on something else. Pride, glory, guilt. I never asked to hear their stories, but I never turned 'em down, neither. I always learned something.

Like the time the Corvids told me about their poison trip mine. The Doctor's Snare, they called it. They found me across a bar table one night and just about preened like real crows.

We'll start you there. See if you have the stomach to hear what Brood and Bile were up to in those days, and then maybe, if you're up to it, I'll tell you more.




It started when they found one of the Plague Doctor's assistants helping a test subject escape. They put the subject back in its cell. Then they brought the assistant out into the reeds, tied her to a beached log, and watched the Corruption take her. After she'd cried all her tears, they decided to experiment. They sliced her stomach open to see her curdle from the inside. That's when a small-town sheriff, Henry Rhode, caught wind of it. And that ain't a figure of speech. The breeze had blown south that day, carrying the screaming out of the bayou.

Rhode chased the pair for three days before they lost him. And once they did, they could've kept running.

But that's the thing about having a friend, especially while hunting. Someone you could trust was worth their weight in gold. Rhode had no right to end their scientific partnership, as they saw it. Not when it was already such a rare thing.

Once they'd drunk enough, they explained it to me. Or tried. How years ago, young Emma Davies had made a confession to her old colleague, Maxwell Creed. She had impulses that were getting harder to hide. She liked the way fever looked on people. She wanted to open their mouths and reach deep down for whatever festered in their guts. I don't know why she'd ever admit to that kind of thing. Maybe she thought to warn Maxwell away. Or maybe she just wanted him to know who she really was.

Either way, she hadn't expected his answer. He'd leaned in close and told her, “I completely understand."

Some time after that, the two of 'em came across the Plague Doctor. But that's a story for a different time.

When it came to Henry Rhode, any threat to the Corvids was like an infection. Before it spread, it had to be cut out clean.

They huddled up in their hiding hole and decided on their plan.




The Corvids knew how to gather the remedies for whatever—or whoever—ailed them.

A little poison oak sap snuck into Rhode's pantry was all it took. His skin broke out. His throat burned. When he started to vomit, he called for a doctor. Thing is, Brood had long since tied the doctor up in his own cellar. It was Emma Davies who arrived at Rhode's house instead, with her black leather medical bag. She said the usual physician was out with another patient. Rhode didn't even recognize her without her mask.

She diagnosed him with the scarlet fever. It was plain as day: he had all the big symptoms. He'd need to be quarantined.

Rhode was shocked. Nobody'd had the fever in those parts in years.

“Well," said Emma. “If you'd like a second opinion, I can refer you to another doctor."




Maxwell wasn't wearing his mask either when Rhode came by.

It'd been easy enough to lure out the second doctor and borrow his office. Maxwell just bought four seats on a day-long riverboat cruise, then sent the tickets to the doctor's house. Wrote up a note, too. We Invite YOU and YOUR CLOSE KIN to Enjoy Our PROMOTIONAL PRIZE!, or some such. Now Maxwell sat behind the man's desk.

He looked at Rhode's blistered skin and the rash in his throat. “The illness has progressed very quickly," he told him. “You need to see a specialist right away."

Rhode said he had no time to be sick. There were criminals running free. Madmen who experimented on other folks' bodies. But then he was sick all over Maxwell's borrowed white coat.

Bile smiled when he told me that part. Guess he thought it was fitting.

The Corvids could've killed Rhode then and there, sure. But the way they saw it, any kill without a good experiment attached was a waste of resources. And any threat of separate cells and separate nooses needed a slow course to treat.

“It would've been malpractice," Bile told me, “to show him mercy."




It was easy for the Corvids to rig a trip mine with a toxin. Turns out blowfish swim all up and down the coast of the Gulf. Their poison starts fast, finishes slow, and has no antidote. Even the finest sawbones couldn't have saved you from the Doctor's Snare.

The Corvids went to the empty warehouse outside town . Bile'd insisted to Rhode that it was being used as a hospital for fever victims. Surely any good, law-abiding man would go there. Surely he wouldn't want to spread plague across the place he'd sworn to protect. Brood and Bile set their new trap across the doorway and settled down further inside to wait.

The door creaked as Rhode arrived.

Then the explosion drowned his scream. When the flash faded, he was on the ground, leg gone to the knee. His wounds pooled with a mix of blood and the poison from the trap. Brood and Bile only watched. Then Bile pulled a pad of paper and fountain pen from his leather coat, dipped the pen in Rhode's blood, and wrote a chart note.

“The doctor!" Rhode was howling. “Get the doctor!"

“They're both in," said Brood, serene-like. She pulled out a pocket watch and checked the time.

Rhode tried to ask what was happening, but that's when his lips went numb. His words turned to drool. His muscles seized like a cat's hackles before he collapsed on his back.

“It's just a little anesthetic," said Brood. She's got this warm bedside manner when she talks, and I'm sure she used it then, too. “We need you to stay still. Your limbs will become paralyzed first, and then your throat…"

“Then your lungs and heart," said Bile. He bent over Rhode's injured leg to bind it. “That could take a few hours, however. And we don't want you bleeding out before then."

“That would ruin our samples," said Brood. “Our dear Plague Doctor taught us better than that."

Rhode's eyes darted between them. They shone brighter than the sweat on his brow.

“You're not a Hunter," Bile told him. “So forgive me, but your tongue holds no academic interest for us."

“What we do want to know," said Brood, “is what goes on in your little head. You really thought you could capture us?"

“Not while we work together." Bile's mask made no difference now. Through his voice alone, you could hear how big he was smiling. “Never while we work together."

They did quite a bit of research that night. They studied how a hand's tendons move after the flesh is stripped away. Sussed out which nerves to cut so that hand could never fire a gun again, even in the next life. And just before his heart stopped, they really did look at what went on in that head of his. Drilled a hole right into his skull and shined a light inside. I imagine they only found his regrets.

Now personally, I'd venture there wasn't one real medical qualification between them. They certainly didn't make any oath to “do no harm." But I'd say they got the other half of it right. The part where most doctors also swear to take no shit.

After that, they were free to fly back to their biggest experiment. I can't recall just how many tongues they cut from other Hunters' bodies, dead or alive. They were convinced they could use 'em to hear the Corruption's secrets. And once they knew enough, they were determined to find their old mentor. He had plans for that information.

Once they all reunited, there was hell to pay. But maybe you need a stiff drink before you hear that one.

-- Excerpt from A Lantern in the Dark - The True Stories of John Victor
Louisiana Hunters have arrived in Colorado.

Fresh off the train, the Researcher and the Lawful Pact are given a tour of Mammon's Gulch by the wealthy founder of industry in the Gulch, Preston.

The Incursion of Mammon's Gulch is fully underway and mirrors the well-known horrors battled in the Bayou to the East. However, new slivers of the Sculptor are being sown into the once fertile soil.

The Wilderness Pact wants nothing of the so-called “order" the Lawful Pact might impose upon them and the land, as signs of immense heat and scorched earth begin the Researcher's quest for answers. As events begin to unfold, Preston's oil field is mysteriously set ablaze.

Meanwhile, several pilgrims from the Demented Pact arrive under cover of darkness. They aim to strengthen the Sculptor's stronghold in hopes it will birth new terrors for them to worship. All signs point to their faith being rewarded if the corruption continues to flow unchecked.
CHAPTER ONE: THE RESEARCHER
Wax Cylinder Transcript
Phonogrammarchiv, Vienna
Recording Date 1896: Harold Black
Transcription Date 1899: Unknown

[Sound Annotation.] Labored breathing. Footsteps. Trills and rushes of a high mountain habitat.
HB: We've trekked in from the Northeast and made rest at a cascade of outcrops on the western side of Mammon's Gulch. The surrounding peaks are staggering, indifferent to our presence.

[Sound Annotation.] Train whistle fades in distance.
HB: Preston is boisterous. Stands at six foot three. He's dressed out of his fine clothes, perhaps hoping to fit in with us. Brewer and the others are not impressed, if raised eyebrows are any unit of measurement.

[Sound Annotation.] Birds set off.
HB: Clearly he's a novice, but it's worth noting that Preston can be quite endearing. He favors the use of a spyglass over any gun or blade, always on the lookout for something new to expose or discover.

[Sound Annotation.] Shambling, Screeching, Shots ring out.
HB: The Corruption here is in "full bloom," for lack of a better term.

[Sound Annotation.] Rifle set down. Notes scribbled.
HB: With the Incursion here still in its infancy, I wondered if some semblance of order and hierarchy might appear amongst the Corrupted. But this is not the case. They are all as disorganized and lobotomized as in the bayou.

HB: Despite their mindless, abominable presence, I feel myself being studied from beneath the trees.

[Sound Annotation.] Journal closed. A rock thrown, tumbling indifferently down a cliff.
HB: No, catalogued. Catalogued is the word. Just as a blind curator navigates the dense archives of a museum, and slips some small, dead thing into its perfect drawer.




CHAPTER TWO: THE RESEARCHER
Colorado Investigation Log
Location: Mid-Gulch Saddle Depression
Day 2: Morning

We discovered a survey group's destroyed campsite.
It was in total disarray and mostly incinerated. Brass equipment intact. Salvaged the following surveyor logs:

Dale Guerard: PLSS Acreage Report
Day 1: Grahm switched us to the Solar Compass. Our prismatic is being thrown off by ore deposits along the western slope. The compass is heavy and hot in the sun-it burned Grahm's hand.
We're five degrees off true north on account of the magnetism. Will re-walk the links for accurate acreage in the morning.
Day 4: Melanie has her seismometer ready. The thing's acting up. Jumping like a cricket in a thunderstorm, is how she put it. Can't be on account of the ore, though. Strange.
Day 5: Grahm's dead. He measured out the acre with 255 chain links, then vanished in a sudden flash of heat that seemed to come out of nowhere. The leftover links he'd been carrying somehow heaped and fused to his skull. We buried him—it was the only thing we could think to do. What could have done that to Grahm?
Poor Melanie. Just last night, when we were laughing and drinking around the campfire, she said she'd never get married, especially to Grahm. So why's she sleeping all alone on that patch of scorched earth where we found his body?

Melanie L. R. Seismographic Readings
Reading 1-4: Criss cross scrambles
Recalibrated Reading 4-9: Looping circles
Re-Recalibrated Reading 10: The needle has written in cursive.
"Too late now. Too late now. Too late..."




CHAPTER THREE: MARSHALL BREWER
Mammon's Gulch Field Report
Single loose sheet, 8.5 x 11 in.

Preliminary Report:

Wyatt Preston adores the sound of his own drawling voice. He'd talk the ears off a barndoor, if a barn door gave half a shit to listen .He certainly adores his home in the peaks. He leaves gold coins on tree stumps, out of either superstition or respect.

The expedition to Colorado demonstrated Mr. Preston's resources beyond all else. Fine China on the train. Cigars from some country I can't pronounce proper. He had a massive leech in a gold cage as a pet. I wanted to ask how he managed that—if there was a caged Meathead in one of the cars—but it seemed rude somehow, in the same way it's rude to ask a magician his secrets.

The researcher called Harold Black joined us as well-Preston wouldn't leave until I tracked him down. I trust Harold's word, despite his indifference to justice and order. He confided to me that Mr. Preston is doggedly pursuing ways to end the Corruption. There is fresh hope in all this rot, supposedly. Preston says that he wants to outfit us like a proper army, cleanse this land proper. He says that when the threat passes, he'll show us the oil field he's so proud of.

It was only after we arrived at our destination that something became clear. High and mighty are the words we've swapped, pretending we dispelled the plague of New Orleans. But the truth is that we've just shoved it down one gutter, only for its head to pop out another. And with it has come leftover filth we failed to purge in the bayou, clinging to its heels: Demented Hunters are here, too.

This morning, a little group of them sent up hellfire that brushed sky.

I just hope that Preston understands what he's dealing with out here, understands how easily it could all fall to pieces.

Phoebe Brewer




CHAPTER FOUR: SNARE
"Journey to My Descendants"
Author: Snare
Handwritten Journal, 8 x 8 in.

Preston has brought lawdogs with him. They are promised wealth and station. When our adoptive father saw what had happened here,
he called for aid. Only we came. But in the end, all it took was money. All it ever takes is money.
I have seen our enemy up close. I have seen the scars across Marshall Brewer's cheek in the center of my sights.
She and her troop were wise to cover their tracks, but they did so with the skill of a child hiding from a bear, leaving a trail of Grunts anywhere they went. Their killing is sloppy and savage.
Buckshot reminds me to tread careful. I can spit on their skills all I like, but it is their confidence we must track. The lawdogs do not need to be smart. They could kill us with a storm of bullets without a second thought.
There are many kinds of storms here now.
Come evening there was thunder, yet the sky remained clear. Dust and a strange glow rose over the low eastern range across the way.
Hell came upon us in an instant when the source of the ruckus finally came into view: a herd of horses, galloping, on fire. Flames flickered from their sunset hides, licked their heels. Their manes sparked in a way only death could see as pretty.
We cannot outrun this nightmarish Corruption, or the things it brings with it. Along with the presence of the law dogs, what options does that leave us?




CHAPTER FIVE: THE RESEARCHER
Wax Cylinder Transcript Phonogrammarchiv, Vienna
Recording Date 1896: Harold Black
Transcription Date 1899: Unknown

[Sound Annotation.] Great plumes of fire. Metal buckling and caving. (Or the spine of a mountain grinding on ore.) HB: The oil field is burning. It was set ablaze just as we came upon it.

[Sound Annotation.] Roaring. Explosions and hot whistles through rock.
HB: Preston has sent off Brewer to the north. He thinks this could be the work of bandits or other such greedy, bitter minds.

[Sound Annotation.] A marathon of sprinting. Embers swirling. Grass crackles and burns as if stained with the blood of witches. HB: A dozen Immolators have swarmed the oil field. The heat is too intense to see clearly, but they are in a circle. What is that they're...

[Sound Annotation.] Wax warped by heat. Unintelligible.
HB: Preston's oil burns differently. It seethes with the rage of things hidden in the earth, brought to light.
man. The odor contains the

[Sound Annotation.] Tree collapses. Wax warped distortion.(When a tree falls, does it feel itself falling forever?) HB: This heat. I do not think it's natural. It smells of things that should have never been touched by faintest traces of iron and ruined flesh when you stand downwind.

[Sound Annotation.] Long crackles of fire. An indistinct prayer is hidden in its flare. HB: Some shadow has taken form here. I will abandon Preston and investigate it alone. Let Brewer look after him.




CHAPTER SIX: HAYALÎ
Puppet Theatre Script: ACT 1
Found behind stage curtains, back-alley theater

Let me tell you a story.

Note: (Set curtain on fire to reveal the stage cloth.)
There once was a wandering puppeteer, a man of myths who crossed many seas. In his search for greater legends, this traveller found himself caught in a tale too peculiar and strange to not play a part in.

Note: (Puppets size up the audience.)
It all began when the traveller came across the corpses of three railmen and two strange characters getting dressed in their coal-stained clothes.
We shall call one, Pig.
The other, Bee.

Note: (The metallic click of guns cocking.)
Pig and Bee offered the traveller a deal: if he helped them achieve their goal, they would let him live. He gladly accepted and slithered into a dead man's trousers. He stained his eyes with soot and took on the speech of someone who tends the steam boiler on a locomotive.

Note: (Bring train prop in frame with flywheel and weights.)
And so, they set upon a train as a troupe of actors would a stage. They tended a ravenous and furious furnace in a nest of spinning iron and belching steam.

Note: (Fall to knees. Stoke imaginary furnace. Pray to the invisible rich.)
As the time passed, he discovered more and more about Bee and Pig. He learned that they were outcasts from a cult of delirium and murder. Worse still, they had been forsaken by the very thing they worshiped.

Note: (Raise mountain slowly, drop Corrupted fast.)
The train ventured over the type of barren lands where death itself forgets its name. They came upon the promised land: Colorado. There, a sickness had brought nightmares of the dead to life.

Note: (Puppets stare in awe at the sight that sprawls before them.)
Their faith had been rewarded, after all. They'd been given a second chance.




CHAPTER SEVEN: MARSHALL BREWER
Mammon's Gulch Field Report
Single loose sheet, 8.5 x 11 in.

Warning: Those local Trappers know how to spring sharp iron around your waist. They know these slopes like we know a swamp.
* * *
After the oil field was set ablaze, Preston sent us with powder barrels to the northeast trestle bridge, wanting it blown up to cut off access to anyone who might want to come for what's his. We went through Miner's Folly. The sad assortment of dilapidated buildings were all cinders and smoke, freshly burnt.

Demented folks had themselves a bonfire, most probably.

Before we could make our way through, we were stopped by a pair of angry Trappers. We drew iron on each other, then I realized that the mountain man, Thomas Bridge, was with them. They saw that he knew me, seemed surprised we didn't want each other dead. It was enough to make them lower their rifles.

In the end, we came to a bit of an agreement: we'll stay out of these Trappers' more treasured territory, if they help us in the fight against the Corruption of this land. We went our separate ways, but I couldn't help but look over my shoulder on the way out—I didn't trust the female Trapper, could practically feel the sear of her death-wish glare on my back.

Once that was taken care of, we had the business of the tracks to finish out, Preston's orders. The explosion was quaint, but enough to send the rails crashing down.

Between the oil field and the town, Mammon's Gulch is falling. I can't say quite yet whether it's into our hands, or into the fires, but one thing is for certain:

Preston's money doesn't impress death, not even a little bit.

Phoebe Brewer




CHAPTER EIGHT: SNARE
Bait Locations and Conservation
Leatherbound Journal, 3 x 4 in.

Friday
Found two sets of tracks.
First Set: boot prints from the north. Running, fumbled, crawled over the dam, into the beaver lodge. Scents of fear, piss, oil used for rock splitters.
Second Set: Came north, Veered south. Lumbering steps. Still hot, burned everything they touched. Scents of tar, iron, overcooked
meat.

Saturday
We followed both sets of tracks back to Graystone Pit. Found another Hunter ripped in half.
Lower half was smeared over a granite wall, then left i ǹ a kneeling position on the ground. Upper half was shoved into a ceiling crack above the rest.
The smell is different—heavy with sage. Must be the work of a different creature entirely.
Found a note and payment in a pack nearby:
I'm sorry to send you to the Pit with so little information. "Our" superstitions and rituals have become too dangerous. I don't know what Boss has done. He won't talk about it. I hope these cases of ammunition are enough to fix the current predicament. The sage bundles are for burning—may they keep you safe.
Stalk quiet and brave down there.
Signed - Delacroix

We circled up to the top of the Pit. Found some Hunter tending to a mountain bluebird. It was burned, sopped in oil with just one wing left. He sketched it, then crushed its skull clean.
We approached him. Offered the note. Delacroix is a Foundry man. He seemed half honorable, at least. We told this Hunter, Harold, that we've heard screams coming from Kingfisher Foundry for ages. It's haunted. Cursed. We won't go near it.
Harold sprung right for it. He's an animal hungry enough to lose a leg for a scrap of meat.




CHAPTER NINE: THE RESEARCHER
Kingfisher Foundry Log, Mammon's Gulch
Comments: Harold Black
Original Author: Delacroix

Oil Reinvigoration Ritual #14
Observer: Delacroix

Change Log:
Iron plug casings have been strengthened to better bear the forces. Subjects are compressed and forged from the neck down, and only after being fed Tokens. (Convinced the Boss this was more humane. Ingesting the Bounties puts them into a trance.)

Bore Depth: 700 Feet, 3 Tokens, Elwraith Rite 9
Bandit 1 ignited. His tooth (a gold capped incisor) shot out of the bore shaft, buried itself in my arm. Had to dig it out myself, then Boss confiscated it for the gold.

Bore Depth: 984Feet, 4 Tokens, Eyeless Navigator Rite 2
Bandit 2 begged for us to take care of his grandma out on some prairie, had to be sedated. Flesh bulged with enough pressure to break his casing, clogging the shaft. Had to re-bore the shaft to unclog it.

Bore Depth: 0 Feet, 0 Tokens, God's Grace
Bandit 3 convinced me over. He had a PLSS contract from the government on him. Last two subjects weren't bandits either, they were cartographers. Boss lied big time. I can't keep contorting innocent people and holding that guilt in me.

Bore Depth: 1,325 Feet, 6 Tokens, Finch's Lullaby Rite 1
I won't abide threats and slander. I relieved Delacroix of his station by feeding him the final Tokens before encasing him in the plug.
His casing struck brimstone. The reinvigoration worked at last. It turned the clay into treasure. Oil spewed out every derrick but something crawled back out, dripping lava. It's a miracle the oil pools didn't catch fire.
* * *

Deduced Methodology:
I believe subjects ingested between 3-6′′Bounty Tokens" each. Rituals were performed. Subjects were "contorted" into iron plugs, which were dropped down boreholes of various depths. Seems as though spontaneous combustion and physiological metamorphosis resulted.
I'm unsure as to what "crawled back out" the bore shaft. Could it be the same thing that set fire outside the Foundry and then stalked me through the tall firs?




CHAPTER TEN: HAYALÎ
Puppet Theatre Script: ACT 2
Found behind stage curtains, back-alley theater

Note: (Begin Act II with Pig and Bee puppets hugging the Mountain.)
Bee and Pig reveled in this devastated land. Cold machines ripped precious ores from the soil. Pipes sprayed black earth into the air. The mountains watched over the trenches and scars of the great gulch with no interest in those who suffered within it.

Note: (Kick rope so guillotine beheads Corrupted puppets.)
The pair were well versed in executing monsters. Their carnage was strange, for they worshiped the master of these many diseased puppets. Pig squealed in the oil fires. Bee prayed to hives.
With their senses sharp, they traced the hand of their puppet master to Grizzly Lodge. Sickness and evil gusted from its chimney like it was an ancient wound, a place of miraculous birth.

Note: (Make Bee crawl in first. Whisper a secret the audience can't hear.)
Inside were the lower halves of men kneeling in a circle, killed by some unknown monstrosity. Bundles of sage were tied to their waists, and Bee and Pig burned them to cleanse the air.

Note: (Dangle Cultist, Pig swings corpse to play with it.)
In the cellar was a pit dressed for rituals. Barrels had been hoarded, mounded, and blessed. There was a stench of Tokens. Bee and Pig fell to their knees and the traveller traced every symbol of salvation he knew.




CHAPTER ELEVEN: MARSHALL BREWER
Addressed to Sheriff Hardin
Author: Phoebe Brewer

Hope this gets sent to you as promised, Cowboy.

You ever see a flaming body fall down a mine shaft? Pretty eerie. It made my hairs stand on end.

Preston had us clear a mine where Demented had supposedly dug in (we didn't find any, just some puppets and a tent. How did those assholes get up here in the first place?) Then there was this roar that almost caved in the tunnel. Preston said it was the oil reservoir shifting. He used fancy rockhound terms for "roar," but that didn't explain the flaming body that suddenly fell from the pit entrance above us. Preston said that kind of thing happens all the time. Mine workers get sad and try to bring light to the darkest parts of the world. Can't say I relate to that.

We spent the night down there, and I took it as another opportunity to case Wyatt Preston up, down and sideways.

Preston isn't through-and-through evil, from what I've seen so far. He's the kind of boy who stole his daddy's gun to shoot ant hills. Trick with him is, you let him talk on long enough, he starts to let stuff slip.

Preston has friends with even more gold in their pockets, turns out. He said they're into occult stuff, chanting in masks and swallowing goat eyes and whatever else it takes for them to gain more, more, more—other than taking up the Hunt themselves, of course. That's for others to do for them.

After Wyatt finished off his handle of wine, I snatched a journal from his coat. Wrote down some names, sent 'em along. You've got digging to do while I keep playing this rich boy's nanny.




CHAPTER TWELVE: HAYALÎ
Puppet Theatre Script: ACT 3
Found behind stage curtains, back-alley theater

The oddsome trio tracked whatever was birthed from that haunted fireplace. Pig crawled on all fours, sniffing footprints and blood. Bee held amber to the moonlight and traced the paths it revealed.

Note: (Harold puppet's whistle, do not forget the timing, get it right.)
In the thick of night, they found not a creature in the woods, but rather a man of words and sketches—a researcher. Pig held a blade to the man's throat, but the traveller was intrigued by the dear word worm. An idea was born, something unexpected but exhilarating.

Note: (String Harold puppet from tree, bring in ghost elephants and tents with the flywheel.)
With quick deception and wit, the traveller bound the man as he would a most precious puppet. If his idea were to come to fruition, he'd need to lie, and lie well. So he told Bee and Pig that far away, a wandering spectacle of death and whimsy was approaching.

The traveller had been a member of this wandering spectacle long ago, he fibbed to his companions of the road. His voice rising, he continued to conjure fabulous deceits. This word worm had seen the show and mocked the poor traveller's every performance. Had jeered, booed, thrown bricks and cats at him! He even tore down his stages and spat upon on his art!

The traveller made sure to give his all to this performance, and he could tell it was working. Bee and Pig nodded as they listened, leaned in while the story continued. They knew how it was to feel the effects of sacred efforts fallen flat.

Now, the traveller said, his performance coming to a close, he would take a long-earned revenge on the word worm. He would punish the man privately until dawn as Bee and Pig continued their hunt. It was a personal matter. Surely, they could understand.

Note: (If tears are shed, lower clouds to let them be rain.)
And so the traveller found his exit. Bee and Pig applauded his demented hunger before setting off to hunt more lies and legends and things that should not have been born. With a pain in his heart, the traveller whispered goodbye after them.

Then he untied the word-worm and began to spin new tales to tell.




CHAPTER THIRTEEN: THE RESEARCHER
Sketchbook #45: Colorado
Illustrations and Notes
Penned by Harold Black

I sketched the strange puppet fellow who saved me from Demented savagery. I owe my life to more people day by day, it seems. Hayalî took a liking to my ink, and so an easy gift of it was made.

As he recounted his tale, I divined the hunting lodge is the source of this Incursion.

The Lodge's chimney is covered in hardened pustules and forms a "birth canal," for lack of better terminology. Through it, the

Demented and their jester found the remnants of a mass storage site of Bounty Tokens. The trio glowed in Dark Sight from its contaminated energies.

I cannot prove much, but if I were to venture at a cause for a Corruption springing forth from this Token depository, it would be ritual tampering.

We were no strangers to occult "experimentation" in the bayou. We recognized it here. It was as brutal and barbaric as always.

I was wrong about Preston.

My theory: He released Token energy deep underground and awoke the Corruption in Mammon's Gulch. Intense heat and fire were either a catalyst or byproduct of its awakening, possibly involving what became of the Foundry man "Delacroix." Victims include the 3 PLSS Surveyors from the destroyed campsite we discovered before.

As Preston seeks to pry dark secrets from the earth, I will pry the secrets out of him.




CHAPTER FOURTEEN: SNARE
"Journey to My Descendants"
Author: Snare
Handwritten Journal, 8 x 8 in.

We watched from afar as Harold laid a single bear trap in front of Pa finely carved chair. It was not hidden well, but the animal it would catch was not crafty enough to notice.

Tea boiled over the fire, and he shot a flare into the dark.

Preston came up the slope and took the nicest seat for himself. Iron snapped to his leg. His screams called Brewer over right away. I clung close to the shadows with Buckshot as we listened.

Harold wove together a tale of people stuffed with Bounties and dropped into oil. He gave locations of Demented rituals and summoning sites. While he was speaking, I watched Preston. He had the look of a lapdog who had wandered off into the woods.

We stepped up to the campfire and sidled up to Harold. The scars in Brewer's face met the scars in mine. She would stay calm in our territory, according to our agreement.

Buckshot told them that some tracks we found were filled with fire. Others led to severed bodies and witchcraft madness. Terror not seen in Louisiana was here, and it grew from Preston's properties.

Brewer did not pause long. She took her gun off Harold and set it to Preston. The man did not beg for his life. That is the confidence money gives you.

Preston threatened to end the Bounty System. Hunters follow gold above all else, he said. Corruption could spark again in the bayou, spread from Colorado, and we would fail.

He proposed a trade. Information for his life. Locations of more Bounty Token graveyards. Industry barons obsessed with the Sculptor. New Inoculations. Magics deeper than Dark Sight. "Old eyes" awakening in forgotten parts of the world.

The deal was made. It would be "our" Gulch. He would leave Colorado, and we would take his fortunes and cleanse his mess. We would take his gold and build with it a trap for all who might come after, telling us how to live and how we would be allowed to die.




CHAPTER FIFTEEN: DIME NOVEL
Tortured Peaks, Excerpt
Rejected Dime Novel: July 1897
Author: Jasper Priest

Blasted was the landscape of the high west peaks, where men broke teeth on boulders for just a glimpse of gold. They bored into the earth and burrowed tunnels. They stole the river's soul with water wheels and severed trees for joy and industry. Blood and money tasted the same on their tongues. No amount of either could calm their greed.

Among these men, a fool sought out long dead secrets of the world. He believed some truth lurked in lakes of oil and the mountain's many treasures. He believed that truth whispered to him from precious veins of ore, from tar pits.

Once his drilling began, it never ceased. Black blood gushed from derricks in celebration. His efforts drew the gaze of more fools, darker fools with darker knowledge to trade. They slit the throats of goats under full moons and bayed in tongues with lungs full of incense.

Then the black wells ran dry. Whispers from the boreholes faded to silence. The fool searched for cursed treasures to extract more ichor and wealth from the mountains. He bound them to screaming victims and dropped them down into places they were not meant to go. Each life fell upon a long-sleeping evil beneath those far rocky ranges.

That evil awakened. The dreams within it rose and found new bodies to live inside. Ribcages were split open, and skin rotted to the ground. Devils took to the river as fire learned it could spread from the hearts of men.

Corruption granted the fool's wish and overtook all he owned.





© 2024 Black-Room Agency, All rights reserved.
Buy a coffee