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“Well, you’ve certainly put a great deal of thought into this.”

“Of course! We knew that such an important matter requires the utmost delicacy and planning, High Admiral!”

Nodding rather absentmindedly, High Admiral Morgan Halder, the Chair of Defense, once again looked over the proposal on her desk. To her knowledge, it had been around a hundred and fifty years since someone had attempted to once again add a Fourth Chair to High Beacon’s Three.

The Chair of Recrafting. After two unsuccessful tries, someone was finally taking another crack at it.

“If you don’t mind, Mrs. Pulance, I have a few questions before I make any major decisions.”

Eagerly nodding her head, the current President of High Beacon’s ‘Recrafting Educational Center’ replied “Feel free to ask away, Admiral!”, gleaming a thousand-watt smile.

Erika Pulance’s entire demeanor could be best described as almost sickeningly cheery at the most, and a typical con-man would be hard pressed to tell what was sincere, and what was fake; the red eyes didn’t help, slim and ambitious as they were, and you could stick a spoon in that swirl she called a hairdo, and you’d have yourself a honey-colored whipped cream to gawk at. Perhaps the multi-crescent earring were a bit overkill. Yes, she had been preparing for this day for a fair while now, and the cleanly pressed and spotless yellow business suit with red rose spelled that out to any who so much as glanced in her direction. The only thing indicating her status as the President of the Center were the dark green cufflinks on each sleeve, appearing as torches, and the light green scarf, with an identical insignia, wrapped around her neck.

‘Hmm, sorely tempted to ask why you didn’t just get yourself a top hat and a cane, perhaps some tap shoes, while you were at it.’ was Morgan’s instinctive thought, before immediately dashing it from her mind. Leaning back, she clasped her hands together and put her arms at her side.

“First, in regards to the previous Chairs: Can you elaborate on the plans for keeping things in check? You seem to have a great deal of awareness about what happened with the previous Fourth Chairs and the circumstances surrounding them.”

“With pleasure!”

It had been three generations of Chairs since High Beacon was founded when the Fourth Chair was first proposed. The opening of R.I.S.K.H. had been taken as a sign that it was time to take things to a new level, and with Recrafting being so widely accepted, someone was soon appointed: a man by the name of Howard Gelds. A Haven wide celebration had been thrown for the new Chair, and it seemed like High Beacon had entered a new age.

A few years later, thing had taken a turn for the worst. To ask a member of the Redwood Patrol, or any of the other military organizations, you’d think that Howard had been nothing more than a power-hungry monster, waiting in the dark for the perfect opportunity to strike, and that it had only been through the efforts of a heroic combat-medic that he had been defeated.

The reality, like many other instances, was more complicated than that.

Howard, in the time he was Chair, had grown frustrated by what he had perceived as a shoddy record on the part of the Chair of Defense, Anita Costa, and thought that the position itself was no longer necessary, and could simply be absorbed into the Chair of Recrafting, naturally with him taking the helm. Tensions between the two chairs reached a breaking point after a few years, and a civil war soon broke out. After half a decade, the Chair of Welfare, a former combat medic known as Charles Gleeman, finally stepped in and forced a truce. After a long deliberation, an agreement was met, and the position of the Fourth Chair was retired, with the Recrafting Educational Center being created as a compromise, with Howard as the president.

Almost seventy-five years later, another attempt was made to open the seat, with the chosen Chair not only chosen by the original three, but also by recommendation from the Recrafting instructors at the education center. The new Chair of Recrafting, Marian Warse, soon proposed a truly ambitious project, strengthening the walls of High Beacon. Meet with much enthusiasm, the new chair went straight to work, gathering the necessary professionals and instruments. However, on the day of implementation, a horrific miscalculation occurred, and instead of becoming tougher than steel, an entire third of the walls literally turned to dust, to the horror of all involved. Shortly afterwards, the Chair was once again put to rest until the day High Beacon was ready.

“In addition to selecting some of the most well-known Recrafters in High Beacon to overlook whatever decisions the Fourth Chair will make, we have two additional steps to ensure that the new Chair is kept under control. First, the other three Chairs will review any major decisions before they are implemented, , to ensure there are no errors in the decision, and that nothing in the decision will affect the other Chairs to any significant degree. Second, the Fourth chair will not be allowed to override the decisions of the other Chairs or any of their subordinates. Both of these rules, however, will be exempt from emergency situations.” Erika explained with a smile still on her face.

“Mm-hmm...and I suppose a few people are already being looked at for the selected Recrafters?”

“Of course! As Director of the Center, I can assure you that the very best have been handpicked for such an important position.”

“Good to hear. One last question: I assume that, in addition to having the overall say in exactly who is selected as the Fourth Chair, and who won’t be, the other chairs and I will be able to select our own candidates for this little council of overseers?”

No one but Morgan noticed the ever so slight twitch in Erika’s left mouth corner.

‘So then, how do you want to play this little game of ours?’ thought Morgan, strumming her fingers across her hand.

“While obviously you are more than permitted to select your own candidates, you can be rest assured to know that the ones I have selected are more than up to the task-”

“Just the same, Hernando, Hector and I will be naturally going over each of the potential candidates, and deciding for ourselves who is best qualified. While I’m certain you have sound judgement, everyone, no matter how talented they may be, can still have the occasional lapse. So, consider us more of a ‘second pair of eyes’, just as a precaution.” Morgan finished with a smile, mouth closed.

“...Your concern for the safety of High Beacon is an inspiration to us all, High Admiral! I eagerly await our next meeting!”

“As do I. Give my best regards to your students.”

Smiling from ear to ear, Pulance packed up her things, and excused herself, along with some teachers who had assisted her with the presentation.

“Oh, and Mrs. Pulance? We really must discuss the specifics of these terms next time.”

Turning around, Pulance gave an affirmative bow before exiting and closing the door behind her.

Minutes passed, and Morgan let out a sigh of relief, allowing herself to slump in her chair for a bit. Turning her attention back to her desk, Morgan’s smile gradually faded, as she began to mentally debate something. Making a decision, she looked around before tapping the right edge of her desk in a specific manner, causing her office to seem like it was hum for a split second before all became silent.Taking out sheet of paper contained within a peculiar looking frame, she took out a pencil and began to write on it

Your warning hit the freaking mark, Hernando. I’m rather baffled as to why no one else has picked on her nature; if she’s trying to be ‘subtle’, then she’s failing terribly at it.

Putting the pencil down, Morgan waited for a little while and looked at her right wall, feelings of inadequacy welling up inside of her as she gazed at her predecessors, eyebrows slightly furrowed.

Noticing that some writing was appearing on the paper, Morgan resumed her communication.

Believe me, I’ve wondered that myself. Best guess is that not everyone is suited for politics and reading in-between the lines. Still, la chica’s got style, and she raised a decent point: Might just be time to open that particular vault and see if the Fourth Chair’s ready to be open for business again. Phare for your thoughts, my little Maiden Flower?

Rolling her eyes in exasperation, Morgan scowled.

If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times: Stop calling me that. For Aphyr’s sake, I have a fiance, Hernando! I’m not one of your bloody tramps!

And Sylvester is a lucky man for that. My apologies, but I call them as I see them, my maiden flower. You haven’t answered my question, by the way.

Fine. Much as I don’t trust her, Pulance might actually be right. Perhaps the third time’s the charm in this case. Anyone cross your mind?

A few. Gather your own list; I’ll contact Hector, and the three of us should be able to come up with someone good. We’ll discuss it at the usual spot. Sound good?

Affirmative. Halder out.

….

Still smiling, Pulance waved cheerfully at her neighbors as she unlocked the door to her house, her expression turning into a harsh scowl the minute she entered and closed the door. Glaring intensely, she clenched her fist, and swiftly made her way to the personal liquor stores of her kitchen. Swiping a wine, she tensely poured herself a glass, and planted herself on a tall stool, crossing-legged. With narrowed eyes, and wine in hand, she scowled.

“...You blasted cu-”

…

‘I’m beginning to remember WHY it’s been so long since we went to Pacaris together.’ Nora dryly thought, cracking open an eye to peek at Lucas Lucas as he prayed, his expression one of peace. Well, him and the dozens of other people within the Pacaris, all seated for the bi-weekly gathering.

The holy building was a bit small compared to the other places of worship within High Beacon, but it suited the practitioners of Fall-Girism, as they themselves were a small faith compared to the main faith of Girism. With dim lighting, an inwardly curved ceiling, and very few people wearing formal clothes, however, it felt rather humble, comforting even, compared to the other, prouder temples that were located in the South Eastern sector.

All within were seated around a circular glass visage that gazed upwards, forming a series of rings as they bowed their heads in reverence. To them, the shackled man, isolated on a small, rocky island in the middle of the sea, was their source of comfort, a symbol of both exile, and atonement.

“...And the third line spoken, do we pledge ourselves away from beyond the Euphoric Gale, the everlasting whirlwind; only to share in the gentle breeze as it caresses our unity.”

“FOR MY NEIGHBOR, DO I SEEK COUNSEL. TO MY NEIGHBOR, DO I GIVE IT.” Came the unanimous reply. Feeling something squeeze her hand, Nora glanced down, and smiled softly, squeezing her son’s hand in return. All around, the faithful took their neighbors hand, and did the same.

‘Now, just a bit longer, and Peter’s will be done with this little rite. Glad to see the situation hasn’t razzled him too bad, even with those bags under his eyes.’

Seated somewhat higher than the other devote, by all accounts, Nathaniel Peters fit the bill for the typical clergyman, more commonly known as ‘Graces’, of Fall-Girism: consistently tired expression, somewhat unkempt aging black hair, and a mild five o’clock shadow. Allowing himself to yawn, Grace Peters brushed aside some strands of graying hair from his eyes, becoming more focused as he turned a page.

“-and finally, for our fanged brethren, do we strive to guide them from the Final Horizon, the fury contained, soothed; whether they lie within Qalath’s malice, or are cast from Gireld’s warm embrace, let their fortunes and inner-most...”

Noting the sudden pause, Nora raised her head and took a look at Grace Peters, who seemed to have stopped mid-sentence, eyes closed and mouth open. Exasperated whispers and sighs quickly began arising from the other people gathered in the holy building.

“Can someone go and, you know, wake him?”

“Mama, is he alright?”

“Seriously...right now? ”

Having seen this occur several times before, Nora rolled her eyes, and started getting up.

“Ma, I got this.”

Turning her head, Nora saw Lucas swiftly rise from his seat and walk down the aisle. Walking around the railing to the podium, Lucas leaned over...and promptly snapped his fingers in front of the clergyman’s face repeatedly. The effect was immediate, waking up Peters, who

“Huh? Wha-? Lucas?...Ah, I fell asleep, I assume?”

Lucas nodded.

“Right, well, uh, thank you for, that. Perhaps not the most...orthodox way of doing it, but I can’t argue with the results....please, take your seat, if you will.”

As Lucas hurried back to his seat, practically jogging, the whispers began again.

Coughing once to get his audience’s attention, Grace Peters gave them a sheepish look.

“Yes, uh, my apologies, everyone. Now, where were we…?”

Yes, as it seems to be the case with every religion, stereotypes were bound to crop up. Girism’s Buellers were known for being a bit hedonistic, Aphyrnity’s* Locusts always seemed to be behind schedule…and Fall-Girism’s Graces were known for the occasional bout of narcolepsy.

“...Ah, right.”

Clearing his throat once more, he continued where he had left off.

-Inner-most will-power be strong for always and eternity, aided by their fellows, lest they walk the trail left by Gireld, and rue what follows thereafter.”

“FROM SELF-DESTRUCTION SHALL WE KEEP THEM SAFE, AND IN OUR EMBRACE SHALL THEY ALWAYS FIND SOLACE!”

This time, while most spoke the line in near unison, several members remained silent, Lucas included.

“And now, our Discourse. First row, speak before all and the Visage.” stated Peter’s, turning around to look at the gathered crowd.

After a second had passed, a bespeckled man with fading blonde hair stood up from his seat, clearing his throat in the process, a shameful look on his face.

“H...hi, everyone. I...I’m sorry that I’ve held it in for the past several month, but...I...I thought I could handle it on my own...”

Peter’s held out a hand, nodding with understanding.

“It’s okay, Marcus, it’s okay. We are all here for you, as is Gireld, to share in your pain, and to aid you.”

Clutching his fist, the man known as Marcus took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut, a few drops of sweat forming on his brow.

“I...I’ve tried to resist, but...given how things have been recently, I’ve...started drinking again!!”

Silence.

Then, a hand fell on Marcus’ shoulder. Opening his eyes, empathy met his gaze, from a dark haired women who looked ten years above her age.

“...I’ve been there, Marcus, I’ve been there. We’re all fighting it, and Gireld aides us in our turmoil.”

“Same here, Mark!” exclaimed another, bulkier believer,who stood up, and gave a thumbs up with an assuring smile.

“We’ve got your back!” Shouted another, with several more attendee’s standing up.

Slowly, others besides Marcus arose, sharing their temptations and pain; a few stories were told, and affirmations of strength, bonds, and faith were made.

For that...was Fall-Girism; it was community. It was empathy. It. Was.

Strength.

A little more than an hour or two later, it was over. As most of the attendee’s left the building, Grace Peters looked towards the only ones he would actually be interacting with for the day.

“Now that that’s done, Lucas, Nora, please follow me to my quarters, if you will. I believe we have matters to discuss.”

And the light squeak of iron wheels echoed as Grace Peters left his podium, his wheelchair coming into view alongside the light brown robes covering his body.
Bowing his head in slight reverence, Lucas replied “Lead the way, Grace.”

….

“I trust that your mother has informed you of the situation?”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry. I’m all up to speed.”

Seated in Peter’s office, Nora and Lucas relaxed a bit as they began their chat with the old family friend.

Letting out a small yawn, Nathan Peters rubbed his left eye tiredly.

“That’s a relief. I truthfully was NOT looking forward to having to reiterate the problem at hand.”

Lucas simply rolled his eyes as he sat before his clergyman, sitting up straight for once.

“So, judging by that little sleep spell you just had, I take it you haven’t touched that tea I recommended?”

A mildly annoyed scowl crossed Grace Peters’s face as he addressed Nora, who had elected to simply lean against the wall facing his desk with her leg, it, a lit cigarette in her mouth.

“I have no interest in any sort of artificial stimulation of THAT kind, Nora; it’s always more trouble than it’s worth. And please do not smoke here, if you can help it.” He gave her a reproaching look, pointing at the offending tobacco.

“Huh? Oh, right, right; Force of habit, I guess. Apologies, Grace.”

“Hey, can we get to the issue at hand? I’m not exactly keen on wasting time when someone’s trying to give that tyrant a leg up on everyone else.”

“Ah, yes, quite right.” Nathan’s posture sagged a bit as he reflected on the regrettable situation. “I shudder to think what might happen if he got a hold of .”

“Hard to swallow, I know, but it happens; it always does when it comes to personal philosophies.” Nora stated, folding her arms.

“I am aware of that fact, Nora. It does NOT mean I have to like it. And on that note, I wish you hadn’t been dragged into this, Lucas.”

“Hey, don’t sweat it, Grace. Always willing to lend a hand here.” Lucas gave an understanding smile to the Holy man, reaching inside his civilian jacket to clutch at the symbol hanging from his neck. “So, there was some new information that you had?”

With both Vaulens giving him their undivided attention, Grace Peters nodded, and reached into his desk, pulling out several sheets of paper, before giving Nora stern look.

“First, I want to make something clear: the only reason I am disclosing any information at all is because the individual in question has never officially a member of this religion. They have neither asked for me to remain silent in regards to their presence, nor have they ever requested that I keep any discussion between the two of us a secret.”

“I read you loud and clear, Grace.”

Nodding again, he spread out the documents on the desk.

“Now, like my letter said, I finally realized who ‘D.F.’ was referring to. My sincerest apologies that I didn’t realize it sooner, but considering that I only had ONE sample of the handwriting, I’m just lucky that it wound up being merely lost instead of thrown out.”

He pointed to the photo, then towards two rather distinct letters in the pile. The writing on one of them was curved, written in a very fast, natural manner, and in some places, was perhaps a bit too curvy.

The other document, on the other hand, looked as though it had been written at a slower pace, each individual letter carefully etched into the paper, with more than a few corrected strokes here and there.

“The initials refer to a man by the name of ‘Daniel Faelgrite’; I haven’t seen him in years, though I believe that he began attending around the time you were a mere infant, Lucas. I’d wager he’s at least in his late thirties or early forties by now.”

“Was he a regular?” Nora asked, already making notes.

“Hmmm...no. No, his was an irregularity; he’d attend everyday for a few weeks, disappear, then reappear every other day - that sort of thing.”

“You know him that well?” Lucas asked, folding his arms.

“Well, he was rather...strange; Fairly distant, and he had this…this...empty look in his eyes, like he had seen horrors the rest of us can scarcely imagine, and had cut himself off from any attachments. I don’t think I’m the only one who noticed this about him, as the others in attendance seemed to avoid him whenever they could. Perhaps one of you remember seeing him at some point? Blue eyes, dirty-blonde hair…?”

Tapping her chin for few seconds in thought, Nora shook her head.

“Don’t think I ever saw someone like that. Know anything personal about him?”

“Unfortunately, no. Aside from his name, he never spoke anything about his past, though I have been able to piece together a few things from his mannerisms and such - Most notably, I’ve never heard anyone in High Beacon speak with the kind of accent he possesses; it’s a very...humble, slurred accent, if that makes any sense”

“Got it, not from around here. I don’t suppose you know if he’s uses recrafting, do you?”

Grace Peter’s shook his head.

“‘Fraid not; if he does, he never mentioned it...However - there is another, rather important detail I believe you two should be aware of.”

At this, Grace Peter’s leaned closer, his mood becoming more serious.

“He, like Lucas, is a werewolf.”

After a few moments, Nora groaned with a facepalm.

“Fan-freakin’-tastic; now I’m gonna have to go through the proper channels to get some pure silver! ”

“If it’s any consolation, ma, you’ve got my permission.” Lucas offered, before slumping his in seat.

“Hey, Grace Peter’s, any idea how many times-”

“Last time I saw him, it was only once, Lucas. Of course, it’s been quite a while since then, so take that with a grain of salt.”

Strumming his fingers on his chair for a few seconds as he pondered the answer, Lucas abruptly got up.

“Ma, Grace Peters, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go pray for a bit in light of this...”

Pausing in the midst of frustration, Nora watched Lucas as he jogged over to the encircled visage, smiling slightly in amusement.

“Hmm, prayer before battle...When was the last time I saw him do that...?”

“He does it at the end of every gathering, if you’re curious.”

Blinking in surprise, Nora glanced back to Grace Peters, who was looking at her with a tired, if slightly amused, smile of his own. Her gaze wavering for a split second, Nora rolled her eyes.

“Eh, I’m guessing it’s a bit more often than that, Grace. So, anything else I need to know about this ‘Faelgrite’, that you couldn’t say to Luke?”
“Mmm, no, nothing like that, fortunately. However, I myself am curious about something, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“Shoot.”

“

….

The moon just beginning its descent towards the horizon of the Haven’s wall, Lucas, Nora, and a select number of the enforcers hurried amidst the trees alongside one of the roads within the only area of High Beacon that wasn’t covered in trees or water:

The Southern Grasslands.

While there had been small pockets of grassy areas within the Haven that had made for excellent housing locations, none of them compared to the expansive acres of crops that had once been an almost waist-high, massive field of tallgrass. Easily the most open area of High Beacon, it seemed to go on for miles, with around half a dozen farms established for crops. Given the importance of food in this day and age, a contingent of permanent guards had been established by the military, stationed at towers placed strategically around the farm land.

“Okay, this is it, people. Team Two and Three in position?” Nora ordered, pulling out a pair of binoculars.

One of the men with her quickly ascended one of the taller trees, and quickly fished out a small veiled stone, flipping it into the air, much like one would a coin. For the brief time it was airborne, the stone emitted a light, one as bright as the sun reflecting off a mirror. After a few moments, two identical flashes caught Nora’s eye from different parts of the forest.

“Good. Now, remember, our target is under Ollsmith Farms; Team Three will cover the entrance once we’ve found and secured it, and Team Two will provide support and maintain communications. We get in there, find the manifest, confirm the cargo destination, and subdue any of these loons that we come across; the less assistance Faelgrite has, the better chance we have of using the pure silver without interruption. Luke, any last minute tips for us in regards to the Incarnations we’re gonna run into down there?”

“Hmm...yeah, just one.”

Turning his head, he addressed the other Enforcers with a grin.

“If there’s a Incarnation in-the-red down there, keep your distance at all costs...cause I’m gonna need some space to have a go at it!”

“...”

Nora rolled her eyes, let out a sigh, and grabbed Lucas’ head, pushing his face into the bushes with an annoyed look.

“Time and place, Luke; time and place. IF there is an Incarnation in-the-red, then we are. Going to. Call. For BACKUP! That clear?”

The reaction of the Enforcers was unanimous.

“Got it.”

Lucas gave a reluctant thumbs up.

Letting Lucas go, Nora redirected her focus to the farm in question, holding up a hand to prepare everyone to move.

“Get ready to move in three...two...one...GO!!”

Swiftly racing out of the forest, Nora’s group bounded across the roads separating them from the fields of wheat, the other teams following shortly after. The night dew gently wetting their armor as they raced through the stalks, they went their separate ways as they began to search for the entrance. Sticking with her son, Nora gave him a nudge, and pointed at her nose. Nodding, Lucas focused, briefly allowing himself access to the heightened sense of smell that his lycanthropic status granted him, and took a few whiffs of the air. After a few moments had passed, he frowned, and shook his head, to Nora’s disappointment.

‘Well, so much for that angle. Okay, intel only: We’re looking for some kinda false door, disguised as part of the wall or floor.’

Lighting a small lantern, Nora began combing the place: pushing aside hay to look underneath, assisting the other Enforcers in moving furniture, and listening for hollow sounds, whether it be announced with footsteps, or soft knocks against the wall.

“Hey, Ma?”

Glancing at Lucas as he began taking tools off of shelves, Nora let out a sigh.

“Luke, I doubt that they’d do something as stupid as make the entrance a matter of ‘a hidden switch’; you been going to readings of some lousy mystery novel or somethin’?”

Rolling his eyes, Lucas finished what he was doing, and began lifting the shelf off the wall.

“First of all, even if I was, you never know, Ma. Second, I actually wanted to know if there was some kinda symbol I should be looking for; cause, you know, cults tend to use symbols!”

“...Luke, there IS no symbol! No crest, insignia, nothing! We couldn’t find one! We even mentioned it in the report we sent to W.I.-!!...Gireld’s Moon, I thought you said you read the ENTIRE report!”

“...I, er, may have skimmed over some of the details…”

Exasperated, Nora pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Ugh...I do NOT have time for this; I’ll fill you in on-”

“Chief! We got it!”

Hurrying over to her, one of the enforcers skidded to a halt, before jabbing his thumb behind him.

“We found the entrance! You’re not gonna believe where it is!”

Giving Lucas a stern look, Nora gave a simple nod, and followed, putting out the light of her lantern, the blanket of the night once again covering them as all three exited the barnhouse. The night kissing them with a gentle breeze, Lucas and Nora’s hands hovered near their weapons in anticipation, eyes still straining to see in the thicket of darkness around them. Eventually coming to their destination, Nora raised an eyebrow as she felt the metallic sheeting in front of her, while Lucas simply cocked his head to the side in mild disbelief.

“A Silo?! These nutters have been...how do you even-?”

“Ruiz is the one who found it, Chief; there’s a small dent right here.”

Holding a small light near the curved metal sheet, Nora’s second-in-command, Reginald, pointed out a strangely-shaped, palm-sized impression. The only reason it was even visible was due to some ink that Ruiz himself had evidently used to outline the image, revealing a rather familiar insignia: a long-haired, skeletal figure, mouth opened in anguish, as it was bound to the soil beneath it’s feet. One look was all Nora needed.

“Qalath worshippers!”

“My thoughts exactly, chief. Don’t press it, though; Ruiz almost broke his leg when he brushed against it a bit too hard.” Reginald warned, pointing right in front of where Nora was standing.

“Trap door, huh? Anyone spot us?”

“Doubt it; Ruiz managed to close it just after he tripped it open.”

Lucas, scratching his head, spoke up.

“That’s a symbol of Qalath? Doesn’t look a thing like the one Grace Peter’s told us about…”

“Ah, trust us, it’s a mark of Qalath, no doubt about it; Just an obscure one.”, assured one of the Enforcers - Ruiz, if Lucas remembered correctly- as Nora examined the spot Reginald had indicated.

“Looks like we’ve found it, people; if we’re lucky, we haven’t tripped any alarms. Ruiz, you found it, you do the honors. Everyone else, get ready.”

Almost immediately, they all felt a faint rumble as something within the earth shifted, and the patch of grass before them swiftly slide away. Immediately, Ruiz tossed a ceramic jar into the entrance, which clattered about a few times before breaking, and unleashing a veritable flood of dull yellow smoke into the den revealing stairs that led to the smuggler’s pitch-black hideout.

And not a cultist in sight.

“
His mother immediately readying everyone to descend, Lucas turned his attention to the switch one last time, tracing a finger over it.

‘Didn’t so much as jam when the button was pushed. And no signs of ‘wear n’ tear’...either this thing was just installed, or-’

“-Luke, come one!”

Tearing himself away from the insignia, Lucas followed suite, some of the other enforcers staying behind to guard the entrance. The precious little light from the moon-lit sky rapidly began disappearing, quickly replaced by a earthy, musty darkness, with a few candles sparingly littered across the walls Careful and quick as they were, it quickly became obvious that there were no other sounds within the corridor other than that of their own footsteps. Trying his best to see what was in front of him, Lucas bit-back a curse in surprise as he almost lost his footing to a loose stone.

‘And of course the cult’s den is a creepy, dark, underground lair. Would it have killed them to spring for some half-decent lighting??’

Almost immediately, the enforcers were illuminated by faint lantern light, small as it was, courtesy of Ruiz.

“...Thank you.”

Ruiz gave an apologetic shrug.

“Eh, sorry ‘bout that, hombre. Guess I shouldn’t have put it out in the first place.”

“Hey, Ma, how long did you say this cult’s been-?”

“Best as we’ve gathered, several months now. You noticed too?”

Nora hadn’t missed a beat, giving her son a knowing look.

A back-up entrance.

‘Just our luck…’

Nora

“Don’t worry, the others aren’t just watching the entrance; they’ll keep searching for the primary entrance while we’re down he-”

“Hold it!!”

Stopping dead in her tracks along with everyone else, Nora was on the alert immediately, her attention now focused on Carl.

“What’s the situation?”

“...Something’s not right. Give me a minute.”, he replied, with a frown in his voice.

Holding out a hand to keep everyone back, Carl carefully walked a few steps ahead and gathered recrafting in his other hand before creating a glowing white sphere that hovered above his palm.

Within seconds, something flashed within the sphere.

“...D*mn it, they know we’re here!”

Nora winced.

“I thought as much...Anything else?

“Hmmm...We’ve got a Scorching Crest that’ll fry us all to a crisp a few yards ahead of us, and an Arresting Crest not too much farther after that.”

“Think you can disable them from here?”

“...I can extinguish the scorcher in about one or two minutes, but the best I can do for the arresting crest is temporarily disable it; D*mnit, they’ve got a good Ryser with them...”

Going over the information for a few moments, Nora began snapping out new orders.

“Okay- Carl, get rid of the crests; once that’s done, I want you, Reggie, and Vaneesa ahead of the rest of us. The minute there’s a fork in the road, we’re splitting up, covering more ground, and mapping out this place. Carl, ready the chart for me when we split.”

“Got it.”

“Good. Now, Reggie’s team with search for the primary entrance, and regroup with everyone up above, while the rest of us find the manifest. And remember, if you encounter any cultists, non-lethal force unless given express permission by me or Reggie. Come across Faelgrite, and you either use the silver, fast as you can, or, if that’s not possible, stall him until someone else can. And finally, Reggies team: Luke is here for a reason. You see any Incarnations not in a cage or something, you send for him. Clear?”

“Crystal!”

After waiting for Carl to disable the crests, they were off, going their separate ways at the first corridor junction. Taking out a rigid parchment as they quickly snuck along their route, Nora nodded in confirmation as a black line appeared in the center, illustrating the paths of the two teams.

Coming across some rooms within seconds, they were able to subdue the few cultists within them without much trouble. Opening the door to the last room, however, yielded a rather...unsettling find.

“Gireld’s Island…” Lucas half whispered, eyes widening as he took in the sight before him, eyes widening with horror.

“You can say that again…” Ruiz muttered, looking to Nora and receiving a nod of permission. Licking the corner of his mouth nervously, Ruiz carefully stepped forward, doing his best to avoid stepping on the stream of blood surrounding the...thing in the center. Examining it up close using his light at multiple angles, he took out a small vial from his personal pack, carefully scooped up some of the surrounding blood and sprinkled some grey powder into it. Giving it a light shake, he waited until it changed color and returned to Nora’s side.

“So, what’re we looking at?”

“By my estimates, whatever happened here was very recent, and I can’t say for certain if it was an Incarnation that did it. Whatever it was, it had access to something big and sharp

Tensions rising, they quickly closed the door, and continued on their way, filling the map up as they went, and coming to a halt at a large double door.

With a nod from Nora, Lucas braced himself, and cracked open his side...and stiffened.

“...Ma? How long did you say these guys have been smuggling?”

“From our estimates, I’d say...about half a year. Why?” She replied, a mild feeling of unease settling in her stomach.

“Well, ya might wanna take a look at this…”

Sharing a look of dread, Nora and Ruiz opened their side…and collectively felt their jaws go slack.

“.......Gireld’s Mercy…” It was all Nora could utter at the sight before her. They had expected, at most, one or two large rooms filled with cages and crates of Incarnations.

But this?

This was a godd*mn warehouse
…..

“Hmmm...Now, ain’t that a sight? And here I thought those crests would be enough to take care of any intruders.”

Eyes like the frozen north watched the little aura’s navigate the simulated facility in his palm.

“Qalath, please forgive us for this delay…-Will you get down there and stop them already?! We’re almost ready to-!”

Faelgrite’s unfeeling gaze suddenly shifting to look him in the eye, the Arch-Magrance of the Cradle of Qalath felt a great chill, and almost bit his tongue mid-sentence.

If it weren’t for the toothpick slowly flicking up and down in his teeth, the mercenary in casually sitting on a crate in the gathering room might’ve been mistaken for a statue, his grey armor practically blending with the walls.

“Don’t worry yourself none, sir. We’ll take care of it; always do.”

Casually dropping to the ground, he began an almost leisurely stroll towards the intruders locations, cultists backing up slightly as he passed them, the scabbard of his blade gently bouncing with each step as it rested on his hip, before he came to a sudden halt and looked to a corner of the room.

“...You coming, Gladmann?”

With a grunt, a heavily armored figure stepped out from the shadows. Almost immediately, the majority of the cultists leapt as far away from him as was possible, cold sweat on their brows.

“Pansies.”, he declared, tone dripping with disgust, his voice echoing within his concealing helmet.

Saying nothing as Gladmann walked up beside him, Faelgrite turned to the cult leader, and gave a slight bow.

“I must apologise again for my companion’s mannerisms; ‘sensitivity’ has never been a strong suit of his, ‘specially with regards to death.”

“..Didn’t have to butcher him like that…*sshole.” muttered one of the cultists.

“Not my blasted fault he ignored my warning.” Gladmann flatly replied, not even bothering to turn around as he began walking alongside Faelgrite .

“Perhaps...but killing one of our clients ain’t good for business, Gladmann. I trust you’ll put more effort into...restraining yourself next time.”

At this, Faelgrite turned to his hulking partner, and looked him in the eye. Almost immediately, Gladmann flinched, recoiling a bit in apprehension.

“R-right! I’ll, uh, be more...considerate next time, gov’na.”

“I ‘ppreciate it. Now, you go on and take care of them vermin headin’ towards the primary entrance; I’ll take care of the ones near the cargo hold.”

“O...on it.” Gladmann replied, with an audible gulp.

With this, they split ways- Gladmann jogged out of the room with a notable spring of urgency to his step, quickly fading from view.

Faelgrite, on the other hand?

He simply continued onwards at his almost leisurely pace, the shadows gradually swallowing him.

The cultists were not sure what had been the most unnerving: the almost chilling presence that seemed to emanate from Daniel Faelgrite (the sudden wave of frost and ice from his cowing of Gladmann seemed a good indication), or the fact that throughout the entire duration of his employment…

He had not blinked once.