The cigarette smoke hung thick in the still, freezing air. The compound was small, protected by silvered barbed wire and layers of fencing. The inside would’ve been jam-packed, had there been more people to fill the empty spaces. No, instead it was a handful of Austrian Militia members and three traders, all of whom had plans to move out to greener pastures as soon as the flurry outside settled. Teodor was with them, but he wasn’t trading. No, no brass doorknobs and magic wands for him, he was heading out to snuff the undead light out of some ghouls’ eyes, first thing morning. But before that, rest. Relaxation, or as much as he could squeeze out of his short stay at the lovely Marianne Freudenthaler hair salon. It was a terrible place to defend, but given how many cans of ammunition could be found in the basement… it was a place worth defending. Entertainment came next, in the form of an AM member coaching one of his civilian counterparts in the act of executing undesirables. On one end of the sidewalk was a fellow in a long, ratty coat, resting on his knees with his arms held loosely at his sides. On the other end; an officer dressed in a prim and proper coat, detailed with many non-combat medals, one hand on a scratched Glock 17, the other on a weathered-looking teenager who was struggling to get away from him. The German he was shouting grated against Teodor’s ears, and he understood some of what was said; something about the “need to survive”, the “ability to root out subverters”, and killing in a quick and concise manner. As Teodor watched, the officer swept the thickly-clothed teen off of his feet with a well placed kick, then immediately bent down to wrap an arm around his throat. The officer continued maneuvering around until he had the younger fellow pinned, then went about forcing the Glock into his hand. The teenager struggled, his words of rage muffled by the scarf protecting his face. He struggled and struggled, but the end goal was inevitable. The Glock slowly drifted on-target, the barrel directed at the nonchalant thief’s chest. The firearm went off with a bang, and the response was anticlimactic. While the boy screamed, the target merely swayed, a grimace drifting across his face. The officer growled and threw the boy aside, and from his sitting position fired several more times. Each bullet tore through the thief’s chest, and he eventually keeled over to bleed out all over the pavement. The guards waiting along the side of the building were quick to drag his body through a nearby open gate, while the others began dumping bleach over whatever blood they saw. Insurance, in case some of the undead had a sharper nose than the usual motley array that attacked once the sun went down. The officer sighed in a resigned manner, gestured to the teenager, then aimed a swift kick for his back. Said back arched and he yowled in pain, but the officer ignored it and shuffled off in a furious manner. Teodor watched it all, having seen it already. Wash, rinse, repeat. Day in, day out, and there was killing to be done. It didn’t matter who was on the receiving end as long as they earned their place at the end of a barrel. He smoothed out his parka and slipped off of the parking pole he had been using as a seat, then snatched his Saiga and turned to walk inside. Boredom was quick to take him in the quiet halls of the hair salon, and not even his notes could keep it at bay. He turned in early, with plans to get up just as early. 

Linz was… underwhelming. No Lovecraftian creatures roamed the streets like a Bloodborne spinoff, in fact, not a soul walked the lonely, snow-covered road. Victor stared through the windshield of an oversized truck, the wipers occasionally interrupting his reverie. Each swipe was hypnotic, in a way, especially combined with the snow piling onto the hood of his requisitioned vehicle. He sniffed, shivered, and pulled the heated blanket tighter around himself. While he yearned to rest indoors, preferably on a king-sized bed like the one he had back home, he wasn’t sure as to which doors were safe to break through, or which ones were alarm’d. Vic’s molars grinded together the longer he thinked on his shit luck, but he just sighed and deflated. He lowered his seat and shoved the back as far as it went, hit the ignition, and curled up to get as comfortable as he could. With the engine off, the silence was overtaken by the howling, inhospitable wind outside. And, just his luck, Vic had to brave such wind the next morning to find the “mysterious” leader of the Austrian Militia referred to only as the “Vizeleutnant”. The NATO equivalent was “Command Sergeant Major”, a desk-bound NCO for those that went to school or were too scarred to continue their military service on the frontlines. Victor dealt with those types before; and this one would be no different from the other desk jockeys that pretended to be in control of their battalion. The Vizeleutnant put a formal request out for mercenaries- honest to God mercenaries that cared little for their own livelihood. The United Nations let it slide, given the state of the world and the state of Austria, alongside the rest of Eastern Europe. With no soldiers of their own to spare and Germany eating up the land around it once under NATO control, they had no choice but to allow third party assistance to the countries affected by the Sanguine Dominion, as the bloodsuckers called themselves. Czechia was doing the same, but through more official means, like Grendwell Security Contracting and similar organizations. Victor responded to an advertisement online while perusing eBay for magical items, and he soon found himself in Linz with no further assistance and no direction. He’d been there a week already, scouring the abandoned town for any hint of the elusive Vizeleutnant and harassing the local Militiamen for a location. He scored earlier today, by chance, and was led to a sprawling military depot and compound that apparently housed plenty of underground railways and access tunnels, which in turn housed what was left of the military high command. Suffice to say, he had plenty of walking and searching to do the next day, all for a single man that probably wouldn’t be of much help. Vic was annoyed, just a tad pissed off, and more importantly, tired. Some nights he spent staring out a window, ensuring that the undead that crawled the frozen expanse that was Linz left him be while he tried to rest. Fleshhunters with their packs of ferals were the biggest problem. They reigned in several survivors over the course of the week that Vic had been in town, and were bold enough to risk attacks on smaller AM compounds in the dead of the night. Zombies and their tougher counterparts, ghouls, weren’t much better but at least they were mostly brainless. They burned up just the same in the silvery smoke, but unfortunately didn’t care for UV lights. He swallowed and peeked out the windshield; he had maybe another thirty minutes of daylight left before the undead began roaming freely. He could only hope that he sat in the dark alley long enough for the snow to block his body heat from leaching into the vehicle, and if not, well… they wouldn’t take him alive. Vic slipped the windshield cover in place and leaned back, trying to let the day’s exhaustion lead him into dreamless sleep.

The sun set slowly behind the horizon, which in turn was obscured by the waning flurry. Barrick looked on from his perch atop a candy shop, his heavy gaze sweeping the road below. He wasn’t searching for anything in particular, only something to grab and possibly hold his attention. Barrick saw scavengers slipping away into their hideaways, stray animals loping into dark crevices, and shadowy creatures making off into the night, to hunt, to kill, to survive. “The Brave”, or “The Bastard”, as he was known, watched it all through a mesh screen that protected him and his things from the harsh wind blowing outside. His eyes drifted shut, and he opened them minutes later to the Call, as he had come to know it. It was a long, warbling scream, joined moments later by several other higher-pitched howls across Linz. Barrick didn’t know what manner of beast could make such a noise, but he was familiar with those that responded; ferals, and their handlers, the Fleshhunters. He shifted in his lawn chair and cast his eyes down, to the car-clogged street. For the moment, all was still, but given the Call… the tense silence would be broken by the undead. His breath misted in the air as his breathing picked up; expecting vicious undead did a number on a man’s mind. Barrick leaned forward, snatching his VR60 by the barrel to check the magazine already loaded in. Rarely he fired a shot, as he managed to avoid the undead as a whole, but tonight felt different. The magazine was at full capacity, loaded with twelve gauge buckshot. Barrick the Bear rarely felt ease, especially now, but seeing his plethora of ammunition assuaged his mind. He watched, waited, his body still despite the freezing temperatures outside. And finally, something broke through the shadows. A pale, knife-eared being dressed in rags crawled overtop cars, barely disturbing the snow that had spent the day piling up. Barrick could hear its sniffing over the wind as it hunted for spilled blood, cologne, tobacco- anything that hinted at human habitation. She, probably once a fair elven maiden, was joined by a wild-haired human in similar condition to herself. Then a third, a fourth, and a fifth. Soon, a pack roamed the streets, observed by an armored figure with wings that stretched the length of their six-foot-five body. Barrick assumed they looked on impassively, but the plain helmet covering their head hid their expression well. He shouldered his shotgun and glared, hoping that the vinegar he boiled earlier was enough to mask whatever he smelled like. The ferals scoured the vehicles first, brushing aside snow to stare through the windshields. They were methodical with their search, which felt… downright unnatural, given their bloodlust. Barrick assumed it was because of their leader, but his point remained; telepathy or not, it was wrong. The ferals ignored his complaints and continued searching for livelier folk, but the cars clogging the road held nothing of importance. They moved on to the buildings lining the street, kicking down doors and breaking through glass. Some walked out with nothing, others fell back with holes peppering their chests. Gunfire rattled out into the night as scavengers and random civilians fought the ferals that tried bursting into their humble abodes. Barrick watched as a man was thrown from a window of a second story building, only to land rather softly on the top of a snow-covered car. In his dazed state, he couldn’t defend himself from the pale-skinned beasts that latched onto him with throaty cries of hunger. He bucked, kicked, screamed as fangs penetrated his legs, arms, and neck. The ferals were relentless in their feeding, and soon the fellow went still as he was drained of his lifeblood. Barrick blinked, long and slow as he considered his next actions. More and more people were being dragged into the street, to be bound or to be feasted upon like cattle. The undead were unaware of him at the moment, and he had a clear shot on the Fleshhunter leading the hunt. The barrel of his shotgun swiveled slowly to the ferals’ leader, poking through the mesh screen. Barrick sighed, low and slow, and his finger squeezed the trigger. The gun bucked in his hands, but he was quick to follow up with another shot. The first load of buckshot slammed into the Fleshhunter’s armor, and they reeled back into a nearby car. The second load ripped through the being’s wing, but there was no blood. The response was loud, louder than any shotgun blast. The being’s roar pierced the electronic hearing protection, and Barrick winced. He stumbled back, tripping over his chair and through his protective mesh as his vision rapidly unfocused. The roar was layered, and clearly magical given the sudden bout of nausea the Bastard suffered. Bile rose into his throat and he spat it out, coughing heavily. He struggled to right himself, and began to twist out of the mesh when he heard the ferals scrambling up the side of his candy shop. They were coming for him, and he wasn’t in any position to fight back. 

The gunfire wasn’t the noise that drove Victor to a near-panic, no, he had heard it before and expected it that night. No, it was the ear-piercing roar that sounded like it was right outside his car. He snatched his wheelgun from the seat beside him and pointed it at the windshield, then the driver’s side window, waiting for a beastly claw to break through and drag him into the flurry. When it never came he grew brave enough to pull aside the windshield screen, finding… nothing. Just a car-clogged road, and more snow than what he had fallen asleep to. Vic checked his watch, and groaned when he noticed that only twenty minutes had passed since he had finally slipped off into dreamland. The gunfire stopped momentarily, but picked up with a new fervor not moments later. Another roar swept down the road like a wave, encompassing what it truly meant to be afraid of the dark. Vic cringed back, ducking down for a moment as the beastial howl drove his lizard-like instinct to the forefront of his mind. Again, nothing came of it besides a temporary lapse of gunfire. Stress sweat rolled down his cold forehead from underneath his furred ushanka, but he laid back and pulled the quilt back over himself. Attempting to fall back asleep was futile, as the gunfire and terrible roaring only gained in volume. Eventually he had enough, and Victor shrugged off the quilt to slip on his rig. The unofficial merc snatched up his armaments and quietly slipped out of his truck, making sure to shut the door behind him as quietly as he could. He hit the lock button on his keyfob once, ensuring that no greedy fucktards could open the back gate and snatch his shit. Vic tightened the sling on his rifle to his back and drew his CZ, then made his way down the road, to the source of the roars. Regret filled him with every step he took, but it wasn’t like he was getting any sleep that night anyway. So; on he went. The wind was unforgiving, slipping into the looser portions of his clothing and brushing roughly against his already cold flesh. He shivered, pressing his arms against his sides as he attempted to cut off the wind. He always said he loved the cold, the Winter, but at the moment he wished to be in Tijuana, girly drink in one hand, and a knife-eared babe in the other… even if there was a chance for his throat to be cut. No different than hanging with the crazy bitches of the regular world. It sure as shit sounded ten times better than fighting undead that physically couldn’t feel the bitter cold plaguing the lovely land of Austria. The gunfire no longer sounded faint, and unfortunately Vic could hear the hissing of ferals as they attempted to tear apart the gunmen. The merc finally stepped onto the battleworn street, finding… one hell of a sight. There were ferals everywhere, clinging to the sides of buildings and diving through windows in an attempt to get to the scavengers and survivors that fired sporadically from the buildings lining the road. Corpses littered the snow, some dressed in rags, others in thick coats. Blood was splattered everywhere, probably due to the messier eaters that had gotten ahold of an unlucky live one. Further down the road was a massive figure dressed in heavy plated armor and a billowing cape. In one hand they waved a mace, and in the other a glowing vial of mystery fluid. As Vic watched, the figure tried pouring the contents onto their ruined wing, but a stray shot ripped off two gauntlet-covered fingers and sent the contents of the vial to the snow below. It roared yet again, and Vic could see the air around the figure bend against the rage-filled force emanating from its body. The mercenary’s knees gave out, his sidearm dropped to the snow, and he clutched his ears. His vision swam, coming in and out of focus. His head was filled with fire, and the gray matter in his skull was ripping itself apart. He groaned, but it was cut short when one hundred and eighty pounds of feral flesh slammed into him at the speed of a coasting car. Vic slammed into the ground, the remaining air in his lungs expelled in a violent manner. The vampiric spawn mounted him and swiped a set of talons across his chest, but the strengthened keratin only skittered across his scale mail armor. The creature, probably once a proud nobleman from the Other Side, lunged for Vic’s throat, and he got a noseful of old blood and rot. Thankfully he was aware of their penchant for following up with a bite, and brought his arm up in time to catch the fanged maw. He winced, the sharp teeth brushing across his flesh as they pierced the thick leather bracer. The feral reared back, bringing Vic’s arm with it, and Vic sure as shit went wherever the mouth went. The far-from-home merc blinked away tears as the effects of the Fleshhunter’s roar slowly petered out, but his vision still swam. Moving on instinct, the American’s free hand dropped to his belt, where several items of use rested. Said hand brushed across a wand, a wheelgun, and… a light. Vic tore it from its sheath and directed it at the beast’s twisted face, and hit the “on” switch. He squinted as bright purple light flashed brilliantly in the dying flurry, then grunted as a piercing howl echoed out into the night. The scent of well-done flesh filled Vic’s nostrils as the feral’s face was quickly ashed by the UV light. It finally fell back, writhing in the snow and leaving Victor to recover. Several of the ferals took notice of his shenanigans and were quick to hop from their respective perches, then subsequently charged. With the hellish monsters hot on his trail, the American lunged forward and shoved the burned vampire aside to grab his trusty sidearm. The artificial sunlight swept back and forth, forcing the vampires back and giving him enough time to open fire. Round after round went downrange, some zipping off into the night, others tearing holes into crispy Spawn. Sixteen nine millimeter rounds in total were spent, and as the American went to eject the magazine, the ferals got a whole lot more intelligent. The group- seven in all- split three on the left, three on the right, and one straight for Vic. He couldn’t maneuver his flashlight around fast enough, and even those that were caught by it didn’t seem to care. They rushed in, and Victor managed to slam another magazine into his weapon, then racked the slide. He barely got a shot off when the Spawn swarmed him, tearing him this way and that as they each tried to get a piece of him. He brought his arm up to protect his throat and felt fangs pierce his bicep instead. Another latched onto his leg, and another began clawing at his face. His breathing became labored as he tried to prolong his existence just a little longer, but he was struggling. There was no acceptance, just fear, fear that he’d end up little more than a sack of skin and bones in the snow, to be picked clean by the scavengers no doubt escaping their hovels while a chunk of the beasts were distracted. Vic reared his free leg back and slammed his boot into the head of the Spawn chewing on his leg. Something gave out, and the feral scrambled back with a hanging lower jaw and tongue. One of the beasts roaming the outer feeding circle dived in on the pile alongside another, causing a fight between the two. A third took advantage of their spat and snatched Vic by his thigh. Two more rounds spat off into the night, driving the vampire cutting up the American’s face back. Victor felt the fight leaving him the longer the vampires remained latched to him, his energy dipping with each passing second. His eyelids felt heavy, and the handgun began to near the snow. It wasn’t too bad of a death, it hurt a lot less than he expected it to, and the snow wasn’t half bad of a place to rest. Shame it was so cold. 

Two shotgun blasts jolted him from his deathbed reverie. A pale, buckshot-ridden chunk of flesh dropped onto his chest, and something fell out of sight. The Spawn of the outer circle slipped out of sight, heading to combat the newest threat. Victor’s lips curled back into a snarl as he bent his hand around to direct the UV light at the head of the beastie chomping on his bicep. His finger jammed into the button, and like magic the Spawn tore away from his arm. A chunk of his arm went with it, and by God did he yowl. Blood dribbled steadily from the wound, darkening the snow he rested on. Vic grimaced as he swallowed down another cry of pain, but the mild inconvenience of suddenly missing a portion of muscle from his arm proved to be a good enough distraction for the feral at his thigh to go for his throat. It wasn’t a quick lunge, no, the bloodied smile suggested otherwise. No doubt, the winged monster down the road had something to do with the sudden change in the ferals’ tactics, and was clearly relishing his intelligence. The sickly-looking orc swept aside the UV light, damn near taking a finger too. The American bucked as his index and middle finger suddenly lost feeling when razor-sharp nails cut the nerves within, but the orc just continued on his merry way- that is, until Vic began squeezing rounds into the feral’s torso. He didn’t miss, and would’ve spent the whole magazine had the once-normal orc’s head not snapped to the side with the assistance of one of Bubba’s pissin’ hot handloads. Gray matter, skull fragments, and dark ichor slapped onto the blanket of once-virgin snow, and it was followed by the orc’s brainless body not a moment later. Victor was up a moment later as the gunfire continued behind him. He turned, the scene laid out before him like a movie trailer’s freeze frame. Corpses, their respective missing body parts, and more ichor decorated the snow like a deranged artist’s canvas. Several steps away from the slaughter was a hefty-looking figure covered head-to-toe in thick winter clothing and armor, similar to a Chernobyl trekker. He struggled against a taller feral who chomped at his throat. It was a fruitless endeavor, given the fortified mask that hung over the neck. The shotgun in between them was the only thing holding the beast back, but it was fast slipping. Several other Spawn paced around the scene, waiting for the inevitable moment that the Chernobyl trekker would slip. Vic groaned as he leaned over to grab his light with his uninjured hand, forcing him to put his handgun down for the time being. The light flickered on for a third time, and the effect was immediate. The Spawns’ flesh went up like dry tinder, forcing them away from the struggle. Most got away, but there was one that slipped and got caught in the light’s path. The tall feral and the grounded one couldn’t get away in time before their bodies cooked like steak in a campfire. The one already on the ground curled up into a ball and ceased its writhing, while the other one had his knee stomped. The Chernobyl trekker backed away, his shoulders heaving as he struggled to regain his breath. Like the trooper he was, he managed to reload his Saiga, pull the charging handle, and gave the beastie a buckshot fade. It was a hell of a finisher, one fit for a thick memoir. But that’d come later, once Vic could actually use his fingers and maybe wasn’t in the middle of a vampire hunting ground. Mister Trekker waltzed over to Vic and offered a hand up, a hand that the American gladly accepted. Now that he was on his feet, Vic gathered his discarded magazines and holstered everything in its respective places on his rig. The gunfire had all but tapered off, leaving nothing behind but the injured Fleshhunter, a handful of ferals, and a shitton of bodies ripe for necromancer haha-funny spells. 

“Did you get separated from your team?”

The fellow spoke in near-perfect English, in a rapid-fire manner. Vic squinted at him with a questioning gaze.

“Nah, man, I came here alone. That Vizeleutnant wanted mercenaries, and I needed a break from overgrown reptiles.”

The Trekker gently slapped his helmet.

“So -you- left your team?”

“Team? What fuckin’ team are-”


Vic made the connection. He had forgotten the baby-blue UN helmet that rested on his head in a haphazard manner. 

“Oh, shit, no. I’m not UN, I’m just some guy from the States. Picked up this helmet at a surplus store.”

The Trekker bobbed his head once Vic provided an explanation. 

“I bought my gear from surplus stores as well. The old stuff has its merits.”

He replied, then gestured down the road.

“We’re the cleanup crew now. Those things need to be put down before they can return to whatever stronghold they’ve created.”


The bulky fellow gave Vic a once-over, noting his condition.

“I… don’t know how you can help, but please do something.”

Victor just nodded, a plan already in mind. So long as the Trekker played the heavy-hitter role, he could ensure that the Spawn and their master couldn’t get out alive. Said heavy-hitter approached what remained of the hunting party with a confident gait, while Vic shuffled behind him, his leg beginning to drag. As they drew closer to the undead, the nearest feral fell dead as several suppressed gunshots rattled out into the night. Black ichor sluggishly spilled out onto the snow. Their walk didn’t pause, but both most definitely thanked the unknown shooter for staying behind to assist. The Fleshhunter gestured sharply to his undead underlings, and as if they were puppets having their strings pulled, the Spawn jerked back and began retreating. Vic hooked his thumb through the pin on one of his smoke grenades, lobbed it further down the road, and sent another out for good measure. Hopefully he doctored them correctly, or he’d be in deep shit for the rest of his trip. However long that lasted, anyway. 

“Cease, humans. You’ve proved your point.”

The Fleshhunter held out a hand, his offputting, soft voice echoing out from the depths of his helmet. The duo paused momentarily to see if the fellow had anything worth listening to. The undead retreat continued, and they fearlessly delved into the thick smokescreen now clogging the street. The Trekker glanced over his shoulder, unsure as to why now of all times Vic would pop smokes, but he just waved a hand. He readied his flashlight.

“You fought well. I… could use those such as yourself. Humans of this realm, with skills like your’s. Rarely do we find anyone willing to help our cause, but you two… could be different.”

The Fleshhunter finally pulled off his helmet. He had vaguely human features, but his eyes were just a bit too large, his face just a bit too angular. His ears were a tad sharper than a regular man’s, but Vic figured he wasn’t a regular man. Probably a half-blood of some form.

“Whatever you’ve been offered, I can surely double, triple, whatever you wish. Gold, land, slaves, weapons, and, of course, eternal life if you so wish it. Your kind lust for power, we all do, but judging by your looks I assume this is the first concrete offer you’ve had in your entire life. And I can assure you, it will be the best offer.”

The speech sounded fabricated, like it was read off of a list he memorized. And their faces, well; their faces were covered. Even if Vic’s face was uncovered, it probably wouldn’t look as promising as the vampire would hope. The undead half-elf continued, or tried to, when his eyes narrowed and he gazed over his shoulder. 

“Burned, all of them. You humans, you’ve gotten so bored you’ve damn near perfected killing eachother. You would fit perfectly into our hunting parties.”


The Trekker leveled his Saiga at the Fleshhunter’s chest and waited.

“Not a listener, I see. How about I help with that?”

The next sentence was most definitely loaded with magic. Of what kind, Vic didn’t know. The vampire’s eyes flashed, and the words sounded like Heaven. Of course he’d accept help from such a well-to-do man. Surely he wouldn’t have to lose fingers or freeze his balls off for a crackpipe desk jockey hidden away in some tunnels, and… 
Victor swayed. A vein in his forehead throbbed as everything was set back into place. The pain, the cold, the scene, it all crashed back onto him like a wave. The American leaned forward, slapping the stock-still Trekker’s shoulder to shake him out of the spell. He grunted in response, glanced over his shoulder, and murmured something in a vague eastern-bloc language. Victor pressed the button on his light, the UV rays quick to torch the Fleshhunter’s exposed skin. His helmet dropped to the snow and both his hands rose to cover his face. The Trekker lowered his shotgun and began sending buckshot downrange. The armor was clearly magical as it held up to so many pellets, but it could only defend against so much. While the half-elf doubled over from the wave of lead, the mysterious shooter began planting rounds along the unarmored sides of the undead’s body. Bullets ripped through the fellow’s chest cavity, and he soon collapsed in a rather anticlimactic manner. The gunfire from the top of one of the buildings ceased, but the Trekker wasn’t finished. He shoved another full magazine into his hefty Russian shotgun, stepped forward, and sent a final load of twelve gauge buck through the bloodsucker’s forehead. Darkened blood, bone, flesh, and hair splattered into a starburst pattern on the snow, leaving nothing recognizable left. Vic dropped onto the hood of a nearby car, thankful that their spat came to a quick end. While the Trekker examined the aftermath, the American tugged his IFAK from his belt and struggled to get it open. He did, eventually, with the assistance of his uninjured thumb. He clicked on the headlamp on his helmet so he could get the full extent of his wounds- which weren’t grievous, but could’ve been better. The bleeding was sluggish, due in part to the less than optimal temperatures of Austria. Every little movement sent pain shooting up his arm, centered around his torn bicep. With thick bandages, plenty of curses, and a bit of metaphorical magic, Vic’s fingers were wrapped like pigs in a blanket. The American glanced up from his work, finding the Trekker speaking with an equally bulky fellow with a shotgun hanging from his shoulder. He was dressed in old war regalia, it reminded Vic of the Korean War with the patch-covered M1951 uniform and the ALICE gear to accompany it. The only thing that broke up the old uniform was the VR60 at his disposal. They must’ve felt his gaze, because the duo stopped their conversation and turned to look at him. They joined him a few moments later and the Korean War soldier nodded in greeting.
“Another American. You’re looking for the Vizeleutnant too?”


The bulkier fellow inquired. Victor assumed he was well-built under his patchwork uniform. 

“Yea, man. Answered the call through the classifieds.  Took me back to when I could be hired out to shoot the UN in Congo.”

The fellow American gazed at him for a moment, silent. His eyes flickered upwards, and the helmet finally registered. He snorted softly.

“Nice, very fitting. Well, dear Peacekeeper, have you found our mysterious military leader yet?”

The Trekker leaned in, curious as to what Vic knew. The “Peacekeeper” swallowed and went to work on his bicep.

“Yea. Been here about a week now, traveled back an’ forth between AM encampments. Grilled every guard I could about this Vizeleutnant, and was finally given some answers this morning. He’s in a depot, specifically underneath it. Apparently, there’s railways that run everywhere underground, probably providing the military ease of transportation. If I remember correctly, it’s just outside of Linz, in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.”

The Trekker nodded in an aggressive fashion as Victor trailed off.

“Good, good. The Dominion’s reign has gone on long enough. I suspect they’re preparing for open war, and need us to pad their ranks.”

He stated firmly.

“We’re out of luck in going to war.”
The bulky, bear-like fellow remarked. The Trekker’s gaze shifted to him, waiting for further explanation.

“The Austrian Militia asked for mercenaries, and many came over here to answer the call. They got cold feet, literally and metaphorically. Some squatted in the compounds, others left Austria entirely. A fair portion more became scavengers and thieves when they realized the wealth left behind by kidnapped citizenry. The numbers that would’ve been used to swell the ranks of the Austrian Militia, which would have provided so many bodies to distract the undead, are simply no more. It’s us, and maybe a handful of others spread around various areas of Austria.”

The Trekker listened intently. When the Bear finished, he sighed and wrenched himself away from the conversation at hand to take a breather. Vic turned his attention back to his arm, which was now covered as best as he could get it. The cold numbed his arm well enough that he only felt a dull ache, which was in turn numbed by a pre-measured half-shot of a painkilling narcotic. The first American let out a long sigh as the fluid entered his vein via syringe, heralding a short burst of pain before dulling everything. 

“A pick-me-up, huh?”

The second American inquired. He stepped forward, and dropped heavily onto the hood of the car Vic was sitting on. Victor just bobbed his head in response, the warmth of the drug doing it’s wonderful work. The duo sat, catching their breath while the third turned over corpses and snapped pictures of those that were living before their inevitable death. Probably for later IDing, if the Austrian Military cared enough. Judging by the unmarked graves outside some of their compounds, Vic could hazard a guess that they didn’t. Several minutes later, long enough for the windchill to get Vic’s joints aching, the Trekker slipped his camera into his rig and returned to the idle duo. 

“I am ready to go. I believe we should stay together for the time being, until we’re well rested, and in your case-”


He gestured to the first American.

“Healed. I do believe there are several displaced nonhumans with regenerative capabilities nearby.”


Victor groaned in response. Just what he needed, to be indebted to an otherworlder. Not racist, just didn’t like ‘em, simple as. They took up space and a majority fucked too much up with their goddamn magic. Playing with fire, sometimes literally. 

“Not one for the Otherfolk, huh?”

The Bear remarked. Vic just nodded, as the others already knew his answer as to why. 

“Fuck it, let’s get goin’. Don’t want to keep the crowds waiting.”

Victor shoved himself off of the hood of the forsaken four-door hybrid and tucked away his useless fingers. The Trekker nodded once in a sharp manner, then turned heel and began making his way down the road. The far-from-home Americans set off after him, and with that their night ended. Vic figured after the massive firefight the rest of the hunting parties would’ve fucked off back to their respective strongholds, as by now they would’ve been flooded with more undead if the Fleshhunters wanted a fight. He sighed, not looking forward to being indebted to anyone from the Otherside, no matter how simple the matter was. Like he said before- he didn’t like ‘em, simple as. 

The walk ended a short time later, at the front gate of a fenced-in, dilapidated hair salon. The trio were flagged with gun barrels, shined with UV lights, forced to hold silver coins, and had their lips peeled back to check for fangs. Vic and the others were hustled inside, then stripped of their gear for prompt examination. He shivered as the sub-zero winds bit at his unprotected flesh, waiting impatiently for the guards to complete their checks for any brandings or tattoos that might hint that they were saboteurs. He was right in guessing that the Bear was built; he had layers of scarred muscle and fat, and Vic’s assumption was that he was somewhere in the manual labor field before he joined the others in Austria. The Trekker, on the other hand, just looked like some ordinary guy. His skin was naturally tan, and somewhat scarred from the undead occupation. His hair was long, somewhat unkempt, and his bright green eyes held a thousand yard stare common amongst the War on Terror vets. Vic observed, and was eventually scoured up-and-down for any hints that he was an enemy of the Austrian Militia. They spoke in rapid-fire German, a language Vic was unfortunately not adept in. 

“You, and you! Americans, get your things and go inside. We will interrogate you momentarily!”

Vic jolted and got to movin’. He gathered his things and hustled into the salon, joined seconds later by the Trekker and the Bear. The trio found themselves in a soon-to-be empty waiting room on the first floor, rather bare aside from some folding tables and chairs. In the half-light Victor barely saw a smaller figure scurry away upon their entry, going up the stairs on all-fours. He didn’t see much else, and others didn’t appear to care or notice themselves. With a half-hearted shrug the American slogged over to a nearby chair and dropped heavily into it, sparing only a moment to slip his pants back onto his hips and tighten his belt. Thankfully the Austrian Militia weren’t ones for rectal checks, so his dignity was relatively secured. With his bandage-wrapped leg he dragged his gear nearer to the wall, so as to prevent anyone with sticky fingers from rooting around through his things while he slept. Or tried to, anyway. The Trekker slipped into the chair across from him with a small sigh, then went about retrieving… something from his rig. Moments later, he brought forth a wooden pipe and a tin of tobacco, and began packing. The Bear reclined back in his seat, delegated to staring at the ceiling while they awaited the so-called interrogation from the guards outside. Vic gritted his teeth as the warmth of the salon finally worked over his frozen muscles, but with it came pain, of course. The minutes dragged on, and as he rose in temperature his bandages began to redden. It was a slow spread, but a spread nonetheless. He pressed a thick handful of bandages against his bicep and let out a groan; he couldn’t move his fingers, nor rotate his wrist, but he sure as shit could feel their pain. The Trekker’s thousand-yard briefly gazed upon him before flicking back down to his pipe. When the gaze returned it looked more impassive, or interested in a detached manner.

“You got lucky tonight…”

The Trekker trailed off. Vic sat in awkward silence before he realized that the dramatic pause was a window for him to introduce himself.

“Uh- Vic, Victor, whatever you call me’s alright.”

The Trekker nodded once, then went about lighting his pipe. Smoke soon curled into the air as he sucked air through the burning tobacco, and the scent of faint Fig Newtons joined the smoke.

“Or maybe I got lucky, Mister Bait. Your sacrifices enabled us to wipe out those undead before they could gain a foothold in the area. I admire your resolve to keep going.”

The Bear’s head swiveled around to look at Vic.

“He held his own rather well. They bit him, quite a lot from what I saw, but he kept them off of anything important. Give him time to master the craft and he’ll be able to slip out of anything.”

He commented. Victor bobbed his head in a tired manner, then chin-checked the Trekker.

“Let’s hear your name, Chernobyl Trekker. Master Shotgunner, if you so prefer.”

The Trekker snorted and held his pipe a length from his face, as if examining the tobacco.

“Teodor.”

Vic cracked a woozy smile.

“Mister Motherfuckin’ Theodore, undead slayer extraordinaire. I’m callin’ you Theo, bud.”

His half-lidded eyes flicked to the Bear.

“I’ve been callin’ you the Bear, if you don’t mind it.”

The bulky fellow’s head inclined in a soft manner.

“You’re right on the dot. That was a nickname of mine, back home. You can call me Bear, or Barrick, whichever comes to mind first.”

“Sick, man.”


Vic eased his chair back until it touched the wall, and he finally relaxed. He was tired after that short assclencher of a fight, and did not look forward to an interrogation. The minutes drew into an hour, and the guards finally stomped inside, scattering snow all over the floor. They escorted a man in a long woolen coat, who was decorated with a plethora of medals. He looked somewhat important, and when his glare snapped to the trio in the corner, he puffed out his chest and approached with a swagger.

“Excellent, excellent. What are you, thieves? Hired killers, here to wipe my outpost out? I take direct orders from the Vizeleutnant, do you think I’m an incompetent man? It is by my good grace that you are still alive, you three, so I…”

The officer’s almost-perfect English was cut off by a quick murmur from a nearby guard. The “decorated” militaryman’s eyebrows knit together and he responded in a similar fashion, unfortunately not in English. 

“Wrong people. Fine, why are you here? Seeking aid, to leech off of my already dwindling supplies?

Another murmur from the same guard. The officer seemed to deflate a bit and he sighed.

“Local mercenaries, who happened to kill some vampires. Great, I’m glad you were able to riddle some mindless ferals with your bullets, congratulations.”

Theo blew smoke and cleared his throat.

“Try an entire hunting party, including the Fleshhunter.”

He corrected coldly. The pale, stubble-covered officer looked at him with an incredulous gaze.

“You must be mistaken, I-”

And for a third time, he was interrupted by the AM guard. The fellow’s wide-eyed gaze flicked between the three and their gear, probably wondering how they managed to tear into the undead without hefty losses. The officer’s mouth formed an “O” as he listened to the guard’s explanation of the scene, and their personal accounts of what happened.

“I… see. I don’t see how you managed to do it, but the corpses are there, so are the shells. We heard those… magic roars from the other side of Linz, but we knew with a Fleshhunter like that the hunting party would be far too large to take on ourselves. I… see that thanks is in order. I… will figure out a reward for all of you, you may rest here for the night until then.”

The officer’s bloodshot eyes shut, as if to blink something away. He shook his head, scratched his scalp, and turned away, leaving behind stunned air. The guards were left to their own devices, but they too disappeared moments later… which left one more, a man Vic didn’t notice until the room was empty. Standing in the corner, at the bottom of the stairs was an older, long-haired fellow with large almond-shaped eyes and ears that jutted past his head like blades. He was garbed in simple robes, clearly not fit for any harsh Winter but it didn’t seem to bother him. He wore a talisman, similar to a road paved into a sunrise around his neck. It glowed like the other magical rings and trinkets the elf was draped in. He looked on, silently judging the three in their sorry state. The others took notice moments later, but disregarded his presence. Vic attributed it to a curious Otherfolk, nothing more. He turned his attention elsewhere, through the cracks of the boarded-up window nearby to watch the road. There wasn’t much to look at besides piled snow, unfortunately, and when the American turned around the elven fellow was several steps closer. He looked down upon them, his judgement withheld for the time being.

“Travelers. You are of great importance to the officer of this locale, rightfully so. Your skills, no matter how… unrefined they may be, are of use.”

The fellow’s hands clasped on his tailbone, and he peered down at their firearms with a look of distaste. Victor shared a look with Teodor, while Barrick fixed a pleasant smile on his face.
“But I noticed that during your… spat outside, you’ve acquired wounds. Some worse than others.”

The elf’s almond eyes suddenly scoured Victor’s battered body. Had he not been in pain, nor under the influence of narcotics, he would’ve jolted. Instead, he stared back with a set of glazed-over orbs.

“I wish to offer my services to you, as a cleric of his holiness, Lathander. Many do not appreciate my miracles, some take great offense to them.”

“Sure, man, sure… do what you need.”

Vic replied. Everything began dropping on him at once- the dump, the wounds, the narcotics, it all squeezed the life out of him. He drooped in his seat, giving the elf free reign to do as he needed. After that, his vision faded. He knew nothing more of that night.

The dreams, on the other hand, plagued him yet again. They had gotten especially vivid during the onset of the Convergence, and more… applicable to the real world. Whatever caused them was back, and back with force. No longer was he in the comfortable warmth of the Austrian Militia outpost, now Victor found himself amidst a snowy field broken by shadows. The sky was shattered like a crystal, the stars that were oh so far away now suddenly massive. The world was broken, unrepairable. But that wasn’t the point of the dream, as one of the slivers of sky above him spun around, offering the word “allies” without context. Said context arrived moments later, as a group of undead charged over the horizon, chasing after a diminutive figure that looked to be running for their life. The snow at Vic’s feet shifted, and the barrel of a hunting rifle poked out from underneath a camouflaged space blanket. There was a crack, a quiet one at that, and one of the greener undead suddenly tripped and hit the ground hard. It popped, splattering a viscous material over its nearby fellows, who also stumbled and fell over. The rest continued to tear after the figure, who in return simply melted away. They didn’t dive for the snow, or simply stop, they were running full tilt and were suddenly not there anymore. The crowd continued its charge until it reached the spot where the figure had disappeared- and subsequently blew up. A bone-shaking charge blew a deep hole into the earth, sending various limbs up into the air to fall like gorey rain. The landscape was… still, silent, with only the wind to moan in the distance. Victor shivered and looked down at himself; he wore nothing but his boots and pants, like he had back at the outpost. He stepped back, leaving behind treadmarks in the fresh snow… but he shouldn’t have. There was no way he was in the middle of nowhere- surely it was something like a premonition, a fucked up one at that. Did the sky really look like that?

“Damn, chap, you look rather cold.”

A hand clapped his shoulder, and Victor winced in preparation for the spike of pain to shoot down his torn-apart arm. It never came. The snow crunched off to the side and a short fellow dressed down in thick, woolen clothing stepped into view, a PPSH slung at his side. His bushy eyebrows knitted together as he examined Vic.

“Lost, too. But I didn’t see any footsteps leading up.”

The snow shifted again. The sniper discarded his quilt-space blanket combo and sat up, but it’s not like it revealed who he was; the fellow was dressed in thick winter camo, like the Finnish sniper of ‘yore. Vic doubted he was Finnish, though.

“I shouldn’t be here, man. It’s, uh, complicated. Give me about five minutes and I’ll be gone.”

“Five minutes sounds long enough for an explanation. Please, do me a solid and tell me what you’re doing here.”

The Soviet-bloc LARPer’s gaze tore from him to somewhere off to his side, and Vic meant to turn around but an itching feeling in his kidneys told him otherwise. Maybe if he made the wrong move he’d get a blade or two there.

“If I don’t freeze first.”


Victor commented, but continued nevertheless.

“I’m supposed to be at an Austrian Militia outpost. In fact, I don’t doubt that I’m there right now, still being healed by that elf. Myself and two others fought a hunting party and got ripped up in the process, but the Fleshhunter’s dead. We hobbled over to that hair salon outpost, got interrogated, and we’re apparently being rewarded in the morning. With what, I have no fucking clue.”

Mister Soviet-bloc rubbed his bearded chin, gazing intently at Victor.

“You’re not from around here, are you one of those foreign mercenaries?”

He inquired.

“Yea. American.”

“And you said you took on a Fleshhunter and its hunting party… where?”

“Over in Linz. Forget the exact street but I’m sure the corpses are still there.”

The “Soviet” glanced past him, as if looking for confirmation. He… reminded Vic of a character, a certain British fellow from that gun-porn first-person movie. A grating, feminine voice interrupted his line of thought.

“Yes. There were many corpses on that road. I do not understand how they did it, but they did. Doubtful this one was involved, however.”

Soviet’s gaze flicked back to Vic.

“You said an outpost at a hair salon, right? Over in Linz… I can be there in the morning to verify. And, you… you’re getting transparent, my friend.”

Victor didn’t know about transparent, but he could feel himself getting lighter and his vision more blurry. The sniper leaned forward, swiping at his leg, but his fingers merely passed through. Darkness soon overtook him, and with it, dreamless sleep.

By the time Victor came around, the sun was high in the sky and the flurry was over. The American was alone at the table, his fellows and their things elsewhere in the outpost. Vic lifted himself from the chair with the help of the table, jolting until he realized that the expected pain was missing. He looked over his pale, thin form and found nothing to write home about besides mild scarring. The bloodied bandages were gone, presumably taken by the clerical fellow from the night before. 

“Sonovabitch. That magic shit’s somethin’ else.”

And… speaking of magic, something thrummed on his fingers. He somehow hadn’t noticed before, but when he looked down at his hands for a second time he noticed there were rings slipped over his digits- four in all; a nondescript silver band, a thick oak chunk roughly shaped like a ring, a fine golden ring marked in finer print in a language Vic didn’t understand, and what looked like a mass of intertwined copper wires; the crackhead’s dream, if one so wished. Victor stared hard, trying to deduce their effects. Funny enough, he did feel a bit lighter, and he seemed to move with less… grinding in his joints, maybe. He squatted, stood, jumped, rolled his shoulders and stretched his hips and found that he moved like he had years prior- a teenager, at the height of his martial arts career. He felt good. Victor grinned like a madman and went about getting dressed. Minutes later he was out the door and sweating, and only felt a tad bit better when he stepped outside. The howling wind felt like nothing more than a cool breeze. As Vic opened his coat to air out, he eyed the rings that had been slipped onto his fingers the night before, wondering which one spared him from the biting cold. He touched each individually, but they were all warm in their own right. Nothing stood out to him, and as he looked on his memories returned. It was a haphazard day following a suggestive dream, one that dragged him to the local Otherworld market. Rings, he’d be looking for rings that would eventually help him in his coming days. He had dragged an enchantress out of her shop to help him sift through the “random rings” bin to ensure he didn’t pick up a curse or some sort of magical virus; it was paid work, of course. Funny, because several days after that market run, he had seen the advertisement for mercenaries in Austria. 

“Put on your coat, American. You don’t have experience with our winters.”

One of the guards suggested with a harsh tone. Vic grinned in response, fanning his coat to make a point. There was a bit more of a hustle and bustle than usual; it appeared two random tradesmen had made their way into Linz from Graz, laden with magical items and “specialty” bullets for the vampire hunters roaming the wastes. Apparently, they weren’t going to swing by the settlement because they simply didn’t have the time- that is, until the vampires cleared the streets after a certain Fleshhunter tanked a hefty amount of lead and silver, making it safe to travel at night. There were several guards and randoms perusing and buying goods from the carts, including Barrick and Theo. Victor looked on, and was very quickly accosted by a certain officer from the night before. 

“You, sir! I need to speak with you, before you go.”


His posse formed out in a fan behind him-clearly favorites, or combat specialists. The officer wiped his upturned nose and peered around, then called for both Barrick and Theo. Once he had the three assembled in front of him, he began speaking.

“Your reward, clearly you deserve one. It’s been so long since we’ve seen traders here. I can do gold, silver, USD, credit, whatever you want you can have.”

He jingled three coin pouches on his hip, each filled to the brim with precious metals. He handed them out; first to Barrick, then to Theo. Both turned heel to return to the cart, clearly intent on purchasing something. When his bag was dropped into his hand, Vic felt its weight and nodded in satisfaction.

“Hell of a reward, sir. Thank you.”

Vic nodded his thanks and tied the pouch to his rig. The officer nodded sharply, but continued speaking in a breathless manner.

“I need to make this quick, I have much to discuss with my superiors. Your group, while formidable, can only take on so much. I would suggest more members, and I have a place for you to look.”

The officer’s thin, pale hand shot from his coat sleeve and he pointed down the road, back where they had come from the night before.

“There is word of a magician of some form. Unfortunately, he was caught by a group of zealots, if memory serves correctly. It isn’t much, but as you say; better than nothing.”

The officer inclined his head in a sharp, businesslike manner. He turned heel, his posse forming up behind him. Together, they marched through the fresh snowfall and disappeared around to the back of the salon. Victor stared at his back, weighing his options and the hefty burlap bag of precious metals hanging from his MOLLE webbing. With a grunt he turned heel himself and approached the small caravan, easing himself forward so he was in sight of Barrick and Theo.

“What do you think, guys? I just need a cane and I’ll be set to start an Otherworld whorehouse.”


He wiggled his fingers and grinned. The well-dressed traders cackled, apparently well-versed in English. Barrick shook his head, and Teodor chuckled. 

“I’d say whatever enchantments those rings have are working well for you. The, uh… elf said there was something important in your bag and proceeded to dig through it until he found the “source of magicks”, or something like that. Apparently you made some excellent shopping choices because even he was impressed with them. He put them on for you, and mentioned that they needed time to… connect with their wearer. He used a different word, but I can’t remember it.”

Barrick explained. He nodded aggressively as one of the traders offered him an amulet and wand, paused, then gestured towards the amulet.

“Does this guy have a name other than “the elf”?”

Vic inquired as he perused the dealers’ goods. Barrick and Theo both shook their heads. Seems he’d have to pay the man a visit in person, and… thank him for his services, even if he was a high-and-mighty asshole. Otherworlder, too. 

“Right, whatever. So our dear officer of the hair salon suggested heavily that we pay a visit to a lived-in building down the road, near the gunfight last night. There’s a magician there who’s probably willing to help us, but they were captured by zealots of some form. I’m going to make an assumption that these zealots aren’t too friendly.”

Theo bobbed his head as he listened. He accepted a dagger from one of the traders, and dropped a handful of dull gold coins into their waiting palm. 

“Some religious extremist groups appeared in the Convergence’s wake. Doomsday groups, terrorists, sacrificial altars… the list of their crimes goes on, but there is little that can be done here. What’s left of the various militaries are busy contending with the Dominion, they don’t have time for small, unimportant groups.”

Theo began. He pivoted around, tucking the dagger into a waiting sheath on his belt.

“You said there’s one down the road? Probably a group worshiping Shar, that seems to be the default God.”

Vic looked to Barrick to see if he had any information to offer. He shook his head in response. 

“Swell. I’d like to stop by my car, first and foremost. I think .458 SOCOM’s a bit overkill for a couple of fleshy retards.”


Theo’s eyebrows knitted together as the trio took their leave. The guards pulled open the gate and they navigated through a field of silver-dusted barbed wire and pit traps.

“How… large is that cartridge?”

“Large. It’s a fat little fuck that can bring down a bear easy-peasy. Three hundred grain’s the usual load.”

Victor explained as they walked down the road. He pulled one of the magazines out of his rig and popped a round out, handing it off to the Croatian for further examination. He was silent for most of the walk, as he spent most of his time perusing Youtube for videos of the fat boy cartridge. Victor examined their gunfight from the night before, noting the half-baked corpses and paper-skinned bodies of the survivors that had been drained of their lifeblood. Shells littered the snow, brass just barely peeking through the fresh layer of fluffy white. Blood was, of course, everywhere. Funny enough, nothing from the gunfight had been scavenged yet. The Fleshhunter must have been enough to scare off those in the area for the time being. Barrick toed the corpse of a fallen survivor, eyeing the bandolier of shells wrapped around his chest. With a quick check over his shoulder and a shrug to the other two, he bent down and freed the corpse of its ammunition. With Barrick’s actions, the other two let their urges control them and the trio went about stripping the corpses of anything useful. After all, it was a dog-eat-dog world. Jewelry, ammunition, weapon parts, anything that looked useful was pocketed and never spoken of again. Minutes later, they took their leave and continued down the road. Victor kept his eyes out for another traveling trio, specifically the Brit from the night before. Or… his dream. Whatever the hell it was. They soon passed a section of the town blocked by wooden gates and barbed wire, the houses behind connected with rickety wooden bridges that were manned by… people. Regular people, hopefully. They watched them walk by like hawks, their hands gripping their weapons tight. The trio hurried past, Vic taking the lead so he could find his truck. Eventually they made it without any interruption, and Victor was partially relieved to not have encountered last night’s three-man of undead hunters. It just felt like a… time waste, maybe. He shrugged, pointing out his snow-covered vehicle to the others.

“There we are. Filled to the brim with necessities. Definitely not my car, but hey, whoever left it behind clearly doesn’t need it anymore.”

Victor remarked. He lifted the keys, clicked the unlock button, and sighed in relief when he heard the locks lift inside. He went around back, brushing off snow from the vehicle to gain access to the trunk. 

“You are… probably better prepared than many others who flew over.”

Barrick commented as he surveyed the gear laid out in front of him. Theo observed, picking through various bags and nodding his agreement every now and then. Victor nodded too, and pulled a bag Theo had just gone through nearer to himself. He unloaded his rifle and slipped it into the duffle, then followed through with a total of twenty-four magazines. Teodor paused to stare as he watched the American grab one magazine after another from the too-small plate carrier, but he didn’t question it. Victor didn’t question it either, as he knew it was an enchantment of some form. They were eventually replaced by thinner magazines, housing .45 ACP. He slapped the last magazine into an automatic Mac-10, screwed on the suppressor, and slung it over his shoulder.

“So. You saw the compound we passed earlier, right?”

Victor asked as he shut the gate to his truck. The other two nodded.

“That’s our target.  Inside, from what I understand, is a magician of some capacity that the head of the Salon believes will assist in our cause.  How so…? I have no idea, but here’s to hoping it isn’t some crackpot tarot reader.”

Teodor took the lead as they exited the alley.

“I don’t know. I’ve met two crackpot tarot readers, both of which were effective casters as long as they had their pack of cards.”

He replied with a shrug, then mimicked drawing a card.

“Fireballs, cubes of water, massive lightning bolts and protection spells- as long as they drew the right cards.”

Barrick shook his head, then voiced Victor’s disagreement.

“Too much reliance on fate, on luck. If I needed a fireball, I’d want the spell for it, not a card that might give me access to one.”

The Croat bobbed his head at his logic. They shuffled along through the ankle-deep snow, once again passing through the now-looted pile of corpses without a word. Their trek soon ended, with the Shar cultist encampment rising in front of them like a crackhead sewer dweller’s castle. It was ramshackle, shitty, and wouldn’t withstand a scavenger’s raid, but it was apparently home to the folks that watched them from the rope and two-by-four bridges. The trio stared, taking in every rusty and dusty facet of the compound before finally murmuring amongst themselves in tension-filled silence.

“Should we be aggressive? Should we even talk?”

Teodor inquired. Barrick shook his head.

“I don’t have much experience with Shar followers. Are they the type to get you in close before they kill you?”

“I don’t know myself, despite being in such close proximity. I tend to avoid them.”

Teodor responded.

“Well, given they’re cultists, they’re technically religious extremists. Religious extremists should be treated with caution, yea?”

Barrick gestured to him and nodded at his logic. 

“Good point, American. We’ll start with conversation, and if it goes sour… we take what’s our’s. Flex a muscle or two.”
They spread out a bit, glanced at each other, and Vic pulled his facemask down to whistle. It was loud, long and sharp, bound to get anyone’s attention despite the whispering wind. He pulled his facemask back in place and dropped a hand onto the butt of his wheelgun. Two of the cultists disappeared inside one of the connected houses, only to reappear moments later in a much closer one. A window, one of the few that weren’t boarded up, was thrown open. Two men looked down upon them, one holding a pump-action shotgun while the other appeared unarmed. 

“There is an Austrian Militia encampment down the road, at the hair salon. No doubt, you’ve already been there, so go back. We are not taking in travelers.”

The unarmed man spoke perfect English, but it was in a British accent. Unfortunate.

“You have a magician on your premises. We want them.”

The Chernobyl trekker responded in a blunt manner. The Brit recoiled back, clearly not expecting those words.

“You’re… right, we do. Not by choice, though. If you truly want him, then you may have him. But you will have to come in here and grab him yourself, which sounds easy but you have yet to see what’s actually going on in here.”

The Brit leaned out the window and shouted something to those guarding a nearby gate, and they in turn hauled the heavy slabs of wood and sheet metal open. As the trio hustled through, Victor could feel the burning glares of the guards in the back of his head. The wooden slabs slammed shut behind them and they were led into a nearby house, which had been converted into what looked like a chapel. There were several men and women clothed in loose robes, tied off with silk ribbons at the wrists, shoulders, and hips. Candles and lanterns were the only sources of light, and while Vic was quick to assume the cult decided to forgo technology, he noticed several observers in winter clothes on their phones. A cross stood in the far corner of the room, but that wasn’t the symbol they worshiped. Nailed to the cross was a large black circle with a thick border of lavender; a simple call of faith for such a complex entity. Their guide disappeared, replaced by one of the robed cultists. Victor bit his tongue, knowing full well that like the stereotype they’d cut out his vocal cords for poking fun at their minimalist dress. Forward the trio went, wordlessly ascending to the second floor before making a sharp turn to one of the rickety wooden bridges. Their walk continued for some time, passing through homes of the cultists who were just trying to survive amidst the chaos outside. Their community was… quiet. The Otherworlders and the Regulars lived in harmony, funny enough. Religion was enough to bind them. Either that, or their mistress didn’t take kindly to infighting. Victor’s musings paused when they came to a sudden stop inside another home, and the atmosphere felt a whole lot more tense than the previous houses. Someone strummed a guitar from further down the hall; the tune smooth, repeating, then suddenly jarring and loud, carrying electric tones. Two men in streetwear stood at a taped portion of the hallway, collapsable poles in their arms. At the nod of their guide, they extended them and used them to open the cracked door at the end of the hall, revealing their magician; a younger fellow stared at the carpet, his jaw ajar and saliva slowly dripping from his chin. His ashen-gray hair hung in greasy clumps against his sallow face, covering his undoubtedly dull eyes. Sweat beaded against his forehead, and the fingers strumming the guitar strings were bloodied, dirtying the beautiful instrument with crimson. The carpet beneath him was soaked, probably with piss. Barrick clicked his tongue, stepping a bit closer to the line to get a better glimpse of the scene as a whole. One of the doormen tried stopping him but Barrick slapped away his arm and snatched him by the scruff of the neck, then continued observing as if he hit a fly. After all, he dwarfed the man by several inches and a good seventy five pounds. 

“Why are there men with knives in there? Why aren’t they moving?”

The guide tugged at the hem of their robes and went on to answer, her voice raspy.

“They are frozen by the music. Your magician is a bard, from what I understand.”

Teodor snorted.

“A bard, just what we needed. Well, at least it will make the campfires less boring.”

Victor noticed that the guide neglected to answer the first part of the question, but he didn’t point it out. He instead gestured to the tape line. 

“Looks like we’re shit out of luck past that point. What’s behind that room?”

He inquired. The guide barely glanced at him but answered anyway.

“Another room. And before you ask- yes, that area is unaffected, but we’re unwilling to destroy our home to-”

Teodor waved her off. He understood the plan already.

“Barrick, you think you could get through some drywall?”

He nodded at Vic’s question. 

“Get him to the other side. We’ll have your problem cleared up in no time.”

The guide sighed, long and loud. She waved for Barrick to follow, who shoved the cultist over the line and turned away. The man gasped, terrified, but there was no visible ill effect. He hopped back over to safety, sputtering as he did so.

“Bastard!”

He shouted at Barrick’s back. Barrick the Bastard just smiled and nodded, before disappearing with the guide. Teodor and Victor waited a good five minutes before the Bear’s seldom-heard voice chattered out over their radios.

“I’m here, and ready. I’ll start breaking through now.”

And before the duo could say otherwise, there was a thud that could be heard over the guitar’s tune. And another. And another. The thuds didn’t pick up in pace, but kept a slow, rhythmic beat that emphasized power and placement over speed and aggression. The longer Vic watched, the wall began to jut outward. Chips of paint and drywall sprinkled down onto the fellow’s head, lost in the vibrant salt-and-pepper color. Larger flakes began tumbling down onto the carpet, and one managed to slip onto the guitar strings. The jarring tune came to a sudden stop when the magician’s instinctive strumming didn’t land the right chord, and he slumped forward. The cultists, Teodor, and Victor lurched forward, hurrying down the hall just in time to catch one of the formerly frozen cultists catch his bearings and jump after the unconscious guitarist, and there was no time to think. Victor’s breath caught on the stale, urine-scented air and he drew his wheelgun from its holster. In the next moment, there was a loud bang, and the scent of spent gunpowder assaulted his nose. His ears rang, but he was in a lot better shape than the formerly charging cultist that was splayed out on the floor. The .357 Magnum bullet caught his throat and ripped through with ease, taking off a fair chunk of his larynx, trachea, and esophagus and throwing it against the wall behind him. He was dead, simple as; the shock was enough to kill him quick, but it didn’t stop him from instinctively twitching and bleeding out his lifeblood all over the carpet. Vic looked down; the firearm was held steady against his hip, and his other hand hovered over the hammer. 

“Fuck, fuck, you motherfucker!”

One of the pole wielding cultists shouted through the haze of smoke and blood. He reared back the pole like a club, but Theo snatched the end of it and kicked the back of his knees out. Victor pivoted, sweeping the barrel on the other formerly frozen cutlist and the shocked doorman. 

“What happened? Is he still alive?”

Barrick inquired, his tone uneasy.

“Yea. Get back here, we’ll need a quick escort out of here.”

Vic responded. He glanced back at Theo, who proceeded to swing the collapsable pull like a bat across the side of the kneeling doorman’s head. It snapped to the side, and the fellow keeled over. Teodor tossed the pole down and nodded his satisfaction.

“Solid manufacturing.”


Moments later, Barrick joined their little get-together, the guide on his heels. She reeled back at the scent of spent powder and blood, gasping as her delicate nostrils were assaulted by the odors. Barrick the Bastard looked otherwise unaffected. 

“I think we’ve overstayed our welcome.”

He remarked. Victor gestured to their catatonic magician.

“Agreed. Grab him, strip him down, grab his things. Wrap him in a sheet or something, and we’ll high tail it out of here.”

Barrick hustled to the bard, and Victor turned his wheelgun on the guide, who had been wiggling her fingers in anticipation of a fight. Probably working on a spell.

“I’ll blow out your kneecaps and break all of your fingers, retard. You move an inch and you’ll be wheelchair bound for the rest of your life.”


She froze, her lips parted just a bit in shock. 

“I take that back. Turn around, walk down the hallway.”

He motioned for Teodor, who slowly followed the shuffling guide down the hall with his Saiga in hand. Once they reached the end of it, he shoved her into a nearby room and held down the corner while the other two continued their work. Barrick was extraordinarily quick with his work, fortunately enough. He shoved the magician’s belt and jacket into one of his dufflebags, throwing the rest of the younger man’s clothes into the corner. He slipped past Victor to thieve a sheet from a nearby room, then returned to wrap him in it. The Bastard lifted the Bard with ease, leaving Victor to holster his sidearm and grab the duffles and guitar. Together they left the house behind, Teo in the lead. He had an excellent memory, and carefully backtracked through the plethora of rickety bridges and cluttered houses that made up the compound until they eventually made it back to the Chapel. Some of the robe-garbed cultists looked at them in a suspicious manner, but let them through regardless. Their problems soon caught up with them when they faced the gate- which remained closed, despite the guards that looked down upon them from the ramparts. From the window of a nearby two story, the original greeter looked on in silence, as if pondering their escape. The Brit rubbed his stubble-covered chin and shook his head.

“Smooth, like… cold butter on bread.  Now that you’ve killed one of my own, and injured another… do you expect to leave?”

“Fuck. Did she have a radio?”

Victor grunted under his breath.

“Our guide wore robes. I have no idea what was underneath them.”

Teo responded in kind. They both looked to the Brit again, who gazed at them with a disappointed look. His shotgun-wielding guard was missing, which made him… an easy target. Vic figured he was somewhere nearby, waiting for the order to fill them with buckshot. 

“Yes, matter of fact, we do plan on leaving. It’s certainly not our fault your man came out of stasis and immediately tried butchering someone. Open the gate, or someone’s getting disemboweled.”

The Brit smirked, giving his comment a dismissive wave. Or maybe it was a signal, because not a moment later there was a flash of light from the chapel followed by a bolt of crackling, weaponized Weave. He must’ve talked too much shit because the guided bolt struck him, big-balled Chiramonte, in the sternum. Or would’ve, had his dragonscale armor not absorbed the blast. He reeled back and felt into a nearby snowdrift, his rig uncomfortably hot. Teodor swung his shotgun around, taking aim at the Chapel before another bolt could be thrown at them. 

“That one has a mouth, most Americans do. Mutts, the lot of them. We can come to an agreement without the threats, right?”

The apparent head of the community inquired with false politeness. Teodor’s shotgun swung around and there was a blast, the top half of the window the Brit hung out of suddenly shredded. The Croat pivoted, sending two more loads of buckshot at the gate. The cheap lock was blown apart, and Barrick had the initiative to ram it open and begin hustling down the road. Rather than fight, the guards cowered down to avoid the buckshot, allowing Teo to run over and slap some sense into Vic.

“We have to leave!”


He shouted in his face, tugging him out of the drift. Victor peered past his legs and saw their guide from before approaching, a ball of wretched magic between her outstretched hands. The very Weave, or a twisted version of it was pulled in and out of reality, crackling violently. The American had no wish to see what would happen if she threw said ball at the duo, so he drew his revolver. He had mere moments to take aim, and by God did he shoot true. The .357 Magnum spat out a hefty chunk of lead, which tore through the woman’s pelvis. It wasn’t the knee, but it was good enough. Their former guide cried out as a fair portion of her hip was suddenly shattered- but as she fell, the globe of Shadoweave seemed to detonate. With nowhere to go it was released in an extremely violent manner; the very fabric of reality seemed to tear open, and whispers filled Vic’s ears despite the shouting. The caster was thrown away like a ragdoll as the globe expanded into magical shadow. Then everything just… ceased. The wind seemed to stop, the snow no longer fell, and the whispers were gone. There was a smoking crater where the globe detonated, and the caster lay unmoving further into the compound. Vic finally accepted the hand up and snatched the duffle and guitar he had dropped into the snow moments prior. The fresh blood marring the guitar’s white vinyl was already frozen in the cold air. Together, they hoofed it, following the unnaturally speedy Barrick down the road and to the car. On the other side of the road, going towards the Shar compound, was a familiar face. A man in a long overcoat, armed with a PPSH. The Brit, but the one he had met in his dream from the night before. He was alone, or appeared to be. Their gazes met, briefly, and Vic twirled his revolver before stuffing it back into its holster. The Soviet-Bloc larper’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t stop the duo from running off. After stumbling through the snow for what felt like forever they eventually caught up to Barrick and the bard, who had made it to Vic’s SUV. Moments seemed like forever as they threw their things into any open spot they could, then climbed in with what little room they had left. Fortunately it didn’t look like anyone from the compound was pursuing them as Victor peeled out of the alley and hooked a right to get out of Linz. He set a mental course for the depot that supposedly led to an underground complex and put the pedal to the metal.

Their arrival wasn’t greeted with gunfire, shouting men in uniform, or hell, otherworldly monsters that made the whole “underground Austrian Militia superpower” up to lure in unsuspecting sources of food. The depot was straightforward; fence around the perimeter with several cinderblock buildings built within. The gate was undefended, matter of fact, it was pulled down and left to rest in the snow, as if some great creature had torn it asunder. Victor eased his SUV over the broken fence and into the compound, peering around for any signs of life. There were none, unfortunately, but he didn’t lose hope just yet. 

“You said the Vizeleutnant was underground?”

Barrick inquired from the back seat. Victor bobbed his head but didn’t provide an explanation. He didn’t know how, or where to start searching for an entrance to the underground, so he’d have to waste a fair bit of daylight looking for it. 

“Barrick, stay in or around the car with the bard. Theo, we’re gonna look for this underground entrance. You take one side of the depot, I’ll take the other.”

Victor laid out his simple plan with fervor before exiting his vehicle. His boots sunk into the snow, and his footprints appeared to be the first in the area. That, or the recent snow covered whatever traffic came through. He trudged through the thick white blanket and stomped onto the steps of the first building; what appeared to be a pavilion for the troops. The door was cracked, so he stepped back down to ground level and shoved the solid wood open with the suppressor of his sub-gun. Victor gave one last look behind him before clambering inside and turning his flashlight. The wooden floor creaked underfoot, throwing up dust that hadn’t been disturbed for some time. The wind whistled through broken windows on the other side of the pavilion, where the kitchen was. The dining hall didn’t appear to be in disarray; there wasn’t trash all over the floor, nor lost belongings. The tables and benches were left standing, right alongside the chairs shoved against the walls in random intervals. Vic’s flashlight panned side to side, up and down in search of any nasties that might’ve been lying in wait. When he found none, he continued into the kitchen area, which was in similar shape to the rest of the pavilion. His nose tickled from the lazily floating dust bunnies but he stopped a sneeze as he heard a quiet knocking from the back of the kitchen. With a steadily increasing heart rate Victor shuffled to the far side of the kitchen, the wire stock of his sub-gun pressed deep into his shoulder. The American slowly stepped into view of the door, holding his breath to find… nothing but a cracked door, being shoved open and pulled closed by the harsh wind outside. He shakily exhaled and wiped sweat from his brow. The cold winter beckoned him back outside to continue his search elsewhere, as the pavilion held nothing of importance. So, back outside he went, secretly hoping that Theo had found it. Fuck having good eyes, fuck being important; he wanted to get underground and find that damned desk jockey so he could get some actual work done. Victor paused on the steps, peering at Teodor just as he exited his own building. They shared a head shake, then continued their search. The American shoved the door open to his next building and walked into the first of the barracks. Or, they were, but at the moment they were bare. There were no mattresses, no bunk beds, no footlockers, and certainly no personal effects. Maybe the soldiery stationed here- or what was left of them- had broken everything down and dragged it below, Victor thought to himself. He squatted down, running a finger across the polished wooden floor. His gloved digit returned with a thick coating of dust, the same dust that was suspended in the air, undisturbed by time or the wind outside. He rose to his feet and pulled a penlight from his battle belt, then began his search anew. It was a straightforward hunt; the barracks were formed into a rectangle, with a bathroom in the far corner from the door. So he started at one corner, and walked width-wise across the entirety of the building, kicking up dust as Victor looked for a hatch or something similar. By the time he reached the bathroom he was covered in dust himself and was using the hood to his sweatshirt as a mask. He kicked open the bathroom door in a haphazard manner but found nothing besides dust-covered sinks and toilets. There wasn’t a hint of a hatch or way underground in the barracks either. Victor groaned, tired and coming off of his adrenaline rush. He just wanted to sit for a moment but he wasn’t safe, not yet. So he shuffled out of the first of the barracks and waited for Theo to come strolling out of his chosen abode with a shake of his head. The American leaned against the doorway, taking a moment to breathe fresh air and brush himself off. Moments turned into minutes, and sure enough, ten minutes later there wasn’t a peep from the office-like building Teodor had chosen to search. Vic’s eyes narrowed as he stepped back to ground level, and he slowly made his way over with his sub-gun at the ready. His eyes flicked between each dark window and the doorway, waiting for something to come screaming out of it to rend his flesh from his bones. The whistling wind was overcome by blood pounding in his ears. The rush began to return, his tiredness drifting away like a distant memory. He was so tense it was hard to step up and into the doorway, as the two-story structure lacked its stairs. 

“Teodor!”

Victor hissed, panning his weapon around the hall. He didn’t receive an answer to his call. Slowly he trudged deeper into the two-story, panning his weapon this way and that as he passed opened doors leading into empty rooms. As he passed the stairs he neglected to take them, as the dust looked undisturbed on steps- and why the fuck would you go to the second story of a building to find an underground station? Victor shook his head and continued forward, passing through the doorway at the end of the hall and into a room that was probably at one point an office for a base commander- or whatever the Austrian equivalent was. Hell, maybe it was the Vizeleutnat’s office, before the Convergence. Regardless of who’s it was, Victor found what he was looking for; an open trapdoor, the bolted-down ladder along the side leading into darkness. The wayward American knelt beside the opening, calling down into the darkness below for Teodor. He waited for a good minute, checking the open door leading outside periodically to insure no creepy-crawlies came hustling through it. A light flashed down in the darkness below- a good thirty feet to the ground. The ladder began to shake as someone ascended, so Vic duck-walked back and waited for who he assumed to be Theo to pop back out onto ground level. And in case it wasn’t… well, he had his weapon at the ready for a reason. Teodor’s masked face came into view first, and he nodded once in a sharp manner.

“That is our underground. I suggest hiding your vehicle, and using a rope to lower the bard down this hole. I doubt he is physically capable of climbing, or even waking up, for that matter.”

Vic lowered his weapon as Teodor spoke. 

“Sure thing. I’ll have Barrick lower him down, and I’ll need you to wait at the bottom. I’ll be back.”

Victor rose from the floor and set out to his SUV, his boots clicking against the wooden floor as he went. Made him feel… just a bit confident. The rings, the shot he made on the witch, he felt good. The wayward American rolled his shoulders and straightened his back, then stepped back out into the snow to handle his car issue. As he climbed into the driver’s seat, Barrick leaned into view and began speaking in a low tone.

“Did he find it in there?”

Victor nodded several times as he pulled away from his parking spot. He eased the big hunk of metal forward, searching for a temporary spot to hide from that night’s load of beasts- which were bound to be more monstrous, after the prior night’s debacle. Eventually, he pulled around, turned his car off, and gathered everything he thought he’d need while underground. With Barrick carrying the thin bard, the trio set off into the “commander’s quarters”

Time. It was a valuable thing, or felt like a valuable thing. But it felt wasted in all of these moments; warring against subpar ferals and unimportant cultists and rescuing those he shouldn’t have wasted his time with… Victor trekked through the underground metro, slogging along through fetid air and rotting, useless corpses. He should’ve been knee-deep in the undead stronghold, chewing them up with lead or ordering homemade-mortar strikes on the clearly unprepared nasties. But he, funny enough, didn’t have the time for it. Such actions needed a reputation to precede the person of interest, and he was most definitely unimportant. Fine. He’d contend instead with doing grunt work until the Militia could be coaxed out of their hidey-holes. His vision danced in the darkness, promising him scenes of glory and valor in the near future, as long as he survived long enough to get thrown into it. His feet dragged; he was tired, deflated, and over encumbered with the bard’s things. He pulled his gaze from the rail line, eyeing the back of Barrick, who was carrying the comatose guitarist. A quick peek past him revealed Teodor, who was pulling guard duty as he didn’t have anything extra to carry. His winter boot crunched spectacularly against a bullet-ridden collarbone, echoing over the sounds of their footsteps and down the tunnel. Teo glanced over his shoulder out of curiosity, but the trek didn’t stop. The quad-shot party passed by a maintenance corridor that appeared to be locked tight, and the Chernobyl trekker slowed.

“How about a shortcut?”


He inquired over the sound of their heavy breathing. Victor wiped sweat from his forehead and gestured for Teodor to continue leading. He mounted the thin walkway and set his hand on the doorknob… but paused. Vic could almost feel the confusion behind the guy’s mask. Teodor slowly cracked open the door, and in the dim light of their flashlights, the wayward American managed to make out a glint of insect wings slipping by the trekker’s shoulder. 

“Large flies. Really large flies… maybe one’s from the other side. There’s a dead body in here, too.”

Theo remarked. As soon as he finished speaking he jerked back and snapped the door shut, making sure to press his back against the thick metal. 

“The corpse moved. Shall we go?”

The Trekker jumped back down to the rail line posthaste, and their hike continued. On they went, slowly but surely, until the red emergency lights began getting replaced by the purple glow of UV lamps. Further down the metro Victor could hear consistent gunfire and the sharp, knife-like preciseness of spells. The air soon turned acrid with the scent of spent gunpowder and torched flesh. 

“Achtung!”

Came a call from deeper into the UV-lit tunnel. There was a babble of voices speaking German that Victor didn’t understand nor cared to understand. He started caring a bit more when a crack against the stone tunnel preceded a crack from further ahead- he’d been shot at. Hell, he could’ve sworn that piece of coated lead zipped right past his ear too. 

“You cocksucking fags! Take those goddamn rifles and shove them up your asses!”

Victor ripped and roared, spittle coating the inside of his already damp mask. Barrick the Bastard peered over his shoulder with a set of knitted eyebrows, probably surprised to see the latent morphine user spit such vile hate. There was silence from the other end of the tunnel, where the shot had come from. Their eagerness to continue forward had been cut away with the gunshot, now, suddenly, they weren’t so sure if they were dealing with the Austrian Militia or lucky banditry. 

“You speak English! Where are you from?”

A man’s heavily-accented voice inquired from an unseen portion of the tunnel. 

“The U.S. Listen, man, fuck your questions. Your big boss wanted mercenaries, well, here we are!”

Yet more silence. Victor shifted on his aching feet, the oppressive scent of spent powder giving him a headache. Boots hit the ground ahead, and a group began approaching the quad-shot. The lenses of their armored masks flashed in the dim light, the first of many interesting features making themselves known. Moments later, a party of five bulky men stood just ten feet away, their suppressed rifles held at low-ready. Their armor, consisting of flak vests with hammered metal plates along the more important areas of their limbs, looked built specifically for non-ballistic options, but rather slower projectiles and riot-response. Their masks were up-armored, complete with hoses linked to rebreathers on their belts. It resembled no model Victor knew. They stood awkwardly, examining the sorry sonsofbitches in front of them that had somehow made it this far into the metro.
“Uh… right. Three… er, four of you. One injured, uh, all armed, and…”

The leader of the pack trailed off, peering behind Victor as if waiting for more mercenaries to show their faces. When none did, he sighed.

“Damnit. Fine, it is better than none. We will walk you to the checkpoint, where you will need to be vetted by one of our outposts. Have you come in contact with any members of the Austrian Militia yet?”

Teodor stepped up and began speaking.

“The outpost at the hair salon, near the cult compound. We were congratulated by the head of that outpost for bringing down a Fleshhunter and its pack.”

The up-armored fellow stood stock still, listening intently. He murmured something in his mother language to the others, and two members of his group broke off to retreat to the checkpoint further ahead.

“You are them, then? A Fleshhunter is no easy feat. Better men than you have fought and died to one. Come with me, we need to… figure you out.”

The leader turned heel and began his tromp back to the checkpoint, while his fellows stepped to the side to let the quad-shot through. The tired group shuffled forward and the duo of metro-lurkers took up the rear to ensure nothing followed them in. Their walk was short, and certainly not sweet, but eventually they found themselves mounting a knee-high platform and into a mix of fluorescent and UV light. The rickety wooden panels beneath their feet groaned in protest as yet more weight stood upon them, but… they made it. Partially, at least. Two unarmed men in civilian respirators relieved Barrick of his burden with the assistance of a stretcher, and suddenly their bard was gone, hidden in the depths of a nearby medical tent. Barrick squatted down near the edge of the platform and dropped onto his ass with a sigh, rubbing his biceps to get the blood flowing again. Victor grunted as the weight of all of his bags and the bard’s things left his arms, but the pins and needles cut off his temporary relief. His sigh turned into a groan as he too dropped heavily onto the platform, but he had enough sense to remove his mask before he went limp. He was warm, too warm, so he shed his jacket and went further, stripping down to bare chest. The Peacekeeper wiped at the sweat gathering at his stomach, regretting the ring the cleric had slipped onto his finger the night before. 

“Have you ever heard of cold-lung?”

A man across from Victor inquired. Vic peered at him, taking in his studded leather armor and gauntlets- and lack of a firearm. He was a darker-haired man, clean shaven and scarred, with a resting bitch face- or a permanent mean mug. His thick brows knit together as he looked on at Victor, who probably appeared unskilled and plainfaced retarded in his eyes.


“Naw. Tell me about it.”

The Peacekeeper responded. Barrick turned a bit to listen in and to catch a glance at the speaker himself. Teodor was elsewhere, further ahead on the platform speaking with the translator. 

“Children frequently get sick with it while playing outside in the cold without proper winter attire. You are bound to get it, at this rate.”

The fellow replied, his lazyboy creaking just a bit as he leaned forward. He adjusted his hands in a manner that looked most uncomfortable, and upon an in-depth look, Vic realized the man’s metal bracers and gauntlets were bent and punctured in several areas. 

“I’ve got a ring. It’ll keep me nice an’ warm, free of that cold lung.”

Victor responded. He nodded towards the man’s bent metal armor and intended to ask him about it, but Barrick interjected.

“Pneumonia. He’s right, but you do have that ring after all, so I doubt you’ll get it.”

Barrick smoothed out his worn war regalia, covered in excess thread and patches to cover holes. He seemed to note the man’s metal problem.

“Your arms are lookin’ mighty uncomfortable there, friend. You get into a scrap recently?”

The Peacekeeper inquired, once again chin-checking the man’s bracers.

“That I did. Corpses like to bite, and to get close. Too close for a hammer.”

The hammerman’s gaze dropped to his preferred weapon laid out on the floorboards beside his recliner; a shortsword, built for halflings. No, a hammer rested there, a warhammer, at that. It was large, heavy-looking, with one end a sharp claw. At the top rested a spike, and the shaft was covered in runes. 

“Here, man. Let me get those off of ya’.”

Victor shoved himself to his feet but realized that maybe, just maybe he was too sore to walk. He compromised, shuffling forward on his knees instead. Hammerman turned the underbellies of his forearms to the sky, revealing the leather ties bound to him. With still-clumsy fingers the Peacekeeper went about loosening each tie, until eventually there was nothing left to untie. However, the bracers and the gauntlets remained firm on his flesh. Attempting to force them off proved to be a difficult task, as the metal was crimped to the shape of his forearms and fingers.

“Sonovabitch. Bear, help me out here.”

Victor grunted as he fruitlessly attempted to separate the bracers. Barrick pushed himself to his feet and went for the assist; his immense strength proved that Victor might just be a punk-ass with no business acting tough, as the gauntlets and bracers crunched apart. Hammerman let out a long sigh of relief as his bruised flesh was released.

“I was wondering if I would lose circulation before the next attack. I’d have to replace my hands with hammers, at that point.”

He jested in a tired manner, peering down at his ruined armor. Victor reached for his rig, specifically the coin bag tied to it. He released several pieces of gold from their burlap prison and dropped them into Hammerman’s lap.

“If you want to remain Hammerman and not become Hammerhands, get yourself some new armor, if you can find any down here, anyway.”

Vic remarked. Before Hammerman could return the gold, Barrick dropped several more gold and silver pieces into his lap. They were truly a master tag-team. 

“What- why are you so charitable? Surely you don’t do this out of good will?”

Hammerman asked as he tucked the coins away into his own empty-looking burlap coinbag.

“Just keep an eye out for us. Watch our backs should the need arise.”

Barrick remarked. Victor bobbed his head at that. 

“Go, get prepared. Just in case. But- before you go, what’s your name?”

The Peacekeeper inquired as Hammerman looked eager to go.


“Sir Fystoria, Isaac Fystoria of House Fystoria, tucked away in the Hammerreach Range. But you- you, my friends, may call me Isaac. Not sir, no. Thank you for your charity, you’re truly good men in this cold world.”

Sir Fystoria rose to his feet, gathering his hammer as he did so. 

“But please- do me the honor of giving me your names. I will have you marked down in my history book as friends of House Fystoria.”

“Barrick Stoutum, Barrick the Bastard or the Bear. Call me what you wish.”

Barrick introduced himself first upon Vic’s gesture. 

“Surely you are no bastard! But I will refer to you as Sir Barrick, or the Bear. And you?”

Isaac’s heavy-lidded gaze swept to the Peacekeeper.

“Victor Chiramonte, Vic or Peacekeeper will do.”

Victor responded with a grin. Sir Fystoria bobbed his head in an earnest manner. 

“A Peacekeeper, keeping the peace with a heavy hand. Those in my homeland were much the same. Thank you both, again. I- saw two others with you. I would like to meet them, when we are all not busy. Perhaps over a pint of Stolzheim brew. And, I do hope your friend heals well, and heals fast. Until we meet again, good sirs!”

Sir Fystoria beat his fist against his chest once, an ode to their charitable ways. He pivoted and walked off, passing by the Trekker as he returned to Barrick and Victor. 

“We are clear. Our dearest Commandant verified we were indeed the butchers of last night’s vampire horde.”

Teodor remarked, then plopped heavily into the recliner that Sir Fystoria had been sitting in moments prior. 

“Great. Did you learn anything about this place?”

Barrick asked. He peered over his shoulder, checking to make sure that nothing was coming up the tunnel behind them. Fortunately, a soldier in a gunner’s nest had one eye on the tunnel and one on a thick, leather-bound tome. His MG3 could more than handle anything that managed to crawl through several hundred feet of ultraviolet lights. 

“Some things. This platform is one of many; the further you go, the more important it becomes. What’s left of the Austrian military has taken in notable adventurers as they crop up in this country, and assigned them tunnels to watch while preparations are made.”

The Trekker replied. He paused, in case they had questions.

“Preparations for what? Expanding?”

The Peacekeeper inquired with a head tilt.

“I assume so. Expanding where; I don’t know. Assumedly, not here as they already maintain a fair portion of the metro, and in expanding they would gain nothing of importance.”

As Teo finished, the gunner perked his head up from his book.

“Yes. Topside.”

He added in a hushed voice, then returned to reading. Barrick peered at the fellow, but none of the three decided to continue pressing him for answers

“And what of you two? Who was the knightly fellow?”

Theodore’s gaze tore from the gunner, back to the Bear and Vic. 

“Sir Isaac Fystoria, of House Fystoria. He’s from the Other Side, unless the Hammerreach Range sounds familiar around your parts.”

The Bear answered. Teodor rubbed his chin and slowly nodded.

“Should be easier to connect with that one, then.”

He responded, thankful for Sir Fystoria’s human nature. Each bobbed their heads, then leaned back as the weight of the day finally came crashing down on their heads. Victor leaned back, further and further until his back rested against his bag. 

“Just a… quick nap. We’ll get around to savin’ the world later, eh?”

The tired Peacekeeper belted out, and his vision slowly darkened.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Human Nature?

Dreamless sleep would’ve been nice, as the world was now full of flavor, but for Victor, his dream plague continued. He felt semi-lucid, extremely tired, but he was most certainly dreaming given the metro tunnel was torn open, revealing the cracked night sky above. The stars were bright, piercing through the darkness in thin, multicolored sunbeams thrown this way and that with the kaleidoscope atmosphere above. Vic exhaled, his breath steaming in the cold air, but fortunately for him the warming ring’s effects worked just as well in his dream. The kaleidoscope sky twisted, pulsing, before the shattered crystalline structures formed into a brightly lit question; “Refusing allies?”.

“You didn’t prove to me they were allies. And “not killing me” doesn’t count.”

The Peacekeeper retorted sharply. He rose, peeling his back from his pack and grunted as his shoulders were tinged with aches. The sky twisted again.

“Correct. They will be here, later. Recruited.”

Victor stared at the new message, rubbing his chin through his shitty beard. 

“What did I do? Why am I chosen?”

Vic’s hands dropped to his knees, his head bent back to wait for the new message.

“Willing, wanting. Like many others. A different fate for you and your allies.”

The cracked crystalline structure that was the sky split momentarily, letting more sunbeams shine down on their encampment. It lit up Teodor and Barrick, both of whom were previously missing from Vic’s dream. The sunbeams continued lighting up many different places along the metro; in the nearby medical tent, where presumably the bard recovered, and further, in a nearby trading post. Perhaps Sir Fystoria? Many others were lit up, but not revealed to him. Some cropped up on the surface; few in groups, many alone, lost, and winking out. The structure twisted again, pulsating in a much stronger fashion as it formed a brighter message.

“I am to bring you together, you lost souls. Some understand, and act on my message. Can you?”

Victor read and reread the newest inscription in the broken sky.

“I… I think?”

He was most certainly confused, unsure of what the thing in the sky really wanted. 

“You may all understand in due time. Then, we can help eachother.”

The sky formed one last message before shattering down, pausing, and immediately forming a new, more panicked message.

“AWAKEN.”

—--------
And he awoke. Victor’s arm felt warm and wet, splashed with something… sticky. It smelled of copper. His senses hit him like a truck and his nose was assaulted by the overbearing odor of spent gunpowder. There was yelling, fighting, screaming, yowls of the damned and groans of… the reanimated. The dark tunnel was lit sporadically with muzzleflash and quickly-cast cantrips. The Peacekeeper pushed himself off of his bag and reached for the subgun clipped to his rig. His sudden movement caused a corpse to slump into view; fortunately it wasn’t anyone he recognized, and… no one lit by the sunbeams. Most of his throat and his lower jaw were missing, taking in one fell swoop by a creature much stronger than he. He was probably a stray adventurer, as he wasn’t garbed in any militia gear Vic recognized. 

“Victor! Down!”

A tinny shout amidst the chaotic cacophony of combat was caught, just barely, and apparently just in time too. As he ducked down he felt something clip the hairs on the back of his head, then make contact with something a bit more solid. Face-down, he didn’t see much of anything excluding movement underneath the platform. Strange. His apparent savior stepped over him and continued the fight. He finally raised his head and took in the scene; corpses, but the walking variant of them had strolled into the checkpoint one-by-one and instead of an easy cut-down the gunner’s MG3 malfunctioned. The panicked gentleman struggled to open the bolt of his machine gun while the undead swamped their position, fighting defenders and adventurers alike. Sir Fystoria fought two undead at once, sweeping his warhammer back and forth as if it were scythe. They fell like tall grass, those undead with their broken legs and suddenly caved-in skulls. As they fell, their bodies seized, the necromantic magics leaving behind suddenly useless meat. Hammerman swiveled around, directing the spike at the end of his weapon behind the Peacekeeper, waiting for another undead to make an attack on his open back.

“Are you well, Sir Victor? You are bleeding!”

Vic glanced down at his bloodied arm but felt no pain, and so no wounds.

“No, no! I’m uninjured! What happened?”
Fystoria lowered his hammer, as they appeared safe for the moment. 

“They came upon us quickly, like before- but our guard’s device ceased to work! It was tampered with!”

Isaac spat out. Victor swung his head this way and that; Barrick was missing, presumably fighting deeper into the checkpoint. Strangely enough, Teodor remained in his chair, fast asleep. The fighting had not woke him up, but if the dream-plague’s words held true then the Trekker might’ve been stuck in a dream of his own. 

“Damnit! Who’s under us?”

Victor asked, and Sir Fystoria’s wide eyes locked with his. And at that moment, their situation became so much worse. Clawed hands, unlike those of the corpses burst through the platform’s weak wooden floor, snatching onto the lordly fellow’s greaves. He buckled, trying to smack away the hands with the shaft of his hammer, but they would not let go. Through the new holes in the floor, Mister Chiramonte observed many sets of gnashing teeth and beady, shiny, malice-filled eyes that simply gleamed with hunger. The stench of death, rot, and spoiled meat became a whole lot more heady in the tight, still tunnel. 

“Shit.”

He murmured, his hand instinctively locking onto the wand on his battle belt. An entire half of a beastly humanoid burst from the floorboards, hugging Fystoria’s back and dragging him backwards. Hammerman fell, throwing armored elbows into the creature’s face as he attempted to loosen its death grip. Another of the creatures burst through, slowly forcing its entire body out of the dark underneath. Its sickly green eyes peered at Victor, saliva dripping from its fang-filled mouth. Instinctively, the Peacekeeper pointed the wand at the vicious undead, but there was no effect. 

“Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck- uh-”

Apparently the wand needed a power word. He didn’t even know what the damned thing did, but he got a sinking feeling that his low-caliber weapons wouldn’t exactly fare well against the decaying, evil entities. His left arm burned- and now that it was uncovered, he noticed a word tattooed into the underbelly of his forearm; Thulm. It was written with all of the fancy pronunciation marks, too. When the fuck did he get a tattoo?

“Fuck it! Thulm!”

Victor shouted the word in his time of need- just in time, too, as the ghoulish creature finally broke free of its restraints. The wand spat out a bolt of light that sheared through the beast’s concave chest and puttered out further down the tunnel. It clawed at the cauterized wound, grunting quietly before finally falling limp beside its brothers below. He jumped forward, pressing the tip of the wand against the ghoul’s wrist that was latched onto Isaac’s leg. 

“Thulm!”

A similar bolt cleaved the clawed hand from its owner, and the beast jolted back into the darkness.

“Damned ghouls! Here, Victor!”


Sir Fystoria growled, slowly prying one of the other ghoul’s hands from his fortunately-armored chest. He was struggling, the beastly humanoid clearly as strong if not stronger than he. Flesh must’ve done that to a man. Victor pressed his wand into his other hand and used the stronger of the two to grab ahold of the ghoul’s talons. Together, they set up the beast’s hand, and Victor once again pressed the tip of the wand against the beast’s wrist. He checked to make sure Isaac’s fingers were clear, and-

“Thulm! Asshole!”

A third bolt completely disconnected the hand from the wrist, cauterizing both ends of the wound. The ghoul buckled, crawling away from the duo in a crazed panic. Sir Fystoria checked his chest, making sure the talons didn’t penetrate his studded leather piece. Victor shoved the wand into his belt and drew his .357 instead, taking aim at the ghouls crawling around below.

“Yet another action to thank you for, Sir Peacekeeper. Your friend, Bear, he’s escorted your healers and injured deeper into the checkpoint. We must eliminate the ghoul threat before they swarm us, get dressed! And do NOT let them touch you!”

Sir Fystoria rose to his feet and pulled a vial from his belt, then beamed it into one of the larger holes in the platform. There was a brief flash of light followed by several howls of pain. While he guarded Vic and Teodor, the Peacekeeper got dressed as quickly as his limbs allowed. He threw on his damp, cold clothing from the day before and followed with his rig, jumping back as Isaac swept his hammer around the holes to push back the ravenous horde. Soon enough, he was dressed, and dashed over to the armchair to shake the Trekker.

“Teodor, wake up! Now!”

Victor’s shaking and yelling didn’t fare well, as Theo remained fast asleep, unperturbed by the scene around him. The platform began cracking in various spots as the pack of ghouls threw themselves at the cheap wood. The Peacekeeper backed away, his gaze sweeping to-and-fro as the platform was broken apart, much like the crystalline sky from his dream. His hands tightened around his subgun, he swallowed hard. Don’t let them touch… right. 

“Steel yourself, Sir Victor! We will fight off this horde like the rest prior!”

Isaac shouted over the din of combat. He thrusted his hammer down, impaling an encroaching ghoul with the spike. Victor pressed the stock against his shoulder, taking aim at one spot that was opening quicker than the others. And when that first beast broke through- by God did he fire. Two, three, four shots, and he paused to see if it had any effect. The targeted ghoul slipped away before he could see, to be replaced not a moment later with another. The Peacekeeper depressed his trigger again, feeling the suppressed gunfire deep within his chest. The ghoul did too, as four, five piping hot pieces of lead punctured its organs, or what remained of them. It reeled back, swiping aimlessly as its heart was seemingly popped by the quick onslaught. Victor didn’t have time to revel in his kill; he swiveled around to a crawler, putting a shot into its head and a second into its back. It fell at his feet, grunting and swiping at the wood in a sporadic manner as its remaining brainpower tried to figure out what knocked it retarded. Two more shots of .45 ACP was enough to turn the rest of that grey matter into mush. His weapon swung back up, and he too backed up as he fired into another approaching ghoul’s chest. Vic’s boots hit the armchair, but by then the beastly humanoid joined its brothers on the platform floor, bleeding a sickly, oily ichor onto the tracks. He breathed, in and out, the air catching in his lungs as it was tainted with burning powder. The wayward American coughed loudly, his heart thumping. It would’ve thumped out of his chest, had it not been held in place by his vest. A quick look over revealed that Sir Fystoria was faring well, easily carving through any ghoul that foolishly charged him. One beast fell to its knees as they were whacked out from under it by the warhammer. It was left momentarily to its own devices as Isaac twirled the hammer around like a baton and caved in the skull of another undead. A third went for a suckerpunch, but Hammerman was clearly informed of their tactics. He ducked in time, punched out with his new gauntlets, and broke its jaw. While it reeled back Sir Fystoria caught the base of its spine with a well-placed blow. The kneeling ghoul finally got its share of the carnage when the hammer came up, around, and descended into its head claw-first. Isaac breathed heavily, wiping spittle from his gasping mouth. And… Teodor remained fast asleep. 

“He is a heavy sleeper, is he not?”

Isaac asked as he gestured to the Trekker. He would’ve stayed that way, until a host of new ghouls began crawling from holes old and new. And when the situation looked a whole lot darker with the amount pouring into the scene, Theo shot forward.

“VECNA!”

He roared, so loud that it was heard easily through the combat nearby. The ghouls paused to look at him, confused with what they heard and why they heard it. Teodor didn’t provide any explanation, he just stared around, wide-eyed and breathing heavily. Victor tore his gaze away from the Croatian and began placing shots in the shocked ghoul’s heads, as they were stock still. Sir Fystoria joined him in the battle-turned-slaughter, caving in heads where he saw fit. The newest horde proved an easier battle than the first, and by the end of it more than a dozen corpses had amassed on and below the platform. Peacekeeper carefully reloaded his Mac-10 with a fresh magazine, counting a total of three spent magazines. If he remembered correctly, he had a number more tucked away into his enchanted rig, so spending ammunition wasn’t too much of a hassle. He did gather the emptied magazines and stuffed them away into an open dump pouch- one that appeared bottomless. Maybe it was. Vic peered around, checking the situation for a second time. Further ahead, the fighting was wrapping up as the adventurers and guards mopped up the last of the undead- it appeared that no ghouls burst through the platform. Sir Fystoria busied himself by tearing away rags from one of the ghoul’s loincloths, then wiping his hammer free of putrid gore. Teodor sat upright in the recliner, his Saiga held in a white-knuckled grip. He breathed heavily, the omens of his dream apparently grim and, unfortunately, very informative. They stood in silence, their heavy breathing catching every so often as they caught a whiff of acrid gunpowder. There were shouts across the platform; wounded calling for help, people checking for the friends, and guards ensuring the platform was once again secure. The gunner let out a massive grunt as he yanked the bolt of his MG back, and a sheared, spent bullet was ejected from the receiver. He shined his penlight down the receiver, and let out a curse in German. The curse transitioned into what sounded like a full-length explanation when he hit the “transmit” button on his wired radio sitting on a nearby stool. 

“Why is everyone letting their guard down?”

The Trekker peered at the guards and adventurers amassing about twenty feet away. He rose from his recliner, then shouldered his Saiga, as if preparing for a fight.

“Woah there, bud. The fight’s over, isn’t it? You pulled us through with that voice of your’s-”

Vic reached out to stop Teodor from continuing forward, but he shrugged his hand off.

“Spread out, now! You are making a grave mistake, move, now!”


He shouted, his accented voice carrying down the tunnel. Teodor stomped forward, narrowly avoiding holes as he went. The group collectively looked at him in a confused manner, but only two stepped away as he firmly suggested. And- that was the rest of the group’s mistake. Theo’s “undead sense” picked up two more creatures under the platform- and in the next few seconds, they were on the platform. A fair portion of the wood gave way, creating a sinkhole-like effect for the folks standing on it. The first beast to emerge looked like a ghoul, but the proportions were far different. Talons shaped into dagger-like claws, the tongue was large and whip-like, the maw full of razor-sharp teeth-similar to a shark’s. It looked far stronger and meaner than any old ghoul Victor had the displeasure of meeting. It reared back, driving both sets of claws into the first person’s chest. The fellow spat blood as his lungs and heart were pierced without any fanfare, and he was indeed dead in the next moment. The beast yanked its hands free and swept aside the dagger-jab of another prone adventurer, taking off most of her fingers with the strike. She let out a pain-filled screech as she was disarmed in more than one way, as the next of the beast’s attacks completely severed the rest of the arm at the bicep. The ghoul-like creature silenced her cries of fear and pain with a simple face-palm, one that cracked her skull against a support beam. The third man, a guard, got the better of the two and began firing into the beastly humanoid’s chest with a handgun. It recoiled as the first shots pierced its thick skin, but caught the man’s leg with a stray slash. The guard screamed in fear as he was dragged closer to his grisly doom, and Victor couldn’t turn away from the creature as it latched onto the fellow’s jaw with its own set of teeth and ripped. Victor moved forward, or already had been, when he finally realized the gravity of the situation. Isaac and Teodor were there with him, fortunately enough, and the wise monster-hunter that was Sir Fystoria began rattling off information of the beast as it tore the third guard to crimson shreds. 

“A ghast! Smarter, stronger, far more malicious than a ghoul could ever hope to be! Keep back, do not let it touch you!”

The nobleman threw himself forward, swinging his warhammer from left to right in a nasty backhand swing. The ghast barely looked up in time and its hand managed to catch the brunt of the blow with its arm. The bone broke with a mighty crack and the ghoulish creature lurched back into the pit. Victor took aim alongside Teodor, the duo looking to finish the creature with a firing squad execution. Fate wouldn’t have it, unfortunately. The second creature burst from the “sinkhole”, a bolt from a crossbow damn near finding itself in the throat of Peacekeeper. He lurched back, grunting in pain as a chunk of his ear went with the barbed tip, then let out a surprised shout as the burning pain shot into his skull like a jackhammer. Victor could only think of one word as he fell onto his back, twitching like a Parkinson’s-riddled oldhead; poison. He’d been poisoned. He could only watch as Teodor’s aim rapidly switched from the defenseless ghast to the second, armored beast that jumped into the fight. In a haze Victor saw and noted its features; a face like a skull, the pale white flesh stretched tight against its head. Cornstalk-like hair, bleached, dead, and full of mange. Thick armor- probably a gambeson with chainmail, discolored by time and war covered its lithe frame. Malevolence burned from the two glowing orbs in its eye sockets, clearly disgusted with the weakness of the living assembled before it. In one hand- a shortsword, which curved slightly at the end. In the other, a thick hand crossbow, fitted with… something Victor couldn’t discern in the low light. He blinked, long and slow, tears flowing down his sweaty cheeks. When he opened them the UV light nearby was shattered, and the armored undead was looking to strive further into the platform. 

“Damnable wights! I’ll have your heads on pikes, you will NOT leave this tunnel alive!”

And with that declaration Sir Fystoria charged forward, a mighty hop taking him across the sinkhole. Or it would’ve, anyway, had the ghast not reached out and snatched his greave. He fell into the pit, grunting as the dissected bodies broke his fall. The ghast cackled as it mounted him, attempting to force its claws into Isaac’s throat. The shaft of his warhammer came up in time, but the sudden motion threw the dagger-like appendages into his face. He began bleeding heavily from nose to chin, but he remained strong. 

“Stupid beast! I’ll give you final rites myself! Burn, bastard!”

There was a brilliant glow that heralded the end of Isaac’s sentence, and the ghast lurched back as radiant warmth scorched its bare flesh. This gave Teodor more than enough time to send a load of buckshot into the creature’s back, and the twelve gauge was enough to throw it clear of the now-injured nobleman. The Trekker jogged forward, firing again as soon as he repositioned himself. The buckshot tore through the beastly humanoid’s thick skin, but still it struggled. Again, Teodor shot, this time at the useless, broken arm of the ghast. The appendage hung by a couple threads of sinew, and dark ichor soaked the broken wood of the platform. A fourth shot- then a reload. Again, there was a massive blast, and the ghast continued to live on out of spite. Sir Fystoria slowly dragged himself away from the scene, clutching his ears and breathing hard as each blast assaulted his lungs. There was one more blast, one that took off the entire top of the beast’s head, and finally, it ceased to move. Theo spat on its corpse, then swiveled his weapon up to take aim at the wight- which was gone. In its place were several corpses, expertly cut down or riddled with weighted crossbow bolts. 

“Victor, we have to move before it reaches the injured. Come!”

The Trekker tried hauling Vic to his feet, but the poison was far stronger than he realized. His vision blurred, and suddenly he was flat on his face with a cursing Theo standing above him.

“It’s just your ear, damnit! How’d you survive all of those vampire bites?”

But Victor couldn’t explain. His mouth felt full of honey, his tongue glued to the roof. It probably wasn’t, but that poison had one hell of a kick to it. 

“He is poisoned, leave him! It will take time to clean his body, so go, I will come with you!”

Isaac grunted as he shoved himself to his knees. He uncorked a square potion bottle, and dumped it onto his face. The red fluid didn’t hit the floor as expected, but soaked into his skin instead. The claw wounds ceased bleeding almost immediately, then began knitting itself together.

“Fine! Victor, stay down!”

Teodor shouted down at the prone Peacekeeper, then grabbed Hammerman by his armpit and lifted him to his feet. The duo set off in a hurry, leaving Vic behind with corpses. They disappeared into the darkness, following the trail of shot-out ultraviolet lamps, and soon enough Theo’s shotgun-mounted light slipped away behind a shack. There was fighting, shouting down that way; assumedly the wight was tearing through the guards and disorganized adventurers without breaking a sweat. Hopefully they would fare better, and hopefully Barrick was in the clear. But… what if they didn’t end up alright? What if the sunbeams stopped shining down on them? Victor couldn’t let that happen. So, through the jackhammer pain, through his dazed state, he crawled forward, to the pit. Something guided him, or maybe it was his own damnable, stubborn mind. The corpses might’ve held a key to his condition- so it was worth a shot. His vision broke, temporarily, and he slowly regained it the further he moved. Finally, after what felt like forever, Peacekeeper made it to the dissected victims of the ghast. He tried the first adventurer; a shorter fellow, perhaps a halfling. He held nothing but two rubies and a dagger, and, of course, a full coinpurse. But there wasn’t a need for coins at the moment, so he moved on to the woman and left the glazed-green-eyed fellow to his resting place. She was slouched to the side, still bleeding heavily from her missing arm. The back of her head was bloody, and through the fiery red shade he could see a large cut made by the platform’s support beam. She had a messenger back that was doused in sticky crimson, but as he reached out for it she jerked away, maybe instinctively as he brushed against the jagged wound left on her bicep- or what remained of it. His breathing quickened- was she alive? Dead, and reanimated? Would the other corpses come back too, to feast on his flesh? Perhaps, and he was in no condition to fight. With a grunt he ripped open the messenger back and found several potions- all in hues of red and green, along with a water-like solution in a vial at the bottom of the bag. The first potion was in a delicate, banana-shaped vial, and was red like Sir Fystoria’s. He didn’t know what it did, but he assumed the similar colors meant similar results. And if it killed the woman-well, at least it was a quicker death than bleeding out. He uncorked it with shaking hands, forced open her mouth, and poured. The liquid went quickly, disappearing into the depths of her body. Her breathing slowed just a smidge, as did the bleeding. Victor ground his teeth together and grabbed a second bottle, this one also shaped like a banana. Peacekeeper uncorked that one too, and poured it in a similar manner. The ragged wounds and gashes stopped bleeding entirely, and the flesh slowly knit itself together. There was a third vial, also red, but much smaller than the previous two. He used it as well, and apparently put her on track for a healthy recovery. If, of course, she didn’t come out brain damaged at the end of the battle. 

“You’re not retarded, right? You didn’t get hit hard enough to knock something loose?”

Victor asked as he rolled onto his back. He didn’t expect an answer, but through his bout of pain he heard an affirmative grunt. He glanced over, his vision taking a moment to catch up, but he saw the redheaded woman alive, if a tad bit unwell. She looked sick at the sight of her missing arm, but at least she was looking and understanding. Her baleful gaze slowly dragged over to Victor, whose eyes were probably rolling back into his head. 

“I don’t know if I should thank you or butcher you once I recover. What am I to do without an arm?”

Victor only shrugged.

“You look unwell. Poison, perhaps? I can see it in your skin.”

She remarked, then leaned towards the prone man until she was breathing in his ear.

“I can help you. If you can help me.”

Victor only nodded, slowly, sluggishly. She didn’t name off terms or dates, just a demand that he’d be forced to go through with in the near future. So be it. The redheaded… half-breed? Dug through her satchel with her remaining hand. In his dazed state her face looked too angular, her eyes too almond-shaped to be full-blooded human, but there were still human-like characteristics about her. His vision failed again, and when it returned the half-breed was above him, uncorking a small vial with her teeth. She spat out cork, knocked on his lips with the vial, and poured when he parted them. The fluid, while clear, definitely did not taste like water. It burned terribly, scorching his throat and esophagus as it descended further into his body. He coughed, hacked, but the fluid didn’t leave him. It sat heavily in his abdomen moments later, and the clearing began. It felt like a vice grip held his veins, then his stomach, then his chest. Fluid bubbled up, dribbling out of his nose and mouth. With each cough he hacked up foul-tasting phlegm and bile, along with a sweeter taste. An… unnatural taste. It all went over his rig, soaked into his already wet shirt, and joined the ichor staining the broken platform. The half-breed observed in an almost uncaring manner, watching choke, gasp for air, until, finally, the jackhammering pain faded from his head. His ear still burned freshly, but it was from the open wound now. Victor shoved himself up, still shaking from his ordeal.

“And there you are, my dearest savior. Clean, free of poison. When I need you, I will find you. Leave me, join your friends, and don’t fall. I may have use for you yet.”

Her voice dripped with a mix of venom and sarcasm, but she did bow her head in thanks. Peacekeeper pulled himself to his feet and stumbled off, leaving behind the Otherworlder potion “master”, still coughing up sweet phlegm. It ran down his chin, mixing with sweat and dirt, forming a dangerous combination that fortunately splattered to the floor below. Forward he went, his way lit with a shoulder-mounted flashlight. The ultraviolet lights placed at ten foot intervals were broken, the bulbs shot out with well-placed crossbow bolts. That wight was a bastard, a hell of a lot better killer than that flesh hunter. He passed corpses, cut expertly at the throat and quite literally “disarmed” in some cases. Bolts stuck out of throats, eye sockets, and groins. Magicians’ fingers or entire hands were gone, their cheeks cut through to sever the tongue. Others had hidden themselves away, peeking out to watch Victor stumble off to his doom. The scent of copper was suffocating, especially in the enclosed tunnel. The gunpowder did not make it any better. The wayward American passed by empty stalls, their goods still out for display. The platform fortunately lacked any holes or sinkholes, meaning the ghouls did not make it past the gunner’s checkpoint. Some twenty steps or so ahead the wight faced off against a total of eight people; Barrick, who watched the creature with a keen eye but did not raise his weapon. Teodor, who aimed at the wight despite the hostage between him and it. Sir Fystoria, the spike of his warhammer directed at the wight in case it made a dash for freedom. There were several others as well, nameless but only two were faceless. There was another half-breed like the one before, this one a male and with brown hair. He was thin, almost sickly, but the glowing tattoos and the spell ingredients gripped between his fingers hinted that he was more than capable of fighting. Their semicircle included a seventh person; a woman, a full-fledged drow, her silvery chain gripped between her gauntleted hands. Her face was pulled back into a snarl, one only a cleric of Lolth could muster- full of hate, vile wishes and dark desires. She wanted to fight, and did not mind the hostage in the way. The final member of their temporary party was a regular man, dressed in multicam fatigues and an olive green warbelt. The bald caucasian pressed a wad of loose gauze against his stomach, apparently just holding himself together as he bled steadily into his shirt. He was pale, perhaps dying, and yet he still took aim at the wight’s forehead with the steadiest grip Victor had seen in all of his life. There was no speaking, no demands, nothing; the wight was there to kill who it could, the only reason it took a hostage was to prolong its slaughter. Those in the semicircle knew this already, and were simply waiting for the malicious creature to make its move. Victor stepped up beside Teodor, catching a death glare from the beast. He responded with an “up your’s” gesture, displeased with having to cough up poisoned phlegm for a good six minutes. He could’ve sworn it’s lips stretched all the wider into an evil smile. 

“Looks like we’ll be waiting while this fucker makes up a game plan for his escape.”

Teodor murmured, his fingers constantly adjusting on the grip of his Saiga. The Trekker waited impatiently for the moment he could floor the undead beast with buckshot. Vic tore his gaze from the creature to Barrick the Bastard, who in turn met his gaze. He gave him a shrug, knowing full well he couldn’t do anything in this situation.

“And you can’t cast a damnable spell that would help right now, right?”

The bald man in the fatigues grunted, blood passing his lips with every syllable. A ring on his finger flared up in response, bright and purple. 

“No, no fireball, no water in the lungs, no heat, no freezing, and no goddamned TELEPORT SPELL.”

The half-breed elf with the glowing tattoos responded sharply, probably answering the question yet again. 

“Your soldier is already dead, it is only a matter of time! Let me put down that feral dog and I can assure you their deaths will be quick!”


The drow snapped. Her accent reminded Victor of one of the old Com-bloc countries; vaguely russian, but you say that and everyone pisses their pants because they’re not russian. Her stark-white hair glimmered brightly in the low-light, just like her chain. It was strange to look at. 

“No!”

The man in the fatigues replied in a heated manner. While they argued, something clicked. A… pin hit the floor, then something far heavier followed. Victor caught a glance of the flashbang that hit the ground and turned away, his arm coming up to shield his eyes from the blast. It popped a moment later, and his headphones whined as the bang reached much higher decibels than a shotgun blast. Victor looked again; the wight was darting forward, leaving behind its meat shield with a torn out throat. Most if not all of those in the circle were deafened and blinded, but fortunately Teodor went unaffected. The Peacekeeper’s subgun came up, and he fired a shot as soon as he thought the barrel was on target. It zipped behind the quick bastard, and missed the drow by an inch. Fortunately, she didn’t even realize. Nor did the pistol-wielding man, and very soon he was about to realize nothing else. The wight’s sword came up, around, and suddenly the entire pale being was yanked to the side. It rolled to the right, and standing proudly in front of it was a hooded figure, diminutive, and… familiar. Gripped in either gloved hand was a curved dagger, each marked with two small runes. The figure’s feet spread apart, their knees bending as they prepared for a charge. The wight lunged forward, and the dagger-wielding arrival whirled around, their cloak fluttering behind them. There were two metallic taps, and the undead’s blade was turned to the floor. Rather than strike again, the cloaked figure simply disappeared.

“Can’t get a clear shot.”

Teodor grunted. Victor couldn’t help but agree, and continued to watch the fight. The others began to come around again, dazed but at least alive. The Otherworlders were knocked on their respective asses, unprepared for such a loud noise and bright flash. The tunnel definitely made it worse, and Vic would’ve gone on to continue making remarks about it but the figure finally reappeared. The fight began anew; the cloaked figure’s daggers were sheathed now, and with their empty hands they beckoned for the wight to come at them again. It didn’t, smart enough to recognize when flat one-on-one combat simply wouldn’t do. Its crossbow snapped up at hip level, firing two shots in a strangely rapid succession. The cloaked figure darted forward, into the bolts- before disappearing yet again. The bolts struck the tunnel wall, shattering without fanfare. Then, from behind, the wight was kicked. It stumbled forward, but couldn’t regain its balance before one of its knees was stomped to the platform floor. The metal kneepad clanked loudly against the wood, but the wight rolled away for a second time. The cloaked figure, who’s features Victor couldn’t make out underneath the hood, kicked at where the undead’s head was, and missed, overbalanced, then disappeared. They reappeared just two feet away, crouched and waiting for the wight to attack. They rose at once, the wight firing another bolt, while the cloaked figure simply cut it from the air with a well-practiced strike. Forward they drove, one dagger smacking the spine of the undead’s blade while the other went for its throat. Rather than accept the blow the crossbow stopped the attack dead in its tracks, and the dagger bit deep into the box-shaped mechanism at the bottom of the weapon. The assassin-wight kicked out, its boot sinking into the figure’s stomach. Its scimitar reared back, driving forward only to cut air. The figure was gone, and the assassin roared out in rage. Instead of continuing the fight, the undead beast turned its hatred onto the nearest target; an armored guard, who still looked off-balance. The blade swept across the man’s chest, cutting open fabric but skittering across ceramic plating. Unfortunately for the assassin, its back was left undefended, and the cloaked figure took full advantage of it. They reappeared, born again from shadow, something emanating from their layers of clothing. It wasn’t light, moreso emphasized dark. Something darker than the dim light around it. Like a void, and that void drove both of the daggers into each of the wight’s armpits. The blades cut through the unarmored, undead flesh like butter, severing lungs- not like it needed them, but more importantly, piercing the heart. The wight didn’t react to its almost instantaneous death, the corpse simply slumped forward and into the guard, who shouted in surprise and jumped away. 

“Sir! We came as fast as we could-”

A shout from behind the bald man was cut off when the wight’s lips parted and howled. Its animated corpse shuddered as whatever necromantic magics corrupting it evacuated its body post-haste. Those nearer to it lurched back, covering their ears. And suddenly-peace. No more gunfire, no more spells being cast, nothing. From behind, survivors shouted back and forth, crying out as they recovered corpses they knew. Those of the semicircle exchanged looks; they got lucky. They were sloppy, letting the beast make it that far. The drow cursed in a guttural, nonhuman language and stepped away, rolling up their chain. The tattooed magician remained on his ass, rubbing his head free of a headache that was coming on from the close-quarters explosion. Barrick wiped away tears; he wasn’t a grieving man, but he also wasn’t a flashbang man. Those who were shouting behind the bald fellow revealed themselves moments later; a squad of armored guards, armed with what looked like flamethrowers and shotguns; heavy duty equipment fit for zombies. They were quick to surround their multicam-wearing compatriot, perhaps their superior, peering angrily at the adventurers and guards amassed before them. The cloaked figure ignored it all, taking the time to kneel down and examine the wight’s corpse; from their armor, to their weapons, to their features. Crossbow bolts, tinctures and vials, anything small and loose was stripped from the undead beast’s body and slipped into their sleeves. The “void” was gone, strangely enough. 

“What a cinematic moment. A great time for a random hero to show their face- or, their daggers.”

Teodor commented, loudly enough for the daring, dual-daggered figure to hear. They looked up, and still, Victor couldn’t make out any features past the hood. Maybe because they were wearing a veil.

“You barely had it handled. How many would have died had this creature followed through with its attack, I wonder…”

They replied. The voice was very familiar; a feminine, but rough voice. Almost as if their throat was perpetually dry. He heard it in a dream, one themed “Allies”.

“I remember you!”

Victor replied, accidently cutting off the smart-ass remark Theo was about to make. 

“And I, you. You look like shit. You’re also missing an ear.”

The figure rose to their feet, having looted what they wanted from the corpse. They brushed their knees off, then finally flipped down their hood. The shadow around their head seemed to melt away, replaced by… yet another damn knife-eared Drow. This one’s head was shaped similarly to the red-headed half-breed’s; somewhat angular, and not quite full almond-shaped eyes. They were somewhat human, despite the lavender skin and stark white hair like her “sister” behind her. Black lines traced up her face, coming from her neck and Victor assumed further along her body. They glowed in the half light, darker than dark. 

“You! What House do you hail from?”


The other Drow took the cloaked one’s side, and immediately recoiled back upon seeing her features. 

“You- man-thing’s spawn!”

She sputtered, then began to rail against their savior in that strange, guttural language. The cloaked half-Drow gave the duo an annoyed look, waiting for the other one to cease her ramblings.

“Yes, yes, yes. I am this, that, the other! Leave me be, Lolth-whore. Clearly you cannot accept Eilistraee’s teachings. Go back!”

She snapped. The other recoiled for a second time, their rage suddenly corked. She looked confused, perhaps a bit hurt about the “Lolth-whore” remark. Victor’s suspicions were partly confirmed. Regardless, the chain-wielding dark-elf turned heel and walked away, disappearing into the half-light. Vic and Theo watched, the former’s mouth just a touch ajar as he watched the exchange. It at least helped with the phlegm drainage. Regardless, he snapped his jaw shut once the first drow turned her attention back to the duo, then felt his ear. It stung, and the tips of his fingers were stained red. 

“Well… thank you for your help. What is your name? And, what House do you belong to?”

Teo inquired politely, smoothing down the front of his rig as he did so. 

“Lorraine Faust. No Lady, no Baroness, no Princess, and certainly no Queen. I am of no drow House, as you might have guessed- I am half-blood. Much to the disdain of purebloods. Do go on, tell me who you are.”

Lorraine, as the half-breed called herself, fixed her gaze on Teodor only as she spoke with her sandpaper-esque voice.

“Teodor Golubovic. Engineer.”

Theo introduced himself in a short, clipped manner wrought by adrenaline and the usual distrust for non-human races. That, and they were speaking to a Drow, after all. Everyone who was at least someone knew of dark-elves and their fetish for extreme torture. 

“And you?”

Lorraine’s glittering gaze drilled into Vic next, much to his discomfort. Perhaps the Drow’s tortuous ways were ingrained in their very being. 

“Uh… Vic. Victor Chiramonte. IT.”

The Peacekeeper replied, voice thick with phlegm. The half-breed didn’t recognize his former line of work like she did “engineer”, but nor did she question it.

“Aren’t there… two more of you? You haven’t lost them already, have you?”

Lorraine inquired in an almost chiding manner. Victor gestured behind her, to Barrick. The Bastard bowed his head at the gesture. And behind him… a second medical tent. That’s why everyone was formed around the wight- it was going for the secondary medical tent. She pivoted around, treating the Bear to a judgemental gaze.

“He’s a big one, is he not? Brutish, I presume.”

The Drow murmured to herself- but it was loud enough for the duo to hear.

“Presumed wrong. He’s a poetic man. And behind him, the bard from the Shar compound.”

Victor corrected in a sharp manner. 

“Ah… the one the big one was carrying, yes. Speaking of that Shar compound, I’ll let you in on a secret.”

Lorraine turned around once more, her cloak fluttering behind her.

“Whoever you shot last, they are far from dead. As my sources say, they are alive, and blessed by the Dark Lady herself. They’ve no idea where you are, but no doubt they are willing to bribe, coax, or kill anyone to get to you.”

She spoke exclusively to Victor this time around.

“Fuck.”

He grunted. Lorraine nodded in agreement. 

“Quite. Also; we didn’t need you to verify your group did indeed slaughter the hunting party from last night. I was quite surprised myself, but upon seeing your group in action down here… maybe it isn’t so hard to believe. Congratulations; you can kill well enough to survive for a little while longer. But do remember- I will not be here as your ace card. I, myself, have more important business to tend to.”

She finished with flourish, and turned to go. Teodor leaned into Victor, murmuring in his ear.

“You know that one?”

Theo asked in a low voice.

“Just barely. From a goddamned dream.”

Vic responded in kind. Trekker slowly nodded his understanding.

“I hate those dreams. Wish it would tell us what we need to know in a quicker manner.”

He remarked, then gave Victor a “come-on” gesture. The duo trekked forward, past the guards examining the wight’s corpse. Sir Fystoria loudly explained what wights were, and why, perhaps, this one in particular was special.

“Not very often do they wear medallions or brooches denoting undead Houses! The smartest, most skilled are often approached by vampire courts for specific duties that they cannot handle themselves. Assassinations, month-long reigns of terror, and so on are usual what they’re hired for. Not hired in a traditional sense, like one would hire a mercenary and pay in gold, but… power. Offers of power.”

Isaac explained, his voice accented with an old English crispness. 

“Why would a wight voluntarily come down here and face certain death? Are they suicidal?”

One of the guards asked. This man- he was an American. One of the bald fellow’s personal guard, as he had arrived alongside the others. He was dressed differently, too; in place of the heavy armor and thick, metal plates he wore multicam like his predecessor, alongside a plate carrier. His rifle was not of the AUG platform, but an old M4 SBR instead. It was an odd switch-up but still NATO nevertheless.

“Not usually, no. It must have been promised quite a bit to willingly venture down here… and I shudder to think of what that might entail.”

Sir Fystoria replied with a grimace. He looked up at the approaching duo, and smiled in a half-hearted manner.

“We survived, my friends. How about that?”

He pivoted, and took Teo’s side as they passed.

“I was unable to introduce myself properly. I am Sir Isaac Fystoria, monster hunter hailing from the Hammerreach Range. I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing your friends’ charity, Sirs Victor and Sir Barrick. You are?”

The nobleman inquired with both an air of refined nobility and down-to-earth politeness. 

“Teodor Golubovic. Engineer, from what’s left of Croatia.”

The Trekker replied in a tired manner. His hand came across his body, offering a shake for Sir Fystoria. They clasped hands in a brief but firm manner, and that was that. The trio eventually paused in front of their fourth man, Barrick. He looked unscathed, but many of his magazines were emptied. 

“Welcome back to the world of the living. You must have really needed that sleep, as I couldn’t wake you when the first round of zombies shuffled in.”

Barrick greeted them all, his shotgun coming up to rest against his shoulder.

“But, fortunately enough, they seemed to walk right past you. Maybe they like their prey alive and kicking.”

He continued with a wry smile. 

“Damned dreams. We weren’t allowed to wake up. Have you had them yet?”

Teodor inquired. Barrick gave him a “so-so” gesture. 

“Undoubtedly I’ll be dealing with them soon enough. So be it.”

The Bastard continued in a more verbal manner, then gestured to the secondary medbay behind himself.

“You should go in there, Victor. I see you’re missing an ear.”

Barrick finished and nodded to the blood-covered side of Vic’s head. The Peacekeeper peeled off one of his gloves and gently prodded the area- the lobe was gone, a chunk from his neck was missing, and… that was it. He could hear his fingers rubbing together, so he hadn’t lost hearing. Lucky him.

“I’ll wash it and wrap it. Doubt I’ll get taken care of with all of the new dead and injured to manage first.”

Victor responded with a tired sigh. The four of them nodded at once as the gravity of the situation finally hit. So many dead- a fair portion of those killed by a wight. Who knew that an undead reaver like that could do so much damage in such a short time? The Militia lost men, and adventurers lost friends. There was grieving to be done, in this spot they thought safe. Vic wondered if they were the cause. Were they followed? As far as he remembered they closed the hatch behind themselves, but if something was tailing them then it wouldn’t have mattered. The Peacekeeper wandered off, looking for a secluded place to wash himself free of filth and blood. He found an unused maintenance tunnel minutes later and stripped down, taking time to wipe off the grime with baby wipes. Vic moved in a haze, the adrenaline finally tanking. He felt so dull that he didn’t really feel the pain of his missing earlobe as he poured on peroxide and pressed a wad of sterile bandages against it. And, after that, he didn’t really recall much at all. 
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A Servant’s Toil.

Victor’s dreamless sleep was ended with a loud, sharp beep in his ear. His eyes shot open, expecting sunlight but only seeing the half-lit outline of the railway checkpoint. He’d fallen asleep some time ago, and fortunately enough he felt rested enough for a new day. Vic peeled his warm body from the cracked concrete floor, groaning as aching, cramped muscles cried out for relief. The Peacekeeper stretched, long and slow, dragging his knuckles through the tougher knots along his calves. He peered for the source of his wakeup call; it was in his ear, strangely enough, and he doubted he had the sense to set an alarm before he conked out for the night. His head had been resting on his hardshell jacket, so he poked through the pockets. In one he found a watch; who’s it was and what it was doing there were both unanswered questions. As far as Vic remembered he didn’t tuck an apparently broken watch into his coat anytime before he left the states, and certainly not after he arrived in Austria. His nail clicked against the cracked glass, trying to goad the hands to move again, but it didn’t. The beep went unexplained, and as he returned the watch to its resting place another earth-shattering realization was made; the belly of his left arm was unmolested, free of ink. There wasn’t a tattoo in sight, certainly one that didn’t coach him on the wand’s command word he’d been shouting last night. He rubbed his arm, scraped it with his nail, even dragged his knife along it, looking for hints of makeup he might’ve applied during the night he didn’t remember, but alas- there was nothing. Both discoveries were strange in their own right, but fitting for what he was dealing with. Spooky. He’d be sure to perhaps give his future readers an answer if he accomplished his undetermined goals in Austria. He and about a dozen others were probably writing tales recounting their adventures in this brave new world. 

“Yes! And be sure to get the ENTIRE body within the chalk marks, I don’t want to cast it more than once!”

A haughty, nasally voice cut through his monologue. Someone dressed in violet robes stormed past his little hideaway, their hand wrapped around a glowing object. Victor didn’t pursue them, he had other business to attend to. The Peacekeeper examined his gear, noting that the sweet phlegm that had caked into the fabric was gone, rubbed out until there was not a hint of the nastiness left. Body autonomy was surely an interesting mechanic, ‘cause he sure as shit didn’t remember cleaning an inch of his rig. Regardless, he donned fresh clothes but forgoed combat readiness for comfort. And finally, he stepped back out into the open, to join peers. People moved to-and-fro, carrying corpses, carrying gear, and looked generally busy. His gaze swept right, towards the beginning of the checkpoint. Right in front of the gunner’s seat a small group amassed, dropping corpses into a pile. The violet-robed magician strutted towards it, his hands pulling his clothing up so the delicate-looking hem didn’t drag against the floor. That was most certainly an elf, with how sharp the ears were and how young they looked. Victor’s gaze tore away from the scene, turning left. His fellows had gathered in front of an empty stall, out of the way as they awaited… something. Maybe him, to finish his beauty sleep. He let out a breath to steel himself and approached, noting that the Drow- both of them, funny enough- were gone. Midway there another figure approached the group- a man in a long, wool coat. A familiar face, sure, but was it one he wanted to recognize right this moment? No. But, Victor didn’t have a say, as the man was quick to notice his approach.

“Aha. The elusive dream-jumper. Seems you’ve gotten yourself into a bit of a scrap, hm?”

The Brit noted. Like his eyebrows, his hair and beard were both bushy, colored similarly to salt-and-pepper. The Com-bloc larper’s PPSH still rested at his side, and Vic couldn’t help but wonder if it had ever seen use. It did look just a smidge different- the receiver was a bit larger, more… refined. Clearly modified. 

“Yea, well. Honestly I wasn’t expecting to see you or any of your number again. Here to join the war effort?”

Victor inquired, thumbs hooking into his battle belt. Barrick, Teodor, and Isaac looked on, their conversation interrupted. 

“Something of the sort. Now, I do remember implying that I wanted you to wait at the salon so we could venture into this hole together.”

The Brit replied, hands now clasped behind his back. He stood straight, rigid, like a military guard. 

“And instead, I pass by you hauling a nude fellow out of the Shar compound. You disappear for a day, and when I come down here Lilian is immediately in my ear about how she had to save you lot from a wight.”

He went on in a condescending manner. 

“My dearest apologies. Truly sorry, I was unaware you cared for me like your own boy. Do forgive me.”

Victor replied sarcastically, his hand coming to rest over his heart as if he was pledging to Mister Combloc.

“Let me remind you that YOU were the one who appeared and disappeared right in front of me. Those who do that are probably important in some sense- or you would think. And perhaps just a smidge more intelligent than the regular class of mercenaries, but… we can’t have everything in this world, can we?”

The Brit replied with just as much sarcasm. Victor looked for support from Teodor, but he gave him the “he got you there” look. 

“And now we’re here. Alive, and well. I am not important, not in that sense. We all are. You’ll figure it out in due time.”

The Peacekeeper remarked, the words flowing out of him in a choppy manner. Mister Combloc gave him a look that maybe suggested his point didn’t get across, but he’d figure it out later. 

“Right. Well. I’m sure we will receive instructions soon enough from our employer, so I will attend to my own until then. No doubt we’ll find ourselves back on the surface for night work.”

The Brit bid them farewell with a simple two-finger salute, and left without introducing himself. At least they had one name- Lilian, the half-breed. 

“So you pull teleporting acts on a whim?”

Barrick’s gaze swiveled from the retreating back of the PPSH-wielding fellow to Victor, who shrugged.

“Dreams make you do crazy things. Give it time, man, I’m sure your ass’ll end up freezing in a field to chat with some strangers.”

The Peacekeeper replied in a mild-mannered fashion. Teodor snorted, his hand dipping into his rig. He pulled out a carton of cigarettes, Yorks, in their red glory. The top opened with a flip of his hand and the Trekker offered the box around- everyone in their circle took one. The lighter was passed around, and soon enough smoke began to collect along the ceiling. Their smoke-sesh was quiet for a moment as the nicotine worked its effects- some going unfeeling, while others, like Isaac, flapped his cloak as the heat rose to his face.

“Teodor. What the fuck happened last night?”

Victor asked, breaking the silence minutes later. Theo glanced up at him, his eyes saying that he didn’t understand. Not yet, at least.

“Vecna?”

Vic continued. The effect was immediate- Teodor’s gaze hardened and Sir Fystoria shivered.

“A creature. Father of the undead, supposedly. I’ll butcher him, like the others- lich or not.”

Victor’s brows furrowed together as he listened. He glanced at Barrick, who had a similar thinkin’-face. Sir Fystoria jumped in, fortunately enough, and began smoothing the explanation down.

“Arch-Lich. He is an undead of the highest order, but stuck in his own plane of existence. I couldn’t tell you much about it, other than it is a dreadful place. There are rumors of his work South of us, amidst the two vampire clans currently heckling us- Hugue and Marcutle. It is suggested that one of them has direct access to the Lich himself, strangely enough.”

The undead-hunter began amidst coughing from suddenly inhaling the butt of his cigarette. After he coughed it out, he continued with a much more ragged voice.

“He- eugh- is an evil thing, but I thought he had a hard heart for vampires. Apparently not.”

Isaac finished with a sigh. Theo chewed on the butt of his smoke, the filter coming apart beneath his molars. He looked troubled by the name.

“Whoever gives us these dreams- they’re unhinged. Why show me Vecna, a god? Why not show me this Marcutle, or Hugue?”

He murmured, then spat out the filter. The Trekker rolled his shoulders uncomfortably, and sighed too. They stood in silence for some time before a shout from further down the platform called for their attention. The group looked up as one; a very stupid, yet intelligent hydra they were. The man in multicam from the night before, the one who’s innards almost became his outards, stood tall and healthy, mustering the adventurers and some of his guard for a speech. Or perhaps to tell them off for letting so many zombies, ghouls, and ghasts into their hidey-hole. Teodor, Barrick, Isaac, and Victor joined their nameless compatriots and soon enough they were lost in the crowd. Up close, the apparent station lead appeared as if nothing took place last night- no wound, no death, no attack. He looked incredibly healthy, stern, prim, and proper. Assembled around him in a haphazard manner were more men in similar multicam fatigues, some armored, others not-so-much. With their custom patches and weapons, they looked like more formal mercenaries. Perhaps that secretive AM fellow hired and actual defense-corp company?

“Good morning, all of you. We had a rough night last night, but fortunately enough many of you are still here. Others were not so fortunate. But this is war, and as much as I hate to say it, we still have a job to do. And as our checkpoint proved to be less safe than we thought, we are forced to get started sooner rather than later.”

The bald military-man announced. There were murmurs throughout the crowd as translators whispered into various non-human attendees’ ears. 

“Some of you are here on your own volition. You have duties, bounties to attend to, and I will help you pursue them later. Those who received a conscription letter; please make your way into the medical tent, and do not crowd the medical personnel.”

There was a moment of stillness, then about half the crowd began shuffling towards the medical tent. Most were human, though there were a few sharp ears amidst the lot of conscripts. They disappeared into the depths of the medbay, probably to the chagrin of the medics within. The station lead motioned to someone nearby, and a man in flannel and jeans stepped into view, only to follow the crowd into the medbay with a clipboard and a pen. 

“And for the rest of you. There’s work to be done in the form of bounties; monsters to kill, people in need of help, and items of certain importance to uncover. You will all be paid well for your work, I only ask that you direct your lost compatriots to our abode. And, of course, do not overestimate your skill. The Austrian Militia needs as many bodies as it can get.”

The fellow clapped his hands, once, and it echoed through the tunnel. Two of his underlings brought forth a large cork board on wheels, covered in notices and requests. There was a lot of shuffling of feet- many were vying for the first grab at the bounties. Victor didn’t blame them. The tunnel was starting to feel more and more suffocating the longer the minutes dragged on. 

“Do not expect much help from the Austrian Militia unless they specifically request you for a job. You take these missions on with the full intent of completing them yourself. You need help- figure it out. Set up a network between yourselves would be my suggestion, if you can organize yourselves that well. Now, let me get out of your way.”

He finally stepped aside and crossed his arms, signaling to what remained of the crowd that they had full reign to finally get some work done. They all practically lunged forward to get first dibs, but Barrick got lucky enough to find himself in first place. That is, until, one of the camouflaged guards put a hand against his chest.

“Not you. You and your own, step aside. Boss has something else in mind for you.”

The fellow’s piercing eyes slipped from Barrick to Teodor, then to Victor and Sir Fystoria. They had no choice but to step aside, so they did. The quad-shot murmured amongst themselves, angered at yet another diversion that would stop them from getting anything done. Victor hoped it wasn’t due to their arrival and subsequent undead attack, but he figured if the Austrian Militia blamed them then they’d already be slapped in chains and mid-interrogation with everyone none the wiser. “Boss”, as he had been nicknamed, made his way through the crowd until he stood in front of the four of them. The bald man looked them up-and-down, silently judging them. It was an uncomfortable minute before he finally spoke.

“We vetted you. You three, at least.”

He barked, nodding three times to Barrick, Teodor, and Victor.

“You did good work with that flesh hunter, as ah understand it. Opened up a route for trade, made everybody’s travel a bit more safer through that road. We’ve only vetted a handful of others like that, so I’m gonna jump at the chance to use ya’.”

Now that he was up close and personal, Boss’s speech changed. It was more relaxed, and tinged with southern tones. He sounded less like a straight-backed stick-up-the-ass butterbar and more like a mercenary- like a Congo merc. 

“I got a job for ya’. Non-negotiable, but it pays well. You bring along who you like, and you have some support from the Militia itself. My personal folks, specifically.”

His hand waved to his nearby underlings, who observed in a lazy manner.

“Linz needs to be secured. We need a lot, honestly. List of the living, any major groups that had propped themselves up amidst the lawlessness, and of course, eradication of the undead. You’ll be diplomats, cartographers, killers. It’ll take time, dedication. Before I ask if you’re ready- what do you need?”

He looked on, ready to accept damn near anything they said.

“Ammunition. Explosives.”

Teodor replied shortly.

“Essential items- medical, foodstuffs, water.”

Barrick added quickly. Good thing he did, because Victor sure forgot. 

“Got any wands?”

The Peacekeeper inquired. Boss peered between the four of them, disregarded Isaac, and peered between the original trio. 

“I should have everything you need. Including… those wands. I assume you want offensive wands?”

The bald fellow asked. Victor shrugged.

“Anything you can spare.”

He replied. 

“Excellent. I’ll have your requested items added to the pile, then. It’ll take two cars to bring in your supplies, and three more to carry everyone going in. If you don’t want to pull frozen bread out of the trash for the next month, make sure those cars make it to your intended place of rest.”

Boss went on.

“Take some time to get to know your fellows. If you don’t think you’ll like someone, get your info down-for-pat now or it’ll be several weeks of suffering for ya’. You leave in an hour- have fun.”

And with that, Boss bid them farewell with a lazy salute and a tired sigh. He and his five-count of mercenaries disappeared back into the crowd, presumably to head further into the station. 

“So… I presume that’s the end of our work together. I can only wish you best of l-”

Sir Fystoria began, probably heralding a long-winded speech about how he would no doubt see them again, and how when he returned home he’d add them to his family’s history books, but Victor chopped the air to cut him off.

“Nah, you’re with us. Best to have as many friends as possible up there.”

He interrupted. Teodor nodded in agreement.

“Yes. You will be of great use speaking to Othersiders.”

He commented.

“I see. Good! What of your original fourth man, the one you carried in the night prior?”

Sir Fystoria asked in an almost jubilated manner. Hell, Vic’d be excited too if he didn’t have to stay in the dank, gunsmoke-filled tunnels. 

“Recovering quickly. One of the healers worked through the night on him, offering blessings and cures left-and-right. He was hooked up to an IV as soon as I laid him on one of the beds, so I don’t doubt he’ll wake up soon. I don’t think our bard will be in any condition to join us in the near future, though.”

Barrick replied. Teodor waved for the group to start moving towards the stretch of tunnel Boss had disappeared into, and together they began shuffling forward. And, as suggested, they spent the next hour familiarizing themselves with their new compatriots. 

The mercenaries ascended to the surface sometime later, and most if not all were stuffed unceremoniously into a long caravan of vans occasionally punctuated with a supply truck. There were two dozen of them; randoms, nonhumans and humans alike, alongside six more mercenaries hand picked by Boss himself. Victor packed him and his own into his borrowed truck and pulled up last in the line, and minutes later they were moving. The lead vehicle, a large truck fit with a snowplow, led them onto a set of rural roads that turned into dirt trails at random points. Small towns were replaced with deathly still villages from the Otherside- the architecture was not modern, not postmodern, and certainly not brutalist. Rather, those of the Otherside must have been in a Victorian era; the cobblestone streets would’ve been lit with large, robust lamps that lined the road, while the houses were of your standard brick-and-mortar lineup complete with sharp angles and plenty of spikes. It would’ve been a lively place- had it not been abandoned during the onset of the Schism. The caravan passed by several of these villages, and Vic couldn’t help but wonder what sort of treasure troves they were hiding. Soon enough, their target town came into view; Linz, or what was left of it. Once a modern Austrian town, filled with storefronts and a vibrant culture turned into a smattering of castle-like plantations and more brutalist structures of the twenty-first century. Many of these Victorian and modern homes were empty, either emptied by the undead raid parties of the South or abandoned for the safety of mini-communities. The caravan slowed significantly as the lead vehicle carefully navigated through the mess of carriages and cars. Occasionally, there was a rather ear-grating screech as metal met metal, but it didn’t happen enough to piss Victor off. Besides, it was a good way to make their introduction; “we’re the government, or what’s left of it, and we’re here to help!”. 

“All of this noise, I hope no one attempts anything drastic.”

Teodor commented under his breath. He’d taken shotgun, the seat, that is. Wherever his Saiga went was a mystery, and now he held his Jericho in a tight grip. Isaac and Barrick both took the back seats, the middle left open as they left behind one of their members. 

“Scavengers will scavenge, but I doubt we’ll see any large bandit groups that have taken over significant portions of Linz. Maybe a cult is more fitting.”

Barrick the Bastard replied, leaning forward to eye the surrounding windows. There were plenty- almost too many- lining the street, looking down upon them. Isaac joined him in this endeavor, though he was silent. Perhaps he was contending with car sickness.

“Think we’ll take up in one of those plantations? Shit’s certainly easily-defensible.”

Victor asked, making light conversation as their drive slowly continued forward.

“Nearer to the heart of town. It will give us plenty warning if and when the hordes begin amassing.”

Teodor answered immediately. It was a valid strategy- set up cameras along the streets and radios in certain communities, and when a hefty group of undead came through their little socio-stability group could shore up defenses when the horde finally reached them. It came with the negative of using resources to help these communities, and taking in people they shouldn’t, but they were there for urban revitalization after all. 

“What shall we do for our first night? Exhaust the hordes of undead that plague this town?”

Isaac spoke up suddenly, his gaze tearing away from the window to glance between Teodor and Victor.

“Probably not for a hot minute, man. We’ll need uninterrupted time to fortify and prepare, spread, then we’ll go about butchering ‘em. That’s my assumption, anyway.”

Vic replied, eyes flickering to the rearview mirror as he spoke. He was last in line, and fortunately, no one followed him. 

“An astute presumption.”

Teodor commented, slowly nodding in agreement. The caravan treaded forward for several long, dreary minutes before it came to a sudden stop. They went without explanation for a little while longer, then a man in a thick, furred parka jogged up to Vic’s window. He rolled it down as the fellow approached.

“We’re taking over two of these homes- data says they’re empty, owners long gone, but fuck if I know if that’s true. Shit coulda’ been taken over by squatters or monsters. Jus’ follow the car ahead of you, and get to work securing it!”

The fellow in the parka sounded like he was from the US, so the Peacekeeper assumed it was another of Boss’s personal entourage. 

“Got it!”

Victor replied, and his fellow American jogged back up the caravan. The line of SUVs and trucks began moving again, a fair portion of them pulling into the plantation on the left side of the street before everyone else began turning right. Soon enough, Vic was parked and dismounted in somebody’s dead grass alongside several other vehicles. His house of choice loomed over him, filled with arches and spires. Stained glass windows stared down upon him, hiding the innards of the home from his glower. It wasn’t technically a plantation, but… it was walled off, huge, and could fit about five modern vehicles no problem. Close enough. The Peacekeeper ambled towards the wide front porch, taking in the high-backed, upholstered chairs and kicked-in door. Dark fluid stained the mahogany doorway, an old, bloody handprint standing out clearly against the dull red brick in the midday sun. 

“Yea, yea, take the sides. If anything comes running out of the back, detain it.”

A nearby mercenary directed two of his similarly-dressed fellows; more furred parkas alongside tac-rigs and rifles. The only way to differentiate between them was two things; the directing mercenary had a red armband over his left bicep, and a MCX Spear, while the other two were armed with modified M4s. In a less-than-calm scenario, Victor doubted he’d be able to pull them out of a crowd mid firefight. Regardless, the duo split up and walked along the sides of the house, while the fireteam leader strapped on his own rig.

“Looks like the owners got dragged out. That, or old squatters.”

Vic commented as he stepped up beside the fireteam leader. The fellow looked up at him, expression hidden behind a facemask and set of one-way goggles. 

“Bit a’ blood tells long tales, man. Folks’re long gone by now, probably drained of their red stuff.”

He replied, ripping open the velcro straps to his carrier before throwing it over himself and tightening it. He snatched his rifle and flicked the safety off, motioning for the Peacekeeper to follow.

“You, uh, long lost United Nations guy?”

The fireteam leader asked as they hustled over to the front porch. A man in a hooded velvet robe peered into the doorway from the bottom of the steps, then shuffled aside as two sets of boots approached.

“Nah, just like the helmet. Thought it’d be funny for my like-minded mercenaries, until my ass strolled into town alone. I was the only goddamn person on the plane over here, you know that?”

The Peacekeeper replied. The duo mounted the steps and paused in the doorway. Vic peered behind himself, noting that Isaac, Barrick, and Teodor had followed him over, fortunately. 

“Retards thought it’d be like a war edit, where they road on the side of tanks and hip-fired guns into crowds of stupid zombies. I mean- give it time, and sure, blast whatever sigma horseshit you want, but we have a tough winter to get through.”

Team leader replied. He pointed to Barrick and Teodor, motioning them to take point. They hustled up the steps wordlessly, and stepped into the dark, weapon-mounted flashlights sweeping this way and that. Victor licked his dry lips and took up caboose as team leader went in next, and finally stepped in. He breathed in, the rank scent of old food and spilled blood almost overwhelming him. 

“Hold, hold.”

Team leader ordered through a whisper. Everyone came to a sudden stop, shoulders pressed against a nearby wall. Victor took a moment to peer around, taking in the dusty, upholstered couches and hand-carved wooden tables. The common room was assembled around a music player, which had a handaxe sticking out of the middle of it. Gold-framed paintings hung from the gilded walls, also marred with deep cuts. Victor’s observations came to a sudden end when team leader slapped his arm, then tapped Barrick with the side of his suppressor. He jutted a thumb at Teodor, and Barrick got his attention too. Mister multicam tapped his headset, then pointed upwards as he glanced between the three. At once, they turned the volume up on their respective headsets and took a listen. It wasn’t long before Victor heard soft footsteps above him, the person either barefoot or wearing slippers. Or, hell, it could’ve been an elf, they were known for their physical attributes of being graceful. Team leader brought his free hand up, then chopped it forward, motioning for them to move. Teodor took several steps forward, then cautiously peered around the corner of the wall leading upstairs. He observed for a moment, then moved across the opening. Barrick went to move upstairs but the Trekker threw out an arm to stop him, and in the same motion sprayed… something over the stairs. It was definitely an aerosol can, filled with what Victor didn’t know. Whatever it was, it didn’t have the effect Theo was looking for, so he motioned for them to get moving. Barrick carefully made his way up the stairs, team leader close behind and Vic behind him. Teodor took up caboose this time around as they ascended the ornate staircase, lined with more gilding and gold-framed paintings of people Peacekeeper didn’t know nor cared to know. They made it up to the next landing unmolested, forming up around the first closed door they saw- presumably where they heard the footsteps. Someone inside hummed in a carefree manner; a woman, judging by the tone. Team leader draped a hand on the doorknob, giving Teodor a firm nod. He returned it, and mister multicam turned the handle and pushed the heavy door in. The hinges squealed, clearly lacking oil, but it was overtaken by the sudden stomping of boots as the duo breached. With Barrick peering in from the left, Victor switched hands with his Ingram and pressed the wire stock into his left shoulder. Inside was… nothing spectacular. They all had their firearms aimed at a blonde-haired woman in a white summer dress, though it quickly became apparent she was no ordinary woman when she turned to greet the quad-squad. Her face was too angular, her eyes too almond-shaped to be a normal human. Alongside the knife-ears and ageless beauty, they realized before them stood an elf, probably a high elf and clearly purebred. 

“You all look so serious, ill-at-ease.”

She commented, hugging a thick, leatherbound memoir to her chest. Her voice was harmonious, easy to listen to and leaving the listener begging for more. It was like a bubbly stream of clean, cool water; refreshing and innocent. 

“My home is that of comfort, yet you are prepared for war. I hear whispers from passerbyers, but surely it isn’t that bad?”

She stepped forward, examining Teodor closely. Her nose crinkled as she got a whiff of gunpowder and stress-sweat.

“You… don’t belong here. Not on this plane, at least…”

She trailed off, twirling around to pull aside a nearby drape. She looked down upon the road, then further, the surrounding landscape. 

“No… I don’t belong here. My dears… certainly I am in… a dire predicament.”

The elf turned back around, her youthfulness still there, but her eyes seemed to hold an age that couldn’t be hidden away. She was far from innocent, definitely having experienced one horror after another. To live through yet another, in an alien world… well. It would certainly be difficult. 

“Ma’am. Are you okay? Are you ill?”

Team leader inquired, lowering his rifle to low-ready. The other three followed suit. 

“If only it were so easy. Clearly, I am not on my own plane, given your dress and… artifacts. Unless- what is the date?”

The elven woman lowered herself into a nearby wicker chair, curling the blanket draped overtop around her shoulders. Her sentence ended in a hopeful tone.

“Twenty-twenty-one. November third.”

Mister Multicam responded sharply, retaining his professionalism. The woman, in turn, looked crestfallen.

“I recognize the year, but no further identification. But, that is more than enough for an answer. I am in an entirely different world, and, I will assume, due to your dress, that all of our situations are more than dire. I… need a volunteer.”

She trailed off, glancing between the four mercenaries. Victor glanced at Barrick, and they shared a shake. No way were they going to volunteer for an otherworldly being’s experiment, no matter how innocent they looked. 

“For what, exactly, ma’am?”

Team leader inquired. His short-barreled weapon remained at low ready, however his grip had certainly tightened over the course of the conversation.

“To understand. If I am to survive in this new world, I must familiarize myself with it. Volunteering oneself allows me to peer at your more recent memories, which would provide a better explanation than a verbal one.”

The high-elf went on to explain. Mister Multicam looked around for a moment, sharing a look with Teodor; if she does anything that he doesn’t like, put a stop to it. It was a glare that said quite a bit if you were familiar with it. Then he pulled up a nearby tailor’s stool and sat down in front of the woman, weapon resting on his lap. The elven lady placed both of her hands on her lap, palms face-down. When she turned them up to the ceiling, there were three vials of mystery ingredients resting on her dress, having apparently been spawned from the ether. She pulled off each cork individually, slowly. With great care she upturned each vial into one of her palms, murmuring arcane nothings and mixing the plant-like material with her finger. With each word the room seemed to surge with unknown power, drawn from reality itself. Finally, she went to spill the mixed ingredients back into her lap but the mix of lavender and sage seemed to stop mid-fall, hovering without any visible assistance. Victor peered more closely at the scene, but he couldn’t make out the third and final ingredient within the suspended mix- perhaps it was from the Otherside. Regardless, the woman raised both of her hands and began to pluck at the air around the ingredients. Something that reminded Vic of someone playing a guitar began to occur; with each pluck, the tune of the background hum changed in pitch. It happened several more times until he could feel a dull vibration in his chest, and judging by the looks of the other three they felt it too. The elf slowly leaned forward, expelling her from her slightly parted lips. With each puff the suspended ingredients glowed, then drifted forward to settle on fireteam leader’s face. He jerked back, and would’ve fallen, had something not pressed against his back to keep him upright. Whatever it was, it was invisible, but made clear depressions in his parka. With the air between them clear, the magician reached out and planted her fingertips onto his forehead, then gently pulled back. Off-white wisps accompanied her hand, and she formed into a ball with a careful roll between her palms before examining it closely. Her once- gray eyes were covered by a mist that wrapped around the front of her face. In their stead was a set of crackling purple orbs that must have given her the ability to peer into Mister Multicam’s memories. Meanwhile, fireteam leader sat idle, relaxed, and probably under some sort of tranquilizing effects while the magician gathered what information she needed. Victor tore his gaze from the scene and peered down the stairs, where he noticed the hooded fellow looking up from the foyer. His features were hidden behind a dark sheen, seemingly created by the endless folds of his robes. If Victor were to guess, the clothing itself was magical in nature.

“What’s up, pal. How’re we lookin’?”

The Peacekeeper asked, popping a squat on the step nearest to him. 

“All is quiet. For now. I found a basement.”

The fellow replied shortly, peering past Victor to look at Barrick. His gaze soon returned to the former.

“Anything interesting down there?”

Vic inquired politely. The cowled man nodded sharply.

“A collection of magical artifacts, most if not all of great power. Rings, robes, plate armor, chain mail, wands… the list is almost endless. I’m salivating at the thought of getting my hands on something.”

He went on, shaking his hands free of the robes. They were tattooed, much like a familiar figure’s from the night before. Upon closer examination, the tattoos themselves were words of an arcane language, twisting up and down the dips and jumps in the fellow’s thin arms. He pressed his hands together, as if considering taking from the collection. The consideration didn’t last very long when the elven lady appeared beside Victor, resting a hand on his helmet.

“I gleaned what I could from your friend, Victor. I would ask that you and your fellows allow me to continue perusing your memories, and in return… perhaps magical artifacts will act as enough of a payment. And, of course, room and board.”

She explained. How she knew his name he didn’t know; maybe the fireteam leader had been given a list of all the adventurers on this mission?

“By Tyr… Lady Swansong!”

The magician at the foot of the steps exclaimed. The high elf retracted her hand as she was named, looking hard at the fellow.

“It has been centuries since I’ve heard that name, spellsword. I assume you’ve read Nyer’s Chronicles?”

Lady Swansong inquired politely. The magician nodded, enthused to meet one of his heroes. 

“Your battles from the Blackened Fields were extraordinary, my Lady! Such magical prowess… I’m jealous!”

He went on, keeping his excited manner. 

“Let us hope those battles never happen again.”

She replied, cutting through the man’s excited air like a cold blade. The magician faltered for a moment. 

“Right… yes! Of course. Now, er… m’lady, would it be too much to ask to peruse your artifacts downstairs? Purely for… archival purposes, of course.”

The tattooed magician continued. She nodded once, in a firm manner, and he turned to go.

“Do not touch anything in the glass cases!”

Lady Swansong called to his retreating back. 

“Say, uh… Lady Swansong, how did you know my name? Did you see it in the guy’s memories?”

Victor asked as he looked up at the high-elven woman. She peered down at him with an inquisitive eye.

“Your name? No, I don’t believe we have been properly introduced. You know me as Lady Swansong, but I would much prefer Lairun Ashshine. And what of you?”

She questioned with a light smile. 

“Oh… uh, Victor. Vic is fine too.”

The Peacekeeper replied. Lady Ashshine’s brows furrowed in response.

“A second Victor, in these circumstances? Interesting. Perhaps a bit comedic, maybe this world isn’t so large after all?”

She commented, then turned her ethereal gaze to the others, as if waiting for introductions from them.

“Barrick.”

The Bear answered first. 

“Sir Isaac Fystoria, of House Fystoria.”

The noble monster-hunter bowed to Laruin, who dipped her head in turn.

“I know of the Fystorias, if vaguely. Your family hunts all manners of unnatural beasts, and do it well.”

Her gaze turned to Teodor.

“Teodor.”

The Trekker answered in a short fashion. Lady Ashshine’s gaze swept around, taking the mercenaries in at once. 

“Very well. All of you, and your cohorts, are more than welcome here. I’ve got somewhat of an understanding as to what is going on in this area, and suffice to say our situation is almost grim. Fortunately, you all are more than capable of weathering the storm.”

As Lairun spoke she pressed the tips of her fingers together, looking between each of them as if addressing them individually. 

“Now, if you need me, I will be around cleaning my home. There are more than enough rooms to cater to your needs. However… keep your magician on a leash.”

She finished with a bright smile. With one final nod, she descended the stairs- more floated, but regardless, she went to the landing below and presumably began cleaning. Victor shared a look with Barrick. The elf was a strange woman, but… she was ageless, after all. Who knew what she’d seen in her centuries-old life. 

Tug of War.

Four weeks. Four weeks of prepping, building, shaking hands and digging graves. Urban revitalization was going as well as expected. Those who wanted help were willing to help in turn. The few who weren’t… didn’t exactly last with the iron fist of the “Austrian Militia”, or whoever made up their ranks these days. Victor and most of the other mercenaries were left to do physical labor, coordination, defense, and when there was nothing to do, staying out of the way. Negotiations and supply routes were established through the multicam-wearing folks working under the direct shadow of Boss, so Vic never got to see any of the “gone wrong” moments in person. The other Victor, whom the group had taken to calling “Vee”, supplied them with information as long as they provided a form of payment and a promise to not leak what they knew. There was word of a stone fort that had appeared far south of Linz, which certainly wasn’t constructed beforehand. What it did, and who it belonged to was unknown. Runes etched into the thick ramparts suggested dark magic of some capacity, so the natural reaction was to plant an observation post nearby and aim a fair amount of explosives at it. Even further south, the sky was perpetually dark and stormy. The sun didn’t penetrate those oil-black cumulonimbus clouds, and all-in-all it looked off-putting. Vee wasn’t even sure what it was, only that it was perpetually suspended over Croatia. Teodor managed to offer a bit more information; House Marcutle and Hugue were both centered in Croatia, and there were rumors that the creatures of the night roamed endlessly. Perhaps they had something to do with the forever-night. Victor was sure to mark everything he heard in his large, leather bound tome; rumors, sketches, pictures, and cold, hard facts. It’s what he was doing at the moment, sitting on Lady Ashshine’s front porch and smoking a cigarette. Teodor, Barrick, and Isaac were exchanging information with local Otherworlder traders, a set of dwarfs who called themselves the “Borehole Clan”. Creative as it gets.

“Aye! I usually drive my caravan into the heart of town whenever night falls. Even before you lot set up here, those nasty bloodsuckers seemed to avoid this place. Shite, even anything with half a brain seemed to avoid it like the plague! M’own problems came from zombies and the like, but with the Borehole clan they never stood a chance!”

The leader of the dwarven clan waved a hand at his caravan, showing off its might. There were fifteen dwarves that made up the Borehole clan; four drivers for four wagons, two businessmen and moneycounters, and the eight others made up an array of defenders. Some were shieldbearers, others were crossbowmen, and there wasn’t a magician in sight. All of their gear was heavy in some capacity, built for heavy-duty trekking and rough-and-tumble war. It was indeed no surprise they made it this far into the Schism unscathed. 

“How far out has your clan gone? What’s it like outside of Linz?”

Barrick inquired before the leader, Brunter, could go on about his escapades with his crew. Victor assumed his stories were full of adventure, so he wouldn’t have minded hearing them.

“Oh, far out laddie. Far enough to reach that strip of blackened land before the hellspawns’ place of residence. I’ve seen armies of undead, nightmarish creatures brewed up by Lady Hugue’s court, and every village that has outlasted them. There’s life outside these walls, all of whom are more than willing to trade!”

Brunter answered with a wind grin. 

“And, what of…”

Teodor interjected, peering this way and that to make sure there were no outsider listeners. He leaned in, and the dwarf trader copied him.

“What of a certain fort south of us? Large, stone, runes on the ramparts?”

The Trekker inquired carefully. Victor leaned in himself, the tip of his pen tapping the tan paper of his tome. 

“Aye. I’ve seen it meself. It’s forebodin’.”

Brunter replied. He straightened out, then cupped his hands over his mouth.

“Jynvan!”

He bellowed. Some of his fellows looked over at the porch, but someone hopped out of the back of the nearest wagon and sped over to Brunter as fast as her little legs would carry her. The she-dwarf was dressed in studded leather armor and a thick green cloak fitting for a harsh winter. Her face seemed squished together, and her fiery red hair framed the tiny features. 

“Brunter!”

She returned the call in an equally loud fashion once she made her appearance beside her elder, her voice similar in gruffness and depth to her male counterpart. 

“Show these boys what ye’ wrote down from that damnable fort we found. Tell them what ye’ saw.”

Brunter ordered, and Jynvan obliged. From her messenger back she pulled out a small journal and undid the clasps along the sides before flipping through several pages. Eventually she found what she was looking for and turned it around so those amassed on the porch could see. There were sketches of a large fort, made of thick stone and burnt oak. Pitch black obelisks towered over the structure from each corner of it, and if Victor had to guess they weren’t made of any natural material. Jynvan seemed to have emphasized their darkness with a bit of paint. She flipped the page, showing off the runes that had appeared all over the ramparts; they meant nothing to Vic, he didn’t feel a flicker of recognition when he viewed them. Some were simple; an arch with a tilde-esque curve along the top. Others were more complicated, with nonsensical juts and edges lined with crescents and circles. Every rune was colored with a deep red. 

“One week ago we traveled on a road through the area, on our way to a small town. Yesterday, we were forced to make a wide hook as the road was missing, replaced with the structure. That town I just mentioned was empty, the folks livin’ there weren’t even in their hidey-holes. Something took them, something from the fort.”

Jynvan narrated as the crew examined her sketches. Victor took care to mark down everything he could for later study- and by study he meant shoving into Lady Ashshine’s arms and nagging her to see if she could glean any meaning from the runes. 

“Were there any signs of struggle? Blood, anything broken like doors? Perhaps a sword?”

Barrick inquired once Jynvan paused. 

“No, not even a single set a’ bootprints. If this happened over a period of time I’d say they were washed away in the mud, but this happened within a day.”