---

Bella didn't much enjoy being silenced, especially when the person had the audacity of a mediocre white man who expected those in his presence just to believe what he says without question. But she was thankful she did, if for no other reason than it confirmed her fears.

She was going crazy.

She had to be imagining all of this. The stress and trauma finally got to her. She wasn't really here. She was having some intense hallucinations and would wake up either in her bed or in some padded room. Clearly, magic wasn't real. Who the fuck would believe it was.

So she closed her eyes and willed herself back. She opened them to the same room, with the same strangers arguing back and forth. Some confirming they believed the old man and others continuing to fight back.

So she closed her eyes again and opened them. Same room, same people.

Fuck.

The Archivist, or whatever the fuck he called himself, pinpointed something though. Something she didn't necessarily want to admit, but she had questions. She saw something. A dream, but awake for it. Could it be...?

"You mentioned clairvoyance..."

Was she really about to do this? Go along with whatever the hell was going on?

"I have been having similar visions. Some of things that haven't happened and some of things that did. What does that mean for me? For us?" She was more so concerned for herself if it was, as he so eloquently put it, an unfortunate gift.

So not only was she gifted with this ability that caused her no end of grief and trauma, but she was being hunted. Hell, she was used to that, at least.

"I agree though. I don't know anyone here, really. Let alone trust anyone. For all I know you led us here with the sole intention of having these...witch hunters come find us and wipe us all out. Hell, I'm used to being hunted down. What's a few more people added to that list?"

---

Great, so Witch Hunters were part of the equation now?

Bea scowled, dropping their nearly burnt out cigarette on the ground and stepping on it much like Mathias had.

This whole group was strange. People she knew, sure, but did she want to be around them? Probably not. Pom kept looking at her like she’d stolen the elf’s whole weed supply. The girl with bright coloured hair- Bella-something?- was about to walk out. There was a possible halfling stinking off the fucking lake, a smell Bea had to deal with near daily at work… The purple eyed creep was floating above them all.

And of course the town’s finest- Kenny Burton- was there! Already preparing to beat up whoever looked at him wrong.

Bea’s head turned towards her fellow smoker as his claws and fangs really came out. There wasn’t much shock or fear there. Maybe it would save the hassle of dealing with Witch Hunters if he went postal and took them all out… Then again, there were people in here who didn’t deserve that.

I’m turning into a monstterrrrr! The shadows giggled around her feet. There were hints of manifestation, the cigarette ashes on the ground being flung up and around.

”Big fucking assumption about us all being spell-slingers, Mr Big Bad Wolf,” Bea rolled her eyes at Mathias as he seemed to come out of his murderous freakout to a much more depressed one. Just in case, she started to move away from him and back towards Rowan.

”He is right. I also have work tomorrow… Bet nearly everyone does. We barely know each other- even if we’re from this deadend town- and you used to kill people like us. I definitely don’t trust you.” Her words were both scathing and frustrated. Because she was stuck with a magic that had shadows haunting her. She had no control over it… But what could he teach her? He saw the future, big deal. That didn’t make him a magical genius.

But that thought, and Emmy’s questions, did bring up a thought… ”How do they find us in the first place? You used magic, they use- what, rumours? It can’t just be that.”

Rowan had her hand in her coat pocket, thumb rifling idly through the pages of her notebook. When she reached the end, she would go right back to the start in some off-kilter rhythm. Her eyes began to glaze, her sight drifting to a place none could follow.

The Archivist’s proposal was clear and left little room for interpretation: it was war. In a world of emerging power and knowledge, some seek to kill the practitioners, burn the books, and reinforce stagnancy. Perhaps it is old world elites seeking to maintain their hegemony, or a simple fear of the unknown. Regardless, war was being brought to them, and they needed to be prepared. She hated it.

Her first thought was to hide. That would be easy enough. The witch hunters had a target on Lena’s back first because of her fiery incident at the comedy club. It meant their primary form of tracking was watching out for incidents and following a trail from there. Rowan had the luxury of a more ‘under the radar’ ability. If she were clever, she could tuck herself away, and the witch hunters wouldn’t be an issue for her. It beat having to be a soldier, risking her life and even considering the thought that she would have to kill another person for her own survival

If she went with that approach, doubtless Lena would be caught sooner or later. The man floating above them, while magnificence in suspension, was nothing but a shining beacon to danger. And who else?...

Bea’s eyes narrowed behind the shades, head tilting towards Rowan as she came to properly stand beside her taller friend. Her voice lowered to a muttered whisper. ”I’m starting to wish it was a murder cult.”

Rowan stopped thumbing her notebook. Snapped back to Earth. She turned to face her friend; her eyes were wider if only for a moment. A panic? Fear? Shit. Hiding was off the table.

”I wouldn’t count your chickens before they hatch.” She replied with a somewhat ominous tone. Instead of maintaining eye contact, her sight flicked between Lena, Matthias, and Mason. Did they even have a choice if they took lives or not? Never mind those who wanted to.

Bea raised an eyebrow, turning slightly to properly look up at Rowan. Even though they’d only become friends again recently, it was still easy for Bea to read her. She hadn’t changed in that way- still timid, even quieter when processing things. Someone who tended towards hiding rather than fighting… and years ago Bea had always wanted to give her someone to hide behind.

There was a spark of that old feeling now fighting against the all consuming apathy.

”Don’t worry, I’m already thinking of all the worst scenarios,” Bea intoned, not particularly comforting. But their attention turned from staring at Rowan back to the Archivist. They spoke agian, to the room this time. ”None of us wanted this magic. Is there any way for us to get rid of it, instead of fighting or dying?”

---

---

Pom’s sunglasses did little to hide the deer-in-headlights look of pure terror on her face as Officer Burton and his ugly, wispy dwarven deputy joined them in the parlor. This whole thing had been a setup! Habitually, Pom began to raise her other hand to join its partner over her head as she grumbled under her breath that this shakedown was bullshit and she wanted to see the warrant Kenny had to even grant him permission to enter the mansion. A muffled “I know my rights…” was cut off by an audible “Ope!” as the pie box began to slip out of Pom’s left hand. She barely caught it against her knee, wincing as the already battered contents all shifted to one side.

Her sunglasses were barely hanging on to the tip of her nose as she straightened back up, the chromatic assault of light doing nothing to hide the dirty look she fired directly at Kenny. Officer Burton was a crony of the Man. He was the kind of cop who’d threaten to hit her with an intent to distribute because he ran into her at the grocery store in the aisle where they sell ziploc sandwich bags. Just because he was a good tipper whenever he dined in at Norm’s didn’t make up for how much money he was personally responsible for Pom losing or for how many half-smoked joints he’d crushed under his dirty boots.

She hated having to pretend to be nice to him when Shelly made her wait his table. Being able to fully sneer at Kenny was much more satisfying than muttering cannibal when she was out of earshot after dropping off a plate of bacon for him. Her glare shifted to the slurring, perverse dwarf who accompanied Kenny. Pom imagined he got that nasty looking mark on his mouth for running it too much. She didn’t condone violence, but it served that racist rockeater right. She blinked rapidly as Kenny swatted at his “deputy” and his hand went clean through the dwarf, who seemed unphased as the smack phased through him. Pom gawked around the room to see if anybody else had just seen that shit.

However, there would be no immediate confirmation as the Archivist took command of the room. He spoke of impossibilities–secret cabals that shaped history by eradicating magic–so naturally Pom believed him immediately. It had never felt so good to learn that she was being persecuted. Everything the Archivist said completely checked out. Pom chuckled a little to herself and shook her head in amusement. Well, it was no wonder she never found any concrete proof of Nessie immigrating to Lake Ontario or that it was Bigfoot and not the raccoons that left her trash cans knocked over. Simply, they must’ve been magical creatures locked away by the Man. The only thing the Archivist had forgotten about were the liches.

The joy of being right all along was cut short as the Archivist presented them with what the future intelled if they wanted to survive. She had always considered herself a pacifist. The idea that she had to not only fight to survive but maybe even kill filled Pom with dread, a dread that brought forth the shadowy image of a figure slumped over in a recliner and knotted her stomach. She nudged her sunglasses up with the backside of her dirty hand, worried that otherwise the look of guilt might be taken as a confession by the narc in the room. There was absolutely no proof.

It didn’t matter anyway. Like the Archivist said, she wanted to survive. Pom tilted her head. Did she? It felt more like an obligation than an actual desire sometimes. Had to maybe more than wanted to. Her nose wrinkled at the that awful and nostalgic musty smell of lake water and she sniffled yet again, mistaking the scent for a phantom remembrance before realizing the odor was actually just wafting off of the apple of the ghost dwarf’s eye. Pom resisted the urge to scoop Cailean up in a big hug (if only because she didn’t want to pie them) as they came to the rescue with a packet of wet naps. Wiping the sticky sweet cherry from her fingers was such a relief that all depressing thoughts of existential dread were immediately wiped from Pom’s mind as she gave Cailean a big smile.

“Thanks, man. You’re a real lifesaver between this and the backup pie. I owe you, like, a billion,” said Pom with a friendly familiarity. She palmed the dirty towel for now, hiding it beneath the battered pie box. “ Hey but this is all totally radical isn’t it? I mean, it’s just great! Not...not the witch hunter stuff. That’s, um, that’s all kinds of…” Pom grimaced. “Yikes.”

Pom immediately felt like she was bombing this. She shuffled and slightly turned her shoulder from Cailean, clearly a bit uncomfortable. Bringing up people wanting to murder them was an immediate conversation killer, and it didn’t help that Pom had to smell that goddamn lake. Her throat tightened as she tried to save this first impression, worried that failing to do so might make Cailean retract Pom’s “sound” status and instead leave her labeled as a geek or a square.

“I guess, y'know, what I’m trying to say is, it’s just nice knowing that I saw what I saw,” mumbled Pom awkwardly. She shook her head. “Nevermind. Thanks though.” She shook the pie box. “Can’t believe they didn’t give me any napkins with this thing.”

Pom eased up a little, shifting back towards Cailean. She struggled with speaking to strangers in general, and doubly so if they were young people, but Pom was certain if she could navigate things into her wheelhouse then she could avoid her usual awkwardness. They already had a pie connection, so she veered towards that. Worst case scenario, she could at least wisen up young Cailean about cherry superiority. Just as Pom was about to present the most interesting pie discourse possible, she overheard Bea.

”None of us wanted this magic. Is there any way for us to get rid of it, instead of fighting or dying?”

A sudden fear seized Pom, knowing now that the coolest cat amongst them had spoken that the others would soon fall in line and harmonize with her opinion. Normally, Pom’s instincts would tell her to do the same so that everyone would know that she was hip, but she couldn’t. She absolutely couldn’t. She had already lost him once. She was going to lose Bo again.

“N-No!” shouted Pom, pushing past Cailean. She nervously glanced towards Bea and mouthed ‘sorry’ as she turned to the Archivist. “I want to keep it. I’m not gonna fight nobody and I’m not gonna hurt nobody, but I want to learn. Maybe I'm not the quickest, but I can learn things. Like how his can talk!”

Pom pointed a finger directly at Kenny. For once, it wasn’t her middle finger nor was it behind his back. Actually, she was pointing at the ghostly dwarf besides Kenny, but as far as she knew only Officer Burton and Ivar would realize it.

“How do I make mine talk?” asked Pom, uncertain if the Archivist would answer her without first pledging herself to his stupid, likely jealousy-fueled crusade. A hint of anger bubbled up in her voice as she turned to Kenny and seeked her answers straight from the source. “How in the fuck didja make it talk, man?”

---

It didn't seem right to introduce himself. Those who recognised him probably had their minds set already, like Mrs 'I know my rights!' or the girl who'd given him the stink eye a few weeks ago, just because he'd not gently caressed some piss-ass drunk causing a scene on Coney Island. The rest... what did it matter? Kenny listened with a wary expression, the chatter snuffed out by the silver-bearded elf that had invited them here.

It was a lot to take in.

Magic... a week ago, he wouldn't have believed it. Hell, he barely believed half the stories they used to tell. There were explanations, surely. The lost kingdoms, fallen empires, there were plenty of documenatries he'd fallen asleep to in a self-induced stupour, the TV left tuned to the History Channel. But how else did he explain the dwarf, and the other specific detail that the elf had called out?

Or the other weird shit going on in the room.

He almost wished this was just a really bad dream, but for whatever reason, perhaps the evidence that seemed to be literally flying in his face in some instances, Kenny kept his feet firmly planted on the carpet.

Witch Hunters.

Like the old fairy tales? The same sort of crazy shit tweakers would spout about after a trip gone bad. And the phrasing there... Root and stem? Didn't take a genius to figue out what that meant.

“I was born to carry on that mission and I did until I was ousted by their leader three months ago."@NoriWasHere

He got the impression he was dealing with someone who was almost definitely an accessory to, if not outright committing homicide. Murder. The word was branded against the back of his consciousness, uncomfortably so. And who did that extend to? Just random people that happened to show up in a family tree? Someone that looked wrong?

Perhaps, more concerning was how comfortable the old elf was with it all. There was no guilt, shame or any sense of contrition.

So, why the change of heart? If the old man had been raised into this death cult, bought into the kool-aid and then some, surely it wasn't just self-preservation that drove him here, the way he acted so dismisive towards his old acquaintances-

".. and supposed tech geniuses who are drugged out of their minds every single day speaking as if his word is gospel. What they had was money, and they leveraged it to remove me. "@NoriWasHere

-and there it was.

Someone was definitely bitter about that particular fact. Kenny was willing to bet a week's bar tab that the elf had specific names in mind when it came to grudges. Maybe he and the fucking dwarf can start a book on that.

A few of the others beat him to asking the questions that sprang to mind, which at least spared him from making it obvious. But the other thing that came to mind, as more answers spilled out...

Clairvoyant. He saw everything. Everything.

The thought alone was enough to make his stomach lurch forward and bring about another mouthful of last night's bile.

If the man wasn't full of shit.... another loose end, just fucking great. Unlike the last one, this wasn't something he could sweep away. But then agian.... they seemed to have a common interest here. All of them. Mutually asured survival.

If it was true... how were these witch hunters actually going to pull this off? Some of them, sure. Nobody was going to question if Pom Evergreen lit up a joint and managed to set her mattress on fire while she was riding the unicorn, but what about someone with a public face?

Someone like him. He was a cop. Not the finest, but... still a cop. Even the notion of attacking law enforcement was likely to bring the big, swinging dick of the law like a helicopter down on whoever had such a stupid idea.

Because a secret society is really going to pull a drive-by on the station, and not something where you're out on your ass in the middle of nowhere with people you don't know a thing about. Real fucking clever, Ken.

Subtly, Kenny's hand brushed over his waistline, as though he were feeling for the outline of his sidearm beneath the waistline. Feeling exposed, it was the closest he had to a comfort blanket, but it would probably mean screw-all if it came down to brass tacks, as the saying went.

The truth was, he'd discharged his sidearm a handful of times on the job, a few more in anger, and never really acquitted himself well in either instance. He'd done far more damage with his hands, a few times with a car, and sometimes with a flashlight, although his Uncle Mitch used to boast the new maglites didn't pack the same punch they did back in his day.

Whatever the case, he was no Ralph Friedman. He'd done his time as a city cop, washed out, settled for this. The only reason he'd got the job here was because of good old Uncle Mitch.

At least he got to keep the house, in the end.... not that it mattered, if the cult were coming for them all. All that time, work and money up in smoke.

Ivar, for his part, cackled with a near-spiteful amusement at the news, 'Yer' hear that? Sounds like you and the rest of these teat-sucklers will be breathing less 'n me before long.' He flashed a hideous grin at Cailean, 'Before it comes, see if you can steer that one my way, just for a taste.'

A thought Kenny didn't want to imagine, for his and the halfling's sake. Luckily for them....

”You were either real good at what you did, and something fucked up happened, or you weren’t and these guys aren’t that scary. And why didn’t you just shoot yourself when you suddenly became part of the problem?”
@Blizz

The teenager was to the point, and even Kenny couldn't help but stifle an amused snort of air. He vaguely recognised the kid... Max, Mason, Matteo? Something beginning with an M.] He'd pulled him over once or twice when he was out on a bike, something about missing a stop sign here, or stupidly cutting through traffic there, though the kid swore it wasn't him. Ken remembered telling him to cut that shit out and get out of his sight.... maybe once or twice he'd been in a bad mood, or had one of his migraines come on.

Probably doesn't even remember me.

Ivar, for his part, had taken notice of the boy. 'That's the fighting talk that, boy probably has some grit under his foreskin somewhere up the family runes.'

-and that was another one for the mental picturebook that he hadn't asked for.

If Kenny was going to learn anything from this old bastard, he hoped it would be how to put a gag on the dwarf's fissured mouth, if not outright ditching the miserable asshole. At least he was in good spirits, pun intended.

Or at least, was-

“I want to keep it. I’m not gonna fight nobody and I’m not gonna hurt nobody, but I want to learn. Maybe I'm not the quickest, but I can learn things. Like how his can talk!”@Atrophy

Ivar's attention had been diverted towards the town's resident greengrocer, the perpetually sneering revenant thumbing back in her direction with his particularly colourful dialect that seemed to blend the best of Dwarven Vernacular.

'Who does the slattern think she's pointin' at?'

Oh, fuck me.

Because Pom just had to be the only other person in the room who could see his second shadow,

'Ye' wanting to cop a backhander?!' The dwarf indignantly growled, taking a few steps towards the not-so-wisened she-elf. 'I'm the fuckin' Barber and not nobody's ye' leaf-lovin cun-'

Ken broke Ivar's train of thought by swatting a hand through his incorporeal form, like he was wafting away a bad smell. It didn't fully smother the dwarf's ranting, but Kenny's own voice did the rest as he talked over the spirit's impotent rage.

"He's dead, I'm stuck with him, you don't have to deal with him all the time." Kenny's voice was a resigned acceptance that the moment of respite was over, "So for once... exercise your right to shut up, he's already trashed my place."

The others were probably looking at him as though he had two heads. A green irridescence briefly flickered behind Kenny's gaze; although it wasn't something he was conscious of.

'.. can't take a fucken' shite without scuffin' up some longlugs...' Ivar grumbled, instead sauntering off across the room, the rest of the group oblivious to his existence. Cailean might have briefly felt a whisp of something cold brush across their backside as the dwarf made an exaggerated groping gesture, before silently stomping towards a bookshelf across the room and haphazardly pulling the closest article to hand out of place, hitting the ground with a startling thud.

Kenny dragged a palm over his weary, hungover features, "Really?"

He glanced at Pom, his expression saying it best.

See what I'm putting up with?

---

---

---

---

---

---

“Your visa,” the Archivist interrupted, his voice a whip-crack, “is meaningless. Will your papers save you when the Hunters catch your scent? If it is any consolation,” The Archivist paused as he pulled out his phone and sent a quick text, “you will work for me now. All of you if you’re so concerned about money. My assistant will meet us tomorrow at noon. Your visa situation should be the least of your concerns. Congratulations.”

“Just like that,” Lena raised an eyebrow.

“Just like that,” The Archivist responded as he put the phone back in his pocket, “I am what your shorter-lived species calls ‘old-money’. You will be taken care of. Unless you prefer to simply pull yourselves up by your bootstraps.”

Lena paused as she considered her next words. On one hand, the prospect of not having to work was enticing, but she knew that the comedy club would still call her name. “You better have benefits.”

“I promise you,” The Archivist paused as he lifted his top lip, pointed to his teeth, and looked towards Mathias, “your canines will never look better.”

"How do we learn to control it? How do we keep them from finding us?"

The archivist lowered his lip as he turned to her slowly. He thought for a moment before he sighed. “Right now, you all leave trails like a wounded animal. Your magic begs to be found. You will learn control,” he paused as he used his free hand to reach into his pocket and pull out a compass. The group would see that it was a palm-sized brass compass with a cracked ivory face. The needle is a dull grey and silver, forged from cold iron and tipped with a sliver of silver. And the outer rim is etched with runes. “This is a Witchfinders Dial, something that has been passed down since the inception of our order.” The Archivist moved it from side to side, yet the dial remained fixated on the center of the group. “It tracks latent magic, and it will find you. Once I am finished, however, you will be able to cover your tracks. We’re lucky that the new generation of our enemies have forsaken the old ways, but that will not lead.”

“How does it work?” Jackson asked as he placed a hand on his chin. While his mind was not as well suited for the magical world, a device like that seemed strangely practical. Mundane. It made sense to Jackson that a device made by people who hunted mages would not be magic.

“If you want to know, there are books in my study,” The Archivist responded as he closed the compass and put it back into his pocket. “If you wanted to be any use to our cause, you would learn how the Witch Hunters operate. How they work.” He paused, his gaze sharpening to a blade’s edge. “Or do you require me to draw you a picture book? I can even let you color it in.”

Lena shifted in place as she looked over the device. She was not a smart woman and her thoughts were more gushing wind than constructive as she thought about how it worked.

”You were either real good at what you did, and something fucked up happened, or you weren’t and these guys aren’t that scary. And why didn’t you just shoot yourself when you suddenly became part of the problem? I don’t care that much, as long as I get answers. I’ve heard enough stories about monsters that used to exist that I believe you, but the first thing I’m doing before I do your wizard shit of figuring out how to get this destruction shit I’m doing under control. You got any future vision shit for that?”

The Archivist’s lips twitched, then split into a laugh as cold and sharp as a scalpel. “Oh, are you daft? Does a bodybuilder naturally possess control over their muscles or do they have to work at it?” A ping pulled the Archivist's attention away from the group. He pulled out his phone, and his expression soured at what he saw. On his screen was a direct message from E. Longtusk, and the message contained a link to a video conferencing service.

"What kinda shit do you see in the future for us? Like, do y’see us as trained mages?"

Pacing the phone back in his pocket, he looked towards the lake spirit and sighed. He wondered if he should let them know that something was happening, or if he should answer more questions first. Maybe a demonstration was in order? "Training is merely a fork in the path, and a trained mage is but one possible destination. The far future is ever changing." The Archivist’s fingertips traced through the air, and a yellowed spider web cracked and spread from where he touched. As it spread, the Arcivist's eyes began to glow the same golden color. As the spiderweb spread, the Archivist moved to specific parts of it as if he was reading from a scroll. After a few moments, the cracks dissipated, and his eyes returned to normal. "Some of you may carve runes into their body to control their power, only to become prisoners of their magic. Others yet let their power run wild, but become consumed by the backlash until nothing but husks remain. I can’t answer your question. You will answer that yourself. Do you want to be a trained mage? Or do you want to die?”

"I have been having similar visions. Some of things that haven't happened and some of things that did. What does that mean for me? For us?"

Ah yes. The other gifted with foresight. The Archivist knew that her power was much more random than his own, this much the future told him. Yet he had the feeling that she would have a much more clear picture when the time comes. “For you, it means the same as the rest. We need to train you further. Induce more visions. Record everything we see in great detail, and induce further visions. I have just the drugs to do this.”

"I agree though. I don't know anyone here, really. Let alone trust anyone. For all I know you led us here with the sole intention of having these...witch hunters come find us and wipe us all out. Hell, I'm used to being hunted down. What's a few more people added to that list?"

His cane struck the floor. “You’ve been chased by strays all your life. The wolves are coming. They will peel you apart to see what makes you bleed. Still eager to play martyr? I suggest you get to know each other well, and quickly.”

”None of us wanted this magic. Is there any way for us to get rid of it, instead of fighting or dying?”

The Archivist leaned forward. “I have tried. I have countless tomes, scrolls, and other manuals that documented my ancestors' attempts to do the very same. Sadly, you are a mage and a mage you always shall be.”

Lena snorted. “I get it. You’re lonely in your old age and you want us to keep you-“

“Your comedy,”he cut in, “is as tiresome as your recklessness. The fire won’t laugh when it devours you.”

Jackson stepped forward, his voice steady. “What do you want us to do first?”

The Archivist sighed. The low intelligence and selfishness of these people made him tired. “Let me show you my study. If you would rather die out there then so be it, but make that decision with all the facts. I promise you will not die by my hands, and I promise that the future has a place for you.”

“Fuck it,” Lena sighed, “I have nothing better to do.”

---

---

The Archivist’s study was a cathedral of shadows, its vaulted ceiling lost to darkness. Dust motes drifted through slants of pale light from heavy velvet curtains, settling on the spines of ancient books and the cold steel of relics that lined the walls. The room was rather large, and it too was filled with trinkets and other busts. Bookcases spanned the two side walls, meanwhile the wall that lined up to the doorway was surprisingly empty. The Archivist stood at the head of a scarred oak desk, his silver cane planted like a flag. He did not sit. He did not blink. His gaze swept over them, sharp and unyielding, as if dissecting their worth. Behind the desk was a tall and wide painting that showed two elderly elven figures and three children. Each was dressed in garments befitting royalty. Lena leaned against a bookshelf, arms crossed, her fingers idly tracing the edge of Burnie’s flickering form as he floated in front of her while her eyes scanned the painting. Jackson stood beside her, his posture rigid, the faint scent of water clinging to his sleeves.

The Archivist grabbed a see-through tablet from the desk and pressed several buttons quickly. A soft creaking noise filled the air as a paper-thin screen rose from the floor on the front wall, and after a few seconds, it finished rising. The screen flickered to life. The group would watch as the Archivist pulled up a program, and a video began to play.

---

The forest swallowed sound. Pine needles muffled the crunch of boots, and twilight dyed the world in grays. A team moved in practiced silence, four shadows in tactical gear, rifles slung low. Their leader, nicknamed Vault, raised a gloved fist. He was taller than the rest by a good foot and a half, and his eyes betrayed his excitement. Ahead, the cabin sagged beneath a shroud of ivy, its roof not maintained.

Vault pulled up a tablet, and every heat signature was visible on it. “Perimeter clear,” Vault muttered into his comm, though the words felt hollow. No birds sang here. No insects hummed. Even the rain had stopped, as if the clouds feared what lay beneath the trees. Vault knew this was a dark place where God demanded destruction.

Reaper, gaunt beneath his gear, grinned as he loaded a grenade launcher underneath his gun barrel. “Burn protocol?”

“Burn it,” Vault said.

The first incinerator round tore through the cabin’s rotting wall. Flames erupted as it exploded, greasy and too-orange, devouring wood and cobwebs alike with reckless abandon. Hush, their tech specialist, activated an electromagnetic damper that was attached to the front of her vest. It was a black box that hissed static. Nothing happened. No shimmer in the air, no wail of disrupted energy. Just fire. She knew that there was no magical attack coming their way. The scientist assured them that this would protect them.

“Level it,” Vault ordered.

Automatic gunfire followed, muzzle flashes strobing the dusk. Bullets punched through walls already crumbling under the flames. Splinters flew. The porch collapsed inward with a groan.

“Thermal’s dead,” Hush said, staring at her scanner. Her silver hair glinted in the dying firelight. She was shorter than the rest, a bit pudgy and it looked like her tactical outfit was sized a hair small. “No traces of anyone inside.”

“Extinguish it,” Vault ordered.

Hush pressed a button on her wrist, and the whizzing sound of several drones spinning up filled the air. A moment later, they surrounded the cabin and began spraying it down with flame retardants until the flames died out with a whimper. The group all approached the cabin with weapons raised until they were close. Eventually, Vault lowered his gun, and the rest soon followed.

Wraith, the rookie, hovered near the threshold. He was slender, and a sober silver cross was very present on the outside of his vest. Their rifle trembled slightly. “Maybe we got the wrong—”

“It’s not wrong,” Vault snapped. He kicked a smoldering beam aside. The floorboards beneath were scorched black, save for a few surviving DoorDashed food containers. “She was here.”

Reaper, dressed in a ghillie suit designed for another location and climate, nudged a collapsed bookshelf with his boot. A yearbook from a middle school in the area fell out. No spell books. No bones. “Place is a tomb. No one’s lived here for decades.”

“Look.” Wraith pointed. Above them, a rafter had survived the fire. A length of rusted chain dangled from it, swaying in the heat-rippled air. It held various hooks and bobbers.

Hush tilted her head. “Traps?”

“Fisherman’s tackle,” Reaper snorted. “Old junk.”

Vault rose, jaw tight. He knew he’d feel something magical in this place. The algorithm told them that this is where their target, Lena, would be. He knew there had to be a magical sign. But here, there was nothing. No prickling. No hum. Just a hollow, yawning silence.

Wraith crouched by the wall, peeling back a strip of wallpaper. Beneath it, something gleamed. “Sir?”

They all turned. The wallpaper peeled away in a long strip, revealing a symbol spray-painted on the plaster beneath: an inverted cross, crude and flaking. By its appearance, it was at least ten years old.

Reaper laughed, high and sharp. “Edgy teenager shit. This is a waste of—”

“Quiet.” Vault pressed a hand to the symbol. The plaster was cold. No hum of old malice, no whisper of devotion. Just paint. “Check the crawl space.”

Hush pried up a floorboard. Dust billowed. Wraith aimed a flashlight into the void.

Empty.

No bones. No jars of teeth or hair. Not even a rat’s nest. Only a single, cracked mason jar.

“They knew we were coming,” Vault said softly.

Reaper spat. “Or they’re dead. Or they never existed. I mean, magic? I thought that was a joke to get us to sign up for this ‘secret society’. My dad told me that it was just smoke and mirrors..”

The dampener in Hush’s hands suddenly shrieked—a feedback whine that made them all flinch. Her screen flickered: *ERROR. MAGIC NOT FOUND.*

“We’re done here,” Vault said.

They retreated into the trees. Behind them, the cabin’s walls collapsed, sending up a spiral of embers. No one mentioned the way the forest seemed denser now, the path back to the trucks somehow longer, and thoughts darker. No one mentioned the wet, dragging sound that followed them for twenty paces before fading, like a branch caught on a boot.

As they reached the truck, Vault engaged his communication system. “Target was not there, please advise.”

“Yeah… yeah I, um, yeah I saw that,” the muttering voice on the other end of the line responding, “hold steady for a second while we, uh, run some tests on the algorithm. We’ll find her tonight.”

“Any backup plan in case the algorithm is unresponsive?” Vault asked.

“I’ve called in those elven brothers, you know the old fucks we kicked out,” the voice responded.

- -

“Fuck,” The Archivist said dryly.

The screen flickered. The footage showed men in tactical gear firing into her cabin. Lena’s knuckles whitened as she ground her teeth.

“Fuck,” Jackson said in a shocked tone as he looked towards Lena, and then back to the Archivist.

The screen showed more of the destruction, from several angles, and it seemed like the white of Lena’s eyes darkened.

“Fuck.” Lena shook as the fuckers kicked open the door and stormed her last vestige of her parents. Those fuckers had just destroyed her safe space. On the screen, she watched them search high and low to find any trace of magic, and she watched them grow angry when there was none. She felt a heat wash over her, and she bit her tongue to prevent that heat from billowing out. The memories of her playing on that living room, cooking s'mores on the fire outside, and the stupid graffiti she did all flooded her mind. As they did, they stoked the fire that was burning inside her, and as they did, so too did Bernie respond. He grew larger, his movements more erratic, and it seemed as if something was wanting to come out of the sentient fireball. Lena’s body began to subtly change. The keen eye would notice her skin shifting in tone from a more blue undertone to purple.

“They’re idiots,” The Archivist gasped.

The gasp broke Lena from her anger for a brief moment. “What the fuck do you mean? They seemed pretty good at destroying my fucking cabin.”

“They have no artifacts, no proper armor,” The Archivist chuckled, “they’re no true witch hunters, they’re cosplayers. Larpers. Trusting technology to do the work and leaving themselves exposed to your magic.”

“So,” Jackson interrupted as he moved closer to Lena, looking over her rage-filled face with concern, “can we defend ourselves?”

“Against these idiots,” The Archivist scoffed, “even a blind destitute would have a chance.” He paused as his phone began to ring. He pulled it out and saw that E. Longtusk was calling now. “But you’ll have no chance against the brothers. The one is across the world at a Tibetan monastery and has been for several weeks, trying to find peace with himself or some bullshit like that. It’ll take them at least a week to figure out where he is, and another to get to him, and then a few days to convince him to fight again. The other,” he paused as he leaned back on the desk and smirked, “is willing to teach you how to handle your magic and fight back.”

Lena’s eyes locked onto the Archivist.

“Introductions are finally in order. I am Sir Percival Ravensmere,” he paused as he let the name hang in the air. The name would be easily recognizable to those who knew of Elven history. One of the oldest and strongest of the Elven noble bloodlines, the Ravensmere name carried with it an aura of significance to those who knew it.

“And you are fortunate I am here to help.”

---

Okay, the old man had a point about it being a skill. Even if he didn’t say anything about the rest, not that Mason was surprised. The more he listened, the more his mood soured. He was starting to come up with a bigger picture for how this all worked. If they were magically stinking up the place everywhere they went, and they could be tracked, then how long did that linger? Was it like energy where it disappeared after a while? Or did it settle into things and leave a mark? Was he okay to go home, or did that metaphorical ship sail last week?

Shit, what about mom?

”Yeah.” That was his one response to any of this shit. Life wasn’t fair, and it just got a lot less fair. He followed the rest of them to whatever the hell the old elf wanted to show them. Mason was feeling very curious about all of this, suddenly. And not just in the way everyone else was. Magic was fucking real, and he could do it. He got a pretty damn shitty kind of it, but what if he could learn another? Or undo whatever shit was causing him to delete things from reality?

It wound something up in his brain. That something started spinning.

---

”Fuck,” Mason echoed. On the Archivist’s screen, it showed what looked like some goddamn SWAT team leveling a shack. And it was barely even that, it looked so decrepit that it was a wonder these so called “Witch Hunters” didn’t just turn around and walk away on the assumption it was abandoned.

Watching them bomb it just to kill someone they assumed was inside really let all of this sink in that much further for Mason. They knew exactly what they were doing, moving in and hitting that spot with prejudice. The environment looked wrong, if that wasn’t the screen itself doing that.

What could they do to a house that wasn’t in such bad shape? One with windows?

“They have no artifacts, no proper armor,” The Archivist chuckled, “they’re no true witch hunters, they’re cosplayers. Larpers. Trusting technology to do the work and leaving themselves exposed to your magic.”

”…Artifacts? Like- What, like some magic lamp or something?” Mason asked. How did that work? Rules for thee, not for me? If they were really that stupid, maybe that was true.

Mason shook his head and stepped back, thinking. They were in pretty bad shape, by the looks of things. But if that was them when they were just jokers in Kevlar, what did they look like as the real deal? Mason was picturing flying suits of armor with fucking machine guns strapped over the shoulders. Helmets adorned with bulky, cycloptic contraptions that could read traces of magic smaller than atoms from a mile away. What if they just caved and started using wizards to kill wizards?

”Fuck, shit, damnit- Okay…” He knitted his hands together and fidgeted them against one another. He started doing that a lot more lately after his magic started existing. ”They’ve had a week to look for us, and even if they’re running around with their heads up their asses, they have all that shit… We don’t. So… Fuck it.”

They were in a study, so he’d take some initiative.

Mason broke away from the group and stopped in front of a wall of books that looked magical. He read the spines, picking out the ones that were outlandish in name. It took him a moment before he stopped on one that seemed to grab his attention. One written in Elven.

He reached his hand up to grab and pulled back, before actually touching it. For a moment, Mason had to stop and actively think about not discorporeating a valuable piece of knowledge. Who knew if this one book out of thousands in here could contextualize everything?

He pulled it off and navigated around all the bits and bobs in the room, absentmindedly ensuring he would smack something priceless and snap it away. Mason opened the book and started reading through it while the others talked. Whatever subject he had started on was known only to God and whoever could read the language of Elves. Even though it was hard to tell, Mason was part Elf on his mother’s side.

“Introductions are finally in order. I am Sir Percival Ravensmere. And you are fortunate I am here to help.”

Mason was two pages in when he turned his head back up. ”…You have got to be fucking kidding me.” So they had to keep their heads down, learn to hide, when one of the biggest names in history was hanging around them? Yeah, they were fucked.

”I’m giving it three days before the other jackasses in your family find you.” And with that, he went back to reading.

---

The Archivist confirmed in no uncertain terms that they were stuck with the fate of mages; ‘til death do us part. It should have been a horrific realisation that they were marked ones leaving trails for a never-ending string of hunters to follow. And yet, Rowan found herself trying to stifle a sigh of relief. She had no idea how to approach the subject with Bea, who had bravely stood up for her. In spite of everything, she wanted to keep her powers. There was a purpose in the new frontier that rose above her fears, even if it did nothing to settle them.

A habit from busy college crunch times came to mind. To settle the nerves, Rowan needed a plan. Something to action that could make definitive progress against her problem. Did that translate well to being hunted by a global organisation? Hell if she knew, but it was something and who really knew the right way to combat the shadow government anyway? It was time to assess what she had in her ‘corner’. Luckily, the Archivist had just finished mentioning finances and the group’s access to a pool of monetary support.

“Take care of? A college girl with crippling student debt suddenly starts taking private boat rides. That's a real kind of magic the hunters can follow,” Rowan quipped toward Bea but then went to address the Archivist directly. “I appreciate the help, but we need to be cautious with that money, and I guess that extends to how much equipment we can buy. Unless you have a spare lab lying around, of course.”

---

“Fuck,” Rowan offered in uncharacteristically short commentary. The video didn’t offer any additional fears to the girl; she had been assuming it was the worst-case scenario anyway, but it was a confirmation of them and a reminder that the distance between this group and their hunters was short and rapidly shrinking. Ravensmere called them cosplayers, but those guns looked plenty lethal enough.

But now she was immersed in another grand and endless resource to draw from: the study. Instead of discussing the video, Rowan felt herself drawn to explore its bountiful shelves. She didn’t speak up as she roamed away but spared a parting look at Bea to check she was holding up alright.

She looked for tomes on alchemy and herbalism. To make her power fully effective, she needed to know what she was making and what those could do. It was best to start with a baseline of knowledge from those who came before, so she could build upon it with her own work. At first, she was slow and thorough, but sped up a little as she saw others having the same idea. At one point, she just managed to snatch a promising book away before Mason’s hands of disintegration were able to get at them. She gave him an awkward, close-lipped smile of politeness as an apology.

In the focused pursuit of knowledge, the fears of new faces and new enemies could be set to a less present part of her mind. Her only goal and worry was the one she forced into the forefront. She got up onto a ladder to inspect some of the higher shelves and bring down anything that looked interesting. “People aren’t the only thing who have become magical, the whole world has had an awakening. They have their work cut out for them if they want to put it all back in the bottle.” She spoke into the shelves, but loud enough for Ravensmere to hear. “No doubt your old organisation has a beast hunting division. Is there a weed-pulling division we need to be aware of?”

Rowan turned around on the ladder and looked back at the group with an oddly excited smile. “Is there anyone who knows the wilderness?” Her eyes caught the potential murderer cat man; it ran through her mind that he could be the wilderness expert. She looked around more as if to say ‘anyone else?’

---

---

Mathias watched tensely as what could only be described as a paramilitary militia set the cabin ablaze. Idiots they may be, if Ravensmere was to be believed (and he did seem to be mostly right for the moment), but they were dangerous, very well armed idiots.

"Well," he said, voice sounding a bit strained after the grim display of the burning wreck, "I suppose I should be giving my boss my two weeks, if I'm to be working for you."

He shook his hands a bit and worked his jaw as his magic molded his fangs and claws back into ordinary teeth and nails, the hint of beast pushed back in favor of simple humanity. It felt more... difficult to turn human than it did to turn into a... werewolf, or loup-garou, or whatever he was now, Mathias had found out. He didn't know why. He didn't like thinking about it too much.

"Though I'm not actually going to quit my job before seeing a decently drafted contract and proof that you can actually get me a new work visa. I'm not looking to lose almost a decade of seniority just to get deported to whatever prison the immigration police feels like sending me to." Not to mention that getting deported would almost certainly be a death sentence if those people are really on his trail. He started nervously picking at a patch of dry skin on his arm. "We can discuss my salary, benefits and severance package later. You'll see, I'm great secretary."

Now that he thought about it, the kid (and he really was just a kid, clearly not even old enough to drink around these parts) reacted a bit strongly to Ravensmere's name. He'd assumed the grandeur with which the elf had announced himself was just the result of that special kind of arrogance that came with being old and rich, but maybe there was something more there. "Are you a big deal or something, by the way?", he asked the old elf. "You'll have to pardon me, but I haven't really been keeping track of old rich Americans, unless I've had to work for them. And you don't really look like a finance guy, so... yeah. No clue."

Now, if he was to stay, he'd have to make some arrangements. He'd have to secure some long-term accomodations here in Twin Pines, and get his stuff from back in New York delivered over here. A few of his... Sunday friends back in the city would have to be notified of his move, too. Did his firearm licenses need to be renewed? Better check just in case, he had a feeling they might come in handy for more than just hunting...

"Is there a notary in town?" He asked abruptly, still deep in thought. "I need to get my will in order. Just in case..."

Rowan's question managed to snap him out of his planning. "The wilderness?" He repeated, puzzled. "I know a thing or two about the woods, yeah. It's, uh, mostly dense deciduous forest around here, if I recall. Wetlands, too. Good deer population, no bears. Why do you ask?"

Not the biome he was most versed in, but he could still get around well enough. As long as she didn't ask anything about the lake, he could probably answer. God, just thinking about it made him feel a bit queasy.

---

---

Slattern? Pom had never heard the word before, but she’d been yelled at by enough cops to guess that it wasn’t something she should go repeating to all of her new amigos here. Deputy Dwarf took a threatening step towards Pom. If he had arrived with anyone else in the room then she likely would’ve taken a step back and tried to talk things down, as she wasn’t particularly interested in taking this nasty, ghastly backhander. Unfortunately, the dwarf had shown up with the Man’s man and even if he’d just been a hairdresser in his past life it did little to change the fact that he slopped it in the pigsty nowadays.

Instead of trying to rouse the dwarf into harmonizing with her in a round of “Give Peace a Chance”, Pom lifted her chin and turned her cheek slightly to give the Barber an easier target. The hit didn’t come, at the very least not for her, as Kenny deescalated the situation with a wallop of his own through the ghostly dwarf. Pom was shocked–not by his intervention, nor by his immediate attempt to suppress her First Amendment right to her freedom of speech. She had just assumed that by the way his hand was tugging at his belt that he would’ve taken any reason as an excuse to feel threatened and defend himself by unloading four or five dozen rounds. Perhaps he’d already tried and failed before, thus the actual reason why his place was trashed.

Or perhaps not. She jumped at what she thought was a gunshot before realizing it was just a book the Barber had tossed to the ground in his hissy fit. She replied to Kenny’s tired glance with an almost apologetic grimace. Almost. It was more along the lines of a sucks to suck than a sorry you gotta deal with this shit, man look. At worst her ghost was just a bit of a prankster. She still wished it could communicate, but judging by the grasp Kenny had on his deputy it looked like communication was something they were still working on themselves. The Archivist might be the only solution to both of their problems.

She followed those who chose to remain to the study, taking a moment to deposit the ruined cherry pie on a hall table. Her immediate instinct to begin putting her grubby mitts all over the strange antiques the Archivist had curated over the years was halted as a screen rose from the floor. Pom stared at it, confused as to why someone would have such a thing when a regular television would work just fine. She only became even more confused as she tried to figure out why someone would film the found footage the Archivist showed them.

Perhaps it was shot by some kind of spy cam? Pom nervously glanced at the bust of an elven head she was standing by and turned it around to face the wall just in case it was housing a nanny cam. Oh, there was another bust in the opposite corner. She began stealthing her way towards it, careful not to cut off anyone’s view of the home movie by moving behind their backs or ducking in front of them. She had already seen enough to know that she didn’t want to watch anymore of the arsonist assholes spark a future forest fire.

The second bust was a bit higher than the previous ones. Her fingers barely brushed the shelf. Her jump attempt only pushed the bust further back, the sound of her feet thudding on the ground dampened by a burst of gunfire from the video. Pom gave a quick glance around to make sure that the Archivist hadn’t noticed her and then, missing the obvious ladder, grabbed a reading chair. The spraying of fire extinguishers covered the scrapping of the chair across the ground as she moved her new "ladder" into position. She was just able to wrap her hand around the bust and turn it away as she saw the film end out of the corner of her eye.

Pom spun around quickly and plopped down in the seat cross-legged with an oof, quietly muttering out an excuse that nobody for an explanation that nobody had asked for, “Sorry, I thought the talkie was gonna be a bit longer but I couldn’t see from where I was sitting and I didn’t wanna be rude so I figured if I just moved the seat then...”

Perfect cover story. There was no way the Archivist, who was busy checking his phone and likely hadn’t even heard her, wouldn’t believe it. Satisfied, Pom leaned back in the armchair before suddenly sitting upright as she fully registered the family portrait hanging before them all. It was obviously another spy camera. It’d be impossible to disable this one without the Archivist noticing. She slumped forehead in her chair in defeat of having her privacy stripped away from her and slapped her forehead, joining in with the chorus as she let out an audible, “Fuck.”

Her veins briefly froze at the mention of the Ravensmere name before Pom let out a nervous laugh. She knew she had always been right! Everybody had always acted like she was some fucking nut when she said the Ravensmere were part of some evil secret society. They were easily in the top ten of potential living liches, too. Of course the winds of fate would blow her into the path of one of those soul suckers again. What were her options now? Work for a lich or die by firing squad? A strangled sort of sound beneath a laugh and a sob escaped from Pom’s throat as she pushed up her rose-tinted sunglasses on top of her head and rubbed her eyes, her knee bobbing like she’d come down with a bad case of reefer madness. Why’d she have to be right?

Pom’s bloodshot eyes darted around the room as leg continued to jimmy up and down, the colorful lava lamp glow generated by everyone but the Barber making the grim study look more like a trendy disco. Mason was thumbing through a book. Maybe she could nab a few books and just try to learn things on her own? Nah, then she’d just be hunted by both sides. Pom’s ears twitched as Rowan said something about weed. She was unable to stop herself from glancing in Kenny’s direction. Pom might’ve been qualified to answer Rowan’s questions about the outdoors as a certified tree hugger, but she wasn’t just gonna narc herself out right in front of Twin Pines’ worst. Her eyes widened in horror as Matt talked about yuppie bullshit like contracts and notaries. Did he really want to give them a paper trail? What next, was he going to ask for a rope so he could fashion his own noose?

Pom’s eyes brightened. She suddenly realized why Rowan was asking about the wilderness. She jumped up from her chair as she answered for Rowan.

“It’s because we gotta get off the grid, man!” hooted Pom, excited that her thoughts had perfectly aligned with a youngster. “These busters rely solely on tech, right? Dense enough trees can block a GPS, so maybe it’d do the same for their fancy magic...watch...thingy. We revert to a nomadic lifestyle, camping out and living off of the land until we’ve learned how to hide our magical trail.”

It’d just be like when she was a little girl. For a moment Pom appeared to drift away, before the memory of fighting flies for a piece of trash can fruit shunted her back to reality. She snapped her fingers.

“Oh, and we need to destroy our cellphones!” she exclaimed with an unusual level of confidence and conviction. She turned to Kenny for confirmation. “You bastards can track us through them, can’t you?”

Finally, a reason to get rid of the damned thing. She never understood why she needed one in the first place, but her family had insisted that she couldn’t just rely on a landline. They said it was in case of an emergency, but that never made any sense. If she was out of the house and there was an emergency it wasn’t like she would get there in time to do anything anyway. Pom had only started carrying the stupid thing daily when they were waiting to get callbacks regarding Bo’s–oh, no. A wave of panic hit her as she realized this rhetoric was the thoughts of an old fogey and it wouldn’t play in a room full of such youth. Bail, bail, quick, before they all started to look at her as not part of their cabal but as someone who could star in a reboot of the Golden Girls.

“Nevermind. Forget I said anything,” deflated Pom with a shake of her head. She slumped back into the chair and sunk down into it, crossing her arms like a sullen teenager. She dug into the depths of her mind for something that would prove she was still with it, ultimately muttering into her chest what she was sure would become the future tagline of youthful rebellion. “I would rather die than live without my Tic Tac.”

---

"Did a ghost just touch my ass?"

Cailean couldn’t see the Ghost… but the brief cold against their ass just seemed far too coincidental after Pom pointed out something. Dead, said the guy he was attached to. So definitely a ghost. A talking ghost! A groping, talking ghost!

They tilted their head up to the taller elf, like they were asking Pom to confirm or deny the ghostly groping.

But there didn’t seem to be much of an opportunity, when they were all whisked away.

---

Fuck me.

Cailean wasn’t too worried about the ghost issues after watching someone’s cabin burnt down.

They weren’t particularly into the idea of wherever they lived being burnt down. Sure, they didn’t actually live here. They could go to another country. But there were probably witch hunters over there too.

After all… Europe had been much fucking worse for that shit. Scotland especially… They couldn’t risk their parents getting hurt like that. Not if these were the fucking amateurs! They sure had enough firepower to kill anyone, magical or not.

So they had to stay here until they were stronger and able to fight off the Witch Hunters. They had to keep their parents safe. But fuck, they’d be so worried… Their dad was already tryna get them to come back to Glasgow! But they sure as shit couldn’t with this information. No way!

She had to stay. Which meant she needed a visa from Sir Percival Ravensmere.

Sir Percival… Ravensmere…

Cailean’s expression worsened dramatically.

The Ravensmere of Southern England and the Breòthach of Western Scotland, along with the other Celtic Elvish families from their commune, were not on good terms.

Really, that was an understatement. It originated from one of England’s many attempts to conquer Scotland a thousand or so years ago. Both families were prominent on opposite sides. Many were slain, particularly Cailean’s ancestors. It was part of why the commune on the Western Isles had ended up so small.

Then, it had continued beyond the bloody wars into a conflict of two ideals.

The Ravensmere’s participation in the British Witch Hunts, of which many innocent Scottish elves fell victim too, was just one part of the issue. There were conflicts between groups and individuals. Many from the Breòthach line viewed the Ravensmeres as traitors.

They were, from what Cailean heard. Discarding keeping in touch with nature to help hold up the horror that was capitalism. Becoming rich bastards.

Sìne had mentioned the Ravensmere brothers on multiple occasions, always with hatred. While she’d been cut off by her family for marrying their dad, it didn’t make the bad blood with the prominent English Elven family any less. And it had been delivered to Cailean via stories and warnings.

"Oh, we doing intros again? Alright." Cailean smiled, straightening up to their full height of four foot five. They held themselves with confidence that made them seem taller.

"I’m Cailean Breòthach Aoki." They put strong emphasis on their Mother’s surname, the harsh syllables contrasting the airy, posh way Percival spoke. They paused and stared at the Elvish cunt for long enough that it would be uncomfortable, before smiling. "Maybe y’know my Ma. How awesome would that be?"

Thankfully for the old elf, their attention was diverted by other non assholes in the room trying to do something useful. Looking at old books that gave Cailean mixed flashbacks to being in their mum’s own library…

"What kinda wilderness knowledge y’needing? The local shit? I ain’t so hot on… Well, I’ve spent a lotta time out there the past week. But in general, yeah, I know’a ton about ‘the wilderness.’ Is practically a requirement back home when you got an Elvish parent."

At least, her mum had made it seem that way. She’d grown up in a fairly naturalistic way, even if in many ways her commune’s knowledge was beyond that of humans. But they lived nature, rather than against it… And Cailean had been brought up with that kind of knowledge even if she lived in the country’s biggest city. But they didn’t have to go far to find some proper wilderness to camp in as a family.

"If it’s monster hunting you want, I’m your person! If it isnae… Well I still gotta ton of other knowledge! What d’you need? Ooo- I know a bunch about camping too!"

They glanced over at Pom with a grin as she also got excited about the wilderness and suggested living off the grid. What an awesome idea. Not that they could get rid of their phone. Their parents would absolutely freak out.

"I bet there’s GPS blocking magic. Then we dinnae have to worry about shit!"

"Are you a big deal or something, by the way?"

Unfortunately for Percival, Mr Not So Wolf Anymore dragged their attention right back to their issue with his entire family rather than the exciting opportunity to camp outside hoping a monster would slip into their tent. With Pom’s excitement dying down too there was nothing to stop Cailean from grasping the opportunity.

An opportunity to spill the dirty laundry in front of everyone, that was.

"Oh! I can answer this one!" Cailean spun around to face Matt. "They ain’t American… They’re rich English assholes. You cannae tell? Anyway-"

They walked into the center of the room, raising their voice to command everyone’s attention. They cleared their throat.

"Think of something bad a rich person’s done, and they done it. Centuries of stepping on other elves to get where they got now… I ain’t surprised they’re witch hunters. That’s the kinda shit their family would do. Their wealth is built off all the nasty shit… Pretty active participants in all sorts of oppression, towards ‘lesser’ elves and other races. Y’know how many of my people they killed?! They’re Elvish and English supremacists. You ain’t some ancient, pure white English elf? They’ll gladly let you die… Or kill you themselves for their own gain."

Their narrowed eyes moved from Matt towards Percival himself. "Most people with some elvish blood know ‘bout ‘em so they can stay clear of ‘em. They’re fucking awful."

---

Emmeline had tried her best not to flinch when The Archivist kindly referred to them all as wounded animals, yet her own body betrayed her. Her muscles tensed, knees locked, and that sensation paired with the feeling of dread that washed over her was enough to make her head swim. She'd been leaving traces of magic behind since that first day. If the Hunters were already in Twin Pines, they could very well be on her scent by now.

Her only comfort came from hearing a magical clairvoyant declare that they would all learn control, and even though his magic was impressive, and she would soon call it beautiful when he demonstrated it minutes later, she still understood that the future was always uncertain. Part of her still wondered if this mutual survival between them would only stand as long as they remained in his good favor.

Her eyes consumed the sight of what was deftly titled a Witchfinder's Dial. It was odd how such a simple device could doom them all, with its curious markings around the rim that she theorized were the only reason a thing lacking in magic could track the remnants of it- the trails that they all left in their wake as they struggled to handle the power unwillingly gifted upon them so many days ago.

Emmy decided then and there that she was going to learn everything she could about the Witch Hunters. How they tracked their victims, how they worked as an operation, their strengths, their weaknesses, any loophole that she could use to escape the fate they wished upon her, any ounce of hope that she could grab onto so that she wouldn't be helpless against an ideology that had been passed down through generations. The mention of a study, filled with books that held the answers within them, was enough of a relief to keep Emmy on her feet.

If she couldn't trust the man before her, that had once been apart of a genocidal following, she could put her faith in the books he had gathered over his many centuries of life to keep her from their pyres.

As she followed the group between the large wooden doors to the study, Emmy found herself momentarily stunned by the amount of texts held in just one, grand library. The wealth of knowledge held within the room could only be considered priceless; easily compared to what was lost in the burning of the Library of Alexandria. Emmy was sure that she could find all of the information she needed here as her green eyes roamed the shelves. They halted on the painting that looked down upon them for only a moment before they continued on. The regality of it's occupants, and what it might mean about their host, did not concern her when this much knowledge sat before her.

Her gloved hand reached for a book nearby, only to quickly drop back to her side as The Archivist drew her attention towards the screen that appeared on the empty wall.

---

While the other's expressed their feelings with colorful words, Emmy's breath left her chest in a whoosh of air. A dizzy spell forced her to find rest in the nearest chair, her heart palpitating within her chest as she processed what they had all witnessed. Her composure broken by what could have been a horrible demise for one of their own.

She glanced towards the short-haired woman, the target of the Hunter's wrath. Emmy expected her expression to be just as horrified, just as shocked, and yet anger burned there instead. The companion within the woman's grasp shined brighter, shifting erratically, and she worried for just a moment that it would catch the study on fire. Hoping that their host would be able to teach her how to reverse time on precious words rendered into ash. If it were even possible.

Emmy gripped the chair's wooden arm as frustration began to build again, listening to The Archivist refer to the armed militia as if they weren't a true threat. It almost seemed like he was boasting about the perfection of his former methods. Emmy released a breathy scoff into the room in response. The weapons and technology those "larpers" carried seemed effective enough. What could their magic do to prevent that poor cabin from collapsing in on them? What use was her own magic against that?

As if in answer, Emmy finally noticed the condition of her gloves had changed since she last looked upon them. She released her grip on the chair, before her gloves could dissolve completely and leave what was already an older looking piece of furniture in a terrible state. As she held her hands in her lap she looked over the well-worn fabric. They'd been brand new when she put them on earlier that evening.

Her brows knitted in disappointment, the feeling only growing when she noticed that the others were already beginning to pluck books from the shelves without disintegrating them. It seemed like any excess of emotion, whether it was excitement, stress, or anger, allowed her magic to run its course unchecked. If that was the key to control, Emmy would surely be discovered before she could even begin to turn the lock. She wrung her hands within her lap as she sat back in the chair. At least the gloves had spared her from owing the wealthy elf a hefty amount in compensation.

The conversation had continued during Emmy's moment. She'd picked up enough to figure out what was coming next. Their host's revelation enough to anger the few in the room that understood what his surname meant, and yet Emmy was not shocked. Instead she was intrigued, her eyes returning to the painting behind Ravensmere to focus on the children portrayed there.

Despite the others musings about the wilderness, beasts, Tic Tac?, and getting their wills together, along with the properly described nature of the Ravensmere name, which also made her question her own safety among the halflings in the room, one question lingered on the forefront of her mind.

"If you're the ex-communicated Witchhunter, and your brother is soon to return to Hunting, then what role does the girl in the portrait have?" She asked from her resting spot, eyes flitting back to look upon their host. "You've only mentioned the brothers tonight. Who is your sister?"

---

So there was no way to get rid of it.

Great. She was stuck with these whispering shadows for the rest of her life. Goodbye ever sleeping well! Goodbye having even a moment of peace! What a fucking joke. Her life was such a fucking joke. Like she didn’t have enough demons whispering in her head.

Her own thoughts were bad enough, nevermind these ones.

Bea’s expression wasn’t particularly good, hands shoving into the pockets of her leather jacket with a scowl. Even Rowan’s joke didn’t really do much, dragging out just a hollow laugh and a sarcastic response. ”I quit my job and the entire park’ll fall apart. Hard pass.”

But annoyed as she was, Bea still followed the group to the library.

---

While almost everyone else was reacting with strong, negative emotions, Bea didn’t feel much at all watching Lena’s cabin burn down on the screen. Just a deep apathy.

After all, what did she have to lose? She lived alone. Her dad was already dead, and she rarely visited her mom and half-siblings. So… Who was really in danger? Rowan? Rowan was leaking just as much ‘magical energy’ as her. Was there anyone else she really cared about?

No.

And she cared much less about her own lives than those of the people around her. Living didn’t bring her much. Just day after day dragging herself out of bed to a job that drove her closer to the end. So she couldn’t bring herself to care about her possible death. If anything, it’d be welcome.

As apathy and dark thoughts filled her mind, the shades around her slowly reacted.

Some slunk off into the darkness in the room, shadows dancing across the walls for any looking close enough. But blink and they’d be gone- or had they ever been there in the first place? Others clamoured at her feet in the shadow she cast, whispering temptations to her.

Why struggle?
Why not take them all down with you?
Strike a deal, save yourself.

A flickering, flamelike shade near Lena, whispering in Bea’s mind about burning everything down, began to grow in size. It only became more fiery- as if the shadow was imitating the fireball giving it such a delicious shadow to grow in. Like it was feeding off the nightmare that had unfolded in front of the poor woman.

But it wasn’t visible to anyone else, too busy feeding.

Bea wasn’t so lucky with the others. It was like they wanted to add to the chaos around them… And she hardly cared enough to stop them. Could she, even?

A tiny, shadowy hand manifested, only to flick through the pages of Mason’s book like a child begging for attention. Every time it seemed he'd get a chance to read, or he'd change the page back, it would mess with the book again.

”They’re watching us. They’re always watching us.” A sinister whisper came from right behind Pom. If she looked around, she’d find nothing but the shadows cast by the chair tauntingly wobbling.

Drip, drip, drip.

Matt- and anyone close enough to him- would hear a continuous dripping sound. An almost wet sensation as a shadowy puddle formed at his feet. It seemed to be continually growing, like it was trying to become the lake he feared.

Another slunk around Cailean, softly whispering how they weren’t like her mother. Less than even the lesser elves…

”Ooo, so weak, destroying everything.” A shadowy tendril appeared next to Emmy, hovering over her hands and the well worn fabric of the gloves. Before she could try and go for it, it disappeared back into the darkness.

Bea didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything going on around her. About Elvish infighting, or how idiotic their hunters were, or if some old elf thought they should go off the grid. Nor did she give a fuck about the third Ravensmere. Why struggle? Why bother?

The shadows could do what they wanted. It wasn’t like others could hear them, could they? And if they did, they could join her in being crazy. Haunted by fucking shadows that just kept appearing out of nowhere. Her shade covered eyes moved towards the bookshelves and Rowan on the ladder. More vibrant than normal with knowledge at her fingertips…

Shadows welled up at the base of the ladder, clawed hands reaching out for the wooden frame to shake it. A shot of fear broke the heavy apathy that encompassed so much of Bea’s life.

”Stop!” Bea’s eyes flared bright yellow underneath her shades, magic briefly flaring out of her to command the mischievous shadows. All those still visible- the hand flicking through the book, the growing shadow puddle at Matt’s feet, and those about to shake the ladder- stilled.

Then, they disappeared. To everyone but Bea, the room’s shadows went back to normal. For her, the whispering only returned to its normal level as all of her shadows congregated on her again.

Why would you stop us?
It’s just a bit of fun…
Aw… you can’t handle it like they can…
Why don’t you admit it? You’re scared too.

”Fuck! I don’t give a fuck about all this other shit- when can we start learning to control it? That’s why we all came here! That’s how we stop those shitty witch hunters. Training is the solution or whatever, so why are we just standing around talking about whether to go camp in the woods or who their fucking sister is?! Some of us are gonna lose our fucking sanity before we get started.”

---

As expected, the resident maitre'dealer was of no help.

Not that he expected it.

BUt there was more proof in front of his own eyes that there was more than just smoke and mirrors. The Archivist had demonstrated with the light show, a web-work of fluorescent strands dancing over their heads. If this was an illusion, it was a good one... and the fact there were people that didn't belong here together.

He and the town dealer were evidence enough of that.

".. I can’t answer your question. You will answer that yourself. Do you want to be a trained mage? Or do you want to die?”@NoriWasHere

Kenny had some choices ahead...

Try and control the dwarf, lose my mind in the process.

Let the dwarf have his way, also lose my mind in the process.

Or die. Maybe then I'm still stuck with the dwarf.

Those three weren't particularly appealing.

-or buy into the mysterious elf bachelor's secret circle and throw what little career you have away. Maybe the dwarf goes away. Maybe not. You're on the run from a secret society that has been around longer than anything you've ever known.

And that was assuming this wasn't a coma-induced stupor, triggered by slipping and smashing his head on a barstool, and this was just the last few flickers of life in him before he became a certified vegetable. Or he was entering own personal hell, punishment for what he did the night this all started.

That almost sounded easier to swallow than the news that came next - when the Archivist led them to the study..

---

Lots of 'fucks' followed the footage of the raid on the cabin.

Kenny, for his part, kept his mouth shut and abstained from joining the chorus, he was too busy sizing up the place and trying to make sense of it all. 'Fuck. Maybe there's a real fight, eh?' Ivar was his stand-in for that

These 'Witch Hunters' guys were collectively better armed than anything he could've found in the station armoury, maybe better armed than the state police for that matter. Between the drones, the AR pattern rifles, and the body armour... it took him a moment to see past the tacticool... it struck him that at least one of them looked like a kid costumed up for paintball. Some looked serious, but not all.

'Not how I'd want my suckling dressed,' Ivar guffawed at the silver-haired Hush, wearing kevlar ill-suited for her chunky form. Kenny almost found that one funny, was about to exhale a snort of air through his nostrils, when- 'You should be ashamed to die to that lot, boy.'

Ruined the moment.

"Which one of us is breathing, dick?" Kenny muttered back, and shook his head like a dog shrugging water off its coat. He really needed a drink. Maybe there was a liquor cabinet here? His eyes were searching for it in the periphery.

Young, upstart idiots.

The Elf had that right, at least, but this was still serious. Kids with guns, still had guns. Any idiot with a gun could kill someone, and there were about two hundred years of American history to prove that fact.

And when he dropped the Ravensmere name... a few things clicked.

It definitely explained why he got the impression of old money in more ways than one. 'Ah, Ravensmere,' Ivar grunted making yet another ptooey gesture off to one side, 'Knife-ears that think they piss wine and shit mounds of silver.'

Kenny jabbed a foot out where the spectre's shins would've been in response to the disparaging comment, prompting a spectral murmur of which he could only interpret the word '-cunts.'

The dwarf's coarse opinion was neither welcome nor helpful, and if Pom Evergreen could hear him, how long before someone else did? Besides... he felt the chalky façade of his own psyche erode every time the ghost opened their dead, scarred lips.

"That.... algorithm thing they're talking about. Is that real? Do you think it actually works? I'm guessing they'll find something better soon."

Even with the offer of money, it seemed sketchy at best. The elf-... Ravensmere had made it clear that he was supposedly one of two experts on these affairs, the other being his own brother, off somewhere in Shangri-la.

The short, Scottish girl seemed to fill in the blanks on the Ravensmere name, which along with the bitter, fuck-you old money impression painted a much murkier picture of their supposed benefactor. All of the above aside, he doubted whether the ties to the elf would find ways to bite them.

“Oh, and we need to destroy our cellphones! You bastards can track us through them, can’t you?”@Atrophy

He couldn't believe that he and Evergreen were on the same page, at least when it came to the paper trail, and being traced. That girl - woman he corrected himself, just remembering that bad situation with the lake, remembering all of a sudden how long she'd been around, longer than him, even. That she was an old widow.

Pain in the ass she was, nobody deserved that.

"'You' bast-..? Nevermind. Sure, whatever." He shrugged, not wanting to pick an argument, "How much real authority do these kids actually have? Maybe what, a couple hundred, thousand years ago, sure - but are you really telling me everyone with a badge is going to sit back and let these... 'Witch Hunters' go and shoot up their local town? What happens when this stuff gets on the news, when this gets reported up the chain?"

That was the skeptic in him, the cop, the instinct to defer to his old habits. Thoughts moved back to the element of money, work, paper trail.

"How does that work, we all suddenly just pick up new jobs working for you. You ever heard of RICO?" Kenny voiced his concern, "If these people are serious, more than just stupid kids playing paintball in the woods... won't that just draw attention to 'us', put 'us' all together? And.. shit, I've still got a job. A real job, responsibilities... not some part-time summer crap, I got duty hours, I can't just drop everything, all my-..." -because you're obviously a rising star. Get serious.

'Go on, lawman, your balls haven't dropped off yet.' This time, Ivar's goading had paid off. A cumulation of a constant, dull headache, the lingering BAC in his system, and the inadvisable addition of pain medication had loosened his inhibitions in efforts to dull the migraine.

And why were the shadows moving?!

Frustration boiling, Kenny lurched forward to vent that rage at the dwarf, grasping at the spirit's incorporeal form, "Screw you!"

To Kenny, Ivar's spectral form appeared to dissipate, if only for a moment.

To the others, he just came across as a man who's grasp on sanity was about as firm as Pom Evergreen had sobriety. He had just cursed at the thin air, after all. Though, for a moment, his eyes flickered a faint green iridescence - not that he knew it.

It didn't last long, though.

A hideous, toothy grin formed across the dwarf's disfigured features as he reformed a few feet away, 'By a thread, boy.' Ivar raised a reforming spectral hand, closing his thumb and forefinger together as though he was dangling something, then pivoted away, satisfied.

Asshole got what he wanted.

At that point, Kenny's reservations about this whole thing were being waylaid by the greater need to suppress his own, literal demon. Any longer, and he was liable to drive his car into the lake for a swim and enjoy some peace and quiet with the old man he'd been thinking about earlier. Sorry, bad joke.

Not to mention he'd have been joining the other loose end he'd left there, the night this all started.

Collecting himself, he realised he wasn't the only one on the track to losing their mind, "-so how am I supposed to figure what I can do? All I know is that this bearded cocksucker won't stop talking off my fucking ears. What's my specialty, giving dead dwarves the chance to haunt me?"

Ivar, for his part, grabbed at his crotch and threw his unwilling host a lewd gesture. Maybe this was punishment after all.