Eldritch Guidance

After their long and, as always, subtly bewildering conversation with John, Anya and Steph stepped out of the Mystic Emporium and back into the bustling, mundane reality of Graheel’s streets. They walked in comfortable silence for a block, the strange, quiet atmosphere of the shop slowly dissipating around them, replaced by the city's cacophony of shouts and distant music. Their destination was the Nighttower, where Fenny would be waiting to open one of his bone portals and return them to their respective duties.

Their path took them through the heart of the city's vibrant, chaotic red-light district. Garish neon signs flickered, offering promises of fleeting pleasures, and barkers standing in velvet-roped doorways called out to them with practiced, tempting pitches. They ignored them all with the ease of women who were accustomed to being the focus of attention, as the sleek tower that loomed over the district like an obsidian sentinel.

As they drew closer to the Nighttower, the character of the crowd began to shift subtly. The tourists and thrill-seekers thinned out, replaced by figures who moved with a more predatory grace. They were marked by the distinctive, stylish leather collars worn by the members of Yin's organization. These Nighthounds watched the streets with sharp, assessing eyes, and their presence increased with every step, a clear indication that they were entering territory under the fox mutant's firm control.

It was Steph who finally broke their shared silence, her voice a gentle counterpoint to the district's lingering din.

Steph: "Our conversation with John was very good," she mused, a soft, contemplative smile on her lips. "He seemed in such good humor today. There's a lightness to him that I haven't seen in some time. It gives me hope that our efforts are pleasing to him, that we are on the right path."

She glanced at Anya, her expression seeking confirmation. For Steph, John's mood was a barometer of divine favor, a sign that the Red Church's growth was blessed.

Anya: “It seemed that way,” she agreed, her tone measured. “But then, every time I have ever spoken with John, he has always been in a good mood. It seems it is his default state.”

Steph: “Fair enough,” she conceded, though her conviction didn't waver. “But did you see his smile when I told him what I was doing? It was specific. He approved of me creating the Red Church. I saw it in his eyes.”

Anya let out a low, thoughtful hum that rumbled in her chest.

Anya: “I saw a man who was happy to hear that someone he helped was, in turn, helping others. I still get the feeling he is not the kind of being who seeks, or even desires, worship. He seems… uncomfortable with the concept.”

Steph: “The intention is irrelevant. The outcome is what matters. I can heal people by myself, in back alleys and lonely fields. Or, I can do it through an organized group that offers more than just mended flesh. With the Red Church, I can help people and give them hope in something tangible—a god who truly cares, whose compassion is demonstrated through action, not just promised in scripture. The structure gives hope a foundation.”

Anya shook her head but held her tongue, refusing to be drawn into a full theological debate.

Steph was dead-set on elevating John to the status of a deity, and no amount of logical reasoning seemed to shake her faith. In the grand scheme of threats they faced, Anya reasoned this particular zeal was mostly harmless. If John were truly opposed, she trusted he would find a way to make his displeasure known. He was never shy about his cryptic corrections.

Yet, the warrior in her remained unconvinced. To her, John’s reaction hadn't seemed like approval, but rather a kind of benevolent neutrality—the patience of a parent listening to a child’s elaborate, imaginary game. She knew there were strange, unspoken rules governing what could be said and done in John’s presence, a fog that clouded direct communication. But she refused to believe he was ignorant. He understood the words they were saying; he simply chose to present them through a lens of the mundane, deliberately sidestepping the cosmic implications they were laying at his feet.

But, there was still doubt.

Anya: “Are you absolutely certain he truly understood what you were saying to him? What if he was simply smiling at your enthusiasm, not endorsing the creation of a church in his name?”

Steph: “Do you not trust John’s judgment?” she asked, her voice softer but carrying an undercurrent of challenge.

Anya: “It is not a matter of trust,” she clarified, choosing her words with the care of a diplomat. “It is a matter of… changed circumstances. Scarlett along with her new disciple has determined that something is fundamentally wrong with destiny itself. It is crippling the sight of seers and muddying the waters of divination. Would it not follow that John might also be affected? Perhaps he can no longer offer the same insight he once did. His advice, while still well-intentioned, might be… clouded.”

She gestured vaguely back in the direction of the Emporium.

Anya: “Suggesting that Scarlett’s unstable, explosive Furies were the key to my manpower problem… that seemed less like divine insight and more like a hopeful guess.”

Steph: “Whether he can see the future clearly or not is secondary,” she declared, her faith a fortress. “I do not follow him because he is a flawless oracle. I follow him because his heart is unwavering. He will fight for a better future for us regardless of what the tides of fate dictate. That is a core of my belief.”

She then offered a small, conciliatory smile, acknowledging Anya’s practical concerns.

Steph: “But… I understand the source of your doubts, Anya. And you are right. His suggestion about the Furies did seem… a bit much. Though, to be fair, it didn’t sound as if he was telling you to deploy them in their current state. He seemed to be placing his faith in Scarlett’s ingenuity, suggesting she might refine them into something truly viable.”

Anya: “My plan was always to take a ‘wait and see’ approach with Scarlett,” she conceded. “Her determination is a powerful force, and I would be a fool to completely dismiss her potential project. But my conditions stand: I will not field any construct that is both visibly monstrous and fundamentally unstable. A soldier that cannot be trusted not to detonate is a liability, not an asset. His other suggestion, to lean on Yin, was sound, if redundant. I am already doing so. As part of that arrangement, I will be dispatching a small team to assist her with that… situation in Loffa.”

Steph: “Do you need additional support?” Steph asked, her offer immediate and sincere. “I can dispatch a contingent of my Red Guards. Their faith makes them fiercely resilient.”

Anya raised a gauntleted hand in a gentle but firm gesture of refusal.

Anya: “I must decline, and for strategic reasons. We cannot afford to have our enemies connect the dots. If the Noble Faction or the Endless War Cult observes a simultaneous presence of Red Guards and Liberation Army soldiers in the same place, they might deduce an alliance between us. For now, our cooperation must remain in the shadows. It is safer if we operate in separate theaters. You focus your efforts here in Graheel, and I will support Yin’s interests in Loffa. We create two separate, unconnected fronts.”

Steph: “If you’re sure,” she replied, her tone indicating she understood the logic, even if her instincts leaned toward direct aid.

Anya: “I am. And remember, should the situation in Loffa escalate and your unique talents are required, Fenny’s portals can deliver any critically wounded to your doorstep in moments. For now, this is the most prudent path. We support Yin, and by extension each other, by focusing on our respective tasks without creating a visible, unified front for our enemies to target.”

♦♦♦♦♦

Outside the decaying, two-story house on Vaal Street—the place where Mark, one of Rob’s victims, had once lived—Joe took a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke a pale wisp against the bright afternoon sky. The house was still unnerving, a sore thumb of neglect and bad memories on a street trying to forget, but the stark daylight robbed it of some of its predatory aura. This was by design; Joe had made a point to return in the middle of the day to continue his original, off-the-books investigation.

With the immediate crisis at the University resolved—albeit unsatisfyingly, with the prime suspect, a student named Cid, having vanished into thin air—a tense calm had settled over the city.

The pressure was off, replaced by routine patrols and a strict, top-down order to "keep out of trouble." For Joe, this wasn't a rest period; it was an opportunity. It was time for his vendetta.

He'd dispersed his team for the day. Mike and Dan were handling the mind-numbing paperwork and patrol rotations, a duty that included babysitting the university student still awkwardly attached to their unit. But Joe had kept Rell with him, and through a combination of earnest pleading and appeals to his better nature, he had managed to convince the former Hand of Light, Crowley, to join them.

He'd assured both men that this time, it was just an investigation. It wouldn't be dangerous. Probably.

He felt a flicker of hope. With him was Crowley, a powerful healer and high ranking priest of the church of light, and Rell, a mage from the pragmatic Grayscale College that specializes in studying black magic. Between religious traditions and analytical magic, Joe was confident they could finally put a name to the strangeness that clung to this place like a foul odor. If he could just figure out why this house made his skin crawl and his hair stand on end, he was sure it would give him a clue to the truth behind Rob's death.

He flicked his cigarette butt into the gutter, his eyes never leaving the house's grime-caked windows. Even bathed in sunlight, it felt wrong. It was a visceral feeling, a primal alarm bell ringing in the back of his skull that screamed haunted, dangerous, get away. Yet, every prior search had turned up nothing—no hidden passages, no arcane symbols, no physical evidence to justify the profound sense of dread.

This visit was his last, best shot. The alternative was a path he was deeply reluctant to take: formally requesting assistance from the University's Department of Thaumaturgical Anomalies.

In the wake of the necromancy scandal, the University had made a great show of streamlining inter-agency cooperation. They'd assured the Union government that the "months of bureaucratic inertia" were a thing of the past. But Joe was a veteran. He knew that institutional pride ran deep, and promises made under duress were often the first to be broken. He could easily picture a smug administrator burying his request in a mountain of new, "streamlined" forms, or resentful secretaries dismissing his concerns as the paranoid fantasies.

No, he would leave that particular lead—the one that reeked of a rare deadly curse—for absolute last. The strangeness of the house on Vaal Street was the more tangible, if more unsettling, mystery. He would trust the instincts of his own team and the unique skills of his companions first. If this house yielded nothing, then, and only then, would he swallow his pride and step back into the halls of the University, hoping their promise of cooperation wasn't just another layer of headaches.

Joe was mentally drafting the annoying request form to the University when the sharp creak of the front door shattered his concentration. He looked up to see Rell and Crowley emerging from the house's gloomy interior. They seemed to retreat from the house, their steps hurried as they crossed the threshold back into the daylight. Their faces were pale, their eyes wide with a shell-shocked confusion that was far more alarming than simple frustration.

He straightened up, his investigative instincts kicking in.

Joe: "Well?" His voice cutting through the quiet street. "Did you find anything? Can you figure out what's going on with this place? What's causing this... this feeling?"

Rell, the Grayscale mage, was the first to shake his head, a slow, bewildered gesture.

Rell: "Not even close," he admitted, his voice tight. "I ran a full diagnostic—spectral resonance, aetheric decay rates, latent impression analysis. The works. The results are... nothing. There is no anomalous energy signature, no lingering spellwork, not even a faint ripple of a curse. It's magically inert, which makes the feeling you described impossible."

Crowley, the former Hand of Light, ran a hand through his hair, a rare sign of agitation in the usually stoic priest.

Crowley: "I concur. I performed rites of exorcism, purification, and banishment. I called upon the Light to reveal any hidden malevolence. The rituals completed without any response whatsoever. No resistance, no acknowledgment."

Joe: "So, there's literally nothing to this place?" Joe asked, frustration and a thread of fear winding through him. "It's all in our heads?"

Rell: "I wouldn't say nothing," he corrected. "There is a profound phenomenon occurring. But it is nothing my expertise in arcane mechanics can quantify or explain. The effect is real, but its cause is... outside the paradigm."

Crowley: "There is something severely wrong here," the former priest insisted, his voice low and grave. "The darkness inside clings to things, unnaturally. It feels... passive, yet profound. Like a stain on reality itself. But my training offers no framework for this. It doesn't appear actively dangerous, but it is deeply, fundamentally unsettling. I will need to consult some of the more obscure texts in my personal collection."

Joe let out a heavy sigh, the last of his hope deflating.

Joe: "Guess I'm going to have to bite the bullet and ask the Thaumaturgical Anomalies Department for help on this one."

Rell: "I do not believe that will yield results. The Thaumaturgical Anomalies Department specializes in strange phenomena related to magic. Their entire diagnostic toolkit, like mine, is designed to measure fluctuations in the aether. As far as any instrument or spell can tell, there is no strange aether here. They will find exactly what I found: nothing."

Joe: "If it's not magic, what is it then? Is it some kind of Outsider's influence? Something from the Vulvorian Sea?"

Rell: "Even the powers of Outsiders cause disturbances in the fabric of our reality that we can detect," the Grayscale mage explained, his own frustration showing. "They warp the aether in bizarre but measurable ways. But this... there is an absence of that. It's not that the magic is strange; it's that there is no magic here at all."

Joe: “Well, even so, I’ll still ask the University to take a look. I have to cover every base, no matter how long the shot,” Joe said, the words tasting like ash. It was the move of a desperate man with no other cards to play.

Crowley: “If I may,” he interjected, his voice thoughtful. He clasped his hands, the gesture reminiscent of his former office. “While this phenomenon lacks the crucial hallmark of a classic haunting—namely, a soul bound to a place by trauma or magic—it possesses other, more atmospheric qualities. The profound sense of dread, the clinging, unnatural darkness… these are elements described in certain esoteric texts dealing with spiritual residue. It might be prudent to consult someone whose specialty is not just studying anomalies, but expelling entities that have been forcefully anchored to our world.”

Joe: “You’re talking about asking an exorcist.”

Crowley: “I am.”

Joe: “As in, an exorcist from the Witch Hunters,” he flatly stated, the words hanging in the air like a verdict.

It was the logical conclusion. The Witch Hunters, for all their infamous zeal, housed the continent's most experienced and effective exorcists, their skills honed in brutal, secret wars against genuine demonic forces. But the current political reality made the suggestion almost laughable.

Crowley: “Yes,” he admitted, a frown etching his features. “It is most regrettable. The schism between the orthodox Witch Hunters and this new faction, the Purifiers, has consumed their order. They are currently more focused on hunting each other than the evils they were founded to combat. Their response to external requests has become… unpredictable. But they remain the foremost authority. I am certain they will eventually honor a formal request from the City Police. It will simply take time.”

Joe let out a low groan, dragging a hand down his face. He had pinned his hopes on the combined expertise of the mage and the priest, only to find himself right back where he started: stuck in a bureaucratic and ideological quagmire, waiting on factions too consumed by their own internal fires to help him put out his.

Rell, noticing the deep well of frustration in his superior, offered a pragmatic, if cold, comfort.

Rell: “It’s not like this place is going anywhere,” the mage said, nodding toward the silent house. “You said it yourself; this property has been a blight on in this part of the city for over a decade. If it were an immediate, active threat, it would have been dealt with a long time ago. People instinctively avoid it. Whatever this is, it’s dormant. A little more waiting won’t change the facts on the ground.”

Joe: “I know. I know,” he sighed, the fight draining out of him. He offered a tired, grateful nod to both men. “Thank you, both of you, for your time. I’ve been chasing this ghost for years now. I suppose a little more waiting won’t kill me.” The words were resigned, the acceptance of a man who had run out of leads but not out of determination.

With the investigation stalled once more, the three men departed. Joe drove Crowley back to his residence, the car ride heavy with a shared, unspoken disappointment. Then, he and Rell returned to the police station, the mystery of the house on Vaal Street retreating back into the shadows, waiting.

♦♦♦♦♦

As Joe and his two companions retreated down the street, their figures growing smaller with distance, they remained utterly unaware that their every move had been observed. From the deep shadows of a nearby alleyway, a woman stood in silent vigil. She was clad in a gown of black, the fabric of her attire so dark it seemed to drink the afternoon light, its style reminiscent of a funeral dress from a bygone era. A delicate veil, as fine as cobwebs, obscured the upper half of her face, leaving only the lower portion visible.

Her skin was like polished marble, making the slash of black lipstick on her lips all the more stark and dramatic. She did not speak, nor did she make a sound. She was a statue of mourning and observation, her presence so still and ethereal that the very air around her seemed hushed.

Once the three men had turned a corner and vanished from sight, her head turned slowly, deliberately, back toward the decrepit house on Vaal Street. Her black lips, now visible, curled downward into a pronounced frown of disapproval, or perhaps profound disappointment. The silent judgment hung in the air for a moment longer. Then, she simply took a step back, deeper into the alley's gloom.

One moment she was there, and the next, she was gone—vanished as if she had never existed at all.