Witch Hunter: The Edge of the Abyss

[Hotfoot]

The sweet smells of spring waft through the air, mingling with the brine in the air from the nearby sea. Ships pull into the harbor, dockworkers loading cargo off and on. The streets bustle with activity, businesses advertising in strong English voices. As you work your way through the city, wandering towards the larger buildings, you can feel a change. The air feels heavier, hot and wet, your lungs choking on the humidity. You feel a tug at your shoes, a moistness cloying at their soles. A growing pool of blood from behind has overtaken your stride, and as you look back, you see the source, blood flowing from every person on the street, each adorned with dozens of wounds, soaking through their clothes in intricate patterns. As you look at the people whose blood is filling the street, their heads go limp on their necks and a scream pierces the air, hundreds of voices with the gurgling of blood spewing from their mouths as the unholy sound grows louder. Nearby bodies lunge for you, hands slippery with crimson desperately trying to grasp you, pleading looks on the faces of the heads hanging limp on their shoulders.

You are dragged down, the bodies clawing at you, ripping cloth and tearing flesh. A sign before your eyes reads "Annapolis Harbor Records, Richard Smythe", before blood rises up to trap you under its heavy mass as you are held down by dozens of horrible forms.

The vision was some time ago, but it was no accident. The same vision repeated itself once a week on Sunday night, save the last week of the journey to Annapolis. The building from the dream was easy to find, if inconspicuous in its own right. Inside the building was a small man with a white wig resting on a globe, his own balding head smattered with locks of wispy white hair, the fine clothes of a man with some station busy writing in ledgers, a young boy running around gathering reports and organizing them to the exacting standards of the older man. He has a grim look on his wizened face.

Several men stand outside the building with you, and as you all gather, the old man looks up from his ledger and frowns. "Phillip! I think it is time for you to get the midday reports from the harbor. You may take your lunch on the way there. Here, take a shilling and bring back something for me as you return, but this time try to not get my food on the papers again!"

The young man took the coin, nodded, and ran off without a word. The old man stood up, straightening his shirt as he walked to the door, adjusting his glasses with one hand as he held part of his weight with his cane. "Get in off the street, I know why you're here, so let's not make a scene." The sour look on his face did not soften one bit as he looked over the collected group. As they entered, more of the busy office could be seen as the man walked to a room in the rear of the building, half hidden by ledgers and collections of papers.

[rhoenix]

Moving with an unhurried walk, a man wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a heavy coat nodded his thanks to the old man as he walked inside. He took off his hat as he passed the doorway, walking to enter the room proper where he was to find out more about the new goings-on.

"I am Aaron Pendra, at your service," the man said to the proprietor, and to the others gathering in the same room.

[Cynical Cat]

A tall man where a fringed leather coat observed the gathering from the alley. Before his eyes they followed the other man inside. Istvan made no move to reveal himself. He had encountered the works of the Adversary only a few times, but he was not inclined to step recklessly into a trap.

[Haizu]

A man of medium height and build, clad in wolf furs, stood off to the side and watched the others walk in first.

"Why do I get the feeling we're being watched?" Isaac murmured to himself. Staying put he gave the surrounding area a careful look.

[Hotfoot]

Isaac's careful eye reveals a man watching from a nearby ally, and for some reason, knowledge of the man's vocation was known to him, the mark of a Hunter.

All among the group could sense the shared bond, even though they could not explain it, it was something all Orders of Witch Hunters knew. The old man himself seemed to share the bond, a sense of comfort and warmth, a halo of nebulous light, a whisper in one's ear, or perhaps just a good feeling. Regardless, despite the old man's attitude and the strange new people around, all could sense the thing that linked them.

[SirNitram]

Slipping inside was Smith, clad in the browns and greys of simplicity. It was a serious step down from what he used to be, but anonymity was demanded in this new role. He didn't speak, merely waiting for some explanation.

[Comrade Tortoise]

A man wearing a leather fencing jacket, cloak and a wide brimmed hat stood aside silently at the door and waited for the others to pass. He carried with him a quarter staff and had a rapier and buckler at his belt.

"Hmm. Well at least he is one of us." Bertram muttered in heavily accented english with a relieved sigh.

[Cynical Cat]

The Magyar knew he had been spotted by his fellows, but he was not inclined to join them. Not yet. A hunter knew the easiest way to catch prey was to wait for it to come to him. The Adversary was more cunning by far. Istvan circled the building.

[Marcao]

New World
Baltimore

He had always disliked the idea that he was not in charge of his own destiny. Even back in the courts where he had rubbed elbows and shared meals with his supposed social superiors he had always felt that he had been in control. He had not always been able to do what he wanted or more often than not, have access to the funding that he felt his intellect deserved but control had never been in doubt. It was all a matter of understanding the flows and currents that slithered through the marble and gold encrusted halls. He had become a master of negotiating favors and deals. He had become a master of learning who was strong and who was weak, whose wife or mistress was ripe for a dalliance or two. There were a handful of things that had surprised him in court. But precious few of them had been about his lack of control.

And yet here he was in the New World all but completely away from his element and far out of the reach of the bulk of his organization's resources. The Crusaders Inviolate chapter houses in the New World where far less numerous than he was used to. It was for all intensive purposes a situation that he had not predicted. Nonetheless, he had to come. The visions had been insistent, demanding, and finally his conscience or sense of curiosity got the best of him. Would the Vision occur because he came to the New World or could it be stopped after being here? It was said that the first step to avoiding a trap was knowing it was there. Maybe it was a higher power that was granting him the vision, a taste for things to come so that he could adequately prepare to meet the challenge. The other possibility was worth contemplating but was far less likely. He did not have enough enemies in the Invisible World to warrant such an enticement to come to the New World.

His first step after arriving on the New World was to secure lodging and then to purchase a horse. He had brought nearly everything else on the way, including his prized rapier a weapon that had been in his family for over sixty years. He wore the garb of a gentleman including an ebon cloak, the colors he wore were predominantly black and white. He wore few adornments, although a fine ring snared a finger on his left hand. He presented a man that knew what he liked and enjoyed presenting himself in a particular fashion. His black boots were meticulous as they carried him towards a familiar building. As he moved, his eyes slid around his surroundings taking note of windows, doors and other nearby buildings. In the Spanish court, it had been the threat that you did not see that eventually trouble you. The eyes and ears of a litany of nobles had been ever present, seeking any scrap of information to bring back to their masters.

There were others waiting outside and immediately a frown graced his features. He had not seen others in his vision. He approached with the same confident gait but attempted to look less relaxed than he felt. It did not take long for him to sense that they too were hunters. The knowledge of that fact did not ease his troubled mind. He had been schooled extensively on the other orders by his own and he understood their presence was as much a blessing as it was a curse. He came to a stop as the young man took the coin, nodded and ran off without a word. He followed as the old man led them into the building. He had not come half way around the world to not attempt to unravel the mystery before him. He wanted the visions to cease.

His head turned and he glanced through light brown eyes at the man that called himself Aaron Pandra. His eyes slid around him and when no other introductions were forth coming he took it upon himself to at least offer a name. It was what politeness required after all.

"Well Aaron Pandra, you may call me Alejandro." He said in a heavily accented English. "I take it that you were drawn here to similar circumstances as myself? A message every Sunday without fault?" So many of their kind drawn to one spot? He doubted he would like the knowledge that was to come...

[Comrade Tortoise]

When the last person entered the building, and the other german seemed reticent to enter Bertram nodded to him politely and stepped inside.

He took note of the other individuals in the room as a few of them introduced themselves. One Aaron Pandra. His english was unaccented. The other, Alenjandro, was a Spaniard by name and accent.

"Alejandro, Aaron, I am Bertram, recently out of Heidelberg. I can confirm your suspicions with regard to myself. I too have been drawn here by weekly portents. " His accent was thick, but understandable. For those who knew, his accent came from the South Franconian german dialect, or High German. Not that it mattered for most people.

"If there is not a common language among us all, I offer my services as translator."

[Haizu]

With a final glance at where the "alley-man" had gone, Isaac returned the nod of the last party member and followed him inside. Recognizing Bertram's accent, he was pleased to know there was another German in the group. Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad. "I am Isaac Altschul. I am from small village near Stralsund. I also saw these things." Although his English was just as accented as Bertram's, Isaac's was East Low German.

[General Havoc]

Sébastien sensed the other chasseurs only seconds before he saw them.

The visions had started one night, in the town of Ville-Marie, which the locals were had taken to calling Mont-Real. Visions of blood and damnation, and a location given. A place name. Baltimore. The name of a minor English lord, granted to a trading post in the bay they called Chesapeake. A thousand miles from New France, deep in the heart of the English colonies in the New World. Yet Sébastien had never even considered not going. That very day, he had booked accommodations on a trading brig to the English Crown colony of Maryland.

Five years it had been since his eyes had been opened to the horrors that lurked in the darkness, even in the midst of the opulence of Versailles. Five years since he had killed his first son of perdition, and sent a thrice-damned soul screaming to Hell. It had cost him much, his position in court, his family's chance at rebuilding their fortune, and if not his honor, then at least his respectability amongst the glittering folk that it had been his sworn duty to protect. Since that day, he had learned and seen and done many things, taken instruction from English pilgrimeers and caravaners, fought dead men in the moors of Dorset and tracked loups-garou and warg-wolves through the Scottish highlands. The men of his order that he had fought and stood guard beside, Britons and Northerners of the Protestant Church of England for the most part, had taken ill to the presence of a Catholic French-Fleming, whose sovereign was the sworn enemy of their realm entire, yet the Adversary had, for the most part, proven a greater enemy than Sébastien's "Gascon Papistry" and "Frankish Arrogance", as they had termed it.

For his own part, the distinction was nothing more than a further reminder of his self-imposed exile. Though the Englishmen who called themselves the Stalwarts of St. Christopher had valour, and courage, and honor of a sort, and other things that men spoke of with whispered voice, they were separated by more than liege-lord and faith. For all their furious zeal, they lacked the true impetuosity, the élan, that non-Frenchmen saw as madness. For all their devotion and skill, they lacked the panache that La Garde had instilled and practiced as a matter of course. He had fought beside them, shared blood and misery and danger, saved the lives of his English brethren and had his life saved in turn, yet he never had truly become one of them. The camaraderie of La Garde, the sense of belonging to a group of brothers who fought for one another, un pour tous, tous pour un, had been absent, not to be found in Britain for all the monsters he had slain.

And so he had left, and come to New France, for if the Old were barred to him, he could at least, he felt, serve the New. Yet not long after he had arrived, he had received the first vision, sending him to the place he was in now.

He had ridden up from Anapolis by horseback, stabling the animal at the livery and approaching the designated location on foot. He had not dared consider what he might find here, feeling himself drawn, as though the prayers he had addressed endlessly to God and every Saint he could recollect for guidance had all suddenly been answered. Prepared for anything, his sword jingled softly at his side, and he walked with a pistol held beneath his surcoat of black velvet embroidered with the Cross-Fleury and the Fleur-de-Lys in white and gold thread. His broad hat, black like the surcoat, with a broad plumed red feather trailing from it, shielded the worst of the sun, and if his fine garb and prominent sword attracted notice, it was nothing he cared to acknowledge. Exile he might be, but he would not slink through the shadows, shamming cripple or poor beggar. The Honor of La Garde required boldness. Upon finding the proper building, he advanced directly towards it, and hand-on-pistol, opened the door and stepped inside.

He had expected to see unholy abominations within, perhaps a black mass or evil rite. He had not expected to find other chasseurs, not in such numbers, not here of all places. He stood in the doorway for a moment, his cloak blowing in the bitter winds outside, then stepped into the building, and shut the door behind him.

"I am Sébastien D'Artois," he said in English to anyone who cared to answer, his eyes flicking from man to man, "Garde de la Manche". All of them were chasseurs, he could sense that much, but one of them seemed to be a man of some obvious refinement, though it was likely too much to hope for another Frenchman. He doffed his hat and bowed with a typically french flourish, drawing his hand from within his surcoat. Replacing the hat, he looked about the room at the men who stood before him, trying to judge what manner of men they were, varlets or gentlemen, men of honor or men of corruption, for he knew well the Orders employed all types.

"Who are you, and why have you come to this place?"

[Comrade Tortoise]

Bertram looked at the frenchman and saw the clothing of the Musketeers even as it was announced as such and doffed his own hat.

He spoke in english, dryly and without a whole lot of passion as was typical for his people.

"I am Bertram Neumann, this is Isaac Altschul" he said gesturing to the other german

"Aaron Pandra, Alejandro" he said gesturing to the colonial and the spanish courtier respectively.

"If you saw a shifty fellow outside he is one of our own who has not yet graced us with his presence, and the other" he said gesturing toward Smith "was just about to introduce himself I think." He seemed to ponder what to say for a moment, then continued.

"I believe the proprietor, Herr Smythe can probably fill us in on the details, as I believe our dreams are probably identical and we were sent to seek him out for a reason"

"It is of course a pleasure to make all of your acquaintances."

[SirNitram]

"No. I wasn't." Was Smith's cold reply. "I am not long for social graces anymore. If you need a name.. Smith Gaslighter." A last name of no family, referring to a child found on the steps of a guild or other place and taken in.

[Comrade Tortoise]

"Oh. I apologize. A name is sufficient however, it would be a shame to refer to you as 'hey you' all the time" Bertram scratched a little note in his brain. The Englishman was anti-social. Good to know.

"Well I think that is everyone but the shadowy one outside. Herr Smythe, please tell me you know more than we do."

[SirNitram]

"The dream that guided me was clearly involving Necromancy." A grunt from the antisocial man. He had personal knowledge of what Necromancy looked like, but didn't feel the need to share THAT. "So I suspect one is scheming."

[Hotfoot]

The room the old man entered featured a table with several seats, surrounded by shelves covered with books, bottles, and vials. As the others made their way in, the old man moved around the room, looking for a particular bottle. Upon fiding it, he glared outside at any that had not entered yet. "Get in, get in, if I had to wait for you to gain wisdom through age, I'll have been dead a century."

When enough of the group entered, he produced a stone from his pocket, holding it and the vial together. Opening the vial with practised ease, he poured a powder onto the table, the stone itself glowing as he held it to the poured powder. The powder underwent a subtle change as it passed through the light emitted by the stone. As the last of the material hit the table, a barrier of silence erected itself around the room, those outside could not hear what was inside, and those within could no longer hear the bustle of the streets.

"Now, one more thing before we get started in earnest. I have not lived to this ripe old age by being a damnable fool. If you're all here to kill me, so be it, but it's been my experience that while a few bad apples exist in our kind, most are without hesitation good men," He pulls down a rather large candle from an upper shelf, a wry smirk on his face. "I like to make sure, so whoever this flame burns, kill him for me, would you? A pity there are no women among you, they're usually much quicker to shove a blade into anyone that fails the test. Let that be a lesson to you young ones, never underestimate women. Learned that a long time ago, nearly lost an arm for it. Anyway..."

A short prayer began and the old man lit the candle, and before long, the candle ignited into an unnaturally bright light. He touched the fire to a torch, which blazed brighter than any natural flame. The man grabbed the torch by the flame itself, his hand untouched by the fire. "There, myself, now the rest of you," he held the torch by the base, holding it in front the group.

Any with true faith would be unhurt, but those tainted by the Adversary would be burned by the holy flame. The screams, meanwhile, would be sealed from the rest of the city.

[Soontir948]

Peter entered the room on the old man's beckoning. Deciding that the visions weren't going away and that as he did bring himself all the way here, he might as well take the next step onward. He looked around taking in the other witch hunters no doubt his newly made companions. Peter found comfort in groups and this was a large one indeed. Though with the great danger looming as seen in the vision, the more people in it either meant the merrier or perhaps the worse for it.

Having not introduced himself yet, he decided he may as well relieve them of any possible mistrust. Peter stepped up and took his hand to the torch.

"Hello, everyone. My name is Peter Cornwell," he said in a northern accent.

[Comrade Tortoise]

"Pleasure" Bertram said in english before making the sign of the cross. Head, heart, shoulder to shoulder. Then he began to quietly mutter.


"O mi Iesu, dimitte nobis debita nostra, libera nos ab igne inferni, conduc in caelum omnes animas, praesertim illas quae maxime indigent misericordia tua. Amen."*

Then, when the other man had backed away from hit, he stepped up and put his hand to the torch.

*O my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell, lead all souls to Heaven, especially those in most need of Thy mercy. Amen.

[Cynical Cat]

After circling the building and finding nothing that outwardly confirmed his suspicions, Istvan walked away. The others had filed in like good sheep, but that was not his way. Someone had invited his dreams and brought him here and he was far from willing to trust in that entity's benevolence. He had been expected and violence was not the only way a man could be misused.

He turned away and headed toward the nearest public house. He would not go into what may be the lair of the beast at the time chosen by the beast. The beasts that wore the face of a friend were the worst of all.

He strode up to the bar. "Beer," he said in thickly accented English. "Food. Something hot."

[Hotfoot]

The man at the bar looked at Istvan carefully as he ordered, the Hungarian's accent giving him pause. He was a younger man, clearly not yet out of his teens, but he brought the beer quickly enough once it had been ordered. He disappeared into the back and came out with piping hot stew, clearly pulled straight from the pot. "There you go sir, sixpence an' two farthings if you would please."

The public house was in the middle of the lunch rush, workers and businessmen getting what they could in the midday heat. Conversations flew around the dining area and bar with the usual abandon, talks of the latest shipments and goings on. A few more hushed conversations were going on nearby, but it would be difficult to hear them without getting closer.

[Cynical Cat]

The scarred Magyar put down a shilling and pointed at empty table. "I'll take it there," he said. He then settled down with his back to the wall. A hunter needed patience.

[Hotfoot]

The Torch was warm to the touch as Bertram and Peter willingly placed their hands inside the flame, but it did not burn. In fact, a feeling of calm and rightness filled them, bolstering them against any memories of the terrible sights the vision had shown them. The old man nodded and motioned for the two of them to get behind him. "Right, now the rest of you, get to it. I don't have time to waste and neither do you."

In the pub, Karolyi got a closer listen to some of the quieter conversations. As the young man behind the counter brought the beer and stew, two men, apparently merchants, talked in hushed tones.

"Look, he was removed and nobody's seen him since. He's probably in the Tower scrubbing the floors."

"Right, but don't you think it's odd? I mean, aside from the slaves and the indentured, everyone that worked with him is leaving. It's like when you see rats running off a ship, it's a sign to leave."

"Oh? And where are you going to go? Up to the Puritan colonies?"

"Oh lord no, at most I'd try my luck in New Amsterdam, I hear they've been doing well."

The young man placed the food and drink at Magyar's table, shaking his head. "Never you mind them sir, a few people take a holiday and they're worried for their purses. Here's your change," he hands the hunter two farthings and five pence in return for the shilling.

"Oh you watch yourself Ned, you'll see. One day it'll be your house burning down with you nowhere to be found," one of the merchants said as the young man walked back behind the bar.

"You better hope not Thomas, without a place to sit and complain in comfort I suspect you'll toss yourself into the sea in despair," Ned returned with a wry smile.

"Hey, I don't have to take the kind of talk from you without another pint!"

"For the both of us, Tom," his fellow merchant whispered.

"Right, two pints!"

Ned laughed and filled another two mugs of ale, shaking his head. "Honestly, how the two of you make any money tying them on like this is beyond me."

"And that, m'boy, is why you're pouring the drinks instead of ordering them," Thomas said with a laugh.

[Cynical Cat]

Istvan rose from his seat and approached the merchants. "Gentlemen, I must ask your forgiveness. I overheard your conversation and could not help but hear something was amiss. If you could explain this matter in greater detail, I might be of some use."

[SirNitram]

Smith eyed the flame. "Time to see if there's any truth to claims of redemption being possible. But I die standing." And the once-damned thrust his hand into the fire, expecting it to burn him alive.