Star Wars: Old Wounds (2)

The Imperial freighter most closely resembled a flying brick, with short, stubby wings at the rear of the craft,  tapering off towards the bridge located at its nose, giving it a thin, triangular profile from above. Each wing housed an embedded engine core, whose apertures were approximately the same diameter as the wingspan of an X-Wing. Extending vertically below each wing were three small tubes, each connecting to a docked TIE fighter, giving them the appearance of chicks protected by a mother bird. The entire design of the transport was purely functional. The engines seemed tacked on almost as an afterthought, while the fighters were protected from stellar winds and cosmic dust collisions only by the forcefield of their parent craft. Such vessels were not designed for military combat; as such they relied on a minimal fighter screen, a moderate shield generator and a thick hull to repel pirates and other attackers. It was a product of minimised costs and maximised profits, reflecting the economic heart of Imperial control. This vehicle was strictly utilitarian, far removed from the intimidating war machines built to instill fear in the denizens of the Galaxy and soothe the overcompensating egos of Imperial Moffs.

Wedge watched with mounting anxiety as the freighter drifted ever closer to his hidden vantage point. He had to wait for the optimal moment to launch the assault: too soon and the transport could turn tail, yet too late and the Imperial base below would have time to scramble reinforcements. With each passing moment, the chances of a rebel fighter being detected by passive scanners or even visually grew larger. As a Corellian, Wedge never much cared to hear the odds of a scenario, yet he could not escape the rising tension. He wiped a bead of sweat from his determined brow as the vessel drew in line with his position. It was now or never.
"Red Group, time to engage." he said, giving the signal to his two wingmen. He flicked several switches in quick succession; firing up the main power circuit, priming engines, disengaging maglocks, cycling shields. His X-Wing drifted lazily from the asteroid it had been perched on, until his engines burst into life. With a hard left pull of his flight stick, he spun himself around to face the incoming freighter.

"Lock S-foils in attack position." he ordered, toggling his own wings into their split, combat ready, form which gave an X-Wing its signature silhouette.

"I don't have S-foils. Please advise." Dak added, in a tone which put the smug into smuggler.

"Not the time, Gramps." Wes bit back, before asking, "What's our first target, Wedge?"

"First pass, we go for the docked TIEs, maybe get the Imps with their trousers unbelted." Wedge declared, as he led the attack run. Wes and Wedge were both approaching the vessel from the same side of The Narrow, with Wes trailing slightly, while Dak's Y-Wing was on the far side of the transport.

The freighter's bridge was a frenzied flurry of frantic energy. Multiple voices called out, speaking over each other, relaying status updates from various subsystems.

"Captain, enemy starships detected."
"Proximity alerts port and starboard, sir."
"Sensors indicate three snubfighters."

The captain of the vessel stood firmly at the fore of the bridge, surveying the vista beyond the transparisteel window. He shifted uncomfortably, trying vainly to redistribute his corpulent bulk within the confines of his overly constricting uniform. His bushy moustache twitched involuntarily, as he wondered whether the attackers were pirates or rebels. Not that it would matter, he supposed. Either way, the end result would be the same.

"What are you bloody waiting for, an invitation?!" he barked to his subordinates,  "Raise the shields, launch all TIEs. And somebody contact the admiral!" He continued to stare outwards at the planet Andriss, his sharp tone and steely gaze in sharp contrast to the fear growing in his core. This wasn't the life he wished to live. He wasn't built for combat, it's why he'd refused himself promotions, sabotaged his own results, maintaining a carefully curated level of mediocrity to ensure he never rose above his current rank. Captaining a transport afforded him all the benefits of authority, without the tedious politics of the Imperial Court, or the responsibility or risk of commanding a militarized vessel. He vowed that these rebels, or pirates, or whatevers, would pay dearly for ruining an otherwise agreeable morning.

"Making my attack run." Dak said, lining his crosshairs against the middle of the three docked TIEs on his side of the freighter. With a short squeeze of the trigger, he unleashed a burst of scarlet plasma bolts at the TIE, and waited for the satisfying cloud of a vaporised enemy.

"Karabast!" he exclaimed, angrily, as he pulled away from the transport. "Their shields are already up. I can't penetrate it."

"I've heard that before. Leave it to the young and virile." Wes quipped.

"Charming." replied Wedge. "OK, Wes, front TIE, on my mark. Synchronous fire." Given their guerilla tactics and limited resources, Rebel strategists had to be particularly inventive with methods of waging war against a vastly superior foe. Wedge  was more than just a skilled pilot, he had an instinctive tactical grasp and had a created a number of unique maneuvers, including a method of piercing the shield of a capital ship. Multiple fighters could synch their targeting computers, allowing them to focus all their firepower on a single point. Both X-Wings fired simultaneously, each laser striking the shield at the same exact location. Under such sustained fire, the shield flickered, momentarily. Just enough to allow a couple of blasts past the defences. Wes hollered with delight as the first TIE exploded in a shower of smoke and shrapnel.

"Nice move boys, but don't get cocky." Dak said, swinging his Y-Wing around for a second run. "You've just woken the hive." The remaining TIEs began to detach, entering the fray.

"We won't be able to focus on disabling  the freighter with eyeballs on our tail." Wes warned, as he looped away from the transport.

"Then choose your targets, fire at will. We have to clear this space before the freighter gets away." Wedge ordered, as he twisted his X-Wing towards the nearest enemy fighter.  This was the moment he lived for. All three of them did. The exhilarating thrill of combat, flying by instinct alone, free from life's distractions, pinning your life on the strength of your skill. Nothing gives a rush quite like a dogfight, which explains why the life expectancy of a pilot is one of the lowest in the entire Alliance.

Dak watched as a TIE came into his view, banking to the right across his cockpit canopy. He toggled his throttle, matching its speed, and fired in its direction. His plasma shots overshot by a large margin. The TIE turned suddenly, angling upwards to escape. The pilot was panicked, Dak thought, exactly as he'd planned. He cut his throttle and pulled his flight stick forward, killing his forward momentum and allowing him to maneuver tightly. He primed his trigger as he drifted on his axis, waiting to line up with the evasive TIE. Dak chose his moment, and loosed a single shot which tore through the hull of the unshielded TIE, shredding the cockpit as its wings spun off in opposing directions, propelled by the rapidly expanding cloud of gas and fire blooming from the destroyed cradt.

"One down, four to go!" laughed Dak, as he accelerated through the vaporised remains of his target. Never one to leave a pithy comment unsaid, Wes responded, "Good job with the straggler, fancy giving us a hand with the rest?"

"If you ask nicely, I'll consider it." Dak said, with a wry smile blossoming on his bearded face.

"So glad you two are getting along, but need I remind you that time's running short?" Wedge sighed, feeling like a substitute instructor trying to manage an unruly classroom.

Star Wars: Old Wounds (1)

Rebel pilot Wedge Antilles scanned the darkened cockpit of his T-65 X-Wing fighter, checking that its systems were operational for the third time. Even in the best maintained starships, a single overlooked error or minor mechanical fault could spell death, and the Alliance operated well below ideal conditions. The majority of their fleet was comprised of craft discarded by the rest of the galaxy as junk, held together with salvaged spares and wishful thinking. This wasn't the Imperial Academy, where pilots could jump into any homogenised TIE fighter and have it perform identically to the simulators. Rebel fighters were practically unique, each one handling subtly differently, each with its own particular quirks and weaknesses. The best pilots knew as much about their ships as the mechanics and droids who repaired them. And Wedge wasn't just one of the best. Through countless hours, he'd learned to become one with his X-Wing. He knew how and when to brace during rapid maneuvers, to account for the delay in its inertial dampers. He had learned to compensate for the slightly off centre firing pattern of its quad-cannons.

Finding that everything was exactly as he'd found it not five minutes prior, Wedge sighed as he glanced at the planet Andriss, suspended in the stellar backdrop above him. A minor mining world, one of thousands of similar backwater colonies scattered across the Outer Rim, though even among such planets, Andriss was unremarkable. Its mineral deposits were primarily comprised of common ores of middling quality, trapped in tough, unyielding rock. The planet was surrounded by a dense asteroid field, a natural barrier with a small gap through which the system's meager transport was funneled, known locally as "The Narrow". Wedge's fighter clung to the underside of one of the asteroids at the edge of The Narrow, like a Nuba bird awaiting its prey, along with a second X-Wing and an older Y-Wing bomber. The ships were in low-power mode, to minimize their profile from enemy sensors.

"Stand by, Red Group." Wedge announced into his local comlink to his wingmen. "Report in." Instantly, the bold voice of Wes Janson chimed back.

"Sir, yes sir! This is Red Six, standing by! Sir! Ready and willing to lay down my life for the cause, sir!"

"Cut the chatter, Red Six. We're on assignment." Wedge replied, exacerbated.

"Wedge, there's only three of us on this mission, loosen up. Besides, we've been waiting for over an hour for the Imps to show up. I've got to let off steam somehow." Retorted Wes.

"Which means the target cargo freighter is due any moment. Save your energy for the fight."

"Actually, I'm with Wes on this one." came a third, older voice. "We're Rebels who can't even keep an entire squadron flying simultaneously. We hardly deserve the formalities of an actual unit."

"Red Two, Gramps is agreeing with me and I don't like it. Permission to vaporize him?" Wes asked, feigning panic.

"Denied." Wedge replied, tersely.

"Permission to vent myself into the void then?"

"Also denied. Can you both just try and get along, at least until this mission is complete?"

"Wes started it." added the third voice, gruffly. "It's not my fault he's a hot headed jockey who doesn't know how to keep quiet for more than a few seconds." Wedge closed his eyes and counted to five, while wishing he was dealing with literal children instead. Or trying to herd gundarks. Anything other than trying to deal with these two would have been preferable. After finding a shred of inner calm, Wedge spoke.

"I said, that's enough. Wes can be a bit, talkative, but I expected a man like you to act your age, Dak."

"Ooh, boss called you old, Gramps." Wes cooed, before adding, "You sure you've still got the reactions for this? You are almost as decrepit as that rust bucket of a Y-Wing, after all."

"With me piloting, this rust bucket could fly rings around you anytime." boasted Dak, laughing. Before Wes could come back with another remark however, Wedge's astromech droid began a flurry of frenzied beeps over the comlink.

"Slow down, R4." Wedge said to his droid, as he scanned the translated output on his monitor. "R4 has detected a trace of Hyperspace activity at the edge of the system. Our target is on the way." he added, for the benefit of his comrades.

"When do we go hot, Red Two?" Wes asked, all traces of levity removed from his tone.

"Too busy talking through the briefing?" Dak commented, smugly, before being silenced by Wedge. Wedge sighed again, inwardly as he reflected on his wingmen. Janson had a way of needling his way underneath anyone's skin, true, but at least he knew when to stop. Dak on the other hand, was either to old to care or too old to change, possibly both, Wedge thought. That was the trouble with smugglers though, most of the ones Wedge had met were too independent and head-strong to work as team players. Sadly, the Alliance couldn't afford to turn away anyone who dared stand against the Empire.

"Just so we're ALL clear on the plan," Wedge stated, with particular emphasis, "Wait for the transport to approach The Narrow. As it does so, we detach and strike the cruiser. Delay it until orbital drift moves The Narrow out of the transport's trajectory, that'll also slow any reinforcements from the planet below. Wes and I will deal with the fighter escort..."

"Allowing me to swoop in and disable the transport. What these Y-Wings lose in maneuverability, they more than make up for with firepower." Dak interjected. Wedge coughed abruptly before speaking over the smuggler's comments.

"Then, I signal our support ship to jump in and board the Imperial transport, they relieve the Imps of precious supplies, and we jump away before they can retaliate."

After a moment, Wedge spoke again, his voice as cold as the void beyond his cockpit canopy. "And Dak? Any further insubordination and you will be facing a demotion at best. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal." Dak replied, lightly. If he was concerned by the ultimatum he'd received, he certainly didn't show it.

J&L: Emissary of the Eldritch (11)

PGL: "I've been wondering about these corridors we're racing through..."

HGJ: "Save your architectural admiration until we're all out of harms way."

PGL: "It's just... if Valgthoth is an entity embodying chaos and thus not a strictly physical presence, who built all this, and for what purpose?"

Guide: "These profane hallways were constructed by the acolytes, what you refer to as frogmen. Poor lost souls who succumbed to the dark forces of this realm. Twisted beyond recognition, they are little more than beasts. As for why they built these structures, who can say? Some think it to be in veneration of their supposed God. Others, that some vestigial memories of home call to them."

HGJ: "Poor devils."

Guide: "It is a tormented existence, bound to the will of Valgthoth. Indirectly, of course."

PGL: "Similar to the immune system then? They fight off infections and preserve the host, without the host directly controlling it?"

Guide: "Exactly. Now, enough chat. If I recall, the courtyard is through here... A-ha!"

PGL: "There's Professor Fenchurch!"

HGJ: "And he's holding Howie by the scruff of the neck. By jingo the kid is still kicking, that's the spirit."

PGL: "Who are those other two, they seem to be bound together and unconscious?"

Guide: "That would be the boy's mother and grandfather. Fenchurch is using them as insurance, holding their lives in his hand to force the boy to comply. An effective strategy."

PGL: "He intends to what, sacrifice Howard to Valgthoth?"

Guide: "In a manner of speaking. There's something in the boy's bloodline, some latent link that makes him sensitive to the arcane realms. Spilling that blood, in the sanctum of Valgthoth's realm, would be a large enough source of power to draw his attention towards Earth. No doubt Fenchurch believes his God will purify a corrupt world. Fool. Valgthoth cares not for our morals, he will only devour."

HGJ: "Then we've got to act now, to save Howie!"

PGL: "We can't just race in. He's got the boy in the centre of the courtyard, at least twenty yards away. But look around, skulking in the archways around the circumference, there must be dozens of the frogmen, all watching, waiting, and ready to strike."

HGJ: "We've got to do something. But how? There's no way we can take on that many foes, all at once."

Guide: "I have an idea. I can distract them, keep them from interfering, but you two must be ready to rush in."

PGL: "You can't seriously expect to hold off all of them?!"

Guide: "In fact, I do. I can cast a ward of protection around the courtyard, an impenetrable circle of fire, provided I'm not disturbed. It'll require my undivided attention to maintain the barrier, so you'll have to act alone."

HGJ: "If you're sure then. Thank you, and good luck."

Guide: "Be ready... Once I begin you'll lose the element of surprise... here goes nothing!"

PGL: "Quickly Henry!"

HGJ: "Right you are George!"

PAF: "What the...?! Acolytes, attack! What sorcery is this? I don't need their help anyway. Oh, very well, stop right there, both of you!"

HGJ: "Not blooming likely."

PAF: "Stop, or the child dies. That's it, much more civilized. Now then, Litefoot, I didn't take you for the conjuring sort. How did you create the barrier?"

PGL: "Funny, I didn't take you for the devil worshipping sort. You really never can tell, can you?"

PAF: "Droll, to the end, George. It doesn't matter, anyway. Nothing does. Not in the cruel cesspool which we all hail from: a world of violence, drugs, sins of pleasure and excess, disease and famine. Soon, the great cleanser will wipe away the scum of the Earth."

HGJ: "Then let him start with you. You disgust me. You dare to rave about cruelty while threatening the life of a child?"

PAF: "You're wrong. Absolutely. Because I don't threaten. Watch."

HGJ: "No!"

PGL: "Howard!"

HGJ: "You stabbed him!"

PAF: "And now I drop him. Right in the centre of this circle of power, where his blood can seep into the foundation stones of this paradise. It is done."

HGJ: "Rrrrrraghhhh!"

PAF: "Get off me, you ignorant oaf."

PGL: "Oh, Howard. Hold on, I've got you. Gently now, let me get a look at that wound. It's bad, but not as bad as I feared. The blade pierced the abdomen, but seems to have missed all major organs. Lots of blood though. Let's see if we can't staunch that flow, shall we?"

HGJ: "You vile cove! You brigand! How could you?!"

PAF: "Come now, all things die, it is the natural way. All I've done is accelerate the process. Unhand me before I am compelled to do something uncouth."

PGL: "*inwardly* Oh Henry. I wish I could help you in your struggle, but if I don't keep pressure on this wound, Howard will die. I'm not even sure if I can save him as is."

HGJ: "What's the matter, getting tired? Oh, my you're strong for a bookworm."

PAF: "Your ceaseless prattle won't save you from my blade. I've had enough of your tiresome interference. Be gone!"

HGJ: "Ugh!"

PGL: "No, Jago!"

HGJ: "Oof, that smarts. Slit me right across my palm. Aahhh, the pain. Bloody stings that."

PAF: "There's more where that came from, I assure you. But now, behold! The Absent Lord awakes from his slumber! Feel the quaking below, gaze upwards into the infinite majesty, see how the sky blazes with radiant light!"

HGJ: "Looks more like a tear to me. A great and terrible rending of the heavens."

PGL: "No, not a tear. Look closer, it's cracking open... it's an eyelid!"

HGJ: "Gracious! An enormous eye, filling the very sky itself."

PAF: "God gazes upon us! The reckoning cometh!"

HGJ: "I wouldn't count on it, Professor. You've made a fatal mistake, turning your blade on me."

PAF: "What are you playing at?"

HGJ: "I don't claim to understand much of what's going on here, but I'm willing to bet that the man upstairs won't take kindly to your offering if it's tainted."

PAF: "What? No, you don't know what you're doing! Stop!"

HGJ: "You cut my palm wide open, I'm just letting the blood fall... where it can mix with Howard's."

PGL: "Good show Henry, dilute Fenchurch's offering. I doubt Valgthoth will be best pleased if he feels cheated."

PAF: "My Lord, I am sorry! These heathens have spoiled the sacrifice I've laid before you, but I can redeem myself. I shall bring you a hundred more, nay, a thousand. I'll find others, with a lineage as powerful as the boy's. I... urk.... no.... please!"

HGJ: "How revolting."

PGL: "His skin is flaking, falling away like ash, revealing... are those scales?"

Guide: "Watch as his limbs twist and grow, his teeth lengthen and his body becomes... amphibious. I told you, the acolytes are the unfortunate who succumb to the powers of this realm."

HGJ: "Well, he deserves everything that comes to him. George, how's poor Howie?"

PGL: "He's in a bad way. A very bad way. I'm not sure what else I can do."

HGJ: "Then we've failed him."

Guide: "Not quite, gentlemen. Allow me to share a little more energy. Just enough of a healing force to knit the wound back together. We have a few moments before the acolytes attack. They feel compelled to venerate their God first."

PGL: "The marvels you can perform, whoever you are."

Guide: "Healing the boy is not difficult. It helps that our destinies are entwined, in a manner of speaking."

HGJ: "More riddles."

Guide: "It is done. He will need rest, but he will heal, in time. At least, his body will. The mind is a more fragile thing. I've left him in an amnesiac state, to spare him the exact trauma of the day. But his dreams will remain haunted by flashes of this nightmare. His guardians too will not retain their memories. The human brain has a propensity to filter out anything that does not conform to its expectations of reality. Most live in a blissful ignorance."

PGL: "How do we escape? And hasn't Valgthoth's attention been drawn to Earth? We have to stop him."

Guide: "We couldn't even if we wanted to. He is a foe beyond any of us. The best we can do is destroy the book. Break the link between both worlds, and cut off this avenue."

HGJ: "Will that really work?"

Guide: "To a point. It prevents him from crossing over using this gateway. But there will be others like Fenchurch. There always are. We have done all we can. What happens in other places and times, we cannot control."

PGL: "Did you say other times?"

Guide: "Yes. Time flows differently here, outside of the laws of relative causality. In this realm, moments are simultaneous, not concurrent. Now, we must act. Litefoot, fetch the book."

PGL: "Here it is. Now what?"

Guide: "Open it, and set it down by the mother."

HGJ: "It worked, the portal opened again."

PGL: "I trust it leads back to the bookshop, and not some other foul dimension?"

Guide: "No need to worry. It's quite safe. As safe as anything can be when dealing with incomprehensible forces. Let's start by sending the two adults through."

HGJ: "OK Litefoot. I've got Howie. His guardians have been safely sent away, so now we should follow before the frogmen come to their senses."

PGL: "A moment, Jago. I have to ask, one more time. Who is our mysterious guide? How does he know so much,and why is he so eager to help us?"

Guide: "Have you really not worked it out? I told you already, that time works differently here. I know what happens, because for me it's already happened. My name is Lovecraft. Howard Phillip Lovecraft."

HGJ: "*spluttering* But... what... how.... I don't follow."

Guide: "It's alright Henry. You don't need to. Just think of me as a guide."

HGJ: "But, I'm holding you as a lad. And you're standing before me..."

Guide: "Time travel has always been possible in dreams."

PGL: "Let's not fret over it Henry. A good stuff drink in the Red Tavern should help you collect your thoughts. Howard, I thank you."

Guide: "Don't thank me. You're the ones who found me, cared for me, and reunited me with my dear mother. All I've don't is aid myself."

PGL: "I suppose this is goodbye then? We travel through the gateway, then burn the book, and that's the end of Valgthoth?"

Guide: "The end? Oh no, definitely not. Chaos can only ever be postponed. But it's where our dealing with him ends, yes. But before you go, I have one final warning."

HGJ: "What is it?"

Guide: "There is something coming. Something evil stalks the astral planes. Unlike Valgthoth this force is malicious and intelligent. Beware the King of Worms, for he comes for you both. A reckoning long overdue awaits you. I'm sorry I cant be more specific that's all I can see."

PGL: "Most ominous."

HGJ: "Goodbye, Howard. Safe travels."

Guide: "You too, Henry. And to you, George."

*The portal hums with energy as the pair traverse it's threshold, with young Howard in Jago's arms."

HGJ: "We're back then. All present and accounted for?"

PGL: "Seems to be. Now, to burn that book, once and for all."

Grandfather: "My head... You there, can someone tell me what's going on? I... can't seem to remember..."

HGJ: "Ah, you're awake. Good."

Grandfather: "Who... why... Hold on. You'd better have a damn good reason as to why you're holding my grandson. And what the devil happened to him?"

HGJ: "I can explain. Oh corks, can I? You see, the thing is..."

PGL: "Ah, good to see you up and about. My name is Professor George Litefoot, a police pathologist. It seems you and your family were the victims of a rather violent mugger. There was an altercation which resulted in you, your daughter and grandson being rendered unconscious, which may account for any hazy memories."

Grandfather: "What?"

PGL: "You're undoubtedly confused by the whole ordeal. However, I can assure you that there will be no lasting damage to any of your family members. A flood nights rest should see you right as rain."

Grandfather: "What about compensation? We come to your country and get taken prisoner by some street thug?"

HGJ: "Allow me to help with that, sir. Inspector Quick, of Scotland Yard. This isn't exactly protocol, but given your status as tourists to our fine country, an exception can be made. The vagabond ran a bookshop, presumably as a front for his criminal dealings. Now, money in his safe is technically evidence, but I'm sure a few pounds could be overlooked. To cover your incurred expenses, travel and accommodation. Things of that nature."

Grandfather: "It'll do, I suppose. Now give me the child, I need to tend to my family."

HGJ: "Of course sir."

PGL: "*aside* That was some quick improvisation, Inspector."

HGJ: "*aside* First thing I could think of."

PGL: *aside* At least Howard is back where he belongs. They'll be OK. We know so, we've met his future self."

HGJ: "*aside* Still gives me a headache, trying to wrap my head around it."

PGL: "*aside* Never mind. Let's just see to it that these lot get on their way, then we can have a nice, relaxing drink at the Red Tavern."

HGJ: "And what of Howard's warning? This King of Worms?"

PGL: "A problem for another day, Henry."

J&L: Emissary of the Eldritch (10)

HGJ: "Where the devil are we?"

PGL: "I have no earthly idea, Henry. But then again, that is rather the point, I suppose. Wherever we are, it's not Earth."

HGJ: "This is no time for levity George! Those ichthyological invaders took poor Howie to this foul realm. I mean, look at it all... We're stood on this obsidian outcrop, surrounded by a sea of soupy slime. Bubbling away like the Devil's cauldron."

PGL: "Not to mention the sky! A haunting expanse of viridian gloom. Almost beautiful, in a bleak sort of way."

HGJ: "More like unsettling, if you ask me. The portal which brought us here has vanished, so where do we go now?"

PGL: "An excellent question, but one whose answer is elusive. There's a sort of structure over there, some kind of rocky protrusion. It's the only notable landmark I can spy, but dashed if I know how to get there."

HGJ: "I don't particularly fancy swimming that distance. Not in this odious ooze."

Guide: "Then perhaps a guide can assist."

HGJ: "What the blazes?!"

PGL: "Who are you and what do you want?  Speak plainly, we're in no mood for games."

Guide: "Both of you, please, be calm. I am here to help. I know you seek the boy, and I know there is still time to save him. Him, and the world at large."

HGJ: "How do you know? Eh? And how can we be sure you're trustworthy? For all we know, you could be in league with the frogmen. You could be behind all of this!"

PGL: "It is convenient to find another human in this evil place, especially one who claims to have such answers."

Guide: "Gentlemen. I understand your reticence, but we have little time to act if we are to prevail."

HGJ: "Then I suggest you explain quickly."

Guide: "Very well. I am a traveller, and a wanderer. I walk between worlds, inhabiting the spaces between, prowling the cracks and the voids woven among realities. I dance across the dimensions, observing and studying. There are a myriad of realms beyond the understanding of most men. Creatures and domains dreamed only by the most visionary of minds. To the humble flea, a dog is the entire universe. It cannot comprehend the expanse beyond its world."

PGL: "How very poetic. So, why do you appear human? Some disguise to put us at ease?"

Guide: "I am as human as you are."

HGJ: "Nonsense. How does a human travel as you claim to?"

Guide: "How did you come to be here? You found a gateway. In your case the gateway was tangible. Physical. You were transported here. It is an experience I long for, as I am only able to wander the realms in my dreams."

PGL: "You claim to be some kind of spirit walker?"

Guide: "I use astral projection to decouple my mind from my body, and let my essence drift on the tidal forces of the universe. It is an acquired talent, one practiced by several exotic monastic groups. Most practitioners barely manage an out of body experience, but I've always had a certain affinity with the wider world. I've always seen things differently to others, after all."

PGL: "I would find this a hard story to stomach, where it not for the fact that we've crossed paths with others who have demonstrated a similar talent. But it's still rather a coincidence that you've found us, here, now. And you happen to know about us."

Guide: "Something to which I have a valid explanation. But one I cannot share. Not yet. Not while things remain in flux."

HGJ: "Well, if you can't explain yourself to us, maybe you could explain who Valgthoth is, and why the child is so important."

Guide: "Very well, but I must remain brief. This is the heart of the dimension where the entity known as Valgthoth resides. Now, he has a reputation as an evil spirit, a force of malevolent destruction bent on invading our realm and annihilating all things. This is both factually incorrect, and rather a selfish line of thought. Valgthoth is a being beyond our understanding, he exists on a scale far in excess of our ability to rationalize. We are all of us insignificant insects to him, barely worthy of notice. To call him evil is to call a hurricane angry."

PGL: "So, he's more of an anthropomorphic force of nature than a living being?"

Guide: "Still a simplification, but about as accurate as we can be, yes. Consider him the embodiment of chaotic entropy. A universal law, the inescapable end state of all things."

HGJ: "But what about the cults? The insidious incantations and repulsive rites?  If Valgthoth is beyond humanity, why would he care for such token pageantry?"

Guide: "Another excellent question. The answer is energy. By themselves, the rituals are meaningless. But through iteration, and faith, the actions have been imbued with a certain energy. Powered by belief, a sort of potential energy. And sometimes, rarely, these actions are inherently powerful, by utter random chance. Certain energies when released, can tug at the stands of the higher dimensions. Cutting a single thread can cause the entire cloth to unravel. This energy, these ripples resonate across the cosmos, where creatures like Valgthoth can feed on the raw power."

HGJ: "This is a bit beyond me, I'm afraid. I'm not following."

PGL: "I think what our mysterious guide is attempting to explain, in simple terms, is that the cult's meddling is only serving to draw Valgthoth's attention to our otherwise unremarkable world, which will result in untold chaos. In much the same way unsafe blasting in a mine can bring about a cave-in, or earthquakes."

HGJ: "How are we supposed to stop an earthquake?"

Guide: "You can start by preventing the misguided Professor Fenchurch from doing any more damage. Allow me to clear the way."

HGJ: "My word! You made those rocks rise up out of the sea, with nothing more than a hand gesture."

Guide: "The perks of being attuned to this reality. I can call upon the unique forces of this dimension with ease. But don't go trying anything yourselves, it takes years of practice, and runs the risk of inviting other spirits into your forms."

PGL: "I wouldn't dream of it! I don't like messing with things I don't understand."

HGJ: "Magic is best left on the stage, in my view. In the hands of the professionals. And entirely in the purview of trickery and theatrics."

Guide: "I must say, you're both taking all of this very well. I've seen this kind of knowledge tear men's minds apart."

PGL: "We've seen our fair share of extraordinary phenomena in our time. Though I suspect in this case, our lack of full comprehension of our surroundings is keeping us from such raving madness."

Guide: "Indeed. Now, let us move onward. The boy does not have much time remaining. Run!"

J&L: Emissary of the Eldritch (9)

PGL: "I'll check the doors and windows, make sure we're secure. Jago, you find something to arm yourself with, and prepare for trouble."

HGJ: "A sterling plan, George. Ah... right... now... weapons. Oh, lummie. Need to find something useful, focus Henry. What have we here, a carving knife, lacks a decent range, no. A chair perhaps? I could fend off these fishy frogmen like a lion tamer... too awkward."

*The creatures thump and pound on the glass window. The frame creaks under the pressure.*

HGJ: "Corks! That perilous pane won't hold the coves for long... A-ha! That's just the ticket, a fire poker, perfect. I'm not exactly the swashbuckling type, but I'll have to make do. Engarde!"

*With a thunderous crash, the window gives way.*

HGJ: "Come on then, have at you! Yeah-hah! Stay back, I'm warning you...  I once toured the south of England, in my youth, in a production of Treasure Island. *ugh* It taught me everything I needed to know about swordplay. True, my character was stabbed in the first act, but you get the point..."

*One of the frogmen cries in pain*

HGJ: "Quite literally, in fact. But there are rather a lot of you, aren't there? Oh, where's Litefoot gotten to?"

PGL: "Right behind you, Jago!"

HGJ: "Thank heavens for that! About time you got back here, I... is that...?"

PGL: "My father's old hunting rifle? Indeed. Though it hasn't been used since we took care of the giant rat of Weng Chiang."

HGJ: "Let's hope it still fires then."

*A crack of gunfire*

HGJ: "You missed!"

PGL: "I wasn't aiming for the creatures. There's too many of them anyway. I'm just trying to distract them, make some noise."

HGJ: "It seems to be working!  The creatures aren't advancing."

PGL: "It's unlikely a noise like that will go unnoticed. Our assailants have lost the element of surprise now. Maybe it's enough to force a retreat?"

*Another crash of broken glass echoes through the house, from father away*

PGL: "That sounded like it came..."

HGJ: "From upstairs!"

Both: "Howard!"

HGJ: "They must have scaled the ivy to reach his room, while we were busy defending the dining room."

PGL: "How could we have been so blind?"

HP: "Jago, help!"

HGJ: "We're coming Howie, just hold on!"

PGL: "No! We're too late..."

HGJ: "Those brigands can move sharpish when they need to."

PGL: "They're carrying the boy like he's nothing more than a sack of potatoes. Come on, we've got to hurry, they've already reached the drive."

HGJ: "Hold on Howie, we're coming, don't you worry!"

***

PGL: "Oh, it's no use. We can barely see anything in this gloom, nor can I hear young Howard's cries any longer."

HGJ: "Damn it Litefoot, we can't just give up. A child's life hangs in the balance, and it's all our fault."

PGL: "Oh, Henry... I'm not suggesting we stop our search, merely that we alter our approach. We can't match the blighters in speed, but maybe we can outsmart them."

HGJ: "You have some cunning plan then?"

PGL: "Well, you did manage to stab one of the frogmen in it's torso. I happened to notice it didn't bleed, at least not like a human would. The wound oozed a dark, purple, viscous ichor. Ah, look here! Several droplets of just that substance, fresh upon the cobblestones."

HGJ: "And you think we could track it by following this trail left by the injury?"

PGL: "It depends on a number of factors, the coagulant rate of the fluid for one, and it assumes the injured one remained with the one who took Howard..."

HGJ: "It's still our only hope George. And if it doesn't lead us to Howard directly, I'm sure we'll be led straight to whomever is behind this entire ordeal."

***

HGJ: "This way, I think. Dash it all, the trail is thinning out. It seems to lead into that shop there."

PGL: "I was afraid we'd end up here."

HGJ: "You know the place?"

PGL: "Unfortunately. That establishment, my friend, is owned by none other than Quentin Renwick."

HGJ: "The bounder! What are we waiting for, let's go meet the cad."

PGL: "Henry, wait! It could be... dangerous. And he's already inside. So much for any chance of a stealth approach then."

HGJ: "Mr. Renwick? Come out you monster. Give us back the boy and maybe we won't inform the authorities about your little schemes. I... ugh... that stench... foul and fetid, thick and tangy. It's so thick I can hardly breathe, an odour that fills the throat."

PGL: "That is the cloying smell of death, I'm afraid. Blood and decay if I'm not mistaken, with a hint of incense or some other ritualistic tokens."

HGJ: "Blood? It can't be, surely not..."

PGL: "I don't think so, no. There's a hint of rot in the air. The blood that was spilled here must be a few hours old, I reckon, so it can't be Howard's. But going by the strength of the stench, I fear we shall find rather a lot of it."

HGJ: "Look here! Is that... oh corks! A body!"

PGL: "My word, Quentin?! That's Quentin Renwick, and he's most certainly dead."

HGJ: "So he's not behind all this then? Unless those fish faces turned on him for some reason."

PGL: "I don't know, Jago. I'll see what I can tell from his injuries... Yes, see here, his throat was slit."

HGJ: "I'd rather not, if I'm honest. I'll take your word for it."

PGL: "The flesh isn't torn, so a sharp blade was likely used. Possibly ritualistic in nature. No signs of struggle, or bruising. However it wasn't self inflicted."

HGJ: "Ah, because the knife is missing?"

PGL: "Something more glaring, Jago. There's also no blood. Barely a drop int his clothes or around the wound even."

HGJ: "But it must be around here somewhere. I can smell it."

PGL: "Then I suggest we follow our noses, though I fear what we may uncover."

HGJ: "It seems to be stronger towards that curtained off section at the rear of the shop."

PGL: "Quentin's private collection, where he kept the book pertaining to Valgthoth."

HGJ: "Well then, let's see what we find then. Ahem. You first. You have the stronger stomach when it comes to sickening sights."

PGL: "Very well then. My goodness!"

HGJ: "You were right about the ritual then. Are those..."

PGL: "Human skulls, yes. Arranged in a circle in the middle of the room, surrounded by dribbling candles."

HGJ: "Never mind the candles, I'm more concerned with the arcane symbols adorning the floor, painted in blood!"

PGL: "Someone definitely attempted to perform some dark ritual here."

HGJ: "Followers of Valgthoth? Those frogmen? And to what end? Are we too late to prevent whatever evil end this rite was supposed to cause?"

PGL: "I think the answers are contained in Quentin's book. The book on the lectern at the centre of the circle."

HGJ: "Careful Litefoot."

PGL: "It's just a book Henry. What could possibly..."

*A sudden hum of energy fills the room.*

HGJ: "George? What's going on? I can't see you through the glare!"

PGL: "It's the book Henry. Its emitting a sort of green glow. I can feel it, tugging at me."

HGJ: "Close the book! Close it!"

PGL: "I can't... move... some force is drawing me inwards..."

HGJ: "I feel it too! Oh, corks. I never expected my cause of death to read 'devoured by a dictionary'."

*both men cry out until the humming ends abruptly, and the book slams shut, leaving nothing but a lingering silence*

J&L: Emissary of the Eldritch (8)

PAF: "Quentin, old boy! Good to see you! Allow me to introduce my newest colleague, Professor George Litefoot."

QR: "Quentin Renwick, at your service. Purveyor of priceless parchments, obscure almanacs, recondite recording and treasured tomes."

PGL: "Quite the collection you have here, Quentin. I must say I'm impressed, speaking as something of a bibliophile."

QR: "Ah, then you are in the best of company here! We are all of us lovers of the lexicon, disciples of the dissertation. You know, not a week goes by without the Professor, the other professor I mean, coming here searching for some missing manuscript."

PAF: "Please Quentin, you make it sound like I pester you! Besides, it's a testament to your craft that you have never let me down. There's not a book that's been bound that Quentin here can't track down."

QR: "You're too kind. I merely provide a humble service. Now, how may I help you gentlemen?"

PAF: "Litefoot here has been trying to track down some particularly elusive material. Something even I have scant knowledge of."

QR: "Curiosity should never go unrewarded. Upon what topic are you ruminating, Litefoot? May as well try and narrow our search."

PGL: "I'm afraid I have precious little information to work with. Little more than a name in fact."

QR: "An author, I presume."

PAF: "No, the name is the subject. I believe it to be that of an Ancient God, but one whom I have only a fleeting knowledge of."

QR: "Ah, arcane advice pertaining to the Almighty? Follow me to the back room gentlemen. There I keep my most prized possessions. Mysterious mystical monographs, occult opuses, books of power and incomprehensible secrets. But pray tell,what is this name of which you speak about? I note neither of you has yet uttered its sound. Which dark deity could have you so shy?"

PGL: "Valgthoth. The name I seek is Valgthoth. Do you happen to recognize it?"

QR: "The name is familiar, though faintly. My, but you have particularly esoteric interests, Professor."

PGL: "What can you tell us about him?"

QR: "Not much, I'm afraid. The name appears in some of the oldest tomes and texts, he is one of the most ancient of recorded deities. Even then, there is some doubt among the scant sources available. Some scholars question if Valgthoth was ever worshiped, or always merely considered a myth to frighten children."

PAF: "And which do you believe, Quentin?"

QR: "There is no archaeological evidence of shines or symbols of worship for Valgthoth, I admit. And yet, I'm strangely drawn to the tales. Personally, I think he was worshipped as a God by the very earliest of human civilizations. A time preceding even cave drawings and communities."

PGL: "There's something fitting about all this, you know. It's ironic that there's so little tangible evidence of a deity personifying the very concept of nothingness. Is there anything else you can add, Quentin?"

PAF: "Surely there's something squirreled away in this den of yours."

QR: "There is one book. A most dangerous and occult tome, filled with various rituals and invocations. There is a small passage which refers to a method of inviting an emissary of Valgthoth to our realm. If you believe in such superstition, of course."

PGL: "May I see this passage? It would be of great assistance to my investigation."

QR: "I'm afraid that is be impossible. The book is quite fragile, and exceedingly expensive. It is a one of a kind item."

PAF: "Surely you can make an exception, for a dear friend such as myself?"

QR: "No Alistair. That book is private, and I cannot allow such knowledge to fall into... troublesome... hands. I'm sorry Professor Litefoot, but I can be of no further assistance. It would serve you well to forgot you ever heard the name Valgthoth. Some stones are best left unturned."

PGL: "Mr. Renwick, Quentin... I..."

QR: "I'm sorry, but you must leave, now. Both of you. My shop is closing. Good day to you."

*A brief commotion as the professors are shoved out, and the door latches shut*

PGL: "Well, that was somewhat abrupt. We need to see that book, Alistair. Perhaps if I contact the Inspector, he could procure a warrant..."

PAF: "Pay him no heed, George. He's prone to bouts of mild paranoia, nothing to worry about. I'll give him some time to come around, then ask him again when he's in his right mind. I'll contact you if and when I get through to the man. If nothing comes of it, then feel free to bring in the power of the law. Let's not be hasty though."

PGL: "Very well, Alistair. Thank you. I hope you succeed, for poor Howard's sake."

*Later that evening, Jago and Howard rejoin the Professor at his abode*

HGJ: "Ah, George! I've just set the young chap in his bed. Little tyke fell asleep on the carriage from the theatre. Didn't have the heart to wake him. It's rare enough he has settled dreams."

PGL: "I take it your afternoon was refreshingly uneventful then?"

HGJ: "No further visits from any nefarious fishmen, if that's what you mean. Howie and I kept busy backstage though, helping some of the acts prepare their performances. He's a bright lad, saw right through all of Mundungo's magical misdirects. Though I don't know if that says more about the boy or the magician."

PGL: "That's some small comfort, for my investigation turned up little worthy of note."

HGJ: "Your professor friend didn't recognize the name then?"

PGL: "He did, but only vaguely. He confirmed that Valgthoth is something of an ancient deity, about whom exists precious little documentation. He did know a bookseller however, who has a compendium of rituals that refer to our mysterious Valgthoth."

HGJ: "And, what did the book contain?"

PGL: "No earthly idea, Jago. The man became agitated as soon as we asked to see the text, then ushered us out with a manic gleam in his eyes. He was a dashed curious chap, very fond of alliteration. He could even give you a run for your money."

HGJ: "He's welcome to try! But my predilection for precise patter is without peer!"

PGL: "You have nothing to fear, old chap. I'm sure you could run verbal rings around him."

HGJ: "Is there no hope of us getting a glimpse of this book then? We're running out of leads, being hunted by frogmen, and Howie is missing his mother more and more with each passing moment."

PGL: "I know, Henry. I wish there was something more we could do, but we have so little to work with. Alistair did say he'd try and talk some sense into Quentin, but..... wait."

HGJ: "What?"

PGL: "Did you hear that? A kind of scuffling noise. Like something rustling in the bushes outside."

HGJ: "Surely it's just a foraging fox or something?"

PGL: "Probably, but I should still check the window, just to be... Corks!"

HGJ: "Frogmen! There must be half a dozen traipsing up your garden path. I can't make out their numbers through the gloom."

PGL: "Then we are under siege, Jago. It's going to be a long night."

J&L: Emissary of the Eldritch (7)

HGJ: "Howie? Howie? We've got to get moving lad!"

HP: "But I haven't gotten my toffee apple yet."

HGJ: "Confound your confections, there are unsavoury amphibians approaching, so we need to get you to safety."

HP: "The frogmen?"

HGJ: "The very coves. Now come along Howie."

PGL: "Agreed. But we're not leaving the way we came. The fiends are approaching from behind us, and beside us."

HGJ: "The way ahead is clear though, if we push through the stalls. We're fortunate that they're shambling so slowly."

PGL: "I'd surmise they're uncomfortable in the light. You go on ahead and keep young Howard safe."

HGJ: "But, what about you George?"

PGL: "Somebody has to distract our pursuers. Besides, I have a plan."

HGJ: "We can't just abandon you."

PGL: "You won't be, it's just a strategic relocation. I'll be fine, Henry. I reason that these frogmen are here for the boy, so they'll give up if he gets away. I hope."

HGJ: "Stay safe, Litefoot, and I'll aim to meet you at your abode tonight. Come along, Howie."

*footsteps fade away as Jago and Howard flee.*

PGL: "You too, old chap. Now, just because I'm alone doesn't mean I'm unarmed. In fact, Jago's childhood reminiscing gave me just the idea. Sir, I'm going to need to buy all the fireworks in your stock."

Seller: "You what?"

PGL: "All of them, please. Right now."

***

*a carriage rattles along cobbled streets*

HP: "Will Litefoot be okay?"

HGJ: "Don't worry, my boy. It'll take more than some feckless fish to finish off the fearless Professor! He'll pull through."

HP: "I hope so, because it's all my fault."

HGJ: "Nonsense, Howie."

HP: "But it is. He was right, the frogmen are coming for me. They must have taken momma too. It's all because of me."

HGJ: "You're not to blame, Howie. Now, I don't know why they've decided to chase you, or what malevolent machinations they have planned, but I know one thing. All the blame lies with them. You're not responsible for the acts of sinister forces. You're a victim, merely a symptom of the rotten disease that makes men do terrible things."

HP: "I suppose so."

HGJ: "Good lad. Now, I know just the thing to get your mind off of such unpleasantness, a trip to the theatre!"

***

*a creature speaks in a hideous, sibilant gurgle, in a language long dead*

Hooded Man: "Incompetent fools! I expected better from Acolytes of the Absence. He's just a child, how hard can it be?! No matter, no matter, there is time to try again, perhaps you may fare better under cover of darkness. Away with you, I must prepare for the next stage of the plan."

***

PGL: "Professor Fenchurch, I presume."

PAF: "Please, as one professor to another, call me Alistair. Sorry to have kept you waiting, George, I had a devil's time getting past Regent's Park this morning. Apparently some cretin set off an entire stall's worth of fireworks at once."

PGL: "*Ahem* Yes, well, there are all sorts about these days. By all accounts the perpetrator managed to slip away through the chaos. Quite shocking, I know."

PAF: "You know, I wouldn't be surprised if it was the work of disgruntled Fenians. But enough politics George, you came here on a quest, did you not?"

PGL: "Hardly anything so adventurous, Alistair. I reached out to you for help with something of a research project I'm working on."

PAF: "Indeed, but I fail to see how a man of medicine would require the opinion of a historian and scholar. Unless of course, it pertains to a particularly cold case."

PGL: "Very droll. Consider this research a hobby of sorts. You see, I've come across the name 'Valgthoth' referenced in a number of places recently, but I've been unable to find much tangible information on the subject. I was hoping you may have some answers for me?"

PAF: "Valgthoth... hmm, nothing comes to mind immediately, but there are quite a number of Sumerian deities on record, and even more yet to be catalogued. I believe I have a tome here somewhere that might jog my memories... I'm sorry, it's a niche subject, please indulge my curiosity... how did you come across this name?"

PGL: "I fear you may think me delusional if I give you the full account."

PAF: "Try me, I have something of an open mind."

PGL: "The name came to me in a dream, yet it was like no dream I've ever experienced before. It all felt so tangible, somehow, and I've been unable to shake the name from my mind since. You must think me insane."

PAF: "A vision? I confess, under any other circumstance I would assume you were jesting, but... yes... there is a reference to a Valgthoth in this book. How curious."

PGL: "I must have heard the name elsewhere, of course, for it to rattle around my subconscious."

PAF: "Most likely. It says here that Valgthoth has many names, The Absent Abyssal, the Lord of Nothingness, the Oldest One. There's really not much text here, and few additional references. I'm not sure how helpful I can be."

PGL: "Please, anything you can add would be most appreciated."

PAF: "Very well. Officially, Valgthoth isn't a god of any particular ancient pantheon, more of a peripheral figure common to multiple religions. Most polytheistic gods represent an aspect of nature, like the sun, or fertility. Most have icons of good or evil. But very few have a personification of Nothing. Existence through Absence."

PGL: "You mean, how a hole exists as a physical construct, when itself is only a gap, a lack of something?"

PAF: "Yes! Exactly! And so Valgthoth is a mythical being, who predates all life, all matter, all energy. He is what never was, and was worshiped by those who seek a purity through oblivion."

PGL: "Well, that sounds ominous."

PAF: "It's all superstition of course. But followers of Valgthoth believed that the world, the universe, life itself was a chaotic mess. Full of crude matter and impure emotion. They believed in a rite that could bring Valgthoth into our world, and wished for him to use his power to obliterate all that is impure."

PGL: "If his followers were so fatalistic, it's no wonder there's little record of Valgthoth left to discover."

PAF: "You know, that destructive rite sounds vaguely familiar. I know a chap, runs an antique bookshop not far from here, he's something of a hoarder of arcane and archaic texts, as he likes to say. I seem to recall once hearing him mention a book bound in flesh and inked in blood, that he claimed had profane secrets. If you can believe such a claim!"

PGL: "As you say, it's all superstition. However, could I possibly have his address? My academic curiosity has been stoked."

PAF: "Not so fast! You've hooked me in now, and I can't let you have all the fun. Come along, I'll take you to him. Besides, you'll be glad of the company. He's something of an acquired taste."

PGL: "I can hardly resist, given how helpful you've been. Lead on then, Alistair."