The sky rolled down to meet the horizon like a billowing, seamless blue curtain on the great stage of the universe.  Beneath it lay the spreading plains of a prehistoric seabed, rolling away in all directions as far as could be seen until it faded into the horizon and became one with the sky.  Long ago the entire land had been submerged beneath the waves of a primordial sea which had once engulfed a third of North America and clove the continent in two from north to south.  But now the blue waters of the sea were long gone, and in their place was instead a sea of brown grass speckled with scrubby green trees and broken up into little geometric blocks fenced off with long strands of barbed wire placed by the curious species of animal which now lived there.  And dividing the land in two from north to south was the great Interstate 35 highway, a tiny filament of asphalt laid out on the face of the earth, threading it’s way through the heart of the United States.

A few miles away from the highway, at a place in the Texas countryside about half way between the Oklahoma border and the outer fringes of the Dallas-Fort Worth metropolitan complex, there was a gravel road.  Here the persistent, gentle roar of the ceaseless stream of traffic along the great highway had long since faded away. The docile rush of cars in the wind was replaced by the feral rush of the wind in the trees which lined the gravel road.  And on the road, there was but a single car.

It was an older car, a Ford Explorer, its green paint chipped and faded here and there, the faux leather upholstery worn thin and torn, and the controls clunky and sticky.  The driver was a man of medium height, about thirty years of age. His eyes were a steely grey color, and his deep, auburn colored hair was tied back in a long ponytail, and on his face he sported a closely cropped goatee which neatly outlined his lower jaw.  He wore an olive green commando sweater over a pair of cargo pants in a speckled German camouflage pattern, and on his feet were a pair of red-brown equestrian boots. Slung over his left shoulder was a leather satchel, while on his right hip there rode an old Heckler and Koch P7M13 semi automatic pistol, the fine walnut grips dinged and dented with age and the dark finish of the metal tinged with a deep violet patina.  

The breeze had picked up slightly, and the sky was beginning to darken.  It was the middle of the afternoon, and a moment ago the sky had been cloudless.  But all of a sudden the world had become dimmer.

The driver slowed to a stop and peered out the window beside him.  The wind was picking up strongly now, and the treetops were beginning to quiver and shake in the untamed breeze.  And beyond the treetops he could see dark columns of clouds hurtling through the sky like fleeing hosts, where before there had been naught but clear skies.

The plants, too, were suddenly different.  The driver wasn’t much of a botanist, but it was plain even to him that the trees and plants around him had shifted, and to either side of the road there was now a dense tangle of plants not native to this part of the country.  Taking a deep breath, the driver reached under the seat next to him and pulled out a compact automatic rifle, a short barreled Ruger AC-556 with faded wood furniture and a folded metal stock. The driver slipped his finger into the trigger guard for a moment and flicked off the safety, and then set the weapon down on the seat beside him well within easy reach.

For somewhere along the gravel road, he had just left Texas behind.

The driver returned his hands to the wheel and as he released the brakes the car began to creep down the road again, a bit more slowly this time.  

Up ahead there was a bend in the road, and the path ahead was obscured by trees.  The car cautiously made its way around the corner, only to jerk to an abrupt stop again as the driver slammed the brakes.

For there, standing in the middle of the road, was a great white Stag.

It was a majestic creature, the sheen of its fur spotless and immaculate save for a few patches of ash grey about its throat and tail.  It fairly glowed where it stood, and indeed there was a certain radiance to it which seemed not entirely natural as it stood motionless in the road, blocking the way.

The wind had suddenly fallen still, and silence filled the air.  The driver stared warily over the wheel at the Stag, and the Stag merely stared back.  Gingerly, the driver put his vehicle in park, and opened the door. The Stag’s ears twitched slightly as the stillness was broken by the sound of the car door, but otherwise it remained motionless.  The driver reached over to retrieve the rifle beside him and then gingerly stepped out of his vehicle, cautiously switching the firing mode to full auto as he took a few steps closer to the Stag.

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The creature was large, and as the driver approached, the size of the animal seemed almost to magnify as a faint orange glow began to emanate from the fringes of his fur and the sharp tips of his great antlers.

And then, the animal spoke.

“Seamus Donovan!”

The creature’s voice was deep, and it resonated weirdly through the trees, echoing as though it had been spoken in some great hall of ancient stone rather than a forest.  

“Heed my words, Seamus Donovan.  The Hour of Spiders is approaching.  The claws of Mreka’ul are open, the ears of Ephisha are closed.  Beware, Seamus Donovan! For the Spider’s Eye rests upon the Harrowmath.”

And then, the creature vanished.

It was as if a great, dark passageway lined with trees had opened up behind it as the Stag turned around and walked away, fading into the distance almost immediately as the tunnel of trees itself faded in turn, leaving behind only the woodland road.

The driver took a sharp breath, taking his finger away from the trigger of his weapon as he did so.  The wind was beginning to pick up again, and the unnatural silence had been replaced by the gentle rustle of the trees and foliage.  Tearing his eyes away form the spot where the Stag had vanished, the driver walked back to his car. Reaching inside, he plucked out a small handheld radio and flicked it on.

“Manticore 31 to Father.”

The radio crackled to life as a voice responded in turn.

“Manticore 31, this is Father, go ahead.”

“Incident confirmed.  Contact made. Large ungulate, male, color white, verbal communication.  Contact has withdrawn through a fissure object.”

“Understood, Manticore 31.  Withdraw to grid 43971-Mike and await further instructions.”

The driver acknowledged and climbed back into the car, shivering a bit as he did so.  Not all contacts were hostile. But all incidents were dangerous.

As the driver got back into the seat and shifted to reverse, he felt a sudden sense of uneasiness.  A sort of looming dread, cultivated by years of experience doing his job.

There, in the bush just ahead and slightly to the right his vehicle.  A moment ago he thought he’d seen the bushes move, and not because of the wind.  The driver felt a sudden surge of adrenaline, and grabbing his rifle he rested the forestock on his dashboard and aimed the muzzle into the bushes.

And then, all hell broke loose as the glass in front of him suddenly exploded.

The windshield of his car burst into pieces as from the bushes the came a barrage of automatic gunfire, peppering the front of his vehicle with bullets.

The driver returned fire immediately, bracing his weapon against the dashboard with one hand and dumping almost an entire magazine into the woods in front of him as he grabbed for the radio with his other hand.

“Manticore 31, Mayday!  Mayday! Shots fired, repeat, shots fired!”

The driver empted the rest of his magazine as he released another round of suppressive fire into the woods and then nearly hurled himself out the door as the shooters in the woods returned fire in kind, perforating the car with another round of bullets as the driver crouched behind the rear wheel and pulled a fresh magazine from his stachel.   

Suddenly, from another part of the woods closer to the rear side of the car there was another short burst of gunfire.  And then, the gunman himself stepped out of the woods.

The gunman was a small creature, a little over four feet tall, with long pointed ears and mottled, unwholesome looking skin grown over everywhere with funguses, and in its hands it clutched a crude looking submachine gun.  Seeing the driver, the creature unleashed a burst of automatic fire in his general direction, but the creature was plainly inexperienced with his weapon and most of his bullets ended up in the treetops as the muzzle of his firearm climbed uncontrollably.  A fresh magazine now in his rifle, the driver fired two quick bursts at the creature, who collapsed motionless to the ground.

Faintly, the driver could hear a voice talking over the radio in the car behind him, but the noise was drowned out by another burst of fire from the woods back at the front of the car.  The driver unfolded his rifle’s stock and peeked cautiously around the right corner of the vehicle. There in the woods was another one of the creatures, looking out from the trees trying to spot his victim.  With another short burst from his rifle, he dropped the second creature in turn.

The woods exploded with more gunfire, but their deceased comrade had given their position away.  The driver had pretty good idea now where they were, and reaching into his satchel he pulled out an old fragmentation grenade.  In a moment, he had pulled out the pin and then with a grunt he threw the explosive over his car and into the woods near where the second creature had fallen.

The driver’s eardrums were nearly shattered by the explosion that followed.  And then, the woods were still.