Reconnecting Three

The structure was a bit too large for the title of cabin, a bit too small to be a mansion or manor. The most accurate term probably would’ve been to call it a lodge. It was fitting, too; after all, it was used by Hunters. Their targets, though, were rarely anything less than sapient.

The building sat empty most of the time. An old contract with the spirits of the surrounding forest kept it hidden. The path to its doors opened only for the order that used it as a base. For them, the distant hall that others could only catch glimpses of through twisting shrouds of mist was a riot of light, if not of life. Inside its walls they would always find succor and shelter, well-tended flames and warm food just waiting for them to relax should they really, truly need it. It was a perk that few ever took advantage of, but it was nevertheless available.

Today, the nameless sanctuary had seen two separate visitors arrive. They were an odd pair, by any standard.

The woman had arrived first, six feet tall and clad in a duster that hid all but the lower part of her boots. When it flapped open as she moved, an arsenal was revealed. The weapons within were strapped everywhere that they would fit. A shotgun rested at one hip, a viciously serrated dagger at the other. On one thigh was a cross surrounded by the symbols of myriad religions. A stake was lashed to one shoulder, while an antique pistol hung beneath it. More things, only questionably weapons, filled the pockets within the coat.

A long black ponytail snaked out from under the battered fedora whose brim was adorned with runes that glinted in the fire’s twisting light. She was nursing a chipped cup of tea across from her companion.

Where the woman might have had an aura of danger to those who looked, he had one of cool certainty. His clothes were nothing of note, perhaps a bit more modern than one would expect from someone with visibly greying hair. The jeans had a few grass stains on them and a rip around the knee, while his shirt had the logo of one the innumerable hard rock bands where the words were impossible to read. He didn’t have any weapons visible, nor did he have any true distinctive features. The closest would be a set of branching lines just barely visible along his neck, the tracery vanishing under his shirt and reappearing along his arms. They would shift, ever so slightly, every time the woman blinked.

He had asked her to sit for tea. It wasn’t her favorite drink, but she would always compromise for a fellow Hunter. The two had met before and she knew he wouldn’t – and couldn’t – drink the booze she preferred.

Both were sitting on the edges of their sinfully comfortable seats, arranged around a firepit that rose in a circle of carved stone above the floor. The log inside it never seemed to shrink as it burned. Between them was the hanging kettle, a beat-up old thing they had used to brew the leaves themselves. Neither had touched the banquet laid out for them by the place’s caretakers, nor had they left the entry hall.

Stolen story; please report.

They spoke of pleasantries while they rested and drank. A third cup of their brew sat near the fire, in front of an unused seat. Occasionally it would rise up and drain in time with their sips, but the two didn’t respond.

After all, they had catching up to do. His granddaughter was just starting preschool and her little brother had landed a job in a tech company. Her mother-in-law was enjoying retirement and his cat was happier for him to be gone than he was. Occasionally, they would direct questions to the air around the third cup. There was never a response – not one anyone would hear, at least – but they would nod anyway. Sometimes with a laugh.

Eventually, they ran out of personal talk and turned to gossip. Nothing risqué, simply sharing what they’d heard of the others lately. Jeremiah had started tracking a Wendigo last month. Maria was thinking of retiring and moving to Florida – people just ignored magic there in Florida, it was easy. Joseph had broken his leg bad enough that the healers refused to let him out of their clinic for a month, so Martin had taken over the watch at Vigil’s End.

Finally, they ran out of topics. The tea should have been finished long before then, but the cups only ran dry as the gossip did.

The fire and the banquet vanished into mist as the lit and heated lodge faded away around them. They were left sitting on pedestals of stone around a cold and empty circle of scorched and scattered stones. Only the stand and the teakettle were left where the flames had been, and they weren’t there long before the man packed them up again. The woman was giving a polite nod to what now stood where the third teacup had been.

The Ivory Stag, its flesh long-since scoured clean, dipped its head in acknowledgement before trotting back into the field of bones that stood around them. It vanished into the mist between blinks as the two of them finally relaxed. With the ritual done and their patron placated, they could get to work.

Ahead of them, deeper into the clearing, stood the dark and squat lodge that was the true sanctuary. The Stag maintained it – as best a being of its temperament could – but did little else for those that respected its graveyard. What it craved most was news and gossip of those who would one day be buried within its domain, whether in body or in spirit. For now, the two entered their order’s founding house and began to make it livable again.

They had a meeting to prepare for – a rare gathering of nearly their entire order.

A fixture of the world, even older than their skeletal patron, had passed on, in mysterious circumstances. The loss left behind a vacuum, devoid of the standards once enforced by the old power. Things long buried had begun to worm their way back to the light and an untrained waif sat upon that vacant throne with far too much knowledge and power within reach.

Her twin, some say, was already missing, and that was a grave, grave warning. Through long-buried oaths and pacts, it was their job to step in if the Council failed or overreached. They were the Keepers of the Ivory Grave, the sworn protectors of the Pacific Northwest. Sworn to the Stag and dedicated to protection of mortals and the end of evil, their order had the weight to step in and fill the vacuum, if only they used it. Be they monsters or men – practitioners less moral than the old monster that nurtured them in their infancy, those who profaned their gifts and abandoned their humanity, would know peace in the Stag’s graveyard. Forever.

Her estranged mother would fight tooth and nail to preserve her own power. Deep in her bones, Amanda Belmont knew that her and her lovable, responsible heretic of an older brother would find things hidden from the light when they returned. The thought made her smile, viciously, until her mentor stopped it cold by handing her a mop.

She hated this part.