CHAPTER FIVE- MEETING THE RED SOCIETY

Friday 6th April, 2018- NEW SALEM, STATE OF WILLOW, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

The Artist’s diet for the past two weeks consisted of painkillers, homecooked meals and occasional visits from Dan. Dan would come to re-dress The Artist’s bandages occasionally, and would personally deliver compensation for The Artist’s work-related injuries. A form of bribery for The Artist’s silence due to Dan’s potential involvement in the robbery, obvious to the naked eye, as some visits were more frequent than usual, and sums of money more generous than most, and the other obvious fact of him specifically telling The Artist ‘Not to go to any Hospital or Police Station’ due to the previous State Lockdown and certain past felonies he had with the law.

As the days passed, The Artist’s injuries seemed to heal at an almost miraculous pace. As they had fully healed within two days upon obtaining them. The pain began to subside, and the wounds closed up without leaving a trace of scars. It was as if their body had an extraordinary ability to recover, defying all medical explanations. There was no evidence of broken bones or internal damage, they simply vanished. Despite the swift healing, The Artist remained cautious and wary. The strange circumstances surrounding their injuries, the involvement of armed robbers and Dan’s suspicious behavior left them feeling unsettled. The generous compensation The Artist received from Dan only added to the sense of unease. The Artist couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being manipulated or used in some way. They wondered if Dan’s frequent visits and the substantial payments were meant to keep them silent about something deeper and more sinister. Their mind was filled with questions, but they knew they had to be careful in their actions and decisions.

Their instinct was to investigate further, to find out what exactly Dan’s role was in the armed robbery and the subsequent events. But The Artist knew they had to tread carefully. Trusting the wrong person could lead them into even more danger, and crossing an ex-Marine was especially more dangerous, considering the secrets and felonies Dan seemed to be hiding.

To protect themselves and their loved ones, The Artist decided to keep a low profile and act cautiously. The Artist stopped relying solely on painkillers and started paying more attention to themselves. As the days turned into weeks, The Artist’s art became a way to express their inner turmoil and confusion. Their sketches and paintings portrayed the darkness that loomed over their life, but also the glimmers of hope and resilience that kept them going. The Artist had taken to making the spare room in Apartment D6 into their own personal art studio. Crafting exquisite sculptures and landscapes. Or at least that’s what The Artist thought.

“If you have to explain why it’s beautiful then it’s not beautiful at all”, the reminiscent voice of a female critic rung through The Artist’s head. “I see. What is it supposed to be again”, another voice rung, this time of a typical male Oregon accent, “I still don’t get it”.

“It’s open to interpretation!”, The Artist shouted out loud, snapping back to reality. But who was The Artist fooling, how could a misshapen half-baked statue of a Jeff Koons figure convey the depth of emotions that churned within? Honestly, how could one fail to sculpt a simple Ballon Dog. The doubts and criticisms from the past, and even those from within The Artist’s own mind, seemed to haunt every stroke of the brush and every touch of the sculpting tools.

“You’re quite talented, you know that?” Dan said with admiration in his voice, “It’s like you can capture raw emotions and put them into these pieces”. “Don’t try and flatter me…Wait how did you get in here?”, The Artist asked, realizing that Dan was actually in standing by the doorway of the spare room, observing their latest creation. The room was filled with an array of sculptures and paintings, each reflecting the emotions and thoughts that swirled within The Artist’s mind. “The front door was open”, Dan continued, “Do you always shout to yourself when you work? Is that what all great artists do Satchmo? Because for sec there I thought you were talking to me”. “Only when the voices in ma head are loud enough Dan”, The Artist replied sarcastically, a hint of Southern in their voice, “Do ya always stand before folks’ doorways without knockin’ first? There’s somethin’ known as good manners ya know”. “Haha, very funny”, Dan said while rolling his eyes playfully, “I guess I was just too captivated by your work to remember basic manners. But seriously Satchmo, your talent is undeniable. These pieces are good, but I guess they could use a bit more originality”.

“You try taking an Art degree for four years”, The Artist snapped back. “And the Occult Sciences. Don’t forget the Occult Sciences”, Dan playfully replied, “I don’t understand why on Earth you did that, but I like your funny words magic man. Anyways I just came to check up on you”. “I’ve been doin’ fine. How’s business lately?”, The Artist asked. “It’s been fine. Sarah keeps asking after you. That you don’t return her calls”, Dan replied. “What about the whole steerin’ clear of trouble after that incident…”, The Artist replied, but was cut off by Dan. “I said lay low. Not cut all connections with the world. Your parents have already disappeared and your social distancing isn’t going to help either of us. The feds are already on that case and I don’t need them coming to JayJay’s asking from a something 25-year-old artist”, Dan said, “Call Sarah or whomever. Just keep minimal connect until I figure things out. I know things haven’t been easy without your folks around, but the robbers could be potentially connected to it. I didn’t see any creature you were talking about, but if there was one it was either one of them Marauders or a huge alley rat”. “I understand”, The Artist replied, “If you are worried about any of the cops coming neither Sgt. Eddie Constantine or Detective Minnesota showed up or called me, I think the investigation is a bust.

“I’m sure they’ll find some clues soon. But if the Marauders are involved with this somehow, we can’t avoid scaring them. They might move your parents out state or country if they found out their only child was attacked and brought the whole New Salem Police Department (NSPD) on them”, Dan said, “The recent State Lockdown has made everyone nervous as you can see, daily life and criminals alike. They are no longer taking chances they have to be careful, we already killed about ten of their buddies”. “I thought it was seven. I took out two, you took out five”, The Artist replied. “I made seven kill shots, you made three. But whose counting?”, Dan replied chuckling. Even though The Artist had taken three lives, just like The Artist in the moment, they simply did not care. There was no sympathy or remorse, it just felt calm and almost serene with The Artist. It was like killing a buzzing mosquito, terrible to the poor insect but pleasant to the Human. I’m sure it was a sentiment Dan Russell could understand. After all he was an ex-Marine that served for God-knows how many years. He was trained to kill. More importantly how many did he kill?

“You know Satchmo, you’re talented, but sometimes talent can be a dangerous thing”, Dan began, his eyes focused on one of the sculptures, “It can attract attention, both good and bad. And right now, I need you to lay low and not draw any unnecessary attention to yourself. Promise me that.” “I hear you Dan. I don’t want any trouble either”, The Artist accepted. “Good”, Dan warned sternly, “Otherwise you’ll find yourself dealing with someone bigger than the Marauders”.

And with that Dan left the spare room, taking another painting with him and leaving cash worth $1,500[USD] in its place. It was a painting of the French Quarter that The Artist did a few years ago. Everything seemed so lively during Mardi Gras, but now everything was starting to change. It was if the city, the state and even the people that The Artist knew was all a façade. It was part of growing up. Realizing the cracks were there from the very beginning when you didn’t want to see them. “Another bribery”, The Artist thought, “Business must be surely booming”. The Artist just missed their normal life. Their childhood friends— Claire, Lilly, James and Matt. All seemed so distant. Even before the whole incident with the armed robbers and their parents’ disappearance, none of them bothered to visit or call. The last time The Artist spoke with them was about a three months ago. They had cited their own reasons for not welcoming back The Artist in-person. But at this point they were more like Carl Webster’s backup dancers than actual friends. The New York Birthday Trip was only two years ago, and it seemed like they all moved on with their lives.

Saturday 7th April, 2018- NEW SALEM, STATE OF WILLOW, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

The morning sun filtered through the curtains, gently waking The Artist from their slumber. As they groggily opened their eyes, they glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table, which displayed the time as 9:03 (AM). They stretched their limbs and yawned, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep. Today, like every morning for the past two weeks, began with the same routine of tending to their not-so-serious injuries. However, The Artist decided to continue masquerading the sick-train parade for a little while longer. The events surrounding the armed robbery and their parents’ disappearance had left them feeling uneasy and cautious. It was better to keep up appearances and remain cautious until they had a better understanding of the situation.

As The Artist made their way to the kitchen, they were greeted by a sea of yellow, brown and white envelopes scattered across the table. Bills, advertisements and letters from corporations, banks and the government piled up during their time of recovery. But among the familiar colors, there was one envelope that stood out distinctly— an all-red embossed envelope with a dark red wax seal.

The sight of the red envelope ignited The Artist’s curiosity. The Artist thought it was another fancy way of the banks telling them that: ‘You owe us a mortgage’. The Artist couldn’t help but feel a mix of curiosity and apprehension. Carefully, they picked it up and examined the crisp lettering on the front. The address read Mesagok Creek No. 108, New Salem, WW- 70129, and the sender was a Sir. Haggins Hopkins, belonging to the Red Society. The Artist was a bit suspicious, they recognized the address. The address was way deep in the swamps known as Mesagok Creek. People lived there but it was mostly alligators, snakes, catfish and all sorts of creatures that thrived in the murky waters. The Artist’s mind wandered through various possibilities, trying to make sense of why someone from a mysterious ‘Red Society’ would be sending them a letter. Curiosity getting the better of them, The Artist carefully opened the red envelope to reveal a single sheet of parchment inside. The parchment was aged, giving it an ancient and mysterious vibe. The letter was written with elegant calligraphy, adding to the enigmatic aura of the message. It read as follows:

Dear Sir/Madam,

I am Sir. Haggins Hopkins of the Red Society. Former curator the British National Museum. I am contacting you with regards to your parents’ whereabouts. I am aware Samantha and James have not been around for the past two months, and I know you have been searching for them vigilantly. I too, are not aware of their current whereabouts, and as an old friend of your Father’s I seek to help you. I believe something dreadful has fallen upon them. And we need to act fast if we are to save them. I know you have no reason to trust me, or have been wandering ‘where the bloody hell have I been all this time’. Trust me. Rei Hajime, the leader and benefactor of the Red Society, always says the same thing. I offer you a chance to meet us at our New Salem Headquarters in two days. Transport will be arranged and sent to you after that time period. I know the sight of the address on the envelope just wants to make you storm into our mansion and demand for answers, but right now we have our hands as full as it is. Recently arriving from the United Kingdom and sorting out the issues of New Salem has left us rather quite ‘drained’. Me, Rei Hajime and the society as a whole would like to see you and welcome you. We offer you an invitation, an opportunity to explore the depths of your potential and to find purpose within our ranks. Your artistic abilities are unparalleled, and we believe they can be harnessed for a greater cause, as well as finding your parents. Joining the Red Society will grant you access to knowledge and resources beyond your imagination. To consider this invitation, you must enter the Black SUV that will take you to Mesagok Creek No. 108, it will arrive at 10:30 (PM). Come alone and be on time. Do not share this correspondence with anyone else. The secrecy of our existence is paramount, and we expect your utmost discretion. We eagerly await your presence and hope you will make the right choice.

Sincerely,

Sir. Haggins Hopkins of the Red Society.

P.S: We set countless emails to your email address but you never responded. Just check your spam folder and unspam us. ‘Unspam Us’. Or just remove our address from the spam folder, I don’t know how you young people say it these days.

The parting words of the letter asking them to unspam the Red Society’s emails made The Artist chuckle. Amidst all the seriousness and mystery, there was a touch of humor that hinted at the personalities behind the Red Society.

Taking a deep breath, The Artist decided they needed to investigate further before making any decisions. They would start by searching for information about the Red Society, Rei Hajime and Sir. Haggins Hopkins. The fact that Sir. Hopkins was a former curator of the British National Museum piqued their interest. There might be records or information about him that could shed some light on his credibility and background. But they knew they had to be discreet. If the Red Society truly operated in secrecy, it meant they wouldn’t take kindly to someone snooping around or questioning their existence. The Artist also had to be careful not to share the correspondence with anyone else, as instructed.

The Artist couldn’t believe what they had just read. The letter was filled with both cryptic and intriguing information. It seemed that the Red Society knew about their parents’ disappearance and was extending a helping hand, but there was an air of mystery and uncertainty surrounding the whole situation. The Artist couldn’t deny the allure of the invitation, especially the promise of uncovering the truth about their parents. The idea of accessing knowledge and resources beyond their imagination was tempting, but it also came with a sense of danger and uncertainty.

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Monday 9th April, 2018- NEW SALEM, STATE OF WILLOW, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

In the days leading up to the meeting, The Artist was focused on researching the Red Society as much as they could without drawing attention. They combed through online forums, obscure websites and even visited the local library, looking for any hints or clues that might reveal the truth about this elusive organization. The more they dug, the more they found references to the Red Society, but most of the information was either speculative or unsubstantiated. It seemed that the Red Society had managed to keep a tight lid on its activities and members.

As the clock struck 10:30 (PM) on the appointed day, The Artist found themselves standing by the window, looking out at the dark street. The Black SUV had arrived, its windows heavily tinted black. It was now time to make a decision that could change the course of their life forever. The Artist felt a mix of fear and excitement bubbling within them. They knew that stepping into that vehicle meant stepping into the unknown, where dangers and opportunities awaited. But they also knew that they couldn’t let fear hold them back, not when the answers they sought might be within reach.

Before entering the SUV, The Artist armed themselves with the Beretta M93R— a semi-automatic pistol capable of burst fire, that Dan gave them. Eager to make the weapon truly their own, The Artist set to work customizing the Beretta. They watched countless gunsmithing videos on the internet, using their art skills as inspiration. The Artist wanted this weapon to reflect their personality, their passion for art and their desire for individuality. With great care and precision, The Artist engraved a dark red rose-like pattern on the gun’s slide, creating a stunning and unique design. They replaced the standard grip with a reddish cherrywood grip, giving it a touch of elegance and warmth. The trigger was also treated to a dark red finish, tying the whole aesthetic together.

But The Artist wasn’t done yet. They used some of the ‘bribe money’ Dan had given them to purchase two weapon mods to enhance the pistol’s capabilities. These modifications would help compensate for The Artist’s lack of experience with firearms despite Dan’s teachings. The first addition was a Cylindrical Suppressor, reducing the gun’s noise output and ensuring stealth when needed. The suppressor too, was adorned with artistic visuals, with swirling patterns and vibrant colors. The second modification was a Reflex Scope with a multi-colored reticle, granting The Artist greater accuracy in their shots. With all these changes, The Artist decided to give their creation a fitting name: Le Artiste’s Pistolet. Which meant ‘The Artist’s Pistol’ in French. It was a tribute to their paternal side of the family, a reminder of their strong French roots.

As they stepped into the Black SUV, the tension in the air was palpable. The vehicle’s interior was dimly lit, and The Artist could see the silhouette of the driver, their face obscured in the shadows. The Artist’s heart raced, but they held onto their composure, gripping the Le Artiste’s Pistolet tightly. The SUV started to move, and The Artist’s heart pounded with a mixture of fear and excitement. They wondered what awaited them at the Red Society’s New Salem Headquarters and whether they could trust these mysterious individuals. Yet, they couldn’t let fear hold them back from seeking answers about their parents' disappearance.

During the journey, the driver remained silent, adding to the aura of secrecy and anticipation. The surroundings grew darker as the vehicle ventured deeper into the unknown territory of Mesagok Creek. It was clear that The Artist was entering a world of secrets and danger, but they felt a newfound determination to face whatever challenges came their way. Finally, the SUV arrived at its destination— Mesagok Creek No. 108. Without the letter The Artist would have naturally assumed this was a well-timed kidnapping operation, as No. 108 was seemingly a large abandoned mansion in the swamp. The Artist stepped out of the SUV, Le Artiste’s Pistolet was securely tucked away as The Artist looked at the imposing mansion before them. The building exuded an air of mystique and power, leaving The Artist in awe and trepidation.

As they approached the entrance, a figure emerged from the shadows. It was none other than Sir. Haggins Hopkins, the sender of the letter. He appeared to be in his early 80s, his balding white hairs giving it away. He wore black cotton overcoat with a black waistcoat. Underneath all that apparel, Haggins also wore a smart white long-sleeved shirt, which was decorated with a golden chain and cufflinks. Haggins outfit was finished off by a pair of black formal trousers, with black leather lace-less shoes to top it all off. It was the appearance of an elegant man from a more civilized age.

Sir. Hopkins greeted The Artist with a slight smile and offered a handshake. “Welcome, my dear friend. We have been eagerly awaiting your arrival”, he said in a warm yet enigmatic tone. The Artist’s heart raced with anticipation, and they couldn’t help but wonder what lay ahead. “Thank you, Sir”, The Artist replied with a handshake, “I hope to learn more of my parents’ whereabouts from you”. “Don’t worry my dear friend. We will use all the resources the Red Society has at their disposal. We will find them”, Sir. Hopkins replied.

It was almost clocking to midnight, as The Artist had arrived at Mesagok No. 108 around 11:15 (PM). The Artist crossed the threshold into the Red Society’s headquarters with Haggins, they knew that their life was about to change in ways they could never have imagined. The journey to uncover the truth about their parents and the secrets of the Red Society had only just begun, and The Artist was ready to embrace whatever destiny had in store for them.

(11:20 PM)

As The Artist entered the Red Society’s headquarters, they were greeted by an opulent and lavish interior. The mansion was filled with antique furniture, priceless art and artifacts from various cultures and eras. The whole place exuded an air of mystery and sophistication. The Artist couldn’t help but feel a mix of awe and curiosity as they followed Sir. Haggins Hopkins deeper into the mansion. Throughout the hallways, The Artist noticed a few other members of the Red Society, but they kept their distance and offered only polite nods of acknowledgment. The atmosphere was filled with an air of secrecy, and it was evident that trust needed to be earned within these enigmatic ranks.

The Artist then followed Haggins up a flight of ascending stairs that led to an observatory. The inside of the observatory should have been about 205 meters in diameter, the ground floor being the same circular shape as the dome above it, the dome being 51 meters in height. A 102-meter telescope sat comfortably in the office, it was about 10 meters wide and was peering out of an opening in the dome’s center. The evidence motors and wires around the dome and telescope suggested that the telescope could be freely moved about the dome with the right controls and mechanisms activated. The dome itself also seemed to have this feature, as they were some sort of tracks underneath it, allowing for a full 360∘ degree rotation. The Artist was enamored with the observatory’s architecture, the dome’s wall was decorated with constellation maps of distant stars and planets, which danced evermore on its walls. It looked more impressive as the moonlight pressed against the glass windows of the observatory. Haggins then disenchanted The Artist’s senses back to reality by making his intentions very clear and brief. Gesturing The Artist to take a seat by his office desk as he sat the opposite side.

Sir. Hopkins began to speak, his voice measured and composed. “First and foremost, let me assure you that your parents’ well-being is our top priority. We are here to help, and we will do everything in our power to find them. However, I must also be frank with you. The Red Society is not an ordinary organization, and our methods may be unconventional. We delve into matters beyond the comprehension of most, seeking hidden knowledge and truths that lie beyond the reach of the ordinary world”, he said. The Artist listened intently, absorbing every word. The weight of the situation was not lost on them, and they understood that they were entering a world of secrets and mysteries that few ever had the chance to explore.

“As an artist, you possess a unique gift”, Sir. Hopkins continued, “Your ability to capture raw emotions and channel them into your art is a rare talent. We believe that this gift can be harnessed for a higher purpose, a purpose that goes beyond mere self-expression. Art has the power to move hearts, to inspire change and to unlock the hidden truths of the universe. And that, my dear friend, is where you come in”. The Artist’s curiosity peaked even further. They had always believed in the power of art, but now it seemed that their artistic abilities held a significance beyond what they had ever imagined. “We have been monitoring your work, despite its mediocrity, we are impressed by your potential”, Sir. Hopkins said, “We believe that with proper guidance and training, you can become a true master of your craft. But this is not just about art. This is about finding your purpose, about discovering the depths of your own potential and using it to unravel the mysteries that surround us”.

The Artist nodded, absorbing the gravity of Sir. Hopkins’ words. They knew that accepting the Red Society’s offer meant stepping into a world of unknowns, but the promise of uncovering the truth about their parents and finding their purpose was too tempting to resist.

“I understand that this is a lot to take in”, Sir. Hopkins said with a steady gaze, “Take your time to consider our offer. We do not rush decisions of this magnitude. If you choose to join us, we will welcome you with open arms. If not, we will respect your decision, and our paths will part. But know that once you step into this world, there is no turning back”. The Artist took a moment to gather their thoughts. They knew that this decision would shape their future in ways they couldn’t fully comprehend, but they also knew that they couldn’t let fear hold them back. They had always sought answers, and now, an opportunity to find those answers had presented itself.

“I appreciate your honesty and your offer”, The Artist finally spoke with a steady voice, “I need time to think, but I also know that I can’t let fear dictate my choices. I want to find my parents, and if joining the Red Society is the path to do so, then I am willing to take it”. Sir. Hopkins nodded, a hint of approval in his expression. “Very well”, he said, “Take all the time you need. If you choose to accept, we will be here, ready to guide you on this journey. If and when you are ready to make your decision, just let me know. But however, I would like to know if you are aware of the existence of Magickal Beings and Creatures, otherwise commonly known as MBCs”.

“Yes, I am”, The Artist replied, “I took Occult Sciences along with my Art major”. “I know”, Sir. Hopkins replied, “But those were just mere theories, weren’t they? I am asking do you actually believe in their existence? Do you actually believe there is magick flowing through this world, or you were doing what your lectures told you just for the sake of getting a pass?”. “To be honest. Quite frankly I do not belive in the existence of MBCs. I barely got a 3.0 GPA in both my majors. Which is around 80% to 89% in the American syllabus”, The Artist replied, “My art has struggled for the past three years and I am trying to make ends meet as a bartender at JaJay’s Jazz Bar, Pub & Grill. So yeah, I don’t believe in their existence. But I am aware of all their concepts and abilities. Who doesn’t love Bigfoot?”.

Haggins chuckled back at The Artist’s sense of humor, but also understood where the sense of unbelief was coming from, he had seen it countless of times and had countless of remedies to cure it. “I offer you a test of sorts”, Sir. Hopkins replied, “To prove that you are an MBC yourself. What do you say?”. The Artist then burst into laughter, until they realize Haggins is being serious, evidenced by the stoic demeanor on his face. Which makes The Artist squirm in their chair and laugh the evermore. “You are one of the first to laugh, usually most people just gape their mouths in awe or say ‘I don’t believe you’. But I am being serious, you are one. James told me himself”, Sir. Hopkins replied. It was if the very utterance of their father’s name awakened something within The Artist. “Another one of Dad’s buddies”, The Artist thought.

“My Dad told you that?”, The Artist asked. “Yes”, Sir. Hopkins replied, “He said so himself. If you think this is related to your parents’ disappearance, I believe so too”. “Okay, what’s the test?”, The Artist asked amusingly. “Simple. Just stretch out your hands in the air with your palms facing up”, Sir. Hopkins replied, “Think of fire in your mind and shoot it out of your hands. Focus on the word ‘Ignis’. Its Latin for ‘Fire’. Try your hardest”. The Artist did as Haggins said. “Ignis!”, The Artist shouted, but it was a fruitless endeavor. “Try harder. Don’t shout it out. Feel it, Picture it. Fire is just hot plasma, a result of the combustion of two or more particles.”, Sir. Hopkins said, “People have harnessed it over the centuries for various purposes, for warmth or to kill, for passion or anger, for good or evil. If a caveman, a centurion and a chef can use it to paint the canvases of their lives, why can’t you? Again. Ignis”.

The Artist returned to the same procedure that Haggins had instructed them to do. The Artist thought of the nature of fire. It was warm but also dangerous. It was inspiring but also provoking. Mystics saw it as a gift from God. Scientists saw it as a result of rapid oxidation. The Artist closed their eyes, took a deep breath and focused on the word echoing in their mind. Fire wasn’t just one thing, it was whatever anyone imagined it to be. “Ignis”, The Artist thought. Then a small flicker of flames appeared in both The Artist’s palms. Then the fire grew, as it was its nature. Heavy streams of fire shot out of The Artist’s palms, reaching as high as 10 meters.

The Artist fell silent, their mind wrestling with conflicting thoughts. A part of them wanted to prove Haggins wrong, to demonstrate that this was all just a delusion. And another part of them felt a glimmer of curiosity, wondering if there was any truth to these claims. But the evidence was right there, The Artist felt and saw the very flames that they produced, there was no denying it.

Haggins nodded approvingly, a small smile playing on his lips. “See? You do have the potential within you”, he said, “You are an MBC, my dear friend”. The Artist couldn’t believe what they were witnessing. It was like a dream come true and a nightmare rolled into one. The possibilities in their head were now endless, and they were faced with the realization that the world they thought they knew was just the surface of something much deeper and more mysterious.

“What does this mean?”, The Artist asked, still trying to come to terms with what they had just experienced. “It means that you have the ability to tap into magick and wield it as a Mage”, Sir. Hopkins explained, “The Red Society has been dedicated to understanding and protecting the power of Magickal Beings and Creatures, and you are one of them. Your artistic talents are not just about creating beautiful works of art, they are also tied to your innate magickal abilities as well”. The Artist’s mind was reeling with questions and possibilities. They had always thought their artistic talents were just a means of expressing themselves, but now they saw that there was so much more to it. Art and Magick were intertwined, and they had been given a glimpse of the hidden world that lay beneath the surface of their reality.

“I don’t know what to say”, The Artist admitted, still in awe of the flames dancing on their hands. Haggins smiled warmly. “Take your time to process this”, he said, “This is just the beginning of your journey. If you choose to join us, we will help you unlock your full potential and guide you in understanding the magick within you. The path ahead will not be easy, but it will be filled with wonder and discovery”. The Artist nodded, feeling a mix of excitement and trepidation. They had always sought answers and purpose in their life, and now, it seemed that they had found something far beyond their imagination. The Red Society offered a chance to uncover the truths they had been searching for, both about their parents and about themselves.

As The Artist left the observatory with Haggins, the flames in their hands subsided, leaving them with a sense of newfound confidence. The journey ahead was uncertain, but The Artist knew one thing for sure— they were no longer just an ordinary Human, and the world around them was about to change in extraordinary ways. The Artist was ready to embrace the magick within them and step into the world of the Red Society, where art and mysticism merged to create something truly extraordinary.