HFTH - Episode 212 - Delegations

Content warnings for this episode include: Abuse, Ableism, Animal death (Dogsmell as usual, Shank as usual), Violence, Death + Injury, Blood, Cannibalism, Transphobia, Homophobia, Birds, Spiders, Strangulation/suffocation, Static (including sfx), Emotional Manipulation, Bugs, Body horror, Consumption of Inedible Materials (Residents of Scout City), Religious Violence, Child Sacrifice (Al as usual)

Intro - Two Cities

You were born in a pool of mud on a bright spring day. You were one of several thousand eggs spawned by your mother, and although half of your clutch would eat each other on your path to maturity, you were able to dodge the hungry teeth of your siblings and grow legs, and later arms. By the time the leaves began to change color, you were an entirely different creature than you had been when the spring began. Over the passing seasons, you would come to understand that your clan’s life was not quite idyllic. There were neighbors in the forest, cutting down trees, choking up rivers, plucking good mushrooms and berries. They were more than twice your size, and did not speak your language. They were frightened of your teeth and customs, and you of theirs, and in those days they hunted you as much as you hunted them. The bodies of your people became their trophies to dry on poles in the sun, and the bodies of their people became pleasing sacrifices to Drown Queen Lolgmololg.

How did things change so much from then to now? It is hard to pinpoint a particular day, although one comes to mind where several of the tall-walkers came, bearing weapons but not using them, with gifts of delicious eels. No language was understood, but through gestures and crude illustrations in the sand, a proposition was made: You no kill we. We no kill you. It took several more similar meetings, and several more killings, after that, before the truce was properly managed. The years that have passed have transformed your relationship. Your couriers and messengers and wayfinders guide the tall the ones on their journeys. They bring you meats and furs in exchange for fish. You have learned a few useful sentences in their language, In Glesh, and more than a few of them that you have met have been able to manage a hello in Yorkgaliggalig, although their vocal cords are not well-suited to reproducing the finer nuances of the language. And with each passing year, you wonder whether both of your cities, so close to each other, will continue to expand. At which point you will either be forced to fight once again, with permanent repercussions, to clear the forest for the other—or absorb each other completely. Until then, in either language, when you see them waving their white flag and descending the banks towards your city, you will bid them a Hello from the Hallowoods.

Theme.

Right now I am very small, and sitting on the top edge of a wooden sign that hangs over a small community space in the middle trunk neighborhood of Scout City. Space in the trunk is at a premium, and it is difficult to acquire in the modern era. However, the purpose for this space has been reserved since long before the Stumps neighborhoods stretched around the roots of this great city. In front of it, three messengers come prepared to negotiate for the city’s future. The theme of tonight’s episode is Delegations.

Story 1 - The Coda

Russell stood with Riot on one side and Arnold on the other as the crowd pushed past them all in every direction. It was surprisingly busy at the Coda’s meeting place, which was the Kita Kazuo Community Event Hall. It had been a gathering place for the Coda’s weekly support groups for over a decade, although it typically was small, sunlit, and used for other events the rest of the time. It currently seemed, from the people in the crowd pushing past them on each side, carrying backpacks and bags laden with belongings, that it was being used temporarily as surplus housing for those displaced by the fires in the Stumps.

“Generous of them,” said Riot.

“I mean, it is,” Russell said. “Under normal circumstances, the Coda offering space for people to stay would be nice. It’s just, right now there’s a decent chance they’re either recruiting people for or against us.”

“Let’s hope for,” said Arnold, hopefully.

“In this case I’m not sure whether to hope for strength in numbers,” said Riot. “Or that as many of them stay out of reach of the Quartet tonight as possible.”

Russell nodded, and the three made for the door. The events hall was not a particularly large room; it was panelled with rich floorboards and organic wooden walls that were part of Scout City’s trunk structure. A raised stage filled the back edge of the room, and a few windows cut through the bark wall shone light across the dozens of people who were sitting or sleeping in makeshift cots throughout. Russell glanced around for anyone who looked in charge, and he clocked a group of three women, and his brows furrowed in confusion as one of them looked up to meet his gaze.

“Mom?” he said to himself. It was indeed his mother, Tara McGowan, with her bushy red hair and round, consternating face. She was wearing her yellow Scoutpost jacket, bedecked with patches, and her Sunday best. He recognized the people she was talking to tangentially as Judith Blum, a former teacher for some of his boyhood scout classes, and Elena Alder, which gave him immediate pause. Whatever argument was in progress between the three, it seemed tense, and his mother had a dour face that rarely escaped from her professionalism. Seeing him standing there, her brows furrowed, and she seemed to excuse herself before coming quickly in his direction.

“Mom?” he said, as she approached. “Was someone hurt?”

“Russell. No,” she said, brows furrowed. “I’m not here for work.”

“Hi Mrs. McGowan. Are you a member of the Coda?” Riot said bluntly.

Despite his mother’s seeming soft edges, her gaze was sharp, and she looked Riot up and down. “Your stitches have been in for probably twice as long as they should have,” she said pointedly. “They’re going to leave marks.”

Riot raised her hands to her cheeks, feeling the line that ran across her cheeks and nose thoughtfully, while his mother turned her attention to him. “And yes, I’m the new administrator for the Scout City Trunk branch of the Coda. The Coda actually has three locations, with the South Stumps and North Stumps being the other two. I’m in a bit of a major meeting right now that I have to get back to.”

“Wait,” said Russell, his head spinning. “When did this happen? Why are you...?”

“After Heather,” she said, sucking air through her teeth. “I didn’t know how to make sense of any of this. The people here in the Coda are the same. Trying to figure it all out. They’ve lost people too.”

“You... didn’t tell me or anything,” said Russell. “How did I not know?”

“You haven’t been home, Russell,” she said. “It’s been an... impactful few weeks.”

“I’ll be honest, I’ve been hanging out with Diggory so long I thought these were like, permanent,” said Riot, touching her stitches still. “Am I actually going to have to take these out? Is my skin alive? I need to ask Clara some questions.”

“Not it for helping,” said Arnold. “I hate that sort of gross medical stuff.”

“Didn’t you grow out of a disembodied hand in a jar?” said Riot. “That’s what I heard.”

“Yeah. Not doing that again,” said Arnold.

Russell turned so that he and his mother were talking aside somewhat from his friends.

“Mom,” he said. “I’m here because we’re trying to figure out what the Coda are doing, because from all reports, they’re either going to send people out to help us fight the Quartet tonight, or they’re going to try and stop us. The last time I dealt with them, they were an angry mob who walked right into Shank trying to kill him, and people died. We can’t do that again. What do you mean, you’re an administrator here? What is going on?”

“I know,” said his mother, glancing back to Miss Blum and Elena Alder before she returned her gaze to him. “I wasn’t there, but I heard about it. I heard you were very brave. Killing Shank was important. He was a monster. But things were out of control, and it only got more so that night when we all had the dream. The one with Danielle claiming that Ben Alder was actually one of the Quartet, killing people in the name of the Instrumentalist by night and welcoming people who had been hurt by the Instrumentalist in the day. The people here know his history. He grew up in the Instrumentalist’s shadow, seeing bodies in the woods. Some people have been willing to accept that, and some haven’t, and so the different locations have developed vastly different opinions on this situation which is making it difficult to get anything done.”

“What’s the lowdown?” said Russell, looking over to Elena Alder and Miss Blum. “I remember Miss Blum from my Scout classes. Elena is Ben’s sister, right? Why is she here?”

“So the official position of the Trunk division Coda is that we have distanced ourselves from Ben Alder, that he’s one of the Quartet, and that tonight we are prepared to join Scout City’s Groundskeepers and execute the Quartet,” she said. “Just like we did with Solomon. But Miss Blum represents the North Stumps division Coda, who maintain that the Coda’s purpose isn’t to intervene and that the Scout City Sheriff's Department should oversee bringing the Quartet to justice. They’re staying home tonight, but we’re getting an onslaught of defecting members to both us and South Stumps who are going to do something tonight. And then Elena Alder is here to talk to us from the South Stumps, who believe that Ben Alder is innocent, that Scout City’s leadership is framing him and Danielle O’Hara is in on it, that Valerie is faking her injuries. Which I find personally offensive because I am the one who is responsible for her care.”

“I don’t understand how that’s even possible to believe,” Russell said, rubbing his temples. He looked over to find that Riot and Arnold had rejoined the conversation, watching him raptly.

“And what are those people going to do tonight?” Riot said.

“‘Those people’,” a voice chimed in, and Russell found that Elena had approached, with Miss Blum in tow. While Miss Blum had softened a little with age, Elena had not, and she wore a belt festooned with knives over her flowing cape-tunic-thing and leather pants. Her flowing hair was held back with a handkerchief. “Are going to cut through the lies tonight. We’re going to reveal the truth. My brother is innocent. What are you, the mayor’s personal enforcers? I have news for you all. You’re going down. You, and your crooked mayor, and the scare actors you’ve hired. We can promise you this: the Groundskeepers that go into the woods tonight aren’t coming back.”

“Ladies, ladies,” said Miss Blum, interceding between Elena and a Mrs. McGowan who was ready to punch her. “Let’s resume our meeting, please? We have a lot to discuss.”

Interlude 1 - Support Group Screening

An announcement to members of the Coda support group in Scout City. While previously Coda members in any support group circle could move between support circles interchangeably as part of the greater Coda organization, you are now encouraged to select a circle and disavow the rest. Not sure which support group to support? Here is a helpful guide.

If you believe that the Quartet are a group of serial killers consisting of Indrid Buckley, Cole Kane, Ben Alder, Johannah Wicker, and one fiddle-masked member, who perpetrated a series of murders in Scout City with the hopes of blackmailing Scout City’s leadership and forcing civil unrest, and you would be happy to go into the woods and kill them all, report to the Trunk district circle, administrated by Tara McGowan.

If you are unsure what you believe, and would prefer to do nothing in the face of your city’s rapid descent into madcap violence and misinformation, report to the North Stumps district circle, administrated by Judith Blum.

If you believe that you have only been fed lies from Scout City’s government, who represent a group of monsters and monster-lovers who have fostered a strange presence in this city, hijacking the goodwill of Scout City’s people by aiding in the destruction of the Instrumentalist while simultaneously being exactly the kind of killers and ghosts that he represented, and that the Quartet are a group of paid actors hired by Scout City’s interests to make the Groundskeepers and Sheriff's Department seem so inept that they must rely on help from monsters to survive as part of a monstrous psy-op, then report to the South district circle, administrated by Elena Alder.

Your opinions on Shank the Pig-Man are allowed to vary, as he demonstrably existed and was not a paid actor, but just how many of the murders he was responsible for it is difficult to say, since many murders that might have been his doing were attributed to the ‘Quartet’. Mind you, if you believe the Quartet were paid actors, then Scout City’s leadership was willing to kill its own citizens to create a campaign of fear, which is alone enough reason to tear Valerie Maidstone out of her house and throw her down the central street of Scout City’s trunk, from the upper all the way to the lower, and finally roll her out of the city entirely and install new leadership who are willing to say no to all the dead things that are permeating even the highest levels of Scout City government. Shank the Pig-Man is universally considered to be dead, although the circumstances of his death indicate that Scout City’s groundskeepers and monstrous interlopers were attempting to shield him from justice until the very end. Your opinion is allowed to be varied as to whether he was ultimately killed by the Coda, the undead revenant Diggory Graves, or the Wicker family.

Your opinion is allowed to be varied on whether Downing Hill students with peculiar powers count as monstrous or not. It is generally accepted, thanks to their starring roles on the Scout City Sherriff’s Department roster, that they are not; their abilities to create fire or plague are academic in nature, but as people they are perfectly average and can be reasoned with. This is a separate issue from whether Scout City’s sheriff’s department is dedicated to keeping the peace or enforcing the will of Valerie Maidstone, but it is generally understood that Virgil Kane was a puppet of the government and Sheriff Ignatius Thorpe has demonstrated no such love for monsters, even attempting to fight Shank the Pig-Man the night that Shank and other monsters caused the city-spanning wildfire that engulfed the Stumps.

Your opinion is allowed to be varied or not as to whether those with body mutations due to the Black Rains count as monstrous or not. There appears to be no generally accepted threshold for this, as the Black Rains seem to be responsible both for shaping living tissue with new features, such as wings or gills or extra fingers or eyes, as well as resurrecting dead tissue, such as the Sleepers of Lurch Lake or the many gnawing ghouls or skeletal stalkers that Scout City has had to intermittently drive away or destroy over the decades. Opinions vary wildly, from that only dead blackwater-affected beings are monsters, to that all blackwater-affected beings are monsters, which on the surface only seems to represent a few individuals such as the drifter Puck, but in truth describes most of the individuals in Scout City.

Your opinion is allowed to be varied on the ethics of using a strange ability, such as Danielle O’Hara’s apparent ability to influence dreams, as a tool for disseminating information of any level of truthfulness. Those that have come from the United States claim that similar advertisements from Lady Ethel Mallory and the Botulus Corporation are common to experience in large regions of America, and that it is unlikely Danielle O’Hara has any particular supernatural power so much as that she is simply hiding a Botulus Corporation dreamcaster. This seems especially likely given that, according to rumor, she came from a Botulus Corporation Dreaming Box, and may even have implants within her own skull designed to dreamcast without need for an external device. There is of course the question: if they want you to believe it so badly that they would broadcast it into your dreams in an effort to sway your unconscious mind, what are the odds that it is the truth versus brainwashing? Wouldn’t the truth be obvious if you heard it?

All three branches of the Coda agree unanimously that the actions of Solomon Reed were devastating to the community, and that heinous murders of that caliber should never again be enacted in Scout City. All three branches of the Coda agree unanimously not to agree on anything else.

We go now to one who is, even now, making up his mind.

Story 2 - Shanks

Shank was having a very happy day. His bellies were full. His eyes were open. The wind rustled in his hair where it had not been torn out in patches, flapped in his ragged ears. His mouths grinned, bristling with curving corkscrew tusks. Some were long enough that they had already begun to pierce back into the lip, and he licked his lips. They smacked of blood.

He had wandered down the yard in the Wicker place, and batted up against the fence until it splintered into pieces, and then wandered unanimously down the long dirt lane. The world around him was scintillating. Out of nowhere, white drifting flakes of snow had begun to descend as clouds filled the sky. That was good. The sun hurt his eyes, but this, this? This was beautiful. Wind pulled cascades of white ribbon around him, and flakes were beginning to accumulate on the boughs of the black trees, scrape across the soil until they found a place to rest. What beams of light that pierced the grey roiling expanse above were hazy, dim things that made the snowflakes glow with rainbow lights.

Oh, it was good to be alive.

A creature ran suddenly through the drift of snow, into the middle of the path he had been trudging down. It was a cat, pitch black, and it looked up at him from ten feet away or so. All of him went very quiet, trying not to scare it off.

“Hi, kitty,” he said.

The cat blinked. It had more eyes than he would have expected. One for each of him, and then some.

“You have a home, kitty?” said Shank.

The cat blinked affirmatively, and sat up. It yawned, flexing rows and rows of sharp little teeth.

“I sure hope so,” he said. “I had a home too. It was in the bottom of a big pit around here. Some people burned it all up though. That’s what they do. Mess it all up. You can’t be just left alone.”

The cat leaped off into the snow again, leaving a trail of pawprints behind.

“I hope your home is hidden better than mine,” he said. “I hope they never find you.”

One of his other selves loomed into view, and he found himself confronted with another one of him. It had been a girl’s face, before it was stretched into its current shape. She—he—they were lopsided now, arms protruding at funny angles all on the one side. Good for giving out a lot of handshakes. It—he—stared himself in the face.

“We had another home,” she said. “Before that. You remember it?”

“No,” he said, honestly. “I wish I did. How do you?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But it’s in there. Flapjacks and a tin roof and parents who didn’t do nuthin’ ‘bout nuthin’ when you came home bruised and purple. We watched the frost on the glass spread like butter. Got so cold in them winters you’da thought we were gonna freeze like a meat locker slab o’ cattle.”

“It’s coming back to me,” he said.

“We wasn’t ourselves yet,” she said. “We was just a little thing, tremblin’ like a babe.”

“What’re we now?” he said.

“Something better,” she said. “Something stronger. An avengin’ angel.”

“I dunno,” he said. “I don’t much like the sound of angels. Can’t we just enjoy the walk? There’s plenty a food in that city over yonder, and I’m sure there’s a nice little home just waitin’ for all of us.”

He pointed to the towering, distant tree of Scout City, obscured somewhat through the haze of drifting snow, and as his three gazes turned to that direction, he frowned. Something was in the road that hadn’t been there before. There was a single person standing in the road, wearing a wide-brimmed black hat and a long black dress. Black braids hung down on each side of her head, and although he could not see her eyes beneath the brim of her hat, he could see her pale chin, her black lipstick, and a small frown.

“Hey,” called Shank, tilting his head. “This the road to Scout City, ma’am?”

“No,” she said, in a quiet voice that he felt he could hear clearly despite the distance and the snow between them. “This is the road to your death. Are you going to continue walking it?”

“Heh,” said Shank, rolling three necks, cracking three spines. “Been down that road before. What’s one more time?”

Marketing - Battle Begins

smashing sound as Mandy drives a bulldozer into the building Lady Ethel has been carrying around

Mandy Monroe

You know what they say about the bigger they are?

Yeah, that! Take this!

Lady Ethel

Agh! You’re ruining my...

sound of snapping

Lady Ethel

My legs!

the bulldozer stops and Lady Ethel is thrown, rolling a bit down the street

Lady Ethel

My beautiful legs. I needed those two!

Mandy Monroe

Ladies and gentlemen and fine patriots of America, Lady Ethel Mallory is not what you think. This titanic spider thing that could crush a house with its butt is all that’s left of Botco’s big star. Look at her. Look at her!

Lady Ethel

Auuhghhh. Oh you’re going to pay for this. No one drives a bulldozer into me. No one drives a bulldozer into me and breaks my legs!

Mandy Monroe

She makes fun of my legs, but there’s hardly anything human left of her at all. Are you going to let a thing like this lead you? Aren’t we fighting to keep what’s left of our country’s people? She couldn’t save herself from the rains, and she couldn’t save me, and she can’t save you.

Lady Ethel

Are you televising right now? Are we on fucking air?

Mandy Monroe

You know, she underestimated me up to the very beginning of this fight. She’s been dreamcasting to you, telling you I’m some small-town nobody with no power, no connections. But I know this for sure: You never fight somebody until you can size them up, which is why I had cameras my team reclaimed from old Botulus Corporation drones filming her hours ago as she got off of the transport carrier. And you never bring a knife to a gun fight—you bring a friend.

Lady Ethel

I am going to rip that dreamcasting array off your head and shove it up your...

Mandy Monroe

So I brought Otis Moloch, who’s very interested in partnering with us for a better America.

sound of Otis Moloch in the distance

Lady Ethel

Otis? You had better...

Mandy Monroe

And he brought a bazooka.

sound of Otis Moloch firing a bazooka into Lady Ethel Mallory

Story 2, Continued - Shanks

Oh dear. It seems as though Lady Ethel is actually getting what she asked for: a competition. Outside of her usual competition for who can be the most annoying personality that speaks in dream, that is, which she always wins.

We return now to Shank.

He was not the first to take a step forward. It was another one of him, to his left. A single shuffling step. The him on his right took another. He was the last to step forward. All the while, he licked his lips, searching for the woman’s eyes. He still couldn’t see her eyes. And the eyes were the most important part. He paused, having taken three steps closer, and looked around.

“Guess death hasn’t found me yet,” he said. “How close do I have to get?”

She only tilted her head in response. And then there was a creak of shattering wood, and off the side of the path, an explosion of splinters. Shank looked up with three faces and found that a tree, trunk eaten by rot, seemed to have chosen that exact moment to collapse. Its hundred-foot length came sailing down out of the sky as he stepped back, and struck the road with a titanic flume of soil and snow, casting debris into the air in every direction. The trunk itself was as thick as his outstretched arms, and the branches jutted another twenty feet up into the air, forming a dark tangle of bobbing pine needles. He looked around to find himself all still intact, but there was now a gigantic barrier of fallen tree over the road, and he could no longer see the woman in black on the other side of it.

“Heh,” he said. “Neat trick.”

He drew closer to the tree, pushing through the thick nest of black branches to reach the trunk. His other bodies shambled close behind, finding their own paths through the tangle. He reached out and put his hands on the black bark, and regarded them for a moment. There was blood under the fingernails. Fingernails that, until lately, hadn’t been his. He wondered—he felt—that he had slid into someone else's skin, nudging out the original owner like a cuckoo bird gently pushes an egg out of a nest. Well. That’s survival for you.

He pressed his hands against the bark, straining, and the outer layer splintered, but he did not have the power to crack the trunk itself. He remembered being stronger than this, much stronger. That was going to have to change.

There was a rustling in the branches on either side of him, then. He couldn’t see his other selves through the thicket, and he reached out to pull a branch down for a better view. Something large moved in the branches, although he could not quite make out what, until a long, black spear of a beak raised, followed by a head ringed with small red eyes. Two large feathered wings unfolded, and four clawed limbs spilled from beneath them. The false raven was as big as a farm animal—not like Patsy, but like a cow or a horse—and it snapped out for him with a caw, ripping off several of his fingers and opening up a deep black seam along his arm. He grunted, falling back, and that was when he found that the massive fallen tree was alive with the gigantic birds, stirring from some unseen hollow within it and reaching out with a flurry of razor-sharp beaks and huge black wings. His blood, thick and black like syrup, dripped to stain the piles of snow as he backed away from the tree. Two of his other selves joined him, shrieking and howling as the gigantic birds harassed them. One was missing an arm, which went rolling across the snow as the giant birds began squabbling for it.

“These are mean animals,” Shank hissed. “We wasn’t tryin’ to hurt you, birds. Get outta the way!”

The cawing of the ravens, and the glimmering black beaks that threatened from the tree, told him they did not care. One came flying free of the tree, sweeping its wings, and those that remained of Shank turned to retreat—only to collapse face-first into something that he could not see. It took him a moment to understand his predicament. He was suspended in a web that had not been there, behind him, moments ago. It was so thin and white that it was almost impossible to see against the snow, and yet it only tangled him further as he thrashed. Above him, something was moving—something he must have mistaken for a tree. It was a spider, of sorts, with hairy black legs like the trunks of trees, and an orblike body that it carried at a great height. Its shadowy black shape burned with eyes that were like white holes in space.

“Good boy, Edgar,” said the woman’s voice, and the three Shanks, suspended in the web that stretched across the road, twisted their heads back to see that the woman had crossed to his side of the tree. The false ravens seemed not to worry themselves about her, spreading their wings out from the tree behind her as though she was a dark angel.

“And I was in such a good mood, too,” said Shank.

“That’s a shame,” she said, stepping closer, black dress trailing across the snow. She cast away a piece of fabric to reveal a knife, pitch-black and made of stone. “Must not be your lucky day.”

“Guess not,” Shank grinned, hot clouds pouring from his mouth, condensing in the snow-filled air.

“As a point of curiosity,” she said, “do you think you have a soul? Edgar hasn’t eaten in a while.”

Shank looked to his own twisted bodies, on the left and right, writhing against the web of pure light, and to the huge black spider looming above, pure dark and eating up all the light.

“I was probably born with one,” said Shank. “Lost it somewhere I guess. Where could I have put it?”

“Shame,” she said. “Well, then this will have to be done the messy way.”

She threw the knife, and it pinwheeled end over end in the air, colliding with the head of the him on his right with a thunk and a spatter. He glanced over to watch a blooming spill of ichor fall from his head across the ground, color the snow, stain the web pitch black. The woman in black came walking closer to collect it.

“You think you have one?” he said. “A soul?”

She swiped the knife out of his right self’s head, which fell limp, and she stepped back a few paces.

“No,” she said. “I had it trained out of me.”

Thunk. Another hit, straight to the forehead, in the him to his left, who stopped her squealing as her head opened up. He was the only one left.

Shank smiled. “Guess that makes two of us.”

She wound back for the final throw.

“Hey,” he said. “You wanna hear a joke?”

She paused.

“I’m listening,” she said.

“Heh,” he said. “Hah. Well. It goes like... heh. Heh. Hehah. It goes like... Hahahaha. Hahaahahahahaha. Well. Four little piggies said, what are we gonna do today? They said, we gonna go to town. Well, one piggy wandered into the wrong tree, got all pecked up by birds, went home. One piggy went right into a big ol’ spiderweb and got wrapped up like a nice wool mitten. And one piggy got cut up a psycho killer.”

“I’m waiting for a punchline,” said Friday.

“Well,” said Shank. “The fourth piggy, she went on a different road. She went right into that town, and she ate and she ate and she ate till she was good and fat and happy. Hahahahahahahhaa!”

“Shit,” said the woman, taking a step back. Shank had noticed that something in the air—it was hard to describe, except that it clicked in Patsy’s ears like the pressure was changing—was different whenever the woman touched the black stone. He lunged out with his long arm, and it must have been his lucky day after all, because she was within reach by a few inches, and the knife went up into her own chest, nicked her deep. But immediately when that happened, he found that the web wasn’t as tight as he thought, and pulled out of it, breaking its lines of light until he rose to his feet. The woman stumbled backward, checking her wound, blood racing across her pale fingers. Shank looked across to his siblings, his selves, still motionless on the web.

“Sleep well, brother, sister,” he said. “Dream of a nice big family dinner.”

He turned back to the woman, who was stumbling back.

“I don’t know who you are,” he said. “But I’m gonna go now.”

She gestured with a hand, and Shank twisted back to find the gigantic spider poised over him, legs on all sides.

“I already told you,” she said. “I’m death. Edgar, sic ‘em.”

The spider dropped, a dozen piercing implements unfolding from its lightless form, and Shank was pleased to discover that he did have a soul, as all living things do, as it was extracted screaming from his flesh.

Meanwhile, over a quarter mile away, Shank smiled. He had split from the others, wandered off to see what there was to see in the woods, take the long path into town. He was small, and his blonde hair had fallen loose around his shoulders, and he wore a hood and coat that kept his bloody face from sight as he stood in the street of the Stumps. People passed around him on all sides, and it was glorious. So much warm flesh. So much blood singing in veins. A butcher’s paradise. He remembered so well how these very same people, or dozens like them, had torn him apart with hooks like a piece of meat, eaten him for supper. Well, he thought. What goes around comes around.

Interlude 2 - A Visitor, Closer

Ah. Do not worry, dreamer. My previous threats were not directed at you. I am about to have company, is all. Rest assured, I am in no real danger. Members of the Council of Heavens are protected from direct violence by any other council member.

Allegedly.

We go now to one who was trained for violence.

Story 3 - The Quartet

Clara Martin stood before a familiar sight. It had been Solomon Reed’s house, and his yard, once, that were encircled by the forest. Lines of Syrensyr’s Protection had been drawn that the forest, soaked with the blood of a rival Indescribable, could not penetrate, and so the roots and trunks of trees had grown thick and tall in trying to get in, forming a wall around his grounds. The Church of the Hallowed Name was, apparently, similar, and a great knot of many trees formed a shield around it that had only a few narrow openings. Through the twisted gap in the titanic pine roots, they could see the small stone spire of an old chapel.

“I hate being back here,” said Percy. “I’m ready to burn it down. The whole thing.”

“We are here to offer those who wish to surrender the chance to do so,” said Diggory, pointedly. “And then, yes. Drown them in fire.”

“I should have brought marshmallows,” said Ratty, hovering over Clara’s other shoulder. “God I miss smores.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re already watching us,” said Clara, coming to a stop. Her broom hovered in the air to her side, and she nodded to Dogsmell. Her spirit-hound was weaker than he once had been—even coalesced, the souls of many hounds faded slowly each year. But, like an old dog, it still enjoyed going for a spry race from time to time, and she did not try to hold him back as he went dashing through the entrance to bound around the chapel grounds.

“I will make our announcement, then,” said Diggory, coming to stand beside her. Diggory had practically eaten the Greenflame Forge, of course, and the power practically crackled out of their pores each time they spoke. They really let it open up now as they spoke, and their words boomed across the couple of dozen meters between them and the wall of gnarled wood, and the chapel beyond.

“Members of the Quartet,” they said. “You deserve no mercy, but we are here to offer it. You are not strangers to us. You were born in Scout City, or have been adopted by it. You have been a part of this community until this. I speak as one who was also taken in by the Scoutpost and its people when no one else would—it is a gift, to be loved. You have squandered it. But death is coming tonight, for all of you who remain here. Your chapel will burn. Your organ will burn. The memory of Solomon Reed will burn. And if you do not turn back now, tonight, we will not grieve you. Cole Kane. I knew you as a child, if briefly. Your oath is to Scout City. Your fellow deputies continue to uphold it. Murdering its citizens is no path to peace. Your father would not wish this for you. Johannah Wicker, your family has been struck with a deadly plague. The body of Shank that they have eaten has poisoned them. Your brother, Jedediah, wishes for your return immediately.”

“Ben Alder,” Percy added, glowing so bright and hot that he blistered the pine needles of the bough above them, even as the snow drifted in small flakes. “I watched you grow up, Ben. You had a problem with one angry ghost in your home? You’ve imprisoned a dozen of them in this chapel for your own gain. I didn’t mean to hurt you then, and I don’t want to now. But I will. And Indrid Buckley, I knew your son. Al was a great kid. You know exactly the kind of hurt and death that this church brings. It’s horrible that you’ve only continued it, after everything it took from you. You can end this tonight.”

“If you wish to live, come forth,” said Diggory, in closing. “Otherwise, as you likely know, we will return tonight, and we will destroy everything that remains.”

They stood for a long moment, and then a long minute, until the echoes of Diggory’s voice were buried once again by the dampening snowfall.

“Do you think they can like, hear us from here?” said Ratty.

“Positive,” said Percy. “But, if we really want to, we can fly in and be sure.”

“Hold on,” said Clara, looking up at the two of them. “They have ghosts at their disposal through the organ. I don’t really want either of you getting stuck in there. Allow me.”

She took her hand and pulled open her cloak, revealing the khopesh with its carnelian pommel hanging at her side.

“What is that?” Diggory Graves said.

“My mentor’s sword,” Clara said. “It lets you look around, with a bit of a limited range. I think we’re close enough. I’d be better at it if I hadn’t spent all my time lately in the Compact.”

She closed her eyes, and steeled her breath, and placed her hand upon the pommel.

“Voss nen xorn Nikignik,” she whispered. “Om nen xorn Nikignik.”

Yes, yes. Fine. It is insulting enough to have you carrying around one of my eyes when I am already short. But we are travelling, through the tunnel of roots, to the black door of the Chapel, which is closed. The Quartet are nowhere in sight. Through the door of the chapel itself, there is just the vast empty space, the shattered pews... and a few other things, troubling. Greatly.

Wheeling around, there is a cabinet door on the wall over the entrance. Wooden panels carved with apostles that seem to slowly shift are open, and there is only utter darkness on the other side.

There is, kneeling on the floor of the chapel, the girl—Johannah Wicker. She wears her mask of splintered piano keys, a jagged grin. Her hands scratch against the stones of the chapel floor, leaving long scars in the stone. Her fingertips are twisted and silver. Her heavy breaths fill the air.

And there is a man, standing on the dais. He is making eye contact with me as I hover. Hello, Tiberius.

“Oh,” he says, with a small smile. He is still staring right at my eye, dreamer. “Hello, old friend. What timing. Let Scout City know that we are willing to discuss the terms of their surrender. Otherwise, we shall meet them tonight to discuss the end.”

And then he reaches out with his hand of silver bones, roiling with an inner black shadow, and...

sound of Nikignik in agony

Clara was thrown ten feet backwards, and although she stifled her scream immediately, she could barely keep the thoughts moving in the all-encompassing wave of agony that consumed her mind. Immediately, Diggory was by her side, and the ghosts hung above her; Dogsmell was pushing its nose through her face in concern.

“Are you alright?” said Diggory.

“I’m fine,” Clara grunted, pulling her hand up for inspection. It was definitely not fine; pieces of ruby-red shrapnel were buried deep in her palm. Her hand was shredded, and the smoking pommel of the khopesh at her side was not home to a carnelian, just a fractured socket where the gem had gone.

“You’re bleeding like, a lot,” said Ratty. “I feel like if we’re all ghosts this is going to get inconvenient.”

“Listen,” Clara grunted, eyes wide. “He’s out. Tiberius is out. I don’t know how, but he’s out. And he’s ready for war.”

Outro - Delegations

Delegations. Like it or not, dreamer, we are tethered, you and I. I would say that I am sorry, and that it should not have been you, but the truth is that if it were not you it would be someone very similar and we would be in the exact same situation. My speaking in your dreams, so often... it is not the first time your planet has been touched by an indescribable being from the great universe beyond, but I dare say it is the first time that someone from your world has heard quite so much talking from an indescribable being, and there is something to that. I wish I could let you sleep, and dream of pleasant nightmares. But this—all of this—that is unfolding matters to you in a way that is quickly drawing near. Hidden, yes, for a time. But all these wicked dreams are for one truth. I come, bearing it as a gift, to place beside your manger as you are born into this universe. And I hope, that when you grow, when you wake, you will perform a miracle.

Until the day of our judgement, I am your loyal host Nikignik, waiting delegatorially for your return to the Hallowoods.

The bonus story that goes with this episode is called 'Beneath' and is available on the Hello From The Hallowoods Patreon. Consider joining for access to all the show's bonus stories, behind-the-scenes and more! Until next time, dreamer, delegate and elevate. Are you an artist? Make some peon do that brush-waving and focus on the important things like running your website. Are you a writer? Hire someone on the internet so that your time is freed up to search your own name on google. Are you a corpse? Get an intern to do that rotting business so you can get back to what really matters: collecting government benefits accidentally paid to you. Remember, 20% of what you do is 80% of your value.