Red’s Bait & Tackle
Gotta say, you made a hell of an entrance. Where do you keep that horse you rode in on? Ah, I’m just yanking your chain. It’s no coincidence what’s happening here, and happening now, with us and with you lot. All our legends and traditions speak of watching over this land. Of suffering the hardships. Not a lot of bridges in these parts for water to go under. There’s a whole lot of slights and hurt that never got sounded out, never really left this place. My brother got himself killed for it, and could be that was some kind of mercy. Bearing a purpose is a big heavy weight. The purpose passed onto his daughter, Ami, and the tribe turned her out for her troubles. That was half a lifetime ago. Part of me thought what’s happening now was gonna happen then. The storm clouds had gathered, and all. Moral of the story is, evil’s one tricky son-of-a-gun.
“A mad dog won’t raise any pups.” That’s what my pop used to say. Yeah, I never saw myself as the fathering kind despite sitting in as Santa for as many Kingsmouth Christmases as I can count. That’s more gut than paternal instinct, in every way. But when Ami’s parents died… Her mother went too early but natural, her father was murdered by bad men. Left it for me to bring her up right. Her brothers too, Frank and Joe. One out of three… Coulda been worse, I guess. Don’t mean to say I favored her, but she was special. Had my brother’s gift, to channel the voice of our ancestors. She just needed…encouraging. What was left of the tribe, of her family, they wanted no more to do with tradition. We’re no longer on speaking terms, us and them, and mostly that suits me just fine. I’m spoiled for company. But it was never easy for Ami. Responsibility sure is a sack of rocks, even in better times. Hah. Better times, relatively speaking. Weighed her down half her life. Sure am proud of her. I guess this old dog’s not all mad after all.
We got a few live ones out here besides us and the schoolhouse, damn lucky – or unlucky, depending on your point of view. Take Eleanor Franklin. Keeping to herself in that empty Adams Family mansion for years, stewing on bad blood. Sure as hell doesn’t like the sight of me and my kin. Or anyone else, for that matter, unless it’s a cat. Damn shame, I hear she was a ray of sunshine in her day. But most everyone involved with that mine never comes away quite right. Then you got Sam Krieg, the author. Man doesn’t write romances for a reason, the miserable bastard. We got bets on him coming out of this one with a story about saving the day, maybe with an empowered Native American squeeze, too. You won’t find him setting foot outside the old lighthouse. I’d just slide his food and booze order under the door, until he got his hands on a rifle. Now I leave it out of range and he can bill me if it goes bad. How all of them escaped the fog, I don’t know. I’d like to think there’s rhyme and reason to it all, but I suspect it’s just pure, awful luck.
The ak’ab are closing in on Red’s Bait & Tackle. Red believes they are homing in on Ami because of her special talents. This could be an advantage. After all, offence is sometimes the best defense.
I located the main ak’ab nest deep in the woods. Upon entering the lair I found Ami who had come to assist in cleansing the cave of all ak’ab and their main nest.
Lair of Darkness
Everything that once was will be again. That is the way of the world. A past between the insects and the local Native Americans appears more than likely. We can only assume this is the case of history coming full circle, and Ami having to answer for the actions of her forefathers. Consider your help an instigating event, and her gratitude the consequence that will set other events in motion. 6130909T8854-1
The Player, not the Piece
Red is playing a game of chess with his niece and uses the game as a metaphor for dealing with the draug invading Tolba Bay. He advocates playing a patient game, or – mixing his metaphors – introducing an unexpected element that changes the rules.
Basically, kill the little guys, then bigger guys come. Kill ’em, stake ’em, rinse and repeat until I find the biggest of them all!
The elder knew half a truth. It is a game, but one where the rules and conditions are fluid. At times, you will advance silently, at others with a great shout.On this occasion, you saw how the creatures invaded, methodical, attuned to their own alien rhythm. You seized that rhythm, escalated it primal rage. The headstrong attacker achieves little beyond wearing down his own defenses. Now they are dispatched to the void of all who cannot adapt. You have executed the will of the Dragon.
Strangers from A Strange Land
Local legend describes how strangers from across the sea came to the aid of the Wabanaki a thousand years ago. They brought a powerful sword and left the Wabanaki with magic inscribed in stones. Uncover the mysteries of these pale men and unlock the secrets of their magic.
As I traveled from stone to stone, ravens appeared, one named Huginn, the other Muninn. They told me a story:
Huginn: Thought comes before memory. But memory recalls the path. I’m thought, he’s memory. You can have that one for free.
Muninn: We laid our blades up on this far shore, exhausted, only to lift them against worshipers of a dark sun. We carved this story in stone, here it waits still to be read.
Huginn: Memory is a servant of those ho prove worthy of thought. Hint-hint.
Muninn: From our frozen birthland, we crossed a white-capped sea to green isles of endless rain. This, too, we carved in stone.
Huginn: A wise man once asked of a king: “Who is the great one who grasps the earth, swallowing wood and water? Bad weather he dreads, wind, but no man, and picks a fight with the sun”.
Muninn: We carried a sword out from the lands of rain, and gave thanks to the gods. All must pass before the gods.
Huginn: The same wise man asked the king: “What beast is that which defends fighters; it bears a bloody back, but men it saves, meets spears, gives life to some, and lays itself inside a soldier’s palm?”
Muninn: In our longships, we sighted where the dawn-people and sun-worshippers warred. We joined them, a hail of arrows sent before us to mark the path.
Huginn: Wise man, king, you know the drill: “The mind-whacker, the word-thwarter, the word-upraiser.”
Muninn: They did not know Loki walked among them, as he walks today. He fought at their side, but he is a trickster. Guided only by rivalry with his brother. Let the thunder god also guide you.
Huginn: The wise man asked: “Four hang, four sprang, two point the way, two ward off dogs, one dangles after and it is always rather dirty.”
Muninn: The game was done, this battle won. They had earned the wealth which was their reward, and only one place remained for them to go.
Huginn: Had you guessed? The wise man was the All-Father, the Wednesday man. The raven-god. in his honey dreaming we shall carry him these new thoughts, these new memories.
Muninn: “In time, they made to return to the lands of snow. Only to be taken by the sea where the Draugr drown. This Loki knew, so he did not sail. South, he went, to find the secrets of the dark sun.”
The genre of an event is determined by its timing. Arrive too soon and you are history's fool, scratch your head. Arrive too late an your dinner is cold, your guests all dead. But be there at the right moment and desires are fulfilled: revelation, orgasm. Historic events, like those of a thousand years ago, are on the horizon again. Our timing must be perfect. The Norsemen knew exactly when and where to be through the visions of their wise ones. The child has visions too. The top of a tall building. A light in the heart of darkness. You will be there. As for Loki, the mischief maker: his cycle has been confirmed. To Solomon Island when strength meets ambition (1666, 1875, 1962); to the jungles of Guatemala when the mortal coil wanes (1715, 1881, 1976).