Haunter

Another top notch showing. You've got a real knack for narrative voice that makes everything pop (at least for me). My enjoyment of your linked stories is well documented, and seems almost redundant to mention, but I will anyway - yay for continuity! I loved the line Their movements are heavy with a stupid, cruel purpose. Lovely words. There was a line that pinged my ambiguity detector: . I know what they want, and I know how disappointed they’ll be when they find out what I’ve actually got between my legs - not that I mean to let them get that far. Is she trans? a cross dresser? Packing knives in uncomfortable places? I found her references to 'Cass' felt casual for someone in a position of authority over her (particularly one who seems annoyed with her). Felt informal. Was it meant to be familiar or passive-aggressive/defiant like calling your dad by his first name when you're a surly 14 year old? The one bit that seemed jarring was the riflewoman opening fire. One line the guy's going to check things out, and the next she's pinging shots dangerously close to our heroine's head. I reread it, thinking I may have missed a line of transition. Conversely, immediately preceding that was one of my favorite exchanges: “Is there someone there?” The man calls. “What do you think they’re going to say if they are?” The woman says. “Point,” the man says, That made me smile. Shades of Joss Whedon dialogue. I really liked the revelation of her powers too. Everything is a lock and key. Nice. A fun read and another great protagonist!

Interesting piece. I liked the style, and did totally imagine flamenco music overlaid. I really liked all the action sequences, and the thaumatrope (complete with link!) idea was very cool and cinematic. The multiple voices in his head felt sort of awkward. I liked their interplay by and large, I just had a hard time integrating that layer into the action of the story. It felt jarring going back and forth. At the risk of butchery, if I were to do a big hack I'd keep pretty much everything that happened outside his head, and maybe change all the internal division and banter as him conversing or debating with himself. Rather than peeking inside his mind, actually have him talking to himself in the same way he speaks to the passengers.

This was really solid! I absolutely love the concept - I wish I'd thought of it first! I thought you did a really nice job morphing from the dark and macabre to the romantic. As a McMourning player the protagonist totally resonates for me. I appreciated the blend of crazy and vulnerable - sure she's stalking her next victim to peel the skin off of to preserve her own faded beauty, but she's not so far gone as to be immune to a little genuine good will and earnest flirtation. Great job Bogo.

Always happy to see non-standard entries like poems and songs. Beyond my ken, so I'm always impressed!

Edited. Thanks for the suggestion Admiralvorkraft. I loved the shuffling and reshuffling or cards - it really fit the image of Callie in my head. Does this final paragraph read better to you? It's interesting/validating to get feedback like that because I had struggled with how to end it and wasn't 100% sure what I settled on was particularly strong. It's encouraging to feel like I am seeing weak spots where there are weak spots, rather than just being scathingly self-critical about things that are actually fine. Wasn't sure if the Bourne references were too self-indulgent, but I like trying to throw in little nerd eggs. It was fun to revisit a character from a previous story - Callie was the protagonist in my first Iron Quill entry, and Oggie showed up at the end of that one to help recruit her. I knew I wanted to revisit her, but didn't plan on doing it so soon. After my first attempt with this set of ingredients failed so horribly I figured I'd go with someone I already knew and was excited about.

After 2 false starts and much frustrating writer's block (1 story completely written and put through 2 drafts but still not good enough to enter), I can finally post Choices and feel not too bad about it. Words: 1750 Ingredients used: Identity Crisis Tortured Soul Match The docs before dawn Somebody's got to be your mother

Choices “No, no, please, no,” The man’s distant voice was desperate, “Please, you don’t understand.” There was a brief cacophony of rending metal, crashing, and screaming. Then silence. Callie tried to quicken her pace, heels clicking on the brickwork. Her companion’s easy gait didn’t change at all so she slowed again. “Oggie? Shouldn’t we do something?” Her eyes were wide. “Guessin there ain’t much left to be done.” He drawled, scratching his close cropped beard, “An quit callin me that.” They rounded the corner of the last warehouse at the end of the dockyard. At the far end of the dock was a scene of grisly destruction. A burly bald man hung limply on the warehouse wall, held in place by the lamp post protruding from his shattered chest. Another smaller man was entangled in a snarl of fence railing so twisted it looked like a briar patch, his head bent backwards at an unnatural angle. A third lay in a pool of blood, his body perforated by a score of small objects like scattergun shot. In the middle of it all a man knelt in a heap, staring at his limp hands in his lap. He was well dressed if rather disheveled, and had a face that could easily be called handsome. He kept muttering “I tried to tell them… I tried to tell them…” At the clicking approach of heels he looked up blearily. He looked vaguely in their direction and mumbled a warning, “Stay back. I’m n… It’s not safe.” When the footsteps did not slow he looked again, this time focusing on the coiffed blonde woman and rough clad man beside her. His look was somewhere between baffled and incredulous as they continued toward him unfazed. “Hey! What’s wrong with you people? Can’t you see it’s not safe here?!” His tone changed from self-pitying to annoyance. He looked around with red-rimmed eyes at the carnage. “You shouldn’t be here, it’s not safe to be here.” The momentary ire in his voice faded back to self-pity, “I’m not safe… I tried to tell them…” His gaze fell again. Callie took a few more tentative steps toward him. Her companion stopped and slid aside his worn poncho to rest a hand on the ornate custom revolver on his hip. The crumpled man appeared to ignore them both. She stopped a short distance from him, working hard to ignore the battered corpse not five feet from her. Keeping her voice calm and matter-of-fact she said, “Mr. Webb? David Webb?” He looked up, seeming to shake off the fog a little, “How… how do you know my name? Who are you people?” “My name’s Calliope Doucette. The tall gentleman in the hat is Ogden Cross. We’re here to help you.” David peered at her face in the pre-dawn half-light. “Do I know you?” Callie smiled nonchalantly, “I believe we may have met at the Landy’s faro game.” The truth was that she had been there expressly to spy on him, but it hardly seemed the time to quibble with such small facts. He nodded slowly, sharp recollection cutting through the sludge of his mind. “Pink dress. You were drinking pinot. You take your cards very seriously.” “Guilty on all counts,” she replied, unconsciously smoothing the pleats of her dress, “You have a gift for remembering details, Mr. Webb. You are a man of many… gifts.” David looked around bleakly, “This isn’t a gift. It’s a curse. They say bad things happen here, but I never thought I’d be one of them. I never wanted…” “I understand,” Callie said, uncharacteristically earnest, “Truly I do. You didn’t ask for what you got, but you got it anyhow so now you’ve got a choice: what are you going to do with it?” “Do with it?” he asked incredulously, “Look around you Miss Doucette. I can’t do anything with it. I can’t control it, I can’t stop it, I can’t do a goddamn thing about it! People are dead because of me. I’m just lucky it hasn’t happened at home or at work. I’m not safe to be around like this.” “Your work? It’s for the Guild, isn’t it Mr. Webb?” Callie asked, already knowing the answer. A night of faro was time enough for her to have read many secrets in the cards. David Webb was not the only one with strange and unsought gifts. “Yes,” As his shock wore off he became increasingly wary, “Anthropology division. What of it?” “They don’t know, do they?” Her question was obviously leading. “No, of course not,” he replied, “I’d be put to the torch.” “And yet here you are up before the sun, lurking around the docks, being accosted by thugs all to protect their interests.” Callie hoped she wasn’t over-playing her hand, “That’s some kind of loyalty.” David eyed her suspiciously, “How do you know what I’m doing here? Who are you people?” She answered the first to duck the second, “You’re looking for the artifacts that disappeared from Lucas McCabe’s last expedition. You found a discrepancy in the manifests and you came to check it out. These three upstanding gentlemen are associates of his who came to discourage you from pursuing this curiosity. How am I doing so far?” “You’ve been watching me.” It wasn’t a question. “Fine. Uncannily accurate, Miss Doucette. Now, who are you and what do you want from me?” She mustered as much gravitas as she could, “I already told you, we want to help you.” The gunslinger interjected from behind them, “Less dancin Belle. It ain’t safe. Snufflers won’t be long in comin.” “Thanks mama bear,” she tossed over her shoulder. “Hey, somebody’s gotta be your mother. Just hurry it up.” He scanned the darkness in the direction they had come from. Fighting it out with a squad of witch hunters was not how he wanted his night to go. “Oggie’s got a point,” Callie said, drawing a frustrated grunt from her companion, “This is not the ideal place for a long conversation so here’s the short of it. You’re an unregistered, and thus far dangerously untrained, magical talent. Your employer isn’t going to blink when they burn you inside out. Even if they don’t, you’ve crossed McCabe and that man’s almost as snaky as the Secretary himself. You’re blown and you need to make some new friends fast.” “And that would be you.” David’s lack of enthusiasm was palpable. “It could be worse,” She quipped, batting her eyelashes, “At least I’m pretty. Look, eight months ago I got a similar offer, and here I am making one to you now. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a True Believer fighting for The Cause, but I’m safer than I was and I’m learning to use my talent. Looking around, those are two things you could sorely use right about now.” “Arcanists.” The word was almost acidic, “What will I tell my wife?” “Nothin.” Ogden spoke up again, “This is your shot. Right now. You’re all in - you disappear and start over, or you take your chips and go home.” David slumped again, looking like he might be sick. He closed his eyes. After a long moment he sighed, “Okay.” Callie nodded, looking slightly relieved. If the answer was no, Plan B was significantly less peaceful. She fished a deck of playing cards from her purse and handed them to David. “Here, hold these for a moment, would you?” He complied, looking slightly baffled but too broken to question her. Callie walked to the corner of the dock and peered into the darkness. She struck a match, letting the initial flare light up her face for a brief second before dropping it into the water. There was a hollow wooden clunk and slosh of water as a small rowboat eased out of hiding and pulled towards them. Callie returned to the still bereft David and crouched in front of him. He held the cards in both hands, staring at them unseeing. She cupped her hands around his around the deck and focused her will the way she had been taught. Reading people’s pasts wasn’t the only card trick she knew anymore. The cards grew warm in their hands and a hint of wispy blue light slipped between their fingers. After a moment her face relaxed and the light faded. From a few warehouses away there was the brief sound of a children’s toy playing an automated tune before it was cut short. Ogden drew his elaborately tooled pistol and stared hard down the row of warehouses. “They tripped the bear. Time’s up Belle. They’re here.” He was already back-stepping toward the edge of the dock with his eyes scanning the gloom of the warehouses behind them. The rowboat pulled alongside the dock with a scrape. Callie reached into her purse once more and pulled out an intricate mechanical brass dove. She wound up the key on its back, and set the deck of cards in its clutches. “Fly little birdy.” With a whirring of gears and slight squeaking of metal joints it launched into the air and flew off down the alley between two warehouses. “That should give the stalkers something to sniff after for a while.” Callie said with a smile, “They’ll be following your scent around in circles till noon.” “Less gloatin, more floatin.” Ogden barked from the rowboat, “C’mon now. Time’s up.” Callie looked seriously into David’s eyes one last time, “You sure about this hun? Last chance. There’s no going back from here.” His despair was clear when he matched her gaze, “Doesn’t seem that I have a choice. Let’s go.” The rowboat was already obscured in shadows when the torch-bearing witch hunters arrived on the scene. The trio watched in silence as three robed witchling stalkers snuffled around, then loped off in the direction the dove had flown with their handlers in tow. Ogden flicked a match with his thumb nail and lit a cigarillo. David sat low in the prow with his shoulders slumped and eyes downcast. Callie watched him, idly shuffling and reshuffling another deck of cards. The boatman worked the oars with even steadiness, silently pulling them through the murky waters.

I've only played the good doctor a handful of times (most of the handful of games I've played). I dogmatically took Transfusion the first 2 games (my first 2 games of Malifaux) but had a hard time making it fly (largely due to inexperience I suspect). I poisoned up one of my own crew and then failed to get Transfusion off... for 2 turns. It was unfortunate. After that I went the route you're suggesting - lots of poison-centric or at least poison-spreading models and letting the Expunge bomb be a bonus rather than a focus. Seems to have worked okay. I've reliably gotten a flesh construct or two, and a dog or two over the game - not focused on summoning, but certainly nice adds. All it takes is a little poison to make dogs, Shikome (haven't tried them yet, but they're on the list!), Rafkin, and Sebastian punch above their weight class in some way. Tangentially, what have peoples' experiences been of playing Doug in a non-poison-centric crew? Is he sufficient as a stand-alone without his toxic friends around? What would a non-poison crew look like for you?

They're spoken for now. Thanks for your interest all.

Interesting collection of ingredients. I'm certainly in. Wheels are already turning...

I have a set of metal Coryphee NIB that would like to dance for someone else. Ideally I'd like to swap them for a couple Silent Ones or Johanna. Failing that cash is always welcome as well. I'm in Vancouver, Canada, and will happily ship wherever. Just send me a PM if you're interested. Cheers, Haunter

Congrats Admiralvorkraft! I loved your piece - totally deserving of a win! Funny, I wouldn't have guessed this would be your first win. Double congrats for that then! Quite pleased to have come in 2nd myself. That's certainly good for the ego. As was said, Edonil, thanks so much for cobbling this together for us. I'm already salivating to see what the next challenge will be!

Nice to see so many folks who didn't write still reading and voting!

Interesting! I love the twist at the end.

I like the gun appearing earlier. I think it makes the action flow smoother.

I quite liked the first half, but once things started getting crazy... I dunno. I had a hard time finding the flow. I really liked the dialogue between them in the first half. I think you really captured that erudite excitement for new discovery and the naivete of sheltered academics on their way to Malifaux. Very strong characterization. I liked the implications of the letter, but wished for some sort of a hint or allusion as to who the sender might be (though perhaps that tantalizing unknown is sweeter than a hint.) The line 'sharp as a razor, soft as breath' seemed sort of shoe-horned into the ominous threat of the letter. For me the letter reads smoother without that line. I liked the way you framed the translation as being words resonating in her mind. It definitely added to the creep factor of the letter. For me the drawing of the gun (and subsequent events) felt like a leap that wants a couple lines of lead-up. Maybe a mention of his agitation or mental state to telegraph that he's unstable and potentially violent. I felt like I had to work at it to make shooting them make sense from his perspective. I liked some of the changes (the ones I noticed anyway) in your descriptions in the latter half. I also loved that John cowered in the immediate wake of the first shot. It felt fitting with my sense of him. And the last line? Gold. Loved it. Tied it up and put a bow on it.

Fair point. It was a marginal call on Atieno's voice. I felt a little awkward using pidgin English. It felt kind of thick, but I left it because it felt in keeping with the social/racial dynamics of the colonial era, and fit with the Great White Hunter theme I was playing with. I did wonder if it was too tasteless. Upshot, thanks for the feedback. It gave me the nudge to do a quick edit that hopefully dials down the crass a little. Does that section read any better now?

I also passed through Nairobi, including the obligatory visit to the Blixen estate and the famous view of the Ngong hills. I love all things Africa, and have a fascination with the colonial era in general. I liked the idea of playing with the idea of what happens to the Great White Hunter when the prey hunts back. Nerd easter eggs - in kiswahili Atieno means Guardian of the Night. The two comrades he lost who were named, Cunninghame and Bell, were famous real life white hunters in that era. Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it.

Out of Africa, always something new... 1706 words Ingredients used: Ivory Tower The Last Survivor Sharp as a razor, soft as (a) breath An undelivered letter Earthside Hoping I havenèt strayed too far from canon with this one.

Carp. Double post. Can someone disappear this please?

Oops. Double post. Ignore me. Go read the other one!

The Last Moonless Night The sudden quiet presence behind him made Reginald Paris jump involuntarily. “I bring you supper Bwana,” the familiar rounded inflection of his manservant’s voice did little to put him at ease. “Asante sana, Atieno,” he replied, “Just leave it on the side table.” He waved distractedly, hardly looking up from his desk. “You want letter deliver today?” Atieno asked, peeking over his employer’s shoulder. Several drafts were strewn across the desk, all discarded after a few lines. “No thank you.” Reginald sighed heavily and slumped back in his chair, “Tomorrow will be fine. You’re free to go for the night.” “Of course, Bwana.” The tall Kikuyu turned to leave. “Atieno…” Reginald stopped him as he reached the door of the study, “Wait. I have something for you.” Atieno stopped and turned, curiosity plain on his dark features. Reginald hauled himself up from his desk and unlocked the armoire across the room. He reverently withdrew a gun belt and holster containing a gleaming Collier revolver. He offered it solemnly to his loyal manservant, whose hands accepted it even as his brow furrowed in abject confusion. “You’re a good lad,” Reginald said by way of explanation, placing a meaty hand on the taller man’s shoulder, “and you’ve got a family now. You need to protect them.” “I…” Atieno struggled for words, “Asante Bwana. Asante!” “Best get on home son,” Reginald said with an oddly paternal pat on the shoulder, “It will be dark soon and there’s no moon tonight.” Atieno bobbed his head appreciatively and clutched the prized pistol close as he hurried out the front door. Reginald stepped out on the veranda and breathed in the moist, warm air, taking in the smell of dirt and jasmine and jackfruit. He watched as the last blazing orange sliver of the sun dipped below the Ngong Hills to the west. He gripped the railing, feeling the rough grain of the wood under his callused hands. Atieno disappeared down the path to his village, leaving the old white hunter entirely alone. His deep sigh seemed to deflate him, the last of his vitality released in the gust of air. He returned to his desk and started his letter anew. Dear Professor Markham, I am not generally a man much given to academia, but lately I have been following your work on the colonization of Malifaux with some interest. I am a hunter by profession, and had the opportunity to go on an extended safari in the wilds beyond the Breach some time ago. He sat back in his chair and stared at the sepia toned pictures framed on his desk. Twelve they were then, looking so confident and proud. Twelve men standing over what in the photo was merely a smudged blur that obscured their lower legs and feet. In his mind’s eye he recalled the giant nephilim’s fearsome claws and looming bat wings. He remembered all too well its horrible voice and venomous words. It had tested their nerves as nothing else ever had. They were all so proud of that kill. Every one of them were veteran hunters seasoned by countless safaris, but they all felt like giddy amateurs on their first hunt that day. It seemed so long ago – a lifetime. Had it only been a year? His gaze drifted to the photo of himself standing beside Perdita Ortega over another blur, this one remembered as a scaly swamp creature. He saw the inverse of every trophy hunting photo he’d ever been in. He the wide-eyed novice, she the dispassionate veteran. In hindsight he didn’t fault her lack of enthusiasm. After all, weren’t they all just tourists to her? Looking for sport in the middle of her war zone? How he rued their arrogance now. I have read your work on the impact of our presence on the behavior of the native creatures there. In your essays you have proposed that the Neverborn are Malifaux’s natural defense against human intrusion. I believe you are more correct than you know. I have hunted the most dangerous beasts on six continents, but the worst of them pale in comparison to what lives beyond the city of Malifaux. They are monsters in the truest sense of the word – vicious, calculating, tenacious and smart. We were not hunting, we were at war. His sight grew misty as his gaze returned to the yellowed trophy shot propped on his desk. Twelve they were. Then eleven. Then ten. Now there was only one. Cunninghame had disappeared in January. He had been the first. He went to bed on a moonless night in his London home, and was never seen again. No tracks could be found in the snow, no sign of passage at all. He had simply vanished. Bell disappeared in February, again on a moonless night. He had been hunting tigers in Kashmir. According to witnesses he walked away from the fire to relieve himself and was never seen again. So it had gone, one each month in the dark of the moon until now only he remained. Since the disappearances began Reginald had by necessity become well read in matters relating to the crossing of the Breach. Emile Markham was one of, if not the preeminent authority on the subject. He was not just an academic cloistered in the safety of his office at Ingolstadt, but a field researcher who had braved the crossing nine times. He could respect a man like that. He could trust him to understand. You once said that the Breach is a door, and that we must never forget that doors swing both ways. Though I have no sure proof, I believe that the monsters of Malifaux are entering our world just as we enter theirs. If you are as astute as I credit you, you are no doubt aware of the fate of my party following our return from that place. It has received some note in the press abroad, particularly after the disappearance of Baron Percival this past July. In case not, I have enclosed records relating the details of each incident. I have every expectation that this letter will be delivered posthumously to you. I am the last survivor of our party. As I write this letter the sun is setting and no moon rises tonight. If I am correct I will not see the morning sun. I do not know what good my words will do, but I pray you will receive them. If anyone can understand the gravity of this, and convey that to the people who need to know, it is you. The Neverborn are coming Earthside. We are being hunted. You must warn them. Make them listen. It will not end with us. Yours, Reginald Paris President of the Nairobi Hunters Club. Reginald carefully folded the letter and sealed it in an envelope. He placed it conspicuously where Atieno would find it in the morning. He gazed out the window. The night was full and alive with sound as always. The droning trill of cicadas underwrote the piercing cry of a bat hawk and the laughing yap of hyenas rousing for a hunt. He smiled faintly. They were friendly sounds to his ear after forty years in Africa. Here at the lodge or out in the bush, they were the familiar sounds of home. Reginald rose from his desk and walked slowly through the lodge. His booted footsteps clumped solidly on the wood floor, loud in the empty rooms. His hands, still strong and steady but now spotted with age, caressed the leather chair backs. He recalled the hunts that procured that leather. He looked at each of the trophies mounted on the wall, reminiscing about friends now passed. He breathed in the scent of the Spanish cedar humidor and rolled the memory of cigar nights with his friends around in his mouth. He had no desire to smoke tonight. He stopped in front of a large framed picture in the lounge. A much younger incarnation of himself leaned casually on an elephant gun almost as tall as he was. Beside him were a pile of elephant tusks five feet high. He grieved for the days when elephants and lions were good enough sport. What hubris had led him to Malifaux? He continued his slow circuit through the building, pausing to idly pat one of the thick furred heads of the Saber-tooth Cerberus that was stuffed and mounted upon a rock in a menacing pose. “Well old bean, looks like you get the last laugh after all.” As he walked past another window his ears, tuned from a lifetime in the bush, alerted him to the hush that had fallen over the night. After a moment’s silence he heard a sound like wooden wind chimes clattering in the breeze. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew what it meant. It was time. He returned to the armoire in the study and after much consideration selected a sturdy short-barrelled shotgun. Out of habit he checked the sighting, tested the break action, and inspected the barrels. He loaded it with care and took grim comfort in the click as he locked the barrels in place. With determined bravery he walked to the front door and lit a storm lantern before stepping onto the veranda. His heart raced but his mind felt calm and clear. He shone the light in the direction of an unfamiliar shadow in the yard. Bile rose in his throat despite his earlier detachment. Erected in the middle of the yard was a twelve foot tower of bleached bones. Its macabre artisanship made it all the more horrifying. Feet, legs, arms, hands, ribs, and spines all arranged in patterns designed to draw the eye to the crown of eleven skulls at the top. There was one gap in the crown that was clearly meant for a twelfth skull. Reginald swallowed hard. At least he could deny them that one small thing. As he stood transfixed by the charnel tower of ivory he heard a voice in his ear, sharp as a razor and soft as a breath, whisper, “We are here.” A single shot rang out in the African night.

Nicely done again. I got a little smile when I recognized Bel's name. Me and my love of serials. I really liked the narrator's voice - very distinct and characterful. It brought the whole story to life in a really neat way. I found it all very rich and evocative. It was easy to feel immersed in the setting.

HIlarious! I love it! Well done.

Delightful! I very much enjoyed the narrator's voice. Reminded me a little of Death, the narrator in The Book Thief.