Rewriting Our Reality

I must admit, this was not quite what I expected. I mean, to be clear, the camp was easy enough to wade through silently. It also had enough provisions to last me a while, and other things worth a goodly amount to the nearby settlements. But, either this camp was filled with insane prepper types, or about half the camp was out in the woods. From the fact that these dipshits didn’t know the basics of gun maintenance, I’m betting on the latter. Which means, even if I took everything and left, that would just encourage more banditry. And if I leave everything, there will be a bit of time where the remaining bandits struggle to figure out who’ll be their new leader, then things would just return to business as usual. Neither really what I want. Waiting around these woods, stalking this single group of bandits and thugs while others are left to their own devices would simply be unacceptable. Which leaves me in a bit of a predicament. I need to call most of the people out in the woods back to base, without warning them that I just went through the whole of their camp like it was paper. Then kill most of them without anyone running away. I think about the predicament. It takes me almost no time to realize there isn’t really an answer in a normal person’s bag. It takes me even less time than that to see the answer. I just don’t really like it.

See, us Wanderers were never your run-of-the-mill secret cabal members pulling the strings of the shadow government, or whatever the Three sides were supposedly doing. Most people in our system wouldn’t have been able to off a single god, much less several. Many were brilliant, privileged, influential, or some combination of the three. But they were just people, for the most part. Then there were the soldiers, like what I once was. Also some combination of the three, but trained ruthlessly to kill the enemies whichever secret society they were a part of. Thus far, pretty much any of those types, at least the elite end of the soldier types, would’ve been able to do what I did. But those of us cursed and blessed to work with Jim, to study under J-P, we’ve got a different bag of tricks as well. And as much as I dislike using that bag, especially since that bag was what caused a Hole in Reality itself, it was the best option here. The only option.

Quietly opening my bag, I pull out a small wooden box. Flipping through the booklet inside, I find the right page and read over it. Remember the symbols. I pull the bodies all into the middle of camp. Using the blood from the bodies, I draw a small symbol on the pile of corpses. Next, I sow the ground with salt, to encircle the camp. Then, heading into their camp, use their own gunpowder for the larger gate boundary indications. Leaving the sown boundary, I slice my hand with the ritual dagger from the box, press the blooded hand against the salted ground, and mutter the ritual words. The wound burns closed as the salt faintly warms. Putting everything but the dagger back in my bag, I head to the top of a nearby tree. Then using one of their own flare guns, I fire it at the pile of corpses. Hopefully this works.

The pile burst alight. I fight the urge it inspires in me. It’s a calling ritual. Makes you want to check on the source of flame. Not scared, but concerned. Anyone who sees the smoke should feel the urge. And, as they were planning on communicating via flare, I suspect most if not all are keeping eyes to the sky, and therefore will see the smoke. Perched on the branch, I watch. And wait. One person comes in. They see the bodies and, shaking the effects off momentarily, try to flee. But the line holds. It’s a one way wall, after all. A trap. Anything can enter, but nothing living can leave. Or maybe nothing with life? That would’ve been significant to remember if I was dealing with some of the enemies of our past, but these bandits are just living people. The distinction no longer matters to me. The first person turns around, and wanders back towards the fire. I watch. And wait. Others begin to file in. Each follows the same pattern. They see the pile of bodies and the blood, shake it off, find that they are trapped, then the smoke takes over once more. And the repeats. Over and over again.

I let it go for around an hour, watching and waiting. But the bodies start looking well crisped, no one new has entered the circle for a while, and the numbers work out roughly right. Only like six fewer people than were in the camp. Which means it’s time for the second part of the slaughter. The risky part. Taking the dagger, I slake it in my blood, running it across my chest. Then, I leap down, muttering a different set of words of a different sort of calling. I thrust the well blooded dagger into the gunpowder symbol below me. It bursts into flame. The bandits see me. Too late. The other six gunpowder symbols around the camp burst into flame as well. They look around. The space between the symbols begins to waver. Vibrate. Like it is and isn’t here. Or, more specifically, like it is both here and somewhere else entirely. From the middle of the points, a massive, multifaced head rises out of nothingness. I can see the people. They’re terrified, but that’s not the only thing causing them to shiver. I know what I called, and I know where it’s from. That area there is freezing cold. The mouths of the many faces begin to move. Together as one voice from many places, it says, “What a lovely meal.” Then, opening all of its multitude of mouths wide, the creature’s tongues lash outward. Each one is forked at many places. Each one is also prehensile. Some tongue ends constrict their prey like a snake. Others stab at through their target like a spear. Others still simply launch their prey towards their respective mouths to be eaten alive. But one tongue end comes out and attacks each and every one of the bandits in the area, as though the tongue exists specifically for them. Then there is the last tongue, from the face atop the head. As the other faces have their fill, one branch of the top-face’s tongue lashes out towards me. As I knew it would. Most called beasts, or demons, or spirits, or whatever you want to call these things tend not to like being called. So, while it will certainly enjoy the meal I provided, it also wants me to lose its number. And, in an effort to make that happen, the beasts tend to turn on the caller. The tongue lashes at me the best it can. Unfortunately, it finds the same obstacle as the others did. There is a risk, of course. Always is when dabbling in the mystic. See, if our friend here was very unsatisfied with its meal, it could push harder. And, being a beast of either pure mystical energy or from a plane effuse with mystic energy (which is truly the case would be a matter solely for theoreticians), it could likely overpower my relatively simple and weak barrier.

Fortunately, it turns out two dozen live people is a good meal for this particular beast. Or, at the very least, a sufficient meal that it doesn’t feel like doing more work just to kill me. Once all the bodies are safely in the head’s mouths, I remove the dagger from the ground. As it slides out from the soil, the vibration in space slowly dissipates, and the head fades from existence. In this world, at least. I take a deep breath and, collapsing against the tree, let out a massive sigh. Quietly making my way through the camp, unnoticed and efficient, is certainly tiring, don’t get me wrong. But it’s a different sort of tiring. A physical exhaustion partnered with a feeling of accomplishment. Similar to the feeling after a really good workout. But this is a whole different sort of exhaustion. Parts of my body that aren’t even supposed to get tired are exhausted. And in my spirit, instead of a sense of accomplishment, sits only a looming sense of emptiness. Like I lost something. There’s a reason I hate doing this.

I head back to the tents, where the supplies I’d seen before the summoning are waiting for me. Had I been prescient, I would have brought a pack animal of some kind. But this was, in theory, a routine overwatch of a trade route. I wasn’t expecting to take on any real camp, much less a massive one like this. Which means now I’ve got to prioritize. First, survival. I’m relatively low on rations and there are still a good number. Second, preparation. I’ve got plenty of ammunition and weaponry, but one can never have too much of either. Not anymore. Third, useful trade goods. Things I like to use but can also trade for other things if need be, like liquor and batteries. Finally, anything else I won’t ever use that seems particularly valuable or interesting I grab if I’ve got the room.

It takes a bit of time, but I manage to pack my bag tightly. I got through all three of the important parts, then even had enough room for a deck of novelty cards. The sort of novelty cards that an adult might think worth a lot in a world that once had the internet for certain urges and now does not. There were a ton of other things that might be interesting to traders, but I can’t carry them. Not if I want to make a reasonable walking pace. There’s a town relatively close to our position. About a half-day’s walk south from the forest’s edge. I’ll leave a series of trail markers from here to the forest’s edge, mark the trees as a start, and give a heads up to the scavengers in town. They’ll give me something for it, at least. Not much, but maybe some ammunition or batteries. Or just more provisions.

I use some of the water I’d gathered to wash off my face. I’m heading into civilization. If I want the mysterious stranger rumor to stay unconnected to myself, showing up covered in camouflage paint and telling the scavs about a camp filled with burnt corpses isn’t the right play. Instead, I’ll keep my bow out of my bag, in the sling and on my back. I’ll deflect at first. I’ll say that I’m nobody. I’ll act like I don’t trust them. Then, when I’m pushed, I’ll relent. I’ll tell them that I’m a hunter. That I set some traps for rabbits or foxes. That I hoped to spot a deer. That when I found the camp, I figured I should get to the nearest town quickly and tell the people who could deal with it. That I’ll be headed back out the next day to gather the game. That if they take any of my game, I’ll tell everyone I meet that the scavs in that town are thieves. Believable enough story, especially if I don’t hold myself like their imagined guardian. No hunter trusts a scav, because too often scavs do take good meat they find, even if it isn’t exactly covered by scavenging rights. Your perceptions define your reality. You see someone that looks like a hunter, acts like a hunter, and says they’re a hunter, you think they’re a hunter unless it’s proven otherwise. I probably still should set a few game traps to sell the lie before I make my way to the town, though. In case this group in this town is the sort to steal. A good thing to know about a town’s populace.