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Chapter 5 - The Cult of Hg’lichigk Mourqu

With a voice smoother than silk, the red-winged blackbird cooed in a cool, captivating tone, “So, Forsy’s got their first Fangdyne Tystwole, huh?” before taking a hit from his vape, modified with an extra-long nozzle to accommodate the bird’s beak. Don’t ask me how the technology works, I’m not a bird. His slick, black feathers shone in the warm light of the bar, as though he treated them with some sort of oil, and he wore a paperboy’s cap, with a gray suit jacket over an otherwise plain, black T-shirt.

“Touch, you say that like you’ve had a Fangdyne Tystwole.”

“You say that like I didn’t put aside my complicated life to nurture you into the Marquette-”

“Nope! I met Marianne first-”

“Touché.” Touchstone shot finger guns with his wing-paws.

Dressed in jeans and a green-and-blue flannel, a muscular, gray-and-white-furred wolf leaned forward, holding a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon tightly in his clutches. There were no particular markings in his fur that caused the lupine to stand out when compared to other gray wolves. His cheeks and chest were a snowy white, and a steel gray dominated the other areas of his face. A plain, black eyepatch did a well enough job at distinguishing the canine from other wolves, however. He spoke politely, in a high tenor that almost seemed nervous without actually being nervous. “Well, it’s really nice to meet you, Florence. Welcome to Marquette- Or, I guess you’ve been here for a few days now, but it’s nice to meet you. Any friend of Forsy’s is a friend of mine.”

“Mine as well,” crooned the avian, gesturing to kiss Florence’s paw. While some might mistake him for a poser, he was actually just that cool.

Indeed, Touchstone and Hawthorn were once again back in Marquette, both having made their way back into town on the same day. If Florence was going to stay here for a while, there was no way I wasn’t going to introduce her to two of my closest friends from Marquette. After all, last time I took her to Esu’s, she was expected to drive an ungodly distance within the next twenty-four hours. She deserved a drink.

I was more than happy being the designated driver. I couldn’t drink anyway. After fixing the four of us our drinks, the impala bartender, Lavitia, sauntered back to her usual spot behind the bar, interjecting into conversation when the mood struck her. In a mocking tone, Lavitia called out, “It’s wonderful, the Bachelors are all once again back in the bar. Good reminder to pay for insurance-”

“Lavitia, I’m literally a pregnant married woman right now-”

“You’re always a Bachelor in spirit, fox. Where is that husband of yours, actually? He always keeps you four in line.” The fourth animal in question being the momentarily absent Claudia, who was also apt to get up to antics.

“He’s doing Teleraine stuff still, I’m not allowed to know.”

The blackbird nudged the much-larger wolf with his talon, “It’s seems we’re out and about without our chaperone, Culver, I wonder what mischief-”

“Please just call me ‘Hawthorn,’” the lupine male responded, his voice suddenly colored with annoyance.

Touchstone was a red-winged blackbird a few years older than me, and was the most impressive thief that I’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. His skill in burglary, pickpocketing, lockpicking, and all manner of rogue-esque activities was well known throughout the Midwest. After all, he was the youngest in line to the equally-renowned House St. Nicholas out in Appalachia; no relation to Santa Claus. He’s not real. Touchstone’s grandfather was the famous Awngaimene Osman St. Nicholas: The Thief of Night Breezes, an animal more than a few centuries old who’d only evaded becoming a Foulgydan by merit of constantly stealing from other Foulgydan. However, where The Thief of Night Breezes was skilled in magic, Touchstone was skilled in thievery unto itself. And indeed, the blackbird made a point to never use magic in his craft. He had an immense respect for the burglary “art form.” Touchstone ended up moving to Marquette around the same time that I was under the influence of the Fungal Entity. Despite his family having a sizable fortune out east, Touchstone took it upon himself to make an independant career. Even if that career happened to be mostly crimes.

“I’m sorry-” apologized Florence, cutting in.”Is your name ‘Culver,’ like the-”

Touchstone answered the question before she finished it. “Like the fast food chain, yes.”

To which the wolf explained further, “Which is why I go by my last name. People keep making fun of me for it.” Hawthorn tried to playfully punch the blackbird’s shoulder and missed.

Culver Hawthorn, on the other paw, had an entirely different skill set. He was the only Mracksionge in Marquette, and knew a veritable toolkit of wilderness survival spells by intuition. The job of a Mracksiogne is treacherous, going into the wilderness to study magical creatures face-to-face. It suffers more casualties than the Hauksborque, and tragically, it was an on-the-job tragedy that took the life of Marquette’s old Mracksigne, Azelfrey the Salamander, who also happened to be Hawthorn’s mentor. The job didn’t treat Hawthorn kindly, either. The wolf’s face and chest were a patchwork of deep, visible scars and claw marks, and his left eye was missing. Hawthorn was also around the same age as Touchstone, and like Touchstone, he was born into the Awngaimene society, though his family originally came from the Northwest Territories of Canada. He made the move a year before the red-winged blackbird and I. The three of us found kinship in our shared new-in-town natures.

Or more accurately, the four of us, whenever Zuma was around. But the puma was still technically a German citizen, while Hawthorn had already naturalized as an American. Claudia’s always lived here, so she doesn’t count.

We had just finished catching up; Florence and I explaining the misadventures we’d gotten up to the past few days, and the other two Bachelors talking about theirs. Apparently, Touchstone had just come back from a St. Nicholas family reunion. It was actually a family member of his that needed a potion from me, as opposed to the bird himself. What the St. Nicholas family needed with a Potion of Altered Blood was beyond me, but with thieves, sometimes it's helpful to obscure one’s genetic makeup.

Hawthorn, meanwhile, found time to relax in his preferred manner; a week-long excursion into the wilderness, surviving on nothing aside from what he could carry in his backpack. The wolf took a week to wander around Lake Superior’s Isle Royale. He wanted to make sure he could get one last backpacking outing in before any fierce snow storms blew in.

The vulpine Tystwole took a sip from her violet Aviation; Lavitia has a soft spot for cocktails from the twenties. “So yeah, now we’re waiting on Marianne to actually tell us whatever that Shadow thing was- Lavitia, this is really good, thank you!”

The impala flashed a smile from behind the bar, “I appreciate that you appreciate it.”

“How did you like Marianne?” teased the blackbird, before taking a hit from his vape again. From what I could smell of the vapor, it wasn’t just nicotine. It was good that Lavitia wasn’t a narc.

Instead of complaining, like the Marquette Awngaimene are wont to do, Florence almost looked apologetic about her answer. “I know about her reputation up here, and yes; she’s strangely irritated all the time, I haven’t figured out about what. But she seems to really care about helping people, and she knows- Well, a lot of magic, I’m very impressed.”

“I actually agree,” added Hawthorn with a shrug, looking almost bashful, “Her research helps a lot with my work.”

Touchstone nodded slowly. He wasn’t the sort of person to gossip, and while his question may have seemed leading, he wasn’t going to talk about the cat behind her back. “You know what, far be it from me to talk about the cat behind her back, I find it cool that you think she’s cool."

Suddenly, a chill ran down my spine; a psychic intuition. Before the doors to Esu’s even opened, I could tell that someone was about to walk in, though it wasn’t from the Record that I was able to deduce it. Indeed, the doors did open up, and a figure stood there, dressed in a long, black trench coat, and wearing a balaclava that covered the animal’s entire face. It would have been impossible to tell who it was, if I couldn’t see that one of the animal’s paws belonged to a rabbit, and the other to a blue-feathered bird.

The Lady Juxtaposed was visiting Esu’s.

The rabbit Mulgywai, Chance, was right behind the Lady Juxtaposed. After all, there was no way that the Foulgydan could publicly take a driver's training course. The Lady Juxtaposed needed a chauffeur.

Lavitia was the first to speak. “The Lady Juxtaposed: haven’t seen you here in a season.”

The Lady Juxtaposed’s voice sounded completely unnatural. It very obviously sounded like two different voices at once, blending together with the consistency of sandpaper. “Hello, Lavitia. May I please have a bitter lemon.”

Lavitia looked at the Foulgydan with confusion, “I think I only have Sprite.”

“That’s fine as well.”

Bashfully, the littler lagomorphic Mulgywai ordered, “Can I have a Shirley Temple, actually?”

“Sprites all around, I s’pose.”

Marianne, and other Frote Foulgydan, often find themselves the victims of rumor and gossip, and can awkwardly silence a room whenever they enter it. The Lady Juxtaposed was a different case entirely. The Lady Juxtaposed was still able to bring a hush to a crowd, but it wasn’t out of revulsion. It was out of pity. Nobody likes being reminded of a curse that makes it impossible to be in public normally. A curse that leaves memories in demented tatters. A curse that brings about excruciating pain, all the time. The Lady Juxtaposed did wonderful work for the Marquette Awngaimene, but The Lady Juxtaposed does not make for cordial bar company. The Lady Juxtaposed was here for a reason.

Old Man Willoughby materialized out of thin air, pulling a can of pop from behind the dark-wooden bar, and silently passing it off to the Foulgydan before disappearing. Lavitia wasn’t in any hurry to ask about a tab. The four of us, in addition to the other bar patrons, were able to squeak out petty little “Hey’s,” and “Hello’s,” but it wasn’t until The Lady Juxtaposed approached me personally that anything of substance was said.

“Forseti, would you mind meeting me outside? I’d like to discuss something with you.”

The nervous expectation of punishment for my mistakes hung over me like a cloud. I fought the unconscious urge to stutter my response and won. “Oh, yeah, sure.” I turned to Florence, making sure she wasn’t left alone while worrying, “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll, um- You’re all good, I’ll ask about it later.”

The midnight air was noticeably nippy, the chill breeze scattering brown, dead leaves across the dirt parking lot in a swirl. It wouldn’t be too long until the first snow fell. The stars in unparalleled majesty shone overhead. I brought my arms up, holding my torso slightly; I had forgotten to bring my coat with me.

The Lady Juxtaposed began. “I’m glad I was able to find you here, Forseti.”

“For sure- Hey, is this about the whole Florence-registration thing? I think we’re pretty much almost set-”

“No, Forseti, this is something else entirely.” Up this close, I could tell through the split of The Lady Juxtaposed’s balaclava where the two different animals’ bodies met, bisected in a perfect line. But The Lady Juxtaposed never kept direct eye contact for long, and cast The Lady Juxtaposed’s eyes towards the stars, “A cult has come to Marquette; a cult below Tystwole notice, and I’d like to hire you to investigate it. Triple the wages of a month’s mortgage, if you’d like.”

“Are they, like, going after Awngaimene?”

“No, they’re going after the mortals here. But they know of our presence all the same, which leaves me nervous.”

I was visibly baffled, making no effort to hide the look on my face. The Lady Juxtaposed was asking for a favor, mere days after our visit with Marianne. And yet, the prospect was tempting. But I rubbed my belly, holding my reservations, “I don’t think I can be much help right now, The Lady Juxtaposed, I’m- um, I’m pregnant again.” I didn’t actually show any signs of carrying gargoyle eggs yet, but from the merits of being a psychic alone, I could tell the Lady Juxtaposed knew.

“I’m aware, Forseti, but trust me, there’s nothing they can do to hurt you or Marianne’s children. It’s the Cult of Hg’lichigk Mourqu.”

That changed things. “Oh, damn. Yeah, I can- I can handle that. Is Hg’lichigk Mourqu here himself?”

“Yes, otherwise they wouldn’t dare move into an Awngaimene community.”

I nodded methodically. “And the cultists?”

The Lady Juxtaposed pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to me; I assumed it to be the address. “They’re most likely bewitched. If you cooperate, and succeed in getting near the entity, everything should be easy for you. Here’s the address.”

“Yeah, I can, um- I can knock that out.”

“Thank you, Forseti. I’d trust the Hauksborque with this, but with your skills, there’s no way that this can fail.”

“Definitely.” A thought scratched at the back of my brain. Animals that say phrases like that often find themselves comically wrong. But I dashed the thought as soon as it popped up. I didn’t want to think doubtful thoughts next to a psychic.

“Just make sure to go alone, is what I advise.”

“Crystal Vestiges,” cooed Touchstone in a sarcastic tone, “They’ve mimicked that new age shop aesthetic perfectly.” Touchstone and I stood before a modest storefront, tucked snugly inside of a brick building bearing the same address as the note that The Lady Juxtaposed gave to me. Hawthorn was there too. I did not follow The Lady Juxtaposed’s instructions.

The avian thief continued. “Three odd-looking gentlemen walking into a hippie store- Sorry, two gentlemen and a pregnant vixen. Anyway, they’re going to clock us as Awngaimene immediately, if they’re magical cultists. What’s your plan?”

But instead of offering a plan, Hawthorn went on to ask, “I feel like this is the fifth or sixth time you’ve gotten pregnant since I’ve known you, Forseti.”

“I’m a slut, Hawthorn. You of all people should know this.” We’ve banged.

Florence had asked to come along, but since The Lady Juxtaposed wanted me to go alone in the first place, I explained to the other vixen that this probably wasn’t a superb situation for a Fangdyne Tystwole. She agreed, opting to instead stay with Marianne for the day. I used the Temporal Key to unlock the door with the matching trinket; a key locked inside a closet door in Marianne’s home. I was still baffled that she broke out such a powerful artifact for us meek little witches; she only had two sets of keys, and as far as I knew, only three sets existed in the world at all. The Sphynx bullied me eight times before I finally came back north.

Convincing Touchstone and Hawthorn, however, was a different matter entirely. They didn’t even want to get paid, they just wanted to hang out while also doing detective work against a dangerous cult. Though to be fair, I didn’t try very hard to convince them otherwise.

The three of us stood in front of the downtown Marquette storefront in broad daylight. Normally, in the summer months, the lakeside town experienced a heavy dose of tourism, but the local demographic skewed towards students when fall rolled around, due to Northern Michigan University being in town. The three of us could pass as curious students, eager about paganism, but Hawthorn offered, “It’ll go smoother if I wait outside for a moment. I don’t look like the quote-unquote ‘pagan’ type,” He gestured at his eyepatch and otherwise lumberjack-esque outfit.

Touchstone and I nodded in agreement, “We’ll be quick.” I responded, “I imagine they’re not going to let us tour the backrooms.”

With a skilled slight-of-talon, Touchstone brandished a lockpicking tool, “That’ll all come later.”

I opened the glass door to the sounds of bells, the sort that let a person at the desk know that a customer had arrived. The shop was definitely early in its decoration phase. Nothing was done about the early-eighties dark blue acrylic carpeting, and the brick walls were still painted a water-resistant white. Glass display cases and wooden shelves did furnish the room, and they weren’t lacking in wares, though I couldn’t clock anything particularly menacing. Crystal Vestiges seemed to specialize in crystals, basic herbs, books on New Age topics, and assorted ephemera from cultures across the world, cultural appropriation be damned. Despite the general clean-looking vibe of the building, there were at least a half-a-dozen flies buzzing about.

An unassuming, gray-scaled woman anole shopkeeper stood behind the desk, wearing a light blue polo, and standing directly beneath a heat lamp. She was chatting with a dalmatian woman who seemed to have just turned twenty, if even. The canine brought her messenger bag to the store, bulging with heavy textbooks and papers. It seemed as though she was coming from a class.

“Our first meeting will be Saturday night, we’ve rented the warehouse right next door,” pitched the anole, seemingly mid-conversation. Touchstone and I did our best mild-mannered windowshopper impressions, eavesdropping subtly. “We’re new in town, so meetings will only be once-a-month to start, but if we sign more members up, we might even be looking at one every week, so feel free to tell any of your friends if they’re interested in modern paganism.”

The dalmatian wagged her tail as she asked excitedly, “I actually have a few friends who were interested! Do you have more pamphlets?”

The shopkeeper smiled, “Oh, of course!” She passed off a small stack of little brochures, “My manager’s always dreamt about being able to start a- well, a coven. It’s animals like you that make that dream one step closer to becoming a reality.”

“I’m really excited! It’s my first time trying something like this! Until Saturday-”

“Oh, miss! Don’t forget your goods!” The reptile passed off a little paper bag.

“Oh, wow, I almost forgot! Ha, that’s how excited you’ve made me!” Her tail was practically wagging. Her voice betrayed an awkward stiltedness, but it seemed to come from an urge to impress rather than to leave the conversation.

“That warms my heart.” The shopkeeper flashed a sugary smile as the dalmatian made her way out of the store.

“Stay warm, ma’am.”

“You do as well.” The bells chimed as the college student left. The anole shopkeeper immediately changed her expression from cordial to outright angry, staring directly at me, she threatened, “Get out of my store.”

Touchstone sauntered across the shop to meet me. None of us made any motions to leave. “So we’re skipping the ‘Dahbin io’s.’ hmm?”

“I won’t tolerate any Awngaimene in his store.” I noticed a few more flies, buzzing about in the room.

I flashed a sarcastic grin, “Well, we typically don’t allow for cultists in our town, so you’ve got us in a bit of a bind-”

“You idiots. You don’t know what you’re up against. You think I’m a mere cultist, working alone? You think we wouldn’t come to your community without our master in tow?”

I kept the facade going, “Hg’lichigk Mourqu is here?”

The anole smiled a wicked smile, “You say that so callously. As if you have even a fraction of his power.” I picked up on Touchstone, gently maneuvering around the room. I imagine he was gathering some form of intel. I had held the shopkeeper’s full attention.

“Do you know who I am?” I asked. I passed the question off as an egotistical show of bravado, but I genuinely wanted to know.

“It doesn’t matter who you are, you’re mere food for flies, witch.” I was relieved, they didn’t do their research.

“Ma’am, there’s just- There are so many Awngaimene here-”

“More worshippers are on their way as we speak. Get out of my store.”

I nodded over to the blackbird, “We should skedaddle, we can’t take more than a few cultists.”

But instead of showing off any signs of intimidation, Touchstone tipped his cap. “Good day, miss-”

“Get out.”

Without too much urgency, the bird and I left the store, and walked our way down the chilly Marquette streets towards the corner where Hawthorn stood, a good distance out of the view of the storefront window. I was eager to see what it was the avian was busying himself with, until he fished through his pockets and pulled out a small sample of uncut rubies and emeralds. “I know, they’re not worth much. I thought it’d be at least a little challenging to steal from her, though. What an unobservant person.”

I laughed a little at the thief’s plights. “You found a way in, though, yeah?”

“Sadly, burglary is boring these days. There really wasn’t too much to suss out. A couple of locked doors, a couple security cameras. Nothing I can’t lockpick, and we just have to avoid the front desk and the front door, as far as I could find.” I nodded assuredly, glad to have a rogue in the party composition.

We had reached the wolf. Hawthorn flashed a smile, “That was fast! What do we know?”

We did make quick work, and by no means fruitless work at that. I smiled in return. “That Hg’lichigk Mourqu is one-hundred percent in that warehouse-” I extended a talon towards the neighboring building, “and that the cultists did zero research before coming here. They’re so amateurish, it’s making me nervous. We could probably come back at night and nip this whole situation in the bud.”

The other two Bachelors nodded. “I’ll clear my schedule, then,” sang the black-feathered songbird. Hawthorn concentrated really hard for a moment, looked frustrated, then said, “I can’t think of anything cool to say. I’ll also be here later. Just text me when.”

Night had fallen on Marquette.

While the Upper Peninsula was no stranger to an autumnal nip in the air, tonight was decidedly colder than most, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if the temperatures had dropped below freezing, if only slightly. The fungal presence within me started to ache slightly whenever the winter started to roll around.

The streets were devoid of animals, anthropomorphic or otherwise. Marquette doesn’t tend to boast a bustling pub crawl scene once the summer comes to a close. Hawthorn had offered to drive us in his beat-up pick-up from the nineties, though there was no doubt in my mind that the vehicle was going to outlive me. “‘Cosmic Dragon,’” the doom metal standard by Witch Dagger, droned over Hawthorn’s rattly radio in order to hype us up. We were parked on the street, about a block away. Despite my confidence, there was no reason to boldly declare our position to the cultists.

Touchstone, our designated thievery expert, was the one to come up with a plan, “To begin with, I imagine it’d be smart if you two hung back for a sec’ while I check sightlines of cameras and any observation positions, then I imagine we can pop into the warehouse, snap a few pics’, take a few notes, and vanish into the night. Culver, may I borrow your Mracksiogne intelligence and ask what it is we’re up against?”

“Please call me ‘Hawthorn.’ But yeah, Hg’lick- Hg’lickick- He has an atrocious name.” It’s an easy name to struggle with. “Hg’lichigk Mourqu is a self-proclaimed demigod and an entity unto himself, I don’t think anyone’s found any similar entity. We have no clue if he comes from a folkloric pantheon or something, but he’s definitely got origins near the Caspian Sea. He’s one of those, like, um-” He snapped his digits, searching for the word, “Hive mind- Er, swarm-possession entities? His body consists of thousands of flies, making up a humanoid form, and he speaks telepathically- Actually, that’s his main thing; psychic compulsion. He can brainwash any mortal into experiencing a euphoric state while pretty much controlling their minds, hence: the cult. Motives are unclear, outside of general megalomania. He most certainly has unknown abilities.” The Mracksiogne was quite talented, having recited that entirely from memory.

“Alright, so we just gotta avoid detection. Probably avoid cultists. It isn’t a stretch to think they have guns or magic. I must say, though,” Touchstone pointed talon finger guns at me in a cool manner, “It’s a bit baffling that T.L.J. chose you for this reconnaissance mission, fox. I thought I had a grand enough reputation.”

I shrugged, “I’m gonna be honest, I think I have a hunch why, and it might involve a bit more than scouting.”

“Care to clue us in?” posed the bird.

“I think The Lady Juxtaposed wants me to kill the demigod if he’s there.”

Touchstone slowly bobbed his head, eternally nonplussed, but the larger wolf narrowed his eyes, dubious to the plan, “You’re gonna try to kill him? Aren’t you expecting?”

“Weird mushroom magic will pretty much make this foolproof.”

Touchstone nudged my shoulder, “Alright, ma’am, then just stay put while I perform my craft.” And just like that, Touchstone snuck off into the urban nighttime. I lost track of his whereabouts within seconds, even despite the red-and-yellow markings on his arm-feathers.

“So,” I started casually, “How was camping?”

“No, no, yeah, it was good, it was nice. Got a bit cold, but- You know: Michigan.”

“Anything crazy happen at all?”

Hawthorn shook his head, “No- Nope, You know how it goes. Pretty much just relaxing. Gorgeous country, though, Isle Royale- Which, you know, ‘cause I’ve taken you.”

“I’d definitely love to come again sometime.”

“Let’s, uh, let’s do it once the ferry service opens up.” Hawthorn then suddenly became flustered. “I’m so sorry- I am not an interesting conversationalist right now.”

I cocked my head curiously, “Oh? Something up?”

“Oh no, nothing’s going on. I just, um, you know.” The one-eyed wolf had a tendency to feel really self conscious about his conversational skills. I had a hunch that being stuck in a vehicle with one other animal was one of his biggest fears. He also didn’t finish his thought, and instead continued with another one. “So, um, you texted me earlier, you think you’re ready to start the book?”

He was referring to the deal we had made, the deal in which we’d write a book about the first grand adventure that crossed our paths.

“Yeah,” I started, “I actually started it already. I think Florence’s thing is gonna, y’know, be pretty big. And she’s OK with me writing about it.” I had asked her on the way back from Houma, especially after seeing that she had an interest in journaling herself.

“I’m interested, what makes you think this is the one?”

“Well, I didn’t access the Record, I don’t like doing that when, like, someone’s in danger, but Marianne seems pretty- I don’t know, invested? And I think Florence wants to write a few chapters too.” I blushed a little, not too eager to chat about my artistic process,”It’s just notes in a spiral notebook right now, though, we’ll see where it goes. I’m, like, four chapters in, though.”

“No, yeah, that’s incredible. I’ll call up Briar after we, you know, defeat a demigod. Hopefully.” Briar Pulpwood was one of Hawthorn’s friends up in Canada, and apparently, the hare had aspirations to become a publisher within Awngaimene society; not just of historical accounts and spellbooks. Sure, we keep pretty meticulous journals and notes on magic as a community, but we’re not too keen on keeping memoirs. Briar apparently thought that Hawthorn and his friends went on enough misadventures to constitute a trial run for their little magical secret society publishing project. Isn’t it fun to learn that little fact five chapters in?

“Is your friend from Canada thinking about writing something, too?

“Are you… talking about yourself?”

“No, no- Your friend through Zuma.” Images of Ciro, my close coyote friend, popped up in my brain.

“I’d have to ask him, but so far, I don’t think he’s got anything that tops this.” I gestured wildly out the car window, towards nothing in particular.

The name was spoken as though the wolf had mud in his mouth. “Hg’lichigk Mourqu, or…”

“The Florence thing, for sure. Not this fucking demigod poser guy.”

“Are you sure you’re alright to go up against a-” The one-eyed wolf took the time to slowly and deliberately say the entity’s name correctly the first time. “Hg’lichigk Mourqu?”

“Oh yeah, I have a pretty foolproof plan in mind, nothing can go wrong. I’m gonna-”

There was a knock on the window as the black-hued bird materialized from his hiding spot. He opened the door, relaying his intel, “They have one camera, but it’s trained on an easy-to-avoid corner. There’s a door to the back parking lot, and a door to the warehouse. They’re both unlocked now. Shall we?”

Hawthorn unbuckled his seatbelt, “Touch takes point, I’ll watch the rear?” He tilted his head to the left in order to crack his neck, and I heard at least six distinct pops.

“Sounds like a plan,” Touchstone chimed, “Quick and quiet, remember the sightlines, remember the stealth tricks I taught you. And stay handsome, gentlemen- are you cool with me calling you a ‘gentleman,’ Forsy?”

“Yeah, it’s chill.”

“Cool cool. Then, shall we?”

We egressed from the vehicle, and made our way to the back of the building. Touchstone’s tricks echoed in my head; Walk ball-to-heel, keep in shadow as much as possible, keep a soft gaze and a soft posture to avoid drawing attention. Touchstone pointed out where the camera was facing, but then pointed at the door he had unlocked. We slinked through the parking lot like a slinky down a staircase. Not an errant sound was uttered, and not an errant sound was heard. The main door to the old, derelict brick warehouse was definitely in view of the camera, but the door that Touchstone managed to unlock was a side door down a conveniently shadowy alley. Touchstone put the side of his head to the door, and waved a wing; a gesture for us to wait and keep quiet. About thirty seconds passed before he opened the door, and though it seemed like overkill, we were secure in the fact that there weren’t any cultists in the hallway.

A dank, musty smell breached my muzzle’s nostrils, not entirely unfamiliar. This building was by no means weatherproofed. The floor was dirty and riddled with bits of glass and debris, but enough dilapidated factory equipment remained for us to duck behind. Touchstone motioned for us to follow him down the hallway, waiting before going past a doorway that led to the warehouse’s main floor. But as soon as we reached it, I began to hear voices from deeper into the room.

Someone was bellowing in ecstasy, quiet enough to not draw attention from the street, but loud enough to seem fairly uninhibited. “Master! I love you more than air! And more than water! Nothing pleases me more than the simple act of basking in your presence.” The melodic, yet off-key proclamation was accompanied by the noisy, creepy sound of thousands of flies swarming. I started to notice a few of the insects out of the corner of my eye, even in darkness.

However, another voice spoke in a whisper, far closer than the first, and it dawned on me that someone was just on the other side of the wall. “They don’t usually get that poetic after the first day of Master’s influence, huh?”

The nearby cultist had an equally nearby friend, with a slightly deeper voice “Nope, but you love to see it.”

“Yeah, didn’t expect the community here to be so open to- Well, y’know.”

“Know what?”

Touchstone pointed to me, then the wall. I hoped that it was an indication for me to use my fungal magic, because that’s what I was going to do. I switched places with the avian thief, so as not to put him in the line of fire.

“I don’t- Well, I hate to call it a…”

“You’re gonna call this a ‘cult,’ are you?”

“Well, y’know-”

“C’mon man, this isn’t scientology. No one’s going to get mad if you call it a cult.”

I tried to reach out and grab the ankles of the cultists from a kneeling position; paw-on-flesh contact speeds up the chemical process of any fungal spore I choose to afflict someone with. I had to move quickly and grasp at both of the animals in one fell swoop.

“Well, you know, I don’t think Master likes the-”

“He’s not going to get mad at an insinuation like that. We know what we’re about-”

“You cut me off before I finished my thought.”

“Well, what was your thought?”

There was a brief pause, then random giggling, followed by an almost drunken voice, “My thought was- Was, hehe, you look- you look like a silly man.”

The other, deeper voice also started to laugh, “Oh, man, are we- Did we get the, like, the Master’s influence, or are we- You feel this too, yeah?”

It worked. My psilocybin spores had reached their intended target and began working immediately.

“Man, I think- This isn’t the Master’s influence, I think this is drugs.”

“Yeah, this is- Because this is a different vibe, yeah?”

Boldly, I walked past the doorway, and briefly caught the two cultists’ line of sight. It seemed as though we were on the opposite side of the wall as a boar and another wolf, this one with black fur. Both were dressed in the typical dark-brown robes one might associate with a cultist. I met the wolf’s gaze and shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you, man. I’m a hallucination.”

I continued moving without really changing the tempo of my pace. From behind me, I could hear. “Wait, the Master can do that now?” The other cultists replied, “Gift horse in the mouth, man. Gift horse in the mouth”

“Hey, my grandmother’s a horse.”

I glanced back towards my compatriots. Hawthorn was completely flabbergasted that the plan worked. Touchstone remained nonplussed. And cool. I waved my arms, prompting the two other Awngaimene to follow me, which they did completely without issue. The cultists were going to be quite occupied for the next six hours.

I had a difficult time determining if their strange, almost sitcom-esque dialogue was an effect of constant brainwashing, or if they’d actually gotten used to the strange fly-worshiping cult to the point of casually gabbing while a horrifying ritual was going on. Neither option was all that comfy.

The dusty, brick hallway turned left into another similar pathway, except this one boasted a set of old, rusty stairs, leading up to a landing on the second floor. The red-winged blackbird tested the first few steps, in order to see if they’d make any sound, and luckily, the stairs were in good enough shape to keep relatively quiet. We stepped slowly, right against the wall, just in case.

The buzzing grew louder, and more black insects crawled on the walls if they weren’t actively airborne. A prickle of fear ran up my spine as it dawned on me; it’s not entirely unlikely that these flies could serve as messengers for Hg’lichigk Mourqu. I had no idea how his magic worked. But that thought was pushed to the backburner when I saw a dark-robed figure appear at the top of the stairs: the anole from the shop.

Her eyes grew wide, and she managed to squeak out a brisk, “Hey!” But then, she realized that there were three of us, so instead of engaging, she disappeared into another doorway. Touchstone immediately slumped down to the side of the wall, using his dark feathers to blend in, but it was a moot point. We’d been made.

“Dammit!” shouted the bird, losing his cool demeanor. He strongly detested getting spotted while sneaking around.

“So, we’re made?” I posed, making sure we were on the same page.

“Fucking- unfortunately.” responded Touchstone, physically gesturing that he had once again found his cool by pulling his talon down in front of his face.

“OK, just get me to Hg’ligi- Hig’lick- The fly bitch, we still got this.” But it wasn’t going to be an easy task. I could almost immediately feel more flies pulsating in the air, landing on my face and arms. I feel as though I have a tendency to draw more flies than most animals, by merit of my curse, but this particular cloud of insects was something else.

The lupine Mracksiogne barreled up the staircase, drawing the revolver that he kept on his side. I never knew the wolf to shoot anyone, but in his line of work, having a gun was a very convenient asset. He stuck his muzzle out from the wall, and retreated immediately. A grave look of worry was plain on the wolf’s muzzle. “He’s in the room, along with a half dozen cultists.”

Touchstone put a talon on my shoulder, and speaking in a dreamlike daze, he suggested, “You know what? Let’s just see what the entity wants.” There was no doubt that he was afflicted by the demigod’s charm. It was soon time. I focused on producing the right spores that this situation demanded.

I called up to Hawthorn, “Let us go to him, everything will be taken care of.” But despite the fact that I wasn’t actually charmed yet, the wolf wasn’t buying it.

“You two are- Already?” He pulled out a small cloth sachet, similar to the one for Ouray’s Spell of the Moment, but instead of holding it aloft in his paws, he pressed the bag to his forehead, chanting, “Pi-weiye Yiushiou!” He had cast Xianne’s Ward for Errant Minds.

I didn’t have the heart to tell Hawthorn that he had just flushed a couple grand down the drain. It wasn’t entirely necessary that he shield his mind from psychic influence, if my plan worked. But nevertheless, he tackled the smaller bird to the ground just as he started to walk down the stairs, to where I assumed Hg’lichigk Mourqu was calling for him. Touchstone was no match for the canine’s strength, though he wasn’t putting up much of a fight. He was only under a minor psychic influence, after all. Hawthorn was able to subdue the thief under his arm in a matter of seconds, but I backed up, well out of arm’s-length of the wolf. He stared directly into my eyes, his one eye seemingly burning with his newly-brewed, fiery adrenaline. “Fox, come here, I need to use this.”

And to be totally honest, it did seem as though it’d be really nice to get close to the entity.

“Hawthorn, you’ve gotta trust me. Let me go out there-”

“Forseti-” He didn’t make much of an attempt to argue against a charmed person, and grasped towards me anyway, but I stepped further up the stairs, “You’ve- I’m not going to argue with you. Come here.”

“You’d probably catch the fox easier if you let go of me,” the avian mumbled from his headlock. More flies filled the air.

“Hawthorn, I’ve got my spores active, don’t touch me.”

“Are you going to poison me?”

“No, but it’s really close to psilocybin-”

“Are you going to drug-” the wolf still found the focus to say the entity’s name clearly, “Hg’lichigk Mouru?”

As if on queue, a swirling mass of buzzing, crawling flies flew together, until they constituted the shape of an anthropomorphic canine. He was only a mere hindpaw away from me, and smelled disgusting, though he almost smelled sort of sweet, like dying flowers.

Without vocal chords to speak of, Hg’lichigk Mourqu still managed to speak through telepathy. His voice was charming, suave, and a complete antithesis to the fact that he was made up from thousands of bugs.

“Let the bird go, wolf.”

Hawthorn trained his malicious gaze to the demigod, “It won’t work, I used a spell-”

“Then I have no need to keep you alive.” Half of the flies peeled away from Hg’lichigk Mourqu’s body, and began to descend upon the bulkier canine. A lesser animal would have screamed or vomited in disgust. Hawthorn held his resolve, but I knew that the biting insects would leave more than a few surface wounds. The lupine Mracksigone then performed a spell he knew by intuition, the Stone Skin (Written with a space so that I don’t get sued by Wizards of the Coast, even though we’ve been using this spell for hundreds of years). The wolf’s gray fur shimmered for a moment, then shape-shifted into impenetrable slate. Unfortunately, the stone growth had covered Hawthorn’s head as well, cutting off his breathing and covering his one good eye. He could only perform the spell for a little over a minute.

But it wouldn’t be a problem for long. I had an idea.

Trying to shout above the sickly chorus of insect wings, I barked, mustering as much mental willpower as possible, “I took the spell too, take me-”

“No you didn’t, servant. I feel your warmth towards me already.” He was right. The entity had already won me over. I giggled like a little fool.

“You’re right, I wouldn’t try to trick you, Master.” I slurred. I turned my face to look at the humanoid mass of insects. In the attempt to remember where my position was, Hawthorn thrust a stony arm in my direction, trying to grab me while also holding the charmed Touchstone back. It suddenly occurred to me why The Lady Juxtaposed wanted me to go alone. But all of that was pointless. I just wanted to feel my new master’s embrace. I hoped that the Fungal Entity wouldn’t mind that I switched allegiances. “I just want to feel your presence all over me, Master.”

“Forsy, no!” screamed the Mracksiogne in a muffled voice, and I could even feel the sharp tip of his paw glance against my heel. But I stepped further up the stairs, out of the wolf’s reach. Closer to my Master. Hawthorn would soon give his body up, to be consumed by Hg’lichigk Mourqu. I was jealous that he got to go first, and angry that he squandered that opportunity with petty magic.

“Good little servant. You’ll serve this cult well. And you too, bird, I hope?”

And then, I felt it. The flies, crawling over my body. Blocking my vision. Crawling into the holes of my face. Swarming my arms and legs like the sleeves of a thick coat. Biting, stinging. A good feeling of pain.

And then I heard the suave, psychic voice start to falter. It almost sounded panicked.

“What is this? Who are you? What have you-”

It started slowly at first, flies peeling away from my body and gliding up towards the roof of the warehouse. They began to fly through the broken windows, eager to reach as high a vantage point as possible. While only a few dozen flies yearned for higher skies at first, I could feel the number start to grow exponentially.

“What is this feeling? What have you done?”

I smiled weakly. I only wanted to share my presence with my Master, as much as he wanted to swarm me with his. “Master, my body is filled with spores, I thought insects liked-”

“Which spores? What is this? I want… I want…” The voice changed from panic to benign comfort. “I want to… I want to find someplace high… I want…”

A twinge of sadness struck my heartstrings like a somber cello soloist. I had forgotten that my new Master might succumb entirely to my body, soaked in cordyceps spores.

We were back at Esu’s, drinking much needed drinks. Except I wasn’t, because I was pregnant.

Lavitia was busy, tending to Hawthorn’s and Touchstone’s many, many surface wounds. My body recovered fairly quickly, but considering how much of my fungal magic I utilized, my appetite was enormous. I was halfway through an entire peach pie that the impala had baked earlier that day. Claudia had showed up after all to meet with the three of us, without anyone having told her that we’d made our way back to Esu’s. She sat up on the bar itself, sipping on a Pabst Blue Ribbon like Hawthorn was. Lavitia had given up a while ago on telling the skunk that she shouldn’t do that. Both the sitting-on-the-bar thing and the drinking-drinks-that-Lavitia-didn’t-make-herself thing. Her unopened umbrella lay haphazardly on the counter, within arm’s reach.

“So the next time The Lady Juxtaposed tells you that the fox should handle the task alone,” started Lavitia, dabbing a rag wet with rubbing alcohol against the wolf’s bloodied face, no doubt causing a wicked sting, “You’re going to- what was it again? Please remind me.”

“We won’t go on a Bachelors Adventure again.”

The impala kept up her sarcasm, “Touchstone, would you mind repeating what Hawthorn said? I didn’t quite hear it.”

“We’ll listen to-”

“Verbatim.”

Touchstone sighed, holding his aching head in his talons, “We won’t go on a Bachelors Adventure again.”

“Sick invite, also,” taunted Claudia in a deep alto, for, indeed, we forgot to invite her.

Not one to have her monologue interrupted, Lavitia then shot a dirty look my way. “And tell me: why didn’t you care to remind these two idiots to not go up against something that calls himself a demigod?”

“Lavitia, I promise, I literally just forgot what The Lady Juxtaposed said.”

“You won’t make many friends if you use idiocy as an excuse for things.”

I smiled wide. I could practically feel my fangs and canines glint in the dim bar light. “Aww, Lavitia, I have all the friends I could ask-”

“That wasn’t an invitation to get sentimental, fox, I’m mad at all of you.” The bartender sauntered towards me, fetching a roll of gauze from behind the bar, “But I’m glad you were able to stop the insect entity before he consumed any Marquette Tystwoles. How many were there?”

“The Cult got a hold of two different Northern students it seems. I think Chance is processing them now as we speak, doing the Psychic Warden rundown, plus, y’know, the Cultists that were charmed. Hauksborque Matchstick and Hauksborque Stoney are rounding up the non-brainwashed Cultists, uh, I guess taking care of that.” Matchstick the coyote and Stoney the rat were quite skilled at damage control.

“And you just killed the demigod? Like-” Lavitia brought her digits together and snapped.

“I mean- Yeah, I guess. Hg’lig-” I spun around to face the wolf, “Hawthorn, you’re in charge of these things, I petition for a name change. But yeah, the entity kind of existed as a weirdly-intelligent hive mind, made up of a bunch of flies, so when I hit them with the ant zombie fungus-”

“Like The Last of Us,” chimed the skunk. She played a lot of video games.

“Oh, that’s why that sounded familiar!” added Hawthorn, but I couldn’t let the other animals distract me from telling the tale of how I felled a God, so I pushed onward.

“-They all flew up, served the will of the fungus, and just kinda died while growing the mushrooms. Which will probably just die anyway, it’s winter soon.”

“And you got every fly?”

I shrugged, but the Mracksiogne cut in, “Actually, from what we could find in the records- Not the Record, colleague’s notes- You just had to kill enough so that a powerful intelligence can’t be supported, and with all of the flies infecting each other like zombies, there probably aren’t any survivors anyway. We have no idea why that worked, and we probably never will, but it’s fine, considering.”

Lavitia nodded slowly. I could tell she was coming up with a clever quip. “Normally, killing a god is a good enough reason for drinks on the house, but someone is pregnant.”

“I really appreciate the pie though-”

“You’re welcome.” The older woman flashed a cheeky smile, then returned to tending to the wounds of my friends. I looked around the bar and spied Old Man Willoughby, wiping down glassware in the corner. Claudia assumed the free food offer applied to her by association alone, and wordlessly took a few slices of pie without having the intention to pay for them. Moss Agate was present again, trying to flirt with the Esu’s momentarily-limited patronage; a few older Awngaimene in their sixties in a booth to the side. Despite Lavitia’s mild digs and bullying, the Bachelors were truly the men of the hour as far as the six other animals were concerned- Well, men and one pregnant vixen. The rest of the evening was filled with raucous laughter, Touchstone and Hawthorn wincing at buckets of rubbing alcohol, and me telling the story of how I killed Hg’lichigk Mourqu more times than were probably warranted, which was to say: “one,” because no one else showed up that night.

And indeed, most threats to Awngaimene society get handled quickly, should the correct person aim the correct weapon. Thus is the nature of the Hard Counter; a principle in magic that states that there are no levels of powers when it comes to spellcraft, and anything can be defeated through wit. Even a demigod. And though it was true that The Lady Juxtaposed was the one to actually figure out Hg’lichigk Mourqu’s Hard Counter, I wasn’t going to stop bragging about the fact that I was the one who killed a god in the span of a single chapter. I was only curious why The Lady Juxtaposed’s magic wasn’t a Hard Counter, unto itself.