2022-02-28 - Man-Sized Bird ... Creature ... Something

The Old Mill, Tonight, at Midnight.

Words written in neat cursive on a piece of thick, expensive paper, found in the mail box this morning. Words that might prompt inquiry, maybe talking to the neighbour to see if anyone saw somebody handing out notes. Words that might inspire somebody to do the rational thing as per the kind of thinking that inspired The Evil Overlord List and not just walk into things unprepared. And yet, for some strange reason, they did not.

Maybe it's some kind of Veil thing, Ravn Abildgaard tells himself as he parks his motorcycle on the edge of the woods. You know you ought to be smarter than to walk into a trap like this, and yet you do it anyway. He can't quite explain to himself why he does. Maybe that, if anything, is testimony to some kind of supernatural fuckery because he's usually quite rational about these things. He calls it, 'I want to live to forty'.

He walks carefully along the path towards the old lumber mill. Derelict now, literally falling down with age and wear and the winds of winter, it is not a safe place to be -- even without supernatural fuckery. Gray Harbor brims with stories about the place. Even people who do not otherwise believe in anything between Heaven and Earth but oxygen and dandelion seeds tell stories of the place to tourists and cousins from out of town. It's the kind of place that teenagers sneak out to, daring each other, or to make out and brag about it.

And some of them disappear. It's that kind of place. No one ever seems to actually have known someone who disappeared, though, so it's probably all just stories. Surely this is not one of those places where the fabric that separate worlds and realities is thin and threadbare.

It's not. The fabric here, the Veil, is not thin. It's torn apart and hanging in tatters, and at least Ravn knows it. He saw some of that happen. He saw one of the named entities from the Other Side literally do a table flip and a rage quit right here, during last summer's supernatural hurricane.

He pauses by the chainlink fence. There is a light up there, high up in the mill, as if something or someone has turned on an electrical bulb on the top floor. That's not supposed to be there -- no one is supposed to be there. Maybe now is a good time to fall back slightly and hold his horses. There has to be others here, in the dark, summoned by mysterious notes that felt oddly compelling. Supernatural fuckery like this almost always happens to more than one person at once. Maybe the Veil works on a budget.

Sometime before midnight but after receiving this invitation, Itzhak texted Ravn informing him that he, Ravn, was not going to investigate this mishegoss alone. He, Itzhak, would meet him there.

And here he is, striding briskly through the dark, damp pine needles under his boots but not troubling his footing. He's singing under his breath, the sense of barely-leashed power around him in full bloom.

And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard raaaaain is a-gonna fall...

He goes to Ravn, standing next to him, hands in pockets, eyeing the lit window. "This ain't a good idea," he says to him, quiet.

A car arrives not too much long after the pair of men arrive, parking a distance away. It's a quiet car, with the only thing to indicate it's arrival being the headlights cutting through the darkness as it approached. When the lights cut out, it all but vanishes from sight. But not too much longer there's a sound of a door closing and locking. Quiet footsteps approach.

Ava got the note. Hell, she probably would have ignored it if she thought she could have. Or if she believed that she were the only one to receive one. But since neither of those seem likely, she's there, wearing clothes that she can easily move in, with a bag slung over her shoulder. It's a medical bag, easily recognizable for those with an eye for such things. "I knew I wasn't going to be the only one here. Glad I brought the bag along." She lips curl into an easy smile. "Gentlemen. I'm sure it'll be a pleasure getting into trouble with you tonight. Any idea what this is about?" she wonders.

There is a soft rumbling engine that approaches the area. It is that of a van painted purple with cyan and white swirls. It is Kailey's van and she pulls in to park near the familiar motorcycle. For a second she sits in her seat and chews on her cheek. Picking up her phone she texts Everett, letting him know where she was going, before she slid from the van. A second later her own supernatural willow-wisps spring into being. Circling her head like a trio of multi-colored pixies.

Casting a multi-colored glow she winds her way through the woods. Made less creepy by her light and yet the deeper shadows are more so if stared at too long. She can feel it. The thinness here and she pauses a little ways from Ravn and Itzhak. In one hand is the phone and in the other the note. Her own having mentioned being able to see her mother again, if briefly. That certainly is one of the few things to make her act without thinking and decide to go. And here she was. "Hey," She says to the group.

Conner Hawthorne has sort of been off the radar since that hurricane. For some reason it just sort of drove him back into hermitage. Quietly working on his abilities, perhaps, but uneasy in ways he couldn't put his finger on, sleepy, like he'd dropped threads somewhere in that time, or they'd been resolved, but he didn't know how. And being unable to connect those dots bothered him, frustrated him, sent him back to his inner world for answers he was never going to find. He'd kept up volunteering at HOPE, but only in the deepest hours of the night. Coming in at 3 AM to see if anything needed fixing, fixing it, and then slipping out again, like some sort of Handyman Santa Claus.

And then one day a note. Calling him back to it all again, like a siren's song. And since his first response to anything like this is always curiosity, not fear...even when it comes to that Old Sawmill...he just put on his hiking boots and a flannel shirt, good sturdy jeans and a belt, grabbed his backpack full of supplies and put it snugly on his back, called in his part-time handyman to be on-call for his residents...and then stepped right into what is essentially The Broadleaf's back yard, taking a path he knew would lead him right to where he wanted and needed to go. He's an unassuming man, looking as rumpled as ever even though the shirt came fresh out of the drier, and radiating something basically non-threatening in his mien, bearing, facial expressions.

This ain't a good idea, he hears.

"It will be okay," he assures, placidly. "There's lots of us here. We'll look out for each other. Ravn. It's been a long time. Good to see you. Itzhak. Ma'am," that's for Ava, "Kailey." He stops to do another placid blink at the pixies, and then gives a delighted smile. Sure, they might turn out to have some horrible explanation later, or to be something she hates, or to be in reality little bloodthirsty specks of WTF, but for right this very second they are just pixies circling her head and he finds it absolutely charming. But then, that's his other real superpower. If his first reaction is curiosity, his second is often wonder.

Vittoria isn't particularly happy to be here. But she's far too curious to ignore that note and finds herself here a little after the others arrive, dressed for trouble in a leather jacket over a close-fitting tee and black jeans. Her hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail and a pistol is holstered at her hip.

And...there's other people here. She recognizes Ravn, at least, stepping close to him and nodding. "You received a note, too?" she asks, looking around at the other, unfamiliar people assembled and nodding to each in turn.

"It doesn't sound like a good idea, sauntering up to the most haunted place in town at midnight," Ravn agrees. "And yet somebody went to a lot of effort to pique our curiosity and get us here."

He nods at the various people. Do they know each other? Some of them obviously do; Conner and Itzhak know each other at least. "I guess we're in for an interesting time. At least we bring our party healer?" That last bit is directed at Ava; the redhead who just happens to be an MD. Maybe the folklorist was about to follow his natural inclination to connect people, introducing one to another and swapping names. As it happens, he is cut off.

"Oy, down there!" A voice rings out from above -- from the top floor of the old lumber mill. The voice is male, and accented -- Italian? No, not quite Italian, at least not the kind of Italian accent you get in New Jersey, but something like it. "Get yourselves up here! Have we got a sideshow experience for you!"

It is not a voice recognised by any of the mottley crew waiting below. Ravn glances at the others and forgets about introductions. "I guess this is one of those situations where noping out and going home instead isn't actually going to be an option," he murmurs -- and from his tone, it's not hard to tell that that's exactly what he thinks would be the smart choice here.

Then something screeches. Screams? Screeches. It's a high pitched, tortured wail, like a thousand pieces of chalk on a chalkboard, like brakes desperately trying to grip a hot road, like an air raid siren during the London Blitz. It is a sound of terror and rage, of pain and futile thrashing about.

And whatever it is, the sound is coming up from there on the top floor of the old, dilapidated mill.

As is another voice, a deeper voice, that exclaims, "My God, man! You invited him? I told you to get the complacent ones!"

Itzhak sighs through his teeth. "Mmmnope." His tone says everything. This is gonna be one of those ugly ones.

People approach, and Itzhak smiles briefly at Kailey. "Hey, girl." Connor's here too, the the other two women he doesn't know. Ava gets a curious look and Vittoria gets a double take and a quirk of one eyebrow.

Then there's no time for introductions, sounds are happening. First an almost-familiar accent, close enough to south Jersey that Itzhak blinks. Then... That scream. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, makes him go tight and tense.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he mutters, already starting forward because that is the sound of a thing in pain. But there's that very familiar voice and Itzhak stops, eyes widening in furious disbelief.

"Haggleford you son of a bitch!" Itzhak's roar could probably be heard on the moon, except there's no atmosphere there. "I told you to stay outta my town!"

And there he goes, breaking into a run, ready to reinforce Haggleford's faulty memory.

Ava offers a tense smile all around as others show up. Kailey gets a little waggle of fingers as the only one other than Ravn that she really knows Conner gets a lingering bit of a head tilt. Like someone who is familiar but you can't quite place them. When you grow up in a town, you tend to see certain faces a lot, but that doesn't mean you know them all. . Ravn's introductions begin to cut through all of that, and is introduced as the party healer. "I'm here to help," is about all she has time to say before a voice rings out from above.

Her head jerks up, brows knitting together. "Wow. Going inside sure sounds like a terrible idea to me." Still, they're going to, because that's what they're here for. "We should probably go kind of slow, right? Make sure there aren't any pitfalls to try to separate us on the way u--"

Itzhak is roaring and breaking off from the group to run forward.

"Or that."

Kailey's smile is a flail of it's normal self, but she shares it briefly with Ravn and Ithzak. "Hey...yeah, strange notes about my mom. Much spook. Bad idea, but-" Then the screaming and she hisses. Hands go to her ears and the fairies swirl faster about her head, turning a brighter yellow and providing more light, for the moment. "What the fuck is that?"

"DUDE! Don't separate the group! First law of gaming," Kailey's hands drop as she shouts after Itzhak. A moment later taking off after him. Around her shimmers something, briefly, with a flare of her Glimmer again. Purple once more in color, swirling for a second around Itzhak and then herself. A shield for those wanting to see such things. It manifests as invisible but for the faintest of shimmers, like someone threw mica into the air.

Conner is not a runner. Let's just put that out there right now. He's more of a book and talk sort of guy, with a side dish of Other. Screams have the initial effect of making him look like an old, complacent tom cat whose tail was just stepped on...body straightening, eyes widening. Then Itzhak is running and he shakes it off. He takes a deep breath and gives the running thing the old college try. At least...he probably won't have to dart too far to catch up right? He is at least following the First Law of Gaming by charging after the group, right?

For.

A given value. Of charging.

Vittoria snorts and winks at the guy that double takes at her. "Nice to meet you too," she says in her thickly accented, low voice. She's going to introduce herself but then -- everyone's running? There's some kind of horrible screech and everyone around her is running. The only one left behind is the healer lady. "Do you know what the hell is going on?" she asks Ava, moving closer and narrowing her eyes at the group of charging people and at the building.

Feet stomp into the lumber mill and up the rickety aluminum stairs to the second floor; the creaking of the stair and the floor it is attached to in both ends is loud and leaves no secret of their coming.

The mill is a mess inside. It's been literal decades since the mill was in use as a lumber mill; the new mill was built, larger, modern, employing more people -- and the old mill was left to fall apart or keep standing as it pleased. A fate shared by many old industrial buildings; the land it was built on is not valuable enough to be reclaimed, so it kind of just sits there, awaiting its eventual overgrowth and ruination. A process which is well underway here, and yet there are signs of use -- 'paths' in the thick dust of the floor where people have come and gone in the past, a plastic bag in a corner which is decidedly more recent than the corner itself, an abandoned electric torch on a shelf.

Some of the people present know that the mill occasionally hosts strange happenings. Anyone who's stayed in town for a while knows the locals say it's haunted. Some of the people present were here, last summer, just before Storm Cimaron, when that table lying feet up over there was part of a literal table flip, rage quit by one of the identified powerful Veil entities, the Exorcist.

There's no Exorcist here now; no older, chain-smoking bossy woman in a padded jacket and too much make-up. Whatever this is about is probably not her doing. Instead, there are voices up those stairs -- and then another reverbating scream as if something is having its guts pulled out inch by inch while awake to watch it happen.

Itzhak is first up those stairs, but the rest of the group is in sharp pursuit. Ravn and Vittoria bring up the rear but no one arrives late to the party.

And what a party it is. An open area up there has a good view of the old production area below. Amidst old desks and chairs and shelves, the ceiling overhead is supported by concrete pillars -- and chained between two of those, arms forced out to the sides, is what looks at first like a giant insect, a butterfly or moth with large, white, irridescent wings. On closer inspection, those are hands that the chains attach to -- and between the wings is not an insect's body but a man's. A spindly, scrawny man for certain, and with the head of a moth, long and curly face . . . appendage . . . thing . . . and all. Butt naked, too.

That's who's screaming. The reason the moth man is screaming is probably the long rawhide whip held by a man almost as wide as he is tall. Looking nothing as much as your ridiculously stereotypical Italian taken right out of a Victorian sideshow, too -- thick gold ring in one ear, swarthy skin, luxurious and ridiculous handlebar moustache, striped jumper, and gleaming teeth. This is the puppet master straight out of Pinnocchio -- a caricature, to say the least, and one who is clearly not afraid to put that whip to use. A few red lines across the mothman's translucently pale skin is testimony to this.

Another man is smoking a cigarette, resting his backside against a desk upon which still lie a few binders from ages ago -- and a crossbow. Wearing a long, white lab coat and a pair of goggles, he is the kind of horror flick scientist who has to be named Dr Stein or similar, and speak with a ridiculous German accent. The one thing that looks wrong on him -- is a sword, a medieval-looking bastard word resting against his hip as if he might expect to step into a Robin Hood movie any moment now.

The third man is the one that Itzhak is headed toward at high speed. He is probably the ringleader -- he's got that air of authority about him, at least. A well built fellow in his fifties or sixties with a well groomed silver beard. He is handsome in an authoritative way, cutting a striking figure in a tailored, dark slate three-piece suit. This has to be Haggleford -- whoever Haggleford is.

A hand gloved in white points at Itzhak as he storms up those stairs. "I told you to get the complacent ones," Haggleford reiterates to his companions, clearly frustrated with their incompetence.

"Signore," drawls the Italian parody. "You did not give us a-names, eh? Is not a big deal, eh? You asked-a for glowy people-a, you get-a glowy people-a."

"Stop it, Grandeventura," says the man in the lab coat. "You're embarrassing us."

"Well, no matter!" The elegant Santa figure whose name is evidently Haggleford straightens up. "Here is the deal, gentlemen. You all strip your clothes and kneel down for processing and delivery, or the mothman gets it. Don't provoke my friends here -- you won't like it if you do."

"Yousa no likey," agrees Grandeventura who has obviously never actually heard a genuine Italian accent in his life.

That's when the mothman screams a third time -- in a pitch so loud that windows shatter and glass falls to the floor. Bats take off from trees and roosts in a miles wide radius. It's the kind of scream that makes ears bleed.

And apparently, the kind of scream that shatters metal chains. Suddenly, the creature is free. Large wings beat, and it flies at the Pinnocchio caricature villain holding the whip.

He in turn drops the whip and reaches for the crossbow on the table. The expression on his face, behind the handlebar moustache can best be described as oh bloody fuck. His companion in the lab coat must realise how serious this business is -- because the sword leaves its sheath with a rattle, and he braces for impact.

Which leaves only Haggleford himself. For reasons known only to him, he seems to think Itzhak the greater threat -- he bends at the knees and braces in a fashion that resembles nothing as much as an angry bull, only to reach into his coat. Ayep, that's a pistol -- an old fashioned, gorgeous Colt .45 revolver, with silver scrollwork and a rosewood handle. Lovely, though prettier when it is not pointed at your face.

Ravn is no scrapper, nor is he among the first up those stairs. He is not going to throw himself into a fight without getting his bearings first -- in part because he's very well aware that he's the sort of fighter who gets one chance, one hit only, so he damn well better make it count. He dives behind a desk, and calls out, "Rosencrantz! Who the hell are those people?"

"The guy who fucked around and now he's gonna find out!" is apparently Haggleford. Itzhak's left hand dips into the back pocket of his jeans. He comes up with brass knuckles adorning his fist, the one that has D O W N tattooed across it.

Eyes locked on Haggleford, he's going in hot--and then the moth person screams to shatter steel. Itzhak stumbles, skidding on one knee, cringing with a cry of protest as his hands go over his ears.

Ava sighs as everyone starts to take off. At least they're all taking off together. She makes a 'shall we' gesture to Vittoria and bolts off with the group. "I have no idea. I just figured it was a trap, and I might be needed for some healing," she reveals to the taller woman. Once they've reached upstairs, she takes it all in as quickly as she can and then dodges behind the closest object she can find to cover herself. "Crap," she mutters, curling herself up defensively. Her head peeks out a little a moment later, eyeing that Colt Haggleford is pointing. That's going to leave some big holes. There's a flair of green around her as she makes a gesture, increasing the heat in the gun itself, trying to make the metal so molten hot that it's too much to hold onto, but not so hot that the bullets pop off.

No shortage of old objects to dart behind, and Conner is certainly ready to. His eyebrows had lifted up and up at these guys' demands, to be sure, taking on an air of Irritated Dad mixed with utter disapproval. He looks relieved when the Mothman breaks free; it makes things easier all around. He's not much of a speaker, not much of a banterer, and indeed in the past this has served him very well. But once he decides to engage, he decides, and he doesn't really play around with it. He raises his hands, rubbing his fingers together as sparks begin to gather and fly between his fingers.

Then he opens both of them, splaying his hands out and aiming them at the Puppet Master, aware others are handling the gunman. The Puppetmaster has the other ranged weapon and that's a concern to him. But he doesn't try to get fancy either; he just wants to tase this guy right out and call it a day, rather than prolonging matters. The gentle, rumpled man may start with positive responses, but he's never once hesitated to shift gears when things get hairy, and he doesn't hesitate now.

Kailey is breathing hard by the time they are halfway up the stairs. But she is focusing hard of the shield. Keeping Itzhak from running headlong into a facefull of gun fire or what not. Now they were lucky there wasn't such. Instead there was a mothguy making her ears bleed. Still she manages to keep the shield up. Though it visibly flickers in glittering, opalescent purple.

"FUCK!" She shouts as she crouches to the side of the stair top. She covers her ears with her hands, cringing as she looks into the room. "ITZ! Don't be...fucker," But in he barrels and so she drops a hand and literally finger-wiggles at the brass-knuckled car nut. Immediately three more of him appear in a swirl of glitter, running in randem and all shouting.

"Fucker! Get out!" One shouts.
"Have a knuckle sandwich, fuckface!" Yells another.
"Fuckity fuck fuck you fuck!" Kailey apparently ran out of quick thinking creativity.

Vittoria follows after Ava, sprinting quickly towards the structure that the others run to. As soon as she's inside, she dives behind cover, eyes narrowing once she spots the moth man and the guy with a gun. He looks like he's the biggest threat, so she pulls the sizable Beretta M9 handgun from her hip, taking quick aim before firing off a shot.

Everything suddenly happens very much at once. People run towards each other -- some silently, some less so. Everything is suddenly loud and confusing and full of moth dust from furiously beating moth wings. (This is going to be less than great for anyone in the room with a dust or pollen allergy).

The silver-bearded Santa figure whose name appears to be Haggleford suddenly finds himself yelping and dropping the Colt .45 -- it glows red-hot as it falls from his hand. This is probably a good thing as far as Itzhak is concerned -- he's the one it was aimed at.

The mothman half flies, half runs at the Disney movie escapee, the man who looks like the puppet master out of Pinocchio. Some kind of dark, almost oily energy leaps from the creature's long, curled snout, splattering all over the unfortunate pseudo-Italian. Whatever it is, it seems to have some kind of paralysing or numbing effect, because he collapses, face first, out like a light, making no move at all to try to defend himself. He lands on top of the crossbow he was holding, because of course he does -- it's glued to him now, in any case.

Where is Itzhak? Over there, and there, and there, and there. There's four angry New Yorkers running towards the silver-haired Haggleford now, closing the distance between them in very short time. Punches are going to be thrown -- and while three of them may be throwing only imaginary punches, that's still four sets of fists to defend against when you don't know which set is real.

Ravn knows he's useless in a direct confrontation. He hedges towards the pillars that were holding the mothman's chains -- the reason for doing so is not immediately discernible. Maybe it's just that those fallen bits of chain are the closest thing on the floor to grab for a weapon, that is not a red-hot Colt .45 or a crossbow covered in moth slime. A sharp piece of metal? It will have to do. Now to find someone to use it on.

Electricity flares from Conner's hands; gentle janitor or lightning wizard, same deal. The man going down in a smear of moth spittle is going to be well done too. He's also probably not going to get back up after that double smack-down. Very few men would.

The crack of another firearm slices through the moth dust and the bad light; this is Vittoria's piece, and that is not an antiquated revolver. Red blooms on Haggleford's chest and the expression on his face matches: It's a strange mix of fury and surprise. He did not expect this. What the hell?

The figure in the lab coat and goggles seems to have at least some sense of self defence: His sword blinks in the poor light, slashing through a giant moth's wing. "Subdue this thing!" he yells -- although to whom? Might be to the 'Italian', might be to everyone else.

And 'this thing'? It turns, with eyes that gleam yellow amidst clouds of silver dust -- and leaps towards whom it perceives as the next biggest threat: The guy with the lightning. Bad day to be Conner, this.

Itzhak is really, really startled to find several more of himself rushing in. "Oy vey, ain't one of me enough," he mutters, still not thinking super clearly, head ringing while chaos erupts around him.

His attention snaps to mothman leaping towards Conner. Then he's shoving to his feet and bolting to get between them. Instead of attacking the being, he flings out his arms to block it from Conner, shouting at it, "Don't! Go home!"

Yes, Itzhak is trying to rescue the poor tortured monster. And Conner. But also the monster.

There's all kinds of chaos going on around them and Ava is doing her best to keep her eyes peeled on all the members of their group. Hearing the yelping from Haggleford, however, she can't help but look over. When she does and finds him looking back in her direction, her eyes widen a little bit. Oh, that's not good. Her body shifts from behind the table she was hiding behind, straightening herself up so that she can aim better. She loses her cover, but it's easier to get him this way.

A hand lifts up by her side, her palm igniting in brilliant flames a moment later. It hisses to life before she flings it out and sends it sailing towards Haggleford's chest.

The lightning janitor is...more than surprised with the crackling bursts of flaring white-gold light from his hands hits but fails to actually have an impact. He stares down at them for a moment, actually stops to tap tap his wrist with two fingers, as if he thinks there's a setting that might be mis-calibrated in there or some...

Oh crap, the person they've come to save is pissed at everyone and thinks...

Yeah, he scramble dives to get away from that, conscious of Itz trying to help. Even as he does he flings out one hand to send another burst of lightning towards Fitzgolden, throwing it like a ball-lightning baseball rather than allowing it to manifest as an unbroken line from his hand.

"Shitfuck," Kailey can be heard to say, ears still covered because of the gunshot. She watches Itz for the most part, directing the mirror images. "There's too much energy for that one body!" She calls loud and encouragingly. It also probably gives away her position, but Pinocchio guy and Haggerford seem well in hand.

The problem arises in the Mothman turning on Connor. It incites instant reaction from the violet haired artist. Scrambling on her footing she stumbles to stand beside Connor, one hand stretched out, palm out and fingers straight. "STOP! FRIENDLY!" Kailey doesn't know what a bug person mind is like, so she goes for simple emotions broadcast along with ger words. Affection and protectiveness towards Connor, Kailey and the rest. While that rage she redirects totally on the remaining veil person standing.

Her nose begins to bleed.

There's a goddamn mothman flying around for some reason. It freaks Vittoria the hell out, so she kind of ignores it. She's plenty used to combat situations with people, why not pretend this is another one?

The dude who just dropped his gun seems to be less of a threat now. The guy waving around a sword seems to be either a threat to himself or others, so she aims her handgun at his legs.

Fire flies through the air, merciless and unrepentant. No more dim glow of old electric bulbs that somehow still work in spite of how many years it has been since the lumber mill was actually in operation; suddenly everything is very bright and also kind of hot.

The man named Haggleford no doubt had some kind of intention to defend himself or abscond while the getting out was still good. Too late! Fire slams into him just as he aims a fist at Ava. It throws him to the ground, burns off his beard, singes his tie and three-piece suit, and leaves him on the ground, gasping for air like a beached salmon, unconscious at least for the moment. So much for being in charge of a bad situation; how quickly the odds reverse! The doctor may end up sporting a black eye after this, but Haggleford? He's going to need burns care or lose that handsome roguish smile he had plastered to his face.

At least his henchman, the man in the white jacket and goggles, is not a complete incompetent; for once, someone actually hired a professional goon. He raises his medieval-looking sword, and as the mothman rushes past him, wings beating, he strikes.

Maybe the mothman could have dodged, maybe it -- he? -- could have turned and aimed its fury at the begoggled swordsman. Under normal circumstances it probably could have. But these are not normal circumstances: There are no less than four New Yorkers running right at it, waving their arms and yelling at it -- him? -- in words that may or may not be gibberish to an insect man's mind. Hesitation, fear -- and then the mental impact of Kailey, commanding it to stand down, to be friends, on a very primal level.

Initiative is lost. It -- he? -- flails and turns and suddenly, the begoggled goon's sword bites into its -- his? -- neck. Distraction? Successful. Goal accomplished? Debateable.

Is the mothman dead? Possibly. If it -- he? -- does not receive some very fast first aid, it -- he? -- will be. Suddenly, pale, biolumiscent blood is everywhere, sprayed around the room as the creature goes down, wings still flailing. Those are large wings, there is a lot of flailing capacity there. It -- he? -- comes to lie at Conner's feet, shaking, trembling, but not managing to stay upright long enough for its flailing, clawed hands to reach and injure.

Less than a heartbeat later, the swordsman staggers backwards, slammed back by the impact of lightning and lead, janitorial power and Vittoria's not at all antiquated firearm. He groans and swears under his breath as one leg gives under him and he falls down -- medium done and one kneecap crushed. The sword skitters across the floor as he lets go of it and throws up his hands in what he probably hopes is a pretty universal gesture of surrender.

It's probably a smart career move. Although given the inclination of at least some of the people present to defend the unlikely and the weak, it may just be putting off the inevitable. Either way, that knee's going to take some heavy duty surgery to become a knee again.

It's enough to make Ravn hesitate at least. He's behind the labcoat wearing goon with his very improvised weapon in the form of a piece of sharp metal, and frankly, the folklorist looks quite relieved at the idea that he may not actually have to stab anyone. He kicks at the sword, trying to get it away from the man in case minds are changed and looks around for a cue -- maybe from one of those people here who look like they actually know what they're doing in a fight. Protip: It's pretty much anyone not himself.

The place has erupted in fire and screaming and multiple people bleeding. Itzhak hasn't even tried to punch anybody!

He shoots the swordsman a look like he better surrender if he knows what's good for him, but he's hurrying to Haggleford's side. As he does, he sings to himself. He's very good at it, rough yet perfectly on key. What did you see, my blue-eyed son - what did you see, my darling young one...

Snow flumps through the rickety ceiling to land on Haggleford, extinguishing him. Itzhak drops to his knees to put pressure on the gunshot wound. "I told ya," he growls at the very likely unconscious man, without any affection whatsoever. "You didn't fucking listen, did you? Now you know."

The chances that he's doing this to be altruistic are small.

Conner is no healer, and he's not a killer by nature. Fortunately he can see the healer part is covered.

He shoots the mothman a concerned look, then he just raises his hands in warning to the swordsman, letting white-gold sparks crackle and dance between his fingertips without unleashing them. The Janitor is still ready to clean house if need be, in other words, and he's got those hands aimed right at the dude's head. He fixes him with his best Dad look. He's never been a Dad but you know, being an older dude who manages a building full of kids that he actually does interact with and a sort of...natural inclination for it all conspire to give him a pretty good one.

"Who the heck are these jokers, Itzhak?"

That's the guy who seems to know what the heck is going on here.

Ava flinches as the fire hit Haggleford hard, and as his fist ricochets off of her. Ow! That's going to leave a bruise. Granted, she just set the whole front half of his body on fire, so she's not one to complain. Once he's down, she turns immediately towards the downed mothman and begins rushing over in his direction, already starting to pull a couple of things out of her bag. "Cover me," she tells nobody in particular as she gets to work on the wound at his neck.

Kailey stands, hands out to the Mothman, and sees that sword cut into him. For her it is a slow motion thing and her eyes go wide. Again she cries out, "NOOOOOooooo!" As she sees the swordman hit the distracted Mothman. In an instant her fairie globes turn violent and angry red, each unudlating in different hues and make the light all the more creepy.

She turns on the swordsman with a snarl on her lips. Few have seen her in such a primal fury. The illusions of Itzhak fade in her rage, likely to everyone's relief. She stalks over to him and reaches out to grab the front of his coat.

"Give me one fucking reason we should let you live?" She says in a voice culled from the depths of darkness and illusion. Ava is definitely covered to treat the Mothman. Connor may have to pull crazy Kailey off the guy. Sparks of her own are dancing in her hair.

She licks the blood trickling from her nose away. Leaving a bloody smear on her upper lip to add to the look of true wrath.

The chaos of battle is like an old friend for Vittoria. She takes note of the fallen man and mothman, leaving the latter to Ava. She instead moves to stand behind the begoggled henchman, leveling her handgun at his head. "Don't move," she growls, the cold metal of the gun brushing the back of his head. "What is going on here?"

The roof of the dilapidated old lumber mill is by no means whole; going for a stroll on it might be considered outright suicidal unless one happens to have wings. The starlight seeps in through rafters laid bare by time and weather; it is certainly no masterful feat for a Mover to give a few of those old roof tiles a nudge. And like the good, gravity-obeying citizen snow is, snow comes tumbling down right where Haggleford is still collapsing with a surprised look on his face, the front of his shirt on fire.

The snow puts out the fire. It lends a merciful shroud of white to what must be quite painful burn injuries. That's the problem with pissing off a medical professional intent on hurting you: They know where it hurts the most.

And where it hurts the most on the mothman is definitely the neck where the lab coat man's sword bit deeply into his neck. He's losing a lot of the luminescent, pale ichor that seems to pass for blood in his case. Pressure is applied; and because it is applied by the hands of an actual medical practitioner, the insect person might live long enough for someone to be able to apply something more. Maybe. It's not looking great -- goggles clearly does know how to handle a sword.

The man with the lab coat and the goggles looks around, hands in the air. He already calculated the odds of him winning this fight, on his own, with his fellow goon and his boss face planted on the dirty floor. They were not good. Mama Fitzgolden's boy wants to live to cash the pay check he got for this gig.

The lightning crackling like an ominous promise between Conner's fingers probably helped him decide. Or maybe it was the dark and angry red light surrounding Kailey, and the fury in her voice, as blood trickles from her nose as a visible reminder that power such as hers exacts a price.

Three Itzhaks blink right back out of existence, leaving just the one -- humming, advancing on the lab coat goon. That too is kind of conductive to the idea of just not putting up a fight.

The sensation of cold metal against a temple is too. Vittoria is no fragile daisy to behold, and the gun in her hand is no elegant antique.

"Look, I'm just hired hands," lab coat guy offers, keeping his hands up where everyone can see them. "I don't know shit. Send out some invitations to these names, bring the bug man in here. Cart the bodies back home after. That asshole didn't say anything about you guys being Workers or having weapons."

That asshole appears to be Evil Santa, lit on fire, and buried under snow. Haggleford probably does not wish to offer a comment at this time.

"Bit of advice, though?" The begoggled goon glances at his employer. "Don't fuck with that guy. And like, do me a favour? Sock me one too so I can pretend I never saw him like that. Smart thing for you guys to do is pick up and get out of here and pray Haggleford doesn't remember who punched his lights out. Fucker does a mean business."

Ravn fails to look convinced. Odds are that no one else does, either. Itzhak and Vittoria are both known scrappers; the others, people who aren't prone to slinking from a confrontation, either. Maybe it doesn't really matter who gets to tell him to spill the beans because beans are going to get spilled.

"Look," says lab coat guy to everyone and no one in particular. "He wants bodies. Living ones, not dead. Takes them to somewhere on the Other Side, fuck if I know what for. Normies, usually. This time, said to find Workers. So we did, and here you are. The bug guy? Beats me. It's some kind of mythical magic Haggleford does. Makes your own stories come to life, and the energy of it lets him transport those bodies. You people have fucked up stories."

"Youse guys know as much as I do now." Itzhak looks around at Team Harbor. "THIS sorry bastard," that's Haggleford, "showed up trying to get unconscious people through a portal. We ran him off. Told him to stay out so what does he do?"

Got set on fire and shot, is what Haggleford did.

Itzhak lights up when lab coat guy asks to be roughed up. He hasn't got to punch anybody in simply days. His hoped-for beat down has become saving Haggleford's stupid life. This has all been somewhat disappointing. "Well, if you insist.'

Once the Mothman's wound has been triaged to the best of her ability, Ava gives a look around the room. When it looks like there aren't going to be any more injuries that she has to worry about, she sighs softly. "You get the heal of the day, my friend." Her eyes drift again. "I'm going to heal him, which may or may not bring him back to consciousness. I don't know what his state of mine is going to be, so I might need someone to try to calm him, again. Mentally. I'll do what I can on the mundane level of things. But he was in quite a state."

That's an understatement. That green glow begins to brim around her fingers. She settles his head in her lap, one hand gently petting at his head in a calming manner, trying to make his waking up a peaceful, calming one.

The goggled man's words has Ava's eyes narrowing however. "That sounds an awful lot like he's either participating in slave labor, or human experimentation, like what's happened to our friend here. My thoughts are he didn't start out this way." Her eye narrow. "Or both." That's said through her teeth. "We'll need him alive for a nice little game of questions and answers."

Conner's Disapproving Dad gaze sharpens.

"Fitzy," he says quietly. "Did you know I'm like--a walking lie detector? Yeah. Brain kind of glowy is all I do, man. I can tell you're holding back on us. Thanks for not lying so far, but spill. Spill every last thing you know. Every juicy little detail. Right now your boss isn't your problem. Right now this group of very pissed off people standing around you here? We're your problem."

He tap taps the side of his head. "Be advised, man. I'm listening real close."

And then he arches his eyebrows. Expectant. Waiting.

Kailey turns to Itzhak and nods, stepping back to let him man-handler Fitzgerald. Her lips are a thin line. Hands flexing open and closed as she watches the swordsman. Though she steps over to the Mothman and Ava. Kneeling down by them she takes a deep breath and then another, relaxing her shoulders before working. Once more reaching for the alien mind of a not-so-theoretical cryptid, to assure it that they mean no harm. Peace and calm flowing from her as she rests a hand gently, lightly, on the non-injured side's arm.

~ It's okay my friend. We mean YOU no harm. Your captors are being dealt with. ~ She sooths in her best lullaby voice, her fingers gently stroking the oddly fluffy and yet hairy skin. Looking at Ava she appears briefly worried. "Will it be okay?" She asks of the Mothman's health.

Vittoria's lips curl into a snarl as she jabs the back of the goggled man's head with her handgun. A counterpoint to Conner's Disapproving Dad Gaze™. "I am not very worried about fucking with your Santa boss guy. If he's not dead already, I could kill him right now." She cocks the gun for good measure. "So why don't you elaborate, hm? Before we give you more problems."

Ava and Kailey huddle by the moth-man cryptid. Power flows from the two women -- tinted green, knitting tissue and halting bleeding, flavoured purple, conveying tranquility and the absence of further danger. Does it work? To an extent, at least; it's hard to tell whether the mothman feels better when you don't know what good health in a mothman is supposed to look like. Great wings thrash slower and then not at all; heaving chest moves slower, as if perhaps he is finding some calm in what's going on.

Is he possessed of human or humanoid intelligence? Heaven only knows. Blind terror turns the minds of men into beasts whether they have wings or not.

Is Fitzgolden human? He looks human -- right number of limbs, eyes, nostrils and so on. The expression on his face is human enough: He's got Itzhak lifting a hand as if preparing for the requested punch, he's got Conner giving him the I see right through your bullshit look, and he's got Vittoria quite happily ready to pull the trigger on request. It's not a good day to be Fitzgolden, and from his face, he's realising it.

"That thing ain't real," he offers and looks at the mothperson. "It's your own story. Ghost mooses and giant howler bears and mothmen, hell, there's sea monsters and giant goat blood sucking bats on the list too. Your own shit, man. Haggleford just uses the energy of it. That's why there's gotta be one of those things every time. I'm no Worker, I don't get how it works any more than you do. That thing is gonna go nuts when you get go of it. It can't not go nuts. It's made to go nuts."

Ravn -- who is neither healer nor empath, and definitely not very intimidating -- is still holding his sharp rock, just in case. He cants his head at that explanation and murmurs, "Those are all American cryptids. The chupacabra, and the great lakes monsters."

Fitzgolden seems to have decided to spill the proverbial beans. It's probably a bid for survival. That is one ugly gun pointed at his head. Conner may look like somebody's friendly janitor uncle; Itzhak and Vittoria don't.

Fitzgolden swallows and looks at his downed partner in crime; the Italian puppetmaster-lookalike is not moving. Neither is Evil Santa, Haggleford. Are they dead? Maybe. Probably not (though at least Haggleford is at least what a restaurant chef would refer to as well done).

"That's all I know," he pleads. "We're hired hands, me and Grandeventura. Yeah, that lady is probably right." He glances towards Ava. "They use your bodies for something. They don't tell goons like us what the big plan is. We just get paid to hand out those cards, and help carry the goods. No one said anything about fighting. Said there might be a few that needed subduing, that's all. Look, life is hard everywhere, man. It's nothing personal."

And yet he is leaving something out; Conner is certain of it, and anyone else who is paying attention suspects it. A couple hard stares to go, and the goggled goon sighs. "Look, you can't stop that guy. Haggleford, man, he's not even really here. People like Grandeventura and me, we take a bullet, we're dead meat just like you. That guy? He's sitting in his tower on the Other Side, feeling mighty proud of himself and calling you all annoying fools. Let us go, man. We're just small fry. Hell, I'll help beat that thing down if you let me." Another glance towards the mothman.

The Mothman, capital M, apparently. Here's to hoping Gray Pond doesn't become home to Champ of Lake Champlain next.

While the healing does its magic, Ava continues to do her best to sooth the Mothman in a more natural way, keeping his body at peace to the best of her abilities. Thankfully, Kailey is handling the mental aspect of keeping it calm, which is probably a lot more likely to work. "Subduing and fighting are the same thing," Ava points out with a flat look. "People are not goods. How many others have you captured in this fashion before us? How many people's lives have you stolen from them, despite the claim that it's 'not personal'?"

Ava may look peaceful on the ground with the Mothman in her lap, but that serene, druidic green aura is licking with bits of red flame. "We don't need your help taking things down. Clearly. We need answers. I suggest you continue while you are still useful."

"The moose. That's how he knows how to spin off a quantum state of himself." Itzhak isn't pleased by this at all. He looks down at the man underneath his hands. "I oughta let you bleed out," he informs him in a harsh growl. "You sadistic fuck.

"This is what we're gonna do. We're gonna send that guy home." A nod to the moth creature. "And the rest of you jokers, you're going home too." He glares at goggles guy. "When you get there, you're gonna tell all your little thug buddies that they don't come here no more or we ain't gonna be so nice. This is our town, not your fucking experiment. Capiche?"

Itzhak's words bring a solid nod of approval from Conner. The quantum state comment does get a furrowed brow and a questioning look, but he's not going to ask about it right now. The sparks are no longer swirling around his fingers as he figures his continued threat is just overkill at this point, but Conner with his hands slid into his pockets is about as dangerous as Conner actively sparking. The hands are just for effect, after all.

He has questions, but the problem with coming into a thing in medias res is that people far more pleasant than this guy probably already know some of those answers and have an idea of what to do with them. He really ought to get his head out of his books more often.

Kailey has turned from wrath to protective caregiver. A hand gently caresses what constitutes the brow of the Mothman. Within his thoughts her words continue in a gentle and rhythmic way.

~It is okay. We will not harm you if you do not harm us. Do you wish to be sent home? To the Veil?~ Kailey soothes silently. Letting the others handle the hired swordsman for now. "Will they be okay?" She asks Ava in the audible way as she glances up.

Her face at this point is a mess. The uncontrolled nose bleed has been spread about her mouth by licking and distracted dabbing. And as she speaks a drop falls onto her jacket from her chin. Making her realize that her nose is actually bleeding. One hand comes up to touch. "Oh shit..I overdid it again," She says as she digs out a red bandana kerchief.

So much of what Fitzgolden says goes right over Vittoria's head. Not only is she new to town, but fairly new to the supernatural as well. He does seem to add more information, so her Beretta is only now withdrawn slightly. It still points at his head, mind you, but no longer presses against his skull. "Saying 'it's nothing personal' does not make what you do okay," she informs the little man matter-of-factly. "You are still a shitty person who hurts others. I recommend you stop. Next time we meet, I will aim a little higher than your knees."

"Ain't no way I'm taking another of these gigs," Fitzgolden confirms. He is rapidly growing paler, and he is drenched in sweat. Given the state of his blown out knee, perhaps it is not surprising. The man is upright and talking but he is losing a lot of blood and probably going into shock. "Send us back, man -- please. Grandeventura and me. We're not coming back here. That guy?"

He looks towards the pile of snow and blood that used to be Carnelian Haggleford (or his quantum alter ego). "That guy's not going to stop. But Gran' and me? We're out. Hear you loud and clear."

A busted knee seems to serve very well as motivation. Or maybe it's the speed with which his associates were beaten down. Maybe it's that Haggleford is clearly supposed to be some kind of big bad, at least in his own mind -- and he fell first. Either way, this is a man who knows he's not going to be cashing any cheques with which to pay for the surgery that knee is going to require.

A man who is watching Ava heal up - not him, no, but the monster. A man who is worth less than the monster. It's probably not a very good feeling.

The monster is watching Ava heal him up too, with large, frightened yellow eyes. Kailey's careful mind probe reveals a strange blankness inside, much like shining an electric torch into a great dark void. The sensation of emptiness, of an empty shell is almost overwhelming; this creature exists in a continuous present -- it has no past, and no future, only reaction. It has no memory, no history. It has no future, no looking ahead. It can respond to stimulus -- move away from pain, attempt to attack a threat first -- but it has no mind.

Maybe it really is like Itzhak is suggesting; it is a construct, a quantum -- thing. Maybe it will in fact stop existing any time now. Maybe it can be sent back to the Veil and find a life, a form of existence there. Maybe it can't.

Ava pets the Mothman's head softly. "You'll be okay," she tells him softly and gives him a nod. Hopefully he's healed up enough that he can stand up and run. "Go where you feel safe." She glances towards Kailey and the bleeding nose with a frown, digging through her bag for gauze. She reaches over to start cleaning the other woman up. "You can let him go. Maybe tell him to run to safety and then let him go?" she suggests. "Then you need to rest before you hurt yourself worse."

Her eyes move towards Fitz and then Haggleford with a frown. "What do we do with the toasted one, then?"

Itzhak rises to his knees. He's covered in blood, none of which is his. "We're sending 'em through," he answers Ava, though he doesn't look around at her. He's staring hard at something only he can see. "We're sending them all through."

He draws a breath and sings.

I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard

The air grows heavy and viscid, shimmering with iridescence. Itzhak runs his hand down nothing, sparks skidding from his fingertips.

And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard
It's a hard raaaaain's a-gonna fall

The rickety old room shudders. Itzhak sweeps aside the border between Here and There. "Get oudda heah," he growls, as the Other Side glows in colors that have no name.

Conner blinks owlishly as Itzhak just...opens the door like that. It's a thing he's only seen maybe once before, and not quite in this way. He looks impressed, as he does. He brushes his hands on his jeans, and steps well away from the colors that have no name. He's in no mood to take a trip today by stepping in the wrong place.

Kailey's eyes widen as she stares at the Mothman, her mind within the empty walls. It obviously scares her and she barely seems to hear Ava as she pulls away slowly. The last thing she says to it, ~Go home!~ A finger pointing to Itzhak's doorway.

Normally she would have more interest in how others work Glimmer. Especially a fellow master like Itzhak. But Kailey's mind is trying to gibber at the utter alieness of the Mothman's mind. "It's a construct...it lives but only in the now. There is no past or future or thought," She says quietly to Ava. Moving towards the doctor as she keeps wide and haunted eyes on it. Letting Ava care for the blood steadily running from her nose.

Stepping through colours with no name is as difficult as stepping through a horse with no name, when you are a) conscious and roasting, b) unconscious, or c) conscious with a busted knee. And yet sheer motivation helps Fitzgolden manage to drag his Italian puppet master fellow goon along with him as he goes; unconscious maybe-construct Haggleford will have to dig himself out from under the snow and get there. Or maybe a construct body will dissipate and fall part under the snow as soon as someone blinks. Maybe it already has.

As it happens, it has. Not as much as a singed silver hair remains of Evil Santa. Slippery bastard, not even leaving anything for the forensics.

But then, dreams and Veil constructs never do, do they?

The Mothman is not difficult to direct towards the portal. It is bright and shiny -- and he is a moth. Attracted to its strange lights and colours, he flutters towards it, and seems almost -- grateful?

But then, moths to a light always do. Hopefully he finds some kind of life in whatever reality is sent into. Maybe he joins the choir of ghosts already residing on the Other Side near the old lumber mill. Maybe he flutters on towards some bright future somewhere else. Maybe there is a heaven for Veil constructs with irridescent wings.

Maybe it's a bad idea to linger and think too hard on it. The answers Fitzgolden offered up may be useful to somebody or they might not be. But the old lumber mill is a known thin spot rift, and if one sticks around long enough, something awful is bound to come looking for an easy lunch. There's a reason they warn kids from going here to explore, teenagers from going here to make out, and that that team of urban explorers disappeared last year.

And as so often before, when the strange ends, one is grateful to be alive, and that the ground is not littered with bodies. Maybe some of this will make sense over time. Maybe it won't. "American cryptids," Ravn mutters as he heads back towards town with the others. "This town, man."

There's a few new stains on the floor of the old lumber mill. There are plenty already, a few more will not make a difference.