Another Note From Daemon-Sultan:
Good news everyone! I'm alive and well! And there's quite a bit I need to say, so I'll get into it.
Firstly, at the moment I am considering a full-rewrite of Harry Potter and the Bored Outer God(HPBOG), The Bored Outer God II(BOGII), and A Snake Called Nyarlathotep(ASCN). This is due to the simple fact that I feel my writing skills have improved tremendously in the last year, beyond the random Ha-Ha funny humour of HPBOG, and the short little scenes of all three. Hell, the Revised First Chapter of Hostis Publicus is over 70k words in length, and actually has a developing plot, with foreshadowing instead of things just happening. I realised several months ago that it is literally an Epic story, one that will most definitely exceed 100k words.
Secondly, in the last month I've become somewhat less-obsessed with Hostis Publicus. Moving onto greener and more interesting(At Least For Now) pastures, and by that I mean Universe 1-A Tales(UT). UT, to put it plainly, is purely a product of listening to copious amounts of rock music whilst also playing copious amounts of Cyberpunk 2077. Instead of the Dominion, this fic will mostly take place in the USA, Kingdom of England, and France. It, like Hostis Publicus, will essentially be a big book of stories, with each chapter being one. There will also be a near-lack of Nyarlathotep, with only maybe one or two of his/hers/their avatars appearing. And finally, it's going to be interconnected somewhat with both Hostis Publicus and BOGII.
Thirdly, this does not mean I'm abandoning the BOGII and ASCN, far from it, I plan on finishing both as I'm revising. BOGII is still on hiatus for now.
And lastly, here's two snippets from UT and Hostis Publicus to show I'm not just blowing smoke up your rear ends. The former is going to be finished in short order, whilst the latter is going to take a bit. To be honest Hostis Publicus may take little longer than a bit. Anyway, this has been Daemon-Sultan, and that's the way it is.
Universe 1-A Tales - Saint Louis Saga Chapter 0-
Vercotti let out a silken chuckle on the other end, "I'm sorry to say, but there's been a little change of plans." He chuckled again, "The bosses want to make sure old Doug and Dinsy are put below ground."
"And I cannot do that all of a sudden?" Silverjaw questioned.
"They're just being thorough as usual, luv," Vercotti purred. Meredith shuddered slightly, she could almost feel the man's sleaze oozing through the computer, like a dreadful slime one would find on the underside of a rock. He gave an oily chuckle, "You'll be workin' with our top-men, Lightning and Big Ruby."
"Stupid fucking nicknames," Meredith sneered.
"You'd be wise not to say that to their faces," Vercotti responded with yet another chuckle, "The old geezers'll be waitin' for you at a pub called the One-Eyed Maid."
Meredith drew in a breath of icy air through her nose, "And that's near the Ratway, I hope?"
"Down a couple blocks from it," The London gangster said, as he shuffled something around, papers most likely, "Once you meet up with them, the casino'll be easy pickings." There was an audible sniff, a pause, then, "Any questions, luv?"
"What the fuck do these two look like?"
Vercotti sniffed again, "Well, Big Ruby is big, an' Lightning has a scar shaped like a bolt of the stuff. Any more, luv?" He paused for a second, "Ah, and Lightning wears a sort of headdress, a black hood with ram's horns stuck on it."
"Kinky," Meredith said, then sighed slightly, "Made any changes?" She queried in a tone dryer than Death Valley.
Scarface gave a sleazy chuckle, "Not that I know, luv."
"Good," Silverjaw responded, as she pulled the computer away from her ear, "Screw off then." And pressed the reddish-orange 'End' button.
Stuffing the computer back into her pocket, Meredith pulled in a lungful of rancid air. Scarface-fucking-Vercotti, the man was a Gods-dammned expert on making her skin crawl. Him and his little ghoul of a brother.
The narrow street slowly began opening up into a larger area, still bordered in all directions by decaying rookery structures. Meredith plucked her vape from behind her ear and took another hit of Syn as she strolled past a rotting cafe.
If she had known at the beginning that working for the Weasley brothers would mean working with the Vercotti brothers…Well, Meredith would still take the job, the pay was good. Oh so good. Her lips twitched upwards. Now where the hell was this bar?
Nearly an hour passed before Silverjaw finally strolled into the One-Eyed Maid pub. Dank, dingy, plain awful, all three popped into her mind in quick succession. Meredith couldn't really come up with better words to describe it, the place was dark, it was dingy, it was just plain awful.
The pub was lit only by a series of fusion lanterns, two hanging from the ceiling, while three others were scattered about, on tables, on the bar. A rusting Twain-Rogers Mark III automata stood behind the counter, serving drinks to a veritable horde of dirty, dishevelled people with creaking whining movements. Sat at flimsy metal tables across the bar were yet more people, each and every one just as dirty and mean-looking as the last.
Meredith cast her gaze around at the pub's occupants, Lightning and Big Ruby. Fucking Scarface, couldn't give her more info than Ruby being big and Lighting having a…lighting bolt-shaped scar. Well that and the hood, what was the deal with that anyway?
Silverjaw took a step forward, her eyes dancing from patron to patron. No one that she could see matched either description Vercotti had given. The hitwoman took another step forward, a frown tugging at her lip. Everyone looked like either a gangster or a hobo, with the occasional blue-collar worker sprinkled in.
"Are you Silverjaw, dear?" A raspy, somewhat-high pitched voice suddenly spoke from a spot right next to her.
Meredith nearly jumped out of her skin, a gasp tearing its way from her throat as she whirled around instinctively to face the owner of the voice. Her brown eyes widened, as directly beside her stood a man. And the word Corpse instantly came to mind.
His face was horribly disfigured, his nose looking to have been amputated, his mouth torn revealing an interlocking maze of nightmarish fangs. The colour of his skin more closely resembled a chalky gray than any normal tone, while his eyes were shrouded behind a pair of oversized circular-framed sunglasses. He also seemed to only have one working arm, as the other was stiff, crooked, sort of like an old pre-TRC prosthesis.
The man smiled widely, the mass of scar-tissue stretching from his mouth up under his sunglasses twisting, "You are Silverjaw!"
"And who…" Meredith trailed off as she registered the man's outfit. Or more precisely, his headwear. A black leather hood, one with a pair of ram's horns sewn on. She paused, "Lightning, right?"
"Oh, I hate that nickname," The man, Lightning, groused, and shook his head, "Please call me, Harry, dear girl." A second passed, then he suddenly perked up, "Say, would you like a sweet?" Lightning…Harry, reached into a pocket in his big black trench coat.
Meredith felt her brows furrow as Harry withdrew a handful of gaudily-wrapped candies, and began one-handedly picking through them while listing off an assortment of odd names. This was Lightning? This was one of the Weasleys' top men?
"No…No thank you," Meredith managed to get out.
Harry's face fell, and he sighed, returning all but one of the candies, a little drop wrapped in silvery paper, to his pocket, "No one ever wants my sweets." The old geezer shook his head, and carefully unwrapped the candy, revealing a little blob of caramel.
"Where's Big Ruby?" Silverjaw questioned, as she cast another glance out at the sea of faces.
"Rubeus is usually late to these sorts of things," Harry replied, and popped the caramel into his mouth, "Flies everywhere, you see."
"'Flies'?" Meredith spoke, raising a brow.
"I prefer apparition myself," Harry continued, "But he has a soft spot for that motorcycle…"
Wait. Apparition? Meredith's face suddenly dropped as realisation hit her. Apparition, magickal teleportation, so Harry was a fucking mage. A sigh escaped from between her teeth, Gods-dammit. Mages were always, always more trouble than they were worth in her experience.
"...A Vincent Black Shadow! Once belonged to my Godfather, you know!" Harry babbled, "He's had it for years, since I was merely a year old. Got it back in '81, after my parents were murdered by some fellow named…named, named-er Tim! Yes, Tim, Tim Biddle, something like that…" The wizard trailed off suddenly, his eyes visibly narrowing behind his shades.
Meredith rolled her eyes, "When is he gonna get here then?"
"It's going to be a bit, I'm afraid, my dear girl," Harry responded, shaking his head again, "Rubeus is coming all the way from Scotland, after all. He's Care of Magickal Creatures Professor at Hogwarts School, you know! Been in the position for seventy-five years at this point." He suddenly smiled widely, "That's longer than me, and I've been on the staff nearly half a century!"
"Do you even know what we are supposed to be doing?" Meredith questioned with no small amount of acidity.
Harry's smile, already metaphorically and in a grotesque fashion, literally splitting his face, somehow grew even wider, "Oh yes! It's going to be quite fun! I do, so love duelling, even if it's against muggles!" He chuckled, and suddenly thrust his black leather gauntleted right hand out as a long dark brown wand snapped, quicker than lightning into his palm. "It's been far, far too long since I was last able to really let loose!"
Meredith's brows rose, "Oh?"
"I've been in many a scrape in my day!" Harry laughed, and suddenly whirled to face the sea of bar patrons, his arm held out wide, "Back when I was young and full-of-beans, I was known as the Monster of Paris! People from Britain to Java feared me!" He flicked his wand towards a rather mean and tough-looking man with a big buzzed head, "Calvarius Dissilum!"
Hostis Publicus Chapter 0-
Not much had changed since he left, there was still that great hand-crafted dining table in the kitchen, surrounded by similarly hand-crafted chairs. The fireplace in the sitting room was still rough, crude, and assembled from a multitude of large rocks. A bearskin rug still sat in front of it, and the mounted head of that big old bison his grandfather shot still hung above it.
In all, it was still just as rustic, and still kept cool in contrast to the canyon outside. Memories memories. The room smelt heavenly, of cooking meat and frying cornbread, busily, though slightly-shakily working in the kitchen was Ethan's wife, Pauline Cassidy,
"Where's the guest room?" Hyram asked, walking in from the kitchen, where he had seemingly given Clive's sister-in-law somewhat of a scare.
Clive pointed to a doorway beside the fireplace, "In there and to your right."
Hyram nodded, and strode across, ducking under and disappearing into the doorway as Ethan and Bobby entered. Clive glanced back and turned, his older brother walked up, coming to a halt in front of him.
Ethan stuck his hand out, smiling, "Welcome home, Clive."
"Thanks, Ethan," Clive responded, giving it a firm shake.
"C-Clive? Clive is home?" Pauline said, walking in from the kitchen.
"How are you doing, Pauline?" He asked, turning towards her with a smile.
"Mighty fine, Clive," Was her response, a smile tugging at her lips, "Welcome home."
"Where do you want these, uncle Clive?" Bobby questioned, holding up the saddlebags.
Clive turned towards him, "Put 'em in my old room," He glanced at Ethan, "It's still free, ain't it?"
"Just as you left it," Ethan responded, giving a nod.
"And what's for supper?" Clive asked, smiling.
Pauline walked back into the kitchen, resuming her task of dropping spoonfuls of cornmeal batter into a steaming skillet, "We have johnnycakes, some good venison from a buck Bobby shot last night, vegetables from the garden, and some salt pork."
After returning from the bedroom, Bobby walked up, "Who's your friend, uncle Clive?"
"His name's Hyram," Clive responded, taking a seat and shrugging off his tall leather boots, "Met him back east a few months back, he helped me with somethin' and, I guess I'm just repaying the favour."
It was at that moment when the red-haired man in question strode from the guest room, his cigarillo, already half-spent, clenched between his teeth and black kettle-curled hat nowhere to be seen. Hyram's brass spurs jingled as his dark brown boots struck the floor, his sharp hyper-alert eyes were slightly-hooded, dancing from family member to family member, and there was a familiar somewhat-blank expression on his face.
Clive cast an indifferent glance towards the four weapons suspended in holsters from Hyram's gunbelt, two Walker Colts and two second-model Colt Dragoons. They were a constant, always there and suspended over the yellow cavalry sash wrapped around his waist, it was as if they were an essential article of clothing, like a shirt or trousers.
Hyram came to a stop beside the table, resting his large hands atop one of the chairs' backs, "So you're Clive's brother?" He questioned smoothly and in his accent, so much like the Virginian officers Clive had the pleasure of serving under during the War of Secession.
"Sure am," Ethan replied, his gaze slowly travelling upwards, finally landing on Hyram's face all the way up at what must have been well beyond six-foot-five-inches, "And you're Hyram?"
"That's what my Mama named me," Hyram answered simply, his gaze finally resting on Ethan.
The Cassidy patriarch nodded, turning his gaze away, "Right."
"You have some water on?" Clive asked, abruptly changing the subject, "A warm bath and some fresh clothes would do me mighty well right now."
Ethan gave a nod, "Sure do, we have two pots boiling, and I can get a bucket or two from the well, then you'll have a mighty fine bath."
"You don't know how long its been since I've heard somethin' like that, Ethan," Clive smiled, patting his older brother on the shoulder.
"Since sixty-one, I'm assuming?" Ethan replied, raising an eyebrow.
Hyram, who had made his way over to a hand-made rocking chair beside the fireplace, taking a seat in it, spoke up, "January actually."
"He's right," Clive added, and hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt.
There was a creak as Hyram rocked backwards, taking a puff from his cigarillo whilst seemingly being lost in thought, his gaze turned slightly upwards. He lazily rolled a weathered Confederate half-dollar across his knuckles, over and over again.
Almost an hour later, the Cassidy's singular hired hand, the sixteen-year-old John Christopher, or simply Kit Eklund, arrived atop his Chestnut steed. He brought his horse to a stop outside the homestead and nimbly hopped off, jogging up to the front door.
Within, the entire family plus Hyram sat around the large dining table, their supper laid out atop it. The dark brown-haired teen opened the door, stepping in with a smile on his face, "Howdy folks!" He said.
Clive looked up from his plate, gaining a neutral expression. He eyed the teen, his blue eyes studying John's tanned smiling face. It was not that he didn't like the kid, far from it to be honest, Clive simply felt wary. Kit Eklund, for all he tried, always failed miserably at hiding his infatuation with Abigail, everyone on the homestead knew it, hell even the McCoys puzzled it out, and they lived more than a day's ride away.
"Uncle Clive's back, Kit!" Bobby said, smiling at his best friend's presence.
John practically hopped up to the table, still smiling, "Evenin' sir, welcome home."
"You've…grown, Eklund," Clive replied in a stilted manner, his expression still forced-neutral, "How old are you now?"
"Sixteen, sir," John answered, looking towards Ethan, "Might I stay for supper, Mister Cassidy?"
Ethan nodded, chewing on a combination of hoecake, roast vegetables, venison, and fried salt pork, "Take a seat, son, we have plenty of grub to spare."
"Thanks, Mister Cassidy," John responded, taking a seat at the table, grabbing a spare plate, some silverware, and loading up with food.
Hyram glanced over, putting yet another spent cigarette out on a leftover piece of fried salt pork, before leaning back, casting his gaze around at the others.
Clive rolled a slice of venison up in a johnnycake, taking a bite, "Is Reverend Eaton still around, or did he die off?"
"That's Captain Eaton," His older brother corrected, "Nowadays, he and his Texas Panhandle Rangers are what passes for the law 'round here."
"How the hell did that happen?" Clive questioned, raising a brow.
Ethan shrugged, "Billy Yank doesn't come this far North, and with everything going on in the state, Eaton thought it best to form his Rangers." He paused, then looked up at Clive, "Ain't even really rangers, come ta think of it, more like a band of mounted militiamen."
Clive released a short laugh, "Captain Eaton." He shook his head.
John dug in, slicing off a bit of fried salt pork, spearing it and a few roast vegetables with his fork, before just seeming to notice Hyram sitting at the table, "Who's this?"
"I have a name," Hyram muttered, closing his eyes and hooking his hands behind his head.
Ethan looked up, glancing between Hyram and John, "This is Hyram, he's a friend of Clive's."
"Oh," John replied, pausing, before adding, "Pleased to meet you, Hyram."
Hyram merely nodded, unemotional at the prospect of having met someone new.
Clive shook his head, returning to his food. However, across the table and out of his peripheral vision, he noticed his niece Agnes' intrigued and, dare he say, almost entranced hazel gaze, which happened to be directed straight at Hyram. That was somewhat concerning.
"So," Bobby spoke, drawing the word out, "How'd you two meet?"
"Your uncle got into a little scuffle down South," Was Hyram's quick and almost surgically-precise retort, Clive barely had time to even open his mouth, "I helped bail him out of jail a while after and he offered to take me here."
Ethan let out a soft snort.
Pauline raised her eyebrows, looking towards Clive, "Oh really?"
"It wasn't nothing," Clive spoke, "Just a disagreement."
Hyram, in a rare showing of any emotion besides irritation and general grumpiness, released a short laugh, "Of course, a disagreement."
Clive took a bite of his venison johnny cake roll, "An armed disagreement." He said simply and under his breath, low enough so that only he could hear.
Soon supper had come to an end, the Cassidy family, Hyram, and John had filled their stomachs and one-by-one taken their dirty plates to a water-filled washing tub. Out in the world, the sun had set, shrouding the canyon in twilight and a coolness signature to nighttime.
With the passing of supper and the sun, John left, making his way to the adobe cottage he called home. This left the Cassidys and Hyram, who had returned to the rocking chair beside the fireplace, alone.
"We passed the Burke place on our way here," Clive informed, taking a seat in a rustic deerskin chair, "They clear out?"
Ethan gave a nod, leaning into a separate chair that appeared to be crafted from an old barrel, "A twister killed their livestock two, almost three years back, never really recovered."
"Too bad," Clive shook his head, before looking back at Ethan, "What about the Wilburs? Are they still around?"
"Coyotes killed all their birds," His older brother replied, "Then their 'stead burnt up in a lightning storm."
Clive raised an eyebrow, "Did Aaron Wilbur bust a mirror after I left?"
"He must have," Ethan spoke, giving a shrug.