Eldritch Guidance

“When Obsidia's attempts to merge the biology of giants and humans to create an immortal race ended in failure, the mages of the Magocracy turned their ambitions toward another legendary species said to embody immortality: dragons. Though dragons had been extinct for tens of thousands of years, their ancient remains—bones imbued with mythical reverence—were abundant. Lacking soft tissue or viable genetic material, the mages devised a grotesque method to graft the bones of these long-dead creatures into living human subjects in the hopes of harnessing the dragons’ supposed longevity.

“The results of these experiments were nothing short of grotesque. At best, the subjects developed brittle, fragile bones prone to fractures, rendering their bodies frail and dysfunctional. At worst, and most commonly, the subjects succumbed to severe infections. The fossilized bones proved toxic when fused with living tissue. Records from the era highlighted the particular challenge of melding the ancient bones of a creature with the anatomy of living beings. Most researchers abandoned the project as a failure, but a determined faction of Obsidian mages insisted on pressing forward, unwilling to let their vision die.

“Drawing from their experience in creating the goliaths, these mages shifted their approach. Instead of directly integrating dragon bones into their subjects, they began inducing a series of mutations designed to make their victims more biologically receptive to the bone grafting. By pushing their subjects’ genetic structures toward something that mimicked dragon physiology, they hoped to overcome the barriers that had thwarted their efforts. The process was as horrific as it was transformative, but it eventually yielded some results.

“The culmination of Obsidia's dark and relentless experimentation was the creation of a new type of generational mutant, known as dracos. These individuals bore striking traits reminiscent of the long-extinct dragons, manifesting as scales, vestigial wings, and other dragon-like appendages. However, these features were not evenly distributed across their bodies, giving dracos a uniquely hybrid appearance.

“Most notably, the dragon-like traits of dracos were largely confined to their arms and legs. These limbs were often adorned with tough, glistening scales that served as natural armor, and some dracos even developed clawed hands or feet, resembling the talons of the ancient beasts they were designed to emulate. These draconic limbs were also capable of growing back if they were ever damaged or severed from the main body. In contrast, their torsos and heads retained a mostly human appearance, with smooth skin and conventional human features. On rare occasions, patches of scales would form on their torsos or around their heads, adding an unique appearance on an otherwise normal human visage.

“In Gixian society, dracos are a rare sight, regarded as the least common of all generational mutants. Their scarcity is primarily attributed to their well-documented fertility challenges, which significantly limited their ability to pass on their unique traits. Couples with at least one draco partner frequently reported difficulties in conceiving, a struggle that became a defining experience of any draco trying to start a family.

“These fertility issues placed dracos in a precarious position within the spectrum of gen-mutants. While their ability to reproduce technically distinguished them from standard mutants, who are entirely sterile, the rarity of successful pregnancies put them close to that threshold. Despite this, dracos retained the critical distinction of being capable, albeit with difficulty, of producing offspring, ensuring that their lineage, however small, could persist across generations.

“Just like all Obsida’s failed attempts at immortality, Dracos have a normal human lifespan.”

—“The Generational Mutant ” By Robert Joseph

John sat in his usual windowless private room in the Cait House, a sanctuary of quietude the service reserved for him without question. The air was still and warm, carrying the faint, comforting scents of old wood, polished brass, and brewing tea. Before him sat a simple porcelain cup, from which he took a slow, appreciative sip, the earthy flavor a familiar balm. A half-eaten sandwich rested on a plate beside it, a picture of mundane peace. At his feet, Lunar, his hound, was a warm, heavy weight, snoozing deeply. The dog’s breath rose and fell in a steady, rhythmic tide, a silent metronome marking the passage of a calm afternoon.

This tranquility, however, was uniquely shared today. What distinguished this outing from the solitary patterns of his existence was the presence of the figure sitting across from him: Yin, the Kitsune-like fox mutant.

The beautiful woman—whom John viewed as a daughter—was wholly engrossed in an extravagant parfait. It was a towering confection in a tall, frosty glass, meticulously layered with different creams, vibrant fruit compotes, and delicate shards of caramelized sugar. Yin was attacking the dessert with a focused, almost childlike gusto, her spoon moving swift. Behind her, the true barometer of her joy was on full display: her nine magnificent tails wagged in a blur of synchronized unrestrained excitement.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched John's lips as he watched her. He found it quietly remarkable that someone, who now whose wealth could doubtless purchase the entire city block, still found unadulterated joy in a simple parfait at this humble tea shop. But then his mind drifted back through the years, to the memory of a scrawny, desperate homeless girl who had once wandered into his shop, all sharp edges and hungry eyes. She had never come from wealth; she had clawed her way up from the gutter.

It seemed that no matter how high she had climbed, Yin had never severed the connection to where she came from. She had not traded her core for a crown. In John's estimation, this was a rare and profound victory of character, a net positive in the ledger of any person's soul. She appeared just as genuinely comfortable, just as wholly herself, in this quiet, unassuming room as she would be presiding over a feast in the opulent halls of the Nighttower. And in that, John found a deep, quiet satisfaction that far surpassed the taste of his tea.

He was surprised to find Yin, standing just outside the Cait House entrance, looking as though she belonged there. The encounter had surprised John; in all his years of regular patronage, their paths had never crossed within this particular sphere of his life. When he’d mentioned his surprise, she had simply smiled that inscrutable fox-like smile of hers and claimed to be a regular herself. John found the coincidence notable—he was a creature of habit, and her absence from his established routine was a statistical anomaly. But he had merely nodded, accepting her words without comment.

She had then brightened, asking if she could join him for snacks, and of course, he had been genuinely delighted. The prospect of sharing his quiet moment with someone he considered a dear friend was a pleasant deviation.

Now, settled in the quiet room, they had fallen into their respective rhythms. John with his simple tea and sandwich, a model of minimalist comfort, and Yin with a decadent parfait that seemed to defy gravity. As he watched her devour the confection with a gusto that made her tails quiver with delight, she suddenly looked up, catching his gaze.

Yin: “Oh, do you want one as well?” she asked around a mouthful of cream and berry, gesturing with her spoon toward the parfait.

John: “Oh, no, I’m quite good. This tea and sandwich is more than enough,” he replied, his voice a model of polite refusal.

“Though I honestly wouldn’t mind one if I could,” he thought with a silent, internal sigh. The truth was a mundane and undignified one: John was very lactose intolerant. He could appreciate dairy in small amounts, but too much and it would involve a painful, sweaty, and lengthy negotiation with his own biology. That parfait, with its creamy layers, was an all night trip to the toilet.

Not wishing to dwell on his dietary limitations, he offered a genuine compliment instead.

John: “I was just thinking you look very cute today.”

Yin’s cheeks, already flushed from the cold dessert, pinkened further.

Yin: “Aww, thank you,” she said, visibly pleased before shoveling another spoonful into her mouth with renewed vigor. After a moment, she swallowed and shifted the conversation, her tone becoming slightly more deliberate. “Hey, John… do you remember that advice you gave me back at the restaurant in the Night Tower?"

John crossed his arms, his gaze turning inward as he sifted through the catalog of their past conversations. After a few seconds of thoughtful silence, his eyes refocused.

John: “Oh,” he said, a flicker of recognition in his gaze. “You mean that whole discussion about the aggressive corporate entity attempting a hostile takeover of all the regional ports. The one disrupting the established… supply chains.”

A knowing smile touched Yin’s lips. She continued to hold the belief that John, in his own inscrutable way, was deliberately using the sterile language of commerce and business to describe the grotesque reality festering in Loffa. It wasn't a mere company, but a gathering of fanatical cultists, their influence spreading like a plague that threatened the Nighthounds' hard-won control over large areas of Golgotta outside Graheel. Yet, she played along with his allegory, understanding that this was the language in which he chose to couch his wisdom.

Yin: “Yes, exactly that,” she replied, her tone matching his businesslike cadence.

John: “What about it?” he asked, taking a slow sip of his tea.

Yin: “I was hoping I could perhaps get a little more of your… outsider’s insight,” she ventured, choosing her words carefully. “The perspective you shared last time proved to be an invaluable strategic advantage for our… interest. We’ve stabilized the situation somewhat, but the underlying pressure hasn’t abated. Any further thoughts on how to manage such a disruptive market force would be greatly appreciated.”

John: “Hmm, I’m not sure what more I could tell you,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “I’m really not much of a big businessman. My expertise ends at the door of my shop.”

Yin: “Well, you mentioned last time that this hostile company might try working with other groups to undermine us,” she pressed, leaning forward. “And what we’ve found so far indicates that is likely true, with at least one of them being a very large, established corporation. But we haven’t been able to identify which one. I was wondering if you had any intuition about which ‘big company’ we might be dealing with?” She kept her tone light, though in her mind, she was translating "big company" to one of the three major cults whose power could indeed rival a nation-state.

John crossed his arms and sank into a deep silence, his brow furrowed in concentration. Internally, he was adrift. The truth was, John was profoundly disconnected from the corporate landscape of this world. Since being whisked away from his own reality, he had built a life of deliberate isolation within the walls of his shop. His interactions with the broader economy were limited to local restaurants. He didn't read the financial bulletins or watch the news streams of this reality; instead, he used the strange, ambient power of his shop to pull books, films, and music from the world he remembered.

I have no idea, he thought, a wave of helplessness washing over him. “But she looks so earnest. She’ll probably keep pestering me if I don’t give her something, especially since my last bit of generic advice apparently helped. I hope she’s not getting the wrong idea, thinking I’m some kind of secret business savant. That’s the last thing I need.”

He wrestled with the problem. “She’s talking about a company trying to control ports for trade. She seems convinced it’s a major player, and it sounds like she’s found some evidence of it. So, a trade company hostile to her interests… What if it’s not a local Union company at all? That would make it harder to identify. Maybe… a transnational entity.”

After a long pause, he spoke, choosing his words with deliberate caution.

John: “Well, this is just a guess, mind you. So don’t put too much stock in it.” He met her gaze, his own full of uncertainty. “But… perhaps it’s some sort of large corporation from Gix. Maybe they’re working with this other company to take over the port, aiming to control the flow of goods and squeeze out the competition.”

Yin noted the distinct lack of confidence in his voice, the way he presented it as a mere speculation. But her perception, warped by layers of reverence and conspiracy, instantly reframed it. She recalled whispers from other members of the Unseen Hand, speculating that John, like the other oracles, was beginning to find the future harder to read, his prophecies becoming more vague and circumspect. To her, his hesitation wasn't a sign of ignorance, but a symptom of his immense power straining against an obscured fate. His vague suggestion of Gix wasn't a blind stab in the dark; it was a crucial, hard-won clue, delivered with the appropriate gravitas of a seer who knew the weight of his words. In her misguided trust, she failed to see the simple reality: that John was just a man, surrounded by strange forces he didn't comprehend, trying his best to help a friend.

A cult from Gix… The implication landed in Yin’s mind with the force of a physical blow. That could only mean one thing: the Endless War cult.

The realization was both shocking and unnervingly logical. Her initial suspicions had been focused inward, on domestic threats like the secretive Blood Callers or the esoteric Rattle Bone cult. She had been playing a defensive game, securing her own borders. The suggestion of Gix shifted the entire conflict onto a geopolitical scale.

As she turned the idea over, the horrifying larger picture began to crystallize. The Endless War cult was a parasite that fed on conflict. It had festered within the Gixian Empire for decades, famously exacerbating its civil war, ensuring the bloodshed never ceased. A cult dedicated to perpetual war doesn't simply maintain a single front; it seeks to expand it. If they were making a move in Golgotta, a strategic region with Union ports, their ultimate goal couldn't be mere territorial control. They would be engineering another incident, bloody and significant enough to drag the entire Union States into the Gixian conflict, igniting a full continental war.

This changed everything. Opposing a cult to protect Nighthound territory was one thing; it was business. But preventing a continent-wide conflagration was a matter of survival for everyone. The instability, the economic collapse, the sheer loss of life would be catastrophic. Her city, her people, her hard-won peace—all of it would be consumed in the firestorm.

A slow, grim understanding settled on her features.

Yin: “Hmm… Gix,” she murmured, the word tasting foreign and dangerous. “I would never have suspected… but that actually makes a terrible kind of sense. I’ve been so focused on the threats within Golgotta that I never bothered to look beyond its borders. My perspective was too narrow.”

John, observing her intense reaction, ventured a quiet question.

John: “Was that little bit of insight from an outsider helpful?”

Yin’s gaze softened as she looked at him, the fearsome Nightqueen momentarily receding to reveal the grateful woman beneath.

Yin: “Yes,” she said, her voice sincere. “Very helpful.” She offered a warm smile. “But I wouldn’t call you an outsider in all this, John. Your perspective is clearer than most of my highly-paid ‘consultants.’”

John: “Thank you for saying that,” he replied, a warm, genuine smile touching his lips. It was nice to feel useful, to think his simple, off-the-cuff thoughts could somehow assist the ambitious young woman he’d watched grow from a desperate child into a successful business owner.

Yin: “I also followed your advice and leaned on allies to help with this problem,” she continued, her tone respectful. She was referring to the elite soldiers Anya had dispatched, a deployment she saw as a direct result of John’s earlier, veiled suggestion. In her mind, he had subtly guided her to use her crucial strategic alliance.

John: “I see, I’m glad I could be of help,” he said happily, taking a sip of his tea. He pictured Yin collaborating with other local shopkeepers or perhaps a business consortium, a wholesome image entirely divorced from the reality of clandestine pacts and moving battle-lines of urban gang war.

A satisfied smile graced Yin’s lips. It was clear she was on the right path, correctly interpreting the profound guidance he was imparting, even as John remained blissfully unaware he was giving any guidance at all.

Her perception of him was fundamentally different from Scarlett’s. Where Scarlett saw an Outsider—a being from beyond the boundaries of their reality—Yin saw something else entirely. She was convinced John was a Wizard of Eld, a living relic from the mystic era spoken of in myth. These were beings said to wield magic to defy the laws of nature completely, their power so vast it became indistinguishable from the gods, their wisdom so deep it was often mistaken for simplicity. To her, his unassuming shop and gentle demeanor were not a disguise, but the natural state of a power that had no need for ostentation. It was aloe located on Eld Street, and she felt that was a clue about his identity of being a wizard of Eld.

And so, their conversation continued. John spoke of the unseasonably warm weather and a new blend of tea he was experimenting with, his words plain and simple. Yet, Yin hung on every syllable, her nine tails stilled in concentration, her mind a whirlwind of analysis, searching each casual remark for hidden allegories, strategic depth, and prophecies wrapped in the guise of small talk.

Meanwhile, just beyond the warm, wooden walls of the Cait House, something waited.

It did not breathe, for it was older than air. It did not watch, for its awareness was a state of being, not an action. It was a presence that predated stars and would outlast them, a fragment of the primordial silence that had existed before light insisted upon its existence. It was patient, not as a predator is patient, but as a mountain is patient with the erosion of ages. An unknowable weight pressing gently against the fragile fabric of the moment, taking the form of an old man, waiting for John.