Adventures of the Grimseeker: The Cursed Forge

I received my summons from the self-styled "Grimseeker" in the usual fashion. A ditzy little crow had somehow mixed itself in amongst the carrier pigeons I relied on for communication with my typical clientele. Plucking the unnaturally docile thing from the cage, I retrieved the small scrap of parchment tied about its legs with little difficulty. Its odd business finished, the bird suddenly regained lucidity and, now fully aware of its surroundings, tore itself away from me and escaped through a window I had open beforehand.  As much as black birds loved to hang around my residence, they always seemed too proud to associate themselves with me beyond the occasional distant observation, and the infrequent theft of my precious research materials.
The message on the parchment was irrelevant—using this method was message enough that all was well for her—but the trace magical signature on the paper carried the necessary information to complete the gateway spell. And so, as evening fell, I put on my finery, dimmed a corner of my study, and—parchment in hand—confidently strolled into the darkness, far further than the architecture would ever allow.

After some time, the darkness gave way, and I found myself in the dim blue candlelight of her humble abode. A short walk later, and I found myself in the dining hall—one of the few rooms she actually bothered to properly illuminate when expecting guests.
Seated around the oaken table, I was greeted by the familiar faces of some of her other acquaintances. There was the matronly Chieko-san of the Far East, who hardly ever missed one of these gatherings. Beside her was the petite Lady M (she asked that I never give out her name to others) and the hulking monster of a man she called her disciple. Also present were Mr. and Mrs. Valentino, the latter chatting away with Chieko over some new business dealings concerning a mutual friend.
After a brief exchange of pleasantries with the lot of them, I found myself a seat and began counting the minutes until our host would arrive.

"Is that everyone, then?" There was a masculine voice, and a blur of white poking in and out of the doorway. Then from the darkness of the hall came a familiar laugh.

"Kiihihihihihihihihi. Kyehehehehehehehehe! Glad you could all make it. The infamous rogue, the wretched cur. The Grimseeker Redeye bids you welcome to a night of dinner and delight!"

In she rode—toothy grin, eyestalks, and all—upon a silver serving tray pushed by her white-haired...servant? Husband? The relationship between the ever-sneering Gazer and the slender young man was uncertain, but we could all smell the scent of mana on the two of them and reach our own conclusions. Furthermore, of his mismatched irises, one bore a striking similarity to the Gazer's very own deep-red orbs. Indeed, were Redeye not such a... unique... individual, I could easily feel happy for that man. As a side note, this particular evening he seemed calmer than usual. Perhaps something good had happened?

The Grimseeker, gracious in her own way, decided to forgo a longer entrance this evening and skip right ahead to dinner. The food was the typical fair—that is to say, it didn't really interest me beyond the refreshments. Of course, the men all immensely enjoyed her cooking, and Lady M. tore into her specially prepared slab of meat with enthusiasm and an appetite befitting such a high-order demonic beast.

An hour later and dinner had concluded without incident. The lot of us had relocated from the dining room to the adjoining parlor and made ourselves comfortable around the fireplace. Lady M sat in her disciple's lap upon the floor, and Serge Valentino took up one half of the loveseat—moving aside an end table to make room for his wife's bejeweled chest. The couch was occupied by Chieko and our host’s servant-husband, the latter having fully succumbed to the comfort of the vixen's lap—and the irresistible allure of her tails—and she was peacefully combing his hair with a content look on her face. I was never one for comfort, so I grabbed one of the chairs from the dining room, and simply angled it towards the fireplace.

Our esteemed host, always one for spectacle, kicked off from the ground and gracefully floated over the couch, finally landing atop the mantlepiece. Her legs, dripping with black ichor, hung unflinchingly in front of the light and heat of the fire, and as she leaned back and snapped her fingers, the candelabras on each side were set alight. The end result was a striking visual of the Gazer, fully illuminated as the center of attention. It was a sight certain to catch the attention of anyone seeing it for the first time—which is to say, none of us in attendance.

"Sorry if my acting is getting stale."
The comment was directed at me.
"It's no bother," I replied. "I actually consider it a comforting sight nowadays."

Redeye glowered at me for a moment but said nothing more on the matter. A few minutes later, she decided to begin the night's entertainment.

"As you may recall," she started, "dear Cato and I have been hard at work this past month, preparing for what we hope will be a truly incredible expedition, deep into the heart of the Aulrein Frontier. That said, given the immense danger of that region, I decided it was reasonable to clear out some of the backlog in both my professional work and this little hobby of mine. As an added favor, I was eager to provide you all with one final tale of at least middling interest prior to the expedition, and moreover I wanted it to be an open-and-shut case that didn't demand a follow-up that might never be finished. Now, without further ado, let's get right to it.


***

As much as I like to keep the location of my little hideaway a secret, I must confess this recent incident took place somewhere not too far from here. As such, I have taken the liberty of changing a few names and other details, for the sake of not only myself, but all parties involved.

Given my line of work, I occasionally get mistaken for someone that works with so-called "Cursed" items. While layfolk often throw around the term without a care, we professionals know that there is no fundamental difference between an enchanted item with a positive effect, and one with a negative effect. As such, all work orders I deal with are properly categorized as "enchanted", and not "cursed".
Moreover—and here, I shan't bore you with details you already know—many scholarly circles reserve the term "Cursed" for items that are themselves inanimate, and yet possess a sentient—and often corruptive or malicious—will. Due to the motivations and magicks involved, virtually all cursed items are the products of the bygones ages of violence and horror. Indeed, due to the centuries that have passed since the ascension of the current Overlord, it is widely believed that all cursed weapons, armor, and so on, have grown relatively benign. Which brings me to the subject of my recent investigation: the incredible rumor of cursed weapons being made in this day and age.

A few counties over from my residence—I shan't say how many—there is a small hamlet that has for centuries held fast to the custom that no work ever be done in the creation of goods after nightfall—excepting for foods, medicines, raw materials, and other such consumables. This stemmed from the superstition that the land was once the site of a demonic forge that produced countless cursed armaments, and as such, any sufficiently compatible good produced after the sun's last rays would itself be right and truly cursed.
Now of course, plenty of rumors of this sort tend to crop up here and there, now and again, and most if not all are a total farce. Even I must admit that I knew of this village for some years, but long considered the custom to be a matter of fire and workplace safety, intentionally disguised to convince even the dullest of simpletons. That was until I stumbled upon a record of an official Order investigation into a certain incident involving that village, whilst snooping about in some musty archive in someplace or another.

Some years ago, a wealthy entrepreneur and a trio of renowned blacksmiths started up a new smithy in the village, finding—and here I must defer to those of you with friends in the smithing profession—that "the elements and other spiritual energies" of the area made for an ideal site, where a skilled craftsman may produce "any number of masterpieces." And furthermore, the report continued, "these energies were strongest at night." Whether this was some marketing ploy or the honest spiritualism of tradesman—specifically those dealing in non-magical goods—I cannot say, for the entire venture literally went up in smoke. Late one night, the whole establishment caught ablaze and ultimately burnt to the very foundation. Some nearby buildings also were affected, and in total, three of the founders and two apprentices perished in the blaze.
Initially, the Order suspected foul play on the part of some overly-superstitious laymen. But a handful of witness accounts, including that of the surviving blacksmith, pointed to a ghastly incident wherein those gathered abruptly took up their new-forged arms and had at each-other, as well as anyone or anything unfortunate enough to get in the way. What followed was a parallel forensic investigation, alongside a deep historical dive into the town's past and previous incidents of supposed cursed items—of which there were several. I'll spare you the graphic details, but one particular case I couldn't forget was that of a wealthy socialite from a nearby town that commissioned a rush-order on a new evening gown, only to poison her guests at a gathering the following week. There was another, more mundane, case, of a drunken woodcarver that spent all night at the pub fashioning a branch into a blade, only to suddenly drop his carving implements, and attempt to slit the bartender's throat with the—and I stress this for emphasis—wooden knife.
The stories went on in such a macabre fashion, until eventually the Order no longer cared to commit any further resources, and the whole investigation came to an end without a proper resolution. I won't dwell on what drove the Order to waste so much time and effort to begin with, partly because there are others more suitable to worry about the Order, and mainly because at this point I intended to investigate the matter firsthand. The very night I returned from those archives, Cato and I packed our bags and set off.

Our work proceeded in much the same fashion as previous cases, with us first arranging for lodging and other accommodations, and then moving on to a general sweep of the territory, getting a feel for the geography and conducting brief interviews of those willing to speak with us. As this was a predominantly human settlement, yet not directly under Order control, my typical arsenal of wards and countermeasures helped us avoid any unwanted attention directed towards—or undue alarm stemming from—what some individuals would call a "flying eyeball monster". Even so, I feel compelled to commend Cato for his assistance during this stage. As you all know, I rely on him to handle the inquiries whilst among large crowds or in wide open areas—when I am too preoccupied with my countermeasures. But I must admit that, even with his peculiarities, he's grown considerably more comfortable talking with strangers, and his speechcraft has improved dramatically. He's even become more willing and capable of drawing on the power of the Eye as needed, when certain individuals are being particularly tight-lipped.
Our initial investigation confirmed several particulars of the Order record. Furthermore— dare I say reassuringly—wherever we wandered, I found the air stained ever so subtly by that faint, bitter aftertaste I have come to associate with those things untouched by the grace of the Overlord—even if I have on occasion encountered false positives. Cato, for his part, noted an occasional irritation of the Eye. In his own words, the thing kept reflexively focusing on a certain "miasma like a fog", which encircled some establishments and even individuals about town—invisible to the naked eye, and as such irresistible to the All-Seeing Eye. I confirmed this for myself, as well, but it was not till much later that I consciously noted the fogs preference for artisans, tailors, shoemakers, and above all blacksmiths. Instead, as evening approached and the irritation seemed to intensify, I permitted Cato to don a cloth eye patch, much as he did during the harrowing events in the Vale of Chicory—as you may recall.

By this point, it seemed some of the townsfolk had taken note of our existence and were beginning to question our intentions. Specifically, a certain middle-aged man accosted us right as we were planning to retire for the evening and chastised us for poking around at things that were better left alone. After taking some pains to calm him down, I learned that this man was, incredibly, the accomplished blacksmith and sole survivor of that dreadful incident years prior. At this l grinned, feeling as if I had stumbled upon a necessary piece of the puzzle in putting an end to this entire matter. Introducing myself and Cato as a pair of accomplished and reputable do-gooders (for it seems the Age of Adventure is not yet dead), we persuaded the blacksmith to aid us in our goal of freeing this town from that damnable curse. More pragmatically, we convinced him that exclusive knowledge of our success would give him a competitive edge in his smithing business. And furthermore, we promised to compensate him for his time and efforts, as well as repay him several times over for any damages and other expenses incurred in the case of our failure. Pouring on a bit of my own special charm, I eventually got him to agree.
With that out of the way, the three of us made haste to the blacksmith’s place of business, as I had no desire to waste a night resting when there were experiments to be run. Initially, Mr. Peterson—as I shall call him hereafter—was alarmed at hearing my intent to create a cursed weapon in his very workshop, not a day after meeting him. But I assured him that there was little danger in one of the three of us risking demonic possession, so long as the other two were ready to act. Here, of course, I was concealing a few inconvenient holes in my understanding of the case, but nevertheless, I did not doubt my own abilities to handle anything involving my own subordinate. And so, it fell to dear Cato to do the deed—Peterson having relented only when I agreed to his request that he only instruct from afar, and handle nary hammer nor tongs nor any other tool of his trade. As an added precaution, I confiscated from Cato his revolver and all ammunition—just in case.
Things got underway at around 10 o'clock, after a brief but thorough examination of Peterson’s workshop and adjoining living areas—he’s single, if you wish to know. We started off as simply as we could, trying to recreate the anecdote of the wooden shiv. After an hour of no progress on a cursed weapon, a dejected Cato suddenly demanded Mr. Peterson instruct him on the forging of the simplest thing he could think of—a commonplace dagger. And so, my assistant began an impromptu apprenticeship I the forging arts. The curse’s callous dismissal of his woodworking must have awoken his go-getting side, and over the next several hours the workshop was filled with the incessant banging of a man figuratively possessed—attempting to become literally possessed.

On and on into the night it went—Cato being such a perfectionist when properly motivated. Ah, the determination on his face was simply delectable. But in the meantime, Peterson and I made light conversation, at first for no other reason than helping us stay awake and alert, lest Cato succeed and subsequently attack us. Eventually, I asked him about the incident from a few years ago. With a bit of prodding, I finally extracted from him his own firsthand account of the grizzly tale—for you see, the Order record was somewhat illegible and incomplete in certain parts, and dared not leave any information on the table that could aid in my investigation. And so, with clenched fists and a shaking voice—and he was not a feeble man by any measure, human though he was—he told me how by sheer happenstance he had selected a faulty blank for that night’s forging project, and thus narrowly avoid the fate of his trusted, long-time colleagues.
Now, dear friends, you know me to be of a stronger constitution than most. You know me to be the sort not to look away, but instead lean-in to discussions of the grotesque and macabre. The path of the Grimseeker is not one for the faint of heart, and my attitudes have at times driven some to characterize me as a madwoman, a fiend, and a true monster among monsters. But on this occasion, I found myself captivated, spellbound even, by Peterson’s chilling tale. I felt the ooze crawling on my skin, and my eyestalks flitted this way and that in an involuntary escalation of surveillance.

That night, the three of them intended to hold a contest to see who could forge the best blade, working only from sunset to sunrise. When Peterson noticed the inherent flaw in his chosen billet, he decided it was better not to tarnish his reputation by taking the metal to completion, and instead gracefully accepted his loss in the friendly competition. Several hours later, as he watched the youngest of the trio put the finishing touches on his blade, he felt a sudden chill down his spine—a truly unusual sensation given the heat of the forge. Then all at once there came a crash, and a crunch and a series of bangs that sounded entirely unlike the noises of typical metalwork. And then, finally, came a shriek that seemed to come from the depths of hell itself. Rushing over to see what was the matter, Peterson found the eldest blacksmith swinging his completed sword about with reckless abandon—smashing crates and tables, shattering windows, and generally causing as much destruction as he possibly could. The entrepreneur—having decided to join them that night—must have heard the commotion for himself, as he suddenly appeared from the workshop door, rushing the man and telling him to stop.
Then, becoming more aware of his surroundings, the businessman backed away a foot or two in stunned silence, for around the same time Peterson had noticed it himself, the man became cognizant of the crumpled, bloodied form of one of the smithy’s apprentices. Before he had a chance to regain his composure, or the sense to flee, the entrepreneur was struck by the pommel of the smith’s blade, and promptly dropped to his knees. Then—and without a word—the blacksmith reached out and grabbed the man’s right arm, draped it over a nearby stool, and then with one fluid motion severed it, bone and all.

Here, Peterson paused in his narration—understandably so. At my suggestion, he decided to skip over the rest of the gruesome details regarding the fate of the businessman. I asked him instead about the other blacksmith, at which Peterson gave a contemplative sigh before resuming his retelling.
He had just regained his sense of self-preservation, and was attempting to flee the workshop, only to find his path blocked by the other blacksmith. The man’s blank expression and bizarre posture as he stood there, sword in hand, was more than enough evidence that the curse must have taken hold of him as well. Without warning, he broke—or more accurately lurched into sprint, dashing right past Peterson. There came a sound of metal on metal, and spinning about, Peterson witnessed the two blacksmiths do battle in a most peculiar of fashions. Showing not a single shred of proper swordsmanship between them, the pair dueled in a manner befitting the possessed. Ceaselessly clashing steel against steel, smashing with their blades anything that got in their path, the battle was a true spectacle unlike anything he had witnessed in his entire career. He knew his colleagues were not without combat training, and thus concluded that this odd sight was a direct of some odd facet of the curse. Indeed, in a cacophonous whirlwind of sparks and steel, the two fought not to injure each other's bodies, but instead shatter the other’s blade. It was during this time that an errant blow struck a wall-mounted lantern and spilt flames all about the workshop. The resulting inferno at last forced the transfixed Peterson to recall his own mortality and flee for his life—thus concluding his account of the horrific events of that night.

I left Peterson alone upon his request, and headed to living spaces to begin the cerebral endeavor of piecing together his story with the rest of the information I had gathered thus far. There was something odd about the way he told the story—not to say he was lying, but that he was choosing his words and holding his tongue at times. It was a human thing, withholding callous remarks out of respect for the dead. I had a fairly good idea of what he wanted to say, but even so I struggled to mesh such a hypothesis with the facts of the case. I mulled it over in my head for another hour or so to no avail.
At around half-past 2, a sudden gust threw open one of the windows, and knocked me out of my pensive state. After resecuring the shutters, I felt a burst of inspiration and decided to return to the workshop to examine the wooden shivs from earlier for traces of miasma. Handling them carefully to avoid any direct contact, I was halfway down the hall to the living spaces when I felt a sudden chill. As much as it pains me to admit it, I cannot say for sure whether my stalks truly witnessed a trail of miasma evaporating off the woodwork and disappearing back into the workshop, or if I merely imagined it as a sense of urgency overtook me. For you see, the sounds of metalworking had gone silent. There was no more banging, quenching, sharpening, and so on. Cato, dear Cato, must have finished his work.
I dropped the shivs and raced back to the workshop, arriving not a moment too soon. For there stood Cato, the finished dagger in his hand, with a blank expression on his face that immediately reminded me of Peterson’s story. We locked eyes for but a moment. He must have removed the eyepatch at some point, for his unobstructed two meet with roughly five of my own—the others busy noticing the elevated amounts of miasma all about the workshop. In that time, I also tried to link with the Eye, but found the connection severed. That was enough evidence for me, and so I prepared to act.

Cato—the thing that was controlling Cato—turned away from me and began shambling unevenly towards the other end of the workshop. It seems Mr. Peterson, possibly not in his right mind after recalling certain traumatic events, had completely dismissed the danger and allowed himself to doze off in a rocking chair in the far corner of the room. Either way, I spring into action. With a running start, I kicked off the ground, soaring through the air with great momentum before rebounding off the ceiling. And then, with practiced precision, I intercepted my wayward accomplice midstride and tackled him to the ground. My stalks fanned out, binding his arms and legs the best I could. One took aim at the dagger and blasted it right out of his hand, after which it skidded across the workshop floor under a bench. Feeling a bit pent up, I started assaulting his various weak points until the joyous symphony of adorable noises confirmed for me that my dear Cato had returned to his senses. The moans also seemed to awaken Peterson, who demanded to know just what the hell we had done or were planning to do in his place of business.
I giggled. “It seems Cato’s efforts under your tutelage have paid off, Mr. Peterson. Come morning, I will present to you a very peculiar dagger. But for now, I urge you to rest up. There is much work to be done before next nightfall.” And then, as you would imagine, my face broke out into a grin much like this, and I let out a cackle before adding, “I plan to forge something myself!”

***

Here began a brief intermission, as our host gave us a moment to recollect ourselves. Lady M and the hulking mass of muscle she called a disciple where content to stay put. Serge left to grab some refreshments for himself and his wife, while Chieko stepped out to powder her nose. Cato, having been awoken from his nap, relocated to the dining room—still within earshot but well out of sight for all save Redeye. I assumed whatever was coming next in the story was even more embarrassing than his desire for all things soft and fluffy.

"Enjoying the story so far?"
Redeye posed the question to me from on high.
"Yes," I returned, "although you being here to tell it so gleefully cuts down on the suspense."
"Gleefu—Oh, spare me. Spare me!"

She swept her arm in a dismissive gesture, face splitting open in a carnivorous smile.

"What do you know of suspense? Yours is an idyllic life amongst the tombstones, but then I suppose that's why you stop by whenever I call for you. Nothing's gotten your heart pounding in ages, and given your line of work, the untimely passing of others is more of a minor inconvenience than a devastating tragedy. Honestly, you're worse than I am."

Was this an attempt at humor? I don't think I would have laughed, no matter how unrestrained I got.

"A difference in perspective is not the same as callous irreverence. I am still a devotee of Hel. You're just a universal heretic."

I felt my lips curl upwards ever so slightly.

"And the correct phrasing is 'idyllic UN-life'."

I glanced upwards, just quickly enough to catch her central eye wavering, as one of her stalks took note of a certain someone sitting someplace far behind me. But then the Grimseeker let out a chuckle, and all returned to normal.

"Kiihihihihihihihihi...I do so love your company. Such deathly conversations we do have."
"Half deathly."
"Kyehehehehehehehehe...right you are!"

And with that, we patiently waited a few more minutes, until the others returned.

"Now, where was I?"


***


Cato, Peterson, and I carefully cleaned up the workshop, taking appropriate precautions when handling the dagger, the shivs and so forth—according to my instructions. As you would guess, I didn't dare let those dubious artifacts of our work out of my sight until dawn. So for a number of hours we kept a vigil, trading off which of the three of us would get some shut-eye. I also took the opportunity to do some preplanning on my next steps—measuring this and that, making some rough sketches and calculations.
We—that is, Cato and I—left Mr. Peterson's establishment at the first sign of daybreak, returning to our lodging and sleeping as soundly as we could till around 9 o'clock. Then we had a light breakfast, and a light "breakfast", and we were on our way. The first order of business was the procurement of materials, and we intended to wrap that up before noon.

Now, while magi-flame candlesticks have proven considerably safer and more reliable in the field than the wax candles we used to use, we've been having a recurring issue sourcing the actual sticks themselves. Enchanting them myself works well enough to recoup the cost upon resale, but that's still a hundred or so of them that I need to purchase on sight. The trick is to buy them in small batches and at different shops, so as to avoid attracting too much attention—or being asked to leave and possibly, forcibly ejected.
The good news is that moving from store to store gave me plenty of time to chat with Cato about his experiences the previous night. According to him, his decision to forgo the eye patch—understandably done to improve depth perception—proved particularly fortuitous later in the night. Just as he took the completed dagger in his hands to admire his work, an acute pain shot through his right eye. That pervasive miasma, ominously accumulating more and more in the workshop as his nightly toils dragged on, suddenly coalesced into a thick, red stream before his eyes, whipping about like a whirlwind before diving right into the dagger.
This, I assumed, likely coincided with my dubious observation of the miasma evaporating off the wooden shivs in the hall. Despite not being completely certain that had actually happened, I now felt much more comfortable factoring that observation into the figuring of this case.
When I asked Cato what he witnessed next, his expression grew sullen. His memories were hazy—an inviting voice, formless shadows, feelings of helplessness and desperation—and then myself doing what I could to snap him out of it. This wasn't the first time my dear assistant had ceded control of his faculties to another, but he felt his resistance this time was especially pathetic. Understandably, his relationship with me has made him more susceptible to these sort of things than the average human, but he often takes that as a failure on his part.
Oh, his troubled face was just adorable to behold, but nevertheless I assured him that it was nothing to worry about. In fact, his attempt at attacking Mr. Peterson that night, despite having seen me first, was clear evidence the he had maintained some amount of control even while possessed. And then, just a few tender caresses and a peck on the cheek was all he needed to get back to his usual self, allowing us to complete our shopping without incident.

As planned, we arrived at Peterson's place at around noon. He knew we'd be arriving around that time, and so closed up shop early. All the better, not needing to shoo out any onlookers worried about the eyeball monster. Cato took the candlesticks, the bowls, the chalk, and the specialized parts we grabbed from our belongings at the inn, and the schematics I had him draft up based on my sketches, and made a beeline for the workshop. Meanwhile, I did my best to talk down an understandably distressed Peterson.
Initially, I expected it would take no less than three stalks to make him more agreeable, but Peterson proved himself a knowledgeable man in spite of his appearances. The moment I brought up the magical forges of the dwarves, his eyes lit up and he nodded understandingly. And not a moment too soon, as I could already hear the sound of Cato struggling to move a workbench.

With Peterson's aid, the three of us finished the renovations in about an hour and a half. It was a marvelous thing to see, I assure you, but I left my sketch with Peterson as a memento. Furthermore, the schematics are filed away in my study, so I apologize for not being able to show them to you all this evening, but please try to bear with me.
The stations of the smithing process were arranged centered around the anvil—the 1st station and the very icon of the trade. Peterson, again proving himself knowledgeable on certain things magical, had originally constructed the workshop with the forge positioned in the direction of fire. To this, we added the quenching bath, the sharping stones, the drying rack, and so forth—all aligned according to their element.
A circle of chalk 33 feet in diameter was drawn to enclose the stations, with a smaller circle drawn around each station individually. Then, following the schematic, I inscribed a five-pointed star within the great circle, such that the interior edges of the pentagonal center all touched upon the circle about the anvil, and the exterior edges of the points likewise ran tangent to the circles about the other stations. Smaller, more regular pentacles were then made from the circles about the individual stations.

For some background, the dwarven magical forge relies on an invocation circle—a six-pointed star meant to call upon the elements and the god of the forge. But my design used a five-pointed star instead. This was done firstly as a matter of course—as Peterson was a human and not a dwarf, and did not include the kegstand as the 7th station. And secondly, although the six-pointed star is frequently pictured in defensive applications, this is merely repurposing of invocation. For a natural defense against spiritual matters, I have found through my research and experiences that a five-pointed design is the most effective. Thus, it was my intent to use this modified circle not to invoke the elements, but to isolate the stations and the workshop as a whole from that curse enshrouding the town.
To this framework, I further added bowls of water in the spaces between the points of the great star, one each nestled in the area between each vale and the accompanying station-enclosing circle. And then, around the circumference of that largest circle, I had Cato position the candlesticks, closely packed with each one just a few inches apart from the next. The specific formula I used on the candles ensured they glowed with a mostly natural light, as close as possible to ordinary wax and wick—for this I found worked best in matching the effectiveness of the traditional methods.
All of this was done to further reinforce the effectiveness of the great magic circle as the outermost defensive barrier against the curse. I explained as much to Peterson, but he merely grumbled about charlatans and heretics. Evidently I was not the first to attempt circumventing the curse via magic circle—and I then recalled a few anecdotes from the Order record alleging as such—and these rather hokey additions to my circle seemed to remind him of those misguided attempts.

He was right to be cautious, for no matter how novel my modified magical forge may have seemed, the whole principle would fall apart if the outer defenses were anything less than airtight. And so, it came time to further reinforce the magic circle with a second layer of protection.
Cato produced from our supplies the necessary lengths of cord—insulated copper wiring stringing together a multitude of glass tubes. By hooking together these lengths as needed, the total length of the daisy-chained diodes could be easily modified for a given application. This constituted the latest improvement to a certain favored apparatus of mine: the electric pentacle!
Here, I need say little more. As soon as we had the wires affixed to the ground—tracing the path of the great inscribed star—and the battery terminals properly connected, the effect was immediate. Cato's Eye saw it first, and I confirmed it for myself. Although the faint glow of the pentacle was drowned out by the candles and the various normal lighting in the room, there was no mistaking the miasma being forced outwards as if drawn away by a vacuum. In a matter of minutes, not a shred of remained inside the boundaries of the great circle. Cato and I smiled, once again admiring the electric pentacle and it's timeless effectiveness.

Having completed our preparations, the three of us—Cato, myself, and a somewhat more agreeable Peterson—began the arduous task of learning to forge within the bounds of the circle. Understandably, it would be a considerable snafu if we carelessly stepped foot outside of the circle, or otherwise compromised our own defenses, during the perilous hours of the night. A misplaced foot knocking over a candle, an outstretched arm exposing a mid-work dagger—the pentacle tubes were made of stronger stuff, but the water bowls needed not break to be overturned. All possibilities needed to be accounted for, and all scenarios addressed and practiced before nightfall. And so we practiced, and practiced and practiced. Till dusk we toiled, first as infants learning how to walk, and then steadily more and more confident. Until finally, all three of us grew comfortable enough to try it all out for real.

I say all three, but critically Peterson—fittingly first to master his remastered forge—was still not fully confident in our defenses once the night arrived, and so instead it fell to Cato and myself to carry out the live trial by fire, so to speak. After breaking for supper, we returned to the workshop. Cato and I stepped into the great circle, and Peterson looked on, instructing us as needed, while we set about forging a number of simple items. A spoon, a platter, a ring, a horseshoe, and lastly a dagger. Cato did most of the metalworking, eager to improve upon his skills after the previous night, while I watched him, the circle, and the behavior of the miasma lurking just beyond our chalk enclosure. The work was steady-going for the most part, although I happened to note a higher density of miasma collecting around the edge of the great circle. It was only when we began work on the dagger that things got interesting.

A chill set in, and with it a gnawing fear that something awful was about to occur. My stalks relentlessly scanned the pentacle for any defects or openings, and wracked my brain trying to discern if the miasma was now thicker than it was the previous night.  Cato stayed quiet, but I could notice his slowing progress and mounting anxiety. The  training and conditioning I put him through had its limits. The unknown, unseen, and unassailable was his biggest weakness. Cato was a man of action, so inaction was his natural Achilles's heel.
I sent my troubled assistant a mild suggestion to remain calm and focus on the task at hand. Then, I doubled checked the completed works on the drying rack, to make sure they were still here—inside the circle. This confirmed, I then looked over to Peterson, still in the room but as far from the circle as possible. He was staring in my direction, but did not met the gaze of any eyes I trained upon him. Transfixed, almost terrified, by something unseen—I feared he too might do something foolish. I called out to him, urging him to remain at ease and keep his distance, so as not to risk disturbing the defensive circle.

Things reached a fever pitch when Cato finished the dagger. Much like the previous night, a sudden shiver ran down my spine. The miasma of the curse turned an ominous red, and seemed to pour into the workshop from every which way—from under the doors, through cracks in the windows, even out of the ventilation. It seeped along the floor, pooling along the edges of the pentacle, before creeping upwards in defiance of gravity. In moments, a thin cylinder of crimson fog surrounded us. I again sent Cato a suggestion to keep calm, and above all not to let the dagger cross the circle.
Peterson nearly shrieked, finding himself unable to let out any other noise prior. "F-f-f-fog!" he stuttered. "What manner of devilry is this?" He could see it now. For some reason, the curse was far more condensed now than it was even on that night so many years ago.
"Why?" I wondered. As it turned out, that line of inquiry would give me the answers to resolving this matter. But first, I needed to attend to the crisis at hand. Peterson was practically in a panic already, and Cato was struggling to keep it together—his breathing uneven and his hand reaching for the revolver at his side. And I regretfully admit the fear was getting to me as well.

I scrambled my eyestalks, swarming them about this way and that to seek out any weaknesses in the circle. Then I forced a grin and a chuckle, as I sometimes do. I thought deeply, deemed it best to lead by example, and put on a brave face.
"Peterson! And you too, Cato! Listen carefully." I spoke clearly and calmly, as best as I could. "Stay calm. Do not panic. The curse has no physical form without a host or a wielder." I took a critical wager in the name of reassuring my compatriots. I had no concrete proof behind my claims, save the supposition that the curse had no reason to hold back. "It is just trying to scare us, out of desperation. It can do nothing else. This proves the effectiveness of the barriers." And lastly I added, with a delighted cackle, "We have the upper hand now!"
This seemed to do the trick, as Peterson breathed a sigh of relief, and Cato's hand retreated from the holster. The rest of the night unfolded without incident, and I took the opportunity to go over what I had learned.

Cato and I inside the circle, and Peterson on the outside, kept a long and diligent vigil amidst the reddish fog. We made light conversation, and yet moved not an inch, lest carelessness be our downfall. We didn't dare sleep.
Hour passed, and the dawn finally arrived. Sunrise banished the night, and the red fog along with it. Cato and I gingerly stepped out of the circle, after making sure all the completed metal works were properly secured. Peterson locked the workshop up tight, and the three of us adjourned for some hours for some well needed rest.


TO BE CONTINUED