Dense forest undergrowth gradually gave way to a poorly trodden path as Jacht trudged his way towards town. The sense of wilderness surrounded him sides until the sparkling lamp light outside the Hammersmith Inn came into view. Although the night was waning it would still be a few hours before the townsfolk were out and about, giving him time to situate himself and dispose of any incriminating belongings.

The Hammersmith Inn was unusually large for a town this small, owing to the blacksmith that used the back of the building for his shop, from which the name was taken. It was an old and homey place, the weathered braces and hardwood floors gave it a charm few buildings this far from civilization could muster. Originally it was a trading post, connecting the eastern mountains and coastal towns to the western valleys and beyond. The town was situated in the rolling green foothills as the stretching ridge of shallow mountains made necessary a reprieve for weary travelers, local huntsmen, and the occasional roving merchant. Offering a place to sleep, fresh supplies, local handiworks and basic smithing services the Hammersmith Inn eventually outgrew just one old building and the town of the same name grew around it. Freed from mercantile services and owing to its opportune location the inn became a favorite haven and pub for the sparse nearby locals, offering a good variety of food and spirits as well as a comfortable and always welcoming place to spend the night.

Although his dark path in life gave him a tendency to wander, Jacht had always been fond of Hammersmith. One could almost call it his home, although he preferred to deny such monickers. In his mind he was a roving agent of Hell, going wherever he must to quench his lust for power and the arcane. It just so happened Hell beckoned him to Hammersmith at least three times a month and he had a regular room, third on the right, at the inn. Of course this night was not unlike most others and with a wave to the night innkeeper Jacht walked up the flight stairs made of cut in half logs to the second floor. He looked over the railing from the balcony, taking in the scent of the oil lamps that hung from the rafters. The dark and tiny windows reflected the silhouettes of sturdy chairs and round, well worn tables. Jacht's leather boots clomped across the floor until he reached his room.

It wasn't very large but it was comfortable and warm, especially with his supplies strewn about like so many children's toys. Jacht unloaded his pockets onto the end table and gathered his various books together; he would need to set out again soon. He hoped this journey wouldn't take very long, Jacht was never keen about traveling too far away from the mountains. They were familiar ground with trusting locals and plenty of breathing room, a rare and valuable combination for those who don't enjoy popular professions. Jacht hoisted a small trunk at the foot of the bed onto the mattress and began to organize his things. As he began packing though he overheard a commotion downstairs. Drunken disputes were some of Jacht's favorite things to watch but he needed to pack. It wasn't until he heard glass shatter that the allure overcame him.

Dashing into the hallway Jacht looked downstairs over the bannister railing. Two huntsmen were standing beside the bar, arguing loudly with a well armed and armored stranger. The rank smell from their thick leather tunics gave Jacht the impression they'd just returned from the wilderness, although they had obviously been drinking for some time, as their words were almost unintelligible from the slurs and thick mountain accent (akin to French). The stranger stood her ground, speaking too softly for Jacht to hear. He began edging himself towards the stairs for a better look. As the huntsmen grew more agitated Jacht crept down, careful not to make a sound. One hunter drew his black powder musket and shook it to emphasize the drunken babble coming out of his mouth. The other huntsman, a trapper Jacht suspected, pulled a long buck knife from its sheath. They both looked determined if not a little scared.

The stranger stood to face them, her back to Jacht. She removed her cloak, fully displaying the worn and tarnished armor. Intricate patterns carved into the scarred plates of steel showed that it was indeed a quality piece, one that was both hard earned and hard kept. On her back was a wooden shield, bound in metal at the center and along the edge. Below that Jacht could see the sheath of a short sword made of hardened leather and clasped brass. Whoever this stranger was they were a professional fighter, or at least a former soldier. The huntsman with the knife lunged at her before she could draw her blade. She was bigger than most women Jacht knew but the huntsman was large and grizzled from a life in the woods. She was no match in such close quarters, especially in heavy armor. He tackled her to the ground as his lanky friend took a few paces back and readied his musket. The huntsman and the armored warrior rolled and grappled on the ground. Every time she maneuvered herself on top the bulk of the huntsman would force her back down again. Her hand clenched his wrist in a death grip. The knife was inches from their faces. Knicks and cuts appeared with every roll and tussle as the musket-armed huntsman watched intently, waiting for an opportunity.

Jacht came to the bottom of the stairs to get a better view as a table was kicked over in the tussle. The innkeeper ran yelling out the back, searching for a night watchman to break up the fight before someone was killed. Finally getting a good position on the drunken huntsman, the stranger kicked him hard in the kidney. He reflexively stabbed, embedding the knife in the floorboards as the warrior crawled out from under him. His buddy closed one eye then opened it again, looking straight down the barrel of his musket. Jacht had another idea however. Stepping forward he shouted, “Flare!”, gesturing towards the huntsman's musket. Fire engulfed the front of the musket and it backfired in his hands, blasting a couple fingers off.

The huntsman screamed as his recovering partner turned ghost white. Bloody and burned, the man staggered around while grabbing his fingers off the floor. His friend was frozen in a state of shock for a moment, but a sharp kick from the armored stranger sent him to his feet. He began scrambling around for a whiskey bottle as his friend wailed in agony. Jacht stood in the corner, laughing at the drunken comedy unfolding. The dislodged digits were thrown in the whiskey and the pair of them rushed out the door, screaming for a priest. The jovial warlock looked over the bar; there wasn't much damage. A couple broken glasses, an overturned table, some blood stains and powder burns but overall no worse for wear. He pulled up a seat as a watchman barged through the door with the innkeeper in tow.

The watchman was still breathing heavily from the run over, “What's the trouble!?”

“I saw what happened,” Jacht said in a reassuring tone, “One of the hunter's muskets misfired, poor guy ran out screaming with half his fingers blown off. They were trying to shake down this poor fellow.” He motioned to the stranger who was still on the floor, trying to hoist herself up with the help of a chair.

The watchman looked the room over as the innkeeper righted an overturned table. “I guess I'll report this to the magistrate when he comes through, but looking at the condition of the huntsmen I don't think they'll be trying this again.” He spoke to the innkeeper, “The priest is tending to them now, I'll be sure they're restrained until we can hand them over.”

The innkeeper nodded and thanked the man for his time. The watchman helped himself to a drink from a bottle on the floor, then walked back outside to continue his rounds.

The stranger stood up, taking in what just happened, then turned to Jacht, “I appreciate the help.”

“Not a problem,” Jacht said, “It's strange though, the people out here are usually pretty friendly. Mind telling me what that was about?”

The stranger shrugged in her armor, straightening it out, “Ehh, nothing I haven't grown used to.”

Jacht looked her over, her armor was definitely high quality. She was likely a mercenary of some sort, maybe an ex-soldier, and looked to be about thirty years old. The fresh cuts on her face were complimented by a series of older scars. The scent of alcohol was heavy on her breath.

The stranger took a seat at the bar beside him, “What's your name, fella?”

“Jacht, yours?”

“Marcella, a pleasure.”

Jacht leaned back into the bar, “You a guard? With the army?”

“Nope,” Marcella said while grabbing her mug, still half full of mead, “and I don't plan on sharing anything personal-like.”

“Ooo so dark and mysterious!” Jacht said, waving his hands around, “Your 'personal-like' would've been blown all over this floor if I didn't stop that musket.”

She gave him a stern glance, “Listen, partner, I may not be the spittin' image of fit as I once was but lemme tell you, I can still sniff out a warlock a mile away. I don't need yer fancy trickery to get me outta any spot, ya hear?”

Jacht felt a chill down his spine as the innkeeper stared at him in confusion. Trying to keep it together he played it cool, “I don't know what you're talking about. I'm a sorcerer, yeah, but it's a legitimate practice.”

“A sorcerer...” Marcella took a long drink from her mug, “Tell me, how long has it been since you've been out west?”

Jacht looked her in the eye, she'd lost her confrontational edge, although it might have been the booze kicking in, “It's been a while, I don't remember, but it just so happens I'm heading that way in the morning.”

Marcella finished her drink and laid a silver piece on the counter, “Where you thinkin' of headin'?”

Jacht stood from the barstool and faced Marcella, his hands deep in his robe pockets, “Timberloft I suppose, it's the closest city.”

“Really? Ya know, I'm heading that way,” she stood up from the bar as well. Jacht didn't realize how big she was until she was right next to him. She was easily several inches taller than him, and stronger. “Ya might want some company if yer headin' that far, the roads are rife with highwaymen.”

Jacht eyed her nervously, “I'm not too keen on picking up strangers for long journeys along secluded roads, especially when they make ridiculous accusations--” he shouted towards the innkeeper, “--about warlocks.”

Marcella smiled in a knowing kind of way, “I didn't mean nothin' by that. But really, if you ain't been out west lately yer in for a whole heap of problems, 'specially if you're a sorcerer.”

“I appreciate the advice, but I'll go it alone. Have a good night, Marcella.” With that Jacht retreated upstairs. He didn't trust this warrior, she had to be more powerful than she let on. Somehow she'd manged to detect his demonic powers without using any magic Jacht could sense. Perhaps, he thought, she didn't need to worry about the huntsman's musket at all. Worried his work might have been discovered, Jacht began throwing his things in his trunk left and right. He pressed the lid down on his clump of books, drawings, and potions, then threw the lock. The trunk was heavy and awkward to carry but he managed to hoist it onto his back. Turning to leave, Jacht nearly walked right into Marcella who was blocking the doorway.

“Hey! What... get out of my way!” Jacht exclaimed.

Marcella stepped inside and shut the door, her large figure and strong armor even more imposing in such tight quarters, “I wanted a more private place to talk, partner. You ain't been in civilization lately and it shows in all the wrong ways.”

Jacht dropped his chest, ready to cast a spell should this Marcella try anything, “You think I'm some kinda hick, is that what you're saying?”

Marcella leaned against the door, “I've been traveling for years and I ain't seen no one cast magic like that in a long time. It just doesn't exist anymore.”

Jacht looked at her, puzzled, “What do you mean it 'doesn't exist anymore.'”

“Mages and sorcerers, their magic dried up years ago. The only ones with magic these days are the priests and even they're starting to lose their edge.” She motioned towards his robes, “Looking at you, I'd say you ain't a priest. And that sure ain't no holy magic yer usin'. If you're casting magic it's gotta be comin' from some other source, somethin' demonic.”

Jacht readied himself again but she threw her hand up, “I ain't got nothin' against it, what you do is your own business. Plus I know you wouldn't have stepped in down there had you wanted me out of the picture, and for that I guess I owe ya. You'll attract some attention when you get out west though, just fair warning.”

Jacht lowered his guard and took a step back from her, “What happened to all the magic crafters?”

Marcella shrugged, stepping away from the door, “Dunno, no one does, arcane magic just started dryin' up about five years ago. Nowadays there's barely enough left for alchemists to do their work. Sad thing is, soon that'll be gone too.”

Jacht looked at her warily for a moment, mulling over how much he wanted to disclose to this powerful but well-informed stranger. “I'll be honest, I've noticed something peculiar with my magic as well. My summonings are fizzling. Even when I can gather extra energy they're falling apart. It might be connected.” Jacht placed a hand on his trunk, “It's why I'm leaving, I'm trying to discover what's wrong.”

This pique Marcella's interest, “Oh? Any notion what it could be?”

“From what I've deduced, the leyline flowing out of the gates of Hell is weakened. I was going to trace it to the source and find what's causing the disturbance.”

Marcella laughed out loud, “The leyline out of Hell? Really! By the Order, you don't get out much.” Jacht gave her an indignant look which just made her chuckle again, “You can't expect me to believe you're actually tapping into that. I've seen warlocks before, fella, they're lucky if they can summon their own shadow!”

“You doubt my command over the power of the arcane?!” Jacht replied, irritated.

She smiled at him, “It's impressive you can still wield some magic but yer wetter behind the ears than a jackrabbit in the rain. Demons would tear your sorry hide apart.”

Jacht flashed his mocker a defiant glance as he reached into a small pouch on his belt. It contained a fine powder which he sprinkled on the floor before her. As it fell the powder gave off a smell of rotten eggs. “I call upon thee, mistress of the obscene and perverse,” Jacht recited, his hand outstretched, “Come forth, Corona!” The powder on the floor ignited with flames dancing as high as the ceiling. Marcella took a step back in shock, her hand resting on the handle of her sword. In the fire the silhouette of Corona's demonic form came into view, quickly darkening, until she emerged whole into the room. The magical fire died down, leaving only the faintest scent of brimstone.

Marcella whistled in amazement, “Well I'll be damned, I never thought I'd see somethin' like that again. I take it back, fella, you're the real deal.”

“Jacht, you ass, it hasn't even been three hours, what the hell am I doing here!?” Corona growled, “And who is this!?”

“Settle down, demon, this is Marcella.”

“Ma'am,” Marcella said with a nod.

Corona glared at her and turned back to Jacht, “Why did you summon me, sir?”

“To introduce you to our new traveling companion,” he replied, “but if you're going to be this disrespectful, you can carry the trunk.”

Corona's floppy ears lowered even more, “I... I didn't mean it, master! I'm sorry!”

“Too late! Grab it and let's go,” Jacht said, “That is, if your offer still stands, Marcella.”

“That it does, partner. I reckon this'll be a might more interesting than anything going on in the mountains,” she said.

“Fantastic. Corona, put on your disguise and let's get out of here.”

Corona's face could have stopped a clock as she transformed into a beautiful young lady and hoisted the trunk onto her shoulders. After stopping for another drink, Marcella threw her cloak on and the three of them began their trek out of town. It wasn't until they were just out of sight of the town though that Marcella realized a gaping hole in Jacht's plan.

“Uhh, Jacht, how're you gonna trace the leylines to the source of the problem? I mean, this is befuddlin' even the greatest mages,” she asked.

“Jacht ooph has an uncanny ability to fall ass-backwards into things,” Corona chimed in, the luggage weighing her down.

“That's 'master', and yes I do. But my approach here does have a bit more to it than blind luck,” he pulled a map from his cloak pocket, “I don't know where the Hell gates are but I know they're in thiiis” he gestured in a wide circle to the west, “general area. The closer we get, the easier it should be to home in on whatever's causing the problem.”

Marcella looked at the map and then back at Jacht, “That's half the continent.”

“Yeah, well, I know it's not in this half, and that's the important part.”

As he said this an arrow sliced his map in two, cutting their plans and the conversation short.