They moved through the Mag Mell Memorial Grounds, the ancient headstones leaning like rotten teeth in the gloom. Dáinn's sharp eyes scanned the environment, taking in the familiar crush of old granite, the scent of damp earth and decaying flowers. It was a comfort, in a way. The silent language of mortality and memory seemed not to have shifted in the long centuries of his absence. The dead, at least, were consistent.
Then he heard it.
It started as a low thrumming in the soles of his feet, a vibration that travelled up through the ground. Then it resolved into a sound—a crashing, bounding wave of noise that was all pounding drums and shrieking, distorted strings. It was music, but unlike any sacred hymn or rustic fiddle tune he remembered. This was a raw, aggressive assault, a wall of sound that felt like it was physically pushing against the quiet of the graveyard.
His head snapped towards the source. There, nestled against the edge of the cemetery, was a structure he recognized: a building with a steeple, the common architecture of a Christian temple. But the aura was all wrong. Where there should have been a sense of quiet sanctity, a focused peace, there was only chaotic, bleeding energy. Light, a harsh electric yellow, bled from the stained-glass windows, which had been replaced with muted, amber panes. The air around it smelled of spilled beer and fried food, not incense and old wood.
He turned to Casper, a question about this profane anomaly already forming on his lips.
The cat cut him off, his telepathic voice dry as bone. "A lot has changed since your kind walked this plain. Not all is as it seems, or as it used to be. Their gods are quieter now, or their buildings are louder. It's hard to tell which."
Dáinn's lips pressed together into a thin line, the words he'd been about to speak dying unvoiced. He took in the scene again, the roaring temple, the utter lack of reverence. "Isn't that a Christian temple?" he finally asked, the concept feeling clumsy in his mouth.
Casper let out a low, chuckling sound that was half-purr, half-mental snicker. "Once upon a time. But now? It's a building with a band. They serve alcohol and bad decisions in there. They call it 'The Slaughter Lamb.' Ironic, isn't it? Rather on the nose."
Dáinn simply cocked his head, the gesture one of pure, uncomprehending confusion. A temple to a sacrificial lamb, now a place of slaughter in both name and spirit? The paradox was so blunt it was almost admirable.
"Don't hurt yourself thinking about it," Casper snickered, swishing his tail. "Come on. We're almost there. The trail's getting warmer. And by warmer, I mean it smells more like wet dog and less like shattered reality."
With a last, lingering look at the roaring church-turned-tavern, a monument to a world that had twisted in ways he couldn't yet grasp, the ancient Huntsman followed the smug Crypt Cat deeper into the shadows, which led them directly to the source of the cacophony.
They stood before the entrance of The Slaughter Lamb Pub and Grub. A wooden sign, carved with a stylized lamb holding a flag, swung on creaking iron hooks overhead, casting a wobbly shadow in the electric light. The air was thick with the smells of gasoline, cheap perfume, and the damp night. Another horseless carriage—a car—pulled up, disgorging a chattering group of young humans. Their attire was a riot of color and fabric he couldn't decipher: one wore a billowing orange cloak, another had hair the color of a summer sky, and a third was encased in what looked like green reptilian scales.
"Excuse us!" one of them called out, not unkindly, as they barreled past, their movements a burst of uncontained energy. "Great costume!" another shouted over their shoulder, giving Dáinn an approving thumbs-up before vanishing through the heavy oak door.
Dáinn stood rooted to the spot, a statue of shock and awe amidst the flowing river of humanity. The array of parked cars, gleaming under the artificial lights, the constant traffic of youths dressed in what seemed like the regalia of a hundred different, conflicting tribes—it was a sensory assault that made the chaos of the Wild Hunt feel orderly.
"Is this really the human realm?" he murmured, the question meant for the cosmos.
Casper, having finished licking a paw and smoothing down the fur over his ear, glanced up. "Yup. Let's just say this generation is a little more open-minded than generations past. Less burning people as witches, more dressing up as them. Progress, I suppose."
Dáinn remained dumbstruck as another wave of college kids, this group adorned with elf ears and carrying prop swords, blew past him, their laughter sharp and bright against the low thrum of music from within.
"You will need to go in," Casper stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Dáinn looked down at the cat, his ancient pride stung. "You aren't coming?"
Casper let out a soft, chuckling sound. "You'll be fine. You don't need a little kitty like me to protect you. Besides," he added, stretching his lanky form with luxurious indifference, "I would just steal the show. And the bar wench always leaves food for me out back. So that is where I will be."
Without another word, the black cat turned and melted into the deeper shadows between the gravestones, leaving Dáinn utterly alone on the threshold of modern madness.
Squaring his shoulders, the Horned Huntsman forced a sense of resolve into his spine. How hard could this be? It had only been a millennium or so. I mean, how much could have changed, really? The fundamental nature of man was surely constant.
Taking a deliberate step forward, he pushed the door open.
And was frozen in utter shock.
The dim, comforting gloom described in the town files was, tonight, a pulsing, strobe-lit chaos. The music was a physical force, a blaring, synthetic storm of sound that vibrated in his ribcage. Mounted on the walls where somber saints might once have gazed, large flat screens showed vibrant, animated tales of pirates and ninjas. In the corners, more screens glowed, surrounded by youths manipulating handheld devices, their faces lit by the frantic glow of video games. And everyone, every single person crammed into the converted nave, was dressed as something else. Knights in plastic armor brushed shoulders with pink-haired magical girls. Demonic creatures sipped from frosted mugs next to spandex-clad heroes.
Dáinn stood just inside the doorway, his formidable presence completely swallowed by the spectacle. His mind, capable of tracking a stag through a thousand leagues of untamed forest, could find no purchase here. The scents of stale beer, old wood, and new grease were now layered with the synthetic sweetness of energy drinks and the warm, cloying smell of mass-produced pizza.
When someone accidentally shoved past him to get to a friend, the physical jolt snapped him from his overwhelmed stupor. His eyes, scanning the room for anything familiar, anything that made sense, landed on the long, solid wooden counter at the far end. A bar. Alcohol. That, at least, was a universal constant, a testament to mankind's enduring desire to forget their troubles. It was an island of sanity in a sea of bedlam. Maneuvering with a huntsman's innate grace through the press of gyrating, costumed bodies, he made his way toward the stool at the counter, a lone, ancient god seeking refuge in the one tradition that had, apparently, survived the ages.
Dáinn Herne Cernunnos took up residence on the lone stool at the bar, an island of ancient stillness in a sea of synthetic chaos. The air was a thick soup of fried food, spilled beer, and the cloying sweetness of body spray. His gaze, sharp enough to track a falling feather through a moonless forest, swept the room before settling on the bartender—a whirlwind of vibrant orange hair and confident motion.
Eris, bust was barely contained in a costume that consisted of a short orange skirt, a bikini top, and open-toed heeled sandals, was a dynamo. She moved with the effortless grace of the athlete she was, sliding a foaming pint down the polished wood without spilling a drop. "Syl!" a voice shouted from the crowd. Her head snapped up, a brilliant smile instantly transforming her face. "OH MY GOSH! You look amazing!" she called back, abandoning her post for a moment to greet a friend clad in green haramaki and three plastic swords. Eris braced her hands against the bar, leaning over to inspect the costume. "The hair is so perfect! And the belly band is on point!"
"Did you hear there's another break in the manga!" her friend replied, their voice strained with genuine distress.
Eris gasped, a hand flying to her chest as if struck by a physical blow. "Oh no! He is still under the weather." Her expression shifted from dismay to sudden, solemn purpose. She held up a single finger, then rushed to the end of the bar where a heavy, cast-iron bell hung. She grabbed the rope and gave it a mighty pull.
A single, ominous DONG reverberated through the pub, a sound of such grave, ecclesiastical weight that it cut through the blaring music and riotous chatter. A hush fell over the entire crowd. Every costumed head turned toward Eris.
She pressed her hands together in front of her chest, her face a mask of sincere supplication. "A moment of silence, please," she announced, her voice clear and carrying. "We must pray to the Anime Gods for Oda Sensei's health and wellbeing. May we all live to see the conclusion of One Piece."
A reverent quiet descended. Heads bowed. A guy dressed as a cybernetic soldier crossed himself. Dáinn sat utterly dumbfounded, his pint forgotten before it was even poured. Anime Gods? His mind raced, trying to fit this new information into his understanding of cosmic hierarchies. Was this some sort of new, powerful coven that had formed a theocratic hold on this realm? Their devotion was palpable, their ritualized silence more disciplined than some warrior cults he'd known.
As suddenly as the silence had come, it vanished. The music crashed back, conversations resumed at a higher pitch, and Eris bounded back to her green-clad friend. "What you drinking?" She handed them a bottle and then, finally, her gaze landed on Dáinn.
A beaming, beautiful smile, so full of unguarded life it was almost blinding, was directed at him. "What'll you have, stranger?"
Dáinn stared back at this orange-haired creature, her face caked in more colors than a forest in autumn. His millennia of experience contained no protocol for this interaction. When he failed to form words, she tapped the countertop with a finger. "You okay in there?"
The tap jolted him from his daze. He looked around wildly, his eyes scanning the other patrons, and pointed blindly at a man dressed as a yellow-clad electric rat. "Whatever he is having."
Eris chuckled, a warm, musical sound. "Okay, one Pikachu Pale Ale, coming up." She moved to the tap, pulling the handle with a practiced ease that sent a stream of golden liquid into a glass.
As she turned to place it before him, the back of her costume shifted, and Dáinn's keen eyes caught sight of something that made his blood run cold. There, just visible above the low back of her dress, was a mark. It wasn't a tattoo or a paint smudge. It was a swirling, intricate pattern burned into her very skin, a sigil of deep, earthy brown that seemed to shift and coil like living roots even in the uneven pub light. It was old magic. Fae magic.
She slid the beer toward him. "That'll be seven-fifty."
His hand closed around the cool glass, but his eyes remained locked on her back. "What is that?" he asked, his voice low and rough, cutting through the noise.
Eris blinked, trying to follow his gaze. She twisted, attempting to look at her own shoulder blade. "Huh? You must be talking about my birthmark. I've always had that. My mom says it looks like a cinnamon bun." She shrugged, completely unconcerned.
A birthmark? This was no mere pigmentation. This was a claiming mark, a heraldic sigil of immense power. His brow furrowed deeply, a thousand new questions exploding in his mind. Who had marked her? Why? What was this vibrant, oblivious girl?
"Syl! We're dying of thirst over here!" a voice called from a packed booth.
Eris gave him an apologetic grin. "Be right back!" she said, and then she was gone, swept back into the current of the party, leaving the ancient Huntsman alone with a cheap beer and a cosmic mystery served up by a bartender who prayed to anime deities.