Bane

February 4, 1976

At five minutes to six o'clock, by and large, Wednesdays at The Huntsman's Retreat Lodge was near empty. Retired men of The Order lounged, sipping spirits, and reflecting on the good old days.

Divinae wiped her bar in lazy circles, musing over a half completed crossword puzzle.

The heavy double doors leading into the lodge opened and Lillian Plow stepped inside, surveying the grandiose Nordic architecture, the fireplace hearths, and candelabra chandeliers. "What a darling little lodge."

Divinae glanced up from her crossword puzzle. "Members only."

"Members only, members only." Lillian waved a dismissive hand. "How much is membership in such a fine establishment like yours?"

"Closed membership." Divinae penciled in a word onto her puzzle. "We're not currently accepting applications."

"Not currently accepting applications." Lillian nodded, repeating Divinae as though the words had a special weight or meaning.

The fireplaces suddenly lit up, fires roaring to life in each. The candles flickered, the wicks burning on each the chandeliers.

Divinae regarded Lillian with the same boredom she did wiping her bar, and musing over her crossword puzzle. "Cute trick."

Lillian heard the old men in the lodge shifting in their seats, and standing; she felt their eyes on her, the tension coming from their tables. She smelled the alcohol in their sweat, and smiled as someone coughed violently on his cigar smoke.

"Divinae, is it? Divinae, who's in charge here?"

"This is my bar, witch. You're not welcome here. You're not welcome at Driftwood Heights. You're not welcome in Driftwood."

"Not welcome here." Lillian glanced over her shoulder. The old men were fat and out of shape, whatever their lives may were in their active years.

"Get out." Divinae was no longer bored. No longer leaning on her bar. Her pencil sat neatly on the crossword puzzle. She dropped her bar rag to her feet.

"Do you know who I am?"

"I don't rightly care." Divinae drew her hands up behind her, finding the pistols holstered above the seat of her blue denim jeans.

"I am Lillian Plow. You go and tell your masters that Driftwood is no longer theirs. The true children of Driftwood are taking back what is theirs. You tell them they are no longer welcome."

"Alright, so this conversation is over." Divinae drew her pistols on Lillian, except there were no pistols.

Lillian smiled politely and held the pistols up by the barrels, one in each hand. "Nasty things, these." Lillian dropped them to the floor, and they clattered as she kicked them away.

"Killing me won't get you your way."

"We'll just have to see, won't we?"

✟ ☧ ✟

Lillian strode out of the burning lodge with an unconscious Divinae over her shoulder, the heavy double doors closing behind her. She continued to the lot, the muted screams from inside the lodge drowned out by the crackling, raging fire as it consumed the once handsome building.

She dropped Divinae in the dirt at her feet. "You get to live. You get to live with the fact that you couldn't save those poor men."

Lillian bit into the tip of her thumb, drawing blood, and knelt beside Divinae. She painted a slash over her cheek, scooped up a small handful of the brown-orange dirt from the lot, and she sprinkled it over the wet blood on Divinae's cheek. "Here, forward you are marked; may this mark be never shed. No scrubbing, no washing, no cleaning will ever it remove. Wherever you may go, your mark be seen, and all will know your failure." Lillian spat on Divinae's face. "So mote it be."