Enchantyon: Welcome Home

Lincoln Grimshaw

Boilertown District

Aureate, The Gilded State

It had taken longer to get there than Grimshaw had expected. Now it was dark out and the street lamps had come on all around the city. However, this did him no good, as the area he was in had all of its lights smashed out long ago. Boilertown was never the most well-kept neighbourhood, though.

Boilertown was a district in Aureate that most of its upper-class citizens avoided if they could help it, and visitors to the region were an even rarer sight. That being said, it was almost as neglected as The Guttermaze.

When you entered the Boilertown District, the first thing you noticed were the rough edges of the buildings and the metallic clanging that filled the air. Its streets were narrow and winding, with towering buildings that leaned precariously over the walkways. The air was thick with the acrid scent of coal, aether-gas, oil, and the few lamps that hung from the buildings cast an eerie orange glow over everything. Despite its rough exterior, however, Boilertown was home to some of the most daring—if not outright insane—engineers and inventors in the city. Those who dared to venture into its depths could find some of the most innovative and dangerous gadgetry and machinery available anywhere in the world.

That being said, it was also a notorious hub for some of the city’s most hardened citizens. The gangs that ran these streets were typically the patrons of said madcap inventors.

And speaking of madcaps…this should be the place right here.

For a moment, Grimshaw stopped in front of an old, run-down theatre hall and knocked on the front door. A guard opened the door and gave him a wary look.

“Come on in,” said the guard. “The boss is expecting you, Mr. Bowmassi.”

He followed the guard through the backstage area of the run-down theatre, and the musty smell of old costumes filled his nostrils. They eventually reached the prop room, where there were posters and playbills of past shows plastered on the worn-out walls. The guard then pushed aside a shelf to reveal a hidden passage that led deeper into the building.

The musty air hung heavy as Grimshaw and the man made their way through the passage, with Grimshaw feeling as if they were being followed through the abandoned dressing rooms and dusty prop rooms. Finally, they arrived at the last wall of the hallway they were in. The guard knocked on the wall with a rhythmic pattern and a hidden door appeared from the brick wall. The door swung open, revealing a spacious barroom filled not only with tables and a fully served bar but also workbenches, tools, vehicles being worked on, and the very members of the street gang Grimshaw came to see. They aptly named this place The Backstage.

Grimshaw stepped inside, and his eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimly lit room. He got a closer look at the strange and exotic gadgets that filled the room; from whirring clockwork machines to glowing crystals that pulsed with otherworldly energy. But it was the gang members themselves that commanded the most attention: These were the I.M.P.’s—The Infernal Madcaps of Phlogiston: rough-looking individuals with scars, piercings, and many of them had intricate tattoos covering their skin that brightly pulsed with glowing ink of neon colour. All of them were wearing masks that resembled the faces of impish devil creatures, like their name implied.

“Where’s the boss?” said the Guard to the crowd.

Several gangsters shuffled out of the way to make way for a tiny figure to emerge from the back of the room. This figure had four arms, he was covered in scruffy fur that was a mix of purple and green, and he was wearing a crisp, dark purple suit. On his head was a top hat that periodically puffed out blue smoke like it a train’s smokestack, and on his face he was a monocle. This oddball nulliwump was the I.M.P.’s boss. His name was Gloomjolly.

“Humph…I thought I warned you about keeping me waiting, Mr. Bowmassi?” said Gloomjolly. “Tell me, what does the High Council’s lapdog want this time?”

A smirk had found its way onto Grimshaw’s face. “Hello, Gloomy.” Said Grimshaw, allowing for his altered voice to fully sound out the accented words. “You’re gonna like the offer I have for you this time.”

All the goons surrounding them tensed up a little upon hearing their boss’s nickname. All except for one. One lone goon had apparently thought that the nickname was funny and started chuckling aloud…a little too loudly.

Gloomjolly turned toward the giggling imp and the blue smoke of his smokestack top hat turned to fiery orange. The giggling imp’s clothes smoked, his body slowly charred and turned black, and just as the hapless gang member thought to look down and see why his body was no longer responding to his mental commands, his entire body crumbled to dust before he could even scream.

Only when the imp was dead did the smoke of the nulliwump’s top hat return to its blue glow again.

“Cute party trick.” Said Grimshaw.

“Why are you here, Bowmassi?” barked Gloomjolly. “I have no more dirt for your councillors to make use of against her rivals. If I did, I would have let you know.”

“That’s not why I’m here. And they are not my councillors. They’re our councillors…you’d be wise to remember that, Gloomy. You seem to keep forgetting.” While the authority and threat of power of the High Council was needed to entice and coerce the nulliwump, it was important that Gloomjolly believe that they had all sent Mr. Bowmassi, rather than just one councillor sending the persona out to do their dirty work.

“Is that a threat?” The nulliwump’s eyes narrowed as his brow furrowed. “Trying to start a fight, are you? You’re an arrogant whelp, you know that? What you ought to remember—you and your councillors—is that you owe me a great deal of respect! For example, remember that it was me who delivered on the information and blackmail you needed to keep that runt of Gausswinder’s out of harm’s way on not one, but the last two attempts on his life! I was the one that warned Councillor Onassis of Councillor Thraillden’s investigation closing in on the very illegal trade of merfolk meat that Onassis was involved with. And what do I get instead of respect? The constant nagging of a good-for-nothing Yondorian that just struts in here like he owns the place! Like his precious patron councillor isn’t fighting for her job right now! Like she isn’t holding on by a wire right now! State your business now! Do it while I still have the patience for you.”

Patron? That was odd. Gloomjolly had never singled out Gausswinder like that before.

As Grimshaw looked around the room, he noticed that all the imps had gotten up and were now closing in on him. It was almost eerie how they all acted, as if they had received some sort of secret cue from their leader. “Hmm…just a tad bit excessive. Why not just use that party trick of yours?”

Gloomjolly scoffed at him. “Too quick. Too good for the annoying likes of you. Last chance. Why. Are. You. Here?”

“Hmm…there’s a home that needs breaking into. I need your help with it.”

“Do we look like common thieves to you?”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Not interested.”

“Really? Even if it means we’ll pay you—”

“Not. Interested.”

“…Alright then. Have it your way…I’ll just see myself out.” However, when Grimshaw turned to leave, none of the imps standing between him and the passageway out of the room would let him pass. He turned back to look at Gloomjolly, and the scruffy nulliwump had a crooked smile on his face.

“You know what? You know what I just remembered? Around the last time you came to pay me a visit, we noticed there was a good old fashion ‘dead or alive’ wanted poster that was put on a building wall not far from here by a couple of peacemakers. And wouldn’t you know it? It had your ugly mug on it. Something about the High Council wanting your head for pretending to be one of their emissaries. And they had a fat reward going for your head. The price was almost as big as your head, too.”

In his thoughts, Grimshaw cursed to himself.

“Now naturally,” Gloomjolly continued. “With golden cogs like that on the table, I can’t just let you leave, Bowmassi.” Then Gloomjolly chuckled again. “I’ll admit, a part of me is actually tempted to let you run with your tail between your legs. That way you can tell Councillor Gausswinder that you—her faithful mutt—are no longer useful to her. But let’s be honest, a rotting corpse will send that very same message…with emphasis.”

“Hmm…” said Grimshaw, readying himself for the inevitable. “Don’t suppose there’s anything I could offer you to reconsider?”

Gloomjolly chuckled. “Afraid not, lad…Kill him.”

All at once, the imps rushed Grimshaw.

The I.M.P.’s weren’t known for their fighting skills, but they could hold their own in a fight, nonetheless. It also helped them that they outnumbered Grimshaw by a couple of dozen. They were armed with a variety of strange and deadly machinery, from aether-gas flamethrowers to clockwork crossbows. Their weapons were clanging and hissing as they closed in. Grimshaw nimbly separated himself from the others and vaulted over the bar counter, skillfully avoiding a burst of scorching flames from a flamethrower, and landed safely behind a cluttered workbench. From there, he grabbed a wrench and swung it at a gangster’s head, sending him tumbling to the ground.

The rest of the gangsters circled around him, their weapons flashing in the dim light. One of them, a hulking brute with a pair of electrically charged brass knuckles, charged at him with a roar. Grimshaw sidestepped the attack, and the thug went crashing into the wall of wine bottles that were behind the counter.

But more gangsters kept pouring into the room, their weapons whirring and clicking. Grimshaw’s movements were fluid and precise as he fought back with a fierce grace, dodging and weaving between the gangsters’ attacks, hitting them back just as hard. However—after what seemed like an eternity—Grimshaw found himself backed up against a wall. The imps closed in, their weapons aimed at his heart.

“Alright,” Grimshaw grunted as the imps started beating him. “I’ll admit it. I might have underestimated you guys.”

Laughter flooded his ears as they became relentless in their attack, emboldened because they had him pinned in one spot now.

“Alright, guys,” said Grimshaw after they knocked him to the ground, flat on his back. “Alright…I’m gonna have to start trying now.”

Despite the bluster of his Mr. Bowmassi persona, Grimshaw knew he was outnumbered and outgunned. He had fought valiantly, but the gangsters had him cornered on the floor, and were still beating him relentlessly. And worse still, his mask was tearing. If he allowed his actual face to be seen by these thugs, that would only spell disaster and complications in the future.

And after scolding Gausswinder earlier about being reckless too…oh well.

Suddenly, his body trembled, and a low growl rumbled in his throat. A feral energy coursed through his veins as he called upon his secret strength—his last resort.

With a guttural howl, he let loose a primal surge of power, and his body began to contort and twist. Grimshaw’s fingers elongated into sharp claws. Fur sprouted from his skin, and his Yondorian mask tore apart on his face as his human head expanded and morphed to adopt canine features. His bones shifted and cracked as he grew taller and more muscular, his body transforming into that of a giant werewolf.

The gangsters hesitated for a moment, shocked and awed by the man’s sudden transformation. But then, as they came to terms with what was happening, they opened fire, the bullets of their weapons disappearing into the wolf’s thick hide like it was a sponge.

The werewolf snarled and lunged forward, his claws ripping through the air like razor-sharp talons. He tore through the gangsters with a savage ferocity, sending several of them flying with each swipe of his claws. Steam hissed and sparks flew as his massive jaws clamped down on a gangster’s arm, crunching through bone and muscle with ease. The gangsters scrambled to escape, but the werewolf was too fast and too strong. He leaped over a table, landing on a gangster’s back, and began tearing him apart.

As Gloomjolly and the last of the gangsters fell to their knees with their hands over their heads, the werewolf stood amidst the wreckage he had wrought, his eyes blazing with a feral intensity. The room was silent except for the sound of his heavy breathing and the occasional drip of blood from his snarling jaws. The air was thick with the scent of blood and smoke, and the walls were scorched and blackened.

“All of you,” Grimshaw growled at them. “Whoever’s still alive, as of right now, you all work for me! Obey me, and I won’t turn you or kill you—I have use for the I.M.P.’s…I’d hate for such valuable resources to go to waste!”

“N…No!” stuttered Gloomjolly. “I won’t let you! This is my organization! My enterprise! I…I don’t care what you are! I’ll expose you! What will you do then, huh? The Greater Wilderness only just got through the last outbreak of the wolfplague! What do you think everyone’s reaction will be when they find out a werewolf walks their streets and is working alongside a councillor no less! I will not let you take everything I’ve built up from me!”

The werewolf stood panting over the carnage, his eyes wide and his heart racing. Then Grimshaw’s narrowed and locked tight on Gloomjolly.

“No…no! Please!” His boldness shrinking within him as he realized his mistake, Gloomjolly crawled away as Grimshaw strode over to him. The werewolf grabbed him by the fur on his neck and wrenching him into the air. “No, no, no, please! Grimshaw! Don’t!”

Ignoring his pleas, Grimshaw opened his wolf’s jaw open wide, and clamped it down hard on Gloomjolly’s head, severing it from his body. The nulliwump’s limp body then fell to the floor with a loud THUMP, making a proper mess of the floor.

For a moment, the werewolf simply stood there, over the carnage=. His fur bristled and his muscles rippled beneath his skin as he crunched and munched away at the nulliwump’s skull. Then, with a final growl, he reverted to his human form, his body shaking and trembling as he struggled to regain control. Grimshaw kept his back turned to them as he reverted so he could hide his face from view as he placed one of the dead imp’s mask onto his exposed face.

“Like I said,” Grimshaw continued. “You all work for me now.”

“Yeah…yea sure, boss.” Said one of the surviving imps, still shaking on his knees. “Whatever you say. So, uh…what’s the plan?”