"What do you say we find that bitch and get a little frontier justice?" Blair asks. Sparks zap between their hands before they even shake on it, szzssing at the edge of hearing like a Tesla miracle, and everybody's hair stands straight on end. Birds fall out of the sky, delirious and panicked; storm clouds disperse into strange unreadable glyphs overhead, unheeded; faucets cracked against the coming frost find water running steadily backwards, up into them, hot as blood; an angry Goddess awakes: The Dog Days, they have only just begun.
She looks down from Her frosty throne and holds out hands to either side, blinking away the sun. On the left stands Her greatest lieutenant, Justice; while on Her right Mischief gads about. They take Her hands, and these three make their way into the gallery with a ghostly aberrant prelude: The drum, the fife, the piper. Crows scatter in Her sight, winging high up into the dusty vaults; Her footfalls echo, like strafes and cannon. She reaches out to a black iron lock and it falls away at Her touch; Her handmaidens skip out of the way as a black tidal wave, frothing and loud, is loosed. They are the Dogs of War, too long left to bay and gnaw; they are holy vengeance, and they are legion. How they howl.
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