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Earl Garner

I focus on Wyatt's body and don't see any rhythmic movement. He's genuinely stopped breathing. I try to control my panic and overwhelming fear with logic.

People can go for several minutes without breathing. I can hold my breath for ninety-five seconds, give or take ten before I lose consciousness. Someone like Wyatt? That tough bastard can go for at least a few minutes. Sadly, this logic doesn't prevent me from freaking out and hyperventilating, but it does stop an anxiety-induced vomit and a total mental breakdown.

With my heart racing faster than ever before, I stand dizzily and fight against the guaranteed concussion that rocks my brain. Then, I move as quickly as I can toward Wyatt. I stumble the whole way to him but retain my feet beneath me.

As I hobble shakily past the fallen Wiley, I see he's no longer conscious and lying on his front. It appears his entire back is eaten through, and I can see his molten and squished internal organs. This is far too much for me to handle. I trip and fall right beside the dying Wyatt and vomit. The insanity of the situation is too much for me right now.

I thought with forward-thinking, I could handle and plan for it, but that's obviously not the case as I kneel over my dying friend and vomit my internal organs out. So many thoughts are flowing through my banged-up mind that I can't put them in order like usual. I endeavor to count to a hundred using prime numbers, but it doesn't work. I can't pull myself together, just like with the spider.

My fear is overwhelming.

I don't want my friend to die, but I don't want to mess up. Like, what do I even do? Just glancing at him, I can see over three dozen wounds and close to a hundred pieces of shrapnel within him. Merely seeing how the odds are stacked against me, I puke again. A foodless vomit is just full of stomach acid. One that burns my throat.

A small, petite, and scared voice reaches out to me during my breakdown.

"Earl? Is it safe to come out? You sound like you're having another panic attack."

I barely manage to get a sentence out between gags. But a little girl like Esther can't see this madness. It's bad enough that I had her throw the bottle of acid at the man. But up close? It's so much worse.

"No! Stay there!"

Esther, seemingly worried for me, keeps asking me questions.

"Why? I don't hear any more fighting?"

I just want to yell at her. To say, "Esther! Just stay there! I can't handle another problem right now. I have too many." But I can't. That many words won't leave my mouth. So, I just settle for saying Wyatt's injured. She doesn't seem to like him at all since Lonnie died.

"Wyatt's hurt. Real bad."

A long pause ensues from Esther as I scramble to gather my resolve and look back at Wyatt's unbreathing body. Stating his condition out loud made me realize just how serious it is. I analyze his situation, and I see something while looking over him and trying to steady my breathing, hands, and mind.

A pale, bloodless, frail palm rests on Wyatt's right hand. The Bloody Palm. Visible and just as creepy as usual. The damn thing always gives me the chills, even when I simply learned about it earlier. I could only put my fear away because Wyatt had the thing under control.

There is a very fine line between where curiosity and horror meet. And it seems as though, recently, that line has been crossed entirely a bit. The Bakwas are a good example. Somehow, I could keep my calm to study them. I merely had a feeling it'd be okay. The presence of a single man gave me comfort throughout the night, and that was before I even really got to know him.

I turn away from my memories as I focus back on the Bloody Palm. Then I look back to Wyatt's missing hand as an idea crystalizes in my mind. A stupid, insane, and absolutely ridiculous idea. One that, just a month prior, I would have never thought of in a thousand years. One that would change my friend's life forever. One that all the texts about artifacts strictly prohibit and forbid.

However, before this idea can wholly blossom, I hear Esther's voice again.

"Can I help?"

She wants to help? Why? I don't want her to, but I guess I could use help. The idea continues to bloom as another set of hands appears within the blueprints of my mind. I call out to Esther once her place in the puzzle is found. My voice is shaky and weak with the future of what I'm about to do in mind.

"Fine. Go get Elizabeth's bag and bring it here to me."

Some of the consequences flash past my mind, like the side effects of a cough drug. Psychosis. Extreme paranoia. Murderous Impulses. Amnesia. Possession. Schizophrenia. Bipolar. Just the least damaging ones are the first to fly through my brain. But I can't let my friend die. He's handled this disgusting palm for nearly a month or more. So indeed, he can bear a lifetime, right?

I focus and grit my teeth to remove my thoughts from the hypotheticals. Then, I grab some parts of Wyatt's shredded clothes and begin bandaging him up in any way I can before Esther returns. There are merely far too many wounds for me to deal with, though. Even if I found a way to restart his heart without the Bloody Palm, his heart would stop again.

If only I had Ether. Some way to use my powers to help instead of relying on insane possibilities. Instead of gambling. Instead of leaving my friend and protector's life up to the whims of Death. All who live know just how fickle and cruel she is.

As soon as this thought fires through my brain, I pause my bandaging. Why can't I have Ether? I killed the Nain Rouge, did I not? Of course, there's a chance it won't resonate with me, but surely I can still try!

Before I do anything else, though, I pull out Wyatt's pocket watch from his only not destroyed pocket and check the time to gauge how long Wyatt has left before he is truly dead. It's 5:42. I'll have to remember that.

Then, with rekindled hope instead of just attempting the impossible, which is guaranteed to have severe adverse side effects, I turn over to the Nain Rouge, whom I killed. Its head is blown open like a dropped watermelon, except the demon's whole body, including its innards, is red. I try not to look at its brain and focus on the possible Sigil I may gain.

Wyatt said the Nain Rouge was a 2nd Sigil, so I should have two choices. The dual-infused Sigil should break apart easily once its owner dies. Only a high Sigiled Sexton or variation can make the dead retain their Sigils. It's unadvised for Unsigiled to gain their first Sigil from anything higher than a first, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

I gingerly place my hand against the side of the dead Nain Rouge and follow the direction of the Hunter Manuals and Wyatt, a Hunter himself. I imagine myself entering the demon's body, and I then search for any sense of energy, movement, or power with my mind. My mind wanders throughout the demon's body, a small pebble in a coursing river, for several moments until I find what I'm searching for.

A Sigil.

It rests on the right index finger of the Nain Rouge. It explains why it kept pointing at us, or it's just an odd coincidence. A beautiful double-sided matrix of supernatural proportions lies before my mind's eye, and I gawk at it for a moment. I try to decipher the meaning of the symbols that lie amongst the object, no being, in my mind, but then I feel a pang in my head.

Like a needle slowly pushed into my temple, it burns and screams. And so do I. I feel something from the Sigil in my mind attacking me. The agony is debilitating, and I almost lose sight of the Sigil in my mind, but I keep hold of it while imagining how little pain this must be compared to the dying Wyatt right now.

A piece of advice floats to mind in my dire situation from Ernest, my only positive father figure. He warned me that while he recommended I never embark on this path, should I ever take a Sigil, I must be prepared to confront the demons of the creature that possessed it. And indeed, the demons of actual demons, although this one was weak compared to most demon spawn, are beyond volatile and inanely sharp. So, to combat this and try to make Ernest proud, I imagine a mindscape to protect me. A shining, glimmering fortress of impenetrable proportions. One that will shield me from psychological harm and the waves that exit the Sigil before my mind.

For what seems like an hour, I hold steady beneath this onslaught of mental pain. My mindscape is unwilling to buckle and fall to the remnants that lie within this Sigil. The emotions within are filled with such debauchery they are easy to push to the side in terms of temptation but are hard to withstand in terms of strength.

Eventually, the assault fades and lessens, then the shining Sigil returns. I stare at it for a few seconds until I feel it abruptly shoot at me at a million miles per hour and enter the skin of my hand after traveling through the whole demon's body.

Then, out of nowhere, the smells and sounds of the open dunes disappear; I feel as though I am standing, and my vision changes. The sight before me is no longer the depths of my mind within the Nain Rouge, but instead, it is a dark and eerie cabin. It sends shivers down my spine and into my ankles, merely being present here. The only good part is that my nausea and dizziness are mostly gone, allowing me to think without obstruction. As I glance around fearfully and skittishly at the plain purple wood cabin, I hold my breath, close my eyes, and respectfully nod.

In respect for The Cabin.

The last good act of any God before their falls thousands of years ago. The final deed of the God Gluskab, The Watchful Eye, The Guiding Hand, before he was corrupted by something and became the amalgamation of evil. Whose new name is Mephisto, coined by cultists and demon worshippers.

The Hunters kill any and all God followers when they are seen, for none of the remaining gods deserve worship. Gods only exist to make our lives worse. It is no longer like thousands of years ago when no sand or dust existed, and humans reigned. The fall of the old Gods ruined it all. So now, only the only god that even deserves our respect is The Devil. Not our worship but our admiration and respect for the only mortal to ascend, not that we know from when, where, or what race.

It is said that Gluskab created The Cabin during his fall to whatever force changed him and all the others, besides the ubiquitous Red Judge, so that he could guide humanity even after his abasement. No one knows if that is true or if he made it give the "Thing" that got him and the other Gods a chance at us, though.

Because despite how helpful it is at giving people knowledge about the next step they can take with their Sigil and the power it grants. All other creatures are also said to possess a variant of The Cabin, the collective called Lighthouses. And that's not even the worst part because every High-Sigiled Hunter who has ever entered The Cabin exits soaked in sweat and refuses to speak of the instance. Ernest, the retired Hunter who taught me much about life, informed me of this.

He once worked underneath a 5th Sigiled Hunter, and when the man was promoted to a 6th Sigiled, he said that the man appeared scarred and terrified for his life. From then on, he constantly looked over his shoulder.

I frantically repeat the exact words Ernest spoke to me. All those years ago, the fear and tremble in his voice made me remember them perfectly. As if he said them just a moment ago.

"Whatever you do in The Cabin, do not look outside. Instead, keep your eyes forward and towards the Tome of Gluskab. Just be given your guidance by the once Guiding Hand of Light, and leave. Do not observe. Do not sit and dally. Do not explore. Do. Not. Attempt. To. Exit."

For a long time after, and even a little bit now, I wonder if he ever really had someone he worked for that underwent something like that. With how much fear and paranoia he spoke of The Cabin, I was left with a feeling that he, not a superior, saw or felt something in The Cabin. And another thing that only ever added to that was that he was not crippled despite being retired. He was just jumpy.

I try to take my mind off this place's negatives and focus on the positives. By the time I leave here, I will be a Sigiled. Only a 1st Sigiled like Wyatt, but one who has gone beyond the bounds of humanity and touched upon Ether nonetheless.

Still, with my eyes closed, I walk two steps forward to the small table where the Tome sat. I memorized the room's layout during my quick glance around, so I wouldn't have to keep my eyes open as I moved. However, the second I stop moving, I feel a tingle in the nape of my neck, like I'm being watched. Observed. Evaluated. I know the feeling because I do it all the time.

I spend most of my day just watching others and learning from them. The simple fact that I'm being observed by something unknown or that could possibly make Ernest that terrified makes me literally shake in fear, my heartbeat increase, and my palms sweat.

But once again, the line of curiosity and horror is trodden once more as I open my eyes to peer at the old, dusty, and closed book in front of me while trying to ignore the omnipresent gaze on me. This time, however, the line is crossed not with any security or safety nearby but instead in an attempt to regain said security and safety.

With thinly opened eyes, fearing what may lie in The Cabin, I watch the book open its pages and rapidly turn to a blank page. Then, the page is spontaneously covered in a colorful and glowing script that fills both sides of the page in a beautiful, harmonious hymn. I flinch as a load of information enters my mind. Two different streams of information and knowledge enter, similar to reading to titles of a page at once.

Earl Garner, what is a trap?

Earl Garner, what is a gamble?

Instinctively, I recognize that this is a choice, a hint, and a crucial detail as to what my future will hold. The Cabin always asks a question. It wants what you deep down believe in your heart of hearts. Then, your Sigil is slightly changed by your answer. And over time, it grows more in line and more synchronous with you.

Before The Cabin, very few people ever even reached 4th Sigil. Legends say not even one. Not because there weren't any more Sigils to be found, but instead because no one was ever prepared for the next one. Few ever set a good foundation when they gained their first Sigil. That's what The Cabin aims to do. Guide others along the path of the Sigils. Without The Cabin, men and woman can gauge their paths forward with careful introspection, but they can never pave their roads blind.

Without the foundation and insights given by The Cabin, no matter how odd they may seem, people who try to advance will either find Death waiting for them or madness lurking within them from then on.

And so, because of this, I take these two simple-looking questions with deadly seriousness. Then, I close my eyes and ponder for several minutes.

To start, the presence of two separate questions leads to the conclusion that I resonate with both of the available Sigils. One of which I enjoy seeing that I resonate with is Trapper, which must be what the trap is alluding to because of how much I enjoy planning. And another, one that I loathe seeing but can't help but feel an attachment to, is the Gambler or something of the sort

.

I hate seeing the Gambler Sigil for a multitude of reasons. The first is obvious. My family's history with gambling. It's the last thing I would have wanted to be my Sigil before this fight. Second, I hate dealing with luck. I hate the uncertainty of fate and the whims of the world. Not just that, but I also despised the fact I had to rely on something other than my gifts when I shot the Nain Rouge.

I had to rely on chance. A single one-in-six chance.

The Gambler is also an unconfirmed Sigil. One that is not known to have anyone to go beyond the first Sigil and gain two of them. I'm not sure all the qualifications needed to be a confirmed Sigil, but it's definitely not that hard. It's the exact opposite of the Trapper. It's rare, unknown, and untested, and I hate it.

Compared to the Trapper, which has always been my dream Sigil, along with Scholar. I always thought that these two would be the best fit for me. They use large amounts of forward-thinking, preparation, and strategy. These are all things I'm good at. Things I love. It's the perfect Sigil for me. To devise a hundred plans to lead someone into a trap and make them unable to escape.

So…. Then why can I only think of what a gamble is? My mind just keeps returning to it and forces me to ponder it. The chance. The bet. The uncertainty. Something about it just keeps pulling my thoughts back to it and preventing me from thinking about what a trap is. And it even settles on an answer despite my unwillingness.

Something deep within me stops me from choosing Trapper and answering The Cabin's question regarding it. Despite how much I long for the Trapper and the possibilities it may provide, another part of me, deep, deep down, wonders about the opportunities of the Gambler. And a single small question emerges that I try to force down.

What if both fate and a plan were on your side?

Then, the primal, instinctual, emotional, and familial part of me runs with that question and chooses the Gambler, no matter how much my logical side hates it. And so, for the first time ever in my life, a decision is made not by thinking it through but by my gut choosing for me.

A…

A gamble…

A gamble is…

A gamble is the…

A gamble is the enemy…

A gamble is the enemy of any well-made plan.

But also its closest friend.

Once the whole thought exits my brain, I feel a change in the air and a click. Like a key was put into a lock. I open my eyes in fear of what I may see. And then I take in the words in the book as the script begins to swirl. Finally, the right page clears and then forms into an odd Sigil that appears to be a constantly flipping coin.

Then, the left page settles into a script with changing colors, and information enters my mind again.

The reader of this page now embarks on the journey to absolution on my behalf, and for that, I thank you.

Your first Sigil towards Opportunity, toward Prosperity, and toward a Chosen Kismet.

The Gambler

I close my eyes again as I comprehend those words on the page. A deep sense of regret already fills me as I imagine my father rolling dice at a table. Shouting gleefully every time he wins and taking money from poor people. He is just adding it to his coffers despite the fact he doesn't need it. I just hope this wasn't a wrong choice. Even if, deep down, this is what I wanted.

I won't be like my father, though. I refuse to use this Sigil to make others' lives worse. Of that, I swear to myself.