DPH headquarters, 1783
The fire casts flickering shadows that dance on the walls. Around the flames, robed figures cavort and cackle. They wear the faces of devils, grinning and horned. In the cauldron, hot and bitter smoke rises from the bubbles of their wyrd brew. The leader, a gaunt man in robes wearing a shining silver ankh around his neck and sporting a headdress of raven feathers, raises his arms:
"Hail, brothers of the Dionysian Pantheists of Hecate! We gather today under the light of the full moon of Wisdom, to drink of the font of power, and transpose our minds into the heavenly realm. Tho the fool Williams names us deviants and outlaws, he cannot bar the gates of the Supernal! As Lord High Magus, I bid thee, drink! Sup on the ambrosia of Thoth, and -
"Oy! What are you lot doing here? We told you to clear out last week!"
"We are discovered! Hurry my brothers, we must alight! And someone grab the booze!"
The warlocks scatter in all directions. One, a short, fat man with an owls beak strapped over his nose reaches for the cauldron, but jumps as he burns his hand and sends the iron pot tumbling. The steaming dark liquid, black as sin, spills over the fire. Steam billows out from the drowned pyre, like the last puff of brimstone as the door to hell closes. The militia officer stoops down to the fallen vessel, and tastes the witches brew.
"Oooh, blueberry wine. Nice."
"Shouldn't we chase them, captain?"
"No need, private. These reprobates will give up soon now that the governor has banned them from buying liquor. Besides, I think that satyr is my dentist. I'll have a word with him; the man just needs an outlet, I think."
And so, Maryburg can sleep easy tonight. But what what other horrors lurk in the dark Georgian night?