Something in the Family
“Wake up, Whitey. It's time you learned about our family business.” His father said shaking his teenage son awake.
“What do you mean, Dad?” Whitey asked sheepishly, still trying to focus his sleep-deprived eyes. “There's no shift today. We are working on mine 3 tomorrow.” He mumbled, pulling his heavy body upright. Not even acknowledging his son’s pointless words, Whitey’s Father told him to meet him in the car. Whitey got out of bed and fumbled down the stairs in a daze just stopping long enough to see his mother in the kitchen.
“Sois en sécurité, mon fils, Ne montre aucune peur,” she says, her eyes never meeting her sons. She stares off into the blank room of the wilting corner of their house.
Whitey gets ready to leave. He wastes no time on his mother as he shoves his way out the splintering door and into his father's waiting car. The early morning air was only illuminated by the dim yellow lights of the Chevy as it streaked up the mountain. His father's eyes were fixed on the road the whole drive and when his son pestered him about what they were doing, he simply answered with silence, Whitey eventually gave up, slumping into the window of the moving truck, he waits for whatever his father has planned at the end of this long mountain road.
When they arrived at the A.S-23 Mine it was just before dawn and the sun had begun to illuminate the tops of the pines. Whitey watched his father put the car into park and order him out, he needed help with something in the trunk. To Whiteys surprise, when his father opened the trunk, inside was a large leather-bound chest covered in strange symbols and wrapped in rusty chains bound by a heavy lock. With a silent look from his father, they both grabbed a handle and with labored steps walked the chest towards the opening of the mineshaft. His father pulled a key from his pocket and jammed it deep into the lock. After a firm twist, the lock opened, and the chains fell away. Whitey craned his neck to try and see what was inside only to be handed a large clay jug and told to draw a ten-foot circle at the entrance to the shaft. Enraged at the lack of information he was given; Whitey pushed the jug away and began to angrily berate his father about how unfair this was. As childish as his complaints sounded to his father, he did humor his son a few moments to speak before simply responding with the back of his hand and the repetition of his order, this time Whitey listened.
Whitey was silent as he walked up to the mine entrance and unplugged the jug. To his dismay, the jug contained a thick red liquid that seems to solidify moments after it touched the ground. Recoiling and dry heaving from the smell, he barely finished tracing a ten-foot circle in the dirt outside the mine when he heard his father's voice from behind him.
“Step back and whatever happens do not enter the circle.” his voice boomed as he held an old, winged helmet in his hands. “Back in the old world, in the forests of Gaul. There were terrible things that lurked in the shadows, things that man could not explain, things that defied logic. So, like all things, when there is a demand for a service someone rises to fill it.” He continued as he placed the helmet on his head. As the helmet slid into place, it begins to shine with strange runes and hummed softly.
“We have been called many things over the years Sages, Shamen, Warrior monks, Inquisitors, and even demi-gods. We have been kings, warlords, and more often than not hunted ourselves.” His words sent chills up Whitey's spine, as his father began to strip off his shirt. The moment he crossed into the red circle, blue geometric tattoos started to cover his body, spreading downwards from his head.
“Witness me, boy. See what your family legacy is,”. He cried out and started to chant, a deep guttural singing. Whitey finally understood what his father meant when something began to stir deep down in the mine shaft and let out a sound unlike anything he had ever heard.