Circumstances being what they were, it was only a matter of time before the tech industry, sensing an unexploited opportunity and money to be made, had an entrepreneurial firm attempt to ‘disrupt’ the business of labyrinth delving by making specialized tools so that amateurs could attempt to do the job of trained professionals. They released the “Delvr” app, which took advantage of the weirdly excellent reception of cellular and data signals in the labyrinth to offer real-time mapping services, the ability to take pictures of delving materials and have them appraised, (usually at higher rates than the guild would offer) and took advantage of satellite imaging to locate unguarded labyrinth entrances so users of the app could get a taste of labyrinth exploration without having to put up with the ‘bureaucratic nonsense’ of the guild’s training and licensing system.

The Foreign Ministry attempted to file an injunction demanding the app be pulled from online stores as a violation of the treaty with Genuat, but the Genuat government seemed oddly calm about the whole thing. Some suspected bribery, but their reasons became clear after a few weeks of untrained amateurs going through disused Labyrinth instances.

While there were a few success stories- usually combat veterans or big game hunters- almost everyone else who tried their hand at amateur dungeoneering got into enough trouble that the Delver’s Guild or Aventuriers Sans Frontiers had to go in for a rescue operation.

The lawsuits shuttered the company and it never even made it to its IPO.

The app, however, is still in used to day, having been bought by the Guild for a song, and with a few branding tweaks is now the official app of the Delver’s Guild.

No one so far has attempted to circumvent the training requirements and safety waivers required by the Treaty of Genuat.

The Scaled Ones came to the lands Genuat originally inhabited from across the sea, representatives of an advanced seafaring civilization that hoped to discover new frontiers, meet new people, and teach them the joy of the embrace of Grawl, their god that is represented as something that looks uncannily like an earth Tyrannosaur. A century or so of life in the city has made them tone down on the proselytizing, but they’re very enthusiastic if anyone shows the slightest interest.

(A major tenet of Grawlism is that because Grawl’s arms are too short to do so, his followers must hug others on his behalf, because Grawl is a loving god who regrets this inability on his part.)

The Scaled ones are, in fact, one species, though their markings and scale shapes and patterns vary wildly from individual to individual. They’re all basically humanoid lizards or snakes, and walk upright with the assistance of a tail.

The Scaled ones brought the first gunpowder weapons to Genuat, when they arrived some hundred years ago, and most Scaled Ones carry at least a fashionable dueling pistol unless it would be gauche to do so.

The Skullfolk of the Bone District aren’t the only people to have originally come to Genuat as part of an invading army that ended up assimilating, but they’re probably the most noticable on the street, which is saying a fair bit.

Skullfolk are actually a human ethnic group in Genuat’s original world, though one subject to much prejudice for reasons of their appearance; their skin, muscle, organs, and blood are all transparent; only their bones and a light-reflective structure at the back of their otherwise invisible eyes that allows them to see are visible to humans, which means that skullfolk resemble nothing more and nothing less than human skeletons with flaming eyes.

As far as anyone from earth has been able to determine, claims that the skullfolk religion requires cannibalism or that their priests are necromancers are essentially a form of blood libel. Skulfolk delvers do tend to be specialists in the destruction of undead, however, as they regard animated skeletons as mockeries of their form.

…to the people trying to figure out how magic worked in the replacement city was a fundamental misunderstanding; they rather naturally assumed that magic was the exclusive province of those self-proclaimed to be wizards and sorcerers and witches and warlocks and all the rest of the menagerie, which ignored how much magic was in use by literally everyone else.

For example, song magic is not just the province of bardic magicians, but also employed by smiths and laborers and miners; the songs the smiths sing help temper the metal as they work it, mine-songs ward off cave-ins and detect gas leaks, while work-songs help lighten loads and speed your pace. Even the Delver’s guild has some basic charms that any member can learn.

Of course, when the various wizards and sorcerers and magicians and warlocks and so on were asked, the answer was such things hardly counted as ‘real’ spells. Some of this, of course, might be snobbery.

But there’s also the fact that anyone can learn trade magic, as it’s called, even if they’re part of an existing magical school- there are a number of sword-wizards who know smith-magic as well as their own school, for example.

Oddly enough, it probably would have taken much longer to notice had several hastily-built embassies on the Island of Dubious Gods not hired members of the scrivener’s guild and noticed a sudden jump in efficiency due to certain trade-spells to smooth the flow of paperwork…

On September, 13th, 2005 at 11:17 am local time, the city of Vancouver, and indeed, much of the greater Vancouver area as we know it, vanished in a flash of light. It was no military attack or terrorist action, at least as far as anyone knows; there was simply nothing there, possibly as far down as the mantle.

This lasted approximately 5 seconds, just enough time for satellite imagery and the crew of a syndicated genre TV show recording just outside the affected area to register that it happened and record that it was, in fact, missing.

And then something came back in its place.

The next several days were very, very exciting for everyone involved, as several things were discovered in short order:

The new city was inhabited, including a large refugee ghetto housing several thousand Vancouver residents, who claimed to have been in the place for months, rather than the few seconds the actual city was gone.

Within about 200 miles of the New City, the laws of physics are slightly different. The square cube law is more of a suggestion, for a start, given one of the local staples is giant beetle. Also there are wizards. Lots of wizards.

There are at least twenty new minority groups, including various species that were thought to be the province of fantasy writing.

The local language was a close enough cognate to Renaissance era Italian that it broke at least one Ethnolinguist. He broke further when he learned about translation spells.

The local ruler was an elected monarch called the Doge, which led one meme spawning some eight years later to be -very different-.

Oh, and the reason the earth under Vancouver vanished was at least in part to accommodate a giant fuck-off labyrinth filled with monsters and traps. “Delving”, a sort of salvage operation with swords, was and is, a major part of the local economy.

It took nearly a year of negotiations to reach an accommodation, and so the current state of affairs treats the new city, Genuat, as an independent state, with various treaties in place to allow pursuit of fugitives from Canada and extradition, along with civil rights guarantees.

Several abandoned temples of the less savory deities have been given for use as embassies to foreign powers. (The US being housed in the temple of Gorgo, lord of vulgarity, was not an intentional insult, unless you believe that the gods of the alternate universe somehow influenced the lots that were cast to determine who’d be housed where.)

Any visitor to the city may acquire a delving license and attempt to strike it rich in the depths below, but has to complete a training and safety course first.

1691: The Ezekiel Martin Northwest Passage expedition departs from Baltimore, intending to head overland at first and thus rather missing the point of seeking the Northwest Passage. They get started late enough in the year that they soon have to settle in for the winter, choosing to camp on the shores of an as yet unnamed lake. They’re largely ignored by the local Native tribes, who all hold that the lake is cursed for various reasons and thus they should be left to their folly.

1692: The Expedition doesn’t actually leave the lakeshore and seems to be settling in. Local sachem Ogemaw utters his famous quote “Of course the lake likes the Englishmen. Evil knows its own.”

1693: Martin’s Passage, as the settlement is known, is officially ratified as a township. Ezekiel Martin still insists that they’re going to leave any day now and find the Northwest Passage.

1694: Rumors about the lake being cursed filter back to the settlers from trading with natives. One of them is told an entirely bullshit story about the maiden Oolingay who drowned her children (no one spots the fairly obvious contradiction) and jumped off the cliff known as Maiden’s Leap. This story proves perniciously popular with the white settlers and thus the lake is dubbed Lake Oolingay. The Iroquois trader who fed them that story is repeatedly slapped on the back of the head by his friends.

1702: First reported discovery of the peculiar properties of the ‘creek’ that runs through Devil’s Ravine. It’s entirely possible that it was found before this but without witnesses to report it. Like the Bolton Strid, the creek is deceptively deep for as narrow as it is- nearly as deep as the lake it feeds into- and runs with surprising speed. It earned its nickname because anything that falls into it has ‘gone to the devil and he won’t let it go.’

1717: Ezekiel Martin passes away. His tombstone is marked, “Found the Way to his own Passage.” There are reports about his ghost being sighted almost immediately following the funeral.

1742: The first recorded sighting of a monster in lake Oolingay. Sporadic sights happen over the next several years and the monster is caught several times but a new one always seems to turn up.

1760s: Martin’s Passage is largely ignored during the French and Indian war on the ground that no one wants to go near the place, having had stories of ghosts and witches and cursed lakes spread over the decades. A company of French troops does try to invade, by crossing the Devil’s Ravine. No one actually warned them about it, and only 5 made it to the other side when the only bridge collapsed. The settlers posted a warning sign after.

1776: 30 men, at least two women disguised as men, 14 dogs, and oddly, a chicken, join the Continental army as Martin’s Passage contribution to the War of Independence as part of the Continental army.

1790: The first vampire outbreak in Martin’s Passage, preceding the more general panic in the rest of New England by nearly a century. The office of Town Sexton is established at this time.

1793: Martin’s Passage, as part of a free state, cheerfully ignores the passage of the original fugitive slave law. Men searching for escaped slaves are directed to the surprisingly treacherous to navigate cranberry bog, where many are never seen again. The Robicheaux family’s grim reputation as cannibal swamp ghouls may date to this time.

1814: The men who were part of the state militia in Martin’s Passage didn’t come home from the war of 1812,, having died and been buried on Crab Island during the battle there.

1816: The year without a summer. Martin’s passage weathers this surprisingly well. The lake didn’t completely freeze over thanks to the feed from Devil’s ravine, and the local witches had a communal greenhouse which helped keep the community scurvy free. One family does get killed by what’s explained as a bear foraging for food, though locals have noted that the lock on their door was picked, not battered down.

1839: Martin’s Passage is part of the dispute over the Maine/New Brunswick border. Local wags claim it’s because neither party wants to own it themselves and the declaration of war is to force the other side to keep it.

1842: After the border dispute is settled, it’s still unclear whether the township is in US or Canada. It becomes local habit to just refer to themselves as being part of “New England” and not reference a state or province.

1861-1865: Due to the officially unofficial border confusion, Martin’s Passage does not actually have to muster for the Civil War. The extended Robicheaux clan sends every able-bodied man and again, at least two women in disguise into the fight for the Union, which some of the oldest locals attribute to “Them swamp ghouls got a taste for slaver and want to have one last meal before the supply dries up.” The Cranberry Bog irregulars serve with distinction as part of the 1st Maine Veteran Volunteer regiment.

1877: The first of 3 lumber camp massacres, where loggers in a particular area of the forest surrounding the Passage become violent and chop up their co-workers with an ax. The three incidents roughly mark the boundaries of a part of the forest later called No Man’s Trees, which forbid all lumbering and hiking in the area unless you happen to be not human or not male, and preferably both.

1891: The Town celebrates its bicentennial. The first mass sighting of “Oogie”, as the lake Oolingay lake monster is immediately dubbed by the press.

The Passage was fairly top-heavy with lake monsters, even if you didn’t count the various ghost ships that haunted Lake Oolingay. Really, most rural lakeside New England towns don’t even have one, and Martin’s Passage had two. One, of course, was Mortimer Marshall, paterfamilias of the extended Marshall clan who grew larger and more fish-like the older he got. The other was his grandson Harry, who thanks to a bargain his parents made with a witch, had taken a slightly different course in his water-related monstrosity, and now wore gloves and long sleeves even in the summer to avoid physical contact with anyone and didn’t sing in public if he could help it.

That was more than enough lake monster for anyone, but a tourist had seen an incredibly impressive horse for sale when the Market came to town earlier in the summer and had just had to buy it for what had seemed the quite reasonable price of a jar full of sweat bees.

Of course, once he’d bought the horse and gotten it delivered to his summer house on the lake, as soon as it caught sight of the water it had dragged the man beneath the waves and eaten all of him but his liver. Now it was roaming the shore at night, trying to lure people into touching it so it could stick to them like glue and drag them under to be devoured.

Mortimer Marshall did not approve of having random human livers floating in what he regarded as his lake, so the water horse had to go.

And so it was that various members of the extended Marshall family were employed to stalk the lake shore, waiting for it to make an appearance. Tom and Richard, the oldest of the youngest generation took point in the Lakeshore drive dive bars, in case the horse had worked out the knack of turning human, as Tom’s research indicated it was possible. The Boyds, even the dead one, kept an eye on the rental houses on the other shore. Harry’s parents watched the bridge, leaving Harry to cover the section of shore where the Devil’s Ravine fed into the lake.

They almost got it the first night- Johnny Boyd had tried to ride it, but it couldn’t eat or drown a ghost, and that distracted it long enough for Ernest Boyd to shoot it. Alas, Erne hadn’t come loaded for asshole fairy horse, on the grounds that most of the same sort of bullets that could hurt an asshole fairy horse could also hurt a phantom motorcyclist cursed to race whoever challenged him.

It was more cautious after that, and avoided that section of the shore entirely. It didn’t seem to have picked up the knack that Tom was worried about, so it never went to Lakeshore Drive (Which may well have had as much to do with the presence of the Lakeshore witch as anything the older brothers did or didn’t manage. Magical monsters tend to learn fairly quickly not to trifle who goes by a magic title instead of an actual name.)

Eventually, of course, it had to feed, and came ashore again, and did so at the inlet where Harry was waiting. And thus there came an impasse. Both were water monsters that fascinated people into drowning, and the horse was much more practiced at it; it lowered itself, trying to attract him onto its back. Harry…sang to the horse, voice cracking a bit, which, unfortunately, encouraged to horse to do dangerously suicidal things to try to impress him, which is what it was trying to do in the first place. Neither could really overcome the other, and they certainly couldn’t drown each other.

…Which is why it took another monster to settle things. The horse was not, to be honest, expecting a giant fish man to loom up out of the water behind it, and grab it in both webbed and clawed hands to twist it apart. But very few people expect that sort of thing, even when they aren’t anthropophagic water horses.

In the end, the horse’s own liver was left to float on the lake’s surface, as part of some sort of poetic justice or incidental irony.

Harry, for his part, resolved to take singing lessons, as soon as he could find a tutor who could hear him sing without trying to get themselves killed. Just in case.

It was something of a rule, in Harry’s experience, that “Medium” was an incredibly poor term for the job of fortune teller for a travelling show, at least, for the sort of travelling show that would schedule a stop in the Passage, a town with far too many ghosts and limited highway access. They were either blatant charlatans with some skill at cold reading and selling you what you want to hear, or they were credibly psychic and delivering a dire warning of impeding doom that usually came to pass in short order.

In other words, the Passage got very few mediums but many smalls and larges.

He still hadn’t decided which category the woman who arrived with Dr. Calagiri’s Old Time Travelling Show, a rather run down affair that had already drawn several local attempts to correct the spelling. The problem was, she was a palm reader, and that was not a situation he was eager to put himself in, since most practitioners of palmistry aren’t very good at reading through gloves.

So he’d done the only thing he could, which was to send his cousin Johnny in, who had a certain advantage when it came to that sort of situation, and stood nearby, waiting for him to re-emerge. When he eventually did, Harry gave him a look. “Well?”

“We had a nice chat,” said Johnny, as he produced a comb with a flourish to slick his hair back. “She told me I was going to have a long life and have a lotta kids.”

“So fraud, then.”

“Oh, totally, but it was nice to hear.”

Johnny Boyd had died in 1961 in a street race with a rival gang, who’d kidnapped his girlfriend to blackmail him into it. A long life with kids was sort of the opposite of what he’d had.

“To be honest,” said Harry, “I’m just glad we don’t have to worry about anything weird this time.”


Johnny snorted. “Yeah, no kidding. Look, cuz, catch you later. Scuttlebutt is that someone’s planning to challenge the phantom biker to a race again, and well, you know how I adore my public.”

Harry reviewed the last few sentences in his head after Johnny had left, and concluded that in the end, weird was relative.

The Martin’s Passage Library was actually one of the older buildings in the township, having escaped two disastrous fires that required rebuilding much of Main Street, one nor’easter that nearly flooded the town off the map, and was apparently sturdy enough and deep built enough into the ground that its basement had been classified as a fallout shelter should the bombs start falling.

It also had almost no outside windows and mostly indirect lighting inside, resulting in a reputation for being even creepier than ‘one of the oldest buildings in a small over-haunted town’ would ordinarily deserve.

The library always closed its doors at sundown, no matter what time that was for the time of year, which popular rumor blamed on ghosts that stalked the shelves at night not caring that ‘night’ started at a different time a few weeks prior.

But no one could actually name any ghosts that should haunt the library. Just that it obviously must have been haunted, just look at it, and none of the usual ghost-hunting tourists had ever gotten permission to stay overnight to hunt for unquiet spirits. The librarians and volunteers never said anything about it either way, and refused to confirm any ghost rumors.

This of course, just kept the rumors flying, but, well, as it happened, if one wanted to research possible ghosts that might be haunting the Martin’s Passage Library, there was really only one place to do it, and for most ghost hunters it seemed a bit gauche to do your reading where the ghosts might happen to look over your shoulder.

(Not that this stopped all of them, but the ghost hunters rude or careless enough to read about the hypothetical lives of hypothetical ghosts in plain view of said hypothetical ghosts were usually rude or careless enough to get kicked out of the library for shouting before they could do much digging.)

Besides the ghost stories, it was a popular tale to say that a relative of a friend of a friend stayed past closing and was turned into book binding. This rumor, the librarians -did- address, unlike the ghosts.

The fact that the way they addressed it was an irritated lecture to the questioner about the unsuitability of human leather as book binding probably didn’t actually help dispel the rumor.

Certain stories want to be true.

Some of them probably shouldn’t be.

If you say the right words, play the right part, you can bring them over the edge into reality, hopefully before anyone else does it on accident.

Which is why a photogenic young man and equally photogenic young woman were sitting in the back seat of an old fifties convertible parked at an overlook with a nice view of the local lake.

They were,both dressed straight out of central casting as a jock in a letterman’s jacket and a cheerleader, and were quite literally reading off of scripts, with all the enthusiasm and joy of an undertaker who hates his job.

The girl read, deadpan, “I don’t know about this, Harry, you know what they say about the hook man. That’s why no one else is here!”

Harry read his part of the script silently, and rolled his eyes before reciting it with all the passion of reading the phone book. “Hookman, Schmookman,. I’ll protect you, babe. You don’t even have to worry. Plus it’s probably just the city council making stuff up, you know they don’t like us up here.”

The cheerleader stuck her finger down the throat in an attempt to induce vomiting before reciting, “Well you are really big and strong!”

Harry nodded sympathetically, and sighed before finishing the script. “Damn straight. So come on, get over here, Cheryl.” What followed was the least convincing makeout session in the history of makeouts, with Harry, who notably was wearing glovesm barely putting a hand on Cheryl, while she buried her face in his chest and tried not to laugh at how ridiculous it was.

Still, it was enough, and when there was a ripping sound of someone tearing open the fabric roof with a hook, they instantly separated and rolled out of the car on opposite sides, with a shared, “Finally!”

All pretense was dropped as they took in the trenchcoated man with a hook for a hand clawing at the roof of the car. “Looks like Goody Hodge was right about this,” said Cheryl.

“Really, you think? I bet his first word’s not even going to be a real word. It’ll be something like ‘Gnarr’“, replied Harry.

“Gnarr!” said the hook man, obligingly.

“Ever think of offering something besides sucker bets?” Cheryl asked, and tasered the hookman. He staggered, and rolled off the roof. He wasn’t down for the count, but he was close to the edge of the overlook.

Which is when Harry yelled for his grandfather, and enormous, barely human shape loomed out of the water and captured the hook-bearing figure in an enormous webbed hand.

After that, it was just a matter of tying the man up and shoving him in the trunk of the car.

“So, how many times do you think he’ll break through into the back seat and attack us before we get him over to Goody Hodge’s?” Cheryl asked, as Harry slammed the trunk. Morty had already descended back into the lake.

“Weren’t you just saying something about sucker bets?”