July had been a busy (and fruitful) month for my little side career of draining the essence of things that go bump in the night in the hopes of getting enough magic juice to fire up a nice, stable portal between dimensions and cart my big blue butt back where it belonged.
I'd managed to put an end to a pesky regiment of British undead whose spectral forms would possess buried bones and claw their way to the surface every July 4th, feebly attempting to bring the disobedient colonies to heel some 240 years too late. The damned things could be put down and banished, but they came back each and every year.
We'd have to see next year if the bald general and his cohort would return from the grave once again.
It was actually a pretty good haul, magic wise. A good 700 Mals. Maybe a 10th or a 20th (if I wanted to play it safe) of what I'd need to be able to comfortable poke a hole between two realities without too many unpleasant side effects.
Like grotesque, tentacle-y abominations popping in to visit from the Far Realms. A place of infinite horrors that even the slightest glimpse of it would drive men mad. Hideous, malformed creatures whose forms made no sense to the rational mind, filled with strange moralities, plots, and theologies that made no sense to a rational mind.
So of course there was one of the fucking things at the Republican National Convention. I was sort of equal parts pissed off and ecstatic. Pissed off because after maybe a minute or two of talking to basically anybody I felt like I was about to have a brain aneurysm and have blood start leaking from my eyes, nose, and ears at any moment.
