Occult Hunter

“So the world spins on myth and legend, and none can truly tell one reality from the other. This is the paradox of paradoxes: that logic and fact are but another facet of lies, while whispers and contradiction speak the truth of soul - a warped memory of the cosmos, if you will.”   -Dr. A

  The sun shone blinding bright rays upon a clear sky. Beneath, a dark clad man marched into the center of a town square. Among peasants and nobles - a ragged coat and wide brimmed hat cloaked him with the garbs of the invisible middle class. One of a thousand working citizens that now surveyed the market stalls for products to help them cope after another harsh day of industrial duty.   A scent of alcohol mixed with fruits brought his gaze toward the goods on display. Here they sold everything from fine wine to cheap grog. The perfect melting pot for people from all walks of life.   The man frowned as his eyes kept moving. Eventually taking pause as he scrutinized the ivory white statue that loomed from the square's center. Its form eerily symmetrical, despite its sign proclaiming the marble masonry depicted as a long gone saint. A bishop of some local deity. A holy man with unhealthy thin limbs and strangely diamond shaped hands and feet. What stood out most though, was an elongated crown that reminded him of a chess piece.   The scent of fresh bread and smoked venison was overtaken by a loud whisper in his head. The hunter felt his teeth clench hard enough to invoke pain, as he knew this tone all too well. These were no intrusive thoughts that painted uncomfortable nonsense in his mind. This voice was seductive. Compelling - and an entirely separate entity from his personal thought traps.   The Occult Hunter reached for the tome on his belt, as he gleaned from the corner of his eye how the world warped into a white and black mess before his truesight. Twisting tendrils now shone lamps of darkness on the skies as chains of eldritch woven whispers tightening around the citizens' minds. The statue was now a creature made of flesh, not stone. Alive and singing a hymn of commands. Cursing, berating and threatening the people that still idly carried on their days. Oblivious to the abyssal threat among them.   One could have felt the tension even without the help of truesight. The voices around him grew louder and irritable. Customers and merchants now yelled at each other and the local brutes already swung for each other in a chaos that could soon engulf the square in a vicious brawl.   The grim looking man shook his head. He had witnessed these displays before, without magic tampering with the psyche. The mostly harmless scuffles that break out when unscrupulous merchants try to rip off the wrong person. Only to be paid by a black eye and at worst - three days in the clink for dishonorable conduct.   The Occult Hunter’s face betrayed no emotion as the guards swarmed the streets to quench the uprise. His own focus was set on the heart of the matter. A soot stained and empty eyed man that emerged from the crowd, with an aura that followed behind them like a thick gray cloud. The hunter had already moved as he saw the apathy behind their hollow smile. One that grew until the mouth’s corners nearly touched the labourer’s ears - as they caught a glance of a noble dressed in a purple smock.   The mindless husk charged the aristocrat with a pipe wrench that swung wildly towards the back of their skull - yet the blow wouldn’t land as the hunter had already acted. A leather gloved hand clenched around the haft of the steel tool as he plunged his boot into the gut of the mad victim. Sending them reeling back into the statue. As he released his grip of the weapon, the hunter marched up towards the working man with raised knuckles. As expected, they lashed out again with a hysteric sweep. The hunter swiftly ducked and grappled the madman around his wrist. They twisted and turned, trying to shake him off as he flowed along with the motions. Spinning on his heels as he tore the wrench out of the worker’s hand and rammed it across the abyssal horror’s temple. Half the monster’s skull caved in from the accident - spurting down the vigilante's clothes in a putrid, purple and dust-like gore. Prompting him to wrinkle his nose with disgust.   It was only seconds after the killing blow that tensions gave in for an awkward silence. The people on the square backed off, apologizing and pleading for the guards. The Occult Hunter himself frowning as he stood there like a marble-dust coated freak. Calmly waiting as the guards took a hold of his arms. One hour in the hold with questioning was a light price to pay for the souls saved, not to mention the bountiful feast he’d afford after.     Led by the ever and never present Dr. A - To live as an Occult Hunter is a lifestyle, more so than a profession. The average life expectancy of a hunter is not years, but months. It is not like the military that trains and arms its soldiers. It is a last line for the desperate, the social outcasts and in some cases the power mad that still cling to a moral compass.   Joining up is hard enough as it is, as one requires to delve into ancient legends and history. To truly chase the myth and believe in it. To solve the riddles of the very real fiction penned by Dr. A.   Within his manuals, monster bestiaries and philosophies - one can scrounge up hidden numbers that can be rearranged into a phone number. They are then required to venture forth into their closest Occult Hunter’s Guildhall and ask to use the telecom. By calling the correct number - one of A’s fixers will answer and request a personal meeting and debriefing. This meet usually takes place in a remote bar, in a private train cart or in temples - alternatively graveyards, at night.   In some cases, the Headmaster might even answer the phone himself. Thus, many Occult Hunters have had direct personal contact with Dr. A - often without even knowing it.     A typical first hunt starts shortly after the first contact with a fixer. Here, the individual will be outright recommended to turn around and settle down into a quiet life and forget that anything ever happened. This method might seem counterproductive to their mission, but the guild does try to lower its body count.   Should they be of iron will, they will be thoroughly debriefed on what they are hunting, why they are hunting it and the clues to follow in order to survive.   This is done by handing out a rapier and a revolver to the hunter. Silver bullets or lead, depending on the target. Though for greenhorn hunters, it is only the easiest prey on the list.   Once they leave the last safe haven of their journey - the search for the occult tarot begins. This is an item planted by a so-called Fatecaller, who takes a blank tarot card and enchants it with a visual illusion of information gathered by the Fatecaller spy. By using this information survival chances improve drastically.    

“You are not a true Hunter of the Occult, until you understand this fundamental phenomena. We are our worst enemies and what do you fight out there? Just another shadow of your mind’s darkest desires. Only by embracing the madness can you hone it to heal, not harm.”   -Dr. A

  An Occult Hunt is never so clean cut as kicking in a door and putting a few holes in a monster. While creatures that can simply be vanquished do exist, they are the prey for Witch Hunters, Inquisitors and even common Mercenaries.   Occult Hunters fight with their intellect, wisdom and psyche as much as their physical strength, martial skill and pistol aim.   Every contract they take, leads them to a new destination. No single Occult Hunter should stay put in one place for too long, ‘lest they draw suspicion or get too comfortable with their surroundings. New locations equal new threats and challenges. Not just combat ones, but also cultural and linguistic difficulties.   To survive as a hunter, one must adapt, learn and have a talent for understanding the esoteric and weird. They are after all not just assassins of evil, but collectors of ancient artefacts, breakers of curses and protectors of the veil between reality and the domains of cosmic law that govern Equilibrium.   Their arch enemy, known as the Abyssal Idols - are all aspects of faith made manifest, as all gods are. They are however also unlike any other deities. Entities from a domain of impossibilities, paradoxes and an outright anti-thesis to natural law.   To combat them, the Occult Hunters embody every aspect of the world for the sake of good, or at least to ensure the abyss can never take root to threaten Equilibrium with the endless night. Hunters from all races, all ethnicities and cultures, and all faiths and creeds fight side by side for a common philosophy.   In the fight against primordial darkness, it matters not whether your power is made manifest from the blessings of fully benevolent gods such as Holy Ysand or Sarak, the Matron of Death - or might borrowed from demonology and dealings with Devils. Especially as even hell has their individuals that are aligned with the Occult Hunter’s ethos.   To fight the Abyss is to sign one's own death certificate. To defeat beings that might be even stronger with their physical bodies killed and essence now scheming from the ether. To battle creatures that manipulate the weak and innocent to carry out their crimes. To stand against manifested insanity itself - which leaves marks on even the most indomitable of hunters. All without any thanks or recognition - while also requiring to navigate the societies within the rot lingers, to cut them out subtly without causing more harm than good. Or worse. Causing a wave of mass hysteria to empower the abyss even further, should the public learn that the threat is more than mere children’s tales.     While the life expectancy for most Occult Hunters is short, only half of the fallen perish in combat. A hunter is just as likely to fall from their own mental decay. Of having their reality warped beyond recognition until they are nothing but a hollow shell of their former selves.   To cling onto the little sanity that remains, many of their numbers also fall onto vice. Alcoholism, gambling addictions and escalating cravings for power are common sins among their kin. Though some have managed to turn their suffering and weakness aside for something else. Faith, hope and prosperity from actions of pure heroism.   Despite differences between members that spark many heated arguments - it is said among them that there is no other order like the guild. Though each agent operates independently, even in groups, it has a strict chain of command that takes good care of the hunters.   Safehouses the world over offer free food, drink and lodging. Hunter’s protect each other's backs and act like one big family. Even those who succumb to madness are cared for among top asylums to try and re-integrate them back into society. Though some remain broken for life, even more manage to heal. Among which, most return to the guild - not as hunters, but as caretakers, scouts and even investors.     While the Occult Hunters serve within a secret society, they are not without backing - and sometimes disruptions - from various government entities. Depending on the region in which they hunt, they might have anything from government support and in extreme cases even military backup from local special forces.   In some nations they have to remain far from the eyes of the ruling caste, as direct threats against their political games and noble power squabbles.   This also means that quite a few people actually do know of their existence, at least as a legend of fiction. These voices can both benefit and harm the guild or even the world at large, if not played out carefully to avoid making newspaper headlines. This is also why even among allied factions they remain incognito. Despite knowing that the law would only act as damage control to hide their secrets.