Ushered over the depths of the pacific ocean, a pall of cold, grey clouds descended upon Sacramento, casting the city in dull shadow and ashen fragments of light. Seldom was the sun seen, and for every appearance that that brilliant celestial body made, the sky drew drab and oppressive once again, drawing an even deeper gloom back over the land. Slowly, eyes starved for color and light as every dawn revealed slate skies and every night swarmed in with crushing black. It was among this backdrop of soul eclipsing, grey banality that the news of an art gallery opening spread throughout Sacramento, heralded by a flock of flyers and pamphlets splashed with color and adorned with the lush fruit of creativity that swept through the city. Yet it was not just the promise of vibrant spectacles and stimulating sights that captured the interest of the Temoins du Sud. No, it was the promise of one show in particular, an artist feature held on the last day of the galleries week long run of changing displays. For, this particular artist, Leeba Bacman, seemed to have an uncanny knowledge of the members of the Temoins du Sud themselves.
The first witness to the oddity of Leeba Bachman's chosen subject matter happened to be an artist herself: Damascus . In the tattoo parlor where the Shaman worked she found a pamphlet for this particular gallery show, held at the Gutenberg Gallery which had opened in South Sacramento. The pamphlet gave descriptions of the different shows being held, but more importantly it also had photographs of different works which would be on display and for sale at the shows. On the back of the pamphlet was one such photograph. It showed a painting of a young woman, lying upon a black and white tiled floor, features contorted in ecstasy: eyes half lidded, brows drawn up, lips parted in gasp or moan. One of the woman's arms was stretched out languorously and from a slashed wrist a pool of blood had formed upon the tile before her, reflecting her visage in crimson tones with a halo of scarlet feathers above her head. The woman depicted in this painting was none other than Damascus herself.
Disturbingly, this depiction of a Southern Witness was just the beginning of a pattern that each would see a piece of. Thus, while walking along the street, Truce came across a flyer posted to a telephone pole, the image upon another photograph of Bachman's work. The painting showed Truce sitting in a dining room suffused with dove soft light, a beatific smile upon his face. Across from him sat a young woman, perhaps of high school age, who's features were somehow indistinct, as though they'd been captured out of focus. Her smile was similarly wide, though it held a measure of sadness along its curve. It was none other than Chelsea, his lost love.
Einstein's discovery was not as mournful as that of the Moros, though in its way it was no less disturbing. Another flyer was found, this one by one of her students. It was Tracy, a student who had a problem with a certain tendency not to attend, who came to school that day expressly for the purpose of showing her find to her teacher. This image showed Einstein during her college days, no doubt towards the end of her mundane studies. The hour was late and shadows crowded the student Einstein in her room. Her computer was before her, the lone source of light, and though the screen itself could not be seen, fantastical images spilled out of it as though it was a portal to some strange realm. Brilliant colors depicted fantastical creatures that would have made Lewis Carrol froth with envy, yet none were as attention grabbing as the miniature, fractal owl which soared majestically towards her.
Unsurprisingly, a fantastical scene which delighted and inspired a student is not what Gyges of the path of Scourging found. One of his cultists approached him after a ritual with a pamphlet for the Gutenberg Gallery; more specifically, one image in particular: sitting on the edge of a brick building, at sunset, was the figure of Gyges lighting a cigarette. A small red hole in his temple leaked a line of blood down his cheek and the flame of the lighter cast brilliant reflections of flame into his eyes, and, somehow, gave rise to stark shadows rising behind him. Something about the brush strokes seemed to suggest wings, black against the orange glory of the sky.
Lastly, Crowley , Herald of the Consilium, perhaps because fate can seem to enjoy a bit of irony, is handed a pamphlet after a gig. The local fan has it, of course, turned to the page which depicts the drummer himself. It's a scene, late at night, with Crowley lounging on a park bench, laughing at the comment of his companion next to him: the figure of a portly man in a green and red checkered costume, with tights and shoes bedecked in bells. An Elizabethan frill sits upon a ragged neck stump which squirts a thin arc of blood into the night air. It seems that this is what the image of Crowley is laughing at, though somehow the form of the headless jester seems contorted in mirth as well. The fan asks him why he doesn't use this for an album cover.
No matter the reactions of the Temoins du Sud, one thing is clear: Leeba Bachman knows something about them. Her show is happening in a few days. All that's left to do is decide how to act.
