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Chapter Text

September 2, 1899  

Echola, Outlaw's Field

James stirred awake in his modest cabin nestled in the rugged embrace of Echola’s mountain range. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. As he sat up, he noticed his hands and feet caked in dirt, his clothes tattered and torn. A familiar ache settled in his bones. Scratching his head, he sighed—no memory of the previous night, only the certainty of what he’d become under the full moon: a beast, racing through the forest on all fours, hunting under the silver light. 

Outside, his white Mustang, Moonlight, greeted him with a soft huff. James rubbed her nose, a faint smile breaking through his weariness. “Hey, girl,” he murmured. 

He returned inside, washed off the grime, and dressed in a rugged black outfit—wool and leather to fend off the mountain chill. He donned his hat, strapped on his holsters, and slung his satchel over his shoulder. After securing his revolvers, he stepped back into the morning light.

James unhitched Moonlight, swung into the saddle, and urged her northwest toward the Winona reservation. The tribe had raised him after he fled his cursed childhood, and they alone knew the truth of what he became under the moon. They were his family, bound not by blood but by trust.

At the reservation, children and elders greeted him warmly. James hitched Moonlight to a post and dismounted, exchanging smiles and nods. Ezhno, the chief’s son, approached with a broad grin and pulled him into a bear hug. 

“Brother, it’s good to see you,” Ezhno said.

James chuckled, returning the embrace. “You too, Ezhno. Is your father around?”

Ezhno nodded. “In the tent.” He led James to a large hide structure, lifting the flap. “Father, James is here.”

Chief Cheveyo looked up, his weathered face softening into a smile. “Thank you, Ezhno. Come in, my son.”

James entered and sat beside the chief, who handed him a steaming cup. “Drink this.”

James sipped the fragrant tea, tasting herbs and delicate flower petals. “This is good. What is it?”

“Herbs, spices, and wildflowers,” Cheveyo replied, sipping his own. “How are you, James? The curse?”

James shrugged, the weight of it settling in his chest. “Same as always. I wake up dirty, clothes ruined, no memory of the night.”

Cheveyo set his cup down, his eyes grave. “I had a vision of you last night. You weren’t alone. There were others—creatures like you, but different. One with goat legs, another cloaked in moss with pointed ears, one with a fish’s tail yet walking on land, another half-dragon, and one who looked human but drank blood.”

James leaned forward, intrigued. “A vampire, sure. But the others? Half-human, half… something else. What happened in this vision?”

“You formed a band of outlaws,” Cheveyo said.

James laughed, though it lacked humor. “Outlaws? We’re monsters. People would hunt us down. Where are these creatures even hiding?”

Cheveyo handed him a folded piece of paper. “This map shows their locations.”

James unfolded it, scanning the names: Roi de Coeur, Jericho Forest, Goldenleaf Post, Herminola, Orion’s Point. “Jericho Forest isn’t far.”

Cheveyo nodded. “In my vision, you met the creature there first.” He rose, retrieving a carved bow, a quiver of arrows, and an ornate dagger. “Take these.”

James hesitated. “Cheveyo, I—”

“Don’t argue,” Cheveyo interrupted, pressing the weapons into his hands. “They’re yours.”

James accepted them, tucking the map into his satchel. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, my son.”

They stepped outside, where Ezhno waited. James unhitched Moonlight and mounted her. Cheveyo clasped his hand. “Be safe, son.”

“I will,” James promised.

Ezhno grinned. “Good luck, brother.”

James tipped his hat and rode off, pulling the map from his satchel. With a steady hand on the reins, he set his course for Jericho Forest.

Chapter Text

James rode into the shadowed depths of Jericho Forest, the air thick with the scent of moss and pine. He dismounted Moonlight, groaning as his stiff muscles protested. “Need a break,” he muttered, settling onto a nearby rock. Moonlight nudged his shoulder, and he gave her a tired smile, stroking her muzzle. 

He pulled the map from his satchel, studying it under the dappled sunlight. “So, a half-human thing with moss and pointy ears lives here,” he said, glancing at Moonlight. “What do you think, girl?”

Moonlight huffed, her breath warm against his hand.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” he chuckled, tucking the map away. A yawn escaped him. “Time for a rest.”

James slid to the ground, leaning against the rock. He tipped his hat over his face and drifted into a light sleep, Moonlight grazing nearby.

---

Hours later, Moonlight’s insistent nudge jolted him awake. James pushed his hat back, petting her, only to freeze as the cold barrel of a gun pressed against his forehead. 

“Whoa, what the hell?!” he exclaimed, raising his hands.

“Who are you?” a sharp voice demanded.

James stood slowly, hands still raised, and looked down at his assailant. The creature was short, with pointed ears, moss clinging to their skin, and long brown hair draped over leaf-woven clothing. 

“I’m James Hetfield,” he said cautiously. “I’m not here to hurt you. You’re who I’m looking for.”

The creature lowered the gun, eyes narrowing. “What do you mean, I’m who you’re looking for?”

James eased his hands down. “I was told to find you and four others to form a gang of outlaws.”

The creature scoffed. “An elf as an outlaw with some human? Bullshit.”

An elf.

“I’m not just human,” James said. “I’m a werewolf.”

The elf’s eyes widened. “You are?”

James nodded.

The elf holstered the gun. “Sorry about that. Name’s Lars. Lars Ulrich.” He extended a hand.

James shook it, feeling the roughness of moss against his palm. 

“Come on,” Lars said, heading toward his horse. “My place isn’t far.” 

James grabbed Moonlight’s reins and followed. They arrived at a sturdy treehouse nestled among ancient oaks, its wooden platform blending seamlessly with the forest. 

“Welcome to my home,” Lars said, hitching his horse. 

James secured Moonlight and took in the surroundings. “This is impressive.”

“Thanks,” Lars replied, sitting at a wooden table. “Where you from, James?”

“Echola,” James said, joining him. “Got a cabin by Lotus Lake.”

Lars grinned. “I’ve seen that lake. Beautiful spot.”

James nodded. “It is.” 

Lars leaned forward. “So, you’re a werewolf. Born that way or cursed?”

“Cursed,” James said, his voice heavy. “Bit when I was sixteen. Panicked and ran. The Winona tribe took me in.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Lars said softly.

James waved it off. “It’s fine. What about you? You go out looking… like this?”

Lars laughed. “Nah. I use magic to hide the moss and make my ears look human when I head to town.”

“That’s handy,” James said, impressed.

Lars nodded. “So, what’s this vision you mentioned?”

James spread the map on the table. “Chief Cheveyo of the Winona tribe had a vision. Said I’d find you and four others—a merperson, a vampire, a satyr, and a half-dragon. We’d become outlaws. That’s all he told me.”

Lars studied the map. “Goldenleaf Post in Lazbuddie, Roi de Coeur in Montabella, Herminola in Soldierhead’s Peak, Orion’s Point in Calnevari. In the desert?”

James shrugged. “Guess so.”

Lars tapped the map. “We can start tonight. Head to Lazbuddie, then work our way to Orion’s Point. Sound good?”

James nodded. “Works for me.”

“Good. Get some rest first. There’s a cot over there.” Lars pointed to a simple bed nearby.

“Thanks,” James said, smiling.

Lars climbed a ladder to his treehouse, and soon the light inside dimmed. James pulled his journal from his satchel and began to write:

September 2, 1899

Jericho Forest, Larich

Cheveyo’s vision sent me on this path, armed with a map and weapons. I’ve reached Jericho Forest and met Lars, an elf with a sharp tongue but a solid treehouse. Strange kid, but he’s in. We’re heading to Lazbuddie tonight to find the next creature.

James sketched the forest and Lars’ treehouse, then closed the journal and settled onto the cot. Exhaustion pulled him under, and he slept.

---

Later that night, Lars’ voice broke through his dreams. “Come on, sleepyhead.”

James groaned, rubbing his eyes. He gathered his gear, unhitched Moonlight, and mounted up. Lars was already on his horse.

“Off to Lazbuddie,” Lars said. “East.”

“Lead the way,” James replied, a tired smile tugging at his lips.

Lars spurred his horse forward, and James followed, the forest fading into the night behind them.

Chapter Text

After a long ride, James and Lars reached the crumbling outskirts of Lazbuddie. Goldenleaf Post was a ghost of a town, its buildings scorched or abandoned, their warped frames sagging under years of neglect. A derelict lighthouse loomed in the distance, its beacon long extinguished. Despite the decay, townsfolk shuffled about, their faces etched with weariness.

“Where are we?” Lars asked, scanning the desolate streets.

James unfolded the map. “Goldenleaf Post. This is the place.”

Lars snorted. “Looks like a dump.”

James chuckled. “It does. Let’s grab a drink.”

They hitched their horses outside a ramshackle saloon and stepped inside. The air was thick with stale beer and smoke. A few patrons glanced their way before returning to their drinks and cards. The saloon mirrored the town’s decay—scarred tables, chipped glasses, and a floor gritty with dust.

James and Lars claimed an empty table. 

“So, who are we looking for?” Lars asked.

James shrugged. “No idea. Cheveyo didn’t describe them. I just stumbled into you.”

Lars sighed. “Great. Guess we’re watching for anyone… suspicious.”

A bartender approached, her blonde hair tucked under a blue-and-grey flannel dress, an apron tied snugly around her waist. “What can I get you two?”

“What’s on offer?” James asked.

“Beer or whiskey. Food’s lamb’s heart or today’s mushroom stew.”

“Beer and lamb’s heart for me,” James said.

“Beer and stew,” Lars added.

She scribbled their order. “That’s $9.”

James handed her the coins from his satchel. “Here you go, darling.”

She smiled. “Be right back with those.” 

As she walked away, James scanned the room. No one stood out. The bartender soon returned with their drinks and plates, setting them down with a warm smile. “Enjoy, boys.”

“Thanks, darling,” James replied.

As they ate, a man entered the saloon—tanned skin, long black hair in beaded braids. A whisper of Cheveyo’s voice echoed in James’ mind: *“James, that’s the next one. The merman.”*

James nudged Lars. “That’s him. The merman.”

Lars glanced over. “How do you know?”

“Cheveyo’s voice. In my head.”

They overheard the man speaking softly to the bartender before he settled at a nearby table. Moments later, a drunk stumbled in, slurring and swaying. When the bartender tried to usher him out, he shoved her to the floor.

The man with the braids stood. “Hey, leave her alone!” He helped her up.

“Thank you,” she said, brushing herself off.

The drunk sneered. “You want some too?” He swung a fist, catching the man in the jaw. The man hit the floor, groaning.

James and Lars sprang up. Lars helped the man to his feet while James stepped between the drunk and the bartender. “Why’re you stumbling in here, shoving women and punching strangers? People are trying to eat.”

The drunk growled and threw a punch. James blocked it effortlessly and countered with a single blow, dropping the man unconscious.

“Holy shit!” Lars exclaimed.

“Is he dead?” the man asked, rubbing his jaw.

James nudged the drunk with his boot. “Nah, but he’ll feel it tomorrow.”

The bartender hugged James, planting a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you.”

James chuckled. “Anytime, darling.”

They returned to their table, and the man approached. “Thanks for that,” he said.

“No problem,” James replied. “Grab a chair.”

The man pulled up a seat. “Name’s Rob Trujillo.” He offered his hand.

James shook it. “I’m James. This is Lars.” Rob shook Lars’ hand too.

“We were looking for you,” Lars said.

Rob raised an eyebrow. “Me?”

James leaned in, lowering his voice. “We’re like you. Monsters.”

Rob studied them. “What kind?”

Lars briefly revealed his pointed ears. “Elf.”

“Werewolf,” James said. “And you’re a merman, right?”

Rob nodded slowly. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

“My adoptive father, a Winona chief, had a vision. Said I’d find an elf, a merman, a vampire, a satyr, and a half-dragon. We’d become outlaws. I met Lars yesterday, and now you.”

Rob processed this, then grinned. “Outlaws, huh? After that punch, I’m in.”

James and Lars exchanged smiles. They finished their meal, bid the bartender farewell, and stepped outside. Unhitching their horses, they mounted up.

“Where to next?” Rob asked.

James checked the map. “Roi de Coeur, in the swamps.”

Lars nodded. “It’s a few hours’ ride. We’ll hit it by dusk. Roi de Coeur’s big, fancy—got a hotel we can crash at.”

“You’ve been there?” James asked.

“Once,” Lars said.

“Let’s move,” James said. “Lead on, Lars.”

Lars took the lead, with James and Rob following.

---

They rode through dense woods in silence, the only sounds the creak of saddles and the rustle of leaves. 

Rob glanced at James. “You said your adoptive father’s Winona?”

“Yeah,” James replied. “Raised me after I was cursed.”

Rob smiled. “I’m half Chenoa, half Mexican.”

“Chenoa, huh?” James said. “Were your parents… like you?”

Rob shook his head. “No. I was human until I almost drowned. My family was fleeing to California when soldiers attacked. I got shot, sank into the river. Thought I was done for, but I woke up breathing underwater, with a tail and this scar.” He lifted his shirt, revealing a puckered bullet wound on his abdomen.

James stared, awed. “They saved you.”

“Yeah,” Rob said, lowering his shirt. “They became my new family.”

They rode on in quiet camaraderie.

As dusk fell, they reached Roi de Coeur, its streets aglow with gaslights. The city buzzed with life—ornate buildings, bustling crowds, and the distant hum of a trolley.

“Wow,” Rob said, eyes wide. “This place is something else.”

“Beautiful,” James agreed.

Lars chuckled. “Come on, hotel’s close.”

They followed Lars to a grand hotel, its facade gleaming under the streetlights. They hitched their horses and stepped inside, greeted by the clink of glasses, laughter from a poker table, and the aroma of roasted meat. A staircase led to the upper floors.

Lars approached the bar. “Evening, sir. We need three rooms.”

The bartender nodded. “That’s $3. Rooms 201, 202, and 203.”

Lars paid, and they headed upstairs. Each room was a haven of luxury—king-sized beds with satin sheets, plush pillows, and private baths.

Lars and Rob were soon asleep. James lingered in a steaming bath, the tension of the day melting away until the water cooled. He changed, slipped into bed, and opened his journal.

September 3, 1899

Roi de Coeur, Montabella, Belavonham

We hit Goldenleaf Post in Lazbuddie and found Rob, a merman. Now we’re in Roi de Coeur, a fancy city with trolleys and bright lights. Finding the next creature here will be tough—this place is huge. We’re bunking in a hotel for the night, then we’ll start the search.

James set the journal on the bedside table, doused the light, and let sleep claim him.

Chapter Text

The next morning, James, Lars, and Rob dressed, gathered their gear, and met in the hotel’s plush lounge, the satin curtains filtering the dawn light.

“So, what’s the plan?” Lars asked, slinging his satchel over his shoulder.

Rob shrugged, his beaded braids clicking softly. “No clue.”

Lars turned to James. “You?”

James scratched his jaw. “We could explore the city, try to find the next one on Cheveyo’s list. That’s why we’re here.”

Lars nodded. “This place is bigger than Goldenleaf, but your chief’s voice helped us find Rob. That’s our edge.”

“Let’s do it,” James said.

They descended the grand staircase, unhitched their horses, and rode into the bustling streets of Roi de Coeur. The city hummed with life—trolleys clattered, vendors hawked wares, and gaslights gleamed even in daylight. James, who rarely strayed from his quiet cabin by Lotus Lake, marveled at the spectacle.

As they passed a towering mansion with wrought-iron gates, Cheveyo’s voice whispered in James’ mind: “This is Aorta, the vampire’s home.”

James reined in Moonlight, staring at the mansion’s gothic spires. “This is it. Aorta. The vampire lives here.”

Cheveyo’s voice returned: “He’s walking the streets, carrying a black parasol, wearing sunglasses and a red suit. Black, curly hair.”

James relayed the description to Lars and Rob. “Cheveyo says he’s out there with a black parasol, sunglasses, red suit, curly black hair.”

Lars smirked. “That’ll stand out. Let’s go find him.”

Rob and James nodded, and they set off, weaving through crowded avenues and narrow alleys. After scouring the city, James spotted a figure in a crimson suit slipping into a bar, a parasol tucked under his arm.

“There,” James said, pointing. “He went in there.”

They hitched their horses and entered. The bar was as opulent as the hotel’s—polished wood, chandeliers, and the clink of glasses mingling with poker players’ laughter. At the counter sat the man in the red suit, sipping a dark drink, his sunglasses glinting.

James nodded to Lars and Rob, and they took seats beside the vampire. He glanced at them, his lip curling in faint disgust, before turning back to his drink.

The bartender approached. “What’ll it be, fellas?”

James eyed the vampire’s glass. “Three of whatever he’s having.”

“That’s $1.50,” the bartender said.

As James reached for his satchel, the vampire slid coins across the counter. “I’ve got it.”

“Thanks,” James said, studying him.

The vampire didn’t meet his gaze. “I know you’ve been following me,” he said, voice low. “I can smell it on you—you’re monsters.” His red eyes flicked to James. “What do you want?”

James leaned closer. “I was told to find five creatures like me and form a gang of outlaws.”

The vampire chuckled, swirling his drink. “You expect me to join you, and I don’t even know your names.”

“Fair point,” James said. “I’m James Hetfield. This is Lars Ulrich and Rob Trujillo.” He extended his hand.

The vampire shook it, his grip cool and firm. “Kirk Hammett.” He shook Lars’ and Rob’s hands. “Nice to meet you.”

James smiled faintly. “So, now that we’re acquainted, you in?”

Kirk sighed, adjusting his sunglasses. “Fine. I’ll join. Meet me at my mansion at the edge of town. I need to grab my things.”

They downed their drinks and stepped outside. Kirk donned his sunglasses, raised his parasol, and strode toward Aorta. James, Lars, and Rob mounted their horses and rode to the mansion, waiting in its shadow.

Kirk emerged with a satchel, leading a sleek black horse. “Where to?”

James consulted the map. “Herminola, in Soldierhead’s Peak. It’s a day’s ride, so we’ll need to camp.”

Lars peered over. “We’ll cut through Purehollow, Lovett, part of Applebury, then Jawsted. That’ll get us to Herminola.”

The others nodded, and they rode out of Roi de Coeur, the city’s lights fading behind them as they headed toward their next destination.

Chapter Text

The group pressed on through the fading light, reaching the dense woods of Lovett as night fell. They decided to camp, pitching tents in a clearing. Lars knelt by a pile of kindling, striking flint until a fire crackled to life. The four gathered around its warmth, the forest’s nocturnal hum surrounding them.

Kirk broke the silence, eyeing James. “So, what are you all?” 

James met his gaze. “Werewolf. Bit at sixteen. Cursed ever since.”

Lars peeled back his sleeve, revealing moss-covered skin and pointed ears. “Elf.”

Rob spoke next. “Merman. Saved by merpeople after I nearly drowned.”

Kirk nodded, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Vampire, obviously. Used to be a vampire hunter, believe it or not, until I got turned.”

The others chuckled, the tension easing.

Rob leaned forward, eyes bright. “Do you all have… powers?”

They exchanged glances and nodded.

“Spill it,” Rob urged. “I can spit poison and control water.”

Lars grinned. “I heal, move silently, and control plants with my mind.”

Kirk’s red eyes glinted. “Acidic blood, enhanced hearing, stealth, and I manipulate shadows and darkness.”

James shrugged. “Just super strength and sharp hearing.”

“That’s plenty,” Rob said, clapping his shoulder.

James smiled, warmth spreading through him. They talked and laughed late into the night, bonded by their shared otherness.

Eventually, Lars and Rob retired to their tents. James and Kirk remained by the fire, the silence comfortable until a rustling in the distance snapped them alert. They grabbed their weapons—James his bow, Kirk his dagger—and crept toward the sound, hiding behind gnarled trees.

A gang of rough-looking men prowled toward their camp, lanterns swinging. James nocked an arrow, his aim steady, while Kirk melted into the shadows. Arrows flew, dropping most of the intruders. Kirk emerged like a wraith, his dagger flashing to finish the rest.

They returned to the fire, adrenaline fading.

“Too easy,” Kirk said, wiping his blade.

James chuckled. “Guess Cheveyo’s right—we’ve got what it takes to be outlaws.”

Kirk nodded. “With our powers and weapons, we’ll be unstoppable.”

James grinned, then yawned. “I’m turning in. You keeping watch?”

“Yeah,” Kirk said. “Just in case.”

James crawled into his tent, pulled out his journal, and wrote:

September 4, 1899

Lovett, Larich

We’re in Lovett, en route to Herminola in Soldierhead’s Peak. Met Kirk, a vampire, in Roi de Coeur. We’re camping tonight, then moving on. Turns out we all have powers—makes us a hell of a team. I’m glad to share this with others like me.

He closed the journal, staring at the tent’s ceiling before sleep claimed him.

---

Morning broke, and James groaned, stiff from the hard ground. He emerged from his tent to find Rob dousing the fire while Lars and Kirk packed up.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Lars said with a grin.

James yawned, rubbing his eyes. “Morning.”

“We’re heading to Oakheart for supplies,” Lars said. “It’s north, not far.”

James nodded. “I’ll catch up.”

The others hitched their gear and rode off. James dismantled his tent, secured his belongings to Moonlight, and followed.

Oakheart bustled with life. The main street was lined with saloons, a butcher, a doctor, a general store, a gunsmith, a newspaper stand, a stable, and a hotel. Livestock yards sprawled to the south, while the east held a smaller saloon, homes, and a church. James spotted the others’ horses outside the general store, hitched Moonlight, and stepped inside.

They were browsing, grabbing food and supplies. James picked out essentials, and one by one, they paid and headed out. At the counter, the cashier—a wiry man with keen eyes—rang up James’ items.

“Those fellas with you?” he asked.

James cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.”

The cashier smiled. “No need to hide your secrets. I see the aura around you—monsters, all of you. The one with the parasol and sunglasses was a dead giveaway. Don’t worry, monsters walk among us everywhere.”

James nodded, relieved. “Thanks. I’ll tell them.”

“That’ll be $12.50.”

James paid, grabbed his supplies, and joined the others outside.

“Got everything?” Lars asked.

They nodded.

James relayed the cashier’s words. “He knew we’re monsters—said he saw our aura. Kirk’s parasol didn’t help. Told me we don’t need to hide; monsters are everywhere.”

Lars revealed his pointed ears and mossy skin. Rob showed the purple scales shimmering up his forearms. Kirk bared his fangs, red eyes gleaming without sunglasses.

They rode southwest, the air growing colder as they neared the mountains. Kirk and Rob donned jackets, shivering, while James and Lars were unfazed.

Lars laughed. “Not that cold.”

Kirk scoffed. “Speak for yourself.”

Rob’s teeth chattered. “I’m with Kirk.”

James grinned. “We’re just passing through.”

They reached Overbrook in Applebury, a town teeming with hybrids—humans, monsters, even animals fused in strange ways. James spotted a rabbit-rooster hybrid and sketched it in his journal, marveling.

A centaur strode onto a wooden stage, addressing the crowd. The group drew closer to listen.

“Good people of Overbrook!” the centaur boomed. “We are a town of monsters and humans, equal in all things! We’ll protect our kin and let no outsider harm us!”

The crowd erupted in cheers.

James sketched the scene and wrote:

September 4, 1899

Overbrook, Applebury

We’re in Overbrook, a town of humans, monsters, and hybrid animals. Saw a rabbit-rooster creature. The mayor, a centaur, just gave a speech about unity. It’s strange but feels right.

He tucked the journal away as the mayor, Jonas Ross, approached, tipping his top hat. “Welcome, travelers! I’m Jonas, mayor of Overbrook.”

James smiled. “James Hetfield. These are Lars Ulrich, Rob Trujillo, and Kirk Hammett.”

The three nodded.

Jonas eyed them. “I see you’re monsters.” He glanced at James. “And a human?”

“Werewolf,” James corrected.

“My apologies,” Jonas said. “Just passing through?”

Lars nodded. “Heading to Herminola.”

Jonas’ smile faltered. “Be careful. Rumors speak of a killer creature in those woods—one that lures victims with music. No one’s seen it and lived.”

A chill ran through the group, but James cleared his throat. “We’re looking for someone. I’m on a mission to find monsters. Herminola’s next, then Orion’s Point.”

Jonas raised an eyebrow. “Bounty hunters?”

James exchanged glances with the others, then nodded. “Exactly.”

“Good luck, and stay safe,” Jonas said, stepping aside.

They rode out of Overbrook, the mayor’s warning lingering. 

“You think the killer creature’s real?” Lars asked.

James chuckled. “Doubt it. We’ve got powers and weapons. We’ll be fine.”

Lars grinned. “Yeah, you’re right.”

They rode on, the trail stretching toward Herminola.

Chapter Text

The group rode through the crisp mountain air, the trail to Herminola winding through jagged peaks and dense forests. The sun dipped low, casting long shadows as they entered Soldierhead’s Peak. The woods grew eerily quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves or snap of a twig. Jonas’ warning about a killer creature lingered in their minds, but no one spoke of it.

As dusk settled, a haunting melody drifted through the trees—a lilting tune played on a flute, both beautiful and unsettling. James reined in Moonlight, his enhanced hearing picking up the notes clearly. The others stopped, exchanging wary glances.

“You hear that?” Rob whispered, his scales glinting faintly in the fading light.

Kirk nodded, his red eyes scanning the darkness. “It’s close.”

Lars gripped his reins, mossy skin prickling. “The mayor said something about music luring people. Could be our satyr—or that killer creature.”

James’ hand rested on his bow. “Let’s find out. Stay sharp.”

They dismounted, hitching their horses to a gnarled tree, and crept toward the sound. The flute’s melody grew stronger, weaving through the pines like a spell. James’ heart quickened, Cheveyo’s voice whispering in his mind: “The satyr. He’s near, playing his song.”

They reached a clearing bathed in moonlight. At its center stood a figure—tall, broad-shouldered, with the legs of a goat and curling horns protruding from a mane of chestnut hair. He played a wooden flute, his cloven hooves tapping softly against the earth. His eyes, glinting gold, flicked up as the group emerged.

The music stopped abruptly. The satyr lowered his flute, his gaze wary but curious. “Who are you, and why’re you sneaking up on me?” His voice was low, with a faint musical lilt.

James stepped forward, hands raised. “I’m James Hetfield. This is Lars Ulrich, Rob Trujillo, and Kirk Hammett. We’re not here to fight. You’re Jason Newsted, right?”

The satyr’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know my name?”

“My adoptive father, a Winona chief, had a vision. Said I’d find you and others like us—an elf, a merman, a vampire, and a half-dragon—to form a gang of outlaws. You’re the satyr.”

Jason’s grip on his flute tightened, but he didn’t bolt. “Outlaws? You’re monsters, then.” He sniffed the air, his nostrils flaring. “I smell it on you. Werewolf, elf, merman, vampire. Quite the crew.”

Kirk smirked, lowering his sunglasses to reveal his red eyes. “And you’re a satyr. Care to join us?”

Jason chuckled, the sound like a low chime. “You don’t waste time. Why should I trust you?”

Lars stepped forward, revealing his pointed ears. “Because we’re like you. Outcasts. We’ve got powers, and we’re building something bigger than ourselves.”

Rob nodded, showing his scaled forearms. “We’re stronger together.”

Jason studied them, then slung his flute into a leather strap across his chest. “Alright, I’ll hear you out. Let’s talk somewhere safer. These woods aren’t friendly at night.”

He led them to a hidden grove, where a small campfire flickered beside a lean-to of woven branches. They tethered their horses nearby and sat around the fire. Jason tossed a log into the flames, sparks dancing upward.

“So,” Jason said, leaning back on his haunches. “What’s this outlaw gang about?”

James explained Cheveyo’s vision, detailing their journey from Echola to Roi de Coeur and the creatures they’d met. “We’re heading to Orion’s Point next, for the half-dragon. Cheveyo thinks we’re meant to be something—maybe protect others like us, maybe carve out our own place.”

Jason nodded slowly. “I’ve been alone a long time. These woods… they’re home, but they’re dangerous. Folks talk about a ‘killer creature’—that’s just me, playing my flute. Keeps people away. But I’m tired of hiding.”

“What can you do?” Rob asked, eyes bright with curiosity.

Jason grinned, revealing sharp canines. “I’m fast, stronger than I look, and my music—it’s not just pretty. I can charm folks, make ‘em see things, even control ‘em for a bit. Plus, I’m handy with this.” He patted a short, curved blade at his hip.

Kirk raised an eyebrow. “Mind control? That’s useful.”

James nodded. “We’ve all got something. Super strength and hearing for me. Lars heals and controls plants. Rob’s got poison spit and hydrokinesis. Kirk’s got acidic blood, shadow control, and stealth.”

Jason whistled. “Hell of a crew. Alright, I’m in. Where to next?”

“Orion’s Point,” James said, pulling out the map. “It’s in Calnevari, out in the desert. A long ride.”

Lars traced the route. “We’ll pass through Jawsted, then hit the desert. Could take a couple days.”

Jason stood, brushing dirt from his furry legs. “Let’s rest here tonight. My grove’s safe—wards keep out trouble. We’ll head out at dawn.”

They agreed, setting up camp around Jason’s fire. As the others settled in, James and Jason stayed up, the satyr playing a soft tune on his flute, the notes calming the group’s nerves.

“You ever think about what it means to be like us?” Jason asked, pausing his music.

James stared into the fire. “All the time. Used to hate it, but meeting these guys… feels like we’re meant for something bigger.”

Jason nodded. “Maybe we are.”

They fell silent, the flute’s melody resuming. Eventually, Jason retreated to his lean-to, and James pulled out his journal.

September 5, 1899

Herminola, Soldierhead’s Peak

Found Jason Newsted in the woods of Herminola, a satyr with a flute that can charm minds. The ‘killer creature’ rumors were just him keeping folks away. He’s joined us, and we’re a step closer to completing Cheveyo’s vision. Orion’s Point is next, out in the desert. I feel like we’re becoming a family—monsters, but bound by something real.

James closed the journal, the fire’s glow fading as he crawled into his tent. The flute’s faint melody lulled him to sleep.

---

The next morning, the group broke camp, the air sharp with mountain chill. Jason doused the fire, his hooves crunching on pine needles. “Jawsted’s a straight shot from here,” he said, slinging his pack onto his horse, a sturdy bay mare. “Let’s move.”

James mounted Moonlight, the others following suit. As they rode out of Herminola, the forest gave way to rolling hills. Jason’s flute hung at his side, a quiet reminder of his power. 

“So, Jason,” Rob said, riding beside him. “You always lived in those woods?”

“Mostly,” Jason replied. “Born in a satyr clan, but they scattered when hunters came. Been on my own since. The flute keeps me sane—and keeps trouble at bay.”

Kirk, shielding his eyes with his parasol, chuckled. “Smart. Wish I’d had something like that when I was hunting my own kind.”

Lars grinned. “You’d have sucked at it anyway.”

The group laughed, the tension of the journey easing. They rode through Jawsted by midday, a dusty town of squat buildings and wary locals. They restocked at a general store, keeping their monstrous traits hidden, though James caught a few curious glances.

As they left Jawsted, the landscape shifted to arid plains, the air growing dry and warm. Calnevari’s desert loomed ahead, and with it, Orion’s Point—and the final creature of Cheveyo’s vision.

Chapter Text

The sun beat down mercilessly as the group crossed into the arid expanse of Calnevari, the lush hills of Jawsted now a distant memory. Sand stung their faces, and the horizon shimmered with heat. Orion’s Point lay ahead, a desert outpost rumored to be as unforgiving as the landscape surrounding it. James rode at the front, his hat pulled low, while Moonlight trudged through the dunes. Lars, Rob, Kirk, and Jason followed, their horses kicking up clouds of dust.

As evening fell, the desert cooled, and the group spotted the faint glow of Orion’s Point—a cluster of adobe buildings and flickering lanterns. The town was smaller than Roi de Coeur but alive with activity: traders bartering, drifters nursing drinks at open-air cantinas, and the occasional prospector hauling gear. A towering rock formation, shaped like a hunter’s bow, loomed over the settlement, giving the town its name.

They hitched their horses outside a weathered cantina, its sign reading “The Scorpion’s Tail.” Inside, the air was thick with cigar smoke and the twang of a guitar. Patrons eyed the newcomers warily but said nothing. The group found a table in the corner, ordering beers to wash away the desert’s grit.

“So,” Jason said, leaning back, his hooves propped on a chair. “This is it. The last stop. Who’s this half-dragon we’re looking for?”

James sipped his beer, scanning the room. “Cheveyo didn’t say much. Just that they’re here, and they’re the final piece of the vision.”

Kirk adjusted his sunglasses, his parasol folded beside him. “This place feels… off. Like everyone’s hiding something.”

Rob nodded, his scales catching the lantern light. “Desert towns always have secrets. Keep your eyes open.”

As they spoke, Cheveyo’s voice hummed in James’ mind: “The half-dragon, Cliff Burton. He’s in the cantina, playing the guitar. Red hair, leather vest, dragon scales on his arms.”

James straightened, his gaze locking on the stage. A man with fiery red hair strummed a guitar, his fingers dancing over the strings with unnatural speed. His leather vest was open, revealing shimmering bronze scales that ran from his wrists to his elbows. His eyes, a piercing amber, scanned the crowd with quiet intensity.

“That’s him,” James said, nodding toward the stage. “Cliff Burton. The half-dragon.”

Lars followed his gaze. “He looks like trouble. You sure about this?”

James smirked. “We’re all trouble. Let’s wait till he’s done.”

Cliff’s performance ended to scattered applause. He slung his guitar over his shoulder and headed to the bar, ordering a whiskey. The group approached, James taking the lead.

“Cliff Burton?” James asked, keeping his tone neutral.

Cliff turned, his amber eyes narrowing. “Who’s asking?”

“James Hetfield. These are Lars Ulrich, Rob Trujillo, Kirk Hammett, and Jason Newsted. We’ve been looking for you.”

Cliff’s hand rested near a knife at his belt. “Why’s that?”

James lowered his voice. “We’re like you. Monsters. A werewolf, an elf, a merman, a vampire, and a satyr. We’re forming a gang—outlaws, meant to be together. A vision led us to you.”

Cliff’s expression didn’t soften, but he didn’t draw his knife. “A vision, huh? Sounds like a tall tale. What makes you think I’d join a bunch of strangers?”

Jason stepped forward, his flute glinting at his hip. “Because you’re like us. Hiding what you are, always looking over your shoulder. We’re offering a purpose.”

Cliff studied them, then took a slow sip of whiskey. “What am I supposed to bring to this gang?”

Rob grinned. “What’ve you got?”

Cliff’s scales gleamed as he flexed his arm. “Fire in my veins. I can breathe it, summon it, shape it. Strong as hell, too, and I don’t tire easy. This guitar?” He patted the instrument. “It’s not just for show. I can weave magic into the music—make folks feel things, even lose themselves.”

Kirk raised an eyebrow. “Like Jason’s flute. That’s a hell of a combo.”

James nodded. “We’ve all got powers. Strength and hearing for me. Lars heals and controls plants. Rob’s got poison spit and water control. Kirk’s got acidic blood and shadow tricks. Jason charms with his music. You’d fit right in.”

Cliff set his glass down, considering. “Outlaws, you say. What’s the goal?”

James leaned in. “To be free. To protect our kind. Maybe carve out a place where we don’t have to hide. Cheveyo’s vision didn’t spell it out, but I think we’re meant to shake things up.”

A faint smile crossed Cliff’s face. “I’ve been running from hunters and bounties too long. If you’re serious, I’m in. But cross me, and you’ll burn.”

Lars chuckled. “Fair enough.”

They finished their drinks and stepped outside, the desert night crisp and starlit. Cliff retrieved his horse, a sturdy roan, and joined the group.

“Where to now?” Cliff asked, slinging his guitar across his back.

James unfolded the map, though he knew it by heart. “We’ve got everyone Cheveyo saw. I say we head back to Echola, talk to him, figure out what’s next.”

Jason nodded. “Makes sense. We’ve got the crew—now we need the plan.”

They mounted their horses and rode out of Orion’s Point, the desert stretching endlessly before them. As they traveled, the group fell into an easy rhythm, swapping stories of their pasts. Cliff spoke of his dragon lineage, a gift from an ancestor who’d bonded with a fire drake. His music, he said, was his way of taming the fire within.

By nightfall, they camped under a rocky outcrop, a fire crackling as Cliff strummed his guitar, the notes blending with Jason’s soft flute. The music wove a sense of unity, their powers humming beneath the surface. James felt it—a bond stronger than blood, forged by their shared otherness.

As the others settled into their tents, James stayed by the fire, pulling out his journal.

September 6, 1899

Orion’s Point, Calnevari

We found Cliff Burton, the half-dragon, in Orion’s Point. He’s got fire in his blood and magic in his music. Our crew’s complete—werewolf, elf, merman, vampire, satyr, and now half-dragon. We’re heading back to Echola to see Cheveyo, to understand what this outlaw life means. I feel it now—we’re not just monsters. We’re something more.

He closed the journal, the fire’s warmth lingering as he crawled into his tent. The desert was quiet, but James sensed the world shifting around them. Whatever lay ahead, they’d face it together.

---

The next morning, the group broke camp at dawn, the desert air still cool. Cliff’s roan snorted as he packed his gear, his scales catching the sunrise. “Echola’s a long haul,” he said. “Hope your chief’s got answers.”

“He will,” James said, mounting Moonlight. “He always does.”

They rode north, the desert giving way to plains, then forests, as they retraced their path. The journey was long, but the group’s spirits were high, their banter and laughter cutting through the monotony. Kirk teased Lars about his mossy skin; Rob splashed water from a canteen to mess with Jason; Cliff and James swapped tales of hunts gone wrong.

As they neared Echola, the familiar sight of Lotus Lake glimmered in the distance. James felt a pull in his chest—home, but also the start of something new. Cheveyo’s vision had brought them together, and now it was time to learn what they were meant to become.

Chapter Text

The group rode into Echola as the sun dipped below the mountain peaks, casting Lotus Lake in hues of gold and crimson. The familiar scent of pine and earth filled James’ lungs, grounding him after the long journey through Calnevari’s deserts and Jawsted’s hills. Moonlight snorted beneath him, sensing home, while Lars, Rob, Kirk, Cliff, and Jason rode close, their horses’ hooves drumming a steady rhythm. The Winona reservation lay just ahead, its campfires flickering in the twilight.

As they approached, children ran out to greet them, their laughter mingling with the calls of elders. James dismounted, patting Moonlight’s flank, and the others followed suit, hitching their horses near a cluster of tents. Ezhno, the chief’s son, emerged from the crowd, his face breaking into a grin.

“Brother!” Ezhno called, pulling James into a warm embrace. “You’re back—and with company.”

James chuckled, clapping Ezhno’s shoulder. “Yeah, mission accomplished. This is Lars, Rob, Kirk, Cliff, and Jason.” He gestured to each in turn. “We need to see Cheveyo.”

Ezhno nodded, eyeing the group with curiosity. “Father’s in his tent. Come on.”

They followed Ezhno through the reservation, passing hide tents and communal fires where tribe members prepared meals. The air buzzed with warmth and familiarity, though James felt a prickle of unease. The full moon was tonight, and his curse would soon take hold. He hadn’t warned the others yet.

Inside Cheveyo’s tent, the chief sat cross-legged by a small fire, his weathered face illuminated by the glow. He looked up, his eyes sharp and knowing. “My son,” he said, rising. “You’ve found them.”

James nodded, introducing the group. “Lars, an elf; Rob, a merman; Kirk, a vampire; Jason, a satyr; and Cliff, a half-dragon. Just like your vision.”

Cheveyo’s gaze lingered on each, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Welcome, all of you. Sit.”

They settled around the fire, and Cheveyo handed out cups of herbal tea, its floral scent calming the group’s travel-worn nerves. “You’ve come together as I saw,” he said. “Monsters, bound by purpose. But the path ahead is unclear. You must decide what it means to be outlaws—whether to protect, to fight, or to carve your own place in this world.”

Kirk leaned forward, his red eyes glinting. “What’s the endgame? Your vision didn’t exactly come with a map.”

Cheveyo chuckled. “Visions rarely do. But you are stronger together. Your powers, your bond—it’s a force. Trust it.”

Jason tapped his flute against his knee. “So, we’re free to choose? No destiny written in stone?”

Cheveyo nodded. “The vision showed you united. The ‘why’ is yours to find.”

James felt a familiar itch under his skin, the moon’s pull growing stronger. He cleared his throat. “Cheveyo, the full moon’s tonight. I… I’ll be changing soon. They don’t know.”

The chief’s expression softened. “Then show them, my son. Let them see who you are.”

The others exchanged glances, concern flickering across their faces. Rob spoke first. “Changing? You mean… into a werewolf?”

James nodded, his jaw tight. “It’s not pretty. I lose control, my memory. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Lars placed a hand on his shoulder. “We’re with you, man. We’ve all got our curses. Let’s see yours.”

Cheveyo led them outside, where the full moon hung low, its silver light bathing the reservation. Tribe members gathered at a safe distance, accustomed to James’ transformations. The group stood close, their expressions a mix of curiosity and caution.

The itch became a burn, and James’ breath hitched. “Stay back,” he warned, stripping off his jacket and hat. His muscles tensed, his vision sharpening as the curse surged. With a guttural cry, he fell to his knees, his body contorting. Fur sprouted across his skin, his limbs elongated, and his face twisted into a snarling muzzle. Claws tore through his boots, and his eyes glowed amber.

The transformation was complete in moments. The werewolf—James no longer—stood towering, its fur matted with dirt, its growl rumbling like thunder. It sniffed the air, locking eyes with the group.

Rob stepped back, scales glinting nervously. “That’s… intense.”

Kirk’s hand hovered near his dagger, but he stayed calm. “He’s still in there, right?”

Cheveyo raised a hand. “He is, but the beast rules tonight. He won’t harm us here—the reservation’s wards keep him contained.”

Jason’s flute was in his hands, ready to charm if needed. “You deal with this every month?”

Cliff, unfazed, watched the werewolf pace. “Hell of a curse. But we’ve got your back.”

Lars nodded, his mossy skin blending with the shadows. “Let’s stay with him. Make sure he’s safe till morning.”

The group agreed, settling around a fire near the edge of the reservation, where the wards glowed faintly in the moonlight. The werewolf prowled nearby, its growls softening as it sensed no threat. Cheveyo provided blankets, and the group took turns keeping watch, their powers ready but unneeded.

Kirk manipulated shadows to create a barrier around the camp, his acidic blood at the ready. Rob summoned a small orb of water, letting it hover as a calming focus. Jason played a soft tune on his flute, the notes easing the werewolf’s agitation. Cliff’s scales glowed faintly, a spark of fire dancing in his palm as a precaution. Lars kept a hand on the ground, ready to summon vines if trouble arose.

As dawn broke, the werewolf howled once, then collapsed. The fur receded, claws retracted, and James’ human form emerged, exhausted and naked but unharmed. Lars tossed him a blanket, and Rob helped him sit by the fire.

“You good?” Rob asked, handing him a canteen.

James nodded, his voice hoarse. “Yeah. Thanks for staying.”

Cliff smirked. “Didn’t have much choice. You’re one scary bastard.”

Jason laughed, tucking his flute away. “We’re all scary in our own way.”

Kirk adjusted his sunglasses. “Speak for yourself. I’m charming.”

The group chuckled, the tension breaking. Cheveyo approached, his eyes warm. “You’ve seen each other’s truths now. That’s your strength.”

James wrapped the blanket tighter, his strength returning. “What’s next, Cheveyo?”

The chief gazed at the rising sun. “Rest today. Tomorrow, you decide your path. Outlaws don’t follow rules—they make them.”

The group returned to the reservation, where the tribe offered food and fresh clothes. James, still shaken, felt a new bond with his companions. They’d seen him at his worst and stayed.

That evening, by the lake’s edge, James opened his journal.

September 7, 1899  

Echola, Outlaw’s Field

We’re back in Echola, and the group saw me turn last night. They stayed, kept me safe, even when I was a monster. Cheveyo says our path is ours to choose—outlaws, protectors, something else. I don’t know what’s next, but with these guys, I feel ready for anything. We’re more than monsters now. We’re a family.

He closed the journal, the lake’s reflection shimmering under the stars. The others sat nearby, joking and sharing stories. Tomorrow, they’d plan their future, but tonight, they were content to be together.

---

The next morning, the group gathered in Cheveyo’s tent, refreshed and ready. The chief sat with them, his presence steadying. “You are whole now,” he said. “What will you do?”

James looked at his companions—Lars with his healing touch, Rob’s water mastery, Kirk’s shadowy stealth, Jason’s enchanting music, and Cliff’s fiery strength. “We’ve got power, and we’ve got each other. Maybe we protect places like Overbrook, where monsters and humans live together. Maybe we hunt those who’d hunt us. Whatever it is, we’ll do it our way.”

The others nodded, their resolve mirrored in their eyes. Cheveyo smiled. “Then go, my son. Write your own legend.”

They left the tent, mounted their horses, and rode toward the horizon, ready to forge their path as outlaws in a world that feared them—but would soon know their name.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The group departed Redstone at first light, the mesa’s red silhouette fading behind them as they rode east across the Larich Plains. James led on Moonlight, the memory of their stand against Voss’ bounty hunters fueling their purpose. Lars, Rob, Kirk, Cliff, and Jason followed, their horses’ hooves drumming a steady rhythm. Cheveyo’s vision had set them on this path, but their actions—protecting Redstone’s hybrids—were shaping their legend as outlaws who shielded their own.

Their destination was Montecorazon, a rugged country beyond Calnevari, across the Rio Sangre. Word from Redstone’s townsfolk spoke of three towns in Montecorazon where monsters faced growing threats: Ciudad de la Muerta in Arroyo del Diablo, Rastro de Aurora in Roca de Luz de Luna, and Ceniza in Ojo de Copre. Each was a flashpoint, teeming with tension between humans and monsters, and the group felt called to intervene.

By midday, the Rio Sangre’s dark waters glistened ahead, its current swift and unforgiving. The rickety bridge they’d crossed before stood unguarded, the outpost still abandoned from their last passage. Kirk smirked, lowering his sunglasses. “Looks like they learned their lesson.”

Rob chuckled, his scales catching the sun. “Let’s not tempt fate. That river’s mean today.”

They crossed carefully, Rob’s hydrokinesis calming the churning waters to ease their passage. On the other side, Calnevari’s arid plains stretched before them, and by evening, they entered Montecorazon. The air grew heavier, laced with the scent of sage and distant smoke, as they rode toward Arroyo del Diablo.

---

Ciudad de la Muerta, Arroyo del Diablo

Ciudad de la Muerta was a grim town nestled in a scorched gorge, its name—City of the Dead—fitting its eerie stillness. Crumbling adobe buildings lined dusty streets, and the townsfolk moved like ghosts, their eyes darting between human and monstrous features: a man with clawed hands, a child with glowing pupils. The group hitched their horses outside a saloon called El Lamento Gris, its sign faded and creaking.

Inside, the air was thick with tension and the tang of stale beer. James’ enhanced hearing caught whispers of a vigilante group rounding up monsters, accusing them of “cursing” the town’s failing crops. He leaned toward the others, keeping his voice low. “Vigilantes are hunting monsters here. Blaming them for bad harvests. We need to find the targets before it’s too late.”

Cliff’s scales glinted as he clenched a fist, a spark flaring in his palm. “Let’s burn their lies down.”

Jason nodded, his flute at the ready. “First, we find the monsters. Get them somewhere safe.”

They slipped out, following a tip from a nervous barmaid to a derelict church at the town’s edge. Inside, they found a dozen hybrids—horned elders, scaled youths, a woman with moth-like wings—huddled in the shadows. James knelt beside a trembling boy with serpent eyes. “We’re here to help. Stick with us.”

As they led the group toward a hidden arroyo, the vigilantes—ten men armed with torches and silver-tipped spears—blocked their path. “You’re harboring freaks!” their leader spat, raising his spear.

James drew his bow, his voice cold. “Walk away, or you won’t.”

The fight was over quickly. Lars’ vines shot from the earth, binding three vigilantes. Kirk’s shadows cloaked him as he disarmed two more with his dagger. Rob’s poisoned water blinded another, while Cliff’s fire sent the rest scrambling. Jason’s flute wove a disorienting melody, leaving the leader dazed as James knocked him out with a single blow.

The hybrids were escorted to a safe cave outside town, guarded by a sympathetic human smuggler. The townsfolk, witnessing the group’s strength, began whispering of the outlaws who protected monsters. The group rode out before dawn, heading for Rastro de Aurora.

---

Rastro de Aurora, Roca de Luz de Luna

By midday, they reached Rastro de Aurora, a radiant town carved into glowing limestone cliffs, much like Solterra. The cliffs’ soft luminescence bathed the streets in a warm glow, and hybrids moved freely—bird-winged traders, cloven-hoofed children, a man with crystalline skin. But fear hung heavy; a gang from Ceniza was rumored to be planning a raid to “cleanse” the town of its monstrous residents.

The group met with the town’s elder, a woman named Vela with owl-like eyes and feathers woven into her hair. “You’re the outlaws from Redstone,” she said, her voice steady but urgent. “We need you. The gang from Ceniza is coming tonight. They’ve got silver weapons and no mercy.”

James nodded, his hand on his bow. “We’ll stop them. Where’s their base?”

“Ceniza, in Ojo de Copre,” Vela replied. “A fortified camp, an hour east. They’re led by a man named Salazar, who hunts monsters for sport.”

The group accepted Vela’s offer of water and bread, resting briefly before riding for Ceniza. Cheveyo’s voice whispered in James’ mind: “Guard the dawn’s trail.”

---

Ceniza, Ojo de Copre

Ceniza was a bleak stronghold of stone and iron, its name—Ash—fitting the charred remnants of past raids. The gang, twenty strong, prepared for their attack on Rastro de Aurora, their silver blades and nets glinting in the torchlight. The group hid among the surrounding boulders, observing.

“Same plan,” James whispered. “Lars, Kirk, flank them. Rob, Cliff hit their supplies. Jason, scatter them with your flute. I’ll take Salazar.”

They struck at dusk. Lars’ vines toppled barricades, while Kirk’s shadows doused torches, plunging the camp into darkness. Rob’s water flooded their weapon stores, poisoning the air with venomous mist. Cliff’s fire ignited tents, sowing panic. Jason’s flute sent half the gang into a confused retreat, their minds clouded by his charm.

James spotted Salazar—a wiry man with a silver machete—shouting orders. He loosed an arrow, pinning Salazar’s coat to a crate, then charged, his super strength knocking him out with a single punch. The remaining gang fled, their camp in ruins.

The group found two caged hybrids—a boy with bat-like ears and a woman with glowing veins—and freed them, sending them to Rastro de Aurora with a warning of their victory. They torched the camp’s remains, ensuring no retaliation.

---

Back in Rastro de Aurora, the townsfolk greeted them with cheers. Vela gifted them a small, luminescent crystal, said to guide lost travelers. “You’ve saved our home,” she said, her owl-eyes bright. “You’re welcome here always.”

That night, camped outside the glowing cliffs, James opened his journal.

September 12, 1899

Rastro de Aurora, Montecorazon

We crossed the Rio Sangre into Montecorazon, hitting Ciudad de la Muerta, Rastro de Aurora, and Ceniza. Saved hybrids from vigilantes in the first, stopped a gang in the last from raiding this glowing haven. We’re outlaws, protectors, and our name’s spreading. Cheveyo’s vision is alive in us. More towns need us, and we’ll answer.

He closed the journal, the cliffs’ glow mingling with their campfire. Cliff’s guitar and Jason’s flute wove a melody, Lars conjured a blooming vine, Rob swirled a water orb, and Kirk’s shadows danced. They were forging a legend, one town at a time.

---

The next morning, they rode out, the crystal in James’s satchel pulsing faintly. “There’s another town, Viento Salvaje, a day’s ride west,” he said. “Rumors say monsters are hiding from a warlord. Sounds like our fight.”

Lars grinned, his mossy skin gleaming. “Let’s keep the legend growing.”

They spurred their horses, the trail to Viento Salvaje calling them forward.