Westeros was having a bad day.
First, his bitch called saying she had to work tonight so she couldn’t go to the ritual. Then Hitch called and said that he wasn’t going to make it either.
The ritual was important. He had people coming, and he wanted a good local showing. If his own crew couldn’t get their ass in gear and show up for an important search-and-destroy ritual, then where would that leave him?
The Prophet showed up around three. He was the first, and looked disappointed that no one else had showed up yet. “I must prepare,” he told Westeros, who let him into his huge walk-in closet that served as his own inner sanctum.
Westeros started calling his crew. He wanted someone, anyone to be here before the Priest, the Magistra, and the Magi from all around Michigan showed up at five. Finally, at four, the Mandragal brothers showed up with the cauldron of fire.
“Come on, set that up, we got people coming!”
Then the rest of his crew started lumbering in. Driver, Tomlin, and Ghost. Not a moment too soon, because then his doorbell rang nonstop for about fifteen minutes. Magi he had only heard of were showing up. The Magistra came to his door in her robes, ready to work. The Priest came in last, and that’s when he locked and bolted the door.
Everyone worked in near silence, murmuring greetings to each other or not even saying anything, as they got into their robes. His doorbell rang again, but once the Priest was here, no one else was allowed entry. Too bad for those late Magi.
The Prophet came out of the sanctum, and all bowed their heads to him. He said nothing, as he would say nothing until the moment came in the ritual. He did not even see people in the room, but took his place by the Priest at his left hand.
The Priest raised his arms. Bells of all sorts rang throughout the room, not in rhythm, a summoning, a calling of all the members to the living room that Westeros had all the furniture moved out of. The windows were shut, and the shades drawn, so it would be as warm as a tomb.
“We come here together to find –”
The Prophet rose suddenly. “He comes.”
The Priest turned to the Prophet. This wasn’t his time to speak, but the Prophet turned wide eyes to the window. “He comes–”
As he pointed, the window exploded inward, the shade torn from its roll. A roar followed the explosion.
A white leopard crouched at the base of the window. Not really a leopard, but a man…a leopard-man? The leopard-man eyed everyone, and attacked the first magi he saw, ripping his chest out. Now people moved – some pulled out daggers from their robes. His crew drew guns. Stupid asses.
The leopard moved fast, too fast, even as daggers flashed all around him. He dove out of the way of the Prophet, who ran at him with a blade, and he swiped the Prophet’s face. He attacked, dodged, even while the Priest was yelling, “Kill him!”
In moments, the leopard-man had mowed down the Magi, the Mastistra and the Prophet. Now his boys, who had stayed against the wall, had a clear shot. They let it rip.
How could the man dodge bullets? But he did. He attacked his boys, killing Driver first. Westeros saw the creature of Bast coming for him, and thought that this was his worst day, ever.