THE 2ND ANNUAL
GROKE COFFEE
ALL HALLOWS
LATTE ART THROWDOWN
An evening of coffee, craft, rivalry, and dark rituals.
You awake upon damp ground.
Cold earth presses against your palms.
You sit up.
You appear to be in an abandoned graveyard.
The moon hangs low above you, occasionally disappearing behind ragged clouds.
You have no memory of how you got here.
You do, however, have the distinct feeling that you were expected.
A path of crooked stones leads through the graves.
At its end stands a large, ancient wooden door.
It is slightly ajar.
Warm candlelight flickers through the gap.
You hear voices beyond it.
Laughter, maybe.
The clink of porcelain.
And, faintly...
The unmistakable hiss of steam.
The door groans open.
You step inside.
An antechamber of cold, dark stone stretches before you.
Beyond a pair of heavy velvet curtains, candlelight spills across the floor.
A fire crackles.
Cups clink softly.
The murmur of a gathering already underway reaches your ears.
A heavy scent of damp earth and freshly ground coffee fills the air.
You push aside the curtains.
The curtains fall shut behind you.
The room is larger than it should be.
Long tables are crowded with cups, jugs and strange-looking pieces of coffee equipment.
Candles burn in every corner.
A gathering of robed figures turn to look at you, their faces obscured by shadow.
At the far end of the room sits a figure behind an ancient wooden desk.
You approach.
They slowly raise their head.
"Your name?"
The figure studies you for a moment.
"."
They carefully write your name into a large, leather-bound ledger.
"You have been summoned."
A pause.
"Your presence is required at a ceremony in honour of our Dark Lord..."
The figure leans closer.
"Coffee."
The clerk turns another page in the ledger.
"And which House do you serve?"
Their pen hovers above the parchment.
"Roaster. Coffee shop. Collective. Cult."
"We are not particularly concerned with the distinction."
The clerk writes it down.
"Very good."
They close the ink pot.
"Your allegiance has been recorded."
The clerk reaches beneath the desk.
They produce another sheet of parchment.
"Should we need to summon you again..."
They slide it across the desk.
"Where may correspondence be sent?"
The clerk inspects the address.
"Excellent."
"Assuming this is correct, the summons should reach you."
"Eventually."
The clerk closes the ledger.
"There is one final matter."
Two doors appear behind them.
One is marked with a steaming cup.
The other with an unblinking eye.
"You must now choose your path."
The clerk makes one final entry in the ledger.
They close the book.
The sound echoes through the room.
"Very well."
The candles begin to flicker.
The fire dies down.
The room grows colder.
"Your place has been recorded."
The clerk raises one ancient, crooked finger.
You have just enough time to wonder what they intend to do with it.
Then...
Their finger touches your forehead.
An icy shock runs through your entire body.
The room disappears.
Everything goes black.
You awake in your own bed.
Morning light spills through the curtains.
For several minutes you lie completely still.
You try to remember what happened.
The graveyard.
The door.
The parlour.
The clerk.
Coffee.
You decide it was a dream.
Then a voice booms inside your skull.
YOU ARE SUMMONED.
ON THE EVENING OF TUESDAY THE 27TH DAY OF OCTOBRE
AT THE HOUR OF FIVE AND THIRTY
UPON THE ISLE OF KELHAM
IN THE CITY OF STEEL
AT THE HOUSE OF GROKE
A pause.
A STRICT DRESS CODE IS IN PLACE.
DRESS FOR THE DARKNESS.
IN HONOUR OF OUR DARK LORD.
BLACK IS THE SEASON.
Another pause.
DO NOT BE LATE.
THE DOORS WILL NOT REMAIN OPEN FOREVER.
Silence.
You sit upright in bed.
You stare into the darkness.
Somewhere in the distance...
You hear the sound of a milk steamer.
You are certain you are awake.
Probably.
Your registration has been noted.
Your fate has been decided.
We shall see you on the 27th.
>>>>> END