The Messengers is a piece of fiction set in the world of Never Going Home, the flagship TTRPG of Wet Ink Games about eldrich horrors in the trenches of the first World War. I have the honor of being the fiction writer for the game line and the forthcoming campaign books allowed me to write more narrative fiction. This story will appear in supplemental materials after the books are released.

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They stood in a circle around the fire that burned in the barrel behind the barracks. It was not a nice evening—nippy, he thought, like winter just couldn’t let go—which made him think of his mom, back home in Ohio. She would be wondering where he was, and looking for a letter in the mail. He’d sent one a few days ago, letting her know he had arrived safely, with a slew of other men from American, on the shores of France. From the docks along that northern coast they’d gone inland, not quite as far as the front lines that crisscrossed Europe. He was glad they’d never make it to those trenches. Nope, not this battalion. They were brought over for something else entirely.

               He took a swig from the bottle that the other doughboys were passing around. One of them declined. He was a quiet fella from somewhere in east Michigan named Jack. Then there was Harry, he was from Ohio too, and Peter. He’d come from Pennsylvania. And the last man standing around the barrel that night was Fred. He was from Indiana. They’d only met earlier that day, but the five had taken a liking to each other fast, which is why they were all standing around the meager fire that burned, smoking cigarettes while their toes froze in the not quite spring weather.

               “I think I’ve glad to be on this assignment, Frank,” Jack said. “I know I signed up to help end this mess, but I was afraid I’d end up in one of those trenches.”

               He spit in the dirt. “I heard they aren’t even fighting in the trenches anymore. There’s nothing left of Belgium. There’s not much left of France.”

               “Except this place,” Peter said. The bottle had passed to him, and he knocked it back, gritting his teeth at the end of the swig. He passed the bottle.

               “I wondered about that,” Jack said. “These barracks seem new, don’t they? Why are they building new barracks just for Americans?”

               “You want to be in a mud hole like the French?” Harry asked.

               “No!” Jack said. The end of his cigarette glowed orange as he took a drag, like a setting sun all to himself. The fire lit his features, a lurid sight, before the hastening evening obscured him in darkness again. “This assignment though,” he said.

               Sometime did feel off about it, if he was honest with himself. Delivering messages by hand. They were going to be gloried mail carriers. They’d been told it was to prevent the information from falling into the wrong hands. But the messages were going to other encampments in France; who on this side of the front would intercept them for harm? Did the Germans have double agents? Was someone being double-crossed?

               “What about it?” Peter asked.

               “I don’t know,” Jack said. Now he had the bottle. “It just seems like they could…use a telegram I guess.”

               “Anyone could be listening on the wires,” Fred said. It was the first time he had spoken since they lit the fire.

               “Don’t they know how to send messages in code?” Jack argued.

               Fred smiled to himself, dark humor floating from him. “You haven’t heard what happened to the coders?” he asked.

               Now Frank was on alert. He and the other four men leaned in. Fred cleared his throat, his eyes drifting to each other pair of eyes in the circle before he said, “Something got them.” His voice was a velvet whisper. “They all went mad.”

               The fire popped and Frank jumped, then tried to disguise it with a stretch and a cough.

               “What do you mean, they went mad?” Peter asked.

               Fred just laughed, this time heartily. All the mystery and gloom was gone from him. “I don’t know,” he said. “I just heard some guys talking about it on the boat over here. You know, telling tall tales, is all.”

               “You think?” Frank asked. “I mean, they French broads we met in the last town—they were talking some weird things. Monsters and magic, and…what did they say, Jack? Faeries?”

               “Yes,” Jack said, nearly rolling his eyes. “Faeries,” he said mockingly, then laughed.

               “The only monsters over here are the Germans, man,” Peter said. “And there’s nothing killing men in the trenches but Germans.”

               “Well,” Frank said, watching the hot coals in the barrel. “I guess it’s good that we volunteered for duty then. Can’t win a war if you got no men.” His words felt hollow, and he could see from the faces of his companions that they had fallen flat. They had all wanted to come here, to serve. But now that they were here…

               “It’s not like I thought it would be,” said Jack. He drank from the bottle.

               “What were you expecting, a vacation?” Harry teased.

               Jack just shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, passed the bottle.

               “I tell you what I was expecting,” Harry said. “I was expecting to be met by some French men, eh?” He gestured around their camp. “Instead, they stuck us here in these brand new barracks, and tell us we’re gonna be delivering messages. There’s about a hundred of here, you know. How many messengers do they need?”

               “We go in pairs,” Fred said. “Safer that way.”

               “I still say something is off about this,” Jack said.

               And Frank could feel it too, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.