#atheriswrites

He is awoken by familiar screams.  

Not the screams of familiar voices, rather the recent familiarity with what caustic chorus sounds when sleeping souls are suddenly woken by ambush. Though unfamiliar is the join-in of thunderous cannonade, the lightning strike of blinding blasts roaring in its tango.  The storm is veritably right overhead— soaring the night skies as ravenous hawks on glowing white wings.  At every side there is fire and bloodshed, the bellowing of titans under attack an overstimulation to startled senses, the roars of war and wails of anguish spilling blood in colours that should not mix.  

The Hound is made to scramble as self-righteous fire nearly rends his existence barely a bloodstain on churned earth. The clashing of nearby blades bars one direction of escape, and more blood-curdling shrieks far too close for comfort pierce the air down another.  A new false sun comes crashing from above and he has no other choice; charge forward, no matter if forward leads out of the troubled encampment or deeper within.  His eyes sting from the acrid air, begging to close and wash out poison's smoke— but if he is to survive he must remain alert to his surroundings. He curses himself for his weakness; nothing but a frightened rat, powerless to stand his ground and force this invading beast away.  Live another day, that's all that matters. Survive yet one more night.  

Alas his watered vision fails him just that second long enough to trip his footing, somehow the blazing corpse not enough a warning to its outstretched arm in his path.  The dirt tastes rotten in his fears, too muddied by blood to get a good grip of any kind. The Hound writhes as a pathetic worm in its belonging muck, no gods he was taught to pray to worth what might be his last licks of breath— to scorn and weep, to accuse the crime of his very birth… to plead for just one more goddamn chance.  But someone does answer his un-uttered cries, someone who has answered before. 

Death. He truly is a master of his craft.

He plucks winged soldiers from the air as if they hung on puppet strings, cutting loose their tethers to life with about the same regard as carving away weeds.  He moves fast with the savagery of a pure force of nature;  a dark dancer to the songs of screams.  Only bloodshed would be his ovation, the Universe itself seemingly powerless to forbid he breathe another day.  Despite the sucking mire of the mud underfoot, the sickening crunch of skull under his boot finds no muffle from the Hound's pounding ears, a clanging church bell herald to yet another funeral— yet hardly does Death seem to notice. The lesser believes himself next to face such demise—another bug ground up under heel, not even worthy enough to stain his soles—when those ember stars somehow find him; perhaps the Nephilim simply have a nose for downed prey.  Instead, Death grabs a fistful of the Hound's tunic and wrenches him from the earth, forcing him back to his feet as if it'd be a sin to lay down and die.

"Make yourself useful and fight back!"  There's no telling how the command of his rugged tone rings so clear and with such bite, drowning out the chaos.

"I don’t have a weapon!"  Somehow the Hound doesn't stammer before his overseer, though does flinch hard at another blast some very short distance behind them both.  The Nephilim appears about to chew his lesser out when a teal flash shoots into the heavy amulet—fiercely aglow—chained at his neck, the wisp's rush to ornamental sanctuary carrying shrilling wails of damned children.  His teeth grit hard in the roar he tries to chew instead, what fingers he could spare flying to his belt in the freeing of an ugly blade.

"Now go!"  The grating order is barked before the flat of dagger's blade even presses to the Hound's chest, the force behind Death's push nearly enough to send the lesser back into the mud.  No time for a word more, Death is already returned to the slaughter; dazed, the Hound only stands and stares until a shriek snaps awake his fragile senses.  Join the fray, that's the order the Hound follows against instinct to continue fleeing, rounding another tent to catch the last moments of the opposition pulling its polearm from fresh corpse's chest. Their back is turned to him and, by a compulsion he doesn't understand, he finds himself lunging forward and onto the armour of that combat's victor— though hesitates to plunge the dagger that second it takes for a massive feathered wing to knock him winded. The blade caught a bite within the limb, but it figures that one moment he dared think himself capable lands him below the stained spear's point. He did try, fool to believe he could stand a chance. His throat feels so thin compared to that blade; the moment it will press in to exact the toll of his boldness might as well sever his head outright. Though he waits for that moment to come be his last, instead the assailant gets a good look at him and appears to hesitate as well.

"You are of the sullied…" The voice of a woman accuses down at him, yet he's given no chance to attempt a reply; a second winged-warrior swoops down to the earshot of the first. Words are exchanged in a tongue the Hound cannot understand, but where the new warrior sneers in regards to him—visible in the resplendence of the woman's wings—she only bares a look of pity onto his form. Pity?

Before there can be any motive or intentions discerned, her spear adopts a lightning blue and rends the Hound's flesh apart, not an inch higher than where the seams had barely just healed above his elbow. He howls at the amputation, so much more sudden than the original cut— immediately subjected to however many volts make sizzle the wet flesh. In midst of his pain, the shadow of a small frame escapes the scene where next the spear might have shed blood; a child bought the chance to flee. It's through eyes hazed in tears and smokedust he watches the fires die in their distance, carried away as if a consciousness on its way to dream.

The glare of two distant ember stars promise naught but nightmares…

—

Whether truly a state of sleep or merely the vacant stare of shellshock, it ends violently in the upheaval of his stomach. It took air untainted to remind his lungs how to properly breathe, shifting gears into sputters and chokes to sift out the ashes in hackfuls of bile. A hand on his shoulder reels him backwards, a startled animal to the presence of the very same being which pulled him of the carnage.

"Easy, small one," silvery voice of a warrior's attempt to soothe parts the winged-one's lips. Despite his flinch she doesn't jump back or take to low crouch, proud posture holding her as upright and unyielding as a temple's stalwart guard. She holds her free hand open and facing him, but his eyes remain on the one still wielding her spear.

"The Light has found and freed you, as I am vessel through which is speaks. You needn't fear any longer."

When one stands small before an armoured vision of everything one is not, even the scuffs and bloodsmears make part of perfection… despite the odd droop of one wing. A vision of strength in conviction and spirit, and from his previous vantage at the very point of that spear her wield of it must deliver as swift a judgment as it stills for her mercy. He truly wishes he had more to his defense than a dagger in one hand, and a cauterized stump for the other.

"I am Ithuriel, of the Light's Shield; third division under her lordship Aurorus." Her open palm closes over her chest, the strike-sound of carved gauntlet to breastplate nearly flinching him a full pace back. To this, her demeanour seems to change— from below the crest of her helm she's seen to dawn a slight puzzle, then the vanish of marble stoicism for instead a soft smile.

"Might I know your name? What you are called?"

Twice he'd been asked his name, and twice now does he hesitate to answer. The pregnant pause begins to show its due, but he does find an answer he can stomach.

"…Hound." The first he'd spoken in a space where he hears himself think, and—though the sound is pulled from a hoarse crag he hates to home—doesn't taste as bitter off his tongue. Despite this unforeseen respite, the warrior's brow knits a sad look to veil her eyes, a look the Hound can't help but find patronizing.

"Small one, you need no longer carry the title forced upon you by those beasts.  What do you wish to be called?"

"Hound is fine." The cobwebs dusted from his voice carry an edge in his insistence, even when only muttered. Ithuriel appears about to protest but holds her tongue, breathing a long sigh instead.

"Very well. Please come with me, unfortunate Hound."

Despite not nearly enough of what needed discussing having been said, Ithuriel turns and leaves it up to him to follow. It takes a considerable few paces for his mind to decide itself. With nowhere better to turn, the Hound walks about a spear's length behind in the woman's shadow, a pale thing upon the dirt cast only by sinking moonlight. Each further tread forward made it impossible to ignore those feathers in soft marble glow declaring her back, nearly tripling her stature over him if she weren't already two to three feet taller. This image of her being pristine and untouchable folds as he remembers having latched to her back in misguided frenzy, that those ruffled feathers are stained in red by his doing. It'd have been a shame if he'd actually killed the woman, given she'd taken him from his captors and now lead the way to…

"Where are you taking me?" His grip tightens unconsciously to the handle of his borrowed—though suppose now stolen—dagger, wishing he had any way of folding his other arm… it still hurt despite not feeling real at all.

"Where you wish to be taken of course; salvation." He'd not been following behind far enough it seems, as the slight turn of her frame and proud puff of her wings brush the wind too close to disturbing the hair over his face.

"By good fortune this realm homes one of our outposts; luckier still the forces of Heaven found you before the sons of Hell's spawn might have tainted you further."

Without warning or consent the woman extends chivalrous hand to bolster the Hound's injury, as if the robbery of his arm would be a trophy in high and mighty wield. A thousand questions spin his head into a nausea; from the origins of her being, discerning her purpose, the exact reason her kind descended the pitched skies with such aggressive assault, why he earned her mercy—

The aching limb is pulled back into his custody, landing his entire focus towards perhaps the most trivial yet gnawing question of them all;

"What was wrong with it?"

His amputator breathes as if obvious, unconscious and unsubtle in the wipe of her gauntlet to the cloth draping her hips.

"The sickness is cleansed of you, little Hound. I'll not terrify your mind with tales told of what their twisted intentions would strive to make you. Their desecration of life and flesh will cease with their end; trespass of Heaven's expanse is all but fated for their extinction!"

"So… Heaven's fight is with the Nephilim?"

Her lilt felt mocking, the throw backward of her head shattering another face of her righteous portrayal.

"Of course not! So small a parasite on the back of the greater conflict. Heaven's war is with the Hells, child— not just what filth they might spawn. I mean this in no offense, but there'd have been no saving you from the claws of a proper Demon."

"But they—"

"They are scavengers and thieves yes, fed by blood and meat and whatever else they might rob of the land. We know, child, and it will end when the Light wills it so. I assure you."

His agitation might have been starting to show, nothing more bitter on the surface of his skin than the trap of her hand to his shoulder as her words do not sit well. His people once told folktale of the Winged Warriors in Heaven, the fabled guides and protectors to the ones most lost. He heard his people cry for them when their village was first ransacked, then again when the glow of holy wings ambushed at nightfall. Cries that silenced fast in the cannonade that left him scrambling.

Equally were there tales of the horrid beasts of Hell, and not more needed be said than the recall of what assaulted him within inch of success in the Nephilim camp… though with it came the recall of what did save him.

"Please be still, our most capable healers will return your former glory as you were meant to be, according to the Creator's design. I understand your fears, but you'll never need accept injustice again under Heaven's guidance."

The Hound's well of thought drowns in the deluge of a painful static, all too aware of the virgin metal stained in dark that brushes of its fingers at his forehead, while he can't even scream for it to stop.

"It pains my heart to wonder what you endured… why a creature so beautiful wouldn’t fight tooth and nail against those abominations’ defacement," the veil of hair he'd neglected to care for long before imprisonment is peeled away from his face— a touch meant to be soft, instead the scrape of coarse stone to raw nerves as muddy strands came tucked behind his ears. In her sorrowful eyes the Hound recalls his own mother…

"Or hide herself."

His heart falls in the recesses of his stomach. An acid taste builds in back of his throat so potent it might eat through his skin and bones if he doesn't soon spit, and she is none the wiser as her hand gives last caress to his scarred cheek. She must think him built of delicate porcelain, easily broken, in need of some assurance he could cling his hopes to.

"Worry not; though now the battle quiets from the worst of the cull, by daybreak another phalanx will come to finish—"

Somehow, the Hound lunges just as she finishes turning her back. Feral wrestling of peril-wild mouse clinging in the saddle-space between wings of a swan; the blade is driven deep where her wing already hosts injury, completely forbidding her advantage of flight. Missing an arm makes it difficult to hold on as he forces his weapon from her flesh, but now he lacks the hesitation that spared her the first time.

The taste of ivory hair flosses and tangles in vermin teeth just to keep the reins, the iron lock of small legs able to anchor behind details of her armor. In this position, despite the beating of wings so strong they would've knocked him off his feet standing, the blade's horrible edge finds purchase and his arm begins to saw. The edges of the world do not blur or darken, the ringing in his ears drowns out nothing. Every thought runs screeching through his skull but he thinks none of them, whatever gargled sin the swan would try for continues to be gutted from her throat. Only under the resistance of her spine does he notice his breath had not slowed, while hers wasn't even a crawl. Nerves on highest alert somehow too numb for the earthquake impact of her knees to the dirt, the desperate clawing on his arm for his carving to yield finally succumbing with the rattle of dead metal. She surrenders—her life and all completely—yet the Hound's teeth don't relinquish.

The ringing finally fades in like careful hands coming to rest on his shoulders, a touch he wants no part of. His grip only steels as fever runs through his options; he'd need proof, wouldn't he? There's no returning empty handed. There's no going anywhere at the moment, he's barely aware enough to catch himself finally sawing through the bone before the blade might just accidentally cut into his own neck.

Hunched over like the mad dog he truly is, it's an ache to sever his grip around the weapon even if only by a few fingers, just to pull the hair from his mouth. He expects to see horror as her last expression, perhaps utter curse and contempt for his betrayal. Instead there is nothing in her lifeless eyes, save the silencing of her lie. In that silence he finds a deep, deep apathy, all while the warm mud turns cold in its soak of his knees.

The silence shatters from a piercing whistle. The Hound's gaze is heavy to land on its source, though the silhouette is unmistakable. He can't bear to rise let alone try to run, to preserve his freedom— not that it would have mattered, he is upon the Hound in mere moments. A shadow darker than the rest.

Get up.

"If I call, you heel."

"You followed me." The Hound croaks softly, more a mutter of acknowledgment than any attempt at conversation. His thoughts feel too loud to keep in his head.

"Only to retrieve a stolen weapon." Death allows for nothing to escape his notice, nor allows the illusion that something just might.

Get up!

The Hound can't help the rough scoff that claws up his throat. All this fuss over a knife? It aches still to pry it from his palm, but it spins in his hold to offer up handle-first. The air hangs stale between the Nephilim and his lesser, nearly a moment so long the Hound might wonder if he'd imagined the entire exchange. But the offer is accepted, Death giving a mysterious chuckle as he slowly wipes away the blood.

"Here I assumed I'd drag back a corpse, not find another in two pieces." The way the blade drags against fabric is nails to a chalkboard in air so empty of sound.

"Pity."

"You think I ran?" The Hound's breathing shallows, eyes affixed to the severed head in his lap and her dead eyes reflecting back into his very soul—

"It wasn't my choice."

"One dead Angel will do little to sway my mind."

"More are coming." That, at last, buys him something of Death's interest, much like it finally gets his body to obey him and stand up.

"Before dawn. She said there's an outpost."

"Speak."

"Before dawn, that's all I know."

Death's breath catches in a hiss as his eyes shoot a curse upon the corpse. He feels an anger threaten sparks in his chest, right under the thrum of his glowing amulet. Retribution may yet be possible… just not through this one. Rather than kneel, Death positions his boot under the fallen Angel's spear and kicks it up, one smooth motion for him to catch while in air.

"Will you follow, or must I take you?" His words come out an ice cold, but it's as sincere a choice as he can offer. The Hound's arm hangs at his side in the carry of Ithuriel's head by fistful of her hair, his own head lowered in his obedient forward steps.

He must rely on his overseer to guide most of the way back, until the smell of death and burning flesh welcomes them back to the battleground once host to the race's camp. A tent or two still burn a bright beacon to reflect in glassy eyes strewn all around; cattle, captives, the typical casualties that came with being too slow or stupid to properly flee. What's most jarring about the scene are the children— rather, the amount. Where lay dead a felled adult body—Angel or Nephilim—near it lay also the body of a child… infants, toddlers, barely newborns… The worst of the cull.

Even the pre-adolescent were chased and cut down, anything that yet resembled in strength or size the bulk of the Horde the Hound witnesses parse through the wreckage, cradling these corpses to their chests in various shows of wavering stoicism and silent heartbreak. It feels strange to watch titans on their knees, raking the dirt with their bare hands.

Death relays to Absalom the news of an eminent second attack, who then barks loud for any of their brothers and sisters still despondent over such devastating loss to take arms and ready themselves— if not to protect the young still alive, then to treat Heaven's bastards with every ounce of pain and rage it would take to avenge the dead. It's difficult for the Hound to latch onto the specifics of the First's call to action, only that it succeeds in reigniting wrathful fires in many warriors still kneeling, despite clutching his own small corpse as well. The Hound can't help fixate on that body instead, the body of a young boy he was certain he'd bought the time to flee earlier… how his eyes were now as dull as those in the Angel's head.

"What can I do?" The words fall out for Death to catch, earning him a rather long and questioning look. You'd think the Hound to have sprouted a second head, and yet—

"Can you use a spear?"

"I can make due." The Hound, standing just a bit straighter as he offers up the Angel's head in exchange, finds surprise when he is intimately dwarfed by his overseer.

"Bringing her back alive would've earned more favour with the rest—"

Death's sudden grab for the amputated stump instead makes the Hound snarl, only for the sound to silence as he sees the Nephilim carrying his missing limb.

"—But not with me."

As easily as it sliced through bone before, that damnable dagger carves fresh bleeds in the stump's cauterization, an inescapable torment as the Hound can't simply slip away from Death hold. A mutter like black ichor oozes from the carver's lips and blood finds blood like mending chainlinks; in the recited final verse the Hound watches a thread of enchanted teal snake up from the Angel's head and stitch his arm back in place. Most incredible of all, it doesn't feel like it was ever missing.

He marvels through narrow eyes and clenched jaw; flesh of a flayed deep red and speckled with obsidian scales so dark no light seemed able to reflect, talons twice the length of his other hand's fingers punctuating the appendage in dangerous appeal.  True, it certainly is no arm native to him, but as the pain subsides to only a focused sting he feels strangely whole once more. The blade that made it all possible returns to its sheathe in near too smooth a motion, dismissed without further consideration.

"That will hold for now. Don't lose it again."

The mended man nearly forgets to catch the spear as it's tossed his way. Immediately he is given a test of his connection with the limb—the weapon heavier than expected—but both hands secure along the polearm's body and assures both the Hound and Death they'll remain steady in the conflict ahead. Death readies himself as well, leaving his lesser final instruction to not lose track of the head— that there will be purpose for it later.

"Do not disappoint me."

—

How four small words can so loudly resound when in middle of a slaughter would be worth study. How no matter the manner nor amount of times he lost his footing, the Hound grit his bared teeth and somehow made recovery by the repeating mental loop of those words alone. He never crossed arms directly with the enemies taken to ground—whether landing or by fall—but he certainly made short work of their lives wherever possible, allowing for those he fought with—bigger, braver, bolder—to keep their focus towards the skies. An Angel's spear is truly an unwieldy thing for his size, better used as anchor or crutch while he gored using his own claws instead. It felt… powerful, to simply grip around the neckflesh of the fallen and pull from it their lives, fates ensured with each snip and shear of interrupted throatcords. Even more powerful was to see himself on the winning side, how the eruptions of bellowing all around him began to outnumber the glowing wings that'd swoop from above. And when he could see more and more the colour crimson on himself and the brutes in his allegiance, their bodies more visible than mere passing shadows to a backdrop of fire and midnight, there burned such triumph in his soul he near forgot to feel afraid. He survived. He lived. The Hound got his second chance and by the gods, he fucking earned it!

Then came the fruits of the night's labor.

Split stomachs and gored chests no longer obscured by dead of night, corpses whole and in pieces to be seen as offering under the prophetic glow of dawn. It's a sight just like Ithuriel said it would be, but with the wrong side basking as victors in the cold sun— whatever much of it can cast through the smoke of funeral pyres and belongings put to torch. All the Angels had to their advantage, it seems, was the ability to ambush. With it stripped, the Nephilim were upon them with total, unforgiving brutality.

One point in favour of the Nephilim, the Hound makes mental tally; they had been a touch more discriminate in the defeat of their enemy, even making an effort to take prisoners. A point which falls hollow as the Angels held forcibly knelt are stripped of their armors, each one revealing to be a woman.

"You're all vile! Beasts of no honour!" The boldest dares spit, a fiery glower spawned to match her spirit. "If you've but a shred of decency to redeem your hides, you'd cease this parading and deliver us a warrior's death!"

The Hound can't fully choke down a bitter scoff, heard by him alone.

Honour, was it?  Was it honourable to attack in the dead of night, to slaughter those caught in slumber, unnarmed and unaware? To then allow them a short reprieve, that they might be caught off guard again as they bury their dead?

By the way a meteoric fist cracks across her jaw the sentiment is one universally shared, but the Hound watches in small surprise as Absalom himself barks a harsh word and lands his hand to the tremoring brother's shoulder, oddly gentle in his guide aside to take his place before the snarling bitch.

"Vile?" The giant has a dangerous laugh to him, something the Hound—even from a distance away—feels bristle the hair on the back of his neck.

"An angel accuses us of being vile, yet you have shown you know its meaning intimately."

Absalom throws a wide gesture to the destruction they all stand in, his voice booming so none present would miss a word.

"My brothers drink from puddles while yours hoard the falls— and call us filth for it. Both Heaven and Hell race to conquer, and dub us mongrels for scouring the little left to seize. Your "honour" rapes us of the little we possess and calls us beasts for mere act of living! All Creation seeks survival but so long as it falls outside your Creator's holy view, ours is a fate of slaughter while yours is meant to carry out the execution!"

With the thrust of his axe towards the sky, the horde roars in unison. Their outrage, their triumph, how they stand tall and unbroken before what remains of this latest trial's opposition. Even Death brandishes high a crimsoned half of his pair-weapon; the amulet chained to him adopts a brighter glow, as if something held within wishes to join the uproar.

"So whenever you think of one of us, of all of us, of me, as being vile—" the Hound's eyes go wide at the very first time he's ever seen a titan kneel before the living, just so he might pick up the Angel's chin as if inspecting a bruised apple,

"—know that you're looking in a mirror."

It becomes harder to watch the scene and its unfolding as shoving body push closer in their circle of the survivors, but there'd be no way to miss how that stubborn warrior pulled back her lips and spat.

"Unhand me."

As if the realm's yet had its fill, more Angel blood stains the earth by the axe's drop over her wrists— the sever of her hands into yet more useless meat birthing her howl over disjointed laughter.

"That is the last I ever grant an Angel's request!" True nature of his laughter reveals in its twisting to a snarl, little regard at all given to the crippled dove as he kicks her on her back. Absalom leans only to take up the hands he's cut before addressing his kin.

"Now brothers! Pick your favourite haloed whore and make her feel at home. We take them alive!"

Hatred makes for an ugly sheen over the ones licking their lips; whatever notion of perfection or pride Heaven bestowed its people would be marred again and again in horrid colours and broken spirits. The ones which still hold their heads highest will feel their wings torn straight from their backs, then kicked onto their stomachs, humbled and humiliated before their peers. Those with feathers left to pluck will feel the bones break as many times as they dare try to heal, regardless that the first time is all it'd take to never rule the skies again. Vengeance will be reenacted as many times as their wombs can force out replacement heirs to the ones they'd slaughtered— children born and bred of monstrosity.

The Hound dares believe he'd done Ithuriel—whose head he is made to carry again as Death readies her own spear as the display pike—a kindness after all.

—

"They won't be enough." Drained of whatever cold confidence he paraded earlier, Absalom takes his frustrations out on the worktable by slamming down his fist. Despite the wood shuddering under the First's might—tremors felt against the flat of Death's resting palms—the Second only moves to lightly drum his fingers.

"We could have spared every winged whore that came, it would not have mattered. Even if all are seeded this very night, it's the time we've truly been robbed of."

The larger of the two Nephilim all but barely contains himself from hurling out the entire table, though it's a miracle enough the structure still stands given the supports are now mostly charcoal.

"Perhaps, then, some of the recent captures—"

"Would snap in half under even our gentler kin. If not, they would rupture before viable term. You've seen them, Absalom— I've assessed them. With their fragilities, we can only spare the few who'll perish the travel anyhow. They serve for our due to Hell and nothing more."

If the First had thoughts to protest he's wiser than to voice them. Even with their Mother's sponsor, the Lords of Hell are hardly a power worth crossing— like how taking an Angelic outpost head-on would be embracing annihilation.

A hiss interrupts Absalom's pacing. The sudden pain shot through the Hound's nerves affixes the Nephilims' gaze like pointed spears to the tent's rear opening, where he feigns as if only now walking in on their conversation. The lesser awaits for wrath to literally toss him out, yet it seems his deception is bought well enough… just not enough to avoid being perceived.

"…Your latest toy doesn't break easy."

It's cruel of fate to remind them the activities taking part not all that far outside, all in the drown of a pleading voice under vulgar shouts. It takes everything in the Hound's power to suppress the tremble creeping up his breath.

"No, he does not."

In Death's thrown glare the Hound believed his fate finally sealed; instead, Death speaks firmly against his brother's thin-veiled insinuation. Before the lesser might break free of frozen stupor, Death speaks of other things— less cold, more mechanical. Practical, edged in serious concern.

"We have neither the time nor resources for more than what we currently have. It has to be enough."

"We must make it enough, brother. There is no other way about this." Having no other solutions to offer, the First takes his axe off its lean against the table and takes a stomping leave— not before throwing somber decision over his shoulder.

"Speak with Mother when next you have the chance."

The tensions do not die with Absalom's departure, his last words leaving instead a pin-drop silence where Death long holds in his own breath. The Hound feels any slight movement would be a transgression, so he merely waits for his overseer to move first. The deep roll of the Nephilim's shoulders could move a mountain.

When at last he turns around, Death sets eyes on his Hound to find him holding up his half-sewn arm; an effort interrupted when the Titans took to the tent for their moment of counsel. He dares feel impressed he hadn't noticed the Hound's presence until he'd made it known.

"The hold gave out," the Hound mistakens silence for expectation, trying to grit through another flower of pain where his nerves are about all keeping the limb grafted to his body. In silence, two fingers beckon him to the table.

"Do you know what you are?" The question comes unexpected though it's asked as casually as discussing the weather, all while sharp eyes of molten metal examine the stitch trail already done. Crude, but he finds no reason to undo the progress. When the Hound holds his silence, he is commanded to answer.

"Does it matter?" He doesn't quite find it as funny as Death does in his throaty chuff. The battles against the Angels took much from him—both of them—and Death will need to recover before any more deep manipulations of things flesh can be enacted through black arcane. Needle and thread will do for now. He watches his charge try to flex his claws in test of frayed connections— how his hair-shaded eyes try to hide a deep fascination for the limb yet cannot easily pry away.

“…I’m to be your latest monster."

The lesser’s eyes at last flick up at his overseer’s cutting inhale.

"You fought well with us," the Nephilim's compliment comes across as mere observation, a nonchalant remark made as he lifts the heavy black-iron chain from around his neck. Before the Hound might question accepting the statement, there comes the catch.

"But not nearly well enough."

"I did the best that I could—" his responding croak is spoken without thought, interrupted in Death's calm wrap of the amulet chain around his thicker wrist.

"Then your best will be made better!"

Without warning, without a moment of consideration, the Hound feels his hair once again touched—then pulled—to force him in Death's wield. No protest can even sound before Death presses his amulet to the uncovered nape of the Hound's neck; at even the barest touch of the artifact to his skin, it's as if a star collapsed right behind his very eyes.

Souls. The essences of every Nephilim slaughtered surround his every sense, fill his every pore, clawing raw his awareness of anything else save the agony searing in his brain stem. He sees through their eyes their exact moments of demise as they are released back to the natural cycle, barking mad for the toll of their lives to be exacted on whatever stole it from them… and more. Hunger for more.

"Every soul of our dead hang above our heads; yours, and mine." By sorcery unknown Death's rattle etches for him a message, heard above every wail of a life cut short, every outcry for vengeance and return. The amulet resounds in him a cacophony now of razor blades; still, Death is heard. The thunder above it all.

"I will wring out every drop of weakness and turn you unfathomable. Where you fail again to lift your carcass from the mud I will tear out your broken bones and push you harder still. You made your choice standing with us, and now your purpose does not end until I find no more use for you."

Though the Hound is in no state to know, both his own hands claw at Death's wrists, only lacking the strength necessary to peel him away. The Nephilim is witness again to a creature in the throes of savagery, the inexplicable will of nature to adapt forcing foreign skins to seal faster—stronger than before—where without the stitchwork trail and discoloration one could be fooled into believing that hellborn limb had always been of the Hound's own make. It is that desperate bid to live he seeks most, that which he calls potential.

The torment most mercifully ends with the pull away of the amulet. It's glow subsides slowly whereas the Hound's arms drop limp at his sides, exhausted by the assault. He hears the discard of the now emptied entrapment upon that table, as well as the drag nearer of something else with a chain.

“We have no need for more monsters, we require weapons.  You—,”  the Hound isn't granted the moment he might shield his neck before there's the icy press of metal encircling his throat.

“—Are a weapon.”

It’s about as typical an evening after a job as ever was, ‘cept that today Death’s venturing down the path to getting at the very least buzzed. Hard thing to do without liquor, so again he flags to the bar for a new bottle. The barhand —a Watcher, Periphes— goes to cut their quick-chat short with the boy at the counter, mentioning they gotta go give the Horseman his next fill before that rumoured dark temper brings consequences… Oh Death’s growin’ annoyed alright, especially when it ain’t the one who should be bringing him the booze that comes strutting towards his table.

That boy Periphes’ was chatting with —an odd and off-coloured young man, goin’ by the name of “Squid”— offered deliverin’ it for them; an offer near too quickly taken up, as very few voluntarily look to go near the Bounty Hunter unless they’re in need of something from him...

But Squid’s new ‘round Creation County; bright eyed, bushy-tailed, oddly fascinated with affairs of the Horsemen and maintaining Balance as a whole... Tonight, the Pale Rider’s been drinking more than the boy’s seen him do before, and this could be a good way to go about approachin’ him. Of course the first attempts at friendly conversation go less than productively, the Horseman just taking the whiskey and stonewalling Squid in typical abrasive fashion… well, more of a ‘if I keep short and ignore the lad, he’ll go away’ than telling him outright to piss off.

Funny how the other tables close to his feel a foot farther than they ought to be… wait, that’s ‘cause they’re missing chairs on the nearest side! Well that makes it a bit more inconvenient to pull one up, but what’s a few extra steps right? Death’s about ready to either get up or tell the lad flatly to fuck off when Squid pulls out a deck of cards, saying he’s seen patrons playin’ hands but he never learned himself how the game works.

What, there a law ‘gainst card games where he’s from?

No, they just weren’t his old mentor’s thing so he didn’t get much exposure.

They make a deal of sorts; if Squid fetches him more liquor before the bottle’s last cup dries, then until he’s done drinking the Rider supposes he can enlighten him on the basics. Would save him the bother of flagging down the barhand every time, then waitin’ for them to get around to it.

Great! Squid sets up the “Dealer” 6 cards like he’s told —in as few words as the Rider needs to use— and then deals his own 5 hand. Death ain’t touching a single card; if the boy wants to learn, he can do it himself. Now y’aint supposed to see the Dealer’s hand usually, but the Rider —again— ain’t touching a single card, so this is the best they can do. First round Squid ends up with Dead Man’s hand: both black aces and the black eights, fifth card (the hole) wouldna made it a better hand. Too bad it don’t beat a straight— Dealer wins. Alright, next game; Squid’s told he can discard and redraw up to three cards, which he does. He gets a look like he’s about to comment on his hand but the Rider tells him to shut it; won’t do him any good in a real game to go blabbing about his cards. The hands are picked and revealed— Dead Man’s hand again.

…It can happen, nothing too strange about it. One more, just so the boy can see what other combinations can be played. He discards and draws one card at a time until the three limit, eyebrows furrowing a lil more each of the three pulls. Pokerface needs work, but the Rider’s about to get the same look when that damn pair of aces and eights is turned over again. Squid swears he’s shuffling right, even finds a little humour that it keeps happening, but Death’s getting ticked. Fine, change of game— this time he’s shuffling the deck. Can’t get that damn 4-card hand in Hold ‘Em. The red aces show up in the river, and lad is exhilarated to flip his cards to show the other aces. That’s all four, he’d win. But… it itches at the Horseman a little. Not sure why, but he gets the feeling not to check the deck’s top two cards...

Squid does as they agreed and comes back not only with fresh whiskey, but a proposal too: why don’t they play for real? He’s hot off winning once and being a bit cocky about it. That attitude sure washes off fast as he’s losing the little gilt he’s got to the old pro, and it goads Death to keep wiping the floor with his ass the more Squid continues to claim he’s still having fun. When he’s got no coin left to play the Rider points out those pins to his vest— that’s gold enough.

That game’s the first time tonight Death could really say he saw Squid sweat, fidgeting with his two cards as the first of the river flips over. Kid’s got nothing in his hand to win this one, but neither does the Bounty Hunter. In the end, funnily enough, both had one ace and one eight— both of the black suites.

Squid’s relieved to put the pins back on his vest when the Rider also gives him back his gilt; he’s got no use takin’ the boy’s coin, though hopefully now he knows better than to bite off more than he can chew. Weirdly he’s not as thankful about that. Here he thought they were playing for actual stakes! Death’s got no use for a fool’s gold, boy; y’ain’t got anything he’d actually want to bet for. Now git, he’s tolerated enough of your nuisance interrupting a nice night for drinking.

But Squid’s stubborn, sayin' if being miserable at the bottom of a bottle is all he cares about then they can bet on that! If the Rider wins he can knock back a glass of his chosen poison, but if Squid wins he’s gotta go a round without. Well the boy’s not won save the once, and he’s still offering to get the whiskey for him…

what Death didn’t expect was to start losing. Now, not in any downright cheated turn of luck —despite his comment how “cheaters tend t’get shot round here, boy”— but it’s clear the squid’s started to pick up on the right ways to play. One round he wins, one round he loses. Loses again. Wins again, even makes a bit of a show of downing a double behind that bandana just to get on the lad’s nerves. Loses. Wins… but forgets to take his drink. Same with the next time. Bottle’s halfway done but eventually forgotten as the two just keep playing for who can win more rounds. They’re not really talking in between hands, but the atmosphere around that back table seems to shift after a while. Alleviatin’, if even by just a little.

When it gets late and Squid’s getting tired, he packs up the cards and puts his gloved hand out to shake, the sportsmanly gesture to give your opponent after a good game. Death, however, doesn't answer the offered hand, instead staring at it hard for a solid second before quipping that if they’d been playing in any way for real, Squid would be so far in debt—… Which, yeah, most likely true; likely owe so much as to himself become the Horseman’s property, But—-

“T‘least I helped you feel a lil better, right?” His smile holds only the faintest hint of mischief, though more happy to see the man in better spirits than anything else. He turns for the exit, already starting off with a short wave over his shoulder.

“Goodnight Sir!”

Now the Rider’s not one for eavesdroppin', per se— he’s a man who stays alert to everything around him, that’s all. He’s likely not one to really care ‘bout them “once in a thousand years or more” sky events; you seen one you’ve seen ‘em all. Besides, sky ain't goin’ nowhere so what’s the big deal in makin’ a fuss about it? …However…

“So why’d we have to be out here by nightfall again?” The boy asks again, now maybe the fourth time since they left town earlier that evenin’. T’give the boy some credit, the Rider expected him to be a much bigger pester than he turned out to be— seems the answer of “I’ll tell ya when we get there” is all it takes to buy his quiet. Till they got there of course.

“Just keep your eyes up,” Death tosses over his shoulder without even lookin’, quick roll of his eyes even if no one’s facin’ him t'see. He’s trying t'get this damn fire lit, and something about these matches just ain’t holdin’ the spark.

“Okayyy, but you did say—”

the Rider strikes another match—the one that finally catches, thank fuck—and lights a low campfire just as the boy’s voice cuts.

‘Hm, guess it started… good timing.’

“A…Are you…” a hand gently finds Death’s back as he stands again, the boy too entranced to do more than blindly feel out for him.

“Are you seein’ this?”

‘He always did have a strange fascination with the stars…’

The alleged heavens are lit up in hundreds upon hundreds of streaking comets, travellin’ all the way from one point of the horizon to the next, in longer arcs than any meteor shower neither the Horseman nor his apprentice can say they’ve seen before.

“Yeah kid, hard t’miss.”

“…it’s beautiful…”

The Rider lowers his gaze to catch how those comets reflect their tails in the glimmer of his companion’s wide eyes, how in utter awe the boy looks to these faraway lights.

Is it fair to be jealous of stars? …is it reasonable? Whatever the answers to those thoughts could be, Death’s distracted by suddenly being the center of Squid’s attention; bathed in a teary golden spotlight, somehow in a look more awed to find him than when turned to the literal cosmic wonder still flyin’ by overhead.

“Sir, is this why—?”

“Quit yapping and watch, before y’miss the whole thing.”

Death turns that spotlight away, but can’t escape the boy’s arm slitherin’ into his open coat and hugging ‘round his waist, keepin’ the Rider well and close.

“…‘N no more calling me that.”

“Callin’ you what? Sir?”

A grunted affirmation, refusin’ to look down in case he finds those damn eyes stuck to him again. In his rendered obliviousness, he’s got no idea what settles closer into his side. A small hum blows the cold night air to brush the Rider's skin.

“Only if you quit callin’ me kid.”

Death breathes a very short laugh, likely to mock the young man’s request. But he’s got nothin' more t’say, just brings a hand to his partner’s side— keeping him from goin’ anywhere.

Just another job same as always; the Council barking at their most feared bounty hunter t’set off for small town. Ain't nothin' special about it, no real way to say it’s problematic or could be problematic… save that the townsfolk are always reported as fidgety, and their priest preaches near dawn till dusk of the Creator and His judgment. This ain’t the Rider’s usual type of outing, but it ain’t a job he’s not done before: don’t provoke, don’t investigate, don’t even act. His job is to watch for one week… to be a warning, a foreboding, an unease. Make the guilty minds run their own assumptions, until the cracks break the town’s mask. If nothin' happens, then he just leaves. Rarely does nothin' happen.

The only one in town that seems to pay him any unhateful or unfearful mind is a vagrant; evidently an ex nomad type, sad for his leg to force his travelling days to be behind him. Death does his job as thorough and well as he always does… and when the Priest’s manipulations and fear-mongering finally calls for the town to wake, of course the first man they target is the vagrant— he was always an outsider…

Ain’t much of the town left at all when the rain clears the next morning— the Rider sat still and watchful even as last night’s fires licked the frayed ends of his coat. No matter, its only smoke and dead meat in the blister of a new day’s sunrise— dawn of the day he would have left, had nothing happened.

He’s back to town almost too soon, but not soon enough; a struggled gallop, a hurry away from a feeling he rather not process no matter how familiar and stained to his presence, half-lying to himself he’s only hurrying to get paid and done with this week’s foul work. Eyes in familiar streets avert as they always do, that same fearful and hateful regard he always gets. Saloon’s the first stop; straight to where he gets his pay, usually a half of it spent then and there for however many bottles of bitter spirits he’ll drown out his own… But he barely gets through the one. It ain’t right, something’s missing. That or the air is just too damn thick in here, feels like being in the smoke again. If this is what he was comin' back to there’s question why he even rushed— something he scowls and scorns himself for as he makes back for his horse, ready to disappear into the Wilds for however long he feels damn well wanting.

He’s nearly to the stables when the lad shows up, out of breath and calling out to him.

…Seems he ran to catch up, having stepped out that saloon for some unrelated aim just as the Rider had been in. How annoying.

You want the real beginnin’? Well sit down, quit yappin’, and I’ll tell ya.

It’s another business day in town; shopkeeps tendin’ their stores for tender, errands bein’ run left and right, weavin’ between the odd horse and wagon when crossin’ the big dirt road… the odd day drinker stumblin’ about, makin’ fool of himself as the only real entertainment you’ll be findin’ outside for free. Town’s name ain’t important to the story. Just that it’s the type not to see much excitement, by power of who owns it. That’s right; this is The Council’s town.

A supply wagon comes draggin’ down that road from direction of the Wilds— nothin’ special about it ‘cept for what it’s carryin’ in the back.

A lad hops out that wagon, his free ride into town. Very lucky for any kinda folks t’be that generous ‘round these parts; Creation County ain’t well known for kindness, more about what you can get outta people.

“Thanks again for the favour, Mister!” That boy waves thanks to the driver second after his boots touch down to the unsettled dust, even gives a tip of his hat. Second after doin’ that, his leather-gloved hand pats over the recent bullet holes pepperin’ the wood sidings.

“Hope trouble doesn’t find you again so soon!”

From the driver he earns just a short two-finger tip back, already flickin’ the reins for his horse to keep pullin’.

“Don’t getch’yaself killed ‘ere, kid.”

“Oh, it’s Squid actu— oookay.” The boy’s correction falls on deaf ears and trottin’ off hooves, but the dismissal does nothing to shake his mood. To him today’s been a good day, and it’s only lookin’ t’get better— so long as he stays quick on his feet t’keep anymore ox carts from rollin’ over him.

His hollered apologies to the one that nearly did are ignored, and the boy’s near hoppin’ out the way of a carriage right behind it. Really oughta look both ways twice before crossin’ a main road; woulda saved him the dash down that narrow alley, as he ain’t lookin’ t’get crushed.

“Creatures yer size should look where they’re goin’.” The lad’s near startled by the voice behind him, meetin’ sights with a slender, crooked figure sittin’ behind a done-up showcart. He can’t quite decide what’s stranger, that the cart’s got “Puppet Show” carved in a scrawl on the side facin' him, or that this being’s got eyesockets only home to single gilt coins. Rather, maybe it’s the green sock they’re wearin’ over one hand— a sock with its own pair'a eyes. When it speaks again, the lad sees the sock move more than the being’s own mouth.

“Big world out there, with a whole lotta bigger boots.”

“Oh howdy there!” Havin’ maybe just seen stranger things before, the boy’s after greetin’ this new face as if he himself ain’t the odd looker either.

“Didn’t mean to intrude, busier out there than it looks!”

Y’only hear the dirt and gravel tread behind him as the stranger—and sock—stay quiet, somethin’ that quickly gets the boy askin’ after his goal.

“Say, d’you know where’d be a good place to find a bounty hunter?”

“That what yer after, son?” The creature speaks, then starts pickin’ at its one handful of claws while the sock starts movin’ ’stead of its lips again.

“Need someone dead, do ya?”

“Oh no, not at all! Just after a conversation; I’m lookin’ to—”

“Then we know just the man.” The creature, in ways both curious and unsettlin’, snickers as the sock speaks for it, reachin’ in the cart to pull up a sloshin’ bottle and leather pouch. The bottle gets tossed to the boy as the creature stands, lumberin’ for the side-door of the business makin’ up the alley’s left wall.

The lad’s got no reason to trust this thing, but just as much in his eyes does he see no reason not to. So he does as he gets told to do; wait in the main room by the back table, after findin’ a good place to hide the bottle. That’s part’s real easy to do when ya can change into a body that floats.

This part of the story’s blurry, somethin’ you’ll just have to take my word happened. Don't know all of what happened, but like a lotta things, I know enough.

Like how sometimes, in life, ya get real lucky. Ya find a coin or whole stack’a cash on the side of the road, ya roll high numbers and pull all aces in a gamble, hit a fella right between the eyes before his fingers find that trigger aimed right for ya… Sometimes luck’s as sheer and dumb as catchin’ a man on a good day— one where he’ll take the pay for a conversation before his next outin’. He’s still tuckin’ that hefty coin inside his coat when he steps out the shadows; even luckier a day that he finds the creature waitin’ on him to be amusin’.

"A squid wants t'hear from little ol' me, ain't that sweet~."

The Pale Rider saunters into the room and slumps down in his seat. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a flask, slippin’ it under his bandana t’take a swig. Now he can't go sayin' he often gets to chat with a creature that more oughta be at sea by his reckonin', though he also ain't the man to go bug-eyed every time he sees somethin' new… rare as those times are startin' to be.

But by comparison, the squid's still new to this strange world, and he's half-stuck stutterin' and awed to find himself landin' his conversation with—

"You're one of the Horsemen! You’re—"

"I know well enough who I am already. Don't waste the time ya got yapping off about it."

"S-sorry, right, I'm just… I didn't expect to… Woah, I hope it ain't a bother to be takin' your time like—"

Death clears his throat before knockin' back another swig, cuttin' the squid off again before it went on a pointless ramble of apologies. He's far too acquainted already with his presence causin' folks to turn nervous, but this here feels different; the little animal's lookin' at the Rider with a kind of reverence, as if he's a man worthy t'be a role model. T'least he doesn't have to keep eyes on its hoverin’ by how it comes to balance along the backin' of the other chair; plenty room for Death to keep his own space, somethin' the squid certainly ain’t about to invite itself in'ta. Easier to be chattin' with someone from a level higher than their muddy boots. The Rider has to stop his eyebrow cockin' up at what his current company's got to say next.

"I don’t suppose you have any stories of your work you wouldn’t mind sharin’? Would love to hear 'em.”

Now there's somethin’ to find scoff-worthy. With a simple wave of his hand a dark mist appears in the air, coalescin’ to form a bolt-action hunting rifle; Harvester. After summonin' a gun cleanin' kit in the same manner he takes the time to disassemble his firearm, hardly glancin' back at his invertebrate visitor.

"Last I checked I ain't some wandering minstrel. You want stories? Find a parish, they got enough tall tales t'last you a week."

Odd how his abrasions get a bit of a laugh out of the critter.

“Oh no, definitely no minstrel, sir. But—" without a word of warnin', the squid flips itself to sit fully—as a boy—in his seat, still with that shine of wonder glitterin' his golden eyes,

"—Never known a preacher to know how the real world works, or how to get the real work done. I’d like to learn!"

The Rider stops mid-clean to lock his amber eyes with his—now humanoid—visitor. By shape and size he looks human enough, though that's an illusion quickly shattered by the boy's skin bein’ a light periwinkle. Neither does it help that his eyes are completely washed by that golden glow, 'cept for slit pupils— and that long plaited hair whips and slithers airborne like a curious serpent. Kid's got a skull mark of his own, printed to the upper part of his face in shade slightly darker than his skin. He keeps smilin' away in Death's silence, by all signs completely oblivious his lil stunt could've startled more violent-prone folk…

At long last, after an uncomfortably long pause, the Rider opens his mouth t‘speak.

"Well, ain't ya full of surprises?" He reassembles Harvester's components in reverse order to how he took them apart and sets the rifle leanin’ ’gainst the table.

"Better listen carefully then, 'cause I don't repeat myself."

Another swig taken from the flask. He taps the container thoughtfully, callin’ his memories back to the surface.

"I was tracking a quarry that wouldn't stay in place. Hardly even remember what the charge was, but it'd been three days and two nights at that point and I was losing my patience. Found their tracks leading down a gorge and followed 'em 'til it opened up again. I saw a graveyard that stretched on for miles and miles; looked like no one's visited in decades, but the tracks led through so I had no choice but t‘go in. Sun was setting and I was gearing up t‘set camp for the night, until..."

He leans forward in his seat, proppin’ his arms on the table.

"The dead began t’rise. Clawing their way outta graves like a swarm of ants, some had all their pieces and some were nothing but walking skeletons animated by whatever unholy spite kept 'em moving. I hunkered down in an old mausoleum and fired at anything that moved. It was endless. Corpses piled up on the ground but they just kept coming. I thought I was a goner 'til the sun came up, and they all crumbled to dust like nothing ever happened."

He takes one final swig and slams the empty flask down on the table.

"Never did catch that slippery bastard..."

The squid—human Squid—listens keen; that the Rider's entertainin’ the request at all is enough to earn the boy's captive audience, but the more the tale unfolds the more enthralled said audience becomes. A mile large graveyard? Reanimatin’ dead as far as the eye can see?? He didn't know much of Creation County, but a man conjurin’ up his own gun from black mist is hardly anythin’ new. What his story entails, however, sounds straight outta folklore. Even if the Rider was the type for tellin’ nonsense, there’s a naivety to his current company.

“Woah. So… you never went back? Found the body? Anythin'?”

To that, the Rider shrugs, noncommittal.

"Tried following the tracks further in. Didn't lead anywhere though, like the ground swallowed 'em up. Could say I was a fool for keeping up the chase, but I wasn't stupid enough to get caught there after sundown a second time. Never heard or seen anything about 'em ever since, and I had bigger fish t’fry. Maybe they got eaten alive, maybe they joined the horde. Either way, ain't my problem 'til I get paid t‘care."

The boy gives a quiet nod of respect for the lost, then a smile to the Rider as if celebratin’ his story’s happy ending— that he lived through it, of course. Proppin' his feet up on the table, Death returns to the task of maintainin' his rifle.

“Thank you kindly for the tale, sir. I know it ain’t the usual thing folks go askin' about you professional types— I ‘preciate the time!”

Death's only got a grunt to give in response, eyes entirely focused on his firearm. His hands meticulously examine every part; cleanin', oilin', polishin', inspectin' every inch for imperfections. If the boy gets to go askin' after things, the Rider's got a point himself to raise.

"You reek of fresh meat, Calamari. What brought you to these parts? We don't cotton well t’tourists."

Skull-marked face dons a sorta blank look at the nickname; to him, it feels a bit like pointin' at a man and callin' him ‘steak served cold.’ But more importantly is the bounty hunter's question and comment, quickly pickin' up the young man’s focus instead.

”Oh, maybe not a tourist… I hope. They don’t much like the type ‘cross the river neither. I’m from the county upstream; previous mentor’s a big time Sheriff and did a bit too good a job bringin' things in order. S’borin' as a pile of dirt back there."

Havin' done most of the work, the Rider checks the barrel of the gun one last time, runnin' his fingers over its length and lookin' down the sight.

"Heard about that one. A little coddling I'd say, but not my turf, not my business."

"Yeah, tell me about it… that’s Da alright." Now that mumbled response breaks them gold eyes away in a short roll; you’d think a man who practically wiped out half the crime rate overnight would be more thrillin’ to mentor under.

"Anyway, heard down here needed plenty of help, so here I came! Hopin' to learn and make a difference.”

The Rider pauses everythin' at the boy's last words before burstin' into a sharp, acidic laughter— one that startles the boy into sittin’ up a little straighter.

"That's real charming, boy. Careful you don't get ahead of yourself; unless you got more tricks than turning into a squid, you ain't gonna survive here long."

A slight laugh slips away from the lad before he can catch it, realizin' he mighta been a bit quick to speak without better choosin' his words.

“Charmin', yeah, heh… S’very wishy-washy when I put it like that.” He pauses for a second, keen eye kept on how thoroughly the Rider inspects his weapon. When he speaks up again it’s a lil more subdued, havin' calmed down a bit from being utterly starstruck.

“…What sort of tricks would you suggest?”

You'd reckon he said the wrong thing, what with how the Rider pauses again with a dangerous narrow of his eyes.

"You come here telling me you wanna wipe these streets clean and you don't even know how t’do it? Sounds like your Sheriff sent you here on a suicide mission if he didn't bother teaching you none. You even know how t‘fire a pistol?"

“I know plenty enough! And no one makes it long anywhere without knowin’ their way around a trigger.” The lad turns defensive to the accusations. His hands come over his side of the table—a brief show of indigo shade-smoke dancin’ under spread fingers—to summon his own firearms: dual handhelds, one a volcanic pistol and the other a colt revolver.

“Made it this far with these alone, so I like my odds just fine. No one sent me anywhere I didn’t want to be… and I can do more than take care of the odd trouble on the road and half-drunk purse snatchers. I wanna help, do the big things that need doin’. I just ain’t dumb enough to think I can do it alone— without maybe a lesson or two first.”

You can’t accuse this boy of not havin’ moxie, even if he might lack the tact. His grinnin’ turns impish, lookin’ up from under the brim of his hat with the kinda face just goadin’ a feller t’prove him wrong… or punch him.

“I know y’ain’t just good for insultin’ a man who ain’t here, and over-polishin’ your gun~.”

The Rider scoffs sharp, unimpressed with the squid's bravado, and rises up from his chair. He reaches behind himself to stick Harvester onto his back. Somehow it stays glued to his coat even if he’s got no harness or holster to put it in.

"Watch your tone, boy. We get mouthy lil' varmints just like you coming here every year hoping t’make a name for themselves. You wanna join them? Be my guest, but I ain't looking for an errand boy t’run between my legs all day and waste my time."

Seems the lad‘s comment mighta bit’n’chewed whatever time that gilt bought him, or the Rider’s rates’re so high that’s all he’s afforded anyhow. Either way, Death’s coat swishes behind him as he turns and starts makin‘ his way to the door.

Now of course that’s disappointin’ t’hear for the boy, then again he’s aimin’ a bit high right out the gate. There’s plenty other hunters to try his luck with; one of the esteemed Four was hardly gonna have a snowball’s chance in Hell. And the Pale Rider—! That man really ain’t any sorta joke or exaggerated folk story. Hell, y’ask the lad and he’d tell ya all about how Death’s even more impressive in person.

…Among other things~.

“W-wait, I—!”

He’s scramblin’ to stand with a bit of a sudden start, his guns dismissin’ before they might kiss the floor.

“I-I came off a bit strong, didn’t mean any offence by it. But I ain’t here for a name— don’t need one, don’t even have one.”

Lad’s a fast learner at least; If he’s got the Rider’s attention at all right now, even if in more a courtesy than really listenin’, no point wastin’ precious seconds on stuff he wouldn’t care t’hear. So the boy shakes his head quick, gettin’ rid of his current thoughts to say what he actually needs heard.

“Thank you kindly for your time and ear— it’s a pleasure meetin' a legend.

And… If you’re still around town and got the time to spare, wouldn’t mind meeting you out back… for whatever, ’m not really picky.”

The Rider didn’t once glance back when the squid launched into apologies and gratitudes, the old wooden floor creakin’ on under the weight of his boots as he neared the exit. But just as his hand turns the knob and opens the door he’s made t’freeze. Y’almost ought t’fear how he turns around ever so slightly, unsure if he heard the other man's words right.

"...Pardon?"

“W-well you… you know…”

Now… Christ and Creator, whichever, both— didn’t matter who but by Gods, this young man… No idea why he went through with sayin’ it. If he didn’t embarrass himself already this surely sealed it. But the words keep pourin’ out now that the dam’s open, and adrenaline’s makin’ it real hard to think proper.

“Y’don’t exactly seem the type to get a drink with anyone, a-and I’ve already talked your ear off— am talkin' your ear off…”

So he gets thinkin’ maybe a joke will help; play it off, make light of it— surely that’ll save his ass.

“M-mouth’s good for more than talking, heh heh…”

Nope. ’Course it doesn’t. Blippin’ away from the whole conversation sounds mighty fuckin’ nice right about now; too bad he needs the other form to do it, which he can’t think straight enough to call on. The skull mark’s almost turnin’ a deep purple with the bloodrush colourin’ his face.

The Rider stands in the doorway an uncomfortably long amount of time before slowly turnin’ back t’face the tragedy, completely silent. It's hard to tell what he's thinkin’ at the best’a times— what with the bandana coverin’ most of his face. Now if Squid was lookin’ closely he might’a spotted them burnin’ eyes scannin’ him from head to toe, like the man might be considerin’ his options, but it coulda been a trick of the light just the same. That, and no way the boy met the Rider’s stare for long when he turned around; he’s lookin’ down to hide under the brim of his own hat. That gaze on him like that… intense don’t even begin to describe…

"If this is some poor excuse at telling a joke, I ain't following."

“Y-yeah… yyyyeah… Not my best. It’s probably nasty back there anyway, and y’don’t know me, and—… I’m just—” the boy looks up to offer a polite smile, still flustered but pushin’ through it with all the guts he’s got, “I’m just gonna go now. Pretend I didn’t say—

…S’nice to meet you, sir.”

That last part needed t’be pushed out as he turned around, gunnin’ ta walk off and find a lone, dark corner for screamin’ into.

“Find me if you want, pretend I ain’t here if y’don’t. Either way, hope it’s a good day out there.”

And the Rider stood by the doorway, lettin’ the boy ramble to his heart's content, furrowin' his brows the more he talked on before scurryin' away.

"...Right."

…Now here’s where a funny lil thing happens; the Rider’s eyes turn slightly towards one of the windows—conveniently lookin’ out to the back of the establishment—before his whole body jerks back and slams the open door shut behind him.

"Spent too much time here. Got places to be."

There ain’t anyone there but himself t’be mutterin’ to, but his timbre’s rattlin’ all the same. The Rider adjusts his coat and shakes his head as he starts walkin' off towards his next destination.

It’s the usual dusty day in town, the typical less than visually trustworthy types clutterin’ the saloon in mid-day drink, cards, and hushed conversations. Not more busy a day, nor any less business neither. About the only thing worth noting, if you’re the type to care, is the particulars of the clientele.

Demons ain’t the most common to visit this town but a few of ‘em rode in just earlier today. They don’t seem interested in startin’ nothin’, just the “don’t bother us and we don’t bother you” kind of these folk. There's one big ugly brute sittin’ at the farthest back table, flickin’ the point of his knife at loose splinters of the wood, a little plate of picked clean bones off to the side next to a quarter-full bottle of whiskey. It ain’t quite payin’ attention to the footfalls around the room, till one pair stops just shy of in its sightline. Some human lookin' boy —if not for oddly bluish/purple hues to skin and hair— carefully tryin’ to get at its attention with polite approach.

“Whatcha want, shrimp?”

“Squid actually, thas what they call me!” Now this boy’s got to have a screw loose or somethin’, by how he don’t even flinch at neither the insult nor the way it crackled in the Flamebrute’s throat. He’s still goin’ after it like he’s greetin’ a gentleman.

“Sorry to bug, but you’re at the Horseman’s usual table. Ya mind changing spots?”

The demon laughs, spittin’ out thick smoke and sparks from a gullet like cigar’s smolderin’, then grabs the lad by the shirt-front and pulls him uncomfortably close. Rest of its kin look over at the thud of this one’s knife stabbin’ into the wood, embeddin’ in a deep ugly knick.

“An’ which ‘orseman be affiliatin’ with a shrimp like you?”

Before an answer can be given, the saloon goes grave silent with the bang of the doors bein’ kicked open. The blood meridian sun outside casts the man’s silhouette in a long darkness, his usually slender shadow made wider with the body of a Hellion beast dragged by the horns behind him. All eyes are on —but half-averted from— the Pale Rider as his heavy boots knock against the creaking wood, passin’ by all those faces until he stops, stock still, at that table where the boy’s still bein’ held by the Hellborn bastard.

“…Told you t’always have my spot cleared when I was back, boy.”

Now, the Rider’s annoyed growlin’ —a pickaxe drag ‘gainst cobblestone gravel— might’ve been directed at the strange lad, but the blaze of his amber eyes burn holes in the demon’s soul. Despite bein’ in the grip of a much larger, much meaner lookin' bully —both he and it cast in the shadow of Death himself— Squid turns to the Rider with the flash of a bright smile.

“Yep, in progress Sir!”

The lowlife’s fast to get up and clear the table, releasin’ the lad who gets right to dustin’ off dirt and crumbs from its surface like he wasn’t just manhandled under threat. When the demon’s backed-off to a distance the Rider feels good enough, his hellfire glare finally releases the scum of his ire, and those old boots go back to stalkin’ through the back threshold— where he’s off gettin' his pay.

That bastard left the knife lodged in the table, but neither it nor any of its kin dared step up and take it out. The boy didn’t go tryin’ to pull it neither, just waited patiently for the hunter’s return like some good pup. The air turns cold again when the Reaper returns, sittin’ right down with his boots kicked up and tellin’ the boy t’get him a double. His heel’s just shy of kissin’ the knife’s hilt— Death sees no reason to bother a blade planted out his way. The lad struts on back with the whiskey, a chair, and even brings a bottle of his own… some mud-colored sweet drink the Rider can’t help scoffin’ at.

They have their drinks and share low chatter, then the two of ‘em leave in tow; more words spoken out the smaller of the pair, but the Rider don’t seem too bothered gettin’ his ear bent. Eventually, that band of demons also gets to takin’ their leave— without the knife. Saloon’s gettin’ emptier by the patron, and no one else’s got the balls to try for it either.

Unlike the barhand, but that ain’t so much a matter of balls as it is their job to keep things tidy. They tried all their little arms could to yank it out after bar hours, but that shit's lodged deep… last I recall, that knife’s still there to this day.

The newest batch the Nephilim had taken captive -survivors of their pillage, the unlucky ones- were about as plain and unimaginative Death believed they could get; if these creatures were instead amorphous masses of sentient flesh that’d have been more interesting. Bipedal, only 2 arms unadorned of any claws or scales, skin tones all rather similar, no horns, tails or extra teeth... Other than the subtle differences in their terrored faces and general body shapes -such vague details he did not care to account- there might as well have been no distinction between them. Perfect blank canvases, he supposed, but doubtful any would be worth the time. The lesser humanoids all cried and bleated over each other in pleas and begs for mercy, that should they be the loudest or most pitiable perhaps their powerful and imposing captors would grant them freedom. Pathetic.

At least even the most lesser of demons would try to bite, and while Death’s brothers and sisters found it amusing, if he had to endure one more of these things throwing itself at his feet -mewling shrill and eyes brimmed with tears- he just knew he’d get a headache. Even their curses were dull, though at least the ones who threw them had the slightest spark of spirit. As they were all rounded and made to drag their own bare feet forward with either sharp shoves or sharper blades at their back, there was one that stood out in the smallest way possible. The Nephilim had spared one perhaps two dozen overall, yet despite the incessant chorus of amalgamate whining, this one had yet to add voice to the choir. Even the most skittish and doe-eyed among them occasionally whimpered; what caught Death’s eye the most -noticed only by him, as the others were far too busy laughing and goading the more reactionary pests- was how flatly this particular creature regarded them… Death might’ve missed it himself if he wasn’t so observant in his boredom.

It never glared or challenged as it was led, demeaned, or shoved— only seemed to hiss to itself if prolongedly touched. Death very well could have lost sight of it in the crowd if it at any point broke its act; there was truly something so unremarkable about these things. He’d completely tuned out as Absalom roared the usual spiel, informing their prisoners of their ill fate to serve as glorified slaves and servants until they either keeled over or failed to perform adequately. No change in the silent one, nothing else of note either. If he could find its eyes perhaps he’d have more to read into, but it had not once as much as looked up past the eyeline of its own species. The rising cheer of his brethren brought the Reaper back to the present, only needing to catch sight of four of his kin dragging forward a rattling crate to deduce what he’d missed.

“This is a waste of time,” his rasp grumbled aloud for only one pair of ears to hear over the roaring— and heard he was.

“Always the spoilsport, brother!” Absalom boomed beside him, a playful backhanded tap only slightly jostling Death’s bared shoulder despite the innate force the First put into all his gestures.

“It’s no harm to have a bit of fun once in a while!”

Death rolled his burning eyes, as always the only one unamused by these garish distractions. His kin were about done planting spears at the mouths exiting the chasm, the rest finding comfortable positions on higher levels in the stone walls encircling the captives and the mouth of the crate -loosely outlining their wide arena- when Absalom leaned in slightly, his usually boisterous baritone hushed as best he could or cared to.

“Besides, don’t deny you’re curious to know which ones have any merit.”

This was true, and the narrowest of smirks touched his hidden lips as Death crossed his arms over his chest. At least there was something to be gained from the bloodsport, and though he doubted it would happen he was ready to be pleasantly surprised. Chanting thundered, feet and polearms banging against the stone ground in a unified rhythm, and finally the beast was released from the crate. A Hellbeast tore forward on four reinforced wolf-like paws, mouth splitting wide open down the middle to reveal row after row of serrated teeth in a spine-chilling roar. Its three whipping tails lashed at the air like hungry tentacles, soon finding ankle, waist, and neck of three rather unfortunate captives the beast passed in its blood-starved charge. These three were in air before they had the chance to breathe— one died on impact of the lashing tail, snapping the bones in its neck from the momentum alone; the second -trapped at the waist- was flung up and forward to land impaled on the Nephilim’s blocking spear; and the third -whisked off its feet by the ankle and then slammed back into ground, winded and heel visibly twisted but otherwise unharmed- did not outlive its peers for long as its body was soon feed for those razor fangs. Things were not looking promising. The other survivors scrambled, completely disorganized, some making for the walls in effort to attempt the climb and others dashing madly forward and away from the beast, seeming to forget the spears. Rats scurrying in a cage. The beast targeted first the rats running for the entrance, fully swallowing one whole before its furred body skid against the dirt, kicking up so much dust as it slammed in the barrier of polearms. It scrambled back to its feet, clumsily regaining its footing among splinters of broken spearheads, scattering them wildly as it charged again. It had no interest in escaping, all it cared for was the hunt and then the feast. The Nephilim tasked at that end of the chasm planted new spears to replenish the barrier, visibly laughing at the smear of gore left behind by the beast’s weight pulverizing a most unfortunate rat in its impact with the ground. Their bodies were incredibly frail, flesh far too soft to not split from barely jagged stones underfoot. From the bellows his kin cheered at the carnage they might not even intervene until the beast had found its fill, and it would hardly be a waste.

Death’s attention was pulled from the hellborn mutt as he detected movement nearer the side with the impacted barrier; seems the little one that had earlier caught his eye yet lived. Even from the higher ground he spectated, the Reaper could count the scrapes marking its body and the snapped twigs caught in its stringy hair. Given how it slinked from behind the corpse of a dried-up and naked tree -still standing as if to spite the Universe- it was safe to assume it had climbed the moment the beast was unleashed. Smart, but why come down now? If it was planning to escape, even if it made it past the spears there were two of Death’s kin just behind that barrier that looked all too eager to get in on the action. Overzealous newbloods… But no, the unremarkable humanoid stopped its light-footed sprint about a foot from the polearms, rather its target was the nearest splintered spearhead that was still reasonably sharp.

Death found his curiosity piqued, now watching the violence with great interest.

“What’s that rat think it’s doing with my spear?”

“Finally got a fighter! Wanna bet it gets torn to shreds?”

“I’ll wager it’ll trip over its own trembling legs!”

If the brave fool could hear -or understand- what the Nephilim were getting rowdy about, it certainly didn’t show it in a way Death could discern. If anything it steeled its grip on the broken spear’s wooden shaft, though with the blade pointed back as if an assassin’s dagger. It waited until the beast tired of clawing at the rock walls -attempting to reach the rats that didn’t lose footing in their scurry to higher ground- and turn to notice there was still a snack at its level. As it lunged in a headlong sprint, much like an enraged bull to a crimson cape, the emboldened weakling shifted on its feet -seeming to psyche itself up for whatever it was about to do- and mirrored the charge.

Death lightly frowned; the lesser being had no strategy, no experience to its footwork, it wasn’t even holding the spear in a way that made any sense, unless—

It waited until it was so close the Hellbeast had prepared a pounce, giving just barely enough space between its open and bloodied jaws with head reeled back, for the smaller creature to suddenly drop both feet forward and slide right to the monster’s underbelly. The horde all lost sight of the rat as it disappeared under the beast, no sign of it emerging from the other side even as the hound continued its run forward for several paces. Likely for the better, as the hound’s tails were lashing more violently than before; if it slid all the way past the hind paws it very well would have been immediately rended into quarters. That it vanished without trace was perplexing, but then the hound began to howl. It roared and bellowed, wails of agony accompanied by violently throws of its own body against the rock wall. It reared onto its hind legs long enough for Death to catch sight of the smaller creature clinging to the hellbeast’s mane-like underfur, plunging the spear head over and over into the underbelly in a reckless flurry of stabbings. It was hard to catch over the dying monster’s cries if it’s killer had a war cry of its own, but when the beast finally succumbed on its back to massive blood loss across near a hundred injuries, Death saw how the survivor’s shoulders heaved for breath. There was an aura of wrath radiating from its tremors, backed by how it chose to start wildly stabbing again despite clearly having won. It continued much like a mad dog even as the others of its kind climbed down from their perches, one being so bold as to try approaching the massive carcass. Likely to try returning its peer to their senses, Death felt it safe to assume, though the effort was nearly met with a spear to the gut as the frenzied creature lashed out from being touched. It was awarded quite the wide berth from its kind from there, allowing it the room it sought to breathe.

“Looks like we found you a champion after all!” Absalom laughed almost in surprise, clearly this outcome was not one he expected.

“Too bad the beast was only a fledgling, but some promise is better than none!”

“Perhaps this wasn’t such a waste of time after all.” Death felt himself smile under his own war mask, indeed pleasantly surprised after all. When his brethren began jumping back into the chasm, weapons brandished to the one still wielding the broken spear, the creature had calmed enough to have returned to its earlier demeanour. It showed no fight or fear at all before their captors, embedding the blade deep in the beast’s chest before rising slowly to its feet with hands raised. Death joined the horde in the chasm with a massive bound from his vantage point, hardly at all shaken as his feet found the ground below in little time. Absalom was not far behind, and one by one their kin stepped to the side as both Eldests approached the star of the show.

“You’re rather brave for your kind, whatever you are.” There were chuckles in the group as the Reaper addressed the creature that barely reached his chest if it stood up straight. Whether in deference or defiance, it hardly mattered which, the creature refused to meet his eyes.

“What do they call you?”

The creature only shrugged. Shrugged!

“Speak, wretch!” A voice barked from the crowd. Death narrowed his eyes sharply, and it seemed to get the message from feeling his hot stare alone.

“…does it matter?” So it could speak. It’s voice croaked from its mouth as if forced, even if the words were barely audible in the first place.

“A cur should know when it is summoned,” Absalom spoke from over Death’s shoulder, waving a large hand for the other’s to be rounded up, that the horde may begin to move on from here. Another blasted shrug.

“Doesn’t matter.” It emphasized its words carefully, to not sound as if repeating itself.

“I’ll answer to anything you choose.”

“If Death asks for your name he’ll bloody well have it!” A more easily irritable individual chimed from the Nephilim’s ranks, but Death raised a hand in sign that it was not necessary.