#marbleboa

Also how is this so great for a lock screen it's like !!!! so perfect. Ack i'm in love with this. Gushing for days in the read more so as not to be weird about it

Just as Damian marks himself with penitent blows from the lash, re-opening scarred skin with fresh streams of blood, Tardif indulges in a litany of tattoos. The scrawling black engravings that line the bounty hunter’s body are nothing so high and mighty as his companion's sacrifice of flesh, but when the price of a quarry is high and the danger even higher, the deviant recluse inks his tanned skin with a lesson from every successful mission. An artwork of his precious widowmaker is immortalized down the length of his dominant arm. Both he and his axe have severed countless lives from their mortal coils, man and steel swinging together as one -- and as such, it was only fitting that it’s image should hold considerable size and stake over his limbs. Likewise, his other trademark weapons are scattered down his sleeve, each with bold, black outlines to match the state of his heart, daring and iron-clad, an extension of his will. Inked knots of rope wind around his wrists like shackles, his trusty grappling hook as unforgiving as his own infallible hands when they squeeze around a delicate throat. Feathers and birds of prey span the breadth of his shoulders, carrying him on swift wings, watching his back when he cannot, mirroring the eagle-eyed helmet affixed to his brow, always scouting ahead. A spiderweb encircles his elbow in mesmerizing sutures of silk, reminiscent of the sticky nests of 8-legged hells he'd cleared of pestilence, orphaning the caves of their oversized arachnid masters for one more week before another lot comes to take their place. A skull and crossbones are permanently etched just under the ridge of Tardif’s collarbone. Death is all he knows, all he is and all he will ever be. A textbook rendition of a human heart lies suspend in a jar just below it. Humility is lethal, more potent than any poison he’s been gouged with in the past. Better to bottle it up and let confidence take the stage for all the insufferable ilk sentimentality has brought upon him.

A detailed portrait of a wolf’s head takes the expanse of his right pectoral muscle, it's bared fangs just as fierce as the bite scar the toilsome beast left on him in a final act of defiance before he finally put the alpha male down, the ensuing pack dispersing into the woods to avoid being slain in return.

As fate would have it (if you believe in such things, which Tardif does not), less than a day later the huntsman is chosen for the next expedition, accompanied by Boudica, Alhazred, and Barristan. Their mission lies within the ruins, to purge the desolate catacombs of their haunting apparitions and return peace to the cursed, stonework halls.

Their group fairs well enough in battle. The occultist weakens their prey while the retired man-at-arms endures the brunt of enemy attacks, creating an opening for the other two warriors to strike.

Boudica is a wildling, her inciting cries of victory piercing just as loudly as her weapon as she cuts down wave after wave of vile corruption, be it human or otherwise.

Tardif understands her ethos the most, how she feels at home in the heat of battle, though her superstitions of the undead are borderline childish. The woman cowers at the wind, claiming they are whispers of Hel, shuddering whenever reanimated bones lash out at her from the front lines. Alhazred defends the hellion’s beliefs, saying that she was right to fear what lurks in the dark, having wielded such powers himself, and that Tardif wouldn’t be so quick to cast insults if he knew what awaited him on the otherside.

Tardif isn't convinced by their gibberish, offering a speculative grunt as he hacks through another supposed, “all-powerful entity,” with ease. This self-imposed sedition from the group wins him no loyalties (and to their credit, Tardif would likely abandon his party members if it better served him to), but his prowess is unmistakable, enough to earn him a collective respect amongst his peers, albeit a fearful one.

Just so, his companions (if you could even call them that) remain wary of him, growing ever-more suspicious of the bounty hunter’s muted speech and his odd, obsessive behavior and as such, keep their distance – precisely how he wants them to. The old war vet in particular keeps his trained eye on him like one would a fox in a hen house, a shepherd watching over his flock.

The most the bounty hunter gets for this thankless venture is a crack in his axeblade, having cleaved through one too many possessed gargoyles, their concrete flesh taking a toll on his prized, polished steel. Tardif finds himself running a gloved hand over the weapon's snaggle-toothed injury, resolving to repair it bright and early the following morning when they return.

—----

Tardif is up with the sun, already crossing the vacant square to visit the blacksmith when he passes by the Abbey. Normally, he wouldn't spare the religious institution a second glance, but there is something different about it’s preachy, steepled fixtures today.

Visitors garbed in tattered clothes and iron shackles ascend the stairs, on a noble homage of divinity no doubt. Whoever these newcomers are, they are sorely underdressed for it being the middle of winter, their bare feet treading through the dusting of snow and ice on the ground.

Tardif wonders if it's just the stark contrast that pulls his attention, the bright white of his cowl and the red jewels of blood, but there's something about the way this particular man moves, how he carries himself that sets him apart from the others clad in the same miserable garb.

The huntsman is intrigued by this pious stranger, allured by his harbinger appearance, but shakes his head to clear himself of such fickle delusions.

His priorities lie elsewhere, in restoring his most trusted weapon back to it’s prime. He continues on his way to do precisely that, smelting and chiseling away at the imperfect crack in his blade until it is made whole once more.

Finished, Tardif holds up the born-again axe, turning the weapon around by it's hilt, illuminated by the dim light of the furnace. It’s satisfactory work, but he must’ve taken one too many swings to it with the hammer, inhaled too much smoke because he mistakes the loud ringing in his ears for the chants of an angel, recalling those damn missionaries outside of the church.

When Tardif dreams that night, he dreams of doves. Their pure white feathers frail against the patter of rain falling from the sky, fluttering about the hollow darkness of a cold and distant grave. He stands before a memorial statue of a holy mother crying tears of blood, the innocent birds suddenly bright red and broken at his feet.

—------

The next day, Tardif receives word that the man's name is Damian, that he's part of a new religious faction of flagellants that have come at the behest of the Holy Order of Light to help aid their cause.

Tardif only knows of this because he and Damian have been selected to go on an expedition together, along with Junia and Reynauld.

The bounty hunter meets up with the other three members outside of the cemetery gates, a wallflower fading into the overgrown backdrop polyps and deathcaps, quietly aloof as ever.

He observes Damian being cordial, a broken smile permanently etched on his face as he exchanges introductions with his band of spiritual kindred.

Tardif is amused by Reynauld's standoffish reception of the flagellant’s rallying solidarity. Zealous preaching was part of the moral high ground schtick the knight usually put on for them and now he had to compete with another rival extremist for the title of the most didactic bastard in existence.

Junia returns Damian’s cracked smile, gladly accepting his prayers and good graces, too often in the company of sad, stoic men.

The smirk is wiped off of Tardif's face when he realizes Damian has saved him for last, astute of his presence the entire time. There's something about that damned missing tooth that stirs the rabble in the huntsman’s stomach, cracked glass of nightmares past and present that are better left deserted, locked in a box with no key.

This man with his torn clothes and devout scars advances to the armored predator lurking in the vines with no amount of fear, reaching for Tardif's crossed arms so that he can clasp gloved hands between his own.

The mercenary can’t believe the scrupulous fool would be stupid enough to bless him, certainly no one else has ever tried such a stunt before, not that the Light above would waste it’s most cherished gifts on a scoundrel like him, even if invoked.

"Please accept this sacrament, my humble gift to you,” Damain begins solemnly, head bowed, “Allow my flesh to free you from the burden of pain so that it may strengthen my own resolve. May the Light bless you as it has blessed me with indefatigable purpose for I am Damian, a servant and forbearer of –"

Tardif doesn't wait for him to finish the lengthy sermon, tugging himself free from the imposing evangelism, pushing past the churchy lot because he really needs to kill something – now – and if he fails to find a putrid mushroom zombie to split in half, his axe is going to land itself in their bigoted skulls instead.

The fuming bounty hunter slams open the creaky iron gates, treading into the horizon of broken tombstones and looted cadavers alone.

"Wait! Tardif!" Julia calls after him, turning to Reynauld for guidance.

"Perhaps, it's best that we get going," the knight says, taking his place at the helm.

Damian fills the spot behind him followed by Junia.

"Tardif is a most troubled soul, is he not," the flagellant asks, his words heralded towards the warrior nun behind him.

Junia bites her lip. Talking about Tardif when he was present was a risk in itself, but talking about him while he was missing because he stormed off in a fit of rage was somehow worse.

"He is, yes," she whispers honestly, sweeping her eyes along the jagged hedges should the scoundrel suddenly ambush her, "I believe he possesses a good heart, one he's chosen to bury 6 feet under in darkness. I pray that his soul may one day be saved.”

"A worthy charge," Damian says, grinning to himself, “I felt a calling from him.”

Reynauld shushes them, hearing the foamy howls of rabid wolves.

“This way,” the knight says, leading them onward to the scuffle ahead.

The group finds Tardif outnumbered, drenched in layers of blight, the shrouds of pollen so thick that they can no longer distinguish friend from foe.

Junia coughs, shielding her weeping sinuses and even Reynauld feels faint despite the protective helmet masking his breaths from the blossoms of sickness.

Tardif is impervious to the situation, too unhinged to care that he's teetering on the brink. He lands another critical blow, cleaving through layers of fungi, the infected creatures succumbing to his mark. By the end of it, the reckless bounty hunter is still alive, rapping on death's door.

Reynauld and Junia are both stunned, but Damian is unfettered, clapping the man on the shoulder, a gesture much too personal for the bounty hunter.

"By the Light above, you are redeemed," Damian sings, summoning the latent powers in his blood to heal Tardif's wounds. The man sulks away from the unwelcomed touch as if he didn't feel the pulse of Damian's life force fill him, saving him from the gallows.

At first, Damian ponders if he's said something wrong, offensive maybe, but after careful consideration he concludes that the gruff man must be suffering from a chronic bout of shyness.

"Our chances of survival increase if we stick together, bounty hunter," the knight reminds him with a stern, even tone.

Tardif gives him the finger and retreats to the end of the line to stand behind the recovering vestal, catching her shoulder when she sways on her feet.

They're camping now, Reynauld foraging for food and torches while Junia and Damian sit by the fire and Tardif makes himself scarce.

The nun giggles modestly at Damian’s insightful hobbies, the flagellant depicting the morose backstory behind each one of his many scars, relating them to the tales and verses found in the holy scriptures, and while the subject matter may be off-putting to some, Junia doesn’t mind it so much. Whatever grim fixations Damian has, he makes up for it with dedication and enthusiasm.

The vestal catches sight of Tardif, his lurching shadow mucking about along the tree line, keeping an eye on the perimeter no doubt, his attention set on the weald beyond. Junia has traveled alongside the bounty hunter long enough to be made aware of his misanthropic tendencies. Most times she’s content to leave him to his own devices, but Light help her, she wants to extend an olive branch and at least offer him the opportunity to join in on their festivities. Perhaps with enough persuasion, she could goad him into being more social.

"Oh Tardif," she harks, beckoning him over with a gloved hand, "why don't you join us by the fire. You must be chilled to the bone! Come, you must hear Damian's tale of the Light. He tells it so well!"

Tardif bristles at the mention of his name. He can feel their eyes on him, waiting expectantly for an answer. He hesitates just a fraction, surprised that anyone would even desire his company, but chooses to ignore her pleas, sinking into the undulating fungus to escape.

Junia scowls, the smile falling from her lips. In a moment of weakness, she sighs, speaking her inner thoughts aloud, "What a pitiful man. He carries such a heavy burden of loneliness. I feel sorry for him."

At her words, a revelation appears before Damian's mind's eye. So that's what it was! The flagellant could easily cure such trifles. It was his duty after all.

"Wait here, I will retrieve him," Damian declares, already heading into the woods after the brooding figure, Junia attempting to call him back because she knows such demonstrations of force are bound to end very, very badly.

Just then, Reynauld returns from his own trek in the woods, peering across the flame-lit clearing, taking note of those who are absent, perplexed that even Damian would leave the gentle vestal's side unattended.

"Junia, where is everyone," the swordsman asks, a hint of concern slipping into his admonishing tone.

Junia explains the situation as best she can, albeit awkwardly, worriedly.

At this, the knight crusader kneels down beside his comrade, his armor making a resounding "clank" against the wooden stump she resides on.

"Fret not," he declares, trying to ease the girl's troubled mind with a reassuring hand on her shoulder, "I will go in after them.”

Junia’s uncertain expression worsens into a grimace. She’s seen just how persistent Damian could be in battle and how equally stubborn Tardif was, but that was when the two warriors were pitted against a common enemy. Who's to say what will happen when their skills are suddenly directed at each other? She fears Reynauld is already too late.

—------

Damian doesn't hide his approach as he cards through the knobby, naked branches, uninhibited by the splintering underbrush. His footfalls are loud and tenacious, giving no heed to the silent dangers lurking within the blight-infested wilderness.

Tardif notices the break in silence immediately, sensing someone stalking his rear, smelling the coppery tang of blood in the air.

The bounty hunter turns to confront his attacker, just barely missing Damian's throat thanks to that ridiculous iron collar of his. The Flagellant grins at him with glee, ecstatic that a faint streak of blood has begun to pour out from his skin.

"Such good reflexes," the flagellant praises, subconsciously leaning into the axe blade like the masochistic bastard he is. "Did you not hear Miss Junia? She requests your presence."

Tardif grunts distastefully, lowering his weapon.

"Come, she is waiting,” Damian reiterates with an urgency, as if the woman were in utter peril, “I cannot return empty handed."

The bounty hunter turns his back on the hooded man, treading deeper into the chartreuse jungle, opposite of where he's being told to go.

Damian makes the mistake of trying to stop him, crimson hands reaching out to drag the surly brigand back to camp.

Tardif responds by tackling the other male to the ground below.

"Bloody flagellant," the bounty hunter grumbles as he pins the other down, leveraging a forearm against his iron collar, and in turn, the fool's windpipe.

Damian laughs with unabashed merriment.

"You spoke, you spoke," says the sing-songy voice, "Perhaps the Light, in all it's infinite glory, will allow me to partake in such miracles again. What say you to joining us or shall I procure you in the name of the greater good," the flagellant asks with a flashy grin and a cocky tilt of his head.

Tardif was equipped with first-hand knowledge of Damian’s tactics and while the ashen priest had the potential to be fatal, the bounty hunter merely grunts indignantly, as if a pale, anemic ghost couldn't possibly hope to subdue him.

"I see, so that is your answer," Damian drawls, clearly plotting something.

Maybe it was just Tardif’s sleep-deprived mind playing tricks, but even amongst the unbridled darkness, he swears he sees Damian’s eyes sparkle from under his hood. There's a gut feeling telling him that the holy man is permitting this victory, letting the rogue assume control over their interactions because it’s where the hotheaded mercenary feels the most comfortable and the bounty hunter is not sure if he likes that or not. Tardif feels a sharpened blade sneak under the scales of his chainmail, pressed dangerously close to the tendons in his axe-wielding arm.

Dammit to hell. The flagellant must’ve commandeered one of Tardif's knives during their tumble, turning it against him.

"If you come willingly, I will spare you this grievous injury. Even if you refuse, I promise to stay at your bedside until you recover, but I wonder if you could survive that long without the use of your arm, not to mention the leeches," he says between broken teeth.

"Fine," Tardif acquiesces, mumbling begrudgingly under his breath.

Tardif removes the bulk of his weight from Damian, letting the other man get to his feet.

Damian twirls the stolen knife in his hand with a flourish, a practiced maneuver that hinted at his proficiency with such blood-letting tools. Should Tardif go back on his word, he could certainly make him regret it. Done with his peacocking, the flagellant holds the blade’s handle outward, waiting for the other man to retrieve what was rightfully his in a humble peace offering.

Tardif yanks the knife back with more force than necessary, nicking the Holy man with the tip of the blade just as the flagellant had expected him to, a small satisfying cut gracing his palm.

Tardif snarls. He's getting tired of playing right into Damian's hands.

"Get on wit it, then, 'fore I go changin' my mind," Tardif growls, jerking his head in the direction of camp.

"As you wish," Damian says with a haughty bow, leading the way as a scoffing Tardif trails behind him.

They meet Reynauld midway there, both sides surprised to see the other, but for various reasons neither prefers to disclose. They exchange no words as they rendezvous with Junia.

Tardif finds that being huddled around the bonfire by a bunch of holier-than-thou churchgoers is not a wholly unpleasant experience. The bounty hunter remains aloof, arms crossed as he merely listens to them recount past religious achievements, deflects their attempts at small talk, refusing to participate in revelry.

He’s practically nodding off in his seat when Damain shoves him off completely, a gear-clad back colliding against the grass, sorely undignified. With a keen rage in his eye, the bounty hunter chases the giddy flagellant around the camp, trying to lop off his head much to Reynauld’s frustration and Junia’s distress.

Tardif has to stifle his humors with an ensuing grunt, lest he get caught laughing at Damian’s playfulness. The holy man falls forward with the off-kilter speed of his momentum, his ankles lassoed. Tardif leaps on the flagellant’s back before he even hits the ground, hog tying the rest of him into an obedient prize, making sure the rope is uncomfortably taut, doubling the number of knots to ensure their hold.

Damian is lifted up with ease, Tardif dropping his good for nothing carcass down by the fire, using his prostrated body as a stool, ignoring the other unoccupied logs that could support his weight instead. Judging by hooded man’s muffled giggles throughout the ordeal, this belittling demonstration didn’t account for punishment in the slightest.

—------

Damian is visiting the tavern, a light-hearted game of cards strewn atop a large circular table filled shoulder to shoulder with his precious comrades. The flagellant is not participating in the swill of drink himself, nor the vice of gambling, but decides to keep the others company while they engage in their self-medicated stress relief.

Tardif is poised at the far corner of the bar, putting as much distance between them as he can get, flicking his gaze over to the rowdy, red-faced bunch as he brandishes his pint of beer. Was there no end to the holy man forcibly inserting himself into other people’s business?

Some members of their group may find Damian’s antics to be enjoyable, but others find it oppressive and irksome, namely Tardif. The flagellant shows no inkling of discontinuing his jovial behavior despite the bounty hunter’s unwavering cold shoulder. If anything, Damian is spurred on by the brute’s avoidance and creative deterrents. Tardif can’t believe he might have considered liking the man, too deceived by those first-sight impressions to realize the truth.

Damian steals a glance his way and Tardif doesn't tarry, the scruffy man finishing his drink quickly and efficiently before taking his leave.

His comrades whistle provocatively, slurring their jeers as the watch Damian rise from his seat to follow close behind him.

There's a waning moon hanging in the night sky as the fanatic steps outside into the wet cobblestone road, retracing Tardif's steps.

The bounty hunter turns down the alleyway, hoping to lose the troublesome tail dogging his heels and Damain pursues him into the uninviting murk, heedless of the precariousness of being trapped inside a narrow passageway with a professional killer.

Never one to stay out in the open, Tardif vanishes from sight, faded into the cluttered darkness of crates and barrels lining the nearby buildings. The flagellant twists his head around, looking for any signs of a spear-head helmet and notorious hunting gear, but finds none.

He only has a moment to mourn the loss before a shadowy figure springs forth out of nowhere, the taller man now cornered, the scars on his back pressed against the strong outer wall of the sanitarium, a knife to his throat. Damian turns into the threat, grinning all the while.

Tardif is starting to get the impression that the flagellant is instigating these skirmishes on purpose.

"There you are! To where are you headed at such an ungodly hour," Damian asks as if this development between them was brought about by sheer coincidence.

"Piss off. ‘Tis no business of yers," Tardif grinds out with that deep, gravelly voice of his.

"But surely, I must accompany you," Damian retorts, crestfallen.

Such audacity ignites Tardifs anger. Did the fool not hear him?

"Ye got a death wish, mate,” Tardif quips, strictly a rhetorical question.

"My wish is to know more about you," Damian counters, admitting it much too easily, radiating that piquant interest he always seems to regard the bounty hunter with.

Even Tardif is not immune to the feelings that those words awaken in him, internally flinging spiteful words at himself for the warmth that currently spreads throughout his veins.

Their current proximity has it’s advantages. Damian can see the bewildered gleam of Tardifs' dark eyes from behind the slits of the metal visor and curiosity tempts the flagellant to reach out, but the sturdy brute backs away before the touch can connect.

"So we're agreed, then," Damian exclaims, a peddler if Tardif ever saw one.

The huntsman is no longer restraining him, but the chauvinistic cretin maintains his seemingly vulnerable position against the wall.

"Wot,” is Tardif’s deadpan response, his calculating mind sputtering to halt.

“My escort in exchange for your expertise,” the hooded man elaborates, finally lifting himself away from the gritty architecture, a crimson hand curled into his bare chest in offer of his services.

"Not in the market for an apprentice,” Tardif dismisses, put off by the idea, especially since his goal involves separating himself from the flagellant and everyone else for that matter.

"What arrangement would suit you, if not this one,” Damain barters, growing bolder, encroaching his presence on the tactician's personal space.

"None," is the huntsman's crass remark because as far as he’s concerned this discussion is over.

The brute takes a few paces towards the town line, leaving the raving lunatic behind in the alley, surprised that Damian isn’t trying to persuade him into doing otherwise.

Tardif stops. The conscience he swears he disposed of years ago suddenly resurrected by this insufferable whelp.

"How good are ye with a rope," he sighs into the night, but that blasted Damian hears him all the same.

"If it's anything like the lash of a flail, I would be proficient," Damian says, elevating his voice to compensate for the few yards separating them, choosing now of all times to be modest.

After a long moment of deliberation, Tardif gestures with the swipe of his hand, motioning for the other to keep up, "C’mon then.”

Damian is all too eager to jump, his overwhelming affirmation as tangible as a solidifying handshake.

“Where are we going,” the flagellant asks after falling into step beside him, unable to contain his excitement for very long.

“Somewhere,” Tardif provides, always the informative type.

“Ah, the guild most likely,” Damian chirps, guessing correctly.

While the guild’s training grounds did cross Tardif’s mind, the bounty hunter leads them astray, further into the woods, partially because he doesn’t want to give Damian the satisfaction of being right, and partially because he doesn’t want Dismas or Audrey finding out about this little arrangement.

“Yer lips never get tired of yappin’ do they,” Tardif snaps in annoyance, blaming the alcohol for making him loose-lipped and slack-jawed.

“Would you prefer if I held my tongue at bay,” Damian asks him, angling his head like a pesky corvid.

Tardif finds the thought of a mute Damian even more upsetting than a talkative Damian.

“Hrmph. ‘Tis fine the way ye are. Simply statin’ the facts as I see ‘em,” the bounty hunter grumbles.

Damian’s crooked smile flashes brightly in his peripheral vision, but Tardif keeps his attention focused on the path ahead.

They reach their destination, a small clearing of frosted grass and mud that Tardif had claimed as his own, assembled into the crude practice field spread out before them.

“Has this always been here,” Damian inquires, marveling at his surroundings.

White X's are painted onto several of the massive tree trunks, deep lacerations carved into the thickness of the bark, signifying numerous practice regimens.

Many of the targets appeared to be fashioned by hand, assembled from simple materials such as hay, cloth and wood.

Tardif chooses not to answer. Instead, he drags the holy man along by his bulging bicep, towards one of the bigger archery targets.

The bounty hunter releases him to draw a line in the dirt with the nose of his boot.

“Stand here," says the stoutly-built teacher, "Keep yer toes just below the line, but don't cross it. Make sure yer stance is balanced, but narrow."

“Like this,” the unwitting student asks, a little unsteady as he assumes a hardy girth, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet like he would when wielding his flail.

Tardif grunts ambiguously, gently tapping the black bandages wrapped around Damian's shin with the edge of his boot. His student follows the silent instruction, shifting his right leg back.

Tardif concludes that the reverent man before him is just too damn stiff and needs a more hands-on intervention to get it right.

None too gently, he grips the flagellant by the shoulders, adjusting the angle of his stance, applying the same treatment to his waist with potent, snap-quick jerks.

"Don't fight me," Tardif snarls, sensing resistance, "just keep the majority of yer weight on yer back foot."

"Gladly, once you quit hassling me," Damian snarls, not used to the invasive touches bossing him around.

The huntsman growls in equal measure, thinking it was only fair that the fool was getting a taste of his own medicine. Tardif steps back to appraise his work, a gloved hand curled under the cowl in contemplation.

Damian is obediently holding his position, glowing red beneath his hood because he can still feel the phantom of Tardif’s rough hands on him, twisting him every which way, trying to hide his embarrassment with a hitch of anger.

The bounty hunter nods his approval, deeming Damian's technique sufficient enough to proceed onto the next lesson. Tardif reaches for the strap of his belt, retrieving the grappling hook from his hip.

"What are you planning to do with that," Damian snips, tracking the strategist's movements intently, suspiciously.

"Not me. Ye," Tardif enunciates, the coarse leather of his gloves grazing across Damian’s scratched and bloody palms, relinquishing the long range weapon over to him. “Take this. Hold the lead in yer right hand. The rope in the other.”

Damian is hesitant, fixing his ruthless teacher with a helpless, whimpering lower lip.

"Yer the one that asked fer this," Tardif reminds him, feeling no sympathy for the masochist. “Give it some slack, but not too much. Don’t hold it too tightly or too loosely."

“I had no idea there were so many approximations involved in a single throw,” Damian says, feeling the slightest bit under-prepared and gaining a new appreciation for Tardif’s tools of the trade.

"You'll need to wind it up first, get the momentum going before ye release," the bounty hunter adds, an oversight disguised as an afterthought.

"I am not so sure–," Damian begins, looking even more lost and confused. He never knew Tardif could talk so much so swiftly and the brute seemed to being doing so on purpose to sabotage the outcome of this test.

“Just try to hit the target. Aim for the bullseye. Throw it like ye would that bloody flail of yers,” Tardif snorts because he can't make it any more obvious than that.

The ale is starting to catch up with him and while Tardif has built up a tolerance for such poisons, it’s well past midnight and his patience is running thin. The brute steps aside, allowing the novice plenty of room for error. He crosses his arms in anticipation as he watches the seeds of his labor unfold.

The religious sap was right, he is proficient at throwing a grappling hook – in the wrong direction. The fool releases it too early, the lead flying backwards into a pile of dead leaves with a resounding crunch.

Tardif tries to hold in his laughter, but it breaks out of him, a wild beast unable to be contained.

“Aye," Tardif howls, "reckon’ you’ve given the worms somethin' to think about.”

The blasted nurses had let it slip, the rumor mill running rampant, and Tardif has to disagree with the buzzing conspiracy because his mild discomfort isn't severe enough to be deemed a "phobia."

The bounty hunter is not squeamish, per say. He couldn't be, not when he's built a livelihood atop all the bounties he's slain, a throne of cadavers, a man-made undertaker, but the idea of sloshing about in disease-ridden orifices of unspeakable origin makes him whinge.

Tardif does little to hide his irritation, his reluctance indelible as their less than merry group travels to the dark, nauseating cradle of filth that awaits them.

The flagellant is in formation ahead of him, though the brooding mercenary refuses to acknowledge his existence, staring at the sickening ground, the gaudy sky, anywhere that isn't the slashed ribbons of the holy man's swaying back muscles.

Damian seems to follow his example, the religious chatterbox strangely misanthropic, even when it comes to the other members of their expedition party, his devout blessings left unawarded, revoked without cause and Tardif tries not to dwell on the reason why.

"I am curious, could you be any less pleasant," Paracelsus quips, poking their nose out from behind William, addressing the bounty hunter's stormcloud of misery.

"No less annoyin' than ye," Tardif derides with an ardent growl.

Maybe with one more body between them, he can muffle the sound of Paracelsus' gibberish, their voice having to pass through another ear on it's way to his, tolling it out, until it was spent entirely.

Putting his plan into effect, the bounty hunter breaks the line, striding past the flagellant, the mercenary swapping positions with him out of his own willful accord.

Aside from the abrupt shuffle and the light gasp of surprise, the morbid priest carries on with the change, the two men parallel forces on opposite plains.

The lead position now claimed for himself, the cramp that had been working it's way into his neck begins to abate at facing forward again. It's a temporary relief, the seedy view laid out before him just as terribly abysmal as any other part of the squalid mire of the warrens.

Suddenly, their progress stops. The line waits.

"What's the hold up," Para calls, their smaller height impeded by the backsides of the three taller men ahead.

"Blockages," Tardif grumbles, referring to the massive cave-in obstructing the way.

"You're one big blockage," Para groans rolling their eyes beneath the mask, hand on their hip for emphasis.

William's cheeks inflate with a stifled laugh, coughing into his hand to disguise it further.

Damian's exasperation is no different, an exhale hidden beneath a winded sniffle, the holy man shifting to hide it.

Tardif's eyes narrow behind his visor, darting between the two offending characters. He knows when he's being made a fool of.

"Only got two shovels," Tardif barks in retaliation, angling his voice towards the demanding, hooked-nose caboose and anyone else questioning his competence.

"And? You're fifty maybe, seventy five percent upper arm strength if you factor in the axe. You can handle it," the scientist retorts, failing to see the problem.

"I'll help clear it," Damian interjects, sustained by his own bare hands, volunteering his body in place of tools. He approaches the pile from the left, chipping away at what stone and debris he can wrap his bloody, masochistic fingers around.

"Yes, count me in too," William offers, the chivalrous sort, not one to stand idly by, "Paracelsus, would you mind looking after Fergus for me, please?"

The plague doctor nods, taking the hound by the collar and leading her a safe distance away.

Tardif has lost the grounds to argue, wielding the remaining shovel as he solemnly aids in the digging.

Paracelsus resides on an abandoned storage crate as they wait, the loyal canine sat beside them, passing time by throwing a leather-bound ball and petting gray fur to the tune of manly exertion and sifting dirt. As adorable as her shaggy scruff is, the plague doctor grows bored of such mundane activities, their posture bent into rigid crescent, their chin perched upon a gloved fist as they oversee the excavation of the wreckage.

"You done yet Armstrong," Paracelsus asks, a heavy sigh winding in the hollow space of their mask, the jeer aimed at none other than their favorite punching-bag Tardif.

"Keep rushin' me, bird brain," the bounty hunter threatens, driving the metal spade of his shovel into the rubble, "and yer gunna find out."

Para holds onto Fergus in mock distress, clutching svelte arms around the hound's collared neck.

"Oh Fergus, you'll protect me from this nasty squawking cockatrice, won’t you," the former med student begs, their voice a patronizing, ghostly tremble.

William and Damian lean outward from opposing ends of the dirt pile to exchange a look of levity, a silent audience to the insults that would make Sarmenti proudly laugh in glee if he were here.

"Not my fault we were under-prepared," the plague doctor taunts in a quieter voice meant for Fergus’ floppy ears, sticking their tongue out at the man, though the gesture is safely hidden beneath their face covering.

Tardif takes that affront personally, about to act on his baser instincts as he plants the shovel into the ground.

"OK, that's it," he growls, cracking his knuckles, preemptive of a fight.

Before he can move another muscle, a trickle of gravel hits the bounty hunter in the head, a clunky ping resonating off his helmet.

"Sorry," Damian offers, feeling responsible for the act of gravity, clawing at the embedded earth closest to the bounty hunter.

Then they hear it, the shrill screech of the diabolical thing they're meant to purge as clearly as nails being hammered into their ears. It sounds like the last wails of a butcher's slaughter, of grinding metal pipes bent into horrendous shapes and for a moment, everyone's blood runs cold as the tunnel shudders, more hulking debris falling down from above. The thing is close. This is a warning.

"I don't think you can take credit for that," William speaks softly, absolving the flagellant of any wrongdoing that he may have assumed.

Damian turns in his direction, gives him the barest traces of a smirk, a shallow nod of gratitude.

The houndmaster clears his throat, calling the rest of the group's attention. "Concentrate men," William says, his voice a dutiful, inspiring cry, "We're nearly through. Let's keep at it."

"Wait,” Damian says, uncovering a weak spot, “stand back."

With a few insistent scrapes, the remaining pile crumbles like a dam, an avalanche of filth skittering past their feet. A barrage of polluted dust clouds the air, the irritating particles invading the sinuses, those with masks immune to coughing it back out.

Fergus sneezes in response, her furry expression downtrodden as she returns to her master’s heel.

"Finally," Paracelsus says, hopping off their crate to give a ceremonious clap for William and Damian," good job you two."

Tardif simply growls at his being left out of the plague doctor’s applause.

The group presses on, greeted by their first encounter a few short paces later.

The boar-like creatures inhabiting this hell hole may appear crude and uneducated, but some prove to be strong and resourceful, intelligent enough to construct armor and weapons, the younger spawn using their much bigger counterparts as meat shields.

Tardif learns this the hard way, an aggro of spears, arrows and bile all rallied against him.

Paracelsus teases him about being too slow as well as too wide of a target (comparing him to clunky stagecoach of all things) before patching him up.

With a sharp whistle, William's trusted hound picks off the smallest and weakest runt, her maw tearing the swine's mutated flesh to pieces, putting an end to their dodgy tussle.

Fergus, the poor girl, hasn't been the same since.

As well trained a battle companion as she may be, her body and brain are first and foremost animal in nature. It isn't entirely unheard of for a scent or a sound to cater to distraction, but the degree in which the canine lags behind to circle the same spot, wanders around as if she's lost her way is cause for alarm.

"What's wrong girl," the ex lawman says, kneeling down to his four-legged friend's level.

Despite his outstretched hand, the hound shimmies away on her paws, tongue flopping out the side of her mouth, whimpering in pain.

The Scotch-Irishman’s expression turns bleak, fearing the worst conclusion, knowing the symptoms of such behavior.

"Something isn't right," he says, a note of desperation in his voice as he turns to address the group,"I'll need a moment to look after her."

Paracelsus shrugs,"Fine by me. I wanted to harvest some samples anyway."

"Hrm," the bounty hunter declares, a chagrin of annoyance heralded by the delay, but nonetheless tolerant.

"Very well," Damian accedes, ambivalent, his focus drawn to the tormenting obelisk on the other side of the room.

William reaches into the cache of supplies, searching for a homemade recipe of herbs and peanut butter, the medicine rolled into a treat.

He holds the tempting concoction in his palm, the hound coming to sniff at it suspiciously. Fergus snags the morsel between her teeth, dropping it down to the ground, clawing at it with her forepaws, picking off little bites.

William waits for the combination of ingredients to take effect, finding it strange that regurgitation never occurs.

Nervously, the blonde male rubs a hand through his straw beard, trying to think of another solution.

"Paracelsus, could I ask for a second opinion," William inquires, his wholesome features warped into a mixture of fear and concealed desperation.

The plague doctor finishes up gathering a souvenir of green plaque from the wall as part of their collective field study, turning their beak in his direction. They wipe the excess grime on dark robes, rocking the knifepoint of their swiveled dagger between gloved fingers as they approach.

"Before my prognosis," the scholar advises, their voice a muffled distortion caused by the mask, "I must warn you, my expertise lies in the human body, and while land mammals are quite similar, there are some discrepancies.”

"Even I can tell she's eaten somethin’ rotten,” Tardif grunts, impertinent, “Just look at her."

"Yes, thank you. I am aware. Nothing I try is working," William explains, his words polite at face value, though his expression is cross with umbrage.

"Nothin’ is workin’ because she's diseased,” Tardif counters, his repressed opinions coming to light, “Only a matter of time ‘fore she's turnin’ into one of them. The heir got it wrong, choosing you for this place."

The houndmaster glares at him, schooling his expression so as not to reveal how abhorrent he truly felt, “I think it's too early for us to be jumping to conclusions like that."

"There's a good chance he's right, you know," Paracelsus states, deadpan.

The beastmaster gapes at the pair of them, their cold, unfeeling bluntness stabbing like splinters down his spine. He should have known the good doctor wasn't the type to sugar coat the facts.

"I would have to run some tests, but from what I can see, she's mostly likely infested with parasites," says the chemist, relaying their analysis, “and judging by the mutagen, her affliction is going to get worse."

William goes quiet. Understandably, he's not thrilled by the news.

"There was an old laboratory table approximately 300 yards back," Para continues, "I can scrounge up something mediocre, though it would be completely experimental and I couldn't guarantee the outcome. Even under perfect conditions there are risks, unless you prefer I cut her open here, without any anesthesia?”

"Bawbags, the lot of you,” William seethes, reaching his wits end, “Surely, there are other options to consider. Between the three of us, there must be something we haven't thought of yet."

Despite his altruism, a telltale panic creeps it’s way into William, incurring a nervous sickness from it. So far, any attempts at finding a cure for Fergus have proven fruitless, his companions less than evangelical, but there is one man's counsel he hasn’t heard.

His eyes search for the man who’s gone astray and finds the flagellant standing beneath an ominous stone totem.

"Damian, could I seek your assistance," the beastmaster asks, hoping this morbid saint would produce for him a better result than the other two. If Junia could use the holy book to heal, perhaps he could achieve the same miracles as well.

At hearing his name, the priest breaks from his trance, surprised that the curse of this device had consumed his mind so, the suffering wails of the damned blocking out any previous thought.

He pulls his hand away from the decrepit altar, shaking off the residual stress of voices, his services needed elsewhere.

"Yes, of course,” the flagellant replies, heading towards the man that beckoned him, “but why call upon me?"

"Your …," William pauses, pondering how he could phrase his next words before continuing,"abilities … you can remove disease, yes? Do you think you could try it on Fergus?"

"I can't say I've used my blood on animals before, but I have faith," Damian reassures him.

Seeing that they were no longer needed, the scientist returns to their biology investigations, fascinated by squirming masses littering the chamber, kneeling down to scoop various samples into their petri dishes to examine for later.

Tardif is startled when the plague doctor backs into him, their bony elbow catching his side as they stand up from whisking around the spot he’s currently occupying.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were out of your element here,” they note, but there's no humor in it, merely a vocal recording of evidence. Their intrigue is reserved for the glowing green swirling about in the vial they've doused in some ph altering chemical.

"Do ye have to do that so close to me," Tardif grouses.

"You're the one standing in a mycelium colony," Para says.

The bounty hunter looks down, upturning his heel to assess the "colony" smeared across the tapered soul of his boot. He stomps his foot back down, attempting to scrape the tendrils off.

“Just hurry up and collect your toys so we can go,” Tardif grumbles, trying to avoid any more muck on the floor.

“Oh, you mean this,” They ask, shoving a sample of it in front of his face. It's black, like moldy seaweed and the bounty hunter doesn’t know how something so dead can still squirm around as it dangles precariously from the end of their tweezers.

“Gah,” Tardif cries, flinching away, trying to pretend he wasn’t revolted by the grime and failing.

William sighs at the brooding mercenary’s candid yelp, disappointed by the two stooges and their buffoonery.

“How can they be so carefree when we may very well be marching to our deaths down here,” the houndmaster speaks, confiding in the holy man, “This place is teeming with the screams of tormented beasts. I am afraid the sound is driving me mad.”

Damian says nothing as he holds Fergus’ paw in his hand, the soft pads swollen and crusty.

The hound master looks down at his furry companion, her body draped on it’s side, across his lap. He holds her muzzle in his hand, stroking along her side with the other, her erratic panting a constant concern.

“I am sorry, I am not quite myself. I am worried about her,” William explains, "Do you think your Light magic will work?"

“The Light is omnipotent,” Damian says, hovering his hand over her bloated stomach, the animal’s whistling, ragged whines intensifying, “I am merely a vessel to be tested. If she is meant to be saved, then she will be.”

The flagellant can feel something wicked brewing inside her gut, squirming to get loose. He concentrates on it, as if it were contained within his own holy flesh, calling forth the Light to exorcise the vile parasite before it grows into something more perilous.

The priest lowers his hand, less red than before, the toxic presence snuffed from the would-be host.

William regards him expectantly,"Well? How’d it go?"

"Your Fergus has a strong heart,” Damian adds with a close-lipped smile, “She'll make it."

In that moment, so consumed with gratitude and relief, the houndmaster has no choice, but to consider the flagellant of a more comely appearance (if only he smiled more like that).

He may have even kissed him if not for disturbing his beloved Fergus, but the houndmaster quickly squanders such absurd delusions.

"Perhaps we should make camp, give her sufficient time to recover," the ex-law man suggests.

Damian nods in accord, looking towards the other members of their party, pending their approval.

Tardif grunts,"Not sure how much good it will do, but aye, if we must."

Paracelsus is already leagues ahead of them, plopping down in a slightly less infested part of the room, arranging the stew kettle and firewood, using her dagger as a stand-in can opener for the rations.

Sticking to what he's good at, the bounty hunter keeps a lookout, the scrawling darkness of the conjoined tunnels prime candidates for an ambush, but despite the plausibility of danger, his eyes deviate from their post and towards the man he’d been so eager to avoid.

Impervious to the ick around them, the flagellant and the houndmaster seem to be making the best of it, the two batting eyelashes at each other and exchanging coy smiles as if it's the only emotion that exists.

He fixates on the way the deranged priest is gently consoling Fergus, nearly touching William's stagnant fingertips after each pass of his hand through her long fur.

Without realizing it, Tardif grinds his teeth until they ache, his jaw locked up from the pressure.

He already hates this mission. He's beginning to hate it even more.

“You sure you don’t want to eat,” the plague Doctor asks him, holding out a soup bowl swimming with inedible colors, “your metabolism is going to run out.”

The bounty hunter’s stomach leaps into his throat, though he maintains his facade, hoping the young upstart hadn’t caught his negligence.

He must've hid it well enough, Paracelsus showing no indication of teasing him about slacking off.

“Not hungry,” Tardif barks, petulant, turning his head away and crossing his arms in disgust to sell it further.

Paracelsus shrugs, shaking their head as they return their attention to disinfecting the rancid food, letting the bowl rest on their lap as they wait for the remedy to take hold.

“Suit yourself, but don’t come crying to me when your accuracy turns to shite. I am not wasting any of my vapors on you,” they say, lifting their mask to take a spoonful of slop into their mouth without a care for their health.

“Wouldn’t want ye to anyway,” Tardif says, “Can’t rely on blasted snake oil in a bottle.”

Paracelsus turns to him, the black, beady lens of their mask shining with an evil glint.

The doctor flicks their spoon at him and the surly man has to duck to avoid getting shot in the face with a trajectory of dubious porridge.

"I can’t wait to tell Boudica about your sissy squeals the moment we get back. She's going to have a field day with you,” the researcher snubs as they take another bite, chewing loudly with a brooding scowl.

"If ye survive that long," Tardif whispers under his breath, returning to a neutral stance.

"What was that," the scientist says pointedly, those lenses catching the torchlight with another foreboding shimmer.

"Nothin'," he grumbles, turning his back to them, crossing his arms obstinately.

At some point, the flagellant must've traversed the room, the priest now standing before them and what an awful sentry Tardif is turning out to be if he couldn't even signal his approach.

“Paracelsus, could you spare another bowl?"

Wordlessly, the plague doctor fulfills the request, handing over a hearty portion of stew.

"Thank you," the flagellant says before departing, Tardif nothing more than a figment, a ghost in the mist for all the concession Damian spares him.

He watches on as the priest offers the bowl to William, Fergus still resting across his legs as he reaches out to take it.

“What about you," William asks, hesitant to be the only one partaking,"Don't you need to eat?"

The flagellant shakes his head,“That's kind of you, but I have no need.”

At that, the houndmaster risks a bite, the odd earthy flavor going down hard, his dwindling appetite shrinking further.

“I'm pleased Fergus is on the mend,” the holy man says, "But you’re certain you do not wish to return? I would not hold it against you.”

"This old girl has been through worse,” William says, patting the arch of her back, the soup bowl growing cold in the other, “though, I’ll be doing the majority of the fighting from now on. For this mission at least."

Damian gives a shallow nod. “You may call upon me again,” he offers, “Should she ever need it.”

The hound master laughs, almost spitting out the overly salted broth.

“I may have to take you up on that."

—---

When they encounter the formless flesh, none of them expect it to be this abominably grotesque, this gigantic horde of undefinable chaos.

It starts out as nothing more than a few homogeneous blobs. Scattered and twitching, it rises from the floor, piles of flesh absorbed into a massive hog's head, bearing down on them with it’s innumerable black eyes and clamoring mouths.

Tardif grits his teeth for what seems to be the hundredth time. It really is turning out to be that kind of mission, so the huntsman sticks to old favorites, plays it safe with tried and true tactics, testing the waters to see what the dirt kicks up.

Paracelsus assails the mutant’s extremities in a cloud of blight, the corrosive antigen causing the undulating swine to squeal in aversion.

“It’s epidermis is weak," the plague doctor shouts, "Damian, make it beed!"

Just as their voice rings out, a tentacle breaks from the swarming mass of swineflesh, a fluid parasite outfitted with mandibles of teeth, destined to take a chunk out of the scholar's big mouth.

Living up to Para's earlier condemnation, Tardif is too slow, only catching the afterimage of it’s flexible body when it whips past him and thank the Light the plague doctor is the nimble sort, the attack missing them by a mere thread of their skirt.

Tardif is rattled, not just by his own ineptitude, but for the fraction of a second he had to consider how truly screwed they would have been without their eccentric wingman.

As much as the long-nosed pest had taunted him, the bounty hunter favored their presence over their absence, and while Paracelsus is fully capable of holding their own in a fight, the bounty hunter wasn't going to be caught in another disadvantage.

As soon as the sinuous parasite retracts back toward the sanctuary of it’s body, Tardif gets his revenge. With an overpowered swing, he chops the fragile thing in half, his axe cutting a groove into the floor, the effort leaving him panting and splattered with inhuman blood.

The creature reels, screeching in pain, the severed head of it's minion flopping about uselessly and Tardif stomps on the offending maggot to end its pathetic life quicker.

The swarming flesh transforms, it's mutant body molding into baleful fans of bone, each prong as tapered and sharp as a dagger's edge.

Tardif has been carefully memorizing all the creature’s tricks, each piece of the swine altering its shape independently, this configuration telegraphing it's next assault in vivid notoriety.

The houndmaster can sense it too, Fergus barking loudly in warning.

"Brace yourselves," William shouts, guarding his hound, defending himself with the bludgeon of his club.

The serpent-like bones strike the front, the branching tines aimed at the easiest target once, twice, thrice. It misses Damian on the fourth.

"Hold steady! I've got you laddie,” the houndmaster says, helping the hooded man to his feet.

Damian pushes him away, censure ripe in his voice as he speaks, “Forget me. Focus your efforts on protecting Paracelsus.”

"You can't keep going on the way that you are," William argues, gritting his teeth at the man’s stubbornness.

The flagellant pulls his hand away from his newly acquired wounds, his fingers drenched in a lacquer of crimson.

"This …,” Damian smirks, his gaze focused on the beautiful shade coating fist, “... this is nothing!"

He clenches his hand in morbid glee, his blood magic coming to life, healing the group by increments, losing a little part of himself every time his flesh is reopened in a new layer of scars.

Another unyielding blitz of bone zephyrs lash out at four heroes, sparing no one, landing devastating blows in rapid succession.

The onslaught leaves the group hobbled over, too preoccupied with their own stock of suffering to notice the flesh is winding up to strike at them again.

One such attack locks onto Damian and the man has no plans to refuse it's cruel, unforgiving touch.

There's a blinding streak of dark fur, a growl followed by an injured yelp, the hound discarded, lobbed into a heap.

It takes the flagellant a moment to realize that he's been saved by another, of how that knowledge tears into him more deeply than any physical pain ever could.

"Fergus,” William cries, running up to her prone body. The vigilante falls to his knees, abandoning his weapon to tuck his arms under her.

He clutches the canine's injured body against him, holding back tears as he sees the gash the swine had dealt to her muzzle. “By the Light, my sweet girl, what were you thinking.”

"We’re wearing it down," Para calls out, never losing sight of the battle, “strike it now, while it's weak!"

Tardif does. Damian does so harder.

Wracked by the slow passage of blight and bleed, the creature's body begins to break down, it's overinflated head lolling, it's beady, compound eyes heavy.

In regards to this, the monstrous appendages shift, mimicking the arches of vascular tubes, switching to a more passive strategy to knit what pieces are broken.

Tardif has a feeling this monster still has half a brain, enough to plot something beyond the obvious, hiding an ace up its sleeve.

It dawns on him then, why the creature went for Paracelsus first, why it made Damian the new focal point of it's repetitious attacks despite Tardif severing it's infiltrating parasite in half.

No healer meant no hope of resurgence and Damian was it's willing prey. With the holy man out of the way, the creature can take it's time picking off the rest of them, replenishing its reserves all the while.

Just like that, the swine comes for Damian, it's gaping maw unhinged, impossibly wide like a snake's to swallow the flagellant down, completely whole and alive.

"Out of the way!"

"Damian!"

"Move you moron!"

The suicidal fool is glued in place, gladly accepting his fate with open arms as the inflated mass of teeth consumes him right where he stands.

What remains of the expedition party is shocked into silence, watching on as the colossal beast closes around him like a hideous faberge egg.

The swine stills, it's grotesque web of muscles giving a rough spasm, then another, exponentially repeating until the beast is distended, releasing a choked shriek before it pops like a gorged balloon.

Gore splatters the walls, pieces falling to the floor with a sickening slap, the ever-present squeals that haunt the network of tunnels receding into a faint whisper, bowed in mourning of their slain brethren.

"Well, that's enough field study for one day," Paracelsus jokes off-handedly, picking off pieces of exploded viscera from their person.

“Mission’s over," Tardif remarks solemnly, “Time to head back.”

"But Damian … what's become of him," the houndmaster interjects, Fergus a morose bundle in his arms, "We can't just–"

"Leave him," Tardif snaps, venom in his throat, "If he's so eager to die for us, let him."

Williams mouth is agape, Paracelsus too seems rather taken aback by the unwarranted vehemence of his reaction.

"What right do you have to abandon him after he saved you, damn well saved us all,” the Scotsman argues, “I would carry him myself had I another pair of hands."

Tardif strides up to the ex-lawman, deathly serious. "He didn't save shite," the brute shouts,"the bloody bastard wanted to die. He chose this ending for himself all on his own. It had nothin’ to do with any of us."

"You … you don't know that," William says, a disbelieving murmur, unappreciative of the bounty hunter’s aggressive proximity.

"OK, enough," Para says, wedging themselves between the two men, spreading them apart with their minimal arm span.

"We're taking him back," William says, finding his voice again, his well of courage.

"Yer welcome to drag his useless corpse around if ye feel so inclined," Tardif grunts, affording himself the winner of the dispute.

"When I said ‘we,’ I meant you," William sneers, teeth clenched into a sharp corner beneath his mustache.

Tardif hadn't calculated for that response, his obscured eyes growing obtuse then narrow.

"Get bent," the brute spits.

"If you leave the decision to me,” Paracelsus chimes in, one an eyebrow arched beneath their mask, “he's coming back in pieces. As in dismemberment. For ease of transport."

Tardif shrugs. He could care less about how the plague doctor planned to package him up.

“Let me put it another way,” Paracelsus offers, altering their voice into something more crass, “If I have to tell the heir that you left one of their favorite playthings here to rot, you’re going to be a very unhappy man when they decide to ban you from the tavern and everywhere else for that matter. Then, dock your pay.”

William and Paracelsus stare Tardif down, the man showing no signs of acceptance, his demeanor stationary and mute.

“So what’s it going to be,” the negotiating intellectual prompts in urgent ultimatum, “you in or not?”

"Fine,” Tardif snarls, jerking his head in reluctant accord, “I'll square away the baggage. Now, get goin'.”

The science aficionado nods their beak in approval, delegating the next task at hand.

"William, I'll take point."

The houndmaster means to protest, suspicious of leaving Damian alone with Tardif.

Just as well, allowing the petite researcher and their seemingly delicate constitution to lead them back home went against his own quixotic romanticism, principle driving his motivations.

"Whatever you're about to say, don't,” Paracelsus warns, “Tardif will do what he has to. And I am more than capable of retracing our steps back to the entrance and gutting whatever stands in our way."

The ex-lawman tacitly agrees.“Do what's right, Tardif,” he portends, “or else the heir won’t be the only one with a bone to pick.”

The hound master gives one last look at their unfortunate comrade before following the plague doctor down the passageway.

Once they're both out of sight, the brute takes a few paces forward, just close enough for his words to carry.

From here, the flagellant is frightfully charming, hatched from the monster’s nefarious gammon, frozen and stillborne, coated in a yolky membrane of entrails.

"Get up, we're goin'," Tardif orders, hard-pressed to even waste his breath on the tone-deaf fool.

Damian remains as he is, knee-deep in the ruddy pool of burst flesh, the monster’s rotting corpse tainting what breathable air there was left.

"Did I not hear you,” the flagellant sneers, a terse citation, twisting his neck just enough to catch the edges of the bounty hunter’s silhouette looming behind him, “Is this not where I am meant to be?"

Ah, so the flagellant was still alive.

"Then stay for all I care, and spout all the useless drivel ye want," the mercenary scoffs, losing what little scraps of patience that still clung to his sanity.

He turns away from the murk, grateful his mask filters some of the awful stench.

“What is it, bounty hunter,” Damian scorns at the wet slap of retreating steps, “Am I not dangerous enough for you?”

Of all the things he thought the flagellant would say, Tardif never guessed it would be that. The brute pivots on his heel, turning to stare at the man’s scarred back, thoroughly speechless.

The flagellant finally stands up from his crouch, tense with an imploding star of wrath, so many atoms of light beating inside of him, his entire body shaking with the strain of it. He strides toward the bounty hunter, getting too close too fast, a biblical sea of thrashing red.

Tardif waits til the last second to side step, repelling away as Damian’s blood-soaked hands reach out to snag the fabric of his cowl, missing him by a needle's length.

"Why else would you turn away from me, if not for this,” Damian laments, hurt more by the mercenary’s flinch of rejection than the grueling battle that's left him bleeding out. The holes that the monstrous beast bore into the flagellant's flesh still gushing with vital spurts of crimson.

Why would anything Tardif does matter so much to Damian?

“That thing knocked all yer screws loose, didn’t it,” the brute scoffs, feeling a drop of unease, his pulse quickening, but he thinks that just might be the paranoia that something else more threatening than Damian is lurking about.

"Am I too predictable? too loyal,” the flagellant asks, growing more desperate as the words roar past his throat, his canines splattered with blood, "Have I disappointed you? Fallen short of your expectations? Are we too different? Too opposite?"

Tardif hadn’t realized he'd backed himself into a wall, his gloves sticky and putrid with the slime of it. He makes an exasperation of disgust.

This seems to fuel the fanatic even more, his lanky frame bowing forward, cornering the bounty hunter. How many times must they dance this same, tired song?

“What must I do? Are my intentions not clear enough for you? Must I drive them in further," Damian tells him, his arm an iron bar jabbing into the stonework, above the huntsman's helmet.

Damian's body is slick with gore, enough to stain every part of Tardif that he now presses against, the curdling, tangy scent of the sticky substance overbearing, his nostrils flaring at the pungency.

The flagellant smirks, breath ghosting over the shorter man's clothed ear, "Use that rope of yours and give me another lesson to learn."

Part of Tardif wants to give into the cruel twist, to bind him into submission, but he's already let the holy man walk in his shadow once, a mistake he can't seem to blame on stale mead and mindless curiosity, and the bounty hunter refuses to re-live a pain he's sworn never to have again. He can't. He won't.

"Ye bloody fool, are ye too cracked to see yer dyin'," Tardif grunts.

The flagellant cackles, unhinged, no longer a man, but something else more wild and fargone," With death, brings clarity. If you wish it, I would die for this, for you. It would be my greatest act. Do not keep me waiting, Tardif. Finish it, now. This existence only causes pain."

"No," Tardif says with a finality as grim and sharp as a guillotine.

That one word makes Damian's face contort, a twitch of anger not unlike a death throe, lips pulled down into the corner of his clenched teeth with a sagging snarl.

"Then, I'll make you," Damian growls, his nose wrinkling with the depth of his meaning, pulling out his flail from behind his back, easing it from the sash in his robes. The chains unfurl, swinging in a glittering, metallic hymn, a trickling pendulum of demise.

It takes only a second for the stare-down of idle tension to become a whirlwind of blind fury and his time, when Damian lunges, swings, an array of spikes catch Tardif, tearing a gaping hole in his cowl, just missing his throat.

Tardif's instinct takes over, too lost in the adrenaline of survival to acknowledge his own swell of anger bubbling up, his hands grasping for the handle of his axe with expert precision.

He parries, deflecting the next maelstrom that comes, a sickening pang of steel that sparks and echoes, eclipsing the distant squeals of malformed beasts.

The two weapons collide, a reverberating volley, as the flagellant holds nothing back, the piercing rain of blood slashing him open, ripping open new gashes on Tardif’s axe-wielding arm, just over his shoulder.

One such attack hits with perfectly curved momentum, the cerberus-headed weights of the priest’s fail wrapping around a gloved wrist, and the more that Tardif tries to tug his hand free, the more the chains tighten around him, disabling it’s use.

"When," Damian asks, gritting his teeth, advancing a step, "if not by death, in what form will I be enough for you?”

Of all the stupid, ill-begotten rants he could be going on about, the flagellant chooses this to be his eulogy.

Damian could solve all their problems now, heal them both with his Light magic and be done with this pointless skirmish, but the bastard would rather stick both feet in the grave.

The bounty hunter grips the flail's metal with his free hand, yanking the weapon forward and the flagellant along with it.

"When," the mercenary barks, "Ye really want to know when, ye bloody idiot?"

He takes the opportunity to backhand the cowled freak, following it up with a swift kick to the stomach, pulling himself off balance in the process, the two weathered fighters still attached.

Tardif snarls, swinging out his axe to compensate, the curved blade cutting across the flagellants chest, collarbone to ribcage, his self-preservation gene nonexistent.

The man gushes like a fountain of stringy red bouquets, wavering on his feet, no doubt woozy from blood loss, the dramatic lines of hot air he was toting before finally expended.

Seizing the moment, Tardif digs into one of his leather pouches on his belt, finding the small bottle of knock-out vapor that he borrowed from Paracelsus' lab.

He crushes the bottle inside his fist, the leather saving him from the pinch of thorny glass shards. His glove now soaked with the compromising chemical, he shoves it in the flagellant's face, covering his nose and mouth simultaneously with his palm.

"This is when," Tardif tells him, meeting his eyes in defiance.

The effects are instantaneous, Damian's eyelashes fluttering like a bird’s wings, his conscience evaporating like a billow of smoke as he crumples, completely limp in the bounty hunter's arms.

Maybe it's just the waning edge of the inciting battle, the mounting of his wounds, but the flagellant proves to be heavier than he looks.

The brute lowers them both down, the flagellant still clutched feebly in his grip as he sits amongst the rotting muck, taking a temporary reprieve to steady his breath.

It's not long before his mind wants to explore the subliminal context of what took place, but he won't allow it, springs to action instead, stripping off his soiled glove, discarding into the trash heap of this cancerous wasteland.

He reaches into his utility belt for another capsule he acquired from Paracelsus, cracks it open like the chemist had demonstrated (not necessarily taught) during one of their many experiments.

The kinetic energy has a domino effect, creating a foam to cauterize the gaping holes in the flagellants' wounds.

He doesn't have the resources to address every deep gouge presented to him (there were far too many for his limited supply), so he fills in the largest ones he can find, binds whatever's leftover in a roll of bandages.

The results are better than nothing, a temporary fix until he can get him to a proper medic.

As he looks over what remains of the flagellant, a repressed, infinitesimally small part of him prays that the stubborn bastard lives just so that he can beat the ever loving shite out of him when he recovers. Maybe then, he'll finally learn some sense.

—---

William frowns, eyes settling on the impending bruise of twilight.

“Something's gone awry,” the houndmaster declares, his keen intuition focused on the sinister aura emitting from the sewers, "they’ve been in there too long.”

"Unsurprising,” Para remarks, “knowing those two. Tell me you're not suggesting that we go back in after them, are you?”

William is contemplative, about to open his mouth to speak when another's arrival cuts him off. The two heroes turn in unison to scuff of heavy footsteps, an oddly-shaped shadow emerging from the sluice.

It's Tardif – the lumbering mercenary carrying Damian's battered body on the crest of shoulders.

"You're looking a bit worse for the wear,” the plague doctor jeers, noting the appearance of the bounty hunter’s slashed cowl and the uncommon sight of his stubble underneath, “Run into some trouble?"

"Hrm," Tardif informs, kneeling down to rest a knee on the dirt road, looking over-encumbered, "I've staunch his wounds."

Para skitters over, inspecting the human-shaped lump on his back.

"So I see," the plague doctor says, "Decided to use my prototype, eh? I was wondering where it had run off to. Your application could have been better. He's … oozing."

Tardif grunts haphazardly, too tired to bicker. He knew he botched it up.

"Probably shouldn't move him too much," Para continues, assuaging what they can of the improper first-aid, "not that we have much of a choice.”

"Then let's be off," William suggests, Fergus held prostrate in his arms, "We're all in need of Hamlet and it's comforts tonight."

Silently they all agree, forming a single file line as they march towards the familiar, muted skyline of civilization.

—-

The flagellant gasps, shooting awake as if rising from the grave. The numbing haze of sleep is shed, the temporary mercy of oblivion exchanged for the bitter tidings of consciousness.

His flesh burns as if branded by fire, cut apart then reassembled, melted and yet not. It runs deep inside, the source tucked under his skin where he can't reach.

"Calm down. Yer safe now,” a gruff voice tells him, though he can't place whose.

The world around him is confused, mottled, spinning with indiscernible shapes as a pair of hands levy against his shoulders, pushing him to lay back down.

Damian is helplessly submissive to the insistent weight, overwhelmed by liminal sensation, his nerve endings firing off more explosive bursts of pain.

His bloodshot eyes blink, wild and derelict as they adjust, trying to make sense of the weaving silhouette before him, cloaked against a backdrop of sunlight.

"Did you see the Holy Light? How it shined down upon us,” Damian asks, looking upwards towards the ceiling of vaulted beams, the sunrays streaking in from the tall gothic windows.

After a sobering pause, the priest surveys his hands, flexing them open and closed, trying to decide if he truly had perished.

"Did it not take me," he remarks softly, a delicate realization that may shatter his illusion of calm.

"Not just yer head, but ye need yer eyes checked too," the voice says, reaching out to grip the flagellant's chin, angling his face to get a better look at his injuries.

Damian is compliant, letting the investigative hand turn him every which way, mediating his time until his sight finally returns.

Tardif wonders how long it will take him to realize he's been stripped of his bloody cowl, the nurses divesting him of it the moment he was brought in for treatment, that these touches the bounty hunter places against his jaw are more than just simple inspection.

It's difficult to keep his fingers placid, treading further into caressing rather than assessing his wounds, his pale face littered with more cuts and bruises than skin. He takes note of some of the bigger scars, one slashing down his lips, another across his forehead and over his cheek. The bounty hunter has to wonder if there is anywhere on his body that’s left unmarked.

Tardif takes advantage of the disorientation, amazed by how red the flagellant's eyes are, wants to attribute the unnatural pigment to another occupational hazard, but judging from the rest of him, now cleaned and bandaged up, he’s incredibly pallid underneath, almost colorless. The brute realizes then, just how much of him was caked in layers upon layers of vermilion. Passion has always been his favorite color. Seeing it drives the bounty hunter mad like a bull.

Blearily, the owner of the voice comes into focus, the studded helmet and chainmail unmistakable, a revelation that makes the flagellant recoil from him instantly. With a snarl, he slaps the offending hand away, favoring the side of the bed that's farthest from Tardif.

The bounty hunter sighs, derisive, taking the rebuffing outburst in stride.

"What do ye remember,” Tardif asks, pulling up a nearby stool.

“I remember you,” Damian scorns, growling like a feral cat cornered by betrayal.

The flagellant has never regarded him with such rabid distaste before. Even during their unfortunate mishaps at the warrens, this side of him is in a word: new.

Tardif shivers. He sort of likes the look of resentment on the fanatic's usual cheshire face.

"What is it ye remember 'bout me," the bounty hunter asks, tempering his voice.

He won't mention how his own memory is alive with the swing of that accursed flail, how Damian forced his hand, made them enemies, his wrist still bearing the marks of the chainlinks under his glove.

Tardif's words spark some sensibility in him, the flagellant going quiet as he searches his memory for an answer. The cutthroat brigand can tell he's come across some damning recollection, the widening of his flaming eyes gives him away, but the holy man is quick to conceal it.

“Why are you here,” Damian deflects, turning the tables, his pale brows pressed into an inquisitive "v," of accusation.

Why is he here?

It's a good question, one the bounty hunter could have dodged entirely if he simply left before the bloody fool woke up.

“Wanted to make sure draggin' yer sorry ass wasn't a waste,” the brute tells him, standing up from his seat.

Tardif hates having a debt to repay (would rather die than carry that weight on his conscience), but the flagellant had once again stuck his nose in where it didn't belong, made him compromise his carefully crafted code, his rules of survival.

The bounty hunter tells himself it doesn't matter anymore, that they're even now, a life for a life.

Seeing no other reason to stick around, the somber mercenary takes his leave.

He doesn't expect Damian to call out his name.

Tardif pauses, waits.

The flagellant is bereft, clearly surprising himself, his voice ostensibly compelled.

"Tardif…," he says again, slower, quieter, before trailing off into silence.

Damian doesn't know what to say beyond that, praying that this one word would be enough to keep this cold unfeeling man by his side a little longer.

There’s a beat, an echo that alerts Tardif to the company of the nurse, her heels making a loud clack against the stone as she enters the medical ward. The bounty hunter is sure she’s the same gossip that leaked his own evaluation, passing it on to every ear in Hamlet that would listen.

Tardif admits he wasn't the easiest patient to deal with. Knocking over medical equipment and refusing treatment, not to mention the destruction of property and the allegations of assault gives him the distinct feeling that her motivations were personal.

He growls at her as she steps up to Damian's bed, the nurse returning his glare briefly.

"Checks,” the nurse explains, skimming over the medical chart hanging at the foot of the mattress.

"As you can see, I'm fine," Damian insists, trying to wave her away.

"I'll be the judge of that," she declares, reading over the notes, "ruptured eye socket, retinal artery occlusion resulting in acute blindness, internal hemorrhaging, massive abdominal trauma … the list goes on. According to your papers, there’s a lot that’s not fine with you.”

Having made her point, the nurse sets the chart back into place, Damian still adverse to the idea of her wasting time on facilitating his recovery.

"Tardif," Damian calls, nearly frantic, trying to chase the man's receding form as the nurse pries at him for a full physical appraisal, "Come back to visit me later. There's something I want to give you."

The bounty hunter doesn't answer, already bound for the exit, but the flagellants' plea reaches him whether he wants it to or not.

He passes William on his way out, brushing shoulders with the man as they mirror each other in the hall.

The ex-lawman doesn't stop, bound for the same room, the same patient Tardif had just come from.

There is something moderately distressing about his presence here, an instinct telling the bounty hunter to stay close by. Going with his gut, he sidles up against the stonework just outside the doorway, eavesdropping in on the conversation.

"William, hero or not, I must remind you that we do not permit animals beyond the front door,” the nurse reprimands.

"My apologies,” William replies, sheepishly rubbing his beard, “I heard dogs can do wonders for the healing process."

"Yes, I’ve heard the same,” she says, frowning critically, “please see to it that you remember this rule from now on. It's important for sanitation."

“Yes, yes of course,” he says, rubbing the nape of his neck, bowing bashfully as she departs.

"William,” the flagellant greets, putting on an uplifting smile, “to what do I owe the honor?”

Tardif finds he's grinding his teeth again. It’s beginning to become a nasty habit.

How easily he's been forgotten, replaced.

"Fergus wanted to see how you're doing," the houndmaster says with a smirk, the adorable mutt's wet nose pointed up, her tail wagging.

"Did she," Damian laughs, leaning over to pet her gray mop of hair, masking the throb of pain that comes with performing the gesture.

The furball startles them both, delightfully impulsive as she jumps up onto the bed to lick his face.

"As you can see, Fergus is back to her old self again," William chuckles, letting the old girl smother the flagellant in affectionate kisses.

"I knew she would," Damain says, folding his hands over her ears, "She would not have recovered so quickly if not for your care as well."

"I can't tell you how grateful I am for what you did," Willam says, as sincere as ever.

“Think nothing of it," the macabre healer replies, the two men sharing an emphatic look of respect.

Fergus turns around in Damian's lap, her paws stepping on and over his legs to sit herself down on them, looking quite pleased with her recent accomplishments.

Tardif hates the look of that damn smile, gentle and effortless, how it only seems to show itself around William, so unlike the half-crazed grins the flagellant usually fixes him with.

It's infuriating how soft Damian's tone becomes, the same friendly camaraderie the two displayed at the warrens played out for him here again. The flagellant never relaxes for him like that, never looks so relieved to have him near.

"There's something else," the houndmaster admits after a long, awkward pause, his brown eyes averted as he wrings his hands together nervously.

Curious, Damian waits for the man to finish his thought.

"I wanted to apologize," the ex-lawman sighs, the statement seeming to exhaust him after speaking it aloud.

Damian shakes his head, offering a consoling smile, "William, there's no need–"

The Scotsman keeps his expression firm, holding up his hand in a silent interruption, "No, not just for my own actions, but for theirs as well."

The implications hit Damian far more than expected, the holy man's expression going sour. He scowls, scarred hands gripping at the hound’s fur coat before leaving off, smoothing out the coarse pelt with shallow stokes, trying to occupy his thoughts with something more pleasant.

"I … I do not hold you responsible for them,” Damian concludes, the words grinding like stone, “but I appreciate it nonetheless.”

"I'll be adding a few extra coins to the collection plate when I visit the Abbey to pray for your recovery," the bearded man remarks, hoping to alleviate the mood.

Damian’s eyes widen in shock, quick to correct the man's flawed methodology, "While I am not one to deter holy devotion, there are others who–"

"Yes,” William interjects, “there may be, but I still want to.”

An affirming smile follows, one that the priest's struggles to contest, the rebuttal dying in his throat.

“You’re … very kind, William,” Damian praises, accepting his compassion more easily than not, “Thank you.”

Tardif is going to throw up.

The insistent tap of an impatient black heel gives privy that the nurse has returned, a tray of dressings in her hand as she stands waiting for the houndmaster to depart.

"I really must insist you take her outside," the nurse maid utters, her grimace one of disapproval as she spots the paw prints on the once pristine white sheets.

The shaggy dog barks in objection, Fergus perfectly content to stay where she is.

The nurse flinches at the aggressive yip, releasing a cry of exclamation.

"Apologies, miss. We'll be going now," the Scotsman says, "Be well Damian. Fergus looks forward to seeing you back on your feet again."

"I appreciate you coming to see me,” Damian replies, giving Fergus a final pat on the head, “May the Light watch over you both.”

"You too my friend," the houndmaster says, calling Fergus to his side with a whistle and a snap of his fingers. The four legged beast whines a sassy reluctant yelp, but ultimately obeys her master's orders.

—-

As William descends the steps leading back into town, a loitering shadow calls out to him from the dark.

"Past visitin’ hours ain't it," Tardif remarks, an aggressive edge to his voice, a whetstone sharpening a knife.

His soliciting shape emerges from the obscure recesses of the building, coming into view with the same off-putting energy that he brought with him to the mission.

"It's the least I could do for the man who saved our lives,” the flaxen vigilante snaps, his attempt at being cordial slipping by the second, “That being said, would it kill you to show some gratitude?"

"Never asked to be saved," Tardif barks, agitated that anyone would suggest he would need saving in the first place. It reeks of poor taste and bad memories.

"Maybe so, but you need not ask for such a thing for it to be given," the Scotsman argues, his fists clenching, amazed by the gall of this erring brute.

The air of contention between them rises, an electric spark of rivalry that has the two heroes staring each other down, on the verge of beating their respective faces in when Fergus intervenes.

Her forepaws tap against the bounty hunter's belt buckle, standing on her hind legs, sniffing at him and wagging her tail.

The steadfast hound has never been this openly affectionate with him before. Her jowls had a reputation to maim so Tardif is justifiably cautious when he reaches out to pat her on the head.

The old girl doesn’t give him the chance, her tongue eagerly lapping at his hand before he can move too far.

Things suddenly click together inside the bounty hunter's head. It’s the blood. Damian's blood.

Tardif is still slick with the scent of him, even more so after carrying the flagellant all the way back here to the Sanitarium only to watch over his bedside and man-handle every curve of his exposed face.

Inadvertently, it seems the flagellant had saved him again.

The sight of his best friend’s disarming behavior drains the fight right out of William. He shakes his head at such petty ridiculousness, too old for jealous suitors and back alley brawls.

"Take from my advice what you will, but we should all make good use of the time that we're given," the ex-lawman says, "Who knows how long any of us have left on this rock; especially here, especially now.”

Tardif holds his gaze, stone-faced behind that helmet of his, idly petting Fergus.

William can only sigh in return. He swears having a conversation with this thick-headed ruffian is the equivalent to talking to a brick wall.

"Time for us to get going," the houndmaster says, clicking his tongue for Fergus to follow, heading in the direction of the barracks, “Good evening to you, Tardif.

The bounty hunter grunts in reply, letting the vigilante go on about his way, trusty wolfhound in toe.

The churlish brigand had been so thirsty for a fight. To this day, it remains one of the few ways in which Tardif can blank out his mind, free it from earthly shackles of doubt and regret, but here he was left to wrestle with these emotions despite how badly he wants them to end.

He debates on whether or not he should go back inside, if it was better to let the idiot rest for the duration of the night. The flagellant would need it in order to clear his head of the metaphorical clutter, the deep-set radical delusion (if such a feat were possible).

No matter how long Tardif stares up at the faded menagerie of stars on the horizon, it doesn’t give him the answer.