MQ: When Blood Runs Cold

[Christoph]

“No, you don’t have any idea what it’s like!” Chris replied in a shout, standing up after Elijah. He clenched his fists, not wanting to accept what he was hearing. “My mother was the only family I had! She’s dead now, and the entire life that I’d been trying to return to for the past six months is gone. Don’t you get it, Elijah? I’ve only known two types of lives: the one I’d left in my hometown and the life of trials, travel, and violence. I’ve got nothing left besides that second life, and the man who did all this to me is still out there, terrorizing other innocent people as we speak. After all we’ve been through, how can you abandon me now?”

"Abandon?" The denim-clad man stopped in his tracks. "Let me tell you something about abandonment." Elijah swiftly turned on his heel and walked up to the chef, his tear-streaked face red with anger. "As far back as I can remember, my parents treated me like shit. I was kept at a point where I was barely alive--I was rarely fed, always cold, and so, so, very lonely. Then, the fuckers dumped me off on an aunt and uncle when they grew tired of me. And let me tell you, what they did was only worse. Then, they'd pass me on to the next branch of the family tree when they were done. It was like that until I ran away from the entire fucking lot of them."

He stood tense, his fists clenched, his once strong voice breaking down. "You, on the other hand... You at least had someone who cared about you. You had a family. You've known what it feels like to be loved by someone else. Yeah, I know you lost that family, and I am sorry as all fuck that it had to be under these circumstances. I can understand how pissed off you are." Elijah paused for a moment. "But killing in vengeance won't make anything right. Your mom will still be dead, joined in the earth by either Malachai and yourself." The ice-crafter slowly turned around and resumed his path. "Chris, man, you're the closest thing to a friend I've ever had. It'd tear me apart to see you die. That's why I can't be a part of this."

Christopher's glare intensified until his eyes burned like demonic embers. "And after all the times you've been abandoned during a time of need, you'd do the same damn thing to someone you'd call a friend?"

Elijah threw up in hands in frustration. "So I'm a fucking hypocrite, but at least I'll still be alive."

"Just go. Get out of my sight!"

“I’m sorry.” And then he was gone, vanishing into the snowy brush and branches, leaving an empty silence in his wake. Chris had never felt so cold in his entire life. He slammed his fist against a frost-covered tree trunk, letting out a cry that blurred the line between anger and anguish.

“It’s time to go,” he said at last, composing himself and forcing the image of his friend’s back fading into the forest from his mind. The time had come to take charge and do what he’d vowed to do. Malachi was still out there, alive and well. Chris would remedy that. “I want to get as far as possible with the daylight we have.”

Without waiting for any word of confirmation from the other two, the chef started taking down the tent and packing up the camp with cold efficiency. He didn’t even notice the stinging chill of the snow between his fingers. Elijah was gone and was never coming back. It didn’t matter. All that did was getting on the road and finding Malachi before he was lost forever as well. He stood, all of his belongings strapped to his back. With a huge effort, he kicked the woman's massive sword out from under a large pile of snow by the fire circle where he'd hidden it the night before.

“The Sway caravan headed down the southern road,” he said. “So either they’re taking the long way to Knife’s Edge, or they’re going to the border with Alerar. All I know is that I want to catch then before they reach either destination.” He turned and started for the rocky road. “If either of you really want to follow me, I’m leaving now.”

[Witchblade]

If she’d had the heart to care, the words from Christoph may have affected her. The acceptance that he clearly wished his friend would give him and the company that would come along with it were not being offered. He yelled and ranted about how life had been harder for him never having a family than it was for Chris to lose it. She felt sympathy for neither, having no memories of parents or any kind of family at that, the Halfling was without any kind of understanding in the current situation. So she merely heard the words and brushed them aside.

He was emotional, that much was certain and it appeared as if his best friend was abandoning him in his time of need. How sad. And how utterly predictable. Elijah, as his name appeared to be, certainly didn’t seem to possess a single brave bone in his body. In fact, she was rather certain when he had been attacking her, it had been that little bitch of a woman inside his head more than him. The fact that Elijah stomach what needed to be done was of no surprise and no consequence to her. The human would most likely only berate Chris on the moral repercussions of his actions and how this wasn’t really him and this wasn’t who he wanted to be, blah, blah, blah… Better off without him around.

Quietly she watched as he began taking down the tent. There was no point in helping him, not because she didn’t want to, but because she had never used a tent before and really had no idea how the things came apart other than just hacking away at it. So instead she remained quiet and watched his cold efficiency as he moved about, like a stone gargoyle, completing the necessary tasks without thought or emotion.

It was going to be a lot of fun watching his downward spiral.

When he finally stood straight and mentioned that it was time to go, the halfling slung her rucksack over her shoulders and took a few steps closer to him.

“I’ll join you, but first we have to backtrack and retrieve The Rot Slayer. You most likely removed it from my person when I collapsed because it was too heavy for you to carry.”

After all that she had gone through to get that sword, she was not about to abandon it in the middle of fucking nowhere Salvar. Not only would that simply piss her off, but she had the distinct feeling that Megan would like that even less. The woman was a bitch with parchment and pen and too much time and power on her hands. She was not about to give her more reason to fuck around with her life than she already had. Leaving behind that sword would just be inviting trouble.

Without saying anything, Christoph walked over to the fire pit and kicked at a pile of snow around it, one she hadn’t really paid any attention to. His foot caught on something and snagged, but the sight of glinting metal hit her eyes. Arching a brow, she walked over and brushed away some of the snow with her boot, revealing the worn and familiar surface of The Rot Slayer.

So he had been able to drag the sword here... interesting. Perhaps he is much stronger than he looks.

She hadn’t exactly seen him carry the sword around or even try to lift the damn thing, but even getting it to the camp was a feat worth noting in her mind. Not many humans could lift this sword and though she’d never admit it out loud, she would be damned impressed if Christoph had the ability to do that.

Searching around the snow for the handle, the halfling grabbed a hold of it and hefted The Rot Slayer from the ground. The snow easily fell away to reveal the large, six foot titanium sword, equipped with multiple nicks, dents and a crack or two. It looked only slightly better than when she had freed it from the mountains of Kachuck, but there was a chance the snow had just cleaned off some of the grit and crap from it, making it a little more...shiny. Slipping out of her rucksack once more and swinging the blade around until it rested upon her back, Witchblade used her telekinesis to pull and wrap the straps around her body and tighten them, holding the five hundred pound chuck of metal firmly in place and enough of a distance off to the ground to not impede her movements. Then she slipped her bag back onto her shoulders.

Once it was in place, she turned and started heading after Christoph, her baby white dragon quickly following at her heels. Though he clearly looked as if he wanted up on Witch’s shoulder, she wasn’t in the mood to carry the extra weight. Wisely, he kept his distance from Chris, either feeling the man’s sudden change in mood or for other reasons she didn’t know, but she was happier the farther he stayed away from the human. In his current state he was likely to punt kick the little runt away from him if he looked at him the wrong way, and she would to hate to have to rip him apart for doing such a thing. Well, maybe not hate.

[Molotov]

Molotov could practically feel the ghost of his past breathing down his neck as he watched Chris lug the gigantic sword for a murderer. He despised the situation, but yet there was little he could do other than light a cigarette and wish he could have left like Elijah. “Some bloody friend that is,” the mutant thought, unsure of whether he was sarcastic or not. “That’s a bloody brick right there, someone who gets up and leaves when you start killing.”

Since there was no one else who could convince Chris not to throw his life away now, Molotov figured it would have to be him. He had listened to Elijah’s words intently, knowing that anything he could gain about Chris’ personal life might help the chef return to his senses. As he continued, almost silently, fading in the background, he was unnoticeable, save for the smell of cigarettes that wafted towards Chris and the woman.

More than anything else, Molotov wanted to leave. He wanted to have a life that would have allowed him to leave, one in which he felt he could look upon the world and flash it two stiff middle fingers, because all his debts to it have been repaid. Right now though, he knew that he had to save Chris from following in his path. If he didn’t, then all the people he had murdered in cold blood would have been in vain.

As they continued moving, the more and more Molotov thought about Chris, the memories that fateful day when he had gone from disgruntled and abused student to serial killer became more vivid. He could practically see himself in the lab, the smells of phosphorous and sulphur dancing in his nostrils as his eyes shone red with a madness he couldn’t control. He could see himself, minutes later, crying tears of anger and frustration as he’d set his favorite teacher on fire. Seconds later, he would burst through the hallway, unleashing a pillar of fire on an unfortunate group of students that happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

By the time Molotov was finished with Jamison academy, most of the students were still among the living, but the fire didn’t extinguish itself for days. Before he left Radasanth, the mutant had hid in the nearby trees and watched the efforts of fire control, secretly stoking the flames every time he had the chance. By that point, he wasn’t acting out of anger, he was acting to have justified his past decisions. Since he had already taken the label of monster, he felt obligated to live up to it.

“The first killing’s the bloody scary one,” Molotov remembered. “That’s when your rage is coursing, and you just hate. That’s the only one where you’re focused, when the anger inside of you seems so bloody pure that you just want to reach out and grab it. Once that’s done though, you’re a monster and you have to live with yourself. You can’t go back home, so you become the monster that the people you loved for in the first place never wanted you to be.”

Every day of his life, Molotov regretted what happened at Jamison Academy. He had come to terms with his own role, but more than anything else, he hated that the person he couldn’t make restitution to the person he’d wanted to more than any other. His mother had been the one who had pushed to send him to Jamison Academy, despite Molotov’s father’s objections. Molotov had promised that he would make something of himself there, that he would make everyone in their slum proud that one of them could have risen up and overcome. However, his mother had grown sick and died before he could find a cure for her illness, and being of non-noble lineage, he found that his options in the government of Corone were limited. Thus, he’d lashed out on the school, disgracing everything his mother had ever wanted for him.

With his mother dead, Molotov knew he’d never be able to make it up to her, no matter how hard he tried. Chris was about to make the same mistake, and kill in his mother’s name. Molotov didn’t want to see it happen.

The more Molotov thought about it, the more unbearable he felt the situation was. He continued walking through the storms, and it seemed like they had been walking for two hours without getting anywhere. Though Molotov supposed he shouldn't complain, time spent walking was time not spent killing, but even then, it seemed to be a long trek for revenge. The whole time Molotov had remained silent, because he knew that it would be pointless to argue with Chris, though eventually he figured he'd have to give it another try. He ran up to the chef and spoke to him again, hoping that one last appeal might make more sense than all the ones before. “Use your head mate,” he implored. “Think about who’s coming with you and where your friends are. Once you’ve gone… you can’t come back. Think about that man, just think about it…”

Molotov knew pressing Chris would just make him hostile, so he move backwards for a bit to put some distance between himself and the chef again. The experienced mutant didn’t expect his words to have any kind of a sudden effect, but he hoped that when that moment of rage came, Chris was thinking about the people in his life that truly mattered, the kind of people who could have saved Molotov four years ago.

[Christoph]

The trek carried on for long hours in silence and misery. Chris brooded about his past and future while he trudged through wet, ankle-deep snow. He’d lost most feeling in his toes well over an hour ago. The chill spread until it felt like he was walking on bricks of lead instead of flesh and bone. It was actually this kind of unpleasantness that lifted the chef’s spirit. Snow, ice, and cold were what he’d grown up in.

The months and months he’d spend in tropical and temperate climates had almost had him forget the invigorating caress of arctic winds and the bittersweet kiss of snowflakes on his face. It was Salvar; he was home, even if it wasn’t the same way he left it, and that filled him with resolve. It was with this unexpected resolve that he responded when Molotov finally spoke again.

“I did think about it; I’m still thinking about it,” said Chris with a sure voice. He slid his fingers idly over the blade of his sword. “And the more I think about it, the more clear my path becomes. This isn’t just about avenging my mother, not that her death doesn’t deserve vengeance. I knew the man responsible for my mother’s death. We met recently in the western side of Salvar. I saw first-hand what he was capable of, what power he possessed, and the kind of loyalty and obedience he inspired in his men. At first, he seemed to be as good a man as a religious fanatic. Now, though, it has become clear that he’s nothing more than a monster corrupted by power. That’s why I’m doing it. I’ve been in a real war before, so don’t talk to me about moral implications of another battle to destroy a monster before more innocent lives are ruined.” It was his home. His home was worth protecting. It was worth fighting for, worth killing for.

* * * * *

Few words were spoken after that, leaving little more than ominous murmurs uttered from the icy tongues of distant winds. The freezing air swirled vengefully with grainy snow, stinging lungs with every breath and threatening to scour exposed skin raw. The wind intensified further as the sun’s decent continued. It wasn’t long before a veil of oppressive clouds covered the sky.

The Salvic storm struck swiftly and without sympathy. Fierce winds swept across frozen fields, mercilessly lashing at the group. Every step became and effort, though Chris didn’t dare show any weakness in front of his new company. More and more, he found himself clutching the hilt of his sword; it seemed to fill him with strength and warmth each time his skin touched it. Even so, his hidden weariness was taking its toll. Of course, that wasn’t the reason he gave when finally calling for them to stop and make camp.

“We’re going to get lost if we keep going through this storm in the dark!” he called to the others through the white noise of the blizzard. “We can’t even see the road anymore. We’d better stop for the night.”

[Witchblade]

They walked in silence. The last protests silenced by the last spoken words. She preferred it that way, for the only sounds around them to be the crunching snow underfoot and the whistling of the wind in their ears. Whistling that intensified and grew into a deafening roar the further they continued on and the stronger the winds became. Lashing out towards them and trying to push them back in some kind of vain glory, as if it had the strength to stop them. But it was a fierce storm and it seemed to only be building in intensity. The snow that lashed against her no longer felt like the soft, gentle flakes that had caressed her skin before, now it felt like tiny shards of steel that wanted nothing more than to rend and gore her. It struck along her arms, her face, her neck and her chest, causing her to wrap her vlince cloak across her body in an effort to keep it at bay.

Temperatures did not affect her as much as a human, but this was still a little beyond what she could take. She could only imagine how cold and frozen the humans were getting, though none complained. Not out loud anyway, sadly for them she could hear directly into their thoughts and she could sense the weariness coating every step that Christoph took. He needed rest. He’d be no good to anyone pushed beyond the point of exhaustion and ready to collapse. But she didn’t say anything. It wasn’t really her place to care if he pushed himself that far.

Daegun had long ago retreated to the inner depths of her rucksack, most likely wrapped in a few thick layers of blankets trying to stay warm. The dragon didn’t seem to mind the cold and the snow that much, then again she had never had him in a storm like this before, but once the snow’s depth had passed their ankles, he could barely keep up with them and so she had allowed him to travel within her rucksack once again. With the weight of The Rot Slayer on her back, she barely felt the extra pounds coming from him anyway. Not that she ever really had. He had never really been that heavy and her strength allowed her to carry much more than was normal for most warriors. Then again, there were people far stronger than her out there.

When the sun set, the halfling didn’t so much as see it as she did feel it. The thick clouds overhead had long ago obscured much of the light from the sun and left the night in a perpetual state of grey, where it was neither light nor dark. But the whipping snow and winds made it hard to see much of anything beyond roughly six feet in front of her. It was a time after this period that Christoph finally called for rest and to make camp. He made an excuse about getting lost, which was a very real problem but she knew it was also his weariness eating away at whatever reserves of strength he had.

Silently, she watched as he picked out a spot that was somehow better than all the others. Perhaps it was the small grouping of trees that he hoped would provide some extra shelter against the screaming winds. He took off his rucksack and began setting up his tent once more, his motions hindered by the biting wind and snow. But he didn’t ask for help and she didn’t offer, not that she’d know what to do anyway. Instead, she slipped out of her rucksack and released the latch on The Rot Slayer. Grabbing the ice cold handle, she walked over to one of the trees and thrust the sword into the ground at its base. She couldn’t take it in with her into the tent, but she needed to be able to find it easily enough come morning.

It didn’t take Chris long to finish setting up and soon the three of them were inside the run down tent that was supposed to protect them against the harsh Salvar storm. Opening up the top of her rucksack, Witch motioned for Daegun to come out and the moment she did, the little guy practically jumped into her lap, clinging to her for body heat. His tiny little scaled form was shivering rather heavily as he pressed himself up against her torso. Smiling softly, she ran her hand down his back. He’d have better luck clinging to one of the humans if he wanted to warm himself up quickly, but she wasn’t about to tell him that.

[Molotov]

Molotov didn’t much care for the idea of stopping. He was tired and cold, and looked forward to eating one of his remaining sandwiches out of the cold, but he didn’t much care for the prospect of sleeping around a woman that he was relatively certain was a murderer. “And I already bloody whipped out the revolver,” he realized. “Like a fucking ponce, like I was trying to impress a bird back at school. Now if I pass out for the night, she’s going to be after it…”

Once they were inside the tent, a tent that Molotov had put only a marginal effort into setting up, the mutant warmed the air around his body so that he was more comfortable. Though he could have projected this ability to extend to the others as well, he opted not to. It was his subtle way of mutiny that he would let both the murderous stranger and her potential young acolyte shiver in their sleep.

With a slight smirk on his face, he watched with a perverse glee as a little dragon that he hadn’t noticed before snuggled with the murderess. “Not a bit of warm blood between the two of them,” Molotov thought snidely. “And if it comes to a kind thought, I’d probably take the dragon.”

He yawned visibly, but he sat up and began to eat his sandwich. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to go without sleep, it had been a long day of travel and the wind had made it that much more grueling. Still, he didn’t trust the people around him. More than anything else, he worried that Chris might leave in the morning without him. Though Molotov had only known the chef for a matter of hours, the mutant knew he was the closest link to Chris’ past. He couldn’t do the job as well as Elijah or someone genuinely meaningful, but Molotov had still met Chris at a different point in the chef’s life.

Molotov thought over the transition he had seen in Chris again. “When I met this poor sod, he was distant and vacant, but he still bloody was willing to help another bugger out with a meal,” the mutant recalled. “Right now, he’d bloody stab a sod before giving him food.”

This was the link that Molotov knew he might be able to exploit. It would be a useful connection between the two of them. The mutant resolved to keep one of his two sandwiches without eating it. It might be the only proof he had that, at one time, Chris was something other than a monster. He knew that there would be moments where Chris would doubt him if he said that.

For now, Molotov would just eat the remainder of his sandwich, hoping that it could stay his eyes becoming unbearably heavy until the other two were asleep. He relaxed, longing to close his eyes, and managed to stay awake surprisingly long after the rest of the group had gone to bed, just waiting in his area, lying prone. Terminally suspicious, once he had ascertained without a doubt that the rest of the group was asleep, he let his eyes close. His hand remained on his revolver, just for the added security.

[Christoph]

Chris had been utterly exhausted by the time the tent was up. He’d fallen asleep swiftly, despite his paranoia regarding the dangerous company that he was in. Even so, he had a surprisingly sound and dreamless sleep, his sword held to his chest for protection. When the weary chef woke up the next morning, he was warm, even though the air was dangerously cold. He was even sweating a little and his hand was sore from gripping the sword so tightly through the night.

“What else can you do?” he mumbled softly, tracing the runes covering the blade.

* * * * *

Once again, silence hovered over the group as it left their sleeping spot and started off again. Fortunately, they hadn’t strayed far from the road the night before. It wasn’t long before they were following the trails of merchant sleds along the snow-covered road. The wind was as frigid as ever and the snow was knee-deep. The morning sun cast a blinding glare off of the crystalline hills but provided little warmth for the travelers.

It was during this second silent march that a sense of futility finally surfaced. Malachi was over a week ahead of them. He would have horses and any trail left behind would be long gone under the snow. If Chris had to guess, the cursed priest would have already taken the first road west, straight to Knife’s Edge to aid with the battle. Once he got there, the chaos would consume him and his retinue. On the off chance that he continued south, his likely goal would be to leave the country for whatever reason. He’d cross the Alerarian border and vanish. They could track him for years and still never find the bastard.

This is hopeless, he thought, despair finally setting in. Perhaps Elijah had been right. It was pointless. Even if they did catch up and track Malachi down, what would it matter? Would they be in any condition to fight him? Would they stand a chance, anyway? It wouldn’t bring his mother back. It wouldn’t put anything back to normal. Besides, the warrior priest was probably going to get killed in the civil war, anyway. He sighed, letting his posture slouch slightly and started trudging just a little slower, letting his hand fall idly across the handle of his sword.

No! What was he thinking? He didn’t have time for self-doubt, not with Malachi roaming free and unchecked. That priest was a manipulative monster. He needed to be stopped. Justice needed to be served. If Chris didn’t do it, who would? He would find the damned priest one way or another, and he would kill him. First, though, he’d need to find him. As it was, the solution to that was to arrive very soon.

“Well, there’s where the road branches off,” said Chris. “And there’s a house there.”

[Witchblade]

Silence was comforting to her. She didn’t need to fill her ears with meaningless chatter in order to pass the time on a journey, In fact she preferred the quiet as the only sounds that surrounded them were of the wild, the wind and their own feet trudging through the thick snow. Snow that was more impeding and annoying the further they travelled. It was up to her knees by this point in time and though she wore knee high boots and her pants were made of leather, she could feel the cold seeping through to freeze the skin below. It was trying in vain though, she was already cold and it wasn’t from the wind and the Salvaran winter.

During the trek, she could feel the waning sense of determination begin to strike within the mind of Chris. It happened, it always happened. But she said nothing. She kept an eye on him from under her hood as she listened in on his thoughts knowing he was completely oblivious to it. This was his journey and his choice, though she was unsure if she would try to encourage him from continuing should his thoughts continue the way they were. She had nothing to gain from it, just the satisfaction of fighting and taking more lives.

Silently, she watched and waited, when his shoulders fell and his head bowed ever so slightly, she waited. Then his hand brushed against the hilt of his sword and everything within his mind changed as if struck with a flow of electricity. Fervently he began to play through the reasons to kill this man once more in his mind. It only brought a slight tug to the corner of her lips, one that could be interpreted as a smirk. It was not the first time she had seen him look for comfort in his weapon though. He always held it close to him, like some kind of safety net and she was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t relying on it too much. There was power in that weapon, that much she could feel and she could sense and though her mind dismissed the idea right away, she couldn’t help but think he was letting it control him in such a way. Not in a sense that the sword was a sentient being, but just the power itself.

When words were finally spoken into the cold air around them, the halfling turned her eyes ahead of Chris and to the road. She followed him as it branches off and soon she could see the makings of farmhouse ahead. It wasn’t particularly large, or small. Modest in side and made of old, grey wood that was stacked one on top of the other. Light was coming out from several of the tiny windows and puffs of grey smoke rose from the only stone structure that she could see, the chimney. Several yards away were another building, this one larger though it did not look to be as well made. The barn, she could smell the animals in it from here, horses and cattle, kept inside and out of the deep cold.

As they grew closer, another smell caught her.

Stopping for a moment she turned her head in several different directions as she tried to find the source for it, but it was quite weak and almost indistinguishable on the wind, as if it had been lingering for hours now. Its strongest presence was coming from the direction of the house, but not actually the house itself. Farmer’s sometimes smelled more of their animals than they did themselves, which was why their herd were seldom afraid of them. This was a distinctly humans smell. Walking ahead of Chris, the halfling began to head around the side of the house and to an area in the snow that was disturbed, kicking away the thin layer of it she found the hard, frozen ground equally so.

Here she could smell a variety of different things, horses and metal and something far more basic that made the blood pump faster through her veins; fear. Fear always had a distinct smell to it, like anything else. It was the way the sweat came off the body and the chemicals it released into the air, sparked by adrenaline and fuelled by anxiety. It was a potent thing and her more base and animalistic nature felt the need to rise whenever she was around it.

“There were humans here not too long ago. I cannot tell how many, but it was a rather large group to still leave their scent lingering on the air. They have horses with them and weapons too.”

She couldn’t be entirely sure about the weapons, they may for some reason be carrying a large amount of metal on them.

The door to the farmhouse suddenly swung open and the head of a man popped out from the other side of it, covered in a mop and mess of brown hair. She could not see the rest of him, as he kept most of his body still inside the warmth and safety of his home.

“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing!?”

[Molotov]

Molotov had woken up abruptly that morning, and his entire body had been a bit stiff from the way he’d fallen asleep. It made him grumpy, and his patience for both Chris’ mercurialness and the woman’s misanthropy were waning. The moment he heard her mention something about smelling lives, he couldn’t help himself but to make a snide comment about how she was roughly as useful to them as a hunting hound.

He didn’t like the idea of bringing Chris around other civilized people. “If his own friend found him insufferable, imagine how he’ll be with the rest of these bloody people,” Molotov feared. “If I had my say, I wouldn’t let him at a single person until I had him housebroken. Right now, I’m not sure if the fucking sod wouldn’t throw a hissy fit, start crying for his mother or even take a piss on the carpet.”

However, the mutant knew that Chris was not going to stop at his behest, especially as a poor man who likely knew little about their situation or intentions popped his head out of a farmhouse to demand to know what they were doing. Molotov’s eyes rolled. “We’re planting grass…” Molotov shot back sardonically, his voice betraying just how much his patience had been frayed. “You should come and join us, it’s one of the best things to do in a civil war after a snowstorm.”

With that said, Molotov turned to Chris. “Let me handle this,” he said. “Your girl with the sewn lips doesn’t exactly have what it takes to be friendly…”

Sighing, Molotov went over to the man, surprised that the peasant hadn’t already run in fear. “My ‘friend’ there, the one who doesn’t look like a carnival freak, he’s looking for a person named Malacky or something. Not sure exactly why, something about revenge or a wager over an ermine race-”

Molotov’s irreverence was cut off by the reaction of the slight farmer. “Y-y-you can’t!” he insisted. “It’s Malachi!”

“That’s the name,” Molotov replied. He wasn’t surprised by the reaction. That was the kind of reaction Chris should have had to the name.

“He- he’s the cause of our suffering, all of it,” the farmer began. “We’re honest people though, truly honest, and we’re god fearing folk. We went to church every week, but that wasn’t enough…”

Molotov sighed. It was going to be hard to be sympathetic, even though he regretted the struggles the man undoubtedly suffered, Molotov was cold and tired and grumpy, and had eaten the last of his food the previous night. His stomach was growling, and the mutant found it difficult to show much sympathy in that condition, even for the truly suffering.

“We’ll go after him, bring him back here and make him apologize then,” Molotov replied. “Whatever you want, we’ll get your bloody restitution, alright?”

The brown haired man’s eyes grew even wider, a feat that Molotov would have considered anatomically impossible before he saw it happen. Looking for some kind of clue, the mutant looked in. The entire farmhouse was devastated. Implements were strewn across the ground, many of them broken. Molotov noticed that the breaks were almost even, as if someone had struck the tools across their knee to destroy them out of spite. Bales of hay were unsettled, and small tufts were strewn all around, some of them dyed with blood. There were no corpses, perhaps only because they had been moved for the sake of aesthetics. There was enough blood between the walls and the floor that it wasn’t unlikely that someone had died there recently. As he looked around, Molotov noticed that there was a bloody footprint less than six feet from him, partially frozen and partially congealed. The mutant cringed viscerally. It belonged to a child.

“Bet Chris wouldn’t even notice,” Molotov thought sadly. “And that bloody minger would just think it’s funny…” He heaved a sigh. The farmer had suffered enough without having to deal with a pathological former chef. “Just tell us what you know…” Molotov coaxed. “We’ll leave you in peace, I promise…”

The brown haired man was shaking, though Molotov wasn’t sure if it was out of fear or the cold. The mutant tried to smile encouragingly, but the only response he got was, “I can’t say anything about Malachi sir, even if I wanted. He keeps the world together…”

The mutant didn’t know what that meant, but he decided to just nod and accept it. It was probably one of those Salvarian colloquialisms he had never picked up. Given his own particular brand of tradespeak, he knew that he couldn’t criticize another for theirs. “Thank you,” was his only reply before he headed back to Chris.

“We won’t get anything out of that poor sod…” Molotov said. “And the barn’s not that warm in there either. They’ve got a little fire place and some hay, but trust me, its bloody more depressing there than it was at sewn lip’s debutante dance. Let’s just move on…”

[Christoph]

“Great job ‘handling it,’” Chris growled, shoving past and making a straight line to intercept the farmer before he could get back inside. I’ll have to take care of this myself. The chef had spent a few minutes waiting and glancing around at the various patches of blood and footprints in the snow while letting the other male member of their little freak show to do the talking. He found himself wondering just what had gone on there; he had plenty of theories.

Either way, he couldn’t afford to accept that they wouldn’t get anything useful out of the farmer. They knew that Malachi had been there recently. The gap was far closer than they’d ever anticipated. They could catch up to the priest and his retinue in a matter of days instead of months or even years. In order to do that, though, they needed to know which road their target took. They needed to know, and that simpleton was going to tell them one way or another.

“Not so fast, shit shoveler,” Chris growled, cutting the farmer off, grabbing below his arms, and hurling him face-first into the snow. “Your little sob story might have satisfied Johnny-boy’s bleeding heart, but I won’t be so easily placated.” He kicked the farmer forcefully in the ribs as the man tried to roll over.

“No, please!” he pleaded through cries of pain. “I’m telling the truth!” Chris chuckled. It was a cold, sadistic laugh that would have made his own skin crawl less a mere few days ago.

“Oh, I know you are,” the chef replied, kicking again. “But it’s not the whole truth, is it?”

“Gah! Stop!” he cried, covering his face like a beaten child. “No more! Please don’t hurt me! We’ve suffered enough already.” Chris crouched down next to the dirty man, placing a hand on his shoulder even as he recoiled.

“Those men, what did they do?” he asked the farmer, his voice suddenly soft and warm, though firm.

The man lowered his hands slightly from his face. “They came over a week ago. They demanded to use of my barn and property for church business. I didn’t know why and I didn’t ask.”

“And they stayed here all that time, then? How many were there?”

“Fifty, at least! They just came and didn’t leave for days. More started arriving and joining the first band, too. They started moving into my house. Each day, they grew more and more rowdy, breaking everything, making a huge mess, and grabbing at my wife! And one night, my youngest son wandered out to the barn. He wanted to have a look for himself and snuck out. Those men gave such a beating… I… I don’t know how he managed to walk back to the house.”

Chris nodded, emotionlessly attentive. “What about their leader?” he asked. “What did the man with the staff do?”

“He was one o’ the few who didn’t do much of anything. He just stood and watched everything… never spoke much, he didn’t. I was just glad that he wasn’t causing any damage his self.”

“So he just stood by and watched you and your family get terrorized by his men, then? How noble of him.”

“But—”

“Let me tell you a little something more about our religious friend,” said Chris. “He tricked me into thinking that he was an honorable man, into almost considering him a friend and a decent human being. Then, I returned home to find out that he’d terrorized my town and murdered my mother. Now I’m tracking him down to serve justice, and I need to know which way he went.”

“No! No, no, no…” he cried, almost sobbing. “I can’t!” Pathetic man, Chris thought.

The chef snarled. “You do realize that you’re preventing me from stopping this man from doing the same thing that he’s done to you and I to others.” He leered down at the farmer. “What kind of monster are you, to protect another monster from justice?”

“No! I’m not! He’d kill us!” begged the man, before being silenced by a swift backhand.

“Silence!” Chris demanded. “If that is your position, I suppose that I will need to negotiate in a different way…” With that, he pressed his forefinger into the farmer’s cheek and exerted a small amount of focus. A moment later, sizzling flesh mingled with the man’s agonized scream as a thin tendril of smoke rose from his face. Then, the chef heard feint, muffled sobs coming from the farmhouse. When he turned to look, he saw three faces through the house’s only window. All three slinked away as soon as they saw the intruder’s face. He stood up as he noticed John’s coming over again.

“It’s all right, John. I’ve got a new plan.” He turned to the farmer. “I do hope you kept your doors locked.”

“What… yes?” replied the farmer, his voice alarmed and confused. He was clutching the black and red fingerprint burned into his face.

“And it looks like they lock both inside and outside. It also looks likes you have the only key.”

“I…”

“And I will remind you that both your house and your family are extremely flammable.”

“What? No! Please, no!” begged the farmer, panic and pain piercing his plea.

“John,” he said, turning to face his newest companion. “Get a torch and set fire to the house unless this filth starts talking before you get there.” John crossed his arms and glared at the chef.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

Chris growled and shoved past him, striding straight to the house. “Fine, I’ll do it myself. And I won’t need a damn torch.” Holding his hand out palm up, he summoned a large ball of fire that was closer to green, as opposed to the bright blue that it usually was. He gave one last glance to the farmer. “Last chance. No? Very well.” And he hurled the fire.