Mystery, Mayhem, Malice

[Khendon Sevon]

The stench of rotting cabbage rolled in through the open porthole on the fingertips of a salty breeze. Dim, sallow moon light shed a beam of illumination on the small, creaking cabin’s innards.

A lithe, shadow-cloaked body rolled brittle bones in his long, thin fingers and cast them, “Jote, krei, sahei,” he shrieked as they skipped about with a hollow tone. The carved squares of human skeleton dashed across the dark wood floor and crashed against the wall like so much water breaking on sharp rocks.

The ship rolled and pitched and the dark skinned man knelt low to examine the black symbols scrawled upon the yellowed bits of femurs, tibia, and vertebrae—the spiritual stones of the body.

There was a click, metallic and all too out of theme with the walls of the vessel’s bunk-burdened cabin. In a flash of white, the witch doctor’s brains were splattered all across his charms. The body slumped like a rag doll for a moment before beginning to slide around in its own growing pool of crimson as the ship continued to climb wave after tall wave.

[Averin Trangall]

Averin was not sure which was worse: lying in bed, trying to sleep through the swaying of the ship through the thoroughly oversized waves or standing up on deck, leaning over the edge of the ship, just waiting for the vomit to come. He had picked the latter. The rain swept down on the deck in sheets, drenching him instantly as he came up from below deck. He closed the hatch to prevent the ship from flooding. It was almost impossible to hear anything in the din of the storm, with the rain beating so hard on the wood.

He stood outside for as long as he could stand it, almost vomiting once or twice, but never actually getting anything out. The rain was like a drum directly on his skull. He knew it was probably best to wait up on deck and that he'd feel better afterwards, but he couldn't stand the rain. He made his way slowly back to the hatch to let himself under the deck again, and rejoiced at the relative silence that closing the hatch above him provided.

That silence lasted not a moment before he heard that all-too-familiar sound that generally went hand-in-hand with someone not hearing any sounds any more. He debated in his mind what he should do about it, and decided that it would likely be in his best interest to know exactly who it was on board who had a gun.

[Khendon Sevon]

MagClamps didn’t work on non-metallic surfaces. It was one of the annoying nuances of this particular job. Indeed, there were many frustrating factors.

The tempest continued to circle the ship like a hungry shark. Teth could hear the rain pounding on the side of his carbon composite helmet—it was reassuring. The rogue was banking on the tumult to dampen his devious deeds.

The Red Guard member plunged a knife deep into the wooden skin of the Rosalyn and kicked his crampons up a few feet. Slow progress was being made with the constant pounding waves, biting wind, and generally ugly conditions. Yet, these seemingly inhibiting factors all provided him advantages.

Finally on deck, Teth crouched low and pulled the hammer back on his Smith & Wesson 38 Special. Five bullets left in the cylinder. His free hand began undoing the metal teeth from his combat boots.

[Averin Trangall]

Averin found the door to the cabin locked. He was sure that it was the right one, but he wasn't sure how intent he should be on getting in. On the one hand, it was always wise to know one's potential enemies, but on the other hand, presenting yourself to them unarmed and unarmored was generally not the most advantageous plan of action.

The ex-lieutenant found his way quickly back to his private quarters. He thrust his hand impatiently on the palm-scanner on the trunk he'd brought with him, and the lid popped open. He was not sure how dure the circumstances were, but he would want to be prepared. He quickly stripped his clothes and strapped on his combat gear.

The thing looked just like plastic, all in black with some deep reds and browns, and was segmented with a cloth mesh at the joints. In reality, the plastic was nigh impenetrable and the cloth woven of the strongest microtubules. The Maeducian army would allow no less for its officers.

The warrior donned his helmet and looked back at the trunk to arm himself. Once he felt secure, he shut the trunk and headed back into the hallway rifle first.

[Varius Troy]

"'Scuse me, Compadre," he said, tapping the man on the shoulder. It was almost a shout. The blasted wind and the rain, pounding the deck as it was, provided a constant white noise that could drive a man up a wall. Aside from the noise, he was cold, and soaked to the bone. Enough to make a fella' downright irritable.

Speaking of irritable, the kneeling stranger stopped fiddling with his footwear and slowly rose to his feet. He turned, a scornful look on his face. Shame about the weather, all the wretched noise, the man didn't even hear the click of the hammer of the Colt .45 he ended up staring down the barrel of.

"Got a light?"

The gun wielder smirked, the cigarette clenched between his teeth.

Beautiful thing was, this was no standard piece of hardware the nice folks at Colt put together. He didn't call it the Special for nothin'. Plus, the heat he was packin' beat the pants off any hollow point.

Lovely thing about that kind of range, it doesn't matter how fast that other man may have been (and he assumed he was quick), he was caught off guard, and weren't nothin' that was between him and a funny little thing he liked to to call Divine Intervention.

White flame leapt forth from the barrel. A brilliant cloud of red sprayed overboard into the wind, a burst of blood and brain matter and skull fragments. A hollow point at this range would have left an exit wound the size of a chicken pot pie.

Again, this weren't no hollow point.

He grabbed the body and tossed what was left of it overboard before too much blood spilled on deck or someone happened to wander up top during this hellstorm.

Walking back, he placed his weapon into his coat pocket and reached into his jeans, drawing his lighter. Spinning the wheel three or four times, he failed to get a spark. Frustrated, he grunted and thrust it back into his side pocket.

"Huh. Probably wasn't gonna get a light, anyway."

[Averin Trangall]

The door to the room opened easily enough when confronted with the proper force. Averin grimaced at the sight of the man lying on the floor with his face lying in his splattered blood and brains. The smell was rancid, and there was nothing else in the room--whoever had done it must have left already.

In the rush of hearing a gunshot before, the soldier had forgotten about his seasickness, but it all came back with the encounter with the disgusting dead body before him. He left the room quickly, shutting the door behind him and looking about warily. His venture back up to the deck would be slow; he was not sure what to expect.

The rain somehow seemed to be pounding harder than ever, and the sound it made when it struck the armor didn't help any with the monotonous drumming. A bolt of lightning arched across the sky, followed by an explosion of thunder. The boat vibrated with the sound.

Visibility in the downpour was no more than fifteen feet--Averin could not see bow or stern, or even to the other side of the vessel. The mast was a shadow, nothing more than a figment of his imagination. He thrust his head over the edge of the boat, gagged a bit, then pulled it back and tried to breathe without inhaling any of the rain.

Another bolt of lightning reached down from the sky and exploded the area in light. There was a figure silhouetted on the other side of the boat. The sound was deafening--Averin could hear nothing but the sound of ringing after the initial blast. Even the rain was drowned out.

All at once, the mast splintered apart, and the jagged spike into which it had transformed came crashing down, ripping a hole through the deck, giving Averin just enough time to step back and get out of the way. The bottom half of the mast that was still in place was, somehow, on fire.

At least now he could see who else it was who had the gun.

[Khendon Sevon]

Dying isn’t so bad. It’s not dying that sucks.

The limp body of Teth plunged into the tumbling salt waters with little fanfare. It sank like a stone; bits of torn and destroyed flesh trailed the descending figure.

There’s something far worse than death—living.

Buoyancy suddenly wrapped its gentle hands around the corpse-like form and thrust it to the surface. The pitching water began to boil like an unearthly spring of fantastic doom. The water popped and sizzled as steam rolled off in a mighty vent of black-gray putridity. The scent of sulfur hovered over the waves and wrapped around the battered body in a cooing fashion.

Never going beyond the line is the worst part of near-death. You experience all of the pain, the torment, the anxiety of actually being shot in the head and having your skull erupt into a hundred fragmented parts. Every ounce of agony is real and in extreme focus.

It wasn’t Teth’s first time. He had experience—more than a working girl in a Red Guard front.

After the sensation of almost dying came the next part. It was just a little less horrific and unendurable.

The sound of bones popping and contorting filled the dark soul’s head.

[Varius Troy]

"Well I'll be..."

This wasn't his night. He was out of his element, having a miserable time on some floating fossil. When he was assigned this trip, he was less than thrilled. Being in the Mediterranean? Not so bad. But the whole sailing aspect just didn't float his boat. He didn't want to be in close quarters, should one of the Reds show up. No mission details. Terrible weather. A Red.

He wasn't going get a smoke out here; he knew that. Getting inside, back to his cabin, would be the best idea. Ship hands were gonna be popping up any minute, and the last thing he wanted to deal with was nosey shipmates.

He stopped. Surveying the damage, the man cursed to himself. A hole through the deck. Perfect. Nothing could make his night any better than wading through inches of water below deck. It seemed like he was just meant to spend the night soaking wet and miserable.

He suddenly caught sight of a man to the port side- or was it starboard? He wasn't exactly sure of how these things worked. Fast acting crew. Impressive.

A second glance disproved that first assumption. The figure was wearing some kind of silly, sci-fi movie prop that you may see on some stand-in. He was armed, as well; looked like some kind of rifle. Fantastic. He was no Red Guard, that was for sure, not even some underling. But he couldn't perceive if he was a threat or not. Had he seen the altercation with the Red? Had he heard the gunshot? Or perhaps he reacted to the Guardsman's gunshot a few minutes earlier. Regardless, this fella was loaded for bear, and he didn't want any trouble from this one.

He faked the motion of tipping his cap, giving the guy a grin.

"Evenin', kid." He couldn't restrain himself. "A bit overdressed?" Hopefully his demeanor would ease this possibly trigger-happy gunman's nerves.

[Averin Trangall]

The man seemed a bit cheery for having had a mast just explode almost on top of him. If Averin's wits were sharp, as he liked to think they were, the man was hiding something behind his feigned grin. Without speaking, Averin stepped towards the guy, never moving his rifle from its target at the man's chest.

Head-shot, chest-shot, it was all the same with his gun. In fact, he was hoping he'd have a chance to show it off to these foreigners. The rickety old boat had proven much more boring than the luxurious battlecraft the Maeducian army had put under his command.

Some useless ship underling caught sight of Averin in his full battle gear and let out a high-pitched shriek of terror, then froze. There were supposedly no guns allowed on this voyage, but smugglers didn't mind such rules. And apparently, neither did murderers.

"Why did you kill that man?" Averin asked, remembering the fragmented remains that were once human below deck.

[Varius Troy]

Well, this one wanted to play tough guy. "Big man with a big gun" was how he was gonna do this? Fine.

He raised his hands in front of him, palms outward, presenting himself as unarmed and harmless.

"Look, Big Guy. I don't want any trouble," he spoke softly. He made eye contact with the armed man. This was no jumpy amateur. He was uneasy, but it wasn't the gunplay that made him so. Seasickness, maybe? Regardless, he wasn't gonna play games.

"You heard that." He gestured to the side, to where the sailor witnessing the mishap had just fled. "Those sailor boys are gonna be here any second, and I reckon they won't be none too fond to find guns on their ship. This is supposed to be a respectable vessel. And besides," he paused, hoping to hear the crew making their way up to the deck to break up this unhappy party. "I haven't killed no man."

[Khendon Sevon]

Teth’s body bobbed face down in the churning Mediterranean waters. The dead-man’s float was easy enough for someone that had nearly had his head ripped clean off by a hefty slug at close range.

A fish flopped out of the water, reeling in a death throw. The silvery skinned porgy twitched for a moment then embraced the end and bumped against the soggy corpse of the dark soldier.

Without warning, the angry blue waters were brimming with more of the sea’s children than could fill a trawl. The bodies vibrated as death stroked their spines. The smell of rotting seafood mixed with the potent sulfuric scent.

The remnants of Teth’s head shot out of the water and he took his first gaping breath. Salty fluid had filled his lunges and he expelled it with haste, coughing violently.

His face was a mangled mixture of bone, exposed muscle, and dead flays of flesh—demonic and dastardly.

The twenty-some-odd-year-old’s lip was gone and his sharp teeth snapped shut as his body writhed with pain.

An inhuman roar escaped the devil’s throat and hammered through the storm’s anvil falls.

Syrus Tethose did not like being nearly-dead. There was payment to be dealt.

[Averin Trangall]

What kind of lie was that? Averin had seen the man, dead, lying in a pool of his own blood. How could he trust this man when he lied so blatantly. He really didn't want to be all caught up in anything like this. All he wanted was a relaxing trip to Italy. He had meant to land in Italy initially, but there was some mix-up with the coordinates and he'd found himself in some useless place called Africa or Egypt or something--it didn't matter. Now, he was caught up in some kind of battle for something, and he didn't even know what. It pissed him off.

"You know what?" he cried, irritated. He turned and fired his rifle straight at one of the gaping crewmen who had arrived on deck. There was no sound, nothing to see, nothing to even show that the gun had fired, except that the man crumpled to the ground, minus one soul. It felt good to kill when he was pissed. It lightened his mood.

He turned back to his new acquaintance, pointed the gun casually at him, and said: "You had better explain yourself."

[Varius Troy]

"Folks, we have ourselves a vigilante! Look at him, boys," he motioned to the gunman, the panicked sailors paying no attention to the two, most of them fleeing for their lives, some of them tending to their fallen friend. "A grade-A, genuine, rifle-totin' mood-swingin' trigger-pullin' sailor-killin' HOMICIDAL MANIAC," he shouted, "who wants to take the law into his own hands and justifies killing another man in cold blood with it."

He paused, then spoke in a low tone, almost a growl. "Tell me, boy. The Devil got you already, or are you just waiting in line?"

Several men ran up to the deck, all of them bearing rifles. These weren't the meek, timid sailors that happened to be merely bystanders in this whole affair, that much was obvious.

There were about seven of them, each taking aim on the obvious aggressor. They were shouting things in French. Among the several belted commands, one of them came through in English. "Drop your weapon," the voice shouted, in a heavy French accent.

[Averin Trangall]

The soldier's visor came down to cover his face, leaving no vulnerable point for the pitiful weapons of those who had surrounded him.

"Funny you should mention the Devil," he said. "I'm sure he's closer than you realize."

The men around him were yelling some kind of garbled nonsense, then one said a few words that sounded almost like English, but he couldn't quite make them out. He had not been speaking this confounded complicated language long enough to understand it all that well. He was convincing enough when he spoke it, at least.

One of them yelled something really loud again, and Averin was able to make out the word 'weapon.' Probably telling him to disarm himself. A laughable notion. Still, he wasn't in the best of situations.

"If they fire at me, the stray ones will hit you too."

He spun and pulled the trigger, felling one of the seven men who stood around him. The firefight had begun.

[Khendon Sevon]

The Rosalyn was still being churned vigorously in the stormy waters. The tempest had taken on a sullen demeanor and hammered the sides of the wooden vessel. Teth ran a hand over the hull and closed his eyes—sensations of life within and emotions flooded his perceptions.

There was hatred, anger, contempt, and confusion aboard the craft. He could taste the passion in the back of his throat—it was vitriolic and sour. The hate-breed loved it.

A tower of dark water rose from the mutinous sea and crashed on the deck of the sailing ship. The sea bled crimson waters, thick and putrid. Dead fish were strewn by the brutal hammer fall.

Teth knelt on the deck, wiry, black hair falling in front of his disfigured visage. He stood slowly and with purpose. His eyes were deep pools of shadow. A lipless smirk twisted on his face as he absorbed the venomous emotions that frolicked with enmity’s glee.

Gluttony. Teth breathed in the surrounding sin and suckled from the tit of transgression.

There, the reaper caught sight of his assailant diving to take cover from the firefight on-deck.

In a flare of blind hate, Teth grabbed the throat of a nearby sailor and ripped his head clean from body. Red liquid, the color of the Guard, poured out of the disjoined body segments and smoldered as it touched the wood of the ship.

“If you die in sin, the Devil owns your soul,” his voice was deep and raspy. The message carried over the sounds of gunfire and storm with ease.

[Varius Troy]

The string of swears the flowed from his mouth were enough to make a school girl's ears bleed and a good Catholic spend about a week holed up in confession.

The problem with the spawns is that it's impossible to tell how strong they are until they're in their demon form. But the last thing one could want is to see them tap their demon power, so it's a lose/lose situation. He had figured his blessed bullet would put him out of commission for a while. He hoped more than anything that it would be a spawn weak enough that the first shot was enough. Now it would undoubtedly take every shot he had, if not more. Fantastic.

There was something on the ship that the Red Guard wanted, that the Order wanted protected. That was probably his best shot. Now, if he could only get the damn fools to stop firing on each other and distract the beast for a few more minutes.

The first few crew members started shouting and firing on the thing in fear. The few bullets that didn't bounce right off barely penetrated the skin, with each small injury recovering as fast as they had been acquired.

Jonah took aim and pulled the trigger twice in succession, the brilliant white light bursting forth. The first buried itself in the beast's chest, where his cold heart was probably located; the second went right between its beady little black eyes. Black liquid, thick and putrid like tainted oil, spilled out of both wounds. Letting out a hellacious scream, the demon breed fell to the ground. It wasn't over; he'd seen enough to know that the beast was only momentarily weakened and disoriented. Close enough to death, but three more shots probably wouldn't do it.

It would be back on its feet within a minute. Jonah bolted to the door and ran down the stairs. He hoped that the maniac in the armor would perceive the monster to be the immediate threat, and forget about him for a moment. Of course, at this point he could only hope... Hope that the beast stayed down long enough for him to find what he was looking for, whatever that may be. Hope that what he was looking for could be of some help.

Cigs got wet out in the storm.

This just wasn't his night.

[Averin Trangall]

The man had surprising agility--Averin would give him that. He let out two shots from a gun Averin didn't even know he had, then was gone through the door. The beast that had seemed to leap up at them from the sea had not stood up well to those two well-placed shots, but Averin had his doubts about how dead the thing was.

In good news, the appearance of the lesser devil had alleviated the gunfire that had been aimed at him. A bullet or two deflected off his armor, and he had felt the impact of them, but it was nothing too devastating. The men with the guns had evaded the area almost as quickly as the man Averin had been trying to question.

He went over and stood next to the suffering demon, let his rifle fall to his side, and let out a short laugh.

"The Devil already owns my soul."

[Khendon Sevon]

Holy ammunition was devilish. It burnt worse than Hell’s fires and had a kick that Teth would be remembering in the morning—much like Sven’s homemade vodka.

The Hell-spawn took shallow breaths and soaked in the situation.

In a blur, the devil’s kin was on his feet and had lifted the stranger three full feet off the ground. Teth’s breath was tinged with sulfur and brimstone burned in his eyes.

The bones of the beast made a sucking sound as his body’s muscles twitched into a new configuration. Flesh turned dark and blotchy as Syrus Tethose’s own blood began to boil and change beneath his skin.

The transformation was a painful process and nearly unbearable for a fourth-distance mutt like Teth. As Hell entered his heart and tightened its vice grip on his soul, his body took on the physical manifestation of his kinship.

Simply, he was a demon-spawn.

Teth’s ribs became pronounced beneath his dark hide as his stomach region thinned and tapered. The muscles of the monster’s arms, legs, chest, and neck bulged in lithe, dense patches of power. A tail whipped around the demonic form.

Human face now a thing of the past, Syrus roared as a forked tongue extended and licked a trail of mucus onto the soldier’s armor. The plastic material bubbled and deteriorated as the acrid body fluid cut its way through the man’s protective layer and finally touched his skin.

With a powerful throw, the foolish soldier’s body flew like a rag doll across the deck of the ship and towards the prow.

A hoofed foot slammed the ground angrily and the demon let go a vicious roar that shook the ship from stem to stern.

[Varius Troy]

The door knob rattled a few times, but never turned. Locked. He turned and slammed the door with his left side twice, holding onto the door knob. Not a budge.

Taking a step back, he kicked the door once, then again. On the second kick, the wooden door forcefully swung open. The store room was dark. Cursing, Jonah turned back to the hallway and picked one of the lamp fixtures off the wall.

It sounded like a body fell into the gap that was split open by the broken mast and slammed the floor in the room at the other end of the hall. Screams and gunshots. Agony. Apparently he was in his final demon form. Or demon-breed form, to be correct. When he had put the two shots in him, he was oozing demon-ness but retained an almost-human appearance. By the sound of it, the second two shots were enough to drive him into full demonic frenzy.

Aside from some assorted baggage, there were several different crates stacked atop each other. Whatever it was the Order was hiding, it was probably in one of them. He held the lantern up to them and started reading.

French. All of them. Marked in French. This was some kind of sick joke; he knew it.

He hoped to come across some marking or clue within the next minute, otherwise this ship was likely to be at the bottom of the Sea, his corpse drifting lifelessly somewhere while being picked apart by sea creatures. That's if the demon was considerate... he'd probably just choose to devour the hunter's flesh and wash it down with his blood. They have that sick sense of pride, after all.

[Averin Trangall]

The flight was more than a bit unnerving, to say the least. To go from a snicker to flying headlong into a splintered wooden pole before you even got a chance to react was an experience Averin couldn't say he'd had before.

He missed the remains of the mast (a blessing), and was able to contort himself so he landed on his feet. He bent his knees to absorb the shock of the hit, and knelt on the deck and the bow of the ship. He'd lost his helmet and most of his armor in the process. So much for Maeducian armor technologies. He'd have laughed at the thought of acid spit if some of it hadn't gotten on his stomach.

Back in his days in the army, the Lieutenant wasn't known for his cunning, strategy, or leadership. The soldiers didn't respect him, and the other officers didn't want to have anything to do with him. The way that Averin Trangall answered his enemies warcries was with his own, fiercer warcries. He answered violence with torture, war with genocide.

He'd liked to think he was past that--he had spent considerable time with a psychiatrist, after all. Being flung through the air like he was nothing more than a play-thing, though--that seemed to incite all these feelings right back into him.

Averin lifted his gaze from his wound to survey the demon he was about to kill, revealing glazed-over eyes with white irises. His black hair fell down haphazardly across his pale face, and he grinned. He dropped his rifle to the ground.

Let the games begin.

[Khendon Sevon]

Animal rage ran through Teth’s blood like a virus. It took hold in the most basic of his instincts and viciously ripped out any sense of humanity. He was pure evil.

Powerful claws clasped a nearby sailor and flayed flesh with ease. The quarter-blood pulled apart the man, still screaming, and devoured his beating heart. Crimson liquid flowed down his mouth and body in a waterfall of life.

That was enough to make the remaining humans flee in complete and total terror.

Save for the stupefied one that had been flung wantonly. He remained in his daft state.

Being in demon form was disorienting. There were so many scents, enhanced desires, and compulsions to perform dastardly deeds. It was ecstasy.

By comparison, humans were relatively worthless. Their sense of smell was shot, their bodies were weak and easily hurt, and they held their emotions in check.

Tall, dark, and ugly spit a jet of human blood over the entirety of the motionless soldier. It wasn’t for comedy, it was spice for future flavor.

[Varius Troy]

He would've completely overlooked the crate. It was just luck that something caught his eye. It was the accents, the odd characters. Or rather, lack thereof.

The word structure was almost identical. Almost.

Latin. It's not often that you see it printed anywhere, much less on a crate. Jonah could only think of one particular type of people that would want to label something in Latin.

He fished around for something to pry the wooden crate open. Nothing. No time to scour the ship... Lord, this was gonna hurt.

Bringing his left elbow down, he forcefully struck the top of the box. The wood cracked. He brought that hand up, balled it into a fist, and punched through the wooden surface. He winced. Knuckles ringed with pain. There was a good chance something broke in his hand. There was a bit of blood.

He took his good hand and ripped back the splintered boards. The packing material was hay. Not many shipping industries use hay these days. Maybe his hunch was right.

He fished around until his hand struck something. The item he pulled out was wrapped in cloth, tied in several spots by old hemp rope. He untied the ropes and brought back the old rag.

His eyes widened, a smug look crossed his face. He didn't know why the Order would ever transport it in this matter.

"Well I'll be damned."

[Averin Trangall]

The moon shone brightly through the opening in the canopy down into the meadow. They saw the enemy across the way, just as the enemy saw them. The action was slow for the moment, but the first person to charge would incite bloody chaos all through the ranks, and both sides would be slaughtered.

Gregor smiled at Averin--a meek, scared smile, but a smile nonetheless. It spoke volumes, reminded him of all the fun times, and hard, that they'd had together. The times where Averin almost killed him because of his affliction, and that Gregor had stayed with him all throughout anyway, helping him hide his condition from others as best he could, helping him advance through the ranks of greatness and staying behind himself as a result. It was all there, in that one simple smile that lasted but a single moment.

"We will win," he said. "I know it." It was that one smile that told Averin that Gregor did not plan on living through this battle. Before he had time to react, Gregor was charging across the meadow, roaring out his guttural, pure, simple battle cry.

Or was that him? Rushing across a broken, sinking ship, towards the same fate, with the same pure battle cry. But what purpose did he have? Gregor had won the war with his valor--all that Averin was about to acomplish was his own demise.

In mid-stride, he stopped and sprinted the other way, towards the door that led below deck. He ran as fast as he could, running from the demon that would rip him in half with no more effort than it would take to rip wet paper. He tripped down the stairs and landed hard on his chest and hands, but pushed himself quickly up, ignoring the pain.

He saw the guy from on deck, who had somehow damaged the demon, looking at something in a broken chest. He couldn't make it out with the blood and hair falling into his eyes. He rushed into the room and collapsed, a tangled mess of ripped clothing and flesh, covered in blood that wasn't his.

[Khendon Sevon]

Rage thrust its syringe of chaos into the pulsing vein that was Teth. Hatred was injected through his body in a warm flood. Although the rain pounded, thunder clapped, and the water churned, he was singular and distilled to an essence of being beyond mortal comprehension.

The hate-breed, now in his most true form, embraced the whispered contempt that ran through his mind. Instead of reining in on his animalistic self, the shunned soul let go.

The beast grabbed the remnants of the mainmast and, with muscles pumped, lifted it high. In a show of unimaginable power he used the long wooden beam to knock down the fore and aft rigging. As if chucking a pencil, he threw aside the towering phallic symbol—Freud would have been proud.

He was pure evil.

[Varius Troy]

"Kid, you look like hell."

He didn't want the stranger to see the artifact he was holding, so he tucked it away behind his coat. He fiddled with it quickly, finding a way to attach it to his belt. He tore some of the fabric it was wrapped in and wrapped his hand with it. The bleeding wasn't so bad but the swelling was less than favorable.

"Come with me." Walking past the beaten and battered man on his knees he grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to his feet. He was too disoriented to resist. Part of him probably realized it was for the best.

Jonah pushed open the door to his cabin. "Wait here," he ordered the stranger. The man leaned his weight up against the door frame. The elder man rummaged through a large burlap sack, pulling from it what resembled some type of sawed-off shotgun. He turned and tossed it to the man in the doorway.

"Let me make something perfectly clear," he spoke coldy. "I don't like you. And I certainly don't trust you. I think I have every reason not to." He reached into his coat pocket and took out his handgun. He flipped open the cylindar, reaching into a pouch on his belt and removing three new bullets.

"Now that we're clear on that, I should let you know that what yer holdin' is only good for one shot, so it's gotta count. Now, you can use it one me," he paused, then chuckled cynically, "but that hellspawn up there will kill you, and then you can have a fun life in damnation."

Silence on deck. No gun shots, no screams. All the crewmen with rifles were either dead or dying, or jumped ship. In about seven seconds that thing would descend upon the rest of the ship.

"It's what I like to call my Holy Buck Shot. You have to get in pretty close. Like I said, make it count. After that... just get outta dodge fast as you can."

The other man looked puzzled, as if he meant to ask why Jonah was doing all this. He decided it would be best to answer first.

"I need you alive when all's said and done," he told him, "because when the dust settles, I'm taking you for Judgement."

He brushed past him out the door, proceeding to walk back up the hallway to the stairs.

[Averin Trangall]

"Judgment?" The man ignored his question and continued up the stairs to the deck, where the demon awaited, ready to flay the first thing that moved.

The man who had somehow avoided flaying (probably only because the demon was just expecting to flay him later) stumbled in his attempt to follow. It was amazing how much easier it was to run from imminent doom than towards it once you'd come to grips with reality.

He let himself fall to the floor.

"You just go ahead," he called out to the man who was already half-way up the stairs. "I'll wait here." The broken man dragged himself back into a corner of the room, facing the door so that he could blast the demon in the face if the other guy couldn't take care of things.

Some water was starting to slowly creep in through the doorway. Averin would deal with that later; for now, he was going to just sit and rest as best he could, without imagining what was going on above him.

[Khendon Sevon]

Putrid tar rolled from the blackened skin of the demon. Red eyes burned like brimstone beneath a heavy brow. Small, sallow horns protruded from pink patches of flesh near the temporal regions of the monster’s skull.

He was biblical evil.

The hell spawn’s thick tail moved as if possessed by its own volition. It quivered with pent up intent and smashed into the floorboards of the deck. Splinters rose like mist as the ship became porous.

Wave after crashing wave consumed the deck and filtered through the wounds of the vessel. The sea flooded into the belly of the ship and began the process of her death sentence. Soon enough, Rosalyn would drown.

Teth was a monster of pure animalistic desire.

If the craft sank it would be of no detriment to the Guard. Indeed, it would hinder those that sought the purification of all that the organization embodied.

Two slit-like nostrils flared—human blood was in the air and it was fresh. The ten-foot tall acolyte of the apocalypse wheeled around and dropped his jaw in a tormented howl—row after row of razor teeth was bathed in acrid salivation at the thought of meat.

Heaven and Hell were at war on the High Seas.

[Varius Troy]

You just can't rely on anyone but yourself these days.

At least, that's what Jonah thought to himself as he made his way up the short staircase. No matter; he did not need the other man, it just would have made what he was about to do a whole lot easier.

That was, of course, assuming that his hunch wasn't completely off.

Kicking the door open, he came in contact once again with the harsh winds and torrents of rainwater. Lighting arced its way across the sky. The grim scene was lit up for a moment, that of bodies, dismembered and disembowled; pools of black soaked the deck. Small fires burned here and there; the result of too much brimstone, most likely. The blasted stuff fell off the creature's fur like lice from a wino.

Across the deck stood the demon, hunched over, feasting on one of the crew. The thunderous boom from the kicked-open door perked its ears up; as Jonah stepped out on deck, the monstrosity turned slowly, slightly at the neck, slightly by torso.

Blood dripped from its lips. It snarled, showing off the wicked daggers embedded in its gums. A low, gutteral growl came from deep in its throat; most that heard it would swear it was rolling thunder in the distance, the sound of a passing storm.

This storm was only beginning.

"Hey handsome," he called above the shrieking winds and waves crashing against the hull, pausing in speech as he stepped over a desecrated corpse. Drawing his revolver from his coat pocket, he spun it about his finger the way the heroes of the Spaghetti Westerns he would watch as a child might do.

"You didn't go and forget all about me now, did you?"

[Averin Trangall]

The water was already about an inch deep, and was steadily growing. It was rising too fast for the tastes of this man who was not even sure that he could swim. He had gone through training just like everyone else, but it was like forcing a technician to learn combat--no one ever thought he would ever actually need it.

Regardless, he still had at least a few minutes to rest before he would have to pull himself up and make his way upwards, hopefully finding the suspiciously charitable guy to be both alive and still charitable. There was little chance that he would make it off this vessel alive without help, given his current condition.

The salt water at least felt a bit refreshing, though the smell was rather unfortunate. It was at least good to get some of the sticky blood off of him, though it would be impossible to get it all.

He had the shotgun lying in his lap for the time being, but he wasn't sure if it would hold up after being submerged, and he thought it would be best not to risk testing that particular notion.

Averin waited.

[Khendon Sevon]

Muscles rippled under thick, armor-like flesh. The beast splayed his claws in anticipation of blood to be drawn. Feral eyes narrowed and took hold on the essence of the soul standing defiantly before the maelstrom of sin.

A hoof pounded the wet wood of the deck anxiously as a grunt drew a cloud of exhalation from the beast’s nostrils. The demon shook water from the patches of jagged fur that protruded intermittently.

It was like a bull seeing red.

The devil’s minion threw itself forward on its powerful legs. The frame of the vessel shook violently with every weighted step in the headlong sprint.

Talons were brandished, teeth gnashed, eyes blazed.