To stray from the light was to live. To cast away fear and shame, loyalty and the treacherous vines of attachment. What good has ever come from a bond formed between two rot-walkers? The puppet masters sighed in irritated amusement each time a doll's arms reached for another's, each time their linen fingers brushed the fabric's raggedy surface. Metaphysical desires born from the loudly proclaimed doctrines of ghostly fools who thrived in their romanticisms and baroques; each word lost to time, each thesis undermined by the fabricated golems that stemmed and grew from their decaying carcasses. To stray from the radiance of another's gaze was to accept the logical truth. The reality they, the sock puppets, forgotten by any gods left alive, found themselves in, scraping the thousand year old rust beneath their feet. What good came of clutching to one's hand? What good came of prying the last bite away from one's mouth in favor of keeping a chattering meat-bucket alive? A meat bucket eager to take more than enough, give nothing in return and thrive like a tumor on one's soul. None. No good. Nothing.

Null.

Only in the dark, where no God dared to gaze, have the puppet masters' strings grown loose. Where no light dared to intrude and break the blackened veils, where the curtains of emptiness covered their dwellers tight. It was the only embrace they'd ever need - the warm, longing touch of death's colorless robe - the rags that took all: young, old, rich, poor. Not one was safe from the scythe, but the shadows hiding beneath the light's border. To slither between the bone-pale limestones and flourish, away from the eyes that judged, meant to thrive. To spread the wings long carved off by time and dignity, to pour poison into the well of uncertain morality and kill the angels dictating one's life course. There, one could hide and watch. One could gouge out the eyes that followed their move and take their very place.

Watch from the dark, say nothing.

Kill the puppeteers, take their place.

Be nothing but a dull void to the temples of lawful rules that dictated what to consider "good" and "bad", an ungovernable force of reckoning.

Surrounded by black, enveloped in a thick cape of smoke, the swindler's tongue twisted and churned, plaguing the ears of those eager to follow, spreading its venom. The shadow took a moment.

A dim, but graceful light flickered in the overarching darkness, courtesy of a few metallic clicks. Bone against metal, metal against bone. Robes came to sight, gray and tattered, splattered with bleak red - wine of war, produce of misery. Hoederer narrowed his weary gaze and cleared the grand windpipes with a cough, ridding of bloody droplets that dared invade their fleshy confinements.

"..." A lit cigarette lingered amidst the void, with its smoldering tip dirtying the perfectly blank image. No words had the rotten smoker left to say, but a simple chuckle. Lungs, deeply permeated with blackened roots of untreated diseases and millennia of gathered nicotine granted the living carcass a favor, voicing his silent amusement. Empty eye holes looked down upon the fire-headed man. "... Not a fan. Not a smoker, are ya?"

"Not a fan." He replied in a moment's notice, taking the time to watch his interlocutor's inadequately efficient attempt at sliding the nicotine stick between their rotten lips. "Not a smoker, either."

"Of course yer not. Can tell from a mile away." The bodiless voice spit, pausing only to take a deep inhale of smoke. Hoederer stared in silent awe, judgingly grazing his eyes along the shrinking cigarette. Bit by bit, the white plains turned dim, then orange, then black, then disappeared completely, ashes falling into nothing. "... Ah, to be frank, mule-y… Not much of a fan, either." He continued, letting the burning tip set his pale chin ablaze with its dim flicker of light. Hedley's nostrils enjoyed the sweet smell of nicotine, as the overwhelmingly mind-entangling stench of decay unwrapped itself from his mind, even if for just a moment.

"Can see that. We do what we have to, don't we?"

"Meanin'? Mule-y, I smoke to die before tha' tax man manages to rip me from me corner. Ain't no deeper philosophy 'derneath." Said the voice. Hoederer took a silent step back, as a violent plume of smoke tugged at the wrong lung-string and sent the darkness into a coughing fit. With the bare minimum of grace, it readjusted its eyeballs into place and stuck the half-burnt filter into its gaping mouth, shrouded by black. Swallowed by the void, the nicotine remnants charred, still dimly visible through the smoker's near translucent skin. Down the garbage chute they went. "... Hits tha' spot." A belch followed. Stomach-smoke floated past the shapeless border of darkness clashing against the dim light oozing from behind the mercenary's back. "Apologies."

"No need." Hedley waved the attempt off. "I'm not here to bask in your hospitality. We both know that."

"Never would've assumed so. 'S just human decency."

"Human decency. Is that why you don't bother with it?"

The darkness shifted. Coughing and huffing, its lungs produced something akin to an amused snicker. "Fair point, mule-y. Not much indomitable spirits left in this bloat, I say. Hell, only spirits spillin' 'round this 'ol wretch clock in at ninety percent and up. Speaking off…"

Robes spilled beneath the void's feet. Rolling, tumbling around the tiny room, they filled the floorboards with their decay, the rotten presence swallowing each glimmer of heat. Hedley came prepared, clad in a coat heavy enough to battle even the mightiest of winter tides and galestorms. Just barely enough to fight off the rot's freezing grasp.

"... Manners. Manners, manners… Where'd I… Ah, fucking hell, bottle broke." The voice informed, intertwined with strains of disappointed annoyance. Glancing down upon the torn, dusty rags piling by his boots, Hedley noticed a leakage lazily spreading across the wooden floor's open plains. The air around the substance felt strange to the temporal plane, almost as if infected with the liquor's poisonous tongue and forcefully distorted. Clouds of white seeped out from within.

"... Don't bother. I'm abstinent on the clock." The redhead murmured, right as the colorless fire-water reached his rubbery soles.

"Did strike me as the type, yeah." Voice chimed in. Sounds of various objects clattering and clashing over came from the void, presumably rummaged past and forgotten. Robes kept spilling, glass and steel kept mushing together into one. "Doesn't mean I am, though. And I'm feelin'… aaah, come on, where are ya, huh…? Ya… Cold bastard. Thought I'd drag you along six feet under?" In triumphant glory, clunking and clinking, two skeletal limbs emerged from beneath the blanket of dark, both grasping onto a tightly sealed bottle that housed a similarly translucent liquid. "Ya sure 'bout that no-drinkin' rule?"

"Sure enough."

"Yer loss, not mine. Ain't got no tassie, but… 'M sure ya won't mind."

The cap plinked and hit the ground, then rolled off towards the door. Following it around, Hoederer's eyes focused and eventually swayed back to gaze into the darkness occupying half the room. There were sounds of liquids splashing and sliding down hard surfaces, as if someone dug out a lush system of caves and crevices beneath the bar's floorboards and left it there to rot, eventually allowing the caverns to grown horns with stalactites dripping their salty accumulations onto the chiseled rocks below. It sounded disgusting.

"Ah…" The voice squirmed in delight. "Just what I needed. Almost ready to talk business with ya, mule-y. Tha's what yer here for, ain't it?"

"Could say that." Hoederer nodded, unaware whether the black stain could even see him or not. "Had a rough week. Lost some men, almost lost an arm."

"Ya, mule-y? An arm? Yer a bit peely on 'a face, I'll give ya 'at."

"..." Heddley paused, waiting for the void to satiate its needs one more. Plink, plunk, like raindrops off a steel windowsill.

"... But ya ain't sittin' on death's own porch jus' yet. Save som' pity fer' tha' rest of us, will ya?

"You could definitely use some." He muttered.

"O-... Ohoho, mule-y, mule-y, mule-y…" A wagging finger swept away the blackened cloak, cutting into the merc's personal space with its skeletal hue. "Don't bite the hand that feeds, me folks used to say. Then they ripped 'part the good-oer king, with 'em teeth, but 'as a whole 'nother story. Point is, ya watch that tongue of yers, I watch me rotten jaws, aye?"

"... Aye."

"Aye. 'S what I like 'ta hear." Darkness dared chuckle. Clink, clank, the bottle fell to the floor and rolled away, definitely hurt, yet perfectly intact. No liquids remained, the inner walls seemingly sucked clean of any escaping percentages. "Bygones be bygones. Speak ya mind, mule-y."

"Mule-y" quirked an eyebrow before voicing his concerns. "I need a hit. Quick, simple, well paid. Can be from any side as far as I'm concerned, we just need something to get us back on our feet."

"Ya? Ya, as in… Ya and those three sockets out 'ere?" The voice questioned, perplexed by the merc's use of words. Crawling along the room's torn and damp wallpapers, a rotten arm found its way across the dirty surface, groping and reaching towards the door leading back to the rest of the bar. "These three?"

Tap, tap. Ivory scratched against the blurry window, the only outlook onto the normal, bolted down world, the oasis of humanity foreign to the freestanding hut which grew from the bar's side. Seemingly having just appeared one day, like a parasitic leech clinging to its host, the room drew a fine line between the mundanity of timeless day-drinking and the darkness-clad voice that resided within. Red-head turned to glance at the mortal plane, the warm, wooden walls surrounding what appeared to be nothing more than a typical, Kazdelian saloon. Round tables sprouted from the wood, providing solace to the sour-faced mercenaries that sat hobbled together, sharing a drink or two. Or five, or even fifteen. Men slept by the wood, glistening cigarettes in hand, as women scurried all around them, alluringly fluttering their messy lashes to attract the night's next victim and secure a warm dinner by the end of the day. Grandiose hunting trophies laced the support beams on which the establishment stood, triumphantly laughing along to the fiddler's wild tune that rang out all across the rooms, joined by yells and cheers, orders and insults. A happy company rose their mugs high up by the bar, spilling warm hops-produce all over their neighbors.

They did not mind, no one did. It was a night to celebrate, not sulk around and wallow in pity like the sour Caprinae hogging the very end of the maple counter, a piece of heaven and hell jumping 'round by both her sides. With her arms shielding her heavy, winter lids from the two rascals wrestling for a large mug of beer, the woman shook her weary head and sighed. One rascal, white with red horns, proposed a compelling argument to the other, gray with blackened creations of keratin and broken promises - the threat of rummaging around his insides with her knife. Gray head did not falter, holding onto the cup with all his childish might and newfound strength, for the white-headed girl simply could not win in his eyes. Back and forth, tugging at the beer mug, the ne'er-do-wells fought fiercely, neither willing to falter. "Mine!" one barked, to which the other immediately followed with a similar tune. Scales of grand victory tipped in either side, until they eventually overflowed and fell from Lady Justice's marble grasp, as the mug gave out and spilled its contents all over the silent Caprinae. Her silence was no more, as the soaking wet, raven locks whished up into the air, baring her golden eyes, now filled with nothing but pure fury and contempt. One glance was all the rascals needed, an exchange that spoke more than even the mightiest of word-vomit deluges. Both dipped under the bar, scurrying off to escape her raging flurry of throwing knives, the steel-tipped justice deliverers of the righteous.

Hoederer sighed at the sight.

"These three, correct."

"These three, ah-a… Tha's what's left of yer… yer double-ya's special force, is it?"

"Just about."

"Pity." The voice clicked. "Real pity. Used to be somethin'. Somethin' reliable."

"We still are. We just need a kick-start. Something to buy bodies and steel with." His reasoning refused to turn into pleas. Pleading with the likes would be akin to willingly baring one's neck for the hounds. "We just need a hit."

"A hit. And ya sure yer gonna handle it? I got hits, mule-y. I got plenty 'a hits." As if to demonstrate, the darkness reached back into its unyielding cloak and produced a couple parchment scrolls. Each fell to the floor in a similar fashion, one end held up by the pale fingers, the other tumbling around the merc's shoes. "Question is, does yer miracle company 'ave the strength to carry 'em out?"

Silence draped its cloak over the room. Long has it been since the last time the fire-headed merc's reputation had been questioned, much more so by the likes of the decaying carcass cowering in the dark. His resolve did not falter, however, as a new need found its way to slither into his heart and alight the dying conductor aflame once more - the need to prove thyself.

"We've clashed against worse odds. Slaughtered countless Laterans. Apocalyptic gun-knights, too. Whatever you' have lined up, I am more than sure we can handle, even if it's just the four of us." His voice, soft, yet confident, pierced the shadow's derision. "... After all, we're all just mercs."

"Just mercs, are we? Maybe ya lot. Or maybe not." Spat back the rotting handler. His arms submerged back into the void, taking with them the yellow-ish parchments and red ribbons. "Ya know how soft I get 'round my long-time, eh… allow me to call ya bunch "employees", for the lack of a better word in my half-eaten brain."

"Accomplices." Corrected Hoederer.

"Accomplices, yes. Sounds swell, mule-y." The dark mumbled back, seemingly rummaging through his own innards and producing sounds of unspeakable fleshiness. Deep must have gone his hands, fingers reaching all over the worm-infested bark, rubbing and digging past the living, to reach for the produce of the dead, for the dead, by the dead. "... I might have a lil' somn' fer ya. Fer the four 'a ya, that is."

Heavy, overly burdened footsteps took hold of the room's ambiance, each one laced with a squishy splash of something meaty smushing against the wooden surface. A non corporeal shadow glimmered in the dark, bared its empty, swollen eyes and gazed down upon the mercenary. A few heads taller, it bored its empty peep-holes into the poor man's soul, flourishing in his uneasiness, and thriving off his well hidden fear. The rotten stench of a decaying corpse assaulted his nostrils, breaking through any sort of defensive capabilities his organism had to offer, as a chilly breeze swooshed right past his massive coat and struck the spine. Hoederer flinched.

"Wha's 'at, mule-y? Ain't yet used ta' my presence? C'mon." Darkness spoke, stopping only to force a breathy chuckle. "... Warriors should be strong. Strong enuff' ta' hold onto a blade, let alone handle som' decay. If yer gon' fight under my orders, yer better be prepped ta' cross seas of rotten blood and sleep beneath a blanket a' warm, dead flesh. Pest will bite, worms will crawl into yer crevices and eye-holes, eat out them peepers of yers and leave ya blind, but victorious, ya hear? 'As what I want from ya. Unrelentin' assault. Professional work. None of 'at gaggin' at corpses bullshit."

The smell worsened. Clutching onto the few final strands of his resolve, Hoederer closed his eyes not to belch away his haphazardly prepared dinner. Buzzing soon rang in his ears, the sound of an army of fruit flies descending down from atop the rotten shadow's head. Spread out in each direction, taking the empty space by storm, the soldiers of decay surrounded him with their annoying wailing and pesky, grabby arms. He spat on the ground and cleared his throat of any blood droplets.

"Just hand the contract."

"Impatient as always, merc." Murmured back the voice, allowing its ivory limbs to emerge from the dark robes once more. Clutching to a roll of parchment, they held it just barely outside his reach. "'S an easy job. Hit and kill, loot's yers. My ears are scattered all ovur this hellhole, so each unsavory spoken word falls right into my thinkin' strands. This time they so happened to hear 'bout a merchant. A merchant 'a misery, sorta like the two 'a us." Hedley shuddered at the mere thought of the rot considering him an equal. "... A merchant not from 'ere. Someone who should stick ta' his own country, not bribe the border fiends and slither in here while ain't no one watchin'." A spit followed. "... Sick basterd. Fucking hate 'ese types. Comin' in 'ere, makin' bank off a war 'as not yers, leavin' with ya pockets full and a valley of dead foreigners behind. 'S not personal, though. Just biz."

Softly, the parchment roll fell from his skeletal grasp and into the merc's open palms. He could still feel the freezing chill grazing the spots where the ivory fingers tangled. "... Is that all?"

"'F course that ain't all." The void hurled back. "Carryin' light security with 'im. I know, 'cause I gathered the dogs to guard 'at shipment of 'is. Cheap muscle. Tough, but soft and rotten underneath. Slide right off 'a bone, dig?"

"..." Staring down at the faded letters in red, which detailed the shipment's curvy route, Hoederer gave a nod, eyes trailing along the text, narrowing more and more with each word pushed through the grinder. "Says here, his family's with him?"

"Ah, yeah." The voice joined its hands together, sending troupes of fruit flies dancing across the room. "A pup 'n a wife. 'M sure ya can find some use fer 'em. Sell 'em off to tha' Scar Market, make 'at pile a' scrap happy. Keep tha' pain monopoly goin', all 'at crap."

The mercenary did not comment. Sliding his gaze away from the mention of the merchant's family, he skimmed through the rest and cast all insignificant worries eager to cloud his mind aside. No time for any of that. No need, either. He slid the parchment roll into one of his chest rig's many pockets and stepped away from the rot's cold. "So be it. Done and dusted."

"Done and dusted." Repeated the voice. A moment, it took to untangle its limbs and reach out towards the man, hand eager to take his into an embrace of pure cold and decay. "Shake on it, mule-y?"

He really would have preferred not to. Staring at the five… no, four fingers itching to wrap themselves like a bed of serpents around his glove, Hoederer bit down on his pulsating principles and cast away the weight of his conscience weighing down the mind. Their hands met in a tight, confident grasp.

"... A family for a family, mule-y." He murmured from beneath his blackened cloak. "Is that not poetic?"

The other ivory rot-spreader slithered onward the door. Within the many torches' radiance, the creatures basked and indulged, singing songs of great, fallen warriors and heroes yet to be born. Of flames of war, the thousand year struggle that never quite either began or ended. Sarkaz mugs shot high into the air, dousing horns, scales and hair in mind-numbing liquids, all eager to drown the night away, and remember nigh nothing by the next day's crisp morning. When the sun crawls atop the horizon, sends its red glimmers down onto Terra and yawns, memories would long have seeped from their weary minds, escaped the mortal plane. Amidst the indulgent, three souls sat in decently unwavering peace, the silent conflicts brewing between dampened in the face of simply allowing their minds to take a day off. Gray, black and white, in that exact order, sat together by the bar, two rapscallions resting their weary little heads atop the raven's shoulders. Snoozing, yawning, snoring softly, the two had been put to sleep under the influence of a shared mug of mead, subconsciously slipping their cheeks onto the sighing Caprinae's pillars. She couldn't refuse, couldn't fight it. All that was left for her was to gaze upon the heavens and pray to whatever divine power was willing to listen, to pray that it'd send her a savior who'd pry the clingy, drunken messes off her person. No such luck, as their snoring only grew louder, drowning out her sighs. Their frivolous tails found their way to one another behind the woman's back, tangling up together into an unbreakable knot and finalizing into one. Thriving in their embrace, the silent witness shook her head and sank her lips into a cup of cheap mulled wine, lowly sips taking her mind off the soft, fleshy cheeks nuzzling against her shoulders.

Hedley smiled a little at the sight. It brought him warmth, a glimmer of hope in this cold, dark room.

"... Sure is." He muttered, to the voice's delight.

"Sure is, mule-y."

…

Cold swept across the darkened plains. Kazdel lost its warmth.

"So gather 'round, young warriors, now. Saddle up your steeds. Yer not just mere mercs anymore, y'hear? Yer me own, little four horsemen. Me own, horseless, cashless horsemen."

A grin flashed cross the shapeless dark.

"And yer gon' spread a lil' apocalypse of yer own."