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howdy-cowpoke · 2 months

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TIMING: Mid-July LOCATION: The Bizarre PARTIES: Monty (@howdy-cowpoke) & Inge (@nightmaretist) SUMMARY: Monty & Inge meet each other at the Bizarre, finding kinship in their struggles with hunters and bonding over a little murder. CONTENT WARNINGS: Zombie-flavor gore lol

—

There were probably much safer places to do this, but there was nowhere more convenient. Anyway, it wasn’t like he’d come alone — he had Daisy, Dallas, and Denver with him, there more or less as support in case the harvesters on the other side of the market decided to cause trouble. Again, possibly. Monty still wasn’t sure if they’d been the ones to send the strangers that had slaughtered a portion of his livestock, but he might as well assume they had and prepare for the worst.

The reason for their visit to the market was business: they needed to hire more hands to help protect the farm, as Emilio had suggested. For all his shitty opinions, that hadn’t been one of them. They needed more people, and more that knew how to handle themselves in a scrape. So the four set up a temporary booth in the market after finding out where the new entrance was, plopping their folding card table and chairs in a vacant spot. There was nothing flashy about the production, mostly just a “Help Wanted” sign and Daisy working her charm on passersby. Monty sat at the table to speak with the ones she was able to draw in, and Dallas and Denver stood behind him, arms folded across their broad chests, looking every bit the bodyguards they were meant to be.

One such interested party, stopped by Daisy for looking like a capable young man who was down on his luck, was corralled toward the table with promises of a place to sleep and free, ethical meals. There was more vetting to be done, of course, and Monty couldn’t afford to let his desire to help anyone that needed it get in the way of his goal. It was clear to him that there was a lack of community between different supernatural species, seeing as how shifters and fae had helped attack the farm. At least of the ones they had killed. So it would continue to be an undead-only venture, and while zombies were preferred, Monty wouldn’t turn away an undead that felt kinship to them. There would be follow-up training sessions that would weed out the liars, of course. This had never been their way before, but someone had made such caution necessary.

Smiling up at the young man as he walked with Daisy up to the table, Monty held out a hand to him. The palm that slid into his was warm, too warm for an undead, and his grip tightened as he regarded the young man carefully.

“You are not dead,” the cowboy stated bluntly. The man looked around at them anxiously, his gaze lingering on the brothers that stood like pillars behind Monty.

“What… what d’you mean?” He laughed nervously. Monty sighed, lacking his usual patience.

“You are not dead,” he repeated. “We are only hiring undead, I’m afraid. I wish you luck.” The smile on the stranger’s face fell slowly into a frown, and he shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Fine, whatever, man,” he huffed before stalking away. Daisy gave Monty a shrug, who lifted his hat to run a hand through his hair.

“I would suggest trying to touch them before you decide to bring them over,” he offered curtly, which earned him a hard stare from the woman. He quickly relented, dipping his head. “Sorry, Dais. I am just…”

“I know, sugar,” she said softly, giving him a sad smile. “It’s alright.”

Monty felt a hand on his shoulder, much heavier than Daisy’s own, and glanced back to see Dallas reaching out to him. He laughed gently, patting the man’s hand before adjusting himself in his seat, then giving up and getting to his feet. “Take my spot, eh, Denver? I need to… stretch my legs.” The other man nodded, sitting down in the chair that was too small for him, expression stony. Monty couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen him or his brother smile. Times were… hard. Dallas followed Monty away from the stall after a quick exchange with Daisy, refusing to let him wander around by himself even when the older zombie insisted. So the pair began their walk, Monty making sure they stayed well away from the meat market section of the bazaar.

—

If a place could be a muse (in the artist sense, not the fae one — Inge didn’t know very much about those types), then Wicked’s Rest was one that could never be depleted. It showed her time and time again that there was still room within her to feel horror. And it was through that horror that her art improved, that her nightmares were more vivid and rewarding than they had been in a while, that she felt like the muse – again, not the fae kind – was blossoming.

But it was a double edged sword. For all the inspiration she gained, she also gained paranoia. Suffering made great art, she knew that. She knew that for all the stress she experienced she’d come out an even more accomplished artist, that soon she’d have a breakthrough again and create something that would be a culmination of the past three years in this town. One day she’d look back on her time in this town and stroke the scar on her stomach and not think of factories, classrooms or bunker basements, but in stead of the sculpture or installation she’d made.

So she had to keep at it. Despite the paranoia. Despite Cortez’ promise to chop her up. Despite Dīs being gone. And so that was why she was here, at the supernatural night market. She wanted something to protect her home, the apartment she’d grown so fond of over the past three years. A corner of Wicked’s Rest she wanted to feel as safe in as she did in the astral. Coincidentally, she knew of the place because of the astral — one of the mares she’d encountered over the years was employed there. Inge found it preposterous, using ones astral hopping skills for employment. Still, it was nice to have a connection to the Bizarre.

She was interested in getting some kind of artifact that could safeguard her home, but it was slim pickings. She knew something like it had to exist – she’d heard of it before, had encountered something of the sort at another similar market (but she’d been too cocky to get it, then) – and yet. Nothing. No slayer repellent.

Besides, it was hard to not get distracted by all the things on offer. She’d always had a materialistic streak, even if she also tended to be a little stingy. Her eyes were glued on a strange looking medallion she was resisting to ask about when she crashed into a pair of other patrons. It was an act of clumsiness she didn’t think befit her, but her shame would never reach her cheeks as the blood in her veins was stagnant. “Oh,” she said, “Sorry.” Her gaze traveled to the necklace for another second and something within her yearned, but she looked back to the people she’d crashed into. The man hadn’t given off any bodily heat. “What’s up ahead that way?”

—

Monty was taking this time to admire the Bizarre for what it was: a helpful resource, one he'd not fully appreciated the last time he'd been here, distracted and afraid as he'd felt then. There was no fear now, just anger. Indignant and burning, righteous in morality but what should have felt repugnant in how it made him crave revenge. It didn't, though. The desire to crack open the skull of that stupid man that owned the organ stall, to curl his fingers around that brain and rip it free from its stem felt good, and that on its own was alarming. Monty had not felt such things in many, many decades, and he dared not speak them aloud. He wondered if any of his friends could tell… if the reason Dallas had accompanied him was not to protect him from harm, but to stop him from dishing it out.

It wasn't impossible, he supposed. Even Daisy had been extra gentle with him, quickly forgiving his harsher words that he truly didn't mean to let slip. She seemed worried. They all did, but he had of course assumed it was about the attack, not about him.

But the way Dallas was looking at him now, distracted enough to barrel right into a woman admiring a pendant, Monty couldn't help but wonder. Dallas barely reacted to the collision, only stepping back to give the woman space and raising a hand in silent apology. Monty quickly stepped in, concern lacing his soft features as a hand found a brief but telling home on her arm.

“Are you okay?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder as he considered her question. He… hadn't been paying attention for a few hundred yards, lost in his thoughts as he'd dissected the nature of Dallas’ gaze as it kept stealing glances his way. “Ah! I am… not sure, besides our own booth. We were busy… talking.” They hadn't spoken a word. He removed his hand politely, giving her a smile. “What's that?” he asked, eyeing the same pendant she'd been mesmerized by.

—

How ironic, to be using such polite words in a place like this. A sorry, an are you okay — as if they weren’t scurrying around in a bazaar that moved from place to place via the astral. A bazaar that was filled to the brim with unethically sourced goods and magic goods Inge didn’t even fully comprehend. It amused her, the way he was so gallant, almost. Maybe it had something to do with his age — considering his body temperature, there was a chance he was older than he looked.

“Oh – yes,” she said, waving away his concern. Any question of whether she was okay or not had been met with that same answer for decades, and this time it wasn’t a lie. Maybe a few months ago it would have made pain echo through her body, but she was walking with more ease now. “I can handle a little bump.”

She raised a brow at the revelation that the other had his own booth. “Hm, what is it you have on offer?,” she asked, letting her gaze flick from the talkative stranger to the silent one. Inge might have prodded and poked the quieter person if she’d been in one of her more upbeat moods, but she had come here with a mission. “And I understand — talking does tend to take away quite a bit of my attention on good days.”

She moved a little closer to the pendant now, lifting a shoulder, “I’m not entirely sure. It looks beautiful, though … not very subtle, but sometimes an outfit needs a statement piece.” Knowing her luck, it was probably cursed. Inge resisted the urge to reach for it — she could step by and barter on another day. “Not sure if it is what I’m looking for. Do you know anything …” A wave of unease passed through her. To seek for protection was to admit that protection was needed, which was to make others know you thought yourself a target. She didn’t much like it. “Ah, about where to find some form of security?”

—

“Work,” Monty responded simply. She was undead, yes, which (perhaps foolishly) instilled him with more trust, but even so, he did not want to reveal too much. That is, not until her attention turned back to the pendant and she revealed what it was she was looking for, then asked if he had any suggestions. He gave her a sad smile, feeling an immediate kinship as a fellow undead looking to protect themself from those that wished them harm.

“I am sorry you feel the need for it,” he started. “And I am looking for the same thing, actually, though… not in the form of trinkets.” His gaze fell on the pendant again and he shook his head. “This is the work I am hiring undead for. I have a farm, and we were recently attacked.” Beside him, Dallas seemed to bristle angrily at the memory. Monty put a hand on his arm, taking a beat to allow the feeling to pass before continuing. “It was because of our nature that this happened. We are, all of us, undead. The farm is a way for us to have access to food that helps keep us sustained without threatening the safety of innocent people. Someone here,” he gestured vaguely at the entirety of the Bizarre, though his gaze settled in the direction he knew the organ harvesters to be, “does not like that. They want us to be put out of business. They killed a great deal of our livestock. So I am hiring again, to better protect us and our animals.”

Perhaps he was being too honest. Perhaps he should have said less, but… something about the woman made him want to trust her. Anyway, he had to be honest with the people he vetted for hire, so what was the difference? It did not matter if she could not or would not work at the farm (she did not seem the type, anyway… nor did she seem desperate for a job), because she was undead and she too was seeking safety. “So unfortunately, no, I am afraid I do not have any helpful advice for you, in the matters of protection.” Holding out a hand for an official introduction, he tried to put on a warmer smile. “My name is Monty. This is Dallas. It’s nice to meet you…?”

—

The zombie prattled on, revealing that he was a farmer (this much Inge could have guessed from his appearance, looking back on it) and that he farmed … well, whatever it was he and his kin needed. So zombies or vampires, then. She found the entire concept somewhat endearing, even if she had long ago moved away from the world of farms.

“Hm,” she said, “I am sorry, too. In your case as well. It’s good, though, I always find — to meet more of our kind. For a bit of solidarity, no?” Exchanging hunter’s names and faces, or having a place to turn to when she was ran through with a sword. It wasn’t a luxury to have a network of undead: it was a need. “I would like it very much if a trinket was enough to protect me, but I think that’s just wishful thinking.” Maybe there were spells or charms that could keep a slayer from detecting her — but that was no longer the issue. Slayers had detected her. A fucking necromancer too, on top of it. “It sounds nice, though. Your farm. I’m not much of a muscle for hire, though, and animals dislike me, but maybe if you stumble upon something useful you can let me know? And vice versa?” Her nose crinkled. “Sorry people are giving you trouble for being self sustaining.”

She took his hand without hesitation, glad to hold a hand that was similar in temperature to her own. This place brought risks, after all, so it was nice to be around someone she didn’t have to suspect too much. “I’m Inge. It’s nice to meet you too.”

—

“Sí, solidarity is a good thing to be having,” Monty agreed. The reveal that animals were not fond of her immediately drew his mind to Ariadne, and he smiled fondly. “Of course I can do this.” They shook hands, and he decided to just ask. “Are you a mare, Inge? What you said about animals… I know a girl with a similar ‘problem’, as she would put it. I do not know much of the details of her kind, but I cannot say that there is not a part of me that envies the less, ah… deadly form of feeding.”

Dallas shifted his weight awkwardly from foot to foot, prompting Monty to give him a soft, understanding smile. The two exchanged a wordless glance, Monty nodded in the direction of the way they’d come, and Dallas seemed to relax slightly. “Ma’am,” he grunted abruptly before turning and heading back to the stall. Monty watched him go for a moment before turning back to Inge.

“He is… wary of strangers. I think we all are right now, but the twins are especially, ah, uncomfortable.” His gaze slid back over to the pendant Inge had been looking at, and his brow furrowed. “... can I ask what it is you are looking for protection from?” A knowing look came over him then. “Or is it as simple as I think it might be…” Meaning slayers, of course. What else?

—

“It very much is,” she said, nodding. It was why she continued to gravitate towards the more undead places in town, where she felt at her safest. Inge considered Monty for a moment, before nodded. “Yes, a mare.” She wondered if she knew this girl — there weren’t as many mares around as there were vampires and zombies, and even less that would qualify that description. “It is a bit of a nuisance, but I wouldn’t call it a problem.” She smiled a little, swallowing a comment that she did think her kind had the most refined and interesting diet. “Well, I envy your ability to heal up quick. I guess the grass is always greener on the other side one way or another, hm?”

She gave the gruff cowboy a nod as he departed, amused by the way he carried himself. Though Inge tried to surround herself with fellow undead and long-lived people, it was never the way this seemed to be. A community, living together and sharing their diet. It really did seem nice. It reminded her a bit of the places in New York she’d visit, though those had been more hedonistic than … agrarian.

“I get it,” she said, though she wasn’t that wary of Monty at present. She gave fellow undead the benefit of the doubt. She started to walk, moving away from the pendant and keeping her gaze focused on all else. Inge nodded with a noise of amusement, “Sadly, it is just that simple. Some slayers know my face and name. It’s unfortunate.” Well, that and whatever other enemies she was making. The necromancer, the lamia … probably one of her colleagues, though she doubted they’d wield any weapons besides sharp words. “But it feels … I don’t know, like a trap to admit I need something like a penchant or a spell to feel safe. Maybe I’m careful around strangers too, now.”

—

“Ah… I am sorry to hear that.” Genuine concern laced Monty’s voice as they walked. “... I know how you feel, though. I think, anyway. Like you should not need the extra help, but you find yourself… frightened without it. Worried, at the very least.” He didn’t want to put any words into her mouth, but figured it was probably clear that he was mostly talking about himself at that point. He could pretend that he was missing out on a carefree life he’d once had, but that had never been the case, had it? As a child, he was wary of his brothers. As a teenager, he was wary of the strangers that offered him odd jobs for terrible pay. As a young adult, he was wary of his fellow ranch hands, and then of the people that kidnapped him and folded them into their band of killers and thieves. Even around them, though it was arguably the better half of his life, he sometimes felt wary. There were things about him that they did not know, that they could not know—not least of all because Monty had not understood them himself. He was still something of an outsider with that gang, only ever feeling truly at ease when he was around Hector. He knew his mentor would always look out for him, always protect him. Until he hadn’t, anyway.

So there was no life that Monty was longing for, not really. He’d always been afraid, even when he seemed angry or brave. And at the farm, he’d still been wary. Not of the new family he had found, but of those that would threaten them. Men and women like Emilio and Jade, people like the ones that had killed their animals. He could not escape the fear, and he could not escape the feeling of entrapment.

So yes, he understood her quite well.

They continued to chat and walk, Monty finding comfort in the woman’s presence, in the way she carried herself so surely. But from the shadows, someone else was watching. Someone who could sense them both, and didn’t much like their continued existence. This stranger tailed them at a significant distance, keeping busy as they talked and eventually stopped by the booth the zombies had come here to run, before Monty became distracted. Daisy was fine with it, though, agreeing that he needed the distractions. She introduced herself and Denver to Inge before informing Monty that they’d managed to pick out four or five new hands, and would be conducting second interviews on the farm the following day. For now, it was time for them to head home.

Monty looked to Inge, giving a gentle shrug. “Ah, well. I am sorry we did not find what you were looking for, Inge. But, if your night remains free… would you care to get a drink somewhere back in town?” He was just enjoying their conversation, really, and hoped that she felt the same.

The figure in the shadows prepared to follow them.

—

It was easy to forget that while this was a town full of hunters, it was also a town full of undead. There were no population statistics in regards to species, but Inge was suddenly reminded of this fact and her own conviction that the amount of undead surely had to outweigh that of hunters in Wicked’s Rest — what with them being harder to kill. Being around Monty, who had created such a vast and steady network of undead, made her feel a level of not only security but something like hope. And though she would never want to live on a farm-based commune (the smell of manure reminded her too much of her mortal life), she liked the idea of a coven of sorts. Perhaps she should reconnect with some of her fellow artistic undead.

Still, she’d remember Denver and Daisy’s names and faces, made a mental note of the farm’s name and to look it up once she got home. It was good to know what places were safe in town. Or, at least — she hoped the farm would be safe, now that they were gathering more people to help defend it.

Inge waved away Monty’s shrug, “That’s alright, I was not expecting to find a golden solution here anyway,” she said, even if part of her was greatly disappointed. She wanted nothing more than to stumble into the perfect fix to her issues, though the trouble with that was that the common factor in all her issue was, well, her own arrogance and indulgence. She felt no need to fix those things, though. “But yes, I’d very much like that — it’s been sweet getting to know you.”

It was good then, that the Bizarre was located near downtown this night. As they stepped into the dark of the regular world, Inge’s eyes gained their red hue. “What bar do you like? I’m personally fond of Dance Macabre, have you been?” Maybe Monty did like eating fingers, unlike the other zombie she’d met there. “Though I didn’t drive, and I suppose it’s quite a walk …” Too bad zombies couldn’t astral project like her. They really did fall short in that regard.

She stopped to consider her surroundings, head turning to see a shape inching closer to them. At least they both fell short in this regard — neither zombies nor mares had excellent hearing. Inge took a step back, pulling Monty along with her as she stared at the stranger and the axe in his hand. For a moment the air seemed to stand still, the world frozen in time before the axe was swung back and the stranger was rushing over, seeming to jump into action rather than discussion, wasting no words — just swinging that fucking axe at the two of them without thought. Inge yelped and ducked, cursing the world and all its inhabitants as she did.

—

“Ah, I do not think I’ve ever been!” Of course he hadn’t. Monty didn’t make a habit of frequenting bars in town, much less ones that were anything other than dark and quiet. And one with ‘dance’ in the name sounded anything but. He was considering the walk, about to suggest they call a cab, when Inge was reacting suddenly to something he couldn’t see behind him. She pulled him away from it, a look of fear flashing in her eyes. Confused, Monty turned to see a stranger rushing at them with an axe held high. Seriously?

The zombie heard Inge exclaim behind him and heard the scrape of her shoes on the pavement indicating that she’d made some move to get away—good. He stood firm, sizing up their opponent and choosing to believe that they could not remove his head with a single swing. Especially not from the angle they were coming in at—the axe collided with Monty’s chest, skimming over the dense material of his work jacket before finding the more pliable fabric of his t-shirt and burying itself at an awkward angle in his sternum. The sound he made was not one of pain, but one of anger. He did not like dealing with hunters, not least of all because of the guilt that was now associated with it, given Kaden.

Before Jade, he might have tried to run. He might have stooped down to pull Inge to her feet and dragged her to safety, leaving the hunter to chase them until he grew tired or no longer felt safe murdering someone in public. But this was post-Jade. Something in him had shifted, and his gentler tendencies were falling to the wayside, piece by piece. “Try again,” he hissed, a ringing starting up in his ears. An imagined one, probably—the same he’d always heard over the din of blood rushing past them when he’d been alive, when the adrenaline kicked in and he had to kill whoever was on the other end of his knife or six-shooter. Kill or be killed, that’s what this was. He couldn’t leave room for guilt. Kaden wouldn’t blame him.

He didn’t carry weapons with him off of the farm, so his hands quickly found the axe’s handle and the wrist of the hunter. “You should leave,” he warned Inge with a glance over his shoulder, not wanting her to get more caught up than she already was in this—if one piece of him still remained, it was his determination to protect others. “I’ve got—” He was interrupted by a knife to his throat, held by the hunter’s hand he hadn’t managed to snag. The zombie let out a harsh, barking laugh, inwardly horrified at his own reaction. “What are you going to do, pendejo? Saw off my head with that?”

—

The scene unfolded quickly and Inge was glad to have ducked and moved away from the axe’s glinting head. Though the slayer didn’t know it, it really was better for it to find Monty’s body than her own — as he would be able to recover easily, whereas an axe to her chest would surely incapacitate her worse and longer. If anyone was going to catch the blows, let it be the one with regenerative and fast healing. Not her. It was a survivalist way of thinking, a selfish one: but she hardly knew the zombie anyway, and he was giving her an out on top of it.

Inge considered taking it with both hands, fleeing into the astral and not looking back. It would be simple. It wouldn’t be unprecedented. Her mind flashed to Sanne’s head toppling off her neck for a moment before she burst into dust. If she had ran then, why not now? Monty sounded so very sure of his declaration, too, and Inge was already in the astral, looking down. For a moment she was taken with the selflessness of the zombie, if not confused by it.

The knife cut off his words, though, and while Monty seemed confident enough, she knew all about bravado. There was one more moment of hesitation, her escape route waiting for her but in the end, Inge decided to go for a quick dive. Reappearing on the earthly plane a few inches above their assailant, she jerked at the wrist holding a knife, pulling it back hard as she fell onto the ground. It was the element of surprise and probably not her technique that made the slayer drop the knife. “Fuck you.”

She skittered back just like the weapon, crouched and almost animalistic as her eyes found Monty’s, wondering what he’d want to do next. Her track record for killing hunters had recently taken a dive and had never been very impressive.

—

She was gone, or at least deathly silent behind him. He hoped she was gone, hoped she was safe. Even as he stared down this hunter, knife to his throat and blade buried in his chest, he was glad. It wouldn’t be long before he’d lose himself, not at the rate this slayer was going. Once he got the ax out, his eyes would start to glaze over. Once the slices to Monty’s neck the hunter was able to get in started to heal faster than he could make them, the zombie would start to forget. He knew this, the slayer knew this, and yet he persisted. Maybe he had hope that he could cut faster than Monty could heal. It was a stupid hope. One that would cost him his life.

There was a sudden commotion, and Monty was shocked to see Inge reappear and wrench the knife away from his throat. The slayer stumbled back, startled, looking between the two of them. Monty’s gaze met Inge’s and he gave her a grave nod, acknowledging that she’d just spared him a lot of unpleasant mangling, and more importantly, he might be able to maintain his faculties now. He gripped the handle of the ax with both hands and ripped it free, stifling the shout that wanted to press past his clenched teeth. This needed to be quiet. They’d made too much noise already. If he was going to take care of this threat and then the following problem that would come from the gaping wound in his chest, he needed time. Silence would afford them more.

So he only grimaced, spinning the weapon in his hands and aiming the sharpened blade in the hunter’s direction. The man’s eyes grew wide, and he dove for the knife he’d dropped.

Only two weapons? Even Emilio would be disappointed by this lack of preparation.

Monty quickly followed, raising the ax over his head as the slayer snatched up the knife and spun around. He didn’t have time to react; no time to duck out of the way or deflect with an arm, and the ax buried itself deep into the base of the man’s throat, where it met his shoulder. The blood poured from the grievous wound like a brilliant waterfall, but Monty’s focus was elsewhere. He clamped a hand over the slayer’s mouth to muffle his cries and shoved him back into the alleyway to their left. The other hand grabbed a fistful of the human’s hair, using that as leverage to bash his head against the brick wall the moment it was within range.

The man stilled in his grip, but still Monty thwacked his skull against stone, grunting from the effort but otherwise keeping himself perfectly calm and composed. Quite a feat with the way his hunger was escalating, but there was determination in his dark gaze. Bone crunched beneath his hands, red soaked his hands and sleeves and front, and finally, his prize was revealed. The zombie let the body slump to the ground, knelt down beside it, and dug out what he coveted most. It came free in pieces, the smaller of which were immediately lifted to ravenous, gnashing teeth, and the storm inside of him slowly started to calm.

He removed his jacket, set the rest of the brain matter inside of it, and rolled it up before tucking it beneath his arm. His attention finally fell back onto Inge, who he was surprised to see still there, still watching. He appreciated her for at least acting as a lookout, even if that hadn’t been her intention.

In a voice that was not fully his own, coming in at a lower, harsher register than normal, Monty spoke. “Maybe we should save the bar for another time.”

—

There was no saying why the slayer had sought them out, but paranoia told Inge it was because of her. She’d been making a mess in town, feeding left and right, repeatedly on the same people. She also wasn’t just a reclusive artist, but a professor at an Maybe it was just a coincidence, the risk that came with venturing into a place like the Bizarre and leaving with another undead — but that didn’t make it any less discomforting. There being various ways for a hunter to have gotten on their trail was more worrying, actually.

She watched with a look of distress how Monty wielded his zombie ferality against the slayer, blood spraying around them like colorful fountains. Her distress was not with the violence, though that certainly did stir something within her — but with the ease the slayer had found the both.

It was righteous that Monty cracked its skull and picked bits of brainy gore from the corpse. It was just. Inge watched still, though her distress was ebbing and being replaced by something more dull. Defeat, maybe. Though she admired the other’s ruthlessness and determination to pry the brain from its former container, to benefit from this failed attack — she knew she was not capable of such a feat. Superhuman strength was a gift passed over mares.

All there was, was fleeing and hiding. Sometimes, there was surprising, like there had been today, but even then it was the zombie who had delivered the fatal blow. Inge felt a fondness for the other, even when stained with brain matter. “Hm?” She looked at him funnily, as if she didn’t understand why they couldn’t go to a bar now. “Maybe so, yes. Though … that was a nice display of strength.” Inge kicked the brainless body. “Good riddance.” She said it with pure conviction. If slayers wanted to indiscriminately kill her and her kind, she wouldn’t shed any feelings of guilt about their own early deaths.

“Rain check, then. I’ll need to buy you a drink sometime soon.” As a thank-you, but also as an introduction into an allyship, if not friendship. She looked the other over, gave a nod. “I’ll reach out. Get home safe, now.” And with that, Inge ventured into the astral, giving into that ever-present instinct to flee.

#. thread ;#. with ; ingeborg endeman #. raincheck ;

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