text: [Themes: grimdark fantasy, action, grimdark]
  
  It's exactly what you're looking for. Furthermore, you know that small villages—if there are any still standing—are few and far between once you're past Westhaven. It might not be what you're expecting, but damn if you're going to turn down an opportunity such as this.
  
  "If I'm doing half the work, I expect half the payment," you say.
  
  "Deal" the witch hunter answers. Then his conscience speaks for him. "Damn, I couldn't do that to you... I'm not getting payment myself. It's more of a reconciliation of sorts. The guild doesn't hold me in their highest favor."
  
  You wish you knew that before committing. He continues.
  
  "I won't get into the details, but the success of the job will determine if I'm still a member or not."
  
  "What'd you do?" you ask, forgetting for a moment about settling on a sum and taking the direct approach of a religious man.
  
  "Let's just say devils take many different forms. In my case, I've been ailed with temptations of the flesh."
  
  "So you got caught having a good poke. Happens."
  
  "Not just once." The witch hunter clears his throat. "For however long the job takes, I'll match it with my wages for the same time period. Deal?"
  
  "Double the time," you counter. You've been at it long enough to know not to take the first offer. Besides, if the witch hunter is willing to offer a complete stranger a job, you know he has more to lose.
  
  "Time and a quarter." Seems he's no novice either.
  
  "Time and a half. And I won't expense the match."
  
  The witch hunter laughs. "Deal."
  
  You don't sleep easily that night. Besides being a light sleeper, camping next to a complete stranger doesn't help either. Chances are slim due to the witch hunter garb, but the man could be making up the job to lower your guard. It's much easier to rob a mark when he thinks you're allies. Gauging by the irregular breathing of your new-found patron, he's finding sleep difficult for probably the same reasons.
  
  The next day, you pack up camp and set out. The morning mountain air brings a chilling bite. All you can do is button up, lower the hat, and continue forward. There aren't any shopkeepers selling warmer clothes out here. If the cold bothers the witch hunter, he doesn't show it. He's stoic for the most part, which is fine by you. You've got that in common, although it doesn't make for lively conversation, not that you want any. However, one question does slip from your lips.
  
  "What's your name?" you ask as your horses trot side-by-side.
  
  "Kennedy," he answers. "What's yours?"
  
  Before you can answer, a screech rings into the air, a primal sound strained by trauma. Nearby blackbirds instantly flap their wings and take off into the air. The birds flock away from the sound; you and Kennedy head directly towards it. Your pistol appears in your palm, Kennedy's crossbow in his. The weapon is small enough to be held with a single arm, though it'd take a steady hand.
  
  "Stay at my heel, weapon at the ready," the witch hunter whispers. You nod your acknowledgement, agreeing with the tactic. Single file lines tend to make for smaller targets to hit. The downside, of course, is that it limits vision and firepower. You'll trade both for survivability as you're heading into the unknown.
  
  The mountain path continues in elevation. The both of you move forward, Kennedy's eyes fixed straight ahead, while you scan the nearby mountainside for enemies. All that greet you are scarred trees, empty branches soon to whither in the upcoming winter. Around the next stretch, the path opens revealing a twisted wagon, its horses rotting underneath splintered wood and canvas. Still a ways off, the smell is pungent, increasing as you approach.
  
  A figure squats over the remains. A hunched thing with its back turned towards you. You glance over the witch hunter's shoulder for a quick look, then return your scan for others, palm tightening on the grip of your revolver. Cold sweeps over your body as the mountain breeze picks up for a moment.
  
  "He wears the deep blue robes of a priest," Kennedy utters. "The transport we're looking for. One survivor."
  
  "I wouldn't put the count at one just yet," you whisper back.
  
  Your horses trot forward, weary of the lone figure that awaits you. It's quiet, save for the sound of horse hooves. As you close, another sound appears. Buzzing. A swarm of flies encircle the slaughtered horses getting their fill of rotten meat.
  
  "Priest!" the witch hunter calls out. "We're been sent to escort you back safely. Are you the only survivor?"
  
  No stranger to dealing with trauma victims, you notice that Kennedy gives the figure a simple question to answer, notably not asking for details on the events themselves. Recounting the experience can send survivors into a spiral. The man would go far in the guild, provided his temptations are contained.
  
  "Priest?" Kennedy repeats. A sinking feeling accompanies the word spoken, one shared between you two.
  
  He doesn't turn fully around. He acknowledges your presence for the first time. The man's—you're close enough to tell it's a man—head briefly dips downward as he speaks over his shoulder. His voice is odd, out of tune. Unstable.
  
  "What a world this is where strangers pull iron on a man of the cloth."
  
  "With respect," Kennedy answers, alluding to the wagon set upon. "The situation calls for it."
  
  "Turn around," you say sharply. Kennedy flashes you a look of disapproval, but you're not taking any chances. Giving others benefit of the doubt is a sure way to end up bleeding in a ditch. You give the command again, emphasizing them with a click from the revolver. Behind the figure, the swarm of flies continues buzzing. "Turn around."
  
  The witch hunter starts to voice his disagreement, when he cuts off mid-sentence, managing to switch course and utter a single word that hangs heavy in the air.
  
  "Demon."
  
  The figure—no longer a man—turns completely around. It drops the severed head of Acolyte Thomas in the process, rolling three times in the dirt until it stops, face-up, his eyes pulled from their sockets, his tongue loosely spilling from his gaping mouth, the same as the horses rotting nearby. It rises, abandoning the crouched position on the ground. It's tall, taller than the native raiding party that burned Redshire.
  
  It stands on two feet like a man, only with three pairs of arms. They hang neatly in a row from its extended torso, the middle pair bearing pincer-like claws at the end rather than hands. Through a layer of tendril hanging from its face, its fangs show, bottom canines protruding several inches from its lips, ready to devour, ready to consume.
  
  Rough fur covers its body in places not unlike a human: chest, armpit, crotch, although not in a thick enough patch to hide the sizable appendage, uncircumcised, hanging between its legs. Leathery wings attach at its shoulders, not large enough to sustain flight, but enough to maneuver through the air. It watches the pair of you through two horribly off-yellow eyes. It speaks, again, through a voice from the depths, a voice of a being kept in torment for many lifetimes.
  
  "Two more souls wander into my path. They think God will save them." The demon utters a terrible laugh. It's the tone of a man who kicks a dog and enjoys every second of it. "They are wrong. They are fucking wrong."
  
  "Our faith holds firm, demon," Kennedy answers, pulling a silver necklace from underneath his robe. He lets it hang over the black cloth, shining brilliantly against the dark shade. A silver cross.
  
  The symbol ends the game. The demon screeches into the air in the same pitch that you heard moments earlier. Whatever birds were foolish enough to stick around, now take flight in a flurry of flapped wings. It's just the three of you now, all other life has since fled. You've heard enough. You're not one for talking much anyway.
  
  Like a thundercrack, the revolver rings from your palm. A single shot fired true. Your bullet snaps the demon's head back, a bullet-sized hole appearing at its forehead, oozing black sludge down the side of its face. You barely have time to react.
  
  With speed greater than any gun duelist, the demon leaps upon you, landing where you just stood. The ground beneath him cracks with the impact; any slower at it would be your skull broken beneath the demon's feet. Your roll to the left is completed with two more shots of the revolver, each one sending similar oozes of black sludge pouring from within the demon's body.
  
  Kennedy picks up the slack. A high-pitched whine accompanies the resonating shots of the six-shooter. His light crossbow, holding four bolts at a time, sends just as many bolts into the demon's body, littering its skin with the projectiles, like small stakes planted in the ground as gravestones.
  
  Another screech.
  
  The demon jumps on the witch hunter this time, who calmly tosses the crossbow aside, replacing it with the longsword. He doesn't possess your dexterity, your speed, so he instead holds his ground, using the longsword defensively. Each swipe from the demon sends black sludge in the air, covering Kennedy's face with its own blood.
  
  You empty the remaining bullets into the demon's back and pull six bullets from your gunbelt. The demon hits Kennedy with a series of swipes, making use of all three sets of arms. Six different objects swing towards the witch hunter's head. He's good. He's damn skilled with the sword. It's not enough. A demon claw catches the longsword, pulling it from Kennedy's grasp, the other slashes towards the witch hunter's face.
  
  Kennedy is thrown to the ground in a heap, the demon standing over him. Now's your chance.
  
  > reload without distraction
  The demon preoccupied, you have time to put six bullets in the revolver's chamber. Kennedy may be your current employer, but a dead man can't spend his wages. The same can be said for the employer and his ability to pay. Its leathery wings flap absent-mindedly as it approaches the fallen witch hunter. Six bullets the chamber holds, soon to be six bullets you empty into the exposed demon.
  
  The sky is dark, yet the ground around Kennedy seems to fall under the demon's shadow, normally a contrast between light and dark—now it's between shades of darkness, the deeper, fuller blackness cast upon the witch hunter. Six bullets the chamber holds. You snap the chamber shut with the twist of the wrist. The revolver raises to a firing position. You see the demon at the end of your sights.
  
  Crunch.
  
  Before you pull the trigger, the demon raises a hoof-shaped foot and slams it down on Kennedy's face. A burst of red briefly showers in the air, like a full wine pitcher falling to the floor, shards of ceramic (bone) flying in the air. As the demon turns towards you, finally acknowledging your presence, you catch a glimpse of Kennedy. His face is an empty cavern of blood and bone, the features of his face stomped inward. Your morning's breakfast gnaws at your stomach.
  
  "This is what faith gets you," the creature of hell growls.
  
  "Then it's a good thing I've long since abandoned mine," you return, pulling the trigger behind your words. The revolver fires in thundercrack, the kick a familiar shake in your palm. Your bullet tears through the demon's face underneath its right eye, sending yet another ooze of black blood to roll down its face appearing as if a waterfall of black tears. The demon is anything but sorrowful, however. Enraged. Violent. Those are better suited to describe.
  
  WIth a howl, it leaps in the air. The great shadow that bore upon Kennedy's—now corpse—bears down on you. Although the sunlight is behind a cloud layer, the difference in light is like a lone cloud wandering in front of the sun on an otherwise blue sky day. It comes for you, seeking to maim, seeking to devour. Your eyes fix on its wings. Another thundercrack echoes from your palm.
  
  Your bullet rips through the top of its wing, sending the demon's flight path into a downward spiral. You roll out of the way as the demon crashes into the ground in a flurry of dust clouds and snarls. A flash of light draws your attention. Resting on Kennedy's hip are several flasks of liquid, small alchemical bombs to compliment the witch hunter's arsenal. Shame he couldn't pull one in time. But perhaps you still can. You sprint towards the fallen man, the demon on your heels.
  
  You hear its footsteps pounding right behind you, each stride highlighting the fear running through your veins, phantom touches playing in your mind. You hear its footsteps, sense his outstretched arms, all six of them, reaching to catch you. Without looking you, fire two more shots behind you, more to buy yourself some space than to really put the demon down.
  
  Whether needed or not, it doesn't matter; you've reached the witch hunter's corpse and dive for the nearest bomb, a murky orange liquid held in place with a simple cork at the top. It fits in your empty palm like a smooth stone picked up at the riverside. The shadow appears. You fling the alchemical bomb towards the demon.
  
  Light. Explosion. Fire.
  
  Then. Pain.
  
  The blast does as much damage to you as the demon. Your skin lights in flame, black smoke emanating from your torso and limbs, mercifully helping disorientate yourself from the pain. Somehow you still manage to keep your focus on the threat before you. You add to the smoke in the air, firing the remaining bullets in the chamber.
  
  The demon, weakened by the blast, finally appears wounded by your lead. Its movement slows, turning from the dead sprint into a slow crawl forward. A pool of black sludge gathers around it, sliding lazily in your direction. Your vision starts to darken. Whatever images poured through the smoke and the flame now transition into a blur of color. You collapse next to Kennedy, mere seconds remaining of your life. Here it is. The end. Finally.
  
  The afterlife welcomes you. Those who you've sent before you lie in wait, the demon being the final to proceed you. Through the smoke and flame you don't notice the others, creatures of hell lining the surrounding mountainside. They're not your problem. Humanity, however, will have its hands full, and there's one less gunslinger at their disposal.
  
  The End