text: [Themes: grimdark fantasy, grimdark]
  
  Darkness arrives, a pure absence of light that hides the most vibrant of shadows. You've taken shelter at the base of a blackened tree. It's not the only one. The area itself shows signs of a wildfire, blackened scarred trees with jagged branches and burnt soil. No natural cover protects you from rainfall. Instead, you've taken a piece of canvas and tied it to one of the dead branches that hangs over your head. It'll protect you against a constant drizzle. Anything more, however, and you'll find yourself and your equipment soaked to the core. But such is the burden of traveling light and alone.
  
  Leaning against the tree, you light up a smoke and allow the trunk to bear your weight. A full day of hard traveling takes its toll on the body. A puff of smoke fills your limited vision in the night as you think back to your first few days on the road, a young man full of promise and potential. Wide-eyed, naive, you soon learned the harshness of reality.
  
  This business isn't for the faint of heart. It's not for those looking for a grand adventure and a story to share. Many young men who have thought that way find themselves bleeding out in a ditch. Many have found themselves there by your hand, the dealing of lead not in their favor. Better that you learned early. Gone is the happiness. Gone is an optimistic view. They've both been exchanged for the ability to survive.
  
  A twig snaps, pulling you from your thoughts. The six-shooter appears in your palm, the hammer cocked back.
  
  "Either identify yourself or I start shooting in your direction," you state into the darkness. It's silent for a moment. Whoever—whatever's out there is taking their time to think. Then, footsteps. No longer an attempt to mask their approach.
  
  Into your makeshift camp enters a man dressed in black. Like you he wears a wide-brimmed hat. Unlike you, slung over one shoulder is a small crossbow, a longsword across the other. His attire might be mistaken for priestly garments, but you recognize the design. Killer in the night. Holy man turned slayer. A witch hunter. He gestures at the ground in front of you, and you nod. The witch hunter takes a cross-legged seat on the ground.
  
  Rather than a hand-rolled cigarette, he pulls out a long carved wooden pipe, stuffing frontier tobacco down the bowl. "Got a light?" he asks.
  
  Gun still trained, though hammer back to neutral, you flick a match in his direction, a test to determine his skill. Unsurprisingly for a witch hunter, he snatches the match from the air with two fingers, striking it across his boot in the same motion. A second later, he puffs smoke into the shared air between the two of you.
  
  "I should have known better than to sneak. But I wanted to gauge who I was dealing with. Apologies," the witch hunter speaks. HIs goatee is neatly-trimmed, showing signs of silver at the tips.
  
  "Sneaking up on an armed man is usually a mistake only committed once," you say.
  
  "And yet here I am, alive, ready to repeat the same mistake twice." The witch hunter utters a small laugh. He continues. "Not many travelers out. Might I ask your business?"
  
  "Heading west," you answer. Hell, that's as honest an answer as you could offer.
  
  "Untamed frontier," he comments. "I hear the native raids are getting worse. Did you hear about Redshire?"
  
  "I heard a bit about it," you say.
  
  "Shame... You can be sure the Goldwater Knights are going to find themselves new business because of it."
  
  "And what about you?" you ask, breathing out a puff of smoke. "Witch hunters don't usually stray this far into the frontier."
  
  "True, there is plenty of work in the cities and small settlements. It's no coincidence that demons possess men near heavily populated areas. More souls to feed on. Plus, and I'm sure you can attest, those traveling alone in the frontier are normally strong of will, not to mention quick on the draw."
  
  "You're not under contract then?"
  
  The witch hunter takes his turn adding to the accumulating smoke in the air. "On the contrary, I've been sent by the guild to investigate the mountains. There's a missing transport. Priests spreading the work of God in the west."
  
  "To who?" You chuckle. "The natives?"
  
  "All men need God."
  
  Your mind briefly flashes to the young native who cut you free from the gallows. "At least you refer to them as men. Most settlers call them savages, cannibals."
  
  "Oh, they're but men who are lost. It's not their fault for being born into wicked customs."
  
  "Agreed," you say.
  
  It's quiet between the two of you for a moment, the conversation not flowing as smoothly as, perhaps, the witch hunter hoped. He breaks the silence again.
  
  "Tell me, have you seen anything out of the ordinary since arriving in the mountains?"
  
  You shake your head. "No. This is my first night though. So far it's been quiet except for you."
  
  The witch hunter answers, "It's the same for me. Listen, I'd like to hire your help. You seem to know about my trade—we don't often journey into the wilderness. I could use your expertise with the area, and two sets of eyes are better than one. The same goes for hands bearing arms."
  
  You eye the man. Religious types are often straightforward in your experience. It's a difficult thing, to beat around the bush when dealing with matters of heaven or hell. You're traveling west to find work. You might've just found it, even if it's not what you were expecting. The fact that the witch hunter snapped the twig on his approach verifies his claim of lack of wilderness expertise. You're no tracker, but neither are you unfamiliar with surviving in the wild. You take another drag of the cigarette in thought, the thing nearly burned through. The witch hunter looks at you expectantly.
  
  > take the job
  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.
  
  > draw the demon's attention
  It's the only way to save the witch hunter's life. It's the only way to ensure payment. You've only managed to put four bullets in the chamber of the revolver, but it'll have to do. Besides, if you can't kill the demon with four shots, six likely wouldn't make that much of a difference. You snap the chamber back into place lining up all four bullets; certainly, you don't want to come across one of the empty slots in the chamber prematurely.
  
  The sky above, a deep gray layer of clouds, starts to drizzle. Cool droplets land on your exposed skin. There are worse ways to die.
  
  "Hey!" you shout, your voice displaying signs of the previous night's smoke. Speaking of smoke... You quickly pull a hand-rolled cigarette from your breast pocket. The demon seems neither concerned with your firepower, wanting to take its time with your death. It affords you a last smoke, more than most get. You add to the sky's gray with a puff of smoke, keeping the cigarette at the corner of your lips. Through the smoke, the demon appears, six arms, leathery wings, fangs bared.
  
  "You mortals never learn," it growls, its voice a warning in itself. "Honor means nothing. It causes more deaths than it saves. Your time is at the end. I will follow you to the abyss. There you will learn the truth of honor."
  
  "You mistake my intent," you answer through a puff of smoke. I give no shit about this man. He does owe me payment, and I'll see him living long enough to depart with what's owed."
  
  The demon utters another terrible laugh. It's nearly standing in front of you now, just a few steps away, towering over you. Your head lands squarely at its chest level. "Didn't somebody teach you about the love of money?"
  
  Movement. Not from the demon.
  
  A figure dressed in black rises from the ground, his face a messy mixture of blood and dirt. The wound from the demon appears as a slash mark from his upper stomach to the side of his cheek. His wide-brimmed hat lies on the ground, motionless, where the man himself just laid. The witch hunter. Kennedy. You see the item clutched in his palm. The demon does not.
  
  You fire back. "Didn't someone teach you about playing with your food?"
  
  Kennedy throws the flask. Glass flashes in the air. Its contents, liquid of a dark green, sloshes around, white foam starting to bubble near the cork. For the second time, you dive away in a roll. The demon turns. The alchemical bomb explodes in a shower of green. Glass breaks. Sizzling, like searing the side of a cutlet of steak rings in the air. The demon shrieks a scream more awful than any you've heard. It's the cry of a rape victim the moment hopelessness dawns, a mother's cry learning of the death of her son.
  
  They might not have been effective before, but that won't stop you from trying. You empty the chamber of the revolver into the demon's face, each creating a round hole of black, demon blood starting to pour through in black sludge. Weakened by the alchemical bomb, the bullets cause the demon to take a step back with each one.
  
  It doesn't keep up with the fourth, falling over backwards instead. It doesn't move. Neither do you or Kennedy for fear of triggering a response. Slowly, intently, you slot six bullets into your revolver, moving like a prisoner reaching for the dangling keyring of his jailor. A minute passes. Two. The demon doesn't move. Only then do you dare speak.
  
  "You alright?"
  
  Kennedy grabs his hat from the dirt, not bothering to brush it off. "Not the day I was expecting. I'll survive though. You?"
  
  You shrug and give the usual answer for the state of things. "Been better, been worse."
  
  The witch hunter turns his attention towards the wreckage of the transport. "No survivors. The guild will want to know."
  
  You toss the cigarette and snuff it out with the underside of your boot. "We'll need to ride fast. Your guild will want to prepare as much as possible."
  
  "For what?" Kennedy asks.
  
  "For them," you say, gesturing towards the western mountainside.
  
  The witch hunter turns, the beginning of a prayer at the tip of his tongue. Light rain pours on the two of you as you examine the scene; shadowy figures, some in the shape of the slain demon, others, abominations of hell, gather in the mountains a distance away. A screech echoes, a shrill glass-shattering sound that is barely a whisper as it reaches where you stand. They burst into motion. Those with wings take flight, casting great shadows on the ground beneath them. Those without, do their best to keep up, denizen of hell twisting and snarling their way to devour.
  
  "Lord protect us," Kennedy utters to himself.
  
  You repeat yourself. "We'll need to ride fast."
  
  > Ending: Final Smoke
  Westhaven fell. No amount of warning to the guild would have saved the city from the legion. The sky itself was cast into a state of perpetual darkness. Not complete darkness, rather, a constant shade of black, the sun giving no more light than a full moon in the night.
  
  It's underneath the streets you hide. It's the only place where the citizens of Westhaven could survive. Those who tried to run were cut down on the plains, the great flying creatures from the abyss descending on them, talons desperate to tear through flesh.
  
  Some tried to stand their ground. The frontier is not a place for the faint of heart or those without the strength to swing their sword. They were ripped apart just the same. So you, along with a remnant of survivors, took to the sewers, a maze-like system with more than a few twists, turns, and dead-ends to cover your presence.
  
  The stench is staggering. You cover the bottom half of your face with a bandana, as do most of the survivors. Back in Westhaven there was no news of Daniel, and you fear the worst. The survivors now turn to you and the witch hunters guild for protection. There are no more politicians, no more elected sheriffs. There's only the guild. You're recognized as an ally, but not welcomed into the witch hunter ranks. The payment that Kennedy owes appears to be put off until a later date, not that the dollars would do you any good underground.
  
  You sit up from your bedroll, resting your forearms on your knees. Your chambers are closer to the streets than most; you'd prefer to hear the demons' approach and have the ability to retreat further if discovered. Plus, it affords more privacy. The other survivors are still within shouting range though. Sound in the sewers carries far. A mere yell could have a dozen witch hunters present, their small crossbows at the ready in a manner of seconds.
  
  Shirtless and without your wide-brimmed hat, your long hair falls upon your shoulders in a mess of black, the ends starting to curl from lack of washing. A woman's hand touches your bare skin, sending a shock through your body, her fingers tracing along your scars. She's not the woman you want to spend your last days with. There's only one in that category, and that woman left you long ago.
  
  Your fingers find the last hand-rolled cigarette in your possession, your last of the frontier tobacco. Taking to the sewers, the obvious took precedence: food, water, bedding--of course, booze. Tobacco didn't make the cut, however, and you find yourself at your last smoke. Last days, last smoke. A sense of finality.
  
  A primal sound, though muffled, echoes from down a nearby sewer passage. Demons. Instinctively, the woman's hand jumps, but you remain stationary, not allowing the moment of your last smoke to be disturbed.
  
  "They've found us," she whispers.
  
  "Mm, perhaps," you breathe out a puff of smoke. "There are many passages in this drainage network. Sound carries." That seems to calm the woman. Then a few seconds later, the sound pierces the silence again, louder. Closer.
  
  You speak your last words to the woman. You know you'll never see her again. The same thoughts cloud your mind as before. She's not the woman you want to spend your last days with, but that in itself brings a level of comfort. Rather than pain, your heart feels a callous indifference; the mind is clear in the matter, unaffected by wild emotion. You know your words are the last you'll speak to the woman. You're still unsure if they will be your last spoken entirely.
  
  "Run. Find safety with the others."
  
  That's all she needs to hear. She doesn't even throw her dress on. One hand clutching the blanket around her frontside, she takes off in a run, the other grabbing for her pair of boots on the floor. In the flurry, her exposed backside catches your eye, soft milky-white curves trembling in movement. Footsteps draw closer, stretching use of the word. More likely, hooves. Doesn't matter. In whatever form the demons appear, you'll greet them with lead and gunsmoke either way. The cigarette is burning low.
  
  Alone, you stand and gather your shirt, a buttoned-down piece of a faded black, sleeves permanently rolled to your elbows. Your hands find your gunbelt and fasten it around your waist, notching it in the same loop that you've always used. And finally, you place the wide-brimmed hat upon your head, holding your hair back, sending shadows over the top half of your face. They draw closer. Faintly, you hear their snarling, gnashing of teeth.
  
  You find a place behind a pile of unused crates, not that you expect the demons to fire lead back. Old habits die hard. The same can be said for gunslingers. Your revolver appears in your palm, the only thing to keep you company.
  
  Alone you stand. The smoke at the corner of your lips is now a short stump and harsh to breathe. You embrace the burn. They draw closer. Last days, last smoke. A sense of finality. You send a puff of smoke into the air. Soon enough your revolver will do the same.
  
  The End