Bad Motherfuckers [Jean/Bastian]

[Bastian van Staade]

4:36PM
5TH JANUARY, 2012
EXTERIOR FLATPLANES
NEAR A SMALL CANYON
FORLORN ASHLAND

"Hgh..."

"YOUR TIME IS UP, HUMAN." Thud. Thud. Thud. "PRAY TO YOUR FALSE GOD AND HOPE YOU DO NOT SEE ME AGAIN IN THE AFTERLIFE." The ash beneath the Demon's great, lumbering feet swirled around in gentle patterns as it ground to a halt. The great, impossibly large smith's hammer it held fast in one hand drew slowly along the ground, carving a furrow in the white-grey flecks that littered the landscape of the alterverse, and in its own, pompous, self-righteous and hideous voice, the colossus of a beast began to emanate a long, drawn-out, booming chuckle.

The beast was infact a Demon, native to these Forlorn Ashlands, known as the Hephaeston. From its head trailed wreaths and tendrils of vicious flame, licking out at the air and consuming it, crackling heat and thick black smoke rising from what should have been hair bound at the scalp of the black-skinned giant man-like beast. It was hunched over, its back bent, its knees buckled and in one hand, its posture not grandiose in any definition of the word, but bestial, as its great flaming mass of facial hair spilled forth, it held that colossal smith's hammer. Panels of Grecian-influenced glimmering armour wrapped the Hephaeston's body as it looked down upon its prey, the booming chuckles coming to an end as it waited 'patiently' for a response to soothe its egomania.

"I have... no God." Came the murmur from a man, opposite now to the great beast, hunched over, with one hand on his buckled knee, a black longcoat flowing and billowing behind him in the heated, ashen winds of the forlorn scape. His head was bowed, and atop it, a small, thick black caterpillar of hair, following behind a ribbon-tipped plaited ponytail that waved and shook in the wind, bravely stared down the fire-eyed Hephaeston above. With the one hand on one knee, he all too swiftly revealed the other with a pneumatic whir; forwards he brought his right upper limb, metallic and heavy, landing against the ground with a whump, fingers outstretched as the great beast of a man used it to stabilise himself.

"WHAT?" The booming tones echoed between them once more. "SPEAK UP, PATHETIC HUMAN." The condescending chuckles continued to emanate. The quivering of the Hephaeston's prey slowly began to stop, and his buckled, hunched form began to stabilise. "I CANNOT HEAR YOUR WHINES, YOU FOOL." With that, silence save for the echoes and the ash storms swirling in the distance ringing between them, the man on one knee stood up. His posture unfurled itself like a great beast ready to strike. The fingers of that mechanical hand flexed, one at a time, head still inclined and bowed, before the mohawk-bearing one-armed man finally bucked it up, and with a devilish, determined, calamitous grin, locked eyes with the Hephaeston. One message echoed in that tenacious stare. The fight was not over yet.

"I said..." The man spoke, his voice raised once more, back to its full potential, tones grandiose and booming, echoing around him in a lesser fashion to the Demon, but echoing all the same. With that, as the coat's billowing ceased, he rose his right arm, fashioned of metal and wire, and looked up to the Demon, easily a full five feet higher than him, and only the Devil knew how much physically stronger. But the man in the coat had his own tricks ready. "I have..." Slowly, he pulled back his arm, the mechanical clunks and whines all growing higher, faster, and more intense. "...NO GOD!"

And with that, granting the Hephaeston not even a moment to reorganise himself, the man in the coat leapt towards his Demon adversary, fist raised. Startled and taken aback, in a dull, booming murmur of vexation and confusion, he tried to raise the hammer, but it was to no avail; for the human, though smaller, and though arguably weaker, was so much faster. By the time the Demon's hands had gripped the handle, the mohawk-bearing man had ducked beneath it, and fist raised, pneumatic panel at the front charged and ready to spring forward at so much as a moment's notice.

But all of this meant nothing if the man had nowhere to strike. To a lesser slayer it would have seemed that this was all for nothing, that there was a moot point, for in front of him, the man with the metal arm could not reach anywhere which would allow him to strike once and strike lethally. However, he knew far better; and diving beneath the Hephaeston's weighty grasp, the black-haired, ponytail-bearing man launched himself like a human missile of flesh and bone, metal arm held out in front of him, towards the great Demon's knee, ever so slightly bent as part of its natural posture.

And the strike made contact.

The panel at the end of the man's fist jerked forward as his hand made contact, pushing both his own hand backwards and slamming into the Hephaeston's knee with such force that it solicited a great and terrible cry from the beast's mouth. Its movements were slow and lumbering, yes; but it was with speed that it forsook the hammer and simply dropped it, forgetting about it as its own limb was shot off with such power that it took upon itself an angle unnatural for the beast's form. Crack. Instinctively, its legs buckled absolutely as it roared and reared its head in pain, both colossal hands flocking to the area which the Demon Hunter had afflicted, as the man in the coat leapt back with a determined, grit-toothed grin upon his face. The tables had been turned. "YOU..." With seething hatred, hissing between his teeth as that fiery hair wreathed like a mass of octopus tendrils about him, the creature bowed its head, much as the man had done moments before, gingerly, with both hands, tending to its knee. "YOU... BASTARD..."

That sickening crack had given it all away. Whatever horrific imitation of bone this creature's bodily structure contained, within its "knee", all that was left was now splinters. The demonic energy that furrowed and ran through its body was all that kept it leaning on it, but the grunts and groans of intermittent pain gave the man in the coat knowledge that the fight was drawing to a close. The debilitating wound had been struck. It was a technique that he had used time and time again. The pneumatic panel that had sprung forwards on his fist wound back into place over a few moments, automated, before snapping back in with a resounding click. The bigger they are, the harder they fall, the lower you strike. And leave them vulnerable.

The creature was maybe twelve feet tall, but on its knees, at his mercy, its head reared up to barely seven. The debilitation of the actual strike had not been the man in the coat's priority. No, instead, his aim had been to level the playing field, equalise the dimensions and heights of their battlefield. And now, as the infuriated Demon had cast aside his hammer and tended gingerly to its fresh wound, it had made the gravest of mistakes, and lowered its head: exactly to the Demon Hunter's height.

With that, once more, he spoke. "Demon..." Slowly, he walked forwards, the Hephaeston not even bothering to address the man between his guttural and primal howls. "You are a beast, you are unnatural, and you are a blight upon both your world and mine." Came the statement and the admission. "Remember the name of your executioner in whatever foul form your shattered soul takes next." He hissed through clenched teeth. "Bastian van Staade."

And with that, he rose the fist back behind his head, and at the Hephaeston who looked on in anticipation, opening its mouth to cry out, the South African charged upon the predator-turned-prey, the hunter-turned-hunted, and as the flames of its hair and its beard flickered and wreathed around him, the Hunter propelled himself into the air with a single jump, and, screaming an unintelligible warcry at the top of his lungs, outstretched his arm, and slammed his fist dead-on into the Demon's face.

Another one down.

[Jean La Croix]

"HAROOOOO"

They could smell it, the scent of their prey and for that they had to sing. The creature smelled of desperation... But whats more it smelled of fear! It made them shiver in delight as they glided across the ash covered landscape with not a sound but the echoing of their voice on the late afternoon air. It raced ahead of them as they ran, their long lupine form flying forward with remarkable speed. The creature that was at one time both Jean and the Moon Hunter raced across the craggy and burnt landscape, their arms helping to propel them forward in what could only be described as leaps though far more graceful then any leap should be.

"Oooooooooooooooowhoo"

They sang in tandem and it was a song that all creatures had learned to fear. IT was the song that proclaimed that they, the hunters of the night where on the prowl. It was the song that told men to stay inside at night, it was the song that spoke of all the terrors that the forest might hold. IT was a song so primal and wild that all creatures no matter what form they may take would know its meaning. Their eyes cast up at the setting sun and then to the long shadows that raced with him across the ground.

And though the shadows he raced where swift they where nothing compared to the speed that was housed in their combined form. For minutes on end they raced against the natural world, out pacing the descending shadows but in the end he lost out to the setting sun though they tried... Oh how they tried. The land fairly flew under their feet and the land slowly changed about them. The flat lands became far more craggy and the ash deeper under foot. The smell though... The smell of desperation and fear was gone. Replaced by something.... Human.

That was odd in and of its self but they also smelled blood, blood that had just recently been spilled and it wasn't the blood of a human. No they could see the spirit energy that had once been the demon slowly rise into the air, he could see what had been sentience become something wholly and totally mindless. As they watched the creatures aura disperse he spotted that of the being that had killed it, and slowly, soundlessly they approached their coat changing to match their surroundings perfectly. He spied him then, a man with cold metallic smell about him. They circled him then, eyes locked on the individual that might become their prey.

Now... Move in for the kill now while our prey is distracted

The voice of the wolf father flowed through Jeans mind, though it wasn't with words that the other spoke no he spoke with memories of past hunts. He felt the need to surge forward and take this man by his throat. He felt the need to drain him of his life's blood and feast on the flesh he left behind. But he held that need, that want for blood in check. He would sit and watch for now, and later... Later he would decided if this man was one he would kill.

[Bastian van Staade]

A faint howl echoed in the distance and then fell back in amidst the rest. Bastian van Staade looked over his broken quarry and sighed, the instinctive raise of his metal fist clearly pointless. He was in Hell. Many a Demon would howl and cry tonight, hunting for whatever their specific prey where. Just simply to hope that too many did not target the South African at once, for the last Hephaeston had tired him out somewhat. "You're getting old, Bastian..." The lumbering titan murmured to himself in Afrikaans, shaking his head before easing up his posture and grunting. That was a sign of perfect concurrence. It was time for some rest.

Unlike most typical Hunters, an operation in Inferis lasted at longest maybe a couple of hours. In, kill Demons, out, home in time for dinner. Bastian van Staade was somewhat different. In a world where nothing was absolute or perfectly logical, one could not rely on anything save for their own abilities and the clothes on their back. And so, for this reason, the man had trained himself, and made a habit; after every finished hunt, he would retire and rest. But this did not mean crossing back to the real world. For the purpose of training, he instead used what he could find to establish a campsite and took it upon himself to rest and survive on what he could find in this Hell alone.

Grunting, he returned to the small mound of ash beneath which he'd hidden his pack, propped up against a small boulder. The satchel was a hardy, square box fashioned of leather, containing the bare essentials. A few lighters, some fresh water, three slices of white bread, a five-inch wide-edged survival knife, and a reel of thick rope. Believe it or not, in all his days, that had what Bastian had worn himself down to.

Taking the pack, he returned back to the site of the dead Demon, and cast his eyes back over the blackened flatlands. The Ashland was something depressing in truth, but it was not beyond survivability, not by a long shot, compared to that horrific Tundra. Ugh. In his surroundings were several trees of wizened, gnarled, old wood, no leaves in sight, simply hard, black bark. Approaching the first, around the bottom were a few collected dead logs, about as thick as his shin and half as long, which would do perfectly. That, and a handful of pebbles, and with his arms full, Bastian took to the redoubt by the cliff face near the site by which he'd felled the hammer-bearing Demon - the flames of its hair and beard now nothing but smouldering strings crackling in the ash, dying flames slowly turning to burnt-out wicks.

"Hgh." Bastian slumped the dry logs down and arranged the pebbles in a circle around them, having taken to some degree of shade and shelter so he wasn't going to make a relative beacon to draw towards him all the Demons he could. To be fair, in the Ashland, smoke was a common sight; so the thick black smog that the fire would undoubtedly create was not his worry, but the bright light of the fresh fire was something he had to be wary of. Moments later, he clasped the lighter in his hand - the ashen, dry wood of the trees in this blackened plain laid drier and more coated in ash than any kindling found naturally anywhere else, be it Earth or Inferis. The ash burnt away and the wood began to crackle, and after a few minutes, the ex-miner had himself a campfire.

Solemnly he held his hand out, the metal one needing no heat; infact, the humid air of the Ashland tended to mean that his entire body needed no heat, but the warmth and light of a campfire, plus the smell of smouldering wood - even if it was wood from Hell itself - reminded him of home. Opening his satchel once more, he removed a bottle of water and a single slice of bread, sighing, and dusting off a thin, nearby twig to use as an impromptu toasting fork. These survival activities got lonely, sometimes. Half the time, Bastian just found himself wanting another Demon to turn up.

[Jean La Croix]

This man was proficient to say the least, they looked to what remained of the demon that had been executed hear and couldn't help but grin. This man, who ever he was was a fellow hunter. Though his methods where far far removed from those of the wolves. Still, they could respect a man who was willing to risk life and limb to prove him self and it seemed that was exactly what this one had done. but whats more it seemed that this unknown hunter had come to stay... At least for a little while. Not many humans dared do that, hell not many humans dared enter Inferis in the first place, let alone enter with the intent to kill.

But this one had, he could see that much in his aura though little else of note could be picked out among the riot of colors and symbols that floated about him. Silently they stalked the man, never letting their presence be known. Watching with some interest as he started a fire even though he must have known it would be nothing short of a signal for those that would do him harm. IT was almost a dare to any would be assailants. Come get me it was saying, Im ready for anything you care to throw at me. And maybe this unknown man was, maybe he knew of all the dangers that inhabited this land. Still it was a ballsy move, and both Jean and Moon Hunter could appreciate that.

They faded back into the shadows that surrounded this one speck of light and with one final bone chilling howl they came apart and the one suddenly became two. They stood apart, both man and beast looking at one another, both sharing a profound sense of loss. Then with a nod of his head Jean bade his twin back into the shadows before he calmly, almost leisurely strode toward the fire and the man that sat at it. He went unarmed as he generally did in Inferis, after all what was a gun compared to the teeth and claws that he grew when he was one with The Hunter. Though even baring weapons he made something of an imposing figure, in his black leather armor making a striking contrast to his pale white skin. But there was more, for what ever reason when he came to this realm, this hunters paradise his features grew sharper more animalistic and savage. His teeth ended in points, his hair became longer, shaggier and wild and his eyes took on an almost reddish tint when the light hit them just right.

He had never understood why, though he did have his own personal opinion as to why people changed when they entered Inferis. He saw the changes they went through as their soul, their very self becoming manifest in the world of the spirits. It made them truer and helped strip away the masks that they held in the material world. Whether or not that was true he did not know, but it felt right to him and in the end that was all that mattered.

His foot steps could be heard long before he could be seen, the color of his clothing matching the darkness about them almost perfectly. As he stepped into the ring of fire light he let a pleasant and toothy smile fall over his handsome features and had his hands and palms out in a gesture of nonviolence. "Ya know, i was jus thinking it was just the sort of night that could use a good ol' camp ire." His thick southern accent almost made it seem as if he was singing and that the crackle of the fire was the music to accompany. "You mind if I warm my self up with ya? Its been ages since i had a chance to sit by and talk ta a genuine flesh and blood man out here in the sticks. Almost thought they all got scarred away." He stops a good distance away from both the man and the fire, his eyes search and eventually locking on those of the older gentleman. " I tell ya what, you let me put my feet up with ya and ill share mah dinner. Fresh caught a lil ways back, and let me tell you firegrilled Forktail is jus about the best meal ya can get out here if you dont plan on tacking in a picnic." He patted the satchel tied to his hip then cocked his head to the side."Naw ill be true with you and say that it aint nearly so good as granddaddies barbecue gator, but thas true fo jus about every thin, you know what i mean?"With a shake of his head he rubbed dusted his hands on his pants and held one out to shake taking one more step forward. "Oh where are mah manners! Names Jean, nice to meet ya acquaintance!"

[Bastian van Staade]

"Ya know, I was jus thinking it was just the sort of night that could use a good ol' camp fire."

Bastian hadn't noticed the man in his approach, and at the sound of voice, snapped upwards and leapt to his feet, a snarl rising from his throat. The South African immediately forced his body instinctively into a combat stance, raising his prosthesis and jabbing it forwards into the air defensively. No words came forth from his mouth for now, just a growl indicating that he wasn't best pleased at the disturbance. Though humans in Inferis were not always benevolent, this one seemed to have notions of non-violence from his hand gesture; and the Hunter had encountered Templars and hostile Ritualists before. This was too unorthodox for the former and too clean-cut for the latter. If he was either, the titanic half-man would have been surprised.

"You mind if I warm my self up with ya? Its been ages since i had a chance to sit by and talk ta a genuine flesh and blood man out here in the sticks. Almost thought they all got scarred away." God, he liked to talk, didn't he? Man seemed friendly enough. Bastian's stance didn't falter and no speech continued to rise from his throat, just that continual growl. You could never be too careful out here. " I tell ya what, you let me put my feet up with ya and ill share mah dinner. Fresh caught a lil ways back, and let me tell you firegrilled Forktail is jus about the best meal ya can get out here if you dont plan on tacking in a picnic."

He was younger. Much younger. Bastian's cold eyes looked over him and could swiftly tell that much. Toasted, ashen bread didn't sound like much of a meal; and though he could easily make his way home, as already predetermined, he was tempering his body as he grew older to ensure his own survival. The man sounded American of a sort; many of the handful of fellow Hunters he'd met were, typically over the other side of Hell completely, in the Chasm; seeing as the Ashland was the parallel he was most familiar with, all of the others he was aware of - though not allied with - in this region tended to be, well, by nature, South Africans.

"You've got yourself a deal, stranger." Bastian murmured assertively, before jerking his metal arm over to the fallen Hephaeston, now nothing more than a smouldering, crumpled mass. "But try any funny shit with me, and you'll end up like him. Got it?" He rose the arm, threateningly, and flexed his fingers beneath the metal panel. His trusty pneumatic fist had served him well these past decades in Inferis. Never changed. Never altered. Stayed completely the same - always took that dull, dented appearance on, but never got scratched any more.

It was a phenomenon that really bemused him, the nature of these sudden abilities, or Evocations, to use the proper term. The man seemed friendly enough, regardless, so Bastian lowered his fist and slumped back down by the fire, raising a piece of bread from the pack and skewering it on the minuscule fork he'd made, holding it gently over the blaze. A flame begun on ash like this had a basis for fire, and thus, progressed to higher levels of heat far more quickly. And chargrilled toast was far better than any of those little metal boxes could do. "Naw ill be true with you and say that it aint nearly so good as granddaddies barbecue gator, but thas true fo jus about every thin, you know what i mean?"

By Hell, he did like to talk, didn't he? Bastian eyed the man with scrutiny and responded with a silent nod of the head. "Barbecue gator", eh? That American accent he'd struggled to put his finger on sounded distinctively Cajun to him. Long hair, scruffy beard, overly friendly; yeah, that seemed to fit the profile. Bastian had known a couple of Cajuns in his time. Nice people. This guy would hopefully follow the trend. Killing Demons was business, and business was never in short supply; but killing his fellow man always seemed like something of a waste. Unless they were Templars.

He didn't like Templars. "Never had alligator." Bastian murmured, deep accent clinging to every word that came forth from his mouth. "Gazelle tastes pretty nice though." His every phrase was blunt and took on the accent of the South African almost impeccably. Fifty years in Johannesburg was almost irreversible in that respect. But for tonight, no matter how friendly the stranger was, he didn't feel like talking.

"Oh where are mah manners! Names Jean, nice to meet ya acquaintance!" Bastian twitched. In his scholarly days before he'd ventured into Inferis proper, whilst studiously surveying the few musty Demon Hunter texts he could find, the South African had had to learn English at a far higher level than usual society required. Typically his people - especially during apartheid - learnt it growing up, as had he, but after his "accident", the ex-miner had instead moved into pursuing it more intensely.

As such, he knew his grammar back to front. He was no linguistics expert, but it helped to know modern English in full before you studied the historical texts. Especially regarding something so bemusing as the genealogy of the common Demon Hunter. "Make your acquaintance." Bastian corrected him bluntly, but regardless, set the toast down, cooking it slowly, and stood up to shake the man's hand with his organic counterpart, gripping it tightly and yanking it up and down almost viciously - not out of hostility, but purely out of a lack of knowledge of his own strength. "And I'm Bastian." He almost never added by saying people could call him Bas. That came naturally with the pitiful handful of people the xenophobic and wary South African did trust.

[Jean La Croix]

"You've got yourself a deal, stranger. As soon as he had shown his face this mystery man with what looked like some sort of weird science fiction movie weapon for his arm had treated him like an enemy, which was the right thing to do in the world where even the cute and cuddly critters had the power to kill a man. Now that he got a better look he could see that it was in fact fully functional, not like those clunky things he saw sometimes on war vets and people who had suffered accidents. No this thing looked right out of Star Wars, though it appeared to have seen better days he didn't doubt that it was still full functional. He looked the man up and down in the span of a few seconds looking for any sign of weaponry... But saw nothing obvious, it would seem that he had killed the smith demon with nothing but his hands.

The large metal fist gestured to the demons body that lay a little ways off. "But try any funny shit with me, and you'll end up like him. Got it?" Jean just nodded and smiled at that understanding where the man was coming from, though the smart ass in him wanted to say something like 'If I wanted to kill you I would have attacked before you knew i was about' or something else along those lines. But in the end he decided against it... After all one did not anger the man with the robot fist.

The man twitched some once he finished speaking, and Jean had to wonder what at. He had been more more then cordial to the man, he had minded his P's and his Q's as his grandpappy would have put it and yet the man didn't show any sort of... Welcoming behavior. No smile, no grin, no soft chuckle or even any sort of nod. Just a twitch that could have meant just about anything. It was just plan rude, simple as that. "Make your acquaintance." Jean could only return the that very same twitch as the man corrected him... He hated it when people corrected his grammar. Sure maybe he didn't speak with the same natural eloquence as some of the folks that had grown up in more 'cultured' areas of the world but that was besides the point, he spoke in a way that was natural to him and people trying to correct it was in no wa constructive. "Thats what i said isn't it?" He smiled over at the man. "Nice to meet ya acquaintance."

The mans hand shake was firm, tight and well almost violent in its intensity and Jean had to return it in kind. "And I'm Bastian." Odd name, but hey it was rather obvious this man wasn't from America so maybe it was a tad more common in his neck of the woods. "Wha nice to meet ya Bastian, or can i call ya Bas? Not that Bastian is hard to say mind ya, just that Bas slips off the tongue a tad better you know?" He glanced about and picked up a few of the flatter rocks he saw and started to set them around the fire after dusting them off with the sleeve of his shirt.

"So Bas what brings you out to these parts? I know it cant be the charmin company i'm sure you find out this way." AS he spoke and the rocks started to head he started to turn one of the near by sticks into a sort of grill fork. "Unless of course you like the company of rowdy fire giants and this guy and you just got into some sort of drunken brawl." He started to take the meat out of his pack and set it on the now hot rocks being careful not to burn him self as he did so. "Which may well be the case, i hear these brutes are fine drinking companions so long as ya can stomach their eating habits." He continued to speak as he set out enough meat to feed at least five average sized men completely filling the rocks he had gathered. He then reached into another pocket of his satchel and pulled out 2 small leather bags and started sprinkling what looked like salt and pepper on the meat. "Though to be honest you don't rally look the type to be drinking with man eaters, but hey I've been wrong before."

[Bastian van Staade]

"Thats what i said, isn't it? Nice to meet ya acquaintance."

The warm smile was only responded to with a cold, lingering stare, one that held beneath bitter undertones, but Bastian soon decided that starting an engagement over something so trivial was the very epitome of "not being worth it". A shrug of his hulking, titanic shoulders, and he turned back to prodding the fire with a nearby charred twig and a sigh. "Whatever." The South African murmured stoically.

"Wha nice to meet ya Bastian, or can i call ya Bas? Not that Bastian is hard to say mind ya, just that Bas slips off the tongue a tad better you know?" Didn't he just love to fucking talk? Without cease and end his words came in that Cajun accent; were he a softer and gentler man he would have appreciated such honeyed tones, but Bastian, whilst learned, did not consider himself an emotionally engendered man, and instead found his continual speech a few rungs on the ladder short of irritating.

"Whatever you'd like." He grunted. He usually resigned himself to only letting people who he knew calling him Bas, but this one had been intelligent enough to divine the nickname for himself. That was no problem in Bastian's book. And once more it was nothing to raise his hackles over. And whilst this man was arguably smaller, one of the paramount survival rules of Inferis was never to underestimate anything. Humans too. Smaller Demons were oft those who carried the most lethality. The South African had learnt that the hostility of all Demons, hulking and large to minuscule and silent, was equal across the board. Terminate all and any without prejudice. That was his creed.

"So Bas what brings you out to these parts? I know it cant be the charmin company i'm sure you find out this way." Bastian continued to shift the ashes around the fire silently. "Unless of course you like the company of rowdy fire giants and this guy and you just got into some sort of drunken brawl." Once more he prodded the dead logs. "Which may well be the case, i hear these brutes are fine drinking companions so long as ya can stomach their eating habits." He was processing every word Jean spoke, just choosing for the moment not to respond nor call his eager gaze. "Though to be honest you don't rally look the type to be drinking with man eaters, but hey I've been wrong before."

Bastian lowered the stick, the end of coated with a mesmerising sheen of flickering embers, removing it from the flame and setting it down nearby. "You talk too much." The Demon Hunter observed flatly, before thinking about which of the questions he cared to reply to. "It doesn't matter why I'm here. I just am." And the intricacies he knew - be they joking or not - of Hephaeston society and habits was almost dangerous. Was he... in disguise? This man, this Jean, was certainly not someone to completely let his guard down around just yet. Friendly as he seemed, the South African was always wary of wolves in sheep's clothing. Some called him paranoid. He preferred "prepared".

Taking the slice of bread he'd cooked, he set another one on his toasting fork to replace it and tore the slab he had toasted into two rough halves, flinging it over in Jean's general direction as he assorted a few heated rocks and began to season what looked like an incredibly large amount of Forktail meat, looking raw just as tough and gamey as he imagined it was. "It's a waste to cook all of that at once." Bastian remarked, before shrugging. It wasn't his food, and it wasn't his decision.

Flexing those mechanical fingers of his with a series of hydraulic whirs, the South African sighed and bit into his half of the toast once more. It was dry and smoky, but it was warm and at the end of the day, it was food. It would sustain him for as long as he chose to tarry here in this despicable and horrific Ashland so many of those disgusting brutes called home. The stomping of other nearby creatures rang out across the night like a continual ambient rhythm. None had gotten too close. Bastian concluded he could set himself onto relative ease, concerning himself only with scanning Jean over and over again with utter scrutiny in his cold, small, steely grey eyes.

[Jean La Croix]

"You talk too much" Jean Looked up from the fire and the still cooking meat and tilted his head to the side with an almost comical expression on his face. "It doesn't matter why I'm here. I just am." Jeans hand shot out as the bread was tossed to him which he set on near by rock.   "And you talk to little ya know? Someones gotta fill this silence." And that was a fact that could not be over looked. They were after all about to share a meal, and no meal was complete with out a good conversation. "Ya see my mama always used to tell me that you can tell allot about a man by what he talks about when he eats." With out looking away from Bastion he flips the meat, causing the air around them to be filled with the rather pungent smell of barbecued reptile. "Plus well, its just rude to sit about saying nothing." With a wink he continues. "Not that I mind or find offense or anything. Oh no some people just like to sit and contemplate their food and I of course can't hold dat against em'. Jus means i gotta talk more my self and thats no hardship for me as i'm sure ya can tell!" A small laugh escapes his lips  and he shakes his head ever so slightly as he turns his attention back to the meat.

"Well that and the fact that its just to damn silent out here! Can't stand it honestly." With out looking he reached into is back and pulled out two camp plates, dented and tarnished with use. "Anyways this is bout done, how much you want?" With out waiting for an answer he piled on enough for two men and slid the plate over to Bastion and went to carving out his own meal which only took seconds and took a quick bite with out waiting for the meat to cool in the slightest. "Oh ah ohh!" He gasps as the hot meat starts to burn his tongue and mouth before swallowing in a hurried manner. "Not as good as my Grandpapis gator but its passable! Which is the best I think I can get out here in the devils own country." With yet another smile he reached down, picked up the bread and slapped the meat on top and let out a laugh. "Almost forgot this!" And with relish he bite into his make shift sandwich, the juice dripping down his unshaven chin.

[Bastian van Staade]

"And you talk to little ya know? Someones gotta fill this silence."

The Cajun had a fair point, but it meant nothing to the South African. Bastian grunted in response. "Silence is golden." He murmured. To him, silence - relative silence, anyway - meant there was a lack of trouble. It was better than having your senses populated by the sound of an oncoming Demon onslaught. There was always a need for ambience. Absolute silence was the sound that something truly monstrous brewed and gathered strength in the shadow.

"Ya see my mama always used to tell me that you can tell allot about a man by what he talks about when he eats." God, not another of these stories. The growl in Bastian's throat remained constant and existent but almost subsonic, so to deliver an accurate tale of his agitation if he'd ever stop fucking talking. "Plus well, its just rude to sit about saying nothing." The wink was met with a stoic and emotionless face.

"Not that I mind or find offense or anything. Oh no some people just like to sit and contemplate their food and I of course can't hold dat against em'. Jus means i gotta talk more my self and thats no hardship for me as i'm sure ya can tell!" It certainly wasn't, and yes, he could certainly tell. Christ alive this whole thing had been a fuck-up. He'd come here for training and found some unrelenting nattering fool who just wouldn't shut up for the life of him. If he'd have just been left to eat his grilled bread and pensively reflect - in silence - on the events of the past few days in peace, that would have been fucking dandy. "Well that and the fact that its just to damn silent out here! Can't stand it honestly." That much was obvious. "Anyways this is bout done, how much you want?"

Bastian shrugged silently in response, and Jean handed over a plate full with a liberal helping of the disgusting-smelling reptile meat. He took a quick gander at it, grilled - though surprisingly well with no real burns - but still steaming. As if the pair of them were in some cartoon, the Hunter watched intently as the Cajun stuffed the scalding hot meat into his mouth and reacted in an almost inevitable manner. "Oh ah ohh!" Cracking the very makings of a smirk for just a split-second, the South African only smiled for a moment at the misfortune of his newfound "peer" before returning to his eternal mask of misery.

"Either you're really hungry or really stupid." Bastian observed, his accent hanging thick as he shook his head. At least this guy was entertainment enough for his own idiocy, he could conclude, reaching out for the stick he'd been using to poke the fire, and twirling it around the reveal a less-burnt and relatively clean end, which he then lowered to perforate the meat with several times, almost mutilating it; but allowing large and almost comparative geysers of steam to rise out from the tough, rigid reptile flesh within - along with the stench, which would have made a lesser man gag. But the experienced Hunter knew the sensory horrors of Inferis, however, which would dwarf some bad-smelling meat on a good day. "Thanks." He stifled in a murmur, trying not to come off as humble through the whole being stoic.

"Not as good as my Grandpapis gator but its passable! Which is the best I think I can get out here in the devils own country." Nodding, he watched as the Cajun picked up his bread and curled it around the slab of meat into a sandwich. "Almost forgot this!" Bastian nodded; he still had another slice left, but he'd leave that for later. For now the meat alone would suffice. Biting into it, he raised one of the slabs Jean had graciously given him, and tore a chunk away, ripping and tugging with an almost animalistic vigour in his muscular jaws.

It wasn't long before the stringy flesh snapped away from the main body of meat and lingered upon his tongue. It... wasn't too bad, in all honesty. "Tastes like chicken." The South African observed through a full mouthful, chewing the gamey meat before finally swallowing the last of it, with a sigh. No matter how it smelt or tasted, it was warm; and it was protein, in his belly, which meant he'd last longer out in the field for it. And subsequently better himself for this training session. So he was grateful to the stranger for that much.

For now he let himself lower his guard ever so slightly when it came to the Cajun; the offers of food and the perseverance in trying to make even the idlest conversation - whether he responded or not - lead Bastian to, for the most part, assume he wasn't dangerous; but there was always the chance of a wolf in sheep's clothing. Especially so out in Inferis. He would remain wary; but for now consider the man a would-be ally in the Ashlands. But conversation was not to be his particular focus, he concluded, tearing back into the meat with a renewed strength in his movements, as he devoured the slabs of charred flesh with bites of sizes that only local Demons could so much as hope to compare to.

[Jean La Croix]

Okay,if Jean was going to be honest he would have said that the lizard tasted like literal shit, but it was better then you  most trail rations and to top it off, hot. Which even with all its flaws, made it more then worth eating. Not that heat was hard to come by in this part of Inferis, but there was just something about a camp fire and a belly full of warm food that had an almost irresistible draw for  Jean. Which may have been one of the reasons he had been drawn to this man and his fire, after all companionship and food where two things he couldn't live with out, and if he could get both at the same time well... So much the better.'

Still he could have hopped for a more talkative dinner companion, one with which he could have engaged in witty or not so witty banter. Instead he had to sit in this comparative silence with only the sounds of eating and his own voice to keep him company. With that thought he turned to regard his dinner guest with quizzical green eyes. It was odd to see someone out and about this area all by their lonesome     with no support in sight, scent or yelling distance. To put it lightly, it took some major brass balls to go out here on their own as well as nerves of steel.

After all there where more then a few things out there that could and often would make a snack out of any human that happened to cross their path. From the fire giants that made this land their home, to the lizards(OF which their meal happened to be made almost exclusively of) nothing in the chard landscape they found them selves in was friendly to human life. "Tastes like chicken." JEan nodded, and watched the man chew for a second more before turning his attention back to his own plate and food and then to the large pile of meat that still remained. "Heh, most everything tastes like chicken or so i noticed." He took another bite, letting the flavor wash over his tongue before he swallowed. "I think the almighty was jus to lazy to come up with new flavors, so he just copied and pasted something he knew people would like."

"Honestly though, you gotta wonder how in the nine hells we are able to eat anything over on this side, given that its the domain of demons and monsters and what not." He set his plate down and scrubbed his hand over his pants, cleaning the grease off his fingers. "You would expect just about everything here to be rancid, poisonous , or filled with some sort of sickness. Hell maybe even all three-" He would have gone on but his words were cut off by a howl some where close by, a long hungry sound that filled the night with a sort of coiling energy that would have sent a shiver down the back of even the most hardened of men. The hell was his partner doing?

[Bastian van Staade]

"Heh, most everything tastes like chicken or so i noticed." Bastian shrugged, somewhat apathetic. Either most things tasted like chicken or chicken tasted like most things - but at the end of the day, it was warmth, it was meat, it was protein, and it filled his belly, so there were no complaints from the older man, especially for a stranger's charity; wary as he still remained. "I think the almighty was jus to lazy to come up with new flavors, so he just copied and pasted something he knew people would like."

Bastian almost faltered at the mention of this so-called 'almighty'. The 'almighty'. The deity. He above, the Allfather... God. For all the existence of a place called Hell and Demons; somehow, through some twisted logic, the grizzled Hunter was spiritually and emotionally weary for the things he'd endured in life: and he still doubted the existence of God. By biblical logic, it was absolute - Hell could not exist without Heaven, Satan without God. But when your child sister is robbed from you at the age of nine; when an earthquake crushes your own flesh as you can only watch helplessly before an unconscious oblivion takes you; when you see friends and family die before your very eyes in this place, regret and sorrow aren't the only things you feel.

There's a question you ask yourself. A question that hangs in the back of your mind, and with every further tragedy, big or small, it chips a proportionate amount further in, silent, dark, and invasive, until this doubtful tendril grasps the conscious mind of the "spiritually connected" tight and wracks it with this single query: What God would allow this? A place wrought of only destruction, they had been given license to cross into - yet not a single one of them had been granted an early season pass to Heaven, nor had the existence of it even been confirmed.

Bastian was... doubting his faith. He was unsure. For all this talk of the "almighty"; he still wondered if and where he existed, and just how many trials he was putting the South African Hunter through before he finally saw fit to bless him with some good luck. But he digressed; even in silence, he felt uncomfortable thinking about these things on his own, let alone other people. Irrespective of his nihilistic crisis of faith, at Jean's remark, head faced towards the ashen ground, he muttered an unfitting statement and snorted in incredulity. "Celestial copy-paste." Yet no laugh nor smile broached his pallor.

"Honestly though, you gotta wonder how in the nine hells we are able to eat anything over on this side, given that its the domain of demons and monsters and what not." Nine Hells? Well this was a man well versed in his Inferno to say the least. What would he respond if Bastian was to ask him of the great flaming pits of the Malebolge, or the grand and terrible City of Dis? That was another thing - for Hell, the regions he'd traversed to, hopefully most of them, bore no real representation to the biblical "rings" of Renaissance mythology. And those theories had been so heftily backed by Alighieri himself, it furthered the skepticism South African. Unless, of course, this was only Limbo: and in that case, he wasn't sure he wanted to travel any further down. One ring would clearly be Hell enough.

Maybe this was their punishment? It was an interesting thought. To live a life not fully allowed to be blissful and ignorant, but constrained to an alternate reality you could tell none of. The secrecy killed some people. Drove others insane. "Meat is meat. Biology is biology." It was a profound statement, but probably not reassuring enough for some. Though he didn't have time to hunt - especially not for such little reward, considering the brittle nature of this meat and the time it had taken such small quantities to cook - the stuff here seemed simple enough. But he understood Jean's point.

"You would expect just about everything here to be rancid, poisonous , or filled with some sort of sickness. Hell maybe even all three- The sharp howl sheared otherwise through the air as Bastian was halfway through a bite. Not a single moment was wasted. The Hunter leapt to his feet and cast the plate aside into the ash, spitting a mouthful of half-chewed gamey meat down into the fire with a thud and a hot sizzling. What was it? A wolf of sorts? It would be nothing short of dire; as had been seen with the Forktails, even the simplest of animals took on grotesque physical deformities here, and sustained such an aggressive demeanour.

And the howl meant canine, regardless of anything else. The family of dogs and wolves were renowned for being hunters and trackers above all else, and in Inferis, that meant one thing and one thing alone, if the howl was that loud: a predator lurked nearby. First, Bastian took a cautious look from side to side out from the niche they had seated themselves in, leaving his pack down, and lowered his arm defensively. Their initial surroundings were nothing short of clear of threats, as they had been consistently in their short tenure beneath the rocky outcrop.

Bastian almost considered diving off into the distance to alter this hunter's state into hunted before same happened to them, turning to the man he presumed to be a Hunter - a Templar would have him slapped in cuffs or unconscious by now, and a Ritualist would have tried to tear out his jugular long ago - and raising his fist with a stoic, determined, scrunching on his face. It looked natural; the creasing, compared to the quiet, relaxed look he'd taken on for but a moment there. It was always as if the South African's pallor suited that look of gritted teeth and furrowed brow, as if he were fashioned to be harsh, brutal, and consistently predisposed and otherwise occupied with something, mentally or physically.

Raising a mechanical finger to the sky as the howl faded, Bastian flashed no smile; instead he just looked to Jean with those cold grey eyes and posed a stoic, calm invite. "Whatever that is, I'm going to kill it." The Hunter stated; no two ways about it, it was absolute. That Demon was going to die. The only question was: would the South African be riding solo again, or would the Cajun accompany him. "If you're coming, be quick, keep up, or just stay here. I don't want to be looking after useless dead weight."

With that, he turned around, not waiting for an answer, and began to stride into the open flatplains of the Ashland, ready to track and scout for the next unlucky Demon of this afternoon to run afoul of Bastian van Staade, be he alone or not...

[Jean La Croix]

A wolfs song was an odd thing, that meant more then most people ever considered. For one, some where of the opinion that wolves howled when they where on the hunt, which was as false as anything could be. What purpose could a howl serve in that capacity? No the only thing a howl did in that regard was warn you would be meal that you where coming. No its main purpose was to let others know where you where. To communicate and many other things that humanity could only barely grasp. But whats more Jean could understand the intent behind the howl, being as he was linked to the mind of the creature that made it. It was a warning, and a warning he would have to pass on. But he had to wonder why the Old Wolf didn't pass on the exact nature of what ever was coming, but he didn't think to much into it. His partner worked in very odd ways and he couldn't comprehend all of them by any means.

The man with a mechanical arm raised his iron fist into the air and pointed with one of his robotic digits, his voice both cold and very very calm to the calm to the Cajuns ears he spoke."Whatever that is, I'm going to kill it."  Jean blinked once, his little smile fading just a little. "Well that would just be rude, all things considered." While there was a little strain in those words, his friendly demeanor didn't really change all that much.  "If you're coming, be quick, keep up, or just stay here. I don't want to be looking after useless dead weight." Jean stood with him and walked slowly after mulling over his next words before he spoke. "After all, what ever's put there just gave us a warning. Wolves don't howl for no reason at all and they aint known for being dumb, especially here of all places.." With that he stood and fallowed after the larger man, his keen eyes locked on the path in front of them, waiting for what ever was to come around the corner.

[Bastian van Staade]

"Well that would just be rude, all things considered." ...what? Spinning around, fist still raised as a beast would its hackles, Bastian drew back its teeth now into a snarl. Rude? He called the hunting of this abomination rude? This creature, this otherworldly scum that haunted this world and the next? RUDE? What pathetic Hunter adopted a live-and-let-live attitude? For once the South African found himself almost immediately embittered: and to think he had shared a meal with such an apathetic individual.

"Spitting in a woman's face is rude." Bastian took a step towards the Cajun. "Snatching a man's wallet is rude." Another step, the floor almost quivering beneath the combination of his howl and the true weight in his steps. Here stood the truly serious, stoic nature of the one-man army, who slaughtered Demons without prejudice, with no restraint, as if it were a cosmic duty of his. "Killing Demons is business." The Hunter looked from the man and towards the shriveled, dessicated husk that had once been the proud, flaming Hephaeston. "And business is good."

It was more than business: it was a supernatural obligation all Demon Hunters had. But that raised a point about this man; though the strain in his voice was evident and he had provoked such a swift and potentially catastrophic reaction from Bastian, the statement itself would raise suspicion from any morally-aligned Hunter. General thought: Demons are bad. The clue was in their collective title: Demon Hunter. It wasn't easy to figure out what their intended use was, in the big picture of it all.

But suddenly things begun to slide together in place. The man was out here alone; and braving Inferis on his lonesome was something he had done only through decades of self-training and because he knew how to stand his ground. It was a rare occurrence he saw a Hunter out here on their own - and never one so friendly and apparently unarmed. His Evocations were nowhere to be seen. And slowly it came through: he was too relaxed, even undercover, and too conventionally-dressed, to be a Templar. And that howl - the way in which the consideration of being "rude" had almost carried an undercurrent of empathy... the pattern began to clear in his mind.

"After all, what ever's put there just gave us a warning." A warning, eh? So, what was he, some Demon expert now? No; trying to guise it now with logic was a fool's errand. Bastian kicked himself mentally for not seeing it earlier. HOW hadn't he addressed the signs? The sharp break of conversation when the howl had come that wasn't fear, but engagement, all the signs, the familiarity, the aloof attitude the man carried about him... it was all beginning to lock together, pieces of a puzzle or something in that vein. It was slowly becoming clearer and clearer with every word out of Jean La Croix's mouth.

"Wolves don't howl for no reason at all and they aint known for being dumb, especially here of all places.." No; they don't. And Hunters don't make excuses for Demons' presence. Suspicion had turned in but a moment to absolute certainty: it was clear now. This was some convoluted defense. Though certainly far more convincing than the other handful he'd encountered, ruling out options one by one, there was only one conclusion to draw.

"Ritualist." Bastian snarled gutturally. "Is that so-called "wolf" your bonded Demon? Or do you just sympathise with all members of this disgusting kind?" Drawing back his organic arm, he gestured forward with the fist, the tension from it having drawn back the hydraulic panel since the last punch he'd used to execute the downed Hephaeston. "You're right. Wolves don't howl without reason." The South African shrugged, the tenacity and ferocity in his deep cold eyes shearing through. In but a moment, the stranger's generosity had been all but forgotten. "Perhaps this one is letting loose a death howl... and you should be too..."

With that, he rose the fist - first he would deal with the Ritualist, then with the loose Demon. One at a time. If they were bonded, as he suspected - he knew these abominable summoners walked close to their disgusting beasts, but there was some leeway on the distance it appeared - then if they combined, it mattered not to the Hunter: it was simply one merged target he existed only to destroy. "...because it's the last chance I'll give you to." And with that, fist first, he dove upon the Cajun Demon sympathiser with a great battlecry, his towering frame and impressive physique almost dwarfing the smaller man - perhaps that would allow him to execute with this single punch, aimed straight at his newfound adversary's gut...

[Jean La Croix]

"Ritualist. Is that so-called "wolf" your bonded Demon? Or do you just sympathise with all members of this disgusting kind?" The towering man let loose a snarl that would have made his partner proud, and he could see almost immediately that he had made a mistake as all humans where want to do from time to time, though relatively few people made mistakes that where life threatening. His eyes met those of Bastion and  he saw what could only be called rage in them. IT was then and only then that he knew he was in some rather serious trouble. "Now now now, if you where not being rude before you definitely are now." Snark it seemed was his only defense against the larger mans incriminating words. "After all, I didn't call you a cow begotten sow of a demon killer now did I?" He shook his head and watched the mans movements, getting ready to bolt. "You're right. Wolves don't howl without reason."

"All I did was sit down, share my food with you and then I was nice enough to give you a warning." He took a single step back then, letting his arms fall, his body relaxed and ready to move at a moments notice. "Perhaps this one is letting loose a death howl... and you should be too..." Death threats it seemed where very much in order, and for no better reason then he existed. He hated that most people couldn't or wouldn't bring them selves to understand him and his kind, or at least to judge them each on their own merit rather then as a whole. "Oh no, I know what a death howl sounds like and this friend is not it." Another sharp toothed smile, another slow step back.  "...because it's the last chance I'll give you to." With that the man who he had been having such a friendly chat with but moments before let out a battle cry and with impressive speed for a man so big dove upon him, and had he been caught unprepared well Jean might have been dead right then and there.

Luckily though, he had been expecting just such a move and with deft feet he hopped up and over the rock he had been using as a seat narrowly dodging the fist that had so recently beaten a far hardier foe then he into the dirt. Turning in midair he landed just a few feet away and started to run, and with his mind he gave a great mental shout willing his demon to make its most expedient way towards him so that they could get the hell out of dodge, he had no want nor need to fight this man... He after all had done nothing wrong as of yet and was from his own view point only doing his duty. Jean nimbly weaved around and over the rocks that littered the ground, hoping that the man behind him wasn't quite so limber as he.

[Bastian van Staade]

The Demon Hunter was fast - but the Ritualist was faster. With the impressive power that Bastian had thrown into his stride, there was no stopping him moments before he collided with not his target, but the rocky outcrop he backed onto. The expulsion of the hydraulic plate triggered itself moments before impact, and thrust itself into the Ashland's native obsidian black-rock structure, knocking off chunks of the stone in a fine spray of multiple directions, not to mention the loud, dull thud it came along with.

"Hrghh..." Bastian growled, watching the Ritualist's shape in his periphery, recoiling from the assault and waving some of the screen-like covering of dust that had arisen from the strike away - but by the time that he had done so, lumbering out of the gritty mist with that same snarl pulled back over his lips, the Cajun was all but gone - though he had left an obvious, close path to take. His newfound target was limber, bounding easily over the terrain hazards that the wilderness gave him, and herein lied one of the Hunter's downfalls to compensate for his wealth of strengths.

Grappling onto the rocks, Bastian pulled his weight and frame up, but found himself less able to bound over the cracks and crevices with such alacrity as the would-be werewolf had done. His target notwithstanding, with the metal hand, still perfectly functional, as the hydraulic plate made a solid click back into place, he rose up and scrambled along the upwards point of the outcrop, moving up onto his legs and casting his vision out over the Ashland beyond, the gentle flakes of grey, though unfitting, precipitation dwindling down over the heated, fiery, setting evening Inferis sun.

In the close distance he saw the Ritualist scrabble over and around the rocks with a deft and adept agility to his movements; but irrespective of his drawbacks and shortfalls, the Demon Hunter continued on, leaping from the top of this relatively small outcrop and breaking into a sprinting burst, his target still in view, though growing smaller and smaller on the horizon with every wasted second. But his body, though strong and defensible here, moreso than it was on Earth, was still old and weary; and the parkour and natural speed the scumbag Cajun displayed was, he already ascertained, far more than he could catch up with.

Regardless he ran. And though he sprinted in less of a slalom and at a far slower speed, he continued to lumber forwards in a bullheaded charge, hardy prosthesis raised and held in front of him like a bull's horns. Yet, time and time again, the calamitous weight of the South African's stature slammed into rocks and boulders, especially the smaller of them, unable to leap around and over them as his prey could. As the distance between Hunter and hunted grew, Bastian's movements became ever angrier, yet more sluggish, grinding his fist against nearby boulders, until he drew around the side of one, and inside the flat, wide, open expanse of the Ashland...

The Cajun was gone.

A vein bulged on the Hunter's forehead. With the animosity of the beasts he hunted, he looked from side to side with a feral snarl, his unintelligible growling slipping loose as the anger and frustration had built up. He had lost the Ritualist. He had, once more, failed the task that he had pledged the trifecta of his body, mind, and soul towards, spent an entire life devoting himself to. He had failed himself. And with a guttural scream, he unleashed a premonition upon the Ashland, hoping, just hoping, that somewhere, the Cajun could hear him, as he pounded that metal fist down into the ground beneath his feet and forced the very earth to quiver. "I WILL FIND YOU!"

But for now: their meeting had reached an end, be it one Bastian had hoped for or not.

[EXIT THREAD]

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