V Moonlit Madness (Unmaking)

Rebecca Chambers

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It was not an unfamiliar situation, finding himself on the receiving end of the wrath of a much smaller, much angrier person. Luckily, Gascoigne had lost the ability to feel an ounce of contrition from such a thing long, long ago. As such, the silver-haired hunter merely straightened from where he had been leaning against the wall with a light grunt, the blade of his axe grating over the ground with a long, drawn-out scrrrrch as he pulled it free from the floor.

Hefting the massive weapon over his shoulder with apparent ease, Gascoigne lumbered past the strange, screechy man and young woman. A glance was spared for the man lounging about on the shadowy roof of the cavern, a faint discontented rumble rousing from somewhere deep inside the beastly hunter’s chest, and yet he pressed doggedly forward, most of his attention fixed upon the horned beast’s corpse.

He crouched down beside the heap of utterly pulverized, yet only slightly charred remains, mouth set into a grim line. Smaller bodies, those of the horned beast’s prey, lay scattered all about the cavern in dark, smoking piles. Several of these corpses splintered and snapped under his knees as he bent down, blackened bones crackling like dry kindling beneath his considerable weight.

After considering the carcass before him for a long moment, the hunter cast a glance over his shoulder for the… louder, more demanding one. A subtle sniff brought with it the powerful odor of greasepaint, burning, and something else that Gascoigne couldn’t quite identify… perhaps gunpowder? Whatever that smell was, it certainly screamed volatile.

It seemed fitting, in any case.

“…my apologies for the interruption. I had been tracking this one for many days,” Gascoigne’s attention returned to the shredded body, lips peeling back into a snarl as the sourly metallic scent of blood stung at his nose. “An elusive beast, to be sure… and a worthy hunt, at that.”

The hunter leaned forward, one gloved hand delving into the gory mess of the beast’s torso with a wet squelch. Blood and other rancid fluids spilled over his leather-clad fingers, dripping wetly between them. Humming quietly under his breath, Gascoigne began to dig amongst the mess, wrapping one hand around what remained of the beast’s ribcage to—crrrccck—effortlessly snap it apart and cast it aside, revealing more of the beast’s insides to his pawing grasp.

Abruptly, the hunter felt a weighted presence at his side. His head turned, and even through the cloth covering his eyes, Gascoigne was able to discern the slight form of the young woman now standing at his shoulder, peering down at the creature’s remains in apparent curiosity.

Gascoigne shifted, his broad-shouldered frame blocking much of the carcass from the woman’s view. To his amusement, she moved with him— leaning around him to study the dead beast further.

Hmph. Charming.

“A hunter in training, eh?” he asked, a tinge of genuinely welcoming cheer coloring his otherwise gruff tone. He returned most of his attention to his work, crooked fingers clawing through the still-warm mess of shredded flesh and other vile things...

His words seemed to snap the young woman out of her reverie, a pair of electric blue eyes shooting up to try and meet his gaze through the scraps of fabric hiding his eyes. Her mouth shaped into a perfect ‘o’ of surprise, the very picture of shock, before her round face bloomed with a faint smile, plump lips twitching with good humor.

“Oh, non, non— I am a researcher, a scientist,” the young woman explained, shaking her head, a few blonde curls spilling out from her head covering. “My name is Natalie Paquette, and my companion over zere is Kefka. We were exploring ze tunnels…”

“A researcher,” huffed Gascoigne, chuckling a little under his breath. “Tell me, then... what do you make of this?”

As the hunter spoke, his fist closed around… something inside the beast’s decimated chest. Something moving, pulsing, writhing deep inside, attached to the creature’s twisted spine like a particularly dedicated limpet. With a sharp tug, it came free with a sickening snap— a spray of dark arterial crimson cascading through the air, severed veins and torn muscle spilling out from the gaping wound all in a rush.

Turning his prize over in his gore-streaked gloved hands, Gascoigne held it out for Natalie to inspect. The researcher leaned forward at first, intrigued, before emitting an audible gasp— reeling backward in a mixture of disgust and shock, but inevitably compelled to lean back in by her apparently scientific curiosity, eyes sparkling with interest…

What sat in the palm of the hunter’s, admittedly, quite large hand, was what appeared to be an organ of some sort. It palpitated and throbbed, oozing brackish gouts of blood from the purplish-black veins crawling all over it like lichens. These veins seemed to almost… reach for something, like the tentacled feelers of an octopus flagellating about, grasping uselessly at the hunter’s fingers again and again. With a twitch of his thumb, Gascoigne observed as the ugly thing went simply wild— slithering across his palm in an attempt to strangle the vexing digit.

“Ah, what is it? An infection?” Natalie mused aloud, one hand raising as if to touch… but, no! Her questing fingers drew back at the last moment, the offending hand balling into a nervous fist at her side.

Good instincts, Gascoigne noted with some approval. Canting his head to the side like a hound, the hunter took one great sniff of the squalid globule of mostly unrecognizable organic matter. His teeth immediately bared in a wolfish sneer, every part of him riled by the sickly-sweet stench of corruption leeching off from it. So familiar, and yet distinct… darker, somehow, than the plague he had once come to know so intimately…

It unsettled him greatly, much as he was loath to admit it. What was it, indeed?

“That, I do not know,” Gascoigne finally grumbled, casting the vile thing aside. It landed with a sickening splat, seeping back into the horned beast’s carcass with a hissing sound not unlike the sizzling of burning oil; the hunter’s expression darkened further. “I am but a hunter of beasts; the affliction matters not, only that the scourge is repelled. And there are a great many beasts about...”

The old hunter rose to his feet, then, swinging his axe over his shoulder once more. He cut an imposing figure, towering over Natalie and Kefka by several feet at least, though he did not appear to use his considerable height to loom, as it were. In fact, the hunter seemed to almost draw back, consciously reducing his threatening image; like a massive sheepdog attempting to blend in amongst his flock.

Gascoigne gave a cordial tip of his hat to Natalie, and by extension the other two parties gathered, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in an attempt at friendliness. “The name’s Gascoigne. Father Gascoigne, if it pleases you… the title means little to me, now. You must forgive me, but… where is this place? The cold is insufferable, the tunnels… unending…” the man growled, seeming particularly discomfited by this fact, a scowl overtaking his features as he glanced ‘round.
 

Jester Lavorre

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“Ah! You do not know where we are? How delightful!” cooed Natalie, lighting up. Moments prior she had been disquieted, but her tonal shift was abrupt; an anomaly rearing its head was more than enough to flip her switch. Leaned forward almost to the point of unbalance on her tiptoes Natalie stared at the enormous man with her big baby blues. “You must be an amnesiac? Or perhaps you aren’t from ze same plane? Maybe you are ze result of teleportation gone awry, or of another form of space-time transplantation? Oh! You must forgive me Monsieur Gascoigne, I ‘ave committed ze sin of rambling.”

Wattson let out the smallest squall of a giggle before noticing that Gascoigne had pulled back visibly at her rather up close and personal inspection of him. Most folks, in her experience, were rather unnerved by such close inspection and Natalie’s eye could be borderline microscopial in its intensity.

“Ah, my apologies,” Wattson began -

And then was cut off. “Come on, Natalie. Guacamole,” Kefka’s voice was shrill, bored. It cut like a whip through the banter. “Let’s get moving before you bore us to death.”

Hisoka, who Wattson had yet to get a read on but was quite certain was nearly as much of a wild card as her original wanton wackadoo companion, seemed transfixed by the ease at which the enormous man of the cloth had split open the torso of the Wendigo. His eyes watched the Father carefully - this was a man who might need no lessons - his ambiguous face coupled with his previous behaviors led Natalie to think that maybe, just maybe, that’s what he was thinking. And yet the mask of his face was -

“Let’s! Go!” shrilled Kefka.

And so they did, though Natalie glanced back at the corpse they left in their wake and found herself doing so frequently even after the shadow engulfed it and Kefka’s flickering flame illuminated only what was ahead. Something about that squirming mass, the infection, had captivated her imagination. Once Kefka and Hisoka had gotten a bit further ahead of her, the young french researcher slyly dropped back a few paces and waited for them to begin bickering. Inevitably they did just that and once she was free and clear she fell in step (or at least three steps to every one of his) with the Father. Despite his incredible stride the man knew how to pace himself in a way that seemed calculatedly inconspicuous and out of the way of the group’s attention.

“To answer your question,” Natalie began quietly, careful not to draw the ire or attention of their companions up ahead. “We are on ze planet Inverxe. Zis is a harsh ice world full of fantastically untouched creatures and tunnels. It is practically teeming with life!” she caught herself getting louder, hushed for a moment, and then kept talking when she noticed the painted duo had not taken notice. “And now I ‘ave a question for you. What was zat?”

She thumbed over her shoulder. He knew what she meant, of that she could be certain.

They walked quietly for a little while. Though she was noticeably unattuned to her own social behaviors, Natalie was acutely aware of Gascoigne’s, and she had decided that she thought him a man who chose his words very deliberately.

“Inverxe,” he said, after a time. He seemed to taste the word. “It is cold, and though I’ll agree that it’s teeming with life it seems to be teeming with death as well.”

There was a pause where he let her reply. She did not. Instead her silence coaxed him towards continuing.

“I have seen something like that, but still different in ways. You may have been right to call it an infection. Whatever it is, it needs to be hunted.”

The certainty in his words gave Wattson pause, and while they walked through the desolate caverns she considered his thoughts. Certainly life could grow infectious in ways that were not healthy - humanity alone was exemplary of that in science, she figured. After all, most of these planets had been thriving unmarred before the prise of humanity’s greedy grasp had tossed its net over them and wrangled them in. Now things were...changing. Evolving in ways that were different. The presence of Saibaman on the planet, in fact, might be precisely that sort of interference. Could Saibamen have reached Inverxe without human interference? And was that interference bad, or could they behave in synergy with indigineous life here?

“Maybe,” answered Natalie. “And maybe it does not have to be hunted. Maybe it can be fixed.”

She looked up at him unerring in both her naivete and enthusiasm.

“Do you not -”

“NATALIE!” Kefka yelled out over his shoulder. “Tell him! Tell this...this...unworthy piece of garbage that I will burn him within an inch of his life! And then I will piss on his-”

Natalie frowned, and murmured aloud, “...we ‘ad better get up zere and try and distract zem.”

So they hastened and conglomerated, rag-tag in composition and odder still in their chemistry, a team of four brought together by forces unknown. Coincidence rarely tugged four dissimilar threads so closely together without a purpose, and should someone inform Natalie ‘Wattson’ Paquette that the very planet Inverxe itself was begging them for its help...well, that would seem strange to her, though, she’d heard the tales of the tunnels. Of the disquiet they brought to the minds of their inhabitants. Some things were hard to explain, even for a lady of science.
 
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As their two companions catch up to himself and Kefka, the taller of the clowns shakes his head, hands raised in mock helplessness.

"You see, Kefka?♡ This is exactly what I was talking about.♤ Your strength is impressive, certainly, and it's why I've taken a liking to you.◇ But brute force will only take you so far.♧"

"Shows what you know," Kefka replies with a snort of contempt, raising a hand between the two. A small flame dances over his fingertips as he continues, "It's gotten me this far, hasn't it?"

For a moment, Hisoka considers just letting it go. And, from the look Wattson's giving him, it seems that's the option she'd prefer he make. Gascoigne, despite the bandages covering his eyes, is harder to read; a bemused smirk tugging on the corner of his lips is the only indication the man has any emotion at all.

With a sigh bordering on exasperation, Hisoka turns from his Mini-Me and takes a few steps away. Stretching his arm out to the side, a card appears between his fingers in a flourish of the hand. The Magician doesn't need to look to know what it is, but he does anyway, bringing his hand before his face as he turns back to face Kefka.

"In terms of strength, you rate a seven,◇" he says, flipping the card around to reveal the seven of clubs.

As Kefka opens his mouth to protest, Hisoka barrels on with his monologue, cutting the pestering jester off in mid-breath.

"But, in terms of strategy, you rate a two,♤" the Hunter continues, flipping the card again to reveal the two of hearts.

"You're direct and unable to adapt.♧ That's why you lost in Syntech's little game-show.♡ And it's why you'd lose against me.♤ Because, for all your strength of magic, you only know how to use it in the most mindless way possible.◇"

From the steadily reddening countenance of his target, Hisoka knew both that his words were angering the man and that they were striking some chord of truth deep within his soul.

"So, in the end, your threats don't frighten me, Kefka Palazzo.♤ You're little more than a toddler with a gun, and just as easily dismissed and de-♧"

Before Hisoka could finish his diatribe, Kefka's patience reaches its boiling point. A wave of flame swept out from his outstretched hands, engulfing his target in magical death.

"What are you doing?!" Wattson cries, rushing over to Kefka. Her words, however, fall on deaf ears. A rictus of a smile twists the mage's face as the flame continue to pour forth. She tries to pull his arm down, to stop this madness, but his sudden glare of hatred halts her before she can do more than make a perfunctory attempt.

Shadows dance in the tunnel under the onslaught and the already sweltering heat of the deep underground grows immeasurably more unbearable. But, eventually, Kefka slows his attack. The flames erupting from his hands shrink before finally sputtering out. And, where once stood a man, nothing remained.

With a laugh of triumph, Kefka turns to the others and grins. His speech is broken a bit by his heavy breathing, the mage having put in significant effort to remove that eyesore, and he says, "Heh! You see that? For all his bluster, the worm died easily enough. And let that be a lesson to you two as well! Stay on my good side, or I'll turn you into another greasy smear on these cavern walls, just li-"

In an ironic turn, Kefka's rant is also cut short by an attack. A sharp pain pressed against the side of his neck, a thin line of blood swelling from around the edge of a card. Behind him, Hisoka dangled by the feet on a nearly imperceptible line of Bungee Gum which stretched to the ceiling. An outstretched hand, ready to decapitate the shorter man with a twitch of the wrist, hovered beside Kefka's head.

Gritting his teeth, Kefka growled, "Bastard… How-"

"Did I so easily beat you?◇" The Magician finished, a wry smirk on his lips. Reaching forward with his free hand, Hisoka lightly traces a long fingernail along Kefka's jawline.

"You lost because you let your rage control you, Sweetie,♡" Hisoka explains in a sultry whisper, leaning his mouth close to the former God's ear.

"For all your strength, you're predictable.♧ And that makes it easy to manipulate you.♡ If we had fought on your terms, you'd have probably won.♤ But you let me goad you into fighting on my terms.◇ Everything from the place and time, to even what attack you'd use; I knew exactly what you were going to do and how to counter it.♧"

Lowering his hands, Hisoka releases the Bungee Gum holding him aloft, deftly twirling in the air to land on his feet.

"There's a lot I love about you, Kefka.♧ Your strength.♡ Your determination.♤ Your drive.◇ If only you'd control yourself a bit more, you'd finally be someone worthy of my respect… and affections.♧"
 

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He glared at Hisoka. The little pissant. He’d dare presume he knew more than General Mage-Knight Kefka Palazzo God of Magic?!

Madness swirled in Kefka’s baleful stare, and he seemed straining at the seams to keep from perhaps literally exploding with rage.

Then, he laughed his awful, maniacal, whooping laugh.

Kefka darted close to Hisoka, almost nose to nose.

“You know what it is I like about you?”

Hisoka ‘hm’d in response. Kefka rolled his eyes.

“You stood up to me,” Kefka giggled. “After I tip my hand, they’re usually all ‘oh no please god no’ or ‘it buuuurns’ or ‘why are you doing this to me’, wah wah wah.

But you. You dared not only to avoid shrinking away, but you had the audacity to presume to teach me?

Kefka laughed again. “Hilarious!

Wattson and Gascoigne shared a look, but neither deigned to engage. Probably the wise decision, all things considered.

“So, what was your name again? I figured you’d be dead soon so I wasn’t paying attention to you before,” Kefka said.

“Hisoka Morow,” the blood-soaked impostor replied with a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Hisoka. And you? Gaston? Gascan? Gaskin?” Kefka tilted his neck up but still somehow seemed to look down his nose – and up at – the hulking figure of the Father.

Gascoigne,” came the gruff man’s reply.

“I still hear ‘gas can’,” Kefka protested, “So, anyway, now what? Killing an unkillable creature was fun, I have to say. Wattson, you’re quite the host!”

“Killing ze creature wasn’t exactly ze point of-”

“See what I mean, Gascan? Even the little surprises are fun. I can’t wait to see the main event!”

“Main event? Zese caves are unexplored and may not contain any-”

Untouched caverns, as far as the mind can imagine,” the Laughing King interrupted again. Wattson seemed to resign herself to being unable to get through to Kefka’s current delusion. Or perhaps she simply decided it was better for the volatile little man to be currently occupied.

By Kefkalight, he led his group deeper into the caverns. Wattson and Gascoigne prattled on about anatomy this and scientific application that. Hisoka did that annoying ‘cool loner guy’ thing and walked by the edge of the light.

Somewhat uncharacteristically, Kefka was mostly quiet. That changed as their descent continued on. First, the tunnels seemed quieter here. The dull muted roar of the underground seemed… vacant. The pallid little man pricked up, sweeping his flame-lit gaze back and forth.

“Hm,” he sounded. “Blood.”

Indeed, there was a little smattering of burgundy on the otherwise blue-toned ice. The blood was dark. Likely it’d been here a while.

Not much further on, there was another couple of smatterings of blood, and then a thin trail that extended downward into the dark.

“Well this is unexpected,” Kefka chuckled.

Wattson shifted her feet uncomfortably, as though she was trying to avoid something. Kefka illuminated the floor around her, and saw nothing but ice. He shrugged, and continued leading the very unusual group down into a small chasm which opened up into an absolutely massive chamber.

The ceiling flew so high above that it was lost in the darkness, and ahead of them a craggy natural bridge raked out toward a wide, suspiciously arena-like structure near the center of the humongous room. Giant, bioluminescent mushrooms and other fungal blooms of various cool hues illuminated the vast empty chamber, showing a floor far below the sketchy bridge, absolutely festooned with huge, pointed stalagmites.

Kefka snuffed his flame, no longer needing it. “Neat.”

Wattson was a little more impressed. She gasped and gushed about all of the various species of mushroom- he shut the conversation out. Her pointless excitement grated on his synapses like teeth grinding on aluminum foil.

At least his impersonator-slash-hanger-on shut up. The big old man was fairly quiet, too. Though Kefka took umbrage with his pointless crusade, too. He rubbed his temples. They were entertaining, he reminded himself. Mustn’t kill them yet.

I suppose I’ll lead the way!” Kefka screeched, shouting over the conversation to bring everyone to an abrupt silence, just in time for them to collectively hear a strange chittering.

It sounded oddly familiar, just… off. Somehow.

Gascoigne growled and hefted his weapon. Wattson and Hisoka took positions at his flanks. Kefka lazily tossed a fireball over their heads and onto the edge of the bridge, illuminating a ghastly, shambling silhouette.

It shrieked and shivered, shuddering faster toward them.

“Subtle as always, Kefka,” Hisoka japed.

“Shut up,” he eloquently responded.

The thing that approached them soon revealed itself to be a Saibaman. Except, it was far too tall, at an easy seven feet. A disgusting, pulsating growth seemed to have consumed its right shoulder to the point its head suffered from a permanent tilt, and its hands had become long-fingered hook-claws.

It was dark and discolored, afflicted with sores and wounds. Ichor dribbled from its lips and flesh.

“Revolting,” Wattson remarked. Gascoigne nodded.

It shrieked, making a noise like a Saibaman and also perhaps a pterodactyl, if it were being fed feet-first into a woodchipper.

“It’s coming,” the bloody father grunted, just before the warped creature charged at them, shrieking and flailing. Gascoigne wound up for a wild hit, and then the creature just-

Exploded.

Auuuughh!!” Kefka shrieked. Maybe the others did, too, he didn’t care. They had all – most importantly he – been absolutely doused in the foul-smelling creatures… substances.

“What the absolute shit?!” he screeched.
 

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Following the… explosive demise of that sick, twisted creature, Gascoigne stood stock-still, silent and dripping with gore.

Streams of brackish ichor dribbled from the brim of his wide hat, splattering the cavern floor beside his boots and forming puddles of the briny liquid. Even more of the stuff was painted all across his coat in thick swathes, staining the already quite dark material with glistening crimson. Mercifully, very little of the vile blood had touched his face— only a few droplets speckled across his beard, sticky and irritatingly damp. Unfortunately, he could still smell it, a peculiar sweetness mixing in with the sour, coppery tang of blood defiling the chilly subterranean air.

Hisoka made some sly comment to Kefka, eliciting an annoyed response. The latter began gesturing about at the wide cavern around them, fingertips trailing bright orange flecks of flame in his irritation, while an aura of palpable smugness radiated from the other. Yet, all of these things seemed almost… distant, at least to Gascoigne. The two clowns and their bickering seemed to echo from far away, muffled by the sudden, flame-bright rage howling throughout his skull.

Blood roared in Gascoigne’s ears, the beat of his heart straining like a wild thing inside his chest as he fought to keep himself in check. It took everything in him to unclench his teeth, jaw aching from the effort as his back molars ground painfully together, and completely tune out the voices around him, focusing instead on the sound of his own ragged breaths.

There were no enemies among his current companions, Gascoigne had to remind himself, even as the grip on his axe tightened to the point of causing the old wood to emit a dangerous, creaking groan. The two clowns were oddities, certainly, but the young scientist was… ordinary. Not a beast, even as his blood-addled eyes tried to convince him of such a thing. Not a beast.

Breathing hard through his nose, the man gazed past Kefka to regard the misshapen pile of squishy matter that was all that remained of the beast. A few stray organs still sizzled and burbled with hot lifeblood, but the lack of movement was reassuring. That particular monstrosity would not rise again, of that the hunter was certain, and a shrewd glance around told him that there were no other creatures crawling out of their darkened corners to harass them. He could put down his guard, at least momentarily.

Slowly, the anger slipped away, as quick and silvery as moonlight. An almost tangible fog lifted from his mind, replaced by cool, crisp clarity. The dark cavern snapped back into focus, no longer tinged with the crimson haze of blood… save for the ravaged remains of the beast, that is.

The tall hunter shuddered, a full-bodied tremor, and slowly lowered his axe. The white-knuckled grip he had wrapped around its handle slackened, his shoulders slumping— whether from fatigue or relief, he could not tell.

At last, his attention turned to the state of his clothing with weary regard. While it wasn’t uncommon for Gascoigne to return from a night of hunting covered from head to foot in all manner of sanguine fluids, the man tried not to relish the experience; to take pleasure in such things was to walk the path to beasthood, after all, and he was no beast. Thus, the aging hunter employed the best trick he’d learned in all his years of slaying beasts to remove such fluids from his person—

Gascoigne shook himself like a wet dog, flinging droplets of thick, grimy blood in all directions. The stuff slicked off from his leathery clothing like water off a duck’s back, showering his companions quite liberally.

Kefka, interrupted mid-quip by a generous splatter to the face, took great exception to this.

“What the— stop that, you overgrown beast of a man! What are you, completely fucking feral?!” he snapped, trying in vain to swipe the blood from his forehead. It created an ugly smear when mixed with the man’s face paint, dripping down into his eyes.

The lofty priest, now considerably more clean, fixed the jester with a look. Even with the bandages covering his eyes, his mirth was evident in the subtle uptick at the corner of his mouth. Yet, all traces of amusement vanished from his face at the sound of a quiet, horrified whimper from his immediate left.

Turning, Gascoigne beheld Miss Natalie Paquette. Ah, he thought, with a touch of remorse. Not good.

Unfortunately, his companions were not kitted with gear fit for a proper hunter. As a result, Natalie was absolutely coated in strange fluids from the creature’s kamikaze attack, sunny blonde hair stained dark red and wet with stray bits of flesh. The scientist’s shoulders were braced stiffly up around her ears, hands still held out before her as if to block the spray of blood. Her expression was inscrutable through the sheen of gore, damp bangs hanging down over her eyes, but it was clear that she wasn’t her usual lively self.

As Gascoigne observed, Natalie slowly lowered her arms until they were held absolutely straight at her sides. Her mouth quivered, gloved hands clenching into tight, trembling fists. He could see now that her eyes were squeezed shut, possibly to keep any of the infected blood from slipping into them, but it was far more likely that she just wanted to block out the whole unpleasant experience altogether.

Suddenly, it was as if a ghostly hand had passed over his mind, flicking through the pages of his memories; echoes of family, of fondness, of fleeting comfort found in the midst of a beastly plague, as tiny and ephemeral as a candle’s flame. A strange sense of warmth surged in his chest like the guttering of a dying fire, an affection so light and tender that it surely should not have been felt in a place such as this. And yet—

In a flash, Gascoigne reached inside his coat, drawing out a… remarkably clean pocket handkerchief, save for a few rust-colored spots that were so negligible as to be almost invisible. Not saying a word, he gently pressed it into Natalie’s hand. He had to pry apart her fingers to do so, taking great care not to accidentally break them with his unusual (beastly) strength.

Lashes fluttering open by the tiniest of inches, Natalie looked down at the bright white cloth now grasped between her fingers. Her eyes opened further, electric blue eyes shimmering brightly from beneath the curtain of dark blood staining her features.

Bobbing her head in a weak nod to Gascoigne, the Static Defender scrubbed the little scrap of fabric over her cheeks and nose, trying to remove the worst of it. When she returned it a moment later, every inch of the handkerchief was absolutely soiled with dark blood, but her stiff posture had relaxed somewhat.

Good. That was good.

Mission accomplished, Gascoigne tucked the cotton square back inside of his coat, resolving to burn it later. Perhaps he could cajole the painted jester into doing so. Abruptly reminded of their other company, Gascoigne tuned back in to whatever spat Hisoka and Kefka were having now, careful to keep a weather eye on their surroundings.
 

Jester Lavorre

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The moved onto the icy platform in a loose gaggle with Natalie bringing up the rear. She thought back, as they walked, to the fleeting excitement she’d felt when she’d beheld the remarkable bioluminescent fungi on the ceiling. Excitement dashed away in its prime by the veritable bucket of gore she’d been doused with.

Wattson was not accustomed to a face full of blood. Most of the bled she’d shed, few and far between though it was, had been at a distance with a ranged weapon in hand so she hadn’t had to feel the grisly experience of death up close. Sure, she’d poked and pried at some little critters, maaaaybe sliced a mouse open with a scalpel here and there...but this? This was horrible!

Even post old-man-pocket-rag, she felt her skin crawling. How many showers would it take to shake this feeling? A hundred? A thousand? Even the incessant back and forth of the clown pretenders hadn’t permeated her malaise. While they walked, that pair in front, Gascoigne stayed closer to Wattson. She couldn’t tell if it was concern, fascination, or a laugh at her expense that kept the towering Father close at hand. Reading people was one of those skills that, alas, had always eluded her.

“Please do not look at me,” she murmured, keeping her blue eyes trained on the ceiling. Her lips were a full pout. “I am absolutely disgusting - zis is a ‘orrifying development.”

The Father’s silence was like a statement itself. He seemed to chew on his thoughts palpably, and even Natalie deficient though she was in social queue cipher, could feel his consternation. Maybe he wanted to say something to her. The rag had been a sign, hadn’t it? A sign of concern, and not just the bare minimum amount of courtesy a man could skate by on? ...Kefka and Hisoka, they were the bare amount of courtesy a man could skate by on, if even that. The thought of it made her ‘hrmph’ loudly.

And that’s when a handful more of the Saibamen plopped down from the ceiling like acid rain, landing hard one after another, until the entire crew was surrounded. The expedition, it seemed, was doomed to move at a crawl, and to become interrupted at each juncture by the presence of monstrous villainy.

More monsters!?” Natalie exclaimed, shrill and exasperated. She clutched her head desperately and moaned. “I ‘ad thought zis cave to be so much more zan a nest of vipers!”

Would she never get the chance to stop and smell the fungus?

Kefka and Hisoka sprung into action, however, lithe and combat ready. They were the sort, too. Ornery and bristling, proud and fickle. Wattson had begun to feel as if, in addition to completely losing control of her expedition, she’d surrounded herself with the magical equivalent of sellswords. And did magic make everyone into an insane jester of some kind? Only in Gascoigne did she find any solace. He, at least, seemed to find some interest in discovery rather than some bizarre social game of cat and mouse played between egos.

With a sigh, Natalie swung the submachine gun off of her shoulder, clenched it beneath her armpit, and clamped her off-hand palm up on the muzzle of the R-99. So hideous, this trip had become. Must they really kill...five...six...seven infected creatures? Were they not sick after all?

Even Father Gascoigne, however, had readied his weapon for slaughter. From what she understood of the man, that meant that he felt these beasts were beyond salvage.

Wattson felt a great sadness at that.

Flame erupted from a shrieking, cackling Kefka, and the hunt had begun. Natalie strafed to one side as a chittering Saiba lunged and grasped at her, narrowly missing her leg, which she pivoted upon, then thrust the yawning maw of her R-99 into the creature’s back. When she jerked back the trigger the lift of the gun swiss-cheesed the beast from spine to scalp, carving a line up the thing so thoroughly that by the end of the clip two sides of it flapped out on opposite sides while the Saibaman collapsed.

She had no time to be repulsed by herself, however. She could hear the scrabbling claws of another one charging her from behind.
 
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Compared to the overwhelming strength of the old man, the firearms and intelligence of the young lady, or the over-the-top magic of his contemporary, Hisoka was certainly the weakest of the quartet of spelunkers. Why then did his coy smile never leave his lips? With hands in pockets, the Jester smoothly stepped, twisted, and turned from the creatures' attacks, a subtle dance which the Saibaman knew not the steps of. It wasn't strength that gave Hisoka confidence, nor forbade his opponents the opportunity to strike him; It was experience.


A lifetime spent bathed in blood. A childhood of life and death situations. And a twisted love for it all. This battle in the deep was nothing new to the man. It was simply another day in Hisoka's life.


As Gascoigne swung his axe wildly, the sheer force of the massive weapon sending sparks and splinters of stone into the air. As Kefka, with wild abandon, flung motes of flame hither and to with a gleeful and sadistic laugh. And as Wattson, with fearful eyes, but a determined set to her lips, held down the trigger of her lead-thrower, Hisoka simply danced among the creatures, deftly avoiding even unseen attacks as easily as one would step aside as a stranger passed them on the street.


But, through it all, even with his ever-present smile, Hisoka could only feel disappointment at the situation they were in. These creatures were unworthy of his attentions. Weak. Stupid. Their only advantage lay in numbers and cheap tricks, easily overcome by anyone with even a modicum of combat experience. A sigh escaped the man's lips, as yet another green-clawed swipe missed his flesh. What an utter bore this was. And a waste of his time.


Pressed and harried by a barrage of gunfire, one of the green men slipped upon the moistened stones of the cavern floor, becoming easy prey to the Father and his oversized weapon. A spray of greenish gore escaped as the blade cleanly cut the creature in twain, the two halves falling over with comical slowness.


Nearby, Kefka finally managed to attain his own victory, an eruption of flame washing over two of the Saibaman. As their skin crackled and blood boiled, and even over the din of combat, the distinctive sound of their eyeballs popping from internal pressure was audible, at least to Hisoka.


While he certainly appreciated the artistry of such a kill, such small pleasures could do little to improve Hisoka's mood. Just as he was about to give in and join the slaughter, a faint vibration in his pocket brought the Jester back to reality. Flinging one hand to the ceiling, Hisoka left behind the battlefield on a thread of pink Bungee Gum. Suspended from his Nen rope, his erstwhile attacks glaring up at him, the killer removed his phone from his pocket and checked his messages.


Breaking News! Gilgamesh is this year's Dante's Abyss Champion! The self-proclaimed King of Uruk, a new city-state on Mesa Roja, Gilgamesh secured vict-


Without finishing the message, Hisoka shoved his phone back into his pocket and dropped back down to the cavern floor. While it had only been a short time since he'd been away, Hisoka couldn't help but to be impressed at how well the others had handled things. Two more of the Saibamen had been dealt with, their mangled corpses laid near to their companions, and the final pair had decided that, perhaps, this group was not one to be trifled with, opting to flee and live rather than stand their ground to the end. Maybe they weren't quite as stupid as Hisoka had thought.


Visibly fuming, Kefka stormed up to his copy, and if looks could kill, Hisoka would be far more interested in the smaller man.


"So, just going to hang out, QUITE LITERALLY, while we do all the work, huh?" Kefka asked in a shout. He was obviously getting sick of Hisoka's antics. "Too good to dirty your hands with fighting? Or are you just a coward?"


Nearby, Gascoigne and Wattson did their best to ignore the exchange, instead opting to do their usual 'monster autopsy' thing. Casually, Hisoka raised a hand between himself and Kefka and shook his head.


"No, no.♡ Sorry about that, sweetie.♧ I just got a little distracted is all.◇"


Smile widening, Hisoka leaned down a bit, placing his face somewhat more on Kefka's level, before continuing.


"This year's Dante's Abyss has just wrapped up.♤ And I know exactly where to find the winner.♧ So, as much 'fun' as this little… outing has been, I'm afraid I must be taking my leave.◇ Gilgamesh, probably, won't be killing himself, after all.♡"


And, with that said, and without further ceremony, the Jester turned on a two-inch heel, and began walking back the way the group had come.


"I promise to play more with you next time, little boy,♡" were his final words, before the darkness swallowed him.


Hisoka has left the thread.
 

Kefka Palazzo

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He wasn’t annoyed. He wasn’t. He wasn’t annoyed.

He wasn’t fucking annoyed because what he was, was agitated.

Hisoka had besmirched him. He had to. The other reality was uncomfortable.

The other reality?

The other reality. The one where he’d have to accept that life felt- well- not better. Just… slightly less pointless?

Yeah. Slightly less pointless. Life felt slightly less pointless when Hisoka was around.

“Now why the hell is that?”

“What?” Wattson politely replied.

“What?”

“…You said, ‘now why the hell is that’? Why the hell is what?” the very large man interjected, avoiding the infinite loop of back-and-forth ‘whats’ that would have followed.

“No, I didn’t,” Kefka protested.

“You… absolutely did,” Wattson replied.

“Well, it’s not my fault!”

“What?”

“What?”

Gascoigne sighed. “Should we get going? This castle won’t explore itself.

And the trio continued further into the castle, all apparently oblivious that this had been subterranean ice caverns just a moment ago. Well. Kefka knew. But he either didn’t know or didn’t care that the others’ grip on reality was beginning to unravel.

A tenuous grasp on reality was just a Tuesday for him.

They continued down a flight of stairs, illuminated by torchlight on both sides. The flames were ensconced against old, roughly hewn cobblestone.

Well, actually, they were tumbling through an icy crevasse, but-

“Shut up,” Kefka quietly hissed.

They soon found themselves in a grand hall with lofty, vaulted ceilings (colliding against frozen rock, actually), shimmering beams of multicolored lights filtering through intricate, stained-glass windows. Each of them featured a mysterious figure clothed in yellow.

Almost in lock-step, the very unlikely trio continued down the vast hall.

At the far end, atop a grand, ornate staircase of hand-hewn marble, was an enormously tall, golden throne. Perched between the finely-detailed gold armrests was the man in the stained glass.

The King in Yellow.

Reality faded and they found themselves somewhat bruised, but remarkably well-kept for a group who just plummeted hundreds of feet down chasms of ice, rock, and snow.

They were prone in a snowdrift, illuminated from above by a solitary shaft of light. The cavern before them was impenetrably dark, but warm. Comfortable, even. They must have gone quite deep for such a dramatic change in temperature.

HASTUR

More a feeling than a word. Something was near. Something wiggled and squirmed at the edges of their perception, anxious and unseen. The quiet panic of knowing you had something important to do, but forgetting what it was.
 

Rebecca Chambers

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They made camp there for a spell— there, at the bottom of the icy pit they had unwittingly travelled down, driven by the siren’s pull of madness.

No fire was built, for there was no true need for it. A cloyingly humid warmth hung about this particular passage of the subterranean caverns, filling the air with an intermingling treacle of sugary fumes, the stench of burning, rotted flesh hanging about their heads like an invisible curtain.

Despite the traumatizing experiences of the past several hours, Wattson surmised that they would need to forge ahead to identify the source of this strange heat, a hint of her previous scientific curiosity glittering in her eyes. Gascoigne was not so eager.

This world, Inverxe, was home to many vile, unfathomable things; it was possible that what lay in wait for them deeper within the planet’s cavernous depths would be their undoing. With every spacious grotto they explored in this damnable place, it became increasingly clear that they had barely scratched the surface of the true horrors hidden in the darkness. Something beyond the mere sickness of beasts… a nightmare...

Even here, in the relative peace of this newly discovered cavern, bizarre shades frequently danced at the edges of his vision, prompting the lofty priest to tighten his grip on his axe and survey their surroundings with a keenness that bordered on active paranoia, ever on the alert for danger.

Voices, too, trickled from deeper within the tunnels— nothing more than distant echoes of conversation, ephemeral and fleeting; toying with his senses, trying to trick him. Sometimes, the discordant whisperings sounded like young children. Other times, like fellow hunters from his past, engaged in dire combat. And other times still, he even heard them calling his name… a name he had not been called by since he was quite young and very, very foolish.

Gascoigne did not rise to the bait. He knew better than that. But with every sweetly beckoning whisper that reached his ears, it became… increasingly difficult to resist.

Shaking his head roughly, Gascoigne returned his attention to his two companions. Kefka, the jester-mage, sat cross-legged upon a particularly soft patch of snow like it was the finest of cushions, a partially open tin of mystery meat held in one hand. His other hand was poised beneath the bottom of the metal container, little flickers of flame dancing between his fingers, heating the contents of the can to a more suitable temperature for consumption.

The mage’s erratically-colored clothing was in tatters and splattered with blood, painted lips twisted into a moue of concentration, but he appeared to be in… decent spirits, even humming a little tune under his breath. The other jester’s departure had done wonders for Kefka’s mood, it seemed. Grimacing somewhat, Gascoigne turned to the scientist.

Wattson sat across from Kefka, already poking at her own freshly-heated meal with a spoon. Her ordinarily stunningly blue eyes were downcast, the dark shadows beneath them standing out sharply against her cheekbones. Quite miraculously, her clothing seemed to be in far better shape than the rest of them, though a fair amount of blood—now dried and flaky—still clung to her blonde hair in streaks of rusty crimson.

Glancing up from her meal, Wattson noticed Gascoigne’s scrutiny, her spoon stilling halfway to her mouth. The hunter cocked his head to the side, hoping to communicate his concern.

To his slight surprise and building dismay, Wattson jolted upright in a sudden flurry of motion. With a frantic energy buzzing about her, the young scientist began patting the snow-covered ground beside her, eventually coming up with an additional can from somewhere next to her explorer’s pack.

“Ah,” the young woman faltered as she looked at him, hesitantly adjusting her hold on the can. The thin layer of frost encrusting it cracked under her gloved fingers, the nondescript label revealing nothing about its contents as she brandished it like a shield between them. “Don’t you worry, Gascoigne. We will have your meal heated soon enough!”

“I am not a glorified microwave,” Kefka said waspishly, not tearing his eyes away from his work. Little orange flames reflected in his green eyes, flickering wildly. “I don’t know why you’re all in a tizzy. The Abominable Snowman over there can fend for himself.”

Wattson opened her mouth to argue, perhaps to point out that Palazzo had just heated her own meal to a more palatable temperature mere moments ago, but was interrupted as Gascoigne skulked forward rather suddenly. He reached out, gently taking the unopened can from between her fingers.

“No need,” the hunter gruffed, tipping his hat to Wattson in a quick show of thanks. He then set about pulling the tin open by its tab, tipped the can to his lips, and promptly began to wolf down the strange, meaty contents inside.

The hunter pulled a thoughtful face as he chewed. The stuff tasted… salty, and a bit like intestine. Not terrible, but bitterly cold and… of a decidedly slime-like consistency. Regardless of taste or mouth-feel, though, it filled his stomach well enough— gone in mere seconds.

Once finished, Gascoigne lowered the can, stifling the urge lick his chops like a beast at kill. Turning his gaze upward, he found his two companions watching him, a mixture of awe and disgust on their faces.

Hmm, yes. They could think whatever they liked, he supposed. While as a man of the cloth he was capable of strict manners and comportment, such things were a waste of time while on the hunt. And he very much deemed this situation to be ‘on the hunt,’ considering the host of sickly beasts he and his odd companions had to contend with.

Speaking of beasts… Gascoigne’s head turned in the direction of the tunnels they had yet to travel down, the strange warmth flowing from that section of the cavernous depths lightly tousling his mangy, silvery-grey hair. Sniffing at the air, he could detect that same sickly sweet scent of charred meat from before. Whatever lay ahead, it couldn’t be anything good.

Not that these tunnels had proven themselves to house anything remotely good in the past, eh…?

The hunter’s mouth curled into a sneer. Lifting his axe from where it sat propped against the craggy rock wall, Gascoigne stalked a small ways down the tunnel. Once he had walked what he deemed an acceptable distance away, the hunter stopped, turning to glance back at the others.

“I’ll take the first watch while the pair of you rest,” he informed them, the words sounding louder than he’d meant them to be as they echoed throughout the narrow cavern. Gascoigne’s face twitched in his vexation, the axe handle in his grip creaking dangerously as his fingers tightened their hold. “Keep your wits about you and weapons within reach.”

That being said, he turned away, facing the tunnels ahead. Seconds later, his ears pricked at the sound of muttered whisperings from behind his back.

“Well, isn’t that generous…”

The muffled sounds of a scuffle reached his ears. Gascoigne resisted the urge to turn around and look.

“Oh, hush! It will be… nice to have a few moments to rest, yes?”

Kefka huffed dramatically. “If you say so. You’re likely to keep me awake with all that fretting you do.”

“Hmph! I shall try not to inconvenience you, zen,” Wattson responded, a hint of teasing in her tone.

“Yes, you had better not.”

Shaking his head in amusement, Gascoigne refocused his attention on the uncertain darkness ahead. Breathing in deep, he allowed himself the fleeting pleasure of baring his teeth in a silent snarl at the ravenous, clutching shadows— a small glimpse of madness brought to the fore that he dearly wished to keep hidden.

The entire cave system reeked of blood, the intolerable smell curdling the meat in his stomach ‘til it was sour, burning.

The blood… Gascoigne could nearly taste it, cloying and sticky at the back of his throat. Sickening…

From somewhere deep in the tunnels, a music box began to play its gentle, lilting melody.
 

Rebecca Chambers

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Content Warning: Eye trauma, blood.

Gascoigne staggered blindly in the dark, one hand grasping at the tattered bandages wrapped over his eyes, the other clenched in a white-knuckled grip around the handle of his axe. Shale and scree slid under his boots in the pitch black of the tunnel, reminding him of the persistent grey drizzle of late evening in Yharnam— the long nights spent trekking through mud-caked streets, half-blind with the blood and beastly stench. The maze-like cobblestone streets that seemed nearly a lifetime ago…

This uncanny resemblance was not regarded with fond remembrance by Father Gascoigne. The air was just as cold as those half-remembered hunts, thick with the saccharine scent of rot… typical of the subterranean passages he had explored thus far, even before stumbling upon his current companions. Gascoigne’s breath came in harsh, heavy pants, the ragged sound echoing beneath the unsteady crnnch-crrrnchh of his footsteps. Small, stifled noises of pain slipped past his lips, the tiniest of grunts peeling off into a sharp, almost canine whimpering.

His eye-wrappings, once a dirty white in color, were stained so thickly with blood that they appeared almost black. The brackish fluid oozed in generous trickles over his cheeks and lips, tear tracks of gory crimson leaking from his eyes. With every step, the man’s hand pressed even harder against the ghastly impressions of his eye sockets, fingers crooked as if he wanted nothing more than to claw the accursed things out.

It had been a simple thing at first, naught but an itch tickling right behind his eyes. An annoyance at best, easily brushed aside in favor of better things. But oh, how that prickling sensation had grown, changed, slowly but inexorably warping into something truly hellish.

The veins of his face burned, what felt like tiny shards of glass digging into the meat of his eye sockets. Gascoigne groaned in abject misery, slumping against the tunnel wall. The world spun around him in response, his other senses curdled into a miasma of confusion and pain by the nausea churning in his guts.

Gascoigne pressed his forehead against the cool, damp stone of the tunnel, ears pricked for any sign that his companions had heard him take leave of their little camp.

In spite of the torturous symptoms attacking his body, the hunter still had his wits about him. He knew that he couldn’t remain here— here, propped up against what seemed to be the scarred remnants of an ancient mineshaft like some kind of weak, wilting flower. To do so would be to sign his own death warrant… or so Gascoigne’s plague-addled mind reasoned. He wasn’t quite himself, after all.

The scientist and the jester-mage… the jester would kill him, burn him to dust and charred bone. It would hurt the scientist to see it. For some reason, the thought alone repulsed him. Perhaps she reminded him of someone. Someone like—

A young girl encircled in his arms, dainty ribbons of white tied in her hair with a tiny wrinkle crinkling her little nose. Her eyes glittered up at him, sparkling like snowflakes folding gently into a leaden December sky. “Daddy!”

The hunter gave a rough shake of his head, forcibly drawing himself back to the present. He was feverish, lost in nightmares again. How long had he been trapped in this subterranean maze, driven to distraction by the shadows plaguing his thoughts? Days, at the very least…

Pushing himself more or less upright consumed a monumental effort, rivulets of blood still trailing down his face in wet, sticky clumps. Gascoigne grit his teeth, fighting back the urge to retch.

Quite alarmingly, his jaw cracked like a piece of timber, the force of it rattling through his skull. Gascoigne’s footsteps faltered, nearly ceasing altogether at the shock of it.

It felt like his mouth was crammed with far too many teeth, the sheer bulk of them forcing his maw open into a slavering, drooly pant, like the jagged mandibles of a beast. But no— no. He wasn’t too far gone yet, couldn’t be. Not yet. He would know if he was, yes...

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

The lurching tromp of his boots reverberated off the walls as the man moved further down the long, winding tunnel, leaning more heavily against the rock as he went. The condensation there cooled the fever burning through him, helped distract him from the scent of beasts leeching off from his clothing… the sweet aroma of his companions left behind, their pretty red hearts flush with blood.

Time passed as if in a dream.

Departing this thread for DA22! It's been real, y'all!
 
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