As Rois heads for the butcher’s bench, Osytha spares a backward look at the row of dozing mules. Intelligent, strong, hard workers… aye, they get their temperament from asses, right enough. She’s also fond of the beasts, even keeps a couple of donkeys around at the monastery, herself. But you didn’t quite mention one of the big differences, did you, Mr Crocodile? It’s not just that asses don’t bolt. If they feel threatened, they stand and fight. I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume that’s summat else you have in common.

She trails after him, moseying along with her arms folded while taking in the camp; its company wagons with their curious emblem, the array of tents forming an outer ring around the big central one. Osytha scans about for movement besides Feliene there, tries to get a sense of what other souls reside here and their number, though, it’s reasonable to assume many are asleep in their beds at this point. Her nose points her over to that simmering pot, which she tries not to think too hard about — neither that, nor the things its aroma is awakening in her empty stomach. Guffy, on the other hand, doesn’t at all share her apprehensions. His little nose is lifted high and twitching overtime as he circles the cooking fire.

The sound of Gilles thunking down on the butcher’s block hits her ears. Then, something flops to the ground nearby, filling the air with a bouquet of sweat. Osytha glances down at the stained shirt by her feet, then up toward the brittle tinkling of water by that tub.

Mr Crocodile basks there, anointed by its cool waters. Curls of mist condense off his flesh as vapour strikes cooler air. Bare-chested, and she can better see now his physique. Sculpted, is how she’d put it. The kind of body those masochists who beg Dal for his toughest regimens, and actually stick to them, end up acquiring. Now, Osytha keeps herself very fit, and very strong… for a 5’8” woman whose body has a lot of trouble escaping the gravity well around planet ‘lean’. As suspected, though, it’s nothing compared to the Crocodile Butcher’s.

She lets her gaze slide off him. Back toward the table and its contents. She walks forward, circling around the mortal remains of Gilles Despenser lying bundled up in the disguise she’d used of kirtle and petticoats. Seems they’ve done a decent job of keeping the mess in. Something of an unforeseen benefit to having a ridiculous number of layers, there.

Rois comes back into view soon enough. Hands digging into the wood as he tests it with his bulk.

“You do not have to stay to actually watch this, you know. I just needed you to bring the body here.”​

Osytha locks eyes with him, momentarily surprised.

“Careful, now,” she warns. “That almost sounded like you was bein’ kind.”

She looks back down at Gilles, and if there had been a hint of amusement just then, it’s soon all gone. Unbind him, peel away the layers, and there he is. Five-foot-eleven, stocky, black-haired and bearded. A man of nearly three dozen summers. Defensive cuts on his hands, and one terminal stab wound through the heart. A post-mortem incision along the throat, leading to exsanguination. His face and hair are crusted stiff with blood from how it had drained off him when she’d strung him upside-down beneath the tree.

“If you prefer privacy, you can have it,” she continues. “But this is my doin’… and I try to make a point of seein’ things through. Besides, I wanted your help, didn’t I? I ought to know what it is exactly I’ve wished for.”
 
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“I did not say that out of kindness. I don’t care what you see, I am simply cautious about how much of this you’re going to report back to your little friends.” … And it did not seem like he took her humor as a ‘joke’, because although his expression is not as severe as it had been at the start, the crinkling of the mans nose and the furrowing of his brows speak quietly of distrust still coursing strongly through his mind.

“My guard isn’t down just because I’m not actively being a bastard. We’re still enemies, you and I,” Rois picks up the broad length of the cleaver and points it at her from across the table in an accusatory pose, “We simply have something in common currently--”

THWACK-- a sudden and short explosion of noise-- the heavy blade is brought down against the clammy pale skin of the captive about the pre-slitted throat; it is the crunching of a windpipe collapsing and the snapping of meat suddenly sundered, the sharp length nails the gaps betwixt the cervical vertebrae violently and so the loud and singular crack the melody finished with was the separating of the spine in two. A gory gunshot in the dark. And without its anchor… Gilles’s head rolls unevenly to land softly against the dirt without any sort of thoroughfare, bottomed by a muddling of dark, clotted blood and the rings of damaged pipes exposed. Rois is a bull with a sharp edge, snorting at the expression cemented on the now decapitated man’s head, but as he opens his mouth to say something the two are rudely interrupted by the small form of an elf skittering into the scene--

“Oh! Oh! I’m an enemy, too!” The shimmering of Feliene’s crystal blue eyes had dimmed somewhat, and across her cheeks was scrawled a heavy flush… the consequences of weaving, any who knew magicks of any kind would see and know the dampening effect it had upon its users. It could not steal away her smile however, nor the way a petite arm was lifted to wave in Osytha’s direction erratically. The other hand was occupied, not by any kind of dead-mans game, but humorously by a… carrot. The girl held it up to her bosses face with the expression one would make when feeding a treat to a dog,

“Anyone who is Mr’s enemy is our enemy as well!”

… And what a strange scene. A headless body, a twisted skull upon the floor, a small elven lady comprised of sparkly energy gently thwaping the vegetable against a man’s cheek-- a man who was double her height and probably double her width as well. His response to the carrot is not, get this fucking thing out of my face now, but to open his jaws and bite at it hungrily, let it hang from his teeth just like he was a dog given a treat. The same man that threatened to kill her. The same man that threatened to rape her. The very same man who had been carrying cut up corpses in the middle of the night with glowing red eyes like warning signs in the dark. Feliene’s energy suddenly ramps up at the sight, cute, despite her words she is as friendly as ever in her tone,

“And Mr Crocodile is kind, sometimes.”

Rois is chomping on the raw carrot whilst his hands use the scissors to slice through Osytha’s makeshift bindings, but a growl begins to sound from his throat in warning as the vegetables green tails stick out from his mouth; it is very much ignored.

“If you tell anyone about us, he’s going to turn into a big monster and eat you all up. I’ll be the one collecting and freezing the pieces left over, because that’s my job! But not this,” The bouncy girl stoops low to pick up Gille’s head by the hair, tongue out and wearing the exaggerated expression of disgust, “Ugly… I’m going to take it to the burn pile. No-one’ll eat this--”

The moment the end of the carrot was swallowed down and a tongue was swiping against fangs hungrily the deep, guttural voice returned,

“--Why are you here, why are you saying things, why are you being a thorn in my side--”

Rois’s hand is like a bear paw that comes to swipe at Feliene’s torso as if he aims to bat her away with tremendous force, but despite the size and strength displayed in his arm… the movement is painfully slow, deliberately slow, just so the elfkin has the chance to dodge out of the way. Gods, he was losing his fearsomeness by the second, every single moment the elf spent in his presence his intimidation factor absolutely tanked, and the man was critically aware of this. It took everything to mentally not run a hand against his face in embarrassment at the affair… but dear Lords. The body was free from its confinements and his movements had become somewhat violent as he cut lines and ripped clothes from the corpse until it laid there barren of fabric-- this was also done deliberately. The moment the body’s penis was exposed Feliene gave a frightened gasp and began to skitter away in alarm with the head cradeled against her chest, oh, it was too much to bare, and Rois let the smallest amount of smugness grace his lips as his attention turned back solely to the lady in waiting,

“... Your complaints will fall on deaf ears if you insist on watching and get sickened by it, knight.”

Yes. Let’s not address any of what just happened whatsoever.

A scalpel was equipped, a long line drawn down from the open hole at the seat of Gille’s chest, it delves deep within skin as flaps part and expose the inner muddling of shrinking fatty layers and darkened organs all congealed together in a reeking blob as the smell of decomposition is suddenly let out into the open air. It fades quickly, but the stench is one none could forget, not if they had ever seen any semblance of warfare. He’s completely unphased of course, gloveless he shoves his hand against the mass at the center and begins to simply rip stuff out, palming the length of grey entrails and shoving them unceremoniously to the ground with a thick, wet slopping sound. When things were tied by thicker veins the other hand was introduced, fingers wind about sinewy ribbons of the network and snap them with precision, first the slippery sheen of the liver and then the dull blobs of the kidneys; floor, floor, floor, useless things. The lungs were tricky, but without the head to affix them to something more solid the white-ish lobe of the right lung, now flat and quivering, was tugged out and not tossed haphazardly to the floor… instead of glancing at the woman he is looking behind her. The object is tossed over her head to land unceremoniously right beside the snuffling Guffy…
 
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There’s a certain horror to the ease with which Rois severs that head. Osytha understands that decapitations are difficult — notoriously so. And you hear stories, ones where perhaps the headsman’s axe was just a little too dull, or hadn’t landed quite right. Awful, awful stories. Not that uncommon when it comes to such things, either.

So to see him achieve that with a mere cleaver, almost as an after-thought…

Osytha blanches, staring at Gilles’ head lying there against the ground. It’s landed to face away from her, showing just the blood-soaked curls, a red hint of ear, and the wet gleam of sundered bone and muscle in his neck. In a way, that only makes it easier. Easier for her to see—

“Oh! Oh! I’m an enemy, too! Anyone who is Mr’s enemy is our enemy as well!”​

Her eyes dart to the surprise appearance of the young elf from before, and she follows Feliene’s ebullient movements with some surprise evident on her pale face. Eventually, Osytha holds up her hands in a placating sort of gesture of her own, and gives the lass a weak little smile.

“Got it, loud and clear,” she assures. “I’ve already surrendered, anyway. Honestly. I ain’t actually lookin’ to cause trouble here.”

Rois continues the business of unwrapping his wares, revealing all the cuts in potentia; shanks, rib, shoulder, belly, etc. The sight of Gille’s sausage, though, sends Feliene packing, and Osytha watches after her retreating back. Well, what had the girl been expecting? It’s more or less the same thing down there each time, broadly speaking. In her experience, anyway.

Still, she muses, thank you, Feliene. I’m fairly certain you just gave me the last piece of the puzzle that I needed…

“... Your complaints will fall on deaf ears if you insist on watching and get sickened by it, knight.”​

She tucks away that line of thought and refocuses on Rois. Nods. Watches his hands select the scalpel, and begin their work.

She's no stranger to death. Has witnessed her share of morbid sights, of all types. Seeing Mr Crocodile make that incision, peeling back the folds of fat and flesh to reach in and tear at Gilles’ viscera — it’s definitely up there, yet still, probably not quite the worst thing she’s witnessed. Even so. Watching how the corpse twitches and judders in response, hearing its organs and vasculature rip apart, seeing it all reduced down to this… the colour only drains further away from Osytha’s face.

Because the fact is, Syr Osytha has never quite gotten used to seeing death.

Some of the other Knights can look at a field of butchery and seem utterly unfazed by it. Not her. Seeing the macabre machinery of the body being broken down is unsettling enough. Then, if she looks too long at a corpse, if she wonders about it too hard, the thoughts only get more uncomfortable. Lots of ‘who were they’, ‘what kind of life would they have had’, ‘what was going through their mind as it happened’, ‘why did it have to end for them here’; that sort of thing. And the faces change, too. She starts to wonder how it’ll be when she’s looking down at Merifrith and Hroðgar like this, or which of the other syrs she’ll find waiting on the pyre. And, of course, the obvious one. The thing that everyone tries not to think about too hard, but which becomes disturbingly tangible when you gaze into a pair of dead eyes.

When will her own time come? To be reduced to this obscene ruin?

Queasy gaze follows the glistening rope of guts which Rois unreels down to the earth. A kind of rapt, fascinated dread in those wide blue eyes. They flicker back and forth with the motion of his hands, of the entrails, of the concentration furrowing Mr Crocodile’s face.

A cannibal, hauling cut-up human corpses in the night. A predator’s delighted eye watching her sweat. “I did not kill these people;” TAKE OS. A doting, bubbly young lass who shares… what, with herself? Feigned disgruntlement, chewing on a carrot like an ass. “Do not take me for a fool, bitch. I have been around your kind.”

Complicated.

“Perhaps I’m your enemy,” she says, softly, as the scene unfolds before her. “That’s fair, what with me stickin’ my nose in your business like this. Even though I don’t ken why you decided to take me back here, not if you’re truly intent on lettin’ me go at the end of it.”

Liver, floor. Kidneys, floor. She watches those, too; a great big wet, gelatinous mass, and two smaller, fat-wrapped yet tougher nuggets. Enigmatic marvels of anatomy, picking up a patina of grit where they look like they’re at risk of being trodden on.

“Thing is, I don’t yet know if you’re mine.” Lifts her gaze back up to the open cavity. Rois’ hands in deep under Gilles’ sternum, working at the lungs. “’Of the two of us, it’s lookin’ like I’m the only one who’s actually killed this eve. More’n that — even though I’m an enemy to you, you’re helpin’ me out right now, and takin’ a risk to do so. Don’t think that’s lost on me—”

A large, gory mass arcs through the air over Osytha. She jerks down instinctively, and whips her head around to watch one lobe of a lung squelch down by Guffers there. He’s also startled by the suddenness, but only momentarily, as that sniffer of his picks up a very interesting new scent. Forgotten is the allure of that bubbling broth. His nose snuffles down to the earth and up to the pale mass, laser-focused… seems to realise something and glances up to meet Osytha's stare. His own head hanging low and so guilty. She lets out a soft, short whistle, and boyo begins to slink reluctantly on over to her heels.

“Sorry, but the lad’s been trained to mind what he eats,” she informs Rois, facing him once more. “Mostly ’cos his tummy’s easily upset. But, also, ’cos I don’t need him makin’ off with people’s bits after a fight. It’s a bit awkward explainin’ that one away, as I’m sure you know.”

Guffy pads over by the knight’s feet and sits. Thumps his tail against her ankle a couple of times with uncertain hope as he gazes up. Osytha crouches down, sending him to squirm upon his back mounting excitement, and he happily receives her hands when they bestow upon him gentle affections.

“You’re honestly more wasteful than any butcher I’ve met,” she remarks to Rois. “Not keen on chitterlin’s? Pâté? Steak and kidney pie?”
 
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“If you had not come back here to at least see my intentions, would you have really believed me? That a cannibal butcher was such a thing, something that existed out in the open like this? No, you would have taken me for a liar. Thought I had forged the note, thought I was just another murderer trying to get away with the usual, but there is something you don’t understand.”

This kept happening. Moments lapping against the shore like a lazy tide, the gap between them would widen and the atmosphere would almost seem friendly, palatable, genuine, bereft of the terrible claws of horror despite the spillings of innards upon the table-- and then the gap would shorten again. Disaster would dance upon the edge of the encounter regardless of whether it fully reached its pinnacle or not, a stagnant threat turned lively, as if fate itself was flipping a coin over and over again expecting a different outcome every single time the shimmering piece became still upon their palm. This time… it was proximity. The table had relieved Osytha of the pressure of presence for a length of time, but the peace was shattered by the scraping of the cleavers tip dragged about its outskirts as Rois approached the lady knight in an almost stalking fashion.

This was the closest they had been yet.

Half-lidded eyes gaze sharply downwards in fractals of brilliant red encircling a pupil that was not quite round, but not as sharp as the splitting of a serpents eye. In the darkness there flits emotions too muddied to be parsed and yet somehow still so cold, back and forth, heat rolls over that smaller form in a manner so lovely, so fiery, a blight in the summer, a blessing in the frost-laden winters, back and forth, Rois’s voice is so unexpectedly gentle but Osytha’s breast bone is introduced to the blunt, rounded top of the cleaver as he pushes the woman back but a touch,

“You, and your horse, and your dog are still alive because I promised people here I would not kill anyone who did not attack me first.”

The path. The harsh words. The goading. He bats heavy lashes at her and spares the quietest smile.

“I am a man who keeps my word, I do not murder, but I am allowed to kill in self defence. It would have been so, so simple to snuff out your lives, and then maybe it’d be you upon this table now. I’d be throwing your clothes to the floor and deciding what parts of you are useful, and what parts of you aren’t… and I’d gladly take your dog and shove those unwanted parts down his throat until he choked to death upon your bones.”

Cruel eyes like shattered rubies sweep downwards to where Guffy was peering towards the two adults with the same cheerful demeanor Osytha’s hands had left him with. If the pup did not see himself to feast upon mankind’s mortal flesh then he would be made to, pinned down till his body creaked and his glassy eyes watered and stuffed with it in an explicit act of abuse that was just about tangible upon Rois’s face as a smattering of glee… the smoke flittering between horrid fangs causes the woman’s wayward locks to stir. He isn’t stupid. Telling the woman this and standing so purposefully close by (knowing she had almost been sexually assaulted) invited her to act-- what was to stop her from unsheathing her sword and taking it against his heart right there and then like she had done to her now butchered prey? It’d be so easy. Rois even kept his arms by his side as if to posture, I wont guard, I wont stop you, a chuckle rolls about in the depths of his throat as firelight causes the shadow of damp bandages to dance upon slick skin,

“You are more problematic to me alive… and that is the risk I am taking. Not the body parts, not the butchering, it’s you breathing that puts me and mine at risk; and that is why we are enemies.”

Complicated.

Back and forth.

The piercing gaze returns to the body.

With the main cavity now mostly empty save from the tangling of the heart and the circulatory system, Rois begins with the hand on the knights side, kisses the blade to the wrist and uses the keel of a palm to drive it straight through the scattered and thin connective tissue of the wrist joint with the white of bone exposed. Hands were never popular. Neither were the feet (of men specifically), wandering about her to the other end the butcher relieved the corpse all below the ankles with the repetitive sound of bones crunching filling the ominous silence that had settled between them in the wake of the confession; it only ended when the taller of the two had returned to his previous spot across from the block, and the crooked, curling fingers of Gilles had departed from the end of his slowly stiffening arm.

“... Truthfully, we have a lot of human in at the moment, so I only want what I know is going to sell.” A murmur and a glance at the bodies center, the scarcest touch of sadness in his voice. “Shame you ruined the heart. People always want to buy them.”

And it is like the threat had never happened. Like the playfulness of Feliene’s sprite-like flittering about them both and the atmosphere ever dancing at her heels had never happened. Like him trying to feed little Guffy out of some scrambled sense of flickering kindness hadn’t happened. A crocodile and a carrot. Casual and not casual. Dangerous and not dangerous. Promises and bluffing. The form of a man picking up a scalpel and beginning to gently draw lines upon the remaining flesh to outline said delicious cuts, a snaring of the upper arms, the ridges of the ribs, stretching over to begin lightly parsing how far down the thigh was viable… it would become crystal clear that Osytha was no prisoner, but nor was she entirely ‘free’, either. She had spent much of her time thinking, trying to make sense of the rabbit-hole so graciously stumbled into, but many had tried to parlay with Alice and parse the nonsensical innards of Wonderland just to fail time and time again.

This was Wonderland, where the game was people, the laws were unwritten and new, and things were complicated because he was the ever-shifting realm of madness itself, leant there keenly observing exposed muscle with learned concentration. She had no choice but to keep up. Lunacy often kept one on ones toes.

“... I’ll have to leave him alone for a few hours. Rigor mortis.” Rois spares her a lazy glance, “If I cut too much now he’ll become brittle.”
 
“No, you would have taken me for a liar. Thought I had forged the note, thought I was just another murderer trying to get away with the usual, but there is something you don’t understand.”​

“No, I—”

Say it ain’t so, Osytha. She can’t, can she? Of course a part of her was — is? — sceptical of that note. A part of her had wondered the exact thoughts Mr Crocodile is accusing her of. It’s as he says. Why else would she be here?

Somehow, she’d fallen complacent; let herself forget what it was like to have Rois cast his shadow over her. But she starts to recall, now, with the cleaver rasping its way round the table at her. With each step closer that he takes, jagged memory crystallises more and more into reality. Only this time, it’s so much worse.

Osytha can’t take her eyes off that vile thing in his hand.

Not until it’s much, much too near, when he’s so close his breath is kicking up the loose strands of hair beside her face. When the hard curve atop the cleaver’s back pushes into her sternum, and that terrible edge is sitting right below her throat, her chin… she doesn’t want to look. Doesn’t want to know just how close the metal is to her neck. She can’t look at it sitting right there and not go mad from the terror of it.

Osytha squeezes her eyes shut. The cleaver pushes her back a step, and she totters along. Almost feels like her legs will give out altogether.

“You, and your horse, and your dog are still alive because I promised people here I would not kill anyone who did not attack me first.”​

He’s giving her everything she needs to survive this. All she needs to do, he’s telling her, is not rise to his threats. Problem is, that’s a lot easier to keep in mind when Rois is on the other side of a table to her, or a couple dozen feet down the road. When she has space. But here, with that reeking butcher’s blade pressing into her flesh, Osytha can’t help but wonder: what if he is lying? What if his promise isn’t all it’s cracked up to be?

It’s a lot easier to imagine his arm flicking out. THWACK — could he do it in a single blow like this? Or will he settle for opening up her neck instead, and let the red spill all down her front as she goes down wearing a stupid, surprised look on her face? The last face that she ever makes.

“It would have been so, so simple to snuff out your lives, and then maybe it’d be you upon this table now.”​

He could wait for her to bleed out, but why bother? Probably she’s still feebly twitching when Rois hauls her up, but there’s no fight left in Osytha, no fight at all. Head flops back unnaturally far, exposing the inner workings of her neck. A deep, deep cut, all the way to the bone. Nothing left in her eyes, now. She’s just… meat.

He hauls her carcass up onto the block, and lets her fall back across its length with a heavy crack when her skull meets the wood. Head bounces, once, with limbs flopping like a dropped marionette.

“I’d be throwing your clothes to the floor…”​

Her gambeson — it’s sturdy, but comes away readily enough. Rois doesn’t even have to untie the leather cords, just run the cleaver’s edge up underneath and slice them away one by one. Sits her up and lets the heavy coat, heavier now for all the blood, just slide off. Body still supple and fresh, plenty of time before rigor mortis seeps in, so it’s nice and easy to slip her out of the rest of her garments: long, crimson-stained shirt rolls up, wool hosen down off her legs, braies un-gathered, strophium unwound, short subligaculum untucked. Chuck it all on the burn pile. And now she’s ready for prep.

“… and deciding what parts of you are useful, and what parts of you aren’t…”​

THWACK. Off with her head. Slack-jawed thing tumbles to the dirt. A bright-eyed young elf skips over and lifts it right back up again, giggling into the frozen, blue stare. “Too stupid-looking,” she trills, prancing back away. “Hair for wigs, teeth for dentures. Burn the rest!”

“… and I’d gladly take your dog and shove those unwanted parts down his throat until he choked to death upon your bones.”​

THWACK. Hands — dogmeat. THWACK. Feet — dogmeat. Or…? THWACK. Breasts — not as popular as people might think; usually much too fatty. Dogmeat, unless the chandlers want them. THWACK. Good, thick, thighs, lots of meat on them. A woman’s layer of supple fat under the skin, practically hairless. Wonderful, wonderful cut for a roast. Ah, but Osytha worked too hard. Mr Crocodile frowns, displeased. A lady ought to be nice and tender, but this one is too muscular, too tough. Just as quickly, though, a self-pleased little grin finds its way back in the dark. And yet not quite tough enough, were you, syr?

The cleaver rises up again…

Osytha’s eyes flutter open. It’s no safer inside her own head than out here, and those scenes projected on the insides of her lids drive her back against the blade’s edge. Her chin lifted high, trying to put any distance it can between itself and that upturned cleaver to her chest.

That smouldering ember gaze awaits hers. She feels the pressure ease off from her breast, watches his arm fall away. Come on, says his smug goddamn smile. I’m wide open. You just want this to be over, right? Well, you could end it all right here. Doesn’t that sound nice…?

Fact is, at this point? Osytha’s fairly certain she could. And it probably won’t look how old mate here expects it to.

Because the petrified little knight’s mind has been in overdrive ever since their ill-fated encounter on the road, and she’s figured a few things out by this point. And, once you actually understand a problem, then you can apply the right tools to the job. Mr Crocodile, Feliene, any other company lurking out there keeping watch… that passenger of his. There’s a plan for all of it.

You’re sharp, I’ll give you that. You’ve seen right through me time and again. But some things are so clear you can’t see them at all, can you? You’re expecting the blade, and maybe, that’s what you’d get — if I were a ruddy dawnling.

Too bad I’ll be gone by the time that thing recovers enough to claw its way out your corpse. Oh, to see the looks on these people’s faces—

—A face, bright and bubbly. The girl with cheerful blue eyes, who might owe Rois more than the knight will ever know. Does she deserve that? What about the other people in this camp? Does Osytha even know how many would end up suffering, let alone who they are? What reasons they have for being here?

Osytha realises how tense she is — her body on the cusp of taking action. But instead of going to her baldric as intended, her hand comes up to her forehead. Holds it trembling against her brow as she closes her eyes, and lets out a deep, long, sigh. She stays like that for a couple more breaths, before lowering her arm.

Her ears are ringing, actually ringing, in a familiar sensation. Had she really been that close to going into shock…?

Mr Crocodile is back at the butcher’s block when she opens her eyes. “... I’ll have to leave him alone for a few hours,” he’s telling her. “Rigor mortis. If I cut too much now he’ll become brittle.”

Is that right? The things you learn…

“I…” am fucking MAD, you fucking FUCK, and of COURSE I’m leery about a note handed to me by someone carting CHOPPED UP CORPSES AROUND HONESTLY WHAT DID YOU EXPECT MR SHIT-FOR-BRAINS, but I STILL decided to trust you enough to come here on your terms because I’m an even bigger gripper than you are apparently, and I am TRYING my GODS-damned hardest to meet you halfway but you KEEP PULLING THIS SHIT you fucking CUNT and now I am GOING to be SICK “… um, do you mind if I put the kettle on? Day I’ve had, I could murder a cup of tea…”
 

Oh, how he knew that look.

Turmoil. The gaping maws of the past ever-hot on mankind’s heels finally rewarded for its chase with a steely bite that drove fang points to the soul, a phantom pain, a terrible darkness. Memories were awful things. In his neuro-strangeness a few years back Rois had neatly written a note of things that could be mentioned aloud that would trigger a glassiness of his eyes and the surging of blood through his veins, knowing was important, because once the cause was rooted out the effect could be mastered; but the man never quite conquered some of those terms. They were attached to past experiences so strongly that they couldn’t be separated from their origin, always producing some manner of hurt stirring within that strong chest and leading his gaze to be vague, seeing but not, the past was a cage, it trapped the present self in a brightly lit box and forced one to wrestle with invisible demons.

So as Osytha blinks rapidly between terrible thoughts and the flight-or-fight urges, he is simply observing as the butcher goes about his time in a manner most leisurely. A chest near the table is opened to produce the thick length of an s-shaped hook-- one commonly used for hanging cattle in its strength-- and the silvery sheen of thin cheese-cloth to help keep the insects away. Gilles is first raised a touch by one hand and draped in the length of the fabric with the other, so that from gaping neck to footless leg he is covered before the bend of the hook sharply captured the bodies spine in slow introduction. When the corpse is hung from one of the heart-beams of Roi’s tent it is a perfect example of absurdist horror, something that should not be, something so familiar and yet not… a ghost cored by a mass of flesh absolutely robbed of its humanity. He is not alone as he works. The wind sometimes shifted the smell of burning towards the campsite, and little Feliene was attentive in her gathering of useful parts, a figure dancing in and out to relieve the ground of things that hadn’t been wanted piece by little piece.

He does not disturb Osytha.

In fact, she becomes ‘entertainment’.

Rois figures that knowing your life is hanging by the pledge of a man who shifts emotions faster than the breeze turns must be a terrible feeling. As her statuesque form pales and beads of visible sweat begin to gather upon her furrowed brow he simply grabs a dish from the clean cutlery pile and moves behind her to the bubbling pot with the sparklings of a creature that did not belong in such a harrowing scene, excitement, the deep bowl is plunged beneath a slightly crisp surface to fill its center with the deliciousness of the stew. He occupies a rounded cushion upon the ground with one leg flipping about the other, eyes returning to the woman as if she were a tv show to be gawked at; or was it something else besides the pledge…? The man could not come to the conclusion that the blade he’d poked her with was the actual reason, perhaps she was recalling a time where the threat of butchering had been real and her wrists and ankles had been ensnared just like Gilles’s had, that happened more often to women than men, right? Did the memories hurt like his did? Cause ones breath to stutter and feel like their heart was going to explode…? If he was capable of pity in that moment then perhaps he’d feel bad about the way muted panic flickers across those blue-gray eyes, but he wasn’t, and so she remained as a monolith to internal thought for a few moments more before words return to Osytha’s breathless form.

“... Of course I mind.”

When she began to build the foundations of common ground he’d come to burn them down, every single time. And, of course, Rois is back to being entirely casual as he tips the bowl against his mouth and greedily gulps down lengths of stew-- basically the entire portion-- only pausing when his cheeks were puffed with meat-chunks and potato that demanded chewing.

“Yoush aren’ stayin’ ‘ere.” He speaks through vigorous gnashing before swallowing, “You are getting on your horse and leaving. The night is not so old, so wherever you were going before… continue on going there.”

The butcher gets back to his feet… he’s getting another bowl of goodness, keen eyed and eager to complete the eat-bath-smoke-sleep schedule that he’s affixed firmly to the front of his skull. The stiffness of the corpse would need half a day of hanging to leave, which meant his schedule was suddenly so free that it was almost blissful to return once again to the comfiness of the padded cushion with a warm meal chasing away the woes of hunger. Eating until he physically couldn’t was a ritual birthed more from necessity than anything, but still held its pleasure as warm innards grew warmer still, there was a space at his core that needed filling and fill it he hungrily would. Mouth opens, pause, Rois decides to add before resuming the action of chowing down,

“We take the burned bones with us, toss them partially into rivers, wait, then throw the rest to the forest. The skull will be crushed. Half of him will be wild and the other half will be in the hands of people in the way of cuts; so to the outside observer, providing you didn’t leave a messy crime scene, whoever that guy was would have simply… vanished.”

And it’s an almost kind reassurance, because he hadn’t needed to say that but did and it did not make sense why he’d attempt to salve any paranoia she bore stemming from being caught-- eating resumes. The blade is far away. They are once again almost tangled in the neutrality of a laid-back scene… barring the butchered corpse afar.
 
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No… to tea?

For all that’s happened tonight — a sled of dismembered corpses, another one gralloched before her eyes, the malicious games from this demon butcher, stumbling into a cannibal meat-seller’s thriving, cosy little camp — this is the thing that actually seems to truly leave Osytha dumbfounded. She just stands there, white-faced and gawping at Rois for a couple of seconds, until she remembers to snap her mouth shut.

“No tea.” The words are foreign on her tongue, strange and unsettling. “That’s… huh. No tea. Um. Alright then.”

Her hands fumble with the canteen on her belt instead. The tremble is still in her fingers, sapping them of their strength. Since when has she been so easily rattled? Not that watching the Crocodile Butcher work on Gilles’ corpse had helped, but still. Osytha has faced off against plenty enough of men and monsters who’ve wanted her dead, and who’d tried quite hard to make it happen. It’s always a desperate affair, an overwhelming rush she rides in the moment, which leaves her hands quaking once the dust had settled, and that part’s similar to now. But it’s not like the sharp, mindless fear she felt with that cleaver pushed to her chest.

Well, I was fighting back those other times, for starters. I didn’t just stand there and take it. Osytha flares her nostrils to the full might of that rich stew on the air, and watches Rois gulp down his portion in his seat on those low cushions. But it’s also… anger. Rage made it all easier — it overrode the fear, made me want to hurt them back.

Is that how she managed? ‘Don’t get scared — get angry’. Although, probably she was always both at the same time, like some ferocious, tiny woodland critter.

“… so to the outside observer, providing you didn’t leave a messy crime scene, whoever that guy was would have simply… vanished.”​

Osytha walks over to one of the cushions opposite Rois and lowers herself to it, cross-legged and straight-backed. Guffy immediately crawls over her thigh and sits up in her lap, nuzzling her for attention. She begins to gently stroke his soft little head.

‘Vanished’… yeah, not quite. There’s no hiding that crime scene, and certainly not the bloody mess near to that where she’d sliced open Gilles’ neck. Even so, she’s not too concerned. There were no witnesses, and that was by design; she’d needed Gilles to feel comfortable enough to shake her down, and by all accounts, the man preferred to act with discretion. So, there’s no actual way to say who, or even what, the blood belongs to. Then with the precautions she took, Osytha’s also confident that the trail ends there beneath that tree away in the woods. She’d arrived in town under a false identity, in disguise. The reeve had been deeply reviled by folk around here, who will be more than happy to just let him fade from memory. And finally… anyone who does know enough to put the pieces together, well, it’ll be because they’re the ones who solicited her for help to begin with. So, not exactly a good idea for them to go making that known, not if they value their own hides as well.

The canteen swishes as Osytha takes a pull. Her eyes flick from Mr Crocodile, to the dangling, sheer-draped carcass, to the sturdy wagons now housing what’s largely left of poor Aisly and Serone (and gods know who else…), to Feliene flitting about the camp. Seems that directive for the knight to get on her horse and go has fallen on deaf ears.

“What’s the appeal, for you?” she wonders, instead. “I mean, the market must be pretty lucrative to sustain all this. Niche, I imagine.” Osytha returns her gaze to Rois, stopping but a moment on his bowl before finding his eyes. “Or is it your taste for, well, for human flesh — was that there first, and the business simply followed after?”

Another swig of water, a mildly disappointed face in response. Osytha stares forlornly down at the container. Honestly… what kind of monster denies a lovely cup of tea? She looks further down, to where Guffy now lies curled up and contented on her legs, well on his way to blissful slumber by her rhythmic petting. Worse, much worse even than the tea — Rois had also threatened her wee lad. This sweet, friendly, blameless little creature.

Pity. Osytha blinks in surprise when she feels it. No, not for boyo there. But if she takes away the rage, looks past the fear behind it, then she finds pity, for the Crocodile Butcher. It’s a wretched, pathetic thing to speak so gleefully of torturing a poor beast like Guffy, the way Rois had. So then what, she wonders, has happened to twist the man so?
 

He’s just a little dumbfounded in return, pausing in his ever-looping action of getting stew and eating stew and then getting it again.

Why did she just sit down?!

Rois manages to somehow pull off the most comedic look of the entire encounter, briefly letting eyes flicker off to the left of them and back as if to indicate, is anyone else seeing this?? Even if he had any taste for tea, the true reason the woman’s plea to quietly brew some had not been because of differing tastes, it was because she had no reason bar curiosity to stay. This was not something completely unexpected. Upon every setting up of the stalls at markets low beneath the piercing stares of the upper-classed clowns there was always someone asking questions or trying to peak beneath the curtain at operations, what they were doing was new and strange and somewhat unbelieveable-- and seeing was believing. But the nosey knight afar had seen, she presumably did believe, so why was there any need to inquire further?

Evidence gathering? The collecting of mental images so they could be described in detail to the other enemies Osytha worked with…?

… No. Earlier on Rois had believed it so, but something about the woman had changed. After her momentary lapse in nerves the tension in her face had shifted into something the man could not quite put a name to, a sort of flickering of thoughtfulness, like whatever puzzle was being spun about in her skull had proceeded to the next turn. Red eyes were watching her movements carefully from across the way, their depth highlighted in the flickering of the old flames. If their battle before had been the bluffing of physical prowess and skill then now it was beginning to seem almost like a matter of brains, for wit was one thing, intelligence, another. It was part of the reason he mostly avoided women despite having three beneath his wing in the company, men were so easy, you could knock one about enough and eventually a threshold would break and they’d submit like beaten dogs at his heels or die barking. Women… women were stronger mentally. The nature of the world came harsher against those softer bodies, so they oft tempered their minds to fight with instead.

And he was clever, but he was still just a man. If ever a man throughout the histories had fallen, their wings were always clipped by some measure of pride.

“I do wonder why you are asking all of this; do you mean to raise my suspicion of you further, or was that not taken into account whatsoever?”

No, it probably would have been. Or… maybe not? Though Rois’s eyes are piercing and appear to be critical he is someone who knows not how people really act and think and what drives their behaviours so, instead leaping to harsh conclusions based on the man’s own experiences and little else instead of thinking logically about it. This did not mean he couldn’t pretend to be analytical of Osytha’s expressions and shifting hands, following them like a lazer-point dancing upon its target.

“... Regardless, I honestly do not get how you could ask such a question. People are just slightly more sentient pieces of meat, we are not so different from the buck or the hare or the trout. We all bleed the same. It is nothing but the scrutiny of society that stops the commonfolk from eating each other, the notion that it is uncivilized or ‘dirty’.”

… And pride was about to fuel the incoming rant, yes, but so did something else… oh, how he loved preaching from his own personal doctrine to non-believers. The half-beast has stopped eating for the moment, as the lady knight had turned thoughtful and quiet he was becoming a touch passionate sounding, with speech tumbling from his lips at a rapid pace--

“It is nonsense, of course. If we are animals that eat animals and people are animals then yes, we should be eating people as well; but not all of our customers are doing it out of curiosity about the taste. Some are engaging in fetishistic desires and want the sexual parts to fawn over, and some are practising medicine but do not have the good graces to attend the healing institutes… or the bravery and ability to procure a body. There are many beast and orckin who have an innate desire for the meat of humans and are brutally shamed for what their instincts are telling them, so they come to satiate their needs. Even practitioners of magicks come for blood and scraps to fuel forbidden spells, so to say it is lucrative is an understatement-- it is a niche born of necessity that me and mine have the privilege to completely and utterly dominate.”

Excitement. It is almost like someone had come to snatch that formerly terrifying beast away to replace him with an identical being that sparkled with the sort of boyish energy of a person who whole-heartedly, without a doubt, believes in what he is doing.

“Because we are the markets biggest supplier we get to charge what we want, the business of the dead has been trudging on since the beginning of man itself and it is nonsensical that such an endeavor hasn’t been widely adopted before, all because of the fear of being called a ‘monster’. Names are names, but none can deny the absolute absurd wealth that comes from those who will pay whatever it takes to satisfy their needs. I am rich. We are rich. And in response, what… ? Some petty name calling and misconceptions from those who could not possibly phantom the idea that they are composed of the very same stuff as the beef upon their plate…? Fools. Better the lowly plate where you have some value in death than the earth, where all you become is a shallow depression in the ground, rotting till someone digs you up to see what you were buried with. At least your life gets to give life. All people should be wanting of that.”

During the heated monologue his legs had unflipped themselves at some stage, Rois saw to it that once again one would climb atop the other in a figure-four cross. A smirk clambers onto his face,

“As for me personally, I do not know what you want me to say. Perhaps, the obvious?”

A slight lean forward.

“That I’m not entirely human? That I am half-- I believe the mystics called it-- Shroud-fiend…? Has that not been apparent this entire time?”

He is hilarious in his bluntness.

“Was that the information you were fishing for, or?”
 
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No, Osytha doesn’t seem surprised by the admission. She only nods her head, slightly, eyes lowered in thought.

“Not… quite,” she tells him. Her hand continues to stroke Guffers gently off to the Land of Nod, though, quite possibly the effect is every bit as calming on her, too. “I mean, aye, that bit I figured out.” With a little help from Feliene to narrow it down. “But… I don’t know. I wouldn’t say I’m fishin’ after somethin’ in particular. I’m just curious about how it works. How it actually works.”

She lifts her gaze back to the long wagons, those sturdy constructions wavering in the amber torchlight while their roofs catch silver from the moons and rings above. That young elf is still roaming industriously about. She looks kind of like a very chipper wraith in that white dress of hers, ghosting through the camp. Osytha wonders how many others like Feliene are here. It’s a travelling business, and all. Do people take their families with them, if they have them? Are there children here? It’s kind of a horrifying thought, but not as horrifying as what might happen if the Knights come down in force.

“Anyone who is Mr’s enemy is our enemy as well!” It would be a massacre. Who knows how many Knights they might lose as well. All of that for… what, exactly? What would they actually be stopping here?

“… I’m not sure how they do it in other parts of Khurun, but we don’t often bury our dead here in Altalusia. They’ve got a nasty habit of digging themselves back up again.” Those blue eyes narrow slightly as they regard the meatwagons. “It can take a day or two for the Blight to set in, and a fully butchered corpse won’t usually give you grief… still, word to the wise. Maybe watch out for that.”

Yes. Usually it’s the other way around; dead coming back to make a nice snack out of the living. Kind of refreshing to see the tables turned, in a ‘still-more-disturbing-than-anything-else’ way. “At least your life gets to give life. All people should be wanting of that.” Curious. Compared to the amount of work that goes into burning the dead, how much that process consumes…

A flicker of something troubled crosses Osytha’s face. That argument from Mr Crocodile feels completely, fundamentally, wrong. And yet she’s having difficulty putting her finger on exactly what the flaw in his logic is. There are health concerns, of course. Disease tends to be more transmissible within species than between them, but that’s still a risk with any meat. It can be managed. Ethics? If the people are already dead, if there was pre-given consent… it can’t be any worse than the Hole. Could demand create supply? If there aren’t enough like Aisly and Serone, folks who willingly promised their bodies after death, that could open the door for people to take those who are unwilling. Rois had told her he’s no murderer, though. Well, Osytha feels like he maybe bends the definition of that. No, she knows he does, because he tried that trick with her. But she also believes, after everything he’s said and done, that he is not a liar. If he’s been getting by without having to resort to murder (arguable), maybe supply isn’t an issue.

It’s a lot of ‘coulds’ and ‘maybes’, and relies on people in Rois’ line of work holding themselves to a certain standard which, let’s be honest, most wouldn’t bother with doing unless someone or something was forcing them to. How much worse could you actually do than Mr Crocodile here? The whole shroud-fiend thing might not count for all that much. You certainly don’t need one of them in you to become a monster.

“The market’s already there,” she murmurs. “It’s always been there. If it’s not you, then… it’ll be somebody else. Or somebodies.” Osytha huffs, almost like she’s amused by a thought, and looks over into that smug fucking smirk. “My mum studied medicine at the Hold for a bit, there. She told me about the dissections, how it was all sort of, an open secret, you know? But she did wonder where they got the bodies.”

Guffy sighs, and squirms in her lap. Little lad rolls over, belly up. Well, how can she resist? Osytha’s fingers change tack, start to precision scritch along his side, and one of his stumpy little legs begins to bicycle-kick in the air.

“You’re wrong about at least one thing, though,” she goes on. Osytha flicks her gaze up, past Rois, to the cavern-chested ruin of Gilles behind him. “People eat each other all the time. Aisly, Serone… someone fed on them, bled them dry, until they had nothing left. Not even hope.” Someone squeezed them for every penny when they were already struggling. No way to recover enough so they could keep paying their dues. They’d have been kicked off their land, left destitute and homeless. Now, doesn’t that sound familiar? “I suppose the difference is you wait for folks to die, first.”
 

It is the absolute definition of a ‘grey area’.

“The good thing about Altalusia compared to everywhere else is that there are so many people here, we oft do not need to go digging.”

The law that one should not turn teeth upon your fellow man is echoed from the mouths of holy men preaching ancient doctrines that warn of mental blight and the forces of Gods coming forth to strike any who even consider the thought down. They come heatedly from the lips of nobles gazing down amongst the poor souls huddled in tattered tents that keep not the chill of winter at bay, it is better to die a person then to descend into the savagery of beasts. Words and warnings. How many people had actually seen someone turn mad from eating someone else… seen someone smited by a holy force on high as punishment? How many cultures engaged in the practise readily and had been for the span of millenia without plague gnawing upon their bones? The woman is taking lengthy pauses to think-- perhaps searching desperately for points to argue-- but just as predicted, no counter comes forth. Just rationale. That was the magic of the ‘grey area’.

It could not logically be wholly condemned nor absolutely praised.

“If many knew the secrets of the Deadlands, I reckon we’d have even more customers than we did now.” Smugly said with a tinge of cruel humor, Rois stands but only because he is greedily getting another bowl of slowly disappearing stew. “Compared to them, we are artisans. But we do share something in common with the butchers of the sands... as you say, all of it is connected in some way to 'power.'”

The man bends briefly to rustle about the cutlery box; gleaming in the burnt oranges of the fire comes the silver of a fork… oh no. It wasn’t for him, he had not needed the tool before, and as the half-beast turns to the other his expression is the absolute picture of mischief and self-satisfaction, he loves being right. Adores it. Osytha is approached like a child plotting some minor prank, a pinch, a spook, first the four points of the object are pointed at her for imagery’s sake,

“And as much as I loathe to admit it, you are right. The first time I tasted human was not because I was half-demon. It was because there was no food left.” Rois has to be careful in his tone, it is melodic in its glee but deep, deep down… the memory is the point of a blade against his heart, ever ready to underpin words by... pain. A pain that would never, ever leave him. “When the major houses bought out the crops in the autumn and built their reserves, no farmers had anything left for us, even the ugly, aging and deformed produce was taken up. There were bodies even before the snow came. Inch by inch, the ‘lower-class’ began to lose their minds… from stablehands to latrine cleaners to scribes, from those who had abodes but did not have sustenance to people who hadn’t even the luxury of a tent, everyone knew that the lords and their staff and their knights would never, ever be without. This happens almost every single year, for the seasons are always sure in their arrival. So people have to do what they can to survive.”

The fork is speared into the bowl, and what is produced is a chunk of meat, glimmering in the fat of soft cheese and flecked in parsley, its colour could not be known due to its coverings but there would be no doubt about its origins. The texture of braised beef. The rich flavour of pork fringed with the strength of venison, soft and steaming and skinless, an unassuming chunk… of someone.

“People like the two I butchered tonight--” No need to refer to them by their names, they were not people, not any more, “--Had the option of facing starvation, being murdered or leaving on their own terms. The horror of occupying some stretch of street with nothing to their names, just the clothes on their backs, and the uncaring eyes of you and yours looking down upon them as if they are nought but dirt underfoot. I have seen with my own eyes people eat mud and dung before relenting to the ‘last resort’, so convinced by others that once the act of eating another person was done, they would surely grow fangs and claws and lose what it meant to be ‘human’. They do it out of necessity… or they die.”

Uttered by he with fangs and claws, he who had sprouted them long before the fiend could come to claim his weary soul. When the sauce stops its incessant dripping Rois holds it out with an extended arm but inches from Osytha’s lips, half-lidded eyes filled with complicated emotion batted tirelessly away by mirth.

“… Could you do what they did to continue on living… could you lower yourself to the level of the people you are supposedly sworn to protect... or are you too proud, knight?”
 
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