The Sixth noted that the other man, as ever, took things in stride. Hard to say whether he was just bluffing or entirely undisturbed but there was no fuss, and the the mercenary could appreciate that. A few dozen horrors passed before the duo found themselves in what amounted as the Knitter's office. Pair of bulls could've been mating in here and there would've been less of a mess.

"It's a wonder you get anything done," marveled the mercenary as the elf took the only seat. Keilyn didn't so much as give a scoff. Bastard hadn't learned a sense of humor even after a few centuries.

Silence hung between the three as the Sixth knew better than to say anything else. Another wrong word and their entrails would be quaint decoration for the cutter's next visitor.

"So," he finally said as he looked up from a piece of parchment. "You're gonna put that bastard in the ground proper this time?"

Dancer looked to Trevor and shrugged. "That's the game."

"Been a hand n' half who've said the same..." Once again the two were beneath the elf's incisive gaze. "but I suppose you've better chance than most. Not two days ago some worthless knifehand stumbled front of Vaishna's, worked in a real unpleasant way. Wasn't much for words with half his bits falling off but Vaishna recognized the Grafter's mark."

This particular revelation elicited a soul-fucking-wrenching groan from the mercenary.

"Most cutters keep to their own and do what needs doing. Our friends here are a bit different. Bad rep and the muscle to go along with it. 'Ward would do better without them but it's always been someone else's problem."

Running a hand through mottled hair, he turned to Trevor. "I've got a real short memory, could just as easily forget you saying this needs to be done. Otherwise it's blood from here on out."
 
Trevor had done well to keep his cool up to that point. Even if he didn't understand half the words exchanged between the other two, he knew enough to understand it wouldn't be easy. Some of the things he'd failed to unsee still scratched at the back of his mind. But he wasn't showing Dancer his belly – they weren't close like that. That was a memory for drink, and later.

Grafter? The name was too vague for Trevor to make much of it, but the two locals seemed well acquainted. Experienced enough to know that was never a good sign. Killers usually lopped off names before they got too big. And those of big name were usually bathed in blood themselves. So killing a killer proved a reliably bad idea. And yet. Some people were simply due.

Dancer groaned, and the grim of it became reality. He didn't know the man to be a complainer – and sure, perhaps that had changed with years. But more likely, the road ahead had just gotten uglier.

„Painted is due.“ Felt at the list in his pocket, before reaching into another. „Now...“ Pulled out the tattooed hand and extended it to the creepy elf. „Why didn't this slow him down more?“
 
The Sixth sighed. "I suppose he fucking is."

Keilyn looked at Trevor like he was the biggest damned fool in all the Free States. "Cause it was never his to begin. Likely took it from the last dumb bastard who tried to have a go at him." The elf looked at the other two and found only confusion in their faces. "Listen, the Painted is a corpse-raiser or near as they come except he plies that trade on himself. Story goes he cut his cock off and fed it to some demon-or burnt it in a ritual to some evil god. Doesn't matter."

Getting up from their seat, the elf began to shuffle around shelves. "Point being, don't take a Magisterium scholar to figure out some manner of magik is at play, likely a hex from what I gather. Ah, here it is." Keilyn held out a piece of spellpaper for Trevor to take, arcane symbols etched into its weave. "Take this and shove it down that bastard's throat."

Dancer gave the elf a look.

"Ok ok, needs to be in contact with his body at the very least. Always better to be thorough. Still got to kill him proper first. This is meant to stop what comes after."

"Nothing's ever easy." The Sixth turned to Trevor. "Well? Ready to drop this cockless cunt?"
 
Wondered if they needed to press the elf to make sure it was truth. After all – Painted could've been a client. They could've been costing the knifeear money. But he shook off the thought, because people wouldn't fuck with Dancer. Not here. Not on his damn doorstep. So it didn't matter how scary Trevor was or wasn't – the other guy had them covered.

Took the spellpaper and wrapped it around the chopped off bits, cause it seemed funny. Wasn't sure it was the hihi haha kind, but it made him smile.

Cockless cunt, huh? Didn't like imagining what the monster would fuck 'em with if they failed.

„Let's go.“



Wasn't all that difficult to find a tattooed fucker made up of other fuckers. Painted had clearly worked to refine his image into a gruesome, but recognizable brand. So when they pinpointed him to a rundown establishment with a few too many exits and a crooked sign that promised:

LIVE ENTERTAINMENT

Trevor had trouble believing it. Because people usually hid or ran or both. Some even came after you instead. But they rarely...waited. That was wrong, somehow.

Learned a few things as he cased the place. The door never closed. Foot traffic didn't match the loud housed inside. Smelled like...Keilyn’s. That unnerved him. No decent establishment wanted the perfume of cleaning and fluids. No guards were posted outside, but everyone clearly slowed or stopped in the narrow hallway leading to a blueish curtain further in.

„I'd normally go and drink myself silly next to him.“ Shrugged like he might try it anyway. „Might take a day, might take nine – but dead is dead.“ And quieter: „But he knows my face. And every knife in the city knows yours...“ Looked to Dancer for advice:

„So what do you think?“
 
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