Mr. Henderson thumped through the muddy terrain, frowning in disgust each time his cane left the ground with an audible squelch. Dirt and blood, swirling in a bilious mix of foul smelling muck. It struck him as terribly unhygienic.

Muttering to himself about sanitary conditions, he approached the prone figure slowly sinking into the ground. He stared at the spear protruding from the man's rib cage, his long coat spread like limp wings beneath him, a mud speckled moth pinned on display. The scoured carvings along the shaft were unmistakable. It was a ceremonial weapon of the Blood Empire. They'd left it as a message. He shook his head at the nerve of those craven upstarts. Ruddy sadists probably threw first and asked questions later.

The pall of death left the body's features waxy, the flesh blue and bruised looking at the corners of the mouth and round the eyes. Mr. Henderson clapped his hands on top of his cane, and shook his head at the body of Macklemore Edgewise.

"Fine mess you got yourself into this time lad," he muttered. He left his cane free standing in the mud as he heaved himself forward, bracing one foot on Mack's chest as he grasped the spear with both gnarled hands and pulled. The spear remained stuck fast. Mr. Henderson frowned down at it. "Bloody heathens, they really don't like you." He spat into his palms, squatting to put his back in it as he gave the spear another firm yank.

Like Excalibur from the stone, it slid from between Mack's ribs with a loud wet 'snick'. Mr. Henderson stumbled backwards, planting the bloodied spear in the ground to regain his balance. Once he managed to stabilize himself, he dropped it with a grunt of disgust. He whipped the handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his hands, griping at the rusted grime staining his fingers.

Mack's body remained still, quietly spoiling amid the dripping trees. It was time to wait.

Shuffling back to his cane, the old man leaned on it as he observed the rather depressing scenery. It was dark and chilly. The damp made his joints stiff. Mr Henderson rocked on his heels, grumbling. He could be watching Jeopardy right now with a hot cup of oolong. He scowled down at the body and thwacked his cane against the side of Mack's head, adding another rusty streak of mud across the man's temple.

"Enough lollygagging. I don't have all day."

Mack's eyes snapped open. He inhaled a rattling breath of air. Not a moment later, he rolled over, prying his body from the sucking mud as he coughed and retched up the dark fluid that had pooled in his lungs. Mr. Henderson fished in his bottomless coat pockets, producing a bottle of water and a pocket of wet naps as Mack flopped onto his back, the ground squelching and belching beneath him. With a grateful grunt, he swiped the offered water and guzzled it down, the water bottle crinkling like a gun shot in the silence of the dripping wood. Mack drained the bottle in seconds, panting as he lay there. Eventually he squinted up at the impatiently patient Mr. Henderson, the slow crawl of recognition evident in his exhausted face.

"Why, in the endless realms, are you here old man?"

Mr. Henderson snorted. "Old man, that's rich."

Mack gave a halfhearted shrug, his gaze falling on the other package in the man's wrinkled hands. "Wet naps?"

"You may not be aware of this, as you've been dead for a while, but you are a right bit of a mess," said Mr. Henderson, tossing the package on Mack's ruined chest.

Mack rose to a sitting position, wincing at the soreness in his torso and the wet smack of the muck releasing him. He wailed when he noticed the state of his coat. "I just had this laundered." He yanked a handful of damp white squares from the package and furiously scrubbed the back of his neck and head. "Gah, I hate this place." What he wouldn't give for a shower right now. He shuddered, scraping at the coating of mud on his arms.

Mr. Henderson tugged on his beard, giving the man a moment to gain his bearings. He hobbled around, surveying their surrounding. Not far from their position, the ground was greatly disturbed, stamped by dozens of overlapping boot prints that spiraled out to a still smoking pile of ash. He made his way over with a frown and used his cane to poke at the burnt mass. A charred bit broke free, rolling to a stop at his feet, a clawed hand curling towards the heavens.

"Wolven? Here?" Mr. Henderson clucked his tongue against his teeth and struggled back through the muck to the groggy Mack. He smacked his cane against the man's shin, leaving another streak of filth that made Mack throw up his hands.

"What, what do you want from me?"

Mr. Henderson growled and gave his leg another smack. "Quit belly aching. Time to remember, you big sod. Why were you here?"

"Huh? Why was I–" Mack groaned, rubbing his face to leave reddish brown streaks like fresh clay across his cheeks. He shook himself and loosened his shoulders. Eventually his meandering gaze found the smoldering pile of bodies. He frowned at the crispy Wolven hand, the gears of his mealy mind creaked as they turned.

"Why was I here?"

Mr. Henderson spat a sizable wad of phlegm into the muck, prodding Mack's boot. "Well, obviously it has something to do with this pile of burned Wolven. Odd, though, the Blood Empire usually doesn't dispose of the bodies of it's foes, specially when they win. They are terribly fond of their little displays. Wonder why they destroyed this lot–"

Mack bolted to his feet, spewing a vile streak of curses that made the old man's ears blush. He stomped toward the doorway between realms, competing with the foul air with a level of language Mr. Henderson hadn't heard since his service years. He scooped up the bloody spear as he passed, his knuckles white as he carried it..

"I take it you remember," the old man said, following at a respectful distance, mostly to avoid the trailing run off of bloody mud flying off Mack's coat tails. "Where you, off to lad?"

Mack snarled over his shoulder, kicking the door between realms open with his mud coated boot. "I have to retrieve my wench."

Eugene leaned over the bar and nabbed the bottle of aged blood whiskey Mac stashed for his Sanguinheim clientele. It had been a full tumbler sort of day, he mused, topping his glass with the dark red liquid as he slid into his usual seat at the bar. He left the bottle, uncorked, by his glass. Long, ingrained instincts told him this might be a two drink minimum day.

He sighed and tipped back his glass, draining it in one go. The alcohol burned all the way down while the blood zinged through his fingertips. The room wasn't spinning. He poured himself another drink, frowning that Calponia wasn't poking her nose into his business, admonishing him to slow down. As if this would kill him.

Eugene looked up in surprise as Cesario slid two seats down from him, the closest the little transvestite dared sit.

He clucked his tongue against his fangs. "Feeling ballsy tonight?"

Cesario made a face at him, yanking on the lace at her wrists. "Har har. Have you seen Mack? There's something I need to discuss with him."

"No, though I'm surprised Calponia's not here," said Eugene, taking a sip from his glass. The tavern door slammed open. A spear whistled through the air. It breezed between the two patrons, inches from the vampire's face. Cesario fell back with a yelp. Eugene continued to savor his damn drink. The spear embedded itself into the back of the bar wall, miraculously missing every bottle. He frowned at the quivering shaft. A Sanguinheim spear? The idiots knew better than to start something here–

"Those ruddy Blood Empire bastards have my wench," Mack roared from the doorway.

The blood whiskey spewed from Eugene's lips, dousing the bewildered Cesario in a fine red mist.

The rafters creaked overhead, raining dust. "I know, I know, I'm working on it!" Mack shouted to the ceiling as he stomped across the floor.

Cesario gave a soft shrill whine of disgust, blood dripping from her face. Eugene winced. "Oh, I'm so sorry," he started, interrupted by Mack hoisting him off his stool. He raised a brow. The Edgewise proprietor was surprisingly strong for a man but Eugene hated being 'handled'. "Your stretching my shirt." His eyes flashed a brilliant shade of scarlet. Mack shook him like a terrier with a prize rat.

"You knock that right off, you poppy eyed asshole," he sneered. "Are you sober enough to help me or not?"

Eugene's eyes narrowed as he uncurled the man's fingers, unsettled by the knowledge Mack let him, but only just. "What makes you think I have that sort of pull, Mack?" His nostrils flared, his discomfort rising another level at the scent of death that clung to the barman. Mack's lips pressed to a firm white line as he flicked the insignia on Eugene's uniform.

"I don't ask questions lad, but I know rank when I see it," said Mack. The vampire cursed. He didn't wear the uniform to the tavern often, but trust the barman to notice. He stepped closer, invading Eugene's personal space. "Now are you going to help me retrieve Calponia or not?" Damn Mack, he didn't miss the flare of red in the vampire's eyes at the mention of her name. He eased back with a smug grin as an ancient human waddled up to the bar behind him.

The old man sniffed at the bottle of blood whiskey. "Egads, Macklemore, don't you have real whiskey in this establishment?" His whiskered face swung around, blinking at the blood drenched Cesario. "My dear, did you murder someone?" He handed her a spare white cloth from one of his numerous pockets. "I don't suppose they serve tea here eh? Wouldn't mind a spot of Earl Grey."

Mack rolled his eyes. "For the love..." he inhaled for patience. "You know where the bloody kitchen is, old man."

Cesario paused in wiping the blood off her face. "We have a kitchen?"

"Ah excellent, good, try to be back for supper would you. That girl never eats enough," said the old man, toddling off toward a nondescript door the vampire never noticed before. "And do be sure to not to leave any of her blood behind. Wouldn't want an inter-dimensional crisis on our hands." He called over his shoulder, shuffling through the kitchen doors. "Cooo, she made stew!"

The mention of Calponia's blood made the vampire's stomach pinch.

Cesario blinked. "What just happened?"

"Nothing we want to think about for too long," muttered Mack, nodding to the vampire. "You wouldn't happen to know why your men would cover up a Wolven incursion?"

Eugene's lips parted. The lingering fuzziness of the blood whiskey vanished as cold clarity swept through him. "They did what?"

Mack pursed his lips. "I thought so. That's almost as interesting as how those hairy buggers got there in the first place. We shall discuss it on the way. Munch!" Mack shouted, startling the little man from his sleep. The Munch snorted, peering at them blearily. "I need to borrow your gun," said Mack.

The Munch burbled something back at him that sounded like "Wutfer"

"A bunch of ruddy vampires took Calponia. They need to eat some teeth."

The Munch's beady eyes grew wide for a moment. He slammed his gun on the table.

Mack grabbed it, openly surprised. "Thought you'd argue more."

The Munch mumbled some more. Eugene only caught the word 'peaches' despite his superior hearing. Mack nodded, mildly impressed.

"Let's get this over with vampire," said Mack, slinging the bone rifle over one board shoulder.

Eugene sighed, giving the bottle of blood whiskey one last mournful glance.

"There's something I should tell you before we enter the fray, as it were," said the vampire, waiting until they were in the outer fog, well away from the Tavern's prying ears. "My name's not really Eugene."

Mack snorted. "Thank the realms. Always thought it was a bloody awful name for a vampire. So, what's your real name? Can't be much worse."

The vampire hesitated. 

Mack's eyes widened. "Can it?"