A wave of negative emotions crashes over me like a relentless storm—sadness, deep and profound, seeps into my core, weighing me down with its oppressive presence. Grief washes over me, a torrent of anguish threatening to drown my spirit. Hopelessness engulfs me, its suffocating grip squeezing the last remnants of optimism from my soul. Like a tsunami of sorrow, I am bashed against the shore of my own skull.
As the dark, consuming artifact engulfs me, I feel an immediate sense of despair creeping into every fiber of my being. Its tendrils wrap around my body, constricting me, merging with my essence in a disturbing fusion. Yet, the feelers from the Bloody Palm don't seem to be directly antagonistic. They are harsh, negative, and awful, but I can't help but feel that is merely its nature. It doesn't mean to throw it at me.
Within this consuming darkness, I am thrust into a haunting journey through the artifact's past. Dim fragments of who it was are revealed to me. Yet, the dimness starts with a bit of light as I take over the artifact's original form's eyes.
A young man rocks upon the wood of a chair, the creaks of the furniture mimicking the echoing birds. Before my eyes lie a vast ranch, fields of wheat as far as I can see in the distance, but that's not where the Bloody Palm's focus lies. Instead, it is on the woman beside him in a rocking chair of her own, a babe resting upon her shoulder.
The woman is at most in her early twenties, her face youthful and bliss as she addresses me, my mind slowing joining the memory.
"Did you see Spot today, Cassidy? It's been real quiet. I wonder where the little bugger ran off to."
The Blo--I shake off her worry as everything brightens, the colors gaining saturation as the woman, Josephine glows with a beautiful radiance.
"Nah, not today. He's probably out playing with the sheep or cattle. You know he likes to sleep with them at night to ensure their safety, too."
Josephine nods, continuing to rock our child, Pierce. Pierce Monroe. My son. I can't help but smile as I enjoy the fantastic weather. We're all up early, and Pierce isn't whining or crying. It's... bliss.
I close my eyes and allow the chair to roll me into a slight nap, but Josephine brings Spot up again as I fall asleep.
"You sure? I'm starting to worry. I haven't heard anything from our animals all morning. Not a rooster or a cow. I know we don't check on them for a while longer on Saturdays, but could you? For me?"
Sighing, I stand up from my looming nap. Then, I step over to Josephine and lay a quick peck on her forehead, my childhood sweetheart smiling from the touch. Her bright smile widens mine even further.
"Of course. Anything for you, dear. I'll be back in a few."
She thanks me, whispering as Pierce begins to wake. Saying sorry quickly and leaving her to deal with him, I step away, heading toward the cattle pen.
The cows and chickens aren't too far from the house, and I hastily approach them, but as I do, it seems off. All of it. It's dead silent, and I don't even hear the slight movement of any of our cattle.
My heart skips a beat as I drive myself forward, my arms pumping by my side as I run with all my speed. The morning sun follows me as I get close enough to get a look at the pin atop the hill beside the house, and I almost falter as I reach the top.
All I see is red. Red liquid. Red solids. Red fences. Red building. Nothing is left besides red. I stumble forward; my mind cannot comprehend anything as I reflexively call for Spot.
"Spot! Boy! It's morn'!"
Nothing meets my yell, so I follow it up with a whistle. Nothing follows that, either. With shaky steps, I push forward, pulling open the red fence of the pin as I step inside, a squelch at my foot.
My eyes widen as I look down, a crushed head with multi-colored dog fur surrounding the eyeball that splatters under my boot. Bile rises within my chest as I freeze.
"Spot?"
Again, I get no reply, only the noiseless pen. I shakily move my vision toward the nearby chicken pen, only to find a similar red that covers it all.
It's all red.
My breath hitches as I back up, tumbling, throwing my arms, and fumbling to get myself over the fence as I run back to the house. I scream for Josephine as I run, hoping that whatever happened is isolated to the pens.
"JOSEPHINE!"
Nothing, even as I approach the house. No one is on the porch, either. Again, I try, praying for any God that is still benevolent that she was simply hungry or had to feed Pierce inside.
"JOSEPHINE!"
No reply, my feet pounding against the wood of our porch, leaping over steps to get inside, skipping the empty chairs. But as I force open the door, I meet resistance, something inside preventing my entry.
"JOSEPHINE!"
Bile continues to rise, my stomach aching for release as my vision swims, but I hold for Josephine. She must be scared. She needs me. Pierce needs me. So, I wrench open the door, slamming my meaty shoulder into it. Yet, it still doesn't open.
Panicking, I try again. And again. And again.
Finally, by the fourth try, the door opens, but not without a similar squelch. Trembling, almost unwilling, I peek down as I burst inside, only to see a string of intestines ripped apart by the opening of the door and smashed against the wall.
I release the bile, my stomach hurling its contents as I see Josephine's body in more segments than the many bricks I used to build our house.
My wife lies lifeless before me, her body brutally torn asunder, a grotesque floor of shattered flesh and bone. The once vibrant and loving woman who shared my childhood, adolescence, and adulthood is now reduced to gore. My mind reels, unable to comprehend the unfathomable cruelty. Yet beneath that, beneath the shakes, I remember our vows.
I promised her to take care of Pierce, our marriage happening after she was well through her pregnancy.
Despite the grisly scene, Pierce is nowhere to be found. Panic surges through my veins, my thoughts racing in a desperate frenzy. The echoes of my desperate cries mingle with the suffocating silence hanging heavy in the air. Where is my baby? Is my child safe, hidden from this unknown monster? Where are the Hunters? How could they---
"PIERCE!"
I scream, knowing the eight-month-old cannot reply. Where is he? Who took him? W-what took him?
Driven by a potent mix of fear and determination, I push forward through the blood-stained corridors of my home. The red only continues. The red suffuses each portion of the walls I painted. Each step feels weighted with the weight of my anguish as blood squashes underfoot, the anticipation of what I may find clawing at my sanity.
I break through the doors, unwanting to waste time opening them, working from the downstairs rooms towards the upstairs, yet, I find nothing as I move, only more blood.
The house seems to mock me with its empty rooms, the walls silently witnessing the unspeakable tragedy. My movements become more frantic, fueled by a surge of adrenaline as I tear through the remnants of our once peaceful sanctuary. Furniture is overturned, and belongings are cast aside in my desperate quest to find a glimmer of hope. I slam my fist into a wall, the wooden interior cracking under my force as I ignore the searing pain. Only one place remains. The cellar. He has to be alive. He has to be.
As I continue my fevered search, heading outside toward the cellar, leaving in a way I don't have to see Josephine, my mind oscillates between terror and a flicker of hope that refuses to be extinguished. I dare not entertain the darkest possibilities, clinging to the sliver of a chance that Pierce may still be alive. He has to be. If he's not... I--... I... he is. I trip over the stairs out of the house but recover with a scream.
"PIERCE!"
My voice cracks as I call out for Pierce, my pleas growing more desperate for every step toward the cellar, peaking when I lay my hand upon the metal handle. The silence that greets me as I touch it feels deafening. The weight of grief presses upon me, threatening to crush my spirit, but I refuse to yield. With a force of effort, I yank open the door to the cellar, the clamorous squeak breaking the fragile silence.
With trepidation clawing at my insides, I descend the creaking wooden stairs that lead into the dimly lit abyss of the cellar. The air sinks with the must and decay that forms around me, casting a suffocating shroud over my senses. I rely solely on the feeble rays of dawn that trickle through the forcibly opened door, casting elongated shadows across the stone floor.
As I step further into the cellar's depths, my eyes strain to pierce through the murky darkness that envelops the space. The sound of my own heartbeat echoes in my ears, an unwelcome reminder of my mounting unease. It feels like cotton is in my eardrums, preventing any sound but my heartbeat, as that is all I hear. My gaze sweeps across the disarrayed shelves, stacks of forgotten belongings, and worn-out tools lurking within the obscurity.
And then, my gaze falls upon a figure huddled in the farthest corner of the cellar, partially concealed by the gloom. My heart leaps in my chest, a glimmer of hope reigniting within me. But as I approach, a chill runs down my spine, a primal instinct warning me of imminent danger.
There it hounds, a grotesque abomination, defying the boundaries of nature. Its size rivals that of a wolf, its body contorted with twisted limbs. A beak akin to that of an eagle juts out from its hideous visage, while a sinewy tail and razor-sharp claws resemble those of a rat. Its presence exudes malevolence, its mouth gnawing on a string of muscle, a puddle of blood beneath him.
Fear intertwines with concern as my eyes search desperately for any trace of my child amidst the monstrous form before me. My voice quivers as I call out their name, my plea lost in the heavy silence that permeates the air.
"Pierce..."
The creature's hollow gaze remains fixed upon me, its intentions shrouded for a moment before its beak widens, the mouth working unlike a bird's as it stretches and elongates, grim laughter bouncing off the walls.
"Tasty."
For a short moment, all I see is red. My hand moves instinctively for the knife at my hip. A deep, burning red that encapsulates it all. A rage, one so deep and furious, comes forth with a hideous scream that I thought impossible to my lungs. It contains no words. Just...
Violence.
*************************
For a moment, I regain my individuality from the memory, and my vision cuts forward in time, another scene replacing that one as I slowly return to myself. I don't get to see what happened with that beast-monster-thing, but I do know that Cassidy killed it, earning him a crippled arm. Straining, I force myself to stay separate from Cassidy. I can't imagine it would be good to become too immersed in such a thing.
Cassidy, the man who was the Bloody Palm before he died and his Sigil was corrupted, sits silently at a bonfire as throes of men and women dance around him in a drunken stupor. He ignores the depravity as his ruined arm, only capable of holding light things, bears a portrait of Josephine from when they were young.
The man's eyes, my eyes, never leave the portrait, even as a lady sits beside Cassidy. She calls out to him with worry, but he reacts with fury, hiding the paper. His non-ruined arm, his right, latches onto the Colt at his hip, drawing it as the party pauses.
"Leave me alone."
The woman gasps as she steps back, a drunk man telling her off.
"Cassidy don't like no women. Pre'y sure he don't like no one. Don't take it personal."
Cassidy simply scoffs as he stands, his gun rising toward the man. The predecessor of the Bloody Palm slams the trigger before even speaking.
"Indeed. And this is nothing personal. Just a job. Need me some coin."
Screams ring out as Cassidy begins a dance of death, dozens of regular men, 1st, and 2nd Sigileds fighting against him, a 4th Sigiled. He mows through them, his blood bursting from his ruined arm to defend himself as he proceeds with deadly celerity. The man joined them for over a month, taking the time to make them used to him before killing them for his bounty.
Sixty seconds later, blood pools at his feet as he staggers, taking an eye from each person he killed before stumbling off into the trees.
************************
Cassidy sits at a table, chains wrapped around his wrists, as a burly man with a thick beard speaks to him. Yet, Cassidy's eyes don't leave the granular wood.
"You either fight as a Deadman for the Deweys or die. Simple as that. You killed one of them, after all. No other way about it. You had to of known how this would end."
The widow speaks simply, nodding along.
"Mhmm. Whatever. They got Josephine killed, Darrel. They got Pierce... I had to."
The Sigiled opposite him shakes his head with a sigh.
"You know that's not true. And... even if it was, which, of course, I'm not saying it is, there's no point fighting them. You're but a man, Cassidy."
Cassidy's reply is simple, succinct, and filled with the same darkness I see within the Bloody Palm daily.
"For now. But they will pay."
*******************************
A battle rages, bullets flying everywhere as two lines of carriages meet, each adorned with a different banner of an Estate—the Deweys versus the Grimes vying for trade rights and supplies.
Cassidy steps off the wagon he's set to guard. While all the men under him, a 4th Sigiled, focus on the Grimes, Cassidy's eyes refuse to budge from the tall man ten feet from him. An ornately dressed young man barks out orders to the rest of the Deadmen as they rush to battle the Grimes.
"Go! You won't be paid unless you fight well! And if you don't fight, I'll kill you!"
Cassidy Monroe cares little for the orders as he carefully moves toward the commanding Grimes, an emblem on his vambrace. Undetected, he shambles, shifting from cart to cart as he cloaks himself with the effect of some artifact he carries on him, ignoring the negative repercussions of it. Pain tears through his form as they artifact turns him transluscent, but to Cassidy? He's already a dead man. Pain doesn't matter to him.
He is silent until he gets just behind the Grimes, lifting his Colt to the back of the head. Yet, the man doesn't speak or gloat. Cassidy simply pulls the trigger before slinking away in the heat of battle, deadset on killing more.
But the moment after he pulls the trigger and the Grimes' scion falls limply to the ground, his body is wracked with pain, throwing him to the ground. Cassidy grits his teeth and tries to stand but can't. The pain is simply too much in his head for him to move as subordinates from the man he killed rush for him.
Without hesitation, Cassidy bites the flesh of his non-ruined right hand and forces his Claymore into his left hand, the flesh violently bending under his Ether to hold the blade. And then, he stabs the blade of his Claymore into his right arm, the pain biting through the agony of whatever curse placed upon him by the Grimes' highest Occultist.
But it's not enough, and the men are close. So, he goes further, ripping off his right arm as he finally darts away. As he moves, his ruined left arm slams against a wall from his abrupt movement, yet no pain is felt, the ruined limb unfeeling and useless without Ether.
*****************
Days pass as Cassidy is constantly in pain, chased, and weakened by blood loss. All the while, he curses the Grimes for ignoring their duties, allowing a powerful Enfield to make it into a safe portion of Qune. They knew it had entered, but instead of killing it, they allowed it to roam, figuring it would save time and effort to let it go on a rampage to the common folk.
More time passes, shadows skipping past him as throngs of Deadmen come to claim the bounty from their betrayer. Cursing, Cassidy finally stands his ground, fighting one last time as he attempts to kill as many as possible. He screams, the yell inundating the entire forest he uses as his escape and final stand. The scream contains no words, yet this time, it is not a simple shout.
It contains love, sorrow, joy, sadness, hope, hate, serenity, fury, and...
Violence.
Cassidy tears into the many men who have come after him, slaying dozens and wounding dozens more in his last moments. Yet, the man dies quickly, a swift dagger to the throat ripping off half his neck. Life exits him just as fast, even as his desire for life, for more blood, for more killing, is not yet satiated. As Cassidy falls, he reaches out with his ruined hand, grasping for those who left him behind.
***********************
My mind swims as I reappear at the ranch, the cheerful sight of Josephine returning to me. I get devoured into it once more, the emotions overpowering mine as I slowly relive more and more of Cassidy's life with every consecutive relay of it.
But, I hold on. I know the purpose of this. The artifact is trying to make us become one. It wants me to join it, to become Cassidy.
But I refuse.
We are our own people, Cassidy. And if you ever regain your sanity somehow, the artifact past your death reaching the Angelic Realm of Arca, I will finish your goal if that's how it works, of course. You have done enough for me at this point. And... the Grimes deserve death. All the Estates do. I have yet to hear a single positive from them, besides the fact that the Prime comes from the Harveys.
So, I push back against the emotions, leveraging my exhausted mind as I ignore the happenings in these memories, clawing for air and reality. I close my eyes, reach, cleave, and reave with my mind, imagining everything breaking around me and delivering me unto the Pit as a Daydream fulfills my want. And so, I do.
Yet, what I find before my pupils is not what I expect, my body controlled by another far hungrier for death than I.
A wave of negative emotions crashes over me like a relentless storm—sadness, deep and profound, seeps into my core, weighing me down with its oppressive presence. Grief washes over me, a torrent of anguish threatening to drown my spirit. Hopelessness engulfs me, its suffocating grip squeezing the last remnants of optimism from my soul. Like a tsunami of sorrow, I am bashed against the shore of my own skull.
As the dark, consuming artifact engulfs me, I feel an immediate sense of despair creeping into every fiber of my being. Its tendrils wrap around my body, constricting me, merging with my essence in a disturbing fusion. Yet, the feelers from the Bloody Palm don't seem to be directly antagonistic. They are harsh, negative, and awful, but I can't help but feel that is merely its nature. It doesn't mean to throw it at me.
Within this consuming darkness, I am thrust into a haunting journey through the artifact's past. Dim fragments of who it was are revealed to me. Yet, the dimness starts with a bit of light as I take over the artifact's original form's eyes.
A young man rocks upon the wood of a chair, the creaks of the furniture mimicking the echoing birds. Before my eyes lie a vast ranch, fields of wheat as far as I can see in the distance, but that's not where the Bloody Palm's focus lies. Instead, it is on the woman beside him in a rocking chair of her own, a babe resting upon her shoulder.
The woman is at most in her early twenties, her face youthful and bliss as she addresses me, my mind slowing joining the memory.
"Did you see Spot today, Cassidy? It's been real quiet. I wonder where the little bugger ran off to."
The Blo--I shake off her worry as everything brightens, the colors gaining saturation as the woman, Josephine glows with a beautiful radiance.
"Nah, not today. He's probably out playing with the sheep or cattle. You know he likes to sleep with them at night to ensure their safety, too."
Josephine nods, continuing to rock our child, Pierce. Pierce Monroe. My son. I can't help but smile as I enjoy the fantastic weather. We're all up early, and Pierce isn't whining or crying. It's... bliss.
I close my eyes and allow the chair to roll me into a slight nap, but Josephine brings Spot up again as I fall asleep.
"You sure? I'm starting to worry. I haven't heard anything from our animals all morning. Not a rooster or a cow. I know we don't check on them for a while longer on Saturdays, but could you? For me?"
Sighing, I stand up from my looming nap. Then, I step over to Josephine and lay a quick peck on her forehead, my childhood sweetheart smiling from the touch. Her bright smile widens mine even further.
"Of course. Anything for you, dear. I'll be back in a few."
She thanks me, whispering as Pierce begins to wake. Saying sorry quickly and leaving her to deal with him, I step away, heading toward the cattle pen.
The cows and chickens aren't too far from the house, and I hastily approach them, but as I do, it seems off. All of it. It's dead silent, and I don't even hear the slight movement of any of our cattle.
My heart skips a beat as I drive myself forward, my arms pumping by my side as I run with all my speed. The morning sun follows me as I get close enough to get a look at the pin atop the hill beside the house, and I almost falter as I reach the top.
All I see is red. Red liquid. Red solids. Red fences. Red building. Nothing is left besides red. I stumble forward; my mind cannot comprehend anything as I reflexively call for Spot.
"Spot! Boy! It's morn'!"
Nothing meets my yell, so I follow it up with a whistle. Nothing follows that, either. With shaky steps, I push forward, pulling open the red fence of the pin as I step inside, a squelch at my foot.
My eyes widen as I look down, a crushed head with multi-colored dog fur surrounding the eyeball that splatters under my boot. Bile rises within my chest as I freeze.
"Spot?"
Again, I get no reply, only the noiseless pen. I shakily move my vision toward the nearby chicken pen, only to find a similar red that covers it all.
It's all red.
My breath hitches as I back up, tumbling, throwing my arms, and fumbling to get myself over the fence as I run back to the house. I scream for Josephine as I run, hoping that whatever happened is isolated to the pens.
"JOSEPHINE!"
Nothing, even as I approach the house. No one is on the porch, either. Again, I try, praying for any God that is still benevolent that she was simply hungry or had to feed Pierce inside.
"JOSEPHINE!"
No reply, my feet pounding against the wood of our porch, leaping over steps to get inside, skipping the empty chairs. But as I force open the door, I meet resistance, something inside preventing my entry.
"JOSEPHINE!"
Bile continues to rise, my stomach aching for release as my vision swims, but I hold for Josephine. She must be scared. She needs me. Pierce needs me. So, I wrench open the door, slamming my meaty shoulder into it. Yet, it still doesn't open.
Panicking, I try again. And again. And again.
Finally, by the fourth try, the door opens, but not without a similar squelch. Trembling, almost unwilling, I peek down as I burst inside, only to see a string of intestines ripped apart by the opening of the door and smashed against the wall.
I release the bile, my stomach hurling its contents as I see Josephine's body in more segments than the many bricks I used to build our house.
My wife lies lifeless before me, her body brutally torn asunder, a grotesque floor of shattered flesh and bone. The once vibrant and loving woman who shared my childhood, adolescence, and adulthood is now reduced to gore. My mind reels, unable to comprehend the unfathomable cruelty. Yet beneath that, beneath the shakes, I remember our vows.
I promised her to take care of Pierce, our marriage happening after she was well through her pregnancy.
Despite the grisly scene, Pierce is nowhere to be found. Panic surges through my veins, my thoughts racing in a desperate frenzy. The echoes of my desperate cries mingle with the suffocating silence hanging heavy in the air. Where is my baby? Is my child safe, hidden from this unknown monster? Where are the Hunters? How could they---
"PIERCE!"
I scream, knowing the eight-month-old cannot reply. Where is he? Who took him? W-what took him?
Driven by a potent mix of fear and determination, I push forward through the blood-stained corridors of my home. The red only continues. The red suffuses each portion of the walls I painted. Each step feels weighted with the weight of my anguish as blood squashes underfoot, the anticipation of what I may find clawing at my sanity.
I break through the doors, unwanting to waste time opening them, working from the downstairs rooms towards the upstairs, yet, I find nothing as I move, only more blood.
The house seems to mock me with its empty rooms, the walls silently witnessing the unspeakable tragedy. My movements become more frantic, fueled by a surge of adrenaline as I tear through the remnants of our once peaceful sanctuary. Furniture is overturned, and belongings are cast aside in my desperate quest to find a glimmer of hope. I slam my fist into a wall, the wooden interior cracking under my force as I ignore the searing pain. Only one place remains. The cellar. He has to be alive. He has to be.
As I continue my fevered search, heading outside toward the cellar, leaving in a way I don't have to see Josephine, my mind oscillates between terror and a flicker of hope that refuses to be extinguished. I dare not entertain the darkest possibilities, clinging to the sliver of a chance that Pierce may still be alive. He has to be. If he's not... I--... I... he is. I trip over the stairs out of the house but recover with a scream.
"PIERCE!"
My voice cracks as I call out for Pierce, my pleas growing more desperate for every step toward the cellar, peaking when I lay my hand upon the metal handle. The silence that greets me as I touch it feels deafening. The weight of grief presses upon me, threatening to crush my spirit, but I refuse to yield. With a force of effort, I yank open the door to the cellar, the clamorous squeak breaking the fragile silence.
With trepidation clawing at my insides, I descend the creaking wooden stairs that lead into the dimly lit abyss of the cellar. The air sinks with the must and decay that forms around me, casting a suffocating shroud over my senses. I rely solely on the feeble rays of dawn that trickle through the forcibly opened door, casting elongated shadows across the stone floor.
As I step further into the cellar's depths, my eyes strain to pierce through the murky darkness that envelops the space. The sound of my own heartbeat echoes in my ears, an unwelcome reminder of my mounting unease. It feels like cotton is in my eardrums, preventing any sound but my heartbeat, as that is all I hear. My gaze sweeps across the disarrayed shelves, stacks of forgotten belongings, and worn-out tools lurking within the obscurity.
And then, my gaze falls upon a figure huddled in the farthest corner of the cellar, partially concealed by the gloom. My heart leaps in my chest, a glimmer of hope reigniting within me. But as I approach, a chill runs down my spine, a primal instinct warning me of imminent danger.
There it hounds, a grotesque abomination, defying the boundaries of nature. Its size rivals that of a wolf, its body contorted with twisted limbs. A beak akin to that of an eagle juts out from its hideous visage, while a sinewy tail and razor-sharp claws resemble those of a rat. Its presence exudes malevolence, its mouth gnawing on a string of muscle, a puddle of blood beneath him.
Fear intertwines with concern as my eyes search desperately for any trace of my child amidst the monstrous form before me. My voice quivers as I call out their name, my plea lost in the heavy silence that permeates the air.
"Pierce..."
The creature's hollow gaze remains fixed upon me, its intentions shrouded for a moment before its beak widens, the mouth working unlike a bird's as it stretches and elongates, grim laughter bouncing off the walls.
"Tasty."
For a short moment, all I see is red. My hand moves instinctively for the knife at my hip. A deep, burning red that encapsulates it all. A rage, one so deep and furious, comes forth with a hideous scream that I thought impossible to my lungs. It contains no words. Just...
Violence.
*************************
For a moment, I regain my individuality from the memory, and my vision cuts forward in time, another scene replacing that one as I slowly return to myself. I don't get to see what happened with that beast-monster-thing, but I do know that Cassidy killed it, earning him a crippled arm. Straining, I force myself to stay separate from Cassidy. I can't imagine it would be good to become too immersed in such a thing.
Cassidy, the man who was the Bloody Palm before he died and his Sigil was corrupted, sits silently at a bonfire as throes of men and women dance around him in a drunken stupor. He ignores the depravity as his ruined arm, only capable of holding light things, bears a portrait of Josephine from when they were young.
The man's eyes, my eyes, never leave the portrait, even as a lady sits beside Cassidy. She calls out to him with worry, but he reacts with fury, hiding the paper. His non-ruined arm, his right, latches onto the Colt at his hip, drawing it as the party pauses.
"Leave me alone."
The woman gasps as she steps back, a drunk man telling her off.
"Cassidy don't like no women. Pre'y sure he don't like no one. Don't take it personal."
Cassidy simply scoffs as he stands, his gun rising toward the man. The predecessor of the Bloody Palm slams the trigger before even speaking.
"Indeed. And this is nothing personal. Just a job. Need me some coin."
Screams ring out as Cassidy begins a dance of death, dozens of regular men, 1st, and 2nd Sigileds fighting against him, a 4th Sigiled. He mows through them, his blood bursting from his ruined arm to defend himself as he proceeds with deadly celerity. The man joined them for over a month, taking the time to make them used to him before killing them for his bounty.
Sixty seconds later, blood pools at his feet as he staggers, taking an eye from each person he killed before stumbling off into the trees.
************************
Cassidy sits at a table, chains wrapped around his wrists, as a burly man with a thick beard speaks to him. Yet, Cassidy's eyes don't leave the granular wood.
"You either fight as a Deadman for the Deweys or die. Simple as that. You killed one of them, after all. No other way about it. You had to of known how this would end."
The widow speaks simply, nodding along.
"Mhmm. Whatever. They got Josephine killed, Darrel. They got Pierce... I had to."
The Sigiled opposite him shakes his head with a sigh.
"You know that's not true. And... even if it was, which, of course, I'm not saying it is, there's no point fighting them. You're but a man, Cassidy."
Cassidy's reply is simple, succinct, and filled with the same darkness I see within the Bloody Palm daily.
"For now. But they will pay."
*******************************
A battle rages, bullets flying everywhere as two lines of carriages meet, each adorned with a different banner of an Estate—the Deweys versus the Grimes vying for trade rights and supplies.
Cassidy steps off the wagon he's set to guard. While all the men under him, a 4th Sigiled, focus on the Grimes, Cassidy's eyes refuse to budge from the tall man ten feet from him. An ornately dressed young man barks out orders to the rest of the Deadmen as they rush to battle the Grimes.
"Go! You won't be paid unless you fight well! And if you don't fight, I'll kill you!"
Cassidy Monroe cares little for the orders as he carefully moves toward the commanding Grimes, an emblem on his vambrace. Undetected, he shambles, shifting from cart to cart as he cloaks himself with the effect of some artifact he carries on him, ignoring the negative repercussions of it. Pain tears through his form as they artifact turns him transluscent, but to Cassidy? He's already a dead man. Pain doesn't matter to him.
He is silent until he gets just behind the Grimes, lifting his Colt to the back of the head. Yet, the man doesn't speak or gloat. Cassidy simply pulls the trigger before slinking away in the heat of battle, deadset on killing more.
But the moment after he pulls the trigger and the Grimes' scion falls limply to the ground, his body is wracked with pain, throwing him to the ground. Cassidy grits his teeth and tries to stand but can't. The pain is simply too much in his head for him to move as subordinates from the man he killed rush for him.
Without hesitation, Cassidy bites the flesh of his non-ruined right hand and forces his Claymore into his left hand, the flesh violently bending under his Ether to hold the blade. And then, he stabs the blade of his Claymore into his right arm, the pain biting through the agony of whatever curse placed upon him by the Grimes' highest Occultist.
But it's not enough, and the men are close. So, he goes further, ripping off his right arm as he finally darts away. As he moves, his ruined left arm slams against a wall from his abrupt movement, yet no pain is felt, the ruined limb unfeeling and useless without Ether.
*****************
Days pass as Cassidy is constantly in pain, chased, and weakened by blood loss. All the while, he curses the Grimes for ignoring their duties, allowing a powerful Enfield to make it into a safe portion of Qune. They knew it had entered, but instead of killing it, they allowed it to roam, figuring it would save time and effort to let it go on a rampage to the common folk.
More time passes, shadows skipping past him as throngs of Deadmen come to claim the bounty from their betrayer. Cursing, Cassidy finally stands his ground, fighting one last time as he attempts to kill as many as possible. He screams, the yell inundating the entire forest he uses as his escape and final stand. The scream contains no words, yet this time, it is not a simple shout.
It contains love, sorrow, joy, sadness, hope, hate, serenity, fury, and...
Violence.
Cassidy tears into the many men who have come after him, slaying dozens and wounding dozens more in his last moments. Yet, the man dies quickly, a swift dagger to the throat ripping off half his neck. Life exits him just as fast, even as his desire for life, for more blood, for more killing, is not yet satiated. As Cassidy falls, he reaches out with his ruined hand, grasping for those who left him behind.
***********************
My mind swims as I reappear at the ranch, the cheerful sight of Josephine returning to me. I get devoured into it once more, the emotions overpowering mine as I slowly relive more and more of Cassidy's life with every consecutive relay of it.
But, I hold on. I know the purpose of this. The artifact is trying to make us become one. It wants me to join it, to become Cassidy.
But I refuse.
We are our own people, Cassidy. And if you ever regain your sanity somehow, the artifact past your death reaching the Angelic Realm of Arca, I will finish your goal if that's how it works, of course. You have done enough for me at this point. And... the Grimes deserve death. All the Estates do. I have yet to hear a single positive from them, besides the fact that the Prime comes from the Harveys.
So, I push back against the emotions, leveraging my exhausted mind as I ignore the happenings in these memories, clawing for air and reality. I close my eyes, reach, cleave, and reave with my mind, imagining everything breaking around me and delivering me unto the Pit as a Daydream fulfills my want. And so, I do.
Yet, what I find before my pupils is not what I expect, my body controlled by another far hungrier for death than I.
