The Priest had little interest in Drismal. He was sure the sorcerer had already fled, that he had perhaps hidden in some obscure alley or building unknown to The Priest and dipped out of the town on his swift feet.
He could almost feel the sorcerer’s presence in his bones; the vile, viscous sensation of crawling chaos and looming doom. But, he no longer felt the sorcerer was there.
The sun had nearly set. The Priest had scouted out an inn at the edge of town. He decided he’d stay there once he was finished with what new thing had taken his intrigue and run: the warehouse. He was sure if the sorcerer were to make a quick recovery that he’d take shelter within the confines of its stone walls.
Past Drismal, what had to be a mile to the north by The Priest’s estimates, he spotted a vague cubic shape. He had asked a passerby what it might be, to which they answered, “That’s the warehouse,” before continuing to pass by, indifferent to The Priest.
After speaking to The Justice Officer, much of The Priest’s time was spent walking around town asking others what the warehouse was. Eventually, he encountered a man wearing a hat with a wide brim and holy texts in the side of his jacket.
“Are you faithful?” Asked The Priest.
“To whom?” Asked the stranger.
“Wistraff. The Beholder.”
“I’ve prayed a little in my life. Been to my fair share of churches. Donated when I could here and there. What of it?”
“Could you take me to the warehouse?” Asked The Priest.
“Ten yungos and I’ll take you anywhere in a ten mile radius. Work’s been dry out here lately.”
“Could it be five?”
“Now why would I cut the cost in half?”
“I’ve been tasked with going on a pilgrimage to the capital of Briam. It’s quite far, and I need to save whatever I can.”
“Very well. Joran is definitely far. But, only because you’re a holy man. I like holy men. They say when one walks into your town, they bless it with good fortune. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get my fortune after driving you.”
“I hope you do,” said The Priest as they left.
The stranger drove a small brown car that was beaten up in the back and bleached of its color in the front. The passenger windows on the right were cracked with the driver side window on the left being totally gone. The Priest sat just right to the man who put his keys into the car, turned, and revved it up for a few seconds. Its engine sputtered as the poor thing failed and failed again to start up. The man made a third attempt, this time with rage as he jammed the key into the ignition and twisted it clockwise. The car came to life.
“Yeah!” The stranger cheered. “Let’s ride.”
The drive was short and sweet, fortunately. The Priest fidgeted around a bit as he rode. He felt a strange stinging sensation the longer he rode with the stranger. Being close to another had always given him strange feelings. He knew not how to talk unless communication was required. Humanity was not a thing to be embraced by him. It was a bare necessity.
They arrived in front of the stone warehouse. The Priest glanced and guessed it was thrice the size of The Justice Officer’s building, only it had one room blocked off by a metal door with a handle. But, in front of the large metal door were three cars parked side by side. Three men were talking with each other. They all wore the hats of Briamist gentlemen—round and short-brimmed with bows wrapped around them as well as an air of refinement that matched The Justice Officer’s as well.
The Priest opened his car door, got out, and looked on at the building. He moved to look at its side, spotting a wooden door. When he tried to get closer to the building, one of the three men stopped him.
“You can’t go in there, mister,” the man said.
“Why not?” Asked The Priest.
“There’s a criminal in there. We’ve been chasing them all the way from Zett’yrii and routed them here. Now, we’re getting ready to raid this place. Just stand back and let us do our part, mister.”
“I’m a priest.”
“That’s very nice, mister, but we need to do our jo-”
“Could you move aside? I need to inspect this place.”
The man stared at The Priest with a funny and frustrated look on his face. “Did you not just hear me, mister? We are enforcing justice. You can come back later when we’re done.”
“You don’t understand,” The Priest said as he tried to walk past the man only to be blocked by the two others. He tried to push past them, but they shoved him. The Priest stumbled back and glared at the three men with eyes that were empty yet which could not contain but a fraction of The Priest’s wrath.
“Understand what? You’re the one not understanding a damn thing!” The third man hollered as the other joined in, laughing at The Priest.
The Priest took a step forward but the first man stared him straight in the eyes.
“What are you, addled? Git!”
The Priest was still for a few seconds before turning around and walking back towards the car of the stranger who was still waiting in the driver’s seat for The Priest to return.
“Sorry, man. I didn’t know there’d be justice officers out here today.”
The Priest passed the stranger much to his beguilement. He poked his head out the absent car window as he watched The Priest calmly meander over to the back of the car.
“You can sit in the front you know,” the stranger said.
The Priest ignored the stranger’s words. Anything he could say was irrelevant to The Priest at that moment, everything except that the men were justice officers, which The Priest could not disagree with to an extent greater than his displeasure with their uncooperativeness.
The trunk of the stranger’s car made a thunking noise as The Priest opened it. He reached in and took out his rifle, obscuring his hands and the rifle behind the car from both the stranger and the three men who were a dozen meters away at most. The rifle was a Babneux 33, the same one used by Briam infantrymen. He knew it held ten shots and recalled that he had already used up one during his pursuit of the sorcerer. He quickly slid back the bolt, inspecting the chamber to see if any bullets were terribly misplaced. The gun had its flaws, particularly in that it required the placement of the bullets within its chamber to be just right. The Priest adjusted a few of the bullets within, holding back the bolt with the support of his left hand’s pinky.
The Priest let the bolt slide back forward. He got onto one knee, taking aim. He centered in on the chest of the man farthest to the left of the three and fired. There were a few seconds of silence before the first sound was made—the man falling lifeless to the ground—and then the scrambling of the third while the second haphazardly yanked his pistol from his belt. The second man was too late. The Priest had already placed his shot well, sending him down just like the first. The Priest got up and walked over to the front of the car, looking into the driver’s seat. Sitting in terror with his hands in the air was the stranger.
“Please, please! Don’t shoot me!” The stranger pleaded.
The Priest raised his rifle. The stranger flinched. Instead of firing into the car, The Priest aimed over its hood. The third man tried to leg it out, but The Priest shot him in the back all the same. Two-hundred fifty yards gave The Priest no trouble. He was well-versed in firearms and at a young age had already developed a taste for spilling blood with his Babneux 33. Its effective range was around five-hundred yards, but The Priest could easily aim and accurately fire upon a target near twice that distance away, sending them tumbling down with the crack of his gunshot.
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“Leave,” said The Priest to the stranger, who obliged The Priest’s command. The stranger started the car in just one turn of the key and picked up speed, heading back to Drismal.
The Priest reached into his pocket and retrieved four .30 caliber rounds from within. Only one round remained in his pocket after. He slid the bolt of the Babneux 33 back and swiftly, yet with grace and proper care, inserted the four rounds into the chamber and the cartridge loaded inside. Once he was done, he let the bolt slide back forward. The Priest reached down and took from the second man’s body his gun. It was a Klein 76, the same gun Drismal’s justice officer wielded. Its magazine could hold eight of what were commonly referred to as ‘deadshot’, bullets made to insert themselves into the armor of whoever they struck and then rapidly split apart, acting like a miniature grenade of sorts by impaling the target through and through with sharp metal fragments. He spun open the chamber of the gun. There were no shots loaded into it.
A gurgling sound interrupted The Priest’s further inspection of the firearm. The Priest turned around to see the first man on the ground. He moved and breathed slowly. A constant stream of blood pooled out from the side of his mouth and torso where he’d been shot.
“Why. . .?” The man asked.
“Do you have bullets?” Asked The Priest as he waved the Klein 76 in the air.
The man reached into his breast pocket. The sound of metal clanking against metal reverberated from the cloth pocket. Then, there was no sound. The man went fully limp against the ground. His eyes went unfocused, as if the world had placed him into a forever haze. He was under, never to see the light of day again, and The Priest knew this. He took the bullets from the man’s breast pocket, loaded them into the Klein 76 which he placed inside a hidden pocket within his long coat, and joined his hands together. He prayed for the man.
“O, thou art the holy one, thou art the one whose soul hath been taken by war. Thy soul’s integrity is assured. All little ones in the eyes of The Beholder, we are but one at the meridian of time. Hush now, and let your spirit be brought to salvation. Tell this tale of kindness, one to another, and guide those who could not be guided.”
The Priest closed the eyes of the man once he finished his prayer. He looked over to the other two but already decided there was nothing he could do, that their souls could not be saved.
Walking over to the door on the side of the building, The Priest slowly turned the knob and gave a push, then a tug. Nothing. For a door that looked like it was about to fall off its hinges, it was surprisingly sturdy to The Priest. He leaned into a heaving kick, busting the door down in one go. He held his rifle with both his hands and entered the building.
The interior of the warehouse was a small, dark cavern illuminated by hanging bulbs from the ceiling which were arranged in a two by three pattern with there being eight groups of bulbs overall to cover the area of the ceiling.
The Priest’s eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness. Because of the faint light from above, he could see a vague dark shape several dozen meters in front of him in the back of the warehouse. They ducked behind a crate. The Priest could hear the sound of metal clanking and being inserted into something. He knew what the sound was and immediately took to a crouching position while aiming his rifle.
“Who goes there?” Echoed The Priest’s voice through the hollow interior.
“Just me,” said the voice of a woman.
“And do you have devilish intent?”
“Are you a justice officer?”
“Not at all. The ones outside are dead. My handiwork.”
The vague figure rose from behind the crate in the back of the room. They leapt over it and slowly stepped closer and closer to The Priest. Now, they were close enough for him to see who they were. They were a short woman with silver hair, peculiar yellow eyes, and a black vest of some material The Priest had never seen before. On her hip were two guns The Priest was unfamiliar with.
“You’re not a bounty hunter?” She asked.
“Are you an outlaw?”
“For sure,” answered The Outlaw with her twisted grin. “I exist outside the law. You know what that means, don’t you?”
“You are a pincushion for justice, I know that. Anything goes against an outlaw. Justice won’t bat an eye no matter what atrocity is committed against you.”
“So, did you come here to do that? To punish me?”
The Priest slid his rifle down his hand and gripped it tightly. He turned around and walked to the door of the warehouse.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Asked The Outlaw with a dumbfounded expression.
“You’re not the sorcerer. I’ve no need to waste my time here.”
The Priest left the warehouse and stared out in the distance. The stranger was gone. There was no trace of him being there. So, The Priest theorized he must have alerted The Justice Officer by then. He turned and walked in the opposite direction from Drismal. He walked northeast across the endless desert planes. Though all he could see for miles was nothing but desert with the occasional sign or lone patch of cacti. He wandered a vaguely defined road that twisted and turned. There were no canyons or ditches on the path. Only the sand, the cracked solid ground when it did show up in place of the sand, and the perfectly concealed steps trailing The Priest accompanied him. The sun had set completely. Night took the desert, and The Outlaw followed The Priest.
The Priest took refuge under a large tree that grew on the side of the rough path in the ground. He sat against it and placed his hand on his hat, lowering it to cover his eyes which he closed. The cool desert air massaged him gently as he began to drift into the first true rest he had in years. As far as he could remember, he had made it his life’s mission to hunt sin and evil. He often went days without sleep, all in the pursuit of those he deemed, no, those his god told him were worthy of punishment.
The Outlaw walked up slowly to The Priest. With a sly grin, she took his rifle, placed it away from him and leaned it against the tree. She placed her hand on his hat, moving it an inch. The Priest jolted awake and looked up at her. He was no assessor of the beauty of man or woman, yet The Outlaw had a strange aura about her being that, to The Priest, was almost otherworldly. It was not sinister like the sorcerer’s, but it was most definitely inhuman.
“You awake?” She asked.
“Does it look like I’m still asleep?”
“Cute, cute. Keep on acting like that.”
“Just what are you on about?”
The Outlaw sat against the tree on the opposite side of The Priest who quickly retrieved his rifle and held it in both his hands as if it brought him warmth or comfort in the cold night.
“I saw those justice officers you killed.”
“What of it?” Asked The Priest.
“I’ve thought about turning you in ever since I realized what you’d done. But, they wouldn’t let little old me back into their fold after what I’ve done.”
“Who’s they?”
“The collective consciousness.”
“Then they don’t care.”
“How would you know?”
“I’m a priest. To know more of man’s spirituality compared to the common folk, and, more importantly, a mere outlaw, is what makes me the genuine article. Any priest can give a prayer or tell people how they should live their lives. That’s not enough.”
“Oh? I thought you wanted quietude. What’s this tangent about?”
“Nothing, I suppose,” answered The Priest with quickness in his voice.
“I’m listening.”
“Like you said, I want quietude.”
“Is that hard to come by for you?”
The Priest could hear a tinge of excitement in The Outlaw’s voice.
“Yes,” he answered, feeling as if he made some mistake.
“Consider your crimes absolved, then. Well, to me at least. Do you kill people a lot? And who? And where? And how often?”
The Priest shook his head. He felt insulted by the way The Outlaw spoke of absolvement and his killings.
“Depends on how many people are trying to stop me. There’s no rhyme or reason to the place. It could be anywhere. Taking a life is taking a life. Doesn’t matter if it’s in the city or a noble dwelling or backwater Zett’yrii. Someone still died. I’ll do what I can to save their souls, if a priest can do so for such people. The only path I walk that may be blockaded by any man is the one where I strike down that which is impure, that which is evil, and that which may endanger the security of the collective consciousness.”
“Why would the collective consciousness be in danger?”
“Morality isn’t an individual thing. There exists such evil in certain people that their existence is a case against humanity as a whole as much as it is a crime. It only takes one mistake to poison the well. God, Wistraff, he claims the waters. If they aren’t to his liking, then he’s no right to allow the dirty water to fester. And, if let it fester, then force upon it damnation he’d do. There is room for punishment in benevolence. I believe he could do it. War and prosperity go hand in hand.”
“Right, right. . .” said The Outlaw, who, while comprehending all of The Priest’s speech, cared little for what he had to say. But, it was entertaining to her all the same. “Are all your sermons like that?”
“That’s the only one I’ve ever given. Now leave me alone.”
The Outlaw chuckled. She waited for The Priest to sleep before she rested. Only, The Outlaw never slept that night. She watched The Priest intently. He had captivated her. She refused to not pay him mind now. He was far too entertaining for her.