There’s a dark silence in the depths of Lake Lucerne. Immersed in its bosom Ezekiel drifts, a trail of blood following in his wake. “How the mighty have fallen” An incomprehensible horrid voice echoes in his mind “Decades of service, concluding in this debacle. This farce. Are you surprised, or did you see it coming? Better keep on your toes.” The voice reaches a splendid cacophony and then ends. As if rejecting him, the river Reuss spits Ezekiel out onto the bank of Lucerne bay. Breathing a ragged breath he lays on the muddy shore clutching his flask and rapier, naked as a babe, the stillness of death upon him. The sounds mostly associated with a catastrophe bellows in the distance, sirens wailing in the frigid autumn afternoon. “Good game, Fairweather.” He coughs through clattering teeth, struggling to find stable ground as each exasperated breath forces strings of spit out. Jagged shuffling and wobbling posture leads to stumbling, and in an attempt to gather himself, Ezekiel finally slumps down upon the plateau of a large boulder near him. Deathly pale and with sunken eyes, Ezekiel scouts the location of his serendipitous emergence. Thickets, bushes and trees crescents around him, mercifully cloaking him from any fleeting looks- though the season has left its touch upon the flora, and through the brambles and naked trees, anyone with the intention to, could spot him. The dramatic escape through the hotel window left deep cuts on his arms and legs, and though the flow of blood seems to have halted, the wounds are still gaping. Almost habitually, he takes his flask to his lips, intending to imbibe but stops himself with dire haste. “You sewer-brain, there's a good chance HQ has authorized Well-tracking. Using this fucking flask will put a target on my back!” In spasmic shivering he imitates throwing the flask into the nearby bushes, as he does so a piercing wind rises, making his wet, psoriasis-riddled skin burn. He stifles an outburst of anguish, his need for shelter rises at each tick of the clock. “Baby steps, Iz. Gather yourself. What do you see? What do you need?” His inner voice says calmly, as if not unfamiliar with a situation like this. Ezekiel takes a deep breath, centering himself. “Shelter above all, a place to think- sanctuary!”. With stealth of the essence, Ezekiel begins to take note of his surroundings: To the north across the lake, subtly, castle Meggenhorn pokes through the blur of distance. To the west his former lake side hotel and the massive city of Lucerne looms, and unequivocally dominated by towering mountains, the landscape to the south offers little in the sense of a safe haven. Noticing something further down the coast to the east, a glint of opportunity sparks in Ezekiel’s eye. Some small distance away he spots a desolate building, squinting as he attempts to get a clearer view of the structure. The only observable detail that stands out is the fact that it is a building and that it has a pier. “Good enough, for now.” He rattles as he pulls a sizable shard of glass out of his forehead. “No sense lingering here that’s for sure” Ezekiel confirms to himself as he sets on his way towards the lone structure.

Torn between wanting to not be seen and yearning for shelter to rest, he less-than-gracefully maneuvers himself through rocky, uneven terrain. Thankfully this far-off bank seems deserted and devoid of people, though not so deserted that litter from ages past isn’t present on the otherwise serene shore. Plastic bags, needles and used condoms are strewn across the shore, offering a stark contrast to what normally would be a vista of beauty. Traversing through this small monument to greed and complacency, feelings of shame, futility and resentment pulsed through Ezekiel, this was quickly followed by thoughts on the betterment of humanity and how curiously enough his job entailed “taking out the trash”. Absent mindedly pondering these concepts he felt a keen shriek of pain travel up his left foot “Hnnnng! Yep, that was glass. I just stepped on glass!” Limping to the nearest tree to assess the damage, he finds a large, oozing gash on the sole of his foot. Looking up to the grey skies, feeling a festering scream of frustration burn in his throat, he stops himself from shouting profanities, opting instead to weakly pound the sturdy tree on which he leans. “When it rains, it fucking pours.” Bitter and in pain Ezekiel sighs, looking around for anything to bind the wound, though finding only ancient, used jimmies and hypodermic needles he looks up at the clouds again- a grim acceptance of his situation settling in him.

Bleeding once again and buffeted by winds common to waterfronts, Ezekiel awkwardly makes his way up the shorebank until finally reaching what appears to be a dilapidated boat club. Faded paint and rotten wood is the sum of this forgotten structure, it almost emanates solitude and abandonment. Ezekiel wastes little time taking in the sorry sight, more concerned with the potential residents he limbs to the entrance cautiously. Though most of the windows are sloppily boarded up, the door appears to be functional, as he opens it, Ezekiel winces at the almost cliché creaking noise and a stale, horrendous smell plumes forth from the gloom, greeting him welcome. Unfaced by the malodour Ezekiel enters, hand on his rapier and keen to any sound and movement. There’s little in the way of illumination in the entrance hall, except for the open door and what little light penetrates the boarded windows, despite this Ezekiel presses on into the rotten depths. Permeating the air, the smell of shit and decay is almost insisting once past the threshold of the building and here Ezekiel is faced with three doors: The first door, already open, leads to a Jackson Pollock esque bathroom, the medium of paint in use here clearly being shit and the apparent source of some of the foetid stench. The second door is, much to Ezekiel's detriment, locked, evident in its marks betraying bashing and hacking from both blunt and sharp objects. The third door, to his right, is slightly ajar, “This must be the ball room” Ezekiel thinks as he silently peers in. Here the unmistakable stench of rot was strongest, though Ezekiel could not spot the immediate source. He entered, flask and rapier grasped in one hand, and his other on the hilt of his sheathed weapon.

In the faded light the elongated room seemed peaceful, dust covering the broken chairs and the lone podium at the end. A few moldy books on shelves in disrepair dotted the walls of the room and nicotine revealed where plaques and paintings had been in ages past. This was once someone's gathering place where the joy of boat owning and fishing were talked about with glee and exuberance, a place of hearth fire and friendship. Now, the rotting carcass of a dog and its master is all the life this place has seen in many years. Despite this, it was still a shelter from the elements, and Ezekiel felt relieved that no-one alive was still here to complicate matters. Moving with a slight limp he approached the two bodies, careful and observant of both them and his surroundings, quickly becoming aware of several bent spoons and needles scattered on the wooden floor, a fact that he, as currently barefoot, did not find particularly comforting. As he nears the rotting heap the malodorous stench intensifies, teasing a gag out of the still bare Ezekiel who instinctively moves his hand from his sword to cover his nose. Fortunately several black garbage bags were present nearby, their apparent content being bottles, beer-cans and other miscellaneous junk. Ezekiel, still for a moment, stood over the two mounds with a calculating visage.

Ezekiel, intent on disposing of the miasma producing dog, empties a bag carefully so as not to break any of the bottles. Squatting down while holding his breath, the familiar creak of tired cartilage resonated from his joints, and somewhere in his mind a little voice kept insisting “Take a draught, Seethe will make everything better”. Distracted momentarily and about to scoop up the dog, the man in fetal he thought to be an overdosed junkie turns around and rambles haggardly “Get your own dog man!” Reactionary, Ezekiel sucker punches the would-be corpse through the black plastic, the wretch falling silent in an instant. Somewhat startled, Ezekiel gags as he accidentally huffs decomposed dog “Doesn’t quite compare to a Sift’s lair, but close enough.” He says in an attempt to gain composure “Gotta get you out of here and gotta get me some oxygen.” With no protest from its former owner, he gingerly gathers the dog corpse in haste, setting into stride through the hallway and to the outside, bag outstretched from him. Showing the late companion some respect, he gently places the container by the side of the lodge. “I’ll get to you later, boy” Ezekiel inhales his lungs full capacity of fresh air as he attempts to purge the foetid stench from himself. “What a day..” He weakly exhales as he looks out over the lake, the bursts of flight, combat and Seethe depletion had taken their toll on him. Briefly, thoughts of Fairweather bubbled in the chamber of his mind; the grim reminder that while friends are precious, one's duty to VoidMyth comes before all else. He felt confused, tired and frustrated, though not wanting to linger out in the open, he proceeded indoors. Here he stood gazing upon the unfortunate soul laying on the worn, filthy mattress, and in an attempt at levity he asked “So, mystery man, do you want to be the big spoon, or the little spoon?” Mustering a weak smirk Ezekiel felt as if humour was one of the few things he had left, though it seemed a sorry respite from his predicament. “Not willing to share? Fine, be that way, I’ll take this very alluring podium.” Navigating glass and needles in the dim light of the boarded windows, he made his way to the dusty podium, which sparked the lonely dread of public speaking in him, and yet also the relief that his scheduled undertaking with the experience had been, for better or worse, canceled. Leaning against the stout monolith of proclamation, he sank to the floor, his wet clammy skin squeaking with the friction. He didn’t feel safe, he didn’t feel concealed, expecting Fairweather to burst in at any given time. Yearning for the secluded safety of sleep, Ezekiel closed his eyes and drifted off, his flask in one hand, and sword in the other.

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The usual tortures of Ezekiel’s dreamscape convulsed in his mind as he slept. Towering bronze wyrms with jagged blades constricted mountains and slithered through canyons. Silver instruments, keen and polished, gleamed under the light of the operating table, flesh yielding to them and spewing crimson. Roaring currents of massive bodies of water swallowed the landscape as he stood upon the edge of a cliff, its foundation crumbling under him. Platinum eyes staring into his and petite lips parting to speak “Did you kill my fucking dog?!” Dazed and confused, Ezekiel awoke to the smell of rotting teeth and violent shaking of his person, and to a face almost as desiccated as his own staring at him with dull fury. Reeling from the usual vivid horrors, Ezekiel had little time to gather himself in the face of the verbal assault directed at him, although he did manage to perceive the broken bottle at the ready in the hand of the wretch. “I don’t have the strength to fight him, depleted as I am now.” Ezekiel hastedly thought to himself as the looming threat of being glassed, grew ever more present with his silence. “I will fucking cut you, you peice of fucking shit. Did you kill my dog?!” Ezekiel didn’t make any sudden moves for fear of escalation of the situation, but slowly raised his left hand in a gesture of solidarity ”Your dog has been dead for several weeks, my friend.” He stated calmly, his right hand laying close to his rapier, which the junkie had ignored in his delirious state of anger. “I was going to give it a dignified burial, befitting a stout companion such as itself. I’m truly sorry for your loss, but I didn’t want to wake you, as you seemed to be sleeping one off” Blinking and sniffing several times the confused man seemed to be in the process of digesting this new information, wheels turning in his addled mind. “She’s been sick..” His voice is rusty. “Her name is Viola.” His hand trembles along with his body, subtle ticks of emotion bubbles through the haze of abuse in his mind to the surface of his face. “Are you a vet? Did you put her down because she was sick?” His face quivers with barely contained sadness. Ezekeil weighs his words in his mind. “Yes. I knew with your needs you would not be able to afford it, so I helped Viola. I helped her find peace.” Sputtering uncontrollably, his breathing heavy and erratic, the soiled man grimaced with a face contorted by shattering, contradictory feelings. Broken, he lost his grip on the bottle knife and sobbingly slumped down on top of Ezekiel’s legs. A raspy weeping sound followed, interrupted only by fits of coughing and Ezekiel was filled with pity for the creature. “You know, my friend, I’ve seen a lot of death in my line of work, and the void a loved presence leaves behind when they go is an absence that’s not easy to cope with. Our mortal coil is that of birth, life and death and we live with each other in our given time, some’s time is shorter than others, but we live and if we’re lucky we form a bond of love with someone: like you had with Viola. But all is temporary, and we must exist with loss…” Ezekiel removes his hand from his rapier and places it on the foul smelling man’s shoulder. “The hardships of life no longer matter for her, she is part of an orderly and peaceful place now, I believe.” The man looks up upon Ezekiel, staring into his golden eyes. “Like heaven?” He says through snot. Ezekiel gives him a knowing look. “Heaven is what you make it, my friend. Do we need to carry on existing? Or could we embrace and accept a world beyond our reality that offers silence and rest from the chaotic flame of life? Give it some thought, friend.” Ezekiel smiles warmly and the wretch stifles a sob. “Okay..okay man. You don’t have any brown do you? I really need to fix.” Taken back by the abrupt question and shift in atmosphere Ezekiel shakes his head slowly “While I myself have an addiction, it is not heroin ” With a faraway look he stares through the murky room, his hand twitching. “Oh, you holding? Anything good? ”The junkie gets on his knees with a hopeful look in his eyes, thoughts of his dog long gone. “I just need something man.” His jaw is clenched with tension and his eyes are wide, giving him the appearance of intense focus. “It, ‘Seethe’, would kill you, I’m afraid. You need to undergo a certain procedure in order to imbibe it.” Absently, Ezekiel traces a finger across his silver-scar adorned ribs. “Sounds like wild shit! Where do I go under the knife?” The man licks his lips and fiddles with the zipper on his filthy hoodie with an eagerness to reach new heights of ecstasy. Ezekiel sighs “I’m afraid you have to be an operative or agent of Voidmyth to get it. But trust me; you don’t want that or this.” Ezekeil holds up his Seethe-well, its strange sigils detailed in the faint shimmer of light entering the room. “Okay bro, just hold out on me, even though you killed my dog.” Grumbling, the man shuffles awkwardly towards his mattress, making a trail through the filth and litter on the floor. “Yeah, I’m a bastard. I don’t suppose it’s too much to ask for some clothes and something to eat? I’ll make sure to repay you, er-” Ezekiel halts momentarily as if searching for a particular word or sentence and then abruptly asks “What is your name?” The wretch, going through thrash now, seems too preoccupied to answer. “‘Trash’ seems a fitting name. But you seem to be on to something, I might find something of use in this heaping shit-pile” Wounded and naked, Ezekiel took to searching the many bags occupying the hall, and luckily it didn’t take him long to procure some stained, grey, sweatpants, a tattered red wool-sweater and some flip flops he thought likely to give him warts. “I look like a bold fashion statement, but at least it’s warm. Could have done with better footwear though, running in these things is far from optimal.” Ezekiel thought to himself as he made himself comfortable in his new garments, grateful to finally have something to cover himself with. Trash looks up from his rummaging “Good thing you finally covered up your junk, I was getting queasy looking at that thing swinging away, man. And those cuts, dude, fucking sick.” Ezekiel's thoughts drifted from his clothes to his present predicament. He had sustained severe wounds, and though the bleeding had seized they remained glaringly agape. The reality remained that he either had to imbibe Seethe, and risk discovery, or get medical attention. Pausing his thoughts with a knowing look he spoke “Trash, do you have anything to write on? It seems I need to do some calculations.”