Man? Beast? Something in-between?

#SnowButcher

Haven't been active here but figured I'd try since I have an Amino Canon character collecting dust.

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Kozlov didn't like the cold much. He couldn't explain why, but it unsettled him. Endless white plains, often undisturbed by footprints and carriage lines. Anything could be out there, man or beast, and though Kozlov was more then confident with his skills, he'd prefer to avoid unnecessary conflict.

He was riding aimlessly, simply looking for something else to do. His last job had been nothing more then beating up a couple of two-bit thugs, nothing that would be a real challenge to him. He was bored, thirsty, and angry. Angry that no one seemed to be a challenge for him. He just wanted a good fight and some money in his pocket, was that so much to ask? He rode north, ing the occasional traveler or carriage and waving silent hellos them before he'd turn, keeping an eye of them until they left his view. They'd continue their lives, long or short, not knowing that the stranger they had encountered on the road had fully prepared to shoot them dead for little reason at all.

You don't survive this long without paranoia.

By the time he reached the road sign, he had lost track of how long he had been drifting. The sign was worn, partially rotted and falling apart. The words were painted over countless times in a vain attempt to keep their town's name known. Elderwood. A fitting name, considering how old the sign looked. He hoped the wooden post wasn't a sign of quality of the town and changed his course, eager for a warm meal and a cold drink.

Voices in town shattered the calm silence that Kozlov enjoyed, annoying him enough to go check it out. People wrapped in heavy coats and furs stood around a weathered building, the words "ELDERWOOD SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT" emblazoned on the side. They lacked any organization, chanting wildy different phrases which melded together into one stream of constant noise. Kozlov heard "Why won't you do anything?" and "He's killing us all!" among the sea of voices, and despite his better judgement he wanted to hear more. He jumped off the horse, pushing through the crowd until he got to the front. A man with a sheriff's star was trying to placate the angry mod, deputies at his side with carbines.

"People of Elderwood! We will find this prowler and make him face justice! Anyone willing to assist the law will be paid handsomely!"

Kozlov nodded, looking out at the horde of angry folks. He saw a few gunbelts and old rifles in the crowd of dulled colors. Most were carrying pitchforks or hatchets. ing for the drifters like him, who stuck out like sore thumbs in the crowd, the people of Elderwood had more then enough to take on the butcher no matter whether his name was based on occupation or brutality. Kozlov's brain battled with his heart. Getting involved was a bad idea no matter what this entailed, but he needed the cash. Not to mention, he was itching for a good fight. A real one.

"I'll help you." He had to yell to get his voice heard over the mob.

The mob instantly fell silent, as if distancing themselves from Kozlov. No one knew who he was, but he clearly wasn't joking.

"For a price." He added, sticking his hand in his pockets.

The Sheriff nodded, motioning to the man besides him. They both looked capable, but the deputy was a lanky fellow with blond hair and a scraggly beard. The mob had quieted down somewhat, watching him step into the Sheriff's office before continuing their endless raging at the deputies. He sat down in an open chair, three other men besides him. Two locals, and a surly Mexican. They all gave him a simple nod.

"Half up front." Was the first thing Kozlov said. The others nodded again, voicing their agreement until the sheriff shook his head. Apparently no one here wanted to negotiate any.

"Can't give you all half up front. You'll get twenty five each, seventy five more once you've got him."

The number was high, not to mention that if someone died, their cut would be distributed easy. He immediately thought of shooting these three for three times the paycheck, no doubt they had the same thought. But for now they were all unified in catching the prowler. This would be a walk in the park for someone as experienced as Kozlov.

They all shook hands and took their leave, Kozlov going to the stables to hand his horse off the stable boy. He pulled his pump action from his horse, slinging it over his shoulder before taking a walk around town to see what he was dealing. He whistled tunelessly, believing that this would be an easy payday.

He left his room at night. The Sheriff had made a big fuss about the four men going to help him beat the prowler, and everybody had seen fit to harass him with gifts and good lucks. A few women and even a man came to his room to offer some company, all of which were declined. He heard his three compatriots drinking and partying through the thin walls of the shitty room he had been given, but he just wanted to be left alone until it was time. Such a distraction briefly made him consider leaving, but he had quickly chastised himself for the thought. Kozlov had already made a promise. He was getting paid, and he was doing some good. There was no reason not to continue.

Once night had hit and the parties died down, Kozlov left his hotel and stepped into the empty streets, the cold seeping through his coat and pants as he walked through the desolate streets. He tried not to think about the shapes that danced in the corner of his eye, nor the locals pressing their faces into the windows, watching him work like he was a circus strongman. He kept his mind on the task and hand, rubbing his hands together and unslinging his new pump action shotgun. He took slow steps, crunching the fresh snow underfoot and looking over his shoulder. Another set of footsteps, another source of rhythmic crunching came from an alleyway, and Kozlov immediately chambered a round with the the telltale click-clack. A figure leapt from the shadows.

It was one of the other men who had taken the risky job of hunting the Prowler, raising their hands and yelling something that was a mix of "Holy shit!" and "Don't shoot!". Kozlov lowered the gun just as two other men came out of an alley, leveling their cheap repeaters at him. The first one put up a hand, stopping the two before doubling over and sucking in all the air he could.

"Jesus! You could've fuckin shot me!" He spluttered, before realizing they hadn't been introduced. "I'm Parker." He said through strained breaths.

Kozlov simply grunted shook hands with the man, introducing himself to the other two men as well. One of them spat out some orders before leaving with the Mexican man from earlier, who looked like he could handle himself. That left Kozlov with Parker, who was shivering like a dog left out in the rain. After what seemed like an eternity of the boy fiddling with his carbine and muttering to himself, he finally spoke up.

"I gotta take a piss."

"Are you fuckin' serious?"

"You can't blame a man for his god-given urges! It'll only be a minute!" Parker whined, bundling himself in his coat, the garment woefully inadequate in the current climate. Kozlov shook his head and motioned him towards the outhouse, leaning up against a well-lit wall.

He waited.

And waited.

He pulled out his watch, squinting to read the time. It had been three minutes since Parker had went to piss. He considered the possibility that the man was squatting instead of standing, which was woefully stupid of the boy considering the circumstances. It was better to check it out regardless. With a huff, he left the safety of the light and trudged through the alley towards the outhouse behind the saloon, grabbing a lantern and using it to light the way. His elbow stuck out haphazardly, it to feel alongside the wall while he held the shotgun with one hand. He shuffled instead of stepped, not wanting to trip over anything. But he almost did anyway. Annoyed, he shined the light down onto the thing, hoping it wasn't what he thought it was.

It was Parker, dead. His eyes were wide and his mouth was open, hands outstretched for his fallen repeater. His cheap jacket had been torn to shreds, and stab wounds peppered the boy's body in a brutal fashion. Kozlov poked the man with his foot and muttered a prayer, feeling it was the right thing to do in this situation. He had seen dead men and women before, but the boy couldn't have been older then seventeen. That was worth a prayer, a hope that the young lad would be treated well in whatever afterlife awaited him.

He saw someone dart across the alley, little more then a blur ruffling the folds of darkness that enveloped Kozlov. He hooked the lantern to his belt, stabilizing his grip on the shotgun. He stepped over Parker, revenge implanted in his mind. He didn't know Parker at all, but the boy hadn't deserved to die that way. He should've called out to Myles and Johnny, improve the odds in his favor. But he doubted the prowler had seen him, otherwise he would be fighting for his life. He didn't want to lose the advantage of suprise.

An advantage he he did not have.

A black shadow collided with him the moment he left the alley, a silvery glint careening down towards his body. He kicked out, sending the black shape stumbling back across the snow. He stood up, the lantern and shotgun now lost in the white expanse. There was no time to find them, the shadowy figure was already charging once more. The glint was a blade, it's sickening, bloody gleam flickering like a serpent's tongue. Kozlov ducked to the left, jabbing the man in the gut and hitting him again in the head. The shadow stabbed at him again, Kozlov grabbing the man's wrist and trying to reach his own knife. His blows seemingly did nothing to the man (This was no man, Kozlov was convinced it was a demon), who picked Kozlov up and threw him down into the snow. He rolled back over, the demon wrapping gloved hands around his throat.

He spotted a hatched lodged in a nearby stump, which could used for felling foes just as much as cutting firewood. He wrestled free on the man's grip and ran, pulling the axe from the wood and immediately swinging it around behind him. The demon slipped the swing with ease, as if the axe had simply ed through him. But Kozlov now had the longer weapon, giving him the range advantage and a bit of courage. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, he swung the hatchet at the shadowly figure again and again, cursing as the thing dodged with ease. He overexerted on his last swing, and the demon leapt forward and thrust the knife into his gut.

He bellowed in pain, the shadowy hellspawn cutting his screams short by throwing him into a barrel of farming equipment, hoes and sycthes un-needed until it was warmer. He collided with the barrel, spilling it's contents into the snow. Crunch, crunch, crunch. The thing's boots pressed into to snow, imprinting, as if to say "I'm here". Kozlov was still racked with pain, crimson red seeping into the snow as his soon-to-be killer approached. Kozlov's outstretched hands searched for anything, feeling a wooden handle in his palm was like a gift from God. He swung it towards the shadowy figure, a final attempt at defiance in the face of hell itself.

Glass shattered, and the prowler finally leaned in.

The thing had no face, only a black mask. Goggles jutted out of the black leather, the dark glass obscuring any eyes from behind it. Covering any semblances of humanity. The right eyepiece was cracked from where he had just been hit, yet still no eye was visible behind its dark lens. The thing titled its head, staring at Kozlov quizzically as if confused why he struggled in face of such a threat. Was it about to speak? onish him? Congratulate his efforts? Simply call him a fool? He went to swing the wooden tool again, the prowler grabbing and throwing it out of reach with ease.

He pushed himself backwards, limbs outstretched as he flailed in the snow for any bit of ground he could gain. Each movement became harder and harder, sharp pains shooting up his side any time he moved. It followed him slowly, casually examining his movements, his final death throes. Like he was a corpse still not devoid of life. Kozlov reached down to his revolver, pulling it out only to have it kicked away, far into the white blanket he'd soon be buried under. It had since picked up his hatchet, standing over him. Tilting its head once more, the prowler brought up the hatchet.

"Eat... shit." Kozlov grunted, not willing to pick any better last words.

It was about to swing the hatchet down, to end the miserable flailings of the meddlesome drifter. He should've just stayed out of it. But it was too late now. Kozlov accepted his death, but he didn't welcome it. He was getting what he deserved for sticking his nose in what wasn't his business.

It is what it is.

...

"HEY! I FOUND 'EM!"

A deep voice rang out from behind him, the thick accent instantly telling Kozlov that it was the Mexican man from ealier. The Demon froze, looking at the man with what Kozlov assumed was confusion once again. It stepped forward, as if it didn't understand why they resisted an inevitable end.

Kozlov pulled the knife from his boot and dug it into the demon's leg.

The demon screamed- no, roared in pain, and Kozlov used what little energy he had left to scramble up and run. He grabbed the Mexican by the arm and practically pulled it out of the poor man's socket, darting across the street and pounding on the door of a random building until they let him in. He used a table for , scoffing at his good luck before turning around and looking out the window.

It was gone.

But so was Kozlov, buckling under his own weight and sinking to the floor.

"You fought the Butcher and lived! You're a hero!" One of his new countless adoring fans said, him and his colleagues practically worshipping the ground he walked on.

"Don't call me that. Ain't no hero."

The Mexican had apparently been jumped while they searched, the Prowler killing The Mexican's partner and wounding him. They had run into the bushes, only leaving when it was safe to search for Kozlov and Parker. The two had been taken to the doctor, where Kozlov's recovery was slow and painful. It was made worse by his new popularity, people crowding around him to hear the story over and over again. They oohed and aahed as he told them how he had almost died horribly, treating him like a hero. That's what annoyed him the most. He wasn't a damn hero. He just wanted a quick paycheck.

They didn't care, though. Hounding him for his story, about where he learned to fight, where he was from. He gave the shortest answers he could, not wanting to be bothered. But they did bother him. At the funeral for his two unlucky compatriots, at the saloon where he drowned his sorrows, even in the streets. He couldn't catch a break. He had earned an extra hundred from Parker's pay, a fair bit of it going towards whatever family he still had left in Elderwood. He kept most of it for himself, but he would've felt bad otherwise. Another voice brought him back to the present, something he'd wished wouldn't happen for at least a few days.

"You fought him off, and avenged Parker n' Miles! It doesn't matter what the hell you've done, you're a god damn hero!"

"I didn't fight. Barely even survived."

This was another fan, parker's relative of some kind. He didn't have the heart to tell him that Parker had quite literally died with his pants down, and that the other man had probably went out in a similar manner. They were heroes now, just like Kozlov. The newspapers had gotten their grubby hands on him as well, the newest addition plastering his face on the front page with the words "SNOW BUTCHER WOUNDED", bold as brass.

Wounded.

The blood trail from the butcher's leg led to nowhere, ending as if the killer simply decended back to hell where they belonged. But it bled, which meant that "it" was a he. It could be beaten, could be killed, no matter if it was man, beast, or a combination of the two. The Mexican had already left town, sharing a final drink with Kozlov before disappearing with his hard-earned cash. Kozlov was happy he was even getting paid. They hadn't caught the man, but the morale boost from seeing the Butcher bleed was well worth the money according to the Sheriff.

Kozlov fought it and lived. Which means others could too. But the butcher would heal just as he did, and then come back for him in the night. He'd be ready, whether he was in town or on the road. He knew it would stalk him from the shadows, waiting for a chance to strike. He was confident he would be ready.

He sincerely hoped he was right.