The Ghost Wolf panted softly behind his mask. He caught his breath quickly, sheathing the swordbreaker in his offhand and tapping the body before him with the flat of his sword: no response. Just dead weight.

There were bodies strewn about everywhere. Even a scattered few the Wolf did not cut down himself, he recounted. The campfire that one side had started was spitting pitifully, unattended. The Wolf tread sowly over the ground.

From beyond there was a slight groan. It was no louder than a whisper, a stifled cough, but the noise couldn’t escape the ears of the masked ambusher. Within an instant he had pounced on a shapeless mass that whimpered at his grip, being lifted into the air by a single hand into the moonlight.

“They called you Madoc, did they not?” the Ghost Wolf’s words sunk into the air with malice.

“You… you…” Madoc stammered. The sight of the mask petrified him, melting away entirely his once cold and confident demeanor. “Hokkaido!”

The Wolf tightened his grip, causing the man to squeak. “Yes, you know of me. But I am of no importance.” He looked over the man’s broken body. The stump he had in place of an arm had been bandaged well, but not well enough, as it seeped blood and dripped audibly to the ground.

“Ha, no importance!” The man’s eyes bulged. “You killed damn near everyone singlehandedly. A fellow… with your reputation and skill, well, it doesn’t take much smarts to see how much gold you’re worth…”

The Wolf’s grip tightened further.

“Or…! Or… you might be interested in the many, ah, intangible things my employers can offer. I know people, Wolf, people who know things you can use…”

Madoc yelped suddenly as he found himself sailing through the air to hit the floor on his back and roll to a stop. And before he could blink the Wolf was on him again.

“I take care of the vermin that stand before me. Your begging matters very little in this transaction.”

“Nothing interests you, Wolf?” Madoc gulped. “Not even Warwick? Not even his—aaggh!”

Madoc didn’t get a chance to explain. With one precise slash the Wolf severed his one remaining arm. The man screamed and dropped to the ground, writhing and grinding his teeth.

The Wolf did not give him long: he considered himself no torturer. With another flick of the blade he sliced through Madoc’s neck and watched him drown in his own blood. Madoc’s dying gurgles were spirited but futile. After a short time, it stopped.

A peaceful silence hung in the air. Hokkaido, the Ghost Wolf, put a hand to the mask and lifted it.

The earth began to tremble.

Blades were unsheathed, but without purpose; no more enemies appeared. Instead, a peculiar thing happened: Madoc’s body began to glow. It brightened especially in the veins, which seemed to course with a sickeningly green substance. The skin began to crack, spiderwebbing like broken glass, and it grew pale as the moon before peeling slowly, magically, lifting slowly into the air as though carried in the wind. His skin disappeared entirely, leaving behind muscle, blood, and bone.

Mugs wasn’t entirely ecstatic to hear the soft patter of rain creep up on the roof of their dilapidated hideout but he was not moronic enough to believe the situation wasn’t par for the job to begin with. Through a hole in the rusted sheet-metal wall he could see distant lightning crack erratically at the sky, a quiet, moody thunder resonating softly. The sky had quickly been taken by grey clouds, swallowing the sun and along with it any hope of warmth for the next dozen or so hours. He sighed to himself, content with the chill in the air and frustrated beyond measure by the deluge of idiocy from his companions.

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