It would take just a moment for Dagan to realize that The Seeker’s tracks had ceased, and as he did so; he didn’t so much as stop, as hit the ground in a roll, his body slamming hard into the surface, and only coming to an end after several yards had been cleared. Luckily for this man, however; he hadn’t gone too far from where the tracks ended, he had lost enough speed and momentum when hitting the ground that he could still somewhat see them off in the distance.

“Tt,” he spat. “Where …?”

Dagan felt about himself, nothing was broken, not that he was particularly worried about being harmed, of course, but it never hurt to check. At any rate, he would have to reconsider his means of stopping when running at a full sprint.

To the man’s right was his spear, which he had apparently lost in his roll, it wasn’t broken, it was in remarkable condition, in fact, and all while being made from normal wood, too! That Attis, he sure knew how to select weapons for random requests.

Turning around, Dagan looked over the expansive scenery of Purgatory, it was bleak, lifeless, maybe, but perhaps he assumed too much. Off in the distance, he could hear the lapping of water, it was empty, too, like this place, but he couldn’t gauge its distance or pick up the scent of water, for that matter.

Dagan ran a hand through his black hair, taking a few steps forward, turning around, and curiously surveying the area. There wasn’t much to see, which he had already figured, but at the moment he didn’t really notice any silhouettes, either, humanoid, or other. He may have been too quick in that judgment, though. He wasn’t being too observant, in all honesty.

Finally, Dagan would make his way to his weapon, bending over, and lifting the thing from the ground. Although not alarmed, the young man was not quite sure what to make of his situation; he didn’t want to continue onwards, not without a means of knowing where to go, he was many things, but a psychic or skilled tracker wasn’t in his repertoire.

“ … This isn’t too bad,” he reassured himself. “It isn’t like I’m being hunted or stalked, or anything.”

"Think so, huh?" a voice crept through the fog.

But from what direction? There was no indication, actually. For all intents and purposes, it would sound as if the voice had come from, well, everywhere.

"You're a fast one, like your friend," it continued, "But slower."

It was an instant, truly. In the blink of an eye, there was a rush of wind, a terrifying force striking the ground before Dagan, just feet in front of the man-- but not out of a botched or even a moderately harsh landing. If Dagan were to look at the figure that found its way before him, he'd certainly find that it was standing up straight, hands in its pockets, and a completely casual lean with its back.

The man stood at six feet tall and had a thin, straight, yet almost classy sort of posture. His hands were buried lethargically in the pockets of dirty black slacks, torn at the bottom where his shoes were absent. His white button down shirt was also tattered a bit and dirty, but not with any amount of dust. Red stains covered it, around the collar and sleeves, specifically. He also wore a black vest, which was a little better off than the rest of his attire.

Though that might be the first a person might notice about him, the next part was the real kicker: gore. A mess of gore characterized his face perfectly. His hands and feet and all the skin on his body, in fact, took this deep, dead shade of green and gray; blue veins ran down every inch of skin and collected in spots as bags; yellow teeth were licked with a sick black tongue, and hazy, clouded blue eyes stared with a hint of hunger. He hadn't hair on his head, not a single inch, not even facial hair. More than likely, after a long bout with decomposition, he simply couldn't maintain it anymore.

"Sucks to be you, huh?" he said with a long, pungent exhale.

Dagan went on full alert when the voice broke the silence, he squinted, trying to find the source, but to no avail.

“I, uh, I don’t suppose you know which way my friend went?”

Dagan didn’t even budge or flinch when the thing finally showed itself, his already tight grip, however, tightened, and he seemed almost exuberant. This, this was an odd thing that showed itself and it was perhaps the first time he had a chance to talk, since leaving the city, almost half a day ago, it felt.

“No?” He quirked his head at the thing, taking a step back, not out of fear, but simply to increase the distance between him and it. “Look at you, I mean … Are you hurt? You look hurt and kind of weird, too.”

Dagan relaxed a little, his shoulders slouched, but he still held his weapon. He wasn’t going to attack this thing without provocation, but he wasn’t going to simply let it attack him, either. Not if he could help it, at least.

“And yeah, I’m not as fast as Seeker, you’re right, but I’ve other talents to make up for that.”

And this wasn’t a lie, either. Dagan didn’t know how the Seeker could move like he did, but he was pretty sure that if the two compared strength and power output, Dagan was going to win that hands down.

Impatiently, Dagan tapped his foot against the surface of the ground, it bothered him that he didn’t know which way Seeker had went, the area didn’t show any signs of the man, nor did anything in the distance, in fact; this wasn’t good, and it worried the man. Luckily for him, however; he had found a source of information, or it had found him; that was irrelevant right now, though.

“So did you see which way my friend went or not,” Dagan asked, again, but this time in a much sharper tone. “Really have to catch up to him.”

Indeed, the man didn't seem like he was all right at all. He was off, he was way off. His right cheek looked like holes had been gnawed through it. His teeth were showing through those holes, and despite everything one might imagine about a man with an appearance such as his, he wasn't salivating through the tears in his cheek. In fact, he didn't appear to be salivating at all.

And that looked like it was perfectly fine with him. Everything looked like it was perfectly fine with him. He wasn't remotely bothered by his condition or the world around him . . .

"Yeah, I saw 'im," the decomposed, yet well dressed fellow replied.

He removed his hands from his pockets. One, his left, stayed at his side, while his right hand rose up to the side of his neck. He held onto it, twisted his head from one side to the other, and knocked the kinks out there were bothering him.

"Buddy of mine's probably already taken care of 'im," the man remarked offhandedly, "Can't really hear 'em fighting anymore and all."

Shocked; Dagan stood there for a moment, maybe he hadn’t heard the thing right, or maybe he had and just didn’t want to believe it. Or, more than likely, Dagan was giving this thing a chance to defend what it had said, but the man didn’t hold much hope for the creature to do that. No, it was most likely that the next few moments weren’t going to be pleasant ones.

“W-what, what did you say?”

Dagan began to walk forwards, there wasn’t much distance between the two, but it was slowly being decreased. He didn’t seem unnerved or particularly worried, no; there was nothing about him that seemed to indicate that he was scared. If anything, this creature informing Dagan of his friend’s dire state, of his plight, was a mistake, on the thing’s part, because this meant that Dagan now had to act with a sense of urgency. And when he got like this…

Dagan’s free hand closed, an audible sound, from the knuckles cracking, came from the fist, and his hand rose from his side and took a place just below his right hand’s tight grip on the spear’s middle.

“You messed up,” Dagan informed the man, this creature, or whatever it was. “I’m going… To… “

Dagan was now only two or so feet from the creature, but he didn’t seem all that worried or bothered that his weapon was ideally meant for medium range, actually, it didn’t matter what range he was at, he wasn’t particularly skilled in terms of fighting, but when he could smash things into paste; he didn’t need to be.

“Kill.”

In what would seem like slow motion for most beings, Dagan would step forwards once more, with his right foot, the spear was narrowed towards his target, this creature, and he placed a portion of his strength in the effort; the ground would tear from the bullet-like spear’s thrust.

This spear was not traveling in a straight line, however; there wasn’t enough distance between the two for that to be the optimal attack, not really. Instead, Dagan positioned the hind end of the spear at an angle, and the blade of the weapon was lifted upwards and threatening to impale the target’s upper chest. The blow would be strong, simply dodging it was obviously a great choice, but the wind itself from the attack could cut a person, not to ribbons, of course, but it’d leave a few scratches. This could be taken as the most warning this creature was going to get from Dagan, who’s “KILL SWITCH” had just been flipped.

A spear would have been lodged within the man's upper chest, clean through, had one simple movement not counteracted Dagan's attack: the man, with his hands shoved back into his pockets, moved one foot over the other, crossing his stance, before moving to the side of Dagan in a distinct and almost graceful curve. His body spun subtly, twice, before he was standing behind Dagan.

Hands still in his pockets, the man would only lift his right leg, to set his foot upon the small of Dagan's back, and kick forward. Such would no doubt either force the man to stumble forward or, in the worst case scenario, throw him face first into the dirt. It didn't really matter either way, though. The man reacted in a leisurely way, not with excessive speed, but by the casual way he acted, there was a fair chance that he had speed if he really wanted to.

Nonetheless, it didn't matter too much if Dagan was even hit at all. It would only be a minor annoyance, anyways. The man hadn't any plans on tackling Dagan as soon as he was off balance or anything like that.

"Hasty, aren't you?" was all he'd ask, "We haven't even been introduced yet, and you're already tryin' to fight me. Kids these days. Damn shame, huh?"

Dagan stumbled foot over toe as the half-decomposed looking man kicked forwards, after a few feet, still stumbling, Dagan would stop himself with his spear, and turn to face the man again.

Okay, okay. Dagan thought. Not as messed up as he looks, I guess.

Truthfully, Dagan hadn’t thought the man capable of movement like that, speed or not, he seemed to have some grace, and that conflicted with the way the man looked. But hell, he had apparently come crashing down just moments ago. Dagan wasn’t sure what to make of this thing.

“An introduction,” disbelief was apparent on the man’s face, “you’re kidding, right?”

Well … This was yet another thing Dagan hadn’t expected; this was just getting weird.

“D-Dagan,” he said solemnly; defeated. “My name’s Dagan.”

Closing his eyes, Dagan thought for just a moment, a split second, and prepared himself again. His right foot slid forwards, his left slid back, and his knees bent; his left hand repositioned itself further down the pole of the spear, but his right remained in the middle.

“You’re going to die,” Dagan swore.

He wasn’t entirely sure what to say to this thing, but threatening it seemed somewhat appropriate. At first, Dagan had been excited to talk to the thing, in fact, he might have even continued speaking to it, if it was just him that was in danger, but when this thing mentioned the Seeker; that was it, this chance meeting was taken to an entirely different level, and that was that.

The man lifted his right hand from his pocket after Dagan threatened his "life." He looked at the front of it, at the skin that was stretched and worn away, at the fingernails that looked more like claws than anything else, and then he turned it to look at the back of his hand. There, the skin was stretched over the bones of his hand--and even torn in the middle of it. Brown stained ivory was barely visible. He shrugged his shoulders and slipped that hand back into his pocket.

Dagan was going to kill him-- which he suddenly found a little funny. Even on his best days, Dagan might find it difficult to rid this creature of life . . .

"A little late with that prophecy, don't you think?" he asked.

Oh well. Didn't matter. That was all just semantics, anyways-- a bad joke told to lighten the mood a little. After all, dinner was supposed to be a relaxing meal.

"Well, Dagan, you can call me Lars," the man replied to Dagan's name at last, "Well, for however long that lasts. You see Dagan, you plan on killing me, and I'm thinkin' that's a good plan on your part. Not a smart plan, but a rational one. I, on the other hand, am plannin' on eating you. The problem here is that our plans are conflicted as hell. How do you propose we fix that?"

“For starters,” Dagan said. “You could--not--eat me, you know; I mean there’s nothing saying that you have to, but if you think you can … Well, I’m going to be a little tough to chew!”

Dagan’s body moved in an instant, the second he finished speaking, even, and the spear went along side it. It was not just a charge; it was more like an instantaneous sprint, the man had stepped forwards with his hind leg, just slightly, and then there was literally no more stepping; there was only a blur, a blur that charged forwards, with a very pointy stick, and attempted to stab at Lars.

This was not an opener, however; he had already attempted that, the lance’s thrust that had failed, miserably so, in fact, and so Dagan jabbed his weapon towards Lars several times. The first attack was the middle jab, the initial thrust; then he brought the blade of the spear upwards, in another jab, and then back towards the middle of Lars; then upwards again, opposite of the second, which had been towards the right of the man, and then back to the middle; where a lower jab would follow, and then a higher one. It would be a flurry of blows on Dagan's part, so many blows, that, if Lars did not move quickly enough, he’d find a hailstorm of attacks right in his chest. After the first few attacks from Dagan, the quick and powerful jabs from the spear would begin to leave after-images, and this would allude to the illusion that Dagan was now attacking with multiple spears.

If Lars did not outright dodge the attack, if he only backed up, or charged forwards; Dagan would continue his forward movement, jabbing as he continued on, his breathing was steady, it was as though he wasn’t even trying, but that wasn’t true in the least; the man simply wasn’t getting tired, he could keep this up all day, actually, but hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.

“Gotta. Hurry. Gotta. Hurry."

Dagan’s voice was small, barely a whisper, and completely lost to time; it would prove impossible for Lars to make out any of the man's words.

If Lars did dodge to either side, though, he would find that instead of a jab, Dagan would swing his weapon at the man, hoping to knock him off balance, or directly to the ground and then following that up with a downwards thrust from his weapon; a killing blow, or so he would hope.

Just as Dagan's movements blurred together, so did Lars's. Thrust after thrust of Dagan's spear was met only with air and the afterimage of Lars's body just inches beside of it, standing with his profile facing Dagan, only to shift again with the next blurred image, shifting to him on the other side of the weapon, with the other profile facing Dagan. Another had him ducked down low, his head just inches below the weapon. The blurs mixed together just as Dagan's did, displaying what would appear as multiple Lars's-- all of which converged into one at a pivotal moment.

"Eh," he shrugged at that last moment, "I can tenderize."

With Lars's last syllable, Dagan might feel himself thrust backwards. Without skipping a beat, the half decomposed man threw his hand forward, open palmed, into Dagan's face, fully intending to throw the man back like a rocket, to hurdle him back, fueling a howling wind that would accompany his reverse launch back a tremendous amount of distance. So much momentum and strength had been gathered between the two of them in that short moment of flurried attacks and dodged that Dagan would, no doubt, amount an incredible distance by the time he landed-- however harsh that landing might be.

If successful, Lars would simply shift his hand back into his pants pocket again, and commence a slow and steady walk towards the zone of Dagan's landing.

Dagan put his all into the attacks, each thrust, jab, and stab; they would have torn a person in two with just a touch, but Lars was not having any of that. Unfortunately, Dagan would not have time to become overly furious with Lars and try something else, during one of his higher thrusts, all of the Lars converged, right before his eyes, and then they were gone.

A familiar blur of scenery rushed pass Dagan, however; this scenery was somewhat inverted, he could see an infinite expanse of … Of what may have been sky, he wasn’t sure, and then he looked to his side; there were outlines, shadows, fog, and maybe hills off into the distance.

“H-uh---,” he remarked in awestruck confusion.

Oblivious as to how much distance he had traveled, Dagan hit the ground, like earlier, but much harder; so hard, in fact, that his body was much like a stone being tossed across a surface of water, he hit the ground, flew a few feet more, and then hit the ground once again and again and again.

Eventually, Dagan would come to a stop, he felt wet, sticky, maybe, and his entire face hurt. That was a new sensation, right there. He couldn’t recall the last time he actually felt hurt, and it really did hurt.

Looking forwards, Dagan would notice Lars’ slow and steady advance, he didn’t feel alarmed, oddly, but he did attempt to check himself over. Dagan’s right hand dropped the broken remains of what may have once been a spear, a splinter, now, really, and he proceeded to direct this hand in taking off his coat; there was a stinging sensation, not unlike the one in his face, when he attempted this, though. Continuing, Dagan would find his left arm bent at a somewhat awkward angle, he was almost sure it wasn’t supposed to bend in this direction, too, but he didn’t fret with it too much. It only hurt when he touched it…

“G-great,” Dagan spat into the ground; meeting Lars’ advancement with his own; although, Dagan’s walk was unsteady, a little disheveled from the blow to the face, and not to mention the flight.

Once Lars and Dagan became close enough to each other that small details could be made out, the half-decomposed man would be able to note a slight change in Dagan's face, and it wasn't his own doing; there was a slight glow to the man's eyes, emerald in color, but still somewhat dim.

Dagan was injured. He was broken, bleeding, and staggering. This brought a smile to Lars's face. It was the kind of smile a man cracked when he was about to bag his kill for the morning--this week's dinner.

Lars's approach, however, was interrupted by the arrival of another such being. The sound of another arrival was the same as Lars's initial one before Dagan. A wind struck the fog, and a silhouette appeared quite violently in the nearby distance. Lars ceased walking in order to pay this existence a side-ways stare. He had a feeling he knew who it was, and he didn't appear to be all that enthused by the suspicion swimming about his decomposed cranium.

"Got yourself a strong'un, Lars?!" the silhouette called out.

Lars lifted his upper lip, licked a black tooth, and spat in disgust. It was clear that he wasn't remotely appreciative of this voice--but more in an annoyed way than anything else.

As the silhouette started to close in on Lars and Dagan's position, Lars let out an audible sigh. "Mind if we pause for a second, stea-- I mean--Dagan?"

“No, no; not at all.” Dagan replied calmly, welcoming the chance to enjoy the feeling that washed over him. It wasn’t relief, it wasn’t connected to Lars, or this new comer at all; there was no silly thought in Dagan’s head that he had been rescued. There was a familiarity in the way the other voice had spoken, and, well; that meant they knew each other, and that was not a good thing for Dagan.

No, the feeling that washed over him was not something as intense as hope, false, or otherwise; it was something more along the lines of peace, but with an alarming sense of fury behind it. It was both real and unreal; it was life and death; it was thought given form and belief rewarded.

And it was none of those things.

Dagan’ staggered slightly, swaying from a nonexistent wind, it would seem, but he held his ground. That blow he had taken… He believed he could have dodged it; that he could have handled it better. This thing, Lars, was probably weaker than Dagan, or at least that was what the man believed. The actual blow hadn’t hurt, if the positions had been reversed, Lars’ head might have been crushed from the impact, but Dagan suffered only a bloody nose. The majority of Dagan’s damage, after all, had come from hitting the ground with the force of a cannon.

Dagan looked at his arm, he wanted to touch it, but winced at the thought. It didn’t hurt; there was pain, but not to an unbearable extent. It wasn’t a compound fracture, thankfully; there was no bone peeking from skin and it’d probably heal faster than if this damage had been inflicted on someone else, but that also meant he’d have to set it or risk it cementing in … a very bad angle; that would have to wait until a better time, however.

The glow behind Dagan’s eyes grew just a bit brighter and as that happened, Dagan would feel more at ease with himself, and so he didn’t press his luck with the Lars or the new comer… Not yet, he’d wait a bit longer, see how things played out, and maybe he’d even come up with a plan on what to do and how better to handle Lars. He wouldn’t be able to use inexperience as an excuse forever, after all.

Regardless, the feeling growing within Dagan had been experienced before, often, in fact, but it was always fleeting... And now, now it wasn't. He felt it there, right at the fringes, and he could almost taste it, it was so close. But he couldn't force it, when he did that, it usually vanished, right away, and that would be counter productive, he thought.

For now, Dagan would have to be a member of the audience...

"Aw man, you really did find a strong'un!" the voice cried as the silhouette neared enough to be seen a little clearer. Lars averted his eyes and sighed. This figure was short, about five feet and six inches tall, but was fairly muscular.

This man's state of decomposition was much lighter than that of Lars's. His skin had a healthier color, his lips were much fuller, and he actually had hair. He looked young, perhaps around his early twenties when he encountered his unfortunate demise, likely stemming from some sort of accident dealing with the discus that was planted within the back of his skull. It was still wedged in there, with dried blood amounting around it and the wound itself. The hat upon his head was practically held on by it, though. Oddly, the top of the hat was completely removed, providing a visor-like effect.

He seemed to have a different choice of style (or did, in life) than Lars. Lars dressed-- or perhaps died --with some sense of class. This newcomer, however, was vastly different, perhaps even offensively so. He wore a pair of tattered and dirty white shorts and a short sleeved blue collared shirt, except it was only able to button down to his chest at most. A bracelet around his muscular wrist was half-chewed off, and the collar of his shirt was popped. Like Lars, he was barefoot.

This newcomer looked to Dagan with narrowed eyes and a wide grin.

"Seriously, Lance, those other two guys are still alive. Go after one of them," Lars groaned. It was clear that he'd have preferred if this man, Lance, were to bother someone else other than him.

Lance, however, only grinned wider. "No way, bro. Those other two are weak shits. I came here for a challenge, man, not lamers!"

Lars sighed again. He rolled his eyes to the best of his ability and folded his arms over his chest. Chances were, he didn't like this new development just as much as Dagan probably didn't.

“Great,” Dagan muttered under his breath. Even if Lars had every intention of eating Dagan, at least that man looked respectable, if only slightly, but this new one; this man looked down right trashy.

If the situation wasn’t what it was, Dagan would have visibly grimaced at the possible compliments that Lance had offered towards he man, calling him strong, and apparently a challenge-worthy foe or dinner. If Dagan had been aware that they had once been alive, then he’d have probably surmised that Lance may have been a hunter in his former life, but that might have been doubtful, too. Possible wishful thinking taking place in an alternate reality of some sort, really.

Dagan’s left arm twitched, it didn’t hurt, again, and he could move it a bit now. And, it may have been an odd thing to gawk, to himself, about, but he felt good; there was no explaining it, he honestly felt better than he had when the fight between him and Lars had started, as odd as that was, though, he knew this was no time to simply stand about, and so he started to move again; walking forwards, slowly, at first, but picking up speed as time went on.

He no longer stumbled, he no longer staggered, he was walking, if not running, normally, and without any hindrance; it could almost be said that the damage that had been dealt was slowly being reversed; this could have went unnoticed, though, partly due to Lance’s sudden arrival, and the fact that Dagan’s arm was still visibly wounded.

They're alive, he thought; there was no describing how much more better he now felt. Lance and Lars had just offered him more hope than they could have thought possible; and now, now was not a time to waste it; he'd have to ensure he paid them back properly.