He’d take a moment to compose himself, stopping in his tracks, even, and didn’t approach an inch further; the silhouettes were mind boggling, his thoughts were jumbled in disbelief, and false explanations for what it was he was witnessing.

“H-how many things am I going to run into out here,” he fumbled some words out of his mouth, but nothing he said was above a whisper’s threshold. “Seeker, people, zombies, and this… These…”

Finally, Dagan approached further and walked behind the silhouette closest to himself, if it reacted, he’d jump back, he wasn’t in any condition for a dragged out fight, but if it didn’t react then he’d simply peer over it; in truth, he was curious as to why they were doing what they were. When he had first made out the silhouettes, he had not fully realized what they were doing, and even now it was quite questionable; they were digging, apparently, but digging into what or better yet, why. Hell, from a distance he thought they were making stabbing motions. In hindsight, approaching something making stabbing motions was probably a very bad idea.

Dagan was a little annoyed at both the fog and his inability to make out any details of the shadow-things; the fog was particularly frustrating, but at least it was a constant and didn’t cause him too much a headache; the silhouettes were different in that they caused an almost physical pain just from looking too long at them and his eyes kept wanting to look away or simply not focus.

Slowly, he told himself as he leaned over just a bit.

“What are you doing?” he stepped to the side and attempted to get a better look at the apparent hole that they two things were attempting to dig into the earth.

There was nothing-- nothing at all. Neither form reacted. Dagan could have gone so far as to touch them, if he so desired, and he'd simply pass right through them. Silhouettes in the gray-- they were nothing more. They didn't speak or move as if Dagan were seen or heard.

Which wasn't to say that they didn't move at all, of course. Without Dagan's prompting, one held its odd instrument over its shoulder, and with one shadowed arm, wiped its forearm across its blurry face. This did nothing to make its face look less like a smudge on reality. The other stopped its motions, looked to the other, and sulked its shoulders. Their heads moved subtly for some time, before the non-working on waved a hand at the other, set its spear back into the ground, and continued to work.

It would come out of nowhere, a sudden jolt to the back of Dagan's head. It might hurt him, in his state, a state of vague uncertainty, where the images before him didn't make even an ounce of sense-- yet it would only hurt so much. Even if Dagan was powerless, it might not be that bad. It might make him stumble, but beyond that, perhaps nothing at all. It was light, and the object that struck him-- one particular rock, probably grabbed from the dry earth, striking Dagan in the back of his head, flaking off, and breaking entirely upon hitting him, leaving nothing more than gray dust in his hair.

And so Dagan had placed his weight on the tips of his toes, bent down, and squatted just behind the silhouette that he had been studying. These things were definitely an oddity, even for Purgatory, and just as the man was coming to that conclusion, he felt his body rocking forwards just slightly, and then back--until he fell; he had been hit with something, it didn’t deal any real damage, but it was enough to make him instinctively place his free arm, the one that wasn’t wounded, to the back of his head.

“W-whuh, who?” he quickly fumbled back up, still favoring one of his arms, and quickly scanned about the area for the source of the attack. He wasn’t particularly upset, but he was put off by the suddenness of the blow. He could have died, after all … Well, not really. But if it had been something more formidable then that was a possibility!

Dagan peered through the fog, it was still just as annoying as ever, but very much preferred over the silhouettes; he took a few steps forward and held his right hand just above his brow, as though that were going to increase his range of visibility.

“Who threw that!” he angrily shouted at the unseen assailant who had delivered a blow to the back of his head.

There it was, in the fog, near, but not too near. It was far enough away that Dagan couldn't quite see it; far from up close, but near enough to cast a visible shadow upon the fog. Another shadow in the fog-- but this wasn't an intangible one. This one, Dagan could have approached if he so desired; this one, Dagan wouldn't have to worry about being unresponsive. Though, maybe he did have to worry about a response. Another rock could've hurt. Another rock always hurt.

The shadow, he'd be able to see, was posed; one leg appeared to be behind the other. Dagan wouldn't be able to catch much detail of it unless he actually ventured closer to the figure-- one unlikely to be just two dark, incomprehensible figures.

"For the last time," it began . . .

A male's voice. He sounded young, perhaps around Dagan's age, even-- not an adolescent, clearly, but not so old to carry wisdom on his tongue. The figure bent down, took a step back, and threw his arm forward. Another rock came for Dagan's skull.

"You will not eat me!"

This time Dagan had been expecting another attack, not another rock, of course, but at least it was better than something much sharper and less inclined to breaking upon impact.

He’d catch the rock with his right arm, which, unknown to the shadow that had launched the object, would be blurred, his speed wasn’t as great as it was, prior to Lars’ attack, but it was still pretty good. The rock, now in his grasp, would be reduced to dust in his grip, and allowed to freely fall back to Purgatory’s barren landscape. Ever so slowly, he’d start to move towards where the rock had been thrown from.

He had heard what the “attacker” shouted just before the second rock had been thrown; there was no reason to scare him or give him cause to throw another, so Dagan slowly advanced and would gladly take or block more earthen projectiles, should they be thrown at him; and if he was directed to stop? Then he’d do so, his working arm held in front of him, in the somewhat universal gesture for a non-threatening approach; this would, however, have worked much better if he had two working arms.

“I’m not going to eat you,” he shouted back. “I was almost eaten, too. - - My name’s Dagan,” he kept his voice well below threatening, despite the fact that it was a shout. “I’ve a friend here, too! His name is Seeker, but he’s kind of a jerk. He won’t eat you, though!”

After a sufficient amount of ground had been covered, as painstakingly slow as it was, he’d stop, still keeping his right hand in front of him, raised just slightly above chest level, and wait for a reply from the man in the distance.

The silhouette in the distance bent down, grabbed at the ground, and stood back up straight again. It was only then that he realized the full of what Dagan was saying. "Wait-- you don't? Seriously?"

The man sounded surprised, relieved, and skeptical all at the same time. Someone that didn't want to eat him would be nice. Likewise, it would be horrendously surprising. Chances were, he was hounded by Lance for awhile, until Lance lost interest in him or something along those lines.

But still-- he sounded skeptical. No, he was skeptical. Who was to say that this wasn't some sort of predator's trap? What was to say that if he walked over there, he wasn't going to get his face bitten off? No, he couldn't be too safe. For now, he stuck to where he was, keeping the large rock in his hands. In this vast and endless gray, it never hurt to be too safe. In fact, it was impossible to be too safe out here.

"Uh . . . um-- how do I know?" he asked outright. Well, it was true. Dagan wasn't giving him much proof to think otherwise, after all!

“Huh,” he hadn’t given that much thought and it showed. It was entirely possible that Dagan was, in fact, some sort of flesh-eating individual with a penchant for hunting and trapping persons such as this visibility-challenged male-person, whose reluctance to come out in the open was well justified.

“Well … If I was going to eat you, I’d probably not waste my time talking to you; that is, I mean the ones I fought were pretty strong and fast,” it was true, and Dagan had stated it as matter-a-factly as he could. Still, he thought for a good moment, and then he suddenly realized: “Wait … Wait, wait, wait--how do I know you’re not one of them?”

This was quite the predicament: this fog-cloaked man may very well have been an accomplice or acquaintance of Lance and Lars; this meant that they could have easily been trying to trick Dagan in very much the same way.

Finally, he lowered his arm and peered into the fog; this was troubling, neither individual would really have a way of proving their lack of want for the devouring of flesh, blood, and entrails.

I’m pretty sure I can survive another attack long enough for Seeker to get here, he thoughtfully started deciding on what to do.

With only a few seconds of planning, he suddenly decided on the best course of action: “Okay, okay! I know I can’t prove I’m who I say I am and neither can you, right?” he shouted into the emptiness of Purgatory, but did not wait for a reply: “I’m going to sit down and fold my legs, okay? I’d lay down, but that wouldn’t be too comfortable. Wait, can you see me at all? -- Well, no matter. I’ll tell you when I sit down and you can approach, just enough to see I’m who I say I am, I’m not decomposed, or anything!--Just wounded from my fight!”

Perhaps too trusting, Dagan would do as he said he’d do, he sat down, crossed his legs, and firmly planted his right hand flat atop the barren earth. He did so in a slow motion, easing himself down in obvious discomfort, from his bruising, or simply because the ground was hard and he had maybe sat on something.

“Okay, I’m sitting! … And, and this is stupid, isn't it?” he sighed angrily, why had he just done that? "If this doesn't work, should I just call for Seeker or something? We weren't too far apart... I think, he should be around here somewhere. "

It took several long moments for the man in the distance to come to terms with Dagan's solution. It seemed flawless, but damnit did he try to pick out something wrong with it. It seemed too perfect. It seemed like the kind of trap he might expect someone after his flesh to present to him-- something that would end only in his demise. The only solution to these fears of his was to bring something big and heavy. He bent down, worked on taking a larger chunk out of the earth, and with it held close to his chest, worked his way with the utmost caution towards Dagan.

This man that appeared from within the fog differed from the Attis and Dagan in a way that was purely racial. While Attis and Dagan both carried the same common traits of Algerothians (and New Xexorians, though they weren't remotely tan enough to pull that one off), this man hadn't any such traits at all. His were of a place far south from that, not connected to the mainland. Somewhat thinner eyes, darker skin, and reddish black hair.

Not that nationality mattered, of course. None of them, not even Attis, knew exactly what was beyond their city. To them, this world was it. They hadn't the express knowledge of another world. Dagan wouldn't know that the only people who carried similar traits to his own were Algerothian, nor would he know that the only people that carried traits similar to the man before him were of uncharted islands, Oriental, yet far south enough to breed darker skin into their genetic code, despite an otherwise Cizokian appearance. Of course, none of them knew with Cizok was, either.

He had a thin face and gaunt frame, and was just a few inches shy of an average six feet tall. Ruffled, disheveled black hair fell around the sides of his face in a mop-like mess, and his thin lips appeared parted ever so subtly. He couldn't have been more than a couple years shy of adulthood. He looked down to Dagan with wide, hazel eyes. His skinny frame wasn't one of exceptional muscularity, and it would undoubtedly be easy for Dagan to discern this. The young man, after all, had only a short pair of undershorts to his name.

"So . . ." he began, his voice so filled with amazement that he must've sounded like an awed child, "So you really aren't one of them . . ."

Needless to say, the rock was dropped at his feet.

At first Dagan seemed somewhat unsure of what to make of the new arrival, it wasn’t his looks that bothered him of course, but instead it was the giant chunk of earth he carried in his arms; that was just a tad bit unsettling. Still, Dagan didn’t react violently and remained seated, letting come what may.

It wouldn’t be until the previously obscured man had dropped his makeshift, on-the-spot weapon to the ground that Dagan would stand; the rock would give off its sound and he would slowly stand from his seated position, using his good arm to help himself up. The longer he didn’t move, the more he hurt.

“Yeah, I’m not one of them.” he said as he patted the earth off of himself. “Like I said, I fought two of ‘em off,” he didn’t recall actually saying that, but… “And I think Seeker took care of some that were after him, and helped me finish up. -- Huh, I wonder what’s taking him so long, now that I think about it.”

He’d look around himself, awkwardly, as if expecting Seeker to just appear out of the grey, but it wasn’t meant to be, he guessed.

“ I, uh… I really don’t want to go back out there and get lost or something, you know?”

Maybe he could yell for Seeker, Dagan thought; after all, he had suggested it earlier, but now it seemed to be just as bad an idea as him having sat down and letting a complete stranger approach.

“Well … No, he’ll be here eventually.” As he spoke, he finished the distance between him and his objective for having ventured this far from the city; he brought his hand out, fingers extended towards the red-haired man, and in a gesture of friendship; he offered his hand. It seemed an almost natural thing to do, and so he did it.

Offtopic: Super fuckin' sorry about the wait. Been busy as hell with school.

The young man stared at Dagan since dropping the half sized boulder at his own feet. It was only thing that he realized the pain in his arms. He'd been acting on instinct and taking anything he could to defend himself with, without actually realizing his body's limits. The young man winced and wondered exactly what the sensation in his arms meant.

He only stopped thinking of such things when he realized that Dagan was approaching him. He was tempted to back up, and tempted even more to turn tail and run as far away from Dagan as possible, but the most he did was step back with one foot and brace himself. When nothing happened, however, he opened his eyes again, only to find Dagan holding an open hand out to him.

"But, if you're not one of them . . ." the youth trailed off.

He stared down at Dagan's hand with a dumbfounded ignorance. Just what was it he was trying to do? Help him up? He looked down at himself. He wasn't on the ground. Why would he need help up. The youth looked back to Dagan's face, unsure of what to do about this extended hand situation. It wasn't the bulk of his concerns, anyways.

". . . then what are you?"

Dagan brought his hand back towards himself, seeing the confusion in the other man’s face, and he looked at it: It wasn’t a bad hand; it was strong, somewhat worn from the previous battle, but still pretty clean. Why hadn’t it been accepted …?

“I’m Dagan,” he replied without any unnecessary complexity. He didn’t know what he was and nor did he know what Seeker was, or Attis, or anyone else for that matter. They were all themselves and it didn’t really need to get fancier than that, did it? Was an explanation on their existence really required, or was it as negligible as Dagan seemed to treat it?

“What are you, then?” he inquired from the young man, he didn’t mean to cause any unnecessary confusion or frustration, but maybe it was easier to connect the dots this way… Neither of the two knew who or what they were, but maybe that also meant they were the same.

At least the young man didn’t seem to think of Dagan as one of the predators; that was the feeling he got, at least. After all, it’d have been relatively easy to overpower him now, and he had even let Dagan approach. That was a good development, the black-haired man thought; that was better than being smashed with a rock, at least.

"I'm a friend," he added on.

At the question of what he was, exactly, the young man narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow in explicit confusion. He didn't seem to be expecting that question, much the same as he hadn't been expecting Dagan to shoot his hand forward for some reason or the other. That, however, was vastly less confusing that what Dagan identified himself with.

"A . . . friend?" he asked with cautious inquisition.

The tone in his voice was one that denoted a violent brand of confusion--the kind that, unless sated, he might not be able to sleep tonight.

"What's that?" the youth's cautious inquisition remained, as if the notion of this "friend" thing might also be something that could eat him.

However, Dagan wouldn't have the chance to answer. Someone was there-- he might feel that much. Someone that stood behind Dagan explicitly. The youth before Dagan jumped back on instinct, visibly surprised--and if Dagan were to look behind him, he'd find the source of such surprise. Of course, to him, it wouldn't be too unpleasant of a surprise . . .

"It is of no consequence."

It was the Seeker.

He stood with his hands within the confines of his jacket pockets, head arced down just a touch, and concealed eyes locked upon Dagan's sitting form.

"Can you run?"

“ … I … “ Dagan would mirror the other man’s confusion for a moment, but would eventually give way to a reassuring smile. “I don’---”

He jumped for a moment, as the man, in front of him, backed away, and the man behind him spoke.

“Don’t do that!” he exclaimed and turned around, taking a few steps back to put some distance between himself and Seeker. It wasn’t confrontational, but he preferred being able to see someone in their entirety.

“Can I run?" he asked with genuine curiosity and seemed to think about the question; there was a tense moment where, if one looked at Dagan, they'd see him quite obviously thinking, and thinking hard, too: " … Yeah, I can run. I’m feeling better now, now that I give it some thought.” He finally answered.

And it was the truth, he felt much better than before, and he was suddenly aware that he had regained some feeling in his arm; it had been so long since he had tried to move it, that he was a little shocked by it, but it was a comforting thing, too. He was damn hard to break, he thought to himself.

For a moment, he had seemed ready to go ahead and leave with Seeker, but then he stopped himself; he was forgetting something, - or someone, rather!

“Oh, oh! This is Seeker,” Dagan turned back around and refocused his attention on the dark-haired, somewhat jumpy young man. “I told you about him, ‘member? He’s here to help, too.”

It was difficult to view the Seeker as anyone who had a want of assisting others. It was impossible to see his eyes; no one liked that. No matter what, it was unnerving. It never ceased to be unnerving. To even the joyful and accepting few, it would remain unnerving. The Seeker carried himself with some sense of aggression, too . . . aggression to what, however, one may never know.

"Wh-who . . ." the young man whispered in shock--no, it was more than shock. The youth was clearly frightened. "What-- what are y--"

"We haven't the time," the Seeker declared in interruption of the young man.

The red haired young man took a hard step back as the Seeker took a step forward. That, approximately, was the end of the encounter. Dagan need only to blink his eyes, and he'd see the young man falling forward with the Seeker at his rear--and rather than letting the newly unconscious body fall face first into the ashen earth, he grasped by him the arm with the very same hand used to rend him of consciousness, drew him up, and with his other arm, slung the youth over his shoulder. It was a violent way to go about things, but it worked.

Without skipping a beat, he'd motion for Dagan to follow, before turning to the direction from which they'd come, taking a step forward, and disappearing into the gray . . .

Despite Dagan’s normally jovial disposition, he didn’t seem to mind, or even express concern over how Seeker had handled the young, red-haired man. No, he understood that now was not really the time for explanations, and an explanation would have otherwise been owed, had Seeker not acted the way he did; that was, at least, what Dagan silently told himself.

“Right behind you,” his voice was lost to the rush of wind as he followed Seeker’s disappearance with one of his own.

Amazingly, he’d appear to be almost as fast as he had been in the beginning, and comparing the two speeds would be an almost impossible chore for any one person to undertake. Still, objectively speaking, Dagan was slower than before, but was quite obviously becoming better as time went on. In fact, as the man ran, following whatever path Seeker laid out for him, his speed would slowly, but surely increase; the limitless stamina associated with Dagan had once again returned, and he welcomed it quite openly.

The now-familiar Silhouettes of Purgatory, the fog, and even the expansive, barren landscape were becoming less and less unsettling, as well. It was still a nagging thought in his head that each of those silhouettes, which seemed to hungrily stare him down, could very well be other beings like Lars, or even Lance, but the latter was far less worrying than the former.

Something would have to be done about them, one day, Dagan was sure, but there were more pressing matters to attend to - - namely getting back to the city in one piece, and without further injuring himself, at that…