((Thanks to the wonderful writer behind Madison Rye for her part in this!))

Loam and driftwood lined the lower region of the dock line - where dilapidated wooden steps gave way to sand. Madison has chosen to stand out of the way. The breeze was straight blowing, and the fog was dense. The lamplight only gave as much away as it had to. Her silhouette was bundled up by one such lamp. The stairs were close. The day's heat breached and broke here. The dampness crawled up the back of the neck. The air pressed close, unwanted. From a distance those lamps could have been yellow will o' the wisps. Strange creatures that hovered in the air at night. They rarely illuminated the approaching figure, which was more a shadow than man at this point. He moved like some dockside specter, the ghost of men drowned in the filthy water and muck. Many had died here; the lifestyle did not suit the weak. Morgan arrived with the same canter as always, his greeting a grunt. If she had been listening she might have heard him grunting and growling long before he came into view, like a beast stalking through the fog.

"Morgan,? her voice muted down by the whispering water, and further out, where the waves savaged the cliffs. She watched him come into light, a hand resting actively on her hip. She smiled, though it was tight and the warmth was entirely absent from her face. Surprise had long since died, once she knew Morgan for what he was and who he fit into this weaving kingdom of puzzles she had set foot within. The door to the keep long shut at her heels. Now, she was here, and with one of the players. The most central to her thoughts. Heil's research had been something, but not something to run with. And Morgan wasn't someone she intended on running into. "Thanks for coming." Her eyes traveled his features. "Got to say: can't believe it's you." The wind made her unruly hair all the more so. Dragged it over her eyes, dragging tendrils across her shoulders. She didn't move to tame them. The hand remained on iron. The other shoved right down into the depths of the denim pocket. "I....? she trailed off, and her smile faded.

"Underwhelmed?" he asked, wry humor creeping into his rough voice. "Most are," for the big bad boogeyman so many thought him to be, he was surprisingly normal looking. Especially this evening. The latest bit of undercover work he'd been doing was in a nicer part of town, he dressed appropriately. Smart clothes, ironed and neat. Those lines went well with his sharp features. His voice was what ruined the ensemble, tense and borderline feral. You could feel it in the air with just a few words. Her teeth clenched, tasting the air, tasting the way the world felt at that pinnacle of time. The most brackish smell in the air mingled with that of maritime decay and the concrete-scent of the fog, loaned intensity and a further edge to where they stood and to who she was before.

"I, wouldn't say that, Morgan. I hadn't really thought that the Morgan Douglas spoke of would be here, in this town. I know the West's been shaken up, many a bird has flown its cage, but yet." She shook her head, but she didn't dare remove her eyes. They fixed on him. Noting every detail, in ways she had neglected to on that somewhat fateful prior meeting. From that pocket she pulled a rather crumpled packet of reds, and shuffled one out. She extended it towards him. Her hand bobbed. Encouraging. ?So where is he??

Morgan eyed the cigarette like a man with a bad addiction who'd been fighting it for days. Greed, need, a little bit of madness. But in the end he shook his head, he'd made promises, damn it. "Right now? Ain't sure. He was in town last night. We spoke, briefly," Morgan reached into the inside of his suit jacket. Tucked away in that pocket was a flask. He twisted the cap loose and let it hang by the little rubber strip that held it in place and took a swig. "Told me he'd be gone for a while. Ain't sure when he's returnin?.?

"Why?" his eyes searched for the answer on her face, in her own set of peepers like they were windows into her soul. Some cultures believed that to be true.

"If you saw him, then you surely know at least partly the reason I am here, with you." Shaking out a soldier for herself, Madison brought it to her bee-stung mouth, and slipped it in the corner. Moment later, a match was illuminating the little space between them - murky, troubled, wet, hungry. "He's not right", her voice inflicted with a discomfort.

"Glenn's never been right," he countered, taking another swig from the flask. He offered it over. It smelled of strong bourbon. "Man's a cataclysm waitin' t'happen. You should know that better'n most, Miss Rye. I know he's mixed in with some weird stuff, but way I hear it, he done threatened to kill you if you came after him. An' Glenn ain't the kind t'make idle threats. So, I ask again. Why?"

The knowledge that he had lingered in town, that he was around, or had been, wedged something cruel beneath her ribs. It was like willingly drinking poison. Even chasing this shadow was perhaps a true sign of how deep her loyalties lay. She looked the flask over, like she was about to deny it, aware that it would leave the iron at her hip open, but.... She took a sip. It was heady, and it went with the smoke. It made her like Morgan, instantaneously. It said more. "Debt. He helped me over a year back. We helped one another. We were on trail. I guess I'm such an idiot motherf*cker. Loyalty, number one." She took another swig from the flask, it glinted in her hand, and she held it over, wiping her mouth dry with the sleeve of her jacket. "I just.... " She swallowed, and drew hard on the smoke. It glowered fiercely. "You know, I...? She seemed to stall. "I goddamn care about the b*stard, Morgan. That's the all of it. And I'm an idiot." She nearly laughed, but that sad thing happened - when her face lost its color, and her eyes went all far away.

Morgan took the flask back and had another swig, then put the cap back on and tucked it into his pocket. "Look," he shoved a hand into his pants pocket. "He's comin' back t'Rhy'din at some time in the near future. Said he had some more business t'take care of," he pulled out a small gear, a cog to some greater machine. "He asked me t'hold on t'this. Know where it's from?? Madison stepped in, examining it. Her eyes glittered. They lifted to his. She took the moment, to read them

"This is all the ol' clock tower needs t'start runnin' again. Don' know why he needs it, but he does. He'll be there when he's back. Might wanna keep an eye out."

Her gaze intensified, and she heaved with a breath stolen from the unforgiving weight of the night, and the information that burdened. "I don't follow. He never spoke of this development to me. At all. Morgan, before he left, and in the months leading up, we didn't... we weren't involved. We were like two ships passing in the night, and we shared the same bed. But even then... He wasn't a secretive man. I can't name him so. This...." She could taste the bourbon, and the regret at the back of her throat. There was hurt in her eyes. "Whatever this is, whatever that is... it's got to be related to why he headed out. May I?" A pale hand reached out while she took a grim drag from the smoke. It coiled above their heads. Ouboros, snakes of smoke, eating a thousand tails. He handed the cog over. Interestingly enough, etched there amidst the bronzed metal was an ouroboros, making a circle along the edge of the gear.

"He's with the Hexxen Order, Madison. That's what this is all about, that's what them snakes are meant t'symbolize. The coyotes are just the dogs."

Madison?s brows slowly arched. "I'm sorry. What!" Turning the machinery over in her hands. The metal was eerily cool. It didn't warm - not even after being pressed against Morgan's body heat, or that of his hand. Her eyes finally drew to his again. "Hexxen? That's malarkey. Old, old West bullsh*t. You're kidding me." She held the cog out, not wishing to be blindfolded by old time superstition. The stuff thrown from the mouths of vaudevillian reverends, and snake oil merchants. "I'm sorry, but I can't listen to this.? She watched his face, to see something she may have missed

"You know 'bout the Hexx, I hear. Shot up an awful lot of them back in Lofton," he smirked, remembering the smoke, the gunfire, and the blood. Those were the days, the voice in his mind said, when you were truly powerful. "But they ain't nothin' but fodder, Rye. The Hexxen are somethin' more," he took the cog back and shrugged at her disbelief. "You can deny it all you want, but there ain't a thing 'bout this that ain't true. There's more t'them old west stories than you think. Power in those lands, in that earth. That place is just waitin' t'swallow up a man's soul," his face was cool, stoic. He was a master of the poker face, never giving an inch.

Her teeth were gritting, back and forth, without her realizing it. The gunslinger just stared at him. Breathing it in. Breathing it all in. "His hands,? she said, after a beat. "

"Snakeskin. That's what them Hexxen are, rattlesnakes. Vipers, venomous. They got power not like what you seen back in Lofton, Cadentia or f*ck, Decrepit. Shit's real there an' now Glenn's got a taste of it. That kinda thing is like a drug, Rye. Ain't many who can resist the temptation an' Glenn always was a greedy sonofabitch."

Madison spun away, took a few paces. Hands covering her face.

"I'll help you find him, Rye," he started, tucking the cog back into his pocket. "Under one condition."

She came to a stop, hands gone to her hair, raking through. "Jesus." She looked out to the sea. Soaked in the knowledge, then turned to him. "What's that?"

"There's a man in town. His name's Leo Bartosz, he's from Beaumont. An' I need him dead."
She worked her bottom lip. "Dead? Why?"

He's a bad man, killed more than most an' he works with the Hexxen. That's reason enough."

Steps inclined back towards the man. She stood half in the shadow he through, which was blacker than most, and the off-kilter yellow of the lamp. A woman in two. "He's Westling?" Seemed a few birds had flown their cage. Something passed across her face. She tilted her face to his. "This all true, Morgan?"

"Yeah," Morgan grunted and turned to peer through the fog. The intensity in his gaze suggested he could do just that, see through it. Like he was gazing into another world. "All true. I ain't prone t'lyin, Rye. Once upon a time I was a lawman, if that helps you."

That thing that crossed her face clenched in her belly. Madison's fingers curled, then released, and she held her hand out to him. Her eyes watched his, and wherever they went, through the fog, lifetimes, and unknown distances. "You have a deal."

He looked down at her hand and hesitated. "You should know, you're makin' a deal with the devil here, Rye. I see my contracts through."

That earned Wright a grin. "I've danced with a few in my time. What's one more?" Dark brow did lift at that, her hand waiting.

He clasped her hand and all at once, it was entirely too hot. Like a brand straight from the fire, coal burning hot. The back of her hand was left with a mark. A small, dark circle cut six ways with small lines. "Good."

There was a close of eyes at the heated pressure on her hand, and when he'd let go, it was with the sense some lines had been written. A talisman had been hung. A trespass had been made. Her hand reeled back towards herself. But the ground was stood, and her eyes did dare to make his. To hold them. "What in the...? but she didn't say that word, and instead looked to the brand. "You sure have a way with the ladies, Morgan."

"Think so?" he offered her a crooked smirk. "First m'hearin' of that. Ain't exactly the sweep you off your feet kinda guy."

Humor hooked, hung out to dry. She dug that hand into pocket, and gave him her eyes. "Leo. My partner, an outside Watchman, he's told me. Of Leo, of the rings. We're going to have to plan this. Meticulously. "If there's one bird from out there, then there'll be more coming. Always is. Where there's Hexx." Old boots creaked as she stepped past him. A brush of arm to arm. "You can sweep me off my feet later." Wry, and a sidelong smile "Hmm."

"They hunt in packs,? he said.

"So shall we."

?Keep your eyes high, Madison. These snakes don' hide in the grass."

She grinned. Surely some fog parted for it. "Meet me here, tomorrow?" Steps took her into a half-moon.

"Sure thing," he watched her closely. Then, grunting to himself, Morgan turned and headed back into the fog.

Hooded eyes watched the man dissolve into the gloaming. Her chin tilted up. Eyes followed. "Watch your step, Morgan", her voice flat in that dense, crawling air. "An' I'll keep mine up alright." Oh Madi-girl.... Madison turned, and headed for home.

The tea shop was a cozy place. Quiet, warm and inviting. Cushions and chairs littered the place, small tables for books and drinks nearby. A man sat on a couch near the merrily burning hearth that seemed to give off no heat. He was of average height and weight, though his features obscured by the low hanging brim of his hat. He flicked lazily through the pages of a book while a gloved hand nursed a cup of coffee. Beside him was a table and next to that, an empty chair. On that table waited a cup of coffee, still steaming.

The shop was empty. Even the woman who worked the register had stepped out. It was if time had decided to stand still. The world outside kept bustling on but here in the tea shop everything had frozen.

Here sat a man whose face had been twisted by darkness. In the scant few days that had passed since their parting, so much had changed. His eyes seemed darker and more distant, as if he viewed the world through a void. A veil, if you will, that unleashed upon his fragile mind the horrors of life. They had made him see things he thought of only in his worst nightmares. He seemed paler than the man she knew, that man who spent so many hours on horseback riding out under the sun. It was as if he were a ghost.

His dark eyes flicked to meet with her blues. His smile was a truly horrid thing. Twisted and wretched, a mixture of pain and some perverse amusement. He spoke and his voice was cool, like he was speaking to a stranger.

"Madi."

"Thought I told you not t'come lookin' for me."

"Look like you seen a ghost, Rye."

The smile was a sharp thing. Shark-like. Cold and deadly. He was a different breed of monster than what she'd known. Tainted by snakes and hoodoo and all the darkness that was born in the far lands. In the West, where time and reality didn't mean as much as it did elsewhere in the world. Glenn was of a kind that hailed from there and sooner or later his blood was going boil and his bones would ache and his soul would be drawn to that dark, dark place.

It was a pit to the center of the earth. A place where all light was sucked away and only a shadow remained. He was a shade of Glenn Douglas the Outlaw, of the brigand, reluctant hero and occasional bounty hunter. This man belonged to the Hexxen. He said so in the way he looked up at her, like she were a bug under a microscope. Curiosity born of intrigue and not attraction, not like the chemistry that had been between them in the past. Someone had extinguished the flame of humanity in his heart.

"We were, Madison Rye. An' it's 'cause of that we're talkin' right now. I should be buryin' your corpse on the side of the road. But we got history an' that means somethin'. Not much, but somethin'."

"Talk."

"What d'you want?"

"I love you, Madison Rye," Glenn rose from his seat, running his fingers through his hair which seemed greasy and unwashed. It was true, he had become a wraith, hollow and empty since their last words. "An' it's 'cause I do that you ain't dead right now," his hand slowly came to rest on the old, worn wood that curved down into a weapon he'd used to take many lives in the past.

"These snakes think they can put me down when they've had their fill, but you know better'n most that there ain't sh*t in this world can stop me from gettin' what I want."

He worked his lower lip with his teeth and seemed to grimace at the same time, like these words took a toll on his soul. He was pale and sickly in appearance, that snakeskin crept up from his hands. It was visible in the split between his shirt sleeve and the gloves he wore, winding its way over his wrists and up his arms. Consuming.

"That's why m'tellin' you t'keep your nose clear of this, right here an' now, Rye. Don' make me come back here lookin' for you. I'll finish what I started in that bar, them years ago. I'll put you in the ground. I love you, but I will kill you."

"Some things are more important than you an' me. An' this is one of them things. Let go."

A darkness seemed to flow into the room. It was creeping all around them, snuffing out all light, suffocating. Warmth flooded away and a chill replaced it. The shop felt like a mausoleum, a tomb. The dead were there in force, he could see them meandering about, lost and twisted and vengeful spirits of hate and malice and suffering. Glenn snatched the hat from Madison Rye and put it back on his head and turned toward the door. As he moved away so too did that foreboding sense of dread, that evil.

He was scarred in a way that could never be healed, his very being a perverse imitation of the man that had been. When he looked over his shoulder at him that truth was reflected in his gaze. Cold and listless, glassy like a corpse.