Tied Hands and Firelight Dances

Even with the quiet of the evening rolling in and camp set for the night, Roku’s chelicerae rubbed together irritably; he couldn’t get comfortable. Every few seconds, he would reach over and give the fire a righteous jab before settling back into his seat. Then, he would glance at his company – still trussed, still unconscious. Back to the fire. The bounty hunter wasn’t the type to let his guard down, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this… edgy. A stiff breeze passed, sending a shiver down his spine. He looked back.

Still tied. Still still.

The fire danced below the day’s catch; three decent-sized fish and an unlucky rabbit. Roku wasn’t a praying man, but he offered an internal thanks to the god of the hunt, hoping that his anxiety would go up in smoke and allow him to enjoy the fruits of his labor in peace. He pushed the thoughts of having to feed his prisoner out of his mind for the time being to this end. As a matter of fact, in spite of his constant checking and double checking, the huntsman was trying very hard not to think of his quarry. Maybe if he convinced himself it was just another bounty head to bring home, that would make it true. Even further from his mind was having to return home to deliver him, another unsavory proposition. He checked again.

The rope held fast, and he hadn’t moved an inch.

Roku allowed his many eyes to linger for a bit longer this time. He wasn’t sure how, but it felt like it’d been both a lifetime and no time at all since he’d seen Hyaku last. His plates were just as painfully red as they’d always been – as were his wide, round eyes. Around him hung the tatters of an expensive-looking outfit that he’d ruined thoroughly, fraying and tearing every part that could be frayed or torn. If Roku didn’t know better, he might’ve mistaken him for a beggar for his clothes, or an envoy of the Heavenly Empress for his kin and color. But he did know better. He wasn’t an unfortunate vagrant, and he certainly wasn’t a hand of any god: he was a demon. He’d gotten too used to calling him Hyaku. It was important to remind himself that it was a title, not a name: the Demon with a Hundred Masks. Ask anyone anywhere, and you’d find that everyone had a story about Hyaku. None of them were good. Anywhere you went, there would be at least one person willing to shell out to have his head express delivered to them for one reason or another: scams, fights, robberies, frame jobs, lying, cheating, stealing, and even a few murders, if word was to be believed. Roku had his own reasons for disliking the skinny little snake, but every time he slipped cuffs and ducked judgment, he found those personal issues buried just a bit further under a growing wound on his pride as a professional. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts of the past, Roku turned back to the fire, listening to it pop and flick. That meat was cooking up nicely, and it wouldn’t be long until he could eat. Nor would it be long, he thought with a note of sour displeasure, until he had to wake the prisoner so he could eat. He shook his head again, pulling the wide brim of his hat just a bit lower and adjusting his bandanna. To distract himself, he glanced back one more time.

Hyaku froze stock still as his captor turned around. He stood now a foot from him, maybe less, hunched over, arm outstretched, hand reaching for one of Roku’s holsters. A part of the bounty hunter felt an overwhelming sense of satisfaction that his paranoia had paid off, but it was drowned out by the thinking of a level head: he knew that he had to play this next part carefully, even though by all means, he should’ve had Hyaku dead to rights.

“… hey buddy.” Hyaku finally said, not daring to move an inch. He knew that if he so much as flinched, Roku would be on him like ugly on an ape.

“Mornin’.” Roku grunted coolly. The huntsman was never the largest of his siblings, but he wasn’t slight by any means – if it came down to it, Roku could beat Hyaku in a contest of strength. The problem was, the slippery devil would make sure it wouldn’t come down to it: he hated a fair fight, and even now, he had to have some tricks up his sleeve for a situation just like this one.

The two men stared at each other in silence for a while after that. Sizing the other up. Watching for the right moment. Muscles pulled taut, waiting to spring loose and crash into each other at full force.

Hyaku moved first. The crimson blur went low and lunged for the gun; Roku was ready, and drove his palm as hard as he could into the crook’s mandibles. He stumbled back, dropping flat onto his back and bringing a hand up to cover where he was struck.

Looking down, the barest trace of ichor had been smeared onto his fingers. Hyaku looked at Roku, exclaiming in disbelief, “You hit me!”

“Shouldn’a gone for it.” Roku replied.

“I wasn’t gonna shoot you with it!” Hyaku protested, scrambling back a step and then up to his feet.

“Like in Draconia?” Roku asked, coldly.

Hyaku’s retort died before it could leave his mouth, and his gaze briefly flicked down to Roku’s chest. “That was- It was an accident! And you lived, didn’t you?”

Roku hurled himself from his seat, grabbing for the other man’s throat in an attempt to pin him to the ground and throttle him into submission. Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t the only one with the past fresh on his mind; Hyaku dropped reflexively onto his back, using his legs to force Roku’s momentum to carry him all the way past and into the dirt behind him. He quickly rolled onto his front and pushed back up to his feet, flicking his knife open in his offhand. Roku tore his eyes away from Hyaku for a moment to look at the weapon, bewildered.

“Where in the hell-?” he started to ask before Hyaku broke into a chuckle.

“Had a little hiding spot carved under my chest plate just in case.” The ne’er-do-well rapped his chest with his free hand.

There it was. Even now, Hyaku would never let himself be at a disadvantage. It would almost be admirable, if it was anyone else. Roku cautiously surveyed the demon, transitioning into a defensive posture and opening his coat to let his second and third pair of arms free. “Don’t make this any harder’n it has to be.” he offered, inching forwards. “I ain’t try’na bring you in dead.”

And once again, the two froze in place. Neither was sure what to do next. Hyaku was certain that if he got past his guard, he could stick him good enough that he wouldn’t be chasing him far, but therein lay the problem; if he could get past his guard. Roku knew Hyaku would be aiming for a quick and decisive strike, so the longer he dragged this out, the more likely he was to get impatient and make a mistake – but he’d been riding since dawn, and he hadn’t eaten since noon, and every second wasted was another second’s worth of strength sapping out of his bones. The two stared at each other.

Hyaku saw his opportunity.

So did Roku. The former dove for the gap between two chitin plates, and the latter caught his arm and twisted it, forcing the knife out of his hand. Both grunted as they fell to the ground, tumbling and rolling over one another, fists flailing and eyes blazing with a primal fire. Hyaku’s wiry hands slipped in beneath Roku’s pedipalps and wrapped around his throat, while Roku had lost what little patience he’d had for the demon, all six hands clawing and scratching and pounding on whatever they could find, a pitiless twister played out in miniature. They went on like this for ages, bludgeoning each other in any way they could as they slowly traveled the length and breadth of the campgrounds, each one gaining the upper hand a dozen times each, working a new and this time surely final angle with each changing of places.

He wouldn’t admit it, but Roku was fading. He was exhausted, hungry, and he’d taken a few too many to the head. The exchange of fists at speed had stripped him of his cap, and had his mask dangling around his neck, leaving his grim visage on display for the world to gawk at. Had he his usual faculties – or any beyond the basest instincts needed for survival – he might’ve given Hyaku a reprieve to put his personal effects in order, but the both of them were little more than animals now. Roku stepped back, one hand wrapped around his prey’s throat and the other latched onto his face, dragging Hyaku into the air. A mistake on his part: from that vantage point, Hyaku got the chance to plant his foot into Roku’s chest, finally breaking the endless grapple. Skidding and stumbling against the dirt, the pair stood at a distance once again – with one difference.

In Hyaku’s outstretched hand gleamed a handful of polished metal with immaculate wood finishing; he’d snatched one of Roku’s pistols. Now it was Roku’s turn to stop dead in his tracks. Reflexively, a hand crept down towards the grip of the one remaining, but the sound of the absent one’s hammer clicking back put a stop to that.

“Don’t try it, buddy.” Hyaku intoned, seriously. The wind passed by them, kicking up a cloud of dust as it went.

Roku reached.

Hyaku pulled the trigger.

Click.

The hunter straightened up, pulling his remaining sidearm from its holster with one hand and rooting around in a pouch on his belt with another. Hyaku looked at the gun, then pulled again.

Click.

Where was the boom?! There was supposed to be an ear-splitting crack, and then the problem would go away! He squeezed the trigger a few more times – click, click, click. Meanwhile, Roku found what he was looking for; a long, slim bullet, which he slid gracefully into the chamber, flicking the cylinder closed. Desperately, as Roku leveled the provably loaded gun at him, Hyaku pulled the trigger one more time, just in case.

Click.

“You must think I’m pretty thick, buddy.” Roku growled, pulling the hammer back on his own weapon.

“H-Hey, look, I didn’t-” Hyaku began before Roku waved him off.

“Throw me my gun, you damn fool – and none’a yer funny business. Only thing keepin’ you on two feet is a bigger payday if yer livin’.” the hunter barked.

Hyaku’s mouth went dry. He thought for a moment – just a moment – that he might be able to slip away if the wind would just kick up some more dust, but the steely look plastered across Roku’s beaten, ugly mug killed that plan deader than he would’ve been if he tried it. Carefully, slowly, he tossed the useless hunk of metal to his captor, and stood with his hands up to either side of his head.

Roku squatted down, snatching the gun out of the dirt, eyes never leaving his quarry for a second – not even to blink. It dipped down into its holster, and there it was; it took a while, but he had the bastard dead to rights. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

“Siddown by the fire ‘fore I put a hole in ya.” he demanded, motioning with his free hand. “One step outta line and I’ll take them legs clean off.”

Hyaku complied. There was nothing else he could do. The outlaw shuffled over to the fire pit and sat down cross-legged in front of it, hands still firmly in the air. Roku did much the same on the opposite side, barrel never straying from the villain for a second. With some finality, the hunter took his own seat.

“An’ jus’ fer that stunt, I’m takin’ the rabbit all fer myself.” he growled, yanking the skewer out of the ground and taking a hefty bite of the critter.

“Shit.” Hyaku grunted, hands finally falling to his sides. He grabbed one of the remaining skewers and tore a chunk off the thing. “Trout?”

“Caught ‘em this mornin’.” Roku said. He looked over the fire to fix Hyaku with his cold gaze. “One’a these days, I’m gonna take that pay cut.”

“Doubt it.” Hyaku replied through a mouthful of fish.