[center][h3]Grimjaw[/h3][/center][hr]

The acrid smell of ash lingered on the air as Grimjaw trudged across the dry, dusty landscape. His boot-spurs spit rocks out behind him, leaving a strange trail in his wake and his iron jaw clanged with each steady step. A staccato of gunfire echoed from somewhere in the distance. [i]Who the hell is letting loose this close to the Helscape?[/i], thought the bounty hunter. It sounded far off, no threat to the bounty hunter. Without breaking stride, Grimjaw turned and looked back the way he came, leveling one gnarled hand over his eyebrow to block the sun. In the distance he could make out the heap of flesh that was once his horse. The poor beast had simply given up and died in the desert. He came to a stop and looked up into the blistering sun above. The pale sky stretched endlessly to all horizons, except the black nightmare of the Helscape. 

Grimjaw snorted, spat out an oily mess of phlegm and grease and stalked on. He wouldn't end up like that beast back on the road. For nearin' twenty five years he had pushed on through the desert-through drought and demons and mages and their wars. Picking up bounties and sniffing out loot wherever he could. Always on the border of the Helscape, always near to oblivion and whatever the hell else was out in the wasteland. The smell of ash drifted away and something else took its place. 

It was a weird smell, always was when mages summoned something arcane. Somewhere between cinnamon, rotten fruit and horseshit, the tell-tale smell of mage-craft. Grimjaw scanned the horizon and pulled his rifle, [i]Prospero[/i] from his shoulder and readied it. About two hundred yards in front of him were two distinct lumps of [i]something or someone[/i] he thought somberly. Grimjaw approached the body cautiously, stepping carefully to avoid disturbing the tracks. He paused over the upper half of what had once been a mage. 

[i]Demons. Only demons would do this to man.[/i] Grimjaw studied the mans face. "Rolando," he said, iron jaw grinding out the syllables. Grim knew him, or knew [i]of him.[/i] Not the most savory character, but out here in the wastes who was? The man had been split in two. But why? Grim turned to study the tracks. 

One horse, two men, one light on his feet. The killer. Quick movements, calculated and timed perfectly. Professional. Or demonic, Grimjaw didn't know. But he knew that the victor had taken Rolandos horse, and those tracks led to Devon, only a few miles away. Grimjaw looked at the dead man one last time. Eyes wide in horror or disbelief. Dead in the desert. Gave up and died. But not Grimjaw. Grimjaw would keep moving on. Moving towards whatever was next.