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Piquiri knew what he was up against. He knew it the second he saw its twitching skull and alien glow, the second he heard its wheezing rasps, the second it called upon disembodied heads to aid it. A vestal and two highwaymen. Piquiri was face-to-face with someone who he had to keep reminding himself wasn't Riebou (it looked so much like her, but he knew it wasn't her, the face was just off enough to keep him in his right mind. It could've been worse. He could be staring Cheney down instead). Behind her, he could see his own face twice over, eyes filled with blue light and bloodlust.
He'd learned to hate those heads, to hate his own face, or rather the twisted reflections of it that now stared back at him. When Riebou, Vee, and Malv had first come back to the Hamlet short one crusader, he'd learned of them. None of the three were willing to talk about what they'd seen in any detail, at least not to him (he understood, he remembered that kind of horror), but he'd tracked down people who knew everything: the occultists of the Hamlet, Bosanquet and Montfort. Bosanquet in-particular knew an awful lot about the Collector, and about the heads it summoned (he'd encountered it more than anyone, it only made sense). He gave Piquiri the necessary information. Montfort told him the truth. Malv had told Montfort everything, and he figured that Piquiri deserved to know the full story too.
Piquiri knew what he was up against. He knew it the second he counted two hollow-eyed highwaymen on the opposite side of the battlefield. Cheney had been felled by exactly that. Piquiri's blood boiled in anticipation. The jester (Warci was his name, right?) rushed by him, weaving his way into the midranks to score a hit on one of the highwaymen heads and ducking back to safety, laughing and firing off insults at the Collector as Piquiri readied his flintlock. He'd been searching for this monster, preparing to face it and end it for what it had done, and now he finally had the chance.
He was expecting a proper fight, of course. A struggle. A battle of life and death. He wasn't disappointed. The air, once heavy with sea salt, became heavier with smoke and gunpowder and the stench of blood and decay. The leper, Marci, once stood tall at the front, holding the line, but the fight had quickly devolved into a chaotic frenzy. Already plagued with poor sight due to his leprosy, Marci was left with nothing to do except for follow the rasps and growls of the heads and their summoner, or to swing at anything that even vaguely glowed blue. His movements and strikes were erratic, but they had plenty of calculated force. He wouldn't be shaken, he refused to falter.
Warci was right at home amidst the insanity. He was naturally swift and agile, able to duck and weave around any blows that came his way before whirling around and jamming a sickle into his foes, bleeding them dry (Piquiri was honestly a little impressed at how sharp Warci kept his sickle, sharp enough to slice through even the scales of the fishfolk). This was no different. Warci's bells sang along to his laughter as he practically danced around the collected highwaymen, dodging, slicing, running, and taking potshots at the Collector whenever possible, jeering the whole way through.
Bele kept on the edge of the action, both for her own safety and so she could keep an eye on everyone. Whenever she saw someone stumble or sway, she'd call upon her divine healing abilities to give them the strength to push on just a bit longer. The handful of times Piquiri glanced at her, she had a death grip on her tome, muscles tense and stiff, expression troubled and fists clenched. She wanted to help, like she wasn't already helping by keeping them alive. It was out of worry, though, and that Piquiri understood. They'd already lost Riebou. Losing another so soon would be torture.
Piquiri himself kept light on his feet and put every ounce of rage he had into his blade and bullets. Every gargled hiss from the heads or pained gasp from the Collector was music to his ears, further fueling his desire to make these things hurt. He fired grapeshot blast after grapeshot blast to hit as many targets as possible, which wasn't that easy, but was definitely working so far, softening them up for the others to clean up. Once or twice, he even found himself toe-to-toe with one of the heads. It was uncanny how similarly he and the collected highwaymen fought, like he was fighting the man he saw whenever he looked in a mirror.
When they actually managed to strike down one of the heads, though, the Collector called for more. The Collector itself needed to die for all of this to end, and Piquiri was itching to be the one to fire the shot. He could slice up these sadistic puppets all day, sure, but the Collector was the one pulling the strings. The Collector was the one with Cheney's blood on its hands. The Collector was the one who needed to die.
Amidst the tangle of activity, Piquiri was taking aim right at the sickening glow of the Collector's head when a sound drew his attention. A guttural, choked yelp. Then a thump, accented by the disjointed rattle of bells.
Piquiri's priorities switched without his input, and he was charging for the collected highwayman whose translucent form stood before the party's jester. The monstrosity barely had time to react before Piquiri's blade was jammed up the underside of its skull. It yowled and lashed out blindly, trying to put distance between the two of them, and for once Piquiri found no joy in its suffering, only anger. He had to release it in order to not suffer Warci's fate (he didn't get a good look, but he knew there was way too much blood), but it was eager to cross blades with him on more equal footing. He obliged, if only to drive it back and away from Warci so Bele could reach him in time.
There was more than one head, though, and the second they smelled blood, they swarmed Warci like the sharks they were. Piquiri was so caught up in his own one-on-one fight that he forgot until a cold flash of blue light and a near-inaudible grunt reminded him. Adrenaline surged and he delivered one final slash to the collected highwayman before turning tail and running back to Warci, flintlock already in one hand and dirtied blade in the other.
Warci had clearly been alive just a few moments ago. The blood spattered on the rocky walls and damp ground didn't do him any favors, and neither did the deep gash in his gut, but he had been moving and coughing at least. Now he was entirely limp and dead silent, the collected vestal that had presumably just tried to finish him off barely managing to duck out of the way of Marci's sword (the leper seemed to have had the same idea as Piquiri, but neither of them had gotten to Warci before the vestal. Gods, where was Bele?!).
Piquiri's steps faltered upon seeing who else had been attracted to the scene--the Collector itself, quietly looming over them all, having eyes only for Warci. Piquiri felt his heart skip a beat, or two, or ten, and he forced himself between them, shielding Warci from view.
(He remembered what Montfort said, at the end. He had hesitated before continuing, studying Piquiri's body language until Piquiri told him to just hurry up and say it. The occultist took a deep breath, meeting Piquiri's gaze as he finished the story).
("The others won the fight, of course. That's why we know any of this. But, before they did, the Collector approached Cheney's body, took hold of his head, and tore it right from his shoulders. Another prize for its precious collection.")
Piquiri wouldn't let the Collector have another prize. He wouldn't let it win, not when he was actually around to prevent it. Yes, Warci was almost a stranger to him, but that didn't matter. They were still allies, and that was enough for him to earn Piquiri's protection (he tried not to think about how silent Warci had become. For all he knew, he was guarding a dead man).
The Collector hissed at this challenge and flung open his robes, exposing them all to the amalgamation of dark flesh that was its collection, its very being. Hundreds and hundreds of heads fused together, mouths hanging open and eyes empty except for that haunting blue light. Piquiri didn't look at any one face for too long. He was afraid of what he'd find, of who he'd find.
Instead, he caught sight of an opportunity. He knew where to aim.
Piquiri lunged directly at the mass of souls, burying his dagger hilt-deep in the dead tissue.
The amount of give and crumbling of soft bone were sickening, but the Collector's shrieks were beyond cathartic. The eldritch creature practically disintegrated right before his eyes, crumpling into a heap of robes and bone fragments on the ground before fading away altogether. The gargled howls of the heads sounded off all around him, ringing, ringing, until they rang out and went silent. It was over. He'd killed the Collector, for now anyway (Bosanquet warned him that the Collector never truly died). Let it try to come back, though. He'd be ready to kill it again and again and again.
The moment of realization and peace was short-lived. A commotion sounded off behind him, and his heart dropped. Warci. Gods, all that blood...
He turned to find that Bele had finally turned up, but he couldn't bring himself to be upset that she took her sweet time. Instead, he knelt down beside her, at a loss of what to do besides hover and be ready to help if she told him to. Now that he wasn't fighting for his own life and the life of his long-gone friend, though, he got to see exactly what kind of hit Warci had taken.
It was just as bad as he'd thought, if not worse. Piquiri often thought of himself as having a strong stomach, but the gruesomeness of this particular gash made him feel nauseous. Warci had been rolled onto his back, his head pillowed on Marci's knee, and the rip in his abdomen on full display. A lot of Warci's royal purple outfit was completely soaked through and dyed a deep, vivid red. From Piquiri's angle, he could see additional trails of blood dripping down from under the snow-white mask that certainly matched the jester's complexion by now. Yet, he could also just barely see his chest rise and fall, if only a little. Somehow, this god-forsaken clown was still alive. Somehow, Warci still had a chance.
Bele was entirely focused on the task in front of her, eyebrows knit together in concentration and strain. Piquiri didn't claim to know just how Bele's magical healing powers worked, but if they took any effort at all, then she must've been exhausted by now. Still, her powers were the only thing that could possibly give Warci a fighting chance at this point, so she pushed herself further. The light was dull and flickered under her hand and against the torn skin and muscle, but it was something, and they needed everything they could get.
Piquiri turned his eyes away from the injury, the sight of it still making him sick. He focused on watching Warci's breathing instead, so he noticed when it hitched and stuttered.
"Shouldn't we get that mask off his face?" Piquiri asked, glancing to Marci for an answer since Bele was preoccupied.
Marci shook his head. "Only the man bearing the shield has the right to lower it."
Piquiri scowled. "I don't know if you've noticed, but he's one wrong move away from keeling over. Don't you think we should make it harder for him to suffocate?"
A weak cough broke through the conversation. All eyes turned to the jester in Marci's lap.
"...Leave it...leave it..." Warci rasped, voice frail and quiet but there, there and practically pleading.
Even with Piquiri's limited contact with Warci, he knew that begging wasn't something he did unironically. Just like how he never said please without the word having a condescending edge to it. Yet, now Warci's tone betrayed only the rawest kind of sincerity, the kind that pierced right into Piquiri's core and left him unable to do anything but comply. The argument stopped there. Warci's mask would stay on.
Piquiri soon found another way to occupy his time anyway. Warci being at all awake and responsive was all that Bele needed to move on to bandaging the wound, and she enlisted Piquiri's help. He was willing to oblige--he knew his way around a shoddy patch-up or two. Now that Warci was talking, Bele and Marci kept him talking, and Piquiri stayed quiet and listened while he applied the bandages. To Piquiri's shock, Warci quickly became more and more lucid by the second until he was cracking jokes like nothing had ever happened (that divine grace or whatever Bele called it was definitely potent).
Either way, Bele and Marci were both considering ditching the quest altogether and getting Warci back to the Hamlet, but Warci stubbornly insisted that he was fine, and weren't they almost done anyway? Nothing Bele or Marci said would dissuade him, and once Piquiri was done with the bandages, Warci tried to get back on his feet to prove that he was fine (much to the dismay of his two caretakers). He didn't make it halfway up on his own before he collapsed back against Marci.
Still, the argument kept going, and Piquiri quickly got fed up with it.
"Fine, you win, one more room," he huffed. "We already know what's coming up anyway." He'd gotten the chance to slip away and scout ahead a while ago, and gods was he thankful he did it now.
"Didn't you say that you saw a bunch of fishfolk up ahead?" Bele asked, displeasure radiating from every syllable.
"Yeah, but they could've moved on by now," Piquiri offered. "Look, if things go sour again, we're outta here, no questions asked. Let's just get it over with and be done. Marci, give me the idiot."
It wasn't a popular choice, but it meant Warci would actually work with them, so Bele and Marci finally caved. Marci handed the grateful jester off to Piquiri, who was sure to remind Warci that if he so much got one more scratch on him, this quest was as good as abandoned. Warci just grumbled about Piquiri being no fun as the bandit hauled him to his feet. Despite all of Warci's talk of being fine, he leaned nearly all of his weight against Piquiri (he could feel just how badly Warci was shaking now, and it probably wasn't completely from the blood loss). Bele fussed over Warci a bit more, Warci waved her off for the hundredth time, Marci plucked a strange black rock off the ground, and then the group was on the move again, a bit slower to compensate for Warci's unsteadiness.
Piquiri quickly found himself regretting offering himself up as the jester pack mule. Warci never shut up, but at least it was easier to ignore when he wasn't basically talking directly into your ear the entire time. Still, Piquiri held out, because as annoying as the constant prattling was, it meant that Warci was still alive. It meant that he'd finally saved someone from the horrors of the estate. As naive as it was, he hoped that if Cheney couldn't rest in peace before, maybe he could now. If only he could do that for Riebou too...gods, may she be somewhere better than here.
"Hey, Piquiri, how about we head out to the tavern when we get back? Just the two of us. Drinks'll be on me!" Warci's voice cut through Piquiri's mournful thoughts. Right.
"Or, hear me out," Piquiri replied, "how about you go lay down in the sanitarium and have that creepy nurse lady patch you up proper when we get back? Drinks'll be for after your insides stop trying to be on your outsides."
"...Well when you put it like that," Warci hummed. "Drinking yourself stupid would be kinda hard if all the liquor just fell out like that...alright, but only if we hit the tavern the second I'm set free. You did everyone a great service by saving me, and that's a call for celebration!"
"So Bele and Marci are chopped liver? How sweet of you."
"Nah, they're just religious. Not fun drinking buddies."
"I hate to agree with an insult, but he's right," Bele piped up from the back, equal parts amused and tired. "I'd rather sit this one out."
Marci, however, had an entirely different response. "Alcohol is a very effective painkiller." And leprosy a very painful condition, at least in some ways.
Warci whistled. "Oh, think you're tough, huh? Prove it! Whoever gets cut off by the bartender first loses."
Riebou wasn't here anymore, Cheney wasn't here anymore, but Warci was, and so were Bele and Marci and everyone back at the Hamlet. The estate hadn't taken them yet. They could still fight and laugh and challenge each other to impromptu drinking contests. They could still be saved, and now Piquiri knew he was up to the task. He knew what he was up against, and it only made him all the more willing to fight as hard as he could. Not for his own sake, not (entirely) for the sake of those who were already lost, but for the sake of those who he had yet to lose.