“Wilhelm, my boy, if you please”, said the Master, motioning with a lazy hand wave, “do not forget my suitcase.”

Awoken from his observations, Wilhelm blinked before turning away from the Inhibitor and towards his master, replying with a quiet “yes Master.”

The instant the Master stepped out into the street, the warm Pacific air suddenly turned frigid and cold and his low breath hung in the air like steam from a boiling pot. As he left, Wilhelm leaned inside to pick up a brown leather suitcase lying on the floor. Gripping the handle, he noticed a speck of oily dust laying on the floor mat. Upon closer inspection, he realized it wasn’t dust, and it was that realization that made him grunt menacingly.

Damn, he thought, to think there’d be leftover bile from the last job. I didn’t clean this car good enough.

Wilhelm didn’t notice that his master eerily watched him, taking in his movements and dictations. Why, only the Master could say, but the tiniest of glimmers that shone in his eyes gave off a contemplative look like a grandfather bemusedly watching his grandchild fret about over his toys. Out of the many hundreds of thousands who’ve served him faithfully and full heartedly over the millennia, taking on Wilhelm as his most intimate disciple provided a fair degree of amused indifference as it did a considerable boon to his machinations, given the young man’s natural aptitude. In all his years living, the Master knew well of the archetypical characterization of Wilhelm so well: the devout puritan; single-minded in his loyalty to whomever has earned it, but still individually capable remaining untainted by the continual subjection to corrupting thoughts and/or emotions that plague otherwise stalwart defenders of their given faith.

So much a young impressionable child he remains, despite his visible growth and development, the Master wondered.

It’s rather cute, how much of an eager little thing human emotion can be when pointed in the right direction, just like the attentiveness of a dog when given a treat.

So amusing, and yet inexplicably fallible and weak.

But organic, nonetheless.

Meanwhile, slightly shivering from the cold air, Wilhelm quickly shrugged off his annoyance and closed the car door. He walked after his Master and stopped to stand a few feet behind him a manner of respectful distance. While remaining direct and assertive, his gaze moved from the gentleman onto the other members of the 12.

Standing hunched over by the Inhibitor, his eyes caught the second of the 12. A thin and lanky man, he was incredibly tall even from across the street where Wilhelm stood; in fact, the correct term for his appearance could be best classified as “inhuman”.

At 10 feet in height, the man was slender, with gangly, bony arms and legs, and a shadow so jaggedly edged that Wilhelm could feel nape of his neck sting—like the prickling sensation of his crawling from something burrowing underneath it. A foul stench wafted before his nose, causing his brow to beetle. It was sweet and pungent, smelling of putrid flesh mixed with wine and…

Death…

The sweet scent of rot and death.

Amorphophallus Titanium, Wilhelm’s mind identified, otherwise known as the “Carrion Flower”. The flower that smells of decay. And here it was this slender man (Wilhelm chuckled at this) reeked of it. He blinked, expecting the rest of the assembled to say something about it. To his surprise, it was almost as if no one even noticed the waft. This disconcerted him, when a series of hacking coughs again brought his attention to the origin of the smell.

The thin man.

He wore an insanely large inverness coat, old, time worn, with blotches and holes eaten away by moths and faded the color of dirt, which trailed behind him for a foot and half in all directions. On his head was covered by an equally large tricorn; it looked more like a tombstone than a hat, with its cracked surface the color of dust while the dirty grime covered the gold pendant on the rim. It was rather ugly to see, and even uglier to imagine wearing.

His face was wrinkly, with visible cracks and peeling where his nose was nonexistent and his mouth had no lips—just a short row of yellow, rotten teeth. His eyes were a rotten yellowish-brown with glassy pupils, and he had no eyelids whatsoever. There were with large callouses on his knuckles and his large hands were wiry and gnarled, cupping a long cane that supported his shambling size—almost seemed as if he would collapse into dust at any moment.

A frame so old and worn, and his body so decrepit that Wilhelm scarcely believed that he was even alive.

But he was. He was alive, and all the more frightening because of it.

He was a Withered, or more accurately in this instance he was one known to their order as the Affliction, another member of the 12.

And yet, at this point, Wilhelm suddenly recalled a story told to human children.

There once was a crooked old man…

Before Wilhelm could continue, a voice broke his train of thought.

“So”, says a deep-voiced man, “you finally got off your fucking ass and decided to grace us with your presence, Olde Man.”

His voice is deep, subtle and boisterous; his accent is thick, Wilhelm observes, possibly Eastern European. The words themselves felt rash and demeaning alongside the frown the man possessed as he spoke. Wilhelm thought he could even detect a hint of contempt for the Master, and quickly bit down a curse of his own.

Wallachian shitstain, his mind muttered in response. Or was he Bulgarian?

Either way, it didn’t matter. Not while this man had a massive obsidian sword measuring 12 feet long and 3 and a half feet wide, strapped to his back.

Nope.

Best to keep that snide remark to himself.

Yeah, probably wise.

“…”

The Master said nothing as he stood directly opposite the 12. Mere feet separated the groups, but the sense of foreboding in the air was very much present. Wilhelm stood at attention behind his master in preparation of defending the elderly gentleman should any violence breakout between them. Not that he needed it, but the sense of security was admirable.

Almost.

Wilhelm scowled at the speaker, calmly reaching inside his suit jacket and sighed relief while his fingers grazed the cold metal that was his concealed weapon of choice: A Magnum .44 with custom modifications tailored to him personally which hung from the hilt under his suit jacket. It had occurred to him that he’d forgotten to properly clean it, because there seemed to be smudges of grease along the hammer and rear sight. No doubt from the last job he was assigned to do. But nevertheless, having his weapon within reach helped steady his heartbeat and calm his mind. Something very few instances afforded him in life, not that he complained.

My old friends, he mused, I’m glad I have you with me.