The interior of the mill was unnaturally humid - the beast's breath, it's stink, it's musk, all of it draining into the air and wood and iron and rust. It was pitch black within; Tab's flashlight and Gavin's flare both helped keep things lit up enough for sight, but past those it was like walking into a cave. Fitting, that - a cave was the traditional, natural home of a sasquatch. This place must've been just peachy when the damn thing took over in the first place.

The floor was littered with gore new and old, moldy rot and scattered debris in many places. Flakes of wood aged to the point of warping mingled with rust-spots and fallen chains, making a semi-silent entry all the more difficult. Scraps of cloth from past meals clung to bones old and frighteningly new, rustling against their footfalls as they traversed deeper into the disconcertingly warm building. The piles of viscera grew as they entered past the foyer and few offices for one or two accountants, then deeper down hallway after hallway, approaching the main workroom...

A pained roar-groan rattled out from deeper in, from their desired location. It make the metal plates of the exterior walls shudder, and interior windows and metal grates rattled in their settings. Artemis wordlessly turned to Gavin to raise her brow, but he shrugged - he had already said his piece, that he had injured the creature. If it was so injured it was crying out for help like this, why hadn't he simply entered the building and finished it off himself?

In her hands, the Doktor's handles started to become slick with sweat. She didn't like this, going into a beast's lair while it was ready and waiting for you. The skinwalker a day or two ago was different; she had no idea what that was, and she had no way of scouting it out herself. This was a fully-grown squatch, ready for a fight, in it's home turf that it had doubtlessly learned inside and out.

When a monster takes a lair, it will spend days, weeks, even months familiarizing itself with the layout - the smarter the monster, the more likely it is that said monster will pay obsessive attention to the details of its hideaway. It will eat and then return, or sometimes drag food back to its lair, simply to begin 'imprinting' itself upon the local aura and airwaves. By creating a distinct scent and aura, as well as by becoming unparalleled in their knowledge of the hidden paths, traps, and byways, the monster will establish itself as the current owner of whatever location it has stowed itself away at. This is beneficial for a multitude of reasons.

First and foremost is that other monsters then won't try to contest them for land, or at the very least they'll consider it long and hard before even attempting. Obviously fighting an exotic enemy on their home ground wasn't a smart tactic, and while most monsters were dumb as fucking dirt, even their base, animalistic instincts could realize that it wouldn't be in their best interest to start a brawl where they would be horribly and decisively outmatched.

This place reeked of sasquatch. The fur scent, like a wet dog rolled in bitter herbs and pine sap, permeated the humid and warm air like a foul perfume - Art was glad for her mask twofold now, its proximity to her face causing her to smell the cleaner she used on it more than anything else. Gavin, however, was notably off-put by the reek of damp Sasquatch. He had raised a bandana over his nose and mouth and was scowling intensely, his gun raised in the same hand he was using to try and cover his nose.

Art would have laughed at the look if it had truly been funny. The situation, as it turns out, was far too serious to make light of. As they progressed deeper in, machinery started to come into view: this was the main room now, workbenches and a large rusted saw dominating the area while large pillars stretched upwards to support the roof and catwalks. From these pillars hung chains, rusted and occasionally with hooks, used in the past to help secure wood for transport or inspection. Now, they were laden with the bones of deer, foxes, raccoons, and the occasional camper.

Tabitha followed them up toward the ceiling with her eyes, watching them disappear into the darkness by the glow of her flashlight. It wasn't particularly powerful, and there weren't quite enough lumens at her disposal to begin to truly pierce the shade in a way that mattered. Their resting place remained an enigma, and she was willing to leave it like that until one of them rattled. Movement. That could only mean two things: one, this place was about to come crashing to the fucking ground, and take her and Gavin with it. The collapse would be fatal, assuredly, seeing as they were already so deep into the decrepit building and so far from any safe escapes. However, that was less dread-inducing than option two.

Option two: signs of life. The enemy. The target.

She immediately ducked away, bumping into Gavin, who whispered a curse softly as they collided before moving himself backwards to accommodate her. He may be a smily, weird, disconcerting probably-an-assassin, but at least he was polite enough to do what he was told. The pair of them backed all the way up until their spines thumped upon an old workbench laden with woodworking tools. A two-man saw was pushed by Art's hips when she got their, pushing the other side over the edge, where it began to weigh down...

...and, like a slinky, fall off. She felt her heart leap into her throat as it fell with a blasphemous clatter, a true unholy din that made the otherwise fairly silent room erupt into sound. This was the gunshot to start the race, the call to arms that the squatch had been looking for - from above them came an inhuman yell as the beast began to swing 'round the place, raising a racket of its own as it used the chains like swinging vines to traverse the large room.

Gavin leapt into ill-advised action, firing off shot after shot with his revolver into the darkness towards wherever he thought he could hear the squatch. The ping-tang of bullet after bullet hitting metal and ricocheting was played well to by the actual ricocheting shots, their metallic bodies striking upon further rusted iron to make sparks erupt and showed the area in unwanted light. He didn't hit a damn fucking thing, but when he stopped to reload, Artemis could see what happened next in her mind's eye even before it happened.

Stationary and open, Gavin was slipping brass into the cylinder of his .45 when something hit him in the chest like Zeus's lightning bolt. He was flung backwards and against the ground, landing with a painful, strained yell and a thud and a groan. No spray of blood had come - he probably had body armor, or so Tab assumed and hoped. She would't like needing to explain the death of her employer to Thatch. Her hand went into position to pull-start the Doktor, ready to give this motherfucker all he was worth.

The home-rigged chainsaw, built from a mishmash Frankenstein's monster level of various other chainsaw parts, screamed like hell as it was brought to life in her hands. Its chainlike blade howled for blood and its engine craved the feeling of flesh and bone being torn and crushed away; bloodthirst of the owner extended to the tool sometimes, and this was no different.

"Come on, you fucker! Come down here and fight me mano e mano, eh?! Let's see what you're fucking made o-"

Ooh, bad idea, Tabitha. As she was speaking, the hulking figure swung down to descend upon the pair. It was huge, absolutely god damn huge: peaking at about nine feel tall and built like the world's longest and most ferocious monkey, the sasquatch was less than happy to be disturbed in its god damn home. Fists big enough to nearly hold a grapefruit in the palm had balled into fists, and they were used immediately - swinging a mean right towards Tabitha. The bastard looked like a feral sock monkey but twice as mean.

Her chainsaw went up as quick as she could pull it, well-honed reflexes coming in handy when the trigger came pulled and her feet were set - it punched right into the whirring of the flesh-tearing blade, ripping three fingers and a knuckle to shreds immediately when they came into contact. Bone shards and red meat were sprayed across the area as the Doktor performed back-alley surgery upon his night's victim, and Art's strength was that that she could hold the machine still as her quarry's punch followed through, dragging a bloody line down the forearm and slicing off a hefty mound of muscle.

This was an unpopular occurrence, according to the Sasquatch. It's ragged voice cried out in fury and agony both, swinging right away with the left, this one going through without a block. She was fast, but she wasn't that fast.

Padding was only so good when one was getting punched with the force of a horizontal sledge hammer blow. Tabitha screamed as she felt a rib fracture, her body flying over to the side and her sweaty grip on the Doktor failing completely. It flew from her hands and clattered to the ground, still running, the flashlight now pointing an awkward angle against the wall which juxtaposed the whole scene into a strange and disconcerting painting, light bouncing off of rust-dappled sawblades and being blocked by work-benches and other furnishings.

Gavin was down indefinitely, the extent of his injuries indeterminate. Hell, he might be dead or dying, but that was... That was a risk that one took when they went out on the hunt. If he died here, it would be damn sad, but it wouldn't be the first time some headstrong young gun rushed to their death in some pursuit of violent glory. Right now, her priority was on number one: herself. And right now 'herself' had been punched into the darkness of the far-side of the shop, landing in a pile of sawdust and wood chips and old gnawed bones. Hurt like a bitch, but the landing would hardly be softer in a place like this.

The squatch was nowhere to be seen, but she could hear it - drifting through the shadows, climbing on chains, clambering around the area unseen but deadly. Tabitha scrabbled to her feet, drawing out her makeshift machete - it was enough, right? Enough if she could really get a good swing... Enough if she could make it work. She'd have to make it work. Going to grab the Doktor would make her a sitting fucking duck, and that would mean death.

"...Gavin. Gavin, if you're still alive, I'm gonna... I'm gonna try and lure it outside, ok? I'll, uh... Fuck. I'll do something. Fighting it in here is fucking suicide." The words were a stage-whisper, and a gamble in and of themselves - right now she was cradled in the darkness, able to hide a bit, but speaking made her a target once more. She was practically painting a big fucking X on her back, and she wasn't even sure Gavin was alive or conscious enough to hear her.

A muffled groan came from his prone figure, which she assumed to be confirmation that he had heard her and was now giving his approval to the plan. Not that Art needed his approval anyways, of course, but it was good to coordinate on shit like this on the off chance that he was able to stagger to a stand after whatever wound he had sustained.

That target she had painted on her back came into play almost immediately, the sasquatch screeching like a demon as it swung apelike across the hanging chains and catwalk handholds. It was coming straight for her, and Tabitha only had one option she could see. She had to act fast, otherwise this thing would mop the floor with the both of them and have them for dinner.

Could be worse, right?

She broke into a dead sprint straight towards Gavin, reaching down mid-stride to grab his flare before continuing forth, not daring to break her momentum. She could hear the horrid humanoid beast clatter down to the wood with force that sent splinters flying, shattering planks from its weight and force combined. Heavy primate feet thudded against the wood over and over again, hunting for her, chasing her even as she could barely outpace them in the narrow hallways of the lumber mill.

Then, out into the moonlight. She tossed the flare wide, towards the rows of houses. There was a half a moment that she allowed herself to feel smug, to feel prideful of her foresight - she had been thinking she wouldn't be able to use all the traps she had set up. Guess she was wrong. Shit, maybe this was still a fight she could survive -

Her thoughts were interrupted by the whistling of an ancient tree-spike careening through the open air and past her head by inches, lodging into the old wood of one of the small cabins. She yelped aloud beneath her mask, disbelief and indignance mixed with fear at the creature's ability to pitch metal spikes like darts. If that bastard could go into the major leagues, he'd be famous. Too bad he was a carnivorous menace to society that needed to die as quickly and painfully as fucking possible.

She managed to make it into the maze of pathways just as another object - a rock, grabbed from the ground - flew straight into a nearby door and busted it in half from the sheer force of impact. It was dark here, silent here, and both she and her quarry seemed to have acknowledged that this was the necessary way of things: that they would need to be hunting one another, not simply brawling. Their conflict had complexified almost immediately.

"Alright, you son of a bitch... Come and get me." Tabitha whispered to herself, barely audible even in her own ears. Her combat boots crunched with soft sound in the light snow, tip-toeing through the laid caltrops and lurching over set and hungry iron-toothed bear traps. She couldn't hear a damn thing except for the beast's breathing, seeming to come from all around: heavy, ragged panting like a wolf run to the ground on a hunt, hungry for the coming feast of flesh and blood.

She turned down one corridor, both hoping to and dreading finding her enemy. The machete in her hand felt like a lead weight more than anything: a pipe, a club, a burden that she would rather not employ. It was a last-resort weapon turned into her primary mode of combat, and that thought terrified her.

Then, a meaty metallic chomp echoed through the winter stillness, accompanied mere milliseconds afterwards by the brutal screaming of a beast in pain. The squatch had been caught - and it was just behind her. She stumbled away just in time to dodge its punching fist, the un-injured one, which came down on a bed of caltrops. Hooked slightly on the tips, they dug into the Sasquatch's fists like fishing lures and firmly refused to let go; the squatch shook its hand to no avail, then bashing it upon the walls in an attempt to free itself, doing nothing but digging the blades in deeper.

It ripped the bear trap free of the ground in its rage, proceeding to chase Artemis once more with the trap still clamped around its ankle. Her heart did a flip at the sight, even more terrifying than when she had initially seen it - it didn't give a shit about its injuries. It was too pissed off to even acknowledge that it was in great pain and grave danger.

Down another corridor now, the beast hot on her trail. Caltrops jammed deep into its bare foot and ankles as it stumbled and stomped, growing angrier and angrier even while its body and blood painted the snow a lovely crimson shade. Hot, dripping life essence leaked from every last wound and puncture and slash and tear, giving the cabins a new coat of red as it went. The caltrop-injured fist continued to punch madly, cracking walls and smashing windows as it flailed, the rage of a hate as black as night guiding each and every ill-made blow.

Another metal chomp came, and the beast screamed quite genuinely now: its fear was audible, the fear of death finally instilled. Spirits did not fear death, and they would use any underhanded trick they could to deceive and distract before luring a hunter to their death. Beasts, however, didn't have such conventions more often than not: truly living things, they feared their mortality in a primal way. In the same sort of way that you or I would fear the inevitable end.

Tabitha's lungs burned and her joints ached, not to mention the stabbing pain in her ribs that felt like she was dying. A stitch in one's side is one thing when they're running hard, but when your ribs are truly splintered and digging into your flesh, the exquisite pain it creates is otherworldly. It wracks you to your core with every breath, every motion, and leaves you wishing for nothing but release. Such it is that Tabitha Varna, hearing her prey's desperation mount, finally rushed back out and into the snow. They were both getting tired, far too tired, and death would soon take one or the other. She preferred to go out on her own terms.

Into the snow she staggered, rushing a good twenty feet from the houses before turning back to face her hated enemy. It lurched from the shadows looking even worse than she did, its stinking, sickly fur matted with blood, its yellow eyes blank and searching, its mouth agape with rotted teeth and panting like a dying dog. Seeing Tabitha the creature seemed to get one last burst of energy, letting out its greatest roar yet as it charged. Tabitha grit her teeth and raised her machete like an Eastern warrior, blade forwards with two hands on the hilt, ready to deliver as grievous a blow as she could...

...when a shot rang out, crystal clear, from the entrance to the mill. The squatch's forehead exploded into gore as the bullet connected, shattered skull and sticky grey matter mingling with loving red as they splattered to the ground, it's rage-filled eyes still staring at Tab as the light faded from them. The creature continued to pump its legs for a few moments before tumbling down, hitting the ground only a few feet from Artemis. She turned to look back at the mill, seeing Gavin - a long wooden stick piercing him just below the left shoulder - holding his revolver one-handed. He smiled wearily, but he was covered in blood.

As if on cue, he dropped to the snow and laid face down, gun still in hand.

Shit.