Topic: Drawing in the First

Michael Stanton · Date: 2009-03-26 16:16 EST

WestEnd, just after nightfall...

He's been slipping in and out of the shadows of WestEnd for a fortnight, practicing his newly given abilities bestowed upon him by the amulet that Wolfe had given him.

This sort of setting he is intimately familiar with. The back alleys. The twisting, turning streets. The shadows. The bad lands, the place where your continued existence is attained only by your wits and a strong survival instinct,and by being able to do what is needed.

Here, he feels at home.

Tonight, though, he's not here on biz...he's looking for someone.

Wolfe had told him who to look for, or rather, what to listen for, to let him know he's found his mark. And he remembers his oath well enough to be able to give it to his target.

He hasn't seen the man yet, though from what he can tell, he'll be pretty hard to miss.

In the meantime, he's been practicing. He's found out a few things, too - like he has far greater stamina than he did without the amulet...which is truly saying something, as his stamina had been quite formidable to begin with. His multitude of magically-enhanced physical abilities seem to have increased, as well. And being able to use the shadows to travel between places...ohhh, he LOVES that ability.

And then, there's the power of illusion. He won't forget the burglar who managed to pick a lock on a door, only to find himself confronted on the other side of it by a 15 foot tall grizzly bear with claws the length of steak knives. The man had nearly fainted from fright and had run off fast enough to leave a dust trail. Wraith had been betting with himself, laughing from the rooftops, that the first thing that guy had done when he got home was to look for a new pair of underwear...

His heightened hearing suddenly picks up the sound he's been waiting to hear...the sound of bootheels, clocking along on the ground in perfect, metronomic rythm. And the wind, a low, droning sound that seems like the moan of some ancient spirit at the end of its endurance, begging for rest. The sharp, metallic sound of boot spurs, chiming in perfect time to the beat of the bootsteps.

From his vantage point on the roof's edge, he can't see anything...yet. But the steps are getting closer, an ominous sound that seems to echo out of an older, more violent time.

Wraith takes from under the long, black duster he wears a sheathed sword, his sacred katana, the constant friend he has had with him these last twenty years that was made for him by his brother, shortly before his death, and lays it on the rooftop, in the shadows where he can reach it if needs be.

No weapons - he won't be needing them, and he doesn't want the man he's about to confront to feel as if he needs his, either.

He steps back to the edge of the roof, looking down to where he hears the bootsteps, louder now.

And as though a curtain had been pulled aside, there he was.

That guy? Looks like something out of a Wild West holovid. I hope Wolfe knows what he's doing...

He focuses for a moment, and feels that sudden, lightening feeling that comes with shifting to his more insubstantial state...as though he could float off into the air with the slightest breeze.

Fortunately, as he's found out, he's a bit more grounded than that. He waits until the figure below passes beneath him, and leaps out into the air. He seems to hang suspended for a moment before gravity takes over and pulls him down to earth. He flips over easily, coming down feet-first with not a sound, behind Fred McCarty.

Fred McCarty · Date: 2009-03-26 17:27 EST

Were he any other man, the silent figure dropping in behind him might have pulled it off. But his teacher, that crusty old man from so long ago, had touaght him perhaps the most important lesson he had ever learned in his entire life.

You have more senses than just your ears.

He had been just wandering WestEnd, looking for something to do. So much wrong in this place, and no sense of law. No order. Only evil that seems to make this place its playground. Oh, sure, he's seen the Scathach sisters making their nightly circuits, for all the good it seems to do. They are looking for the big evils, the wrong-doers that are behind the major crimes.

No one is looking out for the lowly, everyday citizen.

At least they are doing something. But they could be doing so much more. If they and their allies would work just a bit harder, this place would be cleaned up in next to no time. There would be no need for someone like him.

And now, this.

He takes one more step, and, in a single, lightning fast, fluid motion, turns to the left, draws his left gun, brings it to bear, and fires at the place he sensed his silent follower to be.

Not a killing shot - a warning. A heavy-caliber bullet zooming its way past your ear, he has found, is an awesome deterrent.

A haze of grey-blue gunsmoke hangs in the air, the gun barrel aimed just the same, waiting for the haze to dissipate. For the benefit of anyone else that may or may not be there, he clears his throat, then says in his dusty, gravelly, drawling voice, "If'n you had a mind to be sneakin' up on me, m'friend, mayb' you'd best think twice. I'n not particularl' fond of havin' someone creepin' up on me fr'm b'hind."

Michael Stanton · Date: 2009-03-26 19:07 EST

He's impressed.

Wraith had made an extra effort to land completely without sound, and this cowboy had known he was there. Not only that, but he had moved fast - so fast he would not have seen the man move, were it not for his own magically enhanced refelxes.

And lastly, the man had missed.

Most people would not have seen that as a good thing - but Wraith, with his decades of experience, knew the difference between a bad shot and a warning. That warning had come so close that he had felt the wind of it as it had flown past his ear.

Apparently, Wolfe had known what he was talking about.

He opens himself up to the astral with his eyes, and is shocked for a moment - the man in front of him is, it seems, from the same world as Wraith himself - and an adept to boot!

He waits just long enough for the haze of gunsmoke to clear, just so the man can see him still standing exactly where he landed, before he speaks.

"A test, if you will, my friend. And if you don't mind my saying so, you're pretty handy with that iron. I only knew a few chummers back home that had that kind of skill, and nearly all of them were so wired up and 'wared out that they had to have permits for it all. Glad to see that there's at least one 'runner out there with the respect for the art to do it right...even if you do have a bit of a magical boost."

Fred McCarty · Date: 2009-03-27 12:41 EST

What the hell...?

He's been here in WestEnd for a while, long enough to set himself up a decent doss and get to know the nooks and crannies of the area, and has as yet to meet another chummer from the Sixth World. But this guy in front of him...well, he talks like a pro. And judging by his style of dress, the way he dropped in behind him, the fact that he hasn't moved from where he landed despite a .44 Magnum zipping past his ear - he's not your typical gutter scum.

He keeps the gun pointed steadily at the stranger's head, a bead drawn right between the man's eyes. Just because they're from the same neck of the woods does not make him trustworthy - in fact, it makes him less so. Most of the 'runners he'd known in the old world would sell their own mothers for enough money to get a snack and a pack of cigs from the local Stuffer Shack. Still, curiousity keeps him from pulling the trigger a second time.

For the moment.

He is silent for a moment, letting the possibilities run through his mind. Finally, he opts to speak out. "What's yer name, pard?"

Michael Stanton · Date: 2009-03-27 15:42 EST

The drawling voice that comes from the shadows under his broad-brimmed hat is one that is clearly not used to being denied, and the question is a direct request, no pleasantries or or comments - just pure, down-to-business, cut-to-the-fragging-chase bluntness.

Good, he thinks. That means we can skip the games.

"The name's Michael Stanton...but most chummers back home just called me Wraith."

The first name, he knows, won't mean drek to this guy. After all, he never used it. He'd always had an alias ready to be used. Giving out your real name back home was about as smart as asking a rabid devil rat if it wanted to dance the tango.

The second name, though...that one is a bit different. After all, he'd been the only one who had used that moniker.

Fred McCarty · Date: 2009-03-27 20:30 EST

Wraith?

Sure enough, the first name hadn't meant drek to him. The moniker he went by, though...that meant something.

And if what he said was true...

...well, then he was either looking at a ghost, or one lucky fragger of a man.

"You're Wraith. The Wraith. The guy who blew up a huge chunk of the Aztech pyramid, an' caused 'em a whole mess'a trouble b'sides. If'n Ah'm not mistaken, friend, yer suppos'ta be a cloud'a ashes an' vapor. So if'n yer Wraith, then I must be Santa Claus, right?"

The drawling question comes out with a tone of disbelief, but inside, he isn't so sure. After all, he'd thought he was gonna be dead when he fell into that wierd hole in the ground a year back, and then he'd ended up here. Could it be...?

Michael Stanton · Date: 2009-03-30 16:01 EST

He'd known he would be known by his street name, though he hadn't thought he'd caused that much trouble with the Azzies. He must've done a bit more damage than he at first realized.

And if he hadn't jumped into the portal the Azzies had been opening up in their basement, he would've been fragged for sure. Still, as far as everyone else back home had been concerned, he was just another dead 'runner. With the exception of his sister, he probably wouldn't be remembered longer than the next couple of years, if at all.

That's the way fame goes on the streets.

Still, he's okay with that. He hadn't been in it for the fame, really.

And he's found another calling.

"Well, chummer, you don't look much like Santa to me...and I can assure you, I'm no ghost. Actually, I'm here to make you an offer that might just get your attention...if what my chummer Lupinius says about you is true, that is. He seems to think you're on the side of law and order, someone who is looking to help the helpless...like us, a guardian of sorts. I don't know you that well, but you certainly seem to have the skills. Your choice, of course...but he'd like to see you on, and after that little deomnstration you just gave me, I think you'd be a great addition to us."

He takes from his pocket the First Amulet, the teardrop-shaped amulet black on the end of its glittering silver chain. From the heart of the jet-black stone comes a glimmer of blood-red light. He walks towards McCarthy, stopping when he is close enough to take the amulet...when he is ready.

He remembers exactly what Lupinius told him to say to him, and he takes a deep breath. "Frederick Reginald McCarthy, you have been chosen to receive a gift. But in order to receive that gift, you must know what it means." The words feel somewhat strange coming from him, almost awkward, and yet they come out with strength and conviction. He reflects to himself that it must be because he was born to a different world, a world where such oaths are only rarely taken, if at all. "We are Guardians to all. We are protectors of Life, upholders of Justice, guides and beacons in the darkness to all those who call upon our aid. Those who would cause the downfall of all we hold sacred, we call our enemies, and they are many. We meet our enemies without fear, without reservation, without surrender, until death. With this gift, great power is given, and care must be taken to guard that power from corruption or theft. If you are willing to receive this gift, then take it...but beware. Taking this gift means you are bound by this oath until death."

Fred McCarty · Date: 2009-03-30 19:54 EST

If it weren't for that bit about him seeking to help the people, about law and order - about guardians - Fred might have shot the stranger as he took his first step.

But the fact that this chummer knows about that...and the funny feeling he is telling the truth about who he is - that is enough to stay his hand. Inf act, the closer he gets, the lower Fred's gun goes, until it is pointed down, still in hand but aimed into the dirt.

Since he's been here, he's been wandering the streets, helping where he can - even little things like repairing someone's fence or roof or picking up trash. He likes it here, despite the darkness of this end of town - there is hope here to counter despair, good to balance out the evil, love to counter the hate. Not like where he had been, where all that existed was corruption, greed and death.

He wants to see these things preserved, and wants to be a part of anything with anyone who is fighting to keep it.

And if this guy who claims to be Wraith from home is willing to do it - if he really is Wraith, that is - can be drawn into it, why not him, as well?

He reaches out and wraps his other hand around the amulet, taking it from the stranger and placing the necklace around his neck. He looks down at it as it flashes a brilliant, blood-red color, bright enough to dazzle his eyes for a moment...

...and then all is black.

He can't feel the comforting weight of his pistol in his hand, can't see, but here, he feels - for the first time in years - at peace...as if he's found his place, at last. In that moment, he comes to his own conclusion - while he may not be much of a team player, he can at least - at last - be a part of something.

He looks around in the blackness, and just as he does, he can see light. Brilliant, blood-red light, a lot of it, approaching him at speed in the distance. He turns to it and realizes that it is not a single mass of light, but what looks like hundreds of individual obects - birds? - all flapping towards him.

The flcok surrounds him, flying around him in circles, too fast, almost, to be seen even by his trained eyes, before finally settling down in a wide circle around him. And as they do, he can finally see what they are.

Crows.

Hundreds of glowing, blood-red crows.

And from them, as one, comes a voice - masculine and feminine at the same time, ageless and reverberating with vast intelligence.

"Ah...the next holder of the First Amulet, at long last! Frederick Reginald McCarthy, gunslinger adept...you have been chosen to receive the power of the First." The voice is pleased, coming from everywhere at once, full of pride. "Your life has been filled with suspicion, anger, loss, and sadness...and yet, throughout your life, you have always sought to help those in need, no mattar how small it seemed to be. You will be a great Guardian, truly - a warrior with no tolerance for evil, yet comassionate to those of lesser strength than yourself. Ah, yes, we know it all...for now we are a part of you. From now until you die, we will remain a part of you, though you will not see us again. You will not grow any older, the wounds you receive in battle will heal fast, even faster than they do now...you will be a formidable opponent. And such a warrior you are now! You wield the pistol as well as any sword-bearer, perhaps even better, and have the ability to travel within the wind, becoming a part of it. What other gifts shall we give you?"

As one, the crows move closer, closing the circle tighter around him. "We shall give you this: That not only will you be able to travel with the wind, you will be able to summon it, control it, to direct it against your opponents or direct it to take you wherever you wish to go. A powerful weapon that can be, yes indeed. Your reactions will be faster, as will your hands, and your aim will be flawless - if you are able to see it, you will be able to hit it. And, as you desire to help in every way possible, we give you the gift of healing. Use these gifts well, Frederick Reginal McCarthy, gunslinger adept. And never forget: we are Guardians."

On this last word, the flock surges forward, taking wing and flying at him as one being, surrounding him in brilliant, blood-red light...

...and suddenly, the brilliant red light fades, leaving him staring at Wraith.

Much to his own surprise, he has not moved, gun still in hand, pointing at the earth. He's not sure what the frag just happened, but as he looks down at the amulet at his neck, he sees, for just a moment, a brilliant flicker of blood-red light.

He looks up at Wraith again. "Whoa...that was a bit've a head trip to be takin' on short notice. Thanks for the warnin', pard." He goes to resheath his pistol, and as fast as he's thought of it, the pistol has been tucked back into its holster. He looks down and grins. Wasn't kidding when they said I'd be fast.

He looks back up to Wraith. "So...what now?"

Michael Stanton · Date: 2009-03-30 20:23 EST

He watches the flood of brilliant, blood-red light spread out from the amulet at McCarthy's throat, flooding though the man's body and enveloping him in its brilliance.

Is this what it looked like when I was going through this? he thinks, watching the glow surround and shift around the man, so bright that he has to squint to be able to look at it.

He waits for a long moment, it seems, and at last, he sees the light flare even brighter for a brief moment, before fading away and withdrawing into the amulet around McCarthy's neck.

He watches as the he looks down, then back up at Wraith, a grin on his features. He doesn't even see McCarthy resheathe the pistol - one moment the pistol is there, in his hand, and the next it has simply vanished. Interesting...could he always do that, or is that new? Seems faster than when I saw him do it to me...

He simply nods to Fred and smiles when he asks what comes next...just as he had asked Wolfe. Interesting parallel. "Tell you what, chummer...I have the perfect person you can direct that question to. C'mon, I'll take you to meet the man himself."