"I almost didn' believe it," Morgan spoke in the shadow of an old clock tower that dominated the nighttime skyline. He stood in an older part of the city where the streets were still cobbled and men still paraded about with old pistols on their belts. Rhy'din was a weird place. "Thought for sure you'd die after we parted ways. Seemed the sort t'run int'a trouble."
The man he was speaking too wore his hat low, the brim casting a darkness over his features that made them difficult to distinguish. Through the dark Morgan could see the traces of hair along the other man's jaw and despite the cover of night his eyes still seemed brighter than normal, like two blue candles. Little had changed about the man in the years that followed their last meeting. He was still lean and had a hungry look about him, his fingers still twitched as if he was in gunfight perpetually. Among everything that hadn't changed, Morgan noted two things that did. He was darker now, this man. He held an evil within him that he hadn't harbored before. Not that he'd been a saint back then, either. And his hands had changed, too. Snakeskin seemed woven over his fingers and the back of his hands, it rippled and moved and shone in the light. Like it was alive.
"Men like us don' die easy, Morgan," the other man spoke. His voice, his inflection, was not unlike Morgan's. Deeper perhaps, a little rougher with age and road, but they hailed from the same land and carried themselves in a similar manner. "You ever right them wrongs you told me about in the dark?"
"Still aimin' to, Morgan said. He didn't ask what had happened with his companion. It was clear. They got to him. "How long you been with them now, Douglas?"
"No more'n a week, but damn, f***ers move fast. Like a storm," he flashed teeth that seemed a little too sharp in a grin that was entirely too dangerous. The coyote in him thrilled at the prospect of power. "This ain't a social call, Morgan. M'here on business."
The street was empty, save the pair. Few came near the tower this time at night. Rumor was that someone had been hanged from the giant hands of the clock years back and since then, at midnight, their spirit came back to grab passersby and do to them what was done to it. Rumors.
Morgan glanced uneasily at the motionless face of the clock. He counted the stairs in the sky above it, studied the moon. "'Bout that time, huh?"
"It'd be tollin' now if it could."
The pair turned to face the tower and the old, boarded up doors that led inside.
The man he was speaking too wore his hat low, the brim casting a darkness over his features that made them difficult to distinguish. Through the dark Morgan could see the traces of hair along the other man's jaw and despite the cover of night his eyes still seemed brighter than normal, like two blue candles. Little had changed about the man in the years that followed their last meeting. He was still lean and had a hungry look about him, his fingers still twitched as if he was in gunfight perpetually. Among everything that hadn't changed, Morgan noted two things that did. He was darker now, this man. He held an evil within him that he hadn't harbored before. Not that he'd been a saint back then, either. And his hands had changed, too. Snakeskin seemed woven over his fingers and the back of his hands, it rippled and moved and shone in the light. Like it was alive.
"Men like us don' die easy, Morgan," the other man spoke. His voice, his inflection, was not unlike Morgan's. Deeper perhaps, a little rougher with age and road, but they hailed from the same land and carried themselves in a similar manner. "You ever right them wrongs you told me about in the dark?"
"Still aimin' to, Morgan said. He didn't ask what had happened with his companion. It was clear. They got to him. "How long you been with them now, Douglas?"
"No more'n a week, but damn, f***ers move fast. Like a storm," he flashed teeth that seemed a little too sharp in a grin that was entirely too dangerous. The coyote in him thrilled at the prospect of power. "This ain't a social call, Morgan. M'here on business."
The street was empty, save the pair. Few came near the tower this time at night. Rumor was that someone had been hanged from the giant hands of the clock years back and since then, at midnight, their spirit came back to grab passersby and do to them what was done to it. Rumors.
Morgan glanced uneasily at the motionless face of the clock. He counted the stairs in the sky above it, studied the moon. "'Bout that time, huh?"
"It'd be tollin' now if it could."
The pair turned to face the tower and the old, boarded up doors that led inside.