Sixgun Chapter One, Caged Flames

[Mysterious Silver]

The blinding light of the desert sun reflected off of Ami's golden breastplate as she stepped out of the carrige, stopped a long distance from the wall. Raising a gloved hand to her brow to sheild her emerald eyes from the same light, she stared at the gateway, the only open passage between Dian and Sol. There was no one there. She took a few steps forward, putting the carrige and it's driver behind her.

Suddenly, a man dressed all in tan clothes that matched the desert sands appeared beside her, as if out of nowhere. It was Musai, a volunteer dishonorable, and Ami's personal bodyguard. Though he was mostly hidden by his outfit, wrinkled skin around his sharp blue eyes showed his age.

"It would appear that we're early, M'lady." He spoke with all possible seriousness, and little emotion.

Ami looked to the sky, and to the burning orb that lay there.

"No. Rather, they're late." her face showed discontent. "It's allright. I didn't really expect them to follow through anyway. They're not really the reliable type."

Shaking his head, Musai spoke again. "I do not mean to challenge my lady's opinion, but these six are the highest of Sol's officials. Certainly they would-"

He was cut off mid-sentence by Ami "That's just it, Musai. They're from Sol. Even the highest of Sol's ranks are but animals to us, they have no care for formailities or tradition. They're all nothing but wild, drunk, savages. This truce is rediculous. We should just eradicate them all." As she spoke, a gust of wind blew her firey red hair around her, as if to enhance her rage.

They both stood in silence for a moment, waiting but a second more for the others to show up.

The lady looked again to the wall. The great barrier that had held the barbarians of Sol at bay for hundreds of years, it had been built when they, as rebels, had first been banished, and it had stood as that barrier since. It was truely a waste that anyone could now come and go as they pleased--it wasn't even gaurded anymore.

"I'm going to go have a look at the wall, I haven't seen it since I was a little girl. Hopefully, they won't delay us too much longer."

"Should I follow, M'lady, or would you rather go alone?"

Smiling faintly at her ever faithful guardian, Ami shook her head. "No, I can take care of myself. I'm much more worried about the carrige driver... and our cargo. You never know if they decide to back out on the deal and just take it."

As she moved for the wall, she reflected on the assignment she had been given. To improve relations between the two countries, official trade routes and transactions had been planned. But as a show of goodwill, government agents were sent to commemorate the first trade. In return for twenty hardwood logs delivered by Ami, two members of the Sol's beloved Sixguns were to bring twenty pounds of gold, a mineral much rarer in Dian than in this cursed desert. Ami took pride in her armor, which was made entirely from gold brought from a Dian mine, never tainted by the hands of the savages. Still, the stuff was valuable to many, no matter where it came from.

As she reached it, Ami walked up under the arch cut in the stone of the wall, the gate which allowed passage between the two nations. At first, she looked at the ancient carvings done thousands of years ago by Dian craftsmen, but it only took her a moment to notice something strange. As soon as she had stepped into the arch, there was a change in the ground below her. The sand had become looser. In this, of all places, the possible trade route, it was as if no one had ever stepped onto it before. Ami stopped to think about what this could mean.

Shortly after, she was given her answer. There was an indeistinguishable shout from around the corner, and the sand below her feet seemed to lift for a moment, and then give way to a great net rising out of the sand. Taken off gaurd, Ami fell uselessly into the trap, being suspended by a camoflauged pully set in the gate. Once she realized what had happened, she wasted no time in attempting to free herself, though it all seemed futile--she could barely move.

A handful of seven men, all roughly dressed and heavily armed came out from behind the other side of the wall, to admire their handy work.

"She sure is a looker, this "firey daughter". Wouldn't you say so, boys?" Ami recognized the voice that had shouted the signal to ensare her, though it came from behind her, and she couldn't see it's owner.

"Of course, Jim. But remember what the boss said. We can't lay a finger on her this time. She'll be worth less as ransom." This time it was a man dressed in a red vest and hat, short in stature, with a full beard. He had a nasty looking grin as he stared up at her.

Though he was quite a distance away, Musai had noticed what happened instantly. He tore across the short span of desert, yelling Ami's name with much more concern for speed than for stealth. This was a mistake.

The man in red pulled a large gun up to his eye, that had been resting on his back by a leather strap. After taking no more than a second to aim, he pulled the trigger, sending a deadly chunk of lead flying in her protector's direction. The bullet struck him in the left leg as he ran, causing him to fall hard into the sand with a shout of pain and suprise. The man in red laughed.

"That was one of the great, fearsome weapons of Dian?" he spit. "Not much trouble when they're far away, are they? He was certainly moving fast, though."

Ami, in shock, from the whole experience, quickly came to her senses. Pushing her hand through the net to the hilt of her sword, she drew it as far as she could from it's sheathe, and spoke a word that came from no language. As the word passed her lips, the exposed blade of the sword took fire, and wuickly burned a hole in the net, dropping her to the ground. As all the men jumped back in suprise, she rolled up into a defensive stance, holding her blade high. But before she could attack, whe felt a sharp prick in her neck. Her hand flew, moved by instinct to where the pain had been felt. A small dart tuck out of her neck.

Spinning around, she barely had time to glimpse the man who had shot it, holding a wooden tube in his hand. Everything quickly turned blurry, and then faded to black as she hit the sand.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(OOC: First part posted. Just so you guys know I'm not totally blowing this off. If you can start something from here, go ahead... I'll be writing the Sixguns into this next. Original characters are encouraged, but playing main characters is fine too. In case you didn't figure it out, the 'boss' is Black Satan, of Clinton Spencer.)

[Baltazaar]

The doc was confortable, as he climbed up the large rock.
His horse was eating the rather oddly grass from the colour of pee, while standing in the hot dian sun. He knew he had had relieved himself, and that he had much time. It was always worth taking the time to do something in the right way.
He had gotten the information of sweet Mary Lou. Since the last time, where he saved her from the hand of a fearsome and stinking Coward who was hitting her, he knew that she would do anything for him.
She had served this member of the bandits one day, and well, he was talking afterwards. The Doc smiled. His contacts in the local lying business were priceless. Too much of that Gringos talked. He sniggered, and climbed over the last boulder, until he stood on top of the Mesa. The view alone was magnifficent.
Geological formations of rocks, often shaped by the wind, said his former self, mainly as a weak echo. Just a friggin nice place for a barebecue, said his present self.
He smiled, and began pulling the string, on which he had knotted his Doc-bag. While it slowly rose into the air, he cursed several times his bloody sickness. Well, without it, hew thought, he would have never known what wonders were out there. Liquor, Women, adventures, women..... He knew that the women were definitively the best part.
He finally put the bag on the top, and stretched his back. Aww, sweet Mary Lou. She was nearly half his age, and well, she was much older from the experience. He smiled as he thought of her. After that, well, he would talk to his student a bit more...
He sat down, and opened his bag, where he put out the gunparts to reveal his coffeeine-water. He poured something into his black mug, and while it began to heat up in the sun, he began his routine.
He hummed a strange line of tones, beginning with the lowest one his voice was able to reach. (The barrel with the scope) Let the air flow out of you. (Affix the trigger to the ammo-depositor) Be one with the target. (Pull the trigger ofer that hole, and close the shell. ).......
As he was finished, the sun had barely mooved. He quickly added the twofooter to the gun, and crawled to the side of the big platform, where he had a perfect view of the scene, and nearly 90 % cover.
The wall. A monumentous effort for mankind, but mainly, out of an ignoble motive. He shook his head, took of his hat, and layed down on the warm rock. That was where his target would be, according to Mary Lou. That was the bastard who broke into shed number 13, and peed on the pergaments, while he was away. he had to burry the writing, because the aicd-like pee had destroyed it, and has been angry afterwards. While the wind flew trough his hair, and caressed his bald spots, he looked trough the scope, and viewed the scene. It took him less than a minute to see the figures hiding in the sand.
"Well, well, not bad. They are sure quite well hidden", he said to himself. Then, he was blind, and he felt how his sickness knocked at the door.
With a monumentous effort, he put the big girl away, and quickly opened his west. His chest was aching. He did not like it when being forced to do something so quick, but he was right before the coughing, which would certainly be heard, so he tried to be quiet. The coffin-dog, they had called him. Through a series of blue lights in his nonblinded eye, he saw that the first drops of blood flew out of his mouth, and into his beard. He hated himself for that weakness. A true warrior would not have such weakness. The air disappeared slowly from his lung, and he felt how his chest cramped. Oh shit, it feels like I am going to die. His horse would be able to make a quick progress. it was healthy, and would probably find a herd.
He shooed the thought out of his mind, and forced himself to breath in. With an unimaginalbe effort, the air dribbled into his lungs, and he grabbed into his west, fishing out his baloon with the wite powder. He held it under his nose, and soon, his sickness went away. Bugger it.
He swung around, and realized that his target would have been probably gone for good. He grabbed his Big Girl, and looked trough the scope again.
Now it was all clear. The fucking Sparkler was a dude in some sort of golden platemail, now lying on his chest, probably dead. He also saw a second dude, well, probably a bit older, crawling towards the first one. Not the fine Solian Kind of welcome he would have prepared a visitor from Dian. But What the heck, it seemed like a pretty good Idea.
He looked around some more, and found the place where they had hidden their horses. He looked trough the scope, untill he found what he had searched for. A big metal cettle, hanging over a fire. He smiled, and pulled the trigger.
The horses screamed in shock, and started running away. Just as he had expected it. Now, what was the line again?
"If the enemy has been cut of from all possible ressources, just give him an opportunity to flee, and he will loose. "
He had loved the piece of pergament, and it made him sick imagening what some illiterate kind of monkey would have done with it. It was a good day for someone else to die. He turned around, and saw that the rouges were in bright confusion, running towards the galopping horses, while the others stayed in their places near the sparkler, and threw themselfes on the ground. His target too.

The next bullets trew the two running figures to the ground. He had pierced their kneecaps, much like they did to that elder dude. Not so nice.
Most of the bandits, like others form Sol, never realized how valuable their feet were. So, almost no one protected them. Bad idea....
He almost saw what happened. The bullets flew trough the air, and almost certainly found their target. His two friends suddenly realized that their weight was just on one side, so, their bodys fell to this side, causing more pain. They lay screaming on the ground, while the others remained in hiding. He waited, partiently, for the next one to stand up and make a good move. Heck, he was over a mile away. and he had coffee, while they had just lost two men.
"Two down, six to go. " He sipped on the coffee, that woke him up a little bit more, and concentrated on the environment. Most of the other snipers would have been caught from behind, but not he. He had placed some trigger-wires on the ground, that would alert him if somebody found the spot. And his horse.... Well, it bit anybody near them, and if he whistled in a special way, it came back, throwing off whatever rider it had on it. And boy, his horse was good at that. He had trained it himself...
Looking trough the scope, he realized that his friends seemingly knew where he was shooting from, because they were barely visible. He forced back the urge to curse, and moved his scope around. any part of their stinking bodys would form a pleasant target.
He noticed that the older man from Dian had done some more moving, and that he had the intentions to fight the bandits.
"Noble, noble, "he thought, "That was a true warrior. put your fucking teeth together, and go for it. Not whince around like a dog, attack like a scorpion. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the horses now stood near his place..... 8 horses, with saddles, and stuff..... That was a nice loot, if he finished the job. He would probably be able to invite Mary-Lou and some of her friends to a group-lecture. That would be fun....
"Please, " he silently whispered to the guy out there, crawling on the sand towards the unsuspecting bandits, "shoo them up, just a little bit... I want to help you..."
He waited, and stayed ready to blast the head of any kind of dumb freak who showed it.


(OOC: my first post.... prolly a bit long and unfair, but what the hell, he is a Solian...)

[AmazingIdiot]

(OOC: Might be a bit too early, but I figured I'd start mine. As Victor will probably get out of Dian sometime during one of the upcoming nights. Will eventually run into the Sixguns, Doc, or some other Solian, maybe even that Dian girl, Ami, I don't know.)

There was no comfort those first few weeks in the jails of Dian. No one to converse with, no wind to be a gentle caresser, and no feeling of true happiness. Nothing. Nothing, but the dank solitude of an ice cubish hellhole of which there was no fortune to be found. You might as well have tried to make yourself into a spider, nature's escape artist, or convert to Buddism, and be reincarnated as a spider. Or maybe even a bird, at least then you'd have freedom.

Victor sighed and looked towards the future. Within a weeks time they'd be putting him through the grueling process of being a Dishonerable. Something he really wasn't looking forward to. But then again, who would? It's like being a slave in some un-written contract that holds you for life. So, the perfect utopia uses magic to force people to follow them. A little drastic if you ask me.

He chuckled at the thought of a world filled with Dians, truly one he wouldn't want to be a part of. But what of his friends? Surely they would escape somehow too, right? The uprising may have been put out just as it's flame was ignited, but that didn't mean that they had used all of their strikes in the game. He felt confident that they would somehow overcome.

His thoughts then turned to Sol. He knew that they had their problems as well, but anything is better then being forced to believe in something. That just takes away a persons value of individuality. It took away their freedom. Without that the world would be a boring place.

"The conflict of the past creates the future, and the conflict of the future creates the past. It goes in a never endding loop that defines our views and our culture. Thus true peace will never be attained." Victor said remembering the words of an old friend. Oh, how true that is. He sighed yet again and looked towards the bars in his cell window. How he wished he was a bird at this moment, being able to freely move about and sing your songs of ecstasy.

After a long time of formulating he decided to just go to sleep and wait for nightfall. He would try to set his plans in motion then. All he could do now was wish godspeed to his allies and him. Letting the beckoning hand of sleep take him, he fell into a convoluted dream of birds and spiders.

(OOC: I use the word convoluted way too much now!. . .>.<. . .Well, it's short, for my character, but it's a start.)

[Mysterious Silver]

The semi-leader of the group of bandits, Martin, shouted out orders as chaos overtook them when the bullets were fired. "Goddamnit, everyone get behind the wall! Take cover, and get the girl!"

Of the six men still up, two grabbed Ami, Tim and the man in red dove behind the wall immedeatly, and the other two ran out to help their fallen comrades.

"No, no!" The man in red, John Brians, called Red Devil, shouted from behind the wall, "Leave them, you idiots! Or you'll just end up on the ground, too."

Timothy peeked around the corner in the direction the bullets had come from, for but a second. He was in a bad situation, but he was no fool. "Red," he shouted across the gate to his partner, who had taken shelter on the other side, "Is it Billy? Did the Sixguns get here anyways? You think you can take him out?"

Red shrugged, but loaded his rifle and rolled out into the open, looking through the scope as he searched for the assailant.

Being a sharpshooter himself, he figured out exactly where the bullets had come from, and it only took him a few moments to pinpoint the sniper. He looked confused at first, until he realized what the huge gun ment. "God damn!" he yelled, "It's the doc!" He fired off a quick shot then dived for cover again. "Why's he after us, now?!"

Timothy spit. "Hell if I know! We need to figure out a way outta here!"

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Meanwhile, at the edge of a cannyon about ten miles west, A man and a woman stood looking over the remains of what had once been a bridge. Behind them they led their horses, as another, younger man sat if the seat of a supply wagon farther away.

The man shook his head. He wore rough, old hat and a dirty hand-woven poncho, though his trademark grin was decidedly absent from his face. "Annie, this is the third bridge in a row like this. I don't think this is a coincidence."

The woman crouhced down and picked up with her gloved hand what length of rope was still tied to the post at this end. "Here." She pointed to the end. "It wasn't frayed, this was cut. It's even all the way across."

A swift, pointless kick from the man sent dirt flying over the edge, onto ruins below. "I don't know who's trying to do this, but those folks from Dian ain't gonna be happy about us being this late. We couldn't even get the wagon over this one if it was up, anyway. What're we going to do?"

A few moments of silence followed as Annie examined the rope further, though she seemed to find nothing more of interest. "There's one more bridge farther south. It's old and abandoned, they might have forgotten about it." Without another word, she slung herself over her horse and started riding in that direction.

"So we just keep lookin', that it? Allright..." The man mounted his own, then whistled to the man driving the wagon and motioned south, following after her in the dust.

(OOC: There we go. Kudos to Balt for throwing bricks at me. If you don't mind, I'd like some of the bandits to get out of there alive with Ami, you can kill a few more off if you want, though, Tim and Red are the only ones that matter at all, and they're still expendable I'll write profiles up for them and Billy, who was mentioned, after this.

AI, not sure what to write onto what you have, if you need to work with me on anything about what happens next send me a PM )

[Baltazaar]

The Doc never wasted a human life just mere killing somebody. He had been a surgeon, after all. It was so easy to tear apart what had been formed in years.
He watched the Scope of the man in red. Typical greenhorn attitude. The red colour should probably symbolize something improtant. Something dangerous. Something sexy... Well, out there, on the hot yellow-ish sand, he was visible as a green snake in an oven.
He liked to fool around with with the mind of the wannabes, so as soon as he saw the man in red looking for him, he knew what to do. He placed his big girl in a loving embrace a little bit more out in the sun. Making sure he had his cylinder-hat on, he looked trough the scope and waited, while he analyzed the other one. The whirring motions of the gun. The bronze scope on the used gun. He smiled a bit as he thought of how he started back then, with only a bag of money and some rags and a hat ful of Ideas.
The other sharpshooter spotted him. He had made sure that the gun rested safely on the twoleg and the ground, so he upped his hand, lifted his hat, and smiled as he saw the horror in the face of the other one.
"Pekaboo...." he whispered, and was more aware of the shot than he had seen it. He just pressed himself a little closer to the stone,breathing out and holding his breath, as the bullet whizzed above his head and hit his coffeemug, that exploded with a mild clang.
In a second, he was mildly irritated, which turned to fury. He pressed the trigger, as the shot had been there, and went with the bullet, the way the old scripts told it. There was no sign of singing ancestors, but it worked for him. His mind expanded, and embraced the bullet. A fine and genuine full metal round, with the gunpowder quadruppled, and the splirrs along the round. The splirrs, tiny little openings, set the bullet in a spinning motion as it was fired. Simple Gyromotions, as the Doc had discovered, were able to give the bullet just the edge he needed...
His spirit ran with the bullet. The clown in red came closer. Nice doing, badass. Just care for your head, and not for the weapon. At least you got a splendid brain...The bronze scope of the weapon was seemingly an expensive one, and it seemed to have just been bought. It did not have the emotional value of the mug.
The mug had been priceless. Little Mary-Jane had done it for him. For him alone. That sweet little orphan brat he had dropped of at the local saloon where the Girls raised her. Sure, there could have been better places for her to stay at, but the Doc wanted the little one able to defend herself. So, he watched with the years as the little girl blossomed up, with her snowwhite skin and her ravenhair. And then, she had made the Mug, out of clay, in the sunday-school or something. And she wrote with her tender young fingers "Daddy Doc" in it. Of course, it was just a Mug, but the sentimental value of it was priceless. It had been the first time, someone thanked him for saving their life, with no second thoughts. And someone had called him Daddy.....
He felt the bullet reach critical mass, just as the anger struck him. It nearly glew red in his immagination. The head of the bandit in red had already lowered itself a bit, but the weapon was still in plain view. And the brass scope.
The bullet hit the cross marked on the fine layer of the glass-lense, and tore a fingerthick hole right until the middle, where it got stuck. The Doc allowed himself to blink again, and noticed the motion of some jerk moving and screaming something. He turned his big girl around, until he found the spot. It was his mark, who seemed to have realized that he could be after him.... The man that had destroyed his pergaments.
The Doc considered himself a killer of the old school. He liked thinking a bit more than just plain shooting. He grabbed his special bullets from his hat, and placed them inside the magazine. He entered the magazine in his gun, pressed a bit, and heard how it made click in a decent way. Holding down some fellows was just mere work. A good kill was a piece of art. And dishonouring someone in such a stupid way, well, that even brought you the right to die in an entertaining way. The first two shots were merely a sign of warning. The gunwielding maniac, who had been running towards him, was caught off his knees, as his regular kneecaps were replaced with two full metal bullets. The falling was just like the old act of praying. He would have wanted to light the fucker up, but well, you have to work with what you got.
The next thing were three bronze bullets, which he had peed on the other day. The infection would be gorgeous, and it was his kind of saying thank you. He placed one of them in each of his two shoulders, so the guy fell back, crying out loud. The last two bullets hit the guy between the legs, so he would never treat writings disrespectfully again, and the head. He actually waited a minute to see the last bullet in effect. Quicksilver and this sulfur..... man, it was no ordinard bullet.
First, the brass weight at the end of it shot downwards, and reacted the chemicals with each other. It was a sort of exotherm reaction, and kinetical force of the shrapnells had a kind of force to leave an enduring expression on the skelettal basis of the thugs head. With other words, his present self corrected, the thugs brain was splashed over a good two square-meters.
The doc sat down behind the rock, and took out his little pendant. Deep inside, he knew he was suposed to honour the bad pile of flesh, who had died ten feet away from his comrades. He did not agree with whatever religion they had, because he liked life to much to pray for an unsecure afterlife, but the concept of being reborn seemed to be attractive. He had allways wanted to have some more fun. He thought of his target out there in the desert, and mentally ecxused himself for killing him. Then, he sent the soul to whatever gods he might have believed in, with an urgent wish to grant his target a new life in form of cockroach.
He finished his prayer, and started to pack up. He took of the cylinder , and began to take the big girl apart and clean her for a few minutes. Then, the twins wandered in his hip-holsters, and the search for the fragments of the mug began. He was not afraid of anyone. The word out in the desert was, that whenever the Doc accepted a kill, he only killed his targets. And only those who deserved it.
The Doc kneeled a bit, untill he seemed to have no more pieces left on the floor of the Mesa. He grabbed them, and put them in an empty tobacco-pouch. He would never admit it, but this was his greatest treasure. A place to call home, and a family that consisted of 6 dozen Girls that he had all over the state, and a special little lady who had made him the mug. He knew that the life was hard in the Saloon for her, but at least it made her hard and sharp. He had already taken precautions for the case that he would die. The coffin was chosen, he had a spare suit in the saloon, and even the grave has been already bought. Never ever did he leave work for an other person to do. bringing himself under the earth was just an other job. He knew that it was just a matter of month before the sickness would finally kill him. For this kind of thing, he had made his last will already, and deposited it at the local lawyer. Everything he owned would be devided in half. One half would go to the girls and the saloon, to polish the old thing up. Of course, under the condition that the saloon gave Mary-Jane a home and raised her well.
The other half, including the maps to all of his secret mining-spots, his shags and his hideouts would go to Mary Jane on her 18th birthday, to allow her the life he never had. He smiled as he saw the analogy.

An old man died.
A young girl lived.
That was fair...

It was the circle of live, just as described in some of the more boring pergaments. He just finished his thoughts, as he found the last shard. It was blue, and the name DOC was clearly legible to him. He smiled, and put everything down again to go to the horse. Slwoly, he whistled his favourite tune, and the steps on the mesa now sounded in the changing wind that brought them to the friends of the target like a little metall grandfatherclock. Clap clap, ting, clap clap, ting..... His medic bag in his one hand and one of the twins in his other, he walked down to the horse. It was quiet now that the grass was removed, and his only occupation seemed now to pass gas. He smiled a bit, hung the bag up the other side of the horse, and gently clapped his hands. Every normal being would have been away right now. And if they had been waiting for him, he would not spend a second to kill all of them. That was the game. Do not just survive, survive with a smile. If you cannot pay the price, you might have a try in next life.
He sat into his saddle - rocking chair, lit himself a pipe, and gently, the horse stopped farting and started walking . He was not unfair, or unusually cruel, he told himself, he was just himself. And, he even warned them. And gave them enough time. If they were still here, it was their fault. He could do nothing against it. He leaned back, and his thoughts went to the old guy. Well, finally, there seemed to be someone honourable to meet. If the bandits had spared him... He entered the maze of the Mesa, just looking out for things to come, and probably shoot.