08-17-2015, 09:47 PM
The red-skinned man strode through the street, his wary hazel eyes darting between the various vagrants and workers of the town. Their shirts were dirtied and stained with sweat; their belongings were meager and time-worn. They struggled. They hurt. They suffered under the weight of their own freedom.
The tyranny of choice is one that so many civilizations strain under. The oppression of freedom, it forces people to each other’s throats, each choking the life out of another. Money, fame, position, they were all thin veils over the desire of every free man: power. It was all around him, the outlaws and the sex workers, the struggling police and the few honest men that toiled; they all suffered under the chains of their ignorance.
Sinestro wanted so badly to guide them, to give them purpose and joy. Structure. Order. Law.
The large, single-humped camel grunted loudly and at length as its rider approached. He pat the animal’s long neck and checked the creature’s barding. “Hush now,” he said softly, “Drink some water. We’ll be back out into the sand soon I think.”
His mount was tied in front of the Sheriff’s office, a quaint structure even amid the other worn wooden structures of the city. The dry rot had sunk deep into the walls and roof of the building, even into the door. Sinestro knocked firmly, a few flecks tumbling from the frame. “Come on in,” Roland’s distinctive voice called from within, once again falling back on his false accent of the locals. Twisting the rusty brass handle, the korugaran stepped in.
“Ah, it’s you,” the sheriff said with a hint of warmth. He stood from his chair and gestured at the seat in front of his desk, “Good work with those Primes before. I was worried you solved all your problems with a gun and a brand.”
Sinestro allowed himself a small smile, removing his hat and moving into the wooden chair he had been offered. “No, not all threats need to be subdued.” He let out a long breath, “In fact, I don’t know if I’d even call that group a true ‘threat.’” He gently placed his hat on the desk, “Myself and Ganondorf actually go back a little ways.”
Roland nodded, also taking his seat. “I ken it,” he said, allowing himself to return to his native tongue, “As I told ye before, I have had words with him. That one uses his voice sideways, tries to pull the wool over my eyes with his words and ways. He tries to tempt me, tempt these people, but at what cost I don’t know.”
“And that is the problem, isn’t it?” The ex-lantern leaned back in his seat, idly swiping dirt from his shirt, “What is the price of his assistance?”
“And what is the price of yours, sai?” the sheriff asked as if it was nothing.
Sinestro’s idle movement halted and his gaze flashed up to meet the lawman’s. “Only your trust in me to do what is right for this town.”
Squinting, Roland peered into the man, through him. Their eyes remained locked for a long, tense moment, a silent test of his words. Finally the stare was broken and with a soft but heavy voice he uttered, “That I can give you.”
Roland reached into the inside pocket of his duster and tossed down a golden star which slid across the table and halted in front of Sinestro. In bold letters, the word DEPUTY was etched into its front.
Retrieving the badge, Sinestro held it up to his face, a grin spreading wide as he admired its color and luster. With a self-satisfied smirk he polished its surface with his sleeve and pinned it to his chest, just over his heart. “I have always looked good in yellow,” he quipped.
“Stay true,” the sheriff said firmly, enforcing his words with a jabbing point of the finger.
“Of course,” Sinestro purred, a new glint in his eye, “I will bring these lands to order.”
Roland offered a thin smile and brought himself to his feet, “Ye will do your best, this I know.” He sauntered over to a wall that stood layered with aging manila-colored wanted posters, the scowling faces of a hundred men, women and monsters balefully staring back at him. Without searching, he plucked a single paper from the wall, and offered it out to the new deputy, “I want you to look into this for me, sai.”
Sinestro followed after him and accepted the poster, glancing it over. His face contorted in confusion and he looked up to his superior, “Not Sledge?”
“Nae, not yet,” he affirmed. “She was found within our own city, gifting char on folks not keen enough to know her for what she was.”
“Char?” Sinestro asked, looking over the image of a buxom, curly haired woman with friendly freckles and glittering eyes. She hardly seemed to have the figure of a murderer, but an intimidating stature can foil the camouflage of a wily killer. Perhaps her handsome features were not not fear-inducing, but thy were effective all the same.
Scoffing to himself, Roland shook his head, “I forget myself sometimes, friend.” He chuckled and smoothed his oily hair back, “Char means death.”
“Heh, I understand well enough. I often find myself thinking in the terms of my old world too,” Sinestro admitted, rolling up the poster and pushing it into his pocket. “What was their last known location?”
“To the north. She and another Prime quarreled in the tavern afore she cried off her stay. Mayhaps she runs to Carrefore, but if she does, she goes by a strange path.” Roland took his hat from the table and cleared his throat, the shade of his hat concealing his face. “Alright, now go on and get,” he said in the voice he used for the masses, “I have other business to get to and I got nothing else for you.”
“Very well, Sheriff,” Sinestro said with a half-smile, also adorning his headwear, “I’ll be back with the bounty soon.”
“Banish the bitch if she’s Prime,” he added just before the door slammed shut.
The sound of gunfire drew the deputy’s attention, the camel sprinting as fast as its knobby legs could go. It wasn’t too far off the trail that he had been following; the woman crept through the minds and words of the desert wanderers and told a story of her moving towards the canyon pass trail. Besides, maybe it was Sledge’s gang that haunted this territory.
The sands crested and he gazed out over a shallow valley between himself and the flat red-rock table that hosted a small battle. The stony outcroppings of a larger butte seemed to support a small group of fighters or scavengers of some kind. A black vehicle stood between the attackers and a single man, though a large red streak and a mangled corpse just behind it indicated that he had claimed the first kill of the encounter.
For a moment he considered the possibility of a diplomatic solution, but the erratic gunfire of the gang quickly dissolved those thoughts. Pulling his rifle from the long holster, he dismounted the camel and ensured it was well below the cover of the dune to avoid any stray bullets. He walked back up to the lip of the hill and pressed himself down in to the scorching sands below. With the stock of his weapon half-sunk, he slowly and carefully took his aim.
He could get back to the ones with knives and clubs after the immediate threat had been taken care of. The ones with the guns would be the first that had to fall.
The tyranny of choice is one that so many civilizations strain under. The oppression of freedom, it forces people to each other’s throats, each choking the life out of another. Money, fame, position, they were all thin veils over the desire of every free man: power. It was all around him, the outlaws and the sex workers, the struggling police and the few honest men that toiled; they all suffered under the chains of their ignorance.
Sinestro wanted so badly to guide them, to give them purpose and joy. Structure. Order. Law.
The large, single-humped camel grunted loudly and at length as its rider approached. He pat the animal’s long neck and checked the creature’s barding. “Hush now,” he said softly, “Drink some water. We’ll be back out into the sand soon I think.”
His mount was tied in front of the Sheriff’s office, a quaint structure even amid the other worn wooden structures of the city. The dry rot had sunk deep into the walls and roof of the building, even into the door. Sinestro knocked firmly, a few flecks tumbling from the frame. “Come on in,” Roland’s distinctive voice called from within, once again falling back on his false accent of the locals. Twisting the rusty brass handle, the korugaran stepped in.
“Ah, it’s you,” the sheriff said with a hint of warmth. He stood from his chair and gestured at the seat in front of his desk, “Good work with those Primes before. I was worried you solved all your problems with a gun and a brand.”
Sinestro allowed himself a small smile, removing his hat and moving into the wooden chair he had been offered. “No, not all threats need to be subdued.” He let out a long breath, “In fact, I don’t know if I’d even call that group a true ‘threat.’” He gently placed his hat on the desk, “Myself and Ganondorf actually go back a little ways.”
Roland nodded, also taking his seat. “I ken it,” he said, allowing himself to return to his native tongue, “As I told ye before, I have had words with him. That one uses his voice sideways, tries to pull the wool over my eyes with his words and ways. He tries to tempt me, tempt these people, but at what cost I don’t know.”
“And that is the problem, isn’t it?” The ex-lantern leaned back in his seat, idly swiping dirt from his shirt, “What is the price of his assistance?”
“And what is the price of yours, sai?” the sheriff asked as if it was nothing.
Sinestro’s idle movement halted and his gaze flashed up to meet the lawman’s. “Only your trust in me to do what is right for this town.”
Squinting, Roland peered into the man, through him. Their eyes remained locked for a long, tense moment, a silent test of his words. Finally the stare was broken and with a soft but heavy voice he uttered, “That I can give you.”
Roland reached into the inside pocket of his duster and tossed down a golden star which slid across the table and halted in front of Sinestro. In bold letters, the word DEPUTY was etched into its front.
Retrieving the badge, Sinestro held it up to his face, a grin spreading wide as he admired its color and luster. With a self-satisfied smirk he polished its surface with his sleeve and pinned it to his chest, just over his heart. “I have always looked good in yellow,” he quipped.
“Stay true,” the sheriff said firmly, enforcing his words with a jabbing point of the finger.
“Of course,” Sinestro purred, a new glint in his eye, “I will bring these lands to order.”
Roland offered a thin smile and brought himself to his feet, “Ye will do your best, this I know.” He sauntered over to a wall that stood layered with aging manila-colored wanted posters, the scowling faces of a hundred men, women and monsters balefully staring back at him. Without searching, he plucked a single paper from the wall, and offered it out to the new deputy, “I want you to look into this for me, sai.”
Sinestro followed after him and accepted the poster, glancing it over. His face contorted in confusion and he looked up to his superior, “Not Sledge?”
“Nae, not yet,” he affirmed. “She was found within our own city, gifting char on folks not keen enough to know her for what she was.”
“Char?” Sinestro asked, looking over the image of a buxom, curly haired woman with friendly freckles and glittering eyes. She hardly seemed to have the figure of a murderer, but an intimidating stature can foil the camouflage of a wily killer. Perhaps her handsome features were not not fear-inducing, but thy were effective all the same.
Scoffing to himself, Roland shook his head, “I forget myself sometimes, friend.” He chuckled and smoothed his oily hair back, “Char means death.”
“Heh, I understand well enough. I often find myself thinking in the terms of my old world too,” Sinestro admitted, rolling up the poster and pushing it into his pocket. “What was their last known location?”
“To the north. She and another Prime quarreled in the tavern afore she cried off her stay. Mayhaps she runs to Carrefore, but if she does, she goes by a strange path.” Roland took his hat from the table and cleared his throat, the shade of his hat concealing his face. “Alright, now go on and get,” he said in the voice he used for the masses, “I have other business to get to and I got nothing else for you.”
“Very well, Sheriff,” Sinestro said with a half-smile, also adorning his headwear, “I’ll be back with the bounty soon.”
“Banish the bitch if she’s Prime,” he added just before the door slammed shut.
---
The sound of gunfire drew the deputy’s attention, the camel sprinting as fast as its knobby legs could go. It wasn’t too far off the trail that he had been following; the woman crept through the minds and words of the desert wanderers and told a story of her moving towards the canyon pass trail. Besides, maybe it was Sledge’s gang that haunted this territory.
The sands crested and he gazed out over a shallow valley between himself and the flat red-rock table that hosted a small battle. The stony outcroppings of a larger butte seemed to support a small group of fighters or scavengers of some kind. A black vehicle stood between the attackers and a single man, though a large red streak and a mangled corpse just behind it indicated that he had claimed the first kill of the encounter.
For a moment he considered the possibility of a diplomatic solution, but the erratic gunfire of the gang quickly dissolved those thoughts. Pulling his rifle from the long holster, he dismounted the camel and ensured it was well below the cover of the dune to avoid any stray bullets. He walked back up to the lip of the hill and pressed himself down in to the scorching sands below. With the stock of his weapon half-sunk, he slowly and carefully took his aim.
He could get back to the ones with knives and clubs after the immediate threat had been taken care of. The ones with the guns would be the first that had to fall.
![[Image: sig2.jpg]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v288/KrimTheUnsettler/sig2.jpg)