#dev1lgun

// @dev1lgun

“S’matter’a fact, I do! Mah girl took off way over yonder ‘cause we got int’ a nasty scrap with an ol’ friend and I been walkin’ my ass fer miles now, haha!” Butch explains with a laugh as if it’s a funny story, observing the stranger and their ride curiously. He brings his cigarette to his lips, taking a short drag before speaking once more, smoke escaping his mouth and nostrils as he does so. There’s something awfully curious about them, he can’t help but note.

"...Have we met before?" Valeriu swore he'd seen this face before, but where? Was it a face picked out from a crowd? Or was it the face of one of the many vendors and shopkeeps he met throughout his travels? Perhaps even the face of a bandit, or a heckler, or a beggar -- the familiarity was there, but he couldn't place it. The other's scent was strange and new, stinging the back of his throat with the scent of gunpowder and leather.

Unnerved, Vali's eyes flicked up and down over the stranger, trying to make sense of him against the the sunrays breaking through the golden trees. They weren't far from town, he could still smell the manure and the smoke and metal, but not much else.

❝      are  you  trying  to  look  like  some  sad  street  urchin,  or ?       ❞ 

perhaps  the  tadpole  is  also  messing  with  his  power.

the  midday  sun  bore  down  on  the  mud  ,  causing  it  to  steam  .     the  sound  of  patrons  in  the  saloon  ;     drinking  now  that  high  noon  had  passed  .     the  townsfolk  wander  ,  greeting  in  a  civilised  manner  that  showed  kindness  &&  a  sense  of  community  only  found  out  here  in  the  country  .     the  outlaw  found  comfort  in  that  ,  comfort  in  the  quietness  of  buzzing  sounds  ,  as  he  tightened  his  saddle  across  jezebel's  back  .     glancing  from  time  to  time  to  the  strange  individual  beside  him  on  the  hitching  post  .   

                                        𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒓 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒔                                @dev1lgun : "Stop looking at me like that."

"     meant  no  offense  .     "    a  mumbled  reply  .     his  six  shooter  was  there  on  his  hip  for  all  show  ,  enough  of  a  statement  that  he  was  not  one  to  be  tested  .     but  the  tense  knot  in  his  shoulders  ,  hackles  raised  ,  as  this  cowboy  wasn't  like  the  rest  of  the  townsfolk  ,  wasn't  as  palatable  .  

"     just  admiring  the  horse  .     "     a  clear  lie  when  the  thing  that  drawn  in  his  gaze  was  the  scars  &&  the  clothing  .    strange  feller  .   

𝄞𝄢 BREE COULD PAPER an entire wall with the amount of wanted posters she's ripped off of bulletins.

At least the artist hadn't gotten her features down precisely. Her nose was a little bigger than and her horns weren't true to size. But even then, one could easily identify her after a moment's contemplation. Bree quickly crumpled the paper and stuffed it into her bag. Best to be safe than sorry.

It was exhausting, constantly being on the run. She had hoped that she traveled far enough from the Gate to finally take a breath, but it seemed that she still had hounds on her tail. It made it difficult to busk for extra money, the fear of being spotted and accosted a constant reminder in the back of her mind. She mentally cursed her husband. Even in the afterlife he continued to plague her life.

She hitched her instrument case further up her shoulder as her eyes returned to the empty stage. The last bard that occupied it was tone-deaf, and was promptly booed off the stage by disgruntled bar patrons. Bree mulled over her options, and decided she would chance once song to get some coin in her pocket. If someone recognized her, she'd get the Hells outta dodge.

✱ ˚｡⋆ ↪ MORBID CURIOSITY ... [ REMASTERED ]

“Because this is a bookstore, and quiet voices are generally appreciated.”

A small chuckle bubbles out of Dwight. The store was rather quiet, soft jazz filling the empty space of conversations, as people were too engrossed in their novels to talk. Some customers were engaged in conversation, though their voices were soft and hushed, even if it was a heated debate.

ᒥ🕷ᒧ—      Winter nights were hard for many, and the drow was no exception. Two centuries he had spent in a place of a constant temperature--there were no seasons to bring on a biting chill or crippling heat. Now, having been on the Surface for 5 decades, he should be used to the manic temperature? Wrong, no matter how many seasons he lived through did he adjust to the changes.

He watched another log be thrown onto the fire, his cloak wrapped tight around him to battle the shivers plaguing him. Scarlet eyes followed the similarly cloaked them inspecting the fire, taking in his own shivering.