#the beginning.

Asks now open. {before frame}

*She said.*

Years ago Striker, a ruthless outlaw takes the seven rings of hell by storm. In a tragic twist of fate the gunslinger was struck down by a Goetic commander and nobleman. As the commander and chief stood over the dying cowboy, the imp spits up into his face: a look of defiance shines in his eyes.

A gruff voice rumbles: like a thunderstorm through the stagnant air. "you may have everyone fooled beast, but you will never fool me" hisses the Serpent Cowboy.  As The Goeita Prince stomps on his chest causing the snake imp's body to bounce as he wheezes in pain.

Blood blooms spreading across the wrangler's chest, as Striker coughs up blood on his hands and knees. His mouth stained red with blood he snarls up at his killer.   Striker could feel his consciousness slowly slipping away. The taste of hot copper curdles at the back of his throat. With shaking arms he levels his guns at the large Goeita.

A look of meaningless pity flashes in the prince's eyes. Hard ruby eyes pierce the cowboy with their chilling gaze.  He couldn't have the resistance kindling again: sparks of a revolution. The cowboy needed to be made into an example. The commander couldn't risk having word get out to the main house.  Stolas sneers down at the pale skinned imp watching as light fades from the gunslinger's eyes before smirking coldly down upon him raising up his sword he buries it into the Outlaw's chest. The Owl Prince drags the imp down into the gully, and into the dead woods leaving a trail of blood in his wake.    Gripping the cowboy's shoulder he snaps it back until he could hear a sickening pop. Stolas grips Striker by his jaw lifting him up in the air: as a long talon traces his eyes. Striker let's out a blood-curdling scream as the commander digs his long talons into his eyes, ripping them out he places them into a velvet bag. The Owl prince smiles licking the blood from the imps face before dropping the corpse into a shallow grave underneath a hangman's noose. He buries the legendary Cowboy face down in the dirt.  

No matter, ah, ah, the cheer, listen to the cheer—the mirth. The joy. Never mind about the townsfolk… watch them dance and sing, play and sing and dance and sing and—

The joy quiets to a mere murmur as three figures walk along the length of a bridge, beyond the celebratory cheer. A bridge, which almost pulses with a heartbeat, crumbling and missing pieces along the edges. The three figures pay it no mind, walking over the crumbled pieces, pressing their heels a little too harshly against the overall intactness of the bridge.

Three figures becomes two—two, perfectly in sync in movements, yet that is all that is synchronous of the two. The third figure trails a little behind the two as the trio reaches its destination at the edge of the bridge. The heartbeat of the bridge can almost be felt underfoot.

The two figures survey what lies beyond the edge of the bridge, now far from the joyous fanfare: the glimmer of a beautiful and shining other realm, which radiates with love.

“Beautiful, isn’t it, brother dearest?” The taller muses, “Such a cheerful realm beyond our own.”

The shorter nods, gaze trained on the other realm, “Indeed.”

The two fall into silence after that, watching—always watching—the other cheerful realm with a greed-ridden gaze.