If (your character) were a gunslinger....

[jadewik]

"The only thing hotter than a day like this would be sitting in the middle of a brush fire," Ebon-Ashe grumbled to herself as she rode Argile into town. The hot sun beat down on Ebon for miles and miles and what the sun didn't leach from her, the wind did. It was like sitting in the smithy's billows-- a heat and air. Even her sweat boiled on her skin and what didn't get boiled off had been caked with dust and grit the wind blew at her.

Ebon-Ashe tipped her Stetson hat a little lower and adjusted her bandana. Argile snorted and pawed at the ground as another blast of sand peppered his flank.

The streets of Cartes were relatively empty save it for a few tumbleweeds blowing through town and the howl of that crazy wolf-were, James. Ebon stopped in front of the Golden Griffon and dismounted. A cloud of dust blew out of her duster as Ebon-Ashe stepped from her horse. She grumbled another curse about the heat and dust and tethered Argile.

"If this place doesn't water their drink, I'll bring you some Whiskey in a bit." Argile snorted his approval.

Her spurs made a clinking noise with each thud of her boots. The boardwalk in front of the Griffon squeaked and groaned as she pushed through the doors into the sparsely populated bar. Apparently, in a town as dead as this one, THIS was the place to hang out.

The room was full of cowboys, Ebon noticed. She adjusted her duster to make sure her Silver handled Colt flashed as she entered the room. The gun was her favourite, and she kept it stocked with custom made silver pre-frag bullets-- quicker for putting varmints both supernatural and not out of their misery.

Ebon-Ashe slid between a couple of bar stools and ordered a bottle of whiskey. The bartender poured her a shot of amber liquid and set the bottle beside it. Ebon-Ashe drank the shot and picked up the bottle, pressing it to her lips as she quaffed the liquid. It too burned, but it numbed too. The numb was what she wanted to feel.

Ebon licked her lips and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand then retreated outside to share the rest of the bottle with Argile.

[James]

The leader howled at the top of the crevasse, the dry, dusty ground giving way to its resonating cry. Dust billowed outward from the pack as the other wolves joined in, their melody shrill with the anticipation of the hunt. The lone buffalo, slowed from dehydration, pushed itself well beyond its limits to move faster from the sound. They had been following it for a couple of days now and it was bound to give out soon.

With a flash, the chase was on. Silver lightning streaked from the hilltop and its tendrils of gray-colored electricity soon followed, the loss of sound frightening the lone buffalo even more.

Within a mere minute, the pack was upon the buffalo, the leader of the hunters giving the first strike. All of the wolves leapt and rent the large beast's hide with gashes and tears that began to bleed profusely. Within moments the pack had downed the weak buffalo and all but the leader fed upon the remains. This one was different; the wolves respected his differences because of his great prowess as a warrior, as a fatherly figure and as a man. James was the proud leader and master of these beasts, and each one he knew well and loved deeply.

The hunt had finished; the beast slain. It would take them several hours to move the corpse to the wolves' home cave near the town, but for the week it fed them the work was well worth it.