Well, if you love fantasy, come to the TFP, cause there's already at least two good writers churning out stuff for you. Anyhow, to kind of offset my more misanthropic parables of human weakness and such I decided why not start my own series I guess. Now, it's a little unconventional, bonus points to anyone who can find all the movie homages in it. Anyhow you'll have questions by the end so I'll meet you down below!
Enjoy. (I hope)
Prologue: The Stranger in Search of Alfredo Garcia
The stranger approached the tiny hamlet of Precipice on foot, tendrils of red dust tangled about his spurs as he strode like an omen through the open gates. The ramparts were untended, and the single, straight street dividing the town was empty, except for a decrepit, gaunt dog which panted as it eyed the drifter lazily.
The stranger was tall and lithe, and he moved with lethal, measured precision through the current of misty, red dust towards the large tavern in the centre of town. His head was crowned with a battered, wide brimmed hat which shaded his deep, black eyes, and from which a mane of sleek, straight black hair flared around his thin muscular neck. His eyes were set deeply into his skull, rimmed with deep lines, a sharp nose jutting out from between then, and in the short, abrasive black whiskers around his jaw a thin, grim set of lips clamped around the drooping ashen corpse of a cigarette. His wiry frame was clad in a long leather greatcoat, which reached his ankles and danced about his feet as he walked with casual, deathly patience along the thoroughfare, his flowing gait pierced through with tense vigilance. His strong legs were enclosed in loose black denim, and his black boots were stained with dust. He climbed the steps leading to the tavern with a melodic jingle of spurs and strode through the open doorway with ochre apparitions flowing from his dusty clothing. Inside, a solitary barman regarded him with a sardonic glance, his smile warped into a grotesque leer through the glass bottle he was holding.
‘You speak English?’ The stranger spoke softly, with hardened tones and the spectre of a threat in his voice.
‘Si Senor,’ the barman replied with a droll sigh. ‘Whiskey?’ he held up the bottle, sloshing the amber liquor inside about with a knowing grin. The drifter stalked across the abandoned tavern, sliding between the clutter of tables and chairs strewn chaotically in his path, and without a word plucked the bottle from the barman’s hand with a swift, singular motion. He brought it to his lips, and with relish took a generous swig of the fiery liquid, he exhaled heavily as the kiss ended, he spoke into the bottle casually, holding it with a sinewy hand inches from his mouth.
‘I’m here for Alfredo Garcia. Know where I can find him?’ The barman swallowed a gasp and gawped at the stranger with incredulous fear.
‘Mister, you’ve come to the wrong town, Alfredo Garcia ain’t in Precipice, you should go look somewhere else,’ he babbled desperately. The other man took another swig from the whiskey bottle, and placed it on the bar with careful softness, he caressed his rough bearded jaw as he turned to the bartender.
‘Listen,’ the stranger silently reached inside his greatcoat, and drew from it a long, narrow, curved scabbard, and placed it next to the whiskey bottle with infinite care, ‘I’m here for Garcia, now where can I find him?’ The bartender blinked with astonishment at the sword, then back at the stranger’s still, cold pupils, he swallowed nervously and backed into the corner.
‘He’s in the whorehouse at the south end of town, the last place on the right,’ he blurted with panic, his voice ragged with fear.
‘Well now,’ the stranger remarked with amusement, basking in the barman’s visible terror, ‘that wasn’t so difficult was it.’ He snatched the sword from the bar, imbibed a final mouthful of harsh desert whiskey and played his deathly jingle out to the street.
But the stranger needn’t have bothered with his enquiries, his arrival had been noticed, and as he emerged into the sunlight it was clear that Alfredo Garcia had found him. At the opposite end of town, the long shadows of three dark figures cut across the garish sunlight, they stood motionless as the stranger approached nonchalantly. He drew to a halt seven paces from the obvious leader of the trio. He was a mountain of a man, his thick, brutish frame was draped in a woolen poncho, and at his side an obscenely thick blade hung threateningly from his belt. He remained inert, but was hunched in anticipation, his monolithic frame primed for movement. The drifter, with infinite care and vigilance, removed his greatcoat to reveal the long slender sword at his left side, tucked into his belt, his lean figure coiled as he reached across his body with his right hand, taking a firm grasp on the hilt. The mountain snorted in derision, raising a meaty arm and pointing with a thick, square finger at the thin man.
‘You gonna fight with that?!’ He roared with laughter, accompanied by his crusty companions. The stranger remained still, a wry smile snaking across his face. The giant moved closer with bold strides, halting only two paces from the drifter with a sadistic grin shining out of his hulking skull. His hand twitched upon the pommel of his sword, and his eyes lay in a trance upon the perfectly motionless wrist of the stranger. He inhaled violently and reached to draw his blade. The stranger flitted like a shadow, moving with astonishing, lethal speed. There was a flash as his katana arced through the sunlight, humming the single note melody of death, and his lithe frame spun in a delicate, fatal dance, the blur halted as quickly as it had moved, facing the tavern, the naked, deadly steel raised above his head, tipped with slick black blood. Alfredo Garcia’s breath was abruptly cut short by a scarlet eruption of gore from his throat; his shocked yelp drowned in his lungs and bubbled from the gaping wound with a muted gurgle. As he clutched at the fountain of blood with futile, dying hands, his eyes burned with malice at the stranger, who crouched, poised, the elegant weapon raised above his head with both hands. Garcia’s curses gargled in his own blood as he fell to the earth, an impotent sack of meat, bleeding furiously and writhing in the cruel, hot dust with animal rage and terror.
Garcia’s companions backed away from the gaunt angel of death with terror, they leapt onto two horses tethered outside the brothel and departed in an undignified whorl of dusty cowardice. By now their leader was motionless, lying in the street, his limbs splayed in inglorious, violent death. His eyes remained open in rage, glazed over with a milky film, the pool of blood already half congealed in the dust. His killer sheathed his weapon silently and turned his head jauntily to the side, his neck emitted a loud, bony crackle. He knelt beside the colossal body and reached inside the collar of Garcia’s blood-soaked poncho and drew from it the thin leather necklace around the bullish neck. Dangling from the end was a gigantic golden medallion in the shape of a W, it was curved in mock oriental style, and as the drifter held it up to the harsh sunlight, the graven words ‘Wu Tang Clan’ glinted across the surface. The killer surveyed the peculiar relic with curiosity for a second and slipped it into his pocket, he then plucked the garish golden rings from Garcia’s fingers and a handful of golden pieces from his pocket. He sighed quietly over the carcass as he rose, then turned on his heel and ambled over to his greatcoat, which he picked up and violently dusted with a cruel slap before throwing it over his shoulders, enveloping his lean figure and the scabbard in his belt.
As he drifted back along the road in a cloud of dust, the desert wind toyed with the corner of Garcia’s poncho and whispered a one-note eulogy over his dead body. The barman stood in awe as the phantom approached, fear and wonder swirling in his sweaty, tanned features.
‘El Cazador,’ he whispered into the void of the wind.
Ok question time is now open. Wtf?