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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Snarf Zagyg" data-source="post: 8622810" data-attributes="member: 7023840">Doc Sentenza had been in this strange land for some time ... a year, perhaps? He was laconic in his dealings, but his steely demeanor was always searching out for the small details, the understanding that the people here didn't believe in the righteous ways of the gun and the noose, but in wizards and magicks. Doesn't bother me none; call my pistol a gun or a spell, it's still the peacemaker in these parts.Over time, Doc had realized that those screaming souls within him could be of use; sometimes, Doc would bring one to the surface, let that tortured soul see out for just a moment, so Doc would know what the soul knew. Other times, Doc would release those tortured souls flying on the edges of his bullets, so that others would share in his pain. Sometimes the dead can be more useful than the living. But the one thing Doc realized most of all was that he no longer felt the pull of the Nameless Sheriff. It was a freedom, of a sort.  So it was that Doc wandered from town to town, setting up shop in one inn after the other, drinking and gambling and meting out justice as he saw fit to make the lives of the common people just a little better. Usually, Doc would move on from each town after a little while; he could tell when the people began to become more afraid of him than grateful, and Doc knew better than to overstay his welcome. While drinking in yet another nameless village, he heard the people talking about some type of reward, some call for heroes or adventurers or the like. A bunch of tall rustlers threatening some rich ol' robber barons. Doc pulled the brim of his hat down lower and looked at his hand. None of my business; they can hire their own Pinkertons. But just then, he felt that feeling again. That pull....... what type of justice is the Nameless Sheriff requiring now? The Lord Falldur looked up as he felt a cold wind blow through the cairn and thought he heard a faint whistling sound. As he did, he saw a figure framed in the way, cloaked in shadow with the light framed around him. The figure appeared to occupy some liminal zone between light and shadow, reality and madness, and Falldur could see only a strange hat and what almost appeared to be glowing flames where the eyes would be. The figure walked in, and there was a distinctive sound of the boots against the dwarven stone, and as the person crossed the threshhold into Culligan's Cairn, the features resolved. He was wearing some sort of leather vest and strange pants, with a belt slung over his hips and a container of some kind on his belt; his shoulders were covered by some kind of fabric that hung low to his waist, but not as low as a cloak. His head was not adorned by a helmet, but instead by some sort of exotic hat, with a wide brim all around. But what drew Falldur's gaze was the man's face; Falldur thought that his earlier view, backlit by the sun, must have tricked his senses, because now he saw this man's visage clearly. It was stoic and weathered, and keen, hard blue eyes stared at Falldur , as if the eyes were judging Falldur but necessarily finding him wanting. Reckon you have a problem. Doc looks around and sees the others already there. Must be a lot of rustlers to need a posse like this. Doc tried to assess the others; none of them had guns, because of course they didn't. A year, and it still surprised him. Still, he could tell that the other three would be of some use. One was clearly a military man; Doc knew that the military men had the training to be useful, but sometimes lacked the .... flexibility ... to get things done. Another looked a little green around the edges; he hadn't yet learned that it's a hell of thing to kill a man. The last one, he had trouble getting a read on. He appeared to be another of those magic warriors Doc had seen. Doc approached Lord Falldur, slowly and deliberately. I fix problems. Doc stared hard at the old knight. Permanently. Name is Doc. </blockquote>

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