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Hoof falls echoed across the ever shifting walls of the vast castle of dust. The riders plowed through sepia walls and deftly avoided the saguaro pillars communicating only with thunderclaps and hot, flying lead. Bullets tore at the air and into sage bushes briefly igniting their parched limbs and sending the blue smoke curling into the brown, sandy heavens. The Outlaw dug his spurs into this steed urging it to the very precipice of fatigue.
Gossamer thin strands of light cut through the thick debris. They parted, they merged, they formed and decayed in mere instances. The Outlaw and his horse soon found themselves in a lull in the storm. They also found themselves surrounded. Out of the haze, the silhouetted shapes of men on horseback trotted into view. As they lowered their bayoneted rifles at his heart, their leader spoke.
" By order of His Legitimate Majesty, Emperor Ambrose II, House Washington, I hear by place you under arrest!"
The Outlaw responded with two shots from his six-gun. The panicked horses quickly bucked their limp riders. The circle of riflemen broke, and became a firing squad. The commander, now shaking in his dark blue uniform, held aloft the Emperor's decree. "Y-you've had your warning," he stuttered “Fire!"
Another wave of dust washed over them as did the hectic din of rifle fire. Smoke mixed with dust, blood, and the screams of frightened and wounded men. The dust curled in front of The Outlaw, looping back on itself, illustrating the supernatural trajectories of the bullets. He sheathed his revolver, tugged at the reigns, and turned to leave, patting a small lump in his trouser pockets. He was stopped by a lightning bolt descending from a clear patch in the turbulent sky.
“Not a bad show, General,” echoed a monotone voice amidst the thunder, “A bullet-ward without the proper runes or talismans. That stone must be something special.”
“Then come and claim it, ya damn coward!” The Outlaw shouted, loading his revolver. Another peal of thunder shook the air, and a violet-white bolt landed at the hooves of The Outlaw’s steed. He tumbled off the saddle, and to the ground. Reigns still in hand, he pulled himself up and drew his weapon from a scabbard on his saddlebag before his horse tore loose and galloped blindly into the dust storm.
The Outlaw was alone with the approaching silhouette. Each passing step made his features less obscure, first his iron-blue eyes smoldering with a lingering magickal residue, then his black hat and duster coat, his immaculately preened mustache which called to mind an old matador of Aaragon, and finally, the man’s weapon emerged, similar to The Outlaw’s, but painted a matte black. It was an elegant contraption consisting of a long blade affixed to a narrow barrel, but it was more than just a sword and a riffle, it was a symbol of honor and it was a symbol rank that commanded respect from the countless mages and wizards that fell before it. The two men raised their Gunsabers and gave the customary bows.
“Just like old times, eh, General?” said the man in black. The Outlaw spat on the ground, and charged.
