EDANITH > The Frontier

Pretty Handsome Awkward [Nephero]

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Cheesigator:
The blinding sun was merciless with its rays of heat that baked the red sands of the Edanith frontier, even as it sank into the horizon. The skies were clear, and there wasn't even a breeze to be felt, much to a certain runaway's despair.

Leather cowboy boots thudded across the dirt, clouds of rusty dust billowing out behind a dark purple duster as a lone figure darted across the open landscape, a gloved hand up holding his hat to keep it from flying away in his sprint.

Behind him on horses was a gang of slave traders he'd agitated a few moons ago by setting some of their captures free; they'd happened to cross paths again, he'd been spotted, and the chase was on. They were insistent that they were gonna make him pay, and at this rate, they sure were gonna do just that.

He jumped down a sudden downward slope, early arthritis making his legs buckle when his feet hit the ground again; he tucked and rolled with the motion, dizzy at the bottom of the incline and scrambling almost comically for a moment as he struggled to get back up again and keep running. In the distance some of the dying rays of sunlight glinted off of something; a settlement? It might give him a leg up--well, it would have, if he could've reached it.

The sound of a whip cracking through the air was heard first before he felt leather cord wrap around his leg, yanking it out from under him and making him hit the ground face-first, knocking the wind from his lungs.

The horsemen all caught up, circling around him, laughing and jeering as he struggled to get air back into his lungs--he just wasn't cut out for this shit anymore. His whole body ached, he was burning up under the layers of clothing, and he couldn't breathe. A great way to end the day--

The gang leader jumped down off his horse, walking right up, grabbing Chi by the collar and throwing a hefty punch right into his face. Unfortunately, the mask he wore was never one made for protection against physical threats. And this guy was twice Charlie's size.

One by one they jumped in on the action, passing him around like a hackey sack and beating the snot out of him. The pain started to blend together, and for once he was thankful for it. The tang of blood in his mouth was a good wake up call as he fell to his hands and knees to get kicked in the sides; ribs were bruised and cracked. And he just lay there and took it--what else could he do while he waited?

Finally, he conjured up enough magic in him to open up a portal--several goons stumbled and fell into it, exiting some twenty yards away from a tall rocky outcropping, crumpling like rag dolls as they hit the ground. It was enough of a shock to the others it let him get a handle on the situation, as much as he could anyways.

With deft hands he pulled a pistol from one of the holsters at his side, shooting one man in the kneecap, dropping and rolling out of the way as a shot was fired at him. It was a brawl, now--and he wasn't in very good shape for one. He still took a few too many hits, only able to scrape by by the skin of his teeth as he knocked down enough of them that they decided to leave him be for now, deciding it'd be easier for them if they just let him die there in the middle of the barren dirt wasteland, cackling as they rode off on their horses.

Charlie stood there in their wake for a moment or two afterwards, teetering dangerously to one side before he stumbled over and regained some of his balance. He looked over at his mask which had been kicked off of his face earlier; he was essentially a walking black and blue bruise right now. He winced, reaching up and holding his side, glove coming away with some blood. He spat some more blood out into the dirt, wiping his face off on the back of his hands as he looked around, squinting and trying to figure out where to go from here.

He could have been way more smart about that, he knew it all too well.

He just... Really couldn't give a damn less right now.

In the distance, blurred and hard to make out, he thought he saw the building he spotted earlier, but it might've been the heat playing tricks on him. Not that he had a lot left to lose right now if he headed for it; it was all he had to go on.

He took a step and his ankle twisted and he went down on his knees again, coughing and sputtering. He reached out with a shaky arm and picked up his trampled hat, readjusting it back on his head as he started off with the determination of a damn dog.

He made it about half way there before he stumbled for the last time and fell face down in the dirt, out cold.

Way to go out like a nameless chump.

nephero:
Frontier life wasn't easy, but it was peaceful.

Perhaps more peaceful than a man like him deserved. In his more melancholy days, Kelly was prone to thinking exactly that. After all, he was a murderer, and there were plenty of decent, hard-working folks who had earned a quiet existence far more than he ever had.

A lot of the townsfolk agreed with him: maybe not audibly, but he could see it in their faces whenever he rode in to resupply. There was no mistaking the ports in the back of his neck, no mistaking what that meant. No mistaking just what kind of man he was.

Kelly could understand that. Accepted it. Dealt with it. He never went into town unless he had to, and never lingered longer than he needed. In and out, dropping off excess harvests, but never making a nuisance of himself. The first few months out here, he'd had a visit from local law enforcement damn near every day. The next few months it was every week. And so on and so forth until finally it was obvious that Kelly wanted to be left alone just as much as they wanted to leave him alone.

He never got visitors anymore. Occasionally something would go wrong in town and the sheriff would come calling, but other than that, it was him and the great red barrens.

So, it was a little weird to see someone just beyond the (admittedly more decorative than anything) fence surrounding his little parcel of land. It was downright concerning to see that same someone collapsed in the red dirt.

Kelly dropped the toolbox he had brought out onto his porch for the purpose of finally fixing that leaky roof problem, a few nails scattering as they were jolted out of the container. He'd have to go searching for them later, but right now there was more pressing matters at hand. Like the human being just outside the boundaries of his homestead.

Rusty dust clouds trailed behind him as he bolted across the yard, hopped his rickety fence, and over to where the stranger lay. A bit closer, he could see it was a man, but it wasn't anyone he knew or even had seen before. Not that it was easy to tell, because man, oh, man, this guy looked like he'd been on the wrong end of a twenty legged horse. Should Kelly even move someone when they were like that?

Not that leaving him where he lay was any better. It was baking out-- the price you paid for having a piece of land right on the equator in the summer-- and it would take near an hour to ride into town and get help. Leaving this man at the mercy of whatever else was out there in the sands. Not really an option.

So it was only after minimal thought that Kelly crouched down, bringing the man’s arm over his shoulder and hoisted him up, carry-dragging the whole mess back through his gate and up into his house. He supposed if it really did prove to be too much for his minimal first aid to handle, dying in a soft bed was a far sight better than dying in the dust. He'd still need to ride in for a doctor, of course, but one step at a time.

Kelly tried to drop him as gently as he could onto the bed, and began the rather involved process of trying to get off the bloodied and dirty clothes to see just how bad it all was underneath.

Which was…

Wow. Wow.

How was this man even alive? Shit, he was like a walking bruise all his own, and Kelly winced to see several of those bruises had a distinct boot-shape to them. He'd seen this before, of course, back in the pen, when someone was just too mouthy or too cocky or pissed off the wrong inmate or didn't suck off the right guard. It wasn't pretty.

This stranger wasn't pretty. Kelly moved to his kitchen, filled a bowl with water, and brought it back. The first step was getting the wounds clean, and he wrung out the rag before gently dabbing around the worst of it, carefully wiping away the rusty red.

Now, watch this guy be a bandit of some variety, and get him slapped with aiding and abetting. That'd just be great.

Cheesigator:
Somewhere, in the farthest, deepest, cobweb covered depths in the back of his mind, Chi was aware of the sunlight rays burning into him, heating the ground on which he lay. If he'd been even a slight bit conscious, he might have drawn the comparison that he was frying like an egg out here, the red dust beneath him serving as both skillet and seasoning. Pepper, or something.

But even as a kind soul ran through the blistering heat with urgency Charlie himself might not have had if he'd seen himself lying out there, he stayed there, unable to move, unable to will himself awake, accepting the fact that by tomorrow he'd be dead and some creature would come along and eat him. Circle of life and all that.

He'd die the nobody he'd been all his life, and for some reason he preferred it that way. It was comforting, knowing he might not worry anyone or make anyone sad.

But life had other plans, as his limp body was dragged through the red dirt and into the welcoming coziness of a home.

It was the sudden shift in temperatures, and the feeling of something moving him around, jostling the wounds that had started to wake him up, though he certainly wasn't all together the more he regained consciousness. He felt delirious. And no, he was the exact opposite of pretty, which is what a hooker told him he was once. When he wasn't beaten to a pulp.

When he was able to crack his eyes open, crusted over with dirt and blood and sweat, they stung. He couldn't honestly feel very much. The different aches, pains and sores; all a blurry mess. It took a couple of tries for him to keep his eyes open long enough to try and see through the hazy tunnel vision where he was, what had happened and what was going on.

Everything was foggy and smeared; if he moved his eyes everything was slow, making copies of itself, blurring, and making his head swim and reel. He was vaguely aware that he was not doing great right now; hanging on by a few threads someone's god had decided not to cut just yet.

From what he could tell, he was inside. There was a window, somewhere. He couldn't tell where it was in relation to himself; there might have been a doorway. Furniture. Or maybe this was just a ship on a sea populated by blob people. He didn't think he'd been anywhere near a body of water but maybe he'd been mistaken, or this was a dream. A fever dream born from a man's dying thoughts as he lay out in the desert. That seemed highly likely.

So he wasn't sure if he should be surprised, concerned, or indifferent about the shape of what he assumed was a person or person-like creature moving close by, hovering over him and doing... Stuff and things. Poking him and prodding him, possibly. The paleness of the figure's skin made him almost glow in the light that came in from the mystery window floating around nearby combined with Charlie's blurry vision.

Maybe it was an angel. Or a glowing alien.

Could be lots of things.

He was only awake for a few split seconds before he went out again, blackness engulfing him with swift wings, and he let it embrace him without a fight. Whatever happened, happened at this point. All he knew was that this was the worst he'd ever felt in a long time; he was dehydrated, hungry, dying, and his head was pounding like he was being trampled to death by an elephant.



A few hours passed that felt like an eternity, and he started to climb out of the bog of darkness once again; it was almost as physically taxing as actually wading through a swamp. When he opened his eyes everything was too bright and he grunted, squinting and raising an aching and trembling hand up to shield his vision until his eyes could adjust. His hand flopped down against his chest and he winced with a grunt; that was a stupid, stupid idea. That hurt. A lot.

He didn't remember what he'd seen earlier, everything presenting itself to him now seemingly doing so for the first time; a quick check around told him he was in a home, on someone's bed, probably getting it pretty damn dirty while he was at it, which he immediately felt guilty for.

Although it wasn't a house so much as a hut or a cabin, he noticed now that he looked around. It was mostly one room, with a kitchen area and some chairs, and the bed he was currently laying on.

The oddest part was that he seemed to be in here completely alone.

This wasn't his own shabby hut--too well made, furnished and kept for that. And he didn't remember opening any portals, jumping to any other places. There hadn't been any around. Was he dead, was this the waiting room, to... Something?

His brows furrowed; he tilted his head, trying to rubberneck around and see if he was missing something--maybe a hole in the ceiling for an attic, or something where someone could be, but it seemed like ignoring the bursts of pain that ran from the middle of his spine up into the back of his head that made every muscle seize was worthless.

There was no one.

All he could do was lay there in that bed, naked down to the boxers keeping him modest, eyes wide open and staring at that ceiling, thirsty, starving, and wondering

Well, what the hell do I do now?

nephero:
When the local law enforcement didn't immediately ride in with guns drawn, Kelly finally relaxed in the assurance that this man hadn't been on the run and thus would not be bringing a whole heap of trouble down on his head too.

He'd sat near the bed until he was sure the stranger wouldn't stop breathing, but with only Kelly around, well, he had to leave the bedside sometime. If only to refresh the water and go get some herbs to help ease the pain when the guy woke up.

If he woke up.

Kelly sighed, and put down the hand shears. That was enough of that train of thought. He gathered up the clippings, deep violet red like everything else that grew out here, and tossed them into a chipped bowl to carry back into the house.

It'd taste bitter as hell, but the tea from the clippings would help with the pain, and this guy sure as shit deserved that much. So he didn't even notice his ‘guest’ was awake, instead turning directly to the kitchen to get the stove up and the water boiling. Maybe some coffee for himself. Yeah, coffee sounded good. Did he still have sugar? He was sure there had been some left over from pancakes the other day, but after a bit of rummaging in squeaky cabinets (he'd need to ride in for some oil and a couple new screws at this rate) it became apparent that Kelly had treated himself a little too much and left nothing behind. Ah well. He'd gotten good at making coffee over the years, it was actually drinkable without any fixin’s, if he had to swing it. Which it looked like he did.

It was only when he turned away from the stove that he thought to check on his impromptu patient, and made his way over to the bed again. And it was only as he did that that he saw the stranger's eyes were open, and more than a little filled with concern.

“You're awake,” Kelly said, before realizing that was a stupid thing to say, “ah. Right. I've got something brewing for the pain, it'll take a few minutes more. Do you think you can sit up?”

Cheesigator:
It was really hard to tell just how long he'd been waiting there for. He drifted for a bit then woke himself back up, rinse and repeat. He was still hungry, thirsty. Everything hurt--that much he knew wouldn't go away for a few days, or weeks, more like.

He didn't have weeks.

He craned his neck back, painfuly, to see if he could look out a window--he couldn't. Damn. He'd been lying here long enough to figure out that he was in some (supposedly) kind stranger's home, probably the one he'd seen shimmering on the horizon after he'd been beaten black and blue.

But the problem with that was if he actually was in that house, then he wasn't too far from where he'd fallen, and knowing those goons they'd be coming back in a day or two to poke at his dried up, picked-at, coyote-eaten corpse and laugh. Just to make sure he really wasn't gonna come back to be a thorn in their sides again. And if they didn't see him out there, well...

They'd probably come knocking at this poor sod's house. And that was the last thing he wanted to do to someone as their houseguest.

The door opening jarred him awake again, and he followed the sound with his eyes, looking over at the person who had apparently saved him. He squinted.

Guy was tall, pretty average build for a frontiersman out here; he had long hair, and a pretty face to match. Well, pretty might have been the wrong descriptor--handsome fit much better. Charlie's eyes flicked to the odd doohickey he noticed on the back of his savior's neck. He'd seen that before, a mark of a prison or something.

So both of them were criminals. Great. They'd have lots to talk about.

Well he couldn't be that bad if he'd dragged Charlie's ass across the red sands in the blazing sun to his home.

He tilted his head, just slightly, watching thoughtfully as he went about his business. He wasn't sure if he should say something and potentially startle him, or even if he could with how parched he was. So he didn't. Was it creepy if he just laid there and watched?

Guy was looking for something in cabinets that weren't exactly overflowing with food; he started to turn and Charlie quickly looked away, back to the ceiling as if he hadn't just been staring at him for the past few moments. He came over, and when he spoke Charlie looked at him; his throat was too dry to talk so he just raised an eyebrow. Just slightly.

He asked if Charlie could sit up, and well he wasn't sure about it but he didn't want to trouble the guy any more than he already had. So he grit his teeth and started to ease himself up, every bone, muscle and tendon screaming in protest. He was pretty sure even his skin and the hair on his arms hurt, for fuck's sake. A small grunt of pain escaped him but he kept himself quiet, the single noise alone making his throat burn.

Tea sounded great. Absolutely wonderful.

He leaned back against the headboard, reaching up with a hand to rub his head, which was now pulsing with the world's worst migraine-headache combo, probably thanks to him lying still for so long. But hey at least now he was up--the house around him looked like it made a little more sense now that he was looking at it from the right angle.

He couldn't exactly make any conversation though, raising a hand to his mouth and trying to stifle a cough as it was. The desert kind of did that to people; the moment he was handed the tea he downed the whole cup without waiting for it to cool off, the bitter taste reminding him of dirt but fuck it he could care less in this moment.

He coughed again, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and looking at Guy, for lack of a better name for him right now.

"Thanks." His voice croaked, raspy and strained, but it was something at least. "Thought I was dead for certain that time."

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