Playing a fairly iconic character comes with its perils. What more can one say?
So I would be grateful for any feedback, suggestions, comments, critiques, issues, and so on that you might want me to know. Keep me in line!
→ Please feel free to leave any messages, feedback, suggestions, comments, critiques, issues, or problems regarding this guy's characterization. I will certainly take them into consideration.
→ But I also hope you'll let me explain some of the situation or reasons behind things. I'd like to work things out so that I understand things as clearly as possible and so that your concerns can be addressed.
→ Anonymous is on, IP logging is off, comments are screened.
→ If you'd like, also please feel free to use this post for plotting, organizing events, or to contact me. I'm also available through LJPM and email.
Current nicknames (formal, informal, suggested, and OOC):
( In the desert, you can't remember your name... )
[ooc: Two large but safe-for-work animated gifs under the cut (...that I have been desperate to use for ages). Someone got a kitten. Yes, really. I believe its name will be "Cat." Please do not be surprised if he carries it around in his pocket or saddlebag for a while.]
[ooc: Really, it does. Naughty? Nice? Troll? Tough call... So that's his list...]
[ooc: Kind of large but safe-for-work animated gif under the cut. So the cowboy came into the City proper because, apparently, he has amazing timing and needed to come into the City proper today. So if you want to encounter him and his horse today, you may certainly do so~ Just...try not to kiss the horse.]
Manos arriba.
[ooc: Did he--? Did he just--? Yeah, he did.]
Once upon a time, a man walked in off the desert with a hanging scar on his neck. He said a man in black had cut him down in time. But he still would have died if that red-headed whore hadn't taken him in.
Once upon a time, a man with a hanging scar on his neck set out to find and kill the man who had killed his brother and who would have killed him, too.
Once upon a time, two brothers and the one man they trusted sought and won their fortunes through blood and lead. They hid their gold in the hills and lived down in the desert towns in the valleys below.
Once upon a time, a man broke the trust of those who rode with him and thought to have killed them both, but for the interference of a man in black. He would succeed in the end, but at a cost.
Once upon a time, a soldier turned hired killer and went West for a red-headed woman. He shot a man's brother and was paid for his work by a man those brothers had thought was a friend. But he cut down the other brother before he could be hanged by the man who had ridden with him. They said he always wore black.
Once upon a time, the fortunes of many would fall into a strange alignment.
Once upon a time, a stranger rode into town.
This is a story about two minutes, two corpses, three men, and a woman.
Not much of a story, though.
[ooc: Did he--? Yeah, I think he just wrote fanfic of himself. Fuck you, he's The Man With No Name. ... Oh. And now you sorta know the plot of my NaNoWriMo project. Yup. As I sit here with "Il Triello" on loop...]
You end up all right, girl?
[ooc: Amy (
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=92){kind=small}
waitedforyears), he's referring to you, what with the curse and all.]They entered the town as the last burning light of the dusk came down around them. The horse nickered and snuffed shyly at the hocks of the other animals standing at stall before the lamplit bagnios they passed. Fiddlemusic issued into the solitary mud street and lean dogs crossed before them from shadow to shadow. At the end of the street he led the horse to a rail and tied it among others and stepped up the low wooden stairs into the dim light that fell from the doorway there. He looked back a last time at the street and at the random windowlights let into the darkness and at the last pale light in the west and the low dark hills around. Then he pushed open the door and entered.
A dimly seething rabble had coagulated within. As if the raw board structure erected for their containment occupied some ultimate sink into which they had gravitated from off the surrounding flatlands. An old man in a tyrolean costume was shuffling among the rough tables with his hat outheld while a little girl in a smock cranked a barrel organ and a bear in a crinoline twirled strangely upon a board stage defined by a row of tallow candles that dripped and sputtered in their pools of grease.
He made his way through the crowd to the bar where several men in gaitered shirts were drawing beer or pouring whiskey. Young boys worked behind them fetching crates of bottles and racks of glasses steaming from the scullery to the rear. The bar was covered with zinc and he placed his elbows upon it and spun an orange coin before him and slapped it flat.
Speak or forever, said the barman.
A whiskey.
A whiskey it is. He set up a glass and uncorked a bottle and poured perhaps half a gill and took the coin.
He stood looking at the whiskey. Then he took his hat off and placed it on the bar and took up the glass and drank it very deliberately and set the empty glass down again. He wiped his mouth and turned around and placed his elbows on the bar behind him and drew out from the pocket of his shirt the network device that he had kept hidden there and opening it then began to write within it.
[ooc: Borrowed and adapted from Blood Meridian or The Evening Redness in the West or "Never Use Public Restrooms" or "Fuck Quotation Marks." Because I'm snide. You may blame the curse fully for this loquacity. Will he ever write this much again? No. Certainly not. Honestly. Why would you even ask? Gosh.]
[The image shakes itself out of all the flickering snow and digital dust to show a view of the inside of the Barn just outside the City, with autumn sunlight streaming in through the windows and the door--a peaceful sort of place, as compared to the City itself today. And yet, there seems to be a great deal of commotion somewhere...rather nearby. Not too nearby, but the sound of it is rising up and filtering in to this countryside image. That must be the City at large today.
It's not in the least bit an accidental video this time (fortunately). Although it isn't very focused or directed, all the same, since, from the device's usual place hung from the horn of a saddle, it seems to show the Barn, the horses, and our Man here (poncho, hat, and all) adjusting the saddle and packing up and preparing from which the device hangs--lefthandedly. The horse shivers a little, adjust its footing: the image slides side to side and settles again. He gets happy with a particular buckle and then, taking his cigarillo out of his mouth, addresses the device.]
Seems like it got crowded around here again. Maybe a little too crowded.
[There's a little bit of a wry smile in that. This isn't the first time he's done this, packing up and getting a move on in response to crowds. Not that surprising with him really, is it? Clearly he is, as the pointedly anachronistic saying goes, getting the hell out of Dodge--for the time being at least. As much as he can (he can't go far, not in these crowds).
He pats the horse's neck with that same left hand and pulls himself up into the saddle and sets the horse to walking. Only then, with the darkness of the barn and the light outside it and all the sounds of City and farm passing around each other, does he reach down to collect the device and snap it shut, ending the feed and dropping it back into darkness and--]
[//video post ends]
[ooc: Come. Get. Some. Seriously: 4th wall him; anything goes--except for telling him he isn't, you know, "real." Otherwise? Have at it. He's going to be wandering around some (with and on the horse) so if you want to see him in passing in life or on the Network, that is all fine. Action threads, Network threads, whatever--as you please!]
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