Byrd Man
El Hombre Pájaro
- Joined
- May 25, 2006
- Messages
- 21,577
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Mid-World
The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.
The desert was the apotheosis of all the deserts, huge, standing to the sky for what looked like eternity in all directions.
The Gunslinger marched on through the endless sand. From the campfire leavings and the man in black's droppings, he was no more than two days ahead of him.
"Skaa!!"
A crow cawed as it flew close by his barehead with a chunk of rat in it's mouth.
He marched on, his holsters swayed as he walked, the heavy guns swinging in the holsters fine oiled leather. The guns were his birthright, passsed down from Arthur Eld himself.
The sun was slowly sinking as he stopped on a ridge and look down at the sprawling desert below.
With his hawkeye's, the gunslinger spyed a black figure marching towards the hazey moutains miles away. He was heading towards the moutains, to palaver with the King himself.
Here he was, only mere days from the man in black. The same man who had seduced his mother and had helped The Good man, John Farson kill his father, Steven Deschain, and bring down the fall of the gunsliger's home Gilead. He would remember the face of his father as he took Marten Broadcloak's life, something he should have done the day he won his guns from Cort.
The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.
The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.
The desert was the apotheosis of all the deserts, huge, standing to the sky for what looked like eternity in all directions.
The Gunslinger marched on through the endless sand. From the campfire leavings and the man in black's droppings, he was no more than two days ahead of him.
"Skaa!!"
A crow cawed as it flew close by his barehead with a chunk of rat in it's mouth.
He marched on, his holsters swayed as he walked, the heavy guns swinging in the holsters fine oiled leather. The guns were his birthright, passsed down from Arthur Eld himself.
The sun was slowly sinking as he stopped on a ridge and look down at the sprawling desert below.

With his hawkeye's, the gunslinger spyed a black figure marching towards the hazey moutains miles away. He was heading towards the moutains, to palaver with the King himself.
Here he was, only mere days from the man in black. The same man who had seduced his mother and had helped The Good man, John Farson kill his father, Steven Deschain, and bring down the fall of the gunsliger's home Gilead. He would remember the face of his father as he took Marten Broadcloak's life, something he should have done the day he won his guns from Cort.
The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.
*************
Night had almost graced the land as The Gunslinger started to make camp. He used the bits of devil grass that graced the land as kindling, for it was the only bit of vegetation that grew in the harsh desert.
He sat cross-legged by the fire as he used the last little bits of tobacco in his pouch to roll a cigarette. He had last restocked his supplies in Tull, a town that, thanks to him, was as dead as this endless desert.
He pushed these thoughts out of his mind as he inhaled the tobacco deeply and savored it's flavor. If his thoughts didn't haunt him tonight, he might just find his hand before he falls to sleep.
Slowly, his eyes grow heavy. Even though he does not mean it, his thoughts drift towards Tull, Susan, his father, and Cuthbert and Alain.
The ghosts of his past haunted him.