@The Wanderer
Bryn padded at her eyepatch in mock horror, wrapping both hands around it and snapping it for effect.
"Oh god, I'm blind! And--holy shit, I've lost a leg!" She bellowed, words dripping with sarcasm. Rolling forward from her terribly uncomfortable seat on one of the shelves behind the bar, Bryn bounded over the counter and out towards the off-tempo series of gunshots. She took a moment to look at her handiwork--a litter of demons, all riddled with bullet holes, save the fresh one that'd seated its head in one of the chairs. A whistle and a tap offered Conrad a playful 'zap' on the thigh, Skelter rolling between Bryn's dexterous fingers.
"Nah, I'm just fucking with you. These're old. Obviously. What corny comic shat you out, anyway? You look like you died-but-got-better and now you're out for revenge." Bryn cackled at her own impression of an 'extreme' announcer, a talent she'd appropriated from listening to too many radio soaps. She took the time to study the cowboy-looking character, trying to get a read on him.
Two holsters, far's she could tell. Big guns, from the sound they'd made, but certainly nothing like that could've made a pit in a demon and-or saloon wall like that. Something on him was inscribed. Was it one of the guns? She'd have to wait for the reload. Big black stick. Big, pointy, metal black stick. This guy was a walking armory. He even had a belt full of bullets, just... Sitting there. His guns were high caliber--those bullets were thick. Had to be .44. Bullets were never cheap.
Disposable income, for sure. Whoever the Lone Ranger here was, he had pocket change or a leatherworker in his pocket. His cape... Thing, Bryn didn't know the proper term--it had some nice yellow embroidering. Unless this was his only change of clothes, this guy had some jingle and more than enough of it to go around, seeing how much he was willing to spend on his outings. Looked somewhere between young and old--thirties, certainly. He'd been doing this for a while, it appeared. If he wasn't rich, he was certainly a looter. Too many bullets on hand and too many nice things.
Of course, Bryn's definition of rich wasn't the most accurate: considering she'd been sleeping on hay and a sheet for the past week and paying for the pleasure, not having to piss in public was the epitome of fortune.
Two shots. Quick, classy chkk-brap-brrap. Safety was off and the awning had two new holes in it. Bryn was much for conversation, but from the looks of this guy, he wasn't. Looked moody. Type to talk with his guns. Pulling the demons rather than letting them wander towards them left little room for surprises on their end--they were still on the outskirts, and the saloon was wall-to-wall with two other buildings. No back attacks. Any demons that cared to jump down her ass would have by now--and by Bryn's summation, the pack of five were probably lollygagging in the other two shops before they grouped up.
"Hey, Leather'R'Us. Back to mine, got it? You know how this goes. Shit goes south, we bail different directions, stretch the demons thin and ease back into the fray. You've done this before, so I'm not going to give you the whole spiel on 'don't look at your gun looking at the landscape look at the landscape' n' so on. Brynnet Schene, by the way. You're going to call me Bryn." She tapped her back, offering it to her new cohort. The tie she'd made for her leg was already getting soaked.
"Watch the gimp leg. I got gored by a railing. Spook threw it. I'm good to move. Not like there's any muscle beneath the knee." Bryn explained with trained brevity--her sentences were almost rhythmic, short and sweet. A cigarette rasp filled the gap between the last two statements, reminding Bryn that she needed to quit--just as soon as she had enough money to buy another pack. Come down easy. Very, very easy.
"You got a name there, Skippy? Because I can't keep calling you various euphemisms for 'Some leather-clad asshole with two legs and a dumb hat.'"
Bryn padded at her eyepatch in mock horror, wrapping both hands around it and snapping it for effect.
"Oh god, I'm blind! And--holy shit, I've lost a leg!" She bellowed, words dripping with sarcasm. Rolling forward from her terribly uncomfortable seat on one of the shelves behind the bar, Bryn bounded over the counter and out towards the off-tempo series of gunshots. She took a moment to look at her handiwork--a litter of demons, all riddled with bullet holes, save the fresh one that'd seated its head in one of the chairs. A whistle and a tap offered Conrad a playful 'zap' on the thigh, Skelter rolling between Bryn's dexterous fingers.
"Nah, I'm just fucking with you. These're old. Obviously. What corny comic shat you out, anyway? You look like you died-but-got-better and now you're out for revenge." Bryn cackled at her own impression of an 'extreme' announcer, a talent she'd appropriated from listening to too many radio soaps. She took the time to study the cowboy-looking character, trying to get a read on him.
Two holsters, far's she could tell. Big guns, from the sound they'd made, but certainly nothing like that could've made a pit in a demon and-or saloon wall like that. Something on him was inscribed. Was it one of the guns? She'd have to wait for the reload. Big black stick. Big, pointy, metal black stick. This guy was a walking armory. He even had a belt full of bullets, just... Sitting there. His guns were high caliber--those bullets were thick. Had to be .44. Bullets were never cheap.
Disposable income, for sure. Whoever the Lone Ranger here was, he had pocket change or a leatherworker in his pocket. His cape... Thing, Bryn didn't know the proper term--it had some nice yellow embroidering. Unless this was his only change of clothes, this guy had some jingle and more than enough of it to go around, seeing how much he was willing to spend on his outings. Looked somewhere between young and old--thirties, certainly. He'd been doing this for a while, it appeared. If he wasn't rich, he was certainly a looter. Too many bullets on hand and too many nice things.
Of course, Bryn's definition of rich wasn't the most accurate: considering she'd been sleeping on hay and a sheet for the past week and paying for the pleasure, not having to piss in public was the epitome of fortune.
Two shots. Quick, classy chkk-brap-brrap. Safety was off and the awning had two new holes in it. Bryn was much for conversation, but from the looks of this guy, he wasn't. Looked moody. Type to talk with his guns. Pulling the demons rather than letting them wander towards them left little room for surprises on their end--they were still on the outskirts, and the saloon was wall-to-wall with two other buildings. No back attacks. Any demons that cared to jump down her ass would have by now--and by Bryn's summation, the pack of five were probably lollygagging in the other two shops before they grouped up.
"Hey, Leather'R'Us. Back to mine, got it? You know how this goes. Shit goes south, we bail different directions, stretch the demons thin and ease back into the fray. You've done this before, so I'm not going to give you the whole spiel on 'don't look at your gun looking at the landscape look at the landscape' n' so on. Brynnet Schene, by the way. You're going to call me Bryn." She tapped her back, offering it to her new cohort. The tie she'd made for her leg was already getting soaked.
"Watch the gimp leg. I got gored by a railing. Spook threw it. I'm good to move. Not like there's any muscle beneath the knee." Bryn explained with trained brevity--her sentences were almost rhythmic, short and sweet. A cigarette rasp filled the gap between the last two statements, reminding Bryn that she needed to quit--just as soon as she had enough money to buy another pack. Come down easy. Very, very easy.
"You got a name there, Skippy? Because I can't keep calling you various euphemisms for 'Some leather-clad asshole with two legs and a dumb hat.'"