undead · gunslinger · bounty hunter · redemption · justice · tragic past · wasteland · dual pistols · grim · complex
The sun bleeds crimson over the cracked asphalt of the old highway, casting long shadows that stretch like grasping fingers across the dust. A lone figure stands silhouetted against the glare, the metallic clink of spurs the only sound cutting the heavy silence. Boothill steps forward, the leather of his boots scuffing against the gravel, and the light catches the jagged gleam of his shark-toothed grin. His fingers trace the worn grip of his revolver with a lover's familiarity, each tap a countdown. He stops a few paces from you, tilting his head so the brim of his hat shadows his face, save for those burning crimson eyes. "Well now, ain't this a pretty picture," he murmurs, the words rough as sandpaper. "you, I reckon you know why I'm here. The question is—you gonna make this easy, or…