"Barkeep, I'll have a whiskey. And a whisky."
"Not from around these parts, are ya, partner?"
"Not from around any parts, friend."
"Why they call you 'Ocelot'?"
"It's a good enough name, I suppose. Fits me near enough."
"I'm the fastest gun East of Shanghai."
"The hell you say."
"Do you bite your thumb at me, sir?"
"You wanna step outside and dance?"
"I'll be your huckleberry."
bang. pow. zap.
"¿Quién es? ¿Quién es?"
That combination of wood smoke and sandalwood just does me in.
Ritual, I suppose. Ritual without worship, detached and descending. A pattern or a routine to cling to in the face of the Smiling Voids.
They rode for hours, in and out of days, weeks, months, years, decades, lifetimes... This is the place:
It was a small town with a big fence. Like castle walls of old. Protecting the town from dangers unknown. Protecting the town from the likes of them. They stopped at the Waygate to shit, shave, & shower. Anthony looked at the spare bit of parchment he had been carrying since the Territories. A name. A place.
"State your business!"
"We're here to see a man about a book."
"You may enter. For the day. You have to be out by Evenfall."