• Creed’s stubbled upper lips sucked back to his teeth as he spat dry air. That was the problem with the desert Wastes, so much in the wind. The grit was everywhere. His mouth felt hot, dry and gritty as he sucked his tongue back, attempted to draw moisture that wasn’t coming. His hand felt gritty over his gritty forehead as he ran it back before tipping up his hat to run a hand through his gritty hair. It was only another days walk through the wastes before he hit Pengung. The polluted, scummy waters of the refugee village had never sounded better. Running his hand absentminded over his canteen that had long gone dry, he shifted in his seat on the Om’Shad and kicked it onward.

    Reaching into his jacket he produced the flask that he had been nursing. A long swig filled his mouth with its powerful rich taste and burned all of the way to his empty stomach. He was used to hunger and thirst, they were his constant companions. Not for lack of funds, but his preference to live minimally. The only hunger that he sated regularly was the one that could be satisfied by his guns, and that was insatiable. But one day… one day they would find the one they searched for.

    Scanning the horizon, he saw a dark figure emerging from the West. Clad in black and with a formidable appearance from even a thousand paces, Creed didn’t need to be any closer to know what sort of creature he was staring at. His jaw clenched and in a smooth motion he drew his rifle from his back and took a steady aim. His eyes narrowed and he focused on his target. The Shadowmaster had a slow lumber down the road of the Wastes, more and more of the bastards were getting around, like a disease.

    A fierce determination was etched into the set of his mouth and chiseled into his cheekbones up until his features were shadowed by the darkness cast by his hat over his face that was as much a permanent feature as his guns or his arms. But the armor that he saw down the barrel of the gun was not the one he was searching for. With a gutted sigh he dropped the rifle barrel and swung it back up into its back holster with one hand as the other crossed his body and drew a pistol with swift ease and pointed it casually in the direction of the Shadowmaster, squeezing the trigger with a deafening round.

    Grumbling curses, he cocked the gun again. Looking down the long, toned, duster clad length of his arm with irritated bitterness, he narrowed his hidden eyes and focused on his target bringing it sharply into focus. The Shadowmaster was staggering up from having fallen to all fours. The sound of the blast must have been deafening and disorienting from inside the helm and Creed could see the spot where his bullet had dealt damage. He cursed clearly this time as he saw that his casual shot was not as true as he had hoped. He had hit the chestplate just over the heart as he had intended but it was a few degrees too far to the right and the beast’s armor was eroded but not all of the way through.

    This time he carefully measured his shot, watching with a cold grin as the slow, clumsy figure lurched up and looked around in shock clutching at the failing armor. Creed was motionless, only his coat billowing in the hot wind as it wiped sand into the faces of both fighters. Finally the dull oaf spotted him and let out a deep guttural howl, gripping his sword tightly. He began a charge in Creed’s direction and the gunslinger wanted to laugh at his foolishness. Squeezing the trigger, this bullet found the sweet spot and the armor over the top left of the Shadowmaster’s chestplate fell away.

    The blast knocked the dark mountain of a man backward in his charge and spun him around three sixty. The dark knight found pause as he turned his injured side away. Creed watched down the sights as the man ran through his options.

    One, he had to get close to the gunslinger to attack him but at his slow pace vs. Creed’s speed, the gunslinger could fill his armor and his body full of holes before he made it there. There were no rocks or trees in the desert waste to give him cover. So ability to attack- negated.

    Two, he could run. However as any Shadowmaster, he was slow. He was perfectly within Creed’s range and Creed could simply stay where he was and shoot him repeatedly in the back as he ran. Not to mention that if Creed chose to chase him, he could easily overtake him and gun him down while doing so or after he caught up to him. Looking over his shoulder he noted the absence of cover from the way that he came or anywhere else. Simply a flat wasteland of death. Ability to retreat- negated.

    Three, he could surrender. But if there was one thing that Creed could say for the Shadowmasters that he had seen in his day, they weren’t quitters. So that was unlikely.

    No, the big man chose option four, go out fighting. Raising the sword up over his head he let out a hellacious scream and charged at Creed. For his credit, Creed didn’t toy with him, lead him on to false hope. He remained impassively still in perfect aim and waited for the lumbering attacker to turn his body ever so slightly and Creed squeezed the trigger, burying a bullet through the chest of the Shadowmaster.

    The body went down with a jerk and a sputter and Creed didn’t holster his pistol but cocked it again as he walked forward to the fallen dark figure still twitching on the ground, his hands clawing at the wound. Not the clean kill that Creed had wanted but he had been nearly five hundred feet away. The sand was turning dark around the fallen man’s left side and his motions were getting slower as Creed ambled forward to stand over him. Reaching the toe of his boot out, he kicked the helm off of the dying man. Dying woman. Creed’s face did not tighten or flinch. One Shadowmaster was the same as another.

    The woman on the ground hisses as the rays of the setting sun touched her already scarred skin, her eyes were bright with pain and hatred and blood trailed from the corner of her mouth. Her sword lay beside her as her hands clutched futilely at her lifeblood slipping away. Her eyes bored into the darkness that hid his. Spittle and blood shot up at him as she spoke, “I hope you-“ BANG!

    Smoke drifted in the breeze from Creed’s pistol as it was still pointed at her decimated face. The same impassivity marked his mouth and mindless ease resounded through his limbs as he now holstered his weapon. “There is no hope for you.” His low voice spat with a cold venom as he turned and continued on his way. The breeze kicked up, his dark duster furled and his hat remained low as the fallen Shadowmaster turned to dust and was swept up in the breeze with the sand and dirt. Creed ran his hand across his gritty face, That’s the problem with the wastes, so much in the wind.