Post by cowboyjotaro on Jul 30, 2023 20:46:37 GMT -5
It had been a long journey of many miles since Ringo had departed from the warm red sun of Prairie Dodge. In that time he had discovered that the world was much vaster than the fenced off plains where he had once corralled farm animals. There were islands and peoples abound, enough to fill a library’s worth of books, with diverse cultures and customs.
Yet, Ringo had remarked that perhaps, no matter where they were from, people were essentially the same: governed by money. Some, miserly, avaricious, consumed by the quest for greater wealth - others, like Ringo, simply needing it to survive. That was how, after travel had emptied Ringo’s pockets without finding somewhere to settle down, he was yet again on a paid mission that went against his conscience.
To someone like Ringo, Ciudadela was a strange island, and the concept of slavery, stranger yet. Since when was a man not entitled to wages from a hard day’s work - or to making a living from the sweat on his brow? It became an almost unconscionable concept. However, when Ringo found himself in a strange land, the emptiness of his pockets weighing him down, and he heard of some people on the hunt for some hired hands, he had almost no choice but to accept.
Tall, muscular, dark-haired, extremely dangerous, with a full tattoo sleeve on his right arm: this was the description of a convict turned slave who had escaped captivity, and who now had a bounty on his head for his retrieval. Double if one could bring him back alive, but it wasn’t a requirement. Those were Ringo’s favorites.
As he read the job posting aloud to himself in a soft voice, other patrons in the bar turned to watch him. Many a person’s hand held an ornate cup of some exotic fruit juice, drinks that went beyond what Ringo’s depleted wallet was capable of purchasing. His throat was dry, and despite his once prodigious talent for alcohol consumption, he felt no qualms about going sober.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” A stranger called out to Ringo from a distance. The latter took off his hat to better catch a glimpse of the loud onlooker.
“How can you tell?” He replied. “Is it my dashing good looks?” As a couple people laughed at his snarky response, Ringo contemplated getting some clothing that would allow him to better fit in. Even having adjusted for the humidity - sporting a simple white button up shirt tucked into his belted brown pants, which in turn ran down to his leather, spurred boots - Ringo’s outfit was a far cry from the colorful outfits of the region.
“What makes you think you can hunt this man down?” the stranger continued, unfazed by Ringo’s attempt at humor.
“There was only one man I’ve ever failed to put a bullet between the eyes,” Ringo started. “We were sitting across from one another, tense, and I knew that he wanted to draw. Suddenly we both got up, I drew my gun, and shot right where his forehead should have been…only to discover that he barely came up to my waist.”
This latest comment drew a few more chuckles.
Yet, Ringo had remarked that perhaps, no matter where they were from, people were essentially the same: governed by money. Some, miserly, avaricious, consumed by the quest for greater wealth - others, like Ringo, simply needing it to survive. That was how, after travel had emptied Ringo’s pockets without finding somewhere to settle down, he was yet again on a paid mission that went against his conscience.
To someone like Ringo, Ciudadela was a strange island, and the concept of slavery, stranger yet. Since when was a man not entitled to wages from a hard day’s work - or to making a living from the sweat on his brow? It became an almost unconscionable concept. However, when Ringo found himself in a strange land, the emptiness of his pockets weighing him down, and he heard of some people on the hunt for some hired hands, he had almost no choice but to accept.
Tall, muscular, dark-haired, extremely dangerous, with a full tattoo sleeve on his right arm: this was the description of a convict turned slave who had escaped captivity, and who now had a bounty on his head for his retrieval. Double if one could bring him back alive, but it wasn’t a requirement. Those were Ringo’s favorites.
As he read the job posting aloud to himself in a soft voice, other patrons in the bar turned to watch him. Many a person’s hand held an ornate cup of some exotic fruit juice, drinks that went beyond what Ringo’s depleted wallet was capable of purchasing. His throat was dry, and despite his once prodigious talent for alcohol consumption, he felt no qualms about going sober.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” A stranger called out to Ringo from a distance. The latter took off his hat to better catch a glimpse of the loud onlooker.
“How can you tell?” He replied. “Is it my dashing good looks?” As a couple people laughed at his snarky response, Ringo contemplated getting some clothing that would allow him to better fit in. Even having adjusted for the humidity - sporting a simple white button up shirt tucked into his belted brown pants, which in turn ran down to his leather, spurred boots - Ringo’s outfit was a far cry from the colorful outfits of the region.
“What makes you think you can hunt this man down?” the stranger continued, unfazed by Ringo’s attempt at humor.
“There was only one man I’ve ever failed to put a bullet between the eyes,” Ringo started. “We were sitting across from one another, tense, and I knew that he wanted to draw. Suddenly we both got up, I drew my gun, and shot right where his forehead should have been…only to discover that he barely came up to my waist.”
This latest comment drew a few more chuckles.
