[FICTION] Ought

     Author's Note: Hey everyone! Just a heads up that I'll be dropping a couple fiction pieces before the next module on Naxos! Enjoy, and Happy Holidays!

    In from the orange-lit sunset, the drifter in a long jacket and longer shadow walked like a shade into the saloon. He moved through the nearly-barren space, with only a few other souls than his own; a tender that looked so far removed from his environment as to be part of the furniture, and an old-timer, rattan hat and overalls. The drifter sat down.

    "Whatever's cheap" came from his mouth. With the apparent command words uttered, the bartender slowly began pouring a stringent-smelling brown liquid into a small glass. Neither said anything more.

    "Where're you from, young'un?" the old timer finally asked.

    "Down south ways, near The Marshes" the drifter replied after a moment.

    "What brings you here north ways?"

    Gunfire, a chattering staccato, echoes out through the warm Summer night air. The red fire light casts long twisted shadows, and covered everything in a sanguine monochrome with the dark of the night. From the path of the carnage, they must have come west ways from the hills. The drifter remembered coming back from The Pass, and beholding the sight of the Violent Feast.

    The drifter, took a short drink, "Work".

    "Not much work here at The Bend, young'un" the old timer said, a slight nervousness creeping into his voice.

    "Not reputable work", the drifter moved his coat back ever-so-slightly, revealing his iron.

    "Huh" the old timer shook out from his mouth, "You a gun-fighter?"

    He had tracked them north ways for months, taking one or two when he could. He followed them like a ghost on the wind; the ever-lingering shadow of their own ends. When they finally had the sense to circle themselves at The Pines, there were only a handful of them left.

    "I'am" the drifter stated, dull and flat.

    "You killed a lot, young'un?"

    He had them holed up, taking shots from the high ridge when he may. When there was only a few left, he finally made his dreaded approach. They fought as they could, but could not fight as well. After, when taking his count, he counted one missing. An old man, tracks headed north ways.

    Now turning to face the old timer, dark eyes staring into darker eyes, "Not nearly enough".

    A strange panicked chill froze the old timer, as there was nothing else he could do.

    "This it, young'un?"

    "It is".