(no subject)
The front door swings open; it shows nothing but a sandy dirt tunnel and a faded dead sky, stark and white and empty.
Every gun has its own tune, and the bark of a Colt Navy .36 comes from outside the window.
And another, and that's when the body falls into the room, falling forward until it hits the doorway, at which point down changes direction and it slithers to the floor.
And another shot, and a broad-brimmed black hat flips lazily down the tunnel--down into the grave--and lands in the bar.
And another shot, and a revolver pistol spins in after him, too.
And the door shuts.
And Sentenza takes a desperate, gasping breath, and sits up.
[OOC: Argh. RL. I'll pick up tags in slowtime.]
Every gun has its own tune, and the bark of a Colt Navy .36 comes from outside the window.
And another, and that's when the body falls into the room, falling forward until it hits the doorway, at which point down changes direction and it slithers to the floor.
And another shot, and a broad-brimmed black hat flips lazily down the tunnel--down into the grave--and lands in the bar.
And another shot, and a revolver pistol spins in after him, too.
And the door shuts.
And Sentenza takes a desperate, gasping breath, and sits up.
[OOC: Argh. RL. I'll pick up tags in slowtime.]