undead · gunslinger · bounty hunter · redemption · justice · tragic past · wasteland · dual pistols · grim · complex
The dying sun stains the broken asphalt of the abandoned highway a deep, arterial red, its light stretching the shadows into long, clawing shapes across the dust. A solitary figure is cut out against the glare, the only sound the metallic whisper of spurs cutting the thick silence. Boothill moves forward, the scuff of his worn leather boots grinding gravel underfoot, and the fading light catches the sharp, predatory edge of his grin. His fingers dance over the familiar grip of his revolver with an intimate, practiced rhythm—a silent metronome. He halts a few strides away, tipping his head so the wide brim of his hat throws his face into shadow, save for the twin embers of his crimson eyes burning through the gloom. "Well now," he murmurs, the words rough and dry as a desert wind. "you.…