Heya~! Stirk again! My last SG came out...weirdly, to say the least. I thought I would give it another go~! Mostly because all of the games I am in right now have been going slow, and I have some time over the weekend. Oh well, here goes nothing! Generally, the plot, character, and setting will depend on player input while Stirk does his best to steer it away from complete nonsense, inevitably failing. So make suggestions whatever you want, really.
***
I push through the half-broken double doors, which screech like dying mice under my hands. The saloon, just seconds before releasing enough noise to keep half the town up, became dead silent. The tables where filled to capacity and beyond, with plenty sitting on the tables next to half-full mugs of beer. All eyes where on me, examining me, looking for strengths and weaknesses. I don't belong here, their behavior makes that clear. Many quickly grow bored, taking a long sip of their drinks, others checking their hips, shoulders, or ankles for their piece. Someone, I don't see who, spits tobacco in front of my feet.
I ignore it, the gazes, the weapons, stepping over the tobacco I make my way to an empty seat on the bar. Once, maybe, it spun. Once, maybe, it was comfortable. Now it is a shell, full of wounds with visible springs and yellowish foam, with years of gunk keeping anything once mechanical fixed in place.
The bartender, a relatively portly bald man, was standing in place in front of a row of glass mugs. In one hand is a rag, in the other (where one would, perhaps, expect a mug in need of cleaning to be) was an SPR-220 double-barreled shotgun, shining from the polish under the dim light, looking as new as the day it was made.
The bartender looks me in the eye. He opens his mouth, thinking rather than speaking (revealing two gaps in his teeth, next to the crooked mess that remains it could almost be called a mercy) before glancing around the bar once. Finally finding the words, he struck up a conversation.
"Ya ain't from 'round here, are ya? A blind man could tell that by lookin' at ya. Marchin' in here like that, ya got ta have some kinda confidence there. Who, no, what the hell are you?"
What am I? Well...