Cowboy Ninja [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
A Collaborative Novel of the Old West

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OOC [Jul. 15th, 2008|11:33 pm]
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The Rising of the Dawn is FINISHED! Woot! :D

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The Rising of the Dawn. [Jul. 11th, 2008|05:41 am]
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The ride to the Irons' ranch from Horsehead wasn't a hard one. As the sun slipped away beneath the horizon, draping the parched landscape with red and gold, the air cooled. The last heat of the day drifted away. Shadow let his mustang amble at its own pace, riding with the comfortable heat of half-decent whiskey settling in his stomach. Just behind them, his great black hound stuck close, panting quietly.

The better part of an hour slipped away beneath hoofbeats and padding paws. Scrubby plants breezed by. The sky blazed for a few dozen heartbeats, bright burnished red, and then velvety black swept everything away. Shadow tipped his head back, watching stars lift the darkness with one grey eye.

And then cattle loomed into view.

He studied the brands for a moment, single grey eye softening very slightly before he pitched off his horse. Grass was made a decent bed. He tended to the mustang, stripping away saddle and bridle in favour of a halter, and dropped down on his back, tipping his hat forward to cover his face. His dog settled by his elbow, long body pressed against his ribs. The low of sleepy cattle rustled lightly on the wind. With a hand on his Colt .44, he slept.

When the morning dawned, bright and clear, he threw himself back on the mustang, whistled his hound, and set off down a weatherbeaten track, heading for the sharp silhouette of a ramshackle homestead. His hand twinged slightly, he ignored the burn.
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Character Sheet [Jul. 10th, 2008|09:51 pm]
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Translating from Ninja to Cowboy )
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The Dying of the Light [Jul. 7th, 2008|04:49 pm]
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The one-eyed man came riding out of the dying of the day, with the sunset glowing bloody behind him and the lights of Horsehead gleaming ahead. He rode a buckskin mustang with flopped ears and a good stride, and he wore the brim of his battered grey hat pulled low to shade his patched left eye. A black bandana shielded his face from dust and from sight, and a tired black hound trotted at his horse's heels.

He reined in at the Silver Needle, loosened his cinch and let the horse drink from the public trough. The dog drank too, and then curled up in the shadows under the mustang's belly. The rider cupped a handful of water, splashed it under his bandana, and beat the pale dust from his hat against his jeans. His hair was grey too, but not with dust. He tugged his hat low on his brow again, and unbuttoned the flap that held his pistol secure in his holster. The polished grip slid easily in his hand. He dropped it down again, and stepped up onto the porch.

Light spilled out through the batwing doors of the saloon, with a high curl of voices and laughter, the tinny edge of a badly played piano, the ripe stink of alcohol and sweat and sawdust. The one-eyed rider stepped quickly through and to the side.

His single grey eye took in the saloon at a swift glance. )
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