Chapter Text
There's a cold wind blowing, carrying with it the promise of a hard winter to come. The dying leaves stir up from the ground, wilted points fluttering and whispering as they scatter across the streets in a tempest of orange and yellow and brown. Above, the sky stretches in an endless canvas of grey and navy blue; though it's mid-afternoon, there isn't a single sign of the sun.
The breeze picks up its pace, blowing steady through the slim alleys and wider roads to toy with the hats of men who curse and hold onto the felt brims and the skirts of women who hurry to retreat back home before the brunt of the storm arrives- for there will surely be a storm; the scent of rain is already thick on the air.
Inside the comfort of the tall, insulated buildings, however, the rich patrons laugh and chatter amongst themselves, casting nary a sideways glance to the unfortunate circumstances brewing outside. "That's a wrap for me," says one of them over a hand of cards, pursing his lips.
The man across from him laughs in a plastic way and leans over across the table; the cigarette in his mouth is jostled as he speaks. "Finally admit you've met your match, Marson?"
"Oh, hardly." Marson grins from under his curled mustache. "But I'd better get going back home before the storm hits, that's all. Paula'll be terribly worried if I'm not there with her and the baby, you see."
"The baby, of course." Several people nod sagely, as if whole-heartedly agreeing, though each of them knows it's just for the sake of appearances.
"Yes, it's getting to look rather frightful out there, isn't it?" puts in one woman, squinting out through the window.
"You're right," sighs the man who's across from Marson. "Perhaps it's time to head back for today. And besides..." He lowers his voice a bit. "I do believe the fellow in the corner's been eyeing us a tad much for my liking."
Several prim heads turn to observe the shadowed figure that's been lurking at the corners of the room for nearly an hour now. "Has he really?" the woman mutters, rising quickly. "Don't think he's planning something, do you?"
"I doubt it, my dear. Come, I'll walk you out." One of the gentlemen stands and offers her his arm; many of the others do the same with their own companions after collecting their winnings, filing out of the building swiftly. Once they're all out, the dark figure finally steps out, reaching up to pull back his hood with a quiet huff. "I knew this wouldn't be a good idea."
"Nonsense," huffs the old man behind the bar that had been located nearby. "Thanks to you, we haven't had anyone even try to cheat for several months now."
"What does it matter if they do?" He rolls his eyes and ruffles a hand through his own dark hair, letting it spill back over his shoulders. "They're pampered aristocrats. I doubt any of them would ever willingly shoot a gun. At most, you might get some threats and slaps." He wanders over to the abandoned table and pockets a bit of change that the gamblers left behind in their haste.
"Anything of that sort is bad for business, guns or not. Ah... here." The old man pushes some bills over the counter. "Your payment for the week, Hound."
"... Thanks." Hound crosses over to the bar in a few quick strides and counts through the bills, brow furrowing. "Isn't this...?"
"I know! I know. I'm sorry." The old man hangs his head. "I'll pay you more next week, I promise. With you around, the business has really been starting back up again."
They both know that's wishful thinking; every day, it's the same group of gamblers minus or plus a few, but Hound only sighs and slips the money into his other pocket. "Sure. Thanks again."
He starts to step away, but before he can, the old man calls out, "Wait! A messenger boy brought in a letter earlier. For you." He holds out an envelope.
Hound squints at it cautiously, reaching back to take it within his worn gloves. "Are you sure?"
The old man shrugs modestly, leaving Hound to frown and stuff the envelope into his jacket pocket as well. He doesn't want to open it here whether it belongs to him or not, though he sincerely doubts the first possibility anyway; there's no reason for anyone to be sending him a letter. He's out of the old lifestyle; now he's just trying to make an honest living for himself, and he has no friends to speak of that would send him casual letters for the fun of it.
When he gets back to his hotel, Hound- or Naib, as the name on the envelope is indeed listed as- makes sure the door is securely locked before digging his earnings and the envelope out of his pocket. He tears the packaging of the latter open with quick fingers and unfolds the square of parchment inside, eyes scanning over the words. However, he finds himself regretting it more and more as he reads.
Hound,
I'd say I hope you're doing well, but we both know I couldn't care less, so I'll spare you the formalities. You'll have to pardon the sudden letter as well as the haste with which I've penned it; I don't have much time. I have to catch the train later today, which is part of why I'm writing you.
In short, I need you for a job. Come back out to Oletus. As I said, I'm taking a train out west and I'll meet you there in two days. I can't explain now, but I'll tell you when I see you. You said you're "retired," but I know you. And if you really need more incentive, you'll get paid- a lot.
Signed
A. Kreiss.
That's it. Naib reads the letter over several times, turning the wrinkling parchment this way and that, but there isn't a speck more of information. He tosses the envelope down on the ground and briefly considers stepping on it.
A. Kreiss... meaning Andrew Kreiss, otherwise known as Desolate Sand. Practically a legend of the West, the stories that are told about him elsewhere in the country are nearly always exaggerated ten times over, and his ghostly looks don't help much with the amount of tall tales. He's said to be mercenary, a hero, a lawman, and a killer all at once, but most of the stories are indeed entirely unfounded. Naib would know; they've ridden together in the past too many times to count.
He grits his teeth so hard he's sure his jaw will burst. He's done with that sort of life, made the conscious choice to give it up nearly a year ago now. He's been living a more grounded life, harder but honest, jumping from town to town, job to job. Naib shudders to think of holding a gun again, feels sick to his stomach when he imagines pulling that silver trigger.
And yet...
He looks down at the letter again. It's crinkled at the edges and itself reminds him of Kreiss, in a way. Naib remembers what it was like to live each day on the edge, flirting with danger and protecting those who couldn't protect themselves. He has only truly lived when he's been on a horse with a weapon in hand. Can the existence he leads now really be called a life, then?
But of course it is. Naib is not privileged, not special; he's taken care to disguise his tracks and to change his mannerisms. Nobody now would recognize him as the infamous Hound, and he prefers it that way.
So why does his chest tighten when he thinks of going back out there, putting his life on the line for something that he doesn't even have any information on yet?
A part of him says it's irritation and indignation: that Kreiss dares to coax him back into this world, that Kreiss professes to know him so well that no sweet-talking is necessary.
The other part of him knows it's a yearning for what once was- what could be.
Naib looks back and forth between the letter and the money. He spends that night tossing and turning, fighting with himself, trapped between conscience, heart, and mind. And the next morning, he finds himself waiting by the train tracks with nothing but a suitcase and the clothes on his back.