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1:

Bullets lodged themselves into the wall just inches about their heads. Gunfire continuing to echo through the main street of Little Rock. Ace Halberd and Vance Caradine were pressed against a couple of wooden crates that were scattered around the small port town. There was a main street that lead in from the desert and it stretched all the way through the town to the port hovering over the Sand Sea. People that were inhabitants of the small port had scattered as soon as the sign of trouble had reared its ugly head. Diving into the Saloon, where this had all began, or the Inn, or even taking the chance and hiding behind the large crane and shipping crates that lined the docks. There really wasn’t anywhere else that they could hide.

Vance had been trying to shout something to Ace during the fight but the level of noise permeating through the area was just too much. Vance was a young man with a golden brown tan and long chocolate brown hair, he looked every inch a Native as anyone had seen. He never apologized for his heritage and no one ever questioned him on it. He always dressed down, and today hadn’t been an exception. He wore a blood red headband that was tied off to the side, letting the ends drop down over his ear. His eyes were a soft brown and seemed so out of place on his hard and chiseled face. He had four day old scruff growing along his jaw line and the bags under his eyes to show how long it had been since he had gotten a decent nights sleep.

Diving to the side as the crate he was hiding behind seemed to explode, Vance’s barreled chest heaved with deep breaths. He was completely exposed, wearing only a horse skin vest that had been tanned into a light dusty yellow. Tassels hung off the bottom and each one had a different set of three colored beads. His arms were toned and the muscles defined each ridge as he ran for more cover. His washboard abdomen was nearly struck by a bullet as he pressed himself against a larger crate that gave him the ability to stand up. He wore the same style pants, a canary dusty yellow made from the same material. And to finish his ensemble he wore a pair of horse skin moccasins.

Yet this was not the only thing that he had adorning his body. He and his friend were not completely helpless in this gunfight. A bandoleer stretched from over his shoulder and rested at his hip. Heavy with thick shells that fit into his custom made shotgun. Vance pulled the firearm from the holster on his back and cocked it. The shotgun was nearly as long as his arm and had almost the same kick as one of his punches.

Vance held his breath and peeked from his hiding spot to find his friend in worse shape. Ace’s cover was being disintegrated by the second and wouldn’t last long enough for him to find decent cover. Doing what he could Vance took aim and fired almost completely blind from around the corner. He hoped it would be enough to give his friend a chance to get away.

Ace, on the other hand, wasn’t close to being worried about their current situation. He was enjoying it. The sound of gunfire and the smell of gun powder drove him on and even went so far as to get the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in excitement. Not that you couldn’t see it plainly on his face. The wide smile that seemed etched into his features belied any fear that had tried to creep into his mind.

If Vance was a walking Tree, then Ace would be his polar opposite. He was small, just under six foot, with a lithe form. His muscles were honed for reflex and quick movements. Each ripple of movement sent his muscles flexing and growing taught in a most fascinating way. He was not homely by any standards, but the word “Charming” was usually followed by the words “Snake in the Grass.“ More words followed this description, especially if they were spoken by a woman Ace had worked his magic on before. His eyes were a piercing blue that never failed to get the girls attention when he laid on the charm. His reddish-brown hair was cut short yet his bangs hung defiantly in front of his face. They weren’t long, reaching just the tops of his eyes, but they were very obvious compared to the rest of the hair on his head.

With a black wide brimmed hat plastered atop his head most of the time, it was strange to see any of his hair. The red strip that wrapped around the base of the hat showed an unspoken brotherhood between he and Vance. They had earned those strips of fabric and almost lost their lives doing it. He wore a leather vest much like Vance’s but it was a tanned cowhide, not horse leather. Under that he wore a flannel green shirt with a bulge in the shirt pocket. He hid his cigarettes there and had been trying to quit, much to his chagrin, and Vance had never let him forget it. A pair of blue jeans covered his lower half and a set of tanned leather chaps provided more protection on top of the jeans.

There was a pair of black boots that he wore, his favorite pair as a matter of fact, and they looked more worse for wear. But the most important thing that Ace had on him were his revolvers. Two silver revolvers that were passed down from his Great Great Great Grandfather to him. It passed through a few hands first, but finally after he had been dead set on becoming a Wanderer, his mother gave them to him as an eighteenth birthday gift. The guns fit into a well worn pair of holsters that he hung off his hips and tied together with a large brass belt buckle that had the initials of his farm burned into it.

So here they were, two of the best of friends in the middle of a gunfight for their lives. Cover was scarce, help was going to be nonexistent, and it looked as if their lives might be at an end. How is it they got here you may ask? How is it that these two have so much trouble banging at their doorstep? The answer to that is best answered two years ago, when the two brothers decided it was time to leave home and head out to make something of their selves.