Prologue

It was a damp and foggy night when the stranger rolled into town. He wore a dark, yet
faded, wide-brimmed hat and leather duster, accentuated with all sorts of different holy
symbols. They were of the most brilliant silver and gleamed with what little light fell upon them.
Among the holy symbols were a cross, an ankh, an I-Ching medallion, a star of David, and many
others from religions both prominent and obscure.
As the man moved through town, the sound of rattling chains echoed through the fog.
The streets were mostly quiet however, save for the tavern located not far from when he
entered town. He could see the lights at the tavern, oil lanterns spread about five feet apart. He
could see beligerent patrons, staggering, from a night of debauchery, out into the dusty street.
He felt an overwhelming prescence, it felt of death and an unease of impending doom.
The man was prepared for this however. This was his job. This was his curse. He reached at his
side and pulled out his trusty sidearm, from a holster upon his outer right thigh, A beautiful
revolver, of his own design. The handle was made from the wood of a Yew tree, the cylinder and
barrel were made of silver. There were obscure runes etched in the barrel made of the finest
gold. A remarkable piece of equipment to say the least. The
man checked the cylinder to make sure it was full of ammo. There were 8 bullets in the cylinder,
another modification that proved worth it, time and time again. He holstered his gun and
proceeded toward the tavern. As he approached he could see the sign above the door, though it
was too illegable to read. A man and what appears to be a lady of ill repute, stagger out the
tavern doors, stinking of booze and desperation. A smell once all to familiar. He gave them a
wide birth, shaking his head as if telling them No, took a crooked smile at them and stepped
through the tavern doors. The
doors of the tavern were like those you'd see at any other saloon except for dirty and dilapidated
as if no hand has touched them for many countless years. The noise inside the tavern was
almost deafening. There was a man in the far right corner playing piano, and several tavern
wenches parading their goods around, wearing very little save for underwear and corsets. The
tavern was packed, barely a seat for a rugged traveler to wind down and relax. Looking about the
man realizes he is not at a saloon but a brothel masquerading as a watering hole. There were
people everywhere taking and giving in all sorts of hedonistic activity. There was gambling,
prostitution, and drugs everywhere. He knew the longer he was here that he would eventually
succumb to the hallucinagens that were being smoked throughout the bar. To his
displeasure, he approaches the bar. "Give me a tequila, and a lime if you got it.", the man
exclaims while pulling some coins from a pouch on the left side of his belt. The bartender, a
middle aged man, with unkempt beard and milky left eye, approaches the newcomer, " That'll be
two silver for the drink, we're out of lime.", as he nervously looks at a few members from the
farthest end of the bar. The man drops the 2
silver onto the bar, picks up the drink, and guzzles it down as if suffering from a bad case of
dehydration, and this was a glass of water. It was at this point that
the man realized everything, including the drinks, were all covered in webs and dust and
definitely have not seen use for quite some time. And slowly came to terms with where he was.
 A while back, the man
heard of a ghost town that only appeared at night, when the moon was not visible in the sky. He
thought it was just a story, locals would tell around a campfire. It couldn't have been farther
from the truth and the man now knew it. He looked around at all the
tavern patrons, one-by-one, and they too looked at him, with the same discerning eyes as he.
The lone wanderer slowly reached for his sidearm as the bar grew quiet. Out of the silence the
bartender, now holding an old shotgun from behind the bar, begins to speak. "We've heard of a
man wearing strange symbols and causeing all sorts of trouble, they say he orders a Tequila and
lime and that's it, they say he carries a mystical revolver that can kill anything, it sounds like it
could be you, are they right?" The man stops going for his gun and
instead, opens his duster. Underneath the old leather duster were multiple holy symbols, holy
water, and stakes, both wooden and silvered, and the glistening handle of his gun.
The bartender, and all the patrons,
slowly, yet eradically, stand and move towards the wanderer.
" My name is Adrian Allspire
and I am the judge, the hunter, and the reaper, I'm the story you tell your kind when you wish to
instill fear.", the wanderer hastily grabs for his pistol, and brandishes it for all to see, than
continues, " and this isn't just a gun, it's my companion, and his name is Death"
With that the patrons leap to attack, no
longer concealing their true forms, dark skeletal humanoids shrouded in shadowy tendrils,or
Wraiths, advance toward Adrian. WIth the flick of the wrist Adrian fires at three of the wraiths,
now flying towards him from his right flank, the shots ring out and the three are no more,
shadows dispersed in the wind. The magic of his gun now apparent to all. The rest of the
wraiths now angry and a little scared of the wanderer, advance as well. Adrian fires what's left in
the cylinder and disperses five more in the blink of an eye. One of the wraiths now right in front
of him, brings forth a terrible, deafining scream, right in his face and thrusts one of his icy
skeletal hands into the chest of the deafened man. The wraith lets out another scream, only this
time from pain. Adrian looks at the holy symbols adorning his chest and realizes that his ankh is
glowing now, with the flitting brightness of the sun. He clutches the ankh, pulls it from arounds
his neck, breaking the clasp, and utters an incantation. It was in a language that not many alive
have the knowledge of but the wraiths knew all to well. The screams began again, of pain and of
torment, and the wraiths were no more.
As the shadows disipate, Adrian is kneeling on the
ground, almost peaked from a supernatural exhaustion.Adrian musters up the strength to pull
himself back to his feet, and dusts himself off.Suddenly the floor and walls begin to shake. Old
liquor bottles crash to the ground, shattering behind the bar, and the smell of brimstone
permeates the air. From behind the bar what was once a grizzled
bartender, was now a ten foot demon from the lowest pits of hell.
" Are you fucking kidding me?!", Adrian
says still spiritually exhausted. The demon begins to chuckle a deep and
gutteral laugh. Knowing that he is all out of bullets, that
reloading would take too much valuable time, and knowing full well that his symbols wouldn't
do much to a powerful servant of Hell. Adrian cuts short the demons laughter. "Why would a
Baatzor demon run a dive bar in a ghost town? Don't you demons feed off fear? Seems counter
productive you set up home here doesn't it?" The Baatzor demon, stares questionably
at the human, than speaks, " How do you know our ways? How do you know what I am? HOW?"
He howls defiantly. " Here, let me show you!" Adrian throws off his
duster and symbols in the air in a distracting manner. The demon fascinated by the man's
courage and knowledge, his attention pulled by the flashy trinkets attached to the man's duster.
Finally, when the demon looks back at Adrian, He is distraught, for there is no Adrian, but an
eight foot tall demon, with dark blue fur, and tusks like those of a boar, and arms that dwarf the
largest of any known primate. The Baatzor demon questions, "What is this trickery? No
way a Guralon would be so far from hell. Guralon can only tempt the hearts of men toward evil,
they cannot manifest in this realm..."
"I'm not like the others", the blue demon retorts, "and
my name... is..WRATH!!!". Wrath rushes the demon, stampeding at him like a herd of elephants.
In two steps the gorilla like demon punches the Baatzor and sends him reeling through the walls
of the broken down tavern, out into the open streets of the ghost town. With his enormous right
hand he grabs the Baatzor demon by the throat and repeatedly slams him into the dirt below.
There were five slams and the Baatzor was no more, turning to a black ichor and dissappearing
into the cracks in the soil.
Wrath, continues his haunting gait out of town, succumbs to a
gutwrenching pain, collapses and he too is no more. Adrian stands wearily from where the blue
demon once was and proceeds to the tavern to gather what's left of his gear. Adrian wearing
only his breeches and boots, showing the scars of this battle and those of the past over the top
half of his body, sluggishly dons his Old grizzled duster, when an all too familiar voice appears.
"You should of called before you walked into this fuckhouse" In a mean
gutteral voice, as deep as where it came...
"I had it covered." Adrian replied stoicly, as he retrieved his hat
and put it on. Adrian turns his head to the bar and Wrath is standing there
grimacing in a menacing demeanor. " The Baatzor says differently", Wrath sneers, As he starts to
smash the tables inside the tavern, roaring like a mad man.
Adrian stares at Wrath with a raised eyebrow and chuckles, "
You don't know when to quit do you?" Adrian walks toward the hole that Wrath made earlier, in
the wall behind the bar, stops, and glances back. " Are you coming?"
A few seconds pass and he continues to walk out of the
bar, smiling. He leaves the bar, alone, with no broken tables...