#rivers jacket is mostly black but from the angle i drew it in it looks mostly orange

[sidesteppostinghours]

im being so brave about the robbery fight x2

(TW for noose under the cut)

and the version without text:

click for better quality and enjoy :)

edit: i was looking at this again because i always get a nagging feeling that im forgetting something after i post and. I WAS RIGHT THIS TIME

v NO TEXT VERSION WITH THE THREADS LMFAO

[lakemojave]

Land of Falling Sun 6

It was too hot for the wanderer to travel.

He convinced Chipper, who was in high spirits and unbothered by the heat, to help him pitch a tent and rest. In their taloned feet they lifted the canvas while the wanderer staked it to the ground. While they hovered in the air, they scanned the horizon for nearby threats, and looked to the nearby town for any changes. There was nothing of particular interest. The group would be safe here, at least for the moment.

The wanderer took a seat under the tent, took off his hat, and shook the sweat out of his short hair with his hands. Chipper perched just outside, while Dog slowly circled the tent, forming a perimeter with its own eerie countenance.

Chipper had grown more comfortable around their companion. He was still withdrawn, still short, still grumpy, still rarely speaking unless spoken to, but he had a resolve and determination that made them feel safe around him. What exactly he was determined towards was still a mystery. Chipper had respected his privacy for the last few days, but their relentless curiosity was too much to hold off.

“So,” they asked, cautiously, “Think that’s where we’re headed?” They gestured towards the town in the distance. It was somewhat closer now, and the smoke tower had not stopped rising.

“That? Not sure.” The wanderer leaned on his back in the tent. “I don’t like the scent coming from that smoke.”

“Scent?” Chipper tilted their head.

“You don’t smell it too? It’s subtle, but there’s dead matter in that smoke. Just like--”

“The brush fire.”

“Exactly. Real nasty.” He seemed altogether unbothered by the foul smell, as if he was already used to it, or as if he knew it well.

“How do you recognize it?” When Chipper asked this, the wanderer’s eyes widened with anxiety, as though they touched on some secret he was not ready to share. Then, as quickly as his stress arrived, it left him, and he shared this secret.

“Seen a lot of funeral pyres in my day,” he began. “Mass burnings of the dead. Sometimes it’s just to get rid of em, lay the ashes down. But most of the time it’s ritual acts.” He leaned forward from his recline, and Chipper did as well out of curiosity. “Folks using the dead for magical means. Apparently with enough ash, smoke, or overcooked flesh you can do just about anything.”

“Did you ever do that?”

“Nah, it was mostly uh,” he hesitated before his next words, “Adversaries. People who wished me harm, or who I was tryin’ to pop myself.”

Chipper figured he had a violent past behind him, but was surprised by this nonetheless. Here it was. Time for the big question. “What did you do?” they asked. “You know...before?”

The wanderer took about ten seconds to decide not to lie.

“I was,” he began, “An outlaw of sorts. Ran with some guys who got a little too in over their heads. Good money for a while. Then they all got in over their heads, started spouting dreams about freedom and justice for all people. Or something like that, it was all bullshit anyway.”

Chipper looked concerned at first, then intrigued, then astonished. “Do you...do you not believe in those things? Justice for all people?” they asked timidly.

“Nah nah I of course I do,” the wanderer said. “I mean...who doesn’t?” Having rested, the wanderer started a fire, and put on a percolator with some coffee. He continued speaking while doing this. “I dunno. Not sure what I believe in over here. Those guys were full of shit though. Nothing but thieves and murderers all but convinced they were anything but thieves and murderers. I had to get out while I could.” “What was it like?” “Oh it was terrific. Loved those days.” He turned the percolator. “We were brothers, living free and sewing chaos in a world desperate to organize and scheme. We robbed banks, stages, trains, alchemists, army men, damn near everybody. We even got rich once, though it didn’t last long.”

“What happened?”

He paused and reflected. “I got shot in a robbery. That’s when I…” His wrist twitched with this, and the fire momentarily blazed, then returned to normal. Chipper regarded his blackened hand, but said nothing. The wanderer clutched his shoulder in pain, then returned to his story.

“Since then my eyes got weary and my hands got shaky. My shot’s gotten a bit sloppier since then, but I was the only one of us who could summon. Became the Work horse, as it were. All their talk started seeming like just that: talk. Left without a trace not long ago.” He finished abruptly.

Chipper was content with the extent of detail to which the wanderer delved into his past, but he touched on something even more curious to them. “So your magic,” they asked, “You’ve only just started? I kinda thought you were more...experienced?”

“...why?” The wanderer felt like he should be insulted.

“Well,” Chipper elaborated, “You use a knife, right? No guns, just knife, right?”

“Ditched my five shot at the river, yeah. Does it mattter?”

“I think so. Knives are popular with magic users, aren’t they?”

The wanderer thought about this, and drew his own knife, inspecting it. It was pretty plain: a wide-bladed hunting knife of blackened metal. He kept it sharp and smooth, perhaps the best kempt possession on his person. It had nothing to do with his magic, this he knew for certain. He had seen lots of practitioners with knives before--alchemists, sorcerers, witches, especially those who could summon--but it was always a simple means of self defence. At least, that’s what he thought.

“I guess I’ve noticed that, yeah.” As he flipped his blade, it seemed to make a more distinct noise than usual, as though slicing through the air around him. “Do you know anything about it?”

“A little,” they said. “My teachers said any practitioner needs to channel through something. Sometimes it’s written sigils,” they flexed their etched feathers as they said this, “Sometimes it’s tools or weapons. But I’ve only ever seen you use your freaky arm oil.”

The wanderer sighed. “It’s...from that shot. Hurt real bad, but now I can cast magic I guess. Lucky we stopped, I was starting to get sore.”

“Sore? You mean…”

The wanderer gazed at his bright young companion with pain, grief, and a pensiveness that conveyed thoughts of doom and dread. He took of his coat and vest and unbuttoned his shirt.

What Chipper saw was what they expected, but not what they were prepared for. His arm, up past his right elbow, was covered every inch by that black tar, several pitches darker than his natural skin. Creeping up to his shoulder and spiraling around a single point, which they took to be the site of the bullet wound, were tendrils of this tar. They swirled across his skin, seeming to blend in and scar the closer to his torso they got. Then, once they found the wound, his true condition became apparent all at once. Strands and tendrils and roots and scars of tar sprouted from this wound, traveling across the wanderer’s whole upper body. They wove and interlaced across his chest in a chaotic pattern of angles and spirals, occasionally breaking into a mazelike order and organization, and collapsing into the same mess just as easily. They crept up his neck to be just visible past where his jacket collar would be, and just past his left shoulder, as if beginning the conquest of his left arm as well. He took his left finger, and keeping eye contact with chipper, traced a thread on his chest, wincing in pain on contact with his own skin.

His own gift was killing him.

“I can’t go too long without Working. I’ve never stopped; too scared to find out what’ll happen if I do.”

“Oh…” Chipper said, their wonder and amazement at his natural gift quickly changing into concern and anxiety. “Is there um...anything we can do?”

“We?”

“Yeah, we.” They folded their wings, and gently bowed their head--a display of a pledge of service among their people. “I want to help you.”

“Lil fella,” he started, “You can’t…”

He wanted to push them away. He wanted to send this poor kid off on their way to some community they could live a normal life. He wanted to keep them safe from this wild unknown, the rough men who could be out here, but most of all, his own self.

He couldn’t. He had grown attached to them, and clearly they felt the same. He couldn’t pick Chipper up off the desert floor just to pass them on to someone else like an unwanted gift. He couldn’t even justify himself to them. You can’t help. Bullshit. As far as he knew, there was nothing this kid couldn’t do.

He sighed.

“Alright. We.” He bowed his own head, then reached for his shirt. “Think my coffee’s almost done. Want some?”