This is a new age - dark and brutal, woven with the shadow of the 21st century world. Earth has grown into a savage place where the age of man was usurped by the rise of the undead, the invasion of those from the stars, the awakening of the beyond things and the ascension of the machines.
The skies parted, angels descended and demons rose, whole cities turned to sand while other metropolises swelled to greatness. In these times of sorcery and mad science, one fierce and mysterious wanderer's tales are legendary.
They call him Blackstone.
#
The Watering Hole was the only place still partially standing and only partially safe for untold miles. In the first Age of Man, this was still a place called Arizona.
In the Second Age, when the Earth's mantle expanded the second time, the desert covered more land than any could have expected.
Now, people only referred to this place as Dry Town.
It was once full and prosperous. It once had a population, it once had business, it once had hope.
But that was when there was water, that was before the drought. When the water left, life left as well.
In the ancient days, there were legends of fabled cowboys. And somehow, through the untold years, their influence lived on.
The Watering Hole was modeled after the saloons of old.
The owner, Mr. Greb, was literally a fat slug who slept much, excreted slime and did little when awake. All he really did was stare and pinch at his only employee, a young woman named Kitty. Greb had a tail that would wag and trip the woman so she would fall and her short jean shorts would ride up, exposing her full, thick ass. Or he would drop her measly pay so she had to lean forward to pick up her sad salary - her heavy, porcelain breasts nearly spilling out of her drawstring vest each time.
The owner was a slug of a man, in both species and soul.
Across the Watering Hole's broken-down main room, several tables were occupied, one or two by loners and one by a series of drifters. Three were clothed for desert life from head to toe in wrappings. One was in a vest, chaps and a hat that was an almost perfect rendition of ancient wear. He was a lowlife of a man that everyone knew to be named Varx Stank.
Kitty walked over to the table with a tray of drinks. The bandaged men nodded at their oddly colored, steaming drinks. The cowboy licked his lips as he watched the woman lean forward and place his beer on the table.
"Think I can get some...milk next time, Kitty?"
"Ain't no cows in town, Varx," she said.
"Oh I beg to differ. Coulda' sworn I saw a young, big titted cow not too long ago. Mmmm, she was hurtin, big ole' swollen udders on her! Beggin' to have a cowboy come up and grab those tits and pull and pull-!"
Stank whistled and hollered at the thought.
The barkeep turned away, disgusted at the man.
"Thank you much...Big Titty Kitty!"
She rolled her eyes, it was a nickname that she hated but one that she was called often. She had a mane of curly chestnut colored hair and large blue eyes that always filled with dreams of escaping the Watering Hole.
Just as she passed the snoring Greb, he lifted up his tail and she tripped, barely catching herself. She spilled drinks onto the bar top and plopped her milky breasts onto the wet surface.
Varx laughed and tears filled Kitty's humiliated eyes.
Just then, there was something in the very air that changed. The normal dry gusting wind of the near ghost-town stopped. The sky darkened and a shadow was now at the doors of the Watering Hole.
Everyone stopped in mid-drink and looked up at the massive silhouette.
The doors creaked open and the figure entered. Each step he took rattled the establishment.
He was tall, almost a giant. He was thick and sturdy built, clad in armor that showed when the cloak that covered him blew in the hot Dry Town wind.
He must have stood nearly seven feet tall and was wide shouldered, thick chested and narrowed enough at the waist that it was clear his body was carved from a hard life and harder battles. The man was clad in full armor and chain-mail. Bands of metal wrapped around his right arm. His left shoulder bore a skull-faced pauldron a large spike jutting forth. He had partial chausses that appeared woven from bone.
His face was hidden under a horned helmet. No matter the lighting, the man's face was forever shadowed. His chest plate was adorned with a large dark jewel embedded in his chest, exactly where his heart should be. It was beautiful and yet deadly.
The stranger stood in front of the bar.
"Water...please." His voice was a growl, was a roar and was a rumble.
Kitty trembled in the man's presence. Trembling, she handed him a glass.
His gaze was cast downward. "I need the location of your sheriff."
"Sheriff Layla," the barkeep answered, "Y-yeah, she's in a new building after a storm took the old one down. Her temp office-right down the street. Second building to the left."
The armored man nodded. "Tell me your name."
Varx Stank hopped up from his table. His bandaged colleagues remained seated.
Stank now stood very closely to the armored stranger. "Why that's our town attraction, big man, Big Titty Kitty!"
Even Greb snickered with obscene thoughts.
The armored warrior unmoved.
Again, he asked the barkeep "Tell me your name."
The cowboy gave a quizzical look. His face frowned up as he tilted his hat in confusion and clear annoyance. "Shit, you deaf, stranger, that's Big Titty Ki-" Before the man could finish the sentence, there was a blur from the armored man to and from Stank's face.
In a moment, the vested lowlife screamed out and held his face. A crimson spray gushed from his fingers, the source of the flow was his tongue, or his lack thereof. The armored wanderer dropped the thick meaty organ onto the floor.
Kitty held her face in shock. Her mouth fell open.
Greb vomited slug bile onto the floor.
As Stank whimpered and cried, the bandaged men that sat with him took him from the establishment and into the dusty streets.
The cup of water was used to wash the blood from the metal gloves.
"Second building on the left," the visitor repeated. "Thank you...Katherine."
With loud thumps to his exit, the armored man turned and began to exit the Watering Hole.
Kitty had shaken her shock and cleared her throat. "Hey uh, wh-what d-do they call you, stranger?"
The man paused.
"Blackstone."
#
Sheriff Layla Penstar looked out the window of her makeshift office.
She had long straight dark hair, a round face with full lips. She was built strong, most of it carved from years of law enforcement and the rigors of the job. However, she was not without curves. The sheriff wore denim jeans that hung off her hips with a threatening presence of a holstered large firearm. Her backside threatened to pop the seams of her tight bottoms.
Her top was made of the same material, equally dark blue and slightly worn. Even with the vest, her denim shirt strained at the buttons that held her large breasts from bursting the top apart. It would do a law enforcement officer little good if her massive attributes kept her from being heard and much less listened to. But there was only so much that cloth could hide. Even with the vest and shirt, Penstar had a bulge of revealing cleavage.
"Services for Mr. Ocato will be this week, Sheriff," said Zuzdat Dustreaper. The town undertaker was a ghoul - a literal undead creature with gray skin and a wisping crown of white hair. His face was long and made even more skeletal by his pronounced high cheek bones and lack of nose. Dustreaper's eyes had a cloudiness to them that did little to calm the families who visited him for his services.
His voice was a bone-chilling whisper. He wore a black formal suit and always with a top hat.
"Mr. Ocato," Penstar said, leaving her gazing moment, "He died from a heart attack, right? Such a nice man."
The undertaker nodded. "Yes, tragic. His herd of unicorns mysteriously disappeared. Most thought they fled in the night. He swore they were stolen. His dogged pursuit got the best of him...and his heart."
A hot wind and dust blew in as the door to the sheriff's office opened. Blackstone entered and rose to his fullness, barely missing a horn on the rafters in the ceiling.
Layla was taken back.
"Hello stranger. Sheriff Penstar," she said, barely remembering her own name. "Can I help you?"
"My horse was stolen."
"In town?"
"Outside of town," the horned traveler answered. "During the night. Someone or something stole Slayer in the middle of the night. I have tracked the path until it stopped here."
"We've had some horse and animal disappearances here but nothing more than slightly suspicious. Without regular water, we figure most animals escape and run into the desert. You said the path stopped here?"
Blackstone nodded. "I spoke with a Death Worm who had details that sent me to a pack of Goblins who had information that led me here. The trail has gone cold yet I have a plan to stir up new leads."
"Your thorough," Penstar responded.
Blackstone nodded. "I wanted to let you know I am in your town. Looking."
He turned and began to exit the office.
Sheriff Layla looked once again at the warrior. "I've heard of you, Blackstone. Word is that you aren't the type to beg for permission or ask for forgiveness."
"I was doing neither," he answered. "This was professional courtesy. A notification that your business will be booming soon."
Layla frowned quizzically. "My jail?"
Blackstone cast a glowing gaze upon the ghoulish undertaker. "His coffins."
###
The Watering Hole was a place where the armored warrior could acquire room and board. He was halfway down the dusty, abandoned street before he heard footsteps come to a halt behind him. Blackstone paused.
"Stranger," the voice was a whisper but had a grainy sound under the words. The horned warrior knew the voice belonged to one of the bandaged men.
"It would be best if you left town."
"I get my horse, I leave this town," Blackstone answered. "Sand Bandit."
The bandaged man's eyes widened. "You know of us then?"
"Mffugh abudatt!" shouted Varx Stank, his mouth partially bandaged and his words mangled due to his lack of tongue. "GGill is Fugghah!!" Before the cowboy could pull his pistol free, Blackstone spun and fired his handgun "Tribulation" at the lecherous cowboy.
Varx Stank was a pair of bloodied smoldering boots.
One of the wrapped men was down, burning in the street.
Quickly, the horned man counted three bandaged attackers total. One was in front of him. He heard the other two moving quickly behind him. As Blackstone spun, he managed to dodge one swipe of a black and red long dagger being swung but another attacker was too fast and stabbed into Blackstone's embedded jewel.
