Vladamir Lorch and the Scorpion Prince

The day is dying. A faded sun sinks slowly below the horizon, bathing the wasted land with meager rays of rusty light. It is that silent time after the day walkers have crawled into their homes, and before the night creatures have begun to prowl. A subdued wind blows half-heartedly from the west, pushing tumbleweeds idly across the parched earth. A more persistent gust tosses a tangle of weeds up against the only building visible for miles, a long and squat mongrel of plaster, wood, and aluminum siding. A slightly crooked wooden door hangs on ancient hinges, slightly off-center and topped by a fading hand painted sign. The once-jaunty letters spell out "Hellion's Haven" underneath the patina of dust and age. Yellow light squeezes through the cracks in the wooden door, gasping in relief in the more natural light (or lack thereof) of twilight.

The tavern, if such an uncivilized and ill-conceived business could be named such, is unnaturally quiet for it's ilk. There's a pall on the place, as if all the unhappiness and troubled times from the surrounding lands have converged there; pulled up stools like weary travellers, too tired to be troubled to do more than eat and drink in heavy silence. There are no windows, only a crooked chimney and some holes beneath the eaves to let the smoke out and the air in. Suddenly, somewhere, a clock chimes the hour. The sun finally slips below the horizon with an almost audible sigh of relief. The light of day flees in fear before the coming dark.

The door flies open, banging against the wall with a muted thud, pouring sickly light into the night in a thick beam. The flood of light dims, and a figure is silhouetted in the crooked frame. A moment, and the man (for it is a man) steps into the night, letting the door creak closed. A small and lonely lightbulb flickers on above the sign. Every few seconds it sputters off and on again. In the weak light, the man gains definition.

He is tall and thin, with wide bony shoulders, and powerful long legs. His face is shadowed by a well-worn cowboy hat, but a pointed black goatee and a generous nose of hawk-like profile can be made out beneath its brim. The man shrugs into a threadbare trenchcoat, shoving his callused hands into deep pockets to check the contents. He pulls each item into the dim light for a second, and then replaces it; a wilted leather purse, a vial of glowing liquid, a wicked looking dart gun, a packet of dried meat. He touches his belt for reassurance as well, removing everything once and putting it back into its straps and holsters; two full canteens, a gigantic pistol, 6 clips of ammo, an electric whip, a long-bladed hunting knife. Satisfied, he steps forward into the chill desert night. Something rattles with every stride; look closer, and a double-stranded necklace is observed, made of the spoils of battle. Great serrated teeth, thin bones of various length, what looks suspiciously like human ears, and at the bottom, the greatest prize of all: a scorpion stinger the length of a big man's finger. For this is no ordinary bounty hunter; this is Vladamir Lorch, who wears around his neck the last legacy of the great tyrant, the Scorpion Prince. Vladamir Lorch, who defeated the legions of Scorpion minions with only his pistol, his whip, and his incredible store of badassitude.

Vladamir Lorch strides fearlessly into the darkness. The idle breeze whispers in the scrub, spreading tales of his prowess far across the barren lands.