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Description
He came around town at about noon with the sun high over his head. He stepped across the lifeless town made of small wooden shops and stores. All of them lined around the one main street going through the middle. Each footstep echoed with the wind blowing dust and dirt.

He stopped about halfway through the town. He didn't need to go any further. He pulled back his coat and set it on a railing close by. He stood there for several moments as sweat trickled down his face. His fingers rubbing against his holster, waiting for their time. “That's a pretty tune you got there.”

On the other side of the street was another man, long hair, long hat, strumming a small tune on a beat up guitar. The long haired man was sitting down in the shad against one of the empty shops. He picked his head up. “Are you lost?” he asked.

“No,” said the other man. “I reckon I ain't. This is Guitar Town here, isn't it?”

The long haired man stood up with his guitar still in his arms and moved into the road. “Yes, it is.”

“And you must be the guitar,” said the other man.

“I suppose so,” said the long haired man. He kept playing his guitar, picking each note carefully. “Why did you come here?”

“Let's just say gun-slinging country ain't no place for a sword-swinger.”

“Is that so?” The long haired man kept is straight face. No signal of emotion except for his small sad song. “What's your name?”

“Folks call me Ryker. And there's no way you can get me with your little sword from this far aways.”

“Well then, Mister Ryker,” the long haired man reached into the guitar's hollow and pulled out a sword, destroying the guitar. “We won't know until you try.”

Description
He came around town at about noon with the sun high over his head. He stepped across the lifeless town made of small wooden shops and stores. All of them lined around the one main street going through the middle. Each footstep echoed with the wind blowing dust and dirt.

He stopped about halfway through the town. He didn't need to go any further. He pulled back his coat and set it on a railing close by. He stood there for several moments as sweat trickled down his face. His fingers rubbing against his holster, waiting for their time. “That's a pretty tune you got there.”

On the other side of the street was another man, long hair, long hat, strumming a small tune on a beat up guitar. The long haired man was sitting down in the shad against one of the empty shops. He picked his head up. “Are you lost?” he asked.

“No,” said the other man. “I reckon I ain't. This is Guitar Town here, isn't it?”

The long haired man stood up with his guitar still in his arms and moved into the road. “Yes, it is.”

“And you must be the guitar,” said the other man.

“I suppose so,” said the long haired man. He kept playing his guitar, picking each note carefully. “Why did you come here?”

“Let's just say gun-slinging country ain't no place for a sword-swinger.”

“Is that so?” The long haired man kept is straight face. No signal of emotion except for his small sad song. “What's your name?”

“Folks call me Ryker. And there's no way you can get me with your little sword from this far aways.”

“Well then, Mister Ryker,” the long haired man reached into the guitar's hollow and pulled out a sword, destroying the guitar. “We won't know until you try.”