Desperado, pt. 1

The moon rose quickly that night.  It was bigger than normal, a milky-white disc feigning to be blind to the sins of those in its borrowed light.  Where it sat in the sky, just above the peaks of the snow-capped Ixard Mountains, it stared down particularly hard on one lone man.  He yanked down the bandana from his mouth while producing a half-burned cigar from the pocket of his well-worn duster.  An indulgence before he painted the town red.

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