In the darkest alleys of an alleged city of ghosts one can find things most mysterious, intriguing and unnerving. In this particular alley a hand emerges from a manhole from which the wind carries odors and sounds most vile. This hand, however, belongs to someone less vile than usual; a strange partially mummified humanoid wearing clothes fit for a desert mercenary.
As he came to notice, the place he was in is in fact not a desert, but a run-down part of a city with a cheeky gothic aesthetic he found uncanny and unpleasant. The murky rain pouring from somewhere above the rooftops of decrepit buildings. He came to hate rain even more than usual, because his skin felt dry no matter how much he was showered in it.
To be honest he was not in a very happy state either, since he recently realized he was dead, and had been for a long time. He was still aware that he was not a ghost, as frequent fistfights with crazed lowlives came to prove. At a time he would say he felt like blood and muscle after a fight. That feeling had long passed, as now he felt mainly like syrup and beef jerky.
But being an optimistic lad, he decided that not even undeath would stop his mercenary endeavors, for he was Eli, the most dashing magic gunslinger around. He moved down from the murky alley towards the flickering streetlights, keeping his right palm by his holster and adjusting his mysterious and intriguing hat with his left hand to shadow his disturbingly decomposed face.