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Anzo Tinzdale

Heroic Slinger

0 · 495 views · located in Mountain Side Temple

a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by NotAFlyingToy

Description

Puscifer wrote:Nature, Nurture, Heaven and home.
The sum of all and by them driven.
To conquer country, crown and throne.
But I've never been over the river.

Image

Personality

Who was it that said that a man is measured not by weight of his things, but by the weight of his soul? Anzo doesn't know, that's for sure. He was born into the legendary order of the Chaotic Gunslingers, an order that have the ornate and powerful ability to harness magic and modern weaponry as one. The order has only a single rule.

Don't break the code.

If a slinger misuses the power that has been given to them, the contract of a gunslinger is often passed to another gunslinger. In essence, they police their own. Anzo is one of five surviving high class slingers; he is, in essence, one of the most deadly men in the world with a firearm.

He lives his life searching out the most famed and deadliest artefacts and legends of time, from the Red Witch to the fountain of youth. In his travels, he's collected many artefacts of varying powers that aid him both in combat and in social situations, objects of abstract power that fund his continued explorations. He's seen all kinds of action, from facing down armies with only his voice to infiltrating skycastles. You name an adventure, and Anzo's been on one.

Equipment

Weaponry:
Phoenix and Dragon:
Each Slinger has their set of pistols, and the two that were given to Anzo to hold onto are named Phoenix and Dragon; one light, one dark. Each has different capabilities, but when used in conjunction, they are powerful assets.

Phoenix controls the attacks meant for precision; whereas Dragon controls the ones meant for power.

List of artefacts:

  • Mirror of Mirage: Allows the user to create the illusion of himself, projecting it wherever he feels. The form is not solid, and is slightly see-through.
  • The Hands of Time: A small clock that can be used to slow time for the user, and the user only. It rests around Anzo's neck.
  • Bubble Cloak: A piece of black cloth that can expand outwards into any shape the user desires, and it cloaks all underneath it from sight.
  • Rebreather: A small four-legged claw mask that fits into the user's mouth and nose, filtering out poisonous gasses and only allowing oxygen in. Changes the colour of the wearer's breath crystals to a light pink, contains enough oxygen to survive 24 hours if none is present.
  • More to Come

So begins...

Anzo Tinzdale's Story

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As he strode through the doors with the carefree attitude of a man who believed in the light side of life, Anzo Tinzdale had a satisfied smirk on his face. Sure, the face itself was dust-encrusted and dirty, and sure, his lip was bleeding rather profusely, but in one gloved hand held a small trinket that made all of that worth it. His long duster shifted and swayed, making muffled flapping noises as he moved, the folds of the coat shifting to his small steps. On his holster sat two pistols, prominent and gleaming black, the only thing on his person not tainted by the dust of the road.

He plonked his slight, scrawny frame into one of the high-backed booths, sliding against the wall and placing his back there. Watching the other patrons of the bar, he revealed a solid gold pyramid, about the size of his hand. He spun it on the table, watching it go around and around as his gaze narrowed towards it.

This trinket, the Ark of Camarinthe, could create gold according to legend.

And it was his.

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Anzo's eyes were immediately drawn to Anna, and so he shifted in his seat, looking her over, up and down, being careful not to linger too long lest she think he was a lecher. With complete dignity, he tipped his wide-brimmed hat to her, flashing her a friendly set of pearly whites underneath the grit and grime of his face. On the counter, still spinning, was the artifact, catching the blue light of the electronic menu and flashing it on the walls and floors.

"Howdy, Miss," He said, a gloved hand tipping the hat in a friendly manner. "I don't mind tellin' ya you're quite a sight for sore eyes to a traveller. What brings ya 'round these parts?"

The artefact finally tipped and was about to fall, and he caught it with lightning reflexes, setting it spinning on the counter once more.

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A smile at the woman.

"You were close, ma'am. I do appreciate the effort. I said that I don't mind tellin' ya that yer a sight for sore eyes. You also look like y'aint been stuck in a winter, hereabouts."

He shrugged off his duster, beating it against the lip of the counter with three swift thwacks, turning his face to the side to avoid the clouds of dust that rose from the thing. After it was mostly cleared up, he handed the garment, all folded, to her. Under the duster he was wearing a long-sleeved hooded sweatshirt, a red bandana at his throat and the holsters sticking out like sore thumbs, revealing shiny black revolvers. With very little fanfare, he tossed the coat on the counter between them.

"Here. Act o' kindness from a stranger. I got more at home, an' you look like yer gonna catch yer death."

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He smiled at her. "That'd be much, much appreciate-"

Coldness. A chill he hadn't felt in a long, long while slithered up his spine, causing his upper torso to shiver. That sixth sense that helped him so often on the road, attacked by a multitude of enemies, hadn't failed him before. He'd learned to trust that shiver of his spine more than he trusted his own aim, and now was not an exception.

Whirling with the blinding speed only a trained gunman could manage, both black pistols were in his gloved fists, his eyes were hardened and ready, and the hammers were clicked back. In half a blink of an eye, the young gunslinger was now facing behind him, pistols at the ready, stance wide in case he had to move. His hands were glowing, a soft blue around the weapons and his fists.

Anzo was ready for action.

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He stared the beast down, standing to his feet and moving away from the stool, one booted foot lashing out and kicking the stool across the bar in a short arc as his fists continued glowing. He began to slowly circle the demon, his eyes locked onto her, gloved hands tightened on the handles of his guns.

"I see ya, hellspawn." He growled. "Yer right in my sights. What do ya want? Real slowly, now."

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The tightening of his grip on the revolvers was the only hint to his apprehension at the terror as he stood his ground, his brave face masking the twisting and tightening of his gut. He turned his head and spat on the waxed wooden floor before glaring at the creature again, keeping nothing in between Keela and himself. No innocent bystanders. No interference. Just him and the demon who lusted for him.

"Look, beast," he growled. "I ain't sure what you wan' with me, and I ain't sure what yer doin' here. But it'd be mighty appreciated if you went on, now. This is yer last chance. I ain' lookin for no bloodshed."

His gaze was clear to the other patrons. This was his fight. He could handle it.

...God he hoped he could handle it.

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The revolvers go off without another second to waste, the words for the ice shards that cover the three rounds he fires forming in his mind in time with the large blasts coming from the twin pistols. Fire and ice leapt out of his guns in the form of lead and a muzzle flash, streaking towards the demon as she springs towards him. His own body was coiled, tight and ready to spring, and when she closed the distance between them, Anzo leapt on top of the bar, the hammers of his pistols being thumbed back again.

Now on higher ground, he began to run down the bar, kicking glasses and bottles out of his way with his heavy footsteps, firing at Keela repeatedly as he did so.

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At this very moment, however, Anzo had the misfortune to enter the bar. As the Brother unleashed his attack towards the pairing, all he saw was a terrorized child and his valiant defender.

He acted accordingly.

With a quick movement, Anzo threw his duster, the large, thick coat fluttering along in the invisible explosion, carrying the makeshift shield from the light the Brother was producing towards Parson, hoping to defend him against the attack. Weapons drawn, Anzo stepped into the fray.

"It ain't nice to hit a kid, Mister. An' it ain't nice ta hit women, neither."

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Anzo moved back, grabbing the Duster that had failed to drape Parson, and handed it blindly behind him, keeping his form between the two combatants. "Here, ma'am," Anzo said, not looking towards the shape. "If ya care abou' yer boy, you'll cover him w'this. He don' seem like the type tha' enjoys sunlight."

He then shook his head at the Brother. "No can do, pardner. See, here we got ourselves a problem. I ain't gon' stand by while you done kill another kid. And this here lass is protectin' her young. Seems to me, yer the abomination here."

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Anzo had just approached the bar, a troubled expression on his dusty features. Following the bar fight with the... thing, he had realized that he was missing a key ingredient to his whole artifact-hunt thing.

Namely, the artifact itself.

He didn't really remember what he had done with the bloody thing when the soul eater had attacked him. He just knew that it had been in his hands, played with as he was waiting for a drink, and suddenly it wasn't. Suddenly, he had been attacked by a girl who wanted to eat him, he was fairly sure. Suddenly, the girl who he had given his duster to had vamoosed.

With a groan, he sat down on a bar stool, the folds of his pea coat folding around his form to hang over the stool's edge. He sighed, running his long fingers through dust-crusted hair, allowing the digits to hang off of the back of his scalp. What was he going to do, now? His whole existence had been dedicated to finding that device, putting it to good use. But he didn't see how that was possible when he didn't have the damn device in the first place.

Suddenly, he caught sight of her, and stood rapidly. He lifted a hand towards Anna, hoping to grab her attention. "Miss! Hey, Miss!"

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He nodded, rapidly. He wondered what she thought of him, seeing that the first time that they had met he had been forced to draw his weapons and shoot at an enemy that he hadn't really expected. The best case scenario was that she was weary of him, probably incredibly concerned that trouble followed him wherever he went. The worst case? She would shriek for the authorities and hightail it out of the bar, and he'd never see her - or the artifact - ever again. To a man of Anzo's character, either scenario wasn't great.

So he was incredibly surprised when she spoke to him - smiled at him, even - with the full wattage of her features. He stood, stunned, glancing around her as if she would have a camera crew waiting to gauge his reaction as she offered him a seat, and then afforded her a crinkly smile. "Yeah, sure would. Mighty fine of ya,"

As he sank into the seat opposite her, he waved off her offer. "I'm in no hurry, and it weren't no trouble. I got plenty others, and ya look like ya need a good winter's coat. Weather'll get nasty soon enough."

He paused, fidgeting, before leaning across the table, one of his guns bumping against the table lip as he moved. "I ain't ta sound crass, ma'am, but did you by any chance find something in the pockets of my duster?"

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He stared at her at the underwear comment, aghast and flustered, his hands tightening on the table before she broke and began laughing. He laughed with her, chuckling softly, not truly understanding the joke. He wasn't comfortable with joking casually with a woman. In his experience, they deserved to be courted, shown courtesy, and their parents introduced and talked to before they could move past any stage that would involve joking about with each other.

After she was done speaking, he nodded. "I'd be honored to join ya, ma'am. Grilled cheese was one a' my mama's better dishes. She could burn water, that woman, but she tried mighty hard to keep a family for us. I still remember the sound of her swearing o'er a burnin' stove."

He rubbed a gloved hand over his face, grinning at her from underneath the hand. "Thanks, ma'am. Though I don't rightly mind if ye had used any o' that stuff. But I'm more enquiring after an odder piece of my collection. Y'see, I left something of value in my duster pocket when I loaned it to ya, and I know that the way we left off weren't exactly favourable. I was wonderin',"

He paused, thinking. Wouldn't it be better off in her hands? Would he be endangering her? He didn't have a use for the artefact other than to sell it to the highest bidder after discovering it's secrets. She would be rich if she had it, and she would be able to live in comfort. He could just let it go. But if it put her in danger, would he be able to protect her? Would she be able to protect herself?

He had to find out.

"Tell me abou' yourself, Miss. I don' think we've been properly introduced." He said, switching gears drastically.

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He hazarded her a cautious smile when she spoke of the coin, granting that it did indeed look like one. With a light shrug, he brushed off the weapons question. "Everyone in Wing City has their price, miss. And everyone has the ability to defend that price. My guns're different than most, though. My line of work makes them mighty necessary, 'specially in this place. I'm not too fond of our lovely Wing City, and I'm even less fond of the people that make up it's population."

He lifted a shoulder again, his boot beginning to tap slightly on the hardwood floors of the bar. "This town is trouble, Miss. I don't like visiting here, but business makes it necessary."

At her story, he tutted, waving his hand as a mug of cold beer appeared in front of him. A gloved hand absorbed the cold sweating of the glass, his fingers running up and down the rivulets of moisture. "I truly am sorry about the guns. I ain't mean to scare ya, but... well, some situations call for a show o' force. An' if you don't rise to the force, you get run right over. Now, now." He said, his voice growing soft. "I'm sure there's more to that pretty face than a simple act of waiting. Where'd ya come from? Why're you here? What're ya waiting for?"

His questions were hawklike, precise and quick.

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He stared at her, a blush flaming across his face and accenting the grime that stuck between the lines of his face. He jumped forward with sudden purpose, knocking the beer glass flying in his haste. "I'm - shit!" He cursed, the word making his face flame even further. He'd cursed in front of a woman. His mother would've caned him until he was unconcious at this point. Flailing wildly, he managed to scoop up the mug of beer, straightening it with a lightning movement. A slosh of the golden fluid landed on his lap, and he jerked backwards, standing.

"God, I'm - I'm so sorry. My name is Anzo. Anzo Tinzdale. It's - it's an honor to meet you." He shook her hand, his grip firm. When he was reseated, he cleared his throat. "You don't look familiar, no. At least, not to my eyes. Then again, I ain't the type to ghost around these parts. My travels take me elsewhere. Where will you go when you're done here?"

His eyes narrowed at the bird, his gaze rounding the bar, looking for it's owner. When Taylor began her march to collect her prize, he stiffened. He hated birds, had since he was a young boy and feeding the chickens was his priority. Dirty, smelly, nasty things. His eyes strayed over it's claws, it's pointed beak. He exhaled through gritted teeth.

"Howdy, Miss." He said in acknowledgement of the newcomer.

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Anzo checked his watch as the bird left them with its owner, and he focused on her again. "It's nice to meet you too, Anna." He said, smiling. He took a quick sip of his brew as the two grilled cheese sandwiches arrived in front of them, and he moved the beer aside so that the plate and glass wouldn't meet. She was a curiosity to him; a drifter, it seemed, stuck in neutral in a place that she found alien and worrisome. He could relate; most of his time spent in Wing City were times that he would just as soon let slip from his memory. Times that consisted of him squeezing his index fingers far too much. With a thoughtful glance, he stared at the spot where the woman with the hawk had once stood, rubbing a thumb against his chin. He then looked back towards Anna.

"Nice to meet you too, Miss." He rapped the fingers of his opposing hand on the table, one at a time, in a drum-roll rhythm. "If I told you a story, would you tell me yours?"

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He smiled at her nodding three times in rapid succession before gulping in another bit of beer. "This tale is one a' mine. It begins way back, in 1400 BC, or B.C.E, or whatever the science-y types are usin' nowadays. Hell, I can barely keep up with all of these new phrases and things for things that nobody even remembers. Seems like a waste of time, to me. Aw, hell, I'm ranting."

He peeled off his gloves with his teeth, and began peeling off the crust of his grilled cheese. "Sho, there wash thish king - ptoo - King Nambim, who lived in Africa. Nambim had this tribe a' killers an' thieves, the Scourge of the South, historian's call 'em. Now, they wasn't a big tribe - barely more than three hundred strong, but they were damn good at killing - and the tools they had weren't anythin' to shake a stick at. Far more advanced than any other tribe in the area. Clubs and weapons that had handles and spikes, the blueprint for modern weaponry." He shook his head, his shaggy black hair swishing back and forth underneath the hat he wore.

"Fascinatin' stuff." He mumbled, before taking a bite out of his grilled cheese. It tasted like heaven, and he allowed his eyes to slide closed in pleasure. The gruffness of the man and the way his eyes lit up when talking about history hinted at a varied background, a side of him that was history, geography, and art, rather than fighting and whoring. After his second bite was swallowed, he looked at her.

"Know much history?"

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He nodded, gesturing to her animatedly when she agreed with his own analysis. "Yes! Exactly! If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Tha's what I always said."

He smiled at her, correcting her gently. "King Nambim. It means Great Power in ancient dialect. So anyways, this tribe of great warriors was often blamed for many instances of stealin' - and most of the time, that blame was right on the money. But there was one matter that Nambim's warriors did not steal - the lost coin of Ark. The coin was s'posed to be of great power - said that any man who has it will be rich forever. The Coin you couldn't spend, archaeologists describe it as." He took another bite, chewed thoughtfully, swallowed. "The accusation infuriated Nambim on two levels. The first was because he was innocent of the charge, and the second was because someone had beaten him to the punch, and stolen the coin before he had thought of it. Naturally, he gave chase."

Another bite, slow chewing, and a swallow. "Yer not eatin'." He said, still gentle.

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The gunslinger was annoyed, sitting at the bar. Across from him was a man with two glasses, a grin worn on his expression. Previously, the man had thrown a glass in the air, a bullet hole in the ceiling showing his intended target. All Anzo had given was simple advice to improve the man's aim, and suddenly his own was challenged.

Anzo stared at the man with incredulity. "Sir, I think you're mighty foolish."

The bartender grinned. "You can think what you want, cowboy. I haven't ever seen a man make a shot as hard as that one. I think you're full of it."

"Ain't never seen a slinger pull a trigger, then."

"Just take the shot."

The two glasses were thrown in the air, arcing high into the air. Anzo's hands were lightning, in his grip was twin pistols, shimmering with a light blue sheen as twin thunder erupted from the barrels. The glasses shattered, sending glass fragments flying across the bar in a rain of tinkling.

"Told ya you were foolish, mister."

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While Anzo collected his money, his gaze raised towards the Falcon, settling on the rafters of the bar as if it was a regular perch. In gambit's, the gunslinger figured, it probably was. His eyes recognized the bird from a previous encounter; memories of a bird flapping too close to a woman and his tightening grip on his pistols. He remembered the face that he associated with the bird.

Holstering his pistols, he whirled around, his scotch still clutched in his right hand. His eyes landed on Taylor, and more specifically, her bow, his eyebrow arched in a near mocking smile. Taking his scotch, he strolled towards her, keeping his pace unhurried and slow. When he finally was standing above her, he raised his glass towards her.

"Weapon like that should be in a holster, ma'am." He said, soft. "I wonder why a woman such as yourself would choose wood and twine over elegance."

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He shoved his thumbs in his gun belt, duster sliding open as he squinted down at her, the scars on his face catching the morning light. With a nod, he acknowledged her statement, the confusion in her expression. He eyed her like a fellow warrior of the light, rather than the average woman with whom he'd attempt to flirt with. Women deserved the utmost respect, and he was mildly mortified that she insinuated offence in his words.

"Beg pardon, ma'am," His hoarse voice rattled towards her, "I only meant it in the nicest way, seein' as you got the look of a modern woman 'n all. Figured you for a gunfighter, rather than an archer. The bow's too..."

He tried to settle on a word, and decided on one. "Flashy. It takes just as long to wield a gun with the same grace, but you get none a' this drawstring, rapid-fire arrow crap. A gun is simple, elegant. Bows are a damn sight inconvenient, if you want my opinion." He tipped his hat towards her, indicating his respect.

"Don't suppose you'd let me sit down, would ya? Bar's kind of empty, and I'm lookin' for some conversation."

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At her specific question, his brow furrowed. The gunslingers were a very specific order, a group of veterans who stood apart from other orders of the bullet. They weren't trained; they were born. Anzo's left wrist, ever covered with a thick leather glove, twitched; the raised pink skin from the burn pulsing quietly under the glove's pressure. He didn't want to get into the process with her, but he smiled, the corners of his mouth crinkling upwards, parting the caked dust on his face.

"Kinda, yeah." He took a sip from his scotch, relishing the burn before he met her eyes again. "It's more skill than anything else, o'course. But I reckon there's some magic in there as well."

He paused, and then nodded at her bow. "Why, lookin' to become a slinger? Because no offense, ma'am, but I don't think that there weapon's gonna cut the lifestyle." They were called gunslingers, after all.

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He nodded as she stood, running a hand across his face as she moved away from him, pausing in his drinking to think. She didn't seem like the usual gambit's girl fair, the kind that liked hearing stories and would nod eagerly along with him as he spun one. The fact that she didn't drag information from him pretty much guaranteed that she would get it, and he was more than willing to provide that opportunity. She didn't deserve his close-mindedness.

But he was puzzled.

As she sat back down, he sipped again at his scotch, nursing the drink. He always had such a damn time drinking the stuff. "Can't help but notice I've offended you, ma'am, and for that I apologize. I suppose I just ain't used to people inquirin' bout my business, is all. If you had a question about my weaponry, I'd be more than happy to oblige, so long as you don't mind answerin' a few questions yourself."

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Gloved fingers rubbed against a stubbled and dusty jaw, sending particles floating between the two, the tiny flecks dancing on air before settling on the table. He wiped them off with an errant glove, his dark eyes finally settling on hers. "Alright, ma'am." He said, his hoarseness accented by his confusion.

"What's your-"

His question was interrupted by a kid. The runt flew into the bar, squeaking and jumping and making all kinds of racket. Anzo would be annoyed, except for the fact that the child seemed to belong to Taylor, somehow. He pushed his chair back, hands falling to his knees, going completely still except for his eyes, which followed the rascal all the way to his previous conversation-mate. Just when it was starting to get interesting, too.

"Didn't know you were expecting company, ma'am." He said, a stiff hand tipping his hat. "That's a nice boy you have, there."

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At the boy, Anzo tipped his hat in greeting, his hand then automatically moving towards his drink, his mouth feeling dry. And then he paused. Did he drink in front of the boy? It didn't seem appropriate, somehow. If he were the boy's father, he probably wouldn't want some dusty gunslinger binge drinking in front of him. Not that that was an issue anymore.

Speaking of dusty, he should've showered. And shaved. Damn, but his face was scratchy, but he dared not lift a single finger to relieve the itch. He was studiously avoiding the boy's gaze, focussing on a window pane behind Taylor, his eyes slightly narrowed. He felt as if he were under a microscope; he had to watch what he said, what he did, in case the boy got influenced somehow. He was small as hell, couldn't be older than - what, six? Children were impressionable. Children needed to be shielded from men like him.

"Anzo." He said, his gaze still not meeting Taylor's. "Anzo Tinzdale. Pleasure's mine, ma'am." His gloved hand gripped the glass tight, as if manacling it would help his manners.

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;/ooc Yeah, I have just over 20.