[color=springgreen][h2][center]Meru & Gilead[/center][/h2][/color]
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[h3]Chihuahuan Desert - Two Weeks Ago[/h3]

Sleep conjured broiling chaos ripped across the cosmos. A swirling rift of carnage tearing through mind’s eye, gore and viscera splattering the quiet desert canvas. Peaceful stillness ruptured as it descended upon a small spark of flame in the night. Angry spirits, torn from their vessel weaved forth a vision, cryptic and horrible. Screams of agony. The gnashing of teeth. Rending flesh. Billowing cascades of flint and ash streaking the night. A heavy scent of blood and fear hanging in the air like a fog over the somber workings of faceless silhouettes hidden in inky darkness. Above in the night sky, two stars the color of blind heat bore down upon the scene, burning in the canopy like the eyes of a wrathful god.

Meru woke to the howl.

His muzzle turned skyward, half expecting to behold the eyes from his dream casting down upon him. The coyote’s ears twitched at attention, straining to hear another familiar call, but none came. Nearby, sleeping as a dead man might, his companion lay unawares.

Slowly, the subtle sounds of the desert returned. The canid exhaled roughly, sending a twirl of dust dancing into the wind. Even as his eyelids fell and sleep reclaimed him, the voice of the wilds seemed to whisper the name. “Tivaci.”

[h3]Ulysses - Present Day[/h3]

The batwing doors of The Leaky Pitcher swung open with a grating croak, heralding the arrival of a stranger. Only the most devote patrons of the saloon were there to greet her with foul, unwelcoming sneers. Unlike most nights, recent events had kept many inside their homes, or praying away in Father George’s sanctuary. 
Amongst the few left, a solitary gargoyle of a man perched on a stool at the far end of the bar had been given a wide berth. His skeletal frame hunched, grizzled chin cupped in his hand, ratty old hat pulled down above his milky eyes. He watched the woman enter with quiet intensity, gaze lingering long after most had returned to their cups, cards or whores.

Across the room, cobwebs gently bounced and waved. In the shadow of an abandoned piano, Samuel Gilead sensed the coyote stir. 

The woman he beheld was oddly beautiful, in the way a mountain might be before a storm rolled in. And likely just as deadly, if the guns on her hip were any indication. Her tightly drawn features spoke of a haunted past which spurred countless sleepless nights and her gait suggested a long, hastily-made and poorly planned journey. She had come to Ulysses purposefully. A purpose visibly mysterious to even herself, even as it carried her toward the bar. 

Another doomed soul lured by the siren song of this dusty little speck of a town.

The woman sipped the provided libation from a dingy glass, clearly tasting the signature ingredient of The Leaky Pitcher - rusted water from the depths of the local well. Nonetheless, the liquor seemed to steady her, even as she fingered the scarf affixed to her neck.

“Where might I find the Sheriff?” A few scoffs erupted from the room, a fit of forced coughing. “I’d like to inquire about the Jefferson farmstead.”

“Y'er ain’t no law, sure as shit o’ that."  Samuel chirped, cocking an eyebrow. "Seem an awful long ways ta travel fer a measly fistful o’ dollars….”

Gilead trailed off, his vision briefly darted to the piano, catching the telltale golden glimmer of the coyote’s eyes in the shadows. Samuel’s face turned solemn, his tone almost apologetic. “Reckon I could take ya out there. Bu'cha best know, that darkness yur chasin’ ain’t the only thing lingering here, missy.”