[b][u][i]Abaddon Vystrel Zion, [s]Wild[/s] Western Morallea[/i][/u][/b] "You've got a lot of nerve, showing your face back 'round here." The smell of smoke and gunpowder in the saloon was almost overpowering, but Abaddon wouldn't have had it any other way. To be completely honest, he had been expecting a greeting like that for a while now. Some time early on. Maybe at the border. Definitely not, for example, after he'd gotten into the heart of Avanim. Though, now that he thought about it, backing off and shooting dirty glares or ignoring him completely [i]were[/i] valid means of exiling one from society. But he could be forgiven for expecting a violent welcome, what with Avanim being Morallea's most violent land. Thankfully he wasn't completely disappointed, as the resident bartender decided to be the one to make his day. Abaddon stood silently, saying nothing in response. The saloon door flipping open and closed was the only sound in the tense silence. Everyone was staring at the newcomer's confrontation with the man in charge of the establishment. Hell, he even caught sight of some reaching for their arms. Was the situation at hand really going to escalate [i]that[/i] badly? Unfortunately, he was sure that even moving his hands anywhere near his hips would be a provocative act in and of itself.He just had to keep faith that nobody would do anything particularly stupid. Maybe he [i]would[/i] have preferred to not end up in a confrontation like this. "Well? Say something you low-life rat! State your goddamn business or get the fuck out!" "...Lookin' for the Old Man. ...or whoever took over. Got a message to give. Gold seal. From Magiya." "Tch. Up on the mountain. Like usual." Abaddon nodded in affirmation before turning to leave. It seemed that that had ended quite peacefully. Not even one person got shot at, threatened, or otherwise traumatized! And it didn't seem that the information was a lie. If there was anything he was confident of, it was that nobody had the skills to dethrone the Old Man of the Mountain. Well, at least seven years ago that was true. Maybe age got to him and the leadership role was given to a successor who decided to continue the tradition of hanging out on a mountain for some indiscernible reason. "Much obliged for the info, barkeep. And for not shootin' me too," Abaddon said before exiting the saloon. If he had had a hat, he probably would have tipped it too as a show of good faith. "...Yeah, yeah. Like an old man like me could do anythin'... Go off and die somewhere will ya... Fuckin' stray..." --- The crunch of Abaddon’s boots on hard ground was met by a greeting from a hearty-sounding voice. "Heh! And so the prodigal son returns!" The Chieftain of Avanim was a title bestowed only unto the strongest gunfighter in the West. If a leader isn’t of sound mind or body, they cannot lead their armies or protect their people. Thus, as long as you had the ability to defeat the current Chieftain, you qualified for the title. And though he didn’t seem it, the giant of a man in front of Abaddon was most definitely the very same person who forced his father to stand down in single combat and assumed leadership of the West. Truly a foe to not be taken lightly. “Now then, I assume you haven’t disregarded your exile just to stand there and gawk. What is it?” In response, Abaddon held out the letter addressed to the leader before him. A gold seal from Magiya, as previously stated. The courier tossed the envelope to his Chief and waited as he read, taking in the sight of the Avanite landscape. “I can see why you enjoy hangin' up 'round here,” Abaddon remarked, leaning against a large stone outcropping, It was seven years since he’d last seen walked these roads. There was a sense of nostalgia during the time he spent journeying back to this land from Drakovia. He might as well be enjoying the view; who knew when he‘d be able to see it again… “So, those Mages seem to have a problem with some low-life hard-case… Hm? Huh? Boy, are you even paying attention?” The sound of fingers snapping pulled Abaddon from his reverie. “…! ...'Course I was.” The Chief looked at him for a bit, seemingly analyzing the 20-year old courier. Abaddon was slightly put off by it, but he made no action against it. After all, what could he really [I]do[/I]? “Yes… I think I know [I]exactly[/I] who our representative is going to be…” --- “Sorry, I couldn’t stay longer, Ma… But don’t worry. I’ll be back. For sure.” Abaddon stood outside his home, courier bag hefted over shoulder. He was allowed to visit his family once before heading off to the Golden Tablet. As he turned to leave, he saw a figure peek her head out the door. Waving her over, Abaddon knelt before his sister and forced a smile. “I… I’m sorry your older brother couldn’t stay any longer… But when I get back… Why don‘t we just have fun? I can show you some cool tricks and you can… show me how you… used… two… guns… at… once… It‘ll be fun! …I‘m sure…” The dark-haired young man stood and turned his back on his family, travelling not by horse, but by foot. He’d finish this mission no matter what. Not for glory, not for his country, but for the sake of his family.