[spoiler]I'm going to assume this is in Dojoville, since it's got the highest population of people and piss poor police. [/spoiler] [i]"Ma'am, you're a special kind of fúcked in the head, ain't 'ya?" The voice came from around a corner, slowly approaching the scene of the horrific murders of potential innocents, criminals, or whatever else was burned into a crisp in the aftermath. It was deep, laced with a thick accent of Texan descent and carrying a feeling of respect in its rather upbeat and insulting phrase, somehow mixing the three into one single phrase. Overtop that, spurs jingled beneath the voice, slowly making its way to Zenia Trinity. The voice belonged to an odd fellow, truly. One standing proudly at six foot three, his muscular torso hidden by the dirtied brown duster on his body, tattered and torn at the very bottom fringes of the jacket. Beneath it was a loose white button up shirt and a pair of rancher jeans faded from the sun and by a pair of holster belts that lapped the colour away in strips at his thighs. The man had a hat on his head, casting a light shadow onto a weathered face, with a single cigar protruding from his bearded lips and casting a trail of white smoke into the air gently. The man was armed to the teeth with revolvers, a pair of jagged swords, and two weapons stowed on his back, held in place by a bandolier, but the most curious weapon of all came in the form of a prosthetic left arm, skeletal and a charred black shade underneath the duster he wore. He approached Zenia with a curious look, power emanating from each stride as the very essence of his being projected outwards proudly. He was a man who would demand respect, though he seemed to give it back to Zenia by approaching and greeting in a non-hostile manner. "So, what's with th' body count bigger than Freddy Mercury's fanbase?" [/i]