Little bit of fan fiction

Hey Reapers, Guardian Radio had a bounty last week to create something regarding The Last Word, so I wrote this little piece and I thought I'd share it with y'all. Between the various Last Word and Thorn grimoire cards, the story of Shin Malphur, Jaren Ward, and Dredgen Yor is one of the most developed in the lore. I thought it'd be cool to tell the story from a slightly different perspective, neither guardian nor agent of the Darkness, so the POV character is one who is referenced as part of Jaren Ward's posse in grimoire card The Last Word 3. I didn't win, but I had a blast writing this and hope you enjoy it! The Ballad of Rolan Kressler I came down from the badlands when I heard about Palamon. Brevin weren’t no saint, but no man deserves to be gunned down while enjoying his evening’s gut warmer. Even now, here at the end of time, some things just can’t be abided. We went way back, me and Brevin…never much cared for the would-be do-gooders he fell in with, but Trenn and Mel were alright as far as drifters went, and anyone who kept Brevin on the straight and narrow had earned a certain measure of respect in my reckoning. Now they was all three of ‘em worm food and I meant to see the man responsible join ‘em. Caught up with Jaren Ward and his 4 man posse a few days out from Palamon. Nada and the other two seemed able enough, but that boy Shin was the greenest young buck I’d ever seen slinging an iron. And the way he looked at Jaren, like he was some kinda shining knight. He didn’t know what I knew; see what I saw. Those guardians up in there in their pretty little tower think that having a floating doorknob by their side makes ‘em better than the rest of us down here in the dirt. Think it makes the killing justified, righteous-like. Malphur only saw hope and light when he looked at Ward, but I knew the truth; men like Ward relished the kill, feeling time slow down as the bullets bore through skulls and watching the life leaving their eyes. Men like me and Ward were too good at killing to do anything else. He could dress it up all he wanted with that little Traveler-fart of his, but at the end of the long, hot day, we were just like Dredgen Yor. With one main difference: we still fought that shadow in our hearts, and would every day til the reaper came to collect. Yor had given in, let the beast out of its cage, and now we’d find out just how much stronger he was for it. Aside from seeking justice for Brevin and his lot, I came to have another motive for running with Jaren and his crew. That gold-plated iron on his hip was the finest hunk of death-dealing metal I’d ever laid eyes upon. He called it The Last Word, as if naming a thing could make the beauty of its form more important than the ugliness of its purpose. I figured with a smoke wagon like that in my hands, I could take what I wanted and never have to put up with Dreg-crap from anyone ever again. Only trick was gonna be getting Jaren to part with it. Something ‘bout the way he held it aloft, checking its sights, and polishing it at night by the campfire with the care and tenderness of a wet-nurse; if I didn’t know better, I’d say Jaren thought the damn thing was his very own tenderfoot…Shin probably reckoned himself to be the same damn thing. How a man like Jaren Ward came to be running a daddy-act on a boy and a pistol, I never could guess, but one thing was certain: I’d never get my hands on one without taking out the other. A month after joining up, we started to lose the thread. We’d sniffed our last trace nine days prior, and as we holed up just on the far side of a red-rock ravine, a pair of Fallen skiffs cut low across the lip of the canyon, causing us to drop to the ground and eat dirt. I’ll never forget the smug look on the Malphur boy’s face as me and Nada warily eyed them skiffs kicking up dust towards the horizon. He thought we were scared. I ain’t never met one of those four-armed ball-kneelers that put a spook to my soul; their blood is as red as ours, after all. What gave me pause was their very presence out here on the plains and what it meant for this place. Vultures only circle their prey when it’s dead or dying, and seeing those ether-suckers here could only spell ruin. Shame, that was. I’d always figured desolate places like this would be a good vantage point when the time came to watch the world burn; now, it seemed, the fires of Darkness would consume every last nook and cranny where us vermin had reckoned we could burrow in and hide away. Nowhere was safe anymore, not even that fancy Last City huddling under the dead husk of Master Starball. Only a matter of time before those uppity Pollyannas realized the Golden Age was just a myth told to little tykes to help ‘em sleep at night. Best thing the Traveler ever did was die; it reminded people that there ain’t no gods and there ain’t no peace….war and death are the songs of the universe, and we’re all just voices in the choir. That night, before turning in, I watched Jaren performing his normal evening ritual with that handsome sidearm of his. But as my gaze traced upwards along the hypnotic, slow-motion polishing of his hands, what I saw when our eyes met was something all too familiar: the rage and the need. I knew that look cuz I’d seen it every time I’d looked in a mirror for years, and I knew come morning our man Jaren Ward would either be finished haunting ghosts, or become one himself. Knowing what I do now, sometimes I wonder if things woulda gone down different if I’d-a gone along with him. That’s the problem with looking back; only the living get to decide the truth of things, cuz the dead can’t say different. The staccato cracks of gunfire roused the boys from their slumber near dawn, but I’d been lying with one-eye open all night, so I’d seen when Jaren had set off an hour before and I’d been expecting them just as surely as the spring expects the rains. The Malphur boy was rapt, ears straining against the morning hush to discern any sign that his mentor and idol had once more proved his mettle against the legend grown behind his name. His attention and loyalty were rewarded only by the silence of despair. Our man Jaren Ward had gone to meet his fate, and just like every fool hero before him, fate had ground his bones to dust. As the day wore on and it became clearer and clearer that our fellowship had been broken, I watched one by one as the others peeled away to pursue whatever errand came next in their hollowed-out excuse for a life. Finally, it was just me and Shin and I knew now was the time of reckoning. Somewhere out there, the carrion crows were feeding on the bones of Jaren Ward; somewhere out there, my prize lay waiting to be claimed. And yet, in his grief, it seemed the boy had discovered a fresh spark, as I saw the familiar flame rekindled in his eyes; once more, the rage and the need. Here before me was the same abyss that had swallowed Dredgen Yor, but I’d long ago decided my beast would never be uncaged. Not again. Never again. Denying the shadow from consuming my heart was all I had left, and without that struggle, all the weapons in the world wouldn’t make a damned bit of difference in the end. Before going my way, I told Shin Malphur to go find that gun and make sure it lived up to its name. Although his eyes had glazed over and he appeared as broken as ever, I could tell something had begun inside him, hardening his iron core to something more steely in the forge of his soul. I knew then that Dredgen Yor never had a chance; he’d only been dancing around his fate….now the jig was up and the band was about to play its last song. The only song there is….War and Death. Sing on little choir boy. Sing on…..