Rings of Honor

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Username:

MacIntosh

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With Ian

Profession:

gypsy smuggler

Appearance:

He was twenty seven when he died, put down with bullets just like his dad. Except the story didn't end there.

Before dying, Ian, the cousin to his problem in RhyDin, had slipped into his camp and cut a place out to be beside him. More than beside him. After their first night together, Mac considered how well bullets could clear out problems. Perhaps it could fix the problem of what Ian had become to him. Safety off. There was more to life to problems, there was strategy. There was... whatever was being built between them. Safety on.

The old gypsies would say that his Uncle was cursed for having killed his nephew. Maybe that was why Mac didn't die when the bullet stopped his heart. Or had it been love, had it been Ian, that kept him in a twilight purgatory instead of just being gone? Or was it like the movies always said, that he just had unfinished business?

There was an hour he was in the world, where he could be seen and it was practically as if he had never been gone at all. Twilight. That time between night and day. That phase of the day that always held so much superstition.

Time was relative. Sometimes he woke up and was the man he was eight years ago. Or last year. Or the day he died. There were days he could remember, and there were days that Ian had to explain life and what had happened to him. Mac had become a ghost with dementia. There were good days and there were awful days. Ian held on, somehow.

Skills:

He wore his father's fedora, his stubble a rough shadow over his face. Interrupting his eyebrow was a scar he said he got from a bar fight. People knew him more for how he moved, the way that scarred brow would hike up when he smiled sharply. How he would narrow his eyes during conversation when a phrase caught his attention. He was scrappy, a set of hardened knuckles that preferred Sinatra and Miles Davis to whatever crap was on the radio. That was his dad's influence, he had sung those songs in the car when they were on the road, going to the next gun or drug deal.

The Taxi driver tattoo on his back. Frank sinatra lyrics wrapped his wrist and the newest, a skull tattoo from when Johnny died, stamped on his chest.

Ian had one too, interrupted with bullet scars.

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