2017-10-11: Rules of Engagement

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  • Log: Rules of Engagement
  • Cast: Gwen Whitlock, Nightburn Acklund
  • Where: November City - Market Street
  • Date: 10/11/2017
  • Summary: While making an early morning delivery, Gwen once again comes across the one and only Nightburn Acklund. Taking advantage of the moment, she asks him for some pointers on combat. And, like last time, Gwen doesn't really specify how she was going to pay him.

=====================<* November City - Market Street *>======================

November City is the greatest and the largest of the Seed Cities. When it appeared after the Night of Falling Stars, it was already a large settlement, built by the survivors of that day quickly. It has since grown enormously, appealing to people in the Badlands in search of some security and the refugees from failed and lost Seed Cities. Market Street, its main thoroughfare, demonstrates this. On the outskirts of the city, shantytowns and shacks pop up along the street, gradually becoming the larger buildings in the heart of November.

The street is named for the huge market that has sprung up across it, occupying the three and four story brick buildings along each side. It's a wide, paved road (a rare thing in the Badlands) and connected to Central Station, where all of the railways come. Here, one can find anything they want. The laissez-faire nature of November City's government makes the black market an open one, and this is one of the few places where ARMs and stolen goods from Aveh and Kislev can be bought with ease.

There are also saloons, taverns, restaurants, and hotels to be found. November City is a true melting pot, where Drifters from across Filgaia mix with foreign merchants and locals of every class. Men wearing suits brush by peasants in homespun, while Drifters and knights bump into each other. The police force usually prevents outright gunfights in the streets, but November City's officials are infamously easy to bribe.

BGM: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kFi2pwQRRzQ
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</poem>

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

It's a cool Badlands morning, the sort of cool that only exists in the space of a few hours before the sun extended its first daggers of heat into the air. November City is at its quietest in these odd hours, the traffic ebbing to the elderly, young children, merchants setting up shop, small families walking to a nearby station, workers, Drifters on a mission... well, everyone, save for the loudest and sometimes drunkest of denizens. And sometimes, that's all that's needed to make a difference.

And it's a time couriers takes advantage of.

"Ah, Miss Whitlock! Very nice to see you this morning! When I heard about the sand storms that swept over yesterday, I figured you wouldn't try to brave the Badlands at night." A middle-aged merchant clasps her hands with glee as Gwen delivers some crates, opening them up with a crowbar to reveal a small bounty of preserved food items. "It's just way too dangerous for a young woman like yourself to be traveling those areas by your lonesome. If it was my own daughter, I wouldn't even let her try, nowadays!"

"Oh, don't worry about it!" Gwen says with a practiced, easy laugh. "I have my fearsome horse to scare away anyone tryin' to sneak up on me. A repeat customer is someone I'm willin' to face risks for. It was close to a full moon last night anyway, so it was like the sun never set!"

... It wasn't a full moon. Only someone blind with overconfidence would call it 'close to' a full moon. The merchant isn't buying Gwen's attitude, murmuring worriedly as she presses some coins into Gwen's hand. "I've added a small tip. It's not much in the scheme of things, but you really helped me! Now shoo, shoo! Get some rest. You'll get wrinkles in no time if you keep this up! And that's if something else doesn't get you first."

The chatter of the two is easy and familial in the certain way some business transactions can go between certain types of people. Soon enough, Gwen is on her way, leaving the small woman to the side of her trusty horse, Gulliver, who she strokes tenderly along his mane. "Good boy... good boy..."

The distracted path of each run of her hand grows more and more loose, Gwen's eyes focusing on a spot in Gulliver's hide, and then, somewhere else not there at all. "What if he'd attack last night, Gulliver? Would you be able to get here okay?"

Gwen frowns. Her hand lifts, then scoops some water from the trough instead, splashing it on her face. "Nope, nope, getta grip, Gulliver, we got work to do! But not just yet. And don't you talk me out of it!"

Just another morning, another courier arguing with her horse.

<Pose Tracker> Nightburn Acklund has posed.

As so happens, the break of dawn happens to be favorited by another sort of traveler: those who enjoy the reduced risk of crowds forming while they go about their business. The Golem Hunters Guild has had their hands full following the recent raid on Jolly Roger. Rumors of Dragons torching shipyards has had no small effect on trade by sea lately, and various artifact suppliers of the Guild have been trying to back out of contracts lately. That won't do at all. While that sort of work falls to the rank and file, there is a certain sort of clientele that requires a more professional touch. Such work falls to the "King" himself, and adds no small amount of wear to his boots.

Further up the street is the border between the districts occupied by middle-class merchants and the more affluent. Conclusing his business at the residence of one the more wealthy clients, Nightburn Acklund makes his way down a flight of stairs and makes a bee-line for the local guild office. If he's lucky, he can conclude his business and get a move on before the sun gets too much of a head start on him. Musing on such thoughts, the Drifter lights up a cigar and begins making his way down the street...

A man passes the girl and her horse as he walks the sidestreet, disappearing around the corner of the building. ...Only to take several steps backward into view, head craning to the side and eyes narrowing in search of something unexpected. There's something familiar about that voice and its lecturing tone. A brown brow drifts upward with recognition. "Your partner is giving you a harder time than usual. Something on your mind, Super Courier?"

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

Despite the familiarity of the voice, as well as her admiration for the man, the first few words cause Gwen's shoulders to stiffen. She gives a quick shout of surprise, and, on her right hand, there's the telltale nervous flick of a hand used to... something. A gun? Knife? Pleas for mercy? A friendly tip of the hat?

Gulliver, meanwhile, looks to Nightburn with a look of recognition, already attempting to turn his head for a better look at Nice-smelling Burning Mouth Stick Person.

It happens faster than a normal mind can process, the raw nerve of wariness laid bare for a second before being quickly covered up by easy-going civility. "Ah! Oh, y'scared me!" Gwen turns, her expression like a bright beam of morning sun- that is, something trying to be bright enough to try to cover up any recent social blunders. "Mr. Ni-" She pauses, pressing the upper part of one hand to cover her mouth for show. "I suppose I should let you decide what mode you're in this mornin'."

Something is on her mind, alright, but it's quickly being obscured by the bigger event of 'Nightburn is here', if the glee threatening to burst through her words are of any indication. "Looks like the war out east didn't put as much as a scratch on you. I really wanted t'thank you for helpin' me out back there-" And like a thunder cloud passing over the sky, Gwen's expression falls as she remembers. Oh. Right. King Justin is dead.

"Oh man, ah, how time flies," she says, already desperately trying to rebound to her previous state. "How's life been treatin' ya? I met a huge fan of yours not too long ago by the name of Dean Stark. He was helpin' the orphanage over in Little Twister along with his two pals. Great guy." Nevermind it was in exchange for a small but suitable room and board; all those chores had to count for something. "And also- ah?"

Is something on her mind? Yes, something is on her mind. "It's, ah, nothing really, haha." Her vague denial is interrupted by a loving tap of Gulliver's muzzle to Gwen's shoulder. "Well, compared t'what you deal with, it's nothing! Just some punk in the desert I've been meanin' to deal with sometime! But you know, uh, me bein' a courier, not a Punk Puncher, and-"

Oh. OH. She could take advantage of this. "Actually. If y'have an hour or two, I wouldn't mind a few pointers on such things! I could offer my courier services in exchange for yer time, of course. Or straight up money, I know how you're a busy person, n' all." Didn't she promise something like this last time? "I'll, all, leave it up t'you. We can try a different time too."

<Pose Tracker> Nightburn Acklund has posed.

It's interesting to note that the courier isn't the only one to react on instinct. While the elder Drifter's face doesn't show any change in expression when Gwen begins to think of going for 'something', there is a brief moment where his eyes sharpen into weapons and his right hand smoothly glides into the folds of his coat. It's only when relief floods to Gwen's face that the hand smoothly emerges with...a handkerchief. For just the briefest of moments, the air was so tense that he could have actually pulled a gun on her and it wouldn't have been terribly surprising.

he neatly folded cloth is extended across to her. "Smudge on your cheek.", he explains as he gestures with to his face with the other hand.

<Wasteland Fact: Did you know that a smudge can be found on the face of just about any Drifter? Even the most fastidious of wasteland travelers is likely to pick up some small amount of grime within the first hour of wakefulness.>

Shoulders roll in response to the aversion to his name. "Mr. Nightburn is fine. For the next hour, at least." He grins. "Speak for yourself. A little war certainly isn't keeping a Super Courier from operating on this side of Ignas, I see." Memories drift back to him as well. Words of warning that he issued about not getting caught between sides, and here they both are following of the bloody feud that soon followed. The passage of time is remorseless, but he speaks not of these things, as if it were just a matter of course for someone with twice the age and experience. "Dean, eh? The name doesn't ring a bell, and if it did I'd probably have them all jumbled up by now. Life keeps me busy, least of all Dragons raiding shipyards. Might have to do something about that soon..." He trails off, leaving that "something" unsaid, along with whether he's aware of who the actual perpetrators are. "Wars. Dragons. Demons. Crazy times we live in, right?"

When prompted for his availability, he takes a moment to think on it. He really *should* be going, but the errands were boring him anyway. He'll just push the paperwork on to someone else. "I suppose I could spare a few, provided we keep away from the busy parts of town. We can save talk of payment for after you tell me whaat you had in mind." He doesn't move, but tilts his head to the side to indicate that she and Gulliver should lead on.

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

"Eh?" Gwen blinks cluelessly in that tense silence, taking the offered cloth to rub at a perceived smudge on her cheek. "You're a life-saver! I hope I wasn't talkin' this entire time with that smudge on my cheek with my client! No wonder she was worried 'bout me." Looking to Nightburn for confirmation that the smudge was gone, she offers the handkerchief back, a light blush on her cheeks.

It is, after all, a handkerchief from a man who was one of her childhood heroes. How thoughtful he is! Such a gentleman! And also-

... A man used to danger.

There is a moment where the courier realizes that, when she turned, Nightburn had been reaching in his coat. If he was not Nightburn, but a simple Drifter, it would have occurred to her so much faster. He was reacting to her. The twitch of her hand, so easily missed by someone expecting a lowly courier. She needs to be more careful, now that she's back in the Badlands.

"Of course not!" Gwen bluffs, placing her hands on her hips. "Though it dooes pretty much keep me to this side of Ignas for right now. It's just way too risky! Plus, all my friends are over here with me now."

The topic turns to Dean, leading Gwen to shrug her shoulder. "I thought as much. He was worried 'bout the first impression he may've given you the first two you two met, and I told him as much." She lets out an easy chuckle. "He's as much of a fan as I am. If you meet 'im again, he's got my recommendation. For... something, I suppose? He's got the drive, y'know? He loves t'talk about Golems too. He might be a good guy to have help you on whatever that 'somethin' it is you're gonna do."

Which is, Gwen assumes, 'be Nightburn, kick ass, be Nightburn some more'.

  The courier manages to keep her expression politely neutral for the most part, all until Nightburn takes her up on the offer. Then, she can't help but let her enthusiasm shine. "Of course! I know a few places. There's a field not too far away from here. Seen people use it all the time for displays and tricks, and it's on the borders of the town, too." That is, there's a side with no buildings. Important for tricks involving bullets. "And if we're settled, then..." Drawing Gulliver's reigns into her hand, Gwen motions in one direction with her chin. "This way."

The field, unlike moons being 'somewhat full', is exactly as Gwen had made it out to be- a more sparsely populated area on the outskirts of the city, where some fences have become home to a colony of old bottles, rusted cans, and only types of suitable target practice material. "I, ah." She coughs. "I don't have a weapon on me except for my knife, but I'm sure I could just watch you and learn from that." A tense courier who doesn't have her weapon, yet acted like someone who did. "I, ah, have a gunsmoke-type weapon stored away someplace. But I don't like to, ah, use it nilly-willy. For obvious reasons. Can't be scarin' people away by ruinin' that fresh-faced neighorhood girl-next-door facade of mine, y'know?"

It's not as if she's lying, exactly.

<Pose Tracker> Nightburn Acklund has posed.

The handkerchief is retrieved with a warm smile that contrasts the fact that this was meant to cover for Nightburn almost drawing on her. It would have been a point of embarassment for them both, and he seems content to paper--or at least cloth--over the matter in order to spare them both. He doesn't know her well enough to discern whether or not she's seen through the act as she has, but once committed to an action one simply follows through. "All your friends, eh? You make that sound like quite the migration." He lets a soundless whistle pass through his lips as they walk. "I guess I shouldn't be too surprised though, with all of the refugees that have been turning up here lately..." The thought is allowed to trail off, because the implications are not a happy one. Aldehyde is not a happy place for those who remain there. "Anyway, that Dean kid couldn't have done anything *too* bad if this isn't ringing any bells. I'll keep your vouch in mind though." Oh Nightburn. If only you knew.

As they cross into the field and come to a stop, Nightburn takes in his fan's request...and frowns.

"Hold on a moment there."

Nightburn may not have the longest of acquaintances with one Gwen Whitlock, Self-Proclaimed Super Courier, but he also wasn't born yesterday. The behavior clues, the flow of the conversation...he thinks he knows what she's really after, but she's going about it all wrong. "If you were asking me to dazzle you with a few gun tricks, that would be one thing. If you want to actually *learn* something...watching me spin a pistol around isn't going to do you a whit of good. Even if you tried to copy me you're more like than not to fumble the weapon and hurt yourself or someone else."

This lecture isn't an unusual and one that Gwen herself has probably heard variants of from others in the past. Next usually comes the part about how girls shouldn't handle a weapon and leave the fighting to the menfolk.

As the man's brows knit, taking in the girl in from head to toe with a thoroughly appraising look, he decides to skip over that part.

"....I can't teach you to handle a weapon like I do. Every one is different." Reaching into his coat again, the same way as earlier but without the restraint, he removes a gunsmoke pistol and extends the full length of his arm perpendicular between the two of them. "The weight. The length." He slowly turns the arm towards the cans. "The way you sight." A single shot rings out. "The kick." As the weapon is drawn back with the recoil, the man's other hand snaps forward to fan the hammer. Five more shots ring out, and the sound of bullets on tin ring out in a chorus as cans are blown off their perch. "How you reload." The cylinder is flicked open, and a speed loader is swiftly drawn from his coat and slid into the chambers. The weapon is flicked shut again; he takes his time with the next six shots.

"...What you do when that isn't enough."

With no warning, Nightburn abruptly turns on Gwen and has a completely different weapon drawn, a submachinegun grasped in his other hand and extended out toward her. Offering little chance to react, a spray of hard light pellets are aimed to whiz past just to the right of her and into an empty oil drum. If the action is unchecked, the drum will doubtlessly complain noisily about the sudden assault.

Regardless of how Gwen chooses to react, Nightburn's next words were carefully chosen in advance. "...Everything you just saw had no meaning, because that was my ARM. Not yours. Nothing, except for what you did when I drew on you."

The weapon is lowered two inches so that it's clear that he isn't actually intent on her life. "Now. If you want to learn something useful, I can tell you a few things with the gun put away."

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

Refugees. Gwen's silence is witness to the fact that even her mind chooses to think of the fates of places like Adlehyde and Lacour. And she, being the person who handled those supplies for the Adlehyde rebuilding effort, is now here, one cog of a well-meaning machine that, even if she did return, would be useless without the other parts.

Nightburn's hesitation shows the equal amounts of uselessness of Gwen's request already. "Well, uh," Gwen begins with a nervous chuckle, a finger itching her chin, "I suppose you're right, when you put it that way..." She's definitely heard some variants of the lecture, as useful as it is as general information. The next part would have been more on the useless end, something referencing some perceived weakness, be it her sex, or, in darker days, the sickly look of her body, or the real physical weakness that was held within. But that child-like faith expects NIghtburn to do something different, as he did before on their first meeting. A man of his caliber, she reasons, wouldn't get far if they pushed others away on the basis of preconceived notions. Notions like, well, her own.

Any words or acknowledgment Gwen may have given scatters like dust as Nightburn punctuates the next part with the flair that seems so much more incredible for Gwen to witness in person, rather than hear about it in story. Her eyes remain glued to his movements with the attention of a fan, rather than an attentive scholar, far to star-struck to immediately respond, or even respone to Nightburn's words.

-Even when Nightburn pulls on her. Had he been serious, she would have been wounded by now.

When Gwen's body recognizes the threat, her response, like before, is done with the sort of instinctual flow that is learned by equal parts trial and error and the slow progress of experience. If Nightburn needed some clues as to the nature of Gwen's weapon, it would be in the raising of her right hand, fingers pulled back, gloved palm thrust forward, her left hand readying to-

She remembers herself with the speed of a novice, a bashful bending of her shoulders as she relaxes. "Aha... ah, um, oops."

The courier doesn't have the gall to act entirely innocent, but she doesn't call attention to it either, far more eager to listen to Nightburn's words. It would be easy to assume a man of so many adventures would have encountered something like this before, after all. A well-synced ARM might as well be attached as another limb, as natural as it may feel in the experienced owner's hand.

By the time Nightburn states his point, clarity is already dawning in Gwen's blue-grey eyes, with a slight crinkling of her lower eyelids, as if the muse of inspiration was blowing the smoke of the one-sided exchange of gun fire. Of course. The trick wouldn't be to depend on the Mockingbird itself, but some aspect of it. But what?

As his weapon lowers, Gwen gestures awkwardly to her right arm. "... I can't, uh, fire very well with my glove on. So assume it's put away." She pauses, then adds, with a cough, "I did it once. It ain't worth losing a glove over."

<Pose Tracker> Nightburn Acklund has posed.

Nightburn allows a smirk at the girl's embarassment. "No, don't be ashamed. That was the right move. B for reaction, F for preparation." It seems the shock treatment has had the desired effect of cutting to the heart of matters. He has her attention as a Drifter and not as a Nightburn Fan, and the awkwardness around her weapon was done away with. Not that he was expecting this outcome, per se. Spellcasting he rules out entirely. Wristband? Prosthetic? Probably the latter, but that reminds him of Veruni tech more than anything. Not that it wouldn't be impossible to find something of the sort in a ruin, but the knowledge to integrate it...the ignorance to not make the right preparations for it...something simply does not add up here.

Nightburn's eyes clearly narrow for a moment at Gwen's extended arm, but he takes care to now allow himself to get lost in his musings for more than a few seconds. After a moment he simply nods. "If it's not worth losing a glove over, you've the wrong weapon. Or at least the wrong glove. If you can't win a draw, you're not ready for a real fight. Fix that first." He leaves the rest as an exercise in creativity. Whether she finds herself a sidearm or a discreet tailor, he trusts that she's clever enough to make the right decision for herself.

"Next is how you think. A person who isn't afraid of anything has less sense than a tumbleweed. But a person who *listens* to their fear...lets it lead them...that person is dead in a fight unless they can learn to fix that." He holsters the SMG within the confines of his coat again, having no need to stand there holding two guns like a self-absorbed buffoon. "That ain't always easy, so think of it this way. Pretend that voice in your head is a loud one. One that your enemy can hear. If you do what that voice says, your opponent knows your next move. If your opponent knows your next move, your lease on life just got shorter." Teaching youngsters how to manage fear is easier said than done, but that analogy seems to work well for the smart ones.

What else... "Choose the battlefield whenever you can, on that note. Where you duel, how you duel. If someone gets the drop on you, think about how you can change one of those two things...if not both. If you're pinned down, try to find a spot that works against their weapon. If you have no hope against someone in a gunfight, put a knife in their back. ...Or pay someone else to do it before it becomes necessary to do it yourself." He coughs into a fist with an awkward glance to the side, aware of how ungentlemanly that sounds. "Study the principle at least. If you can win with words, all the better. There are plenty of ways to fight. The only thing that matters is how to play against your opponent's strengths, and live with yourself afterward."

He doesn't elaborate on that last point.

"Other than that...learn to read an opponent's eyes. You don't just want to know where the weapon will be, you want to know where *they* will be. You do that by watching their eyes. It helps if you can think like them too, but start with the eyes first...it's deadly dangerous to think you can read a person's mind only to learn that you're wrong."

The remaining pistol is smoothly holstered in his coat with no showmanship. No showoff revolver spinning that would get a person killed in a real fight. "The rest is knowing your weapon and being confident with it. Everything that I said earlier, but with your own weapon...err, damn." He glances up at the sky, noticing that they've gone over the promised hour. The sun is well on its ascent toward noon, and he can't shirt his responsibilities forever. "I think we ran a little bit over there, but I'm pretty sure that advice will get you much further than watching me fool around with a six shooter."

<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.

Embarrassed as she is, Gwen allows herself a quiet laugh at her own expense. "Says you. Even if I survived that, I'd have to deal with the fan club if I so much as attempted to shoot you." It's a playful statement at least; she seems to take the grades with the same amount of seriousness as Nightburn originally gave them. "But hmn. You're right." Gwen idly scratches the backside of her neck with her right hand. "I got these gloves because I felt nervous usin' a weapon to shake hands." She pauses, realizing the irony of her statement. She was, after all, using that very hand to itch her neck. "... I think I can probably think of somethin' better."

The temporarily lackadaisical quality to her movements, in contrast to the sharp instinctual ones that brought her extended arm up seemingly to 'aim' at Nightburn, ebb away as the older man continues his lecture. She listens, giving Nightburn a nod now and then, her pale red eyebrows drawn together.

A balance between reckless bravery and fear, along with a ready method to devise that balance. Don't play to an attacker's tune; pick what works to your advantage. Nightburn's words concerning a knife in the back, whether symbolically or literally, causes Gwen's eyebrows to raise slightly, but it's quickly explained away in her mind before Nightburn even acknowledges the dark nature of those two bits of advice.

It must be difficult, being that level of famous. Not everyone would be satisfied with just an autograph.

So many of these pieces of advice seem deceptively simple, but coming straight from Nightburn, they're taken as seriously as the philosphy of a sage. Gwen takes the time to sit her body against a worm and bullet-eaten fence post.

And, before they know it, the hour is over. "Bah, time does pass quickly when you don't want it to." She laughs. "I suppose I got one last zinger to ask, but it's somethin' you got every right to not answer. In fact, it may be downright unfair to ask."

A flash of a smile, and it's gone with the coming tides of the thoughts this question begins to bring in Gwen's mind. "I'm gonna make this hypothetical. How do you, uh." She clears her throat. "If it comes down to a situation of you or them, how do you do the deed of ensurin' your life without givin' somethin' of yourself up in the process? I realize this is an unfair question, but you touched on it a bit before, with that whole business of 'livin' with yourself afterward'. It's a part of the Badlands, but there's takin' a life in self defense, n' there's doin' it while knowin' that it might make you lose somethin' in the process. Say, uh, 'that's maybe what they want'." Her head is tilted at Nightburn as she speaks. "It's probably somethin' no one can really answer, but I figure your experiences might give you some insight into some possible answers."

<Pose Tracker> Nightburn Acklund has posed.

The older gentlemen arches an amused brow at quandries of shaking hands with someone. Ah, to be in his twenties once more...the beginnings of wisdom, but the folly to turn it upside down. "If you were a martial artist, your hands and feet would be considered weapons. Would you keep them hidden from the entire world, or go about your business?" He clenches his own fist before him to illustrate. "So long as you hold control over a tool, your *will* decides whether or not it is a weapon, and how it shall be used."

Unintentional as it is, those words provide a bridge into the courier's next question. He nods with a forebearing smile, paying the words 'every right not to answer' as much seriousness he has come to expect from the questions typically following them. Has he ever killed a man? Does he have a lady friend? His thoughts on local politics? Did he really beat a Metal Demon in an arm wrestling match?

Given the fact that he had to tug Gwen out of her shell just to have a serious talk about self-defense, he wasn't quite expecting her to take the plunge into the deep end of the pool. But he did invite her to the edge, as she herself acknowledges. The smile slowly wanes, almost as if the sun slowly rising overhead came to extend a shadow over it. "That's an oddly specific question." Thumbs slide into his belt loops, beard tilting upward as the man shifts to regard the sky in a moment of contemplation. "Life's all about risks and bargains. When you stepped out to do business in the wee hours of the morning, there were upsides and downsides. Whether or not it was the *right* decision isn't something that you knew ahead of time. ...It's the same, I think." His gaze lowers again, and his expression is a slightly weary one. "Once the deed is behind you, you'll have your answer. If you're worried about dancing on someone's strings...it's okay to let them think they have one up on you, so long as that step took you closer to where *you* wanted to be."

A cold tingle runs down Nightburn's back, though his stance doesn't betray it. He turns, careful to keep his face from shifting any further until his back is safely to her. "Others will be happy to judge you for whether or not you made the right decision. But what they're really telling you is whether it was the right decision for them. So long as you made that choice with the knowledge of the good and the bad, well, it's done at that point. Either you were honest with yourself, or you were a liar."

"Walk forward with resolve. You can't change the past, but you can change the future."

And so saying, the Drifter raises a single hand in a farewell, his back to the sunrise. He too, has a future to change. For living is the burden of those left behind, and all must choose to what end that life will be comitted.