ghost's come back to haunt you

Betrayed by his own hand-picked crew. The irony, right?

Since the moment he'd woken, lain before a thick trunk, the memories haunted him, never to vanquish from his mind. 

The deadwood reapers had been his own creation. Everyone that had followed him had been family or friend, all of them bound by a sacred blood oath. But they had all betrayed that oath, and he paid the price for it.

Groggy and stiff, the rolled his body away from the gargantuan tree trunk and unsteadily rose to his feet. Everything hurt like a bitch. But who would expect awakening after a near century long slumber not to be?

The ghostly-furred man felt out of place. His skin prickled at every turn, lip ready to lift and flash teeth at anything or anyone that dared cross his path. While he wasn't the biggest of assholes, he wasn't exactly the most welcoming presence either. Deep scars still ran along his skin, some hidden by his fur, while others not. One more prominent ran along his left eye, that somehow still had nearly perfect sight. It frightened many. But it was only the beginning of a tale that told of many victories and few losses. His biggest loss being his untimely execution...

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@Callahan :3

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This place was vast, strange. Yet not too different from his home in the deadwoods. 

Or, his previous home, anyways.

Shifting his gaze to and fro, he eventually spotted a brown, bear-like figure ahead. Nostrils flaring, he picked up his pace, intent on figuring out just who it was, and why they were here. Or, more like, how they'd gotten here. He wasn't even sure how the hell he'd gotten here himself. 

“You there! Git on over here!” He demanded with a booming voice, the command flowing naturally. He had questions, and like it or not, this wolf would answer them.

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As it appeared, the ghost had gotten under someone's skin. Normally, he would have sneered at the fact. But in this instance, he wasn't interested in making an enemy. Only a friend.

“Sorry if I’m comin’ off a bit rough, but I’m real lost here. I ain’t got the foggiest idea where I am or how I got here—just what went down before..” He tried his best to sound sincere, not being used to apologies and all. Maybe this stranger would understand his frustration.

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“It ain't about forgettin’. I remember clear as day what went down.” He remembered every detail down to grating bone. “My old crew... they turned on me, left me for dead. Killed me, plain as that. But damned if I know how I ended up here or what the hell I’m supposed to do next. Startin’ over? That don’t sit right. That gang’s as good as dead to me after what they pulled.”

But enough of his own problems. This man here sure probably didn't want to waste his time standing around to here him rant and rave. “What about you, then? Got yourself a posse 'round these parts?”

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Loyalty was indeed important, he could agree. “Reckon so, it is,” He nodded. “Wish I could say I'd held my men to that.” He'd lost a good many.

It was also a shame that the man had kept to himself. “Pity, that. Reckon' I won't be able to ride solo my own for too long.” His gang had been his life. It wasn't in his nature to be on his own. Wasn't how he'd ever lived.

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What had begun as a simple, albeit awkward first meeting with a likeminded man, had ended in an invitation. A partnership, if you'd call it that.

Surprised, even as he was, he knew the offer may come only once in a lifetime. How could he refuse? “I reckon I could tag along. Not many other folks might offer the shot.” He was a stubborn man, and he knew it. Better to take what graces he could.

“Your headin' west, you said? What d'ya reckon you'll stumble on out yonder?” This place seemed nice. But this man, Callahan, seemed to think there was something better.

Oh, and before he forgot. “Name’s Rhett by birth, but the boys always called me Ghost—reckon it’s the look that earned it.” And he would stick by it.

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