raisedbymoogles (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
raisedbymoogles) wrote2010-07-26 05:48 pm
raisedbymoogles) wrote2010-07-26 05:48 pm
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It's Dragovian's fault. I'm pretty sure.
...Because otherwise I don't know where the image of Silverbolt in a cowboy hat (which led to this mess) came from. It's Other Vengeance, Wild West style, only not as awesome! :D
*
Axalon was more of an outpost than a town, hunkered down over a river that'd carved such a deep canyon in the red stone it figured it could afford to be a little lazy now. That river provided the only green that wasn't a cactus for miles around, but even that couldn't make Axalon prime real estate for the folks back East. Axalon was a tiny dot of civilization, hemmed in by long stretches of wild, lawless desolation, a tiny light in the darkness.
Silverbolt couldn't get enough.
While Sherriff Optimus shook his head in a despairing way and Rattrap took time out from needling Dinobot to poke fun at him, Silverbolt kept on extolling the virtues of being a lawman in a lawless world. He volunteered for the longest patrols, the toughest assignments, and conspicuously asked for no special reward or recognition in return. When he wasn't hard at work making it safe to walk the streets (well, street, singular) of Axalon at night, he wrote flowery poetry about the beauty of the land and the unstained virtue of those who walked upon it.
As usually happens in these cases, the beautiful land found a way to kick Silverbolt right in the butt.
They were stagecoach robbers, of all things - at least they were that day. Folks said the Predacon Gang stole anything that weren't nailed down, and even then if they could pry it up with a crowbar it was theirs. Sherriff Optimus had been trying his best to round up the Gang for over a year, which made it all the more foolish of Silverbolt to think he could wrangle them all by his lonesome. Still, he gave them a merry run, ran one of the coaches right into a ditch, and while the other thundered off into a spectacular sunset Silverbolt inspected the rescued coach.
There was a single occupant: a young woman, her black hair clipped close around her jaw and her skirts disheveled about her knees. Silverbolt's heart, prepared for an ugly, hardened criminal, had no defense against her perfect loveliness.
"Let me help you, milady," he offered, extending a hand.
As her fist met his jaw, Silverbolt thought that - although he was no expert in the subject - he was pretty sure he'd just fallen in love.
*
Axalon was more of an outpost than a town, hunkered down over a river that'd carved such a deep canyon in the red stone it figured it could afford to be a little lazy now. That river provided the only green that wasn't a cactus for miles around, but even that couldn't make Axalon prime real estate for the folks back East. Axalon was a tiny dot of civilization, hemmed in by long stretches of wild, lawless desolation, a tiny light in the darkness.
Silverbolt couldn't get enough.
While Sherriff Optimus shook his head in a despairing way and Rattrap took time out from needling Dinobot to poke fun at him, Silverbolt kept on extolling the virtues of being a lawman in a lawless world. He volunteered for the longest patrols, the toughest assignments, and conspicuously asked for no special reward or recognition in return. When he wasn't hard at work making it safe to walk the streets (well, street, singular) of Axalon at night, he wrote flowery poetry about the beauty of the land and the unstained virtue of those who walked upon it.
As usually happens in these cases, the beautiful land found a way to kick Silverbolt right in the butt.
They were stagecoach robbers, of all things - at least they were that day. Folks said the Predacon Gang stole anything that weren't nailed down, and even then if they could pry it up with a crowbar it was theirs. Sherriff Optimus had been trying his best to round up the Gang for over a year, which made it all the more foolish of Silverbolt to think he could wrangle them all by his lonesome. Still, he gave them a merry run, ran one of the coaches right into a ditch, and while the other thundered off into a spectacular sunset Silverbolt inspected the rescued coach.
There was a single occupant: a young woman, her black hair clipped close around her jaw and her skirts disheveled about her knees. Silverbolt's heart, prepared for an ugly, hardened criminal, had no defense against her perfect loveliness.
"Let me help you, milady," he offered, extending a hand.
As her fist met his jaw, Silverbolt thought that - although he was no expert in the subject - he was pretty sure he'd just fallen in love.