Erron Black was always known as a nomad, always called a nomad, always accepted as a wanderer. However, rarely did he take up his title and traverse endlessly and aimlessly to forage or find work. Over the past 200 years, three of his employers died: Shang Tsung, Shao Khan, and then Kotal Khan. If that wasn't enough, then his allies and enemies died, and eventually there was only two people he REALLY knew left that could count as "friends". However, they weren't the best picks: Reptile and Ermac. Erron preferred Ermac, as he was a concise and clear spirit trapping thousands of souls, which has led to Ermac withering away, to the point where he'a almost a skeleton, save for his eyes and a bit of mummified flesh. Reptile, however, is completely insane and incoherent, after the death of his second employer and news of Zaterra's destruction. Now the poor soul has over 209 years left to rot inside his own head. Erron tried to care for him a bit, but Reptile's insanity eventually became too dangerous, and had to leave.
"What do you say, Erron?" Reptile had asked in a whispering, raspy voice.
"I said I'm leaving, to try and find work, or a new place to settle."
"But why...is it me, Erron?" Reptile asks wistfully, almost injured.
"No. But you're welcome to join if you want." Erron said, blank and apathetic, lacking his sand grenades. Reptile had long since forgotten his costume and had been reduced to slime-covered rags and a green sash, which partially hid his pitiful body, with cracked scales and poor seams from where stitching via Erron came about after a couple incidents.
"But...this is my home...I cannot simply leave! You cannot simple leave!" Reptile said distraughtly, shaking a bit.
"But this isn't my home, and it never was. I have to find some place that'll be my own.
"ERRON, PLEASE, YOU'RE ALL THAT IS LEFT!" Reptile cried out before breaking down to tears. Erron sighed and sat next to him.
"Reptile, people will come back here. People will return to Outworld. Chaos realmers, Netherrealmers, earthrealmers...maybe even the ones from Netherrealm could include your own kind. You'll almost certainly find another me. A new khan will come to be. And you still know Ermac is here."
"Ermac…? Who I-is that?" Reptile said, looking to Erron from his tears, his eyes forlorn and small in their sadness.
"He's...my friend. I think you'll like him." Erron said and smiled, standing up.
"If you ever truly need me, find a Ermac. He's like a mummy, if you want to know how he looks." He said, before turning around and walking away.
"Are you truly going to ever put him down?" Ermac asked raggedly, his voice echoing as per usual, but with rasp and a haunted undertone, with years of Soul Control Duty enough to wither him to a state of near-Lich proportions.
"Can't bring myself to it." Erron says, eyes gazing shamefully to the sun, one behind a single bar of memory, the other free and taunting to the barred eye.
"We would gladly store his soul in our collection…" Ermac trails off, crossing his arms and looking to Erron.
"You can barely float without withering yourself," Erron snapped, "and I don't think an extra soul would help. Ending his life would only shorten yours and his soul's life."
"Very well." Ermac nods, walking back, his body too aged and thin to use floating freely anymore, his medallion used just to keep the souls in. At one point, he could free some souls to stop some of the decrepit process that was killing him, bit if he lets any loose now, all will go, and he will die for sure, and risk the souls being abducted by Netherrealmers. He, Reptile, and Erron were 3 of the 205 people left in Outworld. After the Xenomorpj invasion, the Predator, and Raiden's conquest attempt, many people fled or died, and the world was too guarded at the portals/too damaged to return to.
"Erron...may the winds blow in your favor." Ermac said hushedly, nodding back at him before disappearing into the courtyard of the former Emperor.
He would stay in there for 3 days, tracking Erron, before approaching Reptile with an offer of help.
Erron twirled a revolver aimlessly as he walked in, his hat dusted with sand and blasted by wind, his eyes tired and cold, his hands hungry for action like the old days, twitching uncontrollably at the fingers as he spun the revolver. He looks down as he walks for a brief moment, spotting the tiny details of the sand: rocks, small tufts of old grass, jagged and vicious, almost as if it was trying to crawl out and find water. Tracks of small lizards...and big ones. And then human-sized ones. Hold up a second, now.
Erron jerks his head up, looking around. He sees, not too far, a town. It certainly looks old: almost as if it came out of Earthrealm from Erron's time as a child. He squints, spotting a few figures running to and fro..or rather, just from. There's a saloon, if Erron isn't mistaken by the sign, and a stretch of similarly-designed buildings in one stretch. Beyond that, there are houses, small sand gardens, two large bodies of water, and even closer than all of that, an archway. Erron walks closer and looks up.
"Serenity Hills, c. 1804 AD."
Erron raises an eyebrow and walks on through the archway, coming closer to the town and hearing quite a commotion, seemingly from the cantina not too far along. A few people(?) are running from it, a few towards it. Something's going on.
He walks forward, the dusty wind kicking up in Erron's face and giving him a familiar feel to home, back in Texas. His hands go to his waist, ready for a quick draw, nearing the cantina. He hears a lot of rattling and the familiar demonic drawl of Onis. He frowns and reaches the door, pushin it open.
It's an average cantina: old, round tables, a piano not too far off in the corner, a bar, and an upstairs meant for the gamblers, the betters, the conmen, and otherwise disreputable men. However, here can be seen a small scene of chaos: 6 Onis stumbling around, looking for ripe prey. However, when they try and attack, they're dragged back to the bar, where a sorcerer stands atop it. Wearing a grey robe, adorned with Mandarin symbols and golden embellishments, a golden dash draped across the shoulder, and sandals, he doesn't look menacing in clothing. He looks even less so physically: scrawny for a sorcerer, pale like a Netherrealmer, with a handlebar mustache and a greasy goatee donning his lip and chin respectively. His eyes are a glossy white, his hands withered and old in contrast with his relatively young body, constantly swirling with a shadowy dust, and Erron just rolls his eyes.
"Ahhhh, a challenger?" The sorcerer rasps, grinning, many inhabitants looking towards Erron. Erron certainly seemed out of place: almost no one was human. But he fit in the time, since no one seemed to have anything on them that dated them past the year 1956 AD, and the most advanced weapon in the cantina were Erron's revolvers, Tarkatan arm blade, and his rifle.
"I'm a what?" Erron asks cockily, not impressed with the sorcerer.
"A challenger..I can see it in the way you walk. You face Sao Kuhn the Great and do not tremble! Surely you have been sent to subdue me." Sao proudly announces, raising his arms gloriously, trying to raise attention to his 'powerful' appearance.
"You? A sorcerer?" Erron says wryly, almost chuckling. At this provocation, Sao frowns.
"You dare question my powers, worm?" He says distastefully, eyeing Erron like one would a cockroach on a windowsill.
"I've seen worse than you." Erron says with authority.
"As if you could even pretend to back up your pomp. I have the greatest magical ability since the age of Shang Tsung!" He booms, spreading his arms wide as to draw attention to his fame, and slight whispers go about where the Onis do not prowl. The mention of Tsung's name is practically taboo, with rumors of his return.
"You want to see Tsung's powers? I'll show you." Erron says threateningly, as he draws a gun. Sao holds an arm to a corner of the Cantina, and one at Erron.
"You must not know of my abilities! I can drain the souls of that entire corner in the blink of an eye! Your bullet leaves the chamber, you and others die. Now back off, Outworlder, or face my wrath! The Gr-"
Erron doesn't flinch as he fires, the bullet from his revolver bypassing the small magical barrier Sao had conjured, going through his arm and into his skull. The Onis notice the lack of control over them and prepare to pounce, before 5 drop dead from the rest of Erron's six-shooter. One got ambitious and tried to attack Erron, but already on the offensive, Erron the Tarkatan arm blade out, pushing upwards through the Oni's chest, and slicing up. Satisfied, Erron puts away the blade and looks around. Little to no noise permeates the air, most eyes on him, as he assesses any threats. With none in sight, he walks out.
He casually strolls and looks around, gazing across the town: not many people seem to be out today. Is today Sunday? A holiday? Perhaps everyone was at the bar...no, that bar couldn't have fit everyone. Perhaps something else is going on…Erron quickly turns around, hearing a slight rustle, and draws a revolver. Nothing is there, but that doesn't mean that nothing wasn't…
He cautiously turns back forward and holsters the revolver, keeping his hand at the ready. He walks further on, the creaking of his leather boots against the whisper of the blowing sand dust brought him out of focus a bit, as if he was remembering something. He feels as if he knows this town...wait...he does. Somehow, he does.
He tries to pinpoint it when he suddenly turns and draws, his revolver aiming towards another six-shooter not but 6 meters away.
"State your business, stranger." A crocodile lady says. She has drawn two six-shooters, old and wisened, kept on a holster belt similar to Erron's. She wears a tan skirt and matching sleeveless top, keeping her bare and unrestricted while serving the purpose of clothing. Her yellow eyes, with flashes of pink, stare hard at Erron. She couldn't have been more than 5'10, but she emanated a feeling of menace, looking not at all afraid to fire at Erron if he twitched wrong.
"State yours first." He replies, hand and hard eyes unwavering.
"I'm the sheriff here. Now state. Your. Business." She says, digit tightening on the trigger of her gun.
"I'm just passing through. Happened upon the "Great Sorcerer"."
"Oh, I know. I want to know how you, some stranger, killed such a powerful magician."
"Powerful? He couldn't control those lowly Onis. That was the giveaway that he could only summon them from the Netherrealm and mildly keep a leash on them. A sorcerer to worry about can control an Oni easily." Erron states in a matter-of-fact manner.
"Eh? And how did you kill him so easy? Sorcerers have shields, dont'ey?" She says roughly, continuing her interrogation.
"Magic goes through magic." He shrugs casually.
"Your bullets have magic?" She asks curiously, looking at Erron's drawn weapon.
"Enchanted, I'll give you that much." He says, eyes narrowing, looking at her face. It seems to have no deceit hidden within it.
"Who's done that? Do you have connections?" She asks warily.
"He's dead now. Rumors are he's alive and gaining power, but I don't think Shang Tsung will ever return. Shao Khan did too much of a number on him." Erron states, moving his finger from the trigger. If the sheriff moves towards her, he'll know wether or not he can stay here for much longer.
"Shang Tsung himself? How do I know you aren't full of bullhockey?" She asks simply.
"Watch."
Erron aims up, and fires 9 successive shots upward, all of which land in a circle around the sheriff upon hitting the ground.
"This is a six-shooter, like yours. Proof enough?"
"Well I'll be damned…" she says in awe, looking at the circle around her. It's almost perfect.
"Who are you, Sheriff?" Erron asks, holstering his gun.
"Tawley Derek."
"Erron Black. Pleasure to be acquainted." He nods and tips his hat.
"The real one?" She asks, looking..excited, it would seem.
"What do you mean the real one?" He asks, confused, raising a brow and resting his hands on his hips.
"The one from here, of course."