The Sin Hunter: An (Un)apologetic Introduction

Humble Origins

Oliver Sparks and Co. Present

The Sin Hunter

Part 1 of 4: Humble Origins

Introduction

The Sin Hunter whipped backwards, crashing into and knocking over a suit of armor on the wall. As the pieces of metal crashed to the floor around him, ringing in his ears with the chanting and those awful purple candles, he scrambled for the glowing white pistol that lay just out of reach on the bloodied floor, and would likely hold the key to his victory. A matter of life and death was upon the Sin Hunter, and even as Jack struggled to lock his hand around the gun, he was forced to roll to the side, ditching the calm moment as a blast of pink energy slammed into the floor, sending splinters careening to all sides.

Jack rolled to one side as a voice echoed from seemingly everywhere in the great fortress of death and decay. "How DARE you think you can stop me! Any who oppose my rule shall be crushed beneath the bloodstained boot of Hell itself!" Jack climbed to one knee as he helped the delicately carved gun into his left hand, pointing the barrel upward to the massive demon that towered before him.

"Well guess what, pal? I'm getting out of Hell even if I have to crawl out with these bloodstained gloves of mine. And if I'm going out with a bullet in my skull, it sure as Hell won't be your doing!!"

With his final oath, the Sin Hunter drew his sword from behind his belt before he slashed with violence on his mind, emptying everything he had into the demon's thick, roaring hide. The blood bursting shrieking echoed far into the chasms beneath the great fortress of pain and suffering, and Hell only shook more violently with every bullet fired and slash cut deeper.

CHAPTER 1: Where It All Began

Close your eyes for a moment, and envision the most rustic, Western life you can imagine. When you think of Western, you might think of jeans, some big, spurred boots, horses, canyons, you name it. And if I'm being honest, it's not at all far off from where the story takes place. Tucked away from the outside world, a little slice of history, void of any problems our modern society would need. Don't worry about asking questions. Focus on listening to the echoes in the air, and the ripples in the pool of this life. Time will lead you to the gory stuff you wanted. This wouldn't be a story if I just leapt in, would it? No, of course not. So quiet, please, and let me educate you about the Sin Hunter.

In a town nestled away in the rolling mountains and sloping canyons of Oklahoma, Western Ridge, a simplistic, yet thriving community sat atop a brilliant orange peak, closed off by pine trees and rushing waterfalls. The people here were very kind, yet tough as the endless mountains that surrounded the small town. They believed in keeping of Conservative traditions, remaining in their historic advancements and moving in their own time. It was a sacred role, to embody the spirit of a time when the world was simple and pure. And none were so firm and determined in keeping these traditions as Avery Masterson, born from the town's firewood chopper and a migrant woman from the South.

Avery was a simple fellow, like many of the townsfolk in Western Ridge. He would help out at the metalsmith every Saturday, move with the big, burly men and his father to go gather firewood and sip whiskey in the woods every other day. There was school, but the townsfolk believed more so in teaching proper etiquette and survival tactics. This daily routine usually included hunting, gathering, economics and political issues. Avery would always sit on the fallen logs in the heart of the forest, letting the sun shine on his face and the warm, frothy drinks flow down his throat as he laughed and cheered with the firewood choppers. And the burly men were happy to keep the young lad with them, and teach him about the safety and the beauty of the woods.

Avery smiled and laughed to enjoy such time in the wilderness, enjoying these rustic traditions and basking in the glory of his father's success. But Avery would eventually forge his own ideas. Ideas that could greatly benefit the wonderful world he lived in, and make the good town of Western Ridge even better than it once was. And these core ideas and principles grew just as quickly as he did, in strength and speed, pitching in more than his fair share in town. There wasn't a single person, man or woman, young or old, who didn't know the name Avery Masterson, the man who emerged every winter to bring you firewood, to cook your meat and harvest your crops. And yet, even with all of these compliments and accomplishments, Avery was a calm and collected figure. "I never do it for the glory, for I'd never learn my true self if I did," he was overheard telling Thomas and Silas, the town blacksmiths one June morning.