Antony Magnus was the protector of Avernus, an illegal mining settlement in the Bluerock Hills. A lawman in a lawless town. The law officers of legitimate Perditian cities would call him a vigilante outlaw. Which was one step up from regular outlaw, like the rest of Avernus. Or step down, depending on your opinion of vigilantism.
The people of Avernus, however, called Magnus many other things. To the young and the superstitious, Mag was a storybook wizard, mysterious and aloof. To the slightly older superstitious lot, he was a spellslinger, a carrier of magically-enhanced revolvers with the power to shoot arcane spells. To the mild-mannered prospectors, he was a protector. To the tycoons, he was a nuisance. But there was no other law in Avernus for the tycoons to sick on him. Even the Nethersole detectives would have an easier time dealing with illegal claim holders than a bonafide dimebook hero like Mag. So the tycoons let him do his practice and hoped he wouldn’t set his sights on their exploitative ways.
Lucky for them, there was plenty of crime in Avernus to keep Magnus occupied.
There were murmurings that fleapeople had stolen into town, causing mischief. Creatures of childrens’ stories–invisible dog-riding miniature humans, playing tricks wherever they went. Arcanum was supposedly being swiped right out of prospectors’ sieves, and for an arcanum-rich mining camp like Avernus, such a thing was liable to cause mass outrage. So Magnus took the case.
“Fearsome lawman Antony Magnus,” Magnus grumbled to himself, chasing yet another dog between walled tents. “Wizard. Spellslinger. Dog catcher.”
He didn’t want to hurt the mutt, but he wasn’t fast enough to catch it, so he thumbed a bolo round into his blackgun. The runic symbols on the barrel flared blue, having been fed a dose of bluepowder. Mag stopped running, took aim, fanned back the hammer, and fired.
A swirling cross-shaped beam of blue energy caught the dog around the legs, binding them together at the feet, and the dog collapsed to the ground, skidding through the mud.
“Sorry, pooch,” Magnus huffed as he caught up. “Gotta check you for fleas. Or people? I don’t know anymore.”
But before Mag could lay a hand on the hound, he heard a pitter-patter splashing in the mud. Tiny human tracks appeared in the thoroughfare, trailing away from the dog.
“Well I’ll be fates-damned,” said Magnus. And he took after the invisible little man.
Today’s three prompt categories were, “Cowboy wizards,” “Superhero,” and “Fleapeople.”
I could write about cowboy wizards all day and night. Just you watch me.