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Daniel
Artist | Hobbyist | Digital Art
Artist | Hobbyist | Digital Art
Brazil
- Listening to: Green Day
- Reading: nothing
- Watching: Hannibal
- Playing: Metal Gear Solid 5 - X360
- Eating: Pizza
- Drinking: Coca-Cola
Great commission for 
who wants to know the stories behind the images, access your page here in the DA.
who wants to know the stories behind the images, access your page here in the DA.
Journal History
- Feb 25, 2019 Great commission
- Oct 10, 2017 New Prices
- Aug 3, 2017 New Year Celebration Into Darkness
- Feb 8, 2017 Patreon?
- Aug 1, 2015 Commissions are open
- Oct 25, 2014 My art at http://www.dbcomix.com/
- Oct 3, 2014 My other account on DA
- Aug 10, 2014 Anime OCs and Adotables
- Jun 24, 2014 Mass attack
- May 22, 2014 Choose my name
Activity
Jenna Russert: The B and G Man Chapter One
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TALES OF THE OLD WEST: KYRA AND THE BANDITS 09
Story by: 
TALES OF THE OLD WEST: KYRA AND THE BANDITS
Chapter Nine
Several years ago...
Ten-year-old Kyra huddled beside several empty barrels stacked behind an abandoned building on the outskirts of town.
It had been raining for quite a while, and the emaciated child was cold, wet, and hungry. She had tried looking around for scraps of food earlier in the pile of refuse behind the town's general store, but had been chased off by the irate proprietor before she managed to find anything. She had no better luck begging for food either, as none of the townspeople paid any heed to a foundling like her. Then the rain came down towards the end of the day, and she was forced to run off to find shelter before she became soaked.
Shivering from the cold, Kyra wrapped her thin arms around her legs, pressing them tightly against her chest for warmth. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn't eaten in days, and she dropped her face down to her knees, sobbing quietly to herself. It had been a difficult few months for her ever since her parents' death. The harsh frontier lands were not kind to orphans, and it was only through her resourcefulness and sheer determination that she had somehow managed to survive.
The sound of approaching footsteps startled Kyra out of her musings. Quickly stifling her sniffles, she cowered behind the barrels as far as she could, afraid that she would be discovered and evicted from her makeshift refuge.
The footsteps drew near her hiding spot, then paused. Not daring to make any noise, Kyra held her breath for several long moments before they started up again. A minute or so after the sound of footfalls faded away, she peeked out of her shelter to make sure whoever it was had finally left.
To Kyra's relief, there was no one there. Deciding that it was probably safer to find a new hiding place further away from town, she picked up the tattered leather satchel containing her meager belongings and crept out from behind the barrels.
"Are you all right, baixinha?" a man's voice asked behind her.
Kyra leaped up in alarm. She hadn't even heard anyone approach!
Squinting through eyes blurred by her tears and the rain, Kyra saw a man standing several feet away from her. He was dressed in weather-beaten travelers' clothes, and had a bulky leather rucksack slung over his shoulder. An oversized cape that looked like an Indian blanket was draped over his body, which, together with the large hat on his head, shielded him from the rain.
The man eyed Kyra critically, taking note of her gaunt and dirty appearance, sighing impatiently when she made no reply to his question. Rummaging through his rucksack, he took out several sticks of dried meat and offered them to her.
After a moment's hesitation, the orphaned girl approached the man, snatched the food from his hand and gobbled it down hungrily. When she looked up again, he was holding out a metal canteen in his hand. Taking the flask, she found it full of water. She took a long drink before offering it back gratefully to her benefactor.
Placing the canteen back into his rucksack, the man asked, "Are you lost, baixinha? Where are your parents?"
Reminded again of her sorry state, Kyra's eyes filled with tears, and she dropped her gaze to the ground. "Pa and Ma are dead," she said softly. "A bad man killed them both."
There was a long pause before the man murmured, "I'm sorry to hear that, baixinha."
Kyra nodded, then broke down into sobs. Those were the first kind words she had heard from anyone ever since she lost her parents, coming from the first sympathetic person she had managed to come across. She spent several minutes crying brokenly while the stranger stood nearby in silence, his presence oddly comforting to her.
Once Kyra had finally managed to calm herself down, she glanced nervously up at the man, wondering if she could ask his help in finding shelter.
The man stared at Kyra for a long minute, a look of pity in his eyes, then undid the cape from his neck. He bent down and gently draped it over the orphaned girl, nodding as if giving her permission to wrap it around herself for warmth.
Straightening up again, the man looked around at their desolate surroundings and sighed. "This is no place for a baixinha like you to be alone by herself," he said. "Do you want to come along with me?"
Kyra looked up in disbelief, hope rising in her chest. Overwhelmed, she nodded vigorously, scrubbing the tears away from her eyes with a dirty hand.
The man offered Kyra his hand, and she took it gratefully. Together, they walked away from the alley towards town.
Kyra realized something. "My name's Kyra, mister," she said shyly. "What's your name?"
The man paused to look at her and said, "You may call me Dan."
* * *
The years went by with the pair travelling from town to town, taking on work like cattle handling and guard duty in return for food, shelter, and earning their keep. To the curious, "Old Dan", as Kyra had taken to calling him, would explain that the girl by his side was a distant relative, and that he had been tasked with bringing her up after the untimely demise of her parents.
Kyra had told Old Dan about the circumstances of her parents' death: how an outlaw had come across their homestead one night in search of easy money, how her father had tried to fight off the bandit in vain, and how her mother had sacrificed herself to buy her daughter enough time to flee to safety.
Old Dan had listened to Kyra's tale of woe with a sympathetic ear, and nodded in approval when his young ward declared that she planned to avenge her parents' death by bringing their murderer to justice. In return, he regaled her with colorful stories of his journeys.
From them, Kyra learned that Old Dan was from the Southern American land of Brazil; a gaucho -- the local term for cowboy, apparently -- who had spent the last fifteen years of his life travelling around the continent. He kept a journal on which he would draw scenes of his travels -- a memória, he said, of the places he'd been to and the people he met. The young girl was enthralled by his art, and would often spend hours gazing at his work.
Kyra would often ask Old Dan to teach her the tricks of his trade. Horse riding and cattle handling were high on the list, as those were what they used to earn their keep. As for learning drawing skills, Kyra preferred to master ways of handling a gun and wielding a knife instead, as well as lessons on stalking and capturing prey.
As with all things, Kyra's mentorship eventually came to an end. A few months before she turned eighteen, Old Dan decided that it was time to return to his country. After thinking over things for a week, Kyra decided to remain where she was, explaining that while she would like nothing better than to accompany her foster father -- as she now considered him -- she wanted to get some measure of revenge for her parents first. Old Dan smiled at her spirited determination as he bade her goodbye, and Kyra watched sorrowfully as he walked off into the horizon.
* * *
Finding her parents' killer was not as easy as she thought. Any possible trail had gone cold over the years, and all Kyra had for a clue was her vague childhood memory of the outlaw's face.
In the end, the cattle-handling skills she had learned from Old Dan gave Kyra the break she had been hoping for in an unexpected way. A cattle-roundup job that she took on several months into her search paired her up with a brutish man who became smitten with her. When his crude attempts at wooing her were soundly rebuffed, he would make blatant hints about it being better for her to give in to his advances, bragging about having killed off anyone unfortunate enough to stand in his way. A few subtle prods from Kyra got him to reveal that he had "done away" with a frontier family years ago -- a family that the stunned cowgirl recognized as hers.
The elation she felt at finally meeting her parents' killer and her fury at his flippant retelling of the tragic event gave Kyra the urge to put a bullet through his head right there and then. She restrained herself, however, telling herself that so quick a death would not be as satisfying as having the man beaten, pilloried, and strung up to pay for his vile crime. She decided instead to bide her time until an opportunity presented itself.
Late one afternoon several weeks later, Kyra found herself far from town, watching from behind the cover of some rocks as her target walked over to the shack that was apparently his home. The man was holding a bottle in his hand and, to Kyra's disgust, appeared to be drunk. As she watched, the man took a swig out of the bottle and belched loudly before walking inside the hut and shutting the door behind him.
Smiling in grim satisfaction at the confirmation of her prey's location, Kyra settled down into a more comfortable position, intending to wait until night fell and her target went to sleep before making her move.
Several long hours later, Kyra left her hiding place and crept over to the hovel. A quick circuit of the ramshackle building led her to discover that aside from a single window on what appeared to be the bedroom wall, the only other entry into the house was through the front door.
Giving the door an experimental shove, Kyra discovered to her surprise that that the door was unbarred, allowing her access to the inside. Gingerly, she pushed the door open, wincing as it groaned on hinges worn from decades of being exposed to the sun and wind.
Looking inside, Kyra frowned at the sight before her. The room inside was littered with empty barrels and bottles, the broken remains of furniture, and garbage. Glancing about, she found no sign of her target, but caught sight of a half-open door in one corner of the room.
Stepping carefully over the obstacles on the floor, Kyra made her way across the room, grimacing as a loose floor board creaked under her weight. Pulling out her gun as a precaution, the cowgirl took careful aim at the door, ready to defend herself in case someone came out to investigate the noise.
When nothing happened after a full minute, Kyra slowly crept the last few steps over to the door. She held onto the latch for a moment to steel herself, then pushed the door open, entering the room with her gun drawn.
The room was sparsely furnished, with a bed, a chair, and a large dressing cabinet the only items of furniture inside. From the moonlight streaming in through the window, Kyra could make out a huddled form on the bed under the cover of the blanket.
Closing the door behind her, Kyra approached the bed with her back to the wall farthest away from her. With her gun pointed at the unmoving figure, she took hold of the edge of the blanket with her other hand and pulled it down swiftly.
There was no one there. Instead, a pile of rags and dirty clothes lay on the bed, giving the impression of a sleeping body.
Kyra stared at the makeshift dummy in disbelief. Then something hard clouted her on the side of her head, making her drop the gun from her hand and knocking her to the floor.
As she rolled over on her back, the last thing Kyra saw was the blurry outline of a man with a club in his hand, standing in front of the open dressing cabinet. Then unconsciousness took her, and everything went black.
TO BE CONTINUED...
TALES OF THE OLD WEST: KYRA AND THE BANDITS
Chapter Nine
Several years ago...
Ten-year-old Kyra huddled beside several empty barrels stacked behind an abandoned building on the outskirts of town.
It had been raining for quite a while, and the emaciated child was cold, wet, and hungry. She had tried looking around for scraps of food earlier in the pile of refuse behind the town's general store, but had been chased off by the irate proprietor before she managed to find anything. She had no better luck begging for food either, as none of the townspeople paid any heed to a foundling like her. Then the rain came down towards the end of the day, and she was forced to run off to find shelter before she became soaked.
Shivering from the cold, Kyra wrapped her thin arms around her legs, pressing them tightly against her chest for warmth. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn't eaten in days, and she dropped her face down to her knees, sobbing quietly to herself. It had been a difficult few months for her ever since her parents' death. The harsh frontier lands were not kind to orphans, and it was only through her resourcefulness and sheer determination that she had somehow managed to survive.
The sound of approaching footsteps startled Kyra out of her musings. Quickly stifling her sniffles, she cowered behind the barrels as far as she could, afraid that she would be discovered and evicted from her makeshift refuge.
The footsteps drew near her hiding spot, then paused. Not daring to make any noise, Kyra held her breath for several long moments before they started up again. A minute or so after the sound of footfalls faded away, she peeked out of her shelter to make sure whoever it was had finally left.
To Kyra's relief, there was no one there. Deciding that it was probably safer to find a new hiding place further away from town, she picked up the tattered leather satchel containing her meager belongings and crept out from behind the barrels.
"Are you all right, baixinha?" a man's voice asked behind her.
Kyra leaped up in alarm. She hadn't even heard anyone approach!
Squinting through eyes blurred by her tears and the rain, Kyra saw a man standing several feet away from her. He was dressed in weather-beaten travelers' clothes, and had a bulky leather rucksack slung over his shoulder. An oversized cape that looked like an Indian blanket was draped over his body, which, together with the large hat on his head, shielded him from the rain.
The man eyed Kyra critically, taking note of her gaunt and dirty appearance, sighing impatiently when she made no reply to his question. Rummaging through his rucksack, he took out several sticks of dried meat and offered them to her.
After a moment's hesitation, the orphaned girl approached the man, snatched the food from his hand and gobbled it down hungrily. When she looked up again, he was holding out a metal canteen in his hand. Taking the flask, she found it full of water. She took a long drink before offering it back gratefully to her benefactor.
Placing the canteen back into his rucksack, the man asked, "Are you lost, baixinha? Where are your parents?"
Reminded again of her sorry state, Kyra's eyes filled with tears, and she dropped her gaze to the ground. "Pa and Ma are dead," she said softly. "A bad man killed them both."
There was a long pause before the man murmured, "I'm sorry to hear that, baixinha."
Kyra nodded, then broke down into sobs. Those were the first kind words she had heard from anyone ever since she lost her parents, coming from the first sympathetic person she had managed to come across. She spent several minutes crying brokenly while the stranger stood nearby in silence, his presence oddly comforting to her.
Once Kyra had finally managed to calm herself down, she glanced nervously up at the man, wondering if she could ask his help in finding shelter.
The man stared at Kyra for a long minute, a look of pity in his eyes, then undid the cape from his neck. He bent down and gently draped it over the orphaned girl, nodding as if giving her permission to wrap it around herself for warmth.
Straightening up again, the man looked around at their desolate surroundings and sighed. "This is no place for a baixinha like you to be alone by herself," he said. "Do you want to come along with me?"
Kyra looked up in disbelief, hope rising in her chest. Overwhelmed, she nodded vigorously, scrubbing the tears away from her eyes with a dirty hand.
The man offered Kyra his hand, and she took it gratefully. Together, they walked away from the alley towards town.
Kyra realized something. "My name's Kyra, mister," she said shyly. "What's your name?"
The man paused to look at her and said, "You may call me Dan."
* * *
The years went by with the pair travelling from town to town, taking on work like cattle handling and guard duty in return for food, shelter, and earning their keep. To the curious, "Old Dan", as Kyra had taken to calling him, would explain that the girl by his side was a distant relative, and that he had been tasked with bringing her up after the untimely demise of her parents.
Kyra had told Old Dan about the circumstances of her parents' death: how an outlaw had come across their homestead one night in search of easy money, how her father had tried to fight off the bandit in vain, and how her mother had sacrificed herself to buy her daughter enough time to flee to safety.
Old Dan had listened to Kyra's tale of woe with a sympathetic ear, and nodded in approval when his young ward declared that she planned to avenge her parents' death by bringing their murderer to justice. In return, he regaled her with colorful stories of his journeys.
From them, Kyra learned that Old Dan was from the Southern American land of Brazil; a gaucho -- the local term for cowboy, apparently -- who had spent the last fifteen years of his life travelling around the continent. He kept a journal on which he would draw scenes of his travels -- a memória, he said, of the places he'd been to and the people he met. The young girl was enthralled by his art, and would often spend hours gazing at his work.
Kyra would often ask Old Dan to teach her the tricks of his trade. Horse riding and cattle handling were high on the list, as those were what they used to earn their keep. As for learning drawing skills, Kyra preferred to master ways of handling a gun and wielding a knife instead, as well as lessons on stalking and capturing prey.
As with all things, Kyra's mentorship eventually came to an end. A few months before she turned eighteen, Old Dan decided that it was time to return to his country. After thinking over things for a week, Kyra decided to remain where she was, explaining that while she would like nothing better than to accompany her foster father -- as she now considered him -- she wanted to get some measure of revenge for her parents first. Old Dan smiled at her spirited determination as he bade her goodbye, and Kyra watched sorrowfully as he walked off into the horizon.
* * *
Finding her parents' killer was not as easy as she thought. Any possible trail had gone cold over the years, and all Kyra had for a clue was her vague childhood memory of the outlaw's face.
In the end, the cattle-handling skills she had learned from Old Dan gave Kyra the break she had been hoping for in an unexpected way. A cattle-roundup job that she took on several months into her search paired her up with a brutish man who became smitten with her. When his crude attempts at wooing her were soundly rebuffed, he would make blatant hints about it being better for her to give in to his advances, bragging about having killed off anyone unfortunate enough to stand in his way. A few subtle prods from Kyra got him to reveal that he had "done away" with a frontier family years ago -- a family that the stunned cowgirl recognized as hers.
The elation she felt at finally meeting her parents' killer and her fury at his flippant retelling of the tragic event gave Kyra the urge to put a bullet through his head right there and then. She restrained herself, however, telling herself that so quick a death would not be as satisfying as having the man beaten, pilloried, and strung up to pay for his vile crime. She decided instead to bide her time until an opportunity presented itself.
Late one afternoon several weeks later, Kyra found herself far from town, watching from behind the cover of some rocks as her target walked over to the shack that was apparently his home. The man was holding a bottle in his hand and, to Kyra's disgust, appeared to be drunk. As she watched, the man took a swig out of the bottle and belched loudly before walking inside the hut and shutting the door behind him.
Smiling in grim satisfaction at the confirmation of her prey's location, Kyra settled down into a more comfortable position, intending to wait until night fell and her target went to sleep before making her move.
Several long hours later, Kyra left her hiding place and crept over to the hovel. A quick circuit of the ramshackle building led her to discover that aside from a single window on what appeared to be the bedroom wall, the only other entry into the house was through the front door.
Giving the door an experimental shove, Kyra discovered to her surprise that that the door was unbarred, allowing her access to the inside. Gingerly, she pushed the door open, wincing as it groaned on hinges worn from decades of being exposed to the sun and wind.
Looking inside, Kyra frowned at the sight before her. The room inside was littered with empty barrels and bottles, the broken remains of furniture, and garbage. Glancing about, she found no sign of her target, but caught sight of a half-open door in one corner of the room.
Stepping carefully over the obstacles on the floor, Kyra made her way across the room, grimacing as a loose floor board creaked under her weight. Pulling out her gun as a precaution, the cowgirl took careful aim at the door, ready to defend herself in case someone came out to investigate the noise.
When nothing happened after a full minute, Kyra slowly crept the last few steps over to the door. She held onto the latch for a moment to steel herself, then pushed the door open, entering the room with her gun drawn.
The room was sparsely furnished, with a bed, a chair, and a large dressing cabinet the only items of furniture inside. From the moonlight streaming in through the window, Kyra could make out a huddled form on the bed under the cover of the blanket.
Closing the door behind her, Kyra approached the bed with her back to the wall farthest away from her. With her gun pointed at the unmoving figure, she took hold of the edge of the blanket with her other hand and pulled it down swiftly.
There was no one there. Instead, a pile of rags and dirty clothes lay on the bed, giving the impression of a sleeping body.
Kyra stared at the makeshift dummy in disbelief. Then something hard clouted her on the side of her head, making her drop the gun from her hand and knocking her to the floor.
As she rolled over on her back, the last thing Kyra saw was the blurry outline of a man with a club in his hand, standing in front of the open dressing cabinet. Then unconsciousness took her, and everything went black.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Loading...
