Battle of the Bands

[Dante]

Seta the bartender smirked to himself as the figure came through the door. The figure was dressed in tatters; he'd obviously just come out of the ganger-ridden slums that had plagued him for years. Either that or he was just a poor shmuck who couldn't afford decent clothes. Seta's thought was vindicated when he saw the guitar strapped to his back; he's a musician. This town had no room for 'em; it's a tough enough place without people wasting time strumming instruments and singing stupid songs..

"Gimme a whiskey," the unshaven man muttered.

"No."

The stranger looked up slowly, his face blank.

"What do you mean, no?"

"In this town, you gotta prove that you're good for it. We've had so much trouble from the gangs that the weak don't survive well. I haven't gotten a whiskey shipment in 5 weeks, so I'm saving it for those who are willing to fight."

Seta's eyes flickered momentarily as he caught sight of the ruffians moving up behind the stranger; he tried to keep his eyes met with the stranger's to not tip him off. Unfortunately, it didn't work. The stranger spun around, finding himself surrounded by the ruffians wielding knives. "Like I said," Seta commented, reaching under the bar for his club. "...this is a tough town."

Suddenly, the stranger swung his guitar (which read Gibson down the side) off his back. The ruffians paused for a moment, then moved in on the stranger, who stood impassive with his guitar in front of him, silently eyeing the thugs. His hands jumped...to his guitar strings. They moved with lightning speed, playing a solo that conveyed anger and intensity, its high notes wailing threats and its low riffs like a dying man's gurgle. The thugs and Seta all stopped, stunned both by the odd action and by threat inherent in its electric wails. The stranger ended his riff, and returned to his formerly impassive position. One of the thugs broke from his spell; he rushed forward, brandishing his knife. Suddenly, the stranger spun; from the back of his guitar, he drew a sword from a sheath that ran the length of the guitar. Swiftly spin-kicking the thug in the face and letting his momentum carry him by, the stranger stabs with his sword, running the thug through. He turns around, guitar in one hand and bloody sword in the other. The other thugs quickly backed off. He took a piece of paper from a battered pocket and wiped the blade clean of blood before sheathing it. The stranger turned back to the bar, and to the shaking Seta.

"Now, what about that whiskey?"

Seta quickly served him a non-watered down drink.

"S-so...what's your name, stranger?" he asks.

"Priest. Judas Priest. And that...was Rock and Roll."

Name: Judas Priest
Nicknames: Buddy, Priest, The Man
Race: Apparently human
Age: Apparently 29
Equipment: His clothes, his hat, a pouch of gems, oil and a scabbard for his sword (which he straps to the guitar) and his glasses.
Weapons: His katana, which is more of a blade with the hilt wrapped in cloth, and his guitar, Gibson.
Quote: "Let's rock."

Bio: Wandering minstrel. Deadly swordsman. Merely words, but all of them describe the man calling himself Judas Priest, the Six String Samurai. Standing six feet even, with brown eyes and black hair tied up with a headband, he is as skilled with his guitar as he is with his blade, capable of dispatching foes with but a single word, a mystery to most and a hero to all.

After surviving a hazardous trek through the deadly wastes of Lost Vegas, Priest has finally come to the city of Tsitra, where the few, the proud and the invincible gather to determine who will be the King. Armed with his wit, his blade and his trusty Gibson, Priest is ready to take on all comers... whoever or whatever they may be.