"Once upon a time is such a cliche way to start a story, but here we are!"
"Woah, time out." Yelled the white, bearded, old man. He slapped his mud caked hands on his worn-out black Levi jeans. His one green, glossy eye stared down Parish Thompson as his pink tongue helped spit out tobacco chew between the only two teeth left in his rotten mouth. He stood up quickly nearly throwing his pork, beans, and cornbread on the cowboy beside him. The young man grumbled and pushed the old man's leg away from the tin coffee cup he held. Wiping the brown liquid from his hand, he grumbled and eyed the older man with disgust.
"Ye can't start a story out like some girly thing. Ye need to say 'Once upon a time, in the darkest of days, when the land was soiled by the folk with no shoes. When the West was wild and their was no rules on who lived or died.' Now that's how a story is started!" The old man sat down looking around at his partners and smiling.
Parish Thompson, a mid 20s, short brown haired, medium statured, well built young man sighed. He took the brim of his brown Stetson and brought it below his eyebrows, slightly hiding his eyes. He knelt beside the fire and picked up a smoldering stick, placed it between his teeth, on the non burning side and stared at his audience. The fire light flickered on his sunburnt skin, his green eyes reflected the stars. The moon slowly slid behind grey, dense clouds. He glared at his audience as they finished their supper. A coyote cried in the distance, echoing across the mountains.
"The blood dripped from my hand, but it didn't seem bother me much." The men ceased moving around, eating, and stared at the story teller. "Once not a long time ago, when war seemed to be all we thought about. When the rules of life and death was like playing cards with a loaded deck. A myth crept from the earth, into a legend, then into a man."