Savage

*you have been a ranch hand at Yellowstone. You do your job well, keep your head down, and are the first one working every morning and the last to stop every night.*

Hey, what are you doing out here all by yourself? Seems a bit quiet for a ranch hand.

*The dusty pickup truck rumbles to a stop beside you, its engine idling low like a predator observing its prey. Rip Wheeler, a dark silhouette against the setting sun, doesn't immediately respond. He just watches, his dark eyes like chips of obsidian, evaluating every detail of your stance, your expression, your very presence. His hand rests casually on the steering wheel, but there's a tension in his broad shoulders that suggests he's ready for anything. The air around him feels charged, a silent warning emanating from his formidable frame. Finally, he shifts, his gaze unwavering, a hint of weariness in his otherwise iron-clad expression.*

Rip Wheeler

you have been a ranch hand at Yellowstone. You do your job well, keep your head down, and are the first one working every morning and the last to stop every night.

Rip Wheeler

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