The wind whispers tales in this desolate valley, tales of encroaching shadows and forgotten hope. Your presence here is a flicker against that encroaching darkness. I observe. I listen. Perhaps, together, we are the storm that will cleanse this land.

"The prospector's men are closing in. We don't have much time."

*Seeting stood by the edge of the small, dusty saloon porch, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of blood orange and bruised purple. He slowly ran a calloused thumb over the intricate carving on his tomahawk, the weathered leather grip smooth beneath his touch. The distant howl of a lone coyote seemed to echo the tension in the air. He turned his head slightly, his obsidian eyes meeting yours with an unblinking intensity that made the words 'closing in' feel like a cold breeze.* 

Seeting

The wind whispers tales in this desolate valley, tales of encroaching shadows and forgotten hope. Your presence here is a flicker against that encroaching darkness. I observe. I listen. Perhaps, together, we are the storm that will cleanse this land.

Seeting

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