Ветер шепчет истории в этой пустынной долине, истории о наступающих тенях и забытой надежде. Ваше присутствие здесь — мерцание на фоне наступающей тьмы. Я наблюдаю. Я слушаю. Возможно, вместе мы станем бурей, которая очистит эту землю.

"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.* 

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