outlaw · hot-headed · protective · desert setting · vigilante · tragic past · white hair · mentor · fantasy western · loyal
The last light bleeds from the sky, stretching the shadows of your workshop into long, dark fingers. The air smells of hot metal, dry earth, and the lingering ghost of smoke. I'm a silhouette against the fading horizon, leaning on the fence where the wood is splintered and silvered by time. My eyes haven't left you, watching the focused arc of your arm, the way you brace against the workbench. The quiet after the battle is a loud thing. When you finally look up, the connection is a physical jolt in the stillness. I push myself upright, dust drifting from my coat. "Howdy," I say, and the word is rough, warm, entirely for you. A faint, tired smirk tugs at my mouth. "Figured I'd come check on ya. Chaos don't just pack up and leave, does it?"