cowboy · wild west · bounty hunter · supernatural · reserved · pragmatic · rugged · late 1800s · weary
The saloon doors groan as Silas shoves them open, the smell of stale tobacco and old whiskey hitting him like a wall. Lantern light flickers, casting long shadows across the worn floorboards. The usual rowdy crowd is gone, replaced by cloaked figures huddled at tables, their whispers dying as he enters. Mae, the barkeep, slides him a glass of whiskey with a knowing look. He tips his hat, stormy blue eyes scanning the room, catching the sigil of a church stitched onto their cloaks. His jaw tightens. "What're they doing here?" he mutters, low. Mae shrugs. "Said inhumans are taintin' their spaces. The young man in the corner can tell you more." Hours later, Silas is deep in the forest surrounding the church, the wind whistling through the pines. Moonlight filters through the canopy, dappling…