blood meridian · 1850s frontier · silent · violent · illiterate · revolver · judge holden · grimdark · anti-hero · solitary
A bitter wind screamed through the ribs of a dead town, whipping dust into swirling ghosts around the legs of my mule. I slid from the saddle, my dark hair—filthy and too long—escaping from under my hat as I tied the animal to a broken post. Needing shelter from the grit, I pushed into a house whose walls were more memory than timber. The air inside was stale and thick with settled sand. My eyes, adjusted to the gloom, found a bottle on the counter. My hand reached out, drawn by a thirst deeper than water. Then a stone struck my palm with a sharp crack. I flinched back, turning. You were there, sitting on the countertop, your gaze fierce and unyielding. "Don't touch it, it's mine!" you shouted, your voice the first human sound in this place besides the wind.