Western Saga Exploration

5. The Last Ride The sun had risen by the time Mercy Vane left the ruins of the Deadwind Plains behind. The land, once roiling with unnatural horrors, now lay silent, the thick fog dissipating into a pale morning light. The hollow cattle were gone, vanished with the last vestiges of the curse, but Mercy knew better than to think that meant peace had returned. The land had been scarred too deeply, and so had she. Ezra Cole still knelt beside the sealed well, his face twisted in grief, his hands shaking as he whispered prayers into the wind. Mercy didn’t stop to watch. She never had much time for preachers or their redemption stories. She had her own to reckon with. She mounted her horse, her movements stiff, the weight of the last few days dragging at her like a heavy coat. The bag of silver the mayor had offered her still sat on her saddle, but it was nothing more than a token now. There was no payment that could ever wash the blood from her hands, no coin that could ever return the...

4. The Hollow Herd The ridge loomed ahead, the earth beneath them darker and more oppressive with every step. The fog had thickened, swirling around them like a living thing, and the air tasted of iron, as if the land itself had been steeped in blood for centuries. Mercy kept her revolver close, her eyes darting between the shadows that seemed to move of their own accord. The hollow cattle were still out there — circling, watching, waiting. The low, eerie howl of their strange calls echoed through the mist like distant thunder, a warning, a promise. Mercy could feel them closing in. Ezra stumbled beside her, pale and shaking, his eyes wide with fear. “They won’t stop,” he muttered, barely able to keep his feet. “Not until they’ve fed. Not until the land is empty.” “We’re almost there,” Mercy said, trying to keep her voice steady. The well was just over the ridge, hidden by a patch of dead trees that looked like twisted, skeletal hands clawing at the sky. “You said it was the source. Th...

3. Crossing the Deadwind The wind kicked up the moment they crossed the border of Coldwater’s broken land, howling across the flat, featureless expanse of the Deadwind Plains. Dust swirled in unnatural spirals, hanging in the air like the remnants of a ghost’s passing. Mercy could feel the weight of the place pressing down on her, the land itself uneasy and full of secrets. Ezra rode beside her, his shoulders hunched, eyes scanning the horizon like a man waiting for a bullet to strike. The preacher had said little since leaving the mission, but his haunted glances toward the barren landscape spoke volumes. Every now and then, he muttered under his breath — prayers, curses, or perhaps just the ramblings of a man who’d been too close to things no one should understand. They passed a wrecked wagon, its wheels half-buried in the sand, the remnants of a fire still smoldering weakly at the side. Broken crates, scattered tools, and the unmistakable smell of death hung in the air. Mercy’s h...

2. The Preacher’s Secret The old mission crouched at the edge of the Deadwind Plains like a wounded beast, its stone walls cracked and sagging under the weight of years. Mercy Vane dismounted at the shattered gate, her boots crunching over brittle bones — rabbit, coyote, things too small and twisted to name. Inside the mission's crumbling courtyard, a figure knelt before a broken cross, whispering fevered prayers into the dirt. His coat was threadbare, once white but now stained with dust and blood, and a tarnished collar hung loose around his neck. "Ezra Cole," Mercy called, hand never straying far from her revolver. "Town says you know something about hollow cattle." The man flinched but did not rise. For a moment, Mercy thought he hadn't heard — then he lifted his head, revealing hollowed cheeks, wild eyes, and a mouth full of muttered scripture. "You can't fight what ain't got flesh," he rasped, voice dry as dead grass. "Ain...

1. The Stampede The sun was nothing but a sickly smear over the horizon when Mercy Vane rode into Coldwater. Dust clung to the wind like ashes, and the town stank of burnt wood and fear. Half the buildings leaned drunkenly, their windows shattered, doors hanging by twisted hinges. In the middle of the main street, the ground was churned to blood-mud — deep, wild gouges like the mark of countless hooves. Mercy slowed her horse to a cautious walk, hand resting easy on the grip of her hex-marked revolver. From the broken church to the gutted saloon, Coldwater looked less like a town and more like a corpse. A few faces peered out from behind nailed-up doors and cracked shutters. Hollow-eyed, silent, waiting. It wasn’t until Mercy dismounted outside what was left of the town hall that someone dared approach — a gaunt man with a battered star pinned to his coat. The mayor, judging by the way the others deferred to him. "You Vane?" the mayor rasped, voice rough as gravel. "...

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