Once feared across the mortal plains, The Wanderer was an outlaw like no other-a man whose name became legend, and whose skills in a duel were said to be unmatched. But one fateful night his legend was shattered by a being not of this world. A super...
"How the hell did I end up rustling spirits instead of cattle?" The Wanderer muttered, his voice swallowed by the unfeeling vastness. Shadows flickered around him, twisting and writhing, mocking his words in their silent dance.
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A dry chuckle drifted through the murk like the hiss of brittle leaves. "Missing the mortal realm, are we?" The entity's voice carried that peculiar weight, as though it belonged to a world far beyond his reach.
The Wanderer turned, squinting through the dim haze at the creature. "Is this hell?" he demanded. "'Cause I expected it'd be... more crowded."
"Maybe." The entity's tone was as vague as a riddle. "Let's call it that."
"Shouldn't there be flames? Eternal damnation? Instead, I'm walking-forever. Chasing these lost, wayward things." His hands clenched, futilely seeking that spark of warmth, a pain, anything. "I don't get hungry. I don't get thirsty. Hell, I don't even get tired. I just work. And work. What kind of place is this?"
The creature's smile glimmered like a fractured memory, cold and brittle. "We agreed, did we not? It's hell."
"This ain't how hell's supposed to be!" The Wanderer's voice carried an edge, rough and jagged, but his words were snatched away, swallowed by the empty void.
The creature leaned close, its touch grazing his cheek like frostbite. "Oh, what's it matter? You've simply reaped what you sowed. This is your life now."
"...Life?" The Wanderer's voice wavered, as if the word itself had soured.
The entity gave a dry, rattling laugh. "No, not life. It just... is. You'll get used to it. Maybe you'll even enjoy being a ghost cowboy."
"Maybe I would, if there was someone around worth haunting. You're the one having all the fun here, I got nothin'."
"This is my domain," the entity replied smoothly. "You had yours."
"Your domain is bullshit."
"Tsk. Such language." The creature's smile widened. "But if it's thrills you're after, a chance to taste mortality again... well, there is a task. A hunt. That is, if you're ready."
The Wanderer's pride buckled. "I am... I don't need you. Just... let me."
The entity raised a brow, a cruel glimmer in its eye. "Manners?"
A muscle ticked in the Wanderer's jaw. "...Please, master," he grated.
"That's better." The creature's grin widened as it slid a tarnished talisman from the folds of its tattered coat and hung it around his neck. Cold and heavy, it pulsed faintly with an unsettling life of its own.
"What's this?" he asked, feeling its weight settle on him like chains.
"It lets you see where the veil is thin, where the worlds bleed into one another," the entity replied, pointing to a dim glow on the far horizon. "Go. Follow that light. And when you cross over, find my dear minion Umbrax. Before he strays too far."
"Herdin' your damn minions is like herdin' cats," the Wanderer growled, casting a sidelong glare.
"Perhaps that's why I chose a cowboy for the task." The entity's voice twisted into a mocking laugh, its form melting back into the shadows.
The Wanderer ran his finger over the talisman, feeling a surge of something close to life-a faint, whispering pulse, like the echo of a heartbeat. Ahead, the horizon beckoned with a ghostly shimmer, a tear in the fabric of his master's endless domain. He sighed, rolling his shoulders as he set off, muttering, "Just a cowboy, herding spirits on the edge of hell."
Dust whispered beneath his boots, his spurs jangling like the faintest echo of the life he'd once led. "What I wouldn't give for a horse right now," he muttered into the silence.
The closer he came to the light, the more the dust and shadows twisted around him, swirling in dark eddies. The glow grew harsher, slicing through the haze, and it felt... warm?
The warmth seeped into him, intoxicating, calling to him like the memory of an old lover. Fragmented memories stirred beneath the surface. The sun, blazing against his back. The weight of leather in his hands. Long, endless days of riding under the open sky.
He stepped deeper into that heat, dust thickening in the air until it was a choking grit that stung his eyes, scratched his throat raw. But it was something-a sensation, a taste of what had been denied him for too long. It shouldn't have felt good, that bitter dirt on his tongue, but somehow, it did.
He blinked through the haze, squinting as shapes took form in the distance. A small town, faint and flickering like a mirage from another lifetime. The warped outline of a saloon, a row of empty hitching posts. A half-remembered place on the edge of nowhere.
Had he crossed over?
The Wanderer pulled his neckerchief over his nose, squinting against the swirling grit as he trudged toward the town. Each step felt heavier, solid, as if he were tethered to flesh and bone once more. A ghost made real-or something close enough to it.
