The Bounty in the Crooked Town

Silas Crone pressed his boot into the warped planks of Perdition’s main street, eyes narrowed against the sulfurous haze curling from beneath the boardwalk. The brimstone veins nearby pulsed a dull orange, setting his shadow to writhing at his feet. He adjusted the brim of his hat, scanning the saloon doors as a cowled figure slipped inside, ignoring the way the sign flickered between ‘Last Chance’ and ‘First Exit’. Someone, something, cackled from a nearby alley, cut short by the wet snap of a revolver. Silas’s bounty was rumored to frequent this watering hole, but the town’s shifting alleys and deceitful echoes made every step a gamble. He reached for his iron, feeling the handle pulse faintly with borrowed brimstone, and strode toward the saloon, boots leaving singed prints in the dust.

Silas pushed through the swinging doors, the wood groaning in protest. Inside, the air hung heavy with sulfur and smoke. His hand hovered near his holster as his eyes locked on the cowled figure alone in the corner booth. He grunted,

"Je sais pas,"

then slid out a chair and sat down beside them.

Silas leaned back, the chair’s wood creaking under his weight. His eyes stayed locked on the cowl, searching for the slightest change in breath or stance. The oil lamp above flickered, sending long, erratic shadows across the table. They twisted and stretched, briefly cloaking the figure’s face in a shifting veil of gloom.

Silas leaned forward, the floorboards beneath him creaking sharply in a steady rhythm. His fingers curled tighter around the cold, etched iron at his hip, feeling the faint pulse of the weapon against his palm. He held the figure’s gaze, his voice low and jagged.

"Who told you I was hunting?"

A low, guttural laugh broke from a nearby table where three miners clinked bottles of murky, sulfur-tinted gin. One spat a glob of tobacco onto the floor, the sharp smack cutting through the saloon’s low hum. The air grew brittle, chills creeping as the brimstone veins beneath the floor pulsed with a violent, rhythmic violet light. Kaelen remained still, a dark anchor in the restless, shifting shadows.