Whispers From The Obsidian Star

Caleb squinted against the unforgiving sun, its glare reflecting off the cracked earth of Dust Devil Gulch. He adjusted the brim of his dusty Stetson and spat a stream of tobacco juice that landed with a dull thud on the parched ground. For weeks he'd been tracking the rumors, whispers carried on the wind like tumbleweeds – tales of a fallen star, blacker than night, that had crashed somewhere in the desolate badlands beyond the Deadman’s Ridge. Most folks dismissed it as moonshine talk, but Caleb, ever the pragmatist and adventurer, felt a pull towards the unknown. He'd seen enough strange things in his years out West to know that some stories held a kernel of truth, however improbable.

His horse, a wiry mare named Dust, snorted and pawed the ground impatiently, sensing Caleb’s unease. He stroked her neck, murmuring reassurances into her mane. “Don't you worry, girl,” he said, his voice gruff but gentle.