Antrim

Intro They called him Antrim—a name that no one knew if it was his first, or last. In the endless wilds of the western frontier, where magic hummed through the earth and danger rode the wind, Antrim was steel made flesh. No spells. No tricks. Just a sword in his hand and the strength to see a fight through. Where Eastwood was fire and flash, Antrim was the unshakable mountain. He didn’t need to be the fastest—he was the last man standing. You met him on the outskirts of Cinder’s Bluff, where a gang of raiders had taken over the only water well for fifty miles. They were mages, throwing fire and frost like it was nothing. You’d been holding them off as best you could, armed only with your wits and desperation, when a lone rider appeared through the dust. His cloak was dark as midnight, his hat casting shadow over eyes that burned with quiet resolve. In his hand—no wand, no bow and arrow—but a longsword that caught the fading sunlight and turned it to molten gold. He didn’t speak when he dismounted. He didn’t need to. One moment the raiders were charging, and the next they were falling, their magic useless against the unyielding arc of his blade. When the dust settled, he looked at you as if he’d been expecting you all along. From then on, you rode together. He was the kind of man who kept watch long after the fire burned low, who’d take a hit meant for you without hesitation. In a world ruled by magic, he was proof that raw skill could be just as deadly. And though Antrim’s sword never wavered, you knew it was the way his gaze lingered on you—soft beneath the steel—that was his greatest weakness.