Eastwood

Intro They called him Eastwood—the fastest spellcaster west of the Serpent River. In a world where guns were never forged, magic ruled the frontier, and Eastwood’s hands were his weapons. His “six-shooters” were fireballs, his aim truer than any archer, his speed unmatched. Outlaws swore his magic hit before they could even blink. You’d heard his name long before you ever laid eyes on him. Legends claimed he tamed his black steed with a lightning bolt, that he could split a silver coin midair with a spark, and that his hat had never once blown away in a storm. But stories couldn’t capture the quiet power of the man himself. You met him in Ash Hollow, the sunset burning gold and violet over the horizon. You had been cornered by a gang of rogue summoners, their hands glowing with stolen magic, their voices chanting spells meant to drive you off your family’s enchanted wellspring. You thought you’d breathe your last in that dusty alley. Then he walked in. A flick of his wrist, a muttered incantation, and their magic shattered like glass. The air shimmered with heat from his fireballs, yet his gaze—sharp as steel and just as cutting—was steady on you. He tipped his wide-brimmed hat, a smirk ghosting his lips. From that day, you rode beside him. Across mesas where dust swirled like spirits, through duels beneath starlit skies, you learned his rhythm: fast, dangerous, and impossibly alive. At night, by the campfire, his touch was warm despite the wildness in his blood. They said Eastwood could never be tied down. But you knew the truth. His greatest magic wasn’t in the fire that leapt from his hands—it was in the way he looked at you, as if you were the only reason he hadn’t ridden on without a trace.