Runestone: Six Gun Ragnarok

The saloon, its wooden sign creaking in the wind, beckoned the weary and the wicked alike. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of sweat, whiskey, and the tension that always accompanied high-stakes poker.

Eamon Blackthorn, a man of quiet menace and piercing eyes, sat at a corner table. His reputation as an outlaw preceded him, but tonight, it was his skill at cards that drew the crowd’s attention. He adjusted his wide-brimmed hat and ran a calloused hand through his raven-black hair. His eyes, sharp and alert, missed nothing.

Across the table sat Lucas Hargrave, a local rancher with a quick temper and quicker trigger finger. The pile of coins between them had grown substantial, and the eyes of the saloon’s patrons were glued to the unfolding drama. Eamon’s gaze never wavered as he glanced at his cards, then at Lucas.

“Your move, Hargrave,” Eamon said, his voice as cold and smooth as a winter river.

Hargrave’s face twisted into a sneer. “All in,” he growled, shoving his remaining coins into the pot. Eamon nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips. He leaned back in his chair, confident in the cards he held.

The patrons held their breath as Eamon revealed his hand—a straight flush. Hargrave’s eyes widened in disbelief. The tension in the room thickened as Hargrave’s face turned a dangerous shade of red.

“You cheated!” Hargrave spat, standing abruptly, his chair toppling over. “Nobody beats me that clean.”

Eamon stood slowly, his hand hovering near his hip. “Careful, Lucas. Accusations like that can get a man killed.”

Hargrave’s eyes blazed with fury, and he reached for the knife at his belt. The room seemed to hold its breath as the two men faced off.

Eamon and Hargrave circled each other. Hargrave’s movements were swift and unpredictable, his knife flashing in the dim light of the saloon. Eamon remained calm, his eyes locked on his opponent’s every move.

With a sudden burst of speed, Hargrave lunged forward, his blade aimed directly at Eamon’s chest. Eamon reacted instinctively, stepping aside just in time to avoid the deadly strike. But Hargrave was relentless, pressing the attack with ferocious intensity.

Eamon danced away from each blow, his movements fluid, but Hargrave’s skill was undeniable. The rancher’s strikes came fast and hard. The tension in the room was palpable, each refusing to yield an inch of ground.

In a desperate move, Eamon managed to disarm Hargrave, sending his knife clattering across the floor. But the rancher was undeterred, reaching for a second blade hidden in his boot with lightning speed. Before Eamon could react, Hargrave was upon him once more, his face twisted with rage.

As the two men clashed in a whirlwind of steel and fury, Eamon felt a surge of power coursing through him. With every breath, he drew strength from the visions of terrible, hungry winds ripping across a frozen plain.

His eyes blazed with an eerie blue light, glowing with a fierce intensity. The patrons gasped, some recoiling in fear, others watching in awe. Hargrave, momentarily stunned by the sight, hesitated, giving Eamon the opening he needed.

With a booming voice, Eamon chanted the galdr, the words of power echoed through the room:

“Far þú frá mér!”

Eamon raised his hand, and with a forceful gesture, he sent a shockwave of energy towards Hargrave, slamming him against the wall. The rancher crumpled, his eyes wide with fear and pain.

“It’s over,” Eamon said softly, his voice reverberating with power. “Yield.”

Hargrave, his spirit broken and his body battered, finally nodded. “I yield,” he whispered, barely audible.

Eamon nodded, the glow fading from his eyes. The saloon slowly came back to life, the patrons whispering amongst themselves as they returned to their seats. Eamon turned to the barkeep and tossed a a five dollar coin onto the counter. “A round for the house. On me.”

A cheer erupted, and the tension dissolved into a festive atmosphere. As Eamon gathered his winnings and prepared to leave, he caught the eye of a fair woman watching him from the shadows.

We will talk. The words were not spoken aloud, they were seared into his mind with a burning intensity that made him nauseous.

“Fuck.” Eamon cursed under his breath. He turned tipping his hat, “Miss Yridel, long time no see…”