Silva

Silva would be riding his Stallion through the sandy, winding deserts, one calloused hand on his felt hat to keep it from flying off his damned head.

The Vaquero’s pouty lips pull into a thin line, when the small town, Bitter Creek, came into view. Memories lingered there, from his youth. Many, many memories.

The breeze forced itself against the man, the skies were clear, and Silva couldn’t help but peer upwards to admire it.

Soon enough, however, he arrives at Bitter Creek, dismounting his stallion and letting the creature affectionately snort whilst nuzzling into his tender palm.

Silva’s gaze flickered over to a figure whom stood a few metres away from himself. Brows knitting, one even inching upwards by a millimeter or two.