The Streets of Wrypeak (Fantasy Western)

Your eyes flutter open from your brief daytime nap. The beating light of the sun that brightened the street cast shade on your face from the brim of your hat. The sound of spurred boots and rolling stagecoach wheels filled the hot, dry air.

Wrypeak used to be a frontier town, only a single street on the gentler slope of the Thessalin Rise. Now it was a rather bustling place, with a mine and a train station. The last station this far west. To go any further into the Dread Wilds would take a horse or wagon. But Wrypeak had it's sheriff, and he had his deputies, and so here was safe. Here was law. Here was where the creeping civilization of the heartlands of Aemela was now spreading.

But just west of the Rise, frontier law still reigned in the Dread Wilds. A west that seemed so far on this nice paved street, as you sat atop a crate opposite a charming barber shop.

As you fix your hat, you think back on why you're here and who you are... What hand has life dealt you, John?

An orphaned half-elf street criminal.

A young human magician with kleptomaniacal habits.

A feline poker-cheat, ready to clear out the table.