CroppedImage_650_320__NWM-deadmanshand2.jpgThe June sun slides under the table of the Dry Lands, leaving a pool of blood on the horizon. A gravedigger tamps the last shovelful of earth over another dead gunslinger on Lonesome Hill. In town, the sheriff drinks himself to sleep in his own jail cell, trying to forget the curse of a Black Hills witch. As the streets flood with long shadows, a preacher mumbles incantations to an ancient, nameless god in the churchyard. In The One-Eyed Saloon, a knife fight breaks out between two gamblers over a prostitute with a wooden leg. The dwarfish bartender mutely raises a shotgun from behind the bar and puts a hole through one gambler’s chest the size of a dinner plate. The crooked waltz being hammered out on the off-tune piano in the corner doesn’t stop; the hunched-over musician growls out another chorus in a language no one understands. Past midnight, the howls of hungry predators rise from the starless foothills, and something horrible crawls out of the muddy well to burrow under the gallows’ porch. On the outskirts of town, at a campfire near a covered wagon with a sign painted “Raven’s Mystic Apothecary,” a haggard gypsy woman tattoos your name on her skin with a needle of bone, while a centuries-old professor studies a relic that can be used to raise the dead…

Welcome to Perdition, partner. A land of bullets, blood, monsters and bad magic. If you’re here, you’ve almost surely lost your way.

The Ghosts of Perdition

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