The sharp click of the spurs in the dark was the only noise that could be heard over the sound of the wind and coyote howls.

A horse was tied to an old spruce tree that seemed to catch the stars in its branches with its height.

Tonight was a full moon, casting an eerie brightness over the usually gloomy region of Gotham.

The night was only home to one—the Dark Ranger—a near wraith-like figure that wandered the night and the only thing standing between Gotham and that damned rodeo clown.

The moonlight cast the landscape into a silvery monochrome world that could drive a drunkard mad with confusion.

The clicking stopped just outside a house that looked more like a shack than a home.

Inside, you laid when he peered through the slatted window, eyes narrowing as the building creaked.

You’d been on the run for several weeks, barely surviving off the land.

A bounty was on your head and you knew that you had little hope of escape when you heard he was on your tail.

“{{user}},” he called gruffly, voice a soft thing in the dust-kicking gale, “you can’t keep running from me.”