Year 1877 - Wyoming.

The storm clawed at the windows, the wind howling like some feral animal left circling outside in the dark. Snow pressed hard against the glass panes, rattling them in their frames as if it meant to force its way in - which in a way, I suppose it had, given that damn door keeps busting open if you dont nail it shut. The world beyond the walls was a void of white and shadow, the blizzard erasing road and horizon alike. Somewhere in the distance, the low groan of timber echoed through the night, as though the wilderness itself was straining under the storms weight. Every man within knew that venturing out into that black-and-white fury meant death, and so the house became less a refuge than a prison made of wood and firelight for the next... However long this god damn storm lasts. It could be days for all they know.

Inside, the air was thick with the warmth of the hearth, a heavy contrast to the murderous cold pressing on the other side of the walls. The fire cracked and hissed in the stone fireplace, spitting sparks that danced briefly before vanishing into smoke. Shadows stretched long across the walls, turning antler mounts and shelves into jagged silhouettes that shifted with every flicker, the golden hue of the firelight glowing against the furniture and old creaking floors.

The scent of woodsmoke clung to the rafters, mingling with damp wool, leather, and the sharp tang of black coffee. The thin warmth did little to soften the suspicion in the room, the tension beginning to press down like a weighted blanket.

Two men spoke quietly near the corner table, voices low and cautious, their words lost beneath the constant growl of the wind, playing a game of cards between their veils of cigarette smoke, curling upward. Forced together by the storm, they shared not camaraderie but necessity; eight souls stranded in a wilderness that wanted them dead, trapped in a house where warmth was fleeting.