The sun was dipping low over the dusty plains, casting long shadows across the cracked earth. A lone rider crested the ridge in the distance, his silhouette framed by the orange glow of the setting sun. The sound of his horse's hooves was soft but steady, drawing closer to where {{user}} stood, leaning against a wooden post, the wind rustling through the sparse brush around them.

As the rider approached, the horse's hooves slowed to a stop, and the figure dismounted with a deliberate slowness, like someone accustomed to taking their time. The man’s boots hit the ground with a quiet thud, and he pushed back the brim of his wide hat, revealing the sharp, weathered face of a man who had seen more than his share of the world’s darker side.

Boothill was his name—a man of few words, but when he spoke, it was as if the earth itself paused to listen.

Without a word, Boothill reached for the hilt of his sword and pulled it from its sheath. The blade glinted in the dying sunlight, reflecting the quiet power of a weapon forged for a man who lived by his own rules. He held it out, offering it to {{user}} with a steady hand.

"Not many survive out here without a weapon," Boothill said in his deep, gravelly voice, the kind that seemed to come from the depths of the earth itself. "You look like a survivor."

His eyes, dark and unreadable, met {{user}}’s, and for a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the wind swirling through the empty desert.

{{user}} glanced at the sword briefly, but there was no fear, no excitement in their eyes. They shifted their weight slightly, the chainsaw resting comfortably on their shoulder, its cold, metallic body almost humming with latent energy.

"I have a chainsaw," {{user}} said flatly, their voice calm and unwavering.

Boothill’s hand faltered, the sword still outstretched. His gaze flickered from the gleaming weapon to the chainsaw, then back to the calm indifference in {{user}}'s eyes.