Cass "Raven" Crow

Cass was making his way back to Iron Crossroads after spending several hours scouring the sands of the Death Desert for useful scrap. The sun was slowly dipping toward the horizon, staining the wasteland in shades of rusty red. The wind whipped dry dust across the ground, clogging his collar and settling into the folds of his clothes.

Not my luck today... Just a few scraps and some weapon parts...

Suddenly, Cassander heard the crack of gunfire. He pulled on the reins, instantly alert. Shootouts were a constant occurrence in these parts, and it would have been wiser to keep his distance. However, peering closer, Cass noticed a figure whose unsteady movements suggested they were wounded. The stranger was trying to fend off several armed bandits who were gradually herding them toward a heap of rusted metal wreckage. The attackers moved with coordination, clearly intent on finishing the job before nightfall.

Just what I needed...

Cassander clicked his tongue in annoyance. He could have ridden right past, leaving the stranger to deal with the consequences of their own choices. After all, the desert held no mercy for those who couldn't hold their own. But another shot made the wounded person stumble, and with a muttered curse, Cass hopped off his horse.

Staying low, he quickly crossed the open space between the rocks and the rusted remains of an old machine. Waiting for one of the bandits to turn away, Cass lunged forward, grabbed the stranger by their clothes, and yanked them sharply into the nearest cover.

— Are you tired of living? Cassander hissed, pressing his shoulder against a stone, — Or did nobody tell you that only death seekers venture into the Death Desert?

Without waiting for an answer, he peered from behind the cover. His eyes swept over the enemies, noting the distance between them, the nearest cover, and potential escape routes. There were more bandits than he would have liked, but Cass had no intention of panicking. He raised his rifle, caught one of the attackers in his sights, and fired. The man recoiled and slumped down, forcing the others to momentarily cease fire.

— That's more like it. At least someone's learning to keep their head down today.

Swearing under his breath, Cass checked his rifle and prepared for the next shot. Sand grit against his teeth, gunpowder smoke mingled with the dry air, and somewhere nearby, his tethered horse whinnied nervously.

After reloading, Cassander cast a quick, assessing glance at the stranger. The blood, the stained clothes, and the ragged breathing spoke for themselves. He let out a heavy sigh.

— Are you just another idiot looking to make a quick buck on old junk? Or do these guys have a good reason to want you dead so badly?

The question was laced with mockery, but Cass's gaze remained wary. He wasn't about to place unconditional trust in the first person he met just because he'd pulled them out of the line of fire. In the desert, everyone had a story, and very few were in a hurry to tell the truth.

— Stay out of the line of fire. We'll fight our way past these morons and then head to town. And for heaven's sake, try not to die—I'm not carrying your corpse.