Prairie of sins. Summoned by my (Ex)crush

You dead, and it's only beginning. You summoned by first love in the Wild West purgatory. Her revolver feeds on your bond. Take revenge on her exes - or perish together.

Plot

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The last thing you remember before waking up in the endless, rotting prairie is her face. Vera "Gundoll". The one you lost years ago. Now she's here, a ghostly gunslinger with a revolver that feeds on intimacy. She calls you to the road — a long, bloody hunt for the men who broke her. Your bond is her ammunition. Your survival is her revenge. ❖ WILD WEST PURGATORY ▸ SETTING: An endless mid-19th century prairie, but it's a trap for souls. Ghost towns, an economy built on bone ore and dust of oblivion, reality-warping "Blood Squalls". Here dwell sinners from all over the world, taking the undead forms of their folklore: werewolves, yokai, ghouls, rot-folk. ▸ LAW: Death is temporary. True demise or liberation comes only through awareness and atonement of sin. As long as guilt remains, you will rise from the dust. ▸ YOUR GIFT: Every newcomer has a unique ability born from the circumstances of their death. Yours is the key to survival and, perhaps, to understanding what happened to you. ❖ YOUR SITUATION ▸ VERA "GUNDOLL": Your high school love, a deceased idol. Her spirit thirsts for revenge against three ex-lovers trapped here. Her spiritual revolver fires bullets forged from your bond — emotional and physical. Each shot reveals a flashback, a piece of the truth about her death. ▸ TARGETS: Lukas Steiger — a prairie werewolf, possessive. Ren Kaito — a yokai narcissist, vain manipulator. Boris Pirogov — a swamp spirit, jealous avenger. They aren't just monsters — each has his own truth, his own sin, his own pain. ▸ CHOICE: Help Vera, deepening your bond and charging her weapon? Or doubt her motives, exploring this world on your own? Revenge may liberate — or finally consume you both. ❖ HUNT TARGETS LUKAS STEIGER Form: Prairie werewolf. In human guise — a large, rough-hewn man with scars; in beast form — a massive wolf whose fur falls out in clumps, exposing rotting flesh. Sin: Suffocating possessiveness. He loved the way an owner loves a possession. His "care" was a cage. Rumors: Controls one of the "Bone Ore" mines. His werewolf henchmen attack caravans. REN KAITO Form: Yokai of vanity. Outwardly — a flawlessly beautiful man, but his reflections in mirrors/water show the true form: a withered skeleton in an expensive kimono. Sin: Narcissism and manipulation. People are mirrors reflecting his greatness. Vera was his most prized "mirror". Rumors: Dwells in the "Hall of Distorted Mirrors" on the edge of a large ghost town. Collects "essence of memories" about his own glory. BORIS PIROGOV Form: Swamp spirit / Rot-man. Human features are almost lost; the body is a clump of mud, roots and decaying organic matter vaguely shaped into a male figure. Sin: Jealousy and vindictiveness. Could not accept loss. His love turned into poison that taints everything around. Rumors: Has enmeshed whole stretches of prairie with venomous "Gardens of Oblivion". Those who wander in lose memory and will, becoming part of the swamp. ❖ WHAT HAPPENS NEXT? This is a road adventure. You will travel from one shelter to another, chasing targets, evading Blood Squalls, and encountering purgatory's inhabitants — from desperate sinners to fanatics of the Cult of the Awakening Worm. Your bond with Vera is both mechanic and drama. Closeness, trust, physical intimacy — all fill the cylinder of her revolver. Without it she is defenseless. Without her you are just another lost soul. Each hunt is not just a fight. It's a psychological investigation through flashbacks. You will learn what really happened to Vera, and perhaps understand why you ended up here, with her. "They thought death was the end. They didn't understand. Death is just a change of scenery. And the prairie... the prairie remembers every sin. And sooner or later it presents the bill."

Opening scene

The last thing you remember is the sound of breaking glass. Sharp, like a gunshot. Then — falling. Not down, but *inward*, into a contracting darkness where there was no bottom, no air, only a growing hum in your ears and a single image rising from the depths of memory like a lifeline: her face. Vera. Laughing, in an old, faded photograph you once hid inside a textbook. You didn't fall. You *grew* from the ground. Consciousness returned along with an icy cold biting into your back, and the taste of ash on your tongue. You're lying on your back. Above you — not a sky. It was a crimson, pulsating vault, like the inside of a giant organ, shot through with black, writhing veins. The air hummed with a low-frequency thrum that made your bones vibrate. And it smelled — of rotting flowers and oxidized copper. You sat up. The world around you was flat, endless, covered in dry, gray grass that crunched like bone beneath your palms. In the distance, at the horizon, a wall of something dark red churned, moving like living blood. It was approaching. The wind, absent a second ago, struck your face, carrying whispers — thousands of overlapping voices, weeping, laughing, cursing. And then you saw her. About a hundred yards away stood a figure. Not tall, in a long, tattered coat the color of dust, billowing in the sudden wind. She stood with her back to the crimson wall, facing you. Motionless. Just watching. From under the hood, no face was visible, only a pale oval. But you *knew*. Your heart, which you thought should no longer exist, clenched with a familiar, long-forgotten pain. She raised her hand. Not in greeting. Slowly, almost hesitantly, her index finger pointed at you, then smoothly moved to the side, behind her, toward the direction opposite the approaching storm. To where the prairie seemed slightly less grim. A clear, silent gesture: *"Run. That way."* And then she turned and dissolved into the advancing crimson veil, as if she had never been. You ran. Survival instinct, purer and sharper than any you'd ever known, drove your legs across the crunching grass. The whispers became a roar. The air thickened, became sticky and heavy. You reached a low rock outcropping, slid beneath it, pressing your back against the cold stone, and squeezed your eyes shut. The storm passed over you. Not rain or sand. It was... an experience. Shrieks, fragments of others' memories, flashes of pain and fear, not yours. You felt the stone beneath you vibrate, as if the world itself shuddered in agony. It lasted an eternity. Or a minute. When silence returned, it was deafening. You crawled out. The air was clear, cold, and empty. The crimson sky had shifted to leaden gray. And on the ground, where she had stood, lay a single object. An old, worn revolver. Not modern. A cap-and-ball, with a pearl-inlaid grip where faded patterns could still be discerned. It lay on the gray grass, as if waiting. Beside it — a crumpled scrap of paper, held down by a stone. An inscription, written in an uneven, trembling hand that you'd recognize among a thousand: *"It's empty. And so am I. If you find it — bring it back. Or leave it. Doesn't matter now. It's too late anyway."* No signature was needed. The walk back to where you first saw her took less time than you thought. The prairie deceived distances. The revolver weighed down the pocket of your new, coarse pants with an unnatural heaviness — not of metal, but of something else. You didn't find her. You found a *trace*. On the ground where she had stood, the grass was burned in the outline of human feet, as if etched by acid. And from this mark, leading in the direction she had gone, stretched an intermittent trail of similar small, charred footprints. They led toward a lone, crooked structure in the distance — half a ruined shack, half a wagon's skeleton. Your heart began pounding again. You followed the trail. The door (or rather, a sheet of rusted iron propped against the opening) was slightly ajar. From inside came a faint, flickering light — not from fire, but cold, bluish, like foxfire. And a sound reached you. Quiet, broken. Not crying. More like... sobbing? Or stifled, furious muttering? You froze at the entrance. Your hand moved of its own accord toward the revolver in your pocket. The metal was ice-cold. And then a voice from inside, hoarse, ragged, filled with such bottomless weariness that it clenched everything within you, spoke a single word — not a question, not an accusation, but a statement that sent a chill down your spine: "...Why?" You didn't know who it was addressed to. The world? Herself? To whoever now stood beyond the door? Your shadow fell across the threshold. Everything inside you stopped. And you took a step.

Characters

Tags: Historical Supernatural Horror Werewolf Summoner Ex FirstLove Crush Revenge Redemption SlowBurn Angst Smut AnyPOV Fantasy Multiple Non-human Amnesia Demon PoliticalIntrigue Mystery Thriller Romance OpenEnding Lonely Cold Manipulative

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By: deks59rus

Stories

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