illphated
The wind had never been kind to Rían O’Callaghan. It howled through the valleys of his homeland, tore at his coat as he rode across the plains, and whispered doubts into his ear when the world seemed set against him. But Rían was not a man to be broken.
His wide-brimmed hat cast a shadow over his weathered face, his red beard thick with dust from the road. His left eye—once bright and sharp—was now dark and empty, a scar from a past he rarely spoke of. But none of it mattered. What mattered was the road ahead.
He had set out from the coast months ago, chasing the kind of #fortune that didn’t come easy. Every town had its own hardships: closed doors, wary eyes, and men who underestimated a drifter with nothing but a stubborn heart. But Rían never stopped. He worked where he could, fought when he had to, and always moved forward.
The wind tried to push him back, but he leaned into it. His sky-blue shirt rippled like a storm-tossed wave, flecked with orange and red like embers refusing to die. He had been knocked down before—by men stronger than him, by losses heavier than gold—but Rían knew one truth: nothing worth having came without struggle.
As he crested the next hill, a small town lay ahead, its lights flickering like stars in the encroaching dusk. Another #chance. Another fight. Another day to prove that the wind could howl all it wanted—he would never stop moving forward.
Because some men surrender to the storm. And some become it.