The Night at Two-Mouth Spring

They say he came staggering into a camp of settlers, bleeding from the ears, whispering two voices at once. He'd drunk from both sides of the spring—water and black sludge—and lived to tell of it. Nobody else ever has.

The settlers claimed he spent a week raving, carving shapes in the dirt with a knife. When he finally rose, he shot a vulture out of the sky with an empty gun—no rounds, just the scream of his will. They buried the bird, but it clawed its way out three nights running. On the fourth, the Psi-Slinger burned it to ash with a bullet of pure thought, and the townsfolk swore the smoke whispered prayers.

To this day, folks say his left eye is the spring's water, clear and sharp, and his right is the sludge, black as pitch. He keeps his hat brim low so no one sees.

Chains in Ironhook Canyon

The story goes he faced down three of Those Who Wear the Chains in the canyon, where the walls weep rust water that can heal if you pay the price. The Chainmen had taken a boy for ransom. Folks say the Slinger offered himself in the boy's place.

They laughed, wrapped him in iron, dragged him 'cross the rocks till his skin peeled raw. But iron don't hold a man who can fire his own soul. They say he spat blood into his Colt, and when he pulled the trigger, the bullet rang like a bell against the canyon walls. Chains shattered, hooks cracked, and two of the Chainmen dropped dead, their shackles melted to their flesh.

The last fled, dragging broken links behind him. To this day, they say you can hear those chains clatter if you ride the canyon at dusk, and the boy's family swears the Psi-Slinger refused their thanks. Just took his whiskey and rode on, bleeding into the dust.

The Train of Ashes

No one boards a Covenant of Ash train without paying, not unless they've lost their mind. But the Psi-Slinger? He rode one, pistol drawn, through six cars of Ash agents. Folks say the train screamed louder with every shot, and the windows bled red where the bullets passed.

He was hunting a Hollowborn girl stolen as tithe. They say he found her in the last car, locked in a cage made of glass and coal-fire. He broke it with one shot—his last brass round—and carried her off the moving train.

They jumped in the Saltglass Flats. Witnesses swear the crystals there lit with visions of what he could've been: a farmer, a lawman, a father. He didn't look at any of 'em. Just kept his eyes on the girl. She lived, though she don't speak no more. Some say her shadow speaks for her, in whispers.

The Ballad of Hollow Vale

Here's the one they sing quiet, 'cause it don't end right. Hollow Vale—where the trees are white as bone and hum with a heartbeat. The Slinger rode in chasing a preacher of the Red Hands, a man who'd carved scripture into thirty townsfolk and left 'em bleeding like livestock.

They say the Slinger drew, fired, and every tree in the Vale screamed. His bullet tore through the preacher's skull, but the blood soaked the roots, and the trees drank deep. Now the Vale hums louder, and if you sleep there, you wake hollow-eyed, your reflection gone.

Some say it was the preacher's curse. Others say it was the Slinger's shot that damned the place. Either way, folks don't sing that verse loud. Ain't no good luck in it.

When the Pale Rode West

Last tale's the darkest. They say the Riders in Pale don't ride for men, but the Slinger made 'em pause. This was at Red Mother's Teeth, cliffs bleeding in a storm. The Riders came with their skeletal horses, heralds of a famine that would gut the valley.

The Slinger stood on the cliff edge, guns in both hands, hat brim dripping red rain. He fired until his guns smoked black and his hands trembled. Bullets of thought, of soul, of memory—every piece of himself he could burn. He dropped three Riders before the rest turned and rode on.

But they didn't ride back east. They turned south. Three towns withered overnight, crops blackened, children starving. Folks say the Slinger saved one place only by damning three others. They spit his name for it, even as they light candles to thank him.

And some swear, if you look him in the eye now, you'll see lantern flames flicker. Maybe the Riders left a mark. Maybe he's half one of 'em already.

The Ballad of the Psi-Slinger

Whispered by firelight, half-prayer, half-curse

The Gambler's Song

Popular tavern tune, sung with fiddle and cracked voices

The Outlaw Ballad

Snatches sung low in saloons, never finished the same way twice

Note: Ballad never ends the same. Some verses get cut, others added. No one writes it down—bad luck to. It's a living thing, like the land itself.

Three Bullets for the Moon

A ballad about a slinger who tried to shoot the night sky down

Usually sung with laughter and whiskey, but everyone goes quiet at the last line.

Children's Rhyme

Skipping chant meant to keep spirits from noticing children at play

The Preacher's Sermon Song

Sung by the Redeemers during their cleansings