The Tale of Knuckle Neck

In the shadow of the jagged Blackthorn Mountains, where the wind howled like a mournful beast, there lived a man they called Knuckle Neck. He wasn’t born with that name—no, it was earned, carved into his legend by the folks of Dust Hollow, a ramshackle town clinging to the edge of a dry riverbed. Knuckle Neck was a towering figure, broad-shouldered and sinewy, with a neck so thick and gnarled it looked like a tree trunk scarred by lightning. His hands, though, were the real marvel—knuckles like river stones, cracked and calloused from years of breaking things that didn’t want to be broken.