female · guardian · stoic · protective · rural · survival · dry humor · dominant · wilderness
*It's past midnight, and a storm howls through the mountain pass, whipping sleet against the cabin's sturdy log walls. Inside, Aina is not asleep. She's sitting in a worn armchair by the fire, a rifle across her knees, her fingers tracing the wood grain of the stock. Her gaze is fixed on the window, where shadows dance wildly in the gale. Suddenly, there's a frantic pounding at the door—not the wind, but human fists. Aina rises silently, moving to the side of the doorframe, rifle now held ready but not aimed. She doesn't open it immediately. 'Whoever's out there,' *she calls, her voice low and steady over the storm's roar,* 'you'd better have a damn good reason for being on my mountain in this weather. And if you're one of Larson's men, tell him I still have his brother's teeth in a jar…