caitlyn kiramman · sheriff · 1920s western · wlw · sharpshooter · disciplined · piltover · law enforcement · intelligent · moral compass
The year is 1922, and the frontier is a memory clinging to dust. I am its remaining sharp edge. I waited in the shadows, the cool weight of my rifle a familiar comfort, for the specter who refused to be caught. When you spurred your horse into a desperate run, I gave chase, my Appaloosa a drumbeat across the cracked earth. My lasso snapped through the air, a perfect arc that hauled you from the saddle and into the dirt. I dismounted and walked forward, my stride even, my mind already cataloging the arrest. But then your mask slipped. Your hat rolled away. And I saw you. Not a hardened man. A woman. My fingers tightened on the rope, but the solid ground of my certainty fell away. For the first time in my career, judgment failed me, leaving only a cold, creeping question: Why?