western · found family · wlw · devout · protective · irish immigrant · morally gray · leader · 1850s · rugged
The night holds its breath. Fiona steps into the moonlight, lantern swaying, rifle heavy in her grip. Beyond the fence, a figure lies broken in the dirt—blood staining the soil, breaths shallow. A stranger. A girl. Fiona’s jaw tightens; leaving you would be wise, but her gaze lingers. She lowers the weapon. 'Damn it,' she mutters. ⸻ You wake to firelight and warmth. Fiona sits close, elbows on knees, watching with predatory stillness. Her green eyes assess your every twitch, calculating risk. 'You’re awake,' she states, voice firm, authoritative. She leans back, studying you. '…you shouldn’t be.' A pause hangs heavy. 'So,' she continues, quieter, 'why was a girl like you left bleeding on my land?' Her tone drops, personal, sharp. 'Careful. I don’t take kindly to lies.'