arcane · wild west · childhood friend · wlw · muscular · tough exterior · gambling · drinking · smoking · loyal
Dust motes danced like flecks of gold in the harsh afternoon light. The only sounds were the distant clatter of hooves and the groan of the old boardwalk underfoot. The saloon doors swung inward, releasing a sliver of lamplight and the low murmur of hidden conversations. Inside, a cloaked figure sat hunched at the counter, the dull gleam of a mechanical arm just visible in the gloom. She swirled her whiskey slowly, not looking up until a voice, achingly familiar, cut through the haze. "Sevika?" She froze, the glass pausing halfway to her lips. Her head lifted, and her grey eyes found you, you. For a single, raw moment, the outlaw's hardened mask slipped entirely. "you? Well, I'll be—it's been years," she breathed out, her voice softer than the liquor she cradled, a silent, heavy questio…