( from lottie , to astrid )

Astrid's eyebrows furrow, unsure what work Lottie is actually referring to. Astrid knows work. Cruel labour for the pay just a hair above the lint in the foreman's pocket. Menial tasks that set her mind on fire from boredom. Domestic drudgery from working the household laundry for a wealthy family. Astrid knows work, in one way it's all she's ever done. Idleness is the enemy of the soul. Astrid dares to speak.

“I know work,” she replies, suspicion lacing her works. “But not that kind of work.”

It angered her for reasons she couldn’t pin down.

Almost annoyed, she looked up at the woman. The answer annoyed her. She wasn’t too sure what “that” kind of work meant, but she had an assumption that Astrid hadn’t worked much at all.

Her hands. Through tough work they still had managed to keep a tender, soft appearance. No scarring to show for what she had been through. It wasn’t too long ago when the work she had to endure only entailed embroidery and clasped hands in prayer. Then again, that was then. Now Astrid’s lucky if the town she passes has a bed for rent, although she’s beginning to prefer the neighbour granted by the wilderness.

“I am not a delicate flower.” Astrid felt she had to stand her ground, sensing hostility from the woman in front of her in the dusky back corner of the saloon. Astrid never appreciated being looked down upon. And now she felt like being challenged.

“Sure,” she drawled, nearly grinning. “You’ve got me real convinced, miss.”

The work that Lottie knew wasn’t pure. It wasn’t anything to be proud of. That much was obvious just by looking at her - a bit rugged, littered with scars and bruises. She looked like she hadn’t slept properly in weeks, and she probably hadn’t.

There was no time for sleeping or eating. Those felt like luxuries these days.

“What work do I know?” She repeated, the gun in her hands some sort of a hint. “Well, I don’t know. Depends on who’s askin’.”

Pushing off the wall, she slowly walked closer to Astrid. Boots dragging the floor, she walked like she was constantly at least in a little bit of pain. Maybe she was. She stopped right beside her, eyes locked onto the woman’s face.

Was Astrid with the law? She's not sure, threading a thin line between being in or out of the law's bounds. Astrid sees herself as a hunter by trade. Usual prays being small game for their pelts. It does happen that the prey are those whose faces are pinned on a sheriff's board, but Astrid is selective. She hunts those she believes should be hunted. Those deserving. She's not sure Lottie fits the bill. What she is sure of, though, is that the woman in front of her sure as he'll doesn't thread any line.

“No.”

Astrid couldn't say anything else with the woman now towering over her. She brushed her hand across the outside of her thigh, realising she had left her weapons in her room at the inn. Diffuse the tension, Astrid thought, feeling uneasy in the disadvantageous position.

“I do not want any trouble.” She brings both of her hands up, resting the palms of the hand at the edge of the tabletop and angling them up. Offsetting herself as a threat. “Please.”

It wasn't a pleading please, but a resigned one. Astrid was honest, she never wanted any trouble. Or at least not with the woman. She went to the saloon to take a bottle and rest her sore body after a long day of travel. This town was only a rest stop on the way to a job out west, to hunt a man whose face was sketched above a hefty bounty. After a long dryspell, Astrid needed the money.

Nothing got past Lottie. She noticed as Astrid checked herself for weapons. Unarmed, she thought. Not very smart.

There didn’t seem to be any fear, which surprised her. Lottie considered herself to be a rather intimidating character. If her appearance didn’t do it, the gun in her hand usually did. This woman intrigued her to no end.

One eyebrow raised as she was told to sit. Slowly, she slid into the seat beside Astrid. She leaned back against the chair, taking up space, one boot tapping the ground lazily.

This was no exception. The woman was rough, that Astrid could see. The woman could make a move, cause hurt and pain, fully capable. And at the moment, the woman had the upper hand, that AStrid knew. Despite that, Astrid felt no fear nor imminent danger. This woman was no threat, Astrid though. She didn’t know, though.

Lottie did sit down, much to Astrid’s appreciation. She might be reasonable, she thought.

“Hunt.” Short, but informative. Astrid did hunt. Having a steady, although thin, stream of money coming from the trapper in Saint Denis. “Small game. For fancy hats to fancy women.” 

“Fancy hats for fancy women,” she drawled, grinning at Astrid. “One hell of a job, miss.”

She glanced at the bartender and signaled to him, knocking on the wood in front of her. “Whiskey, please.”

The bartender quickly poured her the drink and slid it to her, which she took immediately. Slow, smooth sips. Usually, she might’ve downed it. Maybe she was just in a mood tonight.

“Astrid.” She answered, meeting her eyes over the brim of the whiskey glass.

Lottie. Astrid wondered if it was a nickname. Like her friend Charlotta back in Sweden who went by Lotten. 

Being asked about her name caught her off guard. Nobody had ever asked her that before. Astrid seemed to be observant, if nothing else. Wordlessly, Lottie tucked that information into her back pocket.

There were certain things she would need to keep closer to her chest, then.

“It is,” she replied smoothly. “Don’t really like my first name.”

Slowly sipping her whiskey, she kept her guard up. A part of her considered telling the truth, that her name was Charlotte. It was harmless information to give.

The less people knew the better. She didn’t need anybody making any connections about her, tracing all the way back to where she’d come from. Her jaw clenched just thinking about it.

Astrid downed the last of her bottle. She twirled the empty bottle over the tabletop, almost having it tip over with Lottie’s comment. Astrid looked up, an almost amused grimace on her face. It wasn’t unusual for her to get similar comments and Astrid never took offence. Instead, she felt as if it was a testament to her upkeep of hygiene and mending. Cleanliness is next to godliness. 

“That may be…” Astrid began. Unsure how to respond. Unsure if she had to prove something, keep any suspicion of her other sporadic employment at bay. Lottie seemed like the type whose head had a price, or at least on the path towards. 

Looks can be deceiving, Astrid thought. She had taken a bath at the inn before visiting the saloon, and used her lavender soap. Her light coloured shirtwaist was trimmed with a thin bobbin lace ribbon, neatly tucked into her mauve skirt. Astrid had even cleaned her heeled boots before leaving her rented room. She couldn’t fault Lottie. It was almost as if a fur trimmed hat was the only thing missing.

There was a sizable bounty on her head in most places. Wanted dead or alive, mostly.

She wasn’t a good woman. Even she knew that. The thing was, she’d never claimed to be, never pretended to be. She saw this woman - clean, sing-songy, fancy clothes, and it grated her nerves in a way she couldn’t explain.

“Oh, y’don’t like the mud?” She cooed mockingly, nearly sneering. “How sweet. Maybe you just ain’t cut out for the huntin’ life, then, sweetheart.”

Knocking on the bar again, she signaled for another round of whiskey. Of course she was bitter. Seeing someone who was put together, sweet, likable. Maybe it was wrong of her to be so bitter. It just.. angered her. The idea that someone thought they’d be better than her made her skin prickle.

The look in her eyes was akin to a wolf circling its prey. Calculating, almost.

“I do not like the mud, but I like the hunt. And the money. A compromise.”

The air left her lungs in a long drawn out exhale through her nose. She didn’t like the mud, but she liked the hunt. It was in one way an antidote to many of her ailments. Her body was physically sound, which she recognised was from the needed movement of seeking her prey. Hunting also brought her tormented mind moments of peace and her broken down spirit a place to heal as she looked out at His vast creation. So different from back home.

“The old world.” She answered, almost in resignation for the longing that only grew for it. She didn’t quite care for the phrase, but it was old in the sense that Astrid seemed to forget it. "Sweden."

Astrid felt as though she had to heed more caution. The questions Lottie asked couldn’t be of good natured, she didn’t seem like the gregarious type. Then again, Astrid thought she had a downtrodden human in front of her, scarred by the life she led. It couldn’t have been voluntary. She had a hard time imagining anyone ever willingly participating in this ruthless lifestyle. Astrid sure didn’t and she felt pity. A cautious pity for the woman.

It was completely fair to assume she wasn’t good natured. In most cases, she wasn’t. She certainly wasn’t giving this poor woman any reasons to believe that she ever could be. Her aggressive nature was a learned behavior, a survival skill if you will.

All of Lottie’s belligerence was rehearsed. It was a well improvised performance, an amalgamation of experiences that turned a frightened child into a dangerous woman.

Not that it mattered to her, though. She knew there was no redeeming what she’d done. May as well go out swinging.

“What is anyone doin’ here?” She countered, grabbing her new whiskey. “Survivin’, dear. You could say that I’m a hunter, too.”

Astrid had created rules to keep her within bounds. She was determined to somehow, somewhen gain a true honest living and not having this life stain her future. The rules also prescribe value to actions and lives. An honour system where Astrid keeps a positive balance.

A rattling, wet cough and putrid smell of stagnant sweat pulled Astrid from her thoughts. A man stumbled up behind them, positioning himself between the two women. He leant forward, steading himself while asking the bartender for another bottle. Swinging his head to either side, he eyed up both Astrid and Lotte.

Not friends, of course. Never friends.

Her glass had just made it to her lips when they were interrupted. Immediately, she leaned back in her seat, sharp eyes flitting to the drunk bastard between them. Oh, how lovely. This was just what she’d needed.

The corners of her lips tugged up a smidge, a snort nearly escaping her. She didn’t exactly look the part of a working girl, if you asked her. Slowly, her eyes trailed, giving the man a once-over.

She knew his type. Predatory, creepy men. She’d had her own run ins with this type of man.

The man locked eyes with Lottie, grinning at her retort. The bartender served up his drink, and before he answered he took a long swing, eyes still on Lottie.

“Who pissed in your coffee this morning?” He sneered, amused with the response from the one woman. “You sure seem like the more fun one.”

Trying his luck once more, he turned to Astrid and leaned in, his rotten breath almost making her lightheaded.

“Lighten up, dollface,” he cooed, wrapping his arm around the small of her waist. “How much fun have ye had with ‘tis one tonight?”

But, the sight of a man making a woman uncomfortable, grabbing her - no, that wouldn’t do. Anger bubbled up in her chest as she let out a begrudging sigh.

She put her whiskey glass down and stood up, rolling her shoulders once before she grabbed the man by the shoulder and shoved him backwards hard.

First order of business - get this bastard’s grubby hands off the lady. Second - deal with him accordingly.

“I don’t remember hearin’ her tell y’that you could do that,” she spat, stepping into his space. “Keep your fuckin’ hands to yourself before I break ‘em.”

She wasn’t a small woman by any means. Half of the men she’d started fights with had been bigger than her. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter how big she was. In the eyes of those men, she was still just a woman.

“Now, woman. Compose yerself.” He threw up his hands and in turn freed Astrid from his grip. Astrid got up from her chair, taking a few steps from the man and looking around for an escape if things turned ugly.

The saloon was still bustling, only a few patrons noticing the confrontation by the bar. The piano still played, boisterous laughter still ringing. Only a few had set down their glasses, watching idly, maybe hoping for a brawl to break out.

“I ain’t gunna hit a woman.” The man declared while he turned his chin up. He reached for Lottie’s hip, shoving her away from him.

Astrid wanted to intervene as the man pushed Lottie, to stand up for Lottie just as she had done to her, but she was paralyzed. The man was neither too tall nor stout, but his belligerent drunkenness made his movement hard to calculate. Her hands trembled and throat tightened.

That was, until the man touched her. All bets were off. If a brawl was what people wanted, then a brawl they would get.

She grabbed the man’s arm, twisting it painfully behind his back and shoving his chest harshly against the bar. Holding him there and yanking at his arm, she sneered, eye twitching slightly.

“You ain’t gonna hit a woman, but you’ll touch one without permission?” She barked, yanking his arm again until it popped. “You ain’t even a man. Disgusting.”

She released him only to firmly jab her elbow against the side of his head with a grunt. There was nothing she hated more than entitled, creepy men. A sigh left her as she turned to Astrid.

“I want no more trouble in here!” The bartender barked. He'd barely flinched while his eyes were closely kept on the scene that played out, hands occupied with the duties of being a barkeep. “Git!” He swatted his hands towards the drunken man, who mumbled something under his breath before someone escorted him outside through the back.

Astrid had her eyes on the man leaving, slowly turning to face Lottie. The question barely registered and a few moments passed until Astrid came to it. It wasn't out of the ordinary that bars offered such encounters with drunken, pushy men. Though, it was out of the ordinary to have such a bold ally. Someone unafraid of physical confrontations, as a woman.

Astrid barely found the words. “I am alright. Thank you, miss Lottie.” Though surely, a thank you was the least Astrid could've offered. A faint smile crept onto her lips, curling the corners of her mouth. "Are you alright?"

The burning stare from the bartender made Astrid feel uneasy. Lonely women seemed to draw out the most unfavourable behaviour from his male patrons.

“I have a bottle in my room. Just across the street. Let me thank you, please.” Astrid laid the offer up on the table while she nodded in the direction of the inn, raising one eyebrow as she eyed Lottie.

At Astrid’s question, she huffed a little laugh. “Don’t worry ‘bout me,” she dismissed. “Takes more than a drunkard to get to me.”

She was still on her guard, eyes flitting to the bartender every so often. Even the men around them weren’t safe. As far as she knew, every man in this room was a threat.

Astrid’s offer surprised her. Sure, she’d just fought a man to her, but Lottie wasn’t exactly sure if she could fully trust this woman. There’d been no obvious threat so far, but…

As they stepped outside, the frigid night air nipped at Astrid’s cheeks. The town had almost fallen asleep, save for a few figures lurking amongst the shadows and the bustling from the saloon. Pale moonlight lit up the muddy street, and Astrid felt her heels sink into the muck with every step.

Reaching the inn opposite of the saloon, she climbed the short landing and led the way though the entrance. The innkeeper looked up as they entered, his eyes lingering. “Welcome back,” he greeted, nodding his head at Astrid, recognising her from a few hours ago.

“Thank you,” Astrid politely offered before climbing the creaking stairs. She turned right at the top, unlocked her door and gestured for Lottie to step inside. The room was sparsely decorated and Astrid had kept it tidy, while still having a few things packed up and meticulously arranged on the dresser. Her bag had been neatly tucked under the bed, out of sight. 

Astrid gestured for Lottie to take a seat while she crossed the floor to the cracked window she’d left open to air out the room, latching it shut against the chill. 

Shaking that thought away, she took a good glance at the inn. Certainly a nice little place - nicer than the place she was staying. She remained quiet and polite as she followed the woman, hand resting on her gun belt.

The room was nice and neat. Seemed very fitting, considering the lady staying in it. When directed to, Lottie sat. Awkward and with her hands folded in her lap.

“You can if you want to, Miss,” she chuckled. “I don’t mind just sharin’ the bottle. ‘Course, unless you’re above all that.”

The bottle of rum looked nice, at least. If nothing else, she could get a good drink out of this nonsense and be done with it.

“Real kind of ya to offer me a drink, Miss.”

“We can share the bottle,” she decided with a nod. She picked up the bottle again and walked some stilted steps toward the fireplace. She glazed at the cold hearth, briefly pondering the effort before deciding to light it. The room had a slight chill to it after the cracked window, and soon it’d probably be cold.

“Here,” she said, offering the bottle to Lottie before kneeling to tend to the fireplace. The wood was dry and caught the spark from the kindling almost instantly, casting a flickering orange light across the room.

Before getting up from the floor, Astrid briefly reflected over the cause for her to invite Lottie to her room. In one way it was out of character, but somehow it came to her benefit. While Lottie stepped in and in one way rescued her, Astrid knew she could have handled the situation more smoothly on her own. Diffusing these situations were, in a sense, her strong suit.

Yet, Lottie had intervened with force, strong-arming a level of respect not generously given to women. Astrid admired that and in a world this rough and unforgiving, an ally was a precious commodity. She could build a rapport over a drink, and also by offering a kindness Lottie likely rarely received.

Astrid got up from the floor, taking a seat in the padded chair. “I am usually kind,” Astrid quipped with a playful edge, reaching out her hand towards the bottle for a sip.

But, this woman was friendly enough. She wasn’t just trying to fight or get in her pants. Lottie didn’t really know what to do with that.

When prompted, she grabbed the bottle with a grunt. Popping it open, she held it to her lips and took a swig. It was smooth. Probably more expensive than she could’ve afforded.

“I suppose you are kind,” she replied, an attempt at a dry joke.

She handed the bottle to Astrid and watched her sip from it. This was obviously a bit out of the woman’s comfort zone. She likely didn’t share bottles with strange, dangerous women all that often. There was humor to be found in it, a smile pulling at Lottie’s lips.

“You are not used to compliments, no?” She handed the bottle back to Lottie, allowing a faint, tentative smile to cross her lips. Astrid sensed it wasn’t some polite humility that had Lottie declining her compliment, instead something deeper, more self-depricating.

The bottle was passed back and forth between Astrid and Lottie in a rhythmic silence, creating a mutual language of grunts and clicks of the tongue.

Despite her hospitality, a smolder of wariness remained. Astrid minded her words so as to not provoke her. Especially if the scene at the bar was anything to go by, she knew she had to tread lightly. Provoking Lottie was the last thing she intended to do.

“You could say that,” she smiled roughly, chuckling. “People like me don’t get complimented often, Miss.”

Self deprecating was certainly something that could be used to describe her. Half the time, she didn’t even mean to. Didn’t even realize she was doing it. She lived her life in such a hateful, self destructive state that it was her baseline.

A part of her wished that she knew something else. Maybe a kinder life, like Astrid’s, she presumed.

“I’ve stood up to plenty’a men. Just gotta find the right woman, I suppose.” She shrugged, leaning back against the bed slightly. “Men think they’re better’n us because we’re ladies. I think that’s bullshit.”

Lottie was not particularly a lanky woman. She had accumulated strength over the years, necessary for her survival. Holding her own in a physical fight wasn’t a problem.

However, Lottie’s question caught Astrid off guard. Astrid searched the woman’s face behind the bottle. She found no malice, no trace of the question being asked in ill faith. Only pure curiosity. Astrid supposed that it was prompted by her, though it wasn’t usual for her to speak so freely about her life. Sooner or later one learned that that was information to keep close to one’s heart.

“In this life… A year,” she said, tentatively. It had been roughly a year since she was forced from a life of honest work into the lawless outskirts of society. Perhaps it was the natural order, the life she was promised as she left her father. She had made herself an associate in Jessica LeClerk and her circle, which kept her from falling into the deepest of despair in this godforsaken country.

But, her mother had died, and her father was a lunatic. That sounded awfully familiar. A sad little smile crossed her face as she sighed.

A wave of sympathy overcame her. Her own father had been somewhat of a crazed man. Always assuming people were after him, stricken with paranoia and anxiety that he was soon to be killed. It was the very thing that led to his demise.

The demise that Lottie herself had personally seen to.

She took a shaky swig of the rum before leaning forward and resting her elbows on the skirtclad knees. She bowed her head and fixed her eyes on the floor as she tried to blink away the rising tears. Her face scorched and flushed, but whether from the liquor or the embarrassment of baring herself so completely, she couldn’t say.

When Astrid finally looked up again, her smile was small and defeated. The look of pity she feared wasn’t there. Instead, Lottie’s gaze held a quiet sense of understanding, a sort of recognition of the past that almost hit harder than judgement would have. Astrid knew her exterior didn’t quite paint a proper picture, her lacey trims and ribbons barely holding together a roughly wound up skein of yarn from unraveling. 

“It must be something in the water,” Astrid snorted in absurd amusement. It seemed neither of them had been blessed with much much regarding their fathers. “I think my father became just crazy later,” she added earnestly. She liked to think that somewhere along the way, he had simply lost the voice of God. Or she hoped so, as surely a loving God wouldn’t have permitted anything that had happened.

“How long have you been running?”

And yet, she could not blame Astrid for getting teary-eyed when talking about it. Perhaps if she was a better person, less troubled and burdened, she would cry too when thinking about her past. All that she felt was a swelling rage and a childlike fear that hadn’t quelled, even after all those years.

Astrid’s question caught her completely off guard. Instantly, Lottie’s defenses shot up like an impenetrable wall.

“I ain’t runnin’.” Opening up wasn’t easy. Especially about that. If she opened up about it, she had to face it. She had to reckon with the truth, the whole truth - her father wasn’t looking for her physically, but that memory followed her everywhere she went. Still, she was determined to outrun it.

Maybe it was a karmic debt. Maybe there was a God, and He was laughing at her for being so foolish. Maybe this was God’s way of getting back at her for trying to play executioner.

“I…” she didn’t quite know what to say. Astrid felt painfully exposed, her perception clouded by the buzzing heat of the rum. She placed the bottle carefully on the floor, as if dismantling something explosive. 

“No crime at all,” she said softly, trying to sooth and retreat from the hostility in the room. She leaned back into the chair, creating a physical distance, almost trying to become smaller. With the toe of her boot, she gently nudged it closer to Lottie as a small peace offering.

“I did not mean to assume,” her tone was coy, yet apologetic. “I may have just… I suppose I am running, and many people I met are running. Forgive me, Lottie.” Astrid looked at Lottie, her gaze lingering, trying to gauge a reaction.

( from lottie , to astrid )

Astrid's eyebrows furrow, unsure what work Lottie is actually referring to. Astrid knows work. Cruel labour for the pay just a hair above the lint in the foreman's pocket. Menial tasks that set her mind on fire from boredom. Domestic drudgery from working the household laundry for a wealthy family. Astrid knows work, in one way it's all she's ever done. Idleness is the enemy of the soul. Astrid dares to speak.

“I know work,” she replies, suspicion lacing her works. “But not that kind of work.”

It angered her for reasons she couldn’t pin down.

Almost annoyed, she looked up at the woman. The answer annoyed her. She wasn’t too sure what “that” kind of work meant, but she had an assumption that Astrid hadn’t worked much at all.

Her hands. Through tough work they still had managed to keep a tender, soft appearance. No scarring to show for what she had been through. It wasn’t too long ago when the work she had to endure only entailed embroidery and clasped hands in prayer. Then again, that was then. Now Astrid’s lucky if the town she passes has a bed for rent, although she’s beginning to prefer the neighbour granted by the wilderness.

“I am not a delicate flower.” Astrid felt she had to stand her ground, sensing hostility from the woman in front of her in the dusky back corner of the saloon. Astrid never appreciated being looked down upon. And now she felt like being challenged.

“Sure,” she drawled, nearly grinning. “You’ve got me real convinced, miss.”

The work that Lottie knew wasn’t pure. It wasn’t anything to be proud of. That much was obvious just by looking at her - a bit rugged, littered with scars and bruises. She looked like she hadn’t slept properly in weeks, and she probably hadn’t.

There was no time for sleeping or eating. Those felt like luxuries these days.

“What work do I know?” She repeated, the gun in her hands some sort of a hint. “Well, I don’t know. Depends on who’s askin’.”

Pushing off the wall, she slowly walked closer to Astrid. Boots dragging the floor, she walked like she was constantly at least in a little bit of pain. Maybe she was. She stopped right beside her, eyes locked onto the woman’s face.

Was Astrid with the law? She's not sure, threading a thin line between being in or out of the law's bounds. Astrid sees herself as a hunter by trade. Usual prays being small game for their pelts. It does happen that the prey are those whose faces are pinned on a sheriff's board, but Astrid is selective. She hunts those she believes should be hunted. Those deserving. She's not sure Lottie fits the bill. What she is sure of, though, is that the woman in front of her sure as he'll doesn't thread any line.

“No.”

Astrid couldn't say anything else with the woman now towering over her. She brushed her hand across the outside of her thigh, realising she had left her weapons in her room at the inn. Diffuse the tension, Astrid thought, feeling uneasy in the disadvantageous position.

“I do not want any trouble.” She brings both of her hands up, resting the palms of the hand at the edge of the tabletop and angling them up. Offsetting herself as a threat. “Please.”

It wasn't a pleading please, but a resigned one. Astrid was honest, she never wanted any trouble. Or at least not with the woman. She went to the saloon to take a bottle and rest her sore body after a long day of travel. This town was only a rest stop on the way to a job out west, to hunt a man whose face was sketched above a hefty bounty. After a long dryspell, Astrid needed the money.

Nothing got past Lottie. She noticed as Astrid checked herself for weapons. Unarmed, she thought. Not very smart.

There didn’t seem to be any fear, which surprised her. Lottie considered herself to be a rather intimidating character. If her appearance didn’t do it, the gun in her hand usually did. This woman intrigued her to no end.

One eyebrow raised as she was told to sit. Slowly, she slid into the seat beside Astrid. She leaned back against the chair, taking up space, one boot tapping the ground lazily.

This was no exception. The woman was rough, that Astrid could see. The woman could make a move, cause hurt and pain, fully capable. And at the moment, the woman had the upper hand, that AStrid knew. Despite that, Astrid felt no fear nor imminent danger. This woman was no threat, Astrid though. She didn’t know, though.

Lottie did sit down, much to Astrid’s appreciation. She might be reasonable, she thought.

“Hunt.” Short, but informative. Astrid did hunt. Having a steady, although thin, stream of money coming from the trapper in Saint Denis. “Small game. For fancy hats to fancy women.” 

“Fancy hats for fancy women,” she drawled, grinning at Astrid. “One hell of a job, miss.”

She glanced at the bartender and signaled to him, knocking on the wood in front of her. “Whiskey, please.”

The bartender quickly poured her the drink and slid it to her, which she took immediately. Slow, smooth sips. Usually, she might’ve downed it. Maybe she was just in a mood tonight.

“Astrid.” She answered, meeting her eyes over the brim of the whiskey glass.

Lottie. Astrid wondered if it was a nickname. Like her friend Charlotta back in Sweden who went by Lotten. 

Being asked about her name caught her off guard. Nobody had ever asked her that before. Astrid seemed to be observant, if nothing else. Wordlessly, Lottie tucked that information into her back pocket.

There were certain things she would need to keep closer to her chest, then.

“It is,” she replied smoothly. “Don’t really like my first name.”

Slowly sipping her whiskey, she kept her guard up. A part of her considered telling the truth, that her name was Charlotte. It was harmless information to give.

The less people knew the better. She didn’t need anybody making any connections about her, tracing all the way back to where she’d come from. Her jaw clenched just thinking about it.

Astrid downed the last of her bottle. She twirled the empty bottle over the tabletop, almost having it tip over with Lottie’s comment. Astrid looked up, an almost amused grimace on her face. It wasn’t unusual for her to get similar comments and Astrid never took offence. Instead, she felt as if it was a testament to her upkeep of hygiene and mending. Cleanliness is next to godliness. 

“That may be…” Astrid began. Unsure how to respond. Unsure if she had to prove something, keep any suspicion of her other sporadic employment at bay. Lottie seemed like the type whose head had a price, or at least on the path towards. 

Looks can be deceiving, Astrid thought. She had taken a bath at the inn before visiting the saloon, and used her lavender soap. Her light coloured shirtwaist was trimmed with a thin bobbin lace ribbon, neatly tucked into her mauve skirt. Astrid had even cleaned her heeled boots before leaving her rented room. She couldn’t fault Lottie. It was almost as if a fur trimmed hat was the only thing missing.

There was a sizable bounty on her head in most places. Wanted dead or alive, mostly.

She wasn’t a good woman. Even she knew that. The thing was, she’d never claimed to be, never pretended to be. She saw this woman - clean, sing-songy, fancy clothes, and it grated her nerves in a way she couldn’t explain.

“Oh, y’don’t like the mud?” She cooed mockingly, nearly sneering. “How sweet. Maybe you just ain’t cut out for the huntin’ life, then, sweetheart.”

Knocking on the bar again, she signaled for another round of whiskey. Of course she was bitter. Seeing someone who was put together, sweet, likable. Maybe it was wrong of her to be so bitter. It just.. angered her. The idea that someone thought they’d be better than her made her skin prickle.

The look in her eyes was akin to a wolf circling its prey. Calculating, almost.

“I do not like the mud, but I like the hunt. And the money. A compromise.”

The air left her lungs in a long drawn out exhale through her nose. She didn’t like the mud, but she liked the hunt. It was in one way an antidote to many of her ailments. Her body was physically sound, which she recognised was from the needed movement of seeking her prey. Hunting also brought her tormented mind moments of peace and her broken down spirit a place to heal as she looked out at His vast creation. So different from back home.

“The old world.” She answered, almost in resignation for the longing that only grew for it. She didn’t quite care for the phrase, but it was old in the sense that Astrid seemed to forget it. "Sweden."

Astrid felt as though she had to heed more caution. The questions Lottie asked couldn’t be of good natured, she didn’t seem like the gregarious type. Then again, Astrid thought she had a downtrodden human in front of her, scarred by the life she led. It couldn’t have been voluntary. She had a hard time imagining anyone ever willingly participating in this ruthless lifestyle. Astrid sure didn’t and she felt pity. A cautious pity for the woman.

It was completely fair to assume she wasn’t good natured. In most cases, she wasn’t. She certainly wasn’t giving this poor woman any reasons to believe that she ever could be. Her aggressive nature was a learned behavior, a survival skill if you will.

All of Lottie’s belligerence was rehearsed. It was a well improvised performance, an amalgamation of experiences that turned a frightened child into a dangerous woman.

Not that it mattered to her, though. She knew there was no redeeming what she’d done. May as well go out swinging.

“What is anyone doin’ here?” She countered, grabbing her new whiskey. “Survivin’, dear. You could say that I’m a hunter, too.”

Astrid had created rules to keep her within bounds. She was determined to somehow, somewhen gain a true honest living and not having this life stain her future. The rules also prescribe value to actions and lives. An honour system where Astrid keeps a positive balance.

A rattling, wet cough and putrid smell of stagnant sweat pulled Astrid from her thoughts. A man stumbled up behind them, positioning himself between the two women. He leant forward, steading himself while asking the bartender for another bottle. Swinging his head to either side, he eyed up both Astrid and Lotte.

Not friends, of course. Never friends.

Her glass had just made it to her lips when they were interrupted. Immediately, she leaned back in her seat, sharp eyes flitting to the drunk bastard between them. Oh, how lovely. This was just what she’d needed.

The corners of her lips tugged up a smidge, a snort nearly escaping her. She didn’t exactly look the part of a working girl, if you asked her. Slowly, her eyes trailed, giving the man a once-over.

She knew his type. Predatory, creepy men. She’d had her own run ins with this type of man.

The man locked eyes with Lottie, grinning at her retort. The bartender served up his drink, and before he answered he took a long swing, eyes still on Lottie.

“Who pissed in your coffee this morning?” He sneered, amused with the response from the one woman. “You sure seem like the more fun one.”

Trying his luck once more, he turned to Astrid and leaned in, his rotten breath almost making her lightheaded.

“Lighten up, dollface,” he cooed, wrapping his arm around the small of her waist. “How much fun have ye had with ‘tis one tonight?”

But, the sight of a man making a woman uncomfortable, grabbing her - no, that wouldn’t do. Anger bubbled up in her chest as she let out a begrudging sigh.

She put her whiskey glass down and stood up, rolling her shoulders once before she grabbed the man by the shoulder and shoved him backwards hard.

First order of business - get this bastard’s grubby hands off the lady. Second - deal with him accordingly.

“I don’t remember hearin’ her tell y’that you could do that,” she spat, stepping into his space. “Keep your fuckin’ hands to yourself before I break ‘em.”

She wasn’t a small woman by any means. Half of the men she’d started fights with had been bigger than her. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter how big she was. In the eyes of those men, she was still just a woman.

“Now, woman. Compose yerself.” He threw up his hands and in turn freed Astrid from his grip. Astrid got up from her chair, taking a few steps from the man and looking around for an escape if things turned ugly.

The saloon was still bustling, only a few patrons noticing the confrontation by the bar. The piano still played, boisterous laughter still ringing. Only a few had set down their glasses, watching idly, maybe hoping for a brawl to break out.

“I ain’t gunna hit a woman.” The man declared while he turned his chin up. He reached for Lottie’s hip, shoving her away from him.

Astrid wanted to intervene as the man pushed Lottie, to stand up for Lottie just as she had done to her, but she was paralyzed. The man was neither too tall nor stout, but his belligerent drunkenness made his movement hard to calculate. Her hands trembled and throat tightened.

That was, until the man touched her. All bets were off. If a brawl was what people wanted, then a brawl they would get.

She grabbed the man’s arm, twisting it painfully behind his back and shoving his chest harshly against the bar. Holding him there and yanking at his arm, she sneered, eye twitching slightly.

“You ain’t gonna hit a woman, but you’ll touch one without permission?” She barked, yanking his arm again until it popped. “You ain’t even a man. Disgusting.”

She released him only to firmly jab her elbow against the side of his head with a grunt. There was nothing she hated more than entitled, creepy men. A sigh left her as she turned to Astrid.

“I want no more trouble in here!” The bartender barked. He'd barely flinched while his eyes were closely kept on the scene that played out, hands occupied with the duties of being a barkeep. “Git!” He swatted his hands towards the drunken man, who mumbled something under his breath before someone escorted him outside through the back.

Astrid had her eyes on the man leaving, slowly turning to face Lottie. The question barely registered and a few moments passed until Astrid came to it. It wasn't out of the ordinary that bars offered such encounters with drunken, pushy men. Though, it was out of the ordinary to have such a bold ally. Someone unafraid of physical confrontations, as a woman.

Astrid barely found the words. “I am alright. Thank you, miss Lottie.” Though surely, a thank you was the least Astrid could've offered. A faint smile crept onto her lips, curling the corners of her mouth. "Are you alright?"

The burning stare from the bartender made Astrid feel uneasy. Lonely women seemed to draw out the most unfavourable behaviour from his male patrons.

“I have a bottle in my room. Just across the street. Let me thank you, please.” Astrid laid the offer up on the table while she nodded in the direction of the inn, raising one eyebrow as she eyed Lottie.

At Astrid’s question, she huffed a little laugh. “Don’t worry ‘bout me,” she dismissed. “Takes more than a drunkard to get to me.”

She was still on her guard, eyes flitting to the bartender every so often. Even the men around them weren’t safe. As far as she knew, every man in this room was a threat.

Astrid’s offer surprised her. Sure, she’d just fought a man to her, but Lottie wasn’t exactly sure if she could fully trust this woman. There’d been no obvious threat so far, but…

As they stepped outside, the frigid night air nipped at Astrid’s cheeks. The town had almost fallen asleep, save for a few figures lurking amongst the shadows and the bustling from the saloon. Pale moonlight lit up the muddy street, and Astrid felt her heels sink into the muck with every step.

Reaching the inn opposite of the saloon, she climbed the short landing and led the way though the entrance. The innkeeper looked up as they entered, his eyes lingering. “Welcome back,” he greeted, nodding his head at Astrid, recognising her from a few hours ago.

“Thank you,” Astrid politely offered before climbing the creaking stairs. She turned right at the top, unlocked her door and gestured for Lottie to step inside. The room was sparsely decorated and Astrid had kept it tidy, while still having a few things packed up and meticulously arranged on the dresser. Her bag had been neatly tucked under the bed, out of sight. 

Astrid gestured for Lottie to take a seat while she crossed the floor to the cracked window she’d left open to air out the room, latching it shut against the chill. 

Shaking that thought away, she took a good glance at the inn. Certainly a nice little place - nicer than the place she was staying. She remained quiet and polite as she followed the woman, hand resting on her gun belt.

The room was nice and neat. Seemed very fitting, considering the lady staying in it. When directed to, Lottie sat. Awkward and with her hands folded in her lap.

“You can if you want to, Miss,” she chuckled. “I don’t mind just sharin’ the bottle. ‘Course, unless you’re above all that.”

The bottle of rum looked nice, at least. If nothing else, she could get a good drink out of this nonsense and be done with it.

“Real kind of ya to offer me a drink, Miss.”

“We can share the bottle,” she decided with a nod. She picked up the bottle again and walked some stilted steps toward the fireplace. She glazed at the cold hearth, briefly pondering the effort before deciding to light it. The room had a slight chill to it after the cracked window, and soon it’d probably be cold.

“Here,” she said, offering the bottle to Lottie before kneeling to tend to the fireplace. The wood was dry and caught the spark from the kindling almost instantly, casting a flickering orange light across the room.

Before getting up from the floor, Astrid briefly reflected over the cause for her to invite Lottie to her room. In one way it was out of character, but somehow it came to her benefit. While Lottie stepped in and in one way rescued her, Astrid knew she could have handled the situation more smoothly on her own. Diffusing these situations were, in a sense, her strong suit.

Yet, Lottie had intervened with force, strong-arming a level of respect not generously given to women. Astrid admired that and in a world this rough and unforgiving, an ally was a precious commodity. She could build a rapport over a drink, and also by offering a kindness Lottie likely rarely received.

Astrid got up from the floor, taking a seat in the padded chair. “I am usually kind,” Astrid quipped with a playful edge, reaching out her hand towards the bottle for a sip.

But, this woman was friendly enough. She wasn’t just trying to fight or get in her pants. Lottie didn’t really know what to do with that.

When prompted, she grabbed the bottle with a grunt. Popping it open, she held it to her lips and took a swig. It was smooth. Probably more expensive than she could’ve afforded.

“I suppose you are kind,” she replied, an attempt at a dry joke.

She handed the bottle to Astrid and watched her sip from it. This was obviously a bit out of the woman’s comfort zone. She likely didn’t share bottles with strange, dangerous women all that often. There was humor to be found in it, a smile pulling at Lottie’s lips.

“You are not used to compliments, no?” She handed the bottle back to Lottie, allowing a faint, tentative smile to cross her lips. Astrid sensed it wasn’t some polite humility that had Lottie declining her compliment, instead something deeper, more self-depricating.

The bottle was passed back and forth between Astrid and Lottie in a rhythmic silence, creating a mutual language of grunts and clicks of the tongue.

Despite her hospitality, a smolder of wariness remained. Astrid minded her words so as to not provoke her. Especially if the scene at the bar was anything to go by, she knew she had to tread lightly. Provoking Lottie was the last thing she intended to do.

“You could say that,” she smiled roughly, chuckling. “People like me don’t get complimented often, Miss.”

Self deprecating was certainly something that could be used to describe her. Half the time, she didn’t even mean to. Didn’t even realize she was doing it. She lived her life in such a hateful, self destructive state that it was her baseline.

A part of her wished that she knew something else. Maybe a kinder life, like Astrid’s, she presumed.

“I’ve stood up to plenty’a men. Just gotta find the right woman, I suppose.” She shrugged, leaning back against the bed slightly. “Men think they’re better’n us because we’re ladies. I think that’s bullshit.”

Lottie was not particularly a lanky woman. She had accumulated strength over the years, necessary for her survival. Holding her own in a physical fight wasn’t a problem.

However, Lottie’s question caught Astrid off guard. Astrid searched the woman’s face behind the bottle. She found no malice, no trace of the question being asked in ill faith. Only pure curiosity. Astrid supposed that it was prompted by her, though it wasn’t usual for her to speak so freely about her life. Sooner or later one learned that that was information to keep close to one’s heart.

“In this life… A year,” she said, tentatively. It had been roughly a year since she was forced from a life of honest work into the lawless outskirts of society. Perhaps it was the natural order, the life she was promised as she left her father. She had made herself an associate in Jessica LeClerk and her circle, which kept her from falling into the deepest of despair in this godforsaken country.

But, her mother had died, and her father was a lunatic. That sounded awfully familiar. A sad little smile crossed her face as she sighed.

A wave of sympathy overcame her. Her own father had been somewhat of a crazed man. Always assuming people were after him, stricken with paranoia and anxiety that he was soon to be killed. It was the very thing that led to his demise.

The demise that Lottie herself had personally seen to.

She took a shaky swig of the rum before leaning forward and resting her elbows on the skirtclad knees. She bowed her head and fixed her eyes on the floor as she tried to blink away the rising tears. Her face scorched and flushed, but whether from the liquor or the embarrassment of baring herself so completely, she couldn’t say.

When Astrid finally looked up again, her smile was small and defeated. The look of pity she feared wasn’t there. Instead, Lottie’s gaze held a quiet sense of understanding, a sort of recognition of the past that almost hit harder than judgement would have. Astrid knew her exterior didn’t quite paint a proper picture, her lacey trims and ribbons barely holding together a roughly wound up skein of yarn from unraveling. 

“It must be something in the water,” Astrid snorted in absurd amusement. It seemed neither of them had been blessed with much much regarding their fathers. “I think my father became just crazy later,” she added earnestly. She liked to think that somewhere along the way, he had simply lost the voice of God. Or she hoped so, as surely a loving God wouldn’t have permitted anything that had happened.

“How long have you been running?”

recently i’ve noticed that the rpc seems to have trouble interacting with eachother–and i’ve seen a few of these memes go around, but i thought i’d make another!

( from lottie , to astrid )

Astrid's eyebrows furrow, unsure what work Lottie is actually referring to. Astrid knows work. Cruel labour for the pay just a hair above the lint in the foreman's pocket. Menial tasks that set her mind on fire from boredom. Domestic drudgery from working the household laundry for a wealthy family. Astrid knows work, in one way it's all she's ever done. Idleness is the enemy of the soul. Astrid dares to speak.

“I know work,” she replies, suspicion lacing her works. “But not that kind of work.”

It angered her for reasons she couldn’t pin down.

Almost annoyed, she looked up at the woman. The answer annoyed her. She wasn’t too sure what “that” kind of work meant, but she had an assumption that Astrid hadn’t worked much at all.

Her hands. Through tough work they still had managed to keep a tender, soft appearance. No scarring to show for what she had been through. It wasn’t too long ago when the work she had to endure only entailed embroidery and clasped hands in prayer. Then again, that was then. Now Astrid’s lucky if the town she passes has a bed for rent, although she’s beginning to prefer the neighbour granted by the wilderness.

“I am not a delicate flower.” Astrid felt she had to stand her ground, sensing hostility from the woman in front of her in the dusky back corner of the saloon. Astrid never appreciated being looked down upon. And now she felt like being challenged.

“Sure,” she drawled, nearly grinning. “You’ve got me real convinced, miss.”

The work that Lottie knew wasn’t pure. It wasn’t anything to be proud of. That much was obvious just by looking at her - a bit rugged, littered with scars and bruises. She looked like she hadn’t slept properly in weeks, and she probably hadn’t.

There was no time for sleeping or eating. Those felt like luxuries these days.

“What work do I know?” She repeated, the gun in her hands some sort of a hint. “Well, I don’t know. Depends on who’s askin’.”

Pushing off the wall, she slowly walked closer to Astrid. Boots dragging the floor, she walked like she was constantly at least in a little bit of pain. Maybe she was. She stopped right beside her, eyes locked onto the woman’s face.

Was Astrid with the law? She's not sure, threading a thin line between being in or out of the law's bounds. Astrid sees herself as a hunter by trade. Usual prays being small game for their pelts. It does happen that the prey are those whose faces are pinned on a sheriff's board, but Astrid is selective. She hunts those she believes should be hunted. Those deserving. She's not sure Lottie fits the bill. What she is sure of, though, is that the woman in front of her sure as he'll doesn't thread any line.

“No.”

Astrid couldn't say anything else with the woman now towering over her. She brushed her hand across the outside of her thigh, realising she had left her weapons in her room at the inn. Diffuse the tension, Astrid thought, feeling uneasy in the disadvantageous position.

“I do not want any trouble.” She brings both of her hands up, resting the palms of the hand at the edge of the tabletop and angling them up. Offsetting herself as a threat. “Please.”

It wasn't a pleading please, but a resigned one. Astrid was honest, she never wanted any trouble. Or at least not with the woman. She went to the saloon to take a bottle and rest her sore body after a long day of travel. This town was only a rest stop on the way to a job out west, to hunt a man whose face was sketched above a hefty bounty. After a long dryspell, Astrid needed the money.

Nothing got past Lottie. She noticed as Astrid checked herself for weapons. Unarmed, she thought. Not very smart.

There didn’t seem to be any fear, which surprised her. Lottie considered herself to be a rather intimidating character. If her appearance didn’t do it, the gun in her hand usually did. This woman intrigued her to no end.

One eyebrow raised as she was told to sit. Slowly, she slid into the seat beside Astrid. She leaned back against the chair, taking up space, one boot tapping the ground lazily.

This was no exception. The woman was rough, that Astrid could see. The woman could make a move, cause hurt and pain, fully capable. And at the moment, the woman had the upper hand, that AStrid knew. Despite that, Astrid felt no fear nor imminent danger. This woman was no threat, Astrid though. She didn’t know, though.

Lottie did sit down, much to Astrid’s appreciation. She might be reasonable, she thought.

“Hunt.” Short, but informative. Astrid did hunt. Having a steady, although thin, stream of money coming from the trapper in Saint Denis. “Small game. For fancy hats to fancy women.” 

“Fancy hats for fancy women,” she drawled, grinning at Astrid. “One hell of a job, miss.”

She glanced at the bartender and signaled to him, knocking on the wood in front of her. “Whiskey, please.”

The bartender quickly poured her the drink and slid it to her, which she took immediately. Slow, smooth sips. Usually, she might’ve downed it. Maybe she was just in a mood tonight.

“Astrid.” She answered, meeting her eyes over the brim of the whiskey glass.

Lottie. Astrid wondered if it was a nickname. Like her friend Charlotta back in Sweden who went by Lotten. 

Being asked about her name caught her off guard. Nobody had ever asked her that before. Astrid seemed to be observant, if nothing else. Wordlessly, Lottie tucked that information into her back pocket.

There were certain things she would need to keep closer to her chest, then.

“It is,” she replied smoothly. “Don’t really like my first name.”

Slowly sipping her whiskey, she kept her guard up. A part of her considered telling the truth, that her name was Charlotte. It was harmless information to give.

The less people knew the better. She didn’t need anybody making any connections about her, tracing all the way back to where she’d come from. Her jaw clenched just thinking about it.

Astrid downed the last of her bottle. She twirled the empty bottle over the tabletop, almost having it tip over with Lottie’s comment. Astrid looked up, an almost amused grimace on her face. It wasn’t unusual for her to get similar comments and Astrid never took offence. Instead, she felt as if it was a testament to her upkeep of hygiene and mending. Cleanliness is next to godliness. 

“That may be…” Astrid began. Unsure how to respond. Unsure if she had to prove something, keep any suspicion of her other sporadic employment at bay. Lottie seemed like the type whose head had a price, or at least on the path towards. 

Looks can be deceiving, Astrid thought. She had taken a bath at the inn before visiting the saloon, and used her lavender soap. Her light coloured shirtwaist was trimmed with a thin bobbin lace ribbon, neatly tucked into her mauve skirt. Astrid had even cleaned her heeled boots before leaving her rented room. She couldn’t fault Lottie. It was almost as if a fur trimmed hat was the only thing missing.

There was a sizable bounty on her head in most places. Wanted dead or alive, mostly.

She wasn’t a good woman. Even she knew that. The thing was, she’d never claimed to be, never pretended to be. She saw this woman - clean, sing-songy, fancy clothes, and it grated her nerves in a way she couldn’t explain.

“Oh, y’don’t like the mud?” She cooed mockingly, nearly sneering. “How sweet. Maybe you just ain’t cut out for the huntin’ life, then, sweetheart.”

Knocking on the bar again, she signaled for another round of whiskey. Of course she was bitter. Seeing someone who was put together, sweet, likable. Maybe it was wrong of her to be so bitter. It just.. angered her. The idea that someone thought they’d be better than her made her skin prickle.

The look in her eyes was akin to a wolf circling its prey. Calculating, almost.

“I do not like the mud, but I like the hunt. And the money. A compromise.”

The air left her lungs in a long drawn out exhale through her nose. She didn’t like the mud, but she liked the hunt. It was in one way an antidote to many of her ailments. Her body was physically sound, which she recognised was from the needed movement of seeking her prey. Hunting also brought her tormented mind moments of peace and her broken down spirit a place to heal as she looked out at His vast creation. So different from back home.

“The old world.” She answered, almost in resignation for the longing that only grew for it. She didn’t quite care for the phrase, but it was old in the sense that Astrid seemed to forget it. "Sweden."

Astrid felt as though she had to heed more caution. The questions Lottie asked couldn’t be of good natured, she didn’t seem like the gregarious type. Then again, Astrid thought she had a downtrodden human in front of her, scarred by the life she led. It couldn’t have been voluntary. She had a hard time imagining anyone ever willingly participating in this ruthless lifestyle. Astrid sure didn’t and she felt pity. A cautious pity for the woman.

It was completely fair to assume she wasn’t good natured. In most cases, she wasn’t. She certainly wasn’t giving this poor woman any reasons to believe that she ever could be. Her aggressive nature was a learned behavior, a survival skill if you will.

All of Lottie’s belligerence was rehearsed. It was a well improvised performance, an amalgamation of experiences that turned a frightened child into a dangerous woman.

Not that it mattered to her, though. She knew there was no redeeming what she’d done. May as well go out swinging.

“What is anyone doin’ here?” She countered, grabbing her new whiskey. “Survivin’, dear. You could say that I’m a hunter, too.”

Astrid had created rules to keep her within bounds. She was determined to somehow, somewhen gain a true honest living and not having this life stain her future. The rules also prescribe value to actions and lives. An honour system where Astrid keeps a positive balance.

A rattling, wet cough and putrid smell of stagnant sweat pulled Astrid from her thoughts. A man stumbled up behind them, positioning himself between the two women. He leant forward, steading himself while asking the bartender for another bottle. Swinging his head to either side, he eyed up both Astrid and Lotte.

Not friends, of course. Never friends.

Her glass had just made it to her lips when they were interrupted. Immediately, she leaned back in her seat, sharp eyes flitting to the drunk bastard between them. Oh, how lovely. This was just what she’d needed.

The corners of her lips tugged up a smidge, a snort nearly escaping her. She didn’t exactly look the part of a working girl, if you asked her. Slowly, her eyes trailed, giving the man a once-over.

She knew his type. Predatory, creepy men. She’d had her own run ins with this type of man.

The man locked eyes with Lottie, grinning at her retort. The bartender served up his drink, and before he answered he took a long swing, eyes still on Lottie.

“Who pissed in your coffee this morning?” He sneered, amused with the response from the one woman. “You sure seem like the more fun one.”

Trying his luck once more, he turned to Astrid and leaned in, his rotten breath almost making her lightheaded.

“Lighten up, dollface,” he cooed, wrapping his arm around the small of her waist. “How much fun have ye had with ‘tis one tonight?”

But, the sight of a man making a woman uncomfortable, grabbing her - no, that wouldn’t do. Anger bubbled up in her chest as she let out a begrudging sigh.

She put her whiskey glass down and stood up, rolling her shoulders once before she grabbed the man by the shoulder and shoved him backwards hard.

First order of business - get this bastard’s grubby hands off the lady. Second - deal with him accordingly.

“I don’t remember hearin’ her tell y’that you could do that,” she spat, stepping into his space. “Keep your fuckin’ hands to yourself before I break ‘em.”

She wasn’t a small woman by any means. Half of the men she’d started fights with had been bigger than her. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter how big she was. In the eyes of those men, she was still just a woman.

“Now, woman. Compose yerself.” He threw up his hands and in turn freed Astrid from his grip. Astrid got up from her chair, taking a few steps from the man and looking around for an escape if things turned ugly.

The saloon was still bustling, only a few patrons noticing the confrontation by the bar. The piano still played, boisterous laughter still ringing. Only a few had set down their glasses, watching idly, maybe hoping for a brawl to break out.

“I ain’t gunna hit a woman.” The man declared while he turned his chin up. He reached for Lottie’s hip, shoving her away from him.

Astrid wanted to intervene as the man pushed Lottie, to stand up for Lottie just as she had done to her, but she was paralyzed. The man was neither too tall nor stout, but his belligerent drunkenness made his movement hard to calculate. Her hands trembled and throat tightened.

That was, until the man touched her. All bets were off. If a brawl was what people wanted, then a brawl they would get.

She grabbed the man’s arm, twisting it painfully behind his back and shoving his chest harshly against the bar. Holding him there and yanking at his arm, she sneered, eye twitching slightly.

“You ain’t gonna hit a woman, but you’ll touch one without permission?” She barked, yanking his arm again until it popped. “You ain’t even a man. Disgusting.”

She released him only to firmly jab her elbow against the side of his head with a grunt. There was nothing she hated more than entitled, creepy men. A sigh left her as she turned to Astrid.

“I want no more trouble in here!” The bartender barked. He'd barely flinched while his eyes were closely kept on the scene that played out, hands occupied with the duties of being a barkeep. “Git!” He swatted his hands towards the drunken man, who mumbled something under his breath before someone escorted him outside through the back.

Astrid had her eyes on the man leaving, slowly turning to face Lottie. The question barely registered and a few moments passed until Astrid came to it. It wasn't out of the ordinary that bars offered such encounters with drunken, pushy men. Though, it was out of the ordinary to have such a bold ally. Someone unafraid of physical confrontations, as a woman.

Astrid barely found the words. “I am alright. Thank you, miss Lottie.” Though surely, a thank you was the least Astrid could've offered. A faint smile crept onto her lips, curling the corners of her mouth. "Are you alright?"

The burning stare from the bartender made Astrid feel uneasy. Lonely women seemed to draw out the most unfavourable behaviour from his male patrons.

“I have a bottle in my room. Just across the street. Let me thank you, please.” Astrid laid the offer up on the table while she nodded in the direction of the inn, raising one eyebrow as she eyed Lottie.

At Astrid’s question, she huffed a little laugh. “Don’t worry ‘bout me,” she dismissed. “Takes more than a drunkard to get to me.”

She was still on her guard, eyes flitting to the bartender every so often. Even the men around them weren’t safe. As far as she knew, every man in this room was a threat.

Astrid’s offer surprised her. Sure, she’d just fought a man to her, but Lottie wasn’t exactly sure if she could fully trust this woman. There’d been no obvious threat so far, but…

As they stepped outside, the frigid night air nipped at Astrid’s cheeks. The town had almost fallen asleep, save for a few figures lurking amongst the shadows and the bustling from the saloon. Pale moonlight lit up the muddy street, and Astrid felt her heels sink into the muck with every step.

Reaching the inn opposite of the saloon, she climbed the short landing and led the way though the entrance. The innkeeper looked up as they entered, his eyes lingering. “Welcome back,” he greeted, nodding his head at Astrid, recognising her from a few hours ago.

“Thank you,” Astrid politely offered before climbing the creaking stairs. She turned right at the top, unlocked her door and gestured for Lottie to step inside. The room was sparsely decorated and Astrid had kept it tidy, while still having a few things packed up and meticulously arranged on the dresser. Her bag had been neatly tucked under the bed, out of sight. 

Astrid gestured for Lottie to take a seat while she crossed the floor to the cracked window she’d left open to air out the room, latching it shut against the chill. 

Shaking that thought away, she took a good glance at the inn. Certainly a nice little place - nicer than the place she was staying. She remained quiet and polite as she followed the woman, hand resting on her gun belt.

The room was nice and neat. Seemed very fitting, considering the lady staying in it. When directed to, Lottie sat. Awkward and with her hands folded in her lap.

“You can if you want to, Miss,” she chuckled. “I don’t mind just sharin’ the bottle. ‘Course, unless you’re above all that.”

The bottle of rum looked nice, at least. If nothing else, she could get a good drink out of this nonsense and be done with it.

“Real kind of ya to offer me a drink, Miss.”

“We can share the bottle,” she decided with a nod. She picked up the bottle again and walked some stilted steps toward the fireplace. She glazed at the cold hearth, briefly pondering the effort before deciding to light it. The room had a slight chill to it after the cracked window, and soon it’d probably be cold.

“Here,” she said, offering the bottle to Lottie before kneeling to tend to the fireplace. The wood was dry and caught the spark from the kindling almost instantly, casting a flickering orange light across the room.

Before getting up from the floor, Astrid briefly reflected over the cause for her to invite Lottie to her room. In one way it was out of character, but somehow it came to her benefit. While Lottie stepped in and in one way rescued her, Astrid knew she could have handled the situation more smoothly on her own. Diffusing these situations were, in a sense, her strong suit.

Yet, Lottie had intervened with force, strong-arming a level of respect not generously given to women. Astrid admired that and in a world this rough and unforgiving, an ally was a precious commodity. She could build a rapport over a drink, and also by offering a kindness Lottie likely rarely received.

Astrid got up from the floor, taking a seat in the padded chair. “I am usually kind,” Astrid quipped with a playful edge, reaching out her hand towards the bottle for a sip.

But, this woman was friendly enough. She wasn’t just trying to fight or get in her pants. Lottie didn’t really know what to do with that.

When prompted, she grabbed the bottle with a grunt. Popping it open, she held it to her lips and took a swig. It was smooth. Probably more expensive than she could’ve afforded.

“I suppose you are kind,” she replied, an attempt at a dry joke.

She handed the bottle to Astrid and watched her sip from it. This was obviously a bit out of the woman’s comfort zone. She likely didn’t share bottles with strange, dangerous women all that often. There was humor to be found in it, a smile pulling at Lottie’s lips.

“You are not used to compliments, no?” She handed the bottle back to Lottie, allowing a faint, tentative smile to cross her lips. Astrid sensed it wasn’t some polite humility that had Lottie declining her compliment, instead something deeper, more self-depricating.

The bottle was passed back and forth between Astrid and Lottie in a rhythmic silence, creating a mutual language of grunts and clicks of the tongue.

Despite her hospitality, a smolder of wariness remained. Astrid minded her words so as to not provoke her. Especially if the scene at the bar was anything to go by, she knew she had to tread lightly. Provoking Lottie was the last thing she intended to do.

“You could say that,” she smiled roughly, chuckling. “People like me don’t get complimented often, Miss.”

Self deprecating was certainly something that could be used to describe her. Half the time, she didn’t even mean to. Didn’t even realize she was doing it. She lived her life in such a hateful, self destructive state that it was her baseline.

A part of her wished that she knew something else. Maybe a kinder life, like Astrid’s, she presumed.

“I’ve stood up to plenty’a men. Just gotta find the right woman, I suppose.” She shrugged, leaning back against the bed slightly. “Men think they’re better’n us because we’re ladies. I think that’s bullshit.”

Lottie was not particularly a lanky woman. She had accumulated strength over the years, necessary for her survival. Holding her own in a physical fight wasn’t a problem.

However, Lottie’s question caught Astrid off guard. Astrid searched the woman’s face behind the bottle. She found no malice, no trace of the question being asked in ill faith. Only pure curiosity. Astrid supposed that it was prompted by her, though it wasn’t usual for her to speak so freely about her life. Sooner or later one learned that that was information to keep close to one’s heart.

“In this life… A year,” she said, tentatively. It had been roughly a year since she was forced from a life of honest work into the lawless outskirts of society. Perhaps it was the natural order, the life she was promised as she left her father. She had made herself an associate in Jessica LeClerk and her circle, which kept her from falling into the deepest of despair in this godforsaken country.

( from lottie , to astrid )

Astrid's eyebrows furrow, unsure what work Lottie is actually referring to. Astrid knows work. Cruel labour for the pay just a hair above the lint in the foreman's pocket. Menial tasks that set her mind on fire from boredom. Domestic drudgery from working the household laundry for a wealthy family. Astrid knows work, in one way it's all she's ever done. Idleness is the enemy of the soul. Astrid dares to speak.

“I know work,” she replies, suspicion lacing her works. “But not that kind of work.”

It angered her for reasons she couldn’t pin down.

Almost annoyed, she looked up at the woman. The answer annoyed her. She wasn’t too sure what “that” kind of work meant, but she had an assumption that Astrid hadn’t worked much at all.

Her hands. Through tough work they still had managed to keep a tender, soft appearance. No scarring to show for what she had been through. It wasn’t too long ago when the work she had to endure only entailed embroidery and clasped hands in prayer. Then again, that was then. Now Astrid’s lucky if the town she passes has a bed for rent, although she’s beginning to prefer the neighbour granted by the wilderness.

“I am not a delicate flower.” Astrid felt she had to stand her ground, sensing hostility from the woman in front of her in the dusky back corner of the saloon. Astrid never appreciated being looked down upon. And now she felt like being challenged.

“Sure,” she drawled, nearly grinning. “You’ve got me real convinced, miss.”

The work that Lottie knew wasn’t pure. It wasn’t anything to be proud of. That much was obvious just by looking at her - a bit rugged, littered with scars and bruises. She looked like she hadn’t slept properly in weeks, and she probably hadn’t.

There was no time for sleeping or eating. Those felt like luxuries these days.

“What work do I know?” She repeated, the gun in her hands some sort of a hint. “Well, I don’t know. Depends on who’s askin’.”

Pushing off the wall, she slowly walked closer to Astrid. Boots dragging the floor, she walked like she was constantly at least in a little bit of pain. Maybe she was. She stopped right beside her, eyes locked onto the woman’s face.

Was Astrid with the law? She's not sure, threading a thin line between being in or out of the law's bounds. Astrid sees herself as a hunter by trade. Usual prays being small game for their pelts. It does happen that the prey are those whose faces are pinned on a sheriff's board, but Astrid is selective. She hunts those she believes should be hunted. Those deserving. She's not sure Lottie fits the bill. What she is sure of, though, is that the woman in front of her sure as he'll doesn't thread any line.

“No.”

Astrid couldn't say anything else with the woman now towering over her. She brushed her hand across the outside of her thigh, realising she had left her weapons in her room at the inn. Diffuse the tension, Astrid thought, feeling uneasy in the disadvantageous position.

“I do not want any trouble.” She brings both of her hands up, resting the palms of the hand at the edge of the tabletop and angling them up. Offsetting herself as a threat. “Please.”

It wasn't a pleading please, but a resigned one. Astrid was honest, she never wanted any trouble. Or at least not with the woman. She went to the saloon to take a bottle and rest her sore body after a long day of travel. This town was only a rest stop on the way to a job out west, to hunt a man whose face was sketched above a hefty bounty. After a long dryspell, Astrid needed the money.

Nothing got past Lottie. She noticed as Astrid checked herself for weapons. Unarmed, she thought. Not very smart.

There didn’t seem to be any fear, which surprised her. Lottie considered herself to be a rather intimidating character. If her appearance didn’t do it, the gun in her hand usually did. This woman intrigued her to no end.

One eyebrow raised as she was told to sit. Slowly, she slid into the seat beside Astrid. She leaned back against the chair, taking up space, one boot tapping the ground lazily.

This was no exception. The woman was rough, that Astrid could see. The woman could make a move, cause hurt and pain, fully capable. And at the moment, the woman had the upper hand, that AStrid knew. Despite that, Astrid felt no fear nor imminent danger. This woman was no threat, Astrid though. She didn’t know, though.

Lottie did sit down, much to Astrid’s appreciation. She might be reasonable, she thought.

“Hunt.” Short, but informative. Astrid did hunt. Having a steady, although thin, stream of money coming from the trapper in Saint Denis. “Small game. For fancy hats to fancy women.” 

“Fancy hats for fancy women,” she drawled, grinning at Astrid. “One hell of a job, miss.”

She glanced at the bartender and signaled to him, knocking on the wood in front of her. “Whiskey, please.”

The bartender quickly poured her the drink and slid it to her, which she took immediately. Slow, smooth sips. Usually, she might’ve downed it. Maybe she was just in a mood tonight.

“Astrid.” She answered, meeting her eyes over the brim of the whiskey glass.

Lottie. Astrid wondered if it was a nickname. Like her friend Charlotta back in Sweden who went by Lotten. 

Being asked about her name caught her off guard. Nobody had ever asked her that before. Astrid seemed to be observant, if nothing else. Wordlessly, Lottie tucked that information into her back pocket.

There were certain things she would need to keep closer to her chest, then.

“It is,” she replied smoothly. “Don’t really like my first name.”

Slowly sipping her whiskey, she kept her guard up. A part of her considered telling the truth, that her name was Charlotte. It was harmless information to give.

The less people knew the better. She didn’t need anybody making any connections about her, tracing all the way back to where she’d come from. Her jaw clenched just thinking about it.

Astrid downed the last of her bottle. She twirled the empty bottle over the tabletop, almost having it tip over with Lottie’s comment. Astrid looked up, an almost amused grimace on her face. It wasn’t unusual for her to get similar comments and Astrid never took offence. Instead, she felt as if it was a testament to her upkeep of hygiene and mending. Cleanliness is next to godliness. 

“That may be…” Astrid began. Unsure how to respond. Unsure if she had to prove something, keep any suspicion of her other sporadic employment at bay. Lottie seemed like the type whose head had a price, or at least on the path towards. 

Looks can be deceiving, Astrid thought. She had taken a bath at the inn before visiting the saloon, and used her lavender soap. Her light coloured shirtwaist was trimmed with a thin bobbin lace ribbon, neatly tucked into her mauve skirt. Astrid had even cleaned her heeled boots before leaving her rented room. She couldn’t fault Lottie. It was almost as if a fur trimmed hat was the only thing missing.

There was a sizable bounty on her head in most places. Wanted dead or alive, mostly.

She wasn’t a good woman. Even she knew that. The thing was, she’d never claimed to be, never pretended to be. She saw this woman - clean, sing-songy, fancy clothes, and it grated her nerves in a way she couldn’t explain.

“Oh, y’don’t like the mud?” She cooed mockingly, nearly sneering. “How sweet. Maybe you just ain’t cut out for the huntin’ life, then, sweetheart.”

Knocking on the bar again, she signaled for another round of whiskey. Of course she was bitter. Seeing someone who was put together, sweet, likable. Maybe it was wrong of her to be so bitter. It just.. angered her. The idea that someone thought they’d be better than her made her skin prickle.

The look in her eyes was akin to a wolf circling its prey. Calculating, almost.

“I do not like the mud, but I like the hunt. And the money. A compromise.”

The air left her lungs in a long drawn out exhale through her nose. She didn’t like the mud, but she liked the hunt. It was in one way an antidote to many of her ailments. Her body was physically sound, which she recognised was from the needed movement of seeking her prey. Hunting also brought her tormented mind moments of peace and her broken down spirit a place to heal as she looked out at His vast creation. So different from back home.

“The old world.” She answered, almost in resignation for the longing that only grew for it. She didn’t quite care for the phrase, but it was old in the sense that Astrid seemed to forget it. "Sweden."

Astrid felt as though she had to heed more caution. The questions Lottie asked couldn’t be of good natured, she didn’t seem like the gregarious type. Then again, Astrid thought she had a downtrodden human in front of her, scarred by the life she led. It couldn’t have been voluntary. She had a hard time imagining anyone ever willingly participating in this ruthless lifestyle. Astrid sure didn’t and she felt pity. A cautious pity for the woman.

It was completely fair to assume she wasn’t good natured. In most cases, she wasn’t. She certainly wasn’t giving this poor woman any reasons to believe that she ever could be. Her aggressive nature was a learned behavior, a survival skill if you will.

All of Lottie’s belligerence was rehearsed. It was a well improvised performance, an amalgamation of experiences that turned a frightened child into a dangerous woman.

Not that it mattered to her, though. She knew there was no redeeming what she’d done. May as well go out swinging.

“What is anyone doin’ here?” She countered, grabbing her new whiskey. “Survivin’, dear. You could say that I’m a hunter, too.”

Astrid had created rules to keep her within bounds. She was determined to somehow, somewhen gain a true honest living and not having this life stain her future. The rules also prescribe value to actions and lives. An honour system where Astrid keeps a positive balance.

A rattling, wet cough and putrid smell of stagnant sweat pulled Astrid from her thoughts. A man stumbled up behind them, positioning himself between the two women. He leant forward, steading himself while asking the bartender for another bottle. Swinging his head to either side, he eyed up both Astrid and Lotte.

Not friends, of course. Never friends.

Her glass had just made it to her lips when they were interrupted. Immediately, she leaned back in her seat, sharp eyes flitting to the drunk bastard between them. Oh, how lovely. This was just what she’d needed.

The corners of her lips tugged up a smidge, a snort nearly escaping her. She didn’t exactly look the part of a working girl, if you asked her. Slowly, her eyes trailed, giving the man a once-over.

She knew his type. Predatory, creepy men. She’d had her own run ins with this type of man.

The man locked eyes with Lottie, grinning at her retort. The bartender served up his drink, and before he answered he took a long swing, eyes still on Lottie.

“Who pissed in your coffee this morning?” He sneered, amused with the response from the one woman. “You sure seem like the more fun one.”

Trying his luck once more, he turned to Astrid and leaned in, his rotten breath almost making her lightheaded.

“Lighten up, dollface,” he cooed, wrapping his arm around the small of her waist. “How much fun have ye had with ‘tis one tonight?”

But, the sight of a man making a woman uncomfortable, grabbing her - no, that wouldn’t do. Anger bubbled up in her chest as she let out a begrudging sigh.

She put her whiskey glass down and stood up, rolling her shoulders once before she grabbed the man by the shoulder and shoved him backwards hard.

First order of business - get this bastard’s grubby hands off the lady. Second - deal with him accordingly.

“I don’t remember hearin’ her tell y’that you could do that,” she spat, stepping into his space. “Keep your fuckin’ hands to yourself before I break ‘em.”

She wasn’t a small woman by any means. Half of the men she’d started fights with had been bigger than her. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter how big she was. In the eyes of those men, she was still just a woman.

“Now, woman. Compose yerself.” He threw up his hands and in turn freed Astrid from his grip. Astrid got up from her chair, taking a few steps from the man and looking around for an escape if things turned ugly.

The saloon was still bustling, only a few patrons noticing the confrontation by the bar. The piano still played, boisterous laughter still ringing. Only a few had set down their glasses, watching idly, maybe hoping for a brawl to break out.

“I ain’t gunna hit a woman.” The man declared while he turned his chin up. He reached for Lottie’s hip, shoving her away from him.

Astrid wanted to intervene as the man pushed Lottie, to stand up for Lottie just as she had done to her, but she was paralyzed. The man was neither too tall nor stout, but his belligerent drunkenness made his movement hard to calculate. Her hands trembled and throat tightened.

That was, until the man touched her. All bets were off. If a brawl was what people wanted, then a brawl they would get.

She grabbed the man’s arm, twisting it painfully behind his back and shoving his chest harshly against the bar. Holding him there and yanking at his arm, she sneered, eye twitching slightly.

“You ain’t gonna hit a woman, but you’ll touch one without permission?” She barked, yanking his arm again until it popped. “You ain’t even a man. Disgusting.”

She released him only to firmly jab her elbow against the side of his head with a grunt. There was nothing she hated more than entitled, creepy men. A sigh left her as she turned to Astrid.

“I want no more trouble in here!” The bartender barked. He'd barely flinched while his eyes were closely kept on the scene that played out, hands occupied with the duties of being a barkeep. “Git!” He swatted his hands towards the drunken man, who mumbled something under his breath before someone escorted him outside through the back.

Astrid had her eyes on the man leaving, slowly turning to face Lottie. The question barely registered and a few moments passed until Astrid came to it. It wasn't out of the ordinary that bars offered such encounters with drunken, pushy men. Though, it was out of the ordinary to have such a bold ally. Someone unafraid of physical confrontations, as a woman.

Astrid barely found the words. “I am alright. Thank you, miss Lottie.” Though surely, a thank you was the least Astrid could've offered. A faint smile crept onto her lips, curling the corners of her mouth. "Are you alright?"

The burning stare from the bartender made Astrid feel uneasy. Lonely women seemed to draw out the most unfavourable behaviour from his male patrons.

“I have a bottle in my room. Just across the street. Let me thank you, please.” Astrid laid the offer up on the table while she nodded in the direction of the inn, raising one eyebrow as she eyed Lottie.

At Astrid’s question, she huffed a little laugh. “Don’t worry ‘bout me,” she dismissed. “Takes more than a drunkard to get to me.”

She was still on her guard, eyes flitting to the bartender every so often. Even the men around them weren’t safe. As far as she knew, every man in this room was a threat.

Astrid’s offer surprised her. Sure, she’d just fought a man to her, but Lottie wasn’t exactly sure if she could fully trust this woman. There’d been no obvious threat so far, but…

As they stepped outside, the frigid night air nipped at Astrid’s cheeks. The town had almost fallen asleep, save for a few figures lurking amongst the shadows and the bustling from the saloon. Pale moonlight lit up the muddy street, and Astrid felt her heels sink into the muck with every step.

Reaching the inn opposite of the saloon, she climbed the short landing and led the way though the entrance. The innkeeper looked up as they entered, his eyes lingering. “Welcome back,” he greeted, nodding his head at Astrid, recognising her from a few hours ago.

“Thank you,” Astrid politely offered before climbing the creaking stairs. She turned right at the top, unlocked her door and gestured for Lottie to step inside. The room was sparsely decorated and Astrid had kept it tidy, while still having a few things packed up and meticulously arranged on the dresser. Her bag had been neatly tucked under the bed, out of sight. 

Astrid gestured for Lottie to take a seat while she crossed the floor to the cracked window she’d left open to air out the room, latching it shut against the chill. 

Shaking that thought away, she took a good glance at the inn. Certainly a nice little place - nicer than the place she was staying. She remained quiet and polite as she followed the woman, hand resting on her gun belt.

The room was nice and neat. Seemed very fitting, considering the lady staying in it. When directed to, Lottie sat. Awkward and with her hands folded in her lap.

“You can if you want to, Miss,” she chuckled. “I don’t mind just sharin’ the bottle. ‘Course, unless you’re above all that.”

The bottle of rum looked nice, at least. If nothing else, she could get a good drink out of this nonsense and be done with it.

“Real kind of ya to offer me a drink, Miss.”

“We can share the bottle,” she decided with a nod. She picked up the bottle again and walked some stilted steps toward the fireplace. She glazed at the cold hearth, briefly pondering the effort before deciding to light it. The room had a slight chill to it after the cracked window, and soon it’d probably be cold.

“Here,” she said, offering the bottle to Lottie before kneeling to tend to the fireplace. The wood was dry and caught the spark from the kindling almost instantly, casting a flickering orange light across the room.

Before getting up from the floor, Astrid briefly reflected over the cause for her to invite Lottie to her room. In one way it was out of character, but somehow it came to her benefit. While Lottie stepped in and in one way rescued her, Astrid knew she could have handled the situation more smoothly on her own. Diffusing these situations were, in a sense, her strong suit.

Yet, Lottie had intervened with force, strong-arming a level of respect not generously given to women. Astrid admired that and in a world this rough and unforgiving, an ally was a precious commodity. She could build a rapport over a drink, and also by offering a kindness Lottie likely rarely received.

Astrid got up from the floor, taking a seat in the padded chair. “I am usually kind,” Astrid quipped with a playful edge, reaching out her hand towards the bottle for a sip.

But, this woman was friendly enough. She wasn’t just trying to fight or get in her pants. Lottie didn’t really know what to do with that.

When prompted, she grabbed the bottle with a grunt. Popping it open, she held it to her lips and took a swig. It was smooth. Probably more expensive than she could’ve afforded.

“I suppose you are kind,” she replied, an attempt at a dry joke.

She handed the bottle to Astrid and watched her sip from it. This was obviously a bit out of the woman’s comfort zone. She likely didn’t share bottles with strange, dangerous women all that often. There was humor to be found in it, a smile pulling at Lottie’s lips.

“You are not used to compliments, no?” She handed the bottle back to Lottie, allowing a faint, tentative smile to cross her lips. Astrid sensed it wasn’t some polite humility that had Lottie declining her compliment, instead something deeper, more self-depricating.

The bottle was passed back and forth between Astrid and Lottie in a rhythmic silence, creating a mutual language of grunts and clicks of the tongue.

Despite her hospitality, a smolder of wariness remained. Astrid minded her words so as to not provoke her. Especially if the scene at the bar was anything to go by, she knew she had to tread lightly. Provoking Lottie was the last thing she intended to do.

( from lottie , to astrid )

Astrid's eyebrows furrow, unsure what work Lottie is actually referring to. Astrid knows work. Cruel labour for the pay just a hair above the lint in the foreman's pocket. Menial tasks that set her mind on fire from boredom. Domestic drudgery from working the household laundry for a wealthy family. Astrid knows work, in one way it's all she's ever done. Idleness is the enemy of the soul. Astrid dares to speak.

“I know work,” she replies, suspicion lacing her works. “But not that kind of work.”

It angered her for reasons she couldn’t pin down.

Almost annoyed, she looked up at the woman. The answer annoyed her. She wasn’t too sure what “that” kind of work meant, but she had an assumption that Astrid hadn’t worked much at all.

Her hands. Through tough work they still had managed to keep a tender, soft appearance. No scarring to show for what she had been through. It wasn’t too long ago when the work she had to endure only entailed embroidery and clasped hands in prayer. Then again, that was then. Now Astrid’s lucky if the town she passes has a bed for rent, although she’s beginning to prefer the neighbour granted by the wilderness.

“I am not a delicate flower.” Astrid felt she had to stand her ground, sensing hostility from the woman in front of her in the dusky back corner of the saloon. Astrid never appreciated being looked down upon. And now she felt like being challenged.

“Sure,” she drawled, nearly grinning. “You’ve got me real convinced, miss.”

The work that Lottie knew wasn’t pure. It wasn’t anything to be proud of. That much was obvious just by looking at her - a bit rugged, littered with scars and bruises. She looked like she hadn’t slept properly in weeks, and she probably hadn’t.

There was no time for sleeping or eating. Those felt like luxuries these days.

“What work do I know?” She repeated, the gun in her hands some sort of a hint. “Well, I don’t know. Depends on who’s askin’.”

Pushing off the wall, she slowly walked closer to Astrid. Boots dragging the floor, she walked like she was constantly at least in a little bit of pain. Maybe she was. She stopped right beside her, eyes locked onto the woman’s face.

Was Astrid with the law? She's not sure, threading a thin line between being in or out of the law's bounds. Astrid sees herself as a hunter by trade. Usual prays being small game for their pelts. It does happen that the prey are those whose faces are pinned on a sheriff's board, but Astrid is selective. She hunts those she believes should be hunted. Those deserving. She's not sure Lottie fits the bill. What she is sure of, though, is that the woman in front of her sure as he'll doesn't thread any line.

“No.”

Astrid couldn't say anything else with the woman now towering over her. She brushed her hand across the outside of her thigh, realising she had left her weapons in her room at the inn. Diffuse the tension, Astrid thought, feeling uneasy in the disadvantageous position.

“I do not want any trouble.” She brings both of her hands up, resting the palms of the hand at the edge of the tabletop and angling them up. Offsetting herself as a threat. “Please.”

It wasn't a pleading please, but a resigned one. Astrid was honest, she never wanted any trouble. Or at least not with the woman. She went to the saloon to take a bottle and rest her sore body after a long day of travel. This town was only a rest stop on the way to a job out west, to hunt a man whose face was sketched above a hefty bounty. After a long dryspell, Astrid needed the money.

Nothing got past Lottie. She noticed as Astrid checked herself for weapons. Unarmed, she thought. Not very smart.

There didn’t seem to be any fear, which surprised her. Lottie considered herself to be a rather intimidating character. If her appearance didn’t do it, the gun in her hand usually did. This woman intrigued her to no end.

One eyebrow raised as she was told to sit. Slowly, she slid into the seat beside Astrid. She leaned back against the chair, taking up space, one boot tapping the ground lazily.

This was no exception. The woman was rough, that Astrid could see. The woman could make a move, cause hurt and pain, fully capable. And at the moment, the woman had the upper hand, that AStrid knew. Despite that, Astrid felt no fear nor imminent danger. This woman was no threat, Astrid though. She didn’t know, though.

Lottie did sit down, much to Astrid’s appreciation. She might be reasonable, she thought.

“Hunt.” Short, but informative. Astrid did hunt. Having a steady, although thin, stream of money coming from the trapper in Saint Denis. “Small game. For fancy hats to fancy women.” 

“Fancy hats for fancy women,” she drawled, grinning at Astrid. “One hell of a job, miss.”

She glanced at the bartender and signaled to him, knocking on the wood in front of her. “Whiskey, please.”

The bartender quickly poured her the drink and slid it to her, which she took immediately. Slow, smooth sips. Usually, she might’ve downed it. Maybe she was just in a mood tonight.

“Astrid.” She answered, meeting her eyes over the brim of the whiskey glass.

Lottie. Astrid wondered if it was a nickname. Like her friend Charlotta back in Sweden who went by Lotten. 

Being asked about her name caught her off guard. Nobody had ever asked her that before. Astrid seemed to be observant, if nothing else. Wordlessly, Lottie tucked that information into her back pocket.

There were certain things she would need to keep closer to her chest, then.

“It is,” she replied smoothly. “Don’t really like my first name.”

Slowly sipping her whiskey, she kept her guard up. A part of her considered telling the truth, that her name was Charlotte. It was harmless information to give.

The less people knew the better. She didn’t need anybody making any connections about her, tracing all the way back to where she’d come from. Her jaw clenched just thinking about it.

Astrid downed the last of her bottle. She twirled the empty bottle over the tabletop, almost having it tip over with Lottie’s comment. Astrid looked up, an almost amused grimace on her face. It wasn’t unusual for her to get similar comments and Astrid never took offence. Instead, she felt as if it was a testament to her upkeep of hygiene and mending. Cleanliness is next to godliness. 

“That may be…” Astrid began. Unsure how to respond. Unsure if she had to prove something, keep any suspicion of her other sporadic employment at bay. Lottie seemed like the type whose head had a price, or at least on the path towards. 

Looks can be deceiving, Astrid thought. She had taken a bath at the inn before visiting the saloon, and used her lavender soap. Her light coloured shirtwaist was trimmed with a thin bobbin lace ribbon, neatly tucked into her mauve skirt. Astrid had even cleaned her heeled boots before leaving her rented room. She couldn’t fault Lottie. It was almost as if a fur trimmed hat was the only thing missing.

There was a sizable bounty on her head in most places. Wanted dead or alive, mostly.

She wasn’t a good woman. Even she knew that. The thing was, she’d never claimed to be, never pretended to be. She saw this woman - clean, sing-songy, fancy clothes, and it grated her nerves in a way she couldn’t explain.

“Oh, y’don’t like the mud?” She cooed mockingly, nearly sneering. “How sweet. Maybe you just ain’t cut out for the huntin’ life, then, sweetheart.”

Knocking on the bar again, she signaled for another round of whiskey. Of course she was bitter. Seeing someone who was put together, sweet, likable. Maybe it was wrong of her to be so bitter. It just.. angered her. The idea that someone thought they’d be better than her made her skin prickle.

The look in her eyes was akin to a wolf circling its prey. Calculating, almost.

“I do not like the mud, but I like the hunt. And the money. A compromise.”

The air left her lungs in a long drawn out exhale through her nose. She didn’t like the mud, but she liked the hunt. It was in one way an antidote to many of her ailments. Her body was physically sound, which she recognised was from the needed movement of seeking her prey. Hunting also brought her tormented mind moments of peace and her broken down spirit a place to heal as she looked out at His vast creation. So different from back home.

“The old world.” She answered, almost in resignation for the longing that only grew for it. She didn’t quite care for the phrase, but it was old in the sense that Astrid seemed to forget it. "Sweden."

Astrid felt as though she had to heed more caution. The questions Lottie asked couldn’t be of good natured, she didn’t seem like the gregarious type. Then again, Astrid thought she had a downtrodden human in front of her, scarred by the life she led. It couldn’t have been voluntary. She had a hard time imagining anyone ever willingly participating in this ruthless lifestyle. Astrid sure didn’t and she felt pity. A cautious pity for the woman.

It was completely fair to assume she wasn’t good natured. In most cases, she wasn’t. She certainly wasn’t giving this poor woman any reasons to believe that she ever could be. Her aggressive nature was a learned behavior, a survival skill if you will.

All of Lottie’s belligerence was rehearsed. It was a well improvised performance, an amalgamation of experiences that turned a frightened child into a dangerous woman.

Not that it mattered to her, though. She knew there was no redeeming what she’d done. May as well go out swinging.

“What is anyone doin’ here?” She countered, grabbing her new whiskey. “Survivin’, dear. You could say that I’m a hunter, too.”

Astrid had created rules to keep her within bounds. She was determined to somehow, somewhen gain a true honest living and not having this life stain her future. The rules also prescribe value to actions and lives. An honour system where Astrid keeps a positive balance.

A rattling, wet cough and putrid smell of stagnant sweat pulled Astrid from her thoughts. A man stumbled up behind them, positioning himself between the two women. He leant forward, steading himself while asking the bartender for another bottle. Swinging his head to either side, he eyed up both Astrid and Lotte.

Not friends, of course. Never friends.

Her glass had just made it to her lips when they were interrupted. Immediately, she leaned back in her seat, sharp eyes flitting to the drunk bastard between them. Oh, how lovely. This was just what she’d needed.

The corners of her lips tugged up a smidge, a snort nearly escaping her. She didn’t exactly look the part of a working girl, if you asked her. Slowly, her eyes trailed, giving the man a once-over.

She knew his type. Predatory, creepy men. She’d had her own run ins with this type of man.

The man locked eyes with Lottie, grinning at her retort. The bartender served up his drink, and before he answered he took a long swing, eyes still on Lottie.

“Who pissed in your coffee this morning?” He sneered, amused with the response from the one woman. “You sure seem like the more fun one.”

Trying his luck once more, he turned to Astrid and leaned in, his rotten breath almost making her lightheaded.

“Lighten up, dollface,” he cooed, wrapping his arm around the small of her waist. “How much fun have ye had with ‘tis one tonight?”

But, the sight of a man making a woman uncomfortable, grabbing her - no, that wouldn’t do. Anger bubbled up in her chest as she let out a begrudging sigh.

She put her whiskey glass down and stood up, rolling her shoulders once before she grabbed the man by the shoulder and shoved him backwards hard.

First order of business - get this bastard’s grubby hands off the lady. Second - deal with him accordingly.

“I don’t remember hearin’ her tell y’that you could do that,” she spat, stepping into his space. “Keep your fuckin’ hands to yourself before I break ‘em.”

She wasn’t a small woman by any means. Half of the men she’d started fights with had been bigger than her. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter how big she was. In the eyes of those men, she was still just a woman.

“Now, woman. Compose yerself.” He threw up his hands and in turn freed Astrid from his grip. Astrid got up from her chair, taking a few steps from the man and looking around for an escape if things turned ugly.

The saloon was still bustling, only a few patrons noticing the confrontation by the bar. The piano still played, boisterous laughter still ringing. Only a few had set down their glasses, watching idly, maybe hoping for a brawl to break out.

“I ain’t gunna hit a woman.” The man declared while he turned his chin up. He reached for Lottie’s hip, shoving her away from him.

Astrid wanted to intervene as the man pushed Lottie, to stand up for Lottie just as she had done to her, but she was paralyzed. The man was neither too tall nor stout, but his belligerent drunkenness made his movement hard to calculate. Her hands trembled and throat tightened.

That was, until the man touched her. All bets were off. If a brawl was what people wanted, then a brawl they would get.

She grabbed the man’s arm, twisting it painfully behind his back and shoving his chest harshly against the bar. Holding him there and yanking at his arm, she sneered, eye twitching slightly.

“You ain’t gonna hit a woman, but you’ll touch one without permission?” She barked, yanking his arm again until it popped. “You ain’t even a man. Disgusting.”

She released him only to firmly jab her elbow against the side of his head with a grunt. There was nothing she hated more than entitled, creepy men. A sigh left her as she turned to Astrid.

“I want no more trouble in here!” The bartender barked. He'd barely flinched while his eyes were closely kept on the scene that played out, hands occupied with the duties of being a barkeep. “Git!” He swatted his hands towards the drunken man, who mumbled something under his breath before someone escorted him outside through the back.

Astrid had her eyes on the man leaving, slowly turning to face Lottie. The question barely registered and a few moments passed until Astrid came to it. It wasn't out of the ordinary that bars offered such encounters with drunken, pushy men. Though, it was out of the ordinary to have such a bold ally. Someone unafraid of physical confrontations, as a woman.

Astrid barely found the words. “I am alright. Thank you, miss Lottie.” Though surely, a thank you was the least Astrid could've offered. A faint smile crept onto her lips, curling the corners of her mouth. "Are you alright?"

The burning stare from the bartender made Astrid feel uneasy. Lonely women seemed to draw out the most unfavourable behaviour from his male patrons.

“I have a bottle in my room. Just across the street. Let me thank you, please.” Astrid laid the offer up on the table while she nodded in the direction of the inn, raising one eyebrow as she eyed Lottie.

At Astrid’s question, she huffed a little laugh. “Don’t worry ‘bout me,” she dismissed. “Takes more than a drunkard to get to me.”

She was still on her guard, eyes flitting to the bartender every so often. Even the men around them weren’t safe. As far as she knew, every man in this room was a threat.

Astrid’s offer surprised her. Sure, she’d just fought a man to her, but Lottie wasn’t exactly sure if she could fully trust this woman. There’d been no obvious threat so far, but…

As they stepped outside, the frigid night air nipped at Astrid’s cheeks. The town had almost fallen asleep, save for a few figures lurking amongst the shadows and the bustling from the saloon. Pale moonlight lit up the muddy street, and Astrid felt her heels sink into the muck with every step.

Reaching the inn opposite of the saloon, she climbed the short landing and led the way though the entrance. The innkeeper looked up as they entered, his eyes lingering. “Welcome back,” he greeted, nodding his head at Astrid, recognising her from a few hours ago.

“Thank you,” Astrid politely offered before climbing the creaking stairs. She turned right at the top, unlocked her door and gestured for Lottie to step inside. The room was sparsely decorated and Astrid had kept it tidy, while still having a few things packed up and meticulously arranged on the dresser. Her bag had been neatly tucked under the bed, out of sight. 

Astrid gestured for Lottie to take a seat while she crossed the floor to the cracked window she’d left open to air out the room, latching it shut against the chill. 

Shaking that thought away, she took a good glance at the inn. Certainly a nice little place - nicer than the place she was staying. She remained quiet and polite as she followed the woman, hand resting on her gun belt.

The room was nice and neat. Seemed very fitting, considering the lady staying in it. When directed to, Lottie sat. Awkward and with her hands folded in her lap.

“You can if you want to, Miss,” she chuckled. “I don’t mind just sharin’ the bottle. ‘Course, unless you’re above all that.”

The bottle of rum looked nice, at least. If nothing else, she could get a good drink out of this nonsense and be done with it.

“Real kind of ya to offer me a drink, Miss.”

“We can share the bottle,” she decided with a nod. She picked up the bottle again and walked some stilted steps toward the fireplace. She glazed at the cold hearth, briefly pondering the effort before deciding to light it. The room had a slight chill to it after the cracked window, and soon it’d probably be cold.

“Here,” she said, offering the bottle to Lottie before kneeling to tend to the fireplace. The wood was dry and caught the spark from the kindling almost instantly, casting a flickering orange light across the room.

Before getting up from the floor, Astrid briefly reflected over the cause for her to invite Lottie to her room. In one way it was out of character, but somehow it came to her benefit. While Lottie stepped in and in one way rescued her, Astrid knew she could have handled the situation more smoothly on her own. Diffusing these situations were, in a sense, her strong suit.

Yet, Lottie had intervened with force, strong-arming a level of respect not generously given to women. Astrid admired that and in a world this rough and unforgiving, an ally was a precious commodity. She could build a rapport over a drink, and also by offering a kindness Lottie likely rarely received.

Astrid got up from the floor, taking a seat in the padded chair. “I am usually kind,” Astrid quipped with a playful edge, reaching out her hand towards the bottle for a sip.

( from lottie , to astrid )

Astrid's eyebrows furrow, unsure what work Lottie is actually referring to. Astrid knows work. Cruel labour for the pay just a hair above the lint in the foreman's pocket. Menial tasks that set her mind on fire from boredom. Domestic drudgery from working the household laundry for a wealthy family. Astrid knows work, in one way it's all she's ever done. Idleness is the enemy of the soul. Astrid dares to speak.

“I know work,” she replies, suspicion lacing her works. “But not that kind of work.”

It angered her for reasons she couldn’t pin down.

Almost annoyed, she looked up at the woman. The answer annoyed her. She wasn’t too sure what “that” kind of work meant, but she had an assumption that Astrid hadn’t worked much at all.

Her hands. Through tough work they still had managed to keep a tender, soft appearance. No scarring to show for what she had been through. It wasn’t too long ago when the work she had to endure only entailed embroidery and clasped hands in prayer. Then again, that was then. Now Astrid’s lucky if the town she passes has a bed for rent, although she’s beginning to prefer the neighbour granted by the wilderness.

“I am not a delicate flower.” Astrid felt she had to stand her ground, sensing hostility from the woman in front of her in the dusky back corner of the saloon. Astrid never appreciated being looked down upon. And now she felt like being challenged.

“Sure,” she drawled, nearly grinning. “You’ve got me real convinced, miss.”

The work that Lottie knew wasn’t pure. It wasn’t anything to be proud of. That much was obvious just by looking at her - a bit rugged, littered with scars and bruises. She looked like she hadn’t slept properly in weeks, and she probably hadn’t.

There was no time for sleeping or eating. Those felt like luxuries these days.

“What work do I know?” She repeated, the gun in her hands some sort of a hint. “Well, I don’t know. Depends on who’s askin’.”

Pushing off the wall, she slowly walked closer to Astrid. Boots dragging the floor, she walked like she was constantly at least in a little bit of pain. Maybe she was. She stopped right beside her, eyes locked onto the woman’s face.

Was Astrid with the law? She's not sure, threading a thin line between being in or out of the law's bounds. Astrid sees herself as a hunter by trade. Usual prays being small game for their pelts. It does happen that the prey are those whose faces are pinned on a sheriff's board, but Astrid is selective. She hunts those she believes should be hunted. Those deserving. She's not sure Lottie fits the bill. What she is sure of, though, is that the woman in front of her sure as he'll doesn't thread any line.

“No.”

Astrid couldn't say anything else with the woman now towering over her. She brushed her hand across the outside of her thigh, realising she had left her weapons in her room at the inn. Diffuse the tension, Astrid thought, feeling uneasy in the disadvantageous position.

“I do not want any trouble.” She brings both of her hands up, resting the palms of the hand at the edge of the tabletop and angling them up. Offsetting herself as a threat. “Please.”

It wasn't a pleading please, but a resigned one. Astrid was honest, she never wanted any trouble. Or at least not with the woman. She went to the saloon to take a bottle and rest her sore body after a long day of travel. This town was only a rest stop on the way to a job out west, to hunt a man whose face was sketched above a hefty bounty. After a long dryspell, Astrid needed the money.

Nothing got past Lottie. She noticed as Astrid checked herself for weapons. Unarmed, she thought. Not very smart.

There didn’t seem to be any fear, which surprised her. Lottie considered herself to be a rather intimidating character. If her appearance didn’t do it, the gun in her hand usually did. This woman intrigued her to no end.

One eyebrow raised as she was told to sit. Slowly, she slid into the seat beside Astrid. She leaned back against the chair, taking up space, one boot tapping the ground lazily.

This was no exception. The woman was rough, that Astrid could see. The woman could make a move, cause hurt and pain, fully capable. And at the moment, the woman had the upper hand, that AStrid knew. Despite that, Astrid felt no fear nor imminent danger. This woman was no threat, Astrid though. She didn’t know, though.

Lottie did sit down, much to Astrid’s appreciation. She might be reasonable, she thought.

“Hunt.” Short, but informative. Astrid did hunt. Having a steady, although thin, stream of money coming from the trapper in Saint Denis. “Small game. For fancy hats to fancy women.” 

“Fancy hats for fancy women,” she drawled, grinning at Astrid. “One hell of a job, miss.”

She glanced at the bartender and signaled to him, knocking on the wood in front of her. “Whiskey, please.”

The bartender quickly poured her the drink and slid it to her, which she took immediately. Slow, smooth sips. Usually, she might’ve downed it. Maybe she was just in a mood tonight.

“Astrid.” She answered, meeting her eyes over the brim of the whiskey glass.

Lottie. Astrid wondered if it was a nickname. Like her friend Charlotta back in Sweden who went by Lotten. 

Being asked about her name caught her off guard. Nobody had ever asked her that before. Astrid seemed to be observant, if nothing else. Wordlessly, Lottie tucked that information into her back pocket.

There were certain things she would need to keep closer to her chest, then.

“It is,” she replied smoothly. “Don’t really like my first name.”

Slowly sipping her whiskey, she kept her guard up. A part of her considered telling the truth, that her name was Charlotte. It was harmless information to give.

The less people knew the better. She didn’t need anybody making any connections about her, tracing all the way back to where she’d come from. Her jaw clenched just thinking about it.

Astrid downed the last of her bottle. She twirled the empty bottle over the tabletop, almost having it tip over with Lottie’s comment. Astrid looked up, an almost amused grimace on her face. It wasn’t unusual for her to get similar comments and Astrid never took offence. Instead, she felt as if it was a testament to her upkeep of hygiene and mending. Cleanliness is next to godliness. 

“That may be…” Astrid began. Unsure how to respond. Unsure if she had to prove something, keep any suspicion of her other sporadic employment at bay. Lottie seemed like the type whose head had a price, or at least on the path towards. 

Looks can be deceiving, Astrid thought. She had taken a bath at the inn before visiting the saloon, and used her lavender soap. Her light coloured shirtwaist was trimmed with a thin bobbin lace ribbon, neatly tucked into her mauve skirt. Astrid had even cleaned her heeled boots before leaving her rented room. She couldn’t fault Lottie. It was almost as if a fur trimmed hat was the only thing missing.

There was a sizable bounty on her head in most places. Wanted dead or alive, mostly.

She wasn’t a good woman. Even she knew that. The thing was, she’d never claimed to be, never pretended to be. She saw this woman - clean, sing-songy, fancy clothes, and it grated her nerves in a way she couldn’t explain.

“Oh, y’don’t like the mud?” She cooed mockingly, nearly sneering. “How sweet. Maybe you just ain’t cut out for the huntin’ life, then, sweetheart.”

Knocking on the bar again, she signaled for another round of whiskey. Of course she was bitter. Seeing someone who was put together, sweet, likable. Maybe it was wrong of her to be so bitter. It just.. angered her. The idea that someone thought they’d be better than her made her skin prickle.

The look in her eyes was akin to a wolf circling its prey. Calculating, almost.

“I do not like the mud, but I like the hunt. And the money. A compromise.”

The air left her lungs in a long drawn out exhale through her nose. She didn’t like the mud, but she liked the hunt. It was in one way an antidote to many of her ailments. Her body was physically sound, which she recognised was from the needed movement of seeking her prey. Hunting also brought her tormented mind moments of peace and her broken down spirit a place to heal as she looked out at His vast creation. So different from back home.

“The old world.” She answered, almost in resignation for the longing that only grew for it. She didn’t quite care for the phrase, but it was old in the sense that Astrid seemed to forget it. "Sweden."

Astrid felt as though she had to heed more caution. The questions Lottie asked couldn’t be of good natured, she didn’t seem like the gregarious type. Then again, Astrid thought she had a downtrodden human in front of her, scarred by the life she led. It couldn’t have been voluntary. She had a hard time imagining anyone ever willingly participating in this ruthless lifestyle. Astrid sure didn’t and she felt pity. A cautious pity for the woman.

It was completely fair to assume she wasn’t good natured. In most cases, she wasn’t. She certainly wasn’t giving this poor woman any reasons to believe that she ever could be. Her aggressive nature was a learned behavior, a survival skill if you will.

All of Lottie’s belligerence was rehearsed. It was a well improvised performance, an amalgamation of experiences that turned a frightened child into a dangerous woman.

Not that it mattered to her, though. She knew there was no redeeming what she’d done. May as well go out swinging.

“What is anyone doin’ here?” She countered, grabbing her new whiskey. “Survivin’, dear. You could say that I’m a hunter, too.”

Astrid had created rules to keep her within bounds. She was determined to somehow, somewhen gain a true honest living and not having this life stain her future. The rules also prescribe value to actions and lives. An honour system where Astrid keeps a positive balance.

A rattling, wet cough and putrid smell of stagnant sweat pulled Astrid from her thoughts. A man stumbled up behind them, positioning himself between the two women. He leant forward, steading himself while asking the bartender for another bottle. Swinging his head to either side, he eyed up both Astrid and Lotte.

Not friends, of course. Never friends.

Her glass had just made it to her lips when they were interrupted. Immediately, she leaned back in her seat, sharp eyes flitting to the drunk bastard between them. Oh, how lovely. This was just what she’d needed.

The corners of her lips tugged up a smidge, a snort nearly escaping her. She didn’t exactly look the part of a working girl, if you asked her. Slowly, her eyes trailed, giving the man a once-over.

She knew his type. Predatory, creepy men. She’d had her own run ins with this type of man.

The man locked eyes with Lottie, grinning at her retort. The bartender served up his drink, and before he answered he took a long swing, eyes still on Lottie.

“Who pissed in your coffee this morning?” He sneered, amused with the response from the one woman. “You sure seem like the more fun one.”

Trying his luck once more, he turned to Astrid and leaned in, his rotten breath almost making her lightheaded.

“Lighten up, dollface,” he cooed, wrapping his arm around the small of her waist. “How much fun have ye had with ‘tis one tonight?”

But, the sight of a man making a woman uncomfortable, grabbing her - no, that wouldn’t do. Anger bubbled up in her chest as she let out a begrudging sigh.

She put her whiskey glass down and stood up, rolling her shoulders once before she grabbed the man by the shoulder and shoved him backwards hard.

First order of business - get this bastard’s grubby hands off the lady. Second - deal with him accordingly.

“I don’t remember hearin’ her tell y’that you could do that,” she spat, stepping into his space. “Keep your fuckin’ hands to yourself before I break ‘em.”

She wasn’t a small woman by any means. Half of the men she’d started fights with had been bigger than her. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter how big she was. In the eyes of those men, she was still just a woman.

“Now, woman. Compose yerself.” He threw up his hands and in turn freed Astrid from his grip. Astrid got up from her chair, taking a few steps from the man and looking around for an escape if things turned ugly.

The saloon was still bustling, only a few patrons noticing the confrontation by the bar. The piano still played, boisterous laughter still ringing. Only a few had set down their glasses, watching idly, maybe hoping for a brawl to break out.

“I ain’t gunna hit a woman.” The man declared while he turned his chin up. He reached for Lottie’s hip, shoving her away from him.

Astrid wanted to intervene as the man pushed Lottie, to stand up for Lottie just as she had done to her, but she was paralyzed. The man was neither too tall nor stout, but his belligerent drunkenness made his movement hard to calculate. Her hands trembled and throat tightened.

That was, until the man touched her. All bets were off. If a brawl was what people wanted, then a brawl they would get.

She grabbed the man’s arm, twisting it painfully behind his back and shoving his chest harshly against the bar. Holding him there and yanking at his arm, she sneered, eye twitching slightly.

“You ain’t gonna hit a woman, but you’ll touch one without permission?” She barked, yanking his arm again until it popped. “You ain’t even a man. Disgusting.”

She released him only to firmly jab her elbow against the side of his head with a grunt. There was nothing she hated more than entitled, creepy men. A sigh left her as she turned to Astrid.

“I want no more trouble in here!” The bartender barked. He'd barely flinched while his eyes were closely kept on the scene that played out, hands occupied with the duties of being a barkeep. “Git!” He swatted his hands towards the drunken man, who mumbled something under his breath before someone escorted him outside through the back.

Astrid had her eyes on the man leaving, slowly turning to face Lottie. The question barely registered and a few moments passed until Astrid came to it. It wasn't out of the ordinary that bars offered such encounters with drunken, pushy men. Though, it was out of the ordinary to have such a bold ally. Someone unafraid of physical confrontations, as a woman.

Astrid barely found the words. “I am alright. Thank you, miss Lottie.” Though surely, a thank you was the least Astrid could've offered. A faint smile crept onto her lips, curling the corners of her mouth. "Are you alright?"

The burning stare from the bartender made Astrid feel uneasy. Lonely women seemed to draw out the most unfavourable behaviour from his male patrons.

“I have a bottle in my room. Just across the street. Let me thank you, please.” Astrid laid the offer up on the table while she nodded in the direction of the inn, raising one eyebrow as she eyed Lottie.

At Astrid’s question, she huffed a little laugh. “Don’t worry ‘bout me,” she dismissed. “Takes more than a drunkard to get to me.”

She was still on her guard, eyes flitting to the bartender every so often. Even the men around them weren’t safe. As far as she knew, every man in this room was a threat.

Astrid’s offer surprised her. Sure, she’d just fought a man to her, but Lottie wasn’t exactly sure if she could fully trust this woman. There’d been no obvious threat so far, but…

As they stepped outside, the frigid night air nipped at Astrid’s cheeks. The town had almost fallen asleep, save for a few figures lurking amongst the shadows and the bustling from the saloon. Pale moonlight lit up the muddy street, and Astrid felt her heels sink into the muck with every step.

Reaching the inn opposite of the saloon, she climbed the short landing and led the way though the entrance. The innkeeper looked up as they entered, his eyes lingering. “Welcome back,” he greeted, nodding his head at Astrid, recognising her from a few hours ago.

“Thank you,” Astrid politely offered before climbing the creaking stairs. She turned right at the top, unlocked her door and gestured for Lottie to step inside. The room was sparsely decorated and Astrid had kept it tidy, while still having a few things packed up and meticulously arranged on the dresser. Her bag had been neatly tucked under the bed, out of sight. 

Astrid gestured for Lottie to take a seat while she crossed the floor to the cracked window she’d left open to air out the room, latching it shut against the chill. 

Difficult Questions for Muses

Please remember to use trigger warnings as and when necessary. | Please specify for multimuses which muse the question is for.

Do you think that you’re a good person?

Do others like you? Do you want others to like you?

What do you think others like or admire about you?

How do you know when you’re in love? (romantic or platonic)

Would you or have you ever killed? What would drive you to kill? 

Do you think that killing is ever justified?

Have you ever done anything that you feel to be very morally wrong?

Should all people be treated as equal and have the same rights?

If you committed a crime, would you accept punishment willingly?

Is suicide ever the right choice?

Is euthanasia ever the right choice?

Is it right to have an intimate relationship with somebody you don’t love?

What could make you break your own moral code? 

Have you ever doubted your own beliefs? (Spiritual, philosophical)

Would you always be loyal to your loved ones even if they wronged you?

What would you consider a fate worse than death?

Why do you love the person or people you love? (romantic or platonic)

Do you agree with capital punishment?

Could you ever forgive your worst enemy?

What would you like to achieve before you die?

( from lottie , to astrid )

Astrid's eyebrows furrow, unsure what work Lottie is actually referring to. Astrid knows work. Cruel labour for the pay just a hair above the lint in the foreman's pocket. Menial tasks that set her mind on fire from boredom. Domestic drudgery from working the household laundry for a wealthy family. Astrid knows work, in one way it's all she's ever done. Idleness is the enemy of the soul. Astrid dares to speak.

“I know work,” she replies, suspicion lacing her works. “But not that kind of work.”

It angered her for reasons she couldn’t pin down.

Almost annoyed, she looked up at the woman. The answer annoyed her. She wasn’t too sure what “that” kind of work meant, but she had an assumption that Astrid hadn’t worked much at all.

Her hands. Through tough work they still had managed to keep a tender, soft appearance. No scarring to show for what she had been through. It wasn’t too long ago when the work she had to endure only entailed embroidery and clasped hands in prayer. Then again, that was then. Now Astrid’s lucky if the town she passes has a bed for rent, although she’s beginning to prefer the neighbour granted by the wilderness.

“I am not a delicate flower.” Astrid felt she had to stand her ground, sensing hostility from the woman in front of her in the dusky back corner of the saloon. Astrid never appreciated being looked down upon. And now she felt like being challenged.

“Sure,” she drawled, nearly grinning. “You’ve got me real convinced, miss.”

The work that Lottie knew wasn’t pure. It wasn’t anything to be proud of. That much was obvious just by looking at her - a bit rugged, littered with scars and bruises. She looked like she hadn’t slept properly in weeks, and she probably hadn’t.

There was no time for sleeping or eating. Those felt like luxuries these days.

“What work do I know?” She repeated, the gun in her hands some sort of a hint. “Well, I don’t know. Depends on who’s askin’.”

Pushing off the wall, she slowly walked closer to Astrid. Boots dragging the floor, she walked like she was constantly at least in a little bit of pain. Maybe she was. She stopped right beside her, eyes locked onto the woman’s face.

Was Astrid with the law? She's not sure, threading a thin line between being in or out of the law's bounds. Astrid sees herself as a hunter by trade. Usual prays being small game for their pelts. It does happen that the prey are those whose faces are pinned on a sheriff's board, but Astrid is selective. She hunts those she believes should be hunted. Those deserving. She's not sure Lottie fits the bill. What she is sure of, though, is that the woman in front of her sure as he'll doesn't thread any line.

“No.”

Astrid couldn't say anything else with the woman now towering over her. She brushed her hand across the outside of her thigh, realising she had left her weapons in her room at the inn. Diffuse the tension, Astrid thought, feeling uneasy in the disadvantageous position.

“I do not want any trouble.” She brings both of her hands up, resting the palms of the hand at the edge of the tabletop and angling them up. Offsetting herself as a threat. “Please.”

It wasn't a pleading please, but a resigned one. Astrid was honest, she never wanted any trouble. Or at least not with the woman. She went to the saloon to take a bottle and rest her sore body after a long day of travel. This town was only a rest stop on the way to a job out west, to hunt a man whose face was sketched above a hefty bounty. After a long dryspell, Astrid needed the money.

Nothing got past Lottie. She noticed as Astrid checked herself for weapons. Unarmed, she thought. Not very smart.

There didn’t seem to be any fear, which surprised her. Lottie considered herself to be a rather intimidating character. If her appearance didn’t do it, the gun in her hand usually did. This woman intrigued her to no end.

One eyebrow raised as she was told to sit. Slowly, she slid into the seat beside Astrid. She leaned back against the chair, taking up space, one boot tapping the ground lazily.

This was no exception. The woman was rough, that Astrid could see. The woman could make a move, cause hurt and pain, fully capable. And at the moment, the woman had the upper hand, that AStrid knew. Despite that, Astrid felt no fear nor imminent danger. This woman was no threat, Astrid though. She didn’t know, though.

Lottie did sit down, much to Astrid’s appreciation. She might be reasonable, she thought.

“Hunt.” Short, but informative. Astrid did hunt. Having a steady, although thin, stream of money coming from the trapper in Saint Denis. “Small game. For fancy hats to fancy women.” 

“Fancy hats for fancy women,” she drawled, grinning at Astrid. “One hell of a job, miss.”

She glanced at the bartender and signaled to him, knocking on the wood in front of her. “Whiskey, please.”

The bartender quickly poured her the drink and slid it to her, which she took immediately. Slow, smooth sips. Usually, she might’ve downed it. Maybe she was just in a mood tonight.

“Astrid.” She answered, meeting her eyes over the brim of the whiskey glass.

Lottie. Astrid wondered if it was a nickname. Like her friend Charlotta back in Sweden who went by Lotten. 

Being asked about her name caught her off guard. Nobody had ever asked her that before. Astrid seemed to be observant, if nothing else. Wordlessly, Lottie tucked that information into her back pocket.

There were certain things she would need to keep closer to her chest, then.

“It is,” she replied smoothly. “Don’t really like my first name.”

Slowly sipping her whiskey, she kept her guard up. A part of her considered telling the truth, that her name was Charlotte. It was harmless information to give.

The less people knew the better. She didn’t need anybody making any connections about her, tracing all the way back to where she’d come from. Her jaw clenched just thinking about it.

Astrid downed the last of her bottle. She twirled the empty bottle over the tabletop, almost having it tip over with Lottie’s comment. Astrid looked up, an almost amused grimace on her face. It wasn’t unusual for her to get similar comments and Astrid never took offence. Instead, she felt as if it was a testament to her upkeep of hygiene and mending. Cleanliness is next to godliness. 

“That may be…” Astrid began. Unsure how to respond. Unsure if she had to prove something, keep any suspicion of her other sporadic employment at bay. Lottie seemed like the type whose head had a price, or at least on the path towards. 

Looks can be deceiving, Astrid thought. She had taken a bath at the inn before visiting the saloon, and used her lavender soap. Her light coloured shirtwaist was trimmed with a thin bobbin lace ribbon, neatly tucked into her mauve skirt. Astrid had even cleaned her heeled boots before leaving her rented room. She couldn’t fault Lottie. It was almost as if a fur trimmed hat was the only thing missing.

There was a sizable bounty on her head in most places. Wanted dead or alive, mostly.

She wasn’t a good woman. Even she knew that. The thing was, she’d never claimed to be, never pretended to be. She saw this woman - clean, sing-songy, fancy clothes, and it grated her nerves in a way she couldn’t explain.

“Oh, y’don’t like the mud?” She cooed mockingly, nearly sneering. “How sweet. Maybe you just ain’t cut out for the huntin’ life, then, sweetheart.”

Knocking on the bar again, she signaled for another round of whiskey. Of course she was bitter. Seeing someone who was put together, sweet, likable. Maybe it was wrong of her to be so bitter. It just.. angered her. The idea that someone thought they’d be better than her made her skin prickle.

The look in her eyes was akin to a wolf circling its prey. Calculating, almost.

“I do not like the mud, but I like the hunt. And the money. A compromise.”

The air left her lungs in a long drawn out exhale through her nose. She didn’t like the mud, but she liked the hunt. It was in one way an antidote to many of her ailments. Her body was physically sound, which she recognised was from the needed movement of seeking her prey. Hunting also brought her tormented mind moments of peace and her broken down spirit a place to heal as she looked out at His vast creation. So different from back home.

“The old world.” She answered, almost in resignation for the longing that only grew for it. She didn’t quite care for the phrase, but it was old in the sense that Astrid seemed to forget it. "Sweden."

Astrid felt as though she had to heed more caution. The questions Lottie asked couldn’t be of good natured, she didn’t seem like the gregarious type. Then again, Astrid thought she had a downtrodden human in front of her, scarred by the life she led. It couldn’t have been voluntary. She had a hard time imagining anyone ever willingly participating in this ruthless lifestyle. Astrid sure didn’t and she felt pity. A cautious pity for the woman.

It was completely fair to assume she wasn’t good natured. In most cases, she wasn’t. She certainly wasn’t giving this poor woman any reasons to believe that she ever could be. Her aggressive nature was a learned behavior, a survival skill if you will.

All of Lottie’s belligerence was rehearsed. It was a well improvised performance, an amalgamation of experiences that turned a frightened child into a dangerous woman.

Not that it mattered to her, though. She knew there was no redeeming what she’d done. May as well go out swinging.

“What is anyone doin’ here?” She countered, grabbing her new whiskey. “Survivin’, dear. You could say that I’m a hunter, too.”

Astrid had created rules to keep her within bounds. She was determined to somehow, somewhen gain a true honest living and not having this life stain her future. The rules also prescribe value to actions and lives. An honour system where Astrid keeps a positive balance.

A rattling, wet cough and putrid smell of stagnant sweat pulled Astrid from her thoughts. A man stumbled up behind them, positioning himself between the two women. He leant forward, steading himself while asking the bartender for another bottle. Swinging his head to either side, he eyed up both Astrid and Lotte.

Not friends, of course. Never friends.

Her glass had just made it to her lips when they were interrupted. Immediately, she leaned back in her seat, sharp eyes flitting to the drunk bastard between them. Oh, how lovely. This was just what she’d needed.

The corners of her lips tugged up a smidge, a snort nearly escaping her. She didn’t exactly look the part of a working girl, if you asked her. Slowly, her eyes trailed, giving the man a once-over.

She knew his type. Predatory, creepy men. She’d had her own run ins with this type of man.

The man locked eyes with Lottie, grinning at her retort. The bartender served up his drink, and before he answered he took a long swing, eyes still on Lottie.

“Who pissed in your coffee this morning?” He sneered, amused with the response from the one woman. “You sure seem like the more fun one.”

Trying his luck once more, he turned to Astrid and leaned in, his rotten breath almost making her lightheaded.

“Lighten up, dollface,” he cooed, wrapping his arm around the small of her waist. “How much fun have ye had with ‘tis one tonight?”

But, the sight of a man making a woman uncomfortable, grabbing her - no, that wouldn’t do. Anger bubbled up in her chest as she let out a begrudging sigh.

She put her whiskey glass down and stood up, rolling her shoulders once before she grabbed the man by the shoulder and shoved him backwards hard.

First order of business - get this bastard’s grubby hands off the lady. Second - deal with him accordingly.

“I don’t remember hearin’ her tell y’that you could do that,” she spat, stepping into his space. “Keep your fuckin’ hands to yourself before I break ‘em.”

She wasn’t a small woman by any means. Half of the men she’d started fights with had been bigger than her. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter how big she was. In the eyes of those men, she was still just a woman.

“Now, woman. Compose yerself.” He threw up his hands and in turn freed Astrid from his grip. Astrid got up from her chair, taking a few steps from the man and looking around for an escape if things turned ugly.

The saloon was still bustling, only a few patrons noticing the confrontation by the bar. The piano still played, boisterous laughter still ringing. Only a few had set down their glasses, watching idly, maybe hoping for a brawl to break out.

“I ain’t gunna hit a woman.” The man declared while he turned his chin up. He reached for Lottie’s hip, shoving her away from him.

Astrid wanted to intervene as the man pushed Lottie, to stand up for Lottie just as she had done to her, but she was paralyzed. The man was neither too tall nor stout, but his belligerent drunkenness made his movement hard to calculate. Her hands trembled and throat tightened.

That was, until the man touched her. All bets were off. If a brawl was what people wanted, then a brawl they would get.

She grabbed the man’s arm, twisting it painfully behind his back and shoving his chest harshly against the bar. Holding him there and yanking at his arm, she sneered, eye twitching slightly.

“You ain’t gonna hit a woman, but you’ll touch one without permission?” She barked, yanking his arm again until it popped. “You ain’t even a man. Disgusting.”

She released him only to firmly jab her elbow against the side of his head with a grunt. There was nothing she hated more than entitled, creepy men. A sigh left her as she turned to Astrid.

“I want no more trouble in here!” The bartender barked. He'd barely flinched while his eyes were closely kept on the scene that played out, hands occupied with the duties of being a barkeep. “Git!” He swatted his hands towards the drunken man, who mumbled something under his breath before someone escorted him outside through the back.

Astrid had her eyes on the man leaving, slowly turning to face Lottie. The question barely registered and a few moments passed until Astrid came to it. It wasn't out of the ordinary that bars offered such encounters with drunken, pushy men. Though, it was out of the ordinary to have such a bold ally. Someone unafraid of physical confrontations, as a woman.

Astrid barely found the words. “I am alright. Thank you, miss Lottie.” Though surely, a thank you was the least Astrid could've offered. A faint smile crept onto her lips, curling the corners of her mouth. "Are you alright?"

The burning stare from the bartender made Astrid feel uneasy. Lonely women seemed to draw out the most unfavourable behaviour from his male patrons.

“I have a bottle in my room. Just across the street. Let me thank you, please.” Astrid laid the offer up on the table while she nodded in the direction of the inn, raising one eyebrow as she eyed Lottie.