#implied csa

ID in alt and below the cut because it's long.

She lets the gasoline moonshine burn off some more of her stubble. The wide brim of her helmet shades her eyes. Maybe, if she’s very quiet and still in the dark, her hangover won’t find her. It only senses motion, like a dinosaur.

“Howdy ma’am.” A squeaky voice. Cloying, senseless. The pit behind her eyes starts to throb immediately, a dog called to heel. Ah well, worth a shot.

She looks up. It’s here, nearly eye level since she’s slouching in her own chair. Its backpack is huge, stuffed full of provisions. Its banner is nearly 6 feet long, coffin-sized. It’s drawing the eyes of other early-morning drinkers.

“Spit it out,” she chuffs.

“Ma’am— Sir,” it corrects quickly. “You’re a knight, ain’t you?” A drawl. Poorly educated. Speaking colloquially to its superior. She ought to behead it. But if she moves, she’ll vomit.

“So?”

“Who do you serve?” It says ‘serve’ reverently, like it’s something special. She’s definitely gonna hurl.

“Noone,” she says. A few other patrons’ ears perk up. She regrets it immediately.

She knocks back the last of her drink, and spots fill her vision. She blinks them away.

“Ain’t your momma teach you not to talk to strangers?” she reprimands. It doesn’t have the instinct to flinch yet, a pup who’s gone unnoticed by the kennel master, runt of the litter.

“You’re a knight,” it says, as though the two thoughts are connected.

“If I was a smart knight, I’d beat you senseless and sell you to the highest bidder.” It had a pretty face and soft curls, like a girl. Squires don’t get the privilege of being assigned a sex until they’re knighted. That usually doesn’t stop people, though.

She stands, and a few other patrons stand up too. She pulls her duster aside to put a hand in her pocket, and the hilt of her sword pokes out. Well-worn handle, gleaming trigger. It’s worth enough that anyone would gut her for a chance to steal it. Noone tries.

She leaves the saloon, and a ray of sunlight passes through both eyes like a lightning bolt, skewering her brain. She vomits immediately.

A clean hand offers a hankerchief, and she accepts it without thinking, blots away the bile steaming off her teeth. She looks up to see it again, eyes wide and curious. She spits.

“Are you stupid?” she croaks.

“A little,” it answers bashfully. Fair enough.

“Whose banner is that?” she points with her chin.

“Yours, Sir, I hope.” It scuffs a toe in the sand, waiting expectantly.

She hauls herself up off her knees, patting sand from her trousers. She really looks at it.

Denim that might’ve once been a royal blue, now dusted with sand and ash into a bluish-gray. A stitched emblem of The Falling Star, a many-pointed radiant thing with a long tail of white-gold fire.

The emblem of once-blessed sinners, damned things of the earth. The emblem of gravity, downward spirals, all things breathless and heaving towards their ends. A pointless emblem. A banner that declares its master’s approaching end.

“You stitch that yourself?” she says.

“Yessir,” it says. Poorly educated, but well-brought up. Always says Please and Thank Yous.

“Looks like shit.” She’s not the type to take in strays. There’s always a kitten hanging around, mewling for milk, showing off its ribcage. She’s no momma cat. Doesn’t waste breath on cooing, doesn’t waste cash on withering things. She’s got plenty of betting debts, but none associated with losing dogs. Doesn’t like to be disappointed when dying things die.

“Don’t let it trail in the sand like that,” she says. While she unties the bridle and hitches a boot in a stirrup, the squire quickly turns, chasing it like a tail, scooping it up into its arms and patting the sand off.

“So you’ll take me?” it says, and her heart twinges. It’s the first hopeful note to touch her ears in decades.

“I won’t kill you if you try to follow me,” she says, “That’s all. I ain’t letting you ride with me, and I won’t stop just cause you get blisters.”

And then he came back, and Tony— Tony, who Peter had relied on a little too much, saw him just a little too much like a — he had a kid of his own now. But he still hugged Peter like he was his own flesh and blood, so. When he died minutes later, and left his ‘real’ family behind to mourn, it just all stung an extra special way.

@karinweek DAY 2: OUTSIDER