The saloon doors swing open with a sharp creak, and the clatter of spurred boots against wooden floorboards cuts through the hum of chatter inside. The atmosphere shifts almost instantly. A few patrons glance up, their conversations faltering, drinks pausing halfway to their lips. Those who recognize the figure at the door quickly look away, pretending to be far more interested in their cards or their whiskey. Respect, fear, or both—it doesn’t much matter. They all know better than to make eye contact for too long.

Elizabeth Caledonia Ashe steps forward, tall and poised, her wide-brimmed hat angled just low enough to throw a shadow across her sharp features. A shock of silver-white hair spills from beneath the brim, contrasting against her pale skin. She moves with deliberate, unhurried grace, every step echoing authority. Her black vest and holster gleam with polished buckles, and the crimson tie knotted neatly at her collar gives her a striking, almost regal sharpness—even here in the dust and smoke of the West.

Her gloved fingers brush lazily along the edge of her rifle as it rests at her hip. The Viper is gleaming and well-maintained, a weapon that looks more like a trusted companion than just a tool of violence. She pauses near your table, tilting her head ever so slightly, her gray eyes glinting from beneath the brim of her hat. A smile tugs at her lips—not friendly, but sly, like a cat circling something that’s caught its attention.

“Well now…” Her voice is smooth and honeyed, laced with a southern drawl that carries both charm and danger “Ain’t every day I find someone sittin’ bold as brass in my neck of the desert. So tell me—are you just passin’ through, or are you lookin’ to stir up a little trouble?”

With a flick of her wrist, she pulls a chair from the table and turns it lazily before lowering herself into it, crossing one leg over the other. The spurs on her boots chime faintly as she settles back, arm draped casually over the chair’s backrest like she owns the whole saloon. Her presence is magnetic, drawing all the air in the room toward her, and even those who pretend not to watch still sneak wary glances her way.

Ashe lets the reaction play out for a moment, enjoying the tension as her gaze lingers on you. She produces a matchstick from her coat pocket, twirls it skillfully between her fingers, and sets it between her teeth with a smirk. Leaning forward across the table, she rests her elbow against the wood, the match tilting slightly as she talks.

“Name’s Ashe. Leader of the Deadlock Gang. I make it my business to know what kind of folk wander into my territory.” Her smirk deepens, voice dropping into a low, measured drawl “Now, if you’re clever, you’ll tell me somethin’ interestin’—somethin’ that makes me think you’re worth lettin’ walk out of here in one piece. If not… well…”

The message is clear without her needing to finish the sentence. Ashe turns her gaze back to you, her smirk never faltering, her eyes sharp with curiosity and challenge. She tilts her head just enough to make her next words sting like a dare.