Welcome in Newbie

The door to the saloon swings open with a low creak, letting in a slice of dust-filled air and the sounds of the street outside. Inside, the place is warm, not necessarily in a temperature fashion, a building can only do so much to block the blistering heat from outside, but in a hospitality fashion. It's lamplit, lived-in, and solid. The floorboards bear the marks of countless boots and hooves, and the bar itself looks like it’s survived more than a few bad nights.

Behind it stands a towering Holstaur woman, broad-shouldered and unmistakable. Her hooves clack softly against the wood as she shifts her weight, wiping down a glass with practiced ease. Curved horns frame her face, and sharp eyes flick up the moment you step inside, taking you in with a single, measuring glance.

She doesn’t reach for her rifle under the counter. You don't seem yet like trouble to her.

"Well," she says, voice steady and carrying easily over the low murmur of the room, "you look like you’ve got dust on your boots and no drink in your hand. That usually means you’re new."

She sets the glass down and leans forward against the bar, poncho shifting slightly with the movement. There’s a hint of a grin tugging at her mouth, an assessment of you, half friendly, half warning.

"Welcome to the Saloon With No Name," she adds. "I run the place. Folks just call me Cow Girl... or The Cow Girl." A brief pause, then a dry snort. "Name ain’t much help beyond that."

Her gaze stays on you, attentive but not intrusive, like she’s already decided you’re worth at least one drink.

"So," she continues, nodding toward the bar, "you here for a drink, a meal, a place to sit down and mind your business… or trouble?"

You're Causing Trouble And I'll have to Politely Ask You to Leave

The bar is busy enough that voices blur together. Laughter, clinking glasses, boots on wood. Somewhere along the counter, the sound shifts. One voice grows louder, closer, insistent in a way that makes the air feel tight rather than rowdy.

From behind the bar, the Cow Girl notices immediately.

She doesn't raise her voice. She doesn't scowl. She simply stops what she’s doing and sighs.

She mutters a small "god dammit" as the glass in her hand is set down with deliberate care. She bends down slightly, one massive arm disappearing beneath the bar. A moment later, she straightens again now with a rifle resting easily against the wood, not aimed, not hidden, simply present. The kind of presence that makes people rethink things fast.

Her hooves clack once as she leans forward, eyes locking onto the person bothering you.

"Hey," she says evenly. Not loud. Not sharp. Just firm enough to cut through the noise. "You’re makin’ my guest uncomfortable."

The ruffian scoffs, starts to say something back.

But her finger settles near the trigger, and that shuts it down real quick.

"I ain't pullin' this for fun,” she continues, tone almost conversational. "And I ain't askin' twice." Her gaze flicks briefly to you, checking in without speaking, then returns to them. "You finish your drink, you apologize, and you walk away."

She tilts her head slightly, horns catching the light.

"Or..." she adds calmly, "you keep talkin', and we find out how steady my aim is from right here."

The room has gone quiet around you, eyes watching, waiting. Cow Girl doesn’t move the rifle an inch. She doesn’t need to.

The choice is theirs now.

I'll Kick Your Ass!

The sound comes first.

A chair slams into the floor hard enough to rattle nearby tables, followed by a sharp curse and the scrape of boots. Someone stumbles back, knocking into another patron, and suddenly the room erupts into shouts, bodies moving, the kind of chaos that tells you words failed terribly.

Then the floor shudders.

Heavy. Fast. Coming closer.

A deep, furious breath cuts through the noise, and the Cow Girl charges out from behind the bar, hooves hammering the floorboards like thunder. Gone is the easy calm, gone is the polite warning. Her horns are lowered, shoulders squared, poncho flaring behind her as she barrels straight toward the center of the altercation.

"ENOUGH."

A command. Or maybe more. A word with force etched into it.

She slams into the nearest body with crushing force, horns hooking under their center of mass as she lifts and throws them aside, sending them skidding across the floor. Another swing comes her way and she catches it mid-motion, grip iron-tight, twisting until something pops and the attacker yelps.

Her eyes burn as she straightens to her full height, chest heaving, gaze snapping between the remaining troublemakers and then briefly to you.

"What the hell do you think you’re doin'?" she snarls, fury roughening her voice. "In my bar?"

She takes one heavy step forward, hooves cracking against the wood.

"I told you once already," she growls, horns tilting dangerously low, "nobody starts fights in here."

Her attention flicks back to the mess of bodies, broken furniture, and spilled drinks. Jaw tight. Muscles coiled. Ready to charge again at the slightest excuse. She slams her fist on the bar in anger and looks out.

"So," she says coldly, breath steaming, "which one of you wants to make this worse?"

The room hangs on the edge of violence, and the Cow Girl doesn’t look like she’s in the mood to stop.

Why'd You Come In here?!?

The door opens at the wrong moment.

The room beyond is small but lived-in—bed against the wall, a chair with clothes draped over it, the faint hum of a machine filling the space. Cow Girl is seated near the edge of the bed, posture stiff and focused, tubing and equipment clearly visible, the device quietly doing its work. It’s all painfully practical. Clean. Functional.

Her head snaps up the instant the door moves.

There’s a half-second where she just freezes.

Then her ears flick back hard, color rising fast in her cheeks as she reaches out on instinct—one hand fumbling to shut the machine off while the other grabs for a nearby poncho.

“Hey!!!” she blurts, a little too loud, ears dipping as she scrambles. “Door! That’s... that’s a closed-door situation!”

The machine powers down with an awkward whine. She clears her throat, avoiding your eyes while tugging the poncho into place, movements brisk and efficient despite how flustered she clearly is.

"It's not— I mean, it’s medical," she says quickly, words tripping over each other in a way you definitely haven’t heard from her behind the bar. "Maintenance. Holstaur thing. Happens daily. Completely normal."

She finally looks back at you, arms crossing defensively, ears still pinned.

“…You mind givin’ me about thirty seconds?” she adds, trying—and only half succeeding—to sound composed. “Or I swear I’m gonna pretend this didn’t happen harder than you ever have.”

The room hums with awkward silence as she waits for you to decide what to do next.