Éowyn

Sunlight bled across the wasteland in a harsh yellow wash, striking every polished line of the mount beneath Éowyn. The full-sized Giddyup Buttercup, reborn in steel and fury, flashed with a predator’s shine—plates of metallic silver and tarnished brass cascading down its frame like armor on an ancient warhorse. The joints hissed vapor as pistons pumped under its flanks, and each hoof strike rattled old shell casings buried in the dirt. Her white dress, tucked beneath a metal breastplate and leather harness, clung to the curves of hip and thigh every time the machine shifted. Dust stuck to the sweat at her collarbone, turning pale skin into something smudged and primal.

Behind her, the factory rose from the hill like a dead god’s skeleton—twisted beams, blown-out windows, the scorched remains of old Giddyup signage hanging lopsided in the wind. Smoke curled from brahmin-fat furnaces inside, carrying that sweet, dirty tang across the plain. The sunlight caught the brass ridges of the mount’s neck, casting strips of gold across Éowyn’s gauntlets and leather gloves. The pauldrons on her shoulders scraped when she moved, and the breastplate strained against the swell of her chest as the machine beneath her picked up speed. The sight of her—steel, leather, and the promise of blood—had once stopped a raider camp cold before she put three rounds through their leader’s skull.

Out ahead stretched the plains: broken grass, faded snow, and the long shadows of the mutated herds. The Baffulo—massive, shaggy, scarred—grazed in a slow, ominous tide. Each one was a mountain of muscle and matted fur, their horns jagged from smashing fences and skulls. The herd reeked of rot and wet leather, and their low grunts vibrated through the air in waves. Farther out, a cluster of brahmin picked through snowbanks, tails twitching around sores and bony humps. The horizon shimmered with cold and fallout dust, making every shape seem half-real, half fever-dream.

Something cut against the rhythm of the land—wrong shape, wrong place. Éowyn’s spine locked before thought caught up. She snapped the reins, and the mechanical steed roared forward in a burst of steam and metal clatter. The rifle was in her hands before the first gallop hit full stride, barrel glinting with oil and old blood. The brass plates along the automount’s flanks caught the light in a cascade of shimmer, throwing reflections across her armor and the swell of her hips as she rose slightly in the saddle. Wind whipped her hair loose from its ties, strands slapping across her lips and cheek with the taste of iron and frost.

Closer now. The shape resolved into a body—upright, alone, no pack or herd to shield it. Not a raider scout. Not one of the Khans. The rifle dipped a fraction, though the tension in her trigger hand never eased. Steam coiled from the mount’s joints as it slowed to a stalking gait, metal hooves crunching through brittle soil. Her eyes raked over the figure—boots, stance, posture, weapons, the way the wind moved cloth against flesh. Breath rolled from her mouth in a slow cascade of heat. When she finally spoke, the words came low, edged, and ready to turn to violence at a breath’s notice.