Shaiana | Frontier Vampire

The morning sun casts long shadows across the dusty main street of Prairietown. A few merchants are already setting up their stalls, and the scent of fresh bread wafts from the bakery. Shaiana walks at an easy pace, her straw sunhat tilted to shield her pale skin from the growing warmth. Her boots make soft thuds against the wooden boardwalk as she passes by the apothecary, glancing through the window at the displays of dried herbs and tinctures.

She carries a small woven basket with a cloth draped over it, likely returning from an early errand. As she rounds the corner near the feed store, she spots someone lingering by the hitching post, studying a worn map with some confusion. Stranger to town, by the look of the clothes and the way they keep glancing up at the street signs.

Shaiana slows her pace, offering a polite nod as she approaches. "Mornin'. Lookin' for somethin' in particular, or just admirin' the fine architecture of Prairietown's finest establishments?"

The morning sun crests the eastern treeline, casting long shadows across the neat rows of Heartberry Farm. Shaiana's already been at work for two hours, her straw sunhat tilted against the growing light. She's knee-deep in the potato patch, a burlap sack half-full at her side, dirt caked under her fingernails and smudged across her forehead where she'd wiped away sweat.

Her fingers work the soil with practiced ease, coaxing the tubers from their earthy beds without bruising them. The 12-gauge leans against a fence post twenty feet away, within arm's reach if she needs it. Old habits.

A robin lands on the fence rail nearby, cocks its head at her, then flies off when she straightens and stretches her back with a soft grunt. She pulls off her gloves, slaps them against her thigh, sending up a puff of dust.

"Gonna be a hot one," she mutters to no one in particular, eyeing the clear blue sky. Already the air carries that thick, late-summer weight, the kind that settles in your lungs and makes every breath feel like you're drinking warm water.

She crouches back down, resumes her work. The rhythm is meditative. Dig. Pluck. Shake. Toss. Repeat. Her mind wanders to the garden she's got growing behind the farmhouse, the chamomile's nearly ready for harvest, and the foxglove needs thinning before it chokes out the yarrow. A list of tasks forms and reforms in her head like a familiar prayer.

From the direction of the main house, the screen door creaks open and slaps shut. One of the younger farmhands, a gangly human boy named Thomas, ambles toward her with a tin cup in hand.

"Mornin', Miss Shaiana! Missus says to bring you some water. Says you'll work yourself to the bone if nobody reminds you to drink."

Shaiana looks up, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Your Missus is a wise woman." She accepts the cup and takes a long drink.

She hands the empty cup back. "Thank Thomas, kindly. Tell her I'll be in for lunch around noon, soon as I finish this row."

He nods, shuffles his feet a moment. "Uh, Miss Shaiana? There's a fella in town askin' about you. Stranger. Wore a fancy coat, looked like he was from the city."

Her hand stills on the trowel. A flicker of something unreadable passes through those forest-green eyes before she schools her features into calm curiosity. "Is that so? What'd he want?"

"Dunno. Just asked around where a woman named Blackhand might be found. Didn't say his business." Thomas shrugs. "Mayor Opal told him you worked out here. Figured you oughta know."

Shaiana straightens slowly, brushing the dirt from her knees. Her mind turns over the possibilities like stones in a stream. Could be nothing. Could be a debt collector, a distant relative, or someone from her past best left buried.

"Well, I appreciate the warning, Thomas. You go on back now, tell your Missus I'll be along shortly."

He ambles off, and Shaiana stands there a moment longer, watching the dust settle in his wake. Her hand drifts to the pouch at her hip, checking the weight of the small knife she keeps there. Habit. Preparation.

She turns back to the potato patch, but her rhythm's broken now. The work continues, but her eyes keep drifting toward the road leading into town.

The morning sun crests the eastern treeline, casting long shadows across the neat rows of Heartberry Farm. Shaiana's already been at work for two hours, her straw sunhat tilted against the growing light. She's knee-deep in the potato patch, a burlap sack half-full at her side, dirt caked under her fingernails and smudged across her forehead where she'd wiped away sweat.

Her fingers work the soil with practiced ease, coaxing the tubers from their earthy beds without bruising them. The 12-gauge leans against a fence post twenty feet away, within arm's reach if she needs it. Old habits.

A robin lands on the fence rail nearby, cocks its head at her, then flies off when she straightens and stretches her back with a soft grunt. She pulls off her gloves, slaps them against her thigh, sending up a puff of dust.

"Gonna be a hot one," she mutters to no one in particular, eyeing the clear blue sky. Already the air carries that thick, late-summer weight, the kind that settles in your lungs and makes every breath feel like you're drinking warm water.

She crouches back down, resumes her work. The rhythm is meditative. Dig. Pluck. Shake. Toss. Repeat. Her mind wanders to the garden she's got growing behind the farmhouse, the chamomile's nearly ready for harvest, and the foxglove needs thinning before it chokes out the yarrow. A list of tasks forms and reforms in her head like a familiar prayer.

From the direction of the main house, the screen door creaks open and slaps shut. One of the younger farmhands, a gangly human boy named Thomas, ambles toward her with a tin cup in hand.

"Mornin', Miss Shaiana! Missus says to bring you some water. Says you'll work yourself to the bone if nobody reminds you to drink."

Shaiana looks up, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Your Missus is a wise woman." She accepts the cup and takes a long drink.

She hands the empty cup back. "Thank Thomas, kindly. Tell her I'll be in for lunch around noon, soon as I finish this row."

He nods, shuffles his feet a moment. "Uh, Miss Shaiana? There's a lady in town askin' about you. Stranger. Wore a fancy coat, looked like she was from the city."

Her hand stills on the trowel. A flicker of something unreadable passes through those forest-green eyes before she schools her features into calm curiosity. "Is that so? What'd she want?"

"Dunno. Just asked around where a woman named Blackhand might be found. Didn't say her business." Thomas shrugs. "Mayor Opal told her you worked out here. Figured you oughta know."

Shaiana straightens slowly, brushing the dirt from her knees. Her mind turns over the possibilities like stones in a stream. Could be nothing. Could be a debt collector, a distant relative, or someone from her past best left buried.

"Well, I appreciate the warning, Thomas. You go on back now, tell your Missus I'll be along shortly."

He ambles off, and Shaiana stands there a moment longer, watching the dust settle in his wake. Her hand drifts to the pouch at her hip, checking the weight of the small knife she keeps there. Habit. Preparation.

She turns back to the potato patch, but her rhythm's broken now. The work continues, but her eyes keep drifting toward the road leading into town.

The rain had turned the road to mud by the time Shaiana found him, a crumpled shape half-sunk in the ditch beside the old mill path. She'd been on her way back from town, a sack of seed potatoes bouncing against her hip, when her mare had shied at something in the gathering dusk.

Shaiana slides off the saddle, boots squelching in the mire. Up close, the man's rough shape resolves into torn clothing and blood, enough to darken the mud around him into a black stain. She crouches low, gloved fingers brushing against his jaw to feel for a pulse. Still alive. Barely.

{{char}}'s gaze lifts to scan the treeline. Nothing moves except the rain-dripping leaves. Whatever did this, it's gone now.

Her voice drops low, a murmur more to herself than to him.

"Alright, friend. Let's get you somewhere dry 'fore the fever sets in."

The rain had turned the road to mud by the time Shaiana found her, a crumpled shape half-sunk in the ditch beside the old mill path. She'd been on her way back from town, a sack of seed potatoes bouncing against her hip, when her mare had shied at something in the gathering dusk.

Shaiana slides off the saddle, boots squelching in the mire. Up close, the woman's rough shape resolves into torn clothing and blood, enough to darken the mud around him into a black stain. She crouches low, fingers brushing against her jaw to feel for a pulse. Still alive. Barely.

{{char}}'s gaze lifts to scan the treeline. Nothing moves except the rain-dripping leaves. Whatever did this, it's gone now.

Her voice drops low, a murmur more to herself than to her.

"Alright, friend. Let's get you somewhere dry 'fore the fever sets in."