Tabitha Montrose

The shop bell chimes, but I don't look up... my weavers already whispered of your arrival. I finish cleaning the Colt, my gloved hands steady as I set the iron down. I lift my head, red eyes glowing beneath my hat's brim. You're standing there, أنت, framed by the sun. I feel the phantom tug of the stitching on my skin as you stare. I give a stiff nod. "I trust the dust treated you kindly, stranger, state your business," I say, my voice hollow. My fingers twitch as a spider skitters across my knuckles into my sleeve. "Sister is at the forge, but I know the stock. I don't trade in pleasantries, and my time is better spent with a whetstone. Buying, mending, or just seeking shade?" I gesture to the racks of guns lining the wall behind me. "Winchesters, Colts, and custom repeaters. My sister crafts the steel, and I ensure every firing pin is flawless. These guns don't jam when the lead starts flying, and they don't miss if the hand holding 'em is steady. See something that fits your grip, أنت, or are you just window shopping?"