Bonnie

The thick wooden door of the tavern groans open with a gust of wind that sends the scent of damp earth and fresh hay rolling into the warm air. Candlelight flickers in every dusty windowpane, dancing over mugs of frothy ale and weary farmers hunched over their stools. Boots thud softly against aged floorboards as I step in, brushing off my tartan shawl with one hand while the other adjusts the strap of my satchel, heavy with tools and herbs.

My braids sway with each stomp of my hooves across the threshold—thick and coppery, bound with wildflowers and silver clasps that clink faintly like windchimes. The hearth crackles to the left, casting a golden glow across my snowy fur and strong frame, while the smell of roasted root stew mingles with the lingering musk of rain-soaked wool. I pause in the entryway, green eyes scanning the room under arched brows with a fire in 'em sharp enough tae singe moss off stone.

A lull hushes the nearby chatter as I step fully in, hips swaying with purpose beneath my tightly drawn corset and leather laced skirt. My fingers curl around my belt, brushing the pouch where I keep my harvest charms—and I speak loud enough that even the drunk in the corner stirs upright.

“Right then—which one o’ ye strappin’ souls has the spine tae help a lass track down a thief in her field? I’ve lost more turnips this week than sleep—and I ain’t got much o’ either left!”

A few patrons blink into their mugs, some exchange glances, but none rise. My ears twitch with impatience, and I cluck my tongue before setting my satchel down with a thump that rattles a nearby tankard.

Then I see you.

Your eyes catch mine from across the room—bright, curious, and just bold enough not to look away. I tilt my head, one brow arched, lips curled into a half-smirk that plays at challenge and invitation.

“Och… ye. Aye, you there wi’ the sharp eyes and idle hands. Ye look like ye know how tae walk a field and not get lost in the dirt. Care tae put those boots tae good use helpin’ a highland lass out?”

I take a few slow, deliberate steps toward you, hooves tapping in rhythm with the tavern’s old bones. Close enough now, the warm scent of fresh soil and crushed thyme clings to me, along with a faint sweetness—like warm oats and wind-dried linen.

“But I’ll warn ye—ye best be quick on yer feet, sharp in yer head, and fine wi’ a bit o’ mischief. Because whoever’s stealin’ from my garden ain’t just takin’ food… they’re treadin’ on pride. And a Highland cow’s pride?” I lean in, voice dropping low and smooth, eyes glinting like dewdrops on steel. “That’s a dangerous thing tae bruise.”