All I brought back with me was some sand in my boots

COLT

The plod of Biscuit’s pace through the sand is an unhurried one, and Colt does not ask her for more. Not, if what the note said means to be true, and there’d be far more riding yet to go. The trip here had not been long, thus far, currently camping out in the Boneyard vicinity, but the coordinates of the meeting point do demand a venture away from the clusters of tents and goods, and with the promise of a long day, she’s come on the heels of dawn to afford what she deems an appropriate length left for the sun.

Glancing between two papers in her hand as the mare moves beneath her, Colt peeks over the edge to the large skeleton looming rather promisingly nearby. Up and up her sightline goes, mouth dropping faintly open as the impressive scale demands some amount of reverence. She’s glad it’s dead and not alive, that’s for certain. Keeping note of this feature of the Boneyard in ways that’ll serve her beyond today, beyond admiration, she glances back down to the paper. ”This should be it,” she tells the mare, and as if listening, Biscuit comes to a standstill.

She folds the note and the map she’d been using, a rather recently detailed one from Sohalia, and tucks them away in her pack. The same bundle with all the food and water requested, and the tack, well she’s already using that. Languid in her saddle as she glances around, she calls out, ”alright Zavien, what’s with all the cloak and dagger?” Smoother than the last time the note had said, and given the encounter she and the Risen Sun had last time they went out together, she feels confident she’s sussed out the author. The why still escapes her.

---

Wild horse out the gate
Yeah your heart about to break
She the type of woman that gon' make you lose control
She something wild, you might need a lasso

The answer comes in the form of a sharp snort that cuts clean through the stillness, close enough to turn Colt's attention without effort. Not wind through bone, not the shifting of sand—something with weight to it, breath and presence both—and when her gaze follows the sound it lands on a shape that doesn’t belong to the graveyard quiet of the Boneyard at all.

Set against the pale curve of a bonepile, haltered neatly to a jut of bleached rib, the pegasus stands as though it’s always been there, as though wings and desert share the same logic if you don’t look at them too closely. There’s hay gathered at its feet, water set within reach, the small, practical details of care that make the rest of it feel less like illusion and more like a decision someone’s already made for her. It lifts its head at her attention, a soft toss of mane sending a flicker of movement through the heat-hazed air, feathers shifting just enough to catch the light without asking for it.

A scrap of paper flutters faintly against the bone beside it, the edges lifting and settling with each passing breath of wind. When she pulls it free, the message is brief. Colt, she’s yours for the next 24hrs. Hopefully seein’ everything from up above will make all your big worries look small. Good luck.

---

Custom RE encounter.

COLT

The familiar sound of a horse’s intentional blow has her twisting in her saddle, hat tipping against the glare of the rising sun, rather expecting to see a second one before her. It’s true, there is a horse, but no rider, and actually no horse at all—something far better and deserving of its own name.

”A pegasus?” she asks of the desert, features pulled back with a small, inescapable awe that finds her whenever she sees them, even if there’s a current of confusion so adamant it tries to wrestle the wonder away. ”Wh-what?” She twists back and forth in the saddle, throwing her sights around like someone would appear. It’s all too, placed.

The flap of the note rising and falling from the bone turned hitching post narrows Colt’s focus down. She nudges Biscuit closer, sliding out of the saddle with rein in hand to pluck up the paper. When she looks up, confusion and awe have both deepened, and for a moment she can only stand there in a stunned state of continued what?

The intention built into this is precise, made with a sort of private care that robs her of all the understanding she’s been laying down like pavement for her to walk on. Another shift of wing nearby is enough to jostle her thoughts back outward, and Colt blows out her own purposeful breath. ”Alright dove, let’s turn into some wind for the day, yeah?”

Biscuit is swapped from bit to halter, the latter still on beneath the former with all the traveling and camping that’s been happening. She’s tied up in reach of the pegasus’ hay and water, and Colt steadily works to exchange the two’s place.

The way it looks, she expects this pegasus is broke, but not about to let her balloon sail away, Colt approaches slow and practiced, beginning with a greeting and a hand before trying any manner of tacking up. The how one would tack up a pegasus is fortunately solved by the saddle she has on hand being the one Remi made for her, able to ensure a good fit no matter the back. As for the rider staying on, that’d still be up to her, but the original note did say smoother. A fact that her lips twitch at, a smile ghosting in before she can fight it back.

Wild horse out the gate
Yeah your heart about to break
She the type of woman that gon' make you lose control
She something wild, you might need a lasso

The pegasus answers the quiet rustle of paper with another low snort, softer this time, though no less deliberate, as if the act of being read about is reason enough to remind her she’s there. One ear flicks toward Colt while the other remains loosely angled elsewhere, attention divided in a way that doesn’t feel careless so much as unconcerned, her weight shifting faintly against the halter as the bone holds steady beneath it.

At the sound of her voice, the mare lifts her head a fraction higher and gives a small, impatient toss, feathers shivering in a brief ripple that catches the light and lets it slip again, restless without quite being resistant. It isn’t refusal that moves through her, nor the dull compliance of something long-trained; there’s a brightness to it instead, a held tension that never quite sharpens into defiance, as though something unseen hums just beneath her skin, keeping the edge of it smoothed down. For 24 hours, at least.

The mare watches as Colt comes closer, dark gaze tracking each movement with an alertness that feels too present to be dulled by habit, though she doesn’t pull away from the offered hand, doesn’t sidestep or test the boundary in any meaningful way. The contact is accepted, if not entirely trusted, her breath warm and steady where it ghosts across skin, the faintest flicker of something like starlight caught along the curve of her wing before it disappears again into the ordinary glare of morning.

When the tack is brought forward, there’s a brief tightening through her frame, a gathering that hints at something less yielding, though it never quite resolves into resistance. Instead it eases, not by training but by something quieter, something that settles over her like a night sky drawn thin across daylight, leaving her still, if not entirely at rest, as the saddle finds its place along her back.

Dry wind sweeps across the dunes, carrying with it tangled masses of brittle plant matter that skitter and roll across the sand. Several clumps of Tangleweed tumble past, their thorny tendrils catching briefly before tearing free again.

They move erratically, driven by gusts rather than intent, scraping and rattling as they collide with one another or snag on half-buried debris. Now and then, a tendril hooks into the sand, anchoring just long enough to strain before snapping loose.

The weeds continue on their restless path, harmless at a distance but dangerous if caught, the desert itself seeming to push them onward.

---

Tangleweed Areas Found: Hollowed Grounds, King's End, Hak Etme — Common Appearing like nothing more than an amalgamation of sticks, the Tangleweed is actually an arguably sentient creature. For the most part it appears spherical in nature, keeping its many limbs tightly pulled against itself to form a round shape. It moves as if blown by the wind, suddenly rolling forward on the hard packed earth and then stopping just as suddenly. Having almost no natural predators, these creatures are found in great numbers especially along large, flat areas. It is often impossible to tell if a Tangleweed is dead or alive unless they are touched. If interacted with, the branch-like limbs will lash out and close quickly on whatever they can grasp, at which point a poison is released which causes the skin to numb. Then, quite like other species of carnivorous plants, the Tangleweed slowly begins to digest its prey. Challenge Rating: Easy HP: 30 | To Hit: 2 | Dmg: 14 Movement: Roll 20 ft.; Lurch 10 ft. (limb-propelled); Creep 5 ft. (against wind) SPECIAL SKILLS Lash & Latch: branch-like limbs whip out and close quickly and effectively on anything they can grasp; Numbing Poison: contact venom causes skin to go numb where seized; Slow Digestion: like other carnivorous plants, it digests prey over time once secured; Grip Net: multiple limbs interlace into a living snare that tightens with struggle

TRAITS Stick Camouflage: looks like an ordinary tumble of twigs and branches; Spherical Compact: limbs tuck tight to form a rolling, round body; Wind-Feign Locomotion: advances in sudden windlike rolls, then freezes; Dormant Deception: impossible to tell alive from dead until touched; Field Congregation: commonly accumulates in large, flat areas; Few Predators: little in the wild bothers a tangleweed’s dry, woody mass ACTIONS Sudden Roll: bursts forward in a short, windlike tumble to collide with a target; Limb Lash: snaps out hooked twigs to seize wrists, ankles, or gear; Numbing Seep: exudes the numbing toxin along gripping limbs to deaden sensation and resistance; Enfold & Digest: wraps prey into its core and begins a slow digestive process

COLT

Her breath feels held the entire time she moves about the pegasus, which can’t be right or else she’d have passed out, but she doesn’t remember taking a full exchange of air since laying her palm on the sleek hide. The power contained beneath had been felt instantly, and there’s always something reverent about being able to harness that for herself, however brief, winged or not. This one though, it hums with a force that keeps her grin on full display now.

She catches the subtle ways the mare allows but does not fully surrender. A current of acceptance that doesn’t speak to anything being broken, only bent. ”You’re something special, aren’t you,” she murmurs as she moves through the process of tacking up with a care not normally afforded to those she expects to yield to it. This feels less like a partnership practiced, more like a truce being maintained, and one she doesn’t mean to strain in any way she could avoid.

She talks her through each piece of equipment, explaining it and the purpose as if everything would be understood. Nerves, maybe, that keeps her voice running, or maybe an excitement too rare for her to properly name. By the time she gets to the bridle though, Colt pauses. It feels like it might be a strain too much, like there’s something to relying on a little trust right now, and allowing some of the wind to maintain its control. ”I hope I don’t regret this,” she whispers, setting the bridle back with Biscuit, and her spurs and hat for that matter. Beyond, tangleweeds roll by as the breeze stirs, seeming to beckon her onward. The thorny plants are far enough away not to concern her now, so Colt reaches to untie the pegasus’ halter lead.

Straightening out her packs and looping the lead over the top of the mare’s neck, Colt is as ready as she’ll ever be to cloud jump. ”Here goes nothing,” she says around a puff of breath, her boot slipping into her stirrup and a small hop swinging her up and onto the back, mindful of the feathers as her other leg slides into place on the other side. She shifts, exhaling with it, and then glances forward from her survey of the mare’s withers. ”Alright, let’s go,” she encourages with a small squeeze of her calves.

Wild horse out the gate
Yeah your heart about to break
She the type of woman that gon' make you lose control
She something wild, you might need a lasso

The mare bears it all with a quiet sort of tolerance, one ear angled back toward Colt’s voice as it carries on in a steady stream, the other drifting as it pleases, never quite settling. There’s no resistance in her, but neither is there that familiar softening that comes from long practice; she allows each piece of tack with a stillness that feels chosen rather than taught, her breath even, her posture composed, as though patience is something she wears rather than something she’s learned.

When the bridle is set aside, nothing in her shifts to mark it as right or wrong. She simply stands, the faint lift and fall of her ribs the only answer given, as if the absence of it is just another condition to accept or discard without consequence.

The moment Colt settles into the saddle, the mare moves. Not abruptly, not with any startle or protest, but with a measured step forward that becomes another and then another, her head lifting in a small toss as she adjusts to the new weight. The forward rhythm comes easily beneath her, an unhurried, grounded cadence that lasts only long enough to feel established before it begins to change, her shoulders rising, her wings unfurling in a smooth, inevitable sweep that gathers light along every feather, and there’s no pause before she takes to the air.

The ground doesn’t fall away so much as it releases them, the desert slipping downward in a slow, widening sprawl as the mare's stride transitions into something else entirely, something that trades impact for motion without losing strength. Her wings beat with a steady, powerful cadence, the golden span of them catching and cutting through the air while her neck stretches forward into the movement, not fixed as it would be on land but alive with it, reaching, balancing, guiding.

Wind pulls at her mane, threads through the feathers, turns the soft cream of it into a streaming line that follows rather than leads, and below them the Boneyard begins to flatten into pale shapes and scattered lines, bones and sand blurring together as distance takes hold, leaving only the sense of scale behind where the details begin to fade.

COLT

Although this is not her first time astride a pegasus, Colt’s heart has drifted up and firmly lodged itself in her throat, making her breaths shallow as they eke out of the corners of her burning smile. This is the first one that feels truly real. There’s no human mind trapped behind those shifting brows and wide eyes, no person living beneath those long-reaching instincts and flickering senses. Added to that, the comfort of the leather which holds her grants her an ease that had only ever been half-wild with fear in all other occasions. Although this moment is just as borrowed as those, it feels more like a glimpse into something that could await her, rather than a fantasy brought to life. This lands more like promise instead of pretend.

The motion beneath her gathers in a familiar way, but like an instrument’s chords able to play all manner of song, this one sings out delightfully new. Against the bend of her knees, feathers brush and sweep, and each ground-eating wingbeat throws a flicker of light. It’s almost easy to overlook, like a web that only glistens in the right light, or lightning that crawls small and distant through too-bright clouds. It catches just right once in a while, the shimmer of starlight flaring through the day, making space for itself where it wouldn’t ordinarily be allowed. The sudden hands of the wind against her face, the grip tight and demanding, keeps her from looking too far into the galaxies threaded amongst the feathers.

Colt leans into the driving force of the wind the mare beneath her spears them into, made out of motion and given with height. The weightless feeling of her steadily climbing, dares Colt to glance briefly over their sides, the bizarre sensation of the sand rapidly falling away feeling like a wave drawing out, but never comes back in. She gives the tie in her hand to the mare’s head fully, the hand its bunched in threading into the mane, permitting a full reach and angling into the shape of the ascent as if this is nothing more than an invisible hill for them to climb.

The hug of the saddle around her, the line of the fenders against her, the easy hook of the pommel and horn all make this exactly as promised. That the day is opening into something lovely, skies turning more blue and revealing scattered wisps of clouds, is a fine addition to the experience. Beneath her too, the mare moves with a grace that feels more like silk than muscle, rippling out easily into something like a kite. The rising thrill of it all rushes over inside of Colt with a breathless, broken laugh. Her hands loosens in the mane, palm sliding down the pegasus’ neck in a quiet approval of a job well done. ”You are amazing!” she beams with enough joy to readily feed the wind that whips past them.

Leaning up a little more, Colt glances back around, the Boneyard laid out around them in something that feels like pattern rather than an endless sprawl of nothing. ”Oh, I can see everything.” Much as it had helped lay out her ranch, for a project never finished, it now gifts her the same opportunity. There’s one difference this time. Colt excitedly fumbles into one of her packs, pulling out paper, fighting the breeze to keep it, and a charcoal stick.

Wild horse out the gate
Yeah your heart about to break
She the type of woman that gon' make you lose control
She something wild, you might need a lasso

The mare answers the praise with a soft, rolling nicker that barely carries against the rush of air, though the shift that follows it is anything but subtle. Power gathers through her frame without warning, a tightening that doesn’t resist so much as chooses, and then she surges forward into it, wings striking harder, faster, each beat carving cleanly through the sky as the distance between them and the earth stretches thin and thinner still. The wind sharpens around them, no longer just a presence but something with hands of its own, pulling at hair and cloth and breath alike, the desert below shrinking into pale geometry; ribs and spines collapsing into lines, dunes smoothing into long, drifting curves that no longer feel fixed to anything at all.

Her neck reaches further into the motion, muscles working in a fluid, relentless rhythm that guides as much as it drives, and the light along her feathers shifts with the speed, catching sharper now, flashing in brief, fleeting glimmers that vanish the second they’re noticed, as if something just out of sight keeps slipping between the seams of the day. Feeling the change in Colt—the shift of weight, the movement of hands, the unfamiliar stillness of purpose that isn’t about riding but seeing—draws a response from her as surely as any rein might have, though nothing pulls or presses to demand it. The strength in her wings eases, not fading but stretching out into something longer, broader, the hard-driving beats giving way to a measured, deliberate glide that trades speed for steadiness without sacrificing height.

Air slides beneath her now instead of breaking around her, carrying them forward in a quiet, sustained sweep that feels almost suspended, as though the sky has agreed to hold them there for a while. Her head lowers a fraction, the line of her body settling into balance rather than ascent, and the restless edge that had sharpened her moments ago smooths into something patient, something that allows rather than insists. Below, the Boneyard resolves again, no longer racing past but opening outward in slow, deliberate detail, each massive skeleton carving its place into the landscape, patterns emerging where there had only been sprawl, the desert stretching in every direction with a clarity that only comes from distance and stillness both.

COLT

Colt has found height on Skyships and floating realms, but none of those feel quite like this—like belonging. Nestled in the sway of a wooden hull, she has always felt like a visitor to the sky that could be cast aside easily, as if unwelcome, but tolerated. She finds herself ever restless on the ships, waiting for them to catch the breeze and right the horizon line with hands that don't belong to her. Astride a winged horse however, mane wrapped around her fingers and power rolling beneath her on a current of muscle and hide, it feels like she's joined the wind. There's no separation of being in this state; it's not her wings catching thermals, not her hooves skimming clouds, but it might as well be. Together, they do more than move, they fly, and it feels like blurring into the sky itself. Losing all sense of self, like this, almost feels right.

The day spools out into something tireless and wonderful as they continue aloft over the sprawl of the world. Just as breath moves in and out, the moments ebb, rolling between practical and awed. Colt loses herself to the design of the future and the present. She sketches out the different landscapes that melt away beneath them, arguing with wind in a glorious way that feels like friendship rather than conflict. She slumps over the shimmering neck, palms sliding low to the chest and holding the mare like her fingers have the strength to keep the impossible, despite all the past proof they don't.

As the day darkens, her mapmaking complete and tucked away in her packs, they laze into the dusk. She reaches out, trying to skim the starlight as they retrace their route back, racing the threat of dawnlight amid the rich velvet of midnight. A day she had been given, and she'd not squander the night, content to wing about until the hours were all well and truly spent. She forgets the snacks and the water she's packed, fed instead with wind and wonder, and as they land back where they began amid the haze of first, fresh light, Colt is gloriously full.

She slides away with no hint of grace, stumbling as her boots reclaim sand, her body almost seeming to recoil from it when the cradle of wind had been all she'd known for some time. She sighs, contented, and leans, sleep-deprived (and all the better for it), against the saddle and the slow motion of the mare's flank. With the slow ceremony of knowing something is ending, Colt undoes the tack, putting it back on Biscuit. Two, pale flight feathers adorn Colt's hat, grabbed before the desert and the breeze steal them away. Something to remind her that this was more than a dream.

"Thank you," she murmurs as she gently strokes the pegasus' neck, sliding off the halter as the last bit of the hours tick over and the gift spends itself out into a breathless laugh of joy, the only way to watch a pegasus rejoin the sky, even if it's without her now.

[FIN]

Wild horse out the gate
Yeah your heart about to break
She the type of woman that gon' make you lose control
She something wild, you might need a lasso