The moment the poem slips from Colt’s pocket to the pocket of the world, something unseemly rustles in the air—not wind, but something like wind. The birds overhead shiver. A strange, metallic tang briefly bites at the back of her teeth. The fire of her earlier mutter, "Here's your rent muthafuckers," might as well have been an incantation.
The dogs whimper and shake it off. The yaks don’t notice.
But Vox does.
A little ripple of reality near Colt’s saddle blinks out of alignment—just briefly. A shimmer like hot air on stone, except cold and violet and vaguely electric. There’s no image. Not really.
Just a sensation.
And then a sound—buzzing and bubbly and delighted—fizzes up like a cork popping out of a soda can:
"Roses are red,
Yaks travel in herds,
Your poem’s a marvel—
But so are your words~!"
A static purr trails through the grass, winding around her boots like a purring cat made of broken signals and good gossip. Then, just as quickly as it came, the feeling peels away.
But somehow... the frogs feel fewer.
And one of her dog’s ears? Is sticking straight up in alert.
As if he enjoyed the poem too.
The dogs whimper and shake it off. The yaks don’t notice.
But Vox does.
A little ripple of reality near Colt’s saddle blinks out of alignment—just briefly. A shimmer like hot air on stone, except cold and violet and vaguely electric. There’s no image. Not really.
Just a sensation.
And then a sound—buzzing and bubbly and delighted—fizzes up like a cork popping out of a soda can:
"Roses are red,
Yaks travel in herds,
Your poem’s a marvel—
But so are your words~!"
A static purr trails through the grass, winding around her boots like a purring cat made of broken signals and good gossip. Then, just as quickly as it came, the feeling peels away.
But somehow... the frogs feel fewer.
And one of her dog’s ears? Is sticking straight up in alert.
As if he enjoyed the poem too.
