if you try and chase the sun you're never gonna catch it
Vesper listens, quietly though not idly. His fingers toy absently with one of his rings as Colt speaks, eyes half-lidded but mind anything but still. The imagery spills from her like warm smoke, thick with colour and dust and crowd-noise. It’s not just her words—it’s the flood of memory he brushes against without meaning to, the baked gold of an arena under Caido’s sun, the raucous cry of spectators half-drunk on beer and adrenaline, the flash of hooves and muscle and braided ropes flying through the air. It’s chaos. It’s power. It’s theatre. No wonder she’s so drawn to it.
"Ah, so just a few chores left then," he murmurs, straight-faced despite the glint in his eyes. "Should have it all wrapped up by tomorrow, I reckon." The grin that follows is pure mischief, and when she mentions bulls, it curves into something slow and feline. He leans back against the worn bench of the wagon, letting the weight of his stare slide toward her as he purrs, "Can’t say I make a great bull. But if you’re in the market for somethin’ sleek and dangerous with claws instead of horns..." His voice trails off, but the smile remains—intentionally feline, sharp as a sunbeam through a windowpane.
Then, as the wagon groans to a halt near the hill, his tone shifts, softer but no less certain. "Ain’t a grave," he says, reaching for the edge of the seat to steady himself as he stands. The mist thickens as they crest the rise, but he’s surefooted, the shadows gathering low around his boots like loyal dogs.
"Once you see it, it’ll make sense." If she hasn’t pieced it together yet—who he is, who he was made by—he won’t spoil the big reveal.
"Ah, so just a few chores left then," he murmurs, straight-faced despite the glint in his eyes. "Should have it all wrapped up by tomorrow, I reckon." The grin that follows is pure mischief, and when she mentions bulls, it curves into something slow and feline. He leans back against the worn bench of the wagon, letting the weight of his stare slide toward her as he purrs, "Can’t say I make a great bull. But if you’re in the market for somethin’ sleek and dangerous with claws instead of horns..." His voice trails off, but the smile remains—intentionally feline, sharp as a sunbeam through a windowpane.
Then, as the wagon groans to a halt near the hill, his tone shifts, softer but no less certain. "Ain’t a grave," he says, reaching for the edge of the seat to steady himself as he stands. The mist thickens as they crest the rise, but he’s surefooted, the shadows gathering low around his boots like loyal dogs.
"Once you see it, it’ll make sense." If she hasn’t pieced it together yet—who he is, who he was made by—he won’t spoil the big reveal.
And now it's turning out to be the worst of my bad habits
☆ has a pale star tattoo beneath his left eye, and freckle-sized constellations move across his skin
☽ hair changes from bleached blonde to brown
☆ telepathic: Sunlit Shadows | The user can read the surface thoughts and emotions of those within a 60ft radius. Control is excellent. Note: "Thoughts and emotions" include anything written in a character's narration in a post.
☽ hair changes from bleached blonde to brown
☆ telepathic: Sunlit Shadows | The user can read the surface thoughts and emotions of those within a 60ft radius. Control is excellent. Note: "Thoughts and emotions" include anything written in a character's narration in a post.
