COLT
Usually a drink will do the trick
Take the edge off quick
A long gone drive, you know the kind
Where you take a turn and you don't know why
But it clears your mind, a surefire cure
Take the edge off quick
A long gone drive, you know the kind
Where you take a turn and you don't know why
But it clears your mind, a surefire cure
His halt brings her back upright, legs shifting back into place behind his withers. She glances around, half expecting he'd discovered something vile. The more insistent bump from his hind-end though tells her otherwise. Oh, right. She presses a hand against his neck and swings the opposite leg over, sliding down neatly, boots punching into the sand.
She brushes sand from the bend of her elbows and pats down her sweat-soaked jeans, tugging the fabric and hair from her thighs with a grimace as he shifts. Her hair is still in its braid, but it's wind tossed to hell and sweat darkens portions of her shirt, shines in the edges of her skin as the furnace continues its slow burn around them. She breaths out steadily, but still bright, after all, she hadn't been the one running around the desert all evening. So when she turns to him, she expects something similar—that suave angle to his expression, that fluid gait like he's water gliding over wax. Instead, he looks like he'd been tied up and drug behind the midnight horse all these miles.
"Fuck—Ves!" It's such a shock she can't keep the sharp concern at bay, fumbling for her pack and the canteens of water within before he's even asking. "Why didn't you stop sooner?" she chides as she hands him the canteen of water and an apple, something sugary to keep the energy up. She won't even remark on how horses tend to favor them. The other canteen is tucked against her arm and side, and she works at the knot of her bandana with her hands, sliding it out from around her neck and dumping some of her water on it until it's soaked.
Crouching next to him she offers him the wet cloth, her hat pulled free to fan at the sweat and the water that beads around him. "Hush," she admonishes, features taut with worry. "We're not going anywhere any time soon." She's half a mind to tell him that they're going back, that this stupid belt buckle isn't worth this hell. She doesn't put those words to mind though, not when he's draped like melted mist on a stone and still asking her if they should carry on. She won't tell him what his limits are—she's had that done, knows the way it feels to be told you can't. You fight against it at first, but little by little, too little to ever notice, you start to believe it. Suddenly you're limiting yourself even more, and the world becomes so small that way.
"Just rest your pretty little head cowboy," she sighs, a smile tugging at her as she reaches to brush some of his hair back for him. "We'll camp here for now, whether that's all night or just a while, we'll see. I'm too tired to go on right now." She can shoulder the blame, after all, it's her fault they're here.
She brushes sand from the bend of her elbows and pats down her sweat-soaked jeans, tugging the fabric and hair from her thighs with a grimace as he shifts. Her hair is still in its braid, but it's wind tossed to hell and sweat darkens portions of her shirt, shines in the edges of her skin as the furnace continues its slow burn around them. She breaths out steadily, but still bright, after all, she hadn't been the one running around the desert all evening. So when she turns to him, she expects something similar—that suave angle to his expression, that fluid gait like he's water gliding over wax. Instead, he looks like he'd been tied up and drug behind the midnight horse all these miles.
"Fuck—Ves!" It's such a shock she can't keep the sharp concern at bay, fumbling for her pack and the canteens of water within before he's even asking. "Why didn't you stop sooner?" she chides as she hands him the canteen of water and an apple, something sugary to keep the energy up. She won't even remark on how horses tend to favor them. The other canteen is tucked against her arm and side, and she works at the knot of her bandana with her hands, sliding it out from around her neck and dumping some of her water on it until it's soaked.
Crouching next to him she offers him the wet cloth, her hat pulled free to fan at the sweat and the water that beads around him. "Hush," she admonishes, features taut with worry. "We're not going anywhere any time soon." She's half a mind to tell him that they're going back, that this stupid belt buckle isn't worth this hell. She doesn't put those words to mind though, not when he's draped like melted mist on a stone and still asking her if they should carry on. She won't tell him what his limits are—she's had that done, knows the way it feels to be told you can't. You fight against it at first, but little by little, too little to ever notice, you start to believe it. Suddenly you're limiting yourself even more, and the world becomes so small that way.
"Just rest your pretty little head cowboy," she sighs, a smile tugging at her as she reaches to brush some of his hair back for him. "We'll camp here for now, whether that's all night or just a while, we'll see. I'm too tired to go on right now." She can shoulder the blame, after all, it's her fault they're here.
I need somethin' stronger
That'll last a little longer
I could use a love song
That'll last a little longer
I could use a love song
Received a Gilded Market wig from Remi that resembles her usual hair and is enchanted to stay on better than most wigs | has a reverse centaur tattoo on her left hand with the legs going down her pointer and middle fingers that looks like this.
