Colt
It's boots and chaps
It's cowboy hats
It's spurs and latigo
It's cowboy hats
It's spurs and latigo
The desert is endless, it seems. A sea of sand and death, ribcages cresting dunes like waves of demise stilled into stationary rise. It changes around them in some form or another, but it's all the same at its core—bleak.
Vesper's energy seems renewed as he rolls beneath her, his power relentless as it unfurls with every stride and step across the dead plains. She can't say the same for herself. Whatever rest feels undone as soon as she asks her muscles to resume the same position. The curl of her fingers in his mane has long gone numb, and the burn of her thighs is near constant now. She's in the saddle daily, but aside from a long cattle drive once in a while it's not so constant, and the leather of the tack makes it easier—this requires effort. There's also something to be said about the utter lack of control, a bit of a foreign practice for her hands and seat. Normally she has some idea of where they're headed, what they're doing, but here she's trying to stay out of his way as best she can.
So when he jumps, she's surprised. She sucks in a breath as she feels him coil for it, a soft shit slipping free as she wraps her other hand higher up on his mane and leans forward to go with him, balance shifting ahead and legs pressing against his sides tighter to try and get her weight up off his back and more over the withers. As he lands, she slips back a bit, her threaded fingers holding her center. She shimmies back up, but hangs heavier on the slope of his neck. "You're getting fancy," she accuses, shoving off his mane and settling back proper. Jumping is not high on her list of horse skills, if she's being honest, least of all bareback. Good enough not to have him dump her ass in the dirt, which she guesses is all that matters in the end.
Vesper's energy seems renewed as he rolls beneath her, his power relentless as it unfurls with every stride and step across the dead plains. She can't say the same for herself. Whatever rest feels undone as soon as she asks her muscles to resume the same position. The curl of her fingers in his mane has long gone numb, and the burn of her thighs is near constant now. She's in the saddle daily, but aside from a long cattle drive once in a while it's not so constant, and the leather of the tack makes it easier—this requires effort. There's also something to be said about the utter lack of control, a bit of a foreign practice for her hands and seat. Normally she has some idea of where they're headed, what they're doing, but here she's trying to stay out of his way as best she can.
So when he jumps, she's surprised. She sucks in a breath as she feels him coil for it, a soft shit slipping free as she wraps her other hand higher up on his mane and leans forward to go with him, balance shifting ahead and legs pressing against his sides tighter to try and get her weight up off his back and more over the withers. As he lands, she slips back a bit, her threaded fingers holding her center. She shimmies back up, but hangs heavier on the slope of his neck. "You're getting fancy," she accuses, shoving off his mane and settling back proper. Jumping is not high on her list of horse skills, if she's being honest, least of all bareback. Good enough not to have him dump her ass in the dirt, which she guesses is all that matters in the end.
It's the ropes and the reins
And the joy and the pain
And they call the thing rodeo
And the joy and the pain
And they call the thing rodeo
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.
