COLT
He looks like a cool drink of water
But he's candy-coated misery
He's the devil in disguise
A snake with blue eyes
But he's candy-coated misery
He's the devil in disguise
A snake with blue eyes
The trips back and forth to the Boondocks for various supplies is the best way to train the starters. Nothing better than actual work being put in under the saddle—keep the horse moving through new terrain so it's too busy thinking about where it's putting its feet instead of what it feels on its back. Put in the hours until it's on that edge of too tired to argue, until it finally gives into the idea of new as routine, of her lead as being best and safe. It always starts with a day or two of sacking out, of sinking into the leather seat for the first time, all legs and dust in the air. Then it’s off to errands and chores, no matter how trivial.
It’s one such sweat-lathered sorrel stud she’s on now, rolling the bit anxiously against his tongue. Not far from the ranch yet, he’s still barely contained under his skin and her pressure. The wary fling of his head and the dip of his shoulder—threatening to vanish out from under her in a breath—alerts her to the mild commotion ahead. Stationary things are scary enough for the young brain, but movement? Might as well be a monster made to eat horses.
"Easy," she murmurs under her breath to Chocolate as she nudges him further along, head tilting to turn the brim of her hat against the sun so she can better eye the figure leaning against the well. The baby walks like a drunkard under her, unable to find a straight line when half of him wants to bolt the other direction, but she urges him on with the wiggle of her spurs, each jingle a warning.
If this had been Beans, she might have just nodded and been on her way, even if the chest he's exposed (both of them) catches her attention. Patience is half the battle with the youngsters though, so lucky for Jack, Colt is here to chat. "Howdy," she greets as she pulls to a stop, leaning onto the saddle horn with one arm draping over it lazily. She looks pointedly at him, some flicker of recognition catching her, but not enough to rouse any warmth or name. "Think all you need to make it work is a shiny rock."
It’s one such sweat-lathered sorrel stud she’s on now, rolling the bit anxiously against his tongue. Not far from the ranch yet, he’s still barely contained under his skin and her pressure. The wary fling of his head and the dip of his shoulder—threatening to vanish out from under her in a breath—alerts her to the mild commotion ahead. Stationary things are scary enough for the young brain, but movement? Might as well be a monster made to eat horses.
"Easy," she murmurs under her breath to Chocolate as she nudges him further along, head tilting to turn the brim of her hat against the sun so she can better eye the figure leaning against the well. The baby walks like a drunkard under her, unable to find a straight line when half of him wants to bolt the other direction, but she urges him on with the wiggle of her spurs, each jingle a warning.
If this had been Beans, she might have just nodded and been on her way, even if the chest he's exposed (both of them) catches her attention. Patience is half the battle with the youngsters though, so lucky for Jack, Colt is here to chat. "Howdy," she greets as she pulls to a stop, leaning onto the saddle horn with one arm draping over it lazily. She looks pointedly at him, some flicker of recognition catching her, but not enough to rouse any warmth or name. "Think all you need to make it work is a shiny rock."
He only comes out at night
Gives you feelings that you don't wanna fight
You better run for your life
He's a good time cowboy Casanova
Gives you feelings that you don't wanna fight
You better run for your life
He's a good time cowboy Casanova
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.
