The wind stirs again, though there’s no breeze to speak of. It rustles through the tall grasses like a sigh drawn slow and indulgent from the belly of the world, and the shrine responds not with grandeur, but with warmth—something heavy and velvet-thick that wraps around Colt’s spine like a well-worn lover’s embrace. The chimes above trill once in delight as Frey manifests.
They unfold in the grass beside her like a decadent secret, legs crossed, bare and glistening beneath the sun. Their skin is burnished gold, kissed with sweat and the promise of heat, and their form is—of course—everything Colt would most like to fuck, wrapped in the teasing edge of something too divine to touch without permission. Their smile is carved like sin in silk, slow and feline, and they purr as if they've just woken up beside her and the dog. "My, my," Frey murmurs, smouldering gaze dragging from the dog to the scattered offerings to the rancher herself. "You really have been busy, haven’t you, sweet one?"
They reach for the bottle without hesitation. Their fingers brush Colt’s as they do, and though the tequila doesn’t touch her lips, she'll feel the shot slide down her throat. The burn is bright and biting—Torchline-true—and it pools hot in her belly before tapering into the sweet haze of something earned. Frey plucks the orange leaf next, slipping it between perfect teeth, and Colt’s mouth floods with citrus, sharp and sun-sweet as if she’d bitten into it herself.
"Hm," Frey hums around it, then swallows both taste and leaf with a sigh of satisfaction. "Usually," they say, voice like melted sugar, "if it was fun, it was right." They wink, wicked and warm, tilting their head just enough that a lock of hair tumbles over one eye.
Behind them, Smooches—finally moved to action—gets to his paws and ambles over with sleepy importance. He noses into the grass just behind Frey’s hip, and from the air itself emerges something new: a quiver of leather darker than sin, gleaming with quiet power. Tooled into its surface are curling vines, flowers, and something else—something alive in the stitching, as if it remembers joy, speed, impact. Frey doesn’t move to touch it. Instead, they glance sideways at Colt, their grin all satisfaction and promise. "That’s for you," they murmur.
Colt has received
The Pencil Sharpener | An earthen quiver that sharpens any arrow placed inside.
They unfold in the grass beside her like a decadent secret, legs crossed, bare and glistening beneath the sun. Their skin is burnished gold, kissed with sweat and the promise of heat, and their form is—of course—everything Colt would most like to fuck, wrapped in the teasing edge of something too divine to touch without permission. Their smile is carved like sin in silk, slow and feline, and they purr as if they've just woken up beside her and the dog. "My, my," Frey murmurs, smouldering gaze dragging from the dog to the scattered offerings to the rancher herself. "You really have been busy, haven’t you, sweet one?"
They reach for the bottle without hesitation. Their fingers brush Colt’s as they do, and though the tequila doesn’t touch her lips, she'll feel the shot slide down her throat. The burn is bright and biting—Torchline-true—and it pools hot in her belly before tapering into the sweet haze of something earned. Frey plucks the orange leaf next, slipping it between perfect teeth, and Colt’s mouth floods with citrus, sharp and sun-sweet as if she’d bitten into it herself.
"Hm," Frey hums around it, then swallows both taste and leaf with a sigh of satisfaction. "Usually," they say, voice like melted sugar, "if it was fun, it was right." They wink, wicked and warm, tilting their head just enough that a lock of hair tumbles over one eye.
Behind them, Smooches—finally moved to action—gets to his paws and ambles over with sleepy importance. He noses into the grass just behind Frey’s hip, and from the air itself emerges something new: a quiver of leather darker than sin, gleaming with quiet power. Tooled into its surface are curling vines, flowers, and something else—something alive in the stitching, as if it remembers joy, speed, impact. Frey doesn’t move to touch it. Instead, they glance sideways at Colt, their grin all satisfaction and promise. "That’s for you," they murmur.
Colt has received
The Pencil Sharpener | An earthen quiver that sharpens any arrow placed inside.
