Colt
Love's just one of them words
That gets thrown around
So I ain't gonna say it, no I ain't gonna lie
If you were my last breath, I'd just wanna hold ya
That gets thrown around
So I ain't gonna say it, no I ain't gonna lie
If you were my last breath, I'd just wanna hold ya
The morning has unfurled into full splendor by now. Everything is golden and bright, alive with dew and promise of something fresh. That's exactly what she means to deliver today, a fresh coat of paint for some of the more downtrodden homes. A few were owned by elderly who couldn't keep up with all the needs of their weathering property, and some were kept by people who just didn't give a damn, even if their neighbors did. She's not taking up a painter's role in town, but she can extend the hand, especially since she'll be doing no riding until her leg mends up a bit better, courtesy of no healers on hand in the swamp, and though her ranch needs its own version of repairs, she's still arranging some of that.
This is something she can do now. Plus, it has a visible outcome that will make her feel useful and accomplished. So she surveys the first house, brush in hand and paint bucket and tray beside her. She's in her overalls that have seen better days and have definitely been her painting partner a time or two. A dark green, short-sleeved shirt is on underneath, and her navy jacket is already flopped over a nearby fence, not willing to risk it taking on a new color and figuring she'll be plenty warm with the work. She's got on her old, favorite boots that look ready to fall apart with her next step, and her hat is a little smushed and frayed on the edges, suggesting it's either been sat on recently by a horse or is more aged than her usual. She doesn't expect to walk away pristine today, so she dressed in things that she wouldn't regret losing to some of the paint.
Pulling her hair back in a ponytail to keep it from turning into a brush, a tune hums out as she rolls the first tan line across the side of the house.
This is something she can do now. Plus, it has a visible outcome that will make her feel useful and accomplished. So she surveys the first house, brush in hand and paint bucket and tray beside her. She's in her overalls that have seen better days and have definitely been her painting partner a time or two. A dark green, short-sleeved shirt is on underneath, and her navy jacket is already flopped over a nearby fence, not willing to risk it taking on a new color and figuring she'll be plenty warm with the work. She's got on her old, favorite boots that look ready to fall apart with her next step, and her hat is a little smushed and frayed on the edges, suggesting it's either been sat on recently by a horse or is more aged than her usual. She doesn't expect to walk away pristine today, so she dressed in things that she wouldn't regret losing to some of the paint.
Pulling her hair back in a ponytail to keep it from turning into a brush, a tune hums out as she rolls the first tan line across the side of the house.
If you were my last shot of whiskey
I'd press you to my lips, take a little sip
Swirl you around and around and around
Then I'd shoot ya down
I'd press you to my lips, take a little sip
Swirl you around and around and around
Then I'd shoot ya down
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.
