COLT
Usually, I ain't the type to stay up all damn night
Thinkin' 'bout someone else
It's hard to be fine when your heart's on the line
And the truth is I'm goin' through hell
Thinkin' 'bout someone else
It's hard to be fine when your heart's on the line
And the truth is I'm goin' through hell
He stares at his glass like he might catch the reflection of memory in the rum. Her gaze drifts there too, not wanting to miss it. Though, as he talks—starting off simple and easy before tilting into something harder, quieter—it trails back to him. The drink remains an anchor for the tide of his thoughts, each twist of the drink angling a bit of the light as the pattern cut into it spins the twilight glint. It almost strikes her as nervous, but that doesn't seem to sit quite right beside him, not even now. There's weight to it though, what he says, what he's reliving, and that tugs on her. Purposefully, she grounds herself in her own liquor as he turns the tale.
Her gaze meets his at the pointed glance, a smile flashing in. Forgetting better judgement for someone young and pretty, nah, she doesn't know a thing about that. He's not stupid though, so maybe she's safe.
There's little kindness to the story, a worst day being the direction he went, or maybe that's just the direction they all end up. She didn't ask for kind though, and each crease of the ripple he described is one she could trace as easy as snakeskin. If that'd just been one pattern, long, but still just one, then perhaps he'd seen more loss than she had after all. Nothing personal maybe, but still witnessed. Seemed strange to ever want to come down and join this hell at all, or maybe like the rest of them, he'd had no choice in the matter.
"Mm," she says after a moment in silence, voice drifting after his salute. "Sounds more like it was all because a husband forgot how to make his wife laugh," she offers instead, one finger tapping the edge of her seat. "I think that ripple started well before the sailor." And isn't that half the problem with blaming hurricanes on butterfly wings, there's far too many of them flapping about.
She rises with a soft sigh, the getting out of the swing a less graceful process that requires a shove and some effort, like it always means to trap whoever it takes. "I'll get that wine," she explains as she slips inside. She exchanges her emptied margarita for two wine glasses, tucking the bottle under her arm and wielding the corkscrew like a knife as she steps back out onto the porch. She shakes it in thought as she nears him, gaze distant in the arches of her mind. "So, you could just what, watch everyone, all the time?" Clarity brightens up her amber as she lands it back on him.
"Everyone's vulnerable, secret, private moments just on display?" She'd always figured, the what with the way the gods always know, but she half hoped everyone mostly went ignored, the way she doesn't pay mind to the lives of insects. Then, when the gods needed to know or answer something, they could pull each person up like a book from a shelf, skimming for the synopsis to catch them up on the plot highlights. That all smut, anxiety-riddled horrors, and everything else inbetween is laid out in bare detail for them to read is unsettling. Some might find comfort in the constant potential of the presence, but there's times when being alone is worth more than anything else in the world.
Her gaze meets his at the pointed glance, a smile flashing in. Forgetting better judgement for someone young and pretty, nah, she doesn't know a thing about that. He's not stupid though, so maybe she's safe.
There's little kindness to the story, a worst day being the direction he went, or maybe that's just the direction they all end up. She didn't ask for kind though, and each crease of the ripple he described is one she could trace as easy as snakeskin. If that'd just been one pattern, long, but still just one, then perhaps he'd seen more loss than she had after all. Nothing personal maybe, but still witnessed. Seemed strange to ever want to come down and join this hell at all, or maybe like the rest of them, he'd had no choice in the matter.
"Mm," she says after a moment in silence, voice drifting after his salute. "Sounds more like it was all because a husband forgot how to make his wife laugh," she offers instead, one finger tapping the edge of her seat. "I think that ripple started well before the sailor." And isn't that half the problem with blaming hurricanes on butterfly wings, there's far too many of them flapping about.
She rises with a soft sigh, the getting out of the swing a less graceful process that requires a shove and some effort, like it always means to trap whoever it takes. "I'll get that wine," she explains as she slips inside. She exchanges her emptied margarita for two wine glasses, tucking the bottle under her arm and wielding the corkscrew like a knife as she steps back out onto the porch. She shakes it in thought as she nears him, gaze distant in the arches of her mind. "So, you could just what, watch everyone, all the time?" Clarity brightens up her amber as she lands it back on him.
"Everyone's vulnerable, secret, private moments just on display?" She'd always figured, the what with the way the gods always know, but she half hoped everyone mostly went ignored, the way she doesn't pay mind to the lives of insects. Then, when the gods needed to know or answer something, they could pull each person up like a book from a shelf, skimming for the synopsis to catch them up on the plot highlights. That all smut, anxiety-riddled horrors, and everything else inbetween is laid out in bare detail for them to read is unsettling. Some might find comfort in the constant potential of the presence, but there's times when being alone is worth more than anything else in the world.
I keep it dark, I keep it quiet
But then you come around and light me up
Takin' up space like a hyphen
You're on my mind and I can't fight it
But then you come around and light me up
Takin' up space like a hyphen
You're on my mind and I can't fight it
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.
