Damien
and every demon wants his pound of flesh
but i like to keep some things to myself
but i like to keep some things to myself
The dogs saw him first. Their chorus split the quiet, paws kicking up powder as they bounded the fence-line, white breath puffing from dark muzzles. Damien slowed at the wide gate, the Deadiron brand seared bold into its timbers, and let them make their noise. Snow clung to his boots in crusted layers, the long road behind him written in every ragged edge of frost on his coat.
Beyond the gate, the ranch stretched broad and working even under winter’s hold. Smoke curled from somewhere, steady and blue against the pale sky. Horses stamped in the paddocks, their coats grown thick and shaggy, steam rising from their backs. The air smelled of hay and hide and woodsmoke, sharp and alive in the cold.
Damien hitched the strap of his pack higher on his shoulder, the weight of coin pressing solid against his spine. Most of it was bound tight in leather pouches, tucked beneath a false layer of furs and dried meat. A smaller purse rested against his hip, close enough for his hand to guard it. He’d carried plenty through Halo’s wilds, but gold had a way of turning men worse than hunger ever did.
He planted his boots in the snow just shy of the gate, breath fogging slow and even. “Colt Winchester!” he called loud and clear, his voice carrying steady across the snowy yard.
Beyond the gate, the ranch stretched broad and working even under winter’s hold. Smoke curled from somewhere, steady and blue against the pale sky. Horses stamped in the paddocks, their coats grown thick and shaggy, steam rising from their backs. The air smelled of hay and hide and woodsmoke, sharp and alive in the cold.
Damien hitched the strap of his pack higher on his shoulder, the weight of coin pressing solid against his spine. Most of it was bound tight in leather pouches, tucked beneath a false layer of furs and dried meat. A smaller purse rested against his hip, close enough for his hand to guard it. He’d carried plenty through Halo’s wilds, but gold had a way of turning men worse than hunger ever did.
He planted his boots in the snow just shy of the gate, breath fogging slow and even. “Colt Winchester!” he called loud and clear, his voice carrying steady across the snowy yard.
