COLT
Got a head full of noise
About a hundred different things I'm tryna avoid
I got a mind in the gutter
Got trouble on one hand, a beer in the other
About a hundred different things I'm tryna avoid
I got a mind in the gutter
Got trouble on one hand, a beer in the other
The dogs serve as a nice doorbell for whoever's close enough to hear it, but it's not in anyone's habit to drop their work and play at butler. Damien's arrival earns a few raised heads, but it's not until he's hollering her name and making his business known that a ranch hand bothers to direct him. The younger guy's passing by on a blue roan unicorn filly, all dark in the winter, and he yells out to Damien and points, telling him to head to the arena.
There, where the rodeo had run in the warmer season, Damien will find Colt with a different host of doorknocker dogs and some hands. They're running cattle through a chute, a maze of panels winding through the arena to make a side of sorted cattle in three groups. Colt's on the ground with some of the others, while a few are on horseback, pushing cattle as needed. Her hair's braided beneath her pale hat, less to do with weather and more to keep it out of any cow shit. A tan jacket's zipped up to her neck against the season's chill, a black puffy vest on over it. Her jeans are stiff in the cold, though the thick leather chaps help. Boots are buried in the slush—a mixture of manure, mud, and snow at this point. Breath puffs out in conversation, and her hands are on her hips as she nods every so often towards a man at her side.
The dogs jump up when Damien makes it over, causing her gaze to flick over her shoulder towards him. It takes a moment for her scowl to clear, nothing intentional, just the slant of thought and work. She recognizes him after a beat though, and the warmth of her hospitality surges in with a smile and a wave. "Damien!" she shouts over the way, enough of a greeting to call the hackle-raised dogs off his side, though one trails behind him with a low huff of a bark every so often. The men all take him in after a look but resume the motions of sorting cattle.
There, where the rodeo had run in the warmer season, Damien will find Colt with a different host of doorknocker dogs and some hands. They're running cattle through a chute, a maze of panels winding through the arena to make a side of sorted cattle in three groups. Colt's on the ground with some of the others, while a few are on horseback, pushing cattle as needed. Her hair's braided beneath her pale hat, less to do with weather and more to keep it out of any cow shit. A tan jacket's zipped up to her neck against the season's chill, a black puffy vest on over it. Her jeans are stiff in the cold, though the thick leather chaps help. Boots are buried in the slush—a mixture of manure, mud, and snow at this point. Breath puffs out in conversation, and her hands are on her hips as she nods every so often towards a man at her side.
The dogs jump up when Damien makes it over, causing her gaze to flick over her shoulder towards him. It takes a moment for her scowl to clear, nothing intentional, just the slant of thought and work. She recognizes him after a beat though, and the warmth of her hospitality surges in with a smile and a wave. "Damien!" she shouts over the way, enough of a greeting to call the hackle-raised dogs off his side, though one trails behind him with a low huff of a bark every so often. The men all take him in after a look but resume the motions of sorting cattle.
Got the wind in my hair
I got nowhere to go so I'm already there
Can't say I would and I can't say I wouldn't
If I don't come back, don't come lookin'
I got nowhere to go so I'm already there
Can't say I would and I can't say I wouldn't
If I don't come back, don't come lookin'
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.
