COLT
I had a vision last night
Horses on the granite plains
That sound of freedom stampeding
Why can't I feel the same?
Horses on the granite plains
That sound of freedom stampeding
Why can't I feel the same?
His presence always brings her something—a storm, or relief from it, sometimes both. This time though, she barely registers his arrival, grateful as she'll be for it before long, because plenty is still fucked and he's only part of the solution to her basket of problems. Grimacing and grunting, her fingertips skim over her boot, but she can't quite bend enough around the slope of the horse and the hard ridge of the saddle, which feels so damn unfair when it's almost within reach. Frustrated and hurt, she lays flat back against the ground again as the horse's body drags against her once more, reeled in by the mudtiger and the shove of darkness that sends it flying. The line of rope shivers, then blessedly, finally gives.
It's not the braided material that comes undone, it's the saddle horn that surrenders to all the tension. It's not meant to be a roping saddle—she'd picked a more comfortable one for travel, because when you rope dummies they don't haul your horse around like a goddamn marlin on the line. It's too tall, too narrow, to really handle the anchor of this fight, and the nails that hold the structure to the rest of the saddle very decidedly give up. The horn and the rest of the rope tail whip after the corpse into the mess of the jungle.
Vesper's voice does dimly register, but it lands the way a dream does on waking, too soft and too distant. She can't quite trace all the details, or the meaning, just knows that something nice had been here briefly, and now it's gone. Because she's still pinned, and even though Biscuit is free now, the mare still has to stand and that won't be a pretty affair.
At least, that's what Colt expects, but the weight of the horse pressing in on her is suddenly removed. Her eyes widen up at the spread of wings and talons rising over her like some sort of cursed angel. What the fuck is wrong with this island? She's no idea it's the molten tiger here, actually an Ancient, just assumed the same shadows that cut down the muddy one did the same for the other, the only reason she's still breathing. So this new beast must be some new addition to the fray, each collision drawing the attention of something worse like a Russian nesting doll version of kaijus.
Colt scrambles out from under the removal of her steed, not about to look this gift horse in the mouth. She's got to run before the next, bigger doll appears. Sorry Biscuit, you're the one they all want, it seems.
The idea of sprinting for her life is laughable though, because it's all she can do to even scurry back right now. Adrenaline might be shielding some of the worst still, but it can't keep back all the heat that sears through her the moment she tries to drive that ankle that'd been under the horse into use. "Fuck!" she bites out, teeth clicking against each other with a wince as she keels back over onto her side. She doesn't have time.
Glancing hurriedly to the side to see how far the creature's gotten, it's a shock to find her bloody horse galloping away and a woman in nearly similar state as her on the ground further down. Recognition strikes like a brutal hammer then, and Colt gasps in a ragged breath, pissed as much as relieved. "Peach?!" she demands, sagging into the name with the euphoria that comes when fear subsides, every nerve prickling as it uncoils from its tight state. The fucking miserable woman from the party, who's horns and tails mark the shifts Colt had seen, understanding coming in like waves with each breath and lapping thought. A molten tiger hadn't really made sense for this isle, but her understanding of local flora and fauna had been the last thing on her mind in the thick of it all. "Oh thank fuck," she pants, a shaky hand swiping back the mess of hair that's fallen like a sweaty curtain, her hat somewhere.
It's not the braided material that comes undone, it's the saddle horn that surrenders to all the tension. It's not meant to be a roping saddle—she'd picked a more comfortable one for travel, because when you rope dummies they don't haul your horse around like a goddamn marlin on the line. It's too tall, too narrow, to really handle the anchor of this fight, and the nails that hold the structure to the rest of the saddle very decidedly give up. The horn and the rest of the rope tail whip after the corpse into the mess of the jungle.
Vesper's voice does dimly register, but it lands the way a dream does on waking, too soft and too distant. She can't quite trace all the details, or the meaning, just knows that something nice had been here briefly, and now it's gone. Because she's still pinned, and even though Biscuit is free now, the mare still has to stand and that won't be a pretty affair.
At least, that's what Colt expects, but the weight of the horse pressing in on her is suddenly removed. Her eyes widen up at the spread of wings and talons rising over her like some sort of cursed angel. What the fuck is wrong with this island? She's no idea it's the molten tiger here, actually an Ancient, just assumed the same shadows that cut down the muddy one did the same for the other, the only reason she's still breathing. So this new beast must be some new addition to the fray, each collision drawing the attention of something worse like a Russian nesting doll version of kaijus.
Colt scrambles out from under the removal of her steed, not about to look this gift horse in the mouth. She's got to run before the next, bigger doll appears. Sorry Biscuit, you're the one they all want, it seems.
The idea of sprinting for her life is laughable though, because it's all she can do to even scurry back right now. Adrenaline might be shielding some of the worst still, but it can't keep back all the heat that sears through her the moment she tries to drive that ankle that'd been under the horse into use. "Fuck!" she bites out, teeth clicking against each other with a wince as she keels back over onto her side. She doesn't have time.
Glancing hurriedly to the side to see how far the creature's gotten, it's a shock to find her bloody horse galloping away and a woman in nearly similar state as her on the ground further down. Recognition strikes like a brutal hammer then, and Colt gasps in a ragged breath, pissed as much as relieved. "Peach?!" she demands, sagging into the name with the euphoria that comes when fear subsides, every nerve prickling as it uncoils from its tight state. The fucking miserable woman from the party, who's horns and tails mark the shifts Colt had seen, understanding coming in like waves with each breath and lapping thought. A molten tiger hadn't really made sense for this isle, but her understanding of local flora and fauna had been the last thing on her mind in the thick of it all. "Oh thank fuck," she pants, a shaky hand swiping back the mess of hair that's fallen like a sweaty curtain, her hat somewhere.
I've been sipping on a poison
Even on the days I taste it
Run into the same wall
All because I just can't face it
Even on the days I taste it
Run into the same wall
All because I just can't face 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.
