COLT
I've been sleeping wide awake
Slow dancing 'round the cracks in the floorboards
Fighting myself while lying in a
Bed I made and can't ignore
Slow dancing 'round the cracks in the floorboards
Fighting myself while lying in a
Bed I made and can't ignore
The dogs aren't the only one making a ruckus in the house, as Colt is soon thereafter flipping off the couch, startled out of her liquor earned doze. It takes her a moment to gather her bearings, alarm dragging the sleep from her swiftly, but not without a lingering haze of the fuck is happening? She glances around the various lantern lit edges of her home, mouth dry, likely from all the drool she'd donated to the couch cushion she turned into a pillow, but also because the dogs don't act like this for your run of the mill visitor. There's something bad outside, and without even the wink of a star to offer a glimmer of hope in this damn period of the year, she's at her weakest too, for a variety of reasons.
"What's out there?" she asks a fleet of dogs that can only answer with continued chaos, entirely unhelpful. Her pulse quickens to the tempo they set, hurriedly driving her feet back into her boots, smearing a palm across her eyes as she glances over at the small table and the fireplace. Options, options, fuck what are her options? Arrows and quiver are in the other room, but she could hardly play at sniper when she can't see for shit through this impossible night. Close range then, and visibility.
After a moment she kicks her front door open, the screen slamming shut behind her with a dog or two spilling free and bristling at her side. "WHO THE FUCK IS OUT THERE?!" she demands, voice roughened with threat as she flings a 'torch' (read: alcohol drenched rag that's burning on one end) into the snow laden yard in front of her, light making shadows grow and twist around the weak radius. She's brandishing a fire poker in one hand, the tip glowing red from its bath in her fireplace, and in the other she's got a glass of tequila. "Speak up or get gone," she barks into the night, a more familiar fight than she'd like to admit.
"What's out there?" she asks a fleet of dogs that can only answer with continued chaos, entirely unhelpful. Her pulse quickens to the tempo they set, hurriedly driving her feet back into her boots, smearing a palm across her eyes as she glances over at the small table and the fireplace. Options, options, fuck what are her options? Arrows and quiver are in the other room, but she could hardly play at sniper when she can't see for shit through this impossible night. Close range then, and visibility.
After a moment she kicks her front door open, the screen slamming shut behind her with a dog or two spilling free and bristling at her side. "WHO THE FUCK IS OUT THERE?!" she demands, voice roughened with threat as she flings a 'torch' (read: alcohol drenched rag that's burning on one end) into the snow laden yard in front of her, light making shadows grow and twist around the weak radius. She's brandishing a fire poker in one hand, the tip glowing red from its bath in her fireplace, and in the other she's got a glass of tequila. "Speak up or get gone," she barks into the night, a more familiar fight than she'd like to admit.
I'm tired of running from the conversations
Screaming in the silence, all alone
I'm frustrated, I can't take it
But I'll fake it, then I'll hate myself again
Screaming in the silence, all alone
I'm frustrated, I can't take it
But I'll fake it, then I'll hate myself again
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.
