She's reached a point where she can breathe and the drag of air doesn't send him tumbling though her mind. He's still there to be sure, like a cough she can't completely shake. She'll be fine for hours, doesn't even brush against him once, then suddenly is seized until she's doubled over and gasping, ribs weak from the continued strain. The nights are the worst, even though she hasn't seen one since the first evening she trudged back from the Grounds. He’s so woven into them for her that she bought blackout curtains the next day for every window in her home, and makes a point to be indoors before dark like some reverse vampire. She still knows it's out there though, and that time of day is when her work quiets and everyone retreats, leaving just her and the silence together. It’s impossible to ignore the sound of his footsteps then when he approaches her thoughts.
It's less about the hurt, at least compared to the first night. Now it's the wondering. She's trying to solve a puzzle, but doesn't get to see the front of the box where it's complete, and she definitely doesn't have all the pieces. She's trying to force some in, but they keep popping free, no matter how many times she tries. She wanders from grief to confusion to anger and back around again. Right now? She's angry.
Her thinking is, she can't turn off the night, much as she'll try and hide from it. She can't remove Jack, or Calypso, or Nova, or Vesper from King's End, but she can avoid the areas they frequent. What she can do, is scrub the parts of her home he's stained. She's already arranged a buyer for the mare and yearling he helped her with the first day they met—they’ll ship out tomorrow. Her couch is currently in her yard, ready to be set on fire, she’s just got a few more things to add to the burn pile. Her screen door is propped open with one of its cushions, making it easy to chuck the remainders outside.
She’s staring at them right now. They’re not in movable pieces, yet, but the sledgehammer in her hand will take care of that for her. With a hip cocked, barefoot in blue jeans and a black cotton shirt, hair braided to the side and sunglasses serving as safety goggles, she takes a sip from the tequila bottle and regards her kitchen island. The quiet snarl that finds her face has nothing to do with the bite of liquor, and without one more thought spared, she sets the bottle aside and swings into the base of the island. The impact shudders up her arms, the sound loud as wood splinters and sinks in with the force of the strike, the granite slab above shuddering as it's base weakens. All the island's contents are piled up haphazardly on her counters—pans and pots, utensils, lids and such. Things she doesn't want broken, but need a home somewhere, so for now they're spilling around her kitchen with as much organization as her mind.
The only thing that’ll survive the purge is the sweater he gave her, safely tucked under her bed, so it’s out of sight and out of mind. That’s what she’ll tell herself about it anyway.
It's less about the hurt, at least compared to the first night. Now it's the wondering. She's trying to solve a puzzle, but doesn't get to see the front of the box where it's complete, and she definitely doesn't have all the pieces. She's trying to force some in, but they keep popping free, no matter how many times she tries. She wanders from grief to confusion to anger and back around again. Right now? She's angry.
Her thinking is, she can't turn off the night, much as she'll try and hide from it. She can't remove Jack, or Calypso, or Nova, or Vesper from King's End, but she can avoid the areas they frequent. What she can do, is scrub the parts of her home he's stained. She's already arranged a buyer for the mare and yearling he helped her with the first day they met—they’ll ship out tomorrow. Her couch is currently in her yard, ready to be set on fire, she’s just got a few more things to add to the burn pile. Her screen door is propped open with one of its cushions, making it easy to chuck the remainders outside.
She’s staring at them right now. They’re not in movable pieces, yet, but the sledgehammer in her hand will take care of that for her. With a hip cocked, barefoot in blue jeans and a black cotton shirt, hair braided to the side and sunglasses serving as safety goggles, she takes a sip from the tequila bottle and regards her kitchen island. The quiet snarl that finds her face has nothing to do with the bite of liquor, and without one more thought spared, she sets the bottle aside and swings into the base of the island. The impact shudders up her arms, the sound loud as wood splinters and sinks in with the force of the strike, the granite slab above shuddering as it's base weakens. All the island's contents are piled up haphazardly on her counters—pans and pots, utensils, lids and such. Things she doesn't want broken, but need a home somewhere, so for now they're spilling around her kitchen with as much organization as her mind.
The only thing that’ll survive the purge is the sweater he gave her, safely tucked under her bed, so it’s out of sight and out of mind. That’s what she’ll tell herself about it anyway.
Colt
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.
