Wrapping my ribs in the clothes that you left, call that hanging on by a thread
The fence bears her weight but complains at the shift of her elbows. It's enough to make her hesitate, just for a moment, keeping the range of her balance more on her feet than the whining rails. It wobbles beneath her, but as she sinks in slower, it holds up to her test, so she settles with her legs canting out at a sharp angle beneath her. She slips her matchbook back in her front jean pocket, thumb hooking over the denim once she's done. Her other hand pulls the cigarette from her lips, falling limp along the fence, barely keeping hold of the freshly lit stick. She exhales smoke up into the herd of clouds gathering overhead, looking obnoxiously like a challenge for the work ahead of her.
Dear ol’ Edith’s house is still looking nice after the paint job it received a few seasons ago. That’s not a memory she dares dwell on, though she can’t keep it from flickering to life briefly behind her eyes with the same cherry glow she brings back to her lips. Just like the ash afterwards, she taps it away, purposefully keeping her back to the house and her attention on the muddy road before her. The same one Edith slipped and hurt herself on, so it needs some smoothing and drying, pouting clouds be damned.
A bag of wood chips awaits nearby, and some tools, but Colt’s waiting on the rest of the help to show up. They’re late, and she’s itching to get done, but for now she’s content to stand here and do her best not remembering things that pretended to be happy.
Dear ol’ Edith’s house is still looking nice after the paint job it received a few seasons ago. That’s not a memory she dares dwell on, though she can’t keep it from flickering to life briefly behind her eyes with the same cherry glow she brings back to her lips. Just like the ash afterwards, she taps it away, purposefully keeping her back to the house and her attention on the muddy road before her. The same one Edith slipped and hurt herself on, so it needs some smoothing and drying, pouting clouds be damned.
A bag of wood chips awaits nearby, and some tools, but Colt’s waiting on the rest of the help to show up. They’re late, and she’s itching to get done, but for now she’s content to stand here and do her best not remembering things that pretended to be happy.
Colt
My heart is a hoarder, collecting things she shouldn't keep
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.
