I'll let the flames take me high, burn down the whole damn sky
She stares out at the sinking sun like she's watching sand shift down an hourglass. The painted beauty of the day's end is lost on the distant gloss that is her gaze. As soon as the first star winks on, she'll be gone, pulling back inside like closed doors and covered windows can keep out the monster of the night. For now though, she's content in the dwindling heat of the outdoors. She can feel it rolling off the ground in invisible waves, churning with mixed temperatures as the wind and the soil kiss with varying passion. The bullfrogs and the crickets are singing in their private little pockets of the world, and their concert marks another day survived. That's all it's ever been truly, survival.
Her knees are drawn up tight before her, heels barely hanging on where she's burrowed them in-between the slats of wood that comprise the porch swing, toes hanging over into the subtle breeze. Her chin rests on the plateau of her knees, one arm looped around them to keep them in tight, the other limply holding a cigarette off to the side, wedged between the legs of her new tattoo that she does her best to avoid looking at. This one's burned more than it's been smoked, but she lifts it up to her lips now for a long drag. Everything else is stationary except for the rise and fall of her arm, and the subtle pattern of blinking and breathing that could almost be missed among her stillness.
Her exhale streams long and silent, only notable because of the visible curl of the smoke that puffs out and winds up towards the clouds. A bottle of tequila is sweating beside her on the ground, and some bacon, long ago warded off by the dogs with a sternness their curiosity would not tempt again. She's waiting for the last bit of sunshine, the sort that walks. She left a note for him the moment she got back after traveling, her now annual pilgrimage to Caido's notice boards.
Well, that's a lie.
The first thing she did when she got home was run into the fields and chop a good size off the tails of all her blonde horses, fashioning the least flattering and reliable wig imaginable. It adorns her now, blocks of different shades due to different horses, tied up on top and tucked beneath her hat like an obvious secret. The brim rides noticeably high over the lump fitted inside the shell of the hat, and she's not blind to it, but it's a far cry better than the bandana she'd traveled with over the bald shame.
Her knees are drawn up tight before her, heels barely hanging on where she's burrowed them in-between the slats of wood that comprise the porch swing, toes hanging over into the subtle breeze. Her chin rests on the plateau of her knees, one arm looped around them to keep them in tight, the other limply holding a cigarette off to the side, wedged between the legs of her new tattoo that she does her best to avoid looking at. This one's burned more than it's been smoked, but she lifts it up to her lips now for a long drag. Everything else is stationary except for the rise and fall of her arm, and the subtle pattern of blinking and breathing that could almost be missed among her stillness.
Her exhale streams long and silent, only notable because of the visible curl of the smoke that puffs out and winds up towards the clouds. A bottle of tequila is sweating beside her on the ground, and some bacon, long ago warded off by the dogs with a sternness their curiosity would not tempt again. She's waiting for the last bit of sunshine, the sort that walks. She left a note for him the moment she got back after traveling, her now annual pilgrimage to Caido's notice boards.
Well, that's a lie.
The first thing she did when she got home was run into the fields and chop a good size off the tails of all her blonde horses, fashioning the least flattering and reliable wig imaginable. It adorns her now, blocks of different shades due to different horses, tied up on top and tucked beneath her hat like an obvious secret. The brim rides noticeably high over the lump fitted inside the shell of the hat, and she's not blind to it, but it's a far cry better than the bandana she'd traveled with over the bald shame.
Colt
I spent the night on the ceiling, drank the whole weight of my weakness
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.
