Got the windows down and my fingers crossed
The doors of the house swing shut behind her, closing out the early afternoon and all its heat. She pulls down the bandana from her face and tugs her sunglasses free, folding them down between a boot and pantleg. Dust crinkles the portions of her skin that had been free to the wind, as liable to be parched earth as ashy remnants from the near constant fires it seems. It coats a thin layer of her tank top and darkens her arms more than the tan or long days already does. It's a film across her chaps, which she unhooks and hangs on the coatrack by the door, along with her bow and quiver of arrows, leaving a crisp set of blue jean shorts and a line of legs that don't match the color of her arms even slightly. She resettles the gift basket in one hand to the crook of her elbow, arm folding to keep it steady now that she's shucked off the worst of her wear. Kicking her boots together with a jingle of metal and a plume of travel and summer's breath, she steps inside further.
There's a weariness to her that's only due in part to the relentless quality of the season that saps strength and willpower alike, although it's easy enough to blame the sun, or the job. It only leaks out in small ways, overall still stepping through life as if there's nothing amiss to this dance she's got memorized, practice turning habit like rhythm is something she needs only mimic rather than feel. In truth, she carries a new edge, born of a fresh layer of protection that time might see about wearing down eventually, though she's trying not to let it this go around. It keeps her from smiling as easy or as full as she used to, the same way light can only reach so far before it gets lost. She's no longer drowning, but she moves like she's still waterlogged, having retreated just below the surface where she means to stay, lest she forget again how thin the line between breathing air and water is.
It only takes a short scan of the room to spot Thorn at one of the little tables off the bar, likely fresh to his day. She came here after feeding everyone and letting the dawnlight wear itself out to a full set of blue and yellow, figuring he slept in later than her and wouldn't be on the clock this early yet. "Thorn!" she greets with a wave, some of that shine breaking out just for him, because he's one of the ones she can still get a sense of a real beat to, not just the sentiments of one. "I'm so glad I caught you," she confesses as she sidles up to his table, plopping the wicker basket and its good down without ceremony. "I didn't want to leave a note, so I could surprise you."
Quest req: complete a thread drawing blood (her own or someone else's) with an arrow sharpened by the Pencil Sharpener, applying the blood to the quiver.
There's a weariness to her that's only due in part to the relentless quality of the season that saps strength and willpower alike, although it's easy enough to blame the sun, or the job. It only leaks out in small ways, overall still stepping through life as if there's nothing amiss to this dance she's got memorized, practice turning habit like rhythm is something she needs only mimic rather than feel. In truth, she carries a new edge, born of a fresh layer of protection that time might see about wearing down eventually, though she's trying not to let it this go around. It keeps her from smiling as easy or as full as she used to, the same way light can only reach so far before it gets lost. She's no longer drowning, but she moves like she's still waterlogged, having retreated just below the surface where she means to stay, lest she forget again how thin the line between breathing air and water is.
It only takes a short scan of the room to spot Thorn at one of the little tables off the bar, likely fresh to his day. She came here after feeding everyone and letting the dawnlight wear itself out to a full set of blue and yellow, figuring he slept in later than her and wouldn't be on the clock this early yet. "Thorn!" she greets with a wave, some of that shine breaking out just for him, because he's one of the ones she can still get a sense of a real beat to, not just the sentiments of one. "I'm so glad I caught you," she confesses as she sidles up to his table, plopping the wicker basket and its good down without ceremony. "I didn't want to leave a note, so I could surprise you."
Quest req: complete a thread drawing blood (her own or someone else's) with an arrow sharpened by the Pencil Sharpener, applying the blood to the quiver.
Colt
Just lookin' for a brand new way to get lost
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.
