Drinking from a bitter cup, burying the bottles with the bones
A boot scuffs against the still-glowing corner of timber, flipping it over to reveal the ember embedded in the grain, appearing for all the world like a jewel rather than a worm that has eaten through its host. The impact of the wood rolling over causes charcoal to shudder free into dark fragments against the ground, ash rising up in a plume like dust clouding over the back of a dirty dog that's just shook itself off. It's no dog though, it's her whole ranch, and that's not dust, it's all that's left.
Spurs chime far too merrily as Colt steps over the chewed on post and walks towards another image of ruin. She crouches down, leather chaps wrinkling in against denim. Reaching out for something still trying to shine among the soot, she lifts it up for inspection. The metal remnant of some pipe corral, melted and reshaped into an amalgam. It resembles abstract art, as though fire has tried to pretend gluttony is a masterpiece. Her fingers curl tighter, knuckles whitening, and she flings it. It skids to a stop not far away with another exhale of ash.
Her chin tips down, shoulders losing their line and falling inward. Beneath the bow of her hat, golden hair that could almost pass as real slowly spills down the slope and shelters the hang of her head in a curtain of yellow. Unusually quiet and still, Colt just breathes in the lingering smoke of what'd been her home. Overhead, the stars have since winked on, but for the first time she doesn't pay them any heed or duck away from their light; that loss is nothing compared to this.
Around her, ranch hands are distant figures moving horses back and forth. It's with the low noise of panic that's settled, but lingers like an echo in every motion and word. Some animals were saved, a bit of tack with them, but most have been lost to the hills, and the majority of the leather met the fate of the wood. The men are trying to gather up enough sense to go after what beasts they can, the wild unicorns likely to steal her horned stock, and the stampede of cattle sure to find themselves one mess or another beyond the erasure of her fences.
Spurs chime far too merrily as Colt steps over the chewed on post and walks towards another image of ruin. She crouches down, leather chaps wrinkling in against denim. Reaching out for something still trying to shine among the soot, she lifts it up for inspection. The metal remnant of some pipe corral, melted and reshaped into an amalgam. It resembles abstract art, as though fire has tried to pretend gluttony is a masterpiece. Her fingers curl tighter, knuckles whitening, and she flings it. It skids to a stop not far away with another exhale of ash.
Her chin tips down, shoulders losing their line and falling inward. Beneath the bow of her hat, golden hair that could almost pass as real slowly spills down the slope and shelters the hang of her head in a curtain of yellow. Unusually quiet and still, Colt just breathes in the lingering smoke of what'd been her home. Overhead, the stars have since winked on, but for the first time she doesn't pay them any heed or duck away from their light; that loss is nothing compared to this.
Around her, ranch hands are distant figures moving horses back and forth. It's with the low noise of panic that's settled, but lingers like an echo in every motion and word. Some animals were saved, a bit of tack with them, but most have been lost to the hills, and the majority of the leather met the fate of the wood. The men are trying to gather up enough sense to go after what beasts they can, the wild unicorns likely to steal her horned stock, and the stampede of cattle sure to find themselves one mess or another beyond the erasure of her fences.
Colt
I kept the pain, now I only feel alive inside the flame
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.
