I don't wanna romanticize it, but every night it's the place that I go
On foot through the hellhole of a neighboring land, Colt trudges through the tar pits. She wouldn’t much trust a mount out here anyway, but with so few left on hand, she leaves the ones they rounded up with her ranch hands. Everyone’s displaced and dispersed into the town, horses shacked up in personal stables or public barns. Whenever they could find some room for man and beast alike has been the goal, and fortunately they have some good connections in town, but no one’s able to fully house her full operation, not in one place, not for free, and not forever.
Taking it one day at a time, one foot in front of the other, they’re doing the tasks of reclaiming lost animals first. It’s why she’s out here, fighting muck and mire and the shit visibility, wondering all the while if she shouldn’t give up the trail of tracks and call it quits on the horses stupid enough to flee here of all places.
Her duster is pulled up against the wet. It’s stiff with how new it is, and it doesn’t sit as well as her old one did, which is steadily wearing on her. The only outfit to survive the fire is the one she’d been wearing, so she’d had to buy a few essentials in town, and while ordinarily most women might appreciate the chance for a shopping trip, Colt is not only minding her expenses for the moment, but missing old comforts. You never realize how much you appreciate what you’ve broken in until you’re fighting fabric to bend with every stride.
She tries to ignore it. She’s been doing that, dressing it up as focus, like now where she watches every spot she puts her feet, mindful of the greedy tar. She skirts one pit now, glancing over like she might find proof of a foolish horse. She hears Deimos more than sees him, glancing up and pausing, the pack and bow and arrows on her back shifting with the sudden momentum change. ”Hello?” she calls out, not immediately placing the voice from this distance.
Taking it one day at a time, one foot in front of the other, they’re doing the tasks of reclaiming lost animals first. It’s why she’s out here, fighting muck and mire and the shit visibility, wondering all the while if she shouldn’t give up the trail of tracks and call it quits on the horses stupid enough to flee here of all places.
Her duster is pulled up against the wet. It’s stiff with how new it is, and it doesn’t sit as well as her old one did, which is steadily wearing on her. The only outfit to survive the fire is the one she’d been wearing, so she’d had to buy a few essentials in town, and while ordinarily most women might appreciate the chance for a shopping trip, Colt is not only minding her expenses for the moment, but missing old comforts. You never realize how much you appreciate what you’ve broken in until you’re fighting fabric to bend with every stride.
She tries to ignore it. She’s been doing that, dressing it up as focus, like now where she watches every spot she puts her feet, mindful of the greedy tar. She skirts one pit now, glancing over like she might find proof of a foolish horse. She hears Deimos more than sees him, glancing up and pausing, the pack and bow and arrows on her back shifting with the sudden momentum change. ”Hello?” she calls out, not immediately placing the voice from this distance.
Colt
Darling, it's a cold kind of violent, to fear this alone
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.
