Colt
A heart on the run keeps a hand on the gun
Can't trust anyone
Can't trust anyone
The sky is holding on grey for now, and that suits her just fine. She'd take the rain over the screaming any day. Mud squelches underfoot, not so thick and clingy as spring, but fed by dreary skies and roaming storms. A chill comes with these ones, and without meaning to, she huddles deeper into the shell of her duster, seeking some semblance of comfort and warmth, even if it's just the echo of her own.
They've stopped here on purpose, Colt mentioning to the captain of the need to visit the Mathair, and several echoing their agreement. She doesn't know where they've all dispersed, having gone to hunt her offerings on her own, but they won't leave until nightfall. The sky might be clouded, but it's bright enough to suggest late afternoon still, so she presses on, boots leaving a messy trail, hardly noticeable among the other network of footfalls here. Despite that, it appears she's alone when she steps nearer the massive tree.
"Hello," she greets the deity, head tilting down enough that a stray drop of water rolls off the brim of her hat. She doesn't know if Mathair is listening, or capable of it in this form, but it seems unnatural not to greet the figure. She hasn't been here much, but she's always had an affinity for this time of year and the one that heralds it. A time of change, drawing away the smothering heat with a crisp bite every night, unafraid of showing some teeth. The season of storms, where the sky becomes a living, unpredictable thing that rolls with a restless energy she can relate to. Death, in degrees, is brought to the world in a riot of color, placing beauty among loss, a reminder that it too is part of all this. Some find this time of year ugly and unfavorable, but she has always been drawn to its reckless fury.
She crouches near the base of one large, scrawling root, fingers pressing into the mire for balance. Behind her, the bodies of the blink hares thrown over her shoulder shift, but she ignores them for now as she withdraws a satchel of dried herbs. A powerful tea, when brewed, that gives back strength and resilience. Where many see little more than the dismantling of what the seasons before have built, Colt has always seen the sense of preserving the core necessities for survival. Mathair might take, but it's all in an effort to conserve and endure. A sense Colt can especially relate to right about now. "Wish I was half as strong as you," she murmurs in low appreciation, dumping out the contents and letting them flutter against the bark and scatter into the moist soil, where some of its abilities might be leeched.
They've stopped here on purpose, Colt mentioning to the captain of the need to visit the Mathair, and several echoing their agreement. She doesn't know where they've all dispersed, having gone to hunt her offerings on her own, but they won't leave until nightfall. The sky might be clouded, but it's bright enough to suggest late afternoon still, so she presses on, boots leaving a messy trail, hardly noticeable among the other network of footfalls here. Despite that, it appears she's alone when she steps nearer the massive tree.
"Hello," she greets the deity, head tilting down enough that a stray drop of water rolls off the brim of her hat. She doesn't know if Mathair is listening, or capable of it in this form, but it seems unnatural not to greet the figure. She hasn't been here much, but she's always had an affinity for this time of year and the one that heralds it. A time of change, drawing away the smothering heat with a crisp bite every night, unafraid of showing some teeth. The season of storms, where the sky becomes a living, unpredictable thing that rolls with a restless energy she can relate to. Death, in degrees, is brought to the world in a riot of color, placing beauty among loss, a reminder that it too is part of all this. Some find this time of year ugly and unfavorable, but she has always been drawn to its reckless fury.
She crouches near the base of one large, scrawling root, fingers pressing into the mire for balance. Behind her, the bodies of the blink hares thrown over her shoulder shift, but she ignores them for now as she withdraws a satchel of dried herbs. A powerful tea, when brewed, that gives back strength and resilience. Where many see little more than the dismantling of what the seasons before have built, Colt has always seen the sense of preserving the core necessities for survival. Mathair might take, but it's all in an effort to conserve and endure. A sense Colt can especially relate to right about now. "Wish I was half as strong as you," she murmurs in low appreciation, dumping out the contents and letting them flutter against the bark and scatter into the moist soil, where some of its abilities might be leeched.
I was so sure what I needed was more
Tried to shoot out the sun
Tried to shoot out the sun
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.
