Colt
A heart on the run keeps a hand on the gun
Can't trust anyone
Can't trust anyone
Soh’s understanding of the need for balance in the seasons is a relief. Too often, it seems everyone only ever wants the more palatable aspects. Pretty things and cute baby animals or buds, as if rebirth could be eternal and never exhaust itself without the other end of death and decay to feed it. A plea for sunny days and cool winds, unwilling to endure the rains and the snows that feed the shade trees and wildflower meadows that’re adored. Everything’s got an ugly side to it. Needs it.
Cleaning off her blade by wiping it on the edge of her duster, Colt folds and puts the knife back in her boot. ”That’s a refreshing take, you know? So few acknowledge the benefit of the losing, but it’s all a give and a take.” There’s something to be said too about the survival of the strong. Mathair, necessary as she is, has never struck Colt as particularly kind. Hardship shapes strength though, and anything less, rises or finally falls to feed a new chance.
”Always prefer those over the manicured lawns,” Colt admits as she rises back to her feet, her rabbit corpses steadily bleeding into the soil. ”People consider ‘em weeds sometimes, but they serve a purpose and still look nice.” For someone who spends a long time breaking horses and taming pastures behind fences, she knows there’s a limit to how much you bend the wildness out of things. Part of the reason she likes the troublesome mounts.
Fisting her hands into her pockets and running a toe over the mud before her, smoothing it out, Colt lifts her gaze from the offerings to Soh. ”Sailing out there in a week’s time,” she reports, a newfound certainty in the set of her eyes, a brightness there like something lit. A pause, long enough to breathe, and she tilts her head faintly. ”I’d love if you came with me.”
Cleaning off her blade by wiping it on the edge of her duster, Colt folds and puts the knife back in her boot. ”That’s a refreshing take, you know? So few acknowledge the benefit of the losing, but it’s all a give and a take.” There’s something to be said too about the survival of the strong. Mathair, necessary as she is, has never struck Colt as particularly kind. Hardship shapes strength though, and anything less, rises or finally falls to feed a new chance.
”Always prefer those over the manicured lawns,” Colt admits as she rises back to her feet, her rabbit corpses steadily bleeding into the soil. ”People consider ‘em weeds sometimes, but they serve a purpose and still look nice.” For someone who spends a long time breaking horses and taming pastures behind fences, she knows there’s a limit to how much you bend the wildness out of things. Part of the reason she likes the troublesome mounts.
Fisting her hands into her pockets and running a toe over the mud before her, smoothing it out, Colt lifts her gaze from the offerings to Soh. ”Sailing out there in a week’s time,” she reports, a newfound certainty in the set of her eyes, a brightness there like something lit. A pause, long enough to breathe, and she tilts her head faintly. ”I’d love if you came with me.”
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.
