COLT
Well life's got a lot of sticks and stones
And a blade that'll cut you to the bone
But if you're doing what you love and it kills you
Well, you can live with that all day long
And a blade that'll cut you to the bone
But if you're doing what you love and it kills you
Well, you can live with that all day long
The boat rocks harder than Colt likes. Honestly, Colt doesn’t like [i]any[/i[ boat rock, but this one lacks the steady, predictable sway of something that knows what it’s doing. It’s sharp, an uneven pitch that keeps threatening to throw her balance out from under her boots. The sea out here doesn’t feel like water so much as the backside of something alive and irritated, all churn and pull, like it hasn’t settled since Stormbreak came crashing down into it.
She braces a foot against the edge of the boat, both hands wrapped tight around the rope biting into her palms, jaw set as she leans her weight back. “Pull, Wyatt!” The line strains in answer, groaning as whatever they’ve hooked below drags stubbornly against them. For a moment, it feels like it might actually give. The water bulges, dark and shifting, and then a length of metal breaks the surface with a reluctant scrape.
Colt grits her teeth, digging deep to hoist it up. “Port side—no, the other damn port!” she snaps at him when he heaves the wrong way and the beam angles just right to catch a deep drag of a rogue wave. She’s not a sailor, never pretended to be, never wants to be, and it shows in the way she compensates too late, overcorrects, and fights the boat instead of moving with it. This is unfortunately the steed she’s stuck with until she can finish more work in Hak Etme, and she can’t do it fast enough and pull her sea legs off.
For now though, the rope jerks violently in her hands. The wave hits the side of the boat hard enough to rattle her teeth, a wall of water that crashes over the edge and soaks her through in an instant. The tension vanishes so fast it nearly sends her sprawling backward, boots slipping against the slick boards as she stumbles, catching herself on the railing with a sharp grunt. For a second, all she can do is stare at the empty water where the caught beam had been, chest rising and falling, breath rough.
“Frey’s sake,” she huffs, dragging a wet sleeve across her face, pushing soaked hair back out of her eyes. Salvaging parts of Stormbreak’s usable wreckage had seemed like a genius idea. Free materials, no hassling with traders in ports, the perfect solution to turning her nose up at Torchline’s bounty of supplies. The captain of this small ship they’ve chartered can’t keep back the laugh that fills the space behind them as Colt and Wyatt sag over the side and peer down at another failed retrieval. They’ve tugged up a few things, but this hardly seems worth it.
She braces a foot against the edge of the boat, both hands wrapped tight around the rope biting into her palms, jaw set as she leans her weight back. “Pull, Wyatt!” The line strains in answer, groaning as whatever they’ve hooked below drags stubbornly against them. For a moment, it feels like it might actually give. The water bulges, dark and shifting, and then a length of metal breaks the surface with a reluctant scrape.
Colt grits her teeth, digging deep to hoist it up. “Port side—no, the other damn port!” she snaps at him when he heaves the wrong way and the beam angles just right to catch a deep drag of a rogue wave. She’s not a sailor, never pretended to be, never wants to be, and it shows in the way she compensates too late, overcorrects, and fights the boat instead of moving with it. This is unfortunately the steed she’s stuck with until she can finish more work in Hak Etme, and she can’t do it fast enough and pull her sea legs off.
For now though, the rope jerks violently in her hands. The wave hits the side of the boat hard enough to rattle her teeth, a wall of water that crashes over the edge and soaks her through in an instant. The tension vanishes so fast it nearly sends her sprawling backward, boots slipping against the slick boards as she stumbles, catching herself on the railing with a sharp grunt. For a second, all she can do is stare at the empty water where the caught beam had been, chest rising and falling, breath rough.
“Frey’s sake,” she huffs, dragging a wet sleeve across her face, pushing soaked hair back out of her eyes. Salvaging parts of Stormbreak’s usable wreckage had seemed like a genius idea. Free materials, no hassling with traders in ports, the perfect solution to turning her nose up at Torchline’s bounty of supplies. The captain of this small ship they’ve chartered can’t keep back the laugh that fills the space behind them as Colt and Wyatt sag over the side and peer down at another failed retrieval. They’ve tugged up a few things, but this hardly seems worth it.
So, if you got a fire, don't lose it
If you got a do-or-die dream, do it
If you got somethin' to prove, go on and prove it
If it's in your blood, fallin' down ain't enough
Gettin' back up, that's the only backup plan you need
If you got a do-or-die dream, do it
If you got somethin' to prove, go on and prove it
If it's in your blood, fallin' down ain't enough
Gettin' back up, that's the only backup plan you need
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.
