Tryin' to stay between the lines of who I am and who I used to be
Will should never be discounted. It can be the difference between success and failure, even when the tipping point is life and death. It's not always enough, but sometimes it's everything. For the moment, however it's delivered, will or otherwise, it's the presence of him that does the most for her. Not strength she borrows as much as a weakness she can set down without concern. She holds so much together so often, even when she shouldn't, that having somewhere she can crumble once in a while means the world.
The quiet murmurs that slip from him tink gently against the opaque shell around her consciousness—it sounds like rain on a glass pane, asking to be let in. The patter of them starts to cut through a little louder, a little clearer, and gradually he starts to make sense. Every slide of his hand against her back sets more wrinkles into the moment, as if the reality is attached to her coat and every fold of fabric echoes behind her eyes. The truth is much simpler—her imagined terrors cannot fully withstand the steady current of comfort, and all the cold that's twisted up inside her slowly starts to unknot beneath the warm eddies of his reassurances.
Her grip loosens from its white-knuckle edge. "The House?" Her voice tries to rise but grows thin with the effort. "But the fire," she starts to protest, but the words die out as her breath sucks in sharp and audible. "It's already too late, again?" It's a question, but she thinks she already knows the answer if there's this much powder around them. If he's not even trying to douse it. He wouldn't be taking her there otherwise, and he'll find no true resistance from her.
She blinks against his forearm, the bleary heat of her vision tangling in her eyelashes. She only catches a glimpse before his wings blot it away, but she notices that the ash sparkles too much to make sense. Snow? Understanding tries to piece itself into the confusion, but the parts keep sliding, opening up new gaps even as others reassemble. Added to this, the smoke she keeps bringing in with every inhale fights her reason away almost as fast as it arrives.
Dimming her awareness mostly just to the shape of him, like blinders narrowing her world to something straighter, at least helps the focus shift elsewhere. "Your wings..." she gasps faintly, eyes widening, too bright with the wet shine. "They're soft again." There's an edge of awe to it, which immediately breaks into another sob. Where she'd started to lean away to see him better, she flops back into him, words rushed and breathy. "Youshouldbeangry. Itwasawful. Idon'tdeservethis." Shame prickles through the words in sharp heaves of her lungs as she fights for control of her sides, shaky with the regret of it all.
The quiet murmurs that slip from him tink gently against the opaque shell around her consciousness—it sounds like rain on a glass pane, asking to be let in. The patter of them starts to cut through a little louder, a little clearer, and gradually he starts to make sense. Every slide of his hand against her back sets more wrinkles into the moment, as if the reality is attached to her coat and every fold of fabric echoes behind her eyes. The truth is much simpler—her imagined terrors cannot fully withstand the steady current of comfort, and all the cold that's twisted up inside her slowly starts to unknot beneath the warm eddies of his reassurances.
Her grip loosens from its white-knuckle edge. "The House?" Her voice tries to rise but grows thin with the effort. "But the fire," she starts to protest, but the words die out as her breath sucks in sharp and audible. "It's already too late, again?" It's a question, but she thinks she already knows the answer if there's this much powder around them. If he's not even trying to douse it. He wouldn't be taking her there otherwise, and he'll find no true resistance from her.
She blinks against his forearm, the bleary heat of her vision tangling in her eyelashes. She only catches a glimpse before his wings blot it away, but she notices that the ash sparkles too much to make sense. Snow? Understanding tries to piece itself into the confusion, but the parts keep sliding, opening up new gaps even as others reassemble. Added to this, the smoke she keeps bringing in with every inhale fights her reason away almost as fast as it arrives.
Dimming her awareness mostly just to the shape of him, like blinders narrowing her world to something straighter, at least helps the focus shift elsewhere. "Your wings..." she gasps faintly, eyes widening, too bright with the wet shine. "They're soft again." There's an edge of awe to it, which immediately breaks into another sob. Where she'd started to lean away to see him better, she flops back into him, words rushed and breathy. "Youshouldbeangry. Itwasawful. Idon'tdeservethis." Shame prickles through the words in sharp heaves of her lungs as she fights for control of her sides, shaky with the regret of it all.
Colt
I been livin', I been losin', findin' out that I can't run from me
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.
