Colt
Love's just one of them words
That gets thrown around
So I ain't gonna say it, no I ain't gonna lie
If you were my last breath, I'd just wanna hold ya
That gets thrown around
So I ain't gonna say it, no I ain't gonna lie
If you were my last breath, I'd just wanna hold ya
It could be said that the greatest adaptation of humankind is its ability to wrestle the world to heel. It's not mastery in the way of the elements, but a certain kind of selfish brutality that survival has always been fond of. Anything wild is captured with a bridle or a blade until the fight tames or bleeds out into something useful. The world could do with better evolving to man, or at least to the gods, whose sense of balance and curiosity are often at odds with one another.
When the refusal seems poised between the pair, Colt's argument lifts from her tongue. It only manages a breath before the set of blue eyes holds her again, stilling her as a divine but fills the silence instead. All her passion braces behind her teeth, burning brightly instead in the amber of her gaze as it darts between the two with the fierce resolve of someone who means to carve out what she must from heaven and earth alike. "Yes," she breathes quickly when the assessment tips more towards understanding and some distant relative of agreement. "A chance for change, so we can coexist with Hak Etme, given your assistance." It would not remove every danger and bristling feature of the land, and it would surely earn them their own rough defenses in time, as it has already begun to do, settling with all the insistance of sand.
Her brows lift, expression softening into the quiet hope of what's being offered, a relief like none she's known in some while. Her focus narrows wholly on the little seeds, to the way they begin to scatter, each one a segment of her feature attempting to get lost and plant itself here. Something small, a sound, tries and dies in her throat as she takes a half-step forward, hand lifting from her side, fingers twitching before she catches herself. Her features ripple from the gradual happiness to shock, and when she tears her eyes from the ground where the seeds have spilled, she strangles it down into a grave gratitude. "Thank you," she murmurs, kneeling to the cold ground and hurrying to peck up the little grains with her thumb and finger like some furious hen, depositing the precious bits of potential into her other cupped palm. A humbling reminder that the gods are the ones who bring everything to heel.
[FIN]
When the refusal seems poised between the pair, Colt's argument lifts from her tongue. It only manages a breath before the set of blue eyes holds her again, stilling her as a divine but fills the silence instead. All her passion braces behind her teeth, burning brightly instead in the amber of her gaze as it darts between the two with the fierce resolve of someone who means to carve out what she must from heaven and earth alike. "Yes," she breathes quickly when the assessment tips more towards understanding and some distant relative of agreement. "A chance for change, so we can coexist with Hak Etme, given your assistance." It would not remove every danger and bristling feature of the land, and it would surely earn them their own rough defenses in time, as it has already begun to do, settling with all the insistance of sand.
Her brows lift, expression softening into the quiet hope of what's being offered, a relief like none she's known in some while. Her focus narrows wholly on the little seeds, to the way they begin to scatter, each one a segment of her feature attempting to get lost and plant itself here. Something small, a sound, tries and dies in her throat as she takes a half-step forward, hand lifting from her side, fingers twitching before she catches herself. Her features ripple from the gradual happiness to shock, and when she tears her eyes from the ground where the seeds have spilled, she strangles it down into a grave gratitude. "Thank you," she murmurs, kneeling to the cold ground and hurrying to peck up the little grains with her thumb and finger like some furious hen, depositing the precious bits of potential into her other cupped palm. A humbling reminder that the gods are the ones who bring everything to heel.
[FIN]
If you were my last shot of whiskey
I'd press you to my lips, take a little sip
Swirl you around and around and around
Then I'd shoot ya down
I'd press you to my lips, take a little sip
Swirl you around and around and around
Then I'd shoot ya down
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.
