COLT
She's a runner, she's a lover, always stuck in her ways
Pull her closer, think you know her, now she's turning the page
She gave a warning if it's storming, she'll be gone with the rain
Pull her closer, think you know her, now she's turning the page
She gave a warning if it's storming, she'll be gone with the rain
The sound of cards fluttering is what sets her gaze in the proper direction as she probes the dark. His response cleaves through it with all the tidiness expected of someone gone sharp, and the glimpse of sterling that flashes as he shifts feels more appropriately like the knife edge of him than the adornment of his constellations. She's glad then, that it's difficult to pull his outline from the evening. Looking at him straight makes it too easy to find the places she'd once held and traced with such affection, and far worse to discover those lines have gone unfamiliar with new shadows and creases, creating the stranger's face he's worked to make himself into.
His departure surprises her more than his agreement, and as he starts to leave she hesitates just a moment, glancing back towards the cluster of tents. She quickly comes to much the same conclusion as he does, not keen on entertaining the entire camp with the bruising she'd be receiving. The fact that what's behind her back would be better left here than carted around scarcely matters beneath that truth, and it's already traveled this far with her, not having had time to stop by a room before coming here, what's a little more to save face. Tearing her attention off the last possibility of retreat, she looks to the inevitable hurt walking just ahead of her, and jogs to catch up to it. Might as well be done with it.
She glances sidelong at him after falling into step. Moonlight gives a section of his eyes a shine to focus on amid the murk, and silver sculpts part of him away from the shadows, gilding the swing of his arms and the wrinkle of his clothes like he can't help but shine a little. "Did you get my letter?" She hopes it'd made its way to him, at least offering up that thank you as a holdover until she could do it right, proof she'd listened. She'd have written before Longnight if she had any idea where to send it, or that it was wanted any more than the feather she'd sent his way had been, the silence of that response rather telling. "I wasn't sure if it'd reached you." She has come to believe she has never been able to reach him after all this time.
Without waiting for his reply, she offers up what she's been holding, the weight of it becoming unbearable for her, deceptively heavy when in her hands. It's a bottle of rum, and a smaller jar is bound to it with twine, red liquid sloshing inside. The exteriors clink together faintly with the force of the gesture. "It's Torchline's lucky rum," she explains simply. "I figured that would be a favorite," comes out quieter, expecting that's his preferred home still. Of course the luck dissipates the moment it leaves the coast, but maybe there are remnants to be picked up, at least by the tongue if nothing else.
"And Hak Etme dream cactus juice. Just the juice, no spines," she adds on as explanation for the other, smaller container. "They pair well together, or so I've heard." She shrugs, not the type to drink rum, as he well knows. If she were in a position to ban it entirely from the desert, she would, but there's a pointed need to keep content what help she has on her side, and barring people from their favorite flavor of vice isn't it. She does require it be stored away from the other liquor at least. There are enough daily reminders of him without adding another trigger pull to the gun leveled at her head.
"No basket, but still fits what I said I'd do." She buries the gratitude and the consideration placed in the gift beneath the reminder of the sharp words they'd traded a year ago. She's been turning them over in her mind, especially as of late, ever since the nightmare she summoned him to. The steady grind of memory brings the cutting edge back, and she hopes one day she'll cut herself enough on it that it might finally sever whatever keeps reaching for him, be it memory or channel.
Lifting her chin faintly, she leans into the certainty she's crafted and rehearsed, depending on it to guide her through this. "You didn't have to come all the way north just to tell me not to call you. I won't be doing it again." She'd already told herself that once before, but maybe saying it aloud to him would make the difference. If not, she might have to ask Safrin to cut the option of him out of her, save them both the pain of it happening again.
His departure surprises her more than his agreement, and as he starts to leave she hesitates just a moment, glancing back towards the cluster of tents. She quickly comes to much the same conclusion as he does, not keen on entertaining the entire camp with the bruising she'd be receiving. The fact that what's behind her back would be better left here than carted around scarcely matters beneath that truth, and it's already traveled this far with her, not having had time to stop by a room before coming here, what's a little more to save face. Tearing her attention off the last possibility of retreat, she looks to the inevitable hurt walking just ahead of her, and jogs to catch up to it. Might as well be done with it.
She glances sidelong at him after falling into step. Moonlight gives a section of his eyes a shine to focus on amid the murk, and silver sculpts part of him away from the shadows, gilding the swing of his arms and the wrinkle of his clothes like he can't help but shine a little. "Did you get my letter?" She hopes it'd made its way to him, at least offering up that thank you as a holdover until she could do it right, proof she'd listened. She'd have written before Longnight if she had any idea where to send it, or that it was wanted any more than the feather she'd sent his way had been, the silence of that response rather telling. "I wasn't sure if it'd reached you." She has come to believe she has never been able to reach him after all this time.
Without waiting for his reply, she offers up what she's been holding, the weight of it becoming unbearable for her, deceptively heavy when in her hands. It's a bottle of rum, and a smaller jar is bound to it with twine, red liquid sloshing inside. The exteriors clink together faintly with the force of the gesture. "It's Torchline's lucky rum," she explains simply. "I figured that would be a favorite," comes out quieter, expecting that's his preferred home still. Of course the luck dissipates the moment it leaves the coast, but maybe there are remnants to be picked up, at least by the tongue if nothing else.
"And Hak Etme dream cactus juice. Just the juice, no spines," she adds on as explanation for the other, smaller container. "They pair well together, or so I've heard." She shrugs, not the type to drink rum, as he well knows. If she were in a position to ban it entirely from the desert, she would, but there's a pointed need to keep content what help she has on her side, and barring people from their favorite flavor of vice isn't it. She does require it be stored away from the other liquor at least. There are enough daily reminders of him without adding another trigger pull to the gun leveled at her head.
"No basket, but still fits what I said I'd do." She buries the gratitude and the consideration placed in the gift beneath the reminder of the sharp words they'd traded a year ago. She's been turning them over in her mind, especially as of late, ever since the nightmare she summoned him to. The steady grind of memory brings the cutting edge back, and she hopes one day she'll cut herself enough on it that it might finally sever whatever keeps reaching for him, be it memory or channel.
Lifting her chin faintly, she leans into the certainty she's crafted and rehearsed, depending on it to guide her through this. "You didn't have to come all the way north just to tell me not to call you. I won't be doing it again." She'd already told herself that once before, but maybe saying it aloud to him would make the difference. If not, she might have to ask Safrin to cut the option of him out of her, save them both the pain of it happening again.
When she's in it, she's all in it, ain't no holding her back
When I'm with her, she's a river moving steady and fast
She's afraid of all the ways her heart is broke like glass
When I'm with her, she's a river moving steady and fast
She's afraid of all the ways her heart is broke like glass
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.
