faded little map dots

Got a head full of spiders & a heart that isn't here

The desert at dusk is a thing of dying firelight and rising breath.

Hak Etme sprawls before them in gold and bruised purple, the heat still seething off the dunes even as the sun bleeds out against the horizon. Every grain of sand glows faintly, lit from within by the day's remembered fury. Longheat is cruel, but dusk tries to make it look pretty.

Vesper's is open down the chest, sleeves rolled and useless, boots dusted from the skyship landing and the brief trek downhill. His shadows hang tighter than usual around his ankles, less like a threat and more like they’re trying to stay in the shade too. "Y’know," he drawls, turning his head to glance sidelong at Colt, "this is absolutely your fault." There’s no malice in it—just lazy amusement, a dry gleam in his bright blue eyes as the wind picks up, curling around them with a hiss of sand and twilight. "Felt a new shift settle in my bones the other night." He raises his brows like that alone is enough of an accusation. "Horse." Maybe it was his mother's idea of a joke; punishment or praise for having brought Colt along when he'd gone to see her.

The demigod clicks his tongue and gives a long-suffering sigh, as if this is a tragic burden. "So long as your ass ain’t too bony and I’m allowed one terrible joke about you ridin’ me, I’ll play pony and get us across the sand faster." 

He stretches one shoulder, shadows rippling faintly before settling again. "I feel like we're the ones who're gonna need this rodeo prize of yours," he adds, his smile wolfish. "This desert's about the farthest thing from bein' a safe place normally, nevermind it bein' infected."

VESPER

Styling stolen from Sky (obviously)

COLT

He looks like a cool drink of water
But he's candy-coated misery
He's the devil in disguise
A snake with blue eyes

Tempting as it is to strip to nothing and bare only skin against the cruel hand of heat, the loose hang of clothing can do a lot to help. It shields the bite of the sun, gathers sweat so a breeze might cool it longer, and as long as it can breathe, it controls the body's temperature better. So, while Colt has the distinct desire to skinny dip in the desert more or less, she's steeped in denim pants, the boots and hat she'd neve leave home without, and a light green, cotton shirt that matches the paisley marked bandana tied around her neck. Her hair sits in a braid on one side, tied against the wind of the skyship, while she pours some more water on the bandana for that crisp relief as the wind whips the warmth of her body away. They've timed their arrival with twilight, but even so, the residual heat rolls off the sand and rock like a dragon's exhale.

At his voice, Colt's gaze tilts over to him, leaving the colorful display of the sunset for something equally charming. "Hm?" she asks, a bit of a smile already settling there at his accusation, fondness for him creeping in like a stray dog. Them being here? Yes, entirely her fault. He seems caught on a smile himself as he continues, and the reveal sets one of her 'brows rising in mild confusion about how his shifts have anything to do with her. The final word settles the blame clearly, and Colt's gaze sparks with undeniable glee. She reaches for his shoulder in casual disbelief, a faint laugh slipping free, "you did not." He's yet to lie to her, from what she can tell, but he keeps telling her the most outlandish things she just can't quite take him for his word still.

He's not done though, and her glee becomes utter delight that gasps out as she stops walking to fully behold him. "Honey, you can make all the jokes your heart desires if that's the case," she laughs behind her hands which had lifted to cup the disbelief of her mouth. "Also," she accuses in return abruptly, one finger pointing at him, head tilting down marginally. "Call my ass bony again and I'll set you down on yours." Her hands fall to each hip, her grin wide as the sunset.

"You ain't wrong," she sighs, "but Frey said I had to get lucky, so, I figured surviving this hell hole counts." She squints out over the distance, just now realizing that perhaps Frey would have been content with the type of luck one scored in bed, rather than gambling life. It had been Nature Frey's request, but, well, there's a lot of fucking and fighting in nature too, survival of the fittest and all. Too late now to test it out anyway. "That's why I asked you to come. You're my good luck charm," her attention swiveled back to him, warming as she held his cool gaze. "Thanks for putting up with it."

He only comes out at night
Gives you feelings that you don't wanna fight
You better run for your life
He's a good time cowboy Casanova

the highway won't dry your tears

Vesper’s grin curves slow and sharp, like a blade honed on heat. Colt’s delight is its own kind of fire, and he soaks in it without flinching despite the heat already all around him—doesn’t preen, exactly, but there’s a flash of satisfaction in his expression. He lets her laugh trail off before replying, his voice as lazy as dusk, "Sure did. Woke up itchin’ for oats and affection. Thought maybe I was havin’ a crisis."

At the threat to flatten him, his gaze sweeps down and back up with deliberate slowness. "Y'know," he muses, "I believe you just might." The wink is implied, not performed—just a glint behind his lashes before he exhales, the humour softening into something steadier.

He listens as she talks about the gods, about luck and what Frey might have meant, his expression settling into a drier kind of attentiveness. The desert rolls out before them, unforgiving and vast, but it’s her voice he tracks now. You're my good luck charm, she says, and the shadows at his heels pause with him, stilling like they’ve heard something worth stopping for. "You'd be the first to think so," he says, running his fingers through his hair. "I don’t usually bring much luck—just long odds and decent company." But the thanks, the warmth—it lands, even if he doesn’t answer it directly. He shifts his weight, eyeing the horizon, then glances back at her, grin flashing anew.

'Well," he drawls, rolling his shoulders in preparation to shift, "you can thank me properly once we make it out alive. But for now..." His bones stretch and bend with smooth inevitability, limbs lengthening, dark hide rippling into place beneath the stars. Where Vesper had stood now waits a tall, sleek stallion—black as night, white markings glowing faint like star-trails along his flanks in vague rabicano patterns. He's nothing that might grace the cover of romance novels, instead looking more like he was built for speed and endurance not unlike what one might think of his long-limbed human self.

He tosses his head once, tail flicking, immediately feeling the flightiness settle into his bones. The itch to run.  Glancing at Colt, the ear closest to her flickers a touch uncertainly as the demigod considers; rather than kneeling down like some well-schooled pony, instead Vesper merely lifts his front leg, his hoof steady beneath himself that she might use it like a step ladder to clamber aboard.

the highway don't need you here

Code 100% taken from the queeeeeeen herself, Sky <3

Colt

It's boots and chaps
It's cowboy hats
It's spurs and latigo

He has a way of making her feel worthy, when often she's been made to feel anything but, and has spent almost every day trying to prove that she is to anyone and everyone who might look. It's not as much what he says, or what he does, as all the things in-between. Glances that are edged with something she can't name, words that carry more than the apparent meaning, and just his presence.

She damoesn't let herself soften when he seems to tip-toe around the idea of being something either good or lucky, much less both. It does make her wonder again, what company he does keep. A thought for later, another layer of Vesper to attempt to peel back, but for now she's gotta keep her head on straight or she'll be turning her quest into Mort instead of Frey. "You forgot the riding joke," she says too late as the man vanishes into a steed.

He's as breathtaking as ever, and no less powerful for the lack of claws or shadow dogs. The muscles corded beneath thin skin and dark hide are testament to just how much ability he's still got. Her smile leaps up into her eyes as she breathes out at the sight of him, a hand instantly reaching out to sweep lightly across his shoulder. His shape is so familiar her touch coasts casual and practiced, brushing down his back to trace one rabicano line near his flank as she admires the starlit pattern of hair there. "You are something, aren't you," she murmurs quietly to him.

She glances at the offered leg as he shifts beside her and she snorts dismissively at it. Instead, she winds her fingers through his mane and angles beside him for a beat before she springs and swings up. It's not as simple as it appears, but she's capable with the experience of it, even if she grunts with the effort. Her hands splay against his withers between his hairs, steadying her as she finishes hauling her leg over and settling into the space just by his shoulders. "Good thing I left my spurs off today," she muses, one hand falling from his mane to her leg. She looks up at the distance of desert and the challenge before them, breathing in, confident with him here. "Alright, let's not die," she mutters, legs pressing faintly into him as an acknowledgement that's she's ready and he can go.

It's the ropes and the reins
And the joy and the pain
And they call the thing rodeo

the highway won't dry your tears

Her touch is soft—too soft. Not for lack of confidence, not from hesitation, but because it holds no echo. No weight of thought, no flicker of intention beneath the skin. Just warm fingers on a body that's suddenly deaf. Vesper feels it like absence, like wind where a voice should be.

In this shape, her mind is locked to him, and it leaves him raw. There’s no cadence of her confidence, no smirk curled around a thought before it spills from her lips. He doesn’t know what she’s thinking when she says you are something, and it itches at him in a way no bridle ever could.

He hates it. 

But he loves it, because the feel of her hand, sliding down the line of his flank, is something real, something she'd never have done normally. It burns where it shouldn’t—just below his ribcage, where even his shadows don’t quite reach.

He doesn’t react until she swings up. The movement is smooth, capable, a practiced thing, and he waits until she’s settled before he twists his neck back. His nostrils flare as he snorts gently at her boot, then nudges it with his nose—pointedly, with the same dry sass he might wield with a lopsided grin. No spurs, then. Lucky him.

When her thighs press, he moves. Not at a jarring trot, though. He’s done that before on her gelding and has no interest in bouncing her off of his back and into a dune, even though she's clearly a much more accomplished rider. Instead, he lifts into a fluid, upright canter—hooves whispering over sand, muscles rolling beneath her like slow thunder. The rhythm is steady. Ground-eating. Purposeful. It gives her time to adjust. Gives him time to feel her move with him, legs shifting to the motion, spine softening until she melts around him. 

Only when she does—when he feels her settle like the final piece in some quiet puzzle—does he stretch out his neck and allow his pace to increase. 

Astride his back, she becomes part of the desert’s breath. His strides lengthen, each hoof finding purchase with precision even in the shifting terrain, the faintest glow of starlight still tracing his skin. He cuts across the dusk-drenched sands like a constellation loosed from the sky.

the highway don't need you here

Code 100% taken from the queeeeeeen herself, Sky <3

Colt

It's boots and chaps
It's cowboy hats
It's spurs and latigo

She's oblivious to the silence he slides through, some part of him cut off when so much is also already changed for him with the different forms. That seems hard enough—senses morphing, anatomy altering, instincts threading anew. She can't imagine what it's like, having only known her body, her mind, her connection with the world around her. Even so, for all her uncertainty of what he endures, she's appreciative of it, happy even, to have him in a form she's so at peace with that it's effortless to join him in this insanity amidst the sands.

As he noses at her boot she wiggles it in turn. Hey, don't fucking bite me," she warns, all to accustomed to curious babies mouthing her legs instead of paying attention to their own. "Don't worry, I won't kick you," she promises, hand patting his neckline with gentle reassurance. At least, she doesn't intent to, muscle memory might take over in the heat of the moment if things get hairy. That thought feels distant as the desert stretches like eternity around them, dusk draping beauty against the harshness, hiding it with a sigh of early stars who's light seems to wink for the stallion.

His stride is like silk beneath her, smooth and easy, and any remaining tension fades into the sound of his hooves drumming like rain against the dry land. He shifts gears, his power a nearly tangible current of midnight that seems to carry the descent of night to the world. She grins as she rocks in tempo with him, leaning further up on his neck to let the dark wind cut over her and not slow him. It feels like freedom.

It's the ropes and the reins
And the joy and the pain
And they call the thing rodeo

the highway won't dry your tears

Vesper runs.

It isn’t wild, this pace—no gallop for the sheer thrill of it, no headlong flight. It’s deliberate. Clean. A measured power that ripples through his limbs and hums beneath Colt like a secret wellspring, steady as a heartbeat. The sound of his hooves against the sand is low, resonant, the kind of rhythm that sinks into the bones and stays there. He doesn’t toss his head or veer. Just cuts through the cooling desert like a line of poetry written in shadow.

The wind rises with them, curling around Colt’s braid, tugging at her sleeves. As she leans into it, into him, and he can feel it in the way her legs shift, the way her body folds tighter to his movement like she’s always known how to read horses and starlight both.

There’s no sign of void—not yet.  The sky burns low and red in the west, and the first stars begin to flicker overhead, as if called by the shine of his coat.

And so on they go

~FIN

the highway don't need you here

Code 100% taken from the queeeeeeen herself, Sky <3