MORGEN
Come down from your fences
'Right. Forgot ya'll could do that.' The wrangler mumbles more to himself than to Fox as he notices the Ancient poking his their fire with his fingers. For a moment Morgen's mind drifts, wondering what it might be like to be an ancient, to have teeth that could chew through things more easily, and to never have to fear a wildfire out in the grasslands. Before he can get too carried away, behind him comes an aggressive-sounding snort, and though Morgen doesn't need to turn in order to see Sweet's pinned ears, pinned they are indeed. Flapping his hand vaguely over his shoulder in a gesture meant both to tell the mare to fuck off as much as it was to reassure her he wouldn't become an ancient anytime soon.
'S'at so? Didn't there used to be a guild for that in the Grounds?' And hadn't it burned down or some shit? Morgen couldn't really remember; the gossip he heard on his supply runs into various towns didn't tend to stick in his mind that long. "Ohhuh. Habit and a bleedin' heart, sounds like." Morgen concludes, though if this latter sentiment is meant to be a judgement, it's said without any bite in it.
"Ain't that the truth." Morgen agrees, and now that they're both grinnin' like a pair of schoolboys, it seems a perfectly good time to bring out the booze. Pulling out a flask from within his pack, the wrangler rubs at the top of it with his shirt to remove any lingering dust (or, in all honesty, horse shit) from his bag. "The cold and the fuckin' ache. I used to think it was just somethin' people said about feelin' the cold comin' in your bones, but goddam if it ain't the fuckin' truth."
'S'at so? Didn't there used to be a guild for that in the Grounds?' And hadn't it burned down or some shit? Morgen couldn't really remember; the gossip he heard on his supply runs into various towns didn't tend to stick in his mind that long. "Ohhuh. Habit and a bleedin' heart, sounds like." Morgen concludes, though if this latter sentiment is meant to be a judgement, it's said without any bite in it.
"Ain't that the truth." Morgen agrees, and now that they're both grinnin' like a pair of schoolboys, it seems a perfectly good time to bring out the booze. Pulling out a flask from within his pack, the wrangler rubs at the top of it with his shirt to remove any lingering dust (or, in all honesty, horse shit) from his bag. "The cold and the fuckin' ache. I used to think it was just somethin' people said about feelin' the cold comin' in your bones, but goddam if it ain't the fuckin' truth."
open the gate
