#gallantgun

[fcragil]

a prickling sensation runs o’er lithe forearms , fine hairs standing on edge .     her intuition speaks silently , a defense mechanism o’er the years of hiding and maintaining a low profile .     luck had been kind to her o’er these many months , but she had become too comfortable in her surroundings , she had stopped running . with folk around , it made it a bit too tricky in pinpointing the source that looms in waiting .     she’s clever enough to dodge around , weaving through townsmen and women and children alike .

periodically glancing , she looks for that one hint in revealing the identity of her huntsman .     this could certainly be a misunderstanding of her own paranoia , and in the end , she decided it would be wiser to run from a ghost then chance a most likely situation of demise .

@gallantgun​​ .

[westkissed]

✧    comparing heights !    //   accepting . @gallantgun said : ↕ + 6′0

note    that    winnifer    is    5′0    -    5′1 .

this    is    the    girl    that    teddy    held    back    from    a    fight    icb ---

[westkissed]

✧    nonverbal starters .    //   accepting . @gallantgun said :[smile] for your muse to smile at mine from across the room .

                𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒎𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒓𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒅,    a    damp    rag    clutched    within    the    degenerates    fist,    blotched    in    the    deep    sanguine    that    once    furnished    her    features .    her    nose    remains    merely    swollen,    &&    reddened    as    if    it’d    been    below    freezing    in    the    room .    what    once    was    an    angry,    savage    of    a    woman    is    now    cool,    collected,    &&    settled    at     a    table    near    the    window .    

                perhaps    she    doesn’t     quite    notice    the    set    of    eyes    on    her,    icy    blue    irises    fixated    in    her    lap .    that    is,    until    she    can’t    help   but    feel    the    aching    of    another’s    stare    burning    into    her,    &&    she    peers    up    with    a    tentative    eye .    she    meets    his    gaze,    direct,    perhaps    even    questioning .    she’s    uncertain,    expression    vacant    until    she    spots    the    smile    breaking    onto    the    opposing    figures    lips .    she    scoffs    out    a    triumphant    chuckle,    &&    allows    a    smile    of    her    own    to    plaster    itself    onto    her    facade .   the    embarrassment    she    once    felt    in    his    presence    creeps    into    her    chest    in    a    tightening    ache,    &&    she    can    feel    the    sweat    sprouting    on    the    back    of    her    neck .    she    wasn’t    all    too    friendly    some    moments    ago,    when    he    was    keeping    her    from    attacking    that    drunkard    like    a    wild    cat,    &&    she    can’t    help    but    feel    the    rare    instance    of    guilt .    

                   she’s    almost    sluggish    upon    getting    up,    lingering    against    the    table    as    her    rattled    head    composes    itself    from    a    bearable    ache .    there’s    a    soft    inhale,    as    she    saunters    her    way    over,    settling    herself    across    from    the    stranger .    hands    fall    into    her    lap,    rag    remained    clutched    within    her    palms .

     ＂   i’m    hopin’    this    was    at    least    somewhat    of    an    invitation .    if    not    i’d    be    makin’    a    fool    of    myself    -----    again .    i    never    did    get    to    thank    you    by   the   way,    i    dunno    what    i    would’a    done    to    that    feller ..      ＂

[westkissed]

✧    nonverbal starters .    //   accepting . @gallantgun said :[guard] for your muse to step between my muse and danger .

               𝒓𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒊𝒆𝒓𝒄𝒆,    she    was,    blood    trickling    from    flared    nostrils    in    all    it’s    thick,    sanguine    glory .    her    breaths    are    heavy,    fists    clenched    at    her    hips .    seems    like    her    ‘quiet    drink’    erupted    into    something    much    more    chaotic,    violent,    as    she’d    retaliated    to    a     drunken    debauchee’s    comment    in    perhaps    a    less    lady   -    like    manner    than    she’d    prefer    to    admit,    ----    only    to    receive    her    own    retribution;    a    knock    straight    to    the    nose .    

                 she’s    shaken    up,    a    little    disoriented    but    one    would    be    blind    to    disregard    that    she    appeared    more    vexed    than    a    tethered    bull    in    rut .   she    certainly    had    no    time    for    likes    of    scum,    &&    she    was    sure    as    shit    planning    to    settle    the    conflict,    whether    it    was    with    her   fists    or    the    holstered    blade    that    adorned    her    thigh .    she    touches    her    fingers    to    the    crimson    that’d    seeped    it’s    way    onto    her    lip,    the   metallic    taste    all    too    familiar .    there’s    a    scoff,    her    tone    reverberating    disgust    &&    irritation .

    ＂    ain’t    y’er    momma    ever    teach    you    not    to    hit    a    lady,    you    stupid    bastard ?    ....    !    ＂

                   she    lurches    forth,    only    to    be    cut    short    by    an    arm    catching    her    ‘round    the    waist .    she    huffs    out    a    strained    hiss,    peering    up    to    find    the    face    of    the    peacemaker    of    the    situation .      underneath    the    adrenaline    that    presents    itself    in    her    actions,    she’ll    admit    she’s    a    tad    embarrassed;    ears    hot    &&    tone    lowering,    just    a   sum .

   ＂   let    go    a’    me,    son   of    a    bitch    needs    to    learn    some   manners !   ＂

[aculling]

❝ This land is poisoned with the stench of greed. It’s in the air, it’s in the dirt, it’s in the water and the fire. ❞

The word he’s looking for supplies into her head easy enough:

Bogue.

Her face turns stern and she locks her jaw into a hard, line ridge. Still, she nods in agreement because what is he if not right? The world grows tired of them and yet is forced to produce their wants over their needs: gold, for wealth, cattle, for status, metal, for power. A looping circuit, electrified. She fears and detests it in the same breath.

“You’re right on that, sir.” Emma regards him; he’s young enough with a kind face. Honesty threatens in his eyes. She’d trust him if she knew him better. “Wise words, for a man in a bar.” A brow ticks up to face their surroundings, and she juts her chin inquisitively at him. “You won’t find much praising for it here, unfortunately.”

[aculling]

❝ It’s a nightmare. ❞

That it is.

Emma, in her crouch, swings her gun around until it settles against her back. She won’t need it now but keeping it close keeps her heart steady and her blood quiet. She swivels to face him, the dirt beneath her heels crunching in too-telling of a way. It makes her gut swoop.

“We’ll be fine,” she breathes - quiet words for a quiet endeavor. She sets to righting her hair into a braid, fingers nimble and lightning quick. “Just follow my lead,” she tucks her hair up under her hat, and considers him sharply, feeling that flare -- “if you’re fine by that.” Most men don’t like to listen to women and that’s fine, they were raised that way.

Emma lets it slide a fair amount because she’s a stranger but in this moment, given the evidence of no plan from his side, she’s just meaning to survive. She pulls up her pant leg to pull her snug knife from her boot, and gives him a nod. 

“You n’ me’ll get out of here just swell if you follow me, alright?” She puts every ounce of imploring into her words, her face, honest and raw then and there. “We do it together or we die.”

[facewest]

one of these times we’re gonna die

[ WHAT THE FUCK, IS ALL I HAVE TO SAY TO THAT. | NO LONGER ACCEPTING. ]

“yeah. probably.”

his tone is blasé at best. unaffected at worst. all in all, he doesn’t sound too interested in the idea. not in some bid at ignoring the truth at hand, however, because he’s not the sort to plug his ears and pretend what’s there isn’t there. so, in truth, all Arthur has to think in response is what does it matter?

people die from getting hit by great big rocks falling out of the sky. people die from getting kicked by horses. people die from infection after nicking their fingers. every single day every single person is alive for is a day they can die on. sure, they stack the decks doing what they do — guns aren’t just pretty things to hang up on your wall in these parts, bullets aren’t just shiny novelties to tuck away into glass-fronted display cases. there is a weight to these things beyond metal and wood, smoke and kick, that weigh them down closer to that grave they all have waiting for them.

death isn’t always accompanied by the sharp crack of a gun firing, a streak of red, a body falling lifeless in a field. it can be quiet, sudden, improbable, and everything in between. so he isn’t troubled much by the thought; the certainty of it is almost comforting but he can’t rightly say why.

Arthur looks out across the land stretched out before them, full of trees and framed by mountains, he thinks of the miles they’re still yet to ride. then he looks over to where Teddy keeps pace beside him, searching the other man’s face before he focuses on the trail ahead once more.

“why’d you bring that up? you scared, Flood?” 

[aculling]

❝ I would definitely rather have you on my side, than on the other. ❞

Emma offers him a small benevolent smile.

Action over words. She and Matthew had different stances on the concept. He had insisted:

An action determines the truth. He’d grab hold of her, and she’d laugh, and they’d fight for play. They speak louder than words.

Emma had insisted, but the words’re a promise. against his mouth.

But here she’s done both. So she’s gone and performed to the point of proof. What little interaction they’ve had is significant enough that he trusts her with a gun, and trusts her to not do him in. Distracted once from her task, she brings herself to resume it. Tacking the horses is a methodical process if your horse ain’t Clyde and impatient. 

“Flattery,” she starts with a hint of playfulness, “won’t get you far with them, but mayhaps with me.”