@comanchefighter
“He probably won’t kill you.”
It’s said in a tone of utmost reason, no irony to be found in his tone. At his shoulder, Jack whickers, tossing his head until Faraday reaches up and back to drag an idle hand along the stallion’s neck.
“He’s just restless.” And also some kind of demon in horse form, but Faraday has always thought that affectionately rather than otherwise. The thing is, he and Jack have always been on the move. Only so many people you can beat at cards in any given before you’ve outstayed your welcome.
But now, he’s here and he’s been here a while, and it’s going to be another while longer before he can ride again. He’s about thirty percent bandages and sixty percent aching, laudanum-laced regret, and he’s not sure he could even saddle Jack up without setting himself to bleeding again.
“He just needs someone to take him out, is all. Figure you’re one of the least likely to let yourself get trampled to death.”
