#coyotefaced

Angela shakes her head, as if forcing her longing for the familiar sight of the Old Mormon Church out of her head, just in time to see the tell-tale armor of Legionaries. 

“Not today.” She murmurs, ducking into a building on the side of the road. Angela pauses after entering, brows furrowing as her eyes land on another individual--thankfully not dressed as a member of the Legion. 

Angela checks over her shoulder, as if afraid they were magically able to teleport behind her, even though she’s fairly certain she went without being spotted. 

“I would not head out there right now if I were you.” She informs him, moving instead to peer out a window that is mostly shuttered. “Legion is nearby.” 

→ COYOTEFACED, in his LETTERS TO THE CAP'N:      charring meat. a line of dusky purple out along the horizon that turns the sky an ugly, bruised color, the very shade of a rough night out on the town. perhaps only for the likes of them, though. town sat fifty miles north, and consisted of maybe a gas station, if they were lucky. a bar, should Lady Luck be that much kinder. but no safety lay in the neon lights of civilization, not right now, perhaps not for a while. just salvation in what little glow they can make themselves between the god-monuments that broke the skyline. he flicks the meat off the fire with his knife.     “ you should eat, too”     if you can. if you want to.

✯ OH, THIS IS RATHER SWEET, ACTUALLY, IN THESE CHILLING     WINDS OF AN ARIZONA EXPANSE HERE AS THE DAY DUSKS     GRACEFULLY WITH THAT SHADE OF PURPLE YOU CALL A BRUISE     BUT FOR I, A LIGHTLESS WRETCH FROM THE COLDEST DEPTHS OF     THE HOUSE OF JUDECA, EVEN THIS LIGHT IS A BLESSING FROM GOD.     YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE THE COLD AND THE DARK BENEATH     FROM THE PLACES I’VE BEEN     TO THE PLACES I WILL RETURN     A PRISONER AND ALSO IT’S REVOLUTIONARY LIBERATOR.     BUT FOR A FEW MOMENTS LIKE THIS, around the campfire     inside this quiet hideout cave retreat we make, roasting bison     getting dirty and greasy with our hands but it’s not so bad,     because here in our arid, rugged, rocky shore it’s just you,     and I.

AND JESSE BREAKS THE GOLDEN silence that was otherwise washed, bruised, and battered by the incessant crackling of wood as it burns to cinders, Lord, this heavenly sound by campfire that some city folk just never live to hear. He hears a viper rattle some many yards due West, and the thought of a diamondback makes him smile. He’s distracted, distant, sitting away from the fire, perched on a rocky protruding formation that allows him to peer at the cave’s entrance like a stalwart sentry. Or perhaps that is too glorious and dutiful for this outlaw refuge, think more of a shifty lookout, perhaps, ready to move out when they see the law riding out this way. THE KNIGHT AND THE GUNSLINGER, it’s a rather romantic tale, I think. In no other time, in no other life could you hope to find a niche romance that caters to warrior priests and gangsters alike. Nicholas Spark, I have you beat.

YOU SHOULD EAT TOO, he says. And his head turns to Jesse immediately, his own deep thoughts pierced, broken, and shattered by the suggestion. You should eat, he says. I HADN’T CONSIDERED IT, really. It’s such an intrusive, disruptive thought that the realization makes him uncomfortable. You’ve unsettled the man now, but it makes him chuckle, shoulders relaxing, jumping with the laugh, softening expression as his eyes veer off the horizon where he patrolled for miles off like an eagle, and narrow down in what is just beyond him, this thing he loves. He tilts his head, enamored. It lets him know you care.

❝...❞ his most famous line. THE THUNDERER descends off his rocky throne, one foot landing at a time like an angel before you, but no loud thumping upon the cave flooring could be heard. Now that’s unsettling; perhaps he truly is Gabriel upon thee, Mary. But with Gabriels like this [...]

❝Sure. Could use a bite. What kinda man don’t reap the bounty he’s put on the table, ain’t it? Amen.❞ THERE WAS NO TABLE SO TO SPEAK OF but then again, there is no amen so to speak of. The graces fall upon deaf ears. Saint Alexander approaches and sits besides him by the fire, the soft glow and tints of orange upon his tanning complexion. It’s good to be out here in the sun, in this scorching Arizona days to give a little life to his visage that had been so sickly pale and neglected and shunned away from God’s own light. BARE HANDS INTO THE FIRE, pulling a piece from the rather large chunk of the roast hung over their fire, he takes a serrated blade and rips himself a large, albeit still bitesize piece. Inspects it with great care, pondering the implication of what he’s about to do, this sinful, heinous crime. To eat like the common man. There’s that greasy, small, thick cube of buffalo upon his hands, it still bleeds lightly pink when he squeezes it. God, it’s just fucking right. He looks into Jesse’s eyes to ensure he’s paying very close attention to what he’s about to witness, smug, playful look of mischief. You may never see him do this again, with him, every small thing is a matter of discovery and reformulating world views contrary to what the madres at the abbey or the orphanage taught you. For these answers you seek would never be found at home.

❝It’s a lil’ raw, I reckon.❞ The pinkish grease sliding down his wrist and not much further, but with eyes still locked on his, St. Alexander sucks the dancing tips of the flame into his lungs, these reactive, combusting gasses still lit and, with a lot of dexterity, blows it directly upon the raw face of his meat cut, searing it shut. A bit of smoke rising out of his nostrils as he exhales. He can’t keep a straight face, breaking into laughter, eyes close, face shying away but that bright smile he tried to conceal. This playfulness, the magic tricks, the silly eyes and the wanting to entertain another: it hadn’t felt like him for a while. ❝Perfect now. My compliments to the chef, yeah?❞ And he slipped it up his tongue as though catching a popcorn with his mouth in the movies. And he remembers when Raiders of the Lost Ark was on screen.

@coyotefaced​:  " everyone has their price, sugar. what's yours? "

she’s  enveloped  in  the  task  at  hand,  titanium  nails  working  the  materialized  information  in  the  air  before  her,  while  her  other  hand  is  gentle  upon  his  prosthetic  arm.  it’s  open  upon  her  lap,  a  few  tools  nearby  and  the  neural  connectors  at  her  spine  positioned  at  three  points  near  his  wrist.  her  eyes,  mischievous  as  they  usually  are,  are  instead  lit  up  strangely  in  the  dim  light  of  her  room  -  of  her  task  -  brain  processing  data  at  a  rate  not  entirely  human  and  utilizing  it  to  perhaps,  better  the  man  before  her.  one  could  say  that  sombra  would  have  as  much  reason  to  ruin  jesse  mccree’s  life  -  but  she  doesn’t.  not  in  this  way  especially.  there  was  something  so  intimate  about  working  on  his  prosthetic...  even  she,  nefarious  as  she  may  be,  knows  not  to  cross  that  line. 

a  hum  parts  her  lips  while  she  works,  and  for  a  time  she  does  not  answer  him,  bytes  of  data  flowing  along  the  neural  pathways  into  whatever  she  is  doing,  until  her  screwdriver  turns  easily  along  a  bolt  and  she  can’t  help  but  raise  an  eyebrow  at  him. “been  overclocking,  have  you?  that’s  bad  for  you,  ya  know.  could  do  some  serious  damage.”  but  she  doesn’t  lecture  him,  instead  briefly  returning  to  her  work  and  closing  off  a  panel  as  she  finishes  up.  sombra  isn’t  quite  done  tho  -  and  his  question  earns  a  smirk  upon  plump  tiers  as  she  leans  away  from  him.  her  grin  is  almost  savage.  it  was  never  a  good  sign. 

it's quiet tonight. nothing but the pop and crackle of the fire he'd started and the bugs singing their night tunes to the cold desert air. loudest thing he's heard since he set up camp was the howl of a coyote, but even that was distant, the sound traveling over the crests of hills to reach him. all by his lonesome, and this suits Arthur just fine.

a man couldn't get a moment to himself in that camp, let alone the kind of hush he's found here. he loves those people — most of them, anyway, at least the ones that mattered — but between all the parts the gang plays, there's hardly an intermission long enough to get a thought out uninterrupted.

interrupted.

the earth is trampled with heavy thuds not too far off and his eyes squint out into the dark, scanning the horizon for the rider and horse he's sure he'll find. some part of him hopes they'll pass him by with nothing more than a greeting, but it's awful late for leisure.

And oh, how the world ripples when she does! Just a brush is enough to leave him ruined, his face split into a wide, sweet wound of pearly teeth and warmth. Her mark upon him, her claim made in shades of pink and peach. “Why, Doctor Ziegler, I ain’t certain you’ve made your intentions clear enough — why don’t you run that by me again and perhaps, I might have a rebuttal for you”

what this earns him is an admonishing look — playful, of course, if the smile twitching at the corners of her mouth are any indication. instead of bending to his will, agreeing to play his game on his terms, she raises her own. she leans back, arms crossed, as pink and peach curves into a smart line while she regards him with a feigned chill. 

𝑯𝑰𝑺  𝑬𝒀𝑬𝑺  𝑨𝑹𝑬  𝑰𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑺𝑬  .  𝑭𝑼𝑳𝑳  𝑶𝑭  𝑶𝑵𝑬   thousand   questions  .    There  could  be  no  doubt  --  a  part  of  him  blooms  with  concern  .  It’s  crimson  -- -  throbbing    .    An  open  wound  ,  a  sign  of  his  most  raw  sliver  of  humanity  .  The  sound  he  makes  is  between  both  grunt  and  rattling  growl .  As  if  the  answer  was  something  he  had  hoped  against  .   His  posturing  becomes  rigid  and  soon  he  realizes  he  needs  a  drink  for  his  throat’s  far  too  dry  .  He  wonders  why  the  room  feels  so  small  .  Why  everything  but  Jesse  was  blurry  .  He  supposes  it  isn’t  uncommon  ,  nowadays  .  To  be  so  fixated  upon  one  thing  .  Burly  hands  fold  themselves  together  upon  his  lap  .  A  neat  fist  ,  all  steel  and  leather  .  “  Shit  .  I  see  .  ”

ive been following you for years and i never tire of your fact checking posts

she doesn’t need to approach every single person in this saloon to know who’s lazy and who isn’t.  it’s easy to tell by the way they’re sitting,  by the way they laugh like they want to be heard or the way they stare at her,  all predatory and hungry.  but she’s not here to be anyone’s prey.  if they try,  she’ll make use of the gun at her hip or the knife tucked in her boot.  she’s had too many men try to disrespect her and she doesn’t give them the benefit of the doubt anymore.  good thing she gets along with the sheriffs nearby,  or else she’d be getting in trouble for all of her violent outbursts.  

when she spots him,  hidden away at the corner of the bar with no one’s business to mind but his own,   she takes a second before approaching him.  beating around the bush has always pissed her off,  so she cuts straight to the chase.  he looks like a man of business,  and more importantly,  someone who knows how to handle a gun and doesn’t need to boast about it.  she’s looking for a partner but that doesn’t mean she’ll take just anyone.  she’s got a temper and no patience so she’s got to at least tolerate the person.  with the reply he gives her,  she thinks he’s a decent candidate so far.  then again,  she’s been wrong on that before.