#tossedcoin

* 𝐇𝐁𝐎'𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐔𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝟐.

Leaves cast shadows, a myriad of their forms dancing in patterned colidescope black on the bare skin of mocha. A patchwork of that shifted with the change of the wind and cooled to a degree the humidity that drenched his body in a layer of sweat. This in combination with the slow gait of Tamia had maintained some temperate tolerance that only extended skin deep. Irritation baited itself in the uneven breathing, the effort it took not to just return to camp an even stronger desire he'd sooner succumb to. The swamps surrounding the grounds of Shady belle met the dirt road plainly, whole segments dedicated to entrapping hooves should one wrong step place itself too weighted on a bottomless mound of sludge ever sinking in the moment panicked struggle of legs stuck on retraction. A cycle of wrenching out each of his horses feet had only aided the idea of forfeiting the trail, not to mention the alligators that watched from their banks ever waiting the moment he enters the waters edge.

Dumb girl, he thinks envisioning what state he'd find her in, finally dismounting and tethering Tamia to the closest dry spot accompanied by a trunk thick enough to hold back the start of her bucking - huffs as powerful as the limbs seemingly still kicking the imaginary mud that encased her back hooves moment prior. Calming hushes and soothing fingers rake the length of her neck in rhythmic brushes until she stills as quietly as he. Charles would continue the pursuit of foot falls still outlined in the sloshing sediment, tracking each keenly to its end.

A clearing in the wake of moss and shrubbery gave sunlight a chance to outline the darkened frock of a dress. Whatever Dutch had in store for her ransom couldn't have been any more gruesome than being a meal to cold blooded reptiles. Regardless it wasn't his business besides her safe return or so he had been instructed as much by the man in question. Easy to capture prey when it had already fatigued itself on escape. Evident on the lines underneath her eyes, disheveled hair framing a face dry to dehydration.

you're not here 'cause you're worried about me.

"You're right. I'm not.", Arms are quick with the lasso, looping and cinching limbs to her waist line before reeling, dragging her form to his bulk. Hogtying tightly until he was sure only the wiggling was simply her flare of indignation and need to struggle against the inevitable. If only Arthur had been saddled with this matter, perhaps things would have been treated delicately than the slinging of her form over a shoulder no different than a sack of potatoes.