C'mon darlin', we're almost there.
[is that an Axel? it sounds a little like one, but with a twang in his voice that sounds as warm and smooth as it does completely out of place. there's also the tell-tale clop-clop-clop of hooves.
a door in one of the many hallways is shoved open and a tall, lanky man in blue denim, heavy leather chaps, a beaten leather jacket over a plaid flannel button-down, and a dark brown ten-gallon hat shoved down on his messy red hair. the brim is so low that he can't see too much when he enters the hallway and he's a little busy knocking the piles of snow and ice off his shoulders, hat, and horse.
yes. his horse. he turns back around, tipping his hat back while he wipes the snow off its back, and the saddle and pack that's strapped to it.]See there, Caroline? All your fussin' was for nothin'. We made it just fine and now we can tuck in for some good...
[he trails off right there, because he just got a look at his surroundings]What in the
hell...?
This one of those practical jokes?
Don't look practical to me...[ooc: ....uh, yeah. I don't really have a good excuse for this! But have a COWBOY AXEL. He hails from the American Southwest, circa December 31st, 1870, and will act accordingly.]
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groggy
