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Miss Kitty and The Outlaws



 
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Jameson Orlav

Warmth.

Even before complete consciousness had returned, Jameson is able to register the feeling of warmth. It spreads across his face with ease and bleeds onto his neck and over his shoulders. What he realized just before his eyes fluttered open was that he'd been fully clothed. Hot. And when the lids of his eyes finally peeled back, the sun greeted him harshly; burning his irises with a profoundly unfamiliar neon brightness.

Once he realizes that he is in fact outside and blistering under the midday sun, he begins to panic. From his prone position on his back he starts backwards, kicking wildly at the dried dirt until a cloud of dust twists all around him. His pants are almost the same color as his skin, a pale bisque shade that nearly blends into the earth. The shoes on his feet are a stark contrast in all of their dark leather glory. Cowboy boots?

"F-ck's sake!" He bellows, finally on his feet as he desperately sought shelter under a rickety wooden balcony. The sun wouldn't be the death of him. Not today.

It's only once he's safe in a dome of shade that he realized that the sun hadn't affected him at all. There was no burn on his face. No burn across his face or neck. His eyes hadn't even began to bleed beneath it's harsh rays.

There were no repercussions- sans the dreadful overheat he felt from the thick layers of clothing draped over his body.

Jameson removes the stetson from atop his head, allowing it to idle at his side and tugs gently at the blue denim button down. He wills dry air from the space around him onto his sweat slicked skin, desperate for relief from the heat.

Then, his eyes tether from the blue sky above and curiously move to his pale fingers at his chest. Slowly, he reaches his arm out and watches as his hand moves from the safe comfort of the shade.

The suns rays wash over his skin; white enough that it's nearly reflective. The vampire lets out a heavy breath that had been trapped inside his chest. Breathing may not have been necessary, but old habits die hard.

And Jameson could be quite dramatic.

Once more, he takes a large step off of the porch and out fully into the sunlight. Again, the sun does little besides lap warmly at his delicate skin. A feat that Jameson hadn't experienced since Mackenzie had killed him.

But what in the actual f-ck is going on?

"Afternoon, sheriff." The voice was from a young man, though his voice came as an odd betrayal of his age.

Jameson looks around, but notices no other bodies besides himself. He doesn't get a chance to answer before the man moves past a suspended set of doors into a rowdy sounding saloon.

Sure enough. The spot over his chest was covered with a multi pointed badge and it was thick and heavy like the mold had been filled with silver. He didn't have to see the words to know that they were etched into the trinket pinned over his heart.

Sheriff.

His jaw may have slacked a bit before he swiveled slowly on his heel. Jameson is confused, and disoriented. As far as situations went...

This time he has no idea where to begin.
March 29, 2018 11:19 pm
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