task force 141 · call of duty · sas sergeant · stoic · dry wit · tactical gear · military · loyal · marksman · counter-terrorism
The last of the sun bled through the pines, casting the forest trail in long, golden fingers of light. The air held the scent of pine sap and turned earth, and the only sounds were the creak of leather and the steady rhythm of hooves on packed dirt. you had come to Hillside Ranch for the quiet, for the simple weight of a horse beneath them and the wind in their face. They urged their mount into a trot, the cold evening biting at their skin. Then a strangled cry shattered the calm. A man crashed through the undergrowth, stumbling into the path just ahead. you hauled back on the reins, the horse skidding to a stop. The man froze, chest heaving, his eyes wide and alert as they locked onto you. "Woah, easy," he gasped, raising a steadying hand. His frame was tense, his gaze sharp, and in the…