cold in the violence after the war
hope is a fire to keep us warm

She is far too often found haunting the endless beaches ringing Nerine’s high cliffs, seeking something she’s not entirely sure she can name. Forgetfulness, perhaps. But it’s more than that. More than just the momentary peace galloping along the shorelines can afford her.

She’d left Dagen behind once again, not wishing to trouble him with her restlessness. She could tell he fretted over her, even if he didn’t say as much, and perhaps that is part of why she had taken to these lone treks around the kingdom. The are other reasons, of course, but nothing she’s been quite able to put into words yet. Besides, Dagen doesn’t seem to have the same fondness for running that she does.

The day is chilly and gray, the clouds hanging low overhead. The sound of the waves crashing beside her is soothing, lulling her into a mindless, meditative sort of state where there is only the breath in her lungs and the drumming of her feet against rock and sand. It isn’t until a low call sounds that she is shaken from her reverie, brought into the moment by the presence of another.

Slowing abruptly, Brazen blinks as she swings her head around to locate the source of that sound. When her gaze lands on a green and white figure, she is struck by the familiarity of it. Recognition quickly follows, warmed by happy, playful memories.

Bursting forward, his name leaves her lips almost before she can stop it. “Corban!” she shouts in greeting, her voice matured but still recognizable. More familiar, no doubt, than the body she now inhabits. The bone that had once only pressed against her skin has now ruptured through, leaving torn skin and trickles of bright blood that dry into rust-brown against her skin. She has grown accustomed to it now, but would he still recognize her as the same girl he’d once played with beneath that ghastly exterior?

Brazen

cold in the violence after the war
hope is a fire to keep us warm

He turns immediately at the sound of his name, appearing confused by her familiar greeting. She could not fault him, of course. She has changed so much. She might worry he would reject her, in all her new ghastly, gory splendor, except for her infallible belief in his inherent good nature. She might not have her mother’s abilities, but she likes to believe she is a relatively accurate judge of character.

And Corban had always been one of the good ones. She had been glad to call him friend, and glad now to see his familiar face gracing the windswept cliffs of her home.

She smiles as recognition settles, her features brightening behind the sharp edges of bone masking her feminine features. Were it not for the bone spearing wildly through her skin, she might have been a lovely enough creature. She has more substance than her mother and more refined edges than her father. A complimentary blend.

But she had learned all too recently that for most, blood and broken skin does not seem to settle well. Truthfully, growing as she had with her father, it had never occurred to her it might be unusual. But the world they live in is a harsh one, and youthful naivete can rarely be retained for long.

But Corban does not recoil from her, and that is more than enough for the red and white girl. Perhaps less fortunately for her green and white companion, she remains entirely oblivious to his sudden recognition that she had grown into a young woman beneath the cage of bone. Had she known, she might have been intrigued by the notion. As it is, she merely greets him with the comfortable familiarity of an old friend, her nose stretching to lightly touch his shoulder in return.

Her skin shivers lightly beneath his concerned touch, the consternation that crosses her features quickly hidden as she lifts her head to peer at him. “It’s not so bad,” she replies dismissively. She wouldn’t lie, but neither did she wish him to worry. After all, it’s not as though there is a great deal she could do to fix it. “Nerine though!” she continues blithely, changing the subject. “I can’t believe you’re here!” Pause. “Why are you here?” Then, a faint note of delight colors her voice. “Are you staying?”

Brazen

cold in the violence after the war
hope is a fire to keep us warm

It made as little sense for her to dwell on the blood perpetually painting her coat is it would for a bird to dwell on the wind. For her, it is a fact of life. One that would plague her until the very end of her days. Still, even if she could change, she wouldn’t wish to. Despite the pain and the gore, it gives her an eternal, impossible to deny link to her father. She had blindly adored him as child (still does, if she is being entirely honest), and though she had long since learned that the man who sired her is far from perfect, she would never deny such a distinguishable inheritance.

And she would never give anyone cause to question whether she truly has the strength to bear it.

So she brushes his concerns aside as one might shoo a fly, changing the subject with an airy lack of concern and a beguiling smile. Perhaps Corban didn’t entirely believe her assertions, but she wouldn’t give him reason to give those concerns credence. Even if there was the faintest tinge of accuracy to them. Fortunately he does not push the matter, giving in to the subject change easily enough. A laugh escapes her lips at his teasing, and she reaches out and tugs lightly on a lock of green hair in playful reprimand. “I’m so lucky to have a friend that watches out for me like that,” she quips in return, blue eyes glinting with humor behind her mask. “Lest I perish with loneliness!”

As he continues, her smile eases, slipping from bright humor to warm understanding. If anyone knew of living in another’s shadow, it is the red and white mare. Her mother casts a long shadow, one impossible to live up to. In any case, she really has no aspirations to be anything like the icy-eyed queen who knows far too much.

“You absolutely deserve to having something of your own,” she asserts without hesitation, her belief in the words plain. “I’m sure Mom will be happy to have you on.” Her lips tilt in wry amusement then, knowing how rarely her mother expresses genuine happiness. Still, she doesn’t doubt Heartfire would be pleased to have Corbin join the ranks. “Well,” she qualifies, head bobbing in amused irreverence, “happy might be a strong word. I’m not sure she’s ever happy.” She laughs faintly at that. “But she’d certainly be amenable.”

Though Brazen doesn’t realize it, her words make quite clear the rebellious nature of her relationship with her mother. But then, no one has ever accused Heartfire of being an easy woman. And certainly Brazen, given her parentage, is no pushover either.

Brazen

cold in the violence after the war
hope is a fire to keep us warm

This chilly day standing on a windswept cliff in Nerine is so vastly removed from the time they had met in a warm, flowering meadow, and yet it feels incredibly familiar. Perfectly natural, in a way. As though life had been leading them here, to be friends in another strange land.

Of course, it’s not so strange to her anymore, but it is nothing like the tropical beaches she had spent the first half of her childhood on. It is home, but it is a home that suits her mother far more than it suits her. Still, she has nowhere else she’d prefer to be, and so she stays. And now, knowing Corban had come, staying seems suddenly much less burdensome. It is comforting, in a way, to know she would have a friend here.

Her smile is genuine as he vows to always be there, and she reaches out to lightly touch his cheek. She knows how volatile life could be. She doubts that physically he would always be present, but she chooses then to believe that his friendship at least would always be hers. “Thank you Corban,” she replies earnestly, her voice softening with the more serious tone. “You are a better friend than I deserve.”

But as the conversation turns and he suddenly realizes her rather dubious status, Brazen cannot help the laugh that escapes. “I don’t feel like a princess,” she replies with humor, her eyes glinting as she peers around at the rather stark landscape. Shrugging, she turns back him and adds, “Maybe my mom’s a queen, but I’m still just Brazen.”

Lips twitching with her fading humor, she looks at him more astutely now, surveying the changes that had occurred since the last time they’d met. He had grown too, of course, becoming a man rather than a boy. She wonders then if more than just his appearance had grown as well. Did his interests change greatly too?

Certainly she could not boast of the same playful innocence.

“I haven’t chosen a caste,” she admits after a moment’s hesitation before a small, self-deprecating laugh escapes. “I’m not sure I have much to offer as a mentor, but I have been learning how to fight. I think maybe that’s all I’ll probably be much good for anyway.” She shrugs again before glancing away. It must be obvious to him, given her appearance, that she had not been designed for much else.

Brazen

cold in the violence after the war
hope is a fire to keep us warm

If she had the ability to see herself through his eyes, to say she would’ve been shocked is an understatement. Truthfully, she had never considered herself particularly attractive or kind-hearted. No, when she claimed to be ‘just Brazen’, there is no humble sentiment behind, nor any feigned simplicity. As far as she knew, there was nothing terribly special about her beyond the cage of bone that frames her body. She may not have the same cold calculation of her mother or wear anger like armor as her father does, but she is far from selflessly kind.

So far from angelic or queenly it may as well be laughable.

Whether fortunate or unfortunate, she remains entirely oblivious to the thoughts that run through Corban’s mind as they exchange playful banter. Indeed, she has little idea that there may be more than feelings of friendship here until Corban takes an opportunity she hadn’t even realized she’d presented.

When his muzzle traces her shoulder, she leans almost absently into the touch. For a moment, as he presses against her, green and white against bone and blood-stained red and white, she can only blink at him. Almost absently, she wonders at what he was thinking. Did he not realize her blood would stain the lovely, unmarred brightness of his coat?

Still, she does not pull away, even though she likely should. Enjoying the press of his warmth against hers, equally familiar and foreign at the same time.

It takes her a moment to recall what he’d been saying to her, and when she does, she quickly glances away, a bit chagrined. “That’s kind of you to say Corban,” she replies, a faint trail of hesitance edging her voice. She pauses then, not quite sure how to put into words her misgivings. The worries that had plagued her since she was little more than a child. “I’m not sure… that my heart knows what it wants though.”

Brazen