[open] saints preserve us; brunhilde - Printable Version +- Beqanna (https://beqanna.com/forum) +-- Forum: Explore (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=1) +--- Forum: The Common Lands (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=72) +---- Forum: Meadow (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=3) +---- Thread: [open] saints preserve us; brunhilde (/showthread.php?tid=25978) |
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saints preserve us; brunhilde - garbage - 01-12-2020
RE: saints preserve us; brunhilde - brunhilde - 01-19-2020 The sad glimmer of Garbage’s orange eyes is so similar to Brunhilde’s unkempt coat that when she finds them, she almost thinks they must just be reflecting her. She pauses midstep, pulled from the assumption that the pair would pass in silence. His simple, quiet hello is enough to draw her attention, if only because she rarely meets men that do not exude at least faux confidence. Brun likes the way he does not impose, even with an unwelcome introduction. And that sadness—oh, that sadness, something she just knows. “Hello,” Brunhilde murmurs, almost perfectly matching Garbage’s intonation. She does not know him, but she immediately claims to know why he is careful; she knows what it is like to walk upon miles of shattered glass while praying to not make a sound. Some melancholy, twisted affection forms a lump in Brun’s throat. She wants to curl around his suffering and commiserate, to know how small he feels and to feel even smaller. “My name is Brunhilde,” the flame whispers even lower than before. “Why did you stop?” @[garbage] RE: saints preserve us; brunhilde - garbage - 02-01-2020
@[brunhilde] RE: saints preserve us; brunhilde - brunhilde - 02-26-2020 Brunhilde would burn until the end of time, if she could. Immortality does not strengthen her bones, though; and, now, she grows older and older. It shows in the somber dimness of her eyes and the lines permanently curved around the ends of her lips. How sweet she once was, delicious to the taste and insufferably irresistible. She had her barbs then, yes, but men sung her name to a yearning moon even as she lashed their backs. Standing here, before Garbage, Brunhilde is exactly the opposite. She is whipped by thin chains of her own design. “Garbage,” Brun parrots, the ghost of an intrigued smile on her face. She doesn’t question him like she once would, nor does she laugh. The strange names and faces of Beqanna tend to grow on an individual, the sunset mare not immune to such an effect. She thinks he looks like the kind of abused that suits the named Garbage, such thoughts she keeps tucked quietly in the back of her mind. For now, she is content to commiserate. Sunset, he says, and Brun’s heart begins to thump wildly in her chest. Bub? she thinks, gemstone eyes flicking out and beyond the surroundings behind Garbage. Little sunset, her abuser hisses in her ear. It takes every bit of her self control to keep her reaction to a panicked flicking of ears. “Sunset,” Brunhilde echoes, eyes glazing for the one second she pictures Beelzebub’s face. She quickly comes back to reality, settling an only slightly uncomfortable gaze back on Garbage. A butterfly lands gently between her ears as a weak smile turns her mouth. “Yes, unfortunately, I am real. But not a real sunset,” she murmurs as her weak smile turns into a rueful one, and then turns into nothing. “Who named you Garbage?” She shouldn’t ask, maybe—and she hadn’t planned to, but that sliver of upset leaves her desperate to turn the attention away from herself. @[garbage] RE: saints preserve us; brunhilde - garbage - 03-19-2020
RE: saints preserve us; brunhilde - brunhilde - 03-31-2020 Brunhilde’s aura blankets her movements in the encroaching silence of a soft snowfall. Where there is elegance and exuberance, most can only see pretty and bright-eyed. She feels plain, to say the least—not that being plain is the most terrible concept in the world, but the princess Brun grew up as leaves tangled, dark roots. Perhaps those roots are the catalyst for her mourning aura. Perhaps they are what is holding the funeral veil over her eyes. Gemstone and glittering, the sunset glows with her natural warmth, finds comfort in the lie her appearance whispers so smoothly. She places golden eyes upon the orange ones before her, digging deep into her desire to know why those eyes don’t crackle with fire—why their dimness turns them to dying embers. Mother, Brun thinks when Garbage responds. The hint of a bitter smile turns her eyes. How mothers exist as so much else and as mothers—she cannot fathom such a concept, not even now. “Hum,” is Hildy’s initial response, followed quickly by a flitting of her gaze to the landscape beyond. She is soft now, typically sharp edges rounded by prickling and persistent melancholy. “And yet you’re here. Now,” she murmurs on a low breath. She thinks it funny that he is here, funny that he seems so sure that he was not meant to live and yet is still suffering here, next to her. A laugh does not escape her, though—no, this humor is saccharine and nauseous. It ties a tightly coiled knot around her stomach. @[garbage] |