11-27-2020, 03:07 PM
BRIGHTBURN
She had drifted away from her mother at a young age and did not bother to look back. Brinly was not an especially caring creature by nature, but even less so when faced with raising a child that she had never asked for. The young girl had learned quickly it was best to simply stay out of her way, until, on a recent winter night, Brightburn had chosen to not return to her mother’s side at all.
It was easier to be on her own, she had realized.
It was easier to be alone by choice, since her mother had warned her that she would likely be alone anyway. Most could not withstand their touch, Brinly had warned her, and it would be smart of Brightburn to just not allow herself to become attached to anyone. Most of them had skin that was too thin, skin that would burn and blister from a simple brush of their muzzle against them. Brightburn had never witnessed this, though; her mother was the only one she had touched, and there was a part of her that wondered if Brinly was lying. There is a part of her that wonders if Brinly wanted to foster the same anger and bitterness inside of her daughter, just because she can.
She is too afraid to test the theory, though. When she stumbles across the trio – one of them still asleep, though she can’t imagine how when the two boys were being so loud – she keeps her distance at first, standing off to the side, simply staring. She has never met any other children before, and she is afraid of what might happen if she gets too close.
Afraid of what will happen if they reach out to touch her, and she begins to understand why Brinly was so cold to all that they came across.
When she does finally take a few steps forward it is with an almost arrogant upward tilt of her head, hoping to portray a sense of confidence that she was in reality lacking. “What’s wrong with your face?” She blurts out in the direction of the one colt, somehow knowing that her tone was sharper than it needed to be but doing nothing to soften it.
It was easier to be on her own, she had realized.
It was easier to be alone by choice, since her mother had warned her that she would likely be alone anyway. Most could not withstand their touch, Brinly had warned her, and it would be smart of Brightburn to just not allow herself to become attached to anyone. Most of them had skin that was too thin, skin that would burn and blister from a simple brush of their muzzle against them. Brightburn had never witnessed this, though; her mother was the only one she had touched, and there was a part of her that wondered if Brinly was lying. There is a part of her that wonders if Brinly wanted to foster the same anger and bitterness inside of her daughter, just because she can.
She is too afraid to test the theory, though. When she stumbles across the trio – one of them still asleep, though she can’t imagine how when the two boys were being so loud – she keeps her distance at first, standing off to the side, simply staring. She has never met any other children before, and she is afraid of what might happen if she gets too close.
Afraid of what will happen if they reach out to touch her, and she begins to understand why Brinly was so cold to all that they came across.
When she does finally take a few steps forward it is with an almost arrogant upward tilt of her head, hoping to portray a sense of confidence that she was in reality lacking. “What’s wrong with your face?” She blurts out in the direction of the one colt, somehow knowing that her tone was sharper than it needed to be but doing nothing to soften it.