"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
The sins of her parents had never been a burden on her shoulders as they might have been on her sister. She has always been a flirtatious thing. A fickle, wild, and disobedient mare. She is an Amazonian through and through, unwilling to be owned or belong to anyone but herself. The heart that beats furiously in her chest when he appears is not one that’s ever been given freely before, never having a reason or want to. It’s never been taken by force or brutality before either. It flutters quickly when his voice rumbles like thunder to her, breaking her from the peaceful reverence she had been giving the sun. Her golden eyes open to meet the cool ashen ones of him and she finds her heart stutters in her chest once more. Not expecting to find the rolling darkness that matches the storm of his voice.
Despite her brightness, she was not afraid of the dark.
The jungle housed many things and was a world of shadows beneath the density of tree, vines, and ferns. Taiga was similar in that respect, a misty world of thick tall redwoods and mushrooms that one could easily become lost in. The Amazon in her recognizes the predator in him but she finds there’s a ghost of a smile brushing against her lips. Finding no fear where there surely should be some. The way he calls her “little unicorn” is almost a delicious feeling and she finds she wouldn’t mind him calling her that again.
“They are from the jungle. Made of passion.” She responds quietly, her flaxen gaze sweeping over the marks that bleed into the cobalt of his coat. Her mother had once fallen for a boy of stone, as unyielding and granite as the gray of Tunnel’s eyes. She can understand now, what could draw a flame to the coolness of slate. Her horn catches the sunlight, filtering smoky hues amongst the spirals of crystal, as she turns her head to face him better. The faint jaguar markings on her neck exposed to him as her neck arches, dappled and soft against the buttery hue of her skin. She can see now the mud and dust that has dried and clings stubbornly to his legs, where had he come from? “I’m Bardot.” She gives her name because it feels like the appropriate thing to do and mostly because she wants to know his. A clue into the stallion that seems to command the very air she breathes.
They may call me a sinner, but I am at peace with myself;
Bardot![[Image: BQjeje-Bardot2.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/T37nJTF6/BQjeje-Bardot2.png)