02-07-2024, 10:09 PM
frey—
Frey hides the pathetic parts of her nature beneath a cold, brusque exterior. Quiet, fierce, imposing—she is a far cry from the lost little girl abandoned by her mother; but there is no true bite behind her snake’s fangs nor is there a tough skin underneath her slick scales.
Spineless, what she calls herself in her head. She lives in a constant loop of self-hatred, learned from every breathing creature that ever left her. Pathetic, useless, depraved. I’d just end it all if I wasn’t such a coward, is what she tells herself. The hatred—over years and years—has mutated like so many irradiated cells. Frey might as well be wearing a second, malformed head.
At least that head would see with both eyes.
The six-legged creature ahead of her gives her pause. Having just imagined extra appendages on her own body, she wonders if she is imagining the almost spectral man. The scaled mare shakes her thick head, strands of brilliant jade falling into her eyes. She huffs, taking a few unsure steps back before realizing the stranger will have seen her by now.
(And she can’t allow herself to look at another and run—no, that pride she still holds would whip her endlessly, lash after lash a new reason for despising herself.)
“It’s early,” Frey barks out in a rough, almost masculine voice. She blinks, then adds the rest of the sentence she almost forgot, “Did I wake you? My apologies.” She lifts her head as high as her height will allow, a certain cold cruelty in her gaze.
Spineless, what she calls herself in her head. She lives in a constant loop of self-hatred, learned from every breathing creature that ever left her. Pathetic, useless, depraved. I’d just end it all if I wasn’t such a coward, is what she tells herself. The hatred—over years and years—has mutated like so many irradiated cells. Frey might as well be wearing a second, malformed head.
At least that head would see with both eyes.
The six-legged creature ahead of her gives her pause. Having just imagined extra appendages on her own body, she wonders if she is imagining the almost spectral man. The scaled mare shakes her thick head, strands of brilliant jade falling into her eyes. She huffs, taking a few unsure steps back before realizing the stranger will have seen her by now.
(And she can’t allow herself to look at another and run—no, that pride she still holds would whip her endlessly, lash after lash a new reason for despising herself.)
“It’s early,” Frey barks out in a rough, almost masculine voice. She blinks, then adds the rest of the sentence she almost forgot, “Did I wake you? My apologies.” She lifts her head as high as her height will allow, a certain cold cruelty in her gaze.
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