11-12-2015, 03:43 AM
thorrun;
And then there is Thorunn.
Not quite a diplomat, not quite a warrior, with that jaded look of a girl who's been through the ringer a time or two. You'd recognize that look if you stared long and hard at the lake before you jumped in - a reflection. Thorunn's story was common for a horse in Beqanna. Mother and Father were ranked, kings and queens, warriors and warrioresses. They were bright lights in the Valley's horizon that swore allegiance time and time again. They both fought wars, challenged others in battle, had scars upon scars to tell their story. And when they joined and birthed two beautiful girls - one with eyes the color of a pumpkin - it seemed that Fate decided to let them live on.
Then they died, within a year of each other, and Thorunn was left alone with her twin.
Then V left, and she was entirely alone.
The Valley felt like home the same way any place you'd spent too much time in felt like home. She knew each crevice and crack like the back of her hand. She knew the sensation of the mist of the cold morning's on her back like a second skin. And when she sought true solace she looked toward the Heart Tree that gave her mother live so many decades before. Would it, one day, spit the copper woman out? She hoped desperately. For her father there was no hope.
Despite the Valley being a home, Thorunn knew duty. She knew that despite her own quiet mannerisms and awkward ways she must try to build her kingdom, fight a battle, steal a thing. She was woefully unprepared to do anything other than fight. It was obvious on her chestnut coat - muscles rippled easily beneath her squat frame, looking more disjointed and ghastly than beautiful. She had an awkward sort of beauty and grace belied by her almost sour countenance. She wasn't mean perse, moreso morose. Intentionally trying to be bland. In the process of emulating her father's cold stare she lost all sense of her own.
The snake drew her attention first and foremost, causing her to abandon her path to investigate it from a safe distance. "What does it eat?" she asks the mare that commands it. There was something familiar about the girl, a familiarity she can't quite place a finger on or shake, so she hangs around a moment longer. She sees the mare - previously resting - and nods her own head to her. "I am Thorunn, of the Valley. What's your name?"
Great start, self, she praises herself mentally.
Not quite a diplomat, not quite a warrior, with that jaded look of a girl who's been through the ringer a time or two. You'd recognize that look if you stared long and hard at the lake before you jumped in - a reflection. Thorunn's story was common for a horse in Beqanna. Mother and Father were ranked, kings and queens, warriors and warrioresses. They were bright lights in the Valley's horizon that swore allegiance time and time again. They both fought wars, challenged others in battle, had scars upon scars to tell their story. And when they joined and birthed two beautiful girls - one with eyes the color of a pumpkin - it seemed that Fate decided to let them live on.
Then they died, within a year of each other, and Thorunn was left alone with her twin.
Then V left, and she was entirely alone.
The Valley felt like home the same way any place you'd spent too much time in felt like home. She knew each crevice and crack like the back of her hand. She knew the sensation of the mist of the cold morning's on her back like a second skin. And when she sought true solace she looked toward the Heart Tree that gave her mother live so many decades before. Would it, one day, spit the copper woman out? She hoped desperately. For her father there was no hope.
Despite the Valley being a home, Thorunn knew duty. She knew that despite her own quiet mannerisms and awkward ways she must try to build her kingdom, fight a battle, steal a thing. She was woefully unprepared to do anything other than fight. It was obvious on her chestnut coat - muscles rippled easily beneath her squat frame, looking more disjointed and ghastly than beautiful. She had an awkward sort of beauty and grace belied by her almost sour countenance. She wasn't mean perse, moreso morose. Intentionally trying to be bland. In the process of emulating her father's cold stare she lost all sense of her own.
The snake drew her attention first and foremost, causing her to abandon her path to investigate it from a safe distance. "What does it eat?" she asks the mare that commands it. There was something familiar about the girl, a familiarity she can't quite place a finger on or shake, so she hangs around a moment longer. She sees the mare - previously resting - and nods her own head to her. "I am Thorunn, of the Valley. What's your name?"
Great start, self, she praises herself mentally.