Brinly
She doesn’t often come to the river. Mostly, it is too exposed, and often too crowded. She isn’t sure if it is the sound of rushing water, or the tranquility of watching rocks ripple beneath the current that attracts so many, but whatever it is, it discourages her from coming close. It didn’t keep her from slipping between the tightly packed trees that bordered the banks of it, though. She watches them, with shadowed but curious eyes that flickered with something like longing, but she kept her distance. The memories of her previous interactions were always lurking, ready to launch to the forefront of her mind should she even consider approaching.
She remembered the bitter taste left in her mouth. She remembered how hollowed out and empty they made her feel. And she remembered, most of all, how it seemed to make her skin grow hotter, like some sick, insistent reminder that she needed to stay away.
But the silver mare catches her eye. It’s just her color, at first. Unnaturally bright, almost like the surface of the water when the sun reflects off of it. It causes her to pause, to stare from her hideaway of shadow and brush and limbs, but with a clenched jaw she prepares to turn away. But it is the faint hum and snap of electricity that keeps her planted, unblinking as she tries to understand the sparks that lace across the silver of her skin like a barrier.
It reminds her of her own blood that simmers, hot and relentless, an invisible weapon that she wished she didn’t have.
When she steps from the treeline, there is a caution to her movements, a tension that lends a rigidity to her muscles. She is not scared of the girl that crackles with lightning; she is scared of herself and her inability to not lash out at anyone she speaks to. “Hi,” her voice is quiet, but not lilting like the soft girls she has seen; quiet like the forest at night, quiet like someone that has been alone most of their lives and feels like everything they say is too much, too loud. “Does it hurt you?” She gestures to the electricity that creates small arcs across her skin, and she finds herself wondering how others would look at her if she had a visible warning of what her own skin could do.
— burn until our lives become the embers —
@[Cordis]
it me again. I'd apologize for forcing you into two threads with me except I'm not sorry.