03-31-2020, 11:41 AM
Brunhilde’s aura blankets her movements in the encroaching silence of a soft snowfall. Where there is elegance and exuberance, most can only see pretty and bright-eyed. She feels plain, to say the least—not that being plain is the most terrible concept in the world, but the princess Brun grew up as leaves tangled, dark roots.
Perhaps those roots are the catalyst for her mourning aura.
Perhaps they are what is holding the funeral veil over her eyes.
Gemstone and glittering, the sunset glows with her natural warmth, finds comfort in the lie her appearance whispers so smoothly. She places golden eyes upon the orange ones before her, digging deep into her desire to know why those eyes don’t crackle with fire—why their dimness turns them to dying embers.
Mother, Brun thinks when Garbage responds. The hint of a bitter smile turns her eyes. How mothers exist as so much else and as mothers—she cannot fathom such a concept, not even now.
“Hum,” is Hildy’s initial response, followed quickly by a flitting of her gaze to the landscape beyond. She is soft now, typically sharp edges rounded by prickling and persistent melancholy. “And yet you’re here. Now,” she murmurs on a low breath. She thinks it funny that he is here, funny that he seems so sure that he was not meant to live and yet is still suffering here, next to her.
A laugh does not escape her, though—no, this humor is saccharine and nauseous. It ties a tightly coiled knot around her stomach.
Perhaps those roots are the catalyst for her mourning aura.
Perhaps they are what is holding the funeral veil over her eyes.
Gemstone and glittering, the sunset glows with her natural warmth, finds comfort in the lie her appearance whispers so smoothly. She places golden eyes upon the orange ones before her, digging deep into her desire to know why those eyes don’t crackle with fire—why their dimness turns them to dying embers.
Mother, Brun thinks when Garbage responds. The hint of a bitter smile turns her eyes. How mothers exist as so much else and as mothers—she cannot fathom such a concept, not even now.
“Hum,” is Hildy’s initial response, followed quickly by a flitting of her gaze to the landscape beyond. She is soft now, typically sharp edges rounded by prickling and persistent melancholy. “And yet you’re here. Now,” she murmurs on a low breath. She thinks it funny that he is here, funny that he seems so sure that he was not meant to live and yet is still suffering here, next to her.
A laugh does not escape her, though—no, this humor is saccharine and nauseous. It ties a tightly coiled knot around her stomach.
@[garbage]
