"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
i'm a geyser, feel it bubbling from below hear it call, hear it call, hear it call to me, constantly
In the wake of her father’s release, Brunhilde finds herself wandering further and further away from Hyaline. Perhaps it is because her father has removed his heart completely (except for the lingering feelings for Kensa that she knows he clings to); perhaps she is aging at a much too rapid pace and resents any figure of authority. Either way, she thinks she will wander to Loess next, but for now experimenting in the open lands will do.
To strangers - and all of Beqanna is a stranger to her, Brun having only spied on inhabitants with a disdainful eye - she appears much older than she is. A fresh yearling, mane and tail long and luxurious and sparkling with youth, she struts with the confidence only a child can; yet, within that confidence, lies a mature sensuality she most certainly should not possess. The supple twist of her fiery hips, the alluring simper so fragile on her lips, a special and bitter gleam in her eye that begs one to give her all kinds of inappropriate attention: all the qualities of a child from a broken home might possess. Do not be mistaken, though - this is no fault of her mother’s, and even only a portion rests on the back of her father -
No, it seems the she-devil has been hellbent from birth to fry her parents’ brains (their own tumultuous lives doing nothing to stop that).
In the forest she dances, hooves tip toeing with that lengthy grace her legs whisper of. She smiles, eyes dark and opportunistic like the gray before a thunderstorm. Her movements are familiar, almost identical to a path she has taken one or two times before. Something about the fresh scent of the foliage and the rustle of the leaves draws her - and that damning curiosity of her mother she seems to have inherited.
Oh, she dances, weaving delicately through low-hanging branches and tightly packed trunks. Brunhilde makes it look effortless, all the practice she has put into getting the attention she always wanted.
and hear the harmony only when it's harming me it's not real, it's not real, it's not real enough
He dreams himself into the forest. It is not hard to do. Abysm can bend the properties of dreams to his iron will and bend they do, groaning and screaming as bent iron does. But he ignores it, dreams are his for the reaping and he likes to walk through a grand plethora of them. It is fun to spin that fairytale love into sudden mutual spitting hate. Or cast that clouded sunshine into buckets of endless rain.
The stallion prefers not to dabble too much into other’s dreams. Only his own are part of a large personal hell, as abyssal as they come - like him. In them, he spends time with a navy and moonstone mare that has eyes of love for him and only him. Such grand torture! Waking up. Knowing she is real but gone. So he must content himself with nighttime affairs that happen in dreams as much as in life.
(he’s managed to knock up two this last season through dreams alone, how powerful - how cruel! none of them are her.)
Then she comes along. Glowing and butterfly-laden. He can’t believe his eyes at first - not until she is far enough from him. But there she is, full of youth and vigor. No - that’s not quite right. She’s full of the very fire that makes up her fur, orangey and red. He looks on with pure appreciation for the sheer fact that she knows who she is - fire and alluring, from the graceful sashay of her hips to the gleam in her thundercloud eyes.
“Careful Red, you might attract wolves.” he calls out to her from beneath the low-hanging branches that she has yet to pass beneath. There is laughter in his eyes and along the curve of his mouth, sly and mischievous - a rare mood that Abysm is not usually in but it must be because her of her girlish bravado and saunter. His mind though, begs to know if her dreams glow and gleam with fire and sunsets, like her skin.
Or are her dreams like the butterflies that follow her as if she was their lifeline.
04-15-2019, 09:45 AM (This post was last modified: 04-15-2019, 09:46 AM by brunhilde.)
i'm a geyser, feel it bubbling from below hear it call, hear it call, hear it call to me, constantly
Dance, she does. Between the dark trunks of the trees she weaves just as gracefully as a forest nymph. She giggles to herself, a girlish tinkle, at the thought of her existence as a nymph. Brunhilde thinks she would quite like that, a fiery nymph setting the forest’s trespassers ablaze. Perhaps she will petition the fairies. Though, she does get wildly distracted and will not remember her little fascinations in a mere few hours.
Speaking of intruders, a beautiful golden and white boy seems to float into the yearling’s vision. Perhaps he was there all along, but she certainly did not take notice. Her sharp eyes go cold, gleaming, like edge of a steel sword mid-swing. Her gaze drags over his entire body, first suspiciously and then vaguely admirably. Though this is a common land, and he is handsome, she does not like that he lingers beneath her canopy. Before he speaks, she melts the icy glaze of her body and smoothly transitions into the girl that knows exactly what she wants and how to get it.
The leaves shiver as she smiles, a gleaming thing that - try as it might - cannot hide the cool turn of her mind. Simpler beings would fall for the facade; Brun hopes he is much more complex.
His talk of wolves pulls the sweetest chuckle from her lips. The little flame will never give away her lion, his protection always lingering just behind or ahead of her. She can feel Khal a short distance away, hunting something but keeping a close eye on her emotions. The companion that serves more as a guardian is certainly aware of Abysm, though he finds the stallion of no threat just yet.
“I think I have attracted exactly what I’m looking for, actually,” she calls back, stepping daintily through the foliage to get a better look at her new acquaintance. Her eyes cast over the dark of his mane and the pale of his tail, the way his champagne sparkles beneath what little dapplings of sunlight breakthrough.
“Brunhilde,” she murmurs, allowing what trickery she controls to slip from her face. She quite likes the lines of his neck and the gleam of his eyes. She is offering her hand to him, expecting a charming kiss placed upon the back. No doubt that he is not the gentleman one would imagine in such a scenario, but he is just the kind of suave the flame likes.
and hear the harmony only when it's harming me it's not real, it's not real, it's not real enough
