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[private] luck pusher - Printable Version

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luck pusher - brunhilde - 02-03-2019

i'm a geyser, feel it bubbling from below
hear it call, hear it call, hear it call to me, constantly

All too fast, the slender girl began to grow. Whatever magic took hold of her mother while Brunhilde was in her womb clearly changed her: fur the color of fire matched only by the flames she shoots forth for any reason at all. Do Kensa and Litotes regret wandering amongst the plague so freely, now? The filly muses, far too smart for her own good.

Having been exposed to a kidnapped father, stressed out mother, and empty homeland . . . she feels she knows too much.

What might be a trauma for others, Brunhilde sees as a power (still so naive in her age). She sunbathes by Hyaline’s lake most days, casting her glittering disapproval upon the barren land as if it will never be able to serve her better. It is pitiful - to those that know each little twist of the knife in her side - how she is incapable of processing her pain. Even as a child, she turns her sourness on herself and others, butterflies falling to ash at her feet whenever the bite of forbidden fruit rots in her mouth.

Kensa always tells her, don’t you dare wander too far. Does the little flame ever listen? Absolutely not. Every few days she wanders closer to the plague. She can never help it; fire runs so hot in her veins, even those who made her will not come close to taming her. Nature has molded her into the kind to do exactly as she is told not to. Brave or stupid - perhaps she will discover that as she ages.

The Brilliant Pampas is lovely and safe when it spreads before Brunhilde. She casts one twinkling golden eye back to where Hyaline looms, but ultimately decides to continue her confident stride away from home.

The girl is a sight amongst the flowers: surrounded by butterflies and swathed in grace too suggestive for a child. Irony pervades the few first feet surrounding her as she sets a flower or two alight, rolling her eyes around for anything more interesting.

and hear the harmony only when it's harming me
it's not real, it's not real, it's not real enough

Brunhilde


@[cleave]


RE: luck pusher - cleave - 02-03-2019

but, oh, I got an iron in that fire

Cleave has a home, but he is out of it more than he is in it.

The Taiga plays host to his siblings and his surrogate mother, but he feels no particular tie to the land and the pack that lives within it. It’s simply a land and he is too hungry, too curious about what lies beyond it to want to stay there for too long. It grows in him steadily until it blossoms, until it drives him out once more—this time it takes him west instead of east, his youthful hooves crossing across the borders of Loess until he finds the Pampas. He has no concept of kingdoms, not really, and is too arrogant even at such a young age to think that he would not be wanted in any land so he doesn’t hesitate before entering.

While there, he feels the familiar flames beginning to crawl along his flesh. They start small and stay close to him, simmering along his coat, before they erupt further, taking the familiar path along his spine until they reach his mane and tail. There, they overtake the crimson hair so that both become living fire, flickering in the air and then reaching down to embrace the black and the red of him.

When he sees the young girl, about his age, with the butterflies fluttering around her, it is enough to capture his attention—enough so that he cuts through the flowers and the grass to come to her side. His gaze is open and unreadable, his thoughts flickering in the endless depths of his red eyes.

“Who are you?” his voice is harsh, the question blunt, and he feels the fire as it grows a little more erratic, the edges of it spinning out. Beneath his hooves, the vegetation begins to smoke, the heat from his body increasing so that the flowers grow crisp and then wilting, turning to ash as they fall back to the earth.



@[brunhilde]


RE: luck pusher - brunhilde - 02-08-2019

i'm a geyser, feel it bubbling from below
hear it call, hear it call, hear it call to me, constantly

Brunhilde likes him already.

The heat of his fire and the way the red beneath his cracks glow - all so pleasing to a girl of similar ire. His bruskness does not put her off; instead, it pleases her, nurtures a golden warmth in the bottom of her chest. Yes, the filly likes what she sees. An utter lack of softness, that is it. Cleave is a ledge she can dive off of. Sharp, dangerous, uncouth. His lack of childishness and formality lassoes around her neck, a grip that tightens as his eyes lock onto hers.

“Who are you?” she tosses back, turning from the ashes beneath her feet. She faces him fully, a princess’ regal head held to its highest regard. The heat of the boy’s fire brings a smile to her face.

Naturally, her only reaction can be to match his flames. Being the dramatic type, she starts her burning slowly: one small fire on her front left hoof, then her right, and so on until all four are ablaze. From there they climb up her thin legs, hissing and crackling like the menace she is. Brunhilde smiles, an eerie sight amongst her flames: cute little girl seemingly burning to death. The child’s ethereal glow paired with her inferno makes her a too bright beacon amongst the flowers (she dares the boy to match her strength).

“Brunhilde,” is her final answer, voice charred through the cruel blaze. She takes a step closer to the boy, unflinching. “I’ve never met someone like you.” Breatheless and near-sweet, she whispers.

and hear the harmony only when it's harming me
it's not real, it's not real, it's not real enough

Brunhilde


@[cleave]


RE: luck pusher - cleave - 02-17-2019

but, oh, I got an iron in that fire

He doesn’t expect her fire to respond to his own in that way.

It stirs something in his chest—something like jealousy, something like competition, something like possession. He doesn’t expect to share his gifts with others. He doesn’t expect the pretty girl to be any kind of match for him. He doesn’t expect the way that his youthful heart swells and contracts painfully, the need to quash her light or consume it, swallow it whole so that it can flare in his belly alone.

It pushes him forward so that he steps into her flames, his own rising around him. His teeth gleam against the impossible black of his coat as his lips peel back, the flames racing along the cracks on his skin. He reaches for her flesh and his teeth scrape against it, in a mimicry of a more adult action that feels his own.

“My name is Cleave,” he finally offers, finally giving her that inch. “I think you’re mine,” he says, although the softness of the words is offset by the way that he growls them—the way that his skin flares hot beneath the hiss of her flames and his own. “I think that’s what brought you here today.”

He is a possessive thing, greedy, and he watches her with his stern expression, daring her to disagree, daring her to somehow fight against it. As if anticipating it, the fire burns hotter as it races down his spine, the small flames licking into the air. He wonders if the two of them will burn down the kingdom.

Maybe that’s exactly what they had been born to do.



@[brunhilde]


RE: luck pusher - brunhilde - 03-09-2019

i'm a geyser, feel it bubbling from below
hear it call, hear it call, hear it call to me, constantly

Brunhilde’s eyes are greedy as they trace the black and red edges of her new companion. Her flames respond in kind, hissing as if to reach out and hold the colt’s skin to her own. His heat against hers is not kind; in fact, it sears her flesh in a way that would turn most away. She knows he must feel the same, can sense his lack of fear in the way he presses forward.

Cleave.

The name is church bells after a wedding, a clock striking midnight, the panic of a fire alarm: loud and never ending in her ears. The boy’s significance does not strike her just yet; perhaps in a few years she will still think of him, perhaps those thoughts will be full of regret . . . or full of the same furious fascination. In her child’s mind she thinks this is forever, this moment will never end. A future Brunhilde, an adult Brunhilde, knows she will never forget.

“Cleave,” she murmurs, twining the harsh noise of it tightly around her tongue. When he claims her, eyes too cold for a child, she does not rebuke him. While she accepts the statement, Brun does not fear him, instead meeting his gaze with similar ire.

“I am yours if you are mine,” is her purring response. She thinks it lucky they found each other today, lucky and strange that their furious energies found a way to collide. A single thought of Kensa crosses her mind, how furious her mother would be if she saw the way this boy pressed his teeth to her skin.

The little flame has never listened, though, and the very idea of her mother’s disdain makes the boy all the more enticing.

A thought passes behind her eyes, odd and bratty. “Can I burn you?” she snipes, taking a step back and extinguishing her flames. “You can burn me.” She has never felt fire before, and the need to know what her power feels like is overpowering.

and hear the harmony only when it's harming me
it's not real, it's not real, it's not real enough

Brunhilde


@[cleave]


RE: luck pusher - cleave - 03-09-2019

but, oh, I got an iron in that fire

She doesn’t bend the way that he perhaps expects her to. She doesn’t peel away or fall beneath the edge of his flame and it is at once infuriating and enthralling. His red eyes flare a little hotter in response to it, turn a touch sharper. “Fine,” he says, although he doesn’t have any true intentions of being owned by her, by becoming hers. He is barely his own; how could he possibly hand ownership of his soul to another?

Still, it is the terms of the agreement and he is greedy enough to accept.

Greedy enough to lie.

When she asks if she can burn him, his lips peel back from his blunt teeth and his smile turns almost wolfish. “You can try,” he asks as the flames on his skin flare higher. But it is not just the flames that mark him as one of the fire. Beneath it, his body of coal and ash begins to smolder, the temperature of it beginning to creep upward. Beneath his feet, the plants begin to wither and he can feel the hiss of it as he presses in closer to her. “Come on, little Brun,” he croons, feeling her flames licking out at him.

It is is a dangerous game that they play but suddenly it’s the only thing in the world that he wants.

He takes another step toward her, his bones suddenly aching with the need to feel her own heat clash with his own, to find out if her fire could cut through the strength of his. Would he feel it as an alien thing? Would he feel it as painful? Would it feel like coming home? The flames overtake his mane and tail, the both of them becoming living fire, his eyes turning hotter. “Let’s find out what it feels to burn alive.”



@[brunhilde]