cold in the violence after the war
hope is a fire to keep us warm
Sometimes days and nights seem to bleed together, not marking the passing of time so much as it does just another moment pushing herself to the brink. Another moment in which to train harder, move faster. It is only when she sees Nash in the distance that she realizes how much time had passed since their last sparring session. And, consequently, realizing how she had let time slip away from her.
But as she moves to intercept him, she notices his attention is not focused on her, but rather a figure in the distance, lingering on the border of her home. He is much closer, but she pushes into a familiar lope to join them, ignoring the way her skin pulls and tears where it had only just begun to heal against the ragged edges of bone jutting through. It is an old pain, hardly noticed anymore (though to outsiders the way blood stains her skin, painting ivory bone red and masking her in its sharp coppery scent, often proves alarming).
She draws close in time to hear the girl’s tale, and as the pieces click into place, a repressed ferocity bubbles forth. Though it is not directed at Cirilla, when combined with the bloody bone masking her features and wide sweep of her curved horns, her visage grows unconsciously fearsome.
“Ghaul?” she asks, interrupting the conversation somewhat heedlessly. Though the filly hadn’t named names, it’s hardly a leap to make the connection. “If you seek asylum from him, you’re welcome in Nerine.” Perhaps it’s not a diplomatically approved invitation, but Brazen has never paid much heed to that anyway. “And if he wants to harm anyone here, I will happily drive my horn into his throat for trying.”
Brazen