[private] luck pusher

[brunhilde]

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]