oh, this my weapon, this my loam. this my blood, this my bone.
When he was a boy, Brigade had imagined the kind of man that he might grow up to be. Someone who was fierce like dad, smart like mom—someone who cherished his loved ones, protected his pack, and always managed to do the right thing. How disappointing then to realize that he would grow up bitter and isolated and so full of self-hatred that it manifested in actual cruelty to those who did nothing wrong.
It only serves to spark the same cycle, the shame and guilt eating away at him, making him even more sullen and quiet—snapping out to anyone who happens to be near him.
But this is a party. It is a party and he is determined to not completely ruin it by being him. After all, it is the only chance he has to not be him. The only chance he has to maybe escape from himself.
So he doesn’t lash out anymore than he has. Instead, he walks quietly next to the mare, just frowning when she points out that everyone needs something—that everyone had some reason to come here. He can’t exactly deny it, although he knows that he wants to, so instead he just gives a tiny roll of his shoulders and a soft grunt. When she asks him further questions, he scowls. “I don’t know if I have anything worth talking about,” he says and then takes another deep breath, trying to soften his tone.
“I’m not very good at this,” he admits, pressing steely lips together, his back stiff as they continue to walk. He thinks for a second—trying to think of anything worth sharing with her—but when he comes up empty handed, he just sighs quietly. “You should probably go find better company.”
He looks at her from the corner of his eye.
“I probably shouldn’t have bothered coming.”
@[Nimue Isolde]