i'm a geyser, feel it bubbling from below
hear it call, hear it call, hear it call to me, constantly
What makes a fierce woman? The little flame considers that question occasionally, curious about gender and the ridiculous ways it presents itself in Beqanna. Not to truly assume the identity of the cream mare beside her, but her wild eyes draw her starkly from the crowded monotony of a universe returned to peace. She admires that fire when presented in femininity, and has to resist a coquettish smile upon the realization that she does not like that same quality in the antlered man.
A fourth equine arrives, and Brunhilde finds herself irritated with such a coincidence. She is thinking what Brigade and Vastra are thinking: how did they all end up in the same spot? Regret nags incessantly at the back of the mare’s mind. Perhaps she should have retreated as a spectator despite her obvious illumination.
The sharp, uncouth edges of Hildy’s personality want to snap hell no when Lilliana speaks. Nothing against her, or really any of them, but the woman has become far too jaded to want to chat with a stranger - much less three of them. She keeps her mouth shut, though, instead settling a coldy observant gaze upon the delicate beauty of the newest arrival. A dagger of what feels like envy cuts a shallow laceration in her chest. Oh, to present as soft as she. Lilliana reminds her of her mother before her father was taken prisoner.
Brigade’s response is so quick that the flame nearly misses it. Her eyes turn into dual swords, equal amounts of agitation and admiration present in them. She is about to snap out her own little reply when Vastra speaks, taking the words right out of her mouth. For a few seconds, Brun is speechless, delighted eyes focusing on the clear-eyed woman at her side. If this were a bar, Hildy would ask the lioness if she wanted to get out of here.
“‘Fuck off sign,’” she repeats with a laugh, vicious approval obvious in her voice. A few inches of fire leap from her nostrils when she exhales. Hildy casts one last glance to Vastra before adding, “I can’t say I expected you to be pleasant.” The nonchalant shrug of her shoulders upsets the butterflies on her back, and they flutter angrily about the four of them.
“Pardon them, I hope they also don’t crowd you too terribly much.”
Saccharine, sly, and vindictive - she falls back into her old shell.
and hear the harmony only when it's harming me
it's not real, it's not real, it's not real enough
