Brunhilda was born with a needle forced in her hand, that she forged into the deadliest weapons a soldier would hope to wield.
She smelled of wind and hay, she looked like the flames of a burning church, holy and sinfully beautiful.
Her smile was as sharp as her blade, never hesitant to strikes the guilty and innocents alike.
She felt like the bitter autumn sky, she wished she had been worthy of the bluntness of a freezing winter. Foxes witnessed her ways and acted upon it, stealthy and cunning, deadly precise in her craft, rabid with rage.
What could you do, if not fight ?
When did you grieve the life you long lost ?
Tell me child, where is home now ?
Comments