Bronte

Bronte.

Name: Bronte
→ Origin and meaning: Means "thunder", Celtic origin
Nickname: None
Gender: Female
Breed/Species: Gloom Fox
-- Character Development --
Personality: Despite her appearance, Bronte is not a particularly 'dark' or 'sad' figure, though this being said, neither is she happy. When surrounded by a large group of people, Bronte is still lonely. She finds it hard to fit in not because she is particularly unique in size, shape, color, or personality, but because others seem to ignore her. She doesn't connect well with people... she tends to chase those trying to get to her heart off before they can make a lasting impression. The truth is, Bronte is scared of making any relationships, because she fears that those that she begins to trust are the ones that will one day leave her to be lonely. Instead of living the life that she could should she choose to rely on anyone, she lives a life in full seclusion, not physically, but mentally. She has a hard time opening up to anyone at all because she knows no one will understand the way she feels. She's always frustrated by the simple things: a single thing on her plate and she's already stressed. Don't get near her when she's sad, because she bites back. She's far from a morning person, but she hates to sleep in. She finds it hard to see an accomplishment in anything that she does, because she knows that no matter how hard she tries to fit in, no one will ever accept her for who she is. She doesn't want to change herself so that others will like her, so she's adapted the motto that 'Different is beautiful'. She doesn't like the way society chews everyone up and spits them out, less than half as great of a person as they were before. Conforming to everyone else's state leaves a person without so much as a shell of themselves. When Bronte sees herself change, she automatically fixes it. She doesn't want to be like others.

Bronte likes to live her life by her own standards. She sets high goals for herself that she knows that she can achieve, but she feels as though even her largest efforts towards achieving these things are minimal and do not contribute. While she knows she has the opportunity and ability to do something great with her life, she feels as though everything she does to reach this goal is a waste of time. Her complex mind leaves her with ways out of tricky situations, and she has a tongue with a knack for sarcasm and offensive statements that were genuinely meant to be innocent. She's simply not a peoples' person; she's a total introvert. Bronte likes the beauty of nature: majestic waterfalls, the songs of birds, and even the gloomy, dying trees are among her biggest confidantes. She's not obsessed with nature, but she prefers to live among it versus living among the cities where humans and great monstrous machinery live.

Bronte finds beauty displayed by simplicity. One of her favorite things in the world is rain puddles. It's amazing that something so insignificant gives her the security that it does. The splash of puddles gives her hope, and she loves to go out after March rainstorms to jump into them. Her reflection can be seen in them, and her face is distorted by the ripples caused by excess drops dripping down from weeping willows' branches.

What Bronte has yet to see is that 'anything in life that is worth doing, is worth doing poorly.' She expects perfection from herself every time she tries her hand at anything. She needs to allow herself room to fail, room to learn something that she can't do. She could use a lesson that she won't get everything on her first try, and that's okay. After all, once you're on the bottom there's only one way that you can go, and that way is up. ↑

Bronte likes the months of March and April, calm, thunderless rainstorms, trees, flowers, and small animals. She doesn't like prejudice, segregation, death, blood, drought, or mindlessly conformed people without individual personalities.
Background Overview: Bronte's mother ran away from the valley skulk after conceiving and giving birth, and she became a part of a mountain skulk, where she mated with another fox. They were unable to have any children after pregnancy complications following Bronte's birth. Bronte grew up thinking that her mother was long ago dead, passing away naturally in the skulk when out hunting. What she never learned is that she had CHOSEN to leave.
---
I'm so tired of the endless comments that people seem to have about others. But especially, I am sick and tired of what others are saying to me. "What happened to you? You used to be such a sweet, optimistic little girl! Now you're so rude and pessimistic. It's like you've de-matured." If others could even begin to realize the state that I'm in, and why I'm this way, I doubt that they'd be saying much anymore. Others are always so thankful for what they have. I've seen people with absolutely nothing, not a thing to their name, considerably happier than I am. I am blessed, and my eyes are opened to this. I am thankful for what I have, but I have a hard time expressing this. Do you think I chose this mindset? No, of course not, and I'm trying to change. I want to differ from and overcome what everyone else is, because I want to be unique. I want my life to be worth living, worth listening to. Different... is beautiful.
--
I was raised in a society that taught its young that we were above all others. Others were poor, though we were wealthy. Others had none, while we had all. Sins and wrongdoings were treated as righteous acts, and the whole society took great pride in themselves. I was taught from this perspective, and it was all that I knew to be right. My people could do no wrong. As I got older, I began to reject this point of view. Who was anyone to put themselves above another?

My father was a great man, and for this I loved him. I had an inexplicable bond with him, though perhaps if you spoke to him he'd tell you that I was a sarcastic one and had a bizarre and defective way of expressing this love. Either way, my mother was never a part of my life. I was born in the cove of our side of the island. I was pulled from my mother's grasp and was nurtured by a kind female named Cloud. My life as an infant was full of constant visits with my dad and long days with Cloud while my father was out hunting or exploring. Each time my father came back, he'd treat me to all sorts of things. As soon as I was old enough, he took me on his adventures with him. We rarely returned to our home where the skulk nested. One day, my father ventured far out of the way of our territory. He was not well. You could tell from his looks that he was certainly rather sick. I began to realize that the water he drank was polluted. I spent the night by my father's side, refusing to sleep. I lay next to him, my chin on his back, and I monitored his breathing rates constantly. In the morning, he was well again, but we were still a long way from home. For the first time, I acknowledged my surroundings. We had ventured onto their side of the mountain. No longer were we in the land of our own skulk; we had ventured onto the dark land, the dark and bloody grounds. Even the grass and trees in this area seemed to cry out. It was a land where the blood of others nourished the grass; for not a drop of water was to be found. The land, perhaps as a result of being rainless, was shriveled. The grass bore a sickening shade of maroon, mirrored by the blood which served as its only thirst-quencher. The trees were twisted and gnarled. They seemed to reach into the air in hopes of touching the stars, for they were so high. Their efforts appeared to be cast down by an invisible eerie force, and while its presence could not be seen, it made itself known. "Father, we need to get out of here," I said, concerned. "This is not the land of our skulk."

My father moaned, and he looked up at me with a faint twinkle in his eyes. He sat up and brought his wobbling old knees to a standing position. "Indeed," he said. He too seemed to have only now seen our surroundings. "Let's go." For many weeks after returning to my father's den, I questioned him about the place. "Who lives there?" I'd ask constantly. His only answers consisted of sighs, sad grins, and the shaking of his head. Eventually, my questions died down. The thoughts and wonders, however, did not disappear from my mind. They were simply overriden by thoughts of my father. He'd aged considerably, and Cloud, much younger than he, had taken to tending to his wound and old, aching muscles. It was not likely that he'd travel again. Weeks turned into months as they passed. My instincts began to kick in and I fell restless and full of
curiousity. I knew that it was not good for my health to sit by his side day and night. I'd failed to eat as much as I had before, and I never went out for exercise. After much internal conflict, I'd made my decision. I explained to my father and Cloud, the closest thing I'd ever had to a mother, that the time had come when I'd need to make independent choices and I thought it'd be for my own good if I left my skulk behind. I thanked them for their influences in my life, and I promised them that they'd never be forgotten. Cloud lay with my father, licking his face. They both looked wistful, but they appeared understanding. I remember the last thing that my father said well. "Don't let the world change you, but change the world."

"I'll race you to the top!" Bronte's father exclaimed. She giggled and chased behind his tail, narrowly avoiding the tip of it before it nearly hit her square in the face.

Mountains, she remembers. Mountains were all around her. "What are they, Father?" she recalled asking, and her eyes nearly bulged out of her skull as she noticed the beauty of them. They were tye-died in purples, greys, blues, and whites, and their crevasses were deep and jagged. They weren't smooth; no surface looked exactly identical to the surface adjacent to it. "Mountains," he said in a hushed voice. He turned her around abruptly, but it didn't keep her from getting a glimpse. A shadowed figure of cruelty lay just on the other side of the mountain. A demonic fox, eyes creased, stood over the body of an innocent one. Overhead, a single crow circled. Her father nudged her. "Bronte," he said. "It's time to go."
-- Miscellaneous --
Theme Song: Violet Hill by Coldplay
Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual

I took my love down to violet hill
There we sat in snow
All that time she was silent still


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