bottom of the deep blue sea; sochi/castile/any

[sochi]

Sochi

darling, you're wild-eyed, empty, and tongue-tied
maybe you need me or maybe you don't

Sochi doesn’t blink or tear her gaze away from the mare before her, every muscle in her body tensed although she still gives off an air of ease. There’s always that beautiful suspension of waiting in the body of a predator—a grace in the moment between inaction and action—and Sochi has learned how to balance on it perfectly. One ear flicks forward and it is the only motion she makes at all, even her breathing falling away as she merely watches the woman of water before her, taking in all of her and studying for later.

It is only when the Dragon King emerges that she flicks her mercurial gaze away. There is something like recognition in Castile’s face that settles her senses, her instincts quieting. Instead she watches as he approaches, her neck arching subtly beneath the hungry trail of his lips. They have had little time to themselves lately—their interactions watched or interrupted—and the predatory, animalistic side of her has grown impatient. She hungers for a moment of quiet, of the flame and the teeth of their silence.

Still, she takes the moment for what it is, never thinking to ask him for more. She merely turns her gaze on him, a flash of intensity as she reaches out to nip slightly at his thick hide.

When she draws her gaze away, the heat has settled into a simmer and her face is a mask of neutrality. A corner of her lip rises into a smile at the greeting and she nods slightly. “Iosbell,” she repeats the name, her voice maintaining that slight rasp, the husk that almost rolls into a growl at the back of her throat. And then she listens quietly, wondering at how she has managed to walk into several diplomatic meetings with Castile now. It is not her strength, nor her area of interest, but she cannot find it in her to walk away.

Instead, she listens as politely as she can, her mind wandering ever so slightly to the prey that may wander the interior of Loess. When her mind does snap back to the presence, her eyes sharp slightly as she considers the news, a slight frown crossing her features as she thinks. “Perhaps we can celebrate with a hunting party,” she offers with more interest. It was not the usual way of acknowledging the changing of thrones or the tying of a new alliance, but she can think little else she would enjoy more.

And how else does a crowd of kelpies, dragons, and tigers celebrate if not with a communal hunt?

playing the slow rooms, howling at half moons
if you are a Queen then, honey, I am a wolf

@[Castile] @[Isobell]