this reckless wandering love was never ours; any

[sochi]

sochi

Sochi had not assumed that she would have company of any kind.

It was the middle of night after all, in the dead of winter, and she had not heard the breaths of many others when focused on the hunt—so imagine her surprise when she is joined by not one, but two. There is something like a flash of annoyance that crosses her features, but it’s gone before it can fully settle there, leaving her face carefully blank, the neutrality painted there in broad strokes.

She angles her head toward the first, her nose wrinkling at the scent of old blood. There is not much that she fears anymore—she has seen too much to be easily flappable—but the predator in her naturally dislikes the heavy scent of death on him. Not because she fears death so much as the fact that there is nothing to hunt when the animal is already dead. There is no challenge, no need.

“Be faster next time,” she quips lightly to his concern about needing to find breakfast elsewhere, rolling her scarred shoulder lightly. Her mouth pulls down slightly at the label of mighty tigress, but her silvery eyes quickly shift to the next to join them, feeling a bite of annoyance at how much she talks.

“Sochi,” she finally offers, if only to stop them from asking her questions. Reaching down, her rubs her chin against her leg, leaving a smear of blood against the black although it does not stand out so starkly as the tattooed crimson tiger slashes that run across her chest. She could ask more questions, she knows. She could be diplomatic or kind or simply engaging, but none of these things have ever interested her.

Instead she straightens, studying them both with an unblinking, mercurial stare. Either they would be interesting enough to capture her attention or she would leave—it was simple for her.

well, I can try to get you closer but I know you’d break your neck just to see the stars
and if we don’t dare to hold it then this reckless wandering love was never ours