Sochi;

[sochi]

Sochi

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

Once, Sochi had been a joyful, exuberant girl. She had been bright and cheery and loved laughing; she had joked and played. The image of that girl has long since died. It had died everyday as Sochi had died to her true nature. It had curled within her as she had denied herself the joy of her predatory instincts. It had died when she had first accepted that quest from Carnage, regardless of the rage it had stoked in her. It had died when she had killed that mare beneath the water, when she had clawed out her own heart, when she had died on the beach. It had died when her jaws sunk into that poor stallion’s throat.

In its place is a woman sharpened and hardened and utterly sure of herself because of it.

She has no give within her any longer, and she doesn’t expect any from the world. She merely accepts whatever is to come and molds it as she will—and in Castile, she feels as she has found a partner in that.

Smoke curls from him and his words are harsh but she just nods, the barest of smiles shadowing her lips. “Loess,” she says mildly. “I will keep it in mind.” To be fair, she has no real care about where they call home. They are predators and wanderers and above being tied to one single land—although she would never deny a dragon his horde or treasures. Should Castile want a place to serve as a base then she would gladly join in the fight with him and should he choose another, she has no distaste in moving.

So she accepts this and instead turns her gaze to him a little sharper at the sudden softness in his words. She stills beneath it, her silver eyes a little sharper—almost wary, almost hungry. “Do you think so?” she says, amusement barely touching the corner of her mouth. She’s never really given much thought as to whether or not she was beautiful. Strong, yes. Fierce, definitely. But beautiful? It hadn’t been something that she truly cared about. Her years, as few as they may be, have left her hardy and scarred and marked by it, the ragged tattoo of her own claws racing across her chest. But there is something about the way that he says it that appeals to her and she doesn’t shrug it off completely, instead she watches him.

“I am surprised that I enjoy hearing you say that,” she finally offers, when something like mischief turns her gaze mercurial. She reaches out to bite lightly at the corner of his mouth like she did when he had first walked away from his battle with Tiphon, and she can nearly taste the coppery blood as she had then.

“Although, I must admit, I prefer when you show it instead.”

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

@[Castile]